MY FAVORITE MOVIES OF THE DECADE

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Since everyone else is doing it, I will too. A lot of people knock these lists, but I think that's idiotic. They're terribly wonderful conversation pieces, they make for great nostalgia and I think they say something important about the person writing them. Does anyone care what I have to say about this decade's moving images? I don't fucking care. Don't read it if you're not interested. This is my space and you're being a jerk, you jerk.

I'm sure I missed something here or there, but for the most part, this is complete. Take to note that this is NOT a "Best Of" list; it's lacking (what I'm guessing are or are going to be) common staples like the LORD OF THE RINGS movies and NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN and SPIDER-MAN. It's not that I didn't dig those movies - I did - but for one reason or another they're not my favorites. Still, I know most of you, and if you think I'm a moron for missing something, well 1) you're probably right, 2) you shouldn't hesitate to point out a glaring omission and 3) YOU DON'T GET TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO.

Also allow for movies I just didn't get around to seeing, this year being a really bad example of that (ZOMBIELAND, THE HURT LOCKER, etc).
Before we get into it, some superlatives:

WORST MOVIE OF THE DECADE

GEORGIA RULE - I saw this movie with one of my best friends who's IN the movie, and I still had to get up and walk out. In fact, it was so bad that about twenty minutes in, I leaned over and said, "As soon as I see you onscreen, I'm congratulating you and I'm fucking leaving." And I did. Everything from the top on down was bad, but the writing...oh my God. It's tough to even fathom what could have happened in the development process for the writing to be this bad. One of only two movies I've ever walked out on; the other one was ARACHNOPHOBIA, and that's because I was fucking scared out of my fucking mind. I thought I could handle it. I could not.

Onto more positive things:

MY FAVORITE MOVIE MOMENT OF THE DECADE

While there was a lot of competition here, one moment stood to out to me over all the rest. Why this hit me so square I'm not sure, but I love it unconditionally.

In the movie THE LAST KISS, Zach Braff cheats on his fiancée with Rachel Bilson (probably because he's a thinking human). That causes her, understandably, to freak out, break up with him, and hole up in her parents' house. Zach goes to speak with her and ends up talking to Tom Wilkinson, who's playing her father. He asks Tom what he should do to get her back; Tom responds, "Whatever it takes."

Flash forward: as he's kicked out of the house, Zach decides to wait on the porch until his fiancée is ready to talk to him, let him apologize. He waits, literally, for days. One night, Tom drives by to check on the situation - he spots Zach slouched on the porch, leaned awkwardly up against the door, sleeping.

Tom looks at him, smiles triumphantly, and just drives away.

Writing about it, I've just found, is a total waste of time. But if you've seen the movie, you know exactly what I'm talking about - it's a small, beautiful, note-perfect moment that continues to make me unspeakably happy every time I think about it.

FAVORITE LINE OF THE DECADE

"I'm very sorry for your loss. Your mother was a terribly attractive woman." - THE ROYAL TENENBAUMS

THE BEST MOVIES OF THE DECADE THAT MOST OF YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN

A couple of you might have seen a few of these, but for the most part, you've never even heard of most of them. Seriously, seek them out, because they're all terrific in their own way:

THE RULES OF ATTRACTION; SWIMMING POOL; THIRTEEN; THE MOTORCYCLE DIARIES; PRIMER; THE MACHINIST; RORY O'SHEA WAS HERE; EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED; LONESOME JIM; TRUST THE MAN; RIDING ALONE FOR THOUSANDS OF MILES; SHORTBUS; THE LOOKOUT; EAGLE VS. SHARK; SUNSHINE; THE TEN; THE ORPHANAGE; SNOW ANGELS; THE FALL; ROCKNROLLA; LET THE RIGHT ONE IN

THE ALL-DECADE TOTALLY, MADDENINGLY, REALLY FUCKING UNDERRATED/UNDERAPPRECIATED LIST

People ignore, blow off or just plain don't requisitely appreciate these movies all the time, usually without having seen them first. Give them a shot - they're better than you think and/or don't get the respect they deserve:

BOILER ROOM; SAVING SILVERMAN; AI: ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE; SERENDIPITY; HOUSE OF 1000 CORPSES; SECONDHAND LIONS; INTOLERABLE CRUELTY; EUROTRIP; STARSKY AND HUTCH; DAWN OF THE DEAD (remake); HAROLD AND KUMAR GO TO WHITE CASTLE; SKY CAPTAIN AND THE WORLD OF TOMORROW; NATIONAL TREASURE; THE HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY; KINGDOM OF HEAVEN; A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE; JUST FRIENDS; HOSTEL; THE LAST KISS; THE HOLIDAY; BREACH; ZODIAC; HAIRSPRAY; HOT ROD; STARDUST; DEFINITELY, MAYBE; LEATHERHEADS; GHOST TOWN; ROLE MODELS

KICK-ASS DOCUMENTARIES

Documentaries, like the films mentioned above, seem criminally underrated and unappreciated to me. If you've never really been into them, watch a couple of these and see if you aren't converted:

BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE; JACKASS: THE MOVIE (yes, I consider this a doc); SPELLBOUND; SUPER-SIZE ME; FAHRENHEIT 9/11; THE YES MEN; ENRON: THE SMARTEST GUYS IN THE ROOM; THE CORPORATION; MURDERBALL; THE ARISTOCRATS; THE COMEDIANS OF COMEDY; THIS FILM IS NOT YET RATED; JONESTOWN: THE LIFE AND DEATH OF PEOPLE'S TEMPLE; FUCK; SICKO; MY KID COULD PAINT THAT; AMERICAN TEEN; DEAR ZACHARY: A LETTER TO A SON ABOUT HIS FATHER; ANVIL! THE STORY OF ANVIL

THE "SO DAMN CLOSE" SUPER-HONORABLE MENTIONERS

These films were all in the running for the Top Twenty, but for one reason or another didn't crack it. Still, they're all fucking awesome, and I bet I could even add a few more to them:

UNBREAKABLE; MEMENTO; MADE; OLD SCHOOL; MONSTERS, INC.; ABOUT A BOY; SHAUN OF THE DEAD; SIN CITY; LAYER CAKE; ME AND YOU AND EVERYONE WE KNOW; WEDDING CRASHERS; THE 40 YEAR-OLD VIRGIN; LITTLE CHILDREN; THE FOUNTAIN; 300; ENCHANTED; KNOCKED UP; THE KING OF KONG; SUPERBAD; THIS CHRISTMAS; IRON MAN; WATCHMEN; ADVENTURELAND; INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS; UP IN THE AIR

MY TWENTY FAVORITE FILMS OF THE DECADE

20. ANCHORMAN (2004) - Will never forget seeing this for the first time, mostly because I cackled so hard and so often that my stomach and my throat hurt like hell upon leaving. Didn't think I would ever laugh that hard again...and then BORAT came along. All the same, ANCHORMAN was lightning in a bottle and has a rewatchability factor that BORAT doesn't quite muster. Possibly the most quotable movie of the decade to boot.

19. JESUS CAMP (2006) - My favorite documentary of the decade by a country mile, it more or less puts the disgusting backstage of organized religion on a platter and serves it up as a perfect example of everything I hate about the world. Most sickening: the outright (and comically conceited) way in which Evangelical Christian leaders indoctrinate - and often flat-out brainwash - impressionable kids into not just a religious mindset, but a connected POLITICAL ideology. You want a look at what's REALLY wrong with America? Watch JESUS CAMP.

18. THE DEPARTED (2006) - The quintessential "if it's on TV, I'm stopping whatever I'm doing to watch it" movie. Enough has been said about it, so I'll just keep it simple: it's fucking brilliant.

17. MEAN GIRLS (2004) - If it didn't land in the Top Twenty, it would have been at the head of the Underappreciated list. Tina Fey is a certified comic guru, and people have quickly forgotten that Lindsay Lohan used to be 1) really goddamn hot and 2) a pretty decent actress. The supporting characters really make this one - especially Tim Meadows, delivering every line with the dryness of midsummer California brush - and the humor is so smart that it almost makes me want to give up writing for fear that I'll never compare. That's what they call "healthy" jealousy.

16. BEST IN SHOW (2000) - Shares with THE OFFICE (the British version) the distinction of being the best example of mockumentary from head to foot. It is easily, I think, the best ensemble cast of the entire decade...which makes it so interesting that none of the efforts following it (A MIGHTY WIND, FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION) were nearly as good. Or maybe it just seemed that way since this was more or less perfect. Positively contains the best Fred Willard role ever, and that's saying something.

15. GLADIATOR (2000) - Don't think I was ever as excited to see a movie in theaters as I was to see this one...and holy Christ, did it ever come through. People love to retroactively crap on this since it won the Oscar for Best Picture and because they were disappointed to find out that Russell Crowe is a dick, but people are fucking stupid. Let me put it this way: I would gladly and immediately follow Maximus Decimus Meridius into battle, and I am a huge pussy.

14. IN BRUGES (2008) - Kind of a polarizing movie in that people who loved it really seemed to love it, and people who hated it wanted to kill those of us who loved it. I loved it. I thought the script was smart as hell and very well stylized, I thought Colin Farrell gave unquestionably his best performance ever, and it hit me with just enough twists and sucker-punches that I felt as though I was constantly reeling. Plus it features the most poetic, most gut-wrenchingly wonderful usage of one of my favorite songs, ON RAGLAN ROAD, that will likely ever be.

13. THE ROYAL TENENBAUMS (2001) - I'm a sucker for movies about family, and this is one of the best of those kind ever. Ever - and that's incredibly hard to pull off. You've got movies like this and THIS CHRISTMAS that really nail it; you've got movies that only get there halfway before pandering to the audience and crapping out with schmaltz (THE FAMILY STONE); and then you've got total crap (Tyler Perry). It makes me sad that this is Wes Anderson's best film so far, but I'm just glad it exists at all because it's amazing - funny, heartbreaking, and heartbreakingly funny.

