My Homelies

I want to talk about something that makes me happy: homelessness. For me, it’s like Reality TV. It’s designed to make its viewers feel better about themselves. 

Kidding. I can be an asshole, but I’m not that big of one.

Feel better yet? 

I work in downtown Denver so I’m forcibly reminded nearly everyday how we as a people, as a country and a society, fall short. “Lazy” isn’t an adjective that can stick to 90% of the panhandlers I turn down daily, and believe me, a lot can stick to them.  “Addict” or “Drunk” or “Mentally Ill” are three that usually hit the mark, and the vast majority of the time they’re intertwined.  

So I have a rule: I never give money to homeless people, or my homelies (as I refuse to call them). A study conducted by the Department of Housing and Urban Development told me that 6 out of 10 homelies (what the HUD calls them) report having a drug or alcohol problem, and the shame that keeps someone from admitting such a problem probably means that number is higher. So I don’t let the urge to purge my guilt overcome the knowledge that a dollar or two is probably enabling destructive behavior.

But there was this one time… (cue mystical music and camera blur)

I’m settling into my 15-minute walk to work. My ear buds are nestled and blasting some pop punk I’m wishing I could belt out, but I hate musicals and a one-man flash mob has never worked for me.

Except that one time…

—wait, sorry. (Throat clear)

Three homelies, a female and two males, are chilling on the steps of a church and as I draw near, one of the men says the one word that will always kill any calorie burning activity of mine: “Pushups.”

I stop in my tracks and remove an ear bud. “What did you say,” I ask with a smile.

“I’ll give you 22 pushups for 43 cents.”

I infer from the amusement and surprise of the two others it’s a line he is trying out for the first time. And from my uproarious laughter, they can tell I’ve never heard it. I reach into my pocket, give him $0.75, and walk away with a new case of the giggles. Looking back, after all these 4.63 months, my only regret is that I didn’t get my 22 pushups. 

Feeling better now? 

What I do instead of giving money, is to give them my anxiety from being around them, and food.

My homelies make me nervous. They do. Their clothes, their smell, the alcohol on their breath. It’s the OCD in me that can’t stop looking at the unmatched socks. One black one white. “You have all fucking day to dig through the dumpsters. You can’t come up with another white sock? Bullshit!” And their teeth! The tiny chef inside my stomach says, I wasn’t aware we had vomit on the menu, but I’ll warm that right up for you. And then they have eyes. WHY DO THEY HAVE TO HAVE EYES?! The sadness, the suffering, the glaze from the liquid, powder, or plant they’re using to drown the shame of having to rely on the generosity of others day in and day out, or from having to rely on a substance to get through their day. They’re pity vampires, those eyes are! They suck out every ounce of good Samaritan I have and I’m powerless.  I feel as if I might give in to any request. “Sure, I’ll give you my car, my clothes, and all my money just as long as you leave me alone and FUCKING BUY YOURSELF SOME MATCHING SOCKS!!!!!”

But I can’t just ignore them. That’s mean. So when they ask me for money, I give them a, “No, but are you hungry?”

Sometimes they’re not. Other times I buy them a quick burrito from a food vendor.

And then there was this one time…

Work is over and I’m seconds from freedom. I’m in a rush because I want to workout before writing as much as possible tonight. I spring from the last flight of stairs, swing open the door that leads to the sidewalk, and accidentally slam it right into the back of a homelie. I didn’t see him because he was sitting lower than the windowpane and he didn’t know people came out of that door. “You alright man? I didn’t see you.” Fuck fuck fuck, I scream to myself. That had to hurt. “You may not want to sit there,” I tell him while wearing a concerned grimace.  “More people are gonna come out of that door.”

“Oh, O.K. Hey, can you help me out, man? I need food for my wife and kids. You got any change you can spare?”

He’s grabbing his back and I’m weak like Jell-O.

“Yeah I have money. I mean, wait, no.” Jell-O fortified with chunks of fruit. “Um, you need food?’ I scan the street for this Jello I keep writing about. “Let’s go to this 7-11 and I’ll buy you something.”

He hesitates, but follows me across the street and into the store. I find out his name is Tracy or Stacy or something I don’t hear because I’m more than a little concerned he’s gonna try to touch me. “You want a sandwich?” He does and he grabs two. I tell him I can only afford one. He wants two candy bars and I say I can only afford one and I suddenly feel like a parent with a kid at the check out. He points at the 2-for-1 donut deal, which costs as much as the candy bar. “FINE! Just close your eyes when you look at me!” I’m still in a rush and now my anxiety is ramping up because he’s grabbing the donuts with his bare hands that are filthy and the chocolate and glaze is mixing with the dirt from him digging through the trash looking, no doubt, for a fucking matching sock, and now he’s going to eat those donuts with those grimy, sock-searching fingers and probably lick that chocolate glaze off each chapped-with-dirt digit.  AHHHHHHH!

