Monday, May 7The CDP Interview: Pork Tornado's Dusty Scott.
Hailing from Atlanta, he's the current reigning World Heavyweight Champion of the Blogosphere. Since 2003, his brilliant personal essays, unflinching opinions and other-worldly sense of humor have gathered thousands of adoring fans and millions of hits to his site, SalamiTsunami.com. We here at the CDP consider him to be the best Blogger on the net today, and we were fortunate enough to sit him down for 13 hard-hitting questions. Read and enjoy.
1. First off, how's Queasy doing?
Well, since we had all of her fur shaved off, The Skirt and I have been being nicer to her. We have almost completely stopped calling her “whorecat” and we pet her more often. If she were capable of thought, I’d imagine she would think she was dying.
2. I consider you to be the master of the simile. How much thought and time goes into a well-crafted simile? Do you come up with one or two during the day and try to work them into a post, or do they just come to you as you're writing?
Oddly, I consider you a metaphor. Isn’t that neat? The comparisons (and anything else that is worth typing) usually pop into the old noggin at a random time, but I make a very conscious effort not to forget them and I usually try to write some surrounding content in my brain to make sure it stays there. I’ve always been a huge fan of sayings like “f***ing up a one-car funeral”, “a pinch of sh*t in a gallon of ice cream”, and so on. Any time I see or hear something that strikes me as specifically and universally accepted as a certain way (such as building a house of cards requiring motor skills and dexterity), I have to think of the antithesis of that, which to most people would be something huge and lumbering, like a gorilla or Rosie O’donnell.
The problem is that “building a house of cards with a gorilla” is sort of the low-hanging joke that anyone could think of. I am a sick man who is going to hell, so Muhammad Ali would take the gorilla’s place because he’s shaky.
3. On Inside the Actors Studio, Jamie Foxx defined a 'playa' as someone that's "Moving culture. Anyone that does and says things that other people are interested in listening to." By that definition, you are definitely a 'playa.' Do you consider this accurate and/or frightening in any way?
I define “playa” as the word my housekeeper uses for “beach”. Jaime Foxx and I have never seen eye to eye on this matter. The only reason people are interested in listening to what I say is because I was cursed with the ability to spin a tale. Nothing I write is profound or even intelligent most of the time. I installed a garbage disposal and slammed my ear in the oven. Most people have the good sense to just call that a bad day. I have to write a damn novel.
4. About how many hits/e-mails does Salami Tsunami/Pork Tornado get every month? How many did you get before the Worst Album Covers post? Any interesting e-mail stories you'd like to share?
The most it ever got in one month was (obviously) right after the album covers, when it topped a million. I think it gets somewhere between a dozen and a billion a day now. I get a decent number of emails (enough to maintain my false sense of relevance), and I probably respond to 95% of them. As with anything else, there are lots of people with varying degrees of psychosis out there who write some long, strange emails. I never really got off on making fun of people unless they really ask for it, so I just let it go and try not to encourage them because I don’t want them coming to my house to eat my reproductive organs in hope of gaining my powers.
5. In 10 words or less, tell us about the last time you accidentally hurt yourself.
Reached in the dishwasher and stabbed myself in the arm.
6. Tell me about how the Atlanta Illustrated gig came up. Why did you quit, and do you see yourself writing freelance again?
I do a lot of work with Atlanta Illustrated and the other companies that have spawned from it – I’m sort of their creative director in my spare time, and it’s a decent paying gig, but forcing myself to find something to write about every week just so my column wasn’t blank was taking the joy out of it. Writing is one of only a precious few things that I really enjoy and can do entirely on my terms, so I want to keep it that way. The end product is much better when I let it flow like so much pus.
7. What do you do for fun when you're not Blogging?
I’ll never say that blogging is a hobby because my girlfriend would have to leave me on principle. I love to draw portraits, flyfish, build stuff, mess with graphics software and animation, and I’m getting really good at masturbating.
8. Have you ever thought about becoming a published author? How would you feel about your essays being put into book form? Have you received any offers?
I’d love to write a book. I have some ideas floating around…I’m just not sure I have the attention span to do anything meaningful with it. No real offers, though. I get pitched by people now and then, but I haven’t run into anyone who had much more than a dream. I need a business plan before I’ll feel comfortable putting much time into it.
9. What's your favorite band/song/movie/TV show/beer?
Current favorite band is probably Porcupine Tree. I’m also spending a lot of time listening to an album called 66 steps and one of Trey Anastasio’s newer albums called Bar 17. Favorite song is “My Humps” of course. The best movie I have seen is called “The Journey”. Favorite TV show is probably Arrested Development. You know it’s good when they cancel it. I love all beer equally. Even the cheap crappy kind has its positives.
10. In my Blogging experience, I find that some of my funniest pieces get overlooked and underappreciated for some reason. What is, in your opinion, the funniest essay you've ever written? Did it get the attention you felt it deserved?
To this day, I don’t fully understand why the Album Covers were so huge. Therein lies proof that I will never be the inventor of the next big thing. I don’t know that I have a favorite entry. The one about the lion that adopted the baby antelope was kind of funny, and I liked writing the one about the non-PC PC. I also find a lot of humor in the responses of readers, particularly when they disagree with my political views. It’s cute when they are wrong and get all flustery.
11. You possess all of the essential elements of a great Blogger. Not only a heightened sense of awareness to all of the problems and foolishness around you, but enough humor, logic and honesty to see through it all; crafting it into something hilarious and interesting. Does this coincide with an overall 'message' you're trying to get across with Pork Tornado? Or is it simply a place to tell funny stories?
I don’t know how true all of the compliments are, but thanks for saying it. I don’t see any of it as anything that will change lives or cure disease or anything, but I know that there is an increasing percentage of people who are looking for something to read that doesn’t just sound like the same censored, feel good crap you hear everywhere else. I don’t think there is a message other than “Hey, you’re not the only one thinking it. Now let us bind ourselves together with twine made of logic and rule the universe.”
12. Name a couple of Bloggers that you look up to in terms of humor and writing style.
I’ve always liked Phil Hendrie, but I don’t think he keeps a blog anymore. I also think Eric Von Haessler is a thoughtful, intelligent guy with a logical outlook on most things (madpundit.com).
Phil Collins (the blogger, not the drummer) had a blog that I found to be frigging beautiful, but he took it down because he wants me to be sad. He writes very honestly with a style that makes me jealous.
13. Do you have any advice to give to aspiring Bloggers out there?
Holy God, do I ever. I’m about to get on the soapbox:
First (and most important, as it applies to everything in life) – if it isn’t making you money or making you happy, there is no reason to do it. If it does both, then you have won.
Second, if you aren’t funny, don’t try to be funny. I didn’t have to try out for the high school basketball team to know that I was not a basketball player. The world needs Rocket surgeons AND mechanics- capitalize on whatever you are good at.
