Here was this totally unique event unfolding before my very eyes.  It wasn’t asked for, it wasn’t requested.  But there it was.  And I ignored it.  Why? because I didn’t want to give them a little money?  I have 50 cents I’ll never spend in the bottom of my bag.

Life does that.  It gives us little opportunities here and there to enjoy the wonder of it all.  And how often do we we willfully ignore it, and later on think to ourselves, where is all the magic in the world?  Sometimes, it’s right there in front of you.

It’s because my parents’ house has turned into a shrine to how ugly I once was.

There is my senior year of high school class picture.  I was growing my hair long, protesting, I suppose, the peace and prosperity of the mid-nineties.  The picture, however, was taken during that phase where your hair is neither long, nor short.  It was just a giant triangle on my head.  This picture should be relegated to deep within a closet, but there it is, on top of the television, in the middle of the house.

Or the picture of me taken on the first day of seventh grade, when MC Hammer was popular, and I decided it would be a good idea to wear my Skidz pants.  Skidz.  You remember those pants.  The ones that were baggy in the middle that allowed Hammer to do the typewriter?    Yeah, that’s quite a way to make a great impression on the first day of school-  dress like a rapper who’s current song on the radio is how “You’ve got to pray just to make it today.”

My wife was looking through stacks of damning pictures, saying things like “look how cute you were.”  If your significant other says that while looking at old pictures, what they’re really saying is you’re lucky you made it out alive.

These old pictures serve a purpose: to repulse you away from your parents’ house.    It’s a healthy reminder of how you looked when you lived under their roof, and to do whatever it takes never to live there again.

And most importantly, always have scotch hidden somewhere.

There were three types of gifts in the Nelson household:

1. Gifts from family and friends.  They went under the tree as soon as they arrived.

2. Gifts from my parents.  These were placed under the tree closer to or on Christmas day itself.

3. Gift Out in the Open Christmas morning.  Santa’s doing.

So Christmas, 1990, I was in the seventh grade, and the only thing I wanted was a pair of Nike Airs.  Nike Airs were the first shoes I remember costing $100, and the were the ultimate symbol of awesome.  The word Nike, over the word Air, elevated you from pretender to contender, just like Michael Jordan himself.  And you had to have Nike Airs, not just Nike’s.  If you just wore Nike’s that meant your parents were poor and you were stupid.  Well, they weren’t poor, poor.  They just didn’t love you enough to keep you from looking like a total idiot in front of the entire school.

$100.  That was a lot of money for a pair of shoes, but I had focused all of my gift receiving power on this one, cherished item.  I didn’t want socks, I didn’t want chocolate, I didn’t want anything else.  And tell Aunt Geri, and Uncle Lenn, and Grandma, if they’re going to give me anything, just give me money toward these shoes.  Please.  For the love of God. These shoes were going to change my life.  Women would line up to be with me.  Men would nod their heads as I walked down the hall.  People weren’t going to think Davey Nelson, Converse anymore.  When they thought of Davey Nelson, they would think of Michael Jordan himself.

I could already see the shoes in my closet.  I could already smell the shoes.  I was even looking forward to the day my shoes died so I could pop that air bubble thing on the side.

Christmas morning, 6am, my sisters and I were up.  Like a pack of rabid hyenas ready to tear any gist that stood in our way.  Our parents tried to take pictures, but eventually they relented, and there under the tree it was.  Something the size of a shoe box, wrapped, but not there before, which meant it was from my parents, which meant they wanted credit, which meant, this was good.  I picked it up and shook it and it- these are shoes.  And I ripped open the package, all of my dreams about to come true, the women, the fame, the fortune, and there they were, my Nike… my Nike…

Oh My God!  They just got me Nike’s!

I looked at my parents and they were making the “do-you-like-them” eyes.

“These are Nike’s.  These are Nike’s,” I stammered in disbelief.

“Yeah we got you what you wanted.”

” I wanted Nike AIRS!  These are just Nike’s.  I can’t wear these.  They’re the stupidest shoes I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, we’ll just take them back-”

“When next month?  I hate these shoes, I hate you guys.  You’ve totally ruined my Christmas!”

