I had to go in early to the copy center the next day. When I got back from dinner that night, I had a message on my answering machine from my manager, Dennis, requesting a meeting. This seemed strange as it would be the first meeting we would have in the two years I had worked at the copy center. Still, I paid no mind to it. I figured I could use the extra hours to bump the puny little bi-weekly paycheck I got from sup-poverty to full blown poverty.

I arrived at the medical center at 11:00 – Two full hours earlier than I normally arrived. I had never been to the medical center before lunch. If I had, my opinion of it certainly would have been different. It was like a real hospital. People were actually working. Doctors and nurses and students scurried up and down its halls like they had some place to be with urgent matters to resolve. I suppose in the world of medicine, the hours of operation stop right after noon or, more accurately, right before tee time.

Unlike the dorms, the medical center’s elevators were pristine; huge, vault-like boxes that could quickly and without stench, escort its passengers from floor to floor. Normally, my trip down to the basement was a solitary ride but as I stood there waiting for the doors to open, I realized that I would not be alone on this trip. People began gathering in front of the elevator doors, staring up at the arrows, waiting for them to light up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. I’m not what you would call a claustrophobic person but I have never felt comfortable in tight quarters with strangers. Call it what you want, I just feel that if you are going to pretend that the people standing next to you in the elevator are not there, you might as well make them not there. I decided to look for the stairwell.

The stairwell leading down to the basement opened to a corner of the hospital I had never before been. I was used to the quiet confines of the southwest corner where ne’er a group would gather. Where the rooms were always locked behind solid core doors and the only people who had keys to them were the same people who kept the floors clean. This corner was different. The hallway buzzed with activity. The doors were all open and people would emerge from them with charts and files and just as soon as they would emerge from one open door, they would disappear into another. As I walked down the hallway, I read the tapestry of notices and bulletins tacked to the cork boards which stretched down the hall.

“Sign up now for flu shots.”

“Volunteers needed for experimental treatments.”

“Sperm donors wanted.”

“Donate your eggs for cash.”

“Get paid to relieve your allergies.”

And on and on they went. There must have been thirty-five linear feet of advertisements targeting those who did not subscribe to the “my body is a temple” school of thought. I imagined hoards of college kids lined up in stables like dairy cows, each one hooked up to a different machine poking, pulling and prodding them as they waited patiently for their medical center check. I smiled as I made my way into the maze of basement hallways.

There is nothing worse than having a sudden mood shift. For some people it happens without cause. It is like their brain is a traffic light with no yellow. One second, life is swell and peaceful. The next it is not worth living. I am told it is called a chemical imbalance although I am not sure how they came up with that name as it is impossible to measure chemicals in the brain without cutting it open. Who knows, maybe these people volunteered for the medical center. However, there is also another type of mood shift; one that does not happen so internally. It is triggered in response to an external stimulus like seeing a child crawling into a polar bear den at the zoo or, in my case, seeing Candace standing at the end of the hallway with my manager, Dennis.

As I walked toward them I replayed the Candace incident from the previous day in my head, preparing my argument. I knew what was going to happen. I was going to get chastised for not giving exemplary customer service. I was going to get reprimanded for telling one of our “esteemed” medical students to kiss my ass. I was going to get…

“You’re fired.” Dennis said.

I couldn’t believe the nerve of this asshole. Not so much that he would fire me, but that he would do it in front of the bitch who got me fired.

“For what?” I replied. I already knew what the reason was. I was just trying to buy myself some time to try to figure a way out of it.

“For refusing to make Dr. Schoenfeld’s copies. Do you even know who that is?”

That was the second time I was asked that question in less than twenty four hours. He must have been pretty important. I still didn’t give a shit.

“We were closed.” I said. “And I made that perfectly clear to her too. What am I supposed to do, work overtime so Dr. Schoen-whatever can have some book copies to examine on a Wednesday night?”

“It’s Dr. Schoenfeld.” Candace blurted out of her fat Johnny Depp-shaped face. “And since this medical center was constructed from his donations, I think you could have made an exception.”

I could feel myself losing the argument. I, apparently, was ill prepared. “How am I supposed to know who Dr. Schoenfield is?” I asked.

“Feld. Dr. SchoenFELD.” Dennis said. “Are you serious? It’s on the name of the building. Schoenfeld Medical Center.”