Seriously? You don't feel better after watching this? 
Wow. Maybe you should have your own reality show.

He grabs two Diet Coke’s out of the cooler and I reach into my pocket to check my cash level. Wallet’s not in the left pocket. And it’s not in the right. Fuck. “Ahh, Facey,” I say. “Tracy,” he says. “Right, Tasty. Um, I don’t have my wallet, so I can’t get you anything today.” I. Feel. Terrible. “I’m really sorry, man. I must have left it on my dresser this morning.” He’s looking around like a lost dog, drooling over the food that’s being waived in front of his face. “You serious?” “Yes. I’m really sorry, man. I’ll have to catch you some other time.” I want it to be just us in the store, just Pasty and me, so no one else can see my blunder. But more and more people seem to pouring in and they’re all looking at me disapprovingly. Heads be shaking. Fingers be wagging. Eyes be rolling. A businessman. A gorgeous woman. My 3^rd grade teacher who caught me forging dad’s signature. Several versions of my mom, each when they caught me with porn of various firmness. “MOM?!”

“Bradlee!! I saw that!”

I’m a fucking wreck. Here I am, trying to do a nice thing for this guy and I’m blowing it. Before the walls close in on me I grab him by the arm and tell him I’ll have to buy him something some other time. “I have to go,” I say, and I bail on him, regretting it ever since. I should've explained the situation to my fellow shoppers, my teachers, my moms, and asked them to pick up the tab, at least for the infected donuts.

But I blew it. And it’s not the only time I did…

I’m stopped at the intersection of Colorado Blvd. and 6^th Ave. I’m five cars back and I see a homeless man walking down the line of cars toward mine. He has a cardboard sign asking for money and he has eyes.

Jell-O.

Exactly!

I have an orange in the car so I grab it. I roll down the window and shake it at him, hoping he’ll be quick. He’s not, because this asshole decided to hurt his leg a while back.  He’s still hobbling toward me as the light turns green and my anxiety spikes. I start moving forward because this light is quick and I don’t want to impede those behind me because I have yet to shed the “please others” skin I wore so well in high school. It’s gonna be tough, but doable. I toss the orange to him with my left hand, which I don't typically toss anything with, and instead of him catching the terribly-tossed orange like a non-asshole he misses it completely and it falls under my tire and bursts its juices all over the gutter. He lets out a groan as I drive past. I’m an idiot. I’m a loser. And I’ve failed yet another one of my homelies.

But at least I didn’t make eye contact.

Someday I’ll get it down, this do-gooding, without looking like a total jackass. A leather-jacket wearing, scar-below-the-eye having, facial-hair-with-which-you-could-sand-a-boat-with growing, good-doing badass.

Sure enough, my someday came a few nights ago.

It started at my local Leather Jacket & Scar store, or as I like to call it, King Soopers Groceries. A young black kid with an old school Denver Broncos hoodie approaches Rainbow Satan (the name of my car) as I park and crawl out of her.  He’s new in town, his car ran out of gas, his son is in his car and he needs money for gas. I’m not buying it. If nightly news taught me anything, it’s to be suspicious of all black people, no matter how awesome their hoodies are.

“I don’t give money,” I tell him. “I’ll buy you some food.” He doesn’t want food. Of course he doesn’t want food. Another thing nightly news taught me, along with Reagan & Bush Sr., is that he's addicted to crack, one of the best weight-loss plans on the black market. Second only to Meth. Wait, third. Third to a lesser form of Meth: ADD medication.

“You sure? I’m going in there, I’ll grab you something to eat. What do you want?”

He hesitates, then gives in. “Some chicken and, um, some chips,” he says, a watermelon and collard greens short of a stereotype.

My original objective on this mission was to buy two combs. I wanted combs, alright? Two of them, to brush my hair. One for the office and one for home. Get off my fucking case! I came out with two combs, an orange juice, a turkey sandwich (they didn’t have any cooked chicken), a too-big bag of BBQ chips, and, of course, a piece of cheesecake. The truth is, half way through my food drive I decide this young man needs some cheesecake. Half-way through that decision I decided I need some cheesecake. The battle within was settled with two plastic spoons found near the deli.

Pity vampires! I smell a Twilight comback! 

Wait, Twilight isn't over yet? Fuck! That! Nietzsche was right. 

(Props to this guy, by the by, who didn't authorize 

my screen shot of his art)

“Alright, I hooked you up,” I say while gently setting the bag on Rainbow’s hood. I go through a brief explanation on what I bought him and pull out the condition: “You have to share the cheesecake with me.” The too spoons jump out of my pocket and I ask him what his name is. “Kendrick.” I ask where he’s from while taking a few bites from his cheesecake. He says some state like Kansas, Missouri, or Arkansas. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t catch that nugget because of the fucking cheesecake with cherries on top! Oh, what's that? I didn’t mention the cherries? Yeah, of a surprise to me too! A resurprise, actually. 

