Improv. Why?

That question is one I’ve found myself asking a lot the past couple of days.

Before we go any further, just so you know: I’m not retiring from improv.  I’m not even close to thinking about quitting this art that I’ve loved for the past 11 years of my life.  So if you’re hoping that this is going to be a big Lou Gehrig moment, I suggest you stop reading and do something else, like building a birdhouse.  Seriously, I don’t see enough of those small architectural wonders.

Back to the question at hand; Why in the world, for the past decade, have I spent my time studying, watching, performing, and loving this art form?

This question formed after reading Molly Buckley’s blog entry on her improv experience (Found here, on her brilliant website).  She posits that to her, the stage is her church, improv her religion.  Some may call it an extreme statement, but after seeing her perform for the past couple of years, I’d say it’s right on the money.  Molly rocks it out every time she performs.  So does everyone who’s a part of Made of BEES.

But why?  Why do I feel the compulsion to get up on the stage, perform for the masses, and bring smiles to faces?  Why am I not content to sit back, relax, and let the thousands of other performers through this great world do the entertaining for me?

Life would be so much simpler if I just threw in the towel, proclaimed “I’m done.”, and never worried about setting foot on the stage again.  There would be time to do normal things, like watch TV and go to bars and debate the merits of my favorite NFL team’s draft picks.  I could even try to breach the dating scene.  It’d be jarring at first to keep my focus on the beautiful girl in front of me than the dozens of potential characters that always frequent the restaurants, bars and bowling alleys.  But eventually that temptation would fade, and I’d be a simpler person.  A normal person.  A saner person.

So the question remains.  Why?  Why have I devoted 11 years of my life to studying, seeing, and performing improv?  After some soul-searching, I think I’ve found some answers:

• Improv accepts.
• It encourages.
• It emboldens.
• It always says “Yes”.
• Improv never calls in the middle of the week, telling me that things just aren’t working out.
• It never sends me an email, saying that I’m not qualified enough to be a part of it.
• Improv shows me where I shine brightest.
• It shows me my weaknesses, and then strengthens them.
• Improv doesn’t discriminate.  It doesn’t matter who you are, where you’re from, how much money you make.  All it cares about is you perform to the best of your ability.
• It teaches me how to trust.
• It proves it’s all right to be vulnerable.
• Improv brings people together.
• Improv helps me become the person I want to be.

There are more answers.  I just haven’t found them yet.

To Molly, improv is her church.  To me, it’s a mentor.  It develops me.  It pulls me out of my shell, telling me it’s all right to be who I am.  I can succeed, or I can fail.  Whatever happens, improv will be there for me the next day, and the day after that.  It doesn’t discard me.  It needs me as much as I need it.

There’s no telling how long this mutual need will last.  Maybe I’ll wake up one morning and find myself lacking the desire to get on stage.  Maybe the time will come when I have a career and a wife and a mortgage and I’ll have to put it aside.  Maybe I’ll finally take the advice of some of my more practical friends, and “grow up”.

But until then, I’m here.  In the present.  And presently, I’m about improv, and all the hope and joy and love that comes with it.

Yes and.

-ZA

Confessions of a Frustrated Blogger

Such a sad, strange, man.

Disassociated Press, 4/16/10

Zach Arnold takes a long drag off his Marlboro Light before tapping the ash down to the concrete.  He’s a short man, rotund.  Comparable to the Penguin, one of Batman’s several nemeses.  Or perhaps that Travelocity gnome, which proclaims affordable deals for all travelers.  Tonight, however, as we sit on the patio of a TGI Friday’s, he most resembles what several of his generation have become…a frustrated blogger.

“You see people…” He takes another drag off his cigarette.  “…When most people go online, they aren’t looking to expand their worldview.  Nah, they wanted to do that, they’d read a book or…or a newspaper.  Nah, when people get online, they’re looking for escapist entertainment.  I mean, how else can you explain LOLcats and keyboard cats and dramatic animals…”

I nod.  Not in agreement, but to avert Arnold’s eyes as I close out my Twitter page on my iPhone.  Our drinks arrive.  The waiter sets my cranberry juice in front of me, and a Yuengling with a tiny umbrella inserted into the mouth is placed in front of Zach.  “That makes it classy,” He chuckles, pulling the umbrella out, nearly stabbing himself as he sucks out what little beer was absorbed into the wood of the toothpick.  He then asks me where he was.  I slide my notes over to him, which he pores over with intent eyes.