And I went to my room and locked the door.

My parents were not happy with me.  Not only had my behavior ruined their Christmas, but it had also exposed their on;y son as a spoiled little bitch.

So that’s why today, I only wear Chucks.  Because they’re cheap, and they’ll never go out of style.  There could be a nuclear holocaust and there would still be Chucks.  Worn by little tiny cockroaches.

Merry Christmas.  Thanks for reading.

David Lee Nelson

I have never considered a spa to be on option for someone like myself.   I figured I would just come up with some reason not to go…anything would do…but almost all our other friends had the same idea and beat me to it.  It quickly became apparent that unless I wanted my friend to be all by herself for her thirtieth birthday, I was going to be at the spa.

I brow beat another friend of ours into going and when we arrived we were ushered to the all male changing area.  There we saw the husband of the birthday girl.  He had already been there for a while, we could tell by his laid back attitude.  We were still covered with the stress of the city and he looked as calm and peaceful as Buddha himself.

“Guys- we have to get in the baths,” he informed us, “they’re amazing.”  I walked to where they were and saw a sign on the door: Nudity Required. Before my friend and I had a chance to fold up our newspapers, the husband had his penis flapping in the breeze.  I guess we’re getting naked.  Game on.

As we walked down the hall to our lockers, we saw that they were side by side.  And while we had accepted the fact that we were going to be fully exposed to one another, the initial shock if it, side by side, was a little too much to handle.

“You go first.”  I graciously offered.  “I’ll use the restroom and be back in a minute.”

One minute later, my friend was proudly strutting his stuff on the way to the bath.

My turn.

I hung up my coat.  Took off my shirt, then my pants, then my boxers.  I was naked as the day I was born, ready to head to the bath.

That was when two, naked,  eleven year old Korean boys came running at me, stopping at  the locker right next to mine.  It was just them and me in the alley of lockers.  Naked spa day had just taken a turn for the creepy.

Their father turned the corner and I breathed a sigh of relief.  Then it dawned upon me that I was probably the first person in the world to be alone with two naked boys and be relieved that their father showed up.  I quickly nodded to them and made a beeline for other adults.

I did not have my glasses on in the bath area, and my blindness allowed my mind a much need layer of anonymity.  They had hot tubs and whirlpools, and saunas.  I love saunas.  I spent a good deal of time sweating away the toxins of my urban existence.  After patrons left the sauna, they were required to shower, and the one I got under sprayed out icy cold water.

As I saw my penis shrink into my body, I quickly hopped into the first warm pool I saw.  Ahhhh.  I sat in the middle, sprawled out, all by myself when my friend walked by and said, Davey, you’re in the kids pool.  I squinted at the at the writting and sure enough, Kids Pool, in tiny letters.  I realized I hadn’t been sprawled out, I had been sitting there lurking.  And that most importantly, I was not a spa person after all.

!!!= Love

???=???

!!!

Colbert Christmas Special- Stephen Colbert+Willie Nelson=Answer to all Life’s problems.

???

Hillary Clinton as Secretary of State. I bet the last thing Ms. Clinton thought she would be taking is a job with Secretary in the title.

!!!

Clemson Tigers hire interim coach Dabo Sweeny- #1, as a Virginia Tech fan, thank you for not making the smart move and hiring Bud Foster, and #2 Who knew the chick who wrote Juno coached football?

???

Big Three Bailout- So let me get this straight, you make cars that no one wants to buy because they’re pieces of crap and get 3 miles to the gallon, and you want us to give you money?  How about this?  How about stop making cars less reliable than Lindsey Lohan on a movie set.  

!!!

Always Sunny in Philadelphia Season Finale- Charlie writes a musical. Yes please.

???

The BCS, the 2000 Election Version- Texas beats Oklahoma on a neutral field. They each have the same record. Yet Oklahoma, by some odd technicality, is picked to play in the Big 12 Championship game. Somewhere Al Gore is having cold sweats and nightmares.