I prod and he gives a few more answers. He’s 19 and has a kid who’s with his girlfriend in their car that ran out of gas – basically the exact thing he told me when he first approached me that I was too nervous to hear. He, his girlfriend, and their baby recently drove here. And he has a car that constantly runs out of gas. 

“I took it into the mechanic, but he said it’s working fine. But you know mechanics. He could be lying.”

It crosses my mind later that a shady mechanic, in that situation, would've told him his car is jacked so said mechanic could actually make money from fixing it. But right now I don’t think of that because I’m high and I love cheesecake.

He’s sincere. He’s not a practiced beggar who has a bag of excuses to get your dollar for his next fix. He’s a 19-year-old kid in need.

“Well why didn’t you say something?!”

We pile in my car on a quest to find a gas station. We’re hoping that 1) there’s a gas station open at 11:15ish in the PM and 2) they have a gas can he can borrow. I’ve heard of gas stations doing this, this good will toward men/women in need. Unfortunately the one we find doesn’t have a gas can we can borrow. BUT THEY HAVE A GAS CAN WE CAN BUY! Yea capitalism! Add $9.99 for the 1-gallon plastic gas jug to the $16 I already spent on him, plus another $4 for the gallon he fills it up with. That’s like a thousand dollars I spent on this kid.

Now, it may seem like an asshole move, me adding up the money it has cost me thus far. But I’m not loaded. I make $30,000 at a job I find incredibly easy and fulfilling so I can pursue my passions (a.k.a writing, photography, etc).  I got bills. I got a car that’s not perfect and a cell phone that is. So budgeting is a necessity. And Kendrick is killing it. But again: Jell-O.

He fills up and we’re on our way back, me huffing the gas fumes and driving, him explaining how he and his, well, family are gonna crash at a buddy’s place once they drive there.

“Yeah, but how are you gonna pay this forward!?” I don’t scream. “Haven’t you seen the movie? You know, the “Pay It Forward” movie? Of course you haven’t, you selfish crack addict!”

And we’re back in parking lot of Leather Jacket & Scar. He directs me to his car. A 1982 Chevy Impala with a dark, dark purple paint job with subtle glitter.

“It runs out of gas all the time.”

“Well, maybe you should buy a more fuel efficient car,” I want to serve him, plopping a “dumbass” on top. But my mind spends a moment with a younger Brad, one who didn’t manage his money so well, who was unable to say no to impulse buys, one, say, who used the “someone in need” excuse to satiate his late-night cheesecake craving. Truth: things are shiny. And it’s hard sometimes to stop yourself from buying shiny.

I wish him good luck. He expresses the gratitude that makes me forget about the bill and I welcome him to Denver.

I wish I got his number. So I could check up on him. See how he’s doing. How his kid, his girlfriend, are doing. Oh well. Maybe he’ll read this someday. 

Ha! Read? He can't read! He's black! And anyone who knows anything about the education system in the country knows that children in inner city schools receive an inferior education, due to larger class sizes, lack of funding and resources, and higher teacher turnover. 

Txts to an Asshole 5

Yeah? Well your face is a shitty hat!

My fifth installment of "Txts to an Asshole," a play-by-play retelling of interactions I have with the unfortunates who randomly text message me. Why do I do this? One part boredom and two parts indigestion ("Who wants tacos," he said.). Catch the other episodes here: 1, 2, 3, and 4. Note: names in this edition have been changed so I don't hurt Gavin, Alex, Cresten, and Kaitlin's  feelings. 

Them on 4/21/2012 @ 1:24pm: Hey what's up its Glavin

Glavin @ 5:50pm: How's Shemalex? 

Me @ 6:11pm: He's a little busy right now. 

Glavin @ 6:22: Ok well I hope he knows it's not Crustends fault

Me @ 7:44: Really?! It's not Crustends fault? How's that? 

Glavin: Because he didn't know that his dad called the cops or anything

Me @ 7:57: That's bullshit and we got screwed

Glavin: No I swear I was there the whole time... Didn't you chill with him last night? 

         Is he gonna have to go back to Ohio? 

Me: I totally chilled with him

        Probably 

       The whole thing is fucked

Glavin @ 8:01: Damn that sucks

Me: Yeah what evs

       Shit happens 

Glavin: Yeah but that shouldn't have ya know

Me: What I want to know is what happens from here? 

Glavin: Yeah these situations suck because no one knows what's gonna happen

Me: What do you think is gonna happen? 

Glavin: Well what felony was he charged with? 

Me: PCS (Possession of a Controlled Substance) and then they tagged him with Interference I guess

Glavin: What did he do to get interference? 

