Questions and Answers

     Oh man.

     That can't be true.

     July? The last time I posted anything was in July?

     G'lord.

     That is painful and weird and saddening, all wrapped up in a tortilla of self-disappointment. But, we mustn't linger on blame, no matter how valid or totally excusable my excuses might be. Just read this with the knowledge that I am at no fault, and that the only person to blame, is nobody at all. Especially not me, seeing we already decided, as a group, that I am at no fault. Shall we begin?

     I've been waiting for my girlfriend's unasked permission to write about her before I actually started including her in these posts. As in, I wanted her to actually want to be in them, and not feel like she has to be. And last night, when I asked her what I should write about, she finally answered “Write one about me and how cute/awesome I am.” Well, at least she's humble.

     However, it seems that I keep hitting this wall of hesitation when I start writing about Becca, because I know how it feels to read those Facebook statuses that are gross and awkward and make me want to cyber-punch them for making a presence on my wall. You know the ones. So, I'll try to keep the mushiness down, so that you won't have to.

     The day I asked Becca out is, in itself, a pretty great story. A couple days beforehand, we were in a friendly group trip to the Boston Museum of Science (probably one of the most romantic places in the world), and I found myself trying to spend as much time as possible with this wonderful, funny girl that I've liked for a while. It just so happens that she was trying to do the same, so we were inseparable in a world of dinosaur skeletons, and that thing with the billiard balls. I freaking love that thing.

     Anyways, a couple days later, we decide to go on a nice lunch date in the park, where I would proclaim my like to her, and ask her to be my girlfriend. So we get there, start eating our sandwiches and talk for a while, both of us knowing that eventually, I would awkwardly ask her to go out with me. However, I didn't know that she would spend the day playing mind games on me.

     What followed was about an hour or so of me asking her to be my girlfriend periodically as we walked the path of Whites Park, which I am only now noticing is a pretty racist name, only to be told “I'm not sure...” or “Not quite yet”, for what I can only assume was to make me writhe in my own socially-awkwardness.

     “But Josiah, YOU? Socially awkward?” you're probably not asking, but I'm pretending you are so I can feel good about myself, “But you're so witty and charming in your posts and should be given money and several awards!” Wow, thank you- Wait a minute. I'm complimenting myself and pretending that my readers are the ones doing the complimenting. My God. Am I in this bad of shape? Maybe I should get out more...

     But, back to my point, yes. I'm very socially awkward, and it usually comes in the form of me constantly getting tongue tied, forgetting words every other sentence, and not knowing how the hell to introduce myself to people. But girls are a different matter entirely, because when it comes to talking to girls I like, my self-conscious meter goes through several different roofs. I think so hard about what I'm talking about to the point that everything that would be absolutely normal and alright to say is complete taboo and I should think of something else. That usually leads me to say something stupid and un-suave.

     So you can see why her turning me down every fifteen minutes was really starting to worry me. I mean, what was I doing wrong, besides barraging her with questions about whether she would like to be required to be seen with me in public for an unprecedented amount of time? So, I decided to stop asking for a while, and just enjoy the walk around the park, with some delightful, albeit cruel, company.

     We finally sat down on a bench underneath a shady tree. Shady as in, protection from sun rays, not drug dealer shady. Although, I am assuming a bit there... But we continued a conversation on that bench for several minutes, until I realized that she was resting her head on my shoulder, and my arm was around her. I smiled, and asked her one final time. And she answered with the most romantic four words I have ever heard. The four words that sent off our relationship to the heavens in a rocket ship made purely of profoundness.

     “I might as well.”

New Things and Jerry

     Man, it's been a while. Apologies for not posting last week, I didn't feel like it. And maybe that's not a good reason, but I find myself hard to argue with, because no matter what I say, I always win. So, I recently decided not to bother.

     But this week, there is a post. And it's a different post. I've recently been thinking about how I write these, and have come to the realization that I'm starting to actually write like a blogger. And I don't like that. I'm going to try harder to write like a writer, so, forgive me if my blogs seem less... bloggy. I did it on purpose.

     Also, I've been thinking about how I've kind of put myself in a corner by only allowing stories on my friends and family. And while this was my intention, I don't want it being all I'm doing, because then I'll never be able to write anything else. So, every once in a while, I'm hoping to put up a short story when I feel like branching out a little, so please don't be alarmed if instead of reading about Ben, Cory and Spencer, you're reading a story about some guy named Jerry.

     And now, a story about some guy named Jerry.

Some Guy Named Jerry

     Jerry was a man who was at odds with no one. Any opinion on anything either didn't exist or wasn't deemed worthy enough to bring up during the short conversations at the water cooler that his colleagues seemed so into. He just listened to the debates while pouring himself a cone of water, drank it, and went back to his cubicle to sell more more magazine subscriptions.

     Nobody liked him.

     Nobody disliked him.

     He was as average as you can get. Kind of tall, lanky build. His face was neither handsome nor ugly, and his hair was nothing out of the ordinary. Jerry did nothing to grab your attention. He was in fact, a very plain man. Certainly not what you'd expect from someone who had the power of flight.

     Yes, from childhood, Jerry was able to zoom across the sky with the birds and the planes, lift off into the atmosphere with the speed of a bullet, and dive down even faster with nothing but his amazing gift. He would be able to clean up the streets of the city, work with the police as a masked vigilante, and be a real life super hero.

     But he didn't. Because in his entire life, not once did Jerry figure out that he could fly. It's not like many people actually go out and try to defy gravity. Doctors don't give out tests to see if your aerodynamically inclined or not. That's because people can't fly. But Jerry can. This “nobody” can become a “somebody” in seconds if he actually tries to fly. He doesn't have to do some crazy arm movement, say some chant, or even get bitten by a radioactive mosquito. He just has to jump with the full intention of taking flight. But why would he? People can't fly.

     “Hey... Gary, is it?” Jerry's boss, Craig, who was here seven years less than Jerry was, asked as he walked to Jerry's cubicle.

     “Jerry?” Jerry corrected Craig, in the most confident way he could: Not very. “It's... Jerry...”

     “Gary? You okay?” Craig responded, not hearing Jerry's correction.

     “Jerry.”

     “Gary? Speak up, man. I can barely hear you.”

     “His name is Jerry, Craig.” The woman stationed next to Jerry said in a very firm and authoritative fashion. Craig turned his attention to the woman.

     “Well, sorry, Debby. I didn't realize I was insulting his humanity. I just couldn't hear the guy's name,” Craig turned back to Jerry, “Jerry. We need you to fill out these forms by the end of the day. Can you do that for me, pal? Thanks a lot.” Craig put a pile of papers on Jerry's desk. It was an hour before closing time. Jerry hung his head and sighed.

     Debby came around to Jerry's cubicle to sympathize. “Sorry, Jerry. That guy is such a tool.” She assured him. Jerry kept his head hung. But more because he was afraid to make eye contact with Debby, who Jerry had always liked, but was always too afraid to talk to. Guys like Jerry can't get girls like Debby.

     Debby was worried. “You okay, Jerry?” Still nothing. “Hmm.. Tell you what. How about I help you with these stupid forms? That way, you at least have some chance of getting out of the office some time today.” Jerry actually raised his head to that. He cautiously turned towards Debby, and nodded.

     It took them two hours to fill out the paperwork, so Jerry and Debby were out of work an hour later than usual. “I'm starving,” Debby thought out loud. “Jerry, you want to go somewhere to eat?”

     This took Jerry by surprise. He could dismiss the last two hours as pity, and go on and live the rest of his days not thinking it was anything more. But dinner? Jerry was suspecting that this beautiful woman actually wanted to spend time with him. This is new territory.

     They went to a restaurant that Debby highly recommended. Soon after being seated, the waiter came over to take their orders. Debby ordered first. “Yes, I'll have the Caesar Salad.”

     “Very good, madam, and you sir?” The waiter asked.