Damn. Now I really felt like a tool. Not for getting fired. Not for not knowing who Dr. Shit-for-brains was. I felt like a tool for letting this go on as long as it did. Sun Tzu wrote, “Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting.” I got up, shook Dennis’s hand, nodded an apologetic nod to Candace and walked away. I made it about ten feet down the hallway before I stopped and turned back to them.

“Hey!” I said.

They attentively turned towards me.

“Go fuck yourselves!”

So much for Sun Tzu.

It goes without saying that my trip back across campus that day sucked. It was the first time I had ever been fired from a job. I once heard that there are some things everybody must do at least once in their lifetime. Kick somebody’s ass. Get fired from a job. Fall in love. Now that I am older, I definitely agree with, at least, two of those. But at the time I was desperately broke. I needed to figure out a way to earn some money. Another campus job was out of the question. Although warning misbehaving kids that, “this will go down on your permanent record” is total bullshit, it does hold true at state universities. I even considered some of those advertisements in the medical center basement but that was quickly ruled out. With as many substances as I had running through my body at the time, the only thing I was qualified to donate were cautionary tales. I didn’t know what to do. By the time I got home I had exactly zero ideas. If it weren’t for the distraction of seeing the ambulance and police cars parked in front of my dorm I may have even had a real life anxiety attack.

They must have just gotten there. Nobody was in the ambulance and the masses had only just begun to gather. I quickly entered the stairwell and bound up the stairs to my floor. With each passing step, the knot in my stomach tightened. Remember the intuition thing? Well it was happening again.

I reached my floor and opened the door to the hallway which led to the rec center. I would like to say that I was surprised to see my floor was where all the action was but I wasn’t. I knew it.

A cop came up to me to turn me away but I told him I lived there and he let me go by. In the rec center I saw Dean, gasping for air, on a stretcher. He had EMT’s administering something to him through an IV. Through their bodies, I could see him. He had a mask over his face and his eyes were wide and panicked. He turned his head and we made eye contact. Dean desperately tried to speak but all that came out was wheeze. He tried to sit up but the EMT’s pushed him back down on the stretcher. He tried to motion his arm toward me but the handcuffs locked around his wrist held him tight to the rail of the stretcher.

In the other corner I could see Charles. His shirt was soaked with sweat. His head was down and he was slumped in a chair. A cop was taking his statement. Charles lifted his head and he saw me.

Have you ever done mushrooms before? Have you ever done them with other people? If so, you probably know what I’m talking about when I say that it is possible to completely communicate with another human being without saying a single word. You can read each others’ minds just by making eye contact. I know it sounds silly but you don’t have to take my word for it. If you’ve never done them, ask somebody who has. Then go get yourself some mushrooms.

Up until that moment with Charles, I had only done it while high on mushrooms and with other people high on mushrooms. Charles had never done mushrooms before. Charles had never done anything before. Yet there we were, locked eyes and in complete understanding with one another.

“He’ll tell you.” Charles said to the cop as he nodded in my direction.

The cop turned to see me standing there looking back at him. He pointed to Dean.

“Do you know that man?”

I turned to look at Dean. His eyes, still wide, were staring right back at me. A rush of excitement filled my body. I turned back to the cop.

“Yeah, that’s Dean. He’s our Resident Advisor.”

“Have you ever witnessed him exhibiting any inappropriate sexual behavior?”

I paused for a moment to look back at Dean. The look in his eye was pure panic. He tried to talk but only air was coming out from behind the mask. I looked back at Charles.

All I could think about was everybody who shit on me in the past twenty-four hours. Fat assed Candace and her condescending smile. Dennis and his righteous indignation. Dean and that fucking sound of his inhaler.

I looked the cop in the eye.

“Yes, he’s done things to us. Many times. It’s true.”

Had it not been for the handcuffs Dean would have jumped straight out of that stretcher. He squirmed as the EMT’s restrained him. He made the sound a slashed tire would make if it could breathe.

“Okay.” The cop said. “We’re going to need you to give us a statement.”

“I can do that.”

You may be asking yourself how I could possibly frame an innocent man for a crime he did not commit simultaneously protecting the man who did.

Well, you see, I had a plan.