Me: I don't know it's a bullshit charge they throw on everyone

Glavin: Probably because of the drugs... But hopefully he just gets community service and probation

Me @ 8:15: he wants me to rape him so he can prepare for jail

Glavin: The rape in jail well definetely(sic) be different... Hopefully he doesn't get jail time... It really helps that it's only his first offense

Me: Yeah that's what I keep telling him, but he keeps insisting that I rape him

       It's kinda weird

Glavin: Is he scared or is he messing around? 

Me: He's not messing

        he keeps trying to make me shove a shampoo bottle up his ass

        You need to come over and help me out with him

Glavin: Is he crying and like freaking out? 

        I will if you need me to

Me @ 8:25: Yes. He's fucking nuts dude.

        He says it's better to have two people hold the shampoo bottle when you shove it in

Glavin: You are at his grandmas? 

        He want me to come over(sic)? 

Me: Yeah

Glavin: Wait was that a yeah to both questions? 

Me: Sorry I get really bad service 

       Yeah to both

Glavin @ 8:34pm: Alright I'll be over in like ten minutes

Me: Alex is saying we're gonna pretend like we didn't know you were coming over

       Cuz he doesn't want his grandma to get freaked

Glavin: Ok I'm not gonna get kicked out am I? 

Me: No you're good 

Glavin: Ok... You guys gonna come outside? 

Me: No man, he's literally flipping out. He can't be outside.

Glavin: Ok well can you come let me in 

Me @ 8:45: Knock once and I'll come let you in

       Seriously man

       He's crazy 

Glavin @ 8:46: Ok

       What

       Here

Me @ 8:55: You coming? 

Glavin @ 9:00: Ya I'm at his house with Shemalex

Me:  No you're not

      Are you fucking with me? 

Glavin: This is Skatelin right? 

Me: No

     My name's Brad

Glavin: You were fucking with me? 

Me: Yes

Glavin @ 9:09: Cool dude

Newman!

If you enjoyed this entry and it's your first "Txts to an Asshole," leave a comment below so I can order you a Punching Telegram. Or you could just read the other four. In order of actual order: 1, 2, 3, and, wait four it...

The Boys of Summer, Part 5

Here's the 5th part of "The Boys of Summer," a rehashing of great times with great friends at my parents' lake home. The latest theme is fire, as in campfire, not burning orphanages. So when you see my photos below, don't think I like to burn orphanages. Don't get me wrong, though, I'm wanted in five states for burning buildings, something I enjoy very much, but just not orphanages (mo-rals). Butt seriously, if you missed parts 1-4, you should really start at the beginning. Click here if that's the case: one, two, three, four. 

             All embers rising from a campfire should be followed with stories, either their telling or making. If you’re not chasing each skyward spark with vowel and consonant combinations, if the air isn’t stabbed with laughter and gestures, insights and “interesting”s, then you’re a disgrace to each branch or leaf that laid down its life to provide you with dramatic lighting and a soundtrack. Every flame is a stripper, some lead with their hips while others are stretching to reveal a hidden curve. All aim to hypnotize you into a calm, where your breath becomes steady and long, preparing you for a dive below the superficial to the deep. Look at the flames. Watch them and fall in love, so that they may seduce your thoughts and your stories onto the stage like dollar bills. 

             My best campfire story begins the night before the fire was lit. The players are Chris, Kevin, Mark and myself. Guest appearances include my brother and his wife.
             It’s a blustery bitch outside and the rain is preventing our first fire of this trip, so we blanket our sorrows with whiskey. Chris and Kevin trade “Wafters,” or drinks so strong the alcohol wafts from the top as you bring it within a foot of your nose. After a couple, Chris is quickly melting into Drunk Chris.

            Drunk Chris is like The Beast, if The Beast was as stubborn as a diarrhea-ridden asshole that’s been glued shut. Drunk Chris isn’t a hit. He’s not even fun. He doesn’t trust a soul and he doesn’t listen to your stories because Drunk Chris doesn’t listen to anyone, especially those trying to help him.

            He usually slips onto stage unnoticed until the director or players shift the scene to another location. Tonight, however, Drunk Chris makes a grand entrance.

            The act begins in the garage of my parent’s lake home, the giant structure that kicked the old cabin’s ass and booted it off the property. My brother, his wife, and I are joking back and forth. It’s hushed mingling, a common scene starter, and actual alcoholic beverages, not props, are in hand. A man, in his early 20s—hair jelled and spiked, polo shirt tucked into belted cargo shorts—interrupts with breaking news.

“Chris just fell and hit his head. There's a lot of blood.” It’s Kevin, and he’s pulling off a very serious and scared look. He’s not a skilled player so we take him for his word.

The lights drop out a second after surprise shocks us indoors.

Scene two has Chris propping himself against the marble-topped island when the lights come up. One hand steadies him while the other presses a wad of paper towels against the top of his head. A small pool of blood rests on the wood floor stage center.

“What the fuck happened,” my brother asks a second before tearing his shirt off. 