12. (500) DAYS OF SUMMER (2009) - This year's only entry into the Top Twenty, but I think that's a factor of how incredible the early parts of the decade were rather than a sign of how lackluster the end has been. Speaking of being a sucker, I'm one again for movies that have something different to say about love or that find a different way to say it. The inability to do so is why most Romantic Comedies suck such a fat dick. This movie suffers from none of that. It's darkly funny and deceptively sweet and it thankfully manages something most "indie" movies can't: it allows for a quirky, interesting and appropriate soundtrack that ISN'T TRYING SO FUCKING HARD. If this doesn't win Best Original Screenplay this year I will start a riot and there will be murders.

11. OLDBOY (2003) - Outside of THE SIXTH SENSE and THE WICKER MAN (the original, please), perhaps the most shocking and wrongfully-satisfying ending of all time. Beyond that, I don't know how to express to you just how many asses this thing kicks without even trying or how many individual scenes you can discuss at length after seeing it; the hallway fight is the decade's best action sequence, hands down. It's mind-boggling in its technical and narrative mastery and is just a cinematic triumph. This is one of those movies that I will force someone to sit down and watch if they haven't seen it, which is just about everyone.

10. GREEN STREET HOOLIGANS (2005) - How this never got a wider release than 12.5 screens is the biggest mystery in the world to me, but suffice to say that I think someone made a big goddamned mistake in selling this one short. How great is a movie when it makes you want to walk straight out the doors and fight someone? How great is any movie that TURNS ELIJAH WOOD INTO A BADASS? Great commentary on loyalty, the idea of what "family" really is, and what it's like to be young and stupid before you realize you don't want to be old and stupid.

9. O BROTHER, WHERE ART THOU? (2000) - As Coen Brothers fans go, I'm probably a bad one. I'm a much bigger supporter of the movies their "real" fans seem to ignore, like this one. It's far and away my favorite of theirs. Really, it's not even close, and here's the reason: if you can find a way to make me love a musical, you are a magician. Plain and simple. This is not only my favorite Coen Brothers movie, but my favorite musical of all time, save perhaps for THE WIZARD OF OZ, which I don't really put in the "musical" category. Also, I find it most visually appealing. Still listen to the soundtrack all the time. Near-perfect, this one.

8. ALMOST FAMOUS (2000) - The first of two Cameron Crowe movies on this list, and if you know me, that shouldn't be a surprise in the slightest. Here's the thing about this one: the era of music this is predicated upon? Maybe my least favorite ever. I've never been into "Classic Rock", and I think most of the music of the 70s could disappear and I'd be more than OK. But when it comes to this movie...well, I'm actually sad that Stillwater wasn't a real band and that FEVER DOG isn't a real song. This movie also sparked the beginning of what is probably my #1 Mancrush of All Time, Billy Crudup. Am I jealous of his mustache? You're goddamned right I am.

7. HIGH FIDELITY (2000) - Um, is it just me or was the Year 2000 the best year for movies, like, in history? If you can adapt a Nick Hornby novel, the chances are that I'm going to attach to it like herpes to Tiger Woods. Again, it's a movie STEEPED in Classic Rock, and again I don't care. You gotta love Cusack. Breakout role for Jack Black. Catherine Zeta-Jones at her peak hotness. Classic writing. What else is there? Here's a sentiment: I rented this movie from Blockbuster (back when people still did that) and refused to give it back. Truth.

6. ONCE (2006) - I'll make you a guarantee: I could give you 17 days and $150,000 and there's no way in hell that you're going to make anything even remotely as wonderful as this. As far as I'm concerned, this is the standard to which all other indie movies should be judged. It's the benchmark. And then you have to consider that not only was it one of the best movies of the decade, but that it produced the two best movie SONGS of the decade in FALLING SLOWLY and SAY IT TO ME NOW (even though the latter was recorded years earlier by Glen Hansard's band The Frames). That's an accomplishment, kids. Take notes.

5. AMERICAN PSYCHO (2000) - Yeah, Christian Bale will always be known as Batman, but he'll never do anything better than Bateman - Patrick Bateman, that is. There is not a guy in the world - NOT A GUY IN THE WORLD - that doesn't want to pull off "The American Psycho": fucking a girl doggie style while you look on in a floor-length mirror and flex. Totally nailed the material aesthetic of the 80s and celebrated the genius of Phil Collins. This movie makes me bubble with more pure glee than perhaps anything that's not THE PRINCESS BRIDE. And yes, that puts AMERICAN PSYCHO and THE PRINCESS BRIDE in a shared category. I'm that awesome.

4. SNATCH (2000) - If this movie had nothing else, it has the only thing that matters: One-Punch Mickey the Pikey. You could call Brad Pitt's turn in 12 MONKEYS a great role, but he'll never do anything better than the Character of the Decade. Past that, I'm beyond impressed with Guy Ritchie's seemingly effortless ability to perfectly connect multiple complex characters and storylines. He also writes some of the best one-liners in the business. One of those movies that just makes me smile from beginning to end without fail. There's nothing about it that I don't like, and again, that's powered by one hell of an ensemble cast.

3. VANILLA SKY (2001) - One of my favorite things in the world is telling film snobs that I love this movie, only to have them roll their eyes and say, "Yeah, well why don't you see ABRE LOS OJOS," only to have me tell them that I have indeed seen it and that I don't think it's anywhere nearly as good as Cameron's Crowe's remake. Fact: I do NOT know a lot of people that like this movie. They either found it too long or too weird or too confusing or they just didn't like it. To each their own, but I always feel like I saw a different movie than everyone else. I find it sentimental in the best and most chilling way and I think that Tom Cruise, from here on out, should only be able to work with Cameron. This movie is one of those that I do think has faults, but the high points are so elevated and lovely that they render them innocuous.

2. LOVE, ACTUALLY (2003) - Richard Curtis might be my favorite writer working today, and I think this movie is absolutely perfectly conceived and executed from beginning to end. While it doesn't say much about love that's NEW, it takes the concept and lays it out brilliantly and in such a way that there's no misunderstanding the power of the most basic - and ultimately, sometimes the most fleeting - human connection. It SHOULD be simply the most-loved-girl-movie ever, but it's way, way more than that. Even if you were dumb enough to ignore the writing, the terrific cast, the spot-on observations and the fact that it makes you feel part of a London Christmas even if you've never been there, you can't possibly stay dry-eyed at the real-life footage of people happily, tearfully greeting loved ones at the airport. Such a bookend is a perfect example of the small details that make this not only one of my favorites of the decade, but of all time.

1. ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND (2004) - It's pretty much established that Charlie Kauffman is an uncommon genius, but I don't think there's a word to describe the level of particular originality that went into this script. I've spoken about it several times, but no one ever comes up with a new look at love anymore. Ever. It's not like there's fault - it's been written about and played about and talked about and ruminated about so often by everyone on the planet that there are simply no new ideas out there...until there are. There's not a one of us that hasn't secretly (or not-so-secretly) lamented the fact that we can't have a certain someone and all their vestiges scrubbed from our brain. But what if you could try? That's the simple premise to a complicated movie that unfolds in a manner that just makes you ache. It's a grief-stricken, it's haunting and it's beautiful. Jim Carrey gives a performance that is nothing short of staggering, Michel Gondry shot a film that uniquely toes the line between surreal and all-too-real, and Charlie Kauffman gives us a story that's at the same time ludicrous and so, so true. It's nothing short of a masterpiece in showing us that there's really no way to ever completely rid yourself of someone you were close to...and maybe, at the end of the day, that's a good thing.



So there it is. Now you have the rest of the year to think about how to tell me just how wrong I am.

THE ANALYZING YEARBOOKS SERIES: NINTH GRADE

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NINTH GRADE – 1995 – Mechanicsburg Area Senior High

Fact: You are currently thinking, “Wait a second…what happened to Seventh Grade?” The funny thing is…good fucking question, because I’d like to know myself. As it stands, the yearbook from Seventh Grade is missing, dust in the wind at this particular moment. I can’t even speak as to how disappointing this is considering that this was the year Erin Cochran straight-up broke my heart, causing me to consider blowing my brains out (the seventh grade equivalent of which was locking myself in my room on a Friday night, turning the lights off, staring at the ceiling, and fast-forwarding/rewinding between I’D DIE WITHOUT YOU by PM Dawn and END OF THE ROAD by Boyz II Men on the BOOMERANG soundtrack on my Walkman for four hours.). So that’s a loss for everyone.

Now that that’s cleared up, you’re likely wondering, “OK…well, wait a second…what happened to Eighth Grade?” That, luckily, I have an answer for, and I was amazed how quickly I was able to recall the circumstances, which means I have enough brain cells left to keep drinking!

That yearbook is devoid of any inscription. Suffice to say 1994 was one of myriad years that Central Pennsylvania was beset by a massive blizzard in the month of March. This particular year’s was so severe that we actually missed close to two weeks of school. That fucked our yearbook deadlines (which I should know, having been on the staff…and yes, I’m currently breathing on my fingernails and buffing them on my shirt as if this were 1954 and I were an asshole), and when those deadlines went to pasture, so did any chances of getting our yearbooks by the time the school year ended. Thus, the books were delivered to our homes a couple of days after summer vacation started. And no douche would try to cart his yearbook around with him in the post-academic calendar just to collect his classmates’ ruminations.

Not that I would know anything about that douche. At all.

That brings us to the Ninth Grade Yearbook, where…yeah, you’re going to notice a lot of references to “DQ”. Because my first job was at Dairy Queen. Which was the fucking place to work back then, I might add. You’ll also notice the incredible number of references to my bad jokes; those of you that know me now will have your suspicions confirmed: I have not changed remotely since the age of 15.