     “I'll have the roast chicken, I guess.”

     “Excellent, sir. A very confident choice. We'll get those to you shortly.”

     After Debby took a sip of her water, she started to try and make conversation. “So, Jerry. Tell me something interesting about yourself.”

     This would be an excellent time to say “I have the power of flight”, but alas, this didn't come up in their conversation. What DID come up, were things that were NOT interesting, such as his coin collection, his tour of American Bridges, his love for penguins, and his recycling habits. This is just one of many situations, where flight would have come in handy.

     After a rather boring dinner, Jerry offered to walk Debby home. She accepted, still willing to give Jerry a chance, for some reason. Her apartment was a few blocks down the road, but the ability to fly would probably make the trip a lot faster. And would make up for the disappointing dinner. Well. Too bad.

     Jerry walked Debby to her apartment building, received a kiss on the cheek, a “Thank you for dinner”, and a closed door. He turned around and when he put his first foot forward, he felt the instant pouring of rain. And his apartment was a lot more than a couple blocks away. Hey. You know what would be really handy right now? Flight. That, or an umbrella.

     But Jerry didn't have an umbrella. And he didn't know that he could fly. So, he just hung his head like he always did at these depressing times, and started walking home in the pouring rain.

     Jerry didn't see the first punch coming as he turned into the alleyway. But he sure as hell felt it. His lungs evacuated all the air from his body, and formed a blockade to keep new air from coming in. After a couple seconds, Jerry's gasps were finally successful, and brought in oxygen just in time for it to be exited out again from another blow.

     “Listen, man. Listen. Listen. LISTEN!” said the attention whore of a mugger, “I need your wallet, your watch, and your- ARE YOU LISTENING? ARE YOU?”

     “Hnng,” was about all Jerry could say with no air to back up his cries of terror.

     “Good! Now listen. I need your wallet, your watch, and your cell phone. Everything, man. Listen. I need all of it, man. Listen. Listen. All the valuables. Listen. Are you listening?”

     Jerry was indeed listening. It was kind of hard not to. All Jerry wanted to do was get out of this. To escape this terrible moment. To... fly? Yeah, that's the word I was looking for. And it was then, once Jerry got enough air into his lungs, that he started to book it as fast as he could out of there.

     “Hey!” Exclaimed the mugger, running after his fleeing victim, “Weren't you listening?!”

     Jerry was about thirty seconds into his well planned escape when he hit a wall. Literally. Apparently, this alley was dead end, and it was dark and raining heavily. So, Jerry actually ran face first into a brick wall. So, he laid there on the ground, rain pelting his face, trying to think of any way to get out of this. He didn't want to get punched again. That hurt like hell.

     That's when it happened. All that fear and need for escape, it triggered something. A sense of awareness, of knowing what he can do, and could have done all his life. Jerry started levitating off the ground. He unlocked a part of himself that felt more natural than walking, and as if he had been doing it all his life, he shot up into the air like a missile, away from the mugger, away from the terrible date, away from a life of mediocrity. From this moment forward, he was going to be the somebody he's wanted to be for so long. 

     He was going to make a difference. He was going to fight crime. He was going to help the people who can't help themselves. He was going to put himself in danger for complete strangers. He was going to have a high risk of being targeted, hated, and shot at. He was going to be responsible for the lives of thousands, and be depended on saving every one of them at any time. Maybe he was going to have a nemesis. Someone who spends their entire life trying to kill him. He was going to be judged on every single thing he ever did. By everyone. Everywhere. Because why would they trust him? Why would they see him as a savior, and not as a threat? Why wouldn't they just grow hatred and jealousy towards him? People wouldn't trust him. People would fear him. And flee from him. He's not a somebody. He's a freak. Because people can't fly.

      Maybe this isn't such a good idea.

     Jerry landed at his doorstep. He walked in, had a microwavable dinner, watched some TV, and went to bed. The next morning, Jerry returned to his terrible job selling magazine subscriptions, next to a girl he liked, but never talked to, and never flew again in his life.

     Because people can't fly.

The Official Guide to Sam and Josiah's Humor, 1st Edition

     When Sam and I are together, I've noticed that most people in the general area don't exactly understand why we think we're funny. And don't get me wrong. We're hilarious. You just don't get it. So, I've decided to spend this week creating a list of things you should know about Sam and I, which have sub-lists within that list, so you can actually stand being around us. I'm letting you guys in on some of the best inside jokes ever, because really, that's all we have. And I'm tired of being stared at in public. So, here it is.

1. Wrunching.

     The obvious way to start this off is to define “Wrunching”.

     Wrunching: The act of creating words for oddly specific things. For example: Wrunching.

     Pickirking: Arguing over a very nerdy topic, such as Light Side vs. Dark Side, Windows vs. Linux, or for what the word is named after, Captain Picard vs. Captain Kirk.

     Squeeg: Half slapping, half pushing. Kind of like an awkward face-shove. It's weird to do, and be done to.

     Scumblessant: When something is cute, yet very creepy. Like this, for instance:

     You know what? There's no cute there. That's just all creepy.

     There have been many more, but our rule is, if we can't remember it, it really doesn't deserve to be remembered. (Important Birthdays and Anniversaries are excluded from this rule)

2. We love us some Misdirection.

     I think this one speaks for itself, and is what we use the most to mess with people. We just love to have people think that they know what we're going to say, and then say something completely different. That might not sound too weird, but the thing is, the two of us can usually guess what the other is going to use for his misdirection. That's because...

3. We have the weirdest inside jokes ever.

     Once in a while, you might catch Sam and I recite a list of random quotes that come from nowhere. They are in a very specific order, and with voices and everything. These are things that we've said over the years that were “List Worthy”, and therefore, were added to the list. I won't put the list here, mainly because it would be weird to have it in written form, cause that kind of defeats the entire purpose. The whole idea is to do it from memory, and, once again, if we can't remember one, then it doesn't deserve to be remembered.

     What I CAN let you in on, is the literal cast of very specific characters we've thought of over the years, and some general descriptions of them. Again, we have the weirdest inside jokes ever.

     Cheats McGee- Cheats is our homage to the creepy father. And creeps in general. He wears two pair of sunglasses because the first pair isn't dark enough, he has his hair in spikey braids, he always wears a leather vest, and he doesn't believe in plurals. The latter makes Cheats' name something of a paradox.

     The Stounch- The Stounch is Cheats' wife, and is that woman who wears denim dresses with white sneakers, and waits at the side of trash cans in fast food restaurants and creepily asks for people's leftovers.

     Hayley McGee- Typical teenage girl, but whose vowels are always switched with “uh”. So, instead of “Hayley McGee”, it's “Huhluh McGuh”.

     Randy McGee- Our personal favorite, because Randy is the embodiment of every nerdy eight-year-old, and therefore, is the embodiment of us. He's the kid who wears winter gloves at all times because he thinks they look cool, gym shorts, sandals with socks, floppy hats, a consistent Kool-Aid stain over his lips, and his favorite Star Wars character is Jar Jar Binks.

     Chief Awesome- A man who asks no questions. He demands, and he decrees. In actuality, he's just Ned from accounting, but he bought an Indian Headdress over the internet. He makes everyone call him Chief Awesome now. He's literally a guy in an work clothes, with an Indian Headdress on.

     Donny the Impulse Buyer- If you're selling it, he's probably thinking about buying it. His family and friends are actually withholding telling him what eBay is.

     Gary the Subtly Racist Salesman- “I see you have an African American family living next door. That's nice. By the way, I'm Gary and I sell security systems.”

     Hash- Hash is the pothead best friend that everyone should have. He's a white guy with dreadlocks, cargo shorts, a grossly comfortable hoodie, and he always seems to be sipping the last bit of a Mountain Dew Baja Blast, therefore making that annoying slurping noise constantly. If you're having a bad day, he will offer to “Hash it out” and go in for a man hug. The conclusion to this embrace is usually him asking for weed money.