Kevin explains that Chris stumbled and smacked his head against a marble covered corner. My brother's using his shirt to clean up the blood on the wood floor. As he later explained, "It's a lot easier to wash blood out of a shirt than removing a stain on the floor." It makes sense, but it also makes me wonder how many people my brother has killed. 

I pour a glass of water for Drunk Chris, knowing full well he may refuse it, and my brother cleans up the puddle with more paper towels. We try to get Chris to sit down but he refuses. My brother takes a look at the ruby gash and I follow suit but only long enough for a manageable bout of dizziness. We guide Chris to the sink where my brother washes the wound and places a clean paper towel on it for him to hold. A judgment call is made. He won’t need stitches, but he needs to keep pressure on it.

Great, Drunk Chris needs to do something.

The imaginary stage crew is clearly doing a fantastic job because when the lights drop and come back up, two podiums sit facing each other stage center. I remind myself to reward them with imaginary gift baskets. The debate begins with a reiteration of the diagnosis and advised treatment. We promptly take the position that Chris needs to apply pressure and, for the sake of more than argument, Chris takes the opposite. A few steamy back-and-forths ensue before a compromise is reached: we’ll find some tape and wrap his head with a makeshift, Rambo-like paper-towel bandage and Chris will apply pressure. Great, that’s settled.

            “He needs to got to bed,” my brother says.

            “No,” Chris slurs with defiance.

            “Dude, the podiums are gone. We don’t need to argue anymore.”

            He steadies himself and clumsily licks his lips. “No.”

            It takes more cajoling than it should, but I finally tuck him in and rejoin everyone in the garage.

            The lights drop, the sun rises, and Saturday is upon us.

            Mark’s character exits the remainder of scenes, because if there is one thing he’s is good at, it’s making the scheduling for the great cabin get-together impossible then planning something else for that weekend once we nail down a date. Without him, we fill the day with fishing, swimming, and razzing Chris for Drunk Chris’ behavior. He takes it like a champ and before we know it darkness is taking the sky.

Our plan is set: take the fishing boat to the bar across the lake, pick up some ladies (with Rico’s help, of course), and bring them back to the fire. The greatest part of this plan is that we don’t need to be sober. We'll be traveling by boat, and as long as we keep an eye out for fisher peoples, we're golden. 

            We pound a couple beers, pack a few for the ride over, lower the boat from the lift and hop in. Chris and Kevin set up the lights to let other boats know of our presence and I settle into the driver’s bench. I’m playing captain since I know how to start the thing and where we’re going.

The lake is choppy, a gift of the strong, northwest wind, but the 50 horses inside the Yamaha engine don’t have a problem getting us there. The moon is bright and sprinkles itself over the waves, lighting our way to the bar. Ten minutes later we’re docking the boat and strolling inside.

We order our beers and strike up a conversation with a small group of younger lads and ladies. Shots of Jäg are downed, we generate some laughs and 30 minutes later we’re back in the boat, on our way to our new friend Ashley’s cabin. It’s the perfect storm for another great story: her parents are out of town, there’s a campfire, beer, and more people—most importantly—more women.

They give us each a beer and we wedge ourselves into a group of 15 around the campfire. They’re all in college so “What are you majoring in”s naturally fill the air. I’m enjoying myself, which means I have at least one thing in common with "Stacy with a 'y'," the cute woman next to me. She's also enjoying me and I put it all together when her foot begins molesting my leg. She was flirting with me back at the bar and she wants it now. Hard. I relapse into a very traumatic experience from freshman year. The Catholic high school I attended had finally gotten around to teaching us about STDs and I scroll through the five or six she probably has. If I was a few beers deeper, I may have made a trip into one of the empty bedrooms with STDy—err Stacy—but I stay instead, setting the stage for one my greatest performances to date.

A future friend marijuana jumps from person to person. Chris passes, but Kevin and I oblige. Pause for an interruption to explain something about our players. Chris was the second person I ever smoked weed with because he was experienced and knew how to roll a joint. Kevin, well, Kevin can't stand it when his shirt is untucked. So I was more than surprised (and still am to this day) at who chose to partake and who didn't. 

The beer fridge is in the shed—like all beer fridges should be—and Chris is empty. He winds through the cabin on his way to the promise box and takes an ill-fated wrong turn.

Meanwhile, Kevin and I are in rare form around the flames, giggling our balls off.

“Why do they call you Bobcat,” asks a bro across the pit. 

To this day, the boys, or at least Chris and Kevin, call me Bobcat because of a hat I used to wear. I'll spare you the story because it's not that great, but I explain it to the audience. 

“They should call you ‘No balls,’” Stacy with a y says. She's clearly upset that I’m ignoring her advances.

“Yes, they also call me ‘Bradlee No Balls.'" My sarcasm elicits laughter. And the words hang in the humidity for a moment.

