Worldwide Ace

“I heard the party was pretty great.”

“Yeah, people seemed to like it,” I replied, my sleep-deprived brain luckily sober enough to conjure up an honest remark.

“Did you have fun?”

“I don’t know.”

—

It’s almost depressing knowing that any joy I derived from the event came from a combination of the joy of others and the relief that it was finally over. After over a month of planning, of scrambling to find extra funding, gain prizes for a last minute raffle, and put on a show others could enjoy and I could take pride in, I simply didn’t have the time or energy to have fun myself. That isn’t to say that I didn’t have my moments or that the music, food and drink wasn’t fantastic (all of it was), but that’s simply how I felt about it.

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“Forgotten Mac” by Rob Dobi.

They weren’t quite a corpses when I found them. they lay there lifeless, unmoving, but I could feel the warmth still emanating, steam slowly curling off the snow. There was a beauty to them; stoic, sad, dangerous.

My first instinct was remorse. Poor fellas, I thought. Someone must’ve loved you very much. I watched to see if they moved, if their loss was merely a visage of my own imagination, the drugs coursing through my brain and clouding realty. They didn’t.

My friends laughed at them, a nervous laughter split between wonder and indifference.

“Come on, let’s go,” they chuckled, their minds already on the meal and festivities ahead.

“Hold on,” I said, my interest piqued.

I shouldn’t have touched them, but I couldn’t resist. I couldn’t stand to see them left like that, hidden in the shadows between the curb and the road. It was undignified. Who knew what might happen if I simply left their stiff visceras lying there. Who knew what sort of people might wander by and pick them up, play with them, or, worse yet, destroy them.

I reached down and gently wrapping my hand around them, cupping with an unearthly reverence. They were cool and solid, as if the forces of nature wanted them frozen in time just like this, their gentle beauty locked in a permanent embrace with time.

I wanted to show them kindness and justice. I wanted them to be returned to where they belonged, though I knew not where that was. Most of all, I wanted them to be safe from the treachery of others, the elements, and the world that had left them lying there.

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“I used to be a stock broker,” he rattles off, his voice distant as if recalling a story his grandmother passed down.

“Would you ever consider going back?” I ask.

He laughs, his eyes wrinkling and showing his age for just an instant, the youth snapping back elastically as he regains his composure. “Oh no. I’m going to school for rolfing. How about you? What do you do?”

“This,” I tell him.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just a ski instructor.”

—

We are all more than we seem.

Some of us have other jobs, be it DJ, businessman, chef, or teacher. Some of us have serious hobbies like mountain biking, sky diving, or playing in bands; hobbies that we make our work. Some of us are wending our way elsewhere, whether it’s grad school, politics, or simply New Zealand for the Southern Hemisphere’s winter. No one is “just a ski instructor.”

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Kyle skis Eldora, thanks to his dad.

I’m starting to wonder if I’m sleepwalking through life. the ink inscribed in my ankle had begun to lose meaning, my sleep pattern shifting from late nights and darkness to early mornings and soaking in the few rays of winter. Daily, I arise before dawn, scraping away the bits of hair that appears like a fungus overnight on my cheek. I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder if it’s really me staring back, or some strange doppelganger, his goatee proving his evil nature. In truth, I wonder if the goatee is actually an indication of good, my full beard, long since departed, a sign of moral ambiguity and satanic tendencies. After all, the goateed face that stares back is that of the model citizen I never envisioned myself being.

At the beginning of December, I started work as a ski instructor. My talents on snow are hardly world class, but the opportunity to glide alongside tiny babbling penguins hearkened to a desire I’ve ignored for too long. When I return from a day lifting the bodies and spirits of the wee ones as they try and gain a footing on the icy slopes, I have but the energy to create a slapdash gourmet meal and crawl into the seductive arms of the night. My writing, games, social life, and utterly blissful being have all fallen by the wayside.

And yet I am happy.

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For context, read
A New Twist – Part I

Apparently, Caleb’s first roller coaster was the Mind Eraser too.

I can’t remember the first time I heard the phrase, “I remember it like it was yesterday.” I suspect it was quickly followed by a strange, soap-opera-esque stare into the distance, swelling music, and a wavy special effect leading into a flashback sequence, but I’m not sure. After all, I don’t even remember yesterday like it was yesterday. Instead, I get small flashes and scenes; some immaculately drawn or painted rather than a photo-realistic representation of whatever it is I’m remembering.

There are, however, some experiences which are simply so vivid that they paint a masterpiece in my mind; and I say paint with full knowledge that even the clearest image is streaked with the wide brushes time uses to distance the event. I remember watching the sun rise on the peak of Masada in Israel. I remember crashing spectacularly down my first double black diamond at Breckenridge. I remember diving into the lake in Kent’s Hill, Maine and feeling the algae slide by me as I coursed through the water.

Some events I’m surprised I remember. Others I know I’ll remember before they happen. And some I expect to remember but don’t.

It was literally yesterday when I went to Elitch’s, yet now it feels so distant and surreal.

Memory’s a strange and fickle thing.

—

I’m shivering slightly despite the warmth of the sun. In the distance, several roller coasters rumble along tracks. Despite it’s distance, I can hear the creak of the Twister II, an old wooden roller coaster. To our left, screams echo from the Sidewinder, a short loop de loop that goes forward, then back again. I can hear the squeal of brakes on the Tower of Doom, a dead drop that mimics my first real thrill ride, the Edge at Great America.