“LOLcats…dramatic animals…right, yeah.” He shoves my notepad back over toward me before leaning back in his chair, the tempered steel of the seat groaning under the massive pressure his grotesque body exerts upon it.  “Now, you see, I started blogging a while back.  Probably 2002, 2003, something like that.  And at first I was having fun with it.  LiveJournal.  Just putting random thoughts down, entertaining the few friends that read it.  Then I got to thinking that hey, I could use my writing prowess for something productive.  Get some debate going.  I was having people write some decent comments out, so why not fan the flames a little?  The first entry was supposed to foster a discussion on if our President at the time, George W. Bush, was using appropriate measures in his fight against terrorism.  I put that blog up and guess what?  Not one single comment.  Only 2 hits.  I know one of them was mine because I logged in at the library, see if anyone had posted anything.  That night, I put up a post debating the merits between eating ice cream in the hot seasons, and eating ice cream in the cold seasons.  Know how many hits that one got me?  65.  The writing was on the wall, baby.”

I had no idea why Mr. Arnold had addressed me as “baby”, but decided to push that aside.  This man was obviously getting drunk off one beer, or had been drinking before arriving at Friday’s.  I glanced at my watch.  Where the hell were my fried green beans?  A loud belch from across the table snapped my attention back toward my portly interviewee.  Swallowing the small amount of bile that had crept into my throat, I asked him to continue.

“Let’s see…ah, yeah, after that LiveJournal thing, I stumbled onto blogspot, and spent maybe a year or so using that thing.  My heart wasn’t really into it, though, and I stopped posting maybe 8 months in.  But!” He exclaimed, snickering as he leaned forward, resting his short arms against the table.  “I got asked to join this spectacular improv group, called Made of Bees.  And whaddya know, we get a website going on WordPress.”

I nodded again, this time in agreement.  Yes, Made of Bees was an improv group nothing short of phenomenal.  Over the past two years, they had entertained hundreds of people, leaving a residue of hilarity with every crowd they encountered.  Truly, greatness personified.

My eyes return to Mr. Arnold, who while I pontificated on the magnificence that is MoB, had fallen asleep.  A quick shake arose him from his slumber, followed by five minutes of assuring him that yes, only five minutes had passed.

“Sorry about that.  Anyway, I decide that hey, I’m in this group, I need to start contributing in some way, other than sheer sexiness.” He leers at me, a sloppy grin across his face before continuing.  “So I start writing on there.  And I figure that since we’re a comedy group, I need to write some funny stuff.  So I had blogs about me and my cousin wrestling in the backyard, how I named my sideburns, all that crap.”  Arnold accosts our server just as she places my appetizer down, requesting another Yuengling with umbrella, punctuating his drink order with a “darlin’”.  After watching our server leave, he continues.  “So I get a few posts into it, and once again, I got people putting comments up!  Telling me how they’re enjoying the hilarity and cleverness and that they’re looking forward to my next tale.  Once again I had ‘em in the palm of my hand.”

Arnold looks off into space, a mix of nostalgia and drunkenness clouding his eyes.  “I had power.  That felt good.  It felt…right.  But I wanted to use this power for good.  To bring some light into this world.  So I started writing some satirical stuff, like about how Obama was getting in trouble because he wanted to address all the schoolkids.  People reacted well to that.  And once I got that reaction, it was like a drug.”

His euphoria wouldn’t last long, however.  Arnold’s eyes grow dark as he begins the next part of his saga.  “And then…Aaron had to come and screw it all up.”

Aaron Grant, another member of the spectacular Made of Bees, was also a regular contributor.  He had written three pieces.  One decrying the former Ukrop’s market chain for utilizing senior citizens as cart pushers, and two which detailed his adventures in the gym.  The first entry discussed a woman with a horrible tattoo on her lower back, while the other discussed the inability of old men in gym locker rooms to be clothed.

“And what do you know?” Arnold slurs, his eyes closing and opening slowly.  “When I come back on to check the blog, the views on Grant’s entries sky-freaking-rocketed.  I looked at the search terms, the words people used to get to the site.  I was…shocked when I saw that 20 people had come to the site using the search term ‘elderly nudes’.  I mean, ‘elderly nudes’? What kind of sick freak looks up ‘elderly nudes’?”