“Why do they call you ‘Bradlee No Balls’?” It’s Broseppi again. He’s got a smile on his face. He wants a story, they all do, and their eyes are the spotlight I’ve been waiting for, the one I’m always waiting for. 

“Well,” I begin while letting a giggle slip. “It all started when I was born with bowling balls for hands.” Their smiles feed my inner thespian. “It was terribly embarrassing as a child. Imagine it for a second,” My eyes bounce from face to face. “Imagine growing up and not being able to open jars or play catch, to only be good for smashing walnuts at Christmas or knocking on large wooden doors.” They laugh. “Do you know how hard it is to scratch an itch when you have fucking bowling balls for hands?!”

They try to imagine it but fail. They don’t know. They don’t know the pain. 

“It wasn’t until junior high that an engineer developed robotic hands.” My voice begins a crescendo for the finale. “My parents scheduled the surgery.” Louder. “I went under the knife.” Louder still. “They remove the bowling balls, installed these, and I’m normal.” I begin to stand. “I suddenly can hold hands with women, flip the bird, do pushups without slipping onto my face, masturbate!" I'm standing on the balls of my feet and screaming. "AND THAT! IS WHY THEY CALL ME! BRAAAADLEEEEEE NO BALLS!!!”

I don't remember all the details of that night, but I do remember expecting a standing ovation and uproarious laughter, maybe even a showering of roses. Instead, I get Brosicle, who says with wide eyes, “I’m pretty sure the whole lake now knows why you’re called ‘Bradlee No Balls.’”

“Yeah,” says Bropop's understudy. “That was really loud.”

Kevin can’t stop laughing and I join him. We couldn’t give a rat’s ass what these kids think. We’re baked and having a blast. 

Back inside, Ashley is accusing Chris of sniffing her panties. You can’t make this shit up. 

"You're making this shit up." 

"I swear to God," Chris recalls. 

"Yeah, but was she serious?" 

"Dead serious! It was the weirdest fucking thing." 

Apparently Ashley's prime side effect of weed is paranoia and when Chris mistakenly turned into her bedroom on his quest for the holy ale, she flipped out on him.

“Hey man,” a manly man says, interrupting the interrogation. “Your friends are outta control. You gotta get 'em outta here.” 

Chris takes a half a second to agree and sneaks past Ashley. He herds us to the boat. Kevin and I are having a hard time walking, partly from the booze and pot, but mostly from the fits of giggles we’re losing to.

“How funny is this,” I ask through tears. “We were taking care of Chris last night, and tonight he’s taking care of us!”

Kevin erupts.

I’m the only one who knows how to operate the boat and since we’re aiming for a quick escape, I’m guided to the helm. We’re reversing slowly away from shore when Ashley runs onto the dock and starts screaming at us.

“Don’t hit the boat lift! Don’t hit the boat lift!”

We’re not worried. Boat Lift isn't worried either. Because we’re at least 15 feet away from each other.

The ride back to the cabin is less than straight, but the order from the captain is to scope with vigilance for any boats in our path. No lake star gazers are out and we travel the mile in five seconds flat, drunk time. We slow to a near stop 30 yards out from the lift.

“Guys,” I say. “Two things.” Giggle. “One, you need to help me get this thing into the lift.” Giggle snort. “And two, we gotta keep it down because we can’t give my parents the slightest idea that we’re as fucked up as we are.”

The wind and my level of intoxication are making it difficult to put the boat to bed. But on the fifth try, we guide it in with the delicate clumsiness previously reserved for drunk banging. And approximately one second later we're in front of the campfire, throwing quiet to the wind, and acting out the insanity of the night. 

Stay tuned for the next installment of "The Boys of Summer." It may not be for a while because I have to serve time for burning an orphanage (thanks for putting that in my brain, assholes!). 

The Boys of Summer, Part 4

Here's part 4 of "The Boys of Summer," my float down memory creek with some of the best boys stolen beer can buy.  When: my parents cabin. Where: high school, college, and beyond. How: fist pump. You should really start at the beginning, so if you missed the first three, all together now! Uno, Dos, Tres! 

I call this series: Fucking Around with my Camera. 

A campfire is the great uniter. It has the power to bring a group of people together to talk over its destruction and absorb its creation, to draw out the words that would’ve been kept secret, and to illuminate memories burned into forever. Fire was another staple of those trips, the greatest and the original.

…

It’s windy. Really windy. And Chris and I are having a hard time finding a place where the smoke from this fire allows for seeing and breathing. It’s being a bully, following us around the schoolyard, making us cry and cutting off our air supply.

And we’re out of ideas. We've removed all the leaves from the flames, spaced the logs apart, and even erected a tarp structure to block the wind. Nothing’s working. We end up diving under the tarp and wrapping it over us. It’s not the most comfortable thing. Chris’ face is blue. My face is blue. Everything we see is blue and the air is thick with plastic. But it beats hanging out with bully blaze.

