.

 
        When asked if her baby was really a virgin birth, the mother Mary just smirked.  Her mouth had a particularly benign quality to it usually, it gave you an assurance born of innocence that put you at ease and made you believe every word that escaped her lips.  When the smirk appeared after this question the mouth became light-heartedly mischievous.  Like a child when she asks her mother for something and when Mom says no, the child asks her father and he says yes.  Her smile was one of the deep satisfaction of a woman who knows societal standards, but also realizes that those standards do not fit in with the reality of everyday life.
     Mary’s teeth only slightly bared between those gentle smirking lips were communicating more than any words she could have spoken.  This is the grand form of non-verbal communication known as the smirk.  Many people think that a smirk is nothing but a smile, though it is actually much, much more.  A smile is simple joy.  A smile is completely innocent bliss.  It is not the communicae of a complex emotion.  The smile communicates only “I am happy.”  It speaks nothing more.  It shows no personality and no agenda.
     The smirk, on the other hand, is slightly devilish.  It is a teasing way of telling people, “I know something you don’t know,” in a sing song sort of jaunty way.  A smirk is naughty.  It lets people know you are up to something, that you have an agenda.  A smirk speaks at length about someone’s personality.  A person who smirks is a person with a complex sense of humor.  A smirker is not amused by Carrot Top or anything Jay Leno has to say.  A smirker would give you a come hither look, they would call you a “gentleman and a scholar,” and a smirker would never tell a joke containing the words “what do you call a dead baby who…”.  Denise Richards is a smiler.  Janeane Garofalo is a smirker.  The guy who writes “Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul” is a smiler; Tom Robbins and David Sedaris are smirkers.  A writer for the Ted Danson vehicle Becker is a smiler; a writer for Mr. Show is a smirker.  A fan of the jam band Phish is a smiler and a fan of the Yo La Tengo is a smirker.  I’m sure you get the point already.
     Mary was a smirker.  This was a woman who knew how to smirk and the pleasure that came with the act of smirking.  Mary knew how to handle herself with the conservative masses of her very conservative place during very, very conservative time.  Mary was like any other person; she needed a little somethin’ somethin’.  And who can blame her?  No one is without that particular sin of lust.  Everyone needs some sweet lovin’ of the physical nature, so how can people look down their noses at her for getting down like they all do or want to.
     Mary's smirk was a secret badge she showed to those she knew she could trust, people who also understood Mary’s situation.  She would tell them the truth and they would be very impressed that a woman with so many forces acting against her had been strong and intelligent and carved out her own piece of history while saving herself public humiliation.  She had seen the rules that society was trying to force on her and she made them happy and at the same time she made things more comfortable for herself.  “Yes, it’s true,” she had said.  “God has knocked me up.  I will have his son and he will be called…Jesus.”
        Adding that bit of theatre to it.  She was brilliant.  If Joseph wasn’t ready to be the father of a normal kid, she knew he’d step forward to court the mother of God’s kid.  Taking care of his own child meant people would see him as bedding down with a whore, but with that religious spin on it, she had made it honorable for him to support his family.  Joseph would be taking care of the virgin mother and the Son of God.  He could be a noble man instead of a coward running from his responsibility.  Mary had made things work for their family and even provided her son with a job when he was full grown.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
    Jesus.
    It sounds just like dumping out a bucket of water in the street.  One would think the sound would be different because of the consistency.  That awful crashing noise of vomit on concrete.  It is lumpy coming up and you can make out the bits of corn in the brown and yellow opaque liquid.  The contents of a stomach are cream corn and powerful rum and they are being quickly emptied in a series of watery splashes of vomit on the corner of Fourteenth Avenue and Fourth Street just in front of the Lutheran church.
    This is the particular corner and the particular church where my childhood best friend attended preschool.  Whenever there was an event, like a play or a fun activity day, my parents would let me come to school with him.  It was lots of fun.  They had a big bookshelf filled with kids books about oversize dogs and dairy products.  The women who worked there were so kind that they made you forget you were in a church.  Though, everything there was more spiritual than any church I've ever been in.  Even their buckets of sand contained such fine grain sand that you would only ever think to find it in a house of worship.
    But in reality I wasn't visiting a friend in preschool.  I was vomiting on the base of a streetlight.  I was vomiting all over my coat, shirt, and pants.  My nice coat from the department store.  Mom had bought it for me one fall so I would have a nice coat for my first year of college.  Now it is way past college, but the coat has been great up until now.  The vomit even creeps down to my shoes and seeps into my socks.  I stagger under the weight of my own body.  First my body leans too far forward and then I push myself back to compensate and my large frame lands in the wet grass and mud with a cartoonish thump sound.
    Laying there on the front lawn of the church on a cold, damp fall night, I see a single kernel of corn on the collar of my vomit soaked coat.   I reach up my hand and put my middle finger against the pad of my thumb to flick it off.  The finger moves in slow motion off the thumb in a race against time to see if I can flick this single kernel of corn, which is one of many on this vomity coat, off into the uncharted space of the church lawn before I pass out.  The finger is putting in a good effort.  It is struggling for dear life.
    The finger looses.  No one could say it didn't do it's damnedest.

