Call Me KP

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Yes. This is the nutshell I’m in.

Oscars 2010

I’ve got seven lengthy e-mails sitting in my GMail Draft Box. I don’t check my listed account as often as I probably should and I’ve received some really, really wonderful e-mails that I need to acknowledge. Seriously. One took my breath away. So, thank you for that. You do know who you are.

No. Not you. No. Not… no. You. Yes. That one. You. Yeah, good. Thanks.

I also have several draft posts; one about my future as an Olympian, one about dogs, one about the time I found out I was allergic to cilantro, and one about the time where I said the one thing that you don’t say at a funeral.

And they’re all just sitting there.

So, I’m sorry. And I can’t offer some lame excuse about being really busy. Even though I am. But I’m also restless. And maybe a little lazy. No good can come of such a mix.

Working on it. Working on me. Working on a daydream. Working for the weekend.

I need more allowance. Yodel ay he who.

Why? Because I do.

Okay. Soon. Bye.

Aw, mannnn.

Some days I feel like I was put on this earth to solve crimes.

Big crimes. I hold my first grade teacher, Mrs. Minetola, and her undying encouragement of all matters pretend and wonderful, entirely responsible for this sense of destiny. Also to blame? Jessica and Joel; the twins who lived across the street from me growing up. We had a pretty sketchy neighborhood. And some crooked cops, see? And no one could effectively patrol the blocks around the park the way we could, see? Because we were disguised as kids. Simple little kids. No one would think to suspect that justice would lie trembling in the jam- stained hands of a couple of elementary school rascals. We were so much more than what met your eye. We were your personal nightmare, Mr. Banker Man on the porch of the yellow house on the corner who always yells at his wife before he leaves for work. We’ve got black and white composition books filled with notes about your suspicious behavior and your creepy Ford Taurus, the car of the devil.

Harriet the Spy was too juvenile. The Mystery Files of Shelby Woo were a fuckin’ joke. These bitches had no class. They had no charisma. Sure, they had super- cool, limitless supplies of only the best spy gear ever made in the whole wide world. But what we lacked in flash, we made up for in passion and that Bogart- ian charm ideal for lulling our suspects into a false sense of security with our hopscotch games and our bike baskets and juice boxes. They never stood a chance.

But we knew that we were small- town at best. We weren’t delusional, you guys. There were some pretty brave kids out there that were made tough by mean streets and nannies and dad’s who were never home. We had our fair share of wrong- doers that we had to deal with. But we were very self- aware for kids our age. We knew we lacked some key resources. We knew that we’d be able to peg Mr. Johnson for an assassin if only we had a computer. Or! A computer book. Like Penny’s.

Penny (picture above, you simpleton) was the girl we all wanted to be. She was the one we modeled our do-goodedness after. Sure, she had a dad with crazy arms and propellors hidden in his skull. But she also had that book. That stupid- ass computer book that my dad never got for me for my birthday or for Christmas or for Tuesday. But that was the book we needed in order to best serve our community. This book is what would have all of the answers.

And then, one chilly November morning, with the leaves all but gone from the frozen trees that shivered in the face of the pending winter, we learned the truth. The bitter, ugly truth. Inspector Gadget was a cartoon. We’d been crushed by the buried truth of our heroes, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny still fresh in our minds. But this? This was too much to bear. How could the world ever be safe without Gadget? How could we have been so foolish to think that we were on par with something so fantastic and so advanced? Those computer books were not real. They never were. And they never would be.

Until now.

Rumors have been circling these here internets like shit in a commode for months leading up to this very day and the reveal of the Apple Tablet; a touch- screen wonder, light enough to carry with you at all times, thin enough to be concealed in a Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper. A mini computer that would give sleuths across the globe instant access to the answers for their most burning questions. You can’t Google with sidewalk chalk, my friends. And now? Now you don’t even have to pretend anymore. The future is here. The future is now. The future … has already been thought up by the fine folks at Nickelodeon some fifteen years ago. But still! This is tangible. This is now. This is justice.

All of my girlhood dreams of puttin’ perps in the clink are suddenly, this morning, no longer just a stain on the memories of my misspent youth. I will finally, finally have the tools I need to find out who stole Amanda’s bike ribbons and who stole my orange tabby cat, Buttercup. I’ll prove that banker is a no good, cheating douche nozzle and I’ll put a face and name to the graffiti that robbed my neighborhood park of it’s youthful innocence. And it will all be because of… The Apple Tablet.