It’s nice. Just hanging out with a friend, under a tarp. Cracking jokes. Shooting the shit.

“Is the fire brighter than normal,” Chris asks.

“No, man. Seems fine to me.”

We chat on, talking about how much Jesus rocks! In actuality our conversation probably fell between the hottest Playboy playmate, which actresses we’d like know biblically, and which letter of the boob alphabet makes for a better pillow (when in doubt, pick C). Basically the stuff Catholic boys shouldn’t be talking about.

“Are you sure the fire's not brighter?”

“Chris, chill. It’s fine.”

But it’s not fine, and a quick check reveals the fire has hopped out of the pit and is devouring the pile of leaves at our feet.

“Oh shit. Shit! Shit! Shit!”

We hop into action, knowing full well the possibilities. As my dad would always say, “The wind's just right” and it was dry. We trounce every last flame like we’re in a Kid Rock video while laughing our asses off and when victory is declared, we fall back into another pile of leaves and laugh some more. The laughing dies down. The wind doesn't. 

“Wanna go watch a movie,” I ask.

“Sure.”

We spout laugher at the naked trees, douse the fire, and head inside.

…

And yes, it bites.

           My father bequeathed to me a great appreciation and passion for both fire and blowing shit up, which is why I will blame him for Adam’s singed hair. Boredom may have been a factor, but Professor Pops taught me everything I know.  And it was he who decided to leave us alone that day.

            Dad had purchased a 40-acre plot of land for hunting a few years prior. It was the perfect location for a few of our science experiments. We started small, just a few dry ice bombs dropped into a beaver hut. “For the trees,” we shouted as the first one shot mud and branches into the sky. 

            "Holy shit, man." Adam had never seen a dry ice bomb. I flash a knowing smile and prepare the second. The sun is high. The surrounding trees bow in the wind, almost giving thanks for our assault on their main threat.  Shortly after number two, however, the nosy neighbor comes out to put a stop to it all. His dirty looks pushed us into the forest, where our new tree friends concealed our shenanigans.

            There were three ingredients: cardboard, kindling, and gasoline. And the recipe read like this: place piece of cardboard down, splash some gasoline, put kindling on top of cardboard, splash some more gasoline, repeat until stack is two feet high.

“Really? Two feet,” Adam asks.

            “Yeah, man. It’s the recipe.”

            And you have to follow the recipe. You should also follow common sense when it tells you to throw the match. 

            “HOLY SHIT!”

            “Ouch! Fuck, I burnt myself!”

            “You alright, dude?”

            “Oww, oww. It burned my hair.”

            Sure enough, he was right. The massive fireball, that stood seven feet and spread four, had melted a decent patch of Adam’s arm hair.

            “Dude! It burned your bangs too!”

            He grabs at his hair. “Holy shit!”

Now, I’m my dad’s son, and a few scorched hair follicles never stopped him, so we head back to the cabin. Another idea dawns and we rustle up some hiking sized sticks, wire coat hangers, and gasoline-soaked rags. And we fight, but not each other. That’s just stupid. Darkness is our enemy and even the sky isn’t safe. We take turns tossing the torches into the air and running for cover. We stop when the torch slips its wire-hanger knot while 15 feet in the air and the sudden meteor crashes 20 feet away.

            Words aren’t needed because our wide eyes do the yelling. “Holy shit!”

…

            My best campfire story begins the night before the fire was lit. The players are Chris, Kevin, Mark and myself. Guest appearances by my brother and his wife...

Click here for Part 5! 

If this entry whet your appetite for the rest of "The Boys of Summer" and you're too lazy to scroll to the top for the links... all together now! You're! So! Laaaaaazy! 

The Boys of Summer, Part 3

Here's the third installment of "The Boys of Summer," my nostalgic exposé of some wild and crazy times I had with my best boyhood pals at my parent's cabin. You should really start at the beginning, so if you missed part one and two, it ain't no thang, just click and read: Part 1, Part 2.  

Oh, hey, look at that! Another photo from the dock. Neat!

At some point hanging out with each other wasn’t enough. There are only so many dick and fart jokes you can make and take and after the first night around the campfire we had run out of grade school stories to rehash. We needed to make some new ones. Girls. We needed to hang out with girls.

Enter Rico Suave.

“Dude, Rico fucking Suave.”

Sorry. Rico fucking Suave, Chris’ sudden alter ego. Clearly he saw the need to guide us in the ways of picking up women.

“You gotta be Rico Suave,” he says.

“Rico fucking Suave,” says Mark with a mocking smile.

            Step one—and one is all you need with Rico—get ‘em with the giggles.

            We had made it a habit of snagging at least one meal per trip at a restaurant across the lake. Food wise, it was nothing to brag about, but it always had at least one or two female prospects, not like we were going to do anything about it anyway. Well, that was until Rico showed up.