A plethora of them, apparently.  Grant’s blog entries quickly became the crown jewel of MoB’s site.  In fact, his first volume on the disturbing things he’s seen in his gym has garnered over 3,500 views alone.  That’s almost half of the total page views for the Bees’ site itself.

I look back at Arnold, who is now weeping openly.  There, at this TGI Friday’s, sits a broken man.

“I’m done, baby…” Again with the baby.  I brush it off.  “…From now on, no more suave political commentary.  No satirical stuff.  Just straight, flat-out funny stories about my life.  I mean, everyone loves to hear stories about fat guys getting stuck on things, right?”

I assure him he’s correct.  He smiles a sad smile, leaning back in his chair, of which the legs are now bowing out.  “I’m proud of Grant, I am.  That boy knows what the people want.”

I nod in silent concurrence, glancing back at my iPhone, enjoying a silent triumph as I become the new mayor of Friday’s in 4square.  My victory is only slightly marred by my now-cold fried green beans.

Fin

-ZA

Prom and Blazing Saddles.

I try to stay optimistic.  I really do.  There’s a lot of good in this world, I promise.  There are still people out there who believe in the flourishing of the human species, and that kindness is a currency that can be freely spent.

This instance, however, is not one of them.

Lesbian Teen Sent to Fake Prom

How in the world do you find it correct to send a person to a decoy prom, solely because you do not agree with her lifestyle?

I am going to deal with this the only way I know how: Through humor.

Thus, I present to you “The Greatest PTA Meeting Ever!”

It’s 9 pm on a Wednesday.  Teachers, administrators students, parents have all gathered in Altoona High’s gymnasium.  There are multiple dialogues going on throughout the crowd.  Laughter comes from the rear seats.  Finally, Principal Wallace steps up to the podium.

Wallace: (Bangs gavel) If I could have everyone’s attention.

The crowd goes silent, all eyes on Wallace.

Wallace: (Clears throat) Now, I’ve called this meeting because it seems that we have a…uh…situation.

Mama Thomas stands up in the back

Mama T: A situation?!  This is a crisis!  This is the worst thing to hit upon our little town in the time we’ve lived here!

Members of the crowd murmur in agreement

Wallace: Settle down, now.  I realize that you are all upset that we have a…lesbian in this high school.

Student 1: And she wants to attend prom with her girlfriend!  What’s up with that?!

Jock: Hey man, could be hot.  Two chicks at the same time, know what I’m sayin’?!

Jock gathers high-fives from the other jocks.

Mama T: I don’t want my precious little girl having to see that preposterous affront to the big man upstairs, especially on what’s gonna be one of the best nights of her life!

Parents all murmur in agreement

Wallace: I understand your worries, Mrs. Thomas, and don’t worry, I’ve come up with a great idea.  We want you normal students to have a prom.  But we also have to set something up for the…lesser people.  Which is why I’ve come up with this…

Wallace pulls out a DVD of the Mel Brooks’ classic Blazing Saddles.  The audience looks at the DVD, then back at Wallace, confused.

Wallace: For those of you not familiar with this movie, there’s a scene toward the end where the evil guy is threatening to come in and destroy the small town that is under the protection of…what was that black fella’s name…

Voice from the back: Cleavon Little!

Wallace: Ah, yes!  Thank you Jim.  Cleavon Little.  Anyway, he gets all the townspeople together, and they create a replica of the town.  Not a full-fledged replica, just the storefronts and a few wooden cut-outs of the townfolks.  Then, Little and the town all just move to another place, and let the bad guys go and find that decoy town.

Mama T: So what you’re saying is we need to make a decoy prom, so that immoral shrew can go be with her other immoral shrew, and the normal kids can have a fun, gay-free prom?

Wallace: Exactly!  And we’ll send a couple of the special-ed kids to it, too.  That way all those photos you students will be taking to put on your Facebooks or MySpaces will be gay and mentally-handicapped free!

Cheers erupt from audience.  Multiple high-fives are given.  Tears pour from the eyes of the morally conscious parents, clutching their innocent sons and daughters to the bosom.

Jock: You the man, Principal Wallace!

Mama T: You are so moral!  But where are we going to get the funds for a decoy prom?

