Alex Traynor

The Battle To Find Bunker Hill.

2009-03-11T17:07:00.000-04:00

How Not To Time Travel.

2008-12-17T14:55:00.000-05:00

The Life and Times of Alex Traynor. Volume One.

2008-08-07T22:43:00.012-04:00

My cat got in a fight with one of the neighborhood cats the other day. It was vicious, ruthless, and downright painful to watch. Mostly because they were both on opposite sides of a glass door. You see, sometimes we leave the main door to the house open, yet the screen door (which is glass) closed, so the cat can, you know, look out onto the neighborhood and such. Well, anyway, I’m sitting on the couch, being lazy, when all of a sudden I hear hissing, and then a loud bang, and another bang, and then a “Meow.” I get up to check on the commotion, and there I see it, two idiot cats fiercely scratching and biting opposite ends of a pane of glass. I wondered how this had started, I mean, I was sure it was my cat’s fault, since he’s kind of an asshole, but what could he possibly have done to make another cat want to beat the shit out of him? Maybe he called the other cat a pussy (No, folks, I’m still not above puns.) Maybe he shit and threw up on the other cat’s favorite Lion King Blanky several times? Or maybe, just maybe, the other cat was able to sense evil, and felt it was his moral obligation to destroy my cat once and for all? And it went on for at least ten minutes, they just kept scratching and hissing, gathering intensity, until, finally, my cat lost. Yes, that’s right: my cat, in effect, lost a fight to a glass door. How could that possibly happen, you ask? My cat got tired. In what might be considered either the stupidest, or the most arrogant act ever to occur in a catfight, my cat curled into an adorable little ball and fell asleep in front of the door, while the other cat was still fighting! This may be due to a number of reasons, but the one that strikes me as the most relevant is that, again, my cat is an asshole, and knew this would enrage the other cat to no end. And the fight continued, even though my cat was dead asleep. The neighborhood cat just kept going and going; he wanted to kill my cat. As I kept watching the fight, I felt some kind of connection with the neighborhood cat though I had never met him before. It was as if we shared some bond, as though even though I was a man, and he was a cat, our souls had connected on same plane in a parallel universe. And in an act, that may either be considered the most empathetic, or the meanest thing I’ve ever done: I decided to finish the fight. So, I kicked my cat. Not hard enough to kill it, but hard enough to send it a message: Stop being an asshole! I had been victimized and abused by that damn cat for years, and this was my moment, my opportunity. I couldn’t just let my cat get away with it, yet I couldn’t open the door either, and let the neighborhood cat rip my fucking asshole of a cat to shreds. So, I settled on the only compromise that was just and fair and also let me kick my cat, just once. So, I did it, and even though I am a 6 foot tall man that weighs 160 pounds, and he is a 1 foot tall house cat the weighs less than 15, and such minor victories in the history of man as a species should never be celebrated, I felt spectacular. In my mind, I was a hero. It was like I had saved a family of four from a brushfire, or ended world hunger. I couldn’t possibly have felt better and more magnanimous had I punched the planes down with my bare fists before they had a chance to hit those damned towers on 9/11. And what did I do in the aftermath, did I lay down and cry about the horrible, awful thing I had just done? I blasted “We Are The Champions” from my speaker system and took a victory lap around the living room. Then I went outside and petted the neighborhood cat and gave him treats. We’re actually good friends now (I call him “Rambo.”) So, you might be asking what, exactly, I gained from this experience? It gave me perspective. It showed me that some things just need to be done, they might seem stupid, they might seem cruel, but there are some wrongs in this world that need to be righted. I saw that neighborhood cat, and the look in its eyes, and I knew not only did he need this, and not only did I need this, but in some larger way, the universe needed this. We all have to do things that cannot be explained, not because we enjoy them (though, in this case, I did enjoy it), but because they are demanded of us by a greater power (not God, God doesn’t endorse this kind of shit.) I believe that in some small, atheistic way, we all have a cosmic destiny, and, that day, that moment, my sneaker’s cosmic destiny was right into the side of that cat. And I can tell you now, because I have seen the light, do what needs to be done, because in some small way, the universe depends on it.

It’s sometime around Halloween, and we’re walking around near the campus of BU, surrounded almost entirely by people headed back home from Costume parties. As we walk further down the street, we see a group of around 10 burly looking frat guys. One of them is dressed like a Cop, one’s dressed like an Indian, and another dressed like a construction worker. Before I have time to process this, my friend Jules yells, at the top of his lungs, “Hey, look! It’s The Village People!” Turns out, that was a pretty bad idea on his part. I guess he thought they would just laugh it off and go, “Haha, yeah, I guess our choice of costumes is pretty ironic.” They didn’t take it in such good humor, in fact, they tried to beat the shit out of us. I guess the lesson we all learned from this is that it’s never really a good idea to question the sexuality of drunken fratboys, especially when they happen to, perchance, not be in an all-gay fraternity.

Generally, I’m the kind of person who thinks before he speaks, but sometimes I just get caught off guard by myself and blurt out something mildly retarded. The main example of this happened a couple months ago when I told my friend that she looked “like she just had an abortion.” Now, normally this idea would come through my head and quickly be written off as something stupid to say, but, that day, it just kind of came out. This was bad for, specifically, three reasons:

1: It made an awkward situation even more awkward. Because, even if she just, perchance, happened to have had an abortion, how could she possibly respond? “Thank you, and I feel great!”?

2: You can’t backtrack from it. It’s not like I could’ve just gone, “I was just joking!” because it wasn’t really funny at the time. And it’s not like I could have played it off as a mis-statement “….And by ‘abortion’, I meant ‘good day’! You look fantastic!” It’s just one of those things you’re going to have to live with saying.

3: What the fuck does “You look like you just had an abortion” even mean? Is there even a specific look on the faces of people who just had abortions? And if there is, what would it be? Would they look happy, because they just accomplished something? Or would they look sad, because they just killed a baby? Either way, those emotions don’t specifically denote “I just had an abortion” by themselves, and besides it’s not like she was wearing a Planned Parenthood T-shirt (which, I assume they hand out to everyone who has an abortion.) What I really want to know is, since I blurted it out, without approval of my conscious mind, what the fuck does my subconscious mind think someone who just had an abortion looks like?

A couple months ago I started a group on Facebook. It’s called, “If This Group Reaches One Member, Alex Traynor Will Masturbate.” Funny story: The second I created it, someone instantaneously joined. Isn’t that weird? I think I just needed an excuse.

“Break up with me,” she said. And at that very moment, I knew what I should have known all along: she was fucking crazy. What she could have said was, “Our relationship is horrible, we’ve hated each other for weeks now, and you know as well as I do that we should see other people.” Instead, she gave me a choice. Or, at least, it sounded to me like a choice, even though it very obviously wasn’t. I was confused. “What?” I asked. She replied, “Break up with me.” Which didn’t do a hell of a lot to ease my confusion, so I asked a clarifier, “Do I get a choice?” And this is where she makes it complicated, “So, you don’t want to break up with me?” she asks. I sensed, somehow, that she felt offended, as if she was disappointed that she hadn’t been enough of a bitch to make me immediately, involuntarily scream at the top of my lungs, “I hate you, you fucking whore!” And, at that moment, it all became very clear to me: She didn’t have the balls to directly break up with me, but she still wanted it to be over. Infuriated by the fact that I now, suddenly, was the one with the balls in this relationship, decided to piss her off and make things even more complicated. “What if I don’t want to break up with you?” I say. Which throws her for a loop, and makes me giggle in delight every time I try to imagine just exactly what went through that bitch’s mind in those mere moments. “What the hell is he doing?” I imagine her saying to herself, “He can’t do this! Doesn’t he know that by telling him to break up with me, I was in effect breaking up with him? If I don’t ever directly break up with him, will he still act as though we’re dating out of pure spite?” (Yes, yes I would’ve.) Eventually though, after taking around thirty delightful seconds to draft a response, she asks, “What if I told you I wanted to break up with you?” To which I coolly reply, “Too bad, I fucking love you.” Which must have made her mind practically explode into a sea of confusion. Until, finally, after a long silence, she regrows her pair of balls and says, softly, “I think we should see other people.” To which I immediately shout, “I fucked your best friend!” and then hang up the phone.

Sure, I didn’t actually fuck her best friend, but it was cool having her think that for a little while.

So, I was heading out with a friend of mine and I see my friends Frank and Steve signing a bunch of slutty drunk girls into the dorm. The next day, me and Steve have breakfast (at 3pm) and I say to him in jest, “So, how was the orgy last night?” And Steve goes, “Who told you about that?!?!” And I go, “What?!?! You actually had an orgy?” And Steve goes, “It’s a long story.” Turns out it wasn’t a long story, Steve and Frank had an orgy.