Third, don’t take it too hard if people pick on you. Some people don’t know how to write an e-mail, and some are just assholes.
Fourth – No poetry.
Even good poets are bad poets.
Fifth - don’t start writing just to drive traffic to your site. If you do, you will fail because you will spend your time trying to figure out what people want instead of writing what you want.
Sixth – don’t act like your advice to aspiring bloggers is important, you blowhard.
I want to once again thank Dusty for taking the time to do this interview with the CDP. If you're a Salami Tsunami fan checking out the CDP for the first time, take a look around and stay awhile. Sound off in the comments section, and enjoy your Monday.
Friday, May 4Lost Friday - "The Brig."
Season 3 - Episode 19: "The Brig."
Yet another Lost Friday is upon us. We have so much to discuss, my brain feels like itdfas leox dfgagtrerer 7%eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Damn, my ears are bleeding again. Give me a second.
Like I was saying, we have a ton of things planned for today, so sit still for 10 minutes and see if you can make it all the way through, you inattentive bastard. Come on, you deserve a break today. Let me entertain you. The best a man can get, and so forth. Seriously though, this has got to be the Biggest & Most Jam-Damn-Packed Lost Friday In CDP History, so settle in. After an episode like 'The Brig,' coupled with my coasting through last week's episode, I wanted to pull 'oot all the stops and give the public everything that they've been asking for.
I'm talking about nudity, and lots of it.
On Monday, we'll find out if I'm a finalist for the 2007 Hugo Cup or not. For those out of the loop, the Hugo Cup is an award given to the best Lost-related site on the Internets. And while the CDP only talks about Lost on Fridays, your votes and comments were enough to net me a #4 ranking in the preliminary voting stage (out of about 50 sites). If I am chosen as a finalist, however, it's going to take more than that to take down the Goliaths of the Internet Lost Community (ILC). I'm telling you, these people are ruthless. They're single and they live in apartments full of cats, so you know they have nothing better to do than to make yours truly look weak.
F that, yo. F that right in the A.
Once we get to that bridge, I'll give you all the information you need to vote like crazy and grant the CDP the biggest come-from-behind victory since the 2004 Red Sox-Yankees series. Or the Elton John - David Furnish series of 2005, depending on how filthy you want to get.
See what I did there? I did the one joke, and then I did another joke just like it, only smarter. Try and keep up.
Sure, those other sites may have millions of hits, exclusive spoilers and interviews with members of the production team, but where's the originality? Where's the captions and haikus? Where's the satire? Where's the subtle hint that they might actually despise this show with every fiber of their being for overtaking their lives and destroying their abilities to be merely complacently entertained by a television show?
Nowhere, that's where. We're going to win this thing together, you and me. I'll keep you posted.
Now, let's get this par-tay started proper, with the Thickest Thick & Meaty EVER!
Day 83 (8 Days Ago) - We're treated to a very cinematic, wide-angle shot of Locke slowly wetting himself upon seeing his Father tied up on the island. This was classy and quite tastefully done, I might add. Locke stammers around for a bit, while Ben gets all annoying and hits us with the old "You brought him to the island yourself" crap. Cooper bites Locke on the hand, which explains why his hand was bandaged up when he went to say goodbye to Kate later on in the day. See? I still pay attention.
Cooper acts like he knows where he is, while Ben informs Locke that they will be packing up and leaving for an 'old place.' I assume they're referring to the Ho-Chunk Casino in Baraboo, Wisconsin. I swear to God, I've never seen anyone there under the age of dead.
("The burning...the searing pain...DAMN YOU KATE!")
Day 88 (3 Days Ago/Daytime) - Living like true nomadic hippies (read:losers), the Others are setting up camp in the middle of a clearing. This is due to the fact that Locke accidentally blew up everything that even resembled a living quarters the night before. They just can't have nice things when he's around. He's like an old, sweaty, drunk baby.
The Others keep trying to catch glimpses of Locke, as they are well aware of his island transformation from Cripple to Super-Cripple. Locke signs a few autographed 8x10 glossys and heads over to Ben's tent, where he's listening to the tape that Juliet left for him at the Staff Hatch. Ben let's Locke know that they'll be kidnapping all of the pregnant women from the beach in a few days, and that nobody will get hurt, apart from having their torsos sliced open and the fetus forceably sucked out of their bodies by an industrial DHARMA vacuum. Pain free and relatively mess-free, from what I can tell.
Ben starts in with the manipulation again, telling Locke that he's been healing much faster since he's been around. Ben wants to show Locke everything the island is capable of doing (like air-hockey and jarts), but first he has to dust off his dad as a gesture of Free Will and ability to shake the hold Anthony still has on him. Locke shrugs his shoulders and cuts his dad's head off, real quick-like.
Nope. Actually, he just gets all cockeyed and we fade to commercial. I got up from my couch and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. It was a big night for all of us.
Day 88 (3 Days Ago/Nighttime) - Right in the middle of a dream involving Selma Hayek and the World's Biggest Hoagie, Locke is woken up by Ben, who informs him that 'it's time.' Which leads us to the Lost Friday Question Of The Week:
What Is It Time For?
A.) Locke to gently massage Ben's legs with sacred oils?
B.) Locke to find a replacement t-shirt, which currently consists of more sweat than cotton?
C.) Karaoke and/or Movieoke?
D.) A game of strip poker with Ben, Tom, Roger Workman and the Smoke Monster?
E.) All of the above.
If you answered "Time for Locke to slit his dad's throat," you'd be right. However, that wasn't one of the choices, so you're still a stone-cold loser in my eyes. You hear me talking, Grandma?
At the peak of some ancient-looking pillar, Ben encourages Locke to carve up Anthony like so many Christmas geese. Anthony sez' he won't do it; Ben sez' he will; Locke makes faces into the camera for two minutes. Eventually, Locke realizes that he left the stove on and runs off. Ben publicly humiliates Locke, who spends the rest of the night crying with his face buried in his pillow, listening to Fall Out Boy on a constant loop.
When asked if he wants any dessert, Locke just yells "I HATE THIS HOUSE!"
("Hide those from me. You know I can't be trusted with antique dynamite.")
Day 89 (2 Days Ago) - Taking in the scenic view of Upper Hell, Locke removes his bandage to find that his hand has already fully healed (yarb? plot point?). Richard shows up and lets him know that Ben set him up to look like an ass last night because he was jealous. He claimed that Ben was incredibly envious of John, what with his bald head, excessive sweatiness and proclivity to blow up every stationary object with 150-year-old dynamite. Richard lets Locke know that Sawyer could help him kill his dad, and hands him his super-secret file to fill him in on the whole sexy backstory.