Wallace: We’ll take it out of the budget for the theater department!

More cheers

Jock: Yeah!  Because everyone in theater is gay!  That’ll show them!

Mama T: My baby’s prom is saved!  Thank you, Principal Wallace!

Wallace: My pleasure.  And if I may paraphrase from this movie (Gesturing toward Blazing Saddles) “Lesbians?  We won’t allow no stinkin’ lesbians!”

And Scene.

Way to display a love for all people, Mississippi high school.  Good job.  Really.

-ZA

Thanks to Jezebel.com for posting this story.

I Salute You, Chris Dane Owens

Ladies and gentlemen, this is a pessimistic age we live in.  Everyone expects the worst from everyone else, and most people are all too willing to live up to that expectation.  Sarcasm reigns supreme.  A perpetual bitterness in our mouths for someone who dares to go outside what we consider the realm of good taste.  Our vitriol all too ready to spill over and crush the optimism, the dreams, the effort put forth by a person who merely wanted to express themselves.

Express themselves like this:

The majority of responses to this video have not been kind.  Several label it “the worst music video ever made”.  Others have recorded their responses to the video, and post them on the internet.

I’ll admit, when I first saw this video, I snickered.  What was this guy doing?  Pirate ships, horseback riding, explosions, 2-second sword fights?  It was horrible!  Terrible!  The only logical path was to expose this to all the world to forever be mocked.

Now, a year later, I find myself coming back to this video.  Maybe I’m a little wiser.  Maybe I’m a little more mature.  But now, when I watch this video, I find myself grinning.  Not from the joy of knowing the amount of mockery I can cull from those 4 minutes, but the joy of knowing that this guy went all out in an attempt to make what he felt would be the greatest video ever.

Would I nominate it for anything?  No.  But, I will defend it as a piece of art.  It’s not high art.  I doubt that it would receive airplay on MTV or VH1.  But for the effort, the enthusiasm behind it, I’ll gladly go toe-to-toe with somebody who decries it as shit.

According to his website, this is the first video in a trilogy that Chris Dane Owens is making.

To that, I say bring on the next two, Chris.  You got at least one person waiting for them.

-ZA

It’s Been a Ride…

Hey everyone, Zach here.  I got a little bit of news.

If you look at the previous post, you’ll see that there’s a video posted called “Footlooser”.  This was a video Aaron and myself did a couple of weeks ago.  If you’re familiar with the 1984 film, you realize that it’s a reenactment of the famous “Warehouse Dance” scene in the movie.  Several who have viewed it have said it was fantastic, really enjoyed my sweet moves, and so on.

There are those, unfortunately, who did not get as much amusement out of it.

It’s crazy, this business we’re in.  Everyone is a great mix of competitive and creative.  They come up with something fantastic, and then do their damnedest to ensure no one will steal and exploit their concept.  Which, if we’re being fair, is what Aaron and I did.

So, with that, it seems that the company that distributed Footloose, Paramount, has decided to place a law suit against myself for the “Intentional Theft of Intellectual Property”.  Apparently they have someone working there whose only job is to make sure that the budding filmmakers out there don’t exploit its ideas without proper compensation.  Basically, the studio’s miffed that we made this spectacular video, and they’re not receiving credit for providing the idea in the first place.

It’s only a civil suit, fortunately.  But still, this means I’m going to be wrangled up in legal red tape for a long time.

This is a long way of saying that I’m going to be forced to bow out of Made of Bees for a while, along with the other comedic ventures I’ve embroiled myself into.

It’s been a great ride the past couple of years, everyone.  I’m going to fight this thing from start to finish.  Maybe I’ll win, maybe I’ll lose.  I mean, what are they gonna take?  My car?  Hell, they can have it.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand.  I’m hoping this won’t take longer than the summer, but who knows.  Maybe they’ll try to make an example out of me, use me as a warning against other performers who desire to emulate Kevin Bacon.  The 21st-century equivalent to a head on a spike.

Stay good, everybody.

ZA

Footlooser

Hello all!

Check out this new video from Zach and Aaron. Enjoy!

Zach Gets Subpoenaed.

It’s all Apple’s fault.

After doing a system recovery on my PC for the 10th time within a 12-month period, I had had enough.  Enough with the consistent updates.  Enough with my computer being absolutely vulnerable to cyber-attacks.  Enough of walking into a Starbucks and not being able to engage in conversation with anyone other than the baristas, due to all customers having their nose buried in their smartphones.