The entries:

--“Hey Geoff! Art is my favorite class. Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha. Keep cooking! – Dave” (I literally have no frame of reference for this, don't know how cooking relates to art, and it scares me enough that I’m actually afraid to look through the pictures to find out which ‘Dave’ this was. That was fourteen ‘Ha’s’. ‘Dave’ was not fucking around.)

--“Geoff, [g-off] to a nice guy in my american studies class who i picked on – just kidding – you’re cool but you need to help pick on PO Sanker more well see ya next year. 697-XXXX Tara Kerstetter” (Tara was ahead of her time in a couple of ways. One, she eschewed both proper capitalization and punctuation, obviously indicating that she was a visionary who foresaw how Instant Messenging discourse would be developed years later. Two, she was the first girl to ever write her phone number in my yearbook; a girl giving her number to a ninth grade boy sets off something not unlike a parade in that boy’s pants, so it’s a big deal. Three, during one lunch period that year she got in a fight with a girl named Maureen O’Donnell. The scrap was broken up only after each girl had slapped the other, pulled hair, and torn the other's shirt. As I recall, Tara not only ripped clean through to annihilate Maureen’s bra but showed up in the aforementioned American Studies class later that afternoon with a clump of Maureen’s hair in her pocket. Four, she looked like Sydney from MELROSE PLACE, which was not a bad thing until Brian Kirsch started calling her “Sydney” every day until it became nomenclature leprosy. In any event, she won all over the place, so…take a bow, Kerstetter. Take a bow.)

--“Geoff, Hopefully we will have better luck with lunch next year. I’m glad you were in some of my classes & I got to know you better. Have a great summer! – Laura Vassey” (No one is going to fucking believe this, but I was one of a couple ninth graders who was moved a course ahead in math Freshman Year. That’s right, the guy who sometimes forgets how to use a calculator and can’t keep track of the points in a Horseballs game because he can’t add skipped a year in math. I’m as puzzled as you are. Anyway, because of when our Geometry…or was it Algebra II…FUCK I CAN’T EVEN REMEMBER THE CLASS!...was scheduled, like nine Freshmen, myself included, got stuck in Senior lunch. It was…less than fun. There was a kid named Raj who tried every goddamned day to give us Swirlies – what some of you might call “Bowling” or “The Boosh”. I’m having flashbacks. On an unrelated note, Laura and I both ended up at James Madison where we managed to ignore each other for over four years. Based on the obvious love inherent in her message to me, I’m sure that's a shocking revelation.)

--“Geoff, Before I started working at DQ, Barb warned me of a few people. Nic you can imagine was one of them. And she said, ‘Geoff, he’s a human hormone!’ But you’re a great guy a very funny. And by the way Barb was just kidding. You’re a great blizzard maker but I get the feeling you don’t really like drive thru, huh? Anyway I’ll wish you luck for the rest of the year and see you at DQ. – Becky” (So much going on in this one. While I have to admit that I don’t remember Becky just from this entry, that blabbermouth cunt Barb apparently cost me any shot of wooing her by declaring me a walking gland before I ever got the chance to make a first impression. And poor Nic…how bad is it that he’s the “obvious” one to get warned about when I was allegedly a sexual harasser who couldn’t wait to rub my crotch against the first thing that walked past me? I think we can assume that Nic either ended up in jail, dead by his own hand, or tragically, perpetually misunderstood. Fucking Barb.)

--“Geoff, I don’t know which is better, our deaf science teacher and his piece of s**t labs, or Laura Leedy wondering what the 7a corporation was. Oh well, maybe next year will be better. – Brian S.” (Brian was referring to Rock Martin, our Freshman Year science teacher who was indeed deaf and who was absolutely REVILED at Mechanicsburg Area High School. I didn’t think he was THAT bad, but he was sort of an old, cantankerous dick, and he WAS deaf as shit. Still, the stories people told about him…you would think he was a Nazi that went around assaulting the town’s grandmothers with a barbed dildo. He was just cranky. None of us understood why he had the reputation of Frankenstein’s Monster, but whatever. Also, is there a more ubiquitous Yearbook Standard than “Maybe next year will be better”? I think it’s right up there with, “Have a great summer” and “KIT”. Also, Laura Leedy is going to make an ominous comeback in a bit. Get ready for that.)

--“Geoff, Hola! Hope to see you at Dairy Queen again, soon. Have a terrific summer. Hasta Luego! – Bill Smith” (Apparently, Bill and I had Freshmen Spanish together and he was really fucking excited about it. In fact, he was so into the language that he actually put the upside-down exclamation points in front of both “Hola” and “Hasta Luego”. Also, it’s 2009 and I don’t fucking know how to recreate such a punctuation mark on my fucking supercomputer that’s fifty times smarter than I am. Bill went the extra mile on this too – on the inside front cover and the page next to it, there were silhouettes of faces. Bill drew a smoking joint in the mouth of one of them. That was probably his “thing” that year, his “theme”. Almost everyone had a Yearbook Theme; mine that year, I believe, was writing “Never pet a burning dog” in everyone’s yearbook, regardless of how much I liked/disliked them. I’m an absolute champion of diplomacy.)

--“LaTulippe, What a great name! I love it!! Meeting you at the DQ was fun. You great (yeah – right) jokes really made work more interesting. You’re a nice guy even if you are a freshman. Ha-Ha! Good luck next year and I know I’ll see you at work. – Barb” (Fuck off, Barb.)

--“Geoff, I’m glad I got to meet you this year. Have a great summer, see you next year. – Ryan Mackey” (OK, this one just isn’t fair. Ryan was a super nice kid, and one of the fellow Senior Lunch Freshman who lived under a blanket of constant fear thanks to Raj – more than myself, even, because he was the only other guy in the group and smaller than I was. There’s probably a whole breadth and depth to Mackey that I just never got to find out about, and this was fourteen-Christ-on-a-stick years ago, so I’m sure he’s fantastically interesting now. But I’ll just say this: in ninth grade, as a Freshman, he had a flattop haircut. He graduated as a Senior with the same flattop haircut. You draw your own conclusions.)

--“Geoff – Even though you sometimes piss me off, I guess I’m glad you were in my lunch & some of my classes. I hope you have a good summer & a normal lunch next year. – Amy” (First, a note: this was written around the page edges and the face of the opposite silhouette to Bill Smith’s stoner, which means Amy thought she was pretty fucking clever. Proceeding: I believe this was the infamous Amy Behel, the longtime middle school obsession of my best friend, Matt Martin. Mostly I was just going along with Matt, but this is another girl whom I’m sure knew that we were constantly looking down her shirt being that she was one of the first to “develop”, constantly wore open-necked garments, and didn’t ask questions when we flat-out refused to make eye contact with her towards the end of every class. Amy, you’ll be happy to know that not only are you not alone, but I have not since stopped pissing off the ladies. Or looking down their shirts. Perhaps it’s because of this that I’ve yet to touch a female breast. Let’s move on.)

--“Jeff, History was fun this year. Even though we went through how many teachers. It was fun having to put up with Sanker, Rowe, Kuhns and you (yeah right). Even though you hate me and I know you don’t want me to work at DQ. O well you’ll just have to put up with me. I’ll try not to be as annoying. Have a great summer. Good luck in all that you do. And try not to hate me. See-ya later. PS – Don’t take after Sanker and cut yourself while shaving your forehead (EDITOR’S NOTE: There is a cartoon drawing of a band-aid here.) – Laura “Laura” Leedy” (OK, this one nearly broke my fucking head on several different levels. First of all, there’s no way I disliked this poor girl nearly as much as she seems to have thought I did. In fact, she was really cute; she had that crimped, short blonde hair – like Madonna in her heyday – and back then I was WAY into that look in a girl. So I must have just been as much of a sonofabitch then as I am now. Second, we worked together, and I guess I was a sexual predator within the DQ walls, so I can only assume that I was working my newly pubescent musk…but I guess a burgeoning felon will go after anyone whether he really “likes” them or not. Third, she signed her name “Laura ‘Laura’ Leedy”, which doesn’t make any sense, so maybe I didn’t exactly think she was the greatest person ever. Fourth, you remember those pens that were really big, and like four pens in one, and you had black, blue, red and green ink at your disposal? Well Laura apparently had a goddamned aircraft carrier full of them at home, because she used one for this entry and actually bothered to ALTERNATE COLORS EVERY LINE. So maybe there was a reason to loathe this poor girl. Fifth, are you fucking kidding me about the quadracolor pen?)

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Just a warning: this next one is something of a book.)

--“Geoff – You’re my favorite freshman. Don’t ever forget that! It has been fun at the DQ & you know you will seriously miss all of my exciting love stories. Thanks for being such a great listener & for keeping that long secret of my marriage. I owe you one. Call me anytime for a ride. You know I’d be more than glad to give ya one – considered all you’ve done for me. I always looked forward to going to work when you’d be there to make me laugh or so I could update you on Paul. I really do appreciate you being the great friend that you are. You better not forget about me! EVER! I’ll come visit you only if you come visit me. Deal? Well – never forget all of our wonderful memories – there will be more to come just keep your seat belt fastened. You can hardly read this – sorry (EDITOR’S NOTE: The previous was to denote that she had run out of space on the white part of the paper and begun writing in the heather blue space. And she was correct – it is almost fucking impossible to read the writing there. I’m squinting like a goddamned moron as I transcribe this.)! I’ll talk to ya soon, I’m sure. We’re going out this summer. Call me 766-XXXX Love ya always, Kara – Good luck with the girls and all that ya do!” (I mean…I hate to make fun of such a nice effort, but holy shit, the girl must have thought I was going off to war or something. Kara, though, was great – she had one of the best bodies in the history of high school girl bodies AND, in a fact that may sway me as per the belief of a God in Heaven, she worked as a lifeguard at the Mechanicsburg pool. Later, she babysat my brothers, and I was usually so intimidated by her presence in my home that I refused to look directly at her and almost always left the house in a sprint once she arrived, more than likely to masturbate furiously somewhere in the shadows of the forest. Apparently at the DQ, though, I was no longer Geoff LaTulippe, Freshman Avoider, but Geoff LaTulippe, Best De-facto Gay Friend who listened to her stories about her older boyfriend Paul. Paul was described one day by our coworker Doug as “human slime”, and I really have nothing else to add to such an accurate statement. All that said, I have a feeling that most of you are laughing at the whole “you can call me for a ride whenever you want” section, as it proves that nothing ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever fucking changes.)