4. We do not understand most of your references, and you will not understand ANY of ours.

     Sam and I grew up in a house that had minimal cinematic entertainment. That is, we had about eight movies, and a lot of them were taped over near the end by “Loony Toons” episodes, and that one special about honey bees. So, we watched these movies over and over, to the point of being able to recite them from memory.

     We've since forgotten how to do this, but what's interesting are the things we chose to remember. For example, Sam will randomly point to me at any time and say something like, “Sliced Pineapple”, and I will say in a heartbeat, “The Black Stallion”. Because for about three seconds in the film, there was a ham on the dinner table with sliced pineapple on it. I don't even remember the name of the kid in that movie. But I remember sliced pineapple. It's the same for Sam. I'll say “Pea Soup”, and he'll say “Rescuers Down Under” instantly. Because there was Pea Soup for like, five seconds in the movie! I haven't even seen the first one! That's how random our movie selection was!

     So, because we had such a limited selection, we probably haven't seen your definition of “Classic Movies”. I still haven't seen most of the Disney classics, for example, Pocahontas, The Little Mermaid, Lady and the Tramp, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and many many more. And I don't plan to.

     But when we grew up slightly, we started watching nothing but The Simpsons, to the point of knowing which episode it was by what Bart wrote on the chalkboard in the intro music. Usually. We also watched a lot of, by which I mean all of, Homestar Runner, and the two of them kinda morphed into this weird hybrid humor, where we could have entire conversations using nothing but quotes from those two things. I mean, it's not like they didn't give us enough to work with.

     There is of course, much more to Sam and I's humor, and there will most likely be additions to this guide, as our humor grows more and more the longer we spend time together. Who knows, Sam has been talking about writing a guest post. This seems to be the perfect topic for it. I'll let him introduce “The Lost Quote” for you guys. It's a pretty big thing.

Sobbing and Lock Picking

     I was always afraid of asking for help while I was growing up. That's not to say I didn't, but it took a lot for me to get to that point. Maybe I was afraid of being mocked for not knowing how to solve the problem, or yelled at for not taking care of it myself. It was my problem, after all. So, when ten-year-old me saw a book in the locked family van that I wanted to read, the thought to go ask my dad to unlock the car, or at the least, lend me the key from the hook above the kitchen door to go unlock it myself, didn't even occur to me. However, what DID occur to me, was to pick the lock.

     The idea came from one of Sam's favorite video games, so obviously it's to blame. Basically, in all of the graphical glory that the year 2000 had to offer, he would take out a lock pick from his inventory, and after some awkward jabbing, the previously locked door would swing open, allowing for some otherwise illegal breaking and entering. It seemed... so simple...

     So I had my plan. I was going to easily pick the lock of the driver's door of a soccer mom van, therefore allowing me to get the book, get out, and nobody would even know what happened. Now. What to pick the lock with? Any minimally intelligent person would immediately start looking for a hair pin, because that's what everyone uses on television. And because I had two older sisters, one could argue that the pins actually multiplied on the floors of our house. However, apparently I did not reach the minimum standards of intelligence, and actually went the extra mile into complete idiocy, because a hair pin was not what I picked to do the job, nor was it a skinny metal object at all. No.

     I picked up a dried twig that was lying on the drive way to pick a lock.

     Looking at that sentence just makes me ashamed of myself, but yeah. I thought that the best option for lock picking was a flimsy pine stick. Then there was the picking in and of itself. I had no idea how to do this, and for those of you who are wondering, still don't know how to do this. But apparently I had high hopes because I didn't hesitate for a moment before trying. The way I was jimmying the lock, I was a professional in my eyes. After this, I would be able to open doors for people who locked themselves out of their house, or get into cars with the keys left in the ignition. I was going to use my lock picking skills for good! I'm going to be the- SNAP

     Wood wasn't a good choice. Twigs tend to break when they're put under, say, any type of pressure. It's a quality that we seem to share, because to this day, I have never felt fear like that again. That fear that makes it hard to breathe, and the tears just run down your face without you making a sound. At least... for the first couple of seconds. Then you get your breath back, and the deafening wails of terror and sorrow come from the depths of your lungs, and you don't even know what sort of pain awaits you when your father finds out. So, obviously, what I had to do was settle down, gather my thoughts, and tell my dad. Get it over with. Rip off the band-aid.

     Nope. I tried to get my sister, Rachel, to help me.

     “R-r-rachel?”

     “Yeah?”

     “C-c-could you help m-m-me with s-s-s-something?”

     “Uh... sure?”

     “Thank y-y-you.”

     Between gasps, I told her the situation. She knew my dad better than I did, and the fact that she didn't tell him either didn't exactly lighten my burden of fear for what's coming.

     “Okay, so there seems to be a bit of the twig stuck in the lock. Let me see if I can jimmy it out of there. I'll use a hairpin.” She was able to pick one up off the ground without even looking. They must go through these things like crazy.

     After about ten minutes of trying, she gave up. “Sorry, Josiah. I just cant get it out of there. But let's try to actually use the key. If the key still works, nobody will even know.”

     A glimmer of hope! Yes! Maybe I won't be killed today! Wait! No! The key doesn't work! I'm gonna die!

     “You're not going to die!” Rachel yelled at me, through my relentless sobbing. “Listen, you're going to have to tell Dad.”

     “WHAT?!? That's suicide!”

     “Well, he's going to find out eventually. It's better to tell him now, then to just wait until he finds out.”

     “That doesn't make sense at all!”

     “Yes it does. You know it does. Tell Dead. I mean, Dad.”

     “You did that on purpose!”

     “Maybe.”

     I've come to the conclusion that Dad was already pissed off before I even went to him. Because even breaking the family van's lock doesn't justify how livid my father was at me. Every fear I had of him while walking to tell him what I did didn't even begin to prepare me. So, I'm going to say he was pretty angry before I even entered the room.

     So angry, in fact, that he actually put me in the van by unlocking the passenger side, and then using the unlock mechanism on that door to unlock the rest of the doors (which became common practice for the next couple of years) and drove me to the bakery my mom worked at so that I could tell her what I did. Which is fifteen minutes away from the house. Fifteen minutes in a van with a very angry driver, made angrier by how hellish his son turned out to be, only to be yelled at some more by a very angry mother who was interrupted at work to be told that her van was vandalized by her before-stated hellish son.

      I just wanted to read a freaking book.

     So we got there, and my dad pulled my mom aside so that I could tell her the story. It took about five minutes to tell it through the sobs and gasps for air. But finally, I finished the story. I shut my eyes tight and awaited the oncoming storm of public humiliation and probably death.

     I had never heard my mom laugh like that. And only a few times after that did I hear it again. My dad started to protest her reaction but she quickly said “Timothy? Would you like me to remind you what you did when you were his age?”

     My father's silence was answer enough, and he just shook his head as my mom got up to get me an eclair.

     “Okay,” she said while putting it in front of me, “Tell it to me again. And don't cry as much.”

Battles and Back Stories

     The drums of the barbarians became louder and louder, as they neared the gates of Thruyald Castle. The uneasiness of the soldiers stationed at the wall grew as steadily as the horde's march. The Thruyaldian General took notice.

     “Easy, Men,” The General began, his long wavy hair flowing in the breeze, “While the forces of their army are great in number, we are great in spirit! We will defend this place with the honor and pride of our Fathers, and their Fathers!”

     “Sire, the Barbarians have halted!”

     “Their leader must want to have word with me. Maybe they wish to negotiate.”

     “Negotiate, sire?”

     “Sure. Why not?” The general went up to the wall above the main gate, and called out to the horde,       “Where is your leader, that I might speak with him?”