I needed to burst into the latter half of the previous decade.

I needed a laptop.

I researched.  So many choices.  A netbook wouldn’t be enough.  This machine would be replacing my PC as my main computer.  I wanted it to have power, a nigh-limitless hard drive, and wireless built in so I don’t get looks from passers-by while I twirl my USB wireless adapter over my head, hoping to find a signal.

I decided that if I was going to do this, I had to make a splash.  Go big, or go home.  My friends were helpful, offering advice on what I should be looking for.  It’s a wonderful thing, having technical aficionados as friends.

I told them what I wanted: A machine that could be used to help me jumpstart my career as one of America’s foremost comedians.  A machine that would allow me to upload and edit video and sound effortlessly.  A machine that, yes, would bring me to the pinnacle of human existence.

They listened, and most agreed: My best bet would be a MacBook.

Of course!  Apple is usually the leader, tech-wise.  The innovations they have made have allowed us to condense even more productivity into our lives.  No longer do we have to idly sit at the dinner table, wondering when Uncle Steve was going to be done with his story about saving penguins.  With Apple, we could let everyone know we were wondering when the story would end!  24/7 access to the world!

I wanted it, I needed it, I craved it!

But, how much was I willing to pay for such luxury?  I certainly could not afford a refurbished MacBook, let alone a sparkling new one.  I had to be savvy.  Clever.  A Suze Orman of the computer world.

I turned to CraigsList.

So many choices!  And lo and behold, what did I find but a used MacBook, being sold for a mere $400.

My expression was aghast.  Did this person not know the brilliance they had in their hands?!  And it was to be mine, all mine, less than 50 cents on the dollar!

I consulted with a friend.  Showed him the ad.  He told me to be careful, said it was too good to be true.  I had a moment of pause.  Indeed, it was.  What were they trying to pull?  An elaborate scam, perhaps?  A ruse to get me in a dark alley, only to rob me of the 400 greenbacks I would have on my person?

“To Hell with it!” I countered in my mind.  “Fortune favors the bold!  I am a man!  I will make this choice, and let the consequences come if they shall!”

With the training montage of Rocky IV playing in my mind, I boldly emailed the seller, informing them of my interest.  After pressing Send, I leaned back in my chair and let out a long exhalation.  I was in this for the long haul.

The next day, I met up with the seller, and made the transaction.  As I slipped back into my car, I admired the sleekness of the MacBook.  It had some weight to it, some heft.  But it felt warm in my hands.  It felt…safe.  Secure.  Comfortable.

I headed to the nearest Starbucks.  Finding a seat near a power outlet, I proudly unfurled the power adapter and plugged it in.  Not only am I enjoying your tea, you corporate entity, I am now also stealing your power!

My finger traced over the touchpad, the pointer coming to rest on the icon to get onto the internet.  Taking a deep breath, I clicked.

My eyes went wide. Not because I hadn’t realized that in order to access the WiFi at Starbucks, you had to either purchase a Rewards card, or the time in of itself.

No, my eyes went wide because the page that the browser opened to was a static page for Henrico County Public Schools.

That’s…odd.

I closed out the browser, and looked at the dashboard.  To the left of the trash can, was an image of what looked to be a small, green, dinosaur-like creature.  Hovering the mouse over this image conjured up the text “HCPS Apps.”  I clicked on the faux-dinosaur, and was greeted with several applications that would be put to use in an elementary school.  Slideshows on Egypt and Saturn.  A folder labeled “Funtertainment.”  Lesson plans for grades 1-6.

The revelation hit me like a ton of bricks.  I was in possession of stolen property.

Closing the page, turning off the laptop, I made my way quickly out of the Starbucks.  Returning home in record time, I pulled the MacBook out again, turned it on, and took another long look.

Nope, nothing had changed.  Same static page, same faux-dinosaur.  Same slideshows on Egypt and Saturn.

There was only one thing to do.  I picked up my phone and got in touch with the police.  You don’t steal from kids.

As I’m talking with the officer on the other end of the line, I notice the light next to the built-in web camera (yet another innovation I was looking forward to using) began to flash on and off.  My mind went back to a story I read a few weeks ago, about how schools could remotely access the web cameras.  There is much debate over the ethics of schools having this power, with one argument being that if the technology were ever stolen, the camera could be used to catch an image of the suspect.

