Wherein The Advantage Of Surprise Is Discussed, or, One Reporter, One Camera, One Moron

Act Four, Scene One

Cast: Myself, Abby The Dog

Setting: 6:23 PM, Home, Couch, Watching MSNBC

Myself: If I ever walk into a room and there's a guy with a camera waiting, I'm not sticking around to answer questions.
Abby The Dog: (Looks at Myself, tilts head.)

Wherein The Currently Popular Coiffure Is Discussed, or, The Tragic Cost Of Napping With Wet Hair

Act Three, Scene Five

Cast: Man Waiting For Table, Mother Of Man Waiting For Table

Setting: 8:47 PM, Laboratorio Del Galileo Restaurant, Foggy Bottom, Washington, DC

MOMWFT: What's going on with your hair?
MWFT: I was going for a Robert Smith effect.
MOMWFT: It didn't work.
MWFT: Mom, do you even know who Robert Smith is?
MOMWFT: Not really, no.

Wherein The State Of The Union Is Discussed, or, If You Like Two Ounces Of Light Rum, Five Ounces Of Pineapple Juice and Two Ounces Of Coconut Cream

Act Three, Scene Four

Cast: Woman Arguing With Man In Thai Restaurant

Setting: 8:17 PM, Lime Leaf Restaurant, Charlottesville, VA

WAWMITR: I'd dump you right now if it didn't cost twenty bucks to put my profile back online.

Wherein The State Of Investigative Journalism Is Discussed, or, Tabloids, Rednecks and Nekkid Women

Act Three, Scene Three

Cast: Woman Reading The Enquirer, Man With Woman Reading The Enquirer

Setting: 4:23 PM, Check-out Lane Four, Kroger, Barraks Road Shopping Center, Charlottesville, VA

WRTE: It says he killed her because they were having money problems and he was addicted to internet porn.
MWWRTE: If every broke guy who liked to look at internet porn killed his wife there wouldn't be a woman left alive in North America.

Wherein The Mental Health Of Reality Show Contestants Is Discussed, or, Is She The Bush Kind Of Crazy Or The Cheney Kind Of Crazy?

Act Three, Scene Two

Cast: Myself, Abby The Dog

Setting: 9:57 PM, Couch, Home, Watching Flava Of Love

Myself: Being called crazy by Flava Fav is kind of a pot and kettle sort of thing.
Abby The Dog: (Looks at Myself, tilts head.)

Wherein The Possible Implications Of Lunch Are Discussed, or, Should Taco Bell Really Be Referred To As A Mexican Restaurant

Act Three, Scene One

Cast: Man In Line, Woman In Line

Setting: 12:14 PM, Taco Bell, Mass Ave, Cambridge, MA

WIL: What are you getting?
MIL: Hepatitis C and a Diet Pepsi.

Wherein Fashion Is Discussed Again, or, Five Homosexuals, A Sweater And The United States Postal Service

Act Two, Scene Five

Cast: Man Shopping For Sweater, Mother Of Man Shopping For Sweater

Setting: 4:29 PM, Ralph Lauren Department, Marshall Fields, Madison

MSFS: Maybe we should buy him a sweater.
MOMSFS: That sounds good.
MSFS: What colour do you think he'd like?
MOMSFS: I don't have any idea. I don't really know him that well.
MSFS: Well the guys on Queer Eye say that you should play to your strengths.
MOMSFS: Alright. What, exactly, are his strengths.
MSFS: He looks like a serial killer. Lets go with that.
MOMSFS: And what does one buy for a serial killer?
MSFS: Does this place sell mailman uniforms?

Wherein Abby The Dog Gets To Choose What We Watch On Television, or, My Dog Wants A Plasma Screen And Tivo

Act Two, Scene Four

Cast: Myself, Abby The Dog

Setting: 11:27 PM, Couch, Home, Watching The AKC/Eukanuba National Championship 2006 on Animal Planet.

Myself: I bet it took more work to get that Malamute ready than it took any woman to get ready for the Grammys.
Abby The Dog: (Looks at Myself, tilts head.)