     One of the thousands that made up the vast army stepped forward onto the field. “I am the leader of this army!” He shouted, a red braided beard hanging off his face and ending near the gut. “And I don't wish to negotiate! I could hear that idea from here, and it's a terrible one. We have you greatly outnumbered, and this invasion seems like a pretty sure thing.”

     “Tell me! Why are you doing this? We are a peaceful city, and have done nothing to your tribes!”

     “Oh, I'll tell you why we do this! One day, long ago, a Thru..Throu...”

     “Thruyaldian.”

     “Right! A Thruyaldian knight came to one of our camps, and we gave him shelter for the night. My father, a humble blacksmith, brought him into our own home to keep him from the harsh weather. He gave him food and drink, and was very hospitable. Then, in the middle of the night, the knight stole my father's best work, a jewel encrusted sword, and killed him with it. He rode off into the night with my father's legacy, and his life. On that day, I vowed to-”

     “Okay, stop.” The General said, hearing enough.

     “What? Why?” Questioned the Barbarian, a little pissed off that he was interrupted.

     “You're doing it again.”

     “Doing what?!”

     “You're vomiting back story.”

     “I am not!” Exclaimed the Barbarian, brandishing his axe.

     “Yeah you are! You do this every time! I ask you a question, and then you just go on this monologue.”

     “I want you to understand why I'm doing this!”

     “Yeah, I get that, but can you at least change up your story? I mean, why is your murdered father always a blacksmith?” The General asked, annoyed at the repetition.

     “I don't know, because blacksmiths are awesome? And they provide humble beginnings for a back story!”

     “I think it's because you're ripping off the story of the Spanish guy from The Princess Bride.”

     “No I'm not!” The Barbarian whined. Although he totally was. “Here's a question! Why am I always the bad guy?” He asked, with an army of bloodthirsty men behind him.

     “You're not always the bad guy!” The General explained, “It's just that I'm always the good guy, and we need a bad guy. So, you take the role of the bad guy when we need it.”

     “But we always need it! There has to be a bad guy!”

     “Exactly. Which is why you're always the bad guy.”

     “But you just said that I wasn't always the bad guy!”

     “You aren't!”

     “What?”

     “What?”

     “....”

     “....”

     “Okay, I'll stop with the back story. Can we just get back to the battle?” The Barbarian finally shouted up to the General. The horde was actually sitting on the ground at this point, waiting out the long argument between the leaders.

     “Fine,” the General agreed. He cleared his throat and got back to Generaling. “Archers, at the ready! Aim! Fire!”

     A dark cloud of arrows shot up from the walls of the Castle, arching down to the army below. Thinking quickly, the Barbarian Leader shouted his orders, “Shields up, men! Shields up!” The horde quickly brought out their wooden bucklers and metal shields, protecting themselves from the coming onslaught.

     “Wait a minute, the barbarians don't have shields!” the General yelled. The shields that the armies of evil were holding just a moment ago, vanished into thin air, therefore leaving them open to an arrow massacre.

     “What? Of course they have shields!” Shouted the Barbarian. The shields returned to the hands of the horde, who were all sighing with relief.

     “No they don't! That makes my archer attacks pointless!” The shields disappeared again, making the barbarians terrified, and making the archers feel necessary. The arrows came down faster and faster, becoming closer and closer to the barbarians.

     “Fine! Then you don't have arrows!” Declared the Barbarian Leader. And not a moment too soon, as the arrows were just inches away from the weeping defenseless army. They took the time to sigh with relief once more, and again, the archers felt useless.

     “What!? This is stupid! I'm coming down there to settle this, once and for all!” The General ordered for the gates to be open, and he alone came out of the castle. He crossed the bridge over the moat, and came up to the Barbarian Leader, who also went forward to meet his enemy.

     “So it is to be decided with single combat, eh?” The Barbarian made clear. “Very well. Let us begin!” The Barbarian raised his axe into the air, and let out a battle cry, to which the horde behind him joined in. The General wasn't phased, and drew his sword from it's sheath. The Barbarian's eyes widened. “The sword! My father's sword!”

     “What?” The General asked, confused at first, but then rolled his eyes as he came to understand what was going on. “Oh, you've got to be kidding me.”

     “You're the... Thursdayan...”

     “Thruyaldian, you idiot.”

     “Yes! You're the Thruyaldian Knight who killed my father! Today is a momentous day! Today, I get my revenge! Today, I get back my father's sword! Today, I'm the GOOD GUY!”

     “You said you'd quit it with the back story...”

     “I'M THE GOOD GUY!”

     “Fine,” The General sighed, “Yes. I'm the man who killed your father all those years ago. And I should have killed you too. I guess.”

     “That was your biggest mistake, Murderer! AAUGH!!”

     As the Barbarian cried out in vengeful anger, he raised his axe over his head. But, before he could deliver his final blow, a humongous dragon came out of of nowhere, breathing fire on both armies, killing them all instantly. She circled around the two leaders and finally landed in front of them. And in the ancient language of the dragons, she said the words that all warriors, good or evil, fear the most.

     “Kids, it's time for dinner!”

Late Nights and Real Issues

     At around two o'clock in the morning, any group of men will take the time to ask the important questions in life. The things that every man thinks about, but cannot speak on in the presence of women-folk. The answers to these questions mark a man for what he is, and what he will become. It is not a time for masks of shame, or hiding who you truly are. It is a time of honesty, and saying what is really in your heart. At around two o'clock in the morning in my room with the quartet, these hard questions are asked and answered with the thoughtfulness and poise that they deserve.

     “Machete, bitches!” Spencer answered without needing to think about it. “They're bound to get close sooner or later. You want something that won't need any ammunition, that's light and maneuverable, and won't get caught in bone or something. Just plain-old slash and go.”

     “Makes sense,” Ben agreed, “Although I always thought a shotgun would probably be useful in a zombie situation.”

     “Bad idea,” I replied, “With a shotgun, you're going to be reloading way too often, and in the time it takes to actually do that, they'll be all-up-on you. Plus, ammunition in general is always assumed to be in limited supply, so you'll actually have to scrounge around for it. I'm with Spencer on this one. Machete is the way to go.”

     “Cory, what's your first choice for a Zombie Apocalypse weapon?” Spencer asked. Cory just looked up from the finger nails he was biting.

     “My fists.”

     We all looked at him, with a million reasons going through our heads as to why that was a bad idea, but then we realized that, as scrawny as Cory is, he would probably be the one to actually thrive in a zombie environment unarmed. So we all nodded in agreement.

     “Here's a question,” I began, “What would your strategy be if you were the zombie?”

     “What?” Spencer asked, as if this was blasphemy to everything he believed in.

     “It's a valid question,” I reassured, “Let's be realistic. You three would probably survive alright. Spencer would always have a strategy, Ben would have his apathy to carry him through moral situations, and Cory would probably make it so the zombies avoid him entirely. Me? I would be zombified in five seconds flat. Hell, I would more-likely-than-not be the cause of the damn outbreak. So, I need to think in another point of view, that more fits the likelihood of the potential events.”

     “So, you're saying that when you think of the Zombie Apocalypse, you plan to actually become a zombie?” Ben asked, perplexed by the very notion.

     “Is that so hard to wrap your mind around? Think about it. Any team that I group up with to fight zombies, I would only slow down, either from my lack of athleticism or my lack of survival skills in general. What am I going to do? Write anti-zombie propaganda? Write books that offend their ideals? I don't know how to run a printing press!”

     “I feel like the printing press isn't the main factor as to why those are bad ideas...” Cory pointed out.

     “No,” I continued, “My place is with the hordes of the hungry undead, where all I have to do is walk around aimlessly, and if the opportunity arises, chase after some uninfected for a while. It's basically what I do now, only with walking!”

     “So... you wouldn't even try to fight for your life?” Spencer asked, finally starting to get it.