And that’s when another revelation hit.  This camera was taking photos of me.  On the phone.  With the cops.  I immediately said a silent blessing that I had decided to take the virtuous route and inform the authorities of my possession of the hot property.

Now, nearly a week later, and the story has come to a fairly happy ending.  The laptop was returned to its rightful owners.  The suspect who had sold me the computer in the first place had been arrested and was close to being arraigned.  I should have my money returned to me, more than likely after the case goes to court within the next couple of months.  And I’ll get to miss a day of work, once I’m subpoenaed to go and testify.  Hopefully it’ll be around the time Iron Man 2 has been released.

After all, there’s nothing like enjoying a movie on a hot summer day after being a witness in a larceny case.

-ZA

I Am Single for a Reason.

Valentine’s Day is coming this weekend.  A wonderful time of year.  A time of love, joy, happiness.  A time where you remind your significant other just how much of a part they are in your life, and that without them by your side, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.

Unless you’re single.

In that case, you spend this weekend with your other single friends.  Perhaps you’ll go to a bar or a restaurant, and make condescending remarks under your breath as you mock the lovey-dovey couples around you, making goo-goo eyes at each other over the chocolate mousse or whatever it is couples get in celebration of their love.  After this group commiseration, 7 times out of 10  you’ll find yourself back at your place, listening to Michelle Branch’s “Goodbye To You” and wondering just where you went wrong in the past year to find yourself alone on the single most romantic day in the 365 days that comprise the calendar.

Wait, that’s just me?

I have a very good reason why I am single.

I am physically/mentally unable to ask a girl out in a straightforward manner.

Looking back on the 10 years I’ve been in the dating game, I have come to realize that my past couple of relationships in college were ignited by the girl taking the dive and asking me to some activity or out for a meal.

In high school, however, I still operated under the archaic idea that the man is supposed to be the one doing the asking out.

It’s a simple process.  Step 1) Approach girl.  Step 2) Ask girl out.  Step 3) If “Yes,” make plans.  If “No,” shrug it off and try again.

Not for me, though.  Oh, no.  If I was going to ask a girl out, damn it, she was going to remember it.

My first attempt in gaining a date was for the homecoming dance of my senior year.  I had not dated all through high school, and in a bid to have some fun my final year in public education, as well as disprove my mother’s theory that I was gay, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and get a date.

I was interested in this one girl, who for the sake of her, I’ll give a pseudonym.  Let’s call her Jane.  Jane was a sophomore (I think: I haven’t talked to her in over 5 years).  She was a cute girl, nice, and I thought she’d be fun to take to a dance (She was, for the record).  Since this was to be my first time in asking a girl out in the 3-plus years I had been in high school, I wanted to make it memorable.  But how, how?!

It was then I looked down at the newspaper we got every Wednesday, and inspiration struck.  Peering up at me from the print was that day’s word jumble.

That was it.  I was going to make a puzzle.

Not just any puzzle.  I was going to make a rebus.

For those of you who are not part of the puzzle-loving crowd, a rebus is a puzzle where pictures are used to identify words.  For example, a picture of an eye would signify “I,” and so on.  I spent two weeks working this puzzle out in my unused notebook for physics, writing about 10 drafts until I had a decent puzzle.  It looked great on paper, and would no doubt win Jane over.

We had 5th period together.  I received permission from the teacher to use the chalkboard to write out this puzzle, and further permission from the teacher in my preceding class to leave ten minutes early so I would have plenty of time to get the puzzle onto the board.  I told my friends about my plan, and they all approved, telling me it was a genius idea, and no doubt that Jane would say yes.

I strolled into my 5th period class ten minutes early on that day, full of confidence.  The teacher and I exchanged knowing looks, her informing the class of freshmen what I was doing.  After telling the class, I got a few appreciative “Awwws” from some of the girls, along with a couple of confused looks from the guys.  No concern of mine.  They were lowly freshmen.  What did they know about asking someone out?