            He flirts with the waitress that served us, literally the only women of our age in the place. She seems receptive to his brand of humor, so he tries out the best joke he can think of.

            “I left a coupon with the tip.”

            “You what?”

            “Yeah,” he says with a smile. “It was a foot long sub for the price of a six inch.”

            We laugh. We laugh some more.

“What,” he asks with a shrug of his shoulders. “She laughed.”

            We pause and consider that the playful gesture may have worked, getting him the closest we’ve ever gotten to picking up a woman at the cabin.

“Hey, Brad,” Mark says. “You should ask her if she and some of her friends want to come back to the cabin.”

“Yeah,” Chris chimes in. “It’s your cabin. They could chill with us by the fire.”

Fuck. Not cool, guys. This isn’t my department. Yes, I'm an entertainer, but nowhere in the weekend get-away brochure does it say anything about women. And what the fuck happened to Rico? 

I shake off the nerves, pop a dinner mint in my mouth, and approach her.

“So, have you worked here long?”

She gives me a crooked look.

            “Ah, yeah. Why?”

            “Ah, I just have never seen you.” My confidence is eroding like a sand sculpture in a windstorm. Quick! “When do you get off?”

Her face is blending awkward and confusion before my eyes.

“Well, I mean, the reason I ask is because my friends, you should bring some friends.” FUCK! “We’re having a bon fire tonight and you and some friends should come hang out with us.”

The confusion disappears. Awkward doesn’t.

“Ahh, no thanks.”

            I nod, turn quickly, walk past Chris and Mark and out the front door of the restaurant into the parking lot.

            “What happened?” Mark says catching up.

            “Yeah man,” Chris says.

            “She said no.”

            “Dude, Rico Sua—“

            “Shut the fuck up Chris and get in the car.”

            They laugh. We laugh. And 20 minutes later we’re back at the campfire, rehashing our newest story.

...

There was one time when we were actually successful in enticing girls back to the campfire. Their names were Kayla and Francis and, not surprisingly, they worked at that same restaurant. 

We had been playing darts while flirting with them. We asked if they'd come have a few beers at the campfire and, to our delight, they said yes.
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
"Wait, what?"
"Chris, you're ruining the fucking flow of my blahg. Just say "yes"."
"Yes!"
We gave them directions before leaving and about an hour later they were sitting with us around the fire, drinking stolen beer, and telling us their stories.

I’m not even gonna try acting like I know what all was said that night. Truth be told, I was half in the bag. But we talked about what all teenagers talk about. School. Extracurriculars. And me being gay.

What?!

Exactly. For some reason Mark and Chris thought it would be hi-larious to convince Kayla and Francis I was gay. Maybe they were jealous of my bleach blonde-tipped hair or Goldie Honda. Or maybe they were threatened by my innate ability to make these two women laugh. I’m not sure, but it didn’t sit well with teenage Brad.

PAUSE. Public service announcement: There is absolutely nothing wrong with being gay. I have the utmost appreciation for the LGBTQ community and their bravery to be themselves in times and places where it may be frowned upon is nothing short of inspiring. Some of my best friends fly the rainbow flag and I love them, not just because they’re gay, but because they’re also amazing people, looking for what we all want and need: love. 

But this was around the time in our Catholic-upbringing adolescence when being called “gay” wasn’t a good thing. Unfortunately, looking gay or talking gay wasn’t a good thing either. And convincing two women we lured into our man den that I was gay was a terrible thing!

I’m the host of the party. That’s my MiniDisc player and my umbilical tape adapter thingy and I’m the one who has to deal with my parents if they catch us drinking the stolen beer we’re all trying to pretend we like. Sure, the world is my stage and I have a flair for the dramatic, but those are two things I have in common with all comedians. But now I’m gay?!

“Is he really gay,” Kayla asks to the two people she shouldn’t be asking, because clearly I can no longer be trusted. With an air of “All is fair in love and war,” Mark and Chris confirm what they know to be false.

“I am not gay,” I tell the girls, almost pleading for them to believe me, but they’re not buying it. And now I have no chance of touching boobies! 

You know what? You’re gay. You’re all gay. Your boobs are gay, this fire is gay and this party is suuuper gay. Imma take my gay anger and my gay beer and find a nice patch of gay grass on which to lay and look at the gay stars. Gay, gay, GAAYY!! 

So that's what I did. If their plan was to eliminate me from the equation, it worked. But you know what? I saw a shooting star and something that looked like a shooting star but turned out to be a satellite. So take that, assholes. 

...

Not our lake. One far Superior.

              A campfire is the great uniter. It has the power to bring a group of people together to talk over its destruction and absorb its creation, to draw out the words that would’ve been kept secret, and to illuminate memories burned into forever. Fire was another staple of those trips, the greatest and the original...

For PART FOUR of "The Boys of Summer" click here.

And if you missed part one and two, 
don't get sad, get Brad: Part 1. Part 2.