--“Geoff, I hope we’re in some classes together next year so you can tell me confusing jokes. Most of them are pretty dumb but they keep me busy during the boring hour of history oh well. Have a great summer and fun at DQ! Andrea, Jen and I will come visit you! Love ya, Kim – PS Good luck with the girls!” (I cannot for the life of me figure out who this “Kim” is – much less “Andrea” or “Jen” – and I’m struggling to comprehend why someone who was so obviously, terminally bored with me and my entire existence would bother to sign my yearbook. Also, how bad off was I that fucking everyone had to wish me good luck with the girls? Goddamnit. Evidently not one of those wishes was made with any kind of sincerity because I’m still fucking struggling.)

--“Geoff, You’re a good friend and a good lab partner but I am a better one. You were so lucky to have me for your lab partner & in your English class. Even though you talked a lot we still had a lot of fun. I do have big muscles. Have a good summer – Kate Gardner” (Three things we can learn from this entry: 1) Kate was jacked to the point where she could kick the shit out of me; 2) This made her conceited; 3) She was not only projecting but probably hiding her feelings in plain sight and desperately wanted to give me a handy under the bleachers. If she’d only known what a juvenile pederast I was, we could have had a pregnant ninth grader that year.

Fucking Barb.)

--“Geoff, I shouldn’t even be writing in your yearbook after what you wrote in my yearbook. But I will anyway because I’m (EDITOR'S NOTE: The next word here is illegible. Is it "amable"? I don't know. Just baffling.). Maybe I’ll see you over the summer. Maybe I won’t. But I can’t really talk about it. Lauren K. – PS Your jokes suck.” (Before I do anything else, I’d like to thank Janeane Garofalo for making an appearance in my yearbook under an assumed name. I loved you in BIG TROUBLE. But getting down to brass tacks: “Lauren K.”, please run, find your yearbook, and let me know what it was that I wrote in yours. I’m on pins and needles.)

--“Geoff, I’m sorry it take me a while to get your jokes but don’t take it personally because I don’t get anyone’s jokes Chris Gabela” (Chris is currently living in West Virginia and is in charge of operating a label maker that is dangerously low on battery power.)

--“Hi, DQ! (EDITOR’S NOTE: The name ‘Nikki’ is inexplicably written beneath this, even though it appears once again at the bottom of the entry. I’m left confused.) Well, what can I say (EDITOR’S NOTE: Your name twice, apparently. OK, sorry…)? U won’t tell me what to say so I’ll just say run forrest run (Lauren told me that) I never started it. I need stitches U R a good artist I know this ‘cause U R in my art class. I hope you have a good summer at DQ. – Nikki” (I’ve…I’ve got nothing. I don’t remember a Nikki and I have literally no clue what any of that is supposed to mean. Perhaps it bears mentioning that this entry was written upside-down on the page and that we had a large special education program at MASH.)

--“Geoff, You are a good friend. Thanx for all your interesting stories (mace at work), and hilarious jokes at lunch (especially the ones that your brother told). You’re nice, you’re funny, and gosh darn it people like you! – Judy Kim” (Reading this particular entry set off a lightbulb for me, and I’m pretty goddamned excited to share the revelation with you. Judy wrote me what appears to be a sincere expression of friendship, she was clearly the only person in my airspace who found me amusing, and she quoted an obscure SNL character to end her thoughts. Ladies and gentlemen…welcome to the moment my obsession with Asian woman was unearthed! Judy Kim, I have a LOT to thank you for.)

--“Geoff, Well its been fun working with you at Dairy Queen. I remember when I first came in here, you were the first person I met. You use to order me around…I still hate you for it. Just Kidding! Anyway, thanks for teaching me the ways. If you ever need a ride anywhere give me a call (considering you’ll never get yours)→ (license). Thank god this year is almost over. Next year I’ll be a big SENIOR . Don’t worry, I won’t push you around too much. Ha! Well, have a great summer and stay out of trouble (I won’t Ha!). Love always, Sarah J.” (Along with Kara and Lindsay Bollinger – who is still cute as hell but married and whom I ran into over Xmas at a bar in Harrisburg and like an idiot didn’t immediately remember and Jesus Fucking Christ I am never going to have even the most basic skills to ever procreate with a real woman – Sarah was one of the three Hot Older Girls from MASH that I worked with at Dairy Queen. However, all due respect to the other two ladies…Sarah was our “It” girl. She WAS our Kelly Kapowski in the best possible way, so you can imagine how overwhelmed I was that the girl even bothered to talk to me. Which is probably why I’m only now reading her entry as it was truly written, with a definite mental undercurrent of, “Oh my God, I have to deal with this kid again? Motherfucker is lucky I’m too nice to not sign his goddamn fucking yearbook. ‘…When I first came here,’ bullshit bullshit bullshit, ‘…year is almost over,’, bullshit bullshit. Remember to tell him he can call but don’t give him the number…check. Smile Sarah, smile…hand it back…pleasewalkawaypleasewalkawaypleasewalk…FUCK! Why are you still standing here? He’s going to ask me to give him a ride to ano…MOTHERFUCK.” I mean, damn, looking back on it…THAT IS AWESOME. Sarah signed my yearbook. Fuck the rest of you peons, I win.)

God, this is fun. The next feather in the cap of this series begins my adventures at Cedar Cliff High School…

THE ANALYZING YEARBOOKS SERIES: SIXTH GRADE

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Alright, so…I was seriously in need of a fucking pick-me-up today, and I’m not nearly ready to write anything about John Hughes yet, so I figured it was the right time to crack open some newly-shipped boxes and drag out my yearbooks from grades 6 -12.

Rather than just talk about the yearbooks or their innate content, though, I felt like analyzing the things that people wrote inside them. If you think about it, your yearbook is basically like a Comments section on an Internet article that’s all about you. In other words, it’s the tangible, visceral version of three insightful, entertaining responses surrounded by total fucking idiocy, a couple errant advertisements, and one asshole who just writes “FIRST!” (which, in the yearbook world, equates to, “Cows go moo, ducks go quack, I was the first to sign your crack.”).

Allow me to say this: this is one of the best things I have ever done in my life. These have been locked in closet at my dad’s office since I graduated college over seven (holy crap) years ago, and God knows how long it was that I went through them before that. If this doesn’t knock you back, I don’t know what will. So here we go: the thoughts and dreams of my peers of anywhere from eleven (Jesus Christ) to seventeen (fuck my life) years ago. All misspellings, punctuation and grammar will be kept as-is for posterity.

And the answer to your question is yes – I have indeed sent upwards of 743 Facebook Friend Requests since earlier tonight.

SIXTH GRADE – 1992 – Mechanicsburg Area Intermediate School

Fact: I was the LAST person to get my yearbook this year due to a clerical mixup, so there’s not a lot here, as everyone was obviously tired of signing shit at the point I approached them. Also, it seems as though the sixth grade versions of ourselves merely wanted to scrawl down our names and nothing else. And apparently we learned to scrawl said names with those fat, retard-sized Crayolas because all the signatures look like hell.

--“Jeff, have fun over the summer with someone! like a girl” – Gabe Staub (I’m relatively sure that neither myself nor Gabe would have had the first clue how to have fun with a girl in any meaningful way over that summer, but clearly the kid was ahead of the curve in motivation.)

--“This year was so awesome it’s not funny! We had the best time with Mr. Marsh, we talked him into everything! Have an awesome summer! – Steve! (Mr. Marsh is still, to this day, my favorite teacher ever. I don’t exactly remember what we talked him into, but apparently it was worth some fucking exclamation.)

--“Geoff – Are you trying to hit it off with Katie (EDITOR’S NOTE: I took occasion to write directly next to this ‘Nope,’ which confirms that I was, indeed, trying to hit it off with Katie. Well played, Sixth Grade Geoff.)? Anyway, have a great summer, but your a total pain, but your not that bad looking. PS – Tell Steve cool act! – Briana!” (As the years roll on, I find that there are fewer and fewer references to my good looks in these musings. Draw your own conclusions. Also, the “cool act” refers to the end of the year Talent Show where Steve Martin and I did a lip-synch to JUMP by Kriss Kross. Don’t hate.)

--“Geoff, Have a great summer! Good luck next year! It’s been a fun year with you in my class! – Shannon” (This is written in PERFECT tween girl cursive. Shannon obviously spent her year perfecting this, refusing to worry about what she’d write in people’s yearbooks and absolutely not giving a shit about me.)

--“Geof, You’re the BEST! Good luck with the girls you’re a total babe! – Katie” (This is the infamous Katie that Briana mentioned above. You can tell by the CAPS and the exclamation points that she’s fighting off some seriously repressed, latent pre-sexual angst. The present-day equivalent to sixth grade Geoff LaTulippe and Katie Fuchs are Harry and Sally, the best friends who fight with each other but absolutely refuse to fuck out of mutual hate/admiration/principle/lack of puberty. To Katie’s credit, though…even if she couldn’t spell my goddamned name, she let me look down her bathing suit every day at the Mechanicsburg pool for three summers. I know she knew I was looking. She knew I knew she knew I was looking. On the plus side, I became a master at hiding erections while shirtless, an awesome skill rendered useless to this day because my fledgling penis hasn’t grown since I was twelve. I miss those days, Fuchs.)