I picked up that chalk and proceeded to draw out my rebus.  My notebook in my other hand, I painstakingly recreated that final draft of that rebus, finishing it just as the bell rang, indicating 5th period was to begin.  I set the chalk down, wiped my hands clean of the dust, and got the rose out of my teacher’s fridge, which she had graciously kept in there for me.  I took another look at my creation, and nodded in satisfaction.  I began it with Jane’s name, followed by the rebus, ending with my name.  The message was simple, once deciphered: “Will you go to the dance with me?”  I had been clever in my choice of pictures: A quill pen, followed by -Qu, +W, a picture of a sheep with the female symbol overhead, a picture of a flower with an arrow pointing up beside, followed by -r&w, the number 2, a picture of a stick figure with little marks beside his legs to indicate dancing, the word “with”, and a picture of a bee, followed by -Be, then +M.

Perhaps I had been too clever.

Jane walked in.  I was sitting on the makeshift stage next to the door.  My friend, who was in on my plan, pointed the message out to Jane.  She went over to the board, saw her name, then mine.  She looked at me, smiled, and asked, “What is this?”  I smiled back and told her she’d have to figure it out.  She laughed, shook her head, and looked at the board.

And looked.

And looked.

Then she cocked her head slightly to the right, and looked some more.

By now, there were other people standing next to her, all attempting to figure out this rebus.  I stayed on the stage, still holding the rose behind my back.  I could hear the small crowd talking amongst themselves:

“What do you think that is?” “It looks like a feather.” “But a feather doesn’t have a q or a u in it.” “Is that supposed to be a sheep?” “What’s that stick figure guy doing?  Running?”

In my desire to make this attempt at getting a date memorable, I had forgot the fact that I am terrible at drawing.

Five minutes passed.  Then ten.  I shuffled my feet.  My teacher just stared at me.  The rose behind my back felt like lead.  This entire plan was going to hell.

Finally, I cleared my throat, stepped down off the stage, and explained it.  Jane’s eyes lit up as she looked it over again and with a quick nod, said “Oh, yeah!  I see it now!”  I presented her the rose, which she accepted and responded to by giving me a hug and agreeing to accompany me to the homecoming dance.

I’m pleased to say that we had a great time.  She was a sweet girl, and I’m sure she still is.

Now, though, whenever I get the inclination to ask a girl out, I decide against it.  Odds are I’d end up making it so complex, it could be used as a plot point in the next Da Vinci Code.

Someday I’ll get the hang of asking a girl out in a straightforward manner.  Until then, I’ll have Michelle Branch on repeat.

-ZA

Why I Have Failed at Twitter.

Curse you, Twitter bird. Curse you.

Last year, I jumped on the bandwagon.  I joined in the Twitter craze.  I was young.  Naive.  Full of optimism that this branch of social media would once again bear fruits of knowledge and connect me to a larger portion of the world.

Now, some months later, I hang my head in shame.

I have failed Twitter.  Utterly and completely failed it.

How did I fall so far, so fast?  It’s difficult to say, but I have a couple of ideas.

For one, I’m bombastic.  Loquacious.  And yes, a little pompous.  I like to hear myself talk (mostly) and certainly enjoy going back to read what I’ve written.  But with Twitter’s 140-character limit, I found myself constrained.  My thoughts require more than 140 characters, blast it!  Talk to the people who text me; they’ll tell you my responses, while inane, typically reach the breaking point of the 160 characters afforded to me by my wireless carrier!

With Twitter’s 140 character limit, my brilliant writings become dull, witless, monosyllabic piles of dreck that a man who has received the miracle of eyesight after 20 years of blindness would take one glance upon them and immediately wish to return to the darkness.

Another is the self-promotion.  My god, people.  To paraphrase one of the most eloquent speakers of our times, Terrell Owens, “They love them some them.”  Every time I would log on, there would advertisements thrown at me from all directions…”Buy from me!  Come to my party!  Look at this photo of take-out I got from Taco Bell!  Now look at my tweet about eating Taco Bell!”

Twitter-loyalists will pipe up now, defending this, saying that we are bombarded with advertisements every day of our lives.  True.  However, I do not have to scroll through all those advertisements in the hope that there may be something worthwhile amongst these proclamations of self-promotion.

I admit, I attempted these advertisements early in my Twitter life.  But once again my pomposity, love of verbiage, and adversity to internet shorthand limited what I could advertise.  And now my daily tweet deals with a contest wherein I re-tweet a phrase in hopes of winning money for a car.  I have become a shill.