Day 90 (Yesterday) - Locke wakes up to the Others packing up and heading out again. Ben informs Locke that he can't come with until he kills his father (boy, if I had a nickel for every time I've had someone say that to me, I'd be eating nickel soup). The Others start marching off without him, while Locke hums the Honeycomb Cereal jingle to himself:
"Honey Comb's big, yeah-yeah-yeah!
It's not small, no-no-no!"
REAL TIME EVENTS:
("I have a thing for dirty girls, but damn, you're rancid.")
Locke, with his kidnapped father in tow, is reading Sawyer's folder over a fire. Anthony starts screaming through his gag, but Locke hushes him and tosses the folder into the fire.
Then the show starts.
Or did it just end?
Wait, we're right in the middle?
What time is it?
On the beach, Kate and Sawyer are getting all grabby in his tent. Kate insists on leaving alone, as she's obviously pregnant and rife with STD's. Sawyer is cool with this, and heads out to take a moonlight whiz. Around the corner, he finds Hurley and Jin acting like loons outside of Desmond's tent. Fresh out of dumbass nicknames for the Fat Guy and the Asian Guy, Sawyer leaves them be.
In mid-pee, Locke shows up and claims that he's looking for Sawyer. Sawyer gives us the line of the night, asking Locke about his "Blow Up Everything That Could Get Us Off The Island Tour." Locke breaks down the situation to Sawyer, explaining that he had Ben (not Anthony) kidnapped, and that he needs Sawyer to kill him. After some grilling, Locke lets Sawyer know that he read his magic file, and he knew about the Sydney murder. Sawyer denies it, but comes along anyway.
Forgetting to zip up his pants, Sawyer walks no less than 10 miles in the jungle with his ween dangling out. I had wondered why this episode was rated TV-MA; now I know.
("Now, where did I put that corpse?")
Back on the beach, we see that Desmond and Charlie are hiding the parachutist from Jack because they no longer trust him. Something about Jack nailing one of the Others has them spooked for some reason. Can't imagine why; Juliet seems so normal to me.
In the jungle, Locke and Sawyer Dangle-Ween are comparing their favorite movies to each other. Locke claims that Swing Kids made him cry, while Sawyer states that he got a little misty-eyed watching Apollo 13. Personally, I always tear up when I watch a movie about a group of black kids that take back their neighborhood through some type of dance competition.
Hurley fills Sayid in on the parachutist situation, as he feels he can trust him. After grilling the parachutist, we find out that her name is Naomi, and she flew from a freighter about 80 miles west as part of a search and recover-
Just then, Sayid tortures and kills her. There's no way we're getting any answers on this island!
Actually, she validates the theories that we've all had concerning her identity. Penelope Widmore hired her to check out coordinates in the middle of the ocean after a GPS search. As it were, Penny knew that her dad was somehow behind this island, and sought it out in a search for Desmond. She also claims that her right lung really, really hurts.
Oh, and Flight 815 was found in an ocean trench, and everyone on board was found dead.
("Heh-heh...I guess the whole kidney thing was pretty funny.")
Arriving at the Black Rock, Locke traps Sawyer inside the brig with the man Sawyer believes to be Ben. Meanwhile, Rousseau shows up for some dynamite that she will use to blast the filth off of her skin. Come on! Take a bath, woman!
Sawyer starts to realize what's going on, and finds out that he's trapped with Locke's dad. Anthony explains that he woke up here after a car accident, and believing Locke to be dead, is convinced that he is now in Hell. Sawyer continues to grill Cooper concerning his backstory, and Anthony makes the unbelievably stupid mistake of shooting his mouth off concerning past con-jobs.
In what has to be 3 of the best minutes in Lost history, Sawyer makes the realization that it was Cooper that was responsible for the death of his parents. Pulling out the letter he had written to him so many years ago, he forces Cooper to read it out loud. Cooper makes it through a bit, but then proceeds to tear the letter up. Sawyer then strangles Cooper with his shackles and pulls off one of the more brutal murders I've seen on television in awhile. Absolutely brilliant.
("Stop urinating on my head, Ben.")
Locke unlocks the brig door and thanks Sawyer. He's also drinking a juice box at the time, which is really weird to me. Where did it come from? What's its origin?
On the beach, Idiot Kate instantly runs to Jack to spill the beans about Naomi. Uber-Idiot Jack wants her to talk to him in front of Juliet, which she amazingly does. Juliet wants to fill Kate in on a secret, but Jack tells her that it's not the right time. But hey, when is the right time to tell someone they have AIDS?
In the jungle, Locke lets Sawyer know that Juliet is a mole, and they will be coming to kidnap the pregnant women in three days. As proof of Juliet's mole-like behavior, he gives Sawyer the tape recording she made in the Staff Hatch. Locke then makes his way through the jungle, hoisting his dad's corpse on his back in a burlap sack. Man, I'm so sick of shows ending that way!
Boy, that episode was awesome. Not as awesome as my recap, but awesome nonetheless. In fact, there are only 5 moments in Television History that were more awesome than this episode, and I think they need to be recognized in a little segment I like to call...
The Only 5 Moments In Television History More Awesome Than 'The Brig.'
5- September 19, 1964: An obviously intoxicated Walter Cronkite exclaims 'it's my birthday!' and takes his wiener out on Face The Nation. Following the lead of the 'Most Trusted Man In America,' every anchorman in the United States follows suit the very next day.
4- October 29, 2006: The CDP is caught on camera for 1.3 seconds during a Friday Night Smackdown! taping in Milwaukee. He is then struck by a folding chair and knocked out.
3- April 9, 2000: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully finally get it on.
2- February 1, 2004: Janet Jackson's right breast wins Super Bowl XXXVIII.
1- July 5, 2007: Approximately two months from today, President George W. Bush will speak in Phoenix on the topic of Global Warming. While in the midst of denying the existence of the worldwide epidemic, the blistering heat will cause his head to explode, showering his audience with candy and bits of tin foil.
I'm pretty sure that all of these clips are on YouTube now, so check them out. Now, let's head on over to ringside for the pre-Break It Down introductions with referee 'Big' John McCarthy:
"Okay gentlemen, I want a good, clean Break It Down, here. No foul language, no poop jokes; just solid journalism and pop-culture commentary, you got that? Are you ready? Are you ready? Well, let's BREAK IT DOWN!"
4- After wishing death upon Anthony Cooper for over a year now, I'm basking in the afterglow of his demise. Sure, his death didn't come in the form of the 5 Awesome Ways I wanted to see him get dispatched, but being choked to death is pretty badass, even for Lost standards. After it was over, I yelled "Kill him again!"
8- It's a rare occasion when someone out-acts Terry O'Quinn on this show, but Josh Holloway was the freaking man this week. This was the episode where I stopped chalking his performances up to good writing and luck, because this guy can flat-out act. If you have the Season 1&2 DVDs, I recommend checking out his other flashback episodes, because they're always incredible.