To be concluded…

My room was on the ninth floor of the dorm. Unless I was injured or really really high, I usually took the stairs. The elevators in dormitories are akin to elevators in the projects. Never inspected and often smelling of vomit and hair product, the elevators were not a pleasant way to travel vertical. Plus the stairs provided me with the only real exercise I would have for that year. I would jog up the stairwell, listening to the echoing clangs of my footsteps against the metal steps and would think of a song. Somehow the beat always matched. That night it was no coincidence that the song was Journey’s.

Dean was our Resident Advisor. He had asthma. It would not take someone longer than ten minutes of knowing him to figure that out. He was constantly sucking on his inhaler. He would go through cartridges of Albuterol like they were Pez. Dean was your typical R.A. Mid twenties; kind of a prick. He was the kind of person who could find joy in Bible studies and philanthropic endeavors and even more joy in chastising those who didn’t. I usually tried to avoid him. When I reached my floor that night, I was surprised to see him standing in the doorway. He was dressed in his typical RA uniform; khaki shorts, hiking boots which looked every bit used as they were, plaid flannel tucked in behind a brown braided belt. He greeted me with his canned enthusiasm. “Slow down, Prefontaine. The Olympics are still a few months away!”

“Hey, Dean. You taking the stairs now?” I asked. I believe most people are not as stupid as they seem during small talk. When confronted with the dilemma of speaking with somebody you don’t care to speak to or just ignoring them completely, stupidity is what most often comes out. That was certainly the case with me.

“No, I came to see where all the racket was coming from. First I’m hearing your roommate singing up a storm, then I hear your commotion up the stairwell. Good thing it’s not finals week. I wouldn’t want to have to write you guys up again.” He gave a condescending smile as he took a drag off his inhaler. He lived for moments like this.

“Singing?” I asked. “He was just singing?”

“Yes, singing. Loudly I might add. When I got to the rec room, it looked like he was just finishing up.” He said.

“More than you know.”

I slipped past Dean and stepped into the short hallway leading to the rec room to see if Charles was there. The rec room was empty.

“Anyway, I told him the same thing I’m going to tell you. There are students living here and it is my job to make sure that the living conditions support a learning environment. That environment gets polluted when there is a lot of noise, understand?”

I smiled as I contemplated how much noise would be made if I pushed him down the stairwell. “Yes, I understand.” I replied. “It was great talking to you, Dean. I’ll make sure we keep the noise to a minimum. You take care now.”

I turned and as I walked down the hall, I could feel him watching me leave. He said nothing. The only thing I heard was the sudden burst of his inhaler giving him his life sustaining medicine. Like Darth Vader, but pathetic and queer.

Charles was folding clothes when I entered our dorm room. His shirt was still wet with sweat from his “singing practice” and he was whistling a tune. “We gotta talk.” I said as I sat down on my bed. “What did you get busted for?”

Up until that point in our friendship, I did not care to know. He had tried telling me once before. About a month after we first moved in, we were up late one night talking. I was trying to sober up after a late night of partying and Charles, I suppose, thought that would be a good time to come clean. He got as far as, “I am a convicted sex offender” before I passed out. That was the only time he spoke of it, until I asked. He looked at me puzzled. “Why do you want to hear this story again? It’s not like it’s any good or anything.” Charles did not know that I did not know. Sober people can never fully appreciate what it truly means to be in an altered state of consciousness. Sure, you can reach levels of contentment and serenity through breathing practices and meditations but to really understand how the physical universe exists independently from the mental universe, chemicals need to be involved. The night Charles told me of his ordeal, I might not have been sleeping but certainly I was in another place. I remember nothing. “Tell me again.” I said.

“When I was in high school, I worked at a skating rink. I started in rentals but after a couple months I was moved to the DJ booth. Of course I hated it because I had to play the shitty music twelve year olds want to hear. I mean, who the hell skates to Mariah Carey? By senior year, I couldn’t take it anymore and I was going to quit. Then they hired Michelle. You know how people say there is no such thing as love at first sight? Well that’s bullshit, bro. It may not happen to everybody but it does happen and I’m living proof. She worked at the snow cone stand and I tell you, she was an angel. I couldn’t even talk to her for the first month. Every time I would try, I would just get all stupid and I would start sneezing. It was weird. Well one night, after everybody had left and we were closing up, Michelle comes up to the booth to request a song. It was like a John Hughes movie, man. Something just sparked. We hung out in that DJ booth and just listened to the song and stared at each other. It was incredible. After that night, I picked up every shift I could when she was working and every night, after everybody left, we would go into the booth and play songs. That was the best Summer of my life, til one night, it all went bad. Michelle’s dad came early to pick her up and he caught us, bro.”