        So I go to the video store the other night.  You know, the one in the strip mall that sends a collections agent to your house when you forget to return porn.  Anyway, I really want to see Dr. T and The Women.  I know, you’re thinking Richard Gere, a hamster, and a roll of duct tape, but I’m thinking moviemaking at its finest.  I mean, the dude who directed it also directed a bunch of episodes of M*A*S*H or something.  Plus, I saw the preview for it before Cecil B. Demented and you know the folks behind that masterpiece wouldn’t steer you wrong.
        I’m perusing the new release wall.  Dr. Giggles 5: The Doctor Will See You Now, Dr. Nutty Professor, Dr. Detroit…. No fucking Dr. T, no fucking Women.  This can’t be right.  I go up and ask the girl behind the counter.  She’s totally clueless, thinks I want some movie about Mr. T going to med school.
        By this point I’m about ready to blow a gasket, so I pocket a bag of Goobers and head to the classics section.  I need cinematic salvation and I know just where to find it. The fluorescent pink and purple of its box are my beacon.  The yellow and red lightning bolt font of its title breathes life into my weary soul.  I can’t help but release a, "YES!" as I place my hands on the well-worn
case of RAD.
        For those of you who slept through 1986 and/or don’t get the TBS Superstation, RAD is the Citizen Kane of BMX racing movies.  It is the tale of newspaper delivery boy Christopher "Cru" Jones and his pursuit of BMX superstardom. The story centers around a $100,000 race in Cru’s town that only professionals are allowed to compete in.  With the help of Ray "Mr. Hand" Walston, the love of female rider Lori "Aunt Becky" Loughlin, and divine intervention, Cru gets to compete.  I won’t spoil the ending for you, because it’s a real humdinger, but I will tell you this much.  You’ll see radical riding from some of the ‘80’s best bikers, homoerotic dancing between identical twin brothers, AND 1984 Olympic Gold Medal gymnast Bart Conner (playing a character named Bart, so you know his acting is solid),
        Run, don’t walk, to pick up RAD.  It is 94 minutes of nirvana, especially the bicycle boogie scene set to Real Life’s smash hit "Send Me An Angel."  I don’t know what those Oscar folks were thinking, but they sure screwed the pooch on this one.