     “Are you kidding me? The entire point of the zombie scenario is to see what man is capable of to prolong humanity itself. That could include killing recently infected loved ones, or searching endlessly for a cure.” I took this time to start looking heroic, although even now I'm not sure what that really entails. “My way is sacrifice. I have come to admit that I am probably less of a threat to the continuation of the species if I'm the abomination that's trying to destroy it. So, my plan to fight the zombies, is to become one of them, therefore weakening the threat from the inside.”

     Cory, Ben and Spencer all took a couple seconds to think about it. Spencer was the first to say what everyone else was thinking. “What if you actually end up killing someone? How would that help humanity?”

     I raised an eyebrow as if to say “Seriously?” and explained. “Anyone who is actually overtaken by me as a zombie probably deserves nothing less. Another way I can improve your odds is by weeding out the weak, and therefore making the zombie forces that much weaker in the process, as the people I take over become zombies as well.”

     “But you won't have any control over your decisions!” Cory exclaimed. “You only have instinct! How do you stick to your plan? You'll have no memory of there being a plan to begin with!”

     “I imagine I won't,” I explained, “But you said it yourself. I'm only going to have instinct. And my instinct has always been to avoid challenge. So as Zombie-Josiah, I won't start running up to the guy with a mini gun fashioned into the bed of his pickup truck, I'll be going after people like me! Based on my instincts alone!”

     “I think you've thought way too much into this.” Ben finally said.

     “Probably. But my plan might just be the plan that saves the human race. A world after a zombie outbreak is no world for me. I decide to leave my legacy behind, to weaken the zombies from the inside out, and to make it that much easier for the likes of you to live on and continue as a proud species that can overcome anything.”

     For a few moments there was nothing but silence. Then, Spencer stood up, lifted me off my chair, and embraced me as a man would embrace a hero. When he finally loosened his grip, he put his hands on my shoulders and said, “Thank you, Josiah. Thank you for your sacrifice.” He took a moment to wipe away a tear. “But you realize that if you come near me as a zombie, I will do everything in my power to blow your freaking head off, right?”

     “Oh, undoubtedly.”   

Mornings and Monsters

     Headache. A sharp pain to the back of my eyes was the first thing I felt when I opened them for the first time since 5:00 in the morning when I closed them for the next four hours. Coffee was a thought not so far behind, so I started to swing my legs off my bed to make a fresh pot. I caught myself from stepping on Cory, who was sleeping on the floor next to my bed in a way that can only be comfortable for a contortionist. Or Cory. I looked around my room to find Ben lying on the floor near the closet, on a makeshift mattress made from extra pillows. Spencer was already up, with a look of death on his face.

     “'Morning, Sunshine,” I mumbled, already sarcastic with less than thirty seconds into the new day. I've done better.

     “Mm,” Spencer replied with his eyes fixed on his laptop. He probably didn't even go to bed, and he's the one who has to work in a couple of hours. I saw this as more justification for caffeine.

     “Want some coffee?”

     “Mm.” Such a chatterbox. He was putting the finishing touches on a castle that we spent three hours building last night in Minecraft. But knowing us, the finishing touches involved covering the project with TNT. I made sure to step over Cory, made my way upstairs to the kitchen, and started getting the coffee ready. My mom was sitting in her recliner in the living room reading some book.

     “How was the slumber party?” I glared at her. She knows I hate it when she calls it that. “You guys sleep at all?”

     “A couple hours. Try not to talk so loud.” My head was in serious need of coffee. A pin dropping would probably make me wince. It would probably take about five to ten minutes to brew, so I went downstairs. The sound of Mom's gut laughter trailed down the stairway. Must have been something funny in the book. It's a good thing I walked away, as Mom's laughter is known to shake foundations of houses. My head would have exploded.

     Cory was still asleep on the floor. Wonderful. Ben and Spencer looked at me with a look of worry. Rule #3 of Cory: You don't wake him up. Ever. And everyone has a first time. That moment when you don't think about it. You don't think there's anything to think about. You just reach out, and give him a little nudge.

     The next minute will be a terrifying tornado of screaming, flailing, scratching and more screaming. You don't know what was going on in his dreams. You don't want to know. This is a man who was institutionalized. Twice. As a child. So, giving the man some time to wake up on his own is a good idea.

     My room was a mess of half-empty Mountain Dew cans and bags of terrible store brand chips. It smelled of toxic gasses that only four men in a small room can replicate, and there was a spirit of exhaustion looming in the very air we breathed, along with a dense fog of humidity that made it hard to breathe. The night before was packed-full of movie watching, random video game playing, and charging into a chasm in Minecraft while Queen's “Don't Stop Me Now” blasted in the background. In short: We were warriors. Ben looked up at me from his pillow mattress. “Is there coffee?” Okay, maybe not warriors.

     “Good morning to you too, Ben. And yeah, I'm making a new pot. How'd you sleep?”

     “Wonderfully. These thin cotton sacks feel like clouds. Especially on hardwood floors.” Apparently we all wake up with sarcasm in mind. “Is there coffee?”

     “You already asked that. Yes, I'm making it now.”

     “That's not coffee. That's potential coffee. I need now coffee.”

     “Whatever. Spencer, you still want coffee too, right?”

     “Mm.” Spencer answered, ever-so eloquently.

     “Cool. And Cor-” I stopped myself before I woke up the sleeping homicidal giant. I don't need another thrashing. Especially with this headache. I'll make him a cup and he can have it if he wants it. It's good to play it safe in these situations.

     I went upstairs again to check on the status of the coffee. Still brewing. And this headache isn't getting any better. I stayed upstairs to look for ibuprofen in the mess of cabinets we had in our new house. Much better than the old house. I believe I've mentioned the old house. Roof collapsed? In my room? Yeah, that one. This one is much nicer. It even came with a roof.

     The next sound I heard was a mix of fear and ferocity. Crap. Somebody must have nudged him. I ran downstairs even though my head was beating itself into submission, and found Cory wildly spinning fists around the room and screaming his head off.

     “Somebody do something!” I yelled over the sounds of nightmarish terror. Ben was huddled in the closet, safe from Cory's reach, and Spencer was standing on my bed in the far corner of the room, keeping his distance. Seeing that I wasn't going to get any help from them, I did what the rest of them couldn't do.

     I went upstairs.

     After hearing the cries and yells die down, I slowly made my way back to my room to see chips and soda cans scattered all across the floor. Ben and Spencer were still in there respective corners of the room, Spencer was actually whimpering a little, and Cory was standing in the middle, heaving in and out like Bruce Banner after de-hulkifying, complete with ripped shirt. He looked at me with wild crazy eyes, twitched his head like some horror movie villain, and sniffed. I braced myself for the worst. This is it. This is the day he finally kills one of us. Dammit, we all thought it was going to be Spencer!

     “Ooh! Do I smell coffee?” Cory asked, unexpectedly. He pushed me aside and ran upstairs to make himself a cup. The rest of us had a simultaneous sigh of relief.
     "Well, that was close. I thought he was going to kill you." Ben said, feigning worry. He was just glad Cory didn't go after him.
     "Yeah, I always thought he would go after ME, if anyone." Spencer added. We all nodded in agreement. After that, we all went upstairs, made ourselves some coffee, and let Cory have his space. After all, he could be sleepwalking. Although, that only happened once. 

Mother and Father

     I had said before that I hate blogs where it's nothing but how unsatisfactory the writer's parents are, and the hardships endured while being raised in an upper middle class suburban home. I also said, in my last post, that I was going to be writing about my parents. Some of you may be wondering if I'm going to take the hypocritical dive into complaining about them, and to those people, you don't have to worry. Because in all honesty, I don't have much to complain about.

     That might be surprising to a lot of you. A teenager who doesn't have anything but disdain for his parents? What kind of blog is this? But it's true. I have two of the most supportive and loving parents I could have been given. And while I'm praising them in a way that makes me feel like I should be asking for money any minute now, I am truly grateful for all that they've done for me, one of the major ones being existence.