Wherein My Introduction To Gumby Is Discussed, or, A Year In The Life Of A Dying Man, Part One

The first time we met, Gumby was sitting on a mattress in the middle of the floor of what was to be our shared dorm room. He had dumped a box of Lucky Charms out on the mattress in front of him and was carefully sorting them into separate piles of cereal and marshmallows. There was another mattress leaning against the wall, two matching and unopened suitcases and what appeared to be an expensive Sony stereo still in its box.

I stood in the door with my duffle bag on my shoulder and watched as he began to sort the marshmallows by color. Lost in thought and not wanting to interrupt, I just stood in the door and watched. It was almost ten minutes before he noticed me.

“Oh.” His accent labeled him immediately as a New Yorker. “Hey. I’m Alex. Want some marshmallows?”

Not sure how to respond, I just said no and he went back to sorting.

I dropped my bag next to the stereo and went back downstairs to get my bike. A flyer in the freshman packet had said that your room was the safest place to keep it and that the bookstore sold ceiling hooks for three bucks. I carried it up the stairs and wondered about my roommate. He had short black hair and a dark complexion that wasn’t just a tan. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a J Crew catalogue.

I didn’t know it then, but we were the perfect roommates. The best of all possible combinations: I was over 21 and he had a car. I could to buy booze and he had a way to go and get it.

I rolled the bike down the hall nodding and saying hello to the few people I passed. As I walked into the room Alex was throwing handfuls of cereal out the window and the marshmallows had been arranged into the shapes of several rather elaborate fish. He noticed me come in and looked at the bike.

“Sick ride. Haro, right? Extreme Comp?” I nodded and he sat down carefully so as not to disturb his fish. “All XT. Cool. Rapid-fire or thumbs?”

“Thumbs. With CQP cranks and spuds.”

“Nice.” He started eating the tail of a blue fish, one marshmallow at a time without using his hands. He would just bend down and carefully pick one up with his teeth. I leaned my bike against the wall, leaned out the open window and looked out at the trees in the quad.

“So do you smoke or what?” I heard from behind me.

“Not cigarettes.” He laughed and opened one of the suitcases and took out a glass bong and a gallon sized Zip Lock filled with at least a key of weed.

“You’ll like this. Bought it all for three hundred in Cabo a month ago. Put it in a tampon box in my mom’s suitcase on the way back. Assholes.” I wasn’t sure who he meant. He got up, said he would be back and left with the bong.

I looked at the open suitcase. On top of a pair of Levi’s and a blue button down was a bottle of Valium, a bottle of yellow and black pills I didn’t recognize, two boxes of Zig Zags, a perfume sized bottle of clear liquid with a screw top and a pair of gray gym socks that said K-Swiss.

Everything a freshman needed to succeed in college.

Shit. I wished that I was half as well prepared.

Wherein The Art Of Saying The Correct Thing Is Discussed, or, How I Told My Grandfather That I Love Him

Earlier tonight I sat across the kitchen table from my Grandfather, a cribbage board and a red deck of Bicycle cards between us, and didn't know what to say.

He and I have been playing cribbage together as long as I can remember. Our conversation has always centered on a few, mainly inane, topics. We make fun of each others card playing abilities and occasionally commiserate about the sorry state of the Packers. We talk about the latest model of Chrysler or how shallow the lake seems this year.

Tonight was different though.

Mainly because my Grandmother died on Tuesday and now I don't know what to say.

As I drove over I thought of a hundred things to say, none of which came close to being correct.

What do you say to the man who lost the woman he'd been married to for nearly 60 years? What do you say to the man who you have always told people that you wanted to grow up to be? What do you say to the man who you admire and respect and love more than any other man you have ever known?

What do you say to that man when he sits across from you and slowly deals cards?

To say that you're sorry is so gross an understatement that it doesn't merit consideration. To say that you love him isn't necessary, it is simply understood.

When he finishes dealing you just pick up your cards and play.

You say nothing.

Because you don't really need to.