        Why do people say this shit to me?  I was just trying to buy a pair of shoes I can barely afford and do not really need.  If I believed in god I would think that it was some sort of cosmic punishment for my sometimes consumerist thinking.
         I am starting a new job and I wanted a pair of those slip-on sneakers to wear tomorrow to my first day at the courthouse.  The shoes would be cute and comfortable; the solution to all my apparel problems.  I had located them but none of the pairs out on the rack were the sort I was looking for.  I took my place in line and waited patiently for someone to help me.  The store was crazy busy and the line was only getting longer.
        Suddenly an older woman, maybe mid-fifties, began asking questions in a quite indignant manner.  She had been waiting in line to buy shoes and three people had been rung up ahead of her who had joined the queue after her.  She made her statement, threw the shoes down on a table, and left.  I thought she was very rude to the employees who were working very hard.
Then one of the men working the registers comes out and I asked him to get me the sneaker my size.  He says they probably do not have it, but that he will check.  About five minutes later he comes out with shoes a size too small.  He encourages me to try them on anyway.  I really want them so I figure why not?  I slip off my sandals to try to cram these sneakers on my feet and he starts.
        “I don’t mean to be racist but. . . .”
        Oh, shit.
        “ . . . Baltimore is all Jews and blacks.  I’ve waited on people from all over the world . . . Australia, England . . . and you just know that attitude that the East coast people have. . . . But what am I going to do move to Colorado or something?”
        Fuck.  I hightail it out of there, buying nothing.
         I am not sure what upsets me most about this incident but there are a few main areas I can pinpoint.  Do I even need to tell you how racist this was?  I mean he could have used the “k” and “n” words and I would not have been surprised at all. This was totally open and obvious.  Usually racism today is more subtle.  It’s not you have to sit at the back of the bus by law, it’s more like a woman grabs her purse when you sit next to her on the bus.  It’s not usually calling you a name outright, it’s treating you like a piece of shit.
        Why me?  Granted I am an obvious lilywhite-honky but, as my friend pointed out, I could have been raised by African American people who are Jewish.  I could be married to someone Jewish and/or African American.  And even if I am not African American or Jewish, why is okay to say this to me?  What is it about me that allows people to give this shit up to me?  What kind of a person would not be pissed off to hear this?  I am a bit worried that there is a swastika on my chest that only racist fucks can see.
        Why Colorado?  Visions of neo-nazi militias march ominously in my head through the Rockies.  However it seems to me that Idaho, home of serious organized racists and home state of many lilywhite honkys, would seems a better place for this total fuckhead.  Though prison is where I would like to see him.
        So much more but the list would go on for so may pages that you would so lose interest, if you have not already.
        Anyway, as soon as I got home I called the customer service department and made a complaint.  I told my whole story, gave the time it happened, and described the man who said these things to me.  I did not see his name because I was afraid if I turned my attention away from the shoes I would punch him in the face.  In retrospect, I probably should have said something to the guy himself.  It would have been brave and cool.  However, I have never claimed to be brave and cool.  And really I just want his ass fired.
        The store promised to send me a letter about my complaint.  If this letter is not to my satisfaction, I am going to write them a letter and threaten a boycott.  A bit weak but . . .

Ext.  Shars Country Palace - night
Silence at the front entrance.  One light on a high electric pole shines down.  The light from the opening doors is quickly visible and the noise of meat against the gravel parking lot is audible in the night air as two men are thrown from the door of the bar.  Both men grunt climb to their feet, and begin brushing htemselves off.  They are dressed in full cowboy gear including hats and boots.  Both are slightly in shadow, we can't see their faces clearly.

Joe:  Let's go.  Where did we park?
Rob:  What?!  You ain't even gonna go back in there an' tell that bitch off?  You ain't gonna defend
your name at all?
Joe:  I could give a shit about my name.
Rob:  Joe, she said you was...  Joe, she said... (Rob can't finish)
Joe:  (yelling) She said what, Rob?!
Rob:  Well...  She...  She called you a liar.
Joe:  I know what she called me.
Rob:  But, Joe, I thought...  You said you was-
Joe:  Just go get the damn car.

Joe rubs his eyes, pushing his cowboy hat up a bit to reveal his face.  His face looks sad and disappointed.  Rob walks off screen to find the car.  Joe stands there for a moment, then suddenly perks up.

Joe: (yelling)  You got any a them beers left in the car?!

Beat.  "Apricot Brandy" by Rhinoceros starts to play as Joe runs off screen.
White credits roll on black screen.
Fin.
 

 
    While planning a trip to Las Vegas, Nevada with some friends, I decided to buy a small composition book and keep a journal of our traveling experiences.  It was meant to be a place to write down all the crazy adventures we would get into while in Sin City and a way for me to start doing more writing.  Instead, it became a place to write down prices for airfare and hotel stays and chronicle the exact spot of where I parked my car at the Minneapolis airport.  The few writings I did manage to finish were done on the long, boring airplane rides to and from Vegas.  I've taken out our the airfare and parking spot pages and here is the bits of writing that were done on those plane trips.