Thank you. Thank you, Steve Jobs, for giving super- sleuths everywhere the chance to take their game to the next level. The world thanks you. My hometown thanks you. Its hapless victims thank you. I thank you.

Hey. H-hey? You? Where’d you get that watch? Huh? That’s a pretty nice watch for a guy with your salary. Oh, really? Really? A secondhand store on Public Square? Really? Let’s just see about that.

h… ttp. Up arrow. Colon. Two slashes. Letters. WWW. Up arrow. Dot. Letters. G… No. One G. I only want one G. Left arrow. G… PP. Shit! No! God damnit! It’s GOOGLE! NOT GPPGLE! Sonofabitch.

I’ll scoop you yet, criminal.

… go go gadget social life.

Johnny Weir. Power Animal 2010.

And this is one of those times.

No, really. This is really schmaltzy. If you have cavities or diabetes, please avoid the following saccharine. Comas aren’t fun.

Okay.

On Saturday morning, I got into a bit of a squabble with my parents and my grandfather at the breakfast table. This is one of the many privileges of living at home. I get a free meal or two every now and then, a roof over my head, and a lecture with a side of bacon. With twenty- four years of the same judgments on the state of the world and the state of my life, you’d think I would have built up some kind of tolerance to it all. And I have, for the most part.

I can disregard my grandmother’s rampant racism as it’s almost cute and pretty much dependable and consistent. She’s set in her ways and there’s really no point in trying to bring her up to date. Because if I can’t even teach her how to record her favorite programs (QVC) on to a VHS tape, I’ll certainly never break her of that nasty habit of freely using words like “spics” and “wetbacks” even in mixed company. But she’s also a eucharistic minister. So I’ll leave the judging up to someone with more experience in that department than lil’ ol’ me.

And then there’s my grandfather. He comes from a strange time in history where people shopped at corner stores and wore ties all day on Sunday and ate pot roast and had a milk man. When he drives, it’s suddenly 1950 and everyone’s got whitewall tires and they wave at each other and stop for trolley cars. To him, no music will ever be Gene Autry. No ball player will ever be Ted Williams (well, that’s a given). And he thinks Las Vegas is a really, really good TV show. And that “Lizbeth Ha- Hass-El… beck? Back? The blond married to the football player” is the smartest woman on television.

Then there’s my other grandfather, the one married to my adorably racist grandmother. He opens Christmas presents with his pocket knife, then folds the paper and saves it for next year. To him, there is a right and  wrong way to crush aluminum cans before tossing them in the recycling bin. And you know, God damnit, this place is a mess. And to think that he sacrificed so much for this land that the liberals insist on shitting upon. And you should know now that no America will ever be an America like the America he lived in when he fought for America. The real America.

So clearly my mother and father really didn’t stand a chance here to become anything other than what they turned out to be. It’s like a Cheap Trick song. Needless to say, their tastes are pretty predictable. And very much the opposite of mine.

I was reading an article in my local paper about Conan’s last Tonight Show and I made the mistake of expressing my disappointment over his termination. That’s 12,567,093 times for those of you keeping track. I know that my father, at least, has gone on record as saying he didn’t care for him. Or Leno. Or the other guys. And he’s got a job that doesn’t allow him to stay up late to watch a bunch of morons promote what they already get paid too much to do. Noted. Thanks.

“Guy’s a jerk. Like, like … he’s too silly,” my grandfather added while trying to mirror The String Dance. “It’s like he’s more for children or something. Very goofy.”

“Yeah,” my dad agreed, excited to preach. “And how much did he get paid? $45 million? Is that all? Shit. For $45 million, I’d stay home everyday.”

“Shit. So would I.” Thanks for your support, Mom.

I didn’t saying a word because to serve up any kind of retort would allow the three of them to volley for hours about just how fast our nation is swirling down the YouTubes. And how my generation will suffer. And how I’m already suffering because I don’t have a “real job”. All of that. Everything is everyone’s fault and no one is good or decent anymore and no one is truly talented like Johnny Carson and no man will ever be a John Wayne and blah blah blah blah twenty- four years of the same record on loop and I’m over it. I’m done. I’m done. It’s gone. I’m done.

Yes, Dad. It’s a shit- load of money. Yes, it’s enough to sustain him comfortably for the rest of his life. Yes, it would be nice to get a sliver of that so that I could get rid of my student loans and work on that whole “being your own person” and “disposable income” stuff that all other adults seem to have under control. You’re right. The whole thing sounds like something ripped from the pages of a fairytale and everyone will live happily ever after.