--“Geoff, To a nice friend, have a nice summer. – TJ Larkin” (That was nice.)

--“Have a great summer! (PS my little sister thinks your cute) – Susan” (My first thought after reading this: “I wonder which Susan this was and if her sister still likes me.” Do I need professional help? I don’t not.)

--“Geoff, Have a great summer. See you next year! – Shawn Minnich (How Shawn and Shannon never got together is question worthy of its own UNSOLVED MYSTERIES episode.)

--“Have a kick ass summer – Sam” (I wish I could scan this so you could see how it was written – each word was written above and to the right of the word that came before it and the sentence floats across half a page. It should come as no surprise to anyone that Sam was the kid in sixth grade who everyone described as “probably on drugs” before we even knew what that looked like.)

--“Steve get some women this summer! – Wes Reohr” (This was a confusing time for Wes.)

--“Geoff, To a guy I have no idea who he is But Have a great summer. Love, Kerrie” (Naturally, this was written to me by the girl who I fawned over all fucking year. She really, honestly had no clue who I was, and I probably pissed myself a little bit just asking her to sign my book. Eventually, though, we did get to know each other. The summer after this, she took pity on me and, laughing, attempted to French kiss me in the Rakestraw’s parking lot. I was so terrified I never opened my teeth and just barely managed to not come in my Umbros.)

That was fun. On to Seventh Grade…

GIVE IT UP, CHRISTIANS: THE ISSUE OF SCHOOL PRAYER

Alright, so I'm not much for religiosity. And if you know me, you know I don't mind telling people that. I don't mind talking about it. I don't mind engaging people who are curious about it or who want to "get me saved" because of it. The conversations often don't last long when they discover that, almost universally, I know more about the history and mechanisms of their chosen religions than they do. It's a gift.

And yet people still attempt to sway me. The attempt at the sway usually isn't so much centered around converting me to one particular religion, though when that happens it's always Evangelical Christianity. Evangelical Christians seem the world over to be the only people who - like a bad infomercial - won't be content until everyone is herded into buying their system. More, though, it comes in the form of trying to convince me that they're in some kind of misunderstood, persecuted, maligned little group that just wants to be left alone to do their own thing. Of course, if that were the case, I wouldn't be bothered to write what you're (hopefully) about to read.

A Christian friend with whom I've had an ongoing debate over the years just recently forwarded a version of the below essay to me. I did a little research on what I was sent and found that it had been a little bit edited and attributed to the wrong author, someone named Paul Harvey. I don't have a clue who Paul Harvey is, but the following was written by a sporstwriter for a Teas newspaper named Nick Gholson and is intended to be a defense for prayer in schools:

"Some people, it seems, get offended way too easily. I mean, isn't that what all this prayer hullabaloo is all about - people getting offended? At least that's what I hear the courts and the ACLU telling us. If you read Sound Off, you know I am not easily offended. Outside of getting run off the road by a Mack truck, nothing much offends me. Daddy and Mama gave little Nicky a sense of humor.

Some people, however, either weren't born with a sense of humor or they lost it in a crap game. These people are still in the minority, but those of us in the majority are always tippy-toeing around, trying to make sure we don't step on the toes or hurt the feelings of the sense of humorless. And you can bet there's a lawyer standing on every corner making sure we don't.

Take this prayer deal. It's absolutely ridiculous.

Some atheist goes to a high school football game, hears a kid say a short prayer before the game and gets offended. So he hires a lawyer and goes to court and asks somebody to pay him a whole bunch of money for all the damage done to him. You would have thought the kid kicked him in the crotch. Damaged for life by a 30-second prayer? Am I missing something here? I don't believe in Santa Claus, but I'm not going to sue somebody for singing a Ho-Ho-Ho song in December. I don't agree with Darwin, but I didn't go out and hire a lawyer when my high school teacher taught his theory of evolution. Life, liberty or your pursuit of happiness will not be endangered because someone says a 30-second prayer before a football game.

So what's the big deal?

It's not like somebody is up there reading the entire book of Acts. They're just talking to a God they believe in and asking him to grant safety to the players on the field and the fans going home from the game. ‘But it's a Christian prayer,’ some will argue. Yes, and this is the United States of America, a country founded on Christian principles. And we are in the Bible Belt. According to our very own phone book, Christian churches outnumber all others better than 200-to-1. So what would you expect - somebody chanting Hare Krishna? If I went to a football game in Jerusalem, I would expect to hear a Jewish prayer. If I went to a soccer game in Baghdad, I would expect to hear a Muslim prayer. If I went to a ping-pong match in China, I would expect to hear someone pray to Buddha. And I wouldn't be offended. It wouldn't bother me one bit. When in Rome . . .

‘But what about the atheists?’ is another argument. What about them? Nobody is asking them to be baptized. We're not going to pass the collection plate. Just humor us for 30 seconds. If that's asking too much, bring a Walkman or a pair of earplugs. Go to the bathroom. Visit the concession stand. Call your lawyer. Unfortunately, one or two will make that call. One or two will tell thousands what they can and cannot do.

I don't think a short prayer at a football game is going to shake the world's foundations. Nor do I believe that not praying will result in more serious injuries on the field or more fatal car crashes after the game. In fact, I'm not so sure God would even be at all these games if he didn't have to be. That's just one of the down sides of omnipresence. Do you think God Almighty himself would have watched Spearman beat Panhandle 50-0 Friday night if he didn't have to? If God really liked sports, the Russians would never have won a single gold medal, New York would never play in a World Series and Deion's toe would be healed by now.

Christians are just sick and tired of turning the other cheek while our courts strip us of all our rights. Our parents and grandparents taught us to pray before eating, to pray before we go to sleep. Our Bible tells us to pray without ceasing. Now a handful of people and their lawyers are telling us to cease praying. God, help us.

And if that last sentence offends you - well, just sue me."

Now I'm not going to comment very much on the specifics of Nick's article. I wasn't around for the 1999 football game Nick was talking about, and taking on most of his patently absurd points would be like trying to teach string theory to a retarded kid. To Nick, I'll only say this: thanks for sharing your opinion. Now stick to sports, because you're a daft fucking idiot when it comes to this issue.

Rather, I'd like to tackle the overall sentiment in the piece, especially since I got a laugh when my friend presented this to me in sort of a "Oh YEAH - take that, sucker!" type of moment, as if this statement nicely presented Christian opinion on the matter of prayer in school. If that's the case...you Christians up in arms over the matter are even less intelligent and aware than I've been giving you credit for. And I really haven't been giving you much credit at all.

OK, I'm going to say something, Christians, and this is going to come as a SEVERE shock to your delicate little systems, so please brace yourselves: no one wants to take away your right to pray. No one. Not the believers of other religions, not the agnostics like yours truly, not the atheists. No one. I can think of very few things I'd like to do less than take away your right to pray. Part of the reason for that is because I don’t give a big blue fuck what you do in your personal life. Another is because there is no way for any of us to do that. Are you surprised? Confused? Let me explain.

You have the ablity to pray anywhere and anytime you want to. Before school. After school. During school. At home. At work. In the car. At the movies. Before fucking. After fucking. During fucking. At sporting events. In libraries. In butcher shops. On top of a mountain. Literally anywhere and anytime you can think of, you should be able to pray. And you know what? You can. Are you reading this in school? Pray real quick. Seriously, do it. I'll wait.

(. . .)

Did you do it? Wow, congrats! No one came to tell you to stop? Do you feel like you did something bad, though? It's OK, because you know what? You didn't. Isn't that amazing? How do I know you didn't do something wrong? What? You think it's illegal to pray in school? Well that's positively silly. It is not now nor has it ever been illegal for you to pray in school. Seriously. No, I'm NOT joking with you.

I find it absolutely fucking hilarious when incompetent braindeads like Nick Gholson try to tell me that "courts strip (Christians) of all our rights". Do they really, Nick? Can you or anyone else please show me where law was passed that prohibits anyone of praying to any god they want to pray to at any time in a public school? Show me where that's happened. Anywhere. I would wait here for all of you, but then I'd be waiting for the rest of my life. Because that's never fucking happened.

You know what HAS happened? Because our government has set up the public school system to protect our children from promotion of ANY AND ALL religions - not just Christianity - the law states that a public school may not sponsor or conduct prayer. That's it. That's all it says. It does not prohibit a public school student from praying anytime or anywhere. During a math test, during lunch, during a football game. Any student. Literally anytime during school. So please, someone explain to me how, as a Christian, your rights are being stripped away by the government merely preventing schools from having to advocate one religion over other beliefs. I am DYING to hear this argument.

And yet you still bellow and caw because you “can't” pray in school. Since we've already established that such a belief is utter bullshit, let's ask a question: as a Christian or a Christian parent, would it sit well with you if your child went to school and, over the intercom or by a teacher, was engaged in Muslim prayer time? Or Jewish prayer time? Or Buddhist prayer time? No? Well then why should children of secular or non-Christian beliefs be engaged in Christian prayer?

Oh, right. You're going back to those two age-old tenets you love so much: that a) Christians make up a majority of the spiritual believers in this country and b) because the United States was founded on Christian principles. Right, I forgot about that. Only one problem there: these two heavily-armed points are worth exactly fuck-all. Are you surprised? Confused? Let me explain.

I can’t argue with you that Christians make up the religious majority of this country. I can’t argue that with you because it’s a fact. However, that being a fact has very little bearing in the scope of this issue. Why? Because the rules and laws governing this country simply don’t equate majority and right under the law. There’s really no simpler way of saying that. Sorry to bust your bubble. With that squashed, let’s tackle your other conceit: that this country was founded on Christian principles. This is only true in the most academic sense, and I would challenge anyone to pick up a copy of the Constitution and show me a facet of it that was designed specifically around Christianity. I would wait for you to do this again, but…well, you know the drill there.