    Written on the trip from Minneapolis, Minnesota to Las Vegas, Nevada:
    "People get on with their carry-ons.  Big, small, wide, tall.  One woman has a gift for a wedding.  It's neatly wrapped and ready to be given to a happy couple of newlyweds preparing for a Las Vegas honeymoon and a Wayne Newton show.  Who knows what's in the fully wrapped pastel papered present.  Probably a picture in a frame.  Probably not an autographed picture of Bea Arthur or a black velvet painting of Flava Flav, but a family picture.  Whole family, great grandfather or maybe they're the type of people who would give a picture of a president.  Probably Roosevelt or Truman.  I would like it to be a painting of Abe Lincoln.  Imagine opening your wedding gifts right after a tremendous weekend of hot steamy sex with your new spouse and a Wayne Newton show and finding a big framed picture of Abraham Lincoln.  Signature black ten-gallon hat and a goofy beard with half a grin on his very presidential face and that mole staring out at you."...
    "A guy won $119 in a contest on the plane.  I hope he buys the big steak and then chokes on it."

    The only piece written in Las Vegas, done in the hotel room while watching Waynes World II:
    "Ladies and Gentlemen!!  Please give a big Luxor Hotel and Casino welcome to the two time juggling champions, Alex and Nick: Double Trouble!!  Watch them juggle hoop frisbees.  They are masters at juggling pins...AND punch lines!  Their hilarious juggling humor has been raved about by Las Vegas' finest critics!  Watch them as they ride the big old tyme unicycles and still keep the rhythm of their juggling steady!  You'll be rolling in the aisles for this duo of juggling brothers when they perform during the intermission of Midnight Fantasy:  Las Vegas' newest topless revue!  Shows at 8pm, 10pm, and Midnight."

    This bit was written on the airplane ride back to Minneapolis and is really just a bitter remembrance of trips I took as a young kid and a woman who done me wrong:
    "As a kid I used to get motion sickness in the car all the time.  Whenever we went on long trips, I'd puke like a bastard.  There are many stories about it.  I think I once vomited before we even left town after a bad breakfast at Dennys.  I've never thrown up on a plane before though.  Come to think of it, I've never even seen anyone throw up on a plane.  You'd think that they would though, what with the famous air sick bags and all.  Some people would at least feel obliged to do it once and a while just to make the bags seem necessary.  So the manufacturer does feel like he's providing a useless service.  So that the airline feels justified in purchasing them and the guy who cleans it up feels like he's accomplished something during his long day of work.
    "I threw up before a boat ride once.  In Mexico.  I was feeling nervous about the trip and I stumbled up and around a bush and dumped out my buffet scrambled eggs breakfast with apple juice.  It was some sort of tour.  Isle Mojares, I think.  It means "the isle of women" if I remember correctly, but all they have is shops that sell T-shirts really cheap.
    "On a different trip to Mexico I went on a snorkeling tour thing with my dad.  I swallowed too much salt water and threw up on the boat.  It was particularly memorable because I ate Fruit Loops and coffee almost exclusively that trip.  So, when I hurled on the snorkel tour boat I was sitting on a bench leaning backward and this pile of dark brown liquid with bits of fruity color came spewing out all over me and my dad had to help me turn around to hurl off the side.  I think I wrote my ex-girlfriend who had just broken up with me a post card describing this incident.  I think it had a picture of the ocean on it."

    Well, other than a few Larry King-esque musings that's the whole journal.  I was pretty disappointed in my lack of actual Las Vegas experience and ambition to write about the city itself. But overall I think these writings motivated me to write quite a bit more once I got back from the trip on subjects that have nothing to do with airplanes, vomit, or juggling.