     When asked about my parents, one of the first words that pop into my head is, oddly enough, “anomaly”. My father was born in Massachusetts, much to his chagrin, and was raised in Northern New Hampshire. My mother, on the other hand, was born and raised in the Southern part of Southern California. If we stay in the Continental US, they really can't get too much farther apart. However, this distance between each other was soon solved by something called the Navy, in which my father was apart of.

     So, there he was, in California, going through a bit of a rough time in his life. The kind of rough time that makes you go on a drinking binge. A friend of my father finally had enough and took him to church on one fate-filled Sunday morning. The morning he met my mom. There she was, a blonde bombshell (yes, it is awkward writing that about your own mother, thanks for asking), in her Sunday Best, who also happened to be a friend of my dad's friend. So, like any good friend, we'll call him Gary, Gary asked if his friend (my father) and himself could come by for dinner. As a good responsible person, my mother had to ask her own mother. The conversation basically went like this:

     “Hey Mom?” My mother asked, finally getting her mom's attention. “Gary has this gross looking guy who smells terrible with him, and wants the both of them to come over for dinner. You don't want that, do you?”

     “Oh, heavens, no!”

     “Thank you.” My mom went back to Gary to tell him the news. “Unfortunately, my Mom says we already have plans today. Bummer.”

     However, over the next few days, my smitten dad cleaned up, sobered up, and tried again. And after what Mom says took several attempts, she finally agreed to go out with him, as futile as it seemed.

     They were married within the year.

     But yes, anomaly is still what I would use to describe them. Let's look at the data.

        Father: Grew up in North North East East.

        Mother: South South West West.

        Father: First met my Mother coming out of a binge, without bathing for days, on a motorcycle.

        Mother: Attended a church that was basically the setting to Footloose.

        Father: Twenty-three years old when meeting my mother.

        Mother: Eighteen when meeting my father.

        Father: Somewhat down to Earth man, who thinks in a somewhat down to Earth fashion.

        Mother: Bat-shit crazy. In a good way, though.

     And the list indeed goes on. However, there is one thing they have in common. My parents' love for music is second only to their love for their children. And you can see it in said children. We are an extremely musical family, and even though only one of us went on to pursue it occupationally, it's still a major part of our lives, as proven by the term this blog is named for.

     They went ahead and had five kids, and raised each one rather successfully. And what I think impresses me the most about how my parents raised us, is that they wanted us all to find what makes each one of us happy, to find our own niche. They didn't raise us to be a clone of the one before, because they understood that we would be different people. And good lord, are we. We each found something radically different from anything someone else found, and somehow, Mom and Dad supported every son and daughter's passion. I'm still not entirely sure how. Rachel is a professional photographer, and Sam is a musician. Those are expensive. Twice.

     I often catch my parents saying something along the lines of “I have no clue where our kids got their brains and talents from, 'cause it sure ain’t from me!”, to which I call bullshit on, in all certainty. My dad is the only person I know who reads the encyclopedia for recreation, and my mom is to this day the most creative person and talented singer I've ever met. So, it's not that far of a stretch to think my fellow siblings and I get a lot of what makes us who we are from our parents: Creative, intelligent, and passionate people, who can think for themselves, and are capable of achieving what they want from life.

     So Mom, if there's anything that I want you to get out of this, it's that you, as a mother, succeeded with flying colors, and that you have not only raised intelligent and creative children, but children who love you immensely, and are grateful for everything you've done. Happy Mother's Day Post.

     Oh, and Dad? Father's Day is coming up. Just a warning.

Siblings and Summarizing

      I think I made Sam out to be a racist last week with the fried chicken comment. That's not good... or correct. I guess that's what happens when I write when I'm sick. Actually, that's a good idea. As a code for my readers that I'm writing the post while fighting some form of illness, which actually happens pretty often, I will randomly drop somewhere in the text a hint that Sam is a white supremacist. It'll be an inside joke! We don't have one of those, readers. It's about time we get one.

     I am however feeling dandy this week, and I'm excited to write with a zeal that only a healthy body and mind can produce. Also, a good three cups of coffee this morning helps to the point of near hindrance, and I can only assume that this post is top notch stuff, as my eyes haven't stopped jittering long enough for me to read what I've written. Ah well. Editing is an unnecessary step, and can honestly be skiped altogether.

     I brought my brother to the list of people I talk about last week, and I realize now that my family is a rather large majority of my memories, as they tended to be around a lot while creating them. So, if I didn't talk about them once in a while, it would be a major disservice to my readers, to whom I'm allowing a glimpse into my life, where my family is both half of that and half of my readers. And I'd also be doing a disservice to myself, who is in a constant need of things to write about. By bringing up my family, I just postponed the end of this project by at least a couple years.

     I would like to bring up two things before I get too carried away. One: That all the paragraphs so far start with “I”, which would usually make me think that I'm failing at sentence variation, but I'm leaving it there as both a curiosity and a warning to future paragraphs that uniformity is not for them, and that they should branch out and start the way that they should: Differently. I think I just used two colons in the same sentence... I double-coloned. Is that a thing? It is now. Wait. No. Never mind. It's not. I should really lay off on the coffee...

     The second thing I'd like to bring up is that I apologize to the quartet fans who read this for Cory, Ben and Spencer, or Corbence, as I am now calling them while they are being acknowledged in a group. I would like to think that I'm in something of an introduction phase in my blog, and during that phase, I'm trying to bring up the people that I will be writing about while the project is young, rather than wait a couple months and say “Hey! I have a family!” and write about them for the next half-year. This approach allows for variation between stories, and makes it so that I'm not limited to the same characters week after week. Now that I'm done explaining myself to the likes of you, it's time to introduce the family.

     Over a span of time, I've given a pretty accurate title to each of my siblings, that I feel describes them in a short and easy-to-understand way. For example, we have the eldest, Jesse: the Perfect One. Every single time I've called Jesse “the Perfect One” he has denied it. And you know what? That's exactly what a perfect person would do. So if anything, he has proven my point. How is he perfect? Well, he's an intelligent and thoughtful track star with a great sense of humor, who is a terrific father, and a loving husband, who is handy with tools, handier with a computer, slow to anger, quiet (but not in a shy sort of way, more like a “I'm too cool to be loud” sort of way), and also has perfect hair. He calls it combing. I call it straight up witchcraft. Anyways, we have a smart, athletic, funny, and loving handy man, who is calm and collected, and has the wavy hair of Prince Charming. This is perfection personified. But he won't have it, so let's move on.

     Next we have Rachel: the Cool One. Sam actually helped a bit with that title, but it's true. Out of the five of us, Rachel is by far the coolest one. Say Sam and I discovered a band that's really underground (because yes, we're basically hipsters), Rachel will be like “Oh, I love that band! Although their second album was sub par.” Sam and I had yet to discover that the band even had a second album. But besides her being more hipster than Sam and I, she went to school for photography, out of state I might add, and she went to Australia for a while and survived. That's basically as cool as our family gets.

     Then we have Sarah: the Sarcastic One. I think the only actual rivalry in our immediate family was between Sarah and I, and a lot of that is because we were also the only ones who were actually somewhat alike. Now that might not make sense, even though it totally should. A sarcastic teenager is probably going to be annoyed by a sarcastic eight-year-old, who is doing his best to annoy the teenager. The annoyed teenager will complain to the tired parent, who then punishes the eight-year-old to shut up the annoy(ed)(ing) teenager. Then the eight-year-old punishes the teenager for getting him in trouble by annoying her. And the circle of life continues... But again, we outgrew that, and now Sarah is a loving wife and mother, and will soon have her turn at being the tired parent, with her unavoidably sarcastic children.