Sawyer is a complex character, and Holloway pulls it off every week; a snarky dude that hates himself and has serious emotional issues, while trying to be accepted and keep his defenses up. You try playing his character someday, and let me know how it works for you (I have been playing it for 25 years, and I still don't have it right). Remember the sub-plot with him and Kate taken prisoner by the Others? Fantastic stuff by Sawyer for 6 straight weeks, there. Josh Holloway, you are officially awesome.
Bless you, Josh.....Blosh.
("According to this thing, Sawyer was born a woman named 'Sarah'.")
15- Jack and Juliet are hiding something from Kate and the rest of the castaways, but it might not exactly be an evil thing. Juliet seems to know that she's pregnant, and she's also aware of the upcoming raid on the women. However, knowing that Juliet does not necessarily want to conspire with Ben, she could have spilled the beans to Jack, and are planning some type of resistance to set up the Season Finale.
Or...she really is a vapid bitch that's going to slaughter everyone in 3 weeks. Time will tell.
16- I'm only going to say this one more damn time. The castaways are not dead. The castaways are not in purgatory, Hell or Heaven. Whatever wreckage was found was either incorrect or planted by conspirators in some way. If I hear somebody tell me that they have the show 'figured out' by telling me that the castaways are dead, I'm honestly going to find the nearest clock tower and start shooting.
Seriously, they're not dead. Seriously.
23- Kate is pregnant. Kate is pregnant. Kate is pregnant. Kate is pregnant. Kate is pregnant.
42- I wonder if Kate is pregnant? Do you think she might be pregnant?
All right, spoiler nerds, cover your eyes! Here comes The Preview!
(This photo was taken at a bowling alley. Can't you see the love in my eyes?)
4- Episode 20 is titled, "The Man Behind The Curtain." It will be Ben-centric. Expect googlie-eyes and vague homosexuality abound. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
8- The official press release from ABC reads: "Ben begrudgingly begins to introduce Locke to the secrets of the island, beginning with the mysterious Jacob. Meanwhile, Juliet's secret goes public." Considering the subject matter of this episode, it might be the biggest and baddest as far as island mythology goes. Should be absolutely amazing, considering that these flashbacks will go back to the 70's.
Ben as a child? Yup, still creepy and fruity as all get out. I bet he listens to The Best Of Bread and knits in his room all day.
15- Here's a few spoiler tidbits concerning the episode:
A) Carlton Cuse sez': "Ben has been in love. We will get a 'sense' of it."
The CDP sez': What sense is he referring to, here? God, I hope it's not 'taste.'
B) Carlton also sez': "We'll see Dharma before the purge and we might see how they repelled the smoke monster with the sonic fence."
The CDP sez': If there's a sure-fire way to repell something, it's with Old Spice.
C) E! Online sez': "I hear we're going to meet Ben's mommy and daddy. We will get much more info about Ben's origins and the origins of the island."
The CDP sez': Oooh, origins! I love origins!
(Locke really should have cut Anthony into manageable hunks for the trip.)
16- SpoilerFix sez': "Someone you wouldn't expect to see wearing a Dharma suit will appear in episode 20. There will be a big, epic, shocking scene. We will see more Dharma vans. Roger wasn't the only workman."
I'm a sucker for anything DHARMA related. To me, it represents one of the coolest aspects of the show. The remnants of this weird social community; that's rad as hell to me. It's like the Mormons, only with slightly less murders.
23- If you haven't already picked this up, Episode 20 will be a huge episode concerning the beginnings of the DHARMA Initiative and how it all came to be. Dr. Marvin Candle will be back, the DeGroot's will be back, and we might actually hear all about Jacob, the mysterious "Him" everyone keeps talking about.
Locke's probably gunna poop himself. You might want to DVR that.
42- After episode 20, there are only 2 more episodes to go this season. Episode 21 will be Charlie-centric, and the 2-hour Season Finale will be Jack-centric. Then, and only then, will I be able to rest. And by 'rest,' I mean 'quit.'
(Ben's dad is Gene Wilder. Bet on it.)
Well, there it is, folks. The biggest and baddest Lost Friday of the season. As the episodes wind down, Lost Friday will only grow, so be sure to start the conversation in the comments section and send all erotic photography to email@example.com. If you want to donate some cash to the CDP or buy some of our amazing merch, check out the links at the top of the sidebar.
Once you're done marveling at why I'm not a brazillionaire author by now, please stop by The Coconut Internet and say hello. As always, here are links to every Lost Friday so far this season. Thanks for reading, jerks; I'll see you again on Monday.
Season 3 Preview
Season 3 - Episode 1 Review
Season 3 - Episode 2 Review
Season 3 - Episode 3 Review
Season 3 - Episode 4 Review
Season 3 - Episode 5 Review
Season 3 - Episode 6 Review
Season 3 - Episode 7 Review
Season 3 - Episode 8 Review
Season 3 - Episode 9 Review
Season 3 - Episode 10 Review
Season 3 - Episode 11 Review
Season 3 - Episode 12 Review
Season 3 - Episode 13 Review
Season 3 - Episode 14 Review
Season 3 - Episode 15 Review
Season 3 - Episode 16 Review
Season 3 - Episode 17 Review
Season 3 - Episode 18 Review
THE CDP INTERVIEWS
FROM SALAMI TSUNAMI!
Tuesday, May 1CDP Wayback Machine - Homecoming Edition.
One year ago this week, I published 'The Homecoming Quadrilogy,' a 4-part essay documenting my Homecoming dance as a High School Junior in 1998. Since then, the essay has been the source of numerous e-mails and links from blogs all over the nation. In fact, the Quadrilogy in question earned itself the #6 spot in the CDP Top 30 Posts Of All Time. Not too shabby, considering that Post #600 is right around the corner.
Because it's been exactly a year since the debut of this essay, along with the fact that Homecoming is taking place in High Schools all over the country, I wanted to once again share it with new and old CDP readers alike. So sit back, relax and breathe in one of the most bizarrely memorable nights of my entire life, published in its complete, 4-part entirety (along with the old CDP logo!). You'll thank me later.
PART I - "Love Tha Playa', Hate Tha Game."
I walked into the Spring Homecoming dance alone, but I was planning on leaving a man.
True, I had no date and arrived with a bunch of better-looking people who did, but that was all sure to change, because tonight was the night! This was the night that I shed my inhibitions and stopped listening to common sense and reason.
No longer would I be the nice guy, the PG-rated guy. The guy that the ladies would talk to when their boyfriends were being selfish and unfaithful, only to leave me for their arms when I quelled their salty tears. No way. From now on, I would be the guy who did the dishing out and taking, and women would line up in front of me, begging to be stepped on and hurt again. My high school legacy had just begun, and I knew I had an opportunity to write it as I pleased.
The night belonged to me!