     I hate, hate, hate reality shows and game shows. All of them.  Especially “Survivor,” “Who wants to be a Millionaire,” and “The Weakest Link.”  “The Weakest Link,” I must admit I have not seen but which seems to combine all the treachery/deceit of the former with the greed of the latter.
    So I have an ugly confession to make: I love VH1’s Bands on the Run.  I happened to catch the hour and a half pilot and I was hooked.  The basic premise is this: four bands compete to make the most money on a thirteen show, 8-week tour.  So it’s a shitty way to judge a band, but it is fantastic to watch them hustle and fight and claim to be great artists (this is my favorite claim of one band in particular).  The bands do all their own promotion and sell all their own merchandise (which includes panties emblazoned with the band’s name).
    This is not a show about quality music.  The bands suck, musically speaking.  There are two matchbox twenty-clones, Flickerstick and Soulcracker; a Celebrity Skin-era-Hole called Harlow; and the Josh Dodes Band, which seems to be a sort of Dave Matthews Band/ Ben Folds Five hybrid that gives me chills just to think about.
In each episode the bands have a concert in a different town.  In the first episode it’s Chicago.  They have three days to promote and play the show.  They get $20 per band member per day, 2 hotel rooms, a phone card, and a gas card, in addition to a van and u-haul trailer for gear.
    A feature of each episode is the promotional opportunity that only one band gets to do and will net them some cash towards their total.  In Chicago this promo op was a gig on the Jenny Jones Show.  As soon as the bands got the message about Jenny Jones, Flickerstick started fighting about their artistic integrity and how Jenny Jones was beneath them.  Hello-you’re on a show that determines the best band by how much money they make, you have NO artistic integrity!  The other bands were more honest in their obvious desire to be on the show.
    Another fantastic, guilty-pleasure aspect of the show is watching the internal fighting within the bands.  Flickerstick is certainly the front-runner in “artistic differences.”  At the close of the first episode they were discussing firing their drummer, Dominic.  Actually, Brandin (lead vocalist who is too artistic and sensitive to play the guitar on stage most of the time) was listening to how Corey (guitar) and Rex (guitar, hired to pick up Brandin’s guitar slack on stage) are ready to fire Dominic as soon as Brandin gives the okay.  Missing from the discussion was bass player Fletcher, Brandin’s brother and the only member of the band to give Corey a hug when Corey’s dad died in the pilot.  But hey, bass players who happen to be your brother are a dime a dozen and their opinions do not count and/or matter.  They want to fire Dominic because he spit on Rex at a bar and basically is out hunting for poon tang every minute.  This is supposed to make you hate him or something but all the other members have pulled this shit on one another at other times.  I mean in the first real episode Corey cheats on his girlfriend who consoled him about his father’s death in the pilot episode.  Trust me none of them (except Rex, the married one) seems to shy away from the ladies they run into, who, oddly enough, all seem to be very interested in sleeping with anyone if it might get them on TV.
    It’s a soap opera.  In fact I am not even sure Corey’s dad is dead.  This is cruel and cynical but I find it a bit convenient that his dad died in the pilot.  Very dramatic and sympathetic but somehow I feel it was all staged for stardom.   I could go on callously about this all day, but watch the show and you’ll see it.  And don’t worry the three other bands I barely spoke of are just as awful and egotistical (with the exception of all the bass players in all the bands because bass players rarely, if ever, develop that rock star-ego problem).
    Or watch “Sonic Youth 1991: The Year Punk Broke” and see bands on tour who do not suck.
 
 

Good Friday
By Blake G. Iverson
 (bisco911@hotmail.com)