Except you’re wrong. You’re very, very wrong.

Look, my parents never told my sister and I that money didn’t matter in this world and that happiness was all that was important. And no, they didn’t beat us or deny us or deprive us or anything like that. They were very encouraging of our imaginations and our childhood hobbies. But they’re just practical. They want us to be taken care of, to be safe and secure. They don’t want us to live the way they did for the first few years of their marriage, taking jobs they’d hate — but then never leaving those jobs even twenty- five years later– just to make sure we were living comfortably. We never wanted for anything. We never went without. And that came, I think, at the expense of my parents’ happiness. My father hates his job. He’s been working there for half of his life and he hates it. But he tells us that’s not all he has. That he is a happy guy. Sometimes I believe him. But other times, I don’t.

I’m broke, okay? I’m really, really broke. But all things considered, I honestly cannot imagine any amount of money being enough to cushion the blow of me having to give up my dream job to some jag I knew I was not as talented as me.  So when I watched Conan get choked up during his speech, I believed it. I understood wanting to do something so much that you’d do it for free.

When I was ten- years- old, I saw my first episode of Saturday Night Live. I was in fifth grade. Christopher Walken was the host. It was during the blizzard of ‘96. I had a TV in my bedroom because I absolutely refused to ask for anything else for my birthday. No bike. No party. No nothing. I wanted a TV. And I got really good at keeping the volume loud enough for me to hear with one ear on the pillow, but quiet enough so that my parents couldn’t hear a thing. I had a friend sleep over that Saturday but she had conked out by 10:00, tired from building those forts all day. The tape we were watching– probably Now and Then– had ended so I turned off my VCR and kept the TV on while I went to get a drink. When I came back, the local news had ended and there was something on about the blizzard. I was very grateful for said blizzard since it meant that school was closed for forever, so I kept watching. I recognized Rudy Giuliani but not the other guy. They were apologizing for the awful show that was to follow. The cast had not been rehearsing because they were helping shovel out the city.

I didn’t quite know what I was watching, but I couldn’t really change the channel either. Apparently, Joan Osbourne was singing on the show that night. And this was about the time that I played “One of Us” on repeat and really, really wanted a nose ring and belly shirt. So I was sold.

But this show was so wacky. There was a mean little lady begging her neighbor to shovel her sidewalk. Then the neighbor guy played another guy who had a weird mustache and lived in a fancy apartment. Fake news. That guy from Tommy Boy was making fun of the cast while standing outside in a snow drift. And then a character who would later dictate three consecutive Halloweens in my life, was smelling her hands after sticking them in her armpits.

These were all the same people doing a bunch of different things in one episode. And people were laughing. And it was live. And I was hooked. From that point on, I gorged myself on the show. I’d reenact my favorite sketches with my sister and film them with my grandfather’s gigantic camcorder. Those tapes do still exist somewhere but will never see the light of the internet. I really didn’t think there could be a better job in life than doing something to make people laugh. I saw it on SNL. I saw it later on Late Night. And I still feel that way.  I know what I want out of my life and I’ve known since I was ten.

It’s pipe- dreamy. Sure. But it’s the only thing I can think of that I’ve really held on to for most of my life. But at least it’s a dream. I feel for people who don’t have any kind of dream at all, for people who are too concerned with practicality. And more than that, I feel for people who actually get to reach their dream just to have it taken away. That sucks. That really, really fucking sucks. That’s mostly the reason why what happened to Conan had me so bummed. I feel like everything I want for my life can match up pretty closely with what he wanted. He’s plucked from obscurity. Asked to take over for David Letterman. Then continues having fun night after night at a job he so clearly loves. Then because of some ridiculous programming error, NBC chooses Jay Leno over him? Championing mediocrity? Come on. That just… sucks. To watch one of my idol’s have his dreams snapped while my own still feel light years away just really, really sucks. And now I went to a small Jesuit University “set in the majestic hills of Northeastern Pennsylvania” and If the Harvard guy, the guy I watched every night who I think maybe molded more of my comedic sensibilities than I had originally realized, if he’s told he can’t do it, then what hope is there for the rest of us silly schmucks who write soggy, sentimental garbage blog entries for six people to read each day?

That brings me to his final episode. And this:

Please do not be cynical. I hate cynicism. For the record, it’s my least favorite quality. It doesn’t lead anywhere. Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard, and you’re kind – amazing things will happen. I’m telling you. Amazing things will happen.