I was mentally and physically prepared to rule that night. My super-tight, tapered slacks subtly led your eyes up to my oversized beige blazer, sporting shoulder pads large enough to be endorsed by the Miami Dolphins very own Larry Csonka (Super Bowl VIII MVP; 'you've been czonked!'). A simple black t-shirt underneath said, 'I'm trying, but not hard enough to look sad and desperate.'
Topping off the ensemble was my not-so-secret weapon, six tablespoons of Old Spice, strategically dallopped and slathered in various locations on my body.
I reeked. I also looked sad and desperate.
This night also predated my 5-year stint with braces, mind you, so my teeth looked as if they were retreating from the front of my mouth, turning inward and making a beeline for my uvula. I was drenched in flop sweat before I even walked into the dimly-lit gymnasium, and it was 40 degrees out. My finely-groomed group started to congregate and form a semi-circle near some bleachers, while I began the hunt for the woman that would change my life.
The night was no less than 10 minutes old, and I was about to get the crap beaten out of me.
I ran into a female friend whom I shared a spot with on the school bus. Living in a small town 30 minutes from school, you had no choice but to ride the bus until you got your driver's license. This girl, who we'll call 'Sadie,' had brought along a friend from another school; we'll call her 'Marie.' Sadie introduced me to Marie and the three of us started talking. Sadie was nice like that; always looking for someone to set me up with, and Marie was right in my wheelhouse. Why me and Sadie never hooked up was pretty obvious, considering that she smoked more weed than Woody Harrelson at Burning Man. No, thank you.
Knowing that Marie had absolutely no idea who I was, I used this time to try out my newfound attitude towards the art of seduction. I told her I played guitar and was an accomplished songwriter; perhaps I'd write something for her someday. She giggled and brushed against my blazer, her eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree as I continued to lie through my crooked teeth. I was definitely on to something. I could see a very short, awkward and dishonest future with her, and I was okay with that.
After chatting for a few minutes, someone else needed my attention for a bit, so I excused myself from Sadie and Marie, making sure to let Marie know how much of a pleasure it was to meet her. I turned to step away when Marie grabbed me by the arm and spun me back around. 'Where's my hug?' she asked, eyes glistening. Amazed at how quickly this new method was working, I gave Marie a most tender hug and swaggered away, confident there was nothing that would keep me from the prospect of more hugs in the future.
It felt good.
I went over to talk to the person who requested my attention; a girl we'll call 'Becky.' Becky had lost one of her high-heels, as one of my friends thought it would be a witty jest to hide it on her. She wanted to know if I had seen it, and I told her I would look around. I walked around the perimeter of the gym, pushing around chairs and bending under tables. Eventually, I found her lonely shoe under the chair of a huge man I had never seen before. My school was rather small; we all knew everyone, and this guy certainly wasn't from around here. He looked like Jesse 'The Body' Ventura, and was very mad for some reason.
'Excuse me,' I said, 'Can I grab that shoe from under your chair?'
Just then, I realized why this guy looked so big. It was because he was sitting on some guy's lap. Someone even larger than him; and he was being restrained. Poorly.
'You're f***ing dead! DEAD!' He screamed, as the man under him kept a tight bear hug on his frame. The angry guy squirmed and swung for a few seconds before the guy restraining him said to me, 'Go dude, just go!'
For a few seconds, I didn't even realize that the guy was yelling at me; it just didn't make any sense for some reason. I quickly kicked the shoe out from under the chair and got the hell out of there. I got about five steps away when I heard more commotion. It was the big guy dragging the angry guy out of the gym, still furious and more than ready to crack me like an egg.
That's when it all hit me like a high-heel to the face. I had been played like a fiddle.
You see, that was Marie's boyfriend. Knowing full well that he was watching her from afar after a fight they had, she used me to get back at him; flirting and hugging me solely to piss him off and send him into a textbook rage. Her and Sadie had set the whole thing up; laughing at my stupid jokes, nodding at each well-placed lie. I knew it was too good to be true, but I didn't listen to my gut and I almost got killed because of it.
Look no further for proof that women are messed right the hell up. Instead of just telling him that she was mad and running the risk of ruining the night for herself, she ruined the night for two guys instead, one of them a completely innocent bystander. That's not even close to cool, and I would never do that to anyone.
Then again, was I really all that innocent? After all, I did lie to her about almost everything. While trying to remain in charge of a courtship through dishonesty and hormone-driven motives, I got strung along and hung out to dry like millions of other losers just like me. I deserved it; it scared me straight. If women are messed up, it's because men lead them to it.
I was shaking in fear for the next 15 minutes, looking over my shoulder and asking anyone who would listen to check and see if the guy had left. To be entirely honest, my night of manly retribution and female attraction wasn't going as well as I hoped, but the night was just getting started.
At least I got Becky's shoe back.
PART II - "J.Crew & The Mystery Girl."
Still reeling from getting wretchedly betrayed (and almost killed) earlier on in the night, I kept a low profile for about an hour, chatting with close friends and wiping tears away with my oversized blazer. I didn't dance too much, for fear prospective dates would notice the huge pee stain that had been forming since that big guy yelled at me. I refused to stand in any open spaces or under any lights, certain in my neurosis that Nutass Boyfriend Rage-aholic would lunge from the shadows, John Rambo-style, slitting my throat with ninja-like precision and malice.
This was simply no way to live.
After all, this was supposed to be my night! I was supposed to arrive and emerge as a contender from a sea of pretenders, making a stand and acting like the straight guys do in John Hughes' movies. If there's one thing that 80's teen films have taught us, it's that what happens at a High School dance will have a direct emotional effect on the rest of your waking life; perhaps even beyond the grave. I needed to make sure my chance counted.
My only chance at succeeding tonight would have to be at the innocent mercy of a woman who was fortunate enough to not already know who I was. Most of the women at my school already crossed me off the big list of prospective mates in their mind many, many years ago. In the fifth grade, I accidentally wore my mom's blouse to school in what would be remembered as a tragic laundry mix-up of epic proportions. Since then, most people, teachers especially, looked at me a little cockeyed. In addition to that, my best friend all through middle school was a bona fide homosexual, so the deck has always been stacked against me when it came to being taken seriously as a man.
Across the dark gym, on the other side of the dance floor, my mystery girl sat by herself. I had been watching her for most of the night, and she looked absolutely beautiful. I had seen her once or twice during school, but never enough to form a solid opinion of her. She normally wore hooded sweatshirts and baggy jeans; tonight she was simply radiant.
As if her dress wasn't perfect enough, she was proudly sporting a cast on her broken arm, which she had meticulously decorated in a sparkly magenta. The 30 feet between us might as well have been a black hole full of pudding and sharks; there was no way I could muster the balls to approach someone like her for no good reason.
'Why don't you ask her to dance?' said 'Vinny,' a male friend of mine, as I stared off into space; thumping bass and strobe lights pounding in my head.