In fact, what you’ll find, if you look closely enough, is that there is actually a specific section that deals with the separation of church and state, a concept that disassociates government from promoting one religion over another (broken record, I know, but you're really not getting it needs to be repeated at every opportunity). Now, call me crazy, but it sounds like that section firmly entrenches us in a base that’s NON-Christian by default. Oh, but right – the no killing, no stealing, etc, etc. Yeah yeah, got that. OK, so here’s this: not killing, not stealing, not infringing on the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness…those have kind of been basic tenets of every sustainable culture since the beginning of time. Half of the "Commandments" that make up the morality of Christianity are based on common sense. The other half aren't in the Constitution. So really, if our Constitution is based on Christian principles, it’s also based on Jewish principles, Muslim principles, Buddhist principles…I mean, you get the idea.

Oh fuck, right, I forgot – “one nation under God”. Well, as we’ve discussed before, Dwight Eisenhower added the “under God” part to the Pledge of Allegiance during his term as President in the 50s, so…there’s that. But yes, it does mention God several times in the Constitution. More often than that, it mentions a “Creator”. So you’ve got that. Although…and look, I’m just playing Devil’s Advocate here, but…it’s not really specific, is it? “Creator”? That could be, you know, a lot of things. And I’m just spitballing here, but the central figure in Christianity is Christ, right? So if the Constitution is based on the principles of Christianity…shouldn’t Jesus get some love in it somewhere? Be mentioned at some point? Because he kind of…you know, isn’t. Anywhere. At all. Is that just a big oversight? It seems like that would be akin to writing an article about the vaunted history of Microsoft and neglecting to mention Bill Gates.

Oh, I know the reason they didn’t mention Jesus in the Constitution – because it’s not fucking based on Christianity. In fact, many of the Founding Fathers who wrote it, developed it and put it together were in fact reformed Christians, more Deists than anything else, who were so turned off by the heavy-handed role of Christianity in England’s government that they excommunicated it from their lives altogether. And then they sought to make sure the exact same thing didn’t happen again in America. So they wrote our laws to ensure it wouldn’t, and this is the basis of what you find so fascist and inconvenient today: that the government doesn’t see Christianity as more special than any other religion. I mean, that’s what we’re really talking about here, right? You’re pissed because you're just just not getting a theological handjob from the folks in Washington DC.

And with that in mind, I guess I’d just have to ask…is your personal faith – or your religion itself – so weak that a simple declaration of governmental non-endorsement can set you off in such a panic? Because that’s what it looks like to me. You act as if the government has attempted to prevent you from practicing your religion, when in fact it’s done nothing of the sort. It’s merely stated that it and its employees and representatives cannot support or promote one religion over another. It says nothing of what you can do in your own head and heart. And actually – and maybe you just glossed over this part – it specifically guarantees you the right to practice your religion anywhere you want, anytime you want. It’s called Freedom of Religion. Still a little difficult to grasp? Maybe take a nap, relax yourself, and then dive back into it. I know the notion is a daunting one.

My advice to all you Christians who don’t understand our laws and how they work: take a course in civics and get a fucking life. You and I both know that this isn’t about rights or liberty or the Constitution: it’s about another chance for you to whore for attention. Fess up to that. How spineless are you if you think the government can take away your right to pray? It’s almost too stupid to even conceive of, and the Christian arrogance that people are out to get them – a lawyer on every corner to prevent them from praying – isn’t just a paranoid myth, it’s a belief that makes you look like lunatics. If you can’t conceive of the difference between someone not wanting you to pray and someone not wanting your faith imposed upon them, you’ve got a host of problems that I’m sure you’re not even aware of.

If Nick Gholson’s opinion is really the rallying cry for offended Christians, I hope I become the Pied Fucking Piper of people who shake their heads at such idiocy. And by all means, Evangelicals, keep judging us secularites and bawling that you're being taken to the cleaners by a government and a nation of people that are out to get you. I'll be right here to explain to you how the world actually works.

THE TOP TEN MOVIES OF 2008

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Just for fun, here's what I think are the best movies of the year. Discuss. Dissect. Hurl insults in my general direction. Bottom line: I'm right, you're wrong. Why? Because fuck you, that's why.

THE TOP TEN MOVIES OF 2008

HONORABLE MENTION: CLOVERFIELD, DEFINITELY MAYBE, THE BANK JOB, SNOW ANGELS, THE INCREDIBLE HULK, TROPIC THUNDER, ROCK N ROLLA

10. (tie) THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON/THE DARK KNIGHT
9. FORGETTING SARAH MARSHALL
8. RELIGULOUS
7. DEAR ZACHARY: A LETTER TO A SON FROM HIS FATHER
6. FROST/NIXON
5. WALL-E
4. ROLE MODELS
3. IRON MAN
2. THE WRESTLER
1. SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE

OF MOVING ON AND HAVING BEEN

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There's this funny little routine you have to go through just to get in the room. They make you put on this hypoallergenic gown that feels roughly like fiberglass and latex gloves that seem snug enough to have been made for children only (which is saying a lot, something you know if you've ever seen my small freak-hands). If you leave the room, you have to trash them. When you come back, you have to go through the process all over again. I'm told it's to stop the spread of various viruses and bacteria that can easily be transmitted from patient to patient. Though for some reason, they don't make you tie the gown. I'm bothered by this, as it seems purpose-defeating.

But them's the rules at the rehab center that has become my grandfather's Last Big Stop. Well, they call it a "rehab center", though taking a look around…egh. Let's just say that most of the people here – strangely referred to as "patients", all in various stages of near-death – don't seem to be rehabbing so much as practicing to be corpses. This is less a "rehab center" and more of a "morgue pre-party".

I wasn't here last time. What my grandfather doesn't know is that this is the same exact rehab center where my grandmother died twelve years ago. He doesn't know because he didn't visit her there. We didn't know she'd be gone so quickly. No one's telling him, either. And that's a blessing – it would only make this worse.

Worse than this would be…pretty bad. I find my grandfather hunched over in his wheelchair, hands folded in his lap, staring at the ground. I can't decide if this is more or less heartbreaking than when I saw him two days prior, laying immobile in his bed. I decide on "more heartbreaking" and fight the first of the many urges I have to cry that afternoon. It's a struggle. He's breathing hard, even with the oxygen tank he's become a Siamese twin to ratcheted up to 11 (please go ahead and laugh at that small joke – if he'd ever seen the movie, he'd have appreciated it). His nose is running. His old-person tracksuit is coated with a smattering of goldfish cracker crumbs. Sadly, this is a good sign – it means he's eaten today. In the cache of euphemisms that have become the Mailey family's manifesto over the past few weeks, this could aptly be categorized as just above A Piece of Encouraging News and just below The Best We Can Hope for At This Point.

It's not until I sit down on the bed and touch his hand that he knows I'm there. I decide to blame this on his hearing (or lack thereof) rather than to congratulate myself on my ninja-like approach. He does his best to smile, and even though that's a failing proposition these days, I know he's glad to see me. I've brought him some Lotto scratch-off cards. Every day, wasting down to nothing faster and faster, he's still scratching off these goddamned Lotto cards. "Wouldn't it be something," he says dryly, "if I were to hit the big one at this point? That would be a laugh." Today it doesn't sound that funny.

He gets winded scratching off the first card and asks me for my help finishing it off. I do; it's not a winner. Best we go on to the second one, he says, and so I scratch that one too. This one produces a veritable treasure chest: $20. Look Pa, you're a winner!" He smiles again, then tells me to keep it. I make some joke about him using it to tip the nurses, and he mumbles something to the effect of their heads being designated for assignment in their asses. "Keep it. Buy yourself a drink in the airport this evening. What the hell am I going to do with it in here?" The last sentence is said without a hint of humor, and immediately following it, his gaze goes back to the faux marbled tile. It's clear there's not going to be a lot of conversation here today. So I hold his hand.

A minute or two later, I remember something I had forgotten to ask him about during my previous visit: "Hey Pa? I heard that (my cousin) Shawn came up to visit you the other day. Did you have a nice visit?"

He raises his head, "Yes, it was very nice. It was good to see him."

"I bet."

A few seconds pass, and before he puts his head down again: "Yeah, Shawn came to visit, your uncles are in here everyday, you came from California.…you'd think I was dying or somethin'." This time it's definitely intended to be a joke. I laugh, wonder how he even has the strength to bother, and fight the urge to cry once again.

**********

There are countless things I'd love to tell you about my grandfather, but most of them are personal stories that merely define him in my eyes and wouldn't necessarily in yours. But if there's one seminal item, one character-cementing thing that my grandfather did that would measure him up against anyone, it's this: he built his own house.

To me, that is…that is something. This man was not an architect. He had exactly zero training as a builder – of ANYTHING, much less houses. He was in the Navy. He studied business. He worked on the railroad. And then one day, he wanted a house for that he and his love, my Granny, could raise a family in. So he went out, read a few books, bought enough lumber to deforest a good chunk of Central Pennsylvania, and he fucking built that house.

Seriously. He had some help pouring the foundation and had friends in the trade help him with the plumbing and electric wiring. Beyond that, he built his house with his own two hands. Just him. My grandfather. Pa. Now, really...how many of you know anyone who's done that? How many of you know a man who wanted a house, read a book about building houses, built the house, and then proceeded to lord over the Great American Family within it for fifty years?

I know one.

My grandfather did what a man does – a fact that did not, I can tell you, go unnoticed by my grandmother. Granny once told a story: "You know, the day your grandfather got home from the War, I was waxing the floor in the kitchen. He opened the door, and I saw him standing there and nearly fainted. We didn't even move for a couple of minutes. We just stared at each other. And he looked so sexy in his uniform…" And just like that, she trailed off like an old woman does when she remembers fondly. I was younger at the time this tale was told, and curious, I asked what happened. Granny composed herself and said only, "Well, let's just say I had to wax the floor again."