     After Sarah, there's Sam: the Favorite One. And not just by me. By everyone. If you spend five minutes with Sam, he will become your favorite person. Seriously, the whole family agrees. Sam is the favorite. And we're okay with that. My Best Man speech for Sam's wedding was basically me talking about how he was all our favorite person. And everyone there agreed too. Is he perfect? No, that's Jesse, remember? No, Sam is just a guy you immediately love to be around. Unless he's being Apple Sam. Never be around Apple Sam.

     Lastly, there's me: the New One. I have a far enough age difference from the rest of my siblings that Sam was really the only one I could hang out with regularly. Most were past college and starting a family of their own by the time I hit high school, so I never really had a chance to get to know them before I lost my “annoying younger brother” attitude. High School was really when I started hanging out with Sam the most, and I think during that time, he was almost getting me ready to meet my older siblings, but not as my older siblings, but as the people they really are.

     Jesse is no longer the mean older brother that didn't share his stash of candy with me. Rachel and Sarah are no longer the girls that didn't let me into their room. Sam is no longer the kid that sword fights with me in the back yard. They're people now. People with hopes, fears, and faults*. And even though I grew up with them, I'm just starting to get to know them. So yeah, I'm the New One. And I'm pretty excited about it.

     Oh, my parents? Please. They deserve their own post.

*Except for Jesse

Brotherhood and Applebee's

     This is the four year anniversary of the twenty-six hour bus trip from Disney World to New Hampshire. And what a trip it was. Heck, the entire week was full of memories, stories and friendship. They were days of happiness, life, and slight corruption. Oh, and that one time where Woody from Toy Story took a smoke break. I could talk for hours on what happened on that trip. But you know what I'm not going to do this week?

     That.

     No, I think that now is a good time to introduce a new character, much like any failing TV show does. Am I saying that my blog is taking a nose dive? Not at all. I said failing TV Show. Blogs are on a completely different level.

     No, this is somebody who really should have been on this in the first place. He might not be a part of the quartet, but he has been as much a part of who I am, if not not more so, as Cory, Ben and Spencer has. And anyone who has seen the two of us together understand that we have a bond that is the equivalent to brotherhood. Who is he? Well, he's my brother.

     For me, Sam has been somewhere between best friend, and adviser. Think of it as a Gandalf to Bilbo sort of relationship, only Gandalf has even crazier hair, and Bilbo is even shorter. He's encouraged and supported me through a lot of weird ideas I've had, while still keeping a heavy foot on the “Constructive Criticism” pedal. For a long time, I just thought this was him making sure I didn't get too good at anything, as it was obvious that he was jealous of my pure and undeniable skill. However, this was just not the case. He wasn't trying to bring me down, he was trying to lift me up. (Reference that 99% of the readers won't get, anyone? Anyone? You, 1%? No? That's fair.)

     Sam believed that I had more potential that I thought I did. And I'm pretty egotistical, so that's saying a bit. So every time I wrote a new short story or idea that I knew was bad, but tried to pawn it off as good anyways, he called me out on it. “Nope. You can do better.” “Nice try. Go back, and do it again.” “This just sucks.”

     Did it hurt having a literary equivalent of Simon Cowell as an older brother? Yeah, but it was necessary. Sam is pretty much the reason I'm doing this project, rather than some terrible attempt at a fantasy novel. Sam is probably the only brother in history who has pulled his younger naive brother aside and taught him the importance of timing when telling a joke, how maturity should always be an aspect of your humor, and that you should never make a fool of yourself to try to impress someone. On that note, I'm going to tell you the story of the time Sam broke every single one of those rules. The day that Apple Sam was born.

     Anybody who dates me learns pretty quickly that I probably love Sam more than I will love them. It's most likely due to the fact that I talk about him more than anything, we have more inside jokes than there are insides, and we're actually tempted to believe that we have a telepathic bridge to each others' brains. Is this a bad thing? Probably, but we kick ass in taboo. And in the end, that's what matters.

     Anyways, it's no doubt that I raise Sam up on a pedestal a little bit when describing him, so when someone finally meets him, there are a lot of expectations that go along with it. And usually, they are all met with flying colors. Usually. However, the first meeting with my girlfriend, Becca, didn't go as smoothly as I would have expected. We were on a double date with Sam and his wife, Alex. Becca was excited, obviously, and well, I guess Sam was too...

     I can really only exemplify Sam's behavior with the way a dog acts when he sees his family for the first time after the family has been away on a week long vacation. I've never seen him like this before. I mean, he can be crazy sometimes, but never on this level. He was being loud, obnoxious, and at some points, just plain annoying. I think Alex apologized for him at least ten times throughout the day. Then dinner happened.

     “LET'S GO TO APPLEBEES!” Sam exclaimed while pouring a pitcher of water on himself.

     “Uh, you sure, honey?” Alex asked, obviously not wanting to be in public with this monstrosity.

     “You betcha, Lady! I want me some CHICKEN!”

     By now, I was mouthing “Please, forgive me” to Becca, although she seemed to be pretty entertained with the whole ordeal. Lucky her.

     When we got to Applebees, Sam seemed to have calmed down a bit. We got seated, all ordered water, and looked at the menu. Then, out of nowhere, this happened: “Aw yeah! Fried Chicken! I love Fried Chicken more than blac- OW!” This is where I kicked Sam extremely hard under the table, as it was easy to figure out that Sam didn't notice the African American family that was being seated behind him. That's a check mark for breaking the timing rule.

     Then we got our water. Maybe Sam just needed some hydration? Nope. When Sam got his beverage, he took the opportunity to suck some water through the straw, point the straw at his wife, and blow. Maturity rule? Check. Alex didn't even know how to react. Thankfully, before she could, the waiter came by to take our orders.

     When Sam's fried chicken came, he was somehow under the impression that we were vikings. Seriously. Everything from the way he ate it to singing battle tunes he made up on the spot. Actually, come to think of it, the latter was pretty impressive. Still, making a fool of yourself? Check.

     Apple Sam is a much referenced part of Sam, and he comes out once in a while like Mr. Hyde when he's in that delicate balance of being tired and wanting to stay up. We have yet to find a cure that doesn't involve massive head trauma, although it might just come to that. However, it did turn out to be the most interesting double date I've been on. 

Grumbling and Freshman Tossing

     
     I believe the truth in any story is measured by how much the teller thinks he or she can get away with. We are told stories from an early age ranging from Heracles to Paul Bunyan, and each of these tells not only the events of the characters, but also about the culture that the stories came from. The thing is, nowadays with the “pics or it didn't happen” mindset, storytelling has lost its way of tall tales and mythology, and has become nothing more than recreational journalism. Any anecdote that has an ounce of truth-stretching is immediately branded as complete bull. And that bothers me. Because truth-stretching, unlike journalism, is interesting. It's entertaining, funny, gross, frightening, sad, and a lot of the time, enriching.

     It's anything you want it to be, and I think the untrue parts of the story can tell you as much, if not more, about the person telling it as the parts that aren't falsified. But if you look for nothing but the facts, that's all you're going to find. However, if you stretch the truth a little to get across what you think the story needs, you end up with a lot more than journalism or straight facts could give you. And I know that some of you are all-too-cleverly saying to yourselves that journalism stretches the truth too. And to that I say: I don't care. If there is one thing I don't want this blog to be, it's political. However, if there's one thing that I want my readers to get out of this, it's to not lean on reality too much. You'll only get bored. And with that, I'm going to tell you the story of the time Spencer wrestled a bear.

     Completely kidding. To my knowledge, Spencer has never partaken in fisticuffs with a grizzly. However, if I'm wrong, I promise you that that story will be next week's post.

     I never really gave Spencer the description he deserves. I sort of painted him as a gloomy spiteful man, who doesn't talk much, and grumbles hate at people. While the latter is definitely true, Spencer really isn't depressing. If anything, Spencer is an example of how an emo kid can turn out to be a pretty awesome guy, as long as you let him grumble at people. I've tried to see if he could control his under-the-breath insults, but it ended explosively. Seriously, that New Years Resolution did NOT turn out to be a good idea.