    I wasn’t even supposed to work tonight.  Tony called me at four and said his transmission blew.  I had plans with Stacy to see the new Oliver Stone flick.  I know, I know, the previews kind of sucked, but what the hell else is there to do in this backwater burg?  Anyway, I said I’d do it.  Stacy was pissed, but she said we could hang out tomorrow night.  She knows I need the cash to fix up the Black Bitch.  That’s what I call my street-rod.  It’s a ’67 Camaro.  She’s gonna be bad ass when I get her fixed up and tricked out.
        So I got to the Hut about quarter to six.  The dinner rush had already started, but it wasn’t that bad.  Lots of people are out of town for Easter, I guess.  My first run was to the Millers.  They order the same thing every Friday: one large, thin sausage and mushroom and one medium, hand-tossed with broccoli with no sauce.  Pizza with no sauce? Puttin’ broccoli on pizza is one thing, but add the element of no sauce, what the hell is that?  I guess the twins are allergic to tomatoes.  Maybe they try ordering Chinese sometime or something.  What they’re getttin’ isn’t even pizza.  Ummm…yeah, so same lousy buck tip as usual.
        After that I headed back and picked up two pies for the apartment building just off Broadway and 24th.  One lady I’d never delivered to before gave me a five spot tip for a ten spot pizza.  Must have been my smile.  The other dude wrote a check and I ended up with $2.24.  Pretty standard.  Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked again.
        I got back and things had slowed down a bit.  Mick and Brad had dibs on the next  two runs, so I plugged a quarter into the Ms. Pac-Man machine and waited my turn.  After a few minutes Marty took a call and told me he had my make-or-break run of the evening.  10 pies, all pepperoni, for some beer-bash at Eastwood Park.  A kid had placed the order from the pay phone and said he would meet me at the back parking lot at ten to eight.
        At first I was reluctant.  Last time I delivered to a kegger the dudes tried to get me stoned instead of paying me.  That was not cool.  But then I thought about the fact that the party was on the east-side, where the doctors’ kids live.  The fact that the tip on a hundred bucks’ worth of ‘za would put me that much closer to a new engine for the Bitch quieted my reservations.
        It was just past dark when I left the shop with my passenger seat packed full.  I had to run the defrost, because the pizzas were steaming up the windshield.  The clouds that rolled in late this afternoon were keeping the air relatively warm and the streets were crowded with hordes of recently licensed drivers out cruising for chicks.  Wow!  Did that sound poetic to you?  I feel like S.E. Hinton or something.  I know, I know. You were here.  You know about the clouds and the traffic.  It’s your job.  I’ll try and cut out the vivid imagery and stick to the facts.  Funny!  Did you ever say that to anyone?  "Just the facts, ma’am?"  Like that t.v. show? O.k., sorry.
        So yeah.  I roll up to the park and there are, like, no cars there.  I’m thinking it’s weird, but maybe these kids are trying to outsmart… well… you, I guess.  Maybe they parked in the neighborhoods and hiked up.  Tough to do with a keg, I’ll grant you, but some of these kids got ingenuity.
        I parked by the end of the trail into the woods and left the car running.  I got out, figuring the dude would be right there.  "Who ordered Pizza Hut?  I got ten pepperonis here," I yelled.  After a minute I heard rustling along the path.  I walked toward the noise and that’s the last thing I remember.  All I know is they got the pizzas, my cash, and my copy of Zeppelin 4 and I’ve got one motherfucker of a headache.  I guess I should have known my luck wouldn’t last forever.  I’ve been doing this six months and I’ve gotten stiffed like five times, but I’ve never been rolled.  Sorry I can’t tell you about what theylooked like or anything, but I just didn’t get a good look.  I guess if you see a group of dudes who look like they ate too much laughing and listening to "The Battle Of Evermore" you should pull their asses over.

        Nerds.  Is anything funnier?  There is a long list of very funny nerds that extends far through time and space.  The pocket protector wearing Anthony Edwards and the other guy from Revenge of the Nerds had that hysterical inhalation snort laugh.  There have been all those cheaply made movies where a classical beautiful actress is made to look nerdy by wearing glasses and a sweater vest until someone dresses her up and she discovered as the virginal hottie.  Those were sort of funny, right?  Happy Days was definitely funny and they were huge nerds.  The ultimate nerd show has been Star Trek and because of that science fiction as a whole has become the domain of nerds and their aesthetic.
    The domain of nerds is very much defined by our culture: math, computers, dungeons and dragons, glasses, and science fiction.  That's why if you're a nerd, the funniest show on TV right now is Futurama (or if your a nerd with bad taste and a fascination with lesbians it's Xena).  Created by Matt Groening (The Simpsons, Life in Hell), Futurama premiered in 1999 and was an instant critical success and cult fan favorite.  Rumor has it that the freakish nerds who are fans of the show figured out the alien languages so fast that by the second season they had to create all new ones to stoop them.
    The show is the story of Fry, a pizza delivery boy, who traveled to the future and starts working for his distant nephew, the professor, in his intergalactic delivery service.  Fry's other crew members are Leela, a one eyed alien and the Planetary Express ships captain, and Bender, a lovably mean, drunken, unscrupulous robot, and the rest of the employees who sometimes show up for a story and sometimes are absent for unexplained reasons.  And there is a running joke about celebrity heads, still alive, preserved in jars in the museum..
    The show can be very funny.  I mean, of course, it's the sister show of the Simpsons.  The problem with it is that it can be very hit or miss.  For instance this years season premiere was a story about Bender being hit by a car and then becoming a "were-car"-a robot who turns into an evil car on a full moon and attacks the people he cares about.  It was the show at it's lowest point.  Where as some of the episodes are extremely funny and smart with unexpected twists and moments of near brilliance.  I would suspect this has something to do with the newer producers Jane O'Brien (Conan's sister) and Bill Odenkirk (Bob's older brother, who incidentally has a degree in chemistry, wears glasses, and won an emmy for writing on Mr. Show).  These two sibling of semi-celebrities have, along with the rest of the great staff, done wonders for making the show better.  There hasn't been an unfunny episode since the season premiere.  Although, to be fair, there have only been about six episodes so far this season due to pre-emptions from the fucking NFL for months at a time.  The will has an upcoming reappearance of Santa Claus, a character voiced by John Goodman who kills the naughty (this episode was scheduled for Christmastime, but the NFL is a bitch), and a guest appearance by Beck.  Personally,  I just want to see the return of Richard Nixons head.