Charles just sat there, staring at the floor.

“Caught you doing what?” I asked.

“Making love, dude. What do you think?”

“In the DJ booth?”

“Right there in the fucking DJ booth. Anyway, he grabbed her, took off and next thing I know I’m getting arrested and they’re moving to Argentina. I never saw her again.”

“Why would you get arrested for that?” I asked. “She was fifteen, man. I was nineteen. Statutory rape.” Charles’s lip started to quiver as he could barely finish his sentence. Tears were welling up in his eyes. I actually felt bad for the guy. Here I was thinking he had some kind of sordid sexual past when really he was just a kid in love. Then I remembered the game. “Wait, what the fuck does that have to do with you jerking off to Tomb Raider?” I said. “Lara looks just like Michelle. Even though she’s just a game, any time I see her, I see Michelle. I can’t help it, I love her.” He said.

Then Charles stood up, composed himself, and slowly walked out of the room. At that moment, I wished I was fucked up again.

Tomb Raider Wii

I once had a roommate named Charles. Charles loved video games. While most college students were spending their time discovering their favorite drugs, drinks and sexual practices, Charles spent his nights playing video games. He didn’t drink. He didn’t use. He didn’t need to. Charles was the kind of person everybody just assumed was as high as a plane over Amsterdam. Everything he did was high. The way he talked was high. The way he moved was high. The way he played video games, well you get the idea. He liked Tomb Raider – a lot. He played it – a lot. He beat the game 67 times but would continue to start it over and beat it again. I used to tell him that the only reason he played that game was because he was in love with Lara Croft. She’s the main character in the game for those who don’t know. I guess, with computer graphics the way they are these days, a man could fall in love with a video game. People obsess about celebrities all the time. Obsessing over a realistic looking video game celebrity is no different. But this was 1996. Graphics were just starting to develop. As big as her tits were in the game, they were still just polygons. As far as I was concerned, anyone who could be aroused by geometric shapes had real issues. So it made it especially weird when I came home from class one day to find Charles on his knees in front of the TV, controller in one hand, Charles in the other.

Walking in on somebody playing with himself is never a comfortable situation; for both parties. Notice I wrote, “himself.” The only time girls get walked in on playing with themselves is in porn and even then it is unbelievable.

I wish I could say that he was just playing with himself to a video game and it was awkward. I wish I could say that. Unfortunately for me, he was not just doing that. He was also singing; beautifully. I had no idea he could sing so well. How could I? We did not go to karaoke bars back then. Unless your friend was in a band or in a choir or something, you had no way of knowing if he could sing. These days, everybody sings. People aren’t bashful anymore. Everybody wants to be the next American Idol. It’s 10:15 in the morning as I write this and I’ve already heard 7 people sing today. Back then, even if you could sing, you kept your mouth shut until somebody gave you a microphone and a stage; or in Charles’s case, a controller and some alone time.

I don’t know if it was shock from witnessing the masturbation or shock from witnessing the angelic a cappella but I stood there silent. I was trapped. What the hell was I supposed to do? If I turned and walked out, he would hear me and it would be awful. If I said something like, “Would you please not masturbate to a video game?” he would hear me and it would be awful. Either way it was going to be awful. I had the kind of dread felt only by the insanely drunk and nauseous. Didn’t want to throw up, couldn’t close my eyes. I don’t know how much time had passed but suddenly I had a thought. What’s weirder here; a guy kneeling in front of the television, jerking off to a video game and singing Journey’s ‘Open Arms’? Or the guy watching it? By the way, he was singing Journey’s “Open Arms.” I know.

“We sailed on together. We drifted apart. And here you are by my side…..So now I come to you, with open….”

“I got next game,” I said as I sat down on the couch. It was all I could think to do. I couldn’t let him go into the chorus. That would be pathetic. Charles, clearly stunned by my presence and my reaction, wheeled around like, well, like a guy getting caught jerking off and belting out Steve Perry tunes. He must have been there “playing” for some time because the sweat shot off his spinning head like a lawn sprinkler. It reminded me of my childhood summers. “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE TIL SIX!!!” Charles screamed. “You’re not supposed to masturbate in public…” I answered. “…and it is six.” Day light savings time really can be an inconvenience when forgotten. “Put your pants on before Dean gets here. Resident Advisors tend to freak out when convicted sex offenders pound their pud in a fucking rec center.” Did I mention Charles had a history? And we lived in a dorm?