It all started at a frat party. I was doing what I normally do at frat parties, lean against the corner of the room and sulk, when I was approached by a group of girls. And this sudden, unlikely, predicament sent me into a shock, mostly because it never happens and I was convinced they were Russian spies or something. Anyway, we get to talking, and I determine that they’re not Russian spies, it just turns out they’re really drunk and men seem more attractive to women when drunk. I tell them my name, two of the girls tell me theirs, and then the third girl tells me her name: Fred. I’m confused by this, and all I can manage to say is, “It’d be really awkward if your last name were Flintstone and I were in a cartoon and my name is Barney” and they think I’m really funny, but, in actuality, I’m just confused. Anyway, my friend Will comes over, and we tag-team hit on the gaggle of moderately attractive drunk girls. Eventually, Will starts to dance with Fred, while I return to my corner and sulk some more, until after an hour of dancing with Fred, Will comes to me and says what he always says, “This party sucks, let’s go back to your room and play Videogame hockey.” As we were walking back to the dorm, I ask him what happened with Fred, and he said she offered, but he wasn’t really interested. I turn to him and say (actually, I was kind of drunk, so I might have yelled it), “BUT SHE HAD GGIIIIANNNT TITS!” And thus begins: The Legend of Fred.

What I forgot to mention (or, for literary purposes, casually decided to exclude) is that Fred had, quite possibly, World’s Biggest Tits. And that fact, coupled with the fact that her name is Fred, would spark the beginning of one of the largest folklores ever created about a girl with big knockers and a funny name.

Now, Will and I remember only passing details of that night, but, here are the events we can both agree on: 1.) We were at a frat party, and the girls approached me. 2.) Fred only told her name to me, and never to Will. 3.) She had abnormally large tits. 4.) She let Will feel them.

Other than that, there’s not much about the story we don’t argue still to this day. We’ve had arguments about the size of the room, about the color of Fred’s shirt, to even about what time we left the party. And usually these arguments last up to three hours, involve a lot of yelling, and sometimes end with someone getting stabbed with something. Though, generally, we end up arguing about the same two contentions most of the time.

The first, and, admittedly, lesser of the contentions is whether or not her name was actually “Fred.” Will contends that she was either lying, or joking, while I, on the other hand, remember it clear as day. He just plain refuses to believe that a girl named Fred could actually exist and that he, of all people, would feel her giant tits. He says, most times, “What if she introduced herself as ‘Ed’ and you just misheard?” I always tell him that I didn’t mishear, and then I ask why a girl with giant tits named “Ed” would sit better in his mind. And he always says, “It’s short for ‘Edith’,” and then I tell him to stop clinging to any kind of false hope he has because even his compromise arguments are retarded. He still doesn’t believe me though, and probably because my credibility is brought into question every time we argue about the second point, which is our main argument, and the one will probably continue to have years from now. It’s over the size of Fred’s tits, which we both can agree have grown larger in our imaginations since the event. Will contends that each of her breasts is “around the size of two, to three basketballs, conservatively.” I contend that they could crush and kill a man. If she were to get titfucked, the man would thrust and then get sucked into the vortex that is Fred’s tits (they’d need a search party to find him.) You could motorboat her with an actual motorboat. Earthquakes aren’t a force of nature, it’s Fred and her giant tits falling over. If she were to jump, just once, we would all die. If you were to cut open her tits, Shaquille O’Neal would walk out, and you’d be like, “What the fuck, Shaq?” Her tits are at least somewhat responsible for the tides. One time, Fred got a wet T-shirt contest cancelled because they ran out of the ocean. If Fred were actually in The Flintstones, her tits would both be bigger than the giant rib that topples over the Flintstones’ car. Before man, there were dinosaurs, and then there were Fred’s tits. Fred’s mother exploded when she reached her second trimester, and Fred’s tits emerged. If you were to stand on top of Fred’s tits, you couldn’t breathe, because there’s no air up there. One day bra sizes will not be in cups, but rather in a new unit of measurement, “Billionths of a Fred.” On the seventh day, God didn’t rest, he created Fred’s tits. Right now, we’re orbiting Fred’s tits.

Will disagrees with me often, and writes off my theories as childish, and lame. But he continues to argue with me for one main reason: he knows I mean them. And, I know they can’t possibly be true, since if any of them were, I would have died at that frat party. But I still mean it. Every time I see a mountain, skyscraper, or Shaquille O’Neal, I think of Fred’s tits, and then I vividly remember, as if it had actually happened, standing in a large room with Will, two other girls, a cup of beer, and a humongous, all-encompassing pair of tits. So, Will argues, and I argue back, and I’ve likened this line of disagreement to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Whereas Will, Israel, just wants to be left alone. I, Palestine, just want to believe again. And I mean that in a number of ways, but mainly, both Palestine and I just want to live in a world where we have a place and where we know anything is possible. For Palestine, it’s for Israel to give them their nation back. For me, it’s to hang onto the belief that a pair of tits, each bigger than the sun, could possibly exist in any environment other than my imagination. And, yes, I know there are more than a few problems with this metaphor.

More so than anything, that fateful night taught me a valuable lesson: Everyone’s gotta cling to something. For Will, it’s the small shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t almost fuck a girl named “Fred.” For me, it’s the hope that maybe, just maybe, things that you can’t explain, things that seem unlikely, can, and do happen. It’s the constant hope that one day, everything will be as it seems. That one day, there will be no fighting, no doubt, no delusion, no confusion. Everyone will just be happy, and the impossible will no longer remain as such.

Or maybe, just maybe, I also wanted to fuck Fred.

I fear that I’ll get in a car crash, and the song “Gay Bar” will still be playing when the paramedics get there.

“So you’re telling me you don’t shave your balls?” Steve asks, flabbergasted.
I stare back at him, “No, and that’s not weird”

He retorts, stating an erroneous statistic he made up saying approximately 85% of all men shave their balls.

I question this assertion, while stating that although it’s not incredibly unusual in America to have shaven balls, I doubt, for instance, that many men in China, or Pakistan, or any third world countries regularly tend to hair situation on their ballsacks.

Steve replies, “Have you ever been to China? Have you ever been to Pakistan? How many ballsacks in the third world have you inspected? Because the prevailing evidence in this argument suggests that 85% of men in the world shave their nuts, and unless you’d like present counter evidence stating otherwise, it is scientifically proven that you are weird for not shaving you nuts!”

I’m taken aback by that statement, because it was the most perfect, eloquent thing for Steve to have said. Not only did he effectively ensure the legitimacy of the evidence we both know he made up, but he also changed the element of the argument: I no longer had a chance of winning.

I then, sensing the need for something bold to regain control of the argument, decided that if Steve could falsify evidence, so could I.

“Well, you know what, I have been to China, and I have been to Pakistan and the third world! And I’ve personally inspected over 4,000 pairs of balls, and not one of them lacked a significant amount of hair!”

Steve turns his whole body towards me, looks me in the eye, like this has been the moment he’s been waiting for, and then points towards me and yells at the top of his lungs, “FAG!”

Checkmate.

So, me and my friend Ashley were driving to the largest Indian Casino in New England, Mohegan Sun (which is pretty much Connecticut’s unique way of saying, “Hey, you know, we’re all really sorry, for, you know, the whole genocide thing,”) and on the way there Ashley was, kind of, having a hard time following the directions we printed off of MapQuest. And I, being the good friend that I am, took pride in reminding her of this both constantly, and thoroughly for the duration of our trip. Anyway, we eventually get to the casino, we have a good time, and on the way back, due partly to the fact that she was tired, and partly to the fact that I gave her such a hard time on the way to the casino, she lets me drive the way home. So, confident in my navigational skills, I get on I-95 North, and I think of the things I’m going to say to Ashley when we get back, mostly variations on the line “Na-na-na-na-na-na, I can drive and you can’t! HAH!” So, eventually, after about an hour of driving, when I think things are going to fantastic, I see the only road sign that’s ever scared the shit out of me. It said, in bold, proud letters, “Welcome to Rhode Island!” Now, the thing about this story I probably should have said before is that we live in central Connecticut, the exact opposite direction of Rhode Island. I couldn’t have, in fact, gone in any worse of a direction. And when I see the sign, a flash of panic overcomes me, not because I rarely go to Rhode Island, (and, am, frankly scared of it) but because I could never, ever let Ashley find out about this. There’s no way I could ever live this down. Incessantly making fun of someone for taking a left turn instead of a right, and then proceeding to drive an hour in the opposite direction while still making fun of that person’s lack of direction is the kind of hypocrisy that people get impeached from elected office for. Thankfully for me, she didn’t see the sign, which meant there was still a chance that I could play this out without her noticing a thing. But the tricky part of that idea would have been getting back home without her noticing a.) me making a giant U-Turn on I-95, and b.) the fact that we would be taking three hours to drive home from a place that was only an hour away. I entertain the notion of making a go for it, leaving my dignity intact, before ultimately coming to the crushing realization that there was no possible way I could pull it off without her noticing. So, instead, I set in motion a strategy I like to call: ‘minimization’. “Yes, I’m an idiot, and yes, sometimes I’m also a hypocrite, but we’re not in Rhode Island for any of those reasons, we’re here because you’re such a good friend to me and I sensed, deep down, you’ve always wanted to go to Rhode Island unexpectedly on the middle of a Tuesday night in December. I know you that well, Ash.” Now, that wasn’t what I said, that’s what I should have said. Instead, after I decided I was going to ‘minimize’ the situation, I drew a complete mental blank as I tried, desperately to come up with the right words to say. And as Ashley became more suspicious, and as I searched for the perfect way to explain my massive fuckup, I decided to stall, except, not in the clever way, but in the stupid way. So, I pulled off a random exit and Ashley says something to effect of, “Where the fuck are we?” And I reply, “We’re home! See, I told you I’d get you home without getting lost!” And then she says, “This isn’t our exit. I’ve never been here before!” And, then, I say, “Jeez Ashley, how stupid can you be to not realize that this is our hometown. You’ve been here a million times. Maybe it’s just because it dark. Maybe you’re on your period.” She tells me I’m an asshole, while I continue to drive into the Rhode Island wilderness thinking of the perfect excuse. Eventually it dawns on me that maybe the fact that I’m driving through a spooky forest neither of us have been to before, all the while insisting we were in our hometown, would make Ashley scared for her life. It’s a wonder she didn’t think I was going to bring her to a random shack in the woods and murder her (because that was plan C.) So, I pull over the car and I say, “Hey, let’s get out of the car”, and while I knew that might have sounded like plan C was in motion, there was a practical reason to it. Mainly because if I told her while we were in the car, she might grab a hold of my head and repeatedly bash it into the driver’s side window. Eventually, outside of the car I say it like this, “I know your birthday’s a couple months from now, and I decided to get you a present.”
“What?” she asks.
“Well, remember how you like to travel?”
“No,” she says.
“ Well, I was under the impression that you liked to travel, anyway, it’s the greatest present ever.”
“What?” she says again.
Thinking that it would be charming, I adopted the voice of the announcer of the Price is Right, and said, in a loud, boisterous tone, “An all-expenses paid vacation to… Tropical Rhode Island!”
I’ll never forget the look on her face, because it spoke to me on three different levels. On the first level it said, “You are the biggest fucking idiot I’ve ever met.” On the second level, it said, “I’ll never, ever let you forget this.” And on the third level it said, “First of all, Rhode Island isn’t at all tropical, and second of all, when you said ‘all-expenses paid’, you really meant ‘all-expenses paid, by me’ since we’re using my car, and there’s no fucking way your cheap ass is ever going to chip in for gas money”