 
        First, let me explain something about me.  I not a person who joins groups, participates in activities, or goes to see a movie because it's popular.  I am as cynical and supportive to the counterculture as the next guy.   With that said I'll continue with the article.  Until December of 2000, I had never seen the Toy Story movies.  A distaste for most Disney fare (except Rocketman, Harland Williams is funny), and an intense hatred for Tim Allen kept me away as did the social awkwardness of being a twenty-two year old who rents Toy Story.  I assumed that the movie would be sentimental schmaltz to entertain the youngsters and keep their middle class, suburban, white flight parents awake for 85 minutes.  I figured it was mediocre crap for people who think that Jay Leno and Carrot Top are funny (do these people exist?) and own leisure clothes such as jogging suits and sweat pants that they only wear on weekends.  Not that I think myself better than these people.  Many of my friends are people just like that.  I'm just different then them in that I don't enjoy organized sports and I don't read Chicken Soup for The Soul books.
    So then one night a friend and I rented Toy Story at the video store I used to work at.  The clerk, a former co-worker, mocked us and made comments attacking my masculinity.  We made our attacks on his pathetic job and made our jabs at his personal life.  Then when he saw what we were renting he made more attacks on our character.  Two men in their twenties renting children's videos to watch late at night while drinking and making jokes about friends who weren't present.  It was neither a pretty sight nor a proud moment.
    So now, you're probably thinking, so what?  Could a computer animated kids flick about toy spacemen and cowboys steal the heard and change the mind of such cultured, intelligent men?  Unlikely, but it seems to have happened.  Yes, the movie is filled with schmaltzy sentimentality and bad jokes that your parents may even be able to pick out as lame, but as a whole it works.  It delivers on a level that many films, Disney and otherwise,  cannot.  The characters are intriguing, if not complex and the story line has great flow, keeping you interested and invested for the full hour and twenty minutes.  Tim Allen isn't even that annoying.
    So after watching the movie we were both quite impressed.  A few weeks later we rented the second one, which I found to be as good, maybe better.  Recently, I bought the DVD two pack with both the movie in it.  The animation really looks better on DVD and the extra Tin Toy short film is good.  The hard part of this was actually buying it.  Being a single man buying a cartoon movie is a lot like buying porn.  you're sure that everyone who sees you thinks that you're some kind of freak.  They could be buying duct tape, lawn darts, a shovel, and several lengths of rope, but you're the suspicious one.  A man buying a toilet plunger and an "Undertaker" WWF shirt looked at me like I was committing a crime against humanity as I stood in line red-faced and filled with shame.  So am I an infantile man-child for liking this or is it actually good?  There's one last key element you need to know before answering this question:  I've started watching Big Guy and Rusty The Boy Robot on Fox Kids in the afternoons.  yes it is odd.  But It's based on a Frank Miller (The Dark Knight Returns, Daredevil, Ronin, Sin City) comic that I liked.  It's good.  Really.