Oddly enough, Pa's favorite thing to do in his house was contaminate it. For decades the man smoked 8 – EIGHT! – cigars per day. He remained adamant that it was not a bad habit because, much like even our finest Presidents, he "didn't inhale". Perhaps it wasn't on his mind, but the rest of us who had the privilege of staying there for any amount of time existed in an atmosphere that could only be described as brownish. The air in and around my grandparents' house was acrid, hefty and pervasive, coating everything from clothes to food to, perhaps, even a few souls. My grandfather's solution to this problem? He bought a ten-inch high air purifier and set it on his chairside table. As you might guess, that functioned about as well as a band-aid on the Titanic. Pa puffed away contently, undeterred, until one day, at a doctor's appointment, he was told that his smoking habit might be contributing to his heart disease.

Pa quit smoking that day and never had another pull off a cigar in his life. This left Pa with a dearth of ways to torture his beloved family. And that's about when he decided that if he couldn't ruin our lungs, he would ruin our vision.

One day, I walked into my grandparents' house to find that Pa had gone quite out of his head and had electric-blue carpet installed in his family room. And when I say "electric-blue", I want to be frank about just how electric it was: I became the only middle-schooler in a fifty-mile radius to have acid flashbacks. It was like sitting on top of an azure sun. Just being around it made your body temperature spike by ten degrees. It was garish. It was uncalled for. It was retina-searing. And my grandfather LOVED it. It was his favorite color. No one else understood. Chalk it up in the barrel full of things that Pa did that we didn't understand. Another of note, just for posterity: the man watched upwards of 10 hours of television per day, yet never sprung for cable or even a TV that had a working antenna. He traveled back and forth across his blue carpet dozens of times every day, manually changing the channel and then complaining when the reception sucked. All of this in an effort to watch an episode of M*A*S*H* that he'd only seen sixty times before.

There are enough stories like this to fill books. Maybe it would be a book you'd read, and maybe not. Just in case you're here for the condensed version, I'll leave you with this:

When my grandmother died, my grandfather sold that house. His house. The one that he built, by himself, for her. That house was iconic in my mind, a place of countless happy pastimes and life experiences. I was flabbergasted that he could part with it. Some of the family was outright angry. But to Pa, his house was no longer a home. Not without Granny. Now, it was just a structure fixed in place over everything he'd lost. Before he'd even moved out, it was a memory. The reason he got down on his hands and knees and created it from nothing was gone, and as far as he was concerned, the house had served its purpose. It was now obsolete, so he left it.

Like I said, my grandfather did what a man does.

**********

I sat with Pa that day, the last day I would ever see him, for a good forty-five minutes. Conversation, spotty and infrequent, took up a grand total of about thirty seconds of that visit. He mostly bowed his head and looked down, squeezing my fingers tightly in his, and God, I wished that I could do anything to make this stop for him. How is it that just at the point when the sum of your life's actions should be called upon to build your dignity to its highest level…it can be so unceremoniously and callously drained from you? Frail, diapered, runny-nosed, struggling. Miserable. Watching it is pure and unadulterated agony. I can't even imagine feeling it.

It was time to go. It was time to go, and I felt like I'd offered him little. I'd worried about this earlier, that there was nothing I could really do for him. My mother told me that just having me there would be a tremendous lift for him. He didn't look lifted. He looked just like he looked when I came in: broken. There was nothing I could fix. But knowing that and accepting that are two wholly different animals.

I stood up, kissed him on the head, hugged him, and said goodbye. Our last goodbye. I told myself how lucky I was to have this moment, that most people don't ever get to say goodbye for real. I didn't feel lucky. He hugged back as best he could, told me to be good. I walked to the trashcan, started to disavow myself of the gloves and gown. "This is it," my frustrated, scared brain screamed at me. "This is it! Don't you realize that? Tell him how much he means to you! Say something! Say something, you idiot!"

I turned and looked at him. "I'll be back at the end of August," I barely creaked. "It's my ten-year high school reunion. Can you believe it's been ten years?"

"Isn't that somethin'," he replied, trying to look up.

"So you hang on until, then, OK?"

"OK Geoffrey," he lied.

"I'll see you then," I lied right back. And I turned and walked for the door. I almost made it out.

"Geoffrey?"

I know I must have turned around instantly, but standing there, I felt like it took me half a minute to rotate.

"Yeah?"

He offered a sickly wave…and yet made it seem as though it was the grandest of gestures. "Thanks for coming all this way," he said. "To say goodbye to your old Pa."

The words hit like a wave. A Gibraltar-sized rock formed in my throat where my Adam's apple used to be and my knees all but buckled and gave out from under me. Somehow, for the last time that day, I successfully fought the tears back. It had nothing to do with projecting stoicism or feeling foolish or being a man. My grandfather had only four days left on this planet at that moment, and I sure as hell wasn't going to let his last memory of me be one with wet eyes. So I smiled.

"You got it."

I'm 28 years old; it was the first time in my life that I've ever felt like an adult. All I did was fly home, and that's the kind of man my grandfather was: when I could give him nothing, he turned it into everything. The old bastard.

A prophet much wiser than I once theorized that a man stumbles around most of his life confused and in various stages of inebriation, his vision clouded to one degree or another, except on two occasions: when he finds himself, and when he faces death. I've often thought that one can consider himself truly lucky if those events don't happen at the same time.

If someone had walked into that room with us at that point, they wouldn't have known that something was off, something was discordant. They would have just seen two men – one old, one young, one a grandfather, one a grandson – about to part one final time. They would have gone about their day and never questioned the fact that they were both wearing glasses. It shouldn't have seemed funny, shouldn't have seemed unnecessary, but it was.

Because…what did we need glasses for? At that moment, we were just a couple of lucky fellas with 20/20 vision.

I will miss you, old man. I will miss you.

THINKING IS DEAD; ABORTION AS AN EXAMPLE

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Well…I haven't written anything in a while that would make someone hate me. It's been too long. So I'm going to kill that streak. Incidentally, are any of you aware how nice it is to have real opinions – things you actually believe and hold in your core to be steadfastly correct – that actually upset people to the point where they don't want to engage you in conversation? Let me tell you something: it's fantastic to be genuinely controversial and to know that you're not so simply to prod people into being reactionary. Whether you're liked or not, there's a fat piece of ego wedged in simply NOT being a talking head. I'll go so far as to say that I take pride in speaking openly about topics most people avoid and both refusing to bow to those who would rather not rock the boat and also accept any static I get in return. It's all part of the territory, but I'm downtrodden to find that it's territory traipsed by relatively few.

You should all remember a skit from SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE in 1975 that involved Chevy Chase, playing an HR rep, giving Richard Pryor a word association test during an employment interview. It starts off simple, with meaningless words being spit back and forth, until Chase decides to up the ante:

CHASE: White.
PRYOR: Black.
C: Bean.
P: Pod.
C: Negro.
(beat)
P: Whitey
C: Tarbaby.
(several beats)
P: What'd you say?
C: Tarbaby.

From this point on, the "test" devolves into a screaming match; soon, the two are openly bellowing their answers inches from each other's face:

CHASE: SPEARCHUCKER!
PRYOR: WHITE TRASH!
C: JUNGLE BUNNY!
P: HONKY!
C: SPADE!
P: HONKY HONKY!
C: NIGGER!
P: DEAD HONKY!

It wasn't just one of the funniest moments ever on TV, it was one of, if not THE, most politically incorrect moments ever on TV. It's a skit that no one would dare touch in this day and age, despite the fact that it was clearly mocking not only racism but white authority, employment discrimination and a slew of other social issues. The sad f*cking fact is that it's just not OK anymore to make certain kinds of statements – on TV, in a letter to the editor, in person – even if they're shrouded, for one reason or another, in a subversive or satirical context. It amazes me to this day that people still decry that skit as racist or mean or improper. Hearing someone say anything akin to the previous immediately tells me that A) they don't have a sense of humor, B) they don't/didn't understand a single thing about comedy's role in the Civil Rights Movement and C) they know absolutely nothing about what Richard Pryor – even a coked-out, paranoid, depressed and often delusional Richard Pryor – was all about. If you're a sentient being you have to realize that free speech is in danger not just because people are so afraid of offending someone else...but because the population at large is so much more ignorant than anyone (except myself, apparently) is willing to give them credit for.

So it blew my mind this afternoon when I read a letter that was published in the November 2007 issue of PLAYBOY that spoke out about the controversy and PC-ness that blatantly cloaks the abortion issue right now in this country. Not only am I amazed that someone had the balls to say it out loud – they're sure as HELL going to take some undue flak for their statements – but I'm more than a little disappointed that I didn't realize and state it somewhere MYSELF years go. I'm more than happy to admit that Brett McGinnis of West Chester, PA is not only my new hero, but that I'm resolutely envious of him right now:

"In the August READER RESPONSE Tim Johnson writes about the atrocity that has taken place with the Supreme Court's ruling on late-term abortion. I am so tired of this debate. First, both Pro-Lifers and Pro-Choicers are guilty of playing people. The issue is not 'choice' or 'life' – who would be anti-choice or anti-life? The issue at hand is abortion, specifically whether a fetus should be given the rights of an infant. It has nothing to do with women's rights. If we decided, through either a metaphysical argument or scientific evidence, that a fetus possessed the rights accorded a newborn, then abortion would be illegal regardless of the fact that a fetus occupies a woman's uterus. On the other hand, if we decided a fetus is nothing more than a cluster of cells, then by all means go ahead and remove it as you would a cancerous tumor. I cannot believe the debate has been allowed to go on this long with such shameful, slick rhetoric."