     The challenge started around the time most New Years Resolutions are broken: A couple days after New Years. We were sitting next to each other in band, and this is basically what he sounded like.

     “Freaking..... grumble..... hate your..... grumble grumble..... break you in half.... grumble grumble....”

     “Man, I've never seen so much disdain for a reed before....”

     “It keeps squeaking!”

     “Okay, but do you have to vow to slaughter its children?”

     “Only if it doesn't stop!” Spencer played a few notes after some adjustments, but it didn't take long for the saxophone to start making awkward squawking sounds. “Gah!”

     “Just get a new reed! It's not that big of a deal!”

     “But that means it wins, Josiah! The reed can't win!”

     “I think you're breaching some Ahab-esque obsession here...”

     “Shut up!” Squeak. “Dammit!”

     “You really gotta work out some of these anger issues...” Spencer glared at me in a way that made me worry about my immediate safety, but after a couple seconds, he just rolled his eyes.

     “Fine. What do you think I should do?”

     “Well, let's try grumbling less. It can be your New Years Resolution.”

     “Isn't it kinda late for that?”

     “It's never too late for self-betterment.”

     “Screw you.”

     “See? You didn't mumble that! You're already doing better!”

     The next few weeks can only be described as scary. Instead of what I thought would happen: Spencer slowly but surely becoming a less angry individual, he actually got worse. Things that would normally just irritate Spencer actually made him violent, and I really had only myself to blame. I took away Spencer's only way of safely and peacefully venting, and I was reaping the consequences. Well, more the people he threw stuff at were reaping the consequences, but I was the cause of it. I just made Emo Hulk.

     The longer it stayed like this, the more violent it got. Small annoyances became unforgivable acts of war. Walls were punched, bad drivers were frequently flipped off, and children cried in fear of him. I knew I had to do something.

     Back in the music room, I caught him just in time to stop him from throwing a small Freshman at a slightly smaller Freshman. “Spencer!”

     “WHAT?!?” Spencer yelled, still holding the terrified teenager over his head.

     “Forget everything I said! Grumble your heart out! Grumble till you're tired of grumbling!”

     “BUT I RESOLUTED!”

     “I think you mean resolved...”

     “SHUT UP! AAAAUGH!!” Spencer got ready to throw, and both Freshmen screamed in horror.

     I had to act fast, but as always, I had no idea what to do. Then I saw it. Spencer's saxophone. I ran over, picked it up, and held it over my head. He looked at me in disbelief. “You wouldn't!”

     Nope. I wouldn't. “Oh, I would!” He glared at me for a few more seconds. “Put the Freshman down!”      We stared at each other for what felt like years. He was furious. I was terrified. Luckily, my frightened eyes can be mistaken for crazy eyes, so thank God for that.

     Then, just when I thought that all was lost, Spencer started to lower the now coarse voiced child. “Stupid little..... crybaby....fu...ing piece of..... taking my saxophone...... I'll break his legs......”

     I sighed with relief as a grumbling, normal Spencer walked over to me and took his saxophone from my hands. What followed was about an hour of the angriest Jazz I've ever heard, accented by awful squeaking. I guess he never changed that reed.

     I learned a lot in that time. If you take away a man's way of dealing with the world, he'll start to throw Freshman around. Also, I was the worst life-coach ever. But at least I was a good bluffer.

     Hell, come to think of it, it's actually pretty likely that Spencer wrestled a bear at one point. I'll have to check on that... See you next week!

Pocket Watches and Murderers

     I'm not really into deadlines. Ask my High School teachers, it's actually kind of a problem. I'm not going to make up any excuses for myself, like how deadlines crush my artistic spirit or some other pretentious swill that art majors say to their professors. I'm lazy. However, this post is exciting, because this is the third straight week that I've posted a story. This is like a punctual hat-trick for me. Also, the fact that I just used a sports term is pretty impressive. Today is just full of accomplishments.

     I stopped wearing t-shirts freshman year. To this day I'm really not sure why, but I started wearing nothing but button down every day. The next year, I added vests, and the year after that, I started wearing sport coats. Add a pocket watch, a newsboy cap, and dress shoes, and you've got a kid who makes, at the very least, a memorable first impression.

     Although I dressed the part, I definitely was not living the high life, as evidenced by living in a house where one of the rooms didn't have a roof. I was hit-or-miss with words; dashingly suave one sentence, and stuttering profusely through the next. I was terrible at talking to girls, especially girls I liked, and at the same time, I found most guys to be obnoxious and hard to get along with. Social Debonair I was not.

     However, if you put me in a room with Ben, we will charm the top hat off your head. When Ben and I are together, we sound like we came out of a Jane Austen book, that was co-written by James Bond. The Sean Connery version. I'm really not sure how to explain it. For now, I just give credit to the both of us watching a great deal of British television, mixed with saying “Indeed” and “Quite” a lot. And while that's not all you need to be fancy, it does indeed seem to be quite a large part of it, indeed? Quite.

     Ben also tended to be fancier than me in a lot of cases. He was the first of the quartet to acquire a pipe (Yes, we all have pipes), he's the only one out of the two of us who has actually worn a tuxedo, as he was the only one out of the two of us to go to prom, where he arrived with two girls at his side, one of which being my then and present girlfriend. And he wore t-shirts and sneakers. No vests, no loafers, not even a pea coat. Ben was, without a doubt, the modern gentleman. That's what got me jealous.

     It was a while ago in the winter. Ben and I were sitting in a grungy Boston subway car, on our way to visit some friends in the city. I was wearing a vest and pea coat, and Ben was probably wearing a band t-shirt and some windbreaker. It was relatively empty in the car, but a rather intimidating bald man wearing a hoodie and combat boots walked towards and sat across from us. He looked to be in a hurry, however I'm still scared to think of what for.

     We sat there for a while, pretending to ignore each other, until the man finally asked us in a thick Russian accent, “Do you guys know what time it is?” My eyes widened with excitement, and a crazy grin widened on my face.

     “HELL YEAH, I DO!” This was right around the time that I bought a pocket watch, and I was excited to get the attention deserved from it, even though I forgot that this guy was probably going to kill somebody that day. However, this excitement led me to think of the next two seconds as a race between Ben and I. Here's the thing: In order to get to my pocket watch, I have to undo the three buttons on my coat, reach into my vest pocket, raise up the watch, and open it via a sometimes malfunctioning button. Ben had to raise his wrist up.

     It was a hopeless mission. This undoubtedly upright citizen of Boston needed the time, and only I could give it to him... from a pocket watch. I did what was necessary. I stood up, skipped the buttons altogether, and just lifted up my coat so I could get to the pocket. I ripped the watch from my vest, forced open the cover, and read the man the time. I was proud, I was victorious, and I was in a Boston subway with my pea coat hunched up to my ribs holding a pocket watch. 

     I looked back at Ben, who was looking down in shame. Probably because of his defeat. I looked back at the man, who couldn't think of words to say. Speechlessly in awe, no doubt. It was right around then when I realized Ben didn't even have a watch.

     There was no race. I was the only one who had the time on the whole freaking train car. And I just made myself look like an idiot trying to out-class Ben, who was wearing a goddam WINDBREAKER. I definitely had a problem, and I needed to “declass” a bit. So I planned to spend the next couple of weeks hanging out with Cory.

     We later found out that day that my pocket watch was off by an hour. However, we just shrugged and figured that we probably prevented a murder from happening. Hopefully. But I decided then that Ben and I should never compete for fanciness. It was just something that we were, and we worked even better when together. That day, when I came to this decision, I had a short talk with him on the car ride home.

     “Ben?” I began.

     “Mmm?” He replied.

     “You truly are quite the gentleman.”

     He looked at me for a moment, puzzled. Then he looked back towards the road, pondered a little while, and finally gave his response.

      “Indeed.”