But, I guess, her actions spoke louder than the expression on her face ever could.

I’ve never been slapped harder in my life.

“Why aren’t you wearing your seatbelt? Do you want to get killed?” Steve yells at me, while I revel in the irony of the self-proclaimed ‘World’s Best Drunk Driver’ lecturing me on car safety.

As I walk down the street, I fall in love approximately every 30 seconds. “There she is, the girl of my dreams,” I’ll say to myself. And, this random urge to fall in love with complete strangers is so strong that most of the strangers I fall in love with aren’t even particularly attractive. Actually, a lot of them are ugly, or physically deformed, yet still, I fall in love with them, and even lay aside my most masculine sexual urges, in order to rationalize on their behalf. “Maybe she’s a good cook. She could be a good dancer. Who cares if she’s a midget? I bet she knows how to Salsa!”

And as a reflex to this sudden, unexpected burst of romantic attraction, a single thought will race through my mind: BE IMPRESSIVE. I generally set about accomplishing this by repeating the most loud and obnoxious part of the conversation I’m currently in, in some kind of stupid attempt to make them think I’m funny or something. Thing is: most of the time it just makes me seem loud and obnoxious. I mean, what do I expect when I purposely yell the most obnoxious part of the conversation I was just having? I’m not completely sure how I expect them to react either, it’s almost like I assume at the time that they’ll instantly fall in love with me, that they’ll suddenly pull down my pants and blow me in the middle of the street. (I mean, they’d probably drag me into an alley first.)

From these occasions, I’ve learned a little about myself. Mostly, that I subconsciously love all of the qualities that make me such an asshole. Why else would I try to attract a girl by being such a retarded dick? Because, deep down, I love retarded dicks, and I love the fact that I am one. Subconsciously, I assume that being loud and obnoxious will make women want to blow me in the middle of the street, because, deep down, I want to blow me in the middle of the street. I want the world to know that although I’m imperfect, and have flaws like any man, I am someone worthy of love and admiration. And somehow, I will accomplish this by blowing myself in the middle of the street.

It’s almost like I’m in an abusive relationship with myself. Sometimes I gush about how caring and thoughtful a provider I am for myself. And, sometimes I get a little bit too drunk and pee all over my stuff. But, between these conflicting moments of self-love and self-hate, there’s a deep since of admiration, as though, through all of the doubt and delusion, I know, somewhere, that I am my own soul mate. And as I continue to walk this fine line between egotism and self-loathing, it seems almost like I love how much I hate myself. One minute my penis is ten feet long and when I pee, I pee rainbows. The next minute, my dick Is three inches short, and it burns when I pee because I hate myself so much I’ve convinced myself I have Gonorrhea.

The discrepancies in the way I see myself aren’t caused by Bipolar disorder, or Meth addiction, but, rather, they’re caused by my sometimes divergent personality. Which, I’ve come to realize, comprises of two distinct sides. There’s a part of me that really truly is a sweet guy. That wants to help the little old lady across the street, and confess my love to random moderately attractive women because, somehow, I can see their inner beauty. And, then, there’s another side of me. The side that laughs at farts, and old people falling downstairs. The other side of me is a giant, self-centered asshole. And while both sides occur simultaneously, and fight for control over my actions, there’s definition between them. Because I know I hate one side, and I know I love the other. I might be an asshole one second, but, at least the next, I’m able to recognize that and hate myself for it. I’m able to make a dead grandma joke and then go, “Wow, you’re a giant fucking asshole.” Which is something I completely respect, because, in my mind, nothing’s more honorable than an asshole that knows he’s an asshole.

And I ask myself, “How do I stop being an asshole?” The answer to which I’ve determined is, “I can’t.” Being an asshole is ingrained into my personality, it’s not just something I can just stop entirely. That would be like telling Samuel L. Jackson to not be black. I’ve tried to be less of an asshole, but most times when I do that I just end up coming off like even more of an asshole. I’ve decided that the best way to handle this is a radical solution: purposely try to be more of an asshole. Because, you see, when I’m a moderately sweet kind of guy, and a moderate asshole, people just remember the asshole side and forget the moments of moderate sweetness. It’s like when you put a little bit of poo into a batch of Brownies. Even if they don’t actively recognize it, people still get a sour taste in their mouths, despite the fact that the recipe’s 98% delicious brownie, and only 2% poo. What I need to do is: be a loud boisterous asshole, all the time. That way, when my moments of moderate sweetness do shine through, they’ll be all the more poignant and profound. It’ll be like when someone puts a little bit of Brownie into a tub of shit. Sure, it’ll still taste mostly like shit, but people will probably say things like, “While, yes, this tub of shit was disgusting, somehow, it tasted a little better than all of the other tubs of shit I’ve eaten from. Maybe, deep down, this tub isn’t entirely full of shit.” It’s the kind of contrast people would notice, like if Gandhi, all of a sudden ate a giant hamburger in front of a bunch of starving immigrant children, everybody, worldwide would notice. I hope to create that same kind of stark contrast. I want people once and for all to recognize, not only the bad side, but the good side too. I want people to be like, “You know that boisterous jackass that lives down the hall, he told me that he liked my hair today, maybe, deep down, he’s a nice guy” Because, you know what, maybe I am.

I’m one of those Obama-racists. I’m voting Democrat just so I can call other white people the N-Word without feeling guilty.

I think it was sometime last year I was at this party someplace I don’t remember, slightly ill, sitting on a couch across from some random, nerdy, yet otherwise average looking redheaded guy, when a horde of sluts moves in and takes up couch space. After about 5 minutes of talking about whatever drunken sluts talk about, one of them gets the idea in her head that the redheaded guy sitting across from me looks like Jim, from The Office. Around ten minutes later the whole party’s talking about the guy who may or may not play the character of Jim in The Office, despite the fact that the guy looks absolutely nothing like Jim from The Office. A little bit later, somebody yells out, “Where’s Pam?” and an average looking drunk girl enters the room as her friends try to convince her to make out with the guy who, apparently, kind of looks like Jim from the Office. Ten minutes after that, the guy who kind of, not really, resembles Jim from The Office is dry humping the girl who has the same name as Pam from The Office as a crowd cheers them on. Regretting my prior inaction, I decide to put a stop to this nonsense, by stumbling up from my seat, and shouting with a distinctive slur, “He looks nothing like Jim from The Office! He’s a fucking redhead for godsake! And who gives a fuck if her name is Pam?! It’s just a name, people! This is nothing like The Office! These people are not who you think they are!” I fall back down into my seat as the crowd looks toward me, disappointed, like I had just told them that Santa Claus wasn’t real. Then somebody points toward me and yells, “That guy kind of looks like Steve Carell!!” For the record, I look nothing like Steve Carell. Fucking drunks.

I was reading through some old Presidential speeches the other day, and in one, by Lyndon Johnson, he uses the word “awesome” to describe the might of the armed forces. And it really made me think of how younger generations are systematically murdering the English language. I mean, “Awesome” is a word that’s gone from presidential speeches, to “Dude Where’s My Car” in the span of less than half a century. “Awesome” is the go to word I use when I see tits. And, for centuries the English saved the word “awesome” for something, well, truly awesome. See, the Grand Canyon is awesome. Space Exploration is awesome. The way the sun sets on the horizon is awesome. But, tits? Tits are, well, tits. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’re great and I enjoy them, but tits aren’t awesome. Half the population has tits! I mean, sure, there are some awesome tits (like Fred’s), but tits by themselves, as a concept of sexuality, can’t, by definition be awesome. And, I say this all, mainly, as a guy who uses the word “awesome” almost twice in every sentence. Yet I’m angry, embarrassed even, at the culture that has allowed me the liberty of such misuse of language. I just want words to mean something again, like they used to long ago. I’d like to say “awesome”, and have it be distinguished from every other word. I’d like call a woman a “shrew” and have her slap me. I want to yell “Fire!” into a crowded auditorium, and, actually, you know what, that one still means something. But alas, languages change, and they certainly never change back. Because for now, “awesome” means tits, and “sick” means something to do with skateboarding. And I guess I’m going to have to live with that.