'Why don't you?' was all I could muster. To this day, I still can't think of a better comeback. Although, 'Why don't you go to hell?' comes pretty close. I was a little touchy at that point in my life.
I wasn't one of those guys. I wasn't a guy that thought so highly of himself to ask a stranger to dance and get away with it. I thought it was rude and arrogant, and I couldn't bring myself to do it.
'Fine, I'll ask her myself,' Vinny responded, who was certainly one of those guys. It always worked for him, too, which bothered the living hell out of me. I grabbed him by the shirt half a step later.
'You can't ask her to dance,' I said. 'She's mine.'
Vinny put his hands on my shoulders and looked me square in the eye. He only did that to me when he had something very important to say, or when he was about to knee me in the testicles. I got into the habit of bracing for impact no matter what.
'Listen dude, you're probably not going to get a chance like this again. She's sitting over there all by her damn self; just ask her if she wants to dance. Look, if it'll make you feel better, there's a girl I've been meaning to ask, too. If you promise to go over and ask her, I'll do the same thing. On the next slow song, we swarm like locusts. Deal?'
Such men we were, daring each other to ask women to dance. I couldn't believe we hadn't already been scooped up by some bikini sorority cult.
After a couple numbers, a slow song started to waft through the speakers and into the gym, as Vinny and I looked at each other with wide, non-gay eyes. This was it. We nodded without words and went our separate ways, as couples started to meld together like cells in a Petri dish.
She was still sitting where she had been for the whole night, looking rather bored and despondent. Her hair was curled yet silky; reflecting off of the lights like something straight out of a putrid shampoo commercial. Her sparkly cast bounced light around like a disco ball. I swallowed hard, shook my head in disbelief, and started walking through the crowd to get to her.
The dancefloor was packed with swaying people who already had dates, already were happy. 'Jerks,' I thought to myself, 'every last one of 'em,' even as I was moving heaven and earth to join the ranks of the taken. I pushed, shoved and said 'excuse me' about a dozen times before I made it to the other side of the gym, losing sight of her and doubting my every step. I looked left and right, trying to remember where she was sitting.
She was gone, for the moment. The song was half-over at this point.
My friend was right; I stalled and lost my chance. That was my one big moment to meet her, and it was over. My big night of becoming the jerk I always hoped I'd be was going over about as well as a concrete balloon.
Truth is, it wasn't over; it was about to get much worse.
No more than 5 feet away, I saw her sitting at another table, but not on a chair. She was sitting in the lap of a guy I'd never seen before.
As my crooked smile faded, I saw her smile growing. They were laughing, having a good time. There wasn't room on that chair for a third person, even if I was only 100 pounds at the time. Up close and under the lights, she was even more beautiful than I imagined. Her boyfriend looked fresh from the pages of a J. Crew catalog, and I secretly wondered how I could find his address so I could mail him half of a cat. Half of his cat. I bet he smelled like Polo and had a closet full of rugby shirts with popped collars, each one sexier than the last.
What an asshole. I didn't know the first thing about either one of them, but I knew he didn't deserve her. Neither did I, really, but at least I knew who Larry Csonka was (see part 1). I stood there alone, watching the two of them like a car accident until the song mercifully ended.
Dejected and heartbroken for the second time tonight, I waded through the crowd of happy people, back to where I was talking with Vinny earlier. He was waiting for me, and he was also by himself. That made me feel a little better.
'How'd it go?' he asked me.
'Um...couldn't find her.' I fired back, lying for about the tenth time that night. 'How about you?'
'She didn't want to dance. What a bunch of crap.'
'I hear you, dude. Oh well, still plenty of time tonight, right?'
'You got it.'
We stood there, trying our damnest to save face after such a wicked turn of events. He eventually disappeared into the darkness of the dance floor, and I tried to get the image out of my head of J. Crew with my mystery girl on his lap.
I didn't see her again that night, mainly because I didn't want to. There were plenty of other ways I could torture myself if need be. Besides, the night was barely half-over. There was so much more left to do; so many people left to reject me.
In case you haven't caught on by now, the Mystery Girl is now my wife.
PART III - "Brace For Impact."
What started out as a night of new beginnings and retribution was turning into another textbook punch in the ear for yours truly. The night was half over and I was still alone; mouth reeking with the familiar, sour taste of rejection and failure. It tastes sort of like an old penny, or a 9-volt battery doused in mustard and poop.
I was all set to call it a night. Cut my losses and try again next year. Preferably in a different school, in a different state or continent altogether, where people communicated in beeps and clicks. Take off this horrid blazer, go home, make myself some toast and sleep until 2pm. Damn.
Every time a camera snapped near me, it was like someone was visually documenting the most pathetic and forgettable four hours of my life. Friendly faces became twisted and gnarled caricatures under the lights, cementing the feeling of loneliness that can only be felt by a wiener teenager smack-dab in the center of a puberty-soaked angst session. The me that I am now hates the me that I used to be, but the old me had no choice but to continue being me until I became the me you know now.
Excuse me, that last line gave me a bit of a nosebleed. Give me a second.
Just when I was ready to leave, Gail walked in and I got my swagger back.
'Gail' was a female friend of mine, like Sadie, that I knew mainly from the bus we rode together. We had partnered up for a few projects in Spanish class, in particular, making a paper mache' pinata. We got to know each other a little more after spending a few long nights together in her bedroom, meticulously dipping newspaper in slop and constructing what could be considered the most terrifying clown pinata ever viewed. Candy or not, this thing was going to scare the hell out of some Mexican children.
She had told me she was bringing some people to the dance and wanted to introduce them to me and my friends. She strolled in with two ladies who were looking for company, or at least that's what she was telling me at the time. We'll call them 'Kim' and 'Charlotte.'
You can't blame me for being hesitant; even a bit scared. So far tonight, my record with mysterious women was 0-2, and I really saw no reason to go for the hat trick of rejection. I needed some insurance as to not go into this alone, so I went and grabbed 'Vinny,' who you remember from the prior 'J. Crew' incident. If something bad was going to happen to me, it was going to happen to him, too. Truth be told, nothing bad ever happened to Vinny, so I was using him as kind of a crude karma shield; a St. Christopher's medal that smelled like french fries and Brute.
Kim was exactly what you want to receive out of a first impression. She was charming and alive, sporting bright-yet-cavernous eyes and high cheekbones. She talked almost exclusively with her hands, and wasn't the least bit superficial. She seemed like a genuinely nice person, wearing a simple black dress with matching simple makeup. Within seconds of meeting her, I could tell that she was going to turn my night around. Heck, I might even make a new friend out of the deal.
Of course, Vinny was thinking the exact same thing for himself. Before I could even squeeze the word 'Howdy!' from my windpipe, Vinny had swept an arm around Kim and led her as far away from me as he possibly could. They were a blip on the radar within seconds.