Another reason I have gloriously failed?  My location and access to technology.  I live 20 minutes outside of Richmond, as well as owning a cell phone that lacks a camera or any other kind of recording device.  Therefore, the great events I hear about being promoted in the city, as well as the real-time events, have no bearing on me.  I would have gone sledding in Byrd Park, if my car had not been snowed in and I lived anywhere close to that area.  But I do not.  And the tweets I put up there about events happening in my area?  The Richmonders don’t care.  I’m the outsider looking in.  The homeless man on Christmas Eve, looking into the window of the home that contains a loving family, where a turkey is being carved amidst marital and familial bliss.  I desperately wish to join their world, but know I would be shunned for my lack of social graces.

As for the lack of technology, I can not send twit-pics.  I can not become the metaphorical mayor of some place.  Even if I did, the places I visit on a regular basis would elicit no response, positive or negative.  My tweet followers would look and see I became the mayor of Wawa, and the reaction would be a yawn, a shrug, and their thumbs moving to indicate they had become the mayor of some upscale, chic cafe on Cary Street.  I have no hope.

So yes, I have failed Twitter.  I have failed it gloriously.  Will I keep it?  Sure.  There may come a time when I will utilize it to its full advantage, and become renowned for my sharp, biting wit that is oh-so-brief.  But soon I will put it on hiatus, and perhaps work on whittling my creative thoughts down to an acceptable length.

But for now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go shill for a car company.

-ZA

Tales of Anxiety, Part 1.

No doubt about it, I am an anxious person.  Not that my anxiety prevents me from being a hard-working, semi-productive member of society, but it’s always there, in the back of my mind.  Occasionally it gets bad enough where I begin freaking out over whether I’m walking in straight line.  Once I’m assured I am, I begin to get nervous yet again…what if I have to make a sudden turn?! 

And so on.

My anxiety especially peaks when I’m around people I am unfamiliar with.  This is one reason why I rarely go out to clubs, busy restaurants, amusement parks, sidewalks.  I always have the feeling I am in their way, or that if I’m not in their way right then, I certainly will be in their way within the hour.  Of course, all the fretting I do about impeding their path usually leads to me and this stranger having an awkward encounter, where I try like hell to get away from them. 

The latter event occurred yesterday.  I was in Barnes & Noble, browsing the “Buy2, Get 1 Free” table near the entrance.  I hear the woosh of the air that accompanies a door swinging open and look up.  It was a woman, looked to be in her late-30s.  She was talking on her cell phone, somewhat loudly.  I go back to looking at the books, as I’m used to people having no idea how loud they’re being when they are discussing plans with their friend over the phone on the wine tasting party that’s happening on Saturday.

I hear the phone-lady say adieu to her friend, followed by the sound of the phone dropping into her faux eco-friendly bag.

And then, silence.

I look up, and this woman is staring at me.  Our eyes meet briefly, and I give a quick smile and nod.  A genial greeting, really.  No malice whatsoever.  Her response to this lack of malice was a brief smile before going back to a straight face and staring at me.  I go back to looking over the BOGO table, but my attention is now split.  Every now and then I’ll look up and the woman’s still there.  She has her phone out and is now texting.

Following is my brief internal monologue:

“Why is that woman staring at me?  I don’t know her.  I doubt she knows me.  Don’t think our social circles would really intersect.  Maybe she wants to look at this table, too?  Then why isn’t she?  It’s a large table.  Certainly big enough for at least two people to peruse.  Why is she still standing there?  God, I wish she’d say something.  Come on, lady!  What do you want from me?!  Would you please just go walk somewhere else or something?!  Gah, forget this!”

I turn toward the exit, stepping away from the table lined with books.  I turn to look back and see this lady walking through where I was just standing to get to the bookshelf that was to the right of the table.  Not a horrible thing, except that there was plenty of room on the other side of the table where she could have easily made it to the shelf without freaking me out.

With my head turned, I don’t pay attention to my dragging feet, and catch the corner of the rug with the rubber edges.  I stumble, taking the corner of the rug with me.  The Barnes & Noble employees all stare at me as I attempt to kick the rug back into place, having no success and finally having to squat down to maneuver it into a place near where it was originally.

After finishing that task, I just slowly backed out of the store.  There was no longer any need for me to be there.  I had done enough.

-ZA