        My heart always pounds a little as I slide the slim jim into the window frame. Six years in the game and that moment of nervous apprehension never fails to appear.  I shouldn’t worry.  I’ve been watching this car for a week.  I know this guy’s routine better than he does.  In the ramp at 7:30, out at 4:45. Sucker.
        A late model Mercedes will fetch you five large from the Mexican shops on the west side.  They don’t care if the alarm is broke.  Within hours it will either be on a boat or in more pieces than a chicken at McDonalds.
        By that time I’ll be at the grocery store.  I got a family and they need to eat.
        It wasn’t always this way.  I’m not some illiterate punk.  I went to tech school.  How do you think I learned to jack cars without scratching them?  I was halfway to ASE Certification when Sarah got knocked up.  At first I did the noble thing, started changing oil at a chain shop.  I found out pretty quick that eight bucks an hour wasn’t going to start to cover the hospital visits, much less the cost of having a kid.  I thought my old man would help me out, but he just said things are tough all over.  Sarah’s parents have money, but they wouldn’t help her out unless she got rid of me.  Seems I’m not what they were hoping for in a son-in-law.
        I figured I’d quit the game as soon as Jada was born and the biggest expenses were out of the way.  I saved everything I made and figured Sarah would go back to work at the furniture store so I could finish school. Unfortunately Jada came into the world with a couple of syndromes named after doctors and more allergies than fingers and toes.  That meant we were both working and still barely keeping our heads above water.  Car Thief is a gig with a shitty benefits package.
        The leather interior is still cool from the air conditioning.  This guy is pretty tall.  The seat is all the way back.  The seam in the steering column comes apart remarkably easy.  German engineering I guess.  Two wires.  Strip… cut… clasp…MAGIC.  The engine purrs like a kitten awoken from a nap by a stroking hand.
        The clock on the dash says 8:31.  My watch says about the same.  Jimmy’s an hour and a half into his shift working the ramp.  He saw me come in this morning and right now he’s on the toilet reading the Racing Forum.  Tomorrow he’ll have a hundred bucks to put on the ponies ‘cause he didn’t see a thing.  Union jobs.  God bless ‘em and all their piss breaks. If I ever go legit I might have to look into a job with the Teamsters.
        I slide the shifter into reverse and pull out.  Sometimes I feel guilty, but right now I think the only people who are really guilty are the people who own cars like this.  Guilty of greed.  Guilty of stupidity.  Guilty of being a "have" in a city full of "have-nots" and showing it off with an $80,000 car.
        I waste no time heading to Marco’s.  Sometimes I take side streets to avoid the heavily patrolled areas.  Today I see no reason to hide.  I’m wearing a shirt and tie (a little investment I made after gaffing an XJ6 a couple of months back).  I just got my hair cut.  I look like every other dot-com millionaire with an office in the old lofts downtown.
        Marco’s good to me.  He knows I won’t fuck him, so he doesn’t fuck me.  We’ve been in this game together so long he doesn’t even try to haggle anymore.  Five G in twenties and hundreds goes into my money belt and the wolf is away from my door for the time being.
        I walk to the bus stop and wait for the 11 to take me to the grocery store. The bus is ten minutes late, but I don’t sweat it.  I’ve got time.  Jada’s appointment isn’t until noon.  At the store I pick up all the special foods Jada needs.  No wheat.  No sugar.  It’s damn hard and damn expensive to feed a five year old who can’t eat anything.  I grab a Snickers for myself, but I toss it after the first bite.  I feel guilty eating the things my daughter loves, but can’t have.
        I walk the four blocks back to the apartment, stopping home to put away the groceries and stash the money before I pick up Jada from Mrs. Ramirez upstairs.
        "Daddy, daddy!"  she says, bounding out the door and onto the breezeway as I approach.
        " What are you doing outside without your mask?  You know that it’s pollen season."
        "Sorry daddy, I was just happy to see you.  Wow daddy, you look spiffy.  How was work today?"
        I see her blue eyes, the mirror of my own, looking up at me.  She is smiling and  waiting for my response.  I can’t say a word.