For the countless time this evening, I stood alone with my jaw to the floor. It was at this point that Gail introduced me to Charlotte, and I got a first impression I will truly never forget.
The first thing that I noticed about Charlotte- or the first thing that anyone with eyes noticed about her that night- was the fact that she was wearing a massive, white neck brace. Her beautiful blue dress sparkled at every angle, her hair was expertly tossed and curled, her makeup was applied with wild teenage precision, and it was all overshadowed by the foam device wrapped tightly around her neck like a medically prescribed scarf.
She was also crying. Hard.
I looked to Gail, an obvious rictus of complete confusion on my face, then looked back to Charlotte and cocked my head to the side. 'Charlotte, this is Ramone,' Gail said, which was my Spanish class moniker at the time. She held out her hand and attempted to say 'Hello, Ramone,' but got choked up somewhere near the second syllable and buried her face into a soaked and tattered piece of Kleenex. I slowly brought my arm back to my side, fairly certain a handshake wasn't in order.
You see, Charlotte had been having a bad week. She was injured in a car accident just days prior, which led to not only the neck brace, but a totaled vehicle. If that wasn't awful enough, the day before the dance, she was savagely dumped by her boyfriend right after buying the very Homecoming dress she was wearing as she stood before me, sobbing and red-nosed. In reality, she was having a far worse night than me, which I thought was impossible up to this point.
I did the only thing I could do. I fled the scene. I had problems of my own; I didn't need to get bogged down with hers. That's what the old me would have done; piss his entire night away talking to someone about some jerk she's just dying to get back together with. I had a lifetime of experience dealing with people in this situation, and I knew that Charlotte was on a rebound so fresh that it was still flopping around on the plate. Not now. Not tonight. I left her and Gail to fend for themselves.
In the meantime, I talked with friends, told a few jokes and settled into a quiet routine. Every few minutes, though, I'd check to see how Charlotte was doing. I wouldn't let her know I was keeping an eye on her, I just wanted to see if she was having a good time. She, of course, was not. Having now been abandoned by both Kim and Gail, I found her sitting alone, on a chair in the middle of the dancefloor, bawling hard and unable to turn her fractured head in any direction. Mascara was everywhere.
I tried to ignore her, I really did. However, every time I saw her, I knew exactly how she was feeling, and it weighed heavy on my conscience. My heart and body started to clash with each other, fighting about what sort of person I was destined to become. My body told me to stick with the plan and give up the soft guy I used to be. My heart was aching to make this girl feel better, even though I didn't have the foggiest idea who she was and whether or not she was clinically insane. Lord knows I wasn't the person to do it, but I knew that nobody else was going to.
Giving in to what I knew was right, I stepped up to the plate for a total stranger, perhaps as some divine retribution for all the crap I was being hit with that evening. I pulled a chair up to Charlotte- again, right in the center of the dancefloor- and we started to talk.
Well, sort of. She couldn't turn her head, so she didn't realize I was there for about 5 minutes. Thinking she wanted to be alone or ignored, I just sat next to her while she wiped her nose on her dress and sobbed. When she finally noticed me, then we started to talk.
Charlotte proceeded to vent and emote all over me. I had heard it all before; the boyfriend, the lack of attention, the secrets and whatnot. I did what I always did; I smiled, nodded and agreed. That was exactly what she needed, and after about 20 minutes of this, I coaxed out her first smile of the night.
In the distance, I caught Vinny and Kim dancing in the corner, laughing and swaying without a care. I secretly fantasized that he was being played like I had earlier in the evening, but to no avail. They couldn't be any happier. That metallic taste started rising up in me again, as my night of becoming a new man was destroyed at the hands of the very person who wanted to change.
For the rest of the night, I stayed close to Charlotte. I got drinks, did anything to stop the crying and retrieved handfuls of Kleenex when I wasn't successful. She continued to call me 'Ramone' right up until midnight, when it was time for everyone to go home. I led her back to where Kim and Gail (and Vinny) were congregated and hugged her goodbye, as she thanked me for being such a good listener.
It was the meanest thing anyone had said to me the entire night.
On the way home, I thought about what I expected from myself, versus what other people expected from me. In my quest for maturity, I almost reverted to my id in a feeble attempt to grow up. In the end, I realized that no matter what I thought I was missing out on, I had made the right choice. Many years from now, people won't remember random men and greasy liars they made out with in corridors and stairwells, but they will remember the guy that drove them home when things got a little too out of hand. It was the role I was destined to play, and I was good at it. My attempts to change were ludicrous and worthy of the karma-like retribution I had received. I wasn't supposed to change.
When I got home, I looked up at the cloud-free, moonlit sky and smiled. My terrible night was over, but I was a better man because of it.
As I put the key into the lock, I could hear the phone ringing inside the house. Knowing that it was almost 1am at this point, either it was someone that I knew, or someone was dead. I rushed in to answer it, mainly to spare myself from getting yelled at when the whole house woke up.
'Hey! It's Vinny! What's up?'
'Well, I just got home and I want toast and sleep. Why?'
Then I heard it. The sound of a Gail's SUV tearing down my street with reckless abandon, waking neighbors and scattering wildlife in its powerful wake. I ran outside in time to see it crank hard into my driveway, side door flinging open. There sat Gail, Vinny, Kim and Charlotte.
'Get in,' said Charlotte.
PART IV - "Three Strikes, You're In."
I got in.
To this day, I don't know why I did. Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment. Maybe I'm a pushover. Maybe I wanted to make the most out of my rad blazer. Whatever it was, it won.
Gail was driving, with Vinny riding shotgun. Me, Kim and Charlotte lined the backseat with a flat storage area behind us (it was an old Suburban or something). Everyone was talking loudly at once, and I was doing my best to stay silent and still, perhaps meld into the upholstery and disappear altogether. Peeking over Kim, I could see that Charlotte wasn't crying, which meant that I had done my job earlier on in the night. She stared straight ahead, which was all she could really do with her neck brace.
My anxiety finally got the best of me, and I peeped, "Where are we going?"
"Never you mind!" snapped Vinny.
At this point, it was about 1:30am, and I was thinking to myself what could possibly be open at this time of the night. Not only that, where were we going that wouldn't seem ludicrous as we sported gowns and formalwear?
Of course. The bowling alley.
The local alley was open all hours of the night; it was a nice place for white 13-year olds with thuggish tendencies to smoke and brandish weaponry. It also seemed like a magnet for teenage lesbians for some reason. Beats me, all I knew for sure was that I wanted to be in bed right now.
As it turned out, we didn't show up to bowl; we showed up to smoke and meet people I wouldn't ever invite into my home. Gail knew some people that were far less pleasant than Kim and Charlotte, and every time one of these baggily-panted alley-dwellers got within a yard of me I clutched my wallet and stared at the ground. I avoided one ass-kicking tonight; I wasn't in the mood to press my luck.