I was eating at a Hardee’s in a small town near the Maryland, Virginia border.  This older African American couple stared at me the entire time I was in there.  As they were leaving they walked by my table and said, “Excuse me, but are you from Europe?”  I was taken aback by their question.  “No, I’m not.  I’m from South Carolina originally.”  And my answer made them a little sad.  “Oh, we could have sworn you were from Europe.”  Then I got a little sad for them.  How boring are these people’s lives?  How sheltered an exsistence must they be living if they were excited about some skinny white guy they saw at Hardee’s and the prospect that he might be from another contitnent.

When we first moved to our neighborhood five years ago, we walked past our next door neighbor and she introduced herself:

“My name Millie,” she said in a thick Brooklyn accent.

“Hi, I’m David, this is my wife Mandy,” I replied, putting my keys in my apartment door.

“And this here is my son Blaise.  He’s retarded.”

I was so unprepared for her blunt introduction of her son that I laughed.  And she said, “No for real, he’s retarded.”

I stood there kind of frozen and the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “Oh, that’s great.”

And she continued on.  “His name is Blaise.  He’s named after his father.”

“Oh, is he retarded too?”

Welcome to the neighborhood.

“

This guy is a dick-wad. His little text message did nothing. Who in their right mind would forget to vote tomorrow? It’s not like the election has been going on for two years or anything. It’s not as if someone is going to be walking around town-”there was something I was supposed to do today… what is it? Dentist? No. Yoga class? No. Oh wait, I’m getting a text- Don’t forget to vote tomorrow- that’s it- voting. Duh.”

If you forget to vote, in an election as in your face as this one has been-good. If you’re that blind and oblivious to the world in which you live, you shouldn’t have a role in electing our leaders. And if you think that by sending out a little text message to all your little friends, you are somehow doing your part-you shouldn’t be allowed to vote either.

So vote if you were going to. Or don’t. But if you forget what day today is…don’t worry, you vote tomorrow.

Oh man, I had the weirdest dream.  George Bush’s son became president.  Yeah, the guy who used to own the Rangers.  But he only won by like, 5 votes or something crazy like that.  Yeah and the other guy said he won and they argued back and forth- Republicans were protesting…But at first it was fine because he was always on vacation.  And he vacationed in a really awful town in Texas.

Anyway, but then we were attacked, and it was horrible-and the people who did it were from Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan, but we then attacked Iraq- I know, it doesn’t make any sense.

And then he ran for reelection against Frankenstein.  I swear to God, he ran against Frankenstein, and Frankenstein’s wife was in the ketchup business and…  and then a storm wiped out New Orleans.  And people were living in the Super Dome and Bush said everybody was doing a really great job while the place was under water.

Chinese infants were winning Gold Medals in the Olympics.

And then the economy totally went under, everybody lost their jobs, it was crazy, people were freaking out.  And right before I woke up we elected a black guy as our next president, and he had the weirdest name… what was it… oh,  his name was Barack Hussein Obama.

I’m never eating before bed again.

I come from a religiously mixed marriage. My mom is a Catholic and my dad is a golfer. As we were praying for world peace, my dad was praying not to three putt.

It creates a weird religious experience having one parent take you to church while the other is enjoying his Sunday morning. If you believe in Christianity then you have to believe in heaven and also in hell:

“Mommy, since daddy’s not in church, does that mean he’s going to hell?”

And my sweet little mother looked down at me and without blinking an eye said:

“Yes.”

Six am flights are the best because all the passangers have the same objective in mind: get me back to sleep.  And you know the person sitting next to you won’t be chatting you up.  “Where are you coming from?”  “Bed you moron.”

This is how I want the people I am flying with.  Not jacked up, ready to go.  Not sitting around all morning, imagining all the terrible scenarios that could play out, arguing with the flight attendants in their head.  Not fighting rush hour traffic and driving around, searching for parking.  I want them so tired that they pass out as soon as the cram their carry on into the over head bin.  I want everyone acting like it’s an hour after Thanksgiving dinner, and the coffee has worn off and the food coma starts to kick in.

Those are the people I want to be flying with.  And if it prevents me from having sex for a little while, so be it.