Dinner that night was weird. Usually, Charles would spend the entire meal in a tirade about some uncontestable topic, like how important water is for all of us. But on that night, he said nothing. He just sat there, eating his salisbury steak in an uncomfortable silence only a guilty man can know. He did not know it at the time but I really did not care. What was the harm? Everybody masturbates and everybody has fantasies. Many of which are much more perverse than a 32 bit serenade. But I said nothing. Something sadistic inside me enjoyed watching him writhe in the shards of his own broken ego. The entire night was spent in silence.

I worked most afternoons at the student copy center; a hole at the end of a hallway in the basement of the medical center. The money sucked and the hours were terribly insufficient but it was the best I could find at the time. The fact that it was in the medical center wasn’t bad either. You never knew when some stressed out, over worked, under slept med student was going to have a nervous breakdown and do something newsworthy you just had to see. Believe me, it happens more than they want you to know. The copy center is really only busy for two weeks; the first and last weeks of the quarter. That is when the students get the lecture notes. The smart ones do it at the beginning of the quarter. The super smart ones do it at the end because one week and a photographic memory trump a work ethic in school any day. During the middle of the quarter, things would get so boring I would have to huff the compressed air dusters just to keep my sanity. Word to the wise; don’t inhale it directly from the can. When air molecules expand, they cool and nothing screws up a buzz faster than frozen lungs.

It was a Wednesday in the middle of fall quarter when I first met Candace; a second year med student who looked like a huge female version of Johnny Depp. She stood almost six feet tall and looked like she could play nose tackle for the football team. She was interning in the Obstetrics and Gynecology Department of the medical center and was given the esteemed task of photocopying a textbook titled, “The Epidemiology, Pathology, Diagnosis and Treatment for Sexually Transmitted Disease.” It was a 700 page educational document with more disturbing images than a concentration camp donkey show. She slammed the book down on the counter. “I need pages two hundred fifty through four hundred seventy eight copied and I need it by the end of the afternoon,” she said. For a moment I just stared at her, fantasizing about punching her in her massive man-pretty face. Copy center work is easy work; until you have to copy a book. The monotony of copying one page at a time over and over can bring a man to madness and this bitch just asked me to do it two hundred twenty eight times. “Hello? Did you hear me? I need this copied by the end of the day!” she bellowed. “You’ll need to get a release form signed by a department head,” I answered as I slid the form across the counter. “That book is copyrighted and copying over twenty-five percent of copyrighted material is illegal without signing a copyright release form.” She stood there a moment, her eyes oscillating down to the form, up to me, back down to the document, back up to me. “Are you serious?” she asked. “No, I knew you’d come down here one day asking me to copy hundreds of pages of herpes and gonorrhea photos so I drew up this phony document to buy myself ten more minutes of my life. Yes, I’m serious.” I slid the document farther across the counter until it pushed up against her swollen belly. She snatched the piece of paper, turned and made her way back down the hall from which she came. To this day I can’t tell you why but for some reason I leaned out over the counter to watch her leave. Maybe it was to savor the personal victory one so rarely gets to tell someone to fuck off right to their face. Maybe I have a thing for big chicks. Who knows. All I know is that she inexplicably turned right as I was focused on her khaki wedgie and before I could retreat my leaning body back into the copy center, I made eye contact with her. In one instant, my victory in a personal battle of wits was shattered by the satisfaction I gave a snotty overweight transvestite looking med student who thought I wanted to fuck her. She rolled her eyes and continued down the hall adding a little bounce in her wobble. Shit.