That might be one of the best things I’ve ever heard anyone say on TV. Ever. It was perfect. Because I believe it. I kind of have to always keep that in my mind. That has to be a conscious choice. Everyday. A lot of people miss that, I think. But hey, this guy gave the world The Walker Texas Ranger Lever and a bear with the same problem as my tenth grade gym teacher. How can I not take his words for straight gospel?

My parents may have gladly taken the money and parked in in the sand until the day they died. But I know I wouldn’t be so casual with it. Not when I’d be walking away from something I wanted my entire life.

Alright…

Anyway, if you’re still reading, thank you. That was just something I needed to get of my chest. My big, bountiful, beautiful chest.

Tits.

Today. Thursday. January 21st. Barnes & Noble. Recently purchased collection of travel essays. Red velvet cupcake. Skinny vanilla latte to make me feel a bit better about Red velvet cupcake. I am not exaggerating any of this. This is all real. And you all need to hear it.

1.) A very public break- up between two very angry Italian twenty- somethings: From what I could understand of the louder- than- they- think- they- are whisper shouts, there was some degree of infidelity. Via text. The Guido, name unknown, did not think that infidelity could fit in a message under 160 characters. His lady disagreed. It’s the intention, you see. Also, the guidette is no where near sexually adventurous enough to keep her guido satisfied. He saw this as a vilification of their Italian heritage. According to him, the man is always the king. And the woman should abide by his wishes which includes ignoring of sexy texts. His motha nevah disobeyed his fathah, especially in the bedroom. I don’t know how he knows this. But he knows this. And now we all know this too. And she threatened to keep the dog. I’m dying to know the dog’s name. $10 says it’s “Chanel”. Wait. No. Just learned his name is Peanut. Sonofabitch. She said she had to leave. He needed to get his fuckin’ head right. They left. Holding hands on the way out. A promise is a promise, guys.

2.) Two strong- willed, school- aged girls in matching green puffer coats: They sat down with bright pink smoothies at the corner table. One girl claims that rap is better than poetry. The other informs her that rap is poetry set to music. First girl informs her that what she described is simply music. And that rap has to come from a “special place”.  Second girl corrects first girl and adds that rap has to come from suffering. First girl notes that rap must change people. And she ain’t never heard Nick Jonas changin’ nobody’s minds before. ‘Cept about Selena Gomez. Then they argued with their mom about going to the mall because they wanted new sneakers. Mom said no. Mom left to pay for some books about Spain. Girls tried their hand at this whole rap thing. Started with “Roses are red…”

3.) One seemingly wonderful and undeniably bookish Ted Williams fan: He sat across the isle from me. He had wire- rimmed, circle frame glasses. A little like Harry Potter. Also, a scarf. So hot. I didn’t read the books. But I saw the movies. And Daniel Radcliffe’s Equus publicity photos. I tweeted about my sudden, deep love for him. Until he got comfortable. Too comfortable. He kicked off his shoes. Right there. Right in the middle of the cafe. Bare feet in the middle of a place where people eat that isn’t in his own home. And then he coughed. Like that blubbery, old people cough that made me scared of the nursing home where my great- grandmother spent her final days. But this kid was in his early twenties. At least. And then he sighed. A lot. Like he ate a big plate of mashed potatoes and fried chicken but really wanted some pie. It was wrong. So wrong. And he kept looking up at me to see if I noticed him. I did. And we were almost married until that warthoggian wail of his. Gross.

4.) One very tall, very slow moving mad scientist: Lanky. Thin, gray hair. Worn a little longer than hair of such texture should be worn. Parted right down the middle. Tortoise shell readers on the tip of his nose. Olive green chinos with a waistband that had an obvious vendetta against his bow-tie as it inched closer and closer. Short- sleeved brown Oxford shirt. One insanely huge laptop. And piles of paper. “Publish or perish”, I think. He took up two tables. One for his portable office clutter. And the other for his coffee. Just his coffee. Asked me if I thought it was cold in there. My first instinct was that he was about two eyebrow arcs away from becoming a super perv. I told him that I was cold. He then asked where he might find an, um, those… uh, I need place to stick my thing. (What?) My plug. Computer cord. Where can I plug my computer in? I had wondered the same thing and couldn’t find one either. Sorry. And with that, he packed up everything and wished me a good night and then left. And that was that.

There’s a pilot here somewhere, guys. Oh my gosh.

Today I quit The Internet and gave up on humanity.