Hater's Club: Know-It-All

One of my students got a job with a local landscaping company. She clashed with the owner in the first week. I don't know the details. Personality conflict, maybe. New kid on the block. Maybe someone spit in her oatmeal. Who knows.



"Oh, yeah. The owner hates you, too," my student tells me.

"Me? What the hell did I do?"

"You're a know-it-all with your column in the paper. Says you don't know shit."

I know it all.

My high school teachers would find that hiiiiiiilarious.

The Southern Dust Storm

Southern pine pollen has everything smothered in yellow dust. It's not considered much of an allergen. Just a pain in the ass.

Don't bother washing the car until it's over.

Open the windows and everything gets it.

You're not Welcome, Kotter

My students never heard of Mr. Kotter.

What the hell. They're in their 20s. Okay, I get that. But still, we're talking Mr. Kottaaaaaair. The show ran in the 70s, when there was only 3 channels to watch. Four, if you count PBS. Which we didn't.



When I was 10, watching the opening scene, the guy riding the unicycle through Brooklyn and listening to Weeelcome Back, everything felt just perfect. I mean, Brooklyn was a safe place, the Sweathogs were just a bunch of fun-loving guys, and everyone was happy at the end of the day.

The reality.

None of those Sweathogs are coming to school, and if they do they're knocking the shit out of Kotter. At the very least, Woodman.

But nevermind. Fonzy can start the jukebox by punching it. No one ever got sick on Gilligan's Island. And the world is a safe place, and lions don't eat sheep and crazy assholes don't exist AND THE CLEAVERS ARE NOT DYSFUNCTIONAL.

Hallelujah and pass the clicker.

My daughter sees the same thing. Hannah Montana, iCarly, whatever. Problems solved in 22 minutes or less. The purple dinosaur loves you. The end.

This is the 80s.

The other day, she says to me, after watching an Adam Sandler movie, the 80s looked like fun. She wishes she could grow up in the 80s like I did. I told her, it's not much different. Really, it's not. The movies, they sanitize the past. I wore the same goofy clothes, but I had the same problems as you. Not much different.

Just be here, darling. It's the only place we got.

Eyeball

Damn near lost an eyeball.

Well, I thought. Sawdust scratched it. Didn't seem like a big deal, at first, but then it wouldn't stop watering. That night, it got worse. Got swollen, red. Felt like a grain of sand trapped under my eyelid. I couldn't sleep. It was worse when I closed my eyes.

Ever try to stop moving your eye?

So I made plans for a glass eye. Maybe get one a different color. All black, or yellow. What about laser beam red. Or maybe one like Daniel Day Lewis in Gangs of New York, the glass eye with the bald eagle. The one he taps with the tip of a knife.

Or maybe do an eye patch. Snake Plissken was badass in a patch. I'd just look like a douche.

Just thoughts. All these.

That's the thing. It's hard to separate from thoughts. Hard to just be here. Just be present. Why do we cling to them so desperately?

Reality, lost.

My eye was fine by lunch.

Phone Call

Our first death threat.

It was an anonymous phone call. My wife answered. The guy on the other end wanted to know why she called him. She didn't. This pissed him off. He told her this.

IF I FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE, I'LL KILL YOU AND YOUR WHOLE FAMILY.

End quote.



She didn't know who it was. Didn't matter. You hear that and all sorts of nightmares march through your skull. On go the lights in the yard. Doors locked. Double checked. Dogs inside. They won't hurt anyone, but they look like they will. That's a plus.

Oh, and check on the gun.

I got a .357 revolver. What the gun retailer called "Home Protection." Yes, I want that. "And you'll want these." "What are they?" "Hollow point bullets. They got stopping power."

Those, too.



I hope I never, ever use this gun. I've shot it at the range. Sounds like a cannon. A friend once told me a 9mm is the best gun to have hidden at home. Said it will flatten a man in a second. Said you'll want someone to break into your house. He's a Navy SEAL. I'm not.

When I bought the gun, my wife asked if I thought I could really shoot a man. Really, truly. Could I pull the trigger on another man. Seriously. I said I don't know. But if a man comes into my house with the intention to harm my family, to KILL YOU AND YOUR WHOLE FAMILY, I want the option.

So far my pistol has collected dust. I like that. But I cleaned it. Because, you know.

Susan's Black Eye

Black-eyed Susan. Some call it Brown-eyed Susan.

Both names seem... wrong.

The second more than the first.

Getting It Out

My story is like any other. I was on welfare at the time, writing in cafes on lined notebook paper. About a boy wizard with a mysterious lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

Ten years later, I had 400 billion dollars.

All right. My writing inspiration isn't so glamorous, or universally loved. And I don't have any theme parks. My beginning started as a story for my son, when he was seven. Cliche, I know. You see, I started it because he hated to read. I figured, what the hell, I'll write something he'll dig. A kid with superpowers, cracking skull, saving the world. My son could name the characters, give me ideas and we'd run with it. I envisioned him sitting on the couch next me, devouring page after page. Dad! When's the next chapter going to be done?

He said it best when my efforts failed. "Dad. I just hate reading."

Even JK wouldn't win this battle.

But here's the deal. The character I started out with got stuck in my nugget. I've written textbooks and magazine articles and newspaper columns, but I'd never done fiction. How hard could it be? Really. You just make stuff up. It's not like I needed a fact-checker. I didn't even need reality. This kid could strap on rockets and fly to the freaking moon. This is fiction, baby. Don't tell me what I can and can't do.

Oh. Was I wrong.

Fiction, for most of us, is hard to write. Good fiction, that is.

Socket Greeny was the character. A sixteen-year old kid, asking the big questions about life. Why am I here? What's this all about? Do I matter? Teenage angst on growth hormones sort of dilemma. Maybe not the most original, but something teens can relate to. I know, I was that kid. And that's why Socket wouldn't get out of my head. He had a story to be told. Well, I had a story that I wanted to tell through him. And in the world of fiction, I could make him whatever I wanted. Make him indestructible. Yet vulnerable.

Socket's this misfit. He's got white hair, but he's not an albino. It's a pigment disorder. He's different. His dad is dead. His mom, a workaholic. He whittles his life away in video games and energy drinks. That is, until he discovers his true nature.

My life and Socket's go opposite directions from there. No, I don't have white hair and my parents are alive and well. There were no fantastical worlds in my life. No superpowers to be discovered or off-world creatures to befriend. I wasn't the center of the universe and I sure as hell wasn't saving it. It was just me and everyday life. My path ended up grinding through life's problems the old fashion way. Slow and ordinary.

By the time I was in my 20s, I'd started a Zen practice. Meditation became a daily routine, in addition to retreats and various other inner efforts. I made some sense out of things through some hard work. Found some meaning. The struggle, it's worth it.

Socket's life isn't so ordinary. But it's not so far off, either. He still struggles with the everyday issues of where he fits in. His relationships. And what the hell does all this really mean.

I don't know if I'll ever write another novel. To wear out a cliche, it was a story in me that wanted out. It's out. Besides, novel-writing is as much about promoting (or more) as writing. And I'm not jazzed about that. Maybe in ten years there'll be another one. Or maybe I take the JD Salinger route and never write another one. I sure hope that's not true, for a number of reasons.