Two hours had passed and Candace had not come back. I only had ten minutes before the copy center closed and seeing that I had not had a customer since Candace, I decided to start closing early. Aside from the large solid core door which was to remain unlocked during business hours, the only opening to the outside world was the counter window. Campus copy centers are always designed so that they are either in basements or back corners of libraries and the ONLY windows are the counter windows; probably to squelch any impulse to daydream; or jump. I counted the modest stacks of one and five dollar bills in the register, wrapped a rubber band around them and inserted them in the “Billbo Bag.” That was the creative name my socially challenged manager, Dennis, gave to the locking zippered canvass bag with which we deposited our daily earnings. I put the Billbo Bag on the counter and pulled the heavy chain connected to the metal shade which sealed off the counter window. I never understood why securing copy centers involved such heavy duty protection. Even if somebody was to knock off a copy center, what were they going to take? The $34 cold cash in the Billbo Bag or the 3000 pound color copier which would have to be broken down to 1000 parts before it could fit out the door? I stared at the clock. Three minutes to clock out. I took a breath and held it. It was a game I often played with myself. Holding your breath for three minutes is tough, even if you first hyperventilate. Try doing it on only one breath.

I always felt it important to test myself with strange feats of endurance and pain tolerance. A childhood spent watching bad movies on HBO developed an obsession of never being caught in a situation where I would have made it out of the sinking vessel alive if only I could have held my breath a little longer. Two minutes thirty seconds. The trick is to relax and think about something pleasant; like sitting in a raft on a still pond in September. I closed my eyes and listened to my heartbeat. There are stories of people who can use their mind to slow their heartbeat to less than a few beats per minute. I don’t know how these people learned to do this. I could never get mine below 40. I glanced up at the clock. Don’t ever glance up at the clock. One minute thirty seconds. Shit, I broke my concentration. My chest started to twitch as my body’s breathing reflex began to say, what the fuck? I closed my eyes. This shall pass. I could feel my nasal passages, clogged and congested from the allergic reaction of copy center dust, begin to clear and expand. People spend billions of dollars a year on anti-histamines to clear their sinuses. All they need to do is hold their breath. Their bodies will do it for them. One minute. I was not sure if I was going to make it. My record, up to that point, was two minutes forty five seconds on a single breath. I still had forty five seconds to go and my chest was convulsing faster and faster. Looks like I might go down with the ship this time, I thought. Thirty seconds to go. Time does fly when you’re having fun. But it grinds to a fucking stand still when pain is involved. I once read about a plane crash that inverted a commercial airliner and sent it into a dive from 36,000 feet. It took only one minute thirty seconds to hit the ground but upside down and at a sixty five degree angle, it must have felt like a decade for the passengers. Fifteen seconds. I was almost home. It was just a matter of concentration and will at this point. I had tied my record and was going for glory. Just hold on for ten more…..BANG BANG BANG! I turned to see the metal shade of the counter window violently waving. Hallucinations are common when you deprive the brain of oxygen. I looked up at the clock. Five seconds. BANG BANG BANG! Four seconds. BANG BANG BANG! Three seconds. I was there. Two seconds. “What is the matter with you!?” I heard coming from the doorway behind me. “HHHUUUUGGHHH!!!!! I gasped as I turned to see fat assed Candace standing in the doorway which was to remain unlocked during business hours, holding her herpes book and a copyright release form. “Enjoying yourself?” she quipped. I couldn’t speak. I stood there heaving. When starved of its essentials, your body chooses your priorities for you. “Well, I got this formed signed by my department head so I’m going to need those copies before you leave today,” she said. I could not believe the nerve of this girl. Not only did she interrupt me one second short of greatness, she actually expected me to pull overtime for her. I waited a few more seconds to get my composure. “Sorry, we’re closed now so it is going to have to wait ‘til tomorrow,” I said. “It can’t wait. These copies are for Dr. Schoenfeld. Do you even know who that is? You’re just going to have to stay late today.” She replied.

Now I know that they say that business has lost its sense of customer service in the modern era. People always complain that in the race to do everything better, faster and more efficient, companies have forgotten that the customer is always right. To this I say go fuck yourself. Although I do agree that the quality of work has atrophied since the days of ma and pop, I believe that it is the customer who has really changed. People have been conditioned to believe that they are truly special and that their special needs are to be met at any time, in any place, by anybody. A sense of entitlement has descended on the populous like a flu pandemic. In the point and click, microwave, drive thru world we live in, people have forgotten that they too play a role in the customer merchant relationship and that role is to respect the rules and policies of the companies with which they chose to do business. And if the hours of operation posted say that the business closes at 5:30 and they arrive at said business at 5:30 with hours upon hours of work in their chubby little hands, then they need to turn their fat ass around, walk back down the hall from which they came, tell the department head that they fucked up and come back tomorrow like every-fuckin’-body else. But that is just my opinion.