All of these are dwarfed by the massive twirling steel rig that is the Mind Eraser.

“You sure we can’t just go to a simpler coaster?” I ask meekly.

“Are you kidding me?” Annika replies, her eyebrow and head clearly mocking my fear.

“Once you’ve ridden the Mind Eraser, you can ride anything,” Denise assures me. “Besides, it’s not that bad. Trust me.”

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“Does anyone have a buck I can borrow?”

“Sure, I do,” I said, reaching for my wallet.

“Don’t do it, man,” Harold interjected. “He’ll ask for a pound of flesh in return.”

—

Jew jokes are my bread and butter. Generally people know I’m a Jew within the first hour they know me, and they know I don’t take my Judaism seriously.

On money:
“I’m only half Jewish, so I love money, but I’m terrible with it.”

On sex:
“Did you know it’s a double mitzvah (double good deed) to have sex on the sabbath? Unless she cums, cause that’s work.”

On drinking:
“Passover has a four drink minimum.”

It doesn’t take much knowledge of Judaism to get most of my Jew jokes. A lot of it is based around well-known stereotypes, classic literary references, and even Western religion in general rather than anything specific about Jews. To me, they seem innocuous and often lead to a real dialog about Judaism, but I’ve found it doesn’t always end up that way.

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Calvin and Susie argue.

“Jesus fucking Christ, dude! I’m sick of this shit! I don’t want to be in a semantical argument right now!”

“You mean semantic, not semantical,” I stated matter-of-factly.

It was that little statement that defined the difference between us. It was that little statement that would continue to crop up at the most inopportune times over the following months.

“Really?” Leath angrily whined. “Seriously? Fuck you.”

—

For the record, the Merriam-Webster dictionary lists “semantical” as a proper variation of “semantic.” Every online dictionary redirects to “semantic,” but they also cite the American Heritage and Random House dictionaries as saying it’s a proper variation. Why anyone would want to tack on two extra letter and an extra syllable to an already lengthy and specifically used word, I have no clue, but it is technically correct.

SIDE NOTE: When growing up, the word “technically” appeared with a new usage in the common lexicon. Traditionally, it’s defined as “pertaining to a technique, art or skill.” This, of course, is not how it’s used. I, and many of my friends, use technically to mean that one can argue the veracity of the statement on some level, but it’s not true on all levels. Technically is often used as the opposite of actually. For example, I can technically get a copy of Adobe Photoshop CS4 for free, but because it’s illegally downloaded, it doesn’t actually work that way. My dad gibes me about this usage since he’s been trained in a technical field (architecture), and I’ve taken to rolling my eyes. After all, there’s no appropriate synonym that so succinctly encapsulates that usage.

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A spoonful of sugar.
Taken from the BBC’s Good Foods Glossary.

The best advice I ever received came from a fictional umbrella-toting nanny.

“A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,” she sang.

The irony is that taking this piece of advice at face value, it’s often wrong. Most liquid medicines are already sweetened these days, so extra sugar makes it sickly sweet. If you’re talking Castor oil as a punishment or Ipecac to induce vomiting, adding sweetener kind of defeats the purpose, though you’ll certainly still vomit. A spoonful of sugar makes it that much harder to swallow a pill, and putting it in your IV is just silly. A spoonful of sugar is a bad idea when the treatment is topical, and while the fetish lover you’re sleeping with may like it in your enema, you probably won’t.

—

I’m going to die.

To a certain extent I already knew that. It’s not a new prognosis, but rather the ultimate endgame to my existence. I don’t know when it’ll happen or how; at least not right now. Yet it is an absolute.

So often I hear about people running for religion when they know they’re going to die. Their proverbial spoonful of sugar is the thought that there’s something more, that their friends and loved ones await them. Heaven, reincarnation, and every variation on the immortal soul are all likely pipe dreams.

Really, though, it’s just a fancy way of saying they seek hope.

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I woke up this morning feeling glum, much like during the waning seconds of the tail end of my final lacrosse game in high school, where I stared from the sidelines as our team lost well aware that it was completely beyond my ability to do anything about it. It wasn’t an oppressive glumness, but a light and malleable one punctuated by a slight distaste for Zoe, who had spent the wee hours of the morn pawing at me as I attempted to hide from the world beneath my comforter. I rolled out of bed, accidentally and haphazardly flinging Zoe off the bed, and I was immediately chill in the cool morning air that had leaked into my room over the course of the night.

My ankle cracked loudly with each step as I traversed our dim stairwell and emerged in our living room. I thought it was just a sprain, but two plus weeks later I can’t help but posit that something worse may have happened, like the time I got clotheslined by the parallel bars and may have broken my nose but went back to play with just a band-aid and a thirst for more tag—I’ll never know if I broke my nose as it’s long since healed.

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It’s been a tradition in my family to make a Jack-O-Bear for Halloween. Though they haven’t done it every year, my parents once again rose to the task this year. I had hoped to help my Dad carve it before I left Boston this week, but it seems to have been completed in excellent fashion despite my lackadaisical efforts.

Happy Halloween!