Me and Charlotte don't smoke, and our eyes met up through the haze and stench of the deafening alley. She laughed and smiled, and I could only assume she understood the head-shakingly brilliant irony of this night. After everything the two of us did to make our evening perfect, here we were at 2am, in what was one of the least-classy places in the city, sporting $300 outfits and wishing we were anywhere else. Hours ago, we were strangers; now we were allies. She came over and attempted to take a seat next to me, walking as elegantly as someone could do with a tight dress and a busted neck. On the other side of the table, Kim sat on Vinny's lap and inhaled her Camel Light.
Before Charlotte could sit down next to me, she stared over the top of my head, presumably at something very frightening that was going on behind me. Judging by the look on her face, I fully expected a wrecking ball to collide with the back of my head in microseconds, transforming my skull into malt powder.
I turned back quickly to see nothing serious; just a few people at the next table over. However, when I looked back at Charlotte, I could see her face change shades and the tears start to well.
Well, I'll be damned. Sitting just feet away from me was her ex-boyfriend, the very man that broke up with her hours before Homecoming. The very man that should be sitting where I'm sitting. Instead of doing what he should have been doing tonight, he was sharing an intimate bowling alley moment with his All Star Lanes mistress.
Charlotte took off for the bathroom, with Gail and Kim in tow. "We're leaving," Gail said.
The next thing I can remember, we were all back in the truck, driving much faster and cursing much more than was really necessary. Charlotte was completely inconsolable and my night's work was shot directly in the can. Earlier in the evening, I came to the conclusion that the Utility Man was the role I was destined to play, and what just transpired was clearly Exhibit A.
Everything I had regrettably speculated came true. When the night started, I was determined to become the kind of guy that Charlotte's ex-boyfriend was. Essentially, an insensitive ass that made injured women cry. In reality, the greater good called, and if it meant wasting my life making others happy, then so be it. After sobbing for a while, Charlotte sunk into hyperventilating quietly in the corner, as I silently counted off the blocks to my house.
Kim should have been consoling her. Kim should have been doing her girlfriend duties. Kim should have done everything I had been doing for her all night. But once again, instead of stepping up for a friend, she left that job to a complete stranger. It turns out she wasn't the person I thought she was when I met her.
No less than six inches from Charlotte's face, Kim and Vinny started viciously making out.
For my money, there's nothing sexier than getting to first base next to an injured woman in the midst of an emotional breakdown; I could barely hear her bawling over the two of them. Angry and more than a little disgusted, I reached over Kim's wildly bobbing head and tapped Charlotte on the shoulder. Someone had to get her out of this wide-awake nightmare.
Obviously, she couldn't turn her head to see me, so she just screamed "What!?" into the back of the passenger seat, where she had her face mashed. I had startled her. Eventually, I motioned for her to jump over the backseat and into the flatbed area in the back of the SUV.
This was how the night was going to end for me. Sitting in the storage area of a Chevy Suburban with a red-faced stranger who should be in traction. Still incoherent, she was sitting cross-legged in the flatbed with her dress twisted up around her waist. She either didn't care or didn't notice, and I did my best to divert my eyes.
"Thank you," she blurted out. "You're a good friend." I didn't have the heart to tell her that I didn't know her last name, and I would almost certainly never see her again after tonight.
"You're welcome," I whispered back as she threw her arms around me, instantly drenching my blazer with tears. In the corner of my eye, I saw Kim and Vinny happily stretched across the backseat, where minutes ago we were sitting. Reaching out over the top of the seat, I attempted to strangle the both of them to death, to no avail.
Charlotte pulled her head off of my shoulder and pressed her wet nose against my face. Hiccupping over words and shivering, she looked me in the eyes and said, "Do you want to kiss me?"
At this point, I was secretly wondering how injured I'd get if I popped the hatch and flung myself out of the vehicle. This was the worst possible thing she could have said. I would have more preferred it if she said, "This neck brace is actually a bomb that's set to turn this stretch of highway into a smoldering crater in 3-2-1..."
Honestly, what would you do? On one hand, this was my opportunity to prove that the nice guy will get the nice girl in the end (hooray! vindication!). On the other hand, Vinny was proving that the jerkass always wins, and always has more fun along the way. Honestly, I wanted nothing to do with this situation; the last thing she needed on her fragile psyche was another loser who made decisions with his ween. On yet another hand, she might once again feel rejected if I said no, and that might actually hurt her far more than if I just went along with what she wanted. "Think man, think! What would Larry Csonka do?"
Finally, I saw through it and realized that she was just begging for acceptance, and only asked me because it's what she thought I had wanted the entire night.
This was nowhere near the truth, of course; I was just doing my job.
So what happened?
If you must know, I told her the same story I'm telling you right now. About my night; about my ideas and projections for what I wanted to become as a man. I told her about my near ass-kicking at the hands of a vengeful boyfriend and sadistic woman. I told her about the mystery girl and how I felt when I saw that she already found someone to make her happy. I told her how I need to accept the role I chose to play, because it was what made me content, for better or worse. I told her that as much as people need a sympathetic ear, I need to get my attention and acceptance as well, and this was the best way to make myself happy. I told her that her suffering probably made my night, because it allowed me to feel important and mend wounds I has no business tending to in the first place. I told her that no matter what I became, I was still operating on selfish and egotistical morals. I told her that I was an asshole that deserved everything I had coming to me tonight, and she was better off never seeing me again.
She understood. She actually understood. The night suddenly was in perspective.
For the second time tonight, we pulled into my driveway. This time, however, I had to pop the trunk to get out. Vinny and Kim didn't even realize that I was leaving, far too busy tearing at each other to peek their heads up. Charlotte smiled as the red brake lights reflected off of her face. We hugged and I told her that everything would be okay.
"You, too," she said. It was the truest thing anyone had said to me all night.
It made sense. In my honest confession to her, I made her feel empowered and let her know what my motives were. On a night like this, she very much needed a guy like me to come along. A selfish guy, bent on feeling self-important and making an impact on someone. On a night like this, I very much needed a girl like her to come along. A train wreck of a girl so gruesome that the only thing that could save her from destruction was the complete and undivided attention of someone more sad than herself.
Guys like me are attracted to trauma because it makes us feel dominant and important, much like everything else we're attracted to. It didn't matter what our names were and what we looked like, as long as we possessed these qualities and spoke the same language. We weren't necessarily special in each other's eyes, we were just what the other needed to make it out of Homecoming with our dignity.
I never saw Charlotte again, and we made no attempts to contact each other. I think we knew that Homecoming happened for a reason, and it didn't matter what happened afterwards.
So long, Charlotte. I hope your neck is feeling better. You saved my night; hopefully I saved yours.