“Sorry. We’re closed.” I said. Then I smiled and closed the door in her face.

Usually, my walk home after work was the best part of my day. I would smoke a joint and think about things that did not matter. The copy center was located on the opposite side of campus from the dorms so I would take my time, stoned and content, walking in the shadows of the gothic architecture. On a cold autumn night, it reminded me of London. I had never been to London but somewhere deep in my psyche was an image of long shadows, dried wind blown leaves and Jack the Ripper. The solitude of those walks granted me the only real time to think during my days. That night, however, felt different. I don’t know if it was the extra ten minutes I had to wait in silence behind the locked copy center door waiting for Candace to leave or the anxiety from waiting to find out if I would come home to another disturbing solo act from Charles but something felt off. I don’t believe people can be psychic but I do believe in intuition. There is a difference. Psychics claim they can foresee events in time like a movie. Like we are all part of some sort of cosmic Netflix network where every person’s movie is shown throughout all time yet only a handful of gifted psychics have memberships. Even the NBA is more inclusive. Intuition, on the other hand, is plausible. Our brains perceive and file subtle clues, indistinguishable to the conscious mind yet real and historic, to elicit a gut feeling. Like the feeling one gets when they are about to inherit money or get stabbed. The feeling is often the same.

To be continued…

Barack Obasketball

This week we got to bear witness to what I and many others consider an event long in the waiting. Some say historic. Others say life changing. Of course I am referring to the bitch slappin’ ass whoopin’ rim rockin’ beat down my University of Washington Huskies put on Marquette and the overrated University of New Mexico Lobos as they advanced to the Sweet 16. It was something to behold. Tonight they played West Virginia and although they did not win, they fought valiantly against a team that was clearly pushing the boundaries of performance enhancing drug use as well as an officiating staff who obviously had their second mortgages bet on the Mountaineers. At least that was my take on the game.

Secondarily, Health Care Reform was signed into law.

I figured this week’s piece should address one of these two monumental events. Since the only thing to say about UW’s rise and fall is, “Wow!” followed by, “Fuck you, refs!” I suppose I should write on the latter.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a real partisan guy. I think the Republicans are lying, self-serving assholes. I think the Democrats are lying, self-serving pussies. In my opinion, playing the political game is a lot like playing badminton. No matter what side you’re on, win or lose, you end up looking like a real schmuck.

I cannot think of a better way to demonstrate this fact than by listening to the arguments on both sides of this highly controversial issue.

Republican argument: “Health Care Reform is too costly! We don’t want to increase the deficit!”

Proof of Schmuck: You lying shit! All of a sudden, fiscal responsibility is a priority, huh? Where was that responsibility when Bush cut taxes? Where was that responsibility when we got into a $2 trillion dollar war with a bully in a sand box? Where was that responsibility when public option was on the table which, by the way, EVERY EXPERT ON THE PLANET has already said is the most cost effective way of providing health care? SCHHHHHMMMMUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK!

Democrat argument: “We want to make sure every American has access to the best, most affordable health care and pre-existing conditions should not matter.”

Proof of Schmuck: You do? Ever heard of single payer? You have? Why didn’t you make it happen? Because of the existence of insurance companies? So what you are saying is that America cannot get the best, most affordable health care because we, as a country, have a pre-existing condition? SCHHHHHMMMMMUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK!

Republican argument: “I don’t like the idea of government mandating my health care. It’s not constitutional. I have the right to choose!”

Proof of Schmuck: They want to take away a woman’s right to choose. SSSSSSCCCHHHHMUCK!

And on and on and on it goes. Back and forth, back and forth, swatting that metaphorical birdie over the net, both sides so focused on winning that they fail to realize that the game itself is queer.

Imagine how much would get done if the Republicans and the Democrats would stop being such schmucks. If they really wanted to provide the best health care for every person in this country without breaking the bank, the solution would be simple. Make a single payer system. Pay for it with an imposed “fat tax” on every hamburger sold from sea to shining sea. Think of it as expanding the “sin tax” they already nail to smokers and drinkers. Shit, heart disease is the number one cause of death in this country, followed by cancer and a whole list of shit fat people get. Maybe if a double cheeseburger went from 99 cents to 8 bucks, these fat bastards would think twice before ordering two. And for those that didn’t, their Mickey D’s tab would, at least, pay for the triple bypass.