If you hear a rumbling, it can only be the collective sycophantic mewling of billions (or, in the case of my blog, tens) of self-important liberals/feminists who can't get past the sentence that reads, "It has nothing to do with women's rights." That rumbling is such a glorious noise because, if I'm on the mark in my reasoning for posting this entry, someone will go off the rails blasting Mr. McGinnis's opinion as a personal affront to the entirety of equality amongst men and women. If there's a God, some or all of those responses will be kind enough to label the fellow or – fingers crossed - myself a "sexist pig". Perhaps those with a clichéd vocabulary will go so far as to label one of us a "misogynist". When that happens, I'm going to laugh all the way to a back alley in Tijuana. Because their rancor will have distracted them from the very, very, very basic point of the argument.

Notice that McGinnis didn't bother to expose his opinion on the abortion issue. I won't either. There's a time and place for that, but it's not now and not in this argument. What he IS doing is pointing out that the REAL core of this debate is being ignored in favor of special interest groups who want to drag the all of us in one direction or another. It's feminism vs. religion, "progression" vs. "tradition", and most uniquely disgusting, Democrat vs. Republican. It's a bunch of people spitting in the face of the people across the aisle, blustering and shaking fists and feeling full of righteous vigor. They're like Chevy and Richard battling it out from across the desk except, unlike Chevy and Richard, they don't have a true meaning at either of their centers. All the bellyaching is now more about political clout and perceived respect and narcissism rather than anything that resembles truth. It's more about protracting the conflict than whether or not there are lives to be saved.

McGinnis's letter reminded me of an argument I made once in a high school paper that my female teacher ripped me a new assh*le for; it was, quite honestly, one of the last times I can remember where I got less than an A on a written assignment. Having seen what my own father went through in his divorce – being systematically ignored and rubber-stamped at every turn by a legal system that attempts to save time in determining custody and alimony by chronically siding with the mother rather than the most competent of the two parents on a case-by-case basis – I posited merely that there should be a DISCUSSION about the father having some rights in the event that the mother decides to terminate a pregnancy. Ceremoniously ignoring the point I was trying to make, the Teaching C*nt Who Shall Remain Nameless sketched on my paper:

"C – You do realize that women actually carry the babies, right?"

Thinking back to the burning, confrontational feeling that remark left me with, I shuddered as I began to wonder how many really stupid smart people must be walking around out there. And then I began to wonder what other issues – really important issues that are important for so many different reasons, both great and small – have been truly hijacked by causeheads and movements that are, at their darkest, just as corrupt and dangerous as any corporation or government installation. And then I really started to quake in my boots as I realized that my "teacher's" bastardized view of the world didn't have a lasting impact on me. It did nothing to change the way I thought about my platforms, why we fight for the things we fight for or how we go about fighting for them.

So at the end of the day the point to this stream of conscious isn't about racism or abortion or free speech – it's that I'm worried to the tits that the ability to think has been blown out the back of humanity's collective brain. At least on the grandest scale. Thankfully, I'm left with a sense of peace (and a small bruise from all the back-patting) that I'm not swallowed up enough in my own limited worldview to believe that I've got everything figured out.

All the same, to paraphrase and disjoint Oscar Wilde...I live in terror of not being politically incorrect.

FOR MY PIGMAN

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Someone had tried to name him "Buckshot".

Actually, that's a lie – someone HAD NAMED him Buckshot. Of course, that's not really a surprise. This was in a part of Virginia called the Blue Ridge, a rural area where one could find the highest (read: lowest) order of the redneck/mountain hick hybrid. People with more teeth than brain cells – thanks, generations of inbreeding! And at the short end of that inbred mindset was a fat little black and white dog; when I came upon him, he was in a 5x3 cage with an index card taped to the corner.

"Buckshot".

He was, as the classic denomination goes, a mutt. A something. A tweener. He had spots like a Dalmatian, a body like a sausage and a head…well, like something that didn't belong in either of those two categories. As soon as I approached the cage, he came right up to me, bounding and wagging his tail. Please, though, don't think this is going to be one of those "But the dog picked me!" kind of stories. That would be a lie. The truth is that this dog couldn't have cared less who approached him. He could just get worked up about anything. Squirrels. Cotton. Air. Any excuse to pretend like there was something to get excited about, he would take it.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Back to that part about not knowing what kind of dog he was for a second. I remember specifically asking the lady at the SPCA what she thought he might have been. "He's a Jack Russell and something, probably," she chirped happily. When I tried to dig for more, she got just a little bit too serious for the moment, leaned in, and said, "Best not ask questions, lest you upset the lady-friend you got with ya." I'm not going to try to tell you that I have ever known what that meant, but thinking about it still nearly causes a bowel release out of pure fear. Remember: mountain redneck people. They're officially 1.5 times more dangerous than your ordinary white trash and infinitely more frightening. Sorry, carry on.)

Upon getting him back to my apartment, he had already started to grow on me. Cute little fella, that of the accidentally adorable breed. And squeaky. I didn't know it at the time, but he would never really bark that much. When he got jazzed about something – usually someone moving more than an inch or the fact that he'd just found his tail again – he'd just grunt and squeal a lot. Sounded more like a pig than a dog. My then-girlfriend Jenna and I decided that "Buckshot" wasn't going to f*cking cut it. And though my hyperadolescent mind could only conjure up the most unoriginal and pop-cultury name imaginable – I called him Jameson, after my favorite brand of whiskey – the name I'd utter most frequently more fit the bill: Pigman.

My Pigman. The two of us were a pretty good team. After Jenna and I parted ways we'd pick up chicks together (I have to believe that some or all of the one times I'd get laid in the period when we were on our own were mostly or directly due to his ability to positively smolder the human female's heart), watch movies together, roll around on the carpet together, sometimes vomit together after I tied on a few too many (his bile was sympathy bile). During a summer where I stayed in Harrisonburg, everyone else I knew was back at home. The area surrounding James Madison University was a ghost town.

The Pigman was all I had. It was that balmy triad of months when we really bonded the most. It was that time where my dog became my companion. If you're one of those people who thinks that you can't truly come to love an animal, to befriend a lesser mammal, to need a little stubby-legged ball of fur more than you need water and oxygen…well, maybe you can't. But I did. It no longer annoyed me that he dug into my crotch everyday at 7AM to be taken out, or that he somehow positioned his 20-inch body on the bed in such a way that he seemed to take over every square inch of mattress. I considered it – and still consider it – and honor to be at his service. How else could I have felt? When I was down, he'd instinctively jump onto my lap and lay his head on my chest. When I needed a laugh, he'd run headlong into the screen door. When I was sick, he wouldn't move an inch from my side.

How do you repay something that gives itself totally to you and asks nothing in return but your love and attention? That's simple: you never stop loving it, never stop attending.

The day that I had to give him away still was and will likely be, for a very long time, the worst day of my life. I was in transition. I didn't know where my next home would be. I didn't know what my next job would be. My life had become a scattershot of impracticality and improbability. But Jenna didn't have that problem. She was about to move to a new place. She knew where her adult life was starting, knew where she was laying down a foundation, and knew that it was going to be horrifying. But in this place she knew no one. Since Jameson loved her and since she loved him, it made perfect sense: he should hop a train (er, well, the backseat of Jenna's car) to Connecticut. It was time to let him go. Someone else needed a Summer Buddy.

Two years later, just about the time I was feeling less than devastated about the way things worked out, Jenna had moved back to Harrisburg, PA - our hometown - and brought Jameson with her. Now a bona-fide LA boy, I was back for a brief vacation and decided to pop in for a visit. I was hoping that he'd recognize me and react in his usual way: sprint fifteen times from the front of the apartment to the back, grunt in his piggly way, jump into my chest, knock me down, lick me too hard for far too long, then walk in a circle three times and nearly pass out on the floor, tuckered out from all the wildly unecessary excitement. But this reunion of sorts featured a melancholy ending to our story. He didn't recognize me, didn't squeal, didn't sprint, didn't remember. He whined when I tried to pick him up. I was unfamiliar. I had gone from companion to manhandler. Seeing him after that would have just been too hard. I remember him peeking out the window as a left, but it was more of a cautious observation than a longing send-off.

It was then that I was taught a rough lesson in human-pet relations: when you let a pet go – willingly or unwillingly – you never really let it go. Not if you have any kind of heart beating in your chest. But they let go of you.

Jameson, my Pigman, was put to sleep this Sunday afternoon. He fought a long, hard battle with a litany of illnesses and maladies, one of which was just too much for the little guy to handle. He was brave throughout, I'm told, trudging through countless medications, procedures, examinations and surgeries. He was never without a comforting presence. Jenna, redefining what it means to "have a pet", spent thousands of dollars over the last several years piggybacking him up one medical mountain and down the next, thousands of hours giving him the only thing he really needed: unconditional, unwavering love. His body may have failed him, but his keepers most certainly did not.

For a long time, I felt guilty – I felt as though I'd either forgotten or discounted one-half of that simple equation: never stop loving, never stop attending. I've always been bad with math, but never in my calculus class had botching a proof cost me the affection of a small dog that was the most important thing in the world to me. Only recently have I considered that, though I may have sputtered in my calculations, I arrived at the correct solution despite my best efforts to muck it up. By giving Jameson away, he got the best of everything – better than I could ever have given him. Jenna was his best-case scenario. I was a glorified kennel. My only hope now is that he's in a place where he remembers me not as a grabby stranger but as an again-familiar, unending source of happiness that was reluctant to let him go. Because of one thing, there is no question: I never stopped loving him.

Life sometimes works in mysterious ways, they say, but sometimes it's just good to know that life works.

Goodbye, friend. You had the head of a bat, the brain of an infant, the spirit of a pig and the heart of a lion. I fear that what I gave you amounted to so little, but I smile when I think of your eminent glee every time I came home, woke up, walked to the porch, rolled over, coughed, breathed or performed the lowest brain function possible. I will think of you every time I successfully stretch out in my bed. Being comfortable won't be so comfortable ever again. I guess that's my funny way of saying…I will miss you.

If there are squirrels in Heaven, don't let them rattle your cage.