You know you have to stop using sleeping pills when you legitimately have to ask yourself the question: “Hey, did I walk around in my underwear outside last night?”

Sitting here, in my underwear, drinking out of a jug of iced tea, I ask myself the question: “Is there more than this?”I mean, I’ve been alive for 19 years, and this is where I am right now: surrounded by a pile of trash. I ask myself, “What is it that prevents me from being clean. That prevents me from putting things where they’re supposed to go and from throwing things away when they start to smell?” And this reminds me of a time, a couple years back, as I was moving out of my mother’s house, when she said to me, “You’re gonna miss me picking up after you.” And two weeks later, I had an epiphany, while wading through a foot of trash and falling face first into a 2-week old pudding cup: I’m a disgusting, disgusting man. And I realize now that it’s never going to change

Though, generally, this tendency of mine doesn’t really get in the way of my life. Or, at least, it didn’t until Mike became my roommate, and we shared a freshman dorm room that was only slightly bigger than a cubicle. So, a little bit about Mike: he’s got curly hair, he likes soccer, and also, he happens to be a neatfreak. An obsessive compulsive asshole of a neatfreak. The kind of guy that tucks in his bed, washes his clothes, and bathes a ridiculously absurd amount of times (once a day. Jeez, I know.) Anyway, me and Mike got along great until a.) I realized he was a bigger asshole than I am, and b.) the pile of trash on my side of the room started getting so large that it had nowhere else to topple but his side of the room. Now, I tried at first to be a considerate roommate and regularly tend to the pile of trash, but when he decided he could just get away with being a giant douche bag, I decided I knew how to be a bigger douche bag than he could be. So, in an effort to make him angry, I did what I do best, I became disgusting. Now, I’m a normally disgusting man, which I know and have already stated, but you need to be reminded of that when I tell you that how disgusting I became to drive Mike crazy. And to describe just how dirty it got in that room, I need to use hyperbole. Okay, let’s say that I normally am Pig Pen from the Charlie Brown show, and my side of the room is normally New Jersey. Now, imagine if I had an orgy with Carrot Top, Oscar The Grouch, Anna Nicole’s corpse, all the original members of The Jackson 5, and every person who’s ever appeared on The Jerry Springer Show. Now, imagine that if after the orgy we all started shitting, and we continued to shit for, oh, let’s say, a month. Then, when we’re all done shitting, I kill everybody else in the orgy while they jerk me off, and when I finally blow my load (I’m just jerking myself off at this point since they’re all dead,) out of my penis flows 3,000 gallons of a mixture of oil, Fun Dip, the tears of every child who’s ever felt sadness, Polar Bear skin, and a small amount of sperm. Now, imagine that place 3 million years later after all that junk has finished decaying and the bacteria contained within it is starting to evolve into evil, monstrous, creatures that look like a mixture of the zombies in 28 Days later and Kirstie Alley’s vagina.

That’s what my room was like. Actually, let’s be honest, I’m fluffing the details in a shallow attempt to make myself look better. It probably was worse than that.

So, this obviously drove Mike, the neatfreak, out-of-his-mind crazy. It even drove me a little crazy with how filthy it was in there. Anyway, this created a lot of animosity and culminated in a lot of bad things, like a physical fight, that resulted in one of us getting punched in the nuts, and another of us getting the other in a headlock (I won’t tell you who did what, but I will tell you that I aim to kill.) And after a while it kind of hit me: “Why hasn’t Mike requested to move out yet? I mean, this is an awful situation for both of us, but he must know at this point that my spite is legendary and I’d commit Seppuku before moving out. He’s not nearly as spiteful as I am, he should have gotten the hell out of here already!” But he stayed, and he continued to stay until, finally, after 5 long months, something, so trivial, so stupid, finally convinced him to leave.

So, I’m sitting in my room organizing all the porn on my computer, when my friends Pat and Annalise come into the room, and start to tell me about what they did that night until, eventually, Annalise remembers that she has a lot of extra ketchup packets in her purse. She decides that it would be funny to creatively hide them all over Mike’s side of the room (in the back of his dresser drawers, in his pencil holders, above ceiling tiles, etc.) I consider stopping her, but then I remember that I hate Mike.

Around a month later, I’m on the phone with my Grandmother when I hear Mike yell, as loud as he can, “What the fuck?!” I turn towards Mike, in search of some kind of explanation, and he goes, “Why would you do this to me?!” I struggle to think of what it could be, what I did to make his life so, unexpectedly, agonizingly miserable. Not something gradually miserable, that would eat away his soul, like the pile of trash, but something instantly, immediately miserable. And as I tried to think of why he could be so mad, it came back to me, and I say to Mike, in the most patronizing way possible, “I take it you don’t like Ketchup.”

“I fucking hate you!” he replies, which was the third thing he had said to me in over three months.

“Calm down, crazy, this isn’t the kind of thing you put a man into a headlock for,” I say in a calm, cool, collected voice.
“Why would you do this to me? You knew this would piss me off! You don’t just go through my shit and put ketchup there! And you know what, I was already having a bad day!” he screams, at the top of his lungs.

I briefly consider telling him that it wasn’t actually my fault. That Annalise, a friend to both of us did it, and that she obviously didn’t think it would make him shit his pants and go into a murderous rage. But as soon as the thought entered my head, it left, because this moment was far too good to let go. I couldn’t just tell him, and then have him yell at Annalise, because Annalise would probably half-heartedly apologize. In my mind, what Mike needed was to be fucked with.

So, I say, in a faint, quick whisper, with this crazy, manic look on my face, “One of them is open, and I’m not telling which one it is.” And then I bolt out of the room before he has the chance to murder me.

In actuality, none of the ketchup packets were ever opened, and there were probably less than ten in all. But, nonetheless, Mike tore apart his side of the room looking for it, and it drove him even more insane than the persistent nagging of my pile of trash. I never had the heart to tell him I was lying about the open packet, because even after he stopped looking, he still believed me, and deep down, I bet a part of him needed to find that missing packet, to make sure that everything was clean. I probably should have told him, after he had searched literally every square inch of the room, that it didn’t exist, but I guess a part of me empathized with his struggle. I understood his need, in a sense, to know that everything was all right. While he needed to know that everything was clean on his side of the room, I often need to know things like, “Is my fly open?” and “If it is, then is the flap in my boxers open, exposing my penis?”

Actually, you know what? That’s all complete bullshit, I could have told him whenever I wanted, I just really really really wanted him to move out.

And in what I could consider one of the best days of my life, Mike finally moved out, after 5 agonizing months, to a room down the hall. I threw a giant party, I stayed up all night, and my life was great. But something changed the day Mike moved out, because for the rest of the year my room was spotless, odor-free, and completely neat and tidy. And it wasn’t for some bullshit reason, like I had realized the errors in my ways and was a changed man entirely. I did this, for quite possibly the most petty and immature reason possible: I wanted Mike to see. Deep down, I needed that asshole to see the room clean, I wanted him to see what the room could have been like had he not been such a douche bag. I wanted to see the look on his face, and I wanted him to know I hated him too. Because if there’s one element ingrained in my persona stronger than my laziness, it’s my spitefulness. So strong is my ability to hold a grudge, that I’ll completely change almost everything in my daily routine and personal habits to see that look on a person’s face. The look that says, “Oh my god, that person is fucking crazy. Why would he do that?” And to think, I regularly bathed just to make somebody angry. Boy, the lengths I’ll go to piss somebody off. What a crazy kid I am.

Let's say alextraynor.com gets around 20 hits a day, max. And about 15 of those are from me, reveling in my brilliance. Now, let's say I get around 3 legitimate hits a day, since my mom found out how to Google my name and probably visits around twice a day (Mainly, so she can ask me questions like, "Why do you dress like Hitler so often? Do you not like the jews?”) I would say one of the remaining legitimate hits is a carryover from traffic I received for making two cartoons when I was 16. And the other two hits come from people on Google searching for either a variation of "Why don't I have a girlfriend?" or "colonoscopy jokes."

So, I've had this website for going on three years now, and the bulk of my legitimate traffic comes from people disappointed at the lack of relationship advice, and/or colonoscopy jokes. Dear god, that’s pathetic.

Oh my god,” Steve says, “that’s the most attractive homeless girl I’ve ever seen.”
And for Steve, the most shallow and self-involved person I know, to admit that any girl is more than an ugly fatass is nothing short of astounding. Because, despite the fact that this girl was panhandling, and wearing dirty clothes, we were both able to agree that she was one of the most gorgeous people we had ever seen.

“There’s no way she’s actually homeless, she’s far too good looking. She’s just in this for the panhandling money or something” I say to Steve.

“Whatever man, I’m asking her out,” he replies.

“What?!” I ask, in shock.

“Just think about it. I’m good looking. She’s good looking. I have a home. She doesn’t. This all makes perfect sense!”

I decide not to argue with Steve this time, for fear that I might actually win and he wouldn’t ask out the hobo. As I stand at a distance, Steve approaches the girl and most likely launches into Smalltalk and reassurances of how even though he could rape and murder her without anyone noticing, that he wouldn’t, because he’s a nice guy. Eventually, the conversation seems to wind down, and Steve walks back towards me.

“When’s your hot date, buddy? 3:34am next to the dumpster behind Pizzeria Uno?”
“She turned me down.”
“Why?” I ask.
“She said she thought it was weird that I was asking out a homeless girl.”
“Oh Steve. She wasn’t right for you anyway, she doesn’t know what she’s missing out on. One day you’ll find the right homeless girl. The homeless girl of your dreams. The one that’ll love you for you, and not just because you have a home. But until then, you’ll always have me.”
“I don’t want you. I hate you.”
“I love you too, Shnookums”

“You have to.”
“I’m not gonna.”
“Just one puff.”
“No!”
“Please?”
“For the last fucking time, Frank, I’m not gonna smoke catnip with you!”

Eventually, like fifteen minutes later, I did smoke Catnip with Frank. Not because I particularly wanted to, but more because I wear down easily. Frank argued so persistently, and with such conviction, that at times, he made it seem like the concept of smoking Catnip wasn’t retarded. As he insisted, Catnip was cheap, legal Weed, except better, in a million different ways. “If it’s so much better, why do people still smoke weed?” I would ask, and he would make up some kind of government conspiracy that made no sense. And even though there were flaws in his arguments, somehow, he was able to convince me that I needed to smoke Catnip with him. Mainly, because it was probably the only way to get him to shut up.

So, what you all want to know is: Does it work? Does Catnip get you high? And the overwhelming answer is: No. It doesn’t get you high, it doesn’t make you feel good, hell, it didn’t even make me feel like a cat. Frank’s main contention was that it made you drowsy, and, yes, it will make you drowsy, because if you smoke something for long enough, eventually you’re gonna get tired. Though not exactly as a result of what you’re smoking, but rather because time has passed. So, as a word of advice, if somebody asks you to smoke Catnip with them, just say no. Because if there’s anything worse for our society than Drugs, it’s Cat-Drugs.

It was a Thursday night, and me and my friend Ashley went to Hooters, and we did what everyone does when it’s ‘all-you-you-can-eat wing night’ at Hooters, we brought large plastic bags in an attempt to steal as many wings as we possibly could. Because, frankly, I love chicken wings (Also, I love tits.) Behind Pizza and Fun Dip, they’re my third favorite type of food (And behind vaginas, and taints, tits are my third favorite kind of body part.) And by the end of the night, we had managed to fill our plastic bags almost entirely full of wings, a fact that we were extraordinarily proud of (so proud, that we actually took pictures.) On the ride home, as me and Ashley were lip-syncing to ‘Gay Bar’, I get a call from my girlfriend at the time, and we have a long boring conversation that, frankly, I don’t remember most of. Eventually, I tell her about the wings, and merely as a common courtesy, I offer her some, suspecting that she’d politely decline the offer. And then, she said the words that still haunt me to this day, “Sure, bring them over.”

Which threw me for a complete loop, since I had never considered the prospect of having to give any of my wings away. Though I had only possessed the giant bag of wings for mere moments, I had become quite attached to it. I had fallen in love with it, it was like my baby. And for me to give it away, minutes after it was conceived, would be like the Pope making his girlfriend get an abortion on Easter Sunday. I had to ask myself the question, “Am I willing to part with these wings?” I mean, I love Chicken Wings. Her, on the other hand, not so much. We were dating, sure, but I also kind of hated her guts. And we were probably going to break up within a week anyway; I mean, if I properly rationed the chicken wings, they could last me as long as two weeks. The chicken wings would bring me immeasurable amounts of joy and happiness, while she would, at best, give me a handjob (And let’s face it, you can buy those in Chinatown for less than I spent on the wings.)

I had made a decision in my mind: I valued chicken wings more than my relationship. But I couldn’t just break my obligation, I had made a promise and I intended to keep it. I would go to her house with the giant bag of wings, and she would take four or five, necessary punishment for stupidly having had volunteered them in the first place. But what if she took more, what if she wanted more? Could I deal with that? Was I emotionally ready for that kind of heartbreak? Would I dump her, right on the spot? More importantly, was I willing to break up with a girl over chicken wings? Sure the breakup would have a list of other motivations, but did I want the straw that broke the camel’s back to be a bag of chicken wings? I flirted with the idea of removing the majority of chicken wings from the bag before presenting it to her, ensuring she could take no more than a couple. But, eventually, I decided against this idea. As I told my friend Ashley, “If that bitch thinks she can take the entire bag, this is about a whole lot more than chicken wings”

I get to her place and walk up to her door as she greets me. She sees the bag, and then, immediately, reaches for it. This is when it dawned on me: our relationship is over. This wasn’t about the chicken wings, this was about her biting off more than she could chew. And as she grabbed the bag, and as I reflexively pulled back on it, unwilling, unable to let go of my child, I knew that we were at different places in our lives. She was able to sit back, and let others provide for her, care for her. While I was in a different mindset entirely, I was ready to move on, to create adventures, and make memories. To forge my own path, and to eat all the chicken wings that I deemed delicious. She was ready to take the whole bag, ready to let others suffer for her enjoyment. While I just wanted to hold onto what I believed in. And I sure as hell believed in those Chicken Wings. My conscious mind prevented me from screaming the words that echoed so clearly in my brain: “Bitch! I want my wings back!”

I could have asked for my wings back before she shut the door on the night, our relationship, but I just couldn’t bring myself to it. Partially because I was in shock, I was too depressed to say anything. Partially because I still cared what she thought of me, and didn’t want her to think I was petty, since she obviously could never understand just how much those wings meant to me. We broke up a week later. Partly, because she was a bitch, and, partly, because she told me to break up with her. And, later I would find out that she’s actually a vegetarian, and she just put them in her Fridge for her Stepdad to eat. But that wouldn’t matter to me, because this wasn’t about the chicken wings any more.

This story, mainly serves as a parallel to almost every romantic situation I’ve ever been in. Now, go back and re-read the story, except replace the words ‘chicken wings’ with the words ‘self confidence’. It goes the same way every time. I gather self confidence, they take that self-confidence and destroy it, until, ultimately, I’m left speechless thinking, “Bitch! I want my self-confidence back!” unable to vocalize it, because they took my self-confidence.

Actually, let’s be honest, there’s no actual purpose to this story. I just want my chicken wings back.

“It’s not working!” he shouted, “It won’t let me get into my room!”

And all I did was stand there, in awe. Mostly, because Dan was drunk, and also because he was in his underwear. “Where did he come from?” I asked myself. I mean, where exactly does one go to get drunk and naked without being sent to jail? He probably had to have come from another room in the building since if he were outside naked, I’m sure it would have made the news.

Eventually, Dan notices me standing there, and asks for assistance in his current predicament. I knew that I would have to eventually show him how to get into his room, but first I needed to ask a question: “Where are your clothes?”

“I don’t know, maybe somebody stole them?” he replies and I try to make of what to think of this. Is he joking? Or is there a pants-thief on the loose? I consider asking a follow-up question like, “How could you not remember?” or “Has this happened more than once?” but instead, I realize the futility in asking questions to anyone that drunk and naked.

He hands me the card, and it’s not his Student ID, which is what you would use to swipe into your room, but instead, a gift certificate to Wendy’s. This raises more questions, like “Why the hell does Dan have a gift certificate to Wendy’s?” and “Why wouldn’t the pants-thief take the Wendy’s gift certificate too? I mean, I know he’s a pant’s thief and all, but the gift certificate was probably already in the pocket. Does pants-thief not like Wendy’s?” But, instead of asking these questions, like I had already decided not to, I asked him to give me his Student ID, and not, you know, a giftcard to a fast food place. He gave it to me, and I swiped him into his room.

The next morning, he remembered none of this. And I still do not know the true identity of the pants-thief. But, either way, I know what I’m doing now: When I get drunk, I’m making the hell sure nobody steals my pants.

I’m not sure what it was exactly that made me re-evaluate my life, but I think it was when the third Brazilian chick shit all over the second Brazilian chick. That was when it hit me: “This is stupid. Both, you, and your friends are fucking stupid!” And I don’t know how it started. I really don’t. But, I figure it began with a number of escalating dares, and, then, somehow, unexpectedly, the whole group ended up watching shit porn. And not, 2girls1cup kind of shit-porn, either. Something much much worse. So much worse, that it’s only referred to by its filename: Swap.avi. The video is best described by Somethingawful.com, which writes: “Imagine if the Holocaust was a 63 minute long video about pooping. Now imagine your mother drowning in a bathtub full of diarrhea.”

It was a contest, in effect, to determine who was the manliest among us. We set out to see who could watch the video for the longest without throwing up. And, in retrospect, I guess the fact that we were all willing to have the contest was pretty much foreshadowing that no-one would quit. It was like a game of Chicken, except nobody chickened out, and we all just felt dirty at the end. And 63 minutes, full of pooping and vomiting, after the video had started, I looked to Steve, and I looked to Frank, and I said with genuine concern, “What did we win? What was the point of that? I need to take a shower.”

And as I showered for a good three and a half hours, I realized that Steve, Frank, and I, along with millions of other Americans lack something necessary, crucial to wellbeing: A moral compass. We’re willing to joke about 9/11, cancer, Aids, the Holocaust, diarrhea, and a myriad of other topics because, as a generation, we feel detached. We don’t directly hold ourselves accountable for anything. We can watch Brazilian girls vomit shit into other Brazilian girl’s shitty mouths because we pretend that it’s just chocolate ice cream. And we can pretend all we want, to not have done or said the things we have said and done, but ultimately, we will be held responsible. And to make sure of this, I write the following: If anyone is reading this close to or around the year 2025, well after Steve, Frank, and I have become mature, responsible adults, you are obligated, by the powers that be, to find and track me down, and then slap me, really hard, in the face. I will, in turn, find and track down Steve and Frank, and then slap them really hard, all the while yelling, “Why did we make ourselves watch that godforsaken video?! We need to be punished!” And then, all will be right in the world.

“It’s really cold out,” she said to me. And what I wanted to say back was, “I LOVE YOU!” but I ended up saying something along the lines of, “Yeah, I’m freezing my nuts off.” In retrospect, I probably should have made a more compelling argument as to why she should continue the conversation with me. Because, as a general rule, the fifth word you ever speak to the girl of your dreams should probably be something other than “nuts.”

People call me “Harry Potter” a lot. Though, generally, it’s mostly black, inner city children, who shout it at me as I drive though Hartford. And I’m starting to think that although there are some similarities, the main reason I get called “Harry Potter” is abject racism. In the minds of inner city black children: White guy + Glasses = Harry Potter. Despite the facts that: A.) I’m not British, B.) I don’t have a scar on my forehead, and C.) I don’t do magic. I mean, I don’t drive though Hartford and yell “DENZEL WASHINGTON!” at everyone I see, just because they’re black, and don’t wear glasses. And I think the double standard is disgusting, because I can’t publicly point out the similarity between black people who don’t wear glasses and an Academy Award winning actor without getting beaten up. While it’s completely socially acceptable for black people to point and laugh at a guy who only vaguely resembles a fictional wizard. Who gives a fuck if I wear a cape everywhere I go?

The first things I noticed on her profile were a video and a photo album chronicling the cross-country roadtrip she and a friend took, and I decide immediately that I am in love with her. “She is exactly what I’ve been looking for in a woman,” I say to myself, “She’s somebody who can just pack up and go, ditch all sense of personality responsibility in search of adventure and the open road. She’s perfect.” I decided that I would marry her someday.

I look at more of her profile, and in her photos, it’s hard to tell exactly how attractive she is, since in almost half of the photos she looks stunningly gorgeous, and in the other half she looks like she got beat in the face with a shovel. I chalk this anomaly up to her being un-photogenic and figure that she probably averages out in the middle in real life (and isn’t, you know, an attractive woman who just recently got beat in the face with a shovel.) I then browse through her interests, which don’t exactly match up with my own, but aren’t anything I can’t just pretend to like (“Oh, you’re a huge Beastie Boys fan, me too! We can listen to them on our roadtrip!”) I look at her comment area and see that no-one’s posted anything in over a month and think, “Hey, she doesn’t have a lot of friends either, that means she won’t have to waste time, and inform a lot of people when we leave to go on our roadtrip!” Finally, I reach the link to her blog and I’m amazed to find out that she’s crazy. And not in a fun way, like in a psychopathic kind of way. And I think to myself, “Oh boy will this create for a lot of crazy stories to tell our kids about our first roadtrip!”

And then it dawns on me. “Wait a minute, you don’t want to date this girl, you just want to go on a roadtrip! You’re not in love with her; you’re in love with roadtrips!” I was able to overlook the fact that I’m not at all attracted to her, mainly, so she would drive me across the country. I didn’t want her to be my lover; I wanted her to be my road-trip guru. I wanted her to teach me the ways of the open road, and who better than her, she has experience, she knows where to go, hell, she might even pay for gas. But, I realize now, that the way I was looking at it was stupid. I was able to convince myself that I was in love with a girl, when, in fact, all I loved was road-trips. And what this makes me realize is that I shouldn’t settle. I shouldn’t commit myself to someone who’s just good at road-tripping. And I shouldn’t settle for someone who I love unconditionally either. I need to find someone who I love AND who knows how to go on a road trip. Aw shit. I think I just realized this means I’m gonna marry Oprah. Well, she is rich.

I have two pieces of advice concerning alcohol. 1.) Never go to a Barack Obama rally hung-over (his message of change isn’t nearly as resonant when you’re trying to not throw up on yourself) and 2.) Never get drunk during a thunderstorm. And if you absolutely must get drunk during a Thunderstorm, make damn sure it isn’t your first time getting drunk, period.

So, it was a Wednesday afternoon, and there was a large box of malt liquor in my closest, and I thought to myself, “Why not?” Sure, I had never tried alcohol before, but if ever there was a time, now would be it, right? Wrong. Because what I didn’t know was that the second I would finish chugging the 40, one of the worst thunderstorms on record would hit central Connecticut. And when you’re drunk, alone, and the power’s out, you tend to do crazy things.

Now there are three things you’ve got to keep in mind when I tell you the following story. Firstly, my backyard consists of a large, rotting wooden deck, and then, directly behind that, a large, steep, scary hill. Secondly, I get bored very very easily. The chief example of this is when in 8^th grade, out of extreme boredom/ curiosity, I put my backpack in the microwave, and almost burned all of my stuff. Alcohol only amplifies this. And thirdly, it’s almost a near universal certainty, much as how the sun will always rise, that after I drink malt liquor I will be at least significantly more naked than when I started. Also, I was in my underwear when I started drinking.

So, for some reason, maybe boredom, maybe sheer fate, I decided that I needed to go to the top of the steep, scary hill in my backyard. People under the influence of alcohol are often driven not by logic, but by impulses, and accordingly, I ran out the door in my underwear, into the heart of the rainstorm, never questioning the intelligence of that line of action. I had considered putting on pants first, but ultimately decided against it, partly because I deemed it too time consuming, partly because I no longer knew how to put on pants. And at the top of the hill, I looked down at my house, and then, above, to the heavens. And as the rain fell, and the sound of thunder rang through my ears, I felt triumphant. I didn’t remember why I was there, and it was possible that I never knew, but I felt, somehow, that I was standing in my underwear at the top of this hill for a substantive reason. As though the forces of nature had led me here, purposely, in order to reveal to me my true destiny.

And then, a thought popped into my brain. Like a flash of lightning, it was there and then it was gone. It was the kind of thought that could serve as proof that God exists, and that he hates me. “The fastest way down that hill, is to run as fast as I can!” I thought. And then, sensing that this was my destiny, that the forces of nature demanded it, I took off, as fast as I could down the hill. It was as though my feet started to move without the express written consent of my conscious mind, and before I knew it, I was in a dead sprint. I was traveling faster than I had ever travelled before, the wind rushing through my rain-soaked hair. And, for a moment, I felt serene. As though this majestic act of destiny was not only an instant in time, but a path to true enlightenment. I had never felt greater in my life.

And then, two things happened at once: 1.) I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to stop in time enough to avoid crashing painfully into the deck behind my house, and 2.) My underwear fell off.

This was when I knew that the world was against me. The heavens had spoken, and they had told me my destiny. And not only would that destiny be painful, but I would also somehow be naked when I met it. It was as if nature had decided not only to slap me in the face, but to shove a cinder block up my ass while it was at it. And as my boxers slid down past my knees, I tried desperately to plant my feet on the ground and stop the whirlwind of momentum I had created. I tried to defy the forces of nature. But, it was no use, since the rain made any kind of traction impossible. And before I could prepare myself, BAM! My shin crashed into the base of the deck, which caused me to topple over and collide with a large wooden wall. My head and shoulders proceeded to crash into some kind of railing, and then, I lost consciousness. But not before thinking to myself, “Hey, maybe I shouldn’t run down that hill,” around five seconds too late.

I’m not sure how much time elapsed before I regained consciousness, but it was enough time for it to be dark outside, and for me to be moderately sober. And as my eyes opened, and I came to the realization that yes, I was in fact a.)Naked b.)Outside c.)Covered in splinters d.)Drenched and e.)Bloody, I struggled to think of how this could possibly have happened. And as my mind tried desperately to somehow connect this to the Russians, it came back to me. Like a bad dream, only I knew it was real. And it became very clear to me that this wasn’t a series of coincidences. This was the universe sending me a message, a message that, one day, I would need to pass on: Stop being an asshole! And as I laid face down on the wooden deck, naked, being rained upon by the heavens above, I committed the ultimate act of cosmic rebellion: I refused the message. I came to the realization that maybe, just maybe, the universe doesn’t control my actions. Maybe I won’t be better off if I learn from my mistakes. I recognized, for the first time, that I’m the only one responsible for my actions, and that one day, I’ll be held accountable for them. But just because, occasionally, I’ll get drunk and run into a deck, it doesn’t mean I should stop doing what I do and being who I am. Because, true beauty can be found within all actions. And someday, yes, I’ll realize that all this was stupid, but I’ll never agree that it wasn’t worth doing. And then I said out loud the words that would set me free, “Fuck you, universe! I’ll be an asshole if I damn want to, because it’s who I am, and who I love to be. And, universe, you can’t just tell me to stop. That’s like telling Samuel L. Jackson not to be black! So, fuck you, you fucking asshole of a constant force of nature or whatever you are!”

And as I picked myself up, and limped into the house to put on band-aids, and to tweeze splinters out of my butt, I swore to myself that I would never, ever drink alcohol again.

I really should have listened to myself.

Alex talks about his dick.

2008-08-04T16:41:00.000-04:00

Alex Traynor Explains The Bible

2008-07-09T01:11:00.000-04:00

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Taking the “Me” out of “Media”

2008-02-14T00:06:00.003-05:00

This is a reflection essay about a "media fast" (which involved me not using any form of the media for a day. i.e: TV, computers, videogames, ipods, etc.) I did for my Communications course. Also, I made a considerable portion of this up.

The overwhelming conclusion I’ve garnered from my recent 24 hour media fast is that I get very bored, really easily. Aside from being my primary source of information, entertainment, and cancer-causing-radiation, the media also happens to, apparently, be the one thing keeping me from going batshit insane.

I wake up and instinctively go to my computer, only to come to the crushing realization that I can’t turn it on. After further realizing that the only things in my room I could turn on were the lights and the microwave, I decided to go back to bed. I slept for another 2 hours, until I couldn’t sleep anymore, which marked the first time in history where I tried to go back to sleep in the morning, and found myself unsuccessful. I proceeded to take the longest shower I’ve ever taken in my life (I was on pace for a record setting day), mainly because the prospect of leaving the shower and doing something substantive, like going outside, scared me. So, I just kept showering for about 45 minutes, until I started to get pruny and my bar of soap dissolved (Also, I shampooed, like, 6 times, which, turns out, is not good for your hair)

I went back to my room and tried to do one of these “Sudoku’s” everyone’s talking about. Eventually, I give up in frustration, consoling myself by saying, “I’m not good at math” (even though, apparently, “Sudoku” has nothing to do math.) I turn my attention to the blank TV screen; the clock next to it reads 11:00. The Price Is Right is on. It reminded me of the good ol’ days, where I would sit in front of the boob tube and listen to Bob Barker lecture me on neutering the pet I don’t have. I considered breaking the fast to watch the show, but then I remembered hearing something about Bob Barker not hosting it anymore because he was like 108 years old or something, and lost interest.

I knock on the doors of all my friends to see if anyone wants to go to lunch, but they’re all in class. So, instead of going to the dining hall and worrying endlessly about what people think of me for eating alone, I decide to be a resourceful, responsible citizen by making my own meal for once. Like a true bachelor, I narrow my meal choice down to either Easy Mac or Slim Jims and Potato Chips. I settle on the Easy Mac, declaring it the “least disgusting” of the two. As I turn on the microwave, a certain sense of giddiness overcomes me, knowing that this is the most technologically advanced thing I’d be doing all day. I think about where we’ve come as a species. 10,000 years ago I’d have to run to a stream, kill a fish, and cook it over a fire for a quick meal. Now, all I have to do is put water in the Easy Mac Bowl, press a button, wait 3 minutes, then mix in the powdered cheese (I mean, I don’t even have to transfer the macaroni into a bowl! It’s already in the bowl! Now, that’s what I call innovation.) When the Easy Mac is done, the sense of joy leaves me; I no longer have an excuse to use the technology I’m allowed to (Sure, I could’ve turned the light switch on and off a bunch of times, but that would’ve been pointless, also, it might’ve given me a seizure.).

At around 1, my friend John comes back from class. He challenged me to a game of Madden Football, but I had to decline due to the fast. Instead, I challenged him to a game of Connect Four. He accepted, but we never actually got to play since no-one in Smith Hall owns a copy of the game. Instead, we decided to do what normal people do when there’s nothing to watch on TV and there’s not a tremendous amount of sexual tension: have an actual conversation. Turns out, me and John don’t really have a lot in common. Our relationship pretty much hinges on having something to do together; we’re friends mostly out of convenience. When he’s bored, and I’m bored, we play videogames together, and that’s how we bond. You take the media away from our relationship, and you get an awkward conversation about ‘exactly’ how freezing it is outside (he thought it was, “freezing as balls”, I thought it was just, “freezing”) Some pundits like to argue that the media is tearing us apart, but I beg to differ, because without the media, me and John wouldn’t have to talk about the weather, and truly, that’s just a better thing for everyone.

John leaves, and my room-mate eventually comes back from class. He informs me that my mother has been calling him non-stop, worrying about where I am and why I’m not picking up my phone. I told him to tell her about the fast, but he says he already did, and that when she heard she still expressed considerable doubts about my safety. I’m not sure what bothers me more about this: the fact that I’m 18 and my mother still worries about my safety in the middle of the freakin’ day, or the fact that she left 7 messages on my voicemail in a 2 hour period, ranging from wondering where I was, to just plain assuming I was an alley somewhere, doing crack. I quickly scrambled in search of a landline phone before she could call the police and report me as a missing person. I called, told her I was fine, and she stopped worrying. She later told me she was freaked out because I always answer the phone, and when I didn’t, I guess, in her mind the only logical conclusion that I was in extreme danger (or, on crack.) This episode made me realize the extent of my technology addiction. So ingrained is technology in my life, that at this point, people legitimately think I’m in danger if I separate myself from it. My cell-phone is the one constant in my life; as sure as the sun will rise, my cell-phone will be on, and I’ll answer it. Seriously though, empires will rise and fall, species will evolve and de-evolve, and hell will freeze over, before I ever turn off my phone ever again.

Before I hung up with my mom, she suggested I go outside, and get some “fresh-air.” I shrugged off that idea as far-fetched and unreasonable, but eventually, an hour later, I got really bored and I felt like doing something adventurous. So I traveled to the land called, “Outside,” or, as I like to refer to it, “the thing I pass through to get to other places.” I walk to the park behind my dorm and sit down on the grass. There are a lot of trees in this park; I think about the people who love nature, the people who think trees are beautiful and shouldn’t be cut down. “Trees are overrated,” I think, “Do people actually legitimately just sit and look at trees? But, they don’t do anything! Like, I could see the point if they, like, moved around or sung songs or something, but, they just sit there. Why can’t trees be entertaining?” I blame my thought process in that situation entirely on the media. The media has led to my subconscious belief that everything will eventually just jump out and entertain me, and not, you know, just sit there. The media has disallowed me from thinking of a regular tree as just a tree, but rather making me think of a regular tree as a non-entertaining tree, a tree that does not sing, or dance, and is therefore boring. And even though I realize I should be appreciating trees for some kind of beauty they have, instead I still think they’re over-rated (sure, they’re pretty much the only reason there’s oxygen on Earth, but that doesn’t mean I forgive them for not being like the trees in The Lord of the Rings.)

I go back to my room, and, as I enter, I write the words, “Kill Me Now” on my whiteboard. I sit at my computer desk and stare at the blank screen on my computer’s monitor. I miss Facebook. I miss checking it constantly, finding out that Becky broke up with Mark, or that Mark broke up with Becky, or that Becky started going out with Steve to get back at Mark. I also miss updating my status to reflect how little I care about Becky, Mark, or Steve, for that matter. I think about all the news that I’m missing. It frightened me to think that in the 16 or so hours since I started the fast, our country could be in the middle of a nuclear holocaust and I wouldn’t know about it. I try to console myself by imagining all the good news that could have happened in my hiatus from media: “Maybe the Writer’s Strike ended. Maybe Rush Limbaugh got stabbed in the throat and won’t be able to talk anymore. Maybe tomorrow’s ‘Free-Everything Day’ at Target.” I decide to stop staring at my computer and thinking; it’s only getting my hopes up. If I kept up that line of thought I probably would have went to Target the next day and started taking things, unaware that it was not actually “Free-Everything Day.”

A few hours passes. I spend this time playing basketball at the Marino Center, I’m not very good. I’m thankful for not having been allowed to watch professional basketball that day, as it would’ve reminded me that it is not socially acceptable for a six foot tall gawky white guy in short-shorts to ever play basketball, especially when he doesn’t defy logic and turn out to actually be good. I go back to my room, take what I make out to be “less than a handful, but more than the recommended dosage” of Tylenol PM, and go to sleep.

I wake up the next day, and turn on my cell-phone, TV, computer, Xbox, iPod, clock radio, and my microwave (just for the hell of it.) I decide to spend the entire day reminiscing with my lost love, the media, but inevitably the reunion is cut short by responsibility and human interaction. Ultimately, it was startling for me to realize just how much I rely on the media, and how thoroughly I base my life around it. It was refreshing to learn that if I stop paying my electric bill or an EMP goes off, I may very well become a risk to society.

Alex Traynor 2008!

2007-12-30T01:31:00.000-05:00

With the recent uproar over the 2008 US Presidential Election, I feel that it’s the right time to officially throw my hat into the ring. That’s right folks, I’m running for president! After the overwhelmingly successful results of my ‘exploratory committee’ (my grandmother interviewing everybody at the senior center), I’ve decided to kick the campaign up to full notch. With an unprecedented amount of funding from an anonymous donor (my grandmother with a nickel), I’ve decided to make my first official campaign stops in California in August (also coinciding with my family vacation).

This campaign comes with a promise, to make for a better America. A cleaner America. A safer America. And quite possibly, a sexier America. We owe it, not only to ourselves, but to our children (and our illegitimate children.) We need better schools, better healthcare, a bigger army, more public programs, better public facilities, and most importantly, lower taxes. How is that feasible, you ask? Well, if you elect me President, I’ll pay someone to figure it out for me.

Sure, my campaign will face a few obstacles (namely, the constitution), but with a coalition of support (and more funding from my Grandmother), we’ll be able to overcome the roadblocks in our way (again, the constitution.)

To put it plainly, our country simply cannot afford to not elect me President. Here’s why:

I have a high school diploma (pending completion of a summer school course on Current Issues)
I have never been outside of the USA, so I have no possible grounds to believe our country isn’t the best in the world.
Multilingual (English, Drunk, and Pig-Latin)
I’ve watched all seven seasons of The West Wing
I have never participated in The Model U.N. (take from that what you may)
I really don’t like the Russians.
Great thighs
Single. Possibility of marrying foreign minister’s daughter to annex another state.

It’s hard to imagine someone more qualified to be President than me. Which is why I was surprised that other people were actually running for the office. None of them have a chance, here’s why I’m better than them:

Hilary Clinton – Unlike Mrs. Clinton, I officially promise to not bomb any third world countries while I’m on my period.

John Edwards – People say John Edwards has the best hair of all the presidential candidates. As of today, they are wrong.

Denis Kucinich – Who the fuck is Denis Kucinich?

Mitt Romney – Do you really want a Mormon to be in charge of the nuclear missile codes? I thought not.

Barack Obama – Unlike Mr. Obama, I’m 100% Black.

Bill Richardson – Unlike Mr. Richardson, I’m 100% Not Mexican.

Rudy Giuliani – Ask yourself this question: Who had the most to benefit from 9/11? Since he’s the republican frontrunner, the answer is obviously Rudy. Now, I’m not one to resort to petty conspiracy theories, that’s why I’ll say this: Rudy knocked down the towers by himself.

John McCain – John McCain is a decorated Vietnam veteran. I play Call of Duty 2 daily. I rest my case.

Now, I realize a person doesn’t just vote for a candidate based on their great hair and awesome website, they need to know the candidates stance on the issues. Here are mine:

Abortion – On one hand, Abortion is wrong. But, on the other hand, I really hate babies. I side with whatever option makes the line at the DMV shorter.

Iraq – It comes down to one question: Does anybody really give a shit about Iraq? Sure, we are rebuilding a country in need of rebuilding, but do we care enough to have our soldiers over? Why don’t we rebuild Detroit? Sure, people will still be shooting at the troops, but at least Detroit has a baseball team.

Gay Marriage – As long as they don’t fuck in front of me, gay people can do what they want.

Gun Control – Gun Control is a complex problem, with a very simple solution. Replace all of the guns in the country with Harpoon Guns. Seriously, if you have the nuts to shoot someone in the face with a harpoon, that sucka deserves to die.

Healthcare – Free for anybody who doesn’t abuse the system (Not you, Steve-O)

Immigration – The best option we have towards stopping Illegal immigration is to go straight to the root: Make Mexico a less shitty place to live. Mexicans are coming here because they’re dying over there, if we fix Mexico’s economy, there’ll be no need for them to come over here anymore. How can we fix Mexico’s economy, you ask? The answer is simple: turn it into a Theme Park! What shall we call this 750,000 Square mile theme park, you ask? I’m on the fence between “Brown America,” and “Taco Bell Presents: America land”

Taxes – Now, some have criticized my plan of a larger federal government, with lower taxes, saying it’s “fiscally impossible.” I think I’m able to prove those critics wrong with one simple idea: Outsourcing the Federal Government. If we outsource the federal government to someplace cheaper (say, Pakistan) we’ll be able to both lower taxes, and increase the authority of the union. Washington, DC will be relocated overseas, and we’ll replace our legislative branch with a less-expensive, and therefore better, Congress. Sure, there will be some obstacles to overcome, but in the long run, outsourcing our government is best for everyone (actually, probably more so for Pakistan.).

If elected to office, here are my expected plans:

Change title from ‘President’ to ‘Emperor’ and then execute Congress in a public ceremony.
Physically relocate Alaska and Hawaii to be part of the continental US.
Appoint Sammy Stephens, owner of Flea Market Montgomery (yes, from the commercial,) Secretary of State, where he will describe the global economy as, “just like a mini-mall!”
End the war in Iraq. Start the war in Detroit.
Hit on women in bars using this line, “Hi, I’m the president, wanna fuck?”
Quietly assassinate Richard Simmons.
Start a second Cold War.
Edit my own Wikipedia page without having it be deleted.

When you get to the polls nearly 500 days from now, ask yourself this question, “Who’s going to make America a better place?”, and then, vote for Alex Traynor, regardless of what you answered.

K-12: Adventures in Education. Part 7

2007-08-30T14:40:00.000-04:00

This is the final part in a 7 part series chronicling the adventures of young Alex Traynor in public school, to read the abridged version, click here.

Junior year of high school

Junior year was a remarkable year for me. Remarkable in a way that none of the years before it had been. Junior year was when my life was made complete. When the missing piece was added to my soul. In junior year I met my first love:

A crappy white Station Wagon nick-named, “The Awesome-mobile”

Although, I didn’t meet my first love at the onset of Junior year; I had to pass a test first. A test that would determine the amount of girls that would hang around me just to use me (which I’m A-OK with): The Drivers test.

Now, unlike most of the kids my age, I wasn’t particularly psyched about driving. Mainly, because cars go fast, and I’m a pussy. Well, not a complete pussy, but after almost having driven a stolen minivan into a tree, I had lost my appetite for going faster than 12mph.

Though, eventually, my need to get of the house and, you know, socialize helped me overcome my fear of things that go ‘Vrroom’ (Except vacuum cleaners, I was never afraid of them.) Also, I realized that driving was the only reasonable method of transportation (*cough*This mean you, Motor Scooter*Cough*) since teleportation machines hadn’t been invented yet (although, they might by the time you read this, Mr. Future)

At my dad’s behest, I enrolled in the school’s 30 hour Driver’s Ed course. Which is basically an extended review of all of the ways you can die in a car crash.

A list of things I learned in Drivers Ed:

Don’t drive drunk.
Don’t drive high.
Don’t drive both high and drunk.
Don’t drive naked.
Unless you’re really hot.
Hydroplaning doesn’t exist.
Except, of course, when it does exist.
And kills you.
You can’t drive a car into a lake.
Unless it is also a boat.
Stop signs are red.
You should stop when you see them.
I mean, really stop, not just go through the motions of stopping.
Someone could die that way.
Drivers Ed was reaaalllllyy boring.

After five weeks of Drivers Ed, the moment of truth finally came (well, actually, due to a backup in the DMV, the moment of truth came about 4 months later, but that’s beside the point.) I put on my nicest shirt, and went with my Dad to the Department of Motor Vehicles.

And then finally, it was the moment of truth (well, actually, we waited for 5 hours at the DMV, but that’s beside the point.) I was introduced to the one person who would decide whether or not I would have a license (and consequently, whether girls would hang around me just to use me or not): an 80 year old German guy who I can only imagine was a Nazi at some point during his life.

The test itself was over in 15 minutes, and even though I made about 7 major mistakes, I passed anyway (probably because I wasn’t Jewish.) An hour later, I was handed my license, and all was perfect in the world.

And then, things got even more perfect, I met my first love (actually, my dad bought my first love, but it sounds creepier when I say that for some reason.) Now, at first I was a bit apprehensive about having to drive The Awesome-Mobile, but eventually, the feeling of imminent death passed, and we fell in love.

Now, I’ve already wrote about my love for the Awesome-mobile, so I won’t elaborate on the bond that tied our lost souls together. Instead, I’ll tell you about what that shitty Station Wagon did for my life:

It allowed me to love.

My heart of stone was turned into a giant heap of Jello Pudding. I gave hugs to random strangers, stopped kicking puppies, and donated a crapload of money to charity. (Alright, none of that was true, I just had nothing better to write.)

The Awesome-mobile was my best friend¸ and I loved it like a crackwhore loves crack. Eventually, it died, and I moved on to my next car (A minivan called “The Not-As-Awesome Mobile”), but I would never forget my first car, and the year in which I drove it.

Senior year of High school

Senior year was the end. Not just of my public school career, and not just of my adventures in education. But the end of life as I knew it.

Throughout the year, I was split in two. There was an overwhelming part of me that just wanted the whole thing to be over with. And another part of me that was incredibly fucking terrified.at the prospect of suddenly being thrust out into the real world (like when I was thrust out of my Mother’s womb 18 years prior [except slightly less placenta.])

Although I made no secret of my terror (oftentimes becoming hysterical in the middle of the hallways screaming, “Why does it have to end? I don’t wanna grow up! Nobody loves me!”), there still existed in me a great sense of denial.

Denial of the fact that, whether I liked it or not, I would have to leave. That I would have to move on, forget all the petty high-school stuff I had been used to, and grow up. So, I just pretended I didn’t. Which worked for a while, until the year started to end.

And thoughts of helplessness at the prospect of no longer being legally mandated to be anywhere plagued my mind:

What will I do when I’m gone?
Can I handle that?
Exactly how homeless am I going to be?

And even