I’m Jason LaCour and I endorse this message.

Better luck next year, Huskies. Damn you, West Virginia. Damn you straight to Hell.

Shame

If you are a regular visitor to Heavy Hitters, which you probably aren’t, you find a lot of bitching here. Bitching about comedy; bitching about television; bitching about movies; bitching about this planet of ours; bitching about Eric Somers and Mike Fellows. Okay, maybe there is no bitching about Eric Somers and Mike Fellows but there ought to be and thanks to me, now there is. And the bitching doesn’t start and stop here. When I think about it, most of the conversations I have with people in general could be summed up as bitching. Answer these questions in your head as quickly as you can: What do you think about the current state of popular music? Movies? Television? Comedy? How many of you summed up all of those things with the word, “sucks”? Since I can’t see all those hands raised, I’m going to assume all of you. Now, I’m no psychic here but it seems to me that as a whole, we the people are not real happy with the current state of things. What’s a person to do? Well, if popular culture could answer that as a collective voice, it would seem the answer would be to obsess and bitch and obsess some more. It is like we are all in one giant abusive relationship with the powers that be and we refuse to get out because every time our corporate owned, money grubbing, mind controlling, soul crushing, cock swinging sugar daddy puts his proverbial cigarette out on our foreheads, we know he’s just doing it out of love. Well shame on us.

We seem to have forgotten something, people. We are in control. The powers that be are here to serve our needs. Without us, they have nothing. Let me repeat that. WITHOUT US, THEY HAVE NOTHING.

And that brings me to my point. I think we need to bring back shame. Remember shame? That thing people brought on themselves with acts of indiscretion and works of ineptitude? I don’t like many old traditions but I gotta admit, shame holds a special place in my heart. Shame keeps things balanced. Shame keeps people in line. Shame keeps Heidi Montag off the air. Imagine how great it would be if we could start a pseudo-fame backlash. Anybody and I mean anybody who tries to get into the media without doing something of value gets shunned. SHUNNED. Shunned in public. Shunned on your homepage. Shunned on your television. Shunned. Do you really think shows like the Jersey Shore and Jon & Kate Plus 8 would get aired if nobody watched? The media doesn’t dictate what you watch. You do.

I have felt like this for some time but it wasn’t until recently that I felt I had to speak up about it. Do you want to know what did it? Gloria Allred. That cunt of a cunt lawyer who went on the air to demand a public apology from Tiger Woods after her porn star client knowingly committed adultery with him. SHUNNED! I fantasize of a time when Gloria and her attention whore client wouldn’t even be able to get their Starbucks in the morning because nobody would serve them. They would get heckled walking down the street and nobody would tape it. They would cry to nobody because even family wouldn’t be able to take them being in the same room.

Now I want to clarify. I’m not saying that Tiger Woods is innocent here. He definitely brought shame on himself. But, at least, he deserves to be in the spotlight. He’s the greatest golfer EVER and he cheated on his model wife. He should be in the media. The sluts who banged him should not. Fame should not be transferred with body fluids. These girls act like they are trying to clear the air but make no mistake, they wouldn’t be so forthright if the cameras weren’t rolling. These bitches act like they are doing something noble coming forward; like Spartacus for sluts.

Slutacus.

“I fucked Tiger Woods. I am Slutacus.” “No, I am Slutacus.” “No, I am Slutacus.” And we tune in and they get paid.

Because we now live in a world where shame and fame have become synonymous, lying, cheating and stealing has replaced talent, dedication and hard work. And we tune in and they get paid.

Rod Blagojevich, an elected public official, who has been up on corruption charges in the state of Illinois is on Celebrity Apprentice. CELEBRITY APPRENTICE!? And we tune in and he gets paid.

Well I’m not gonna take it anymore. I refuse to be spoon fed this bullshit. I refuse to be part of the problem. I am tuning out. It may cost me the occasional topical joke reference but that’s a small price to pay for the possibility of quality. Quality in entertainment. Quality in journalism. Quality in popular culture. Imagine if everything you saw on television or heard on the radio was based on the merit of the artist, not the sensationalism of the act.

I know it sounds like a tall order but it is actually quite simple. Just tune out. Turn your back on them literally and figuratively. It is empowering. Bitching turned into action. Action turned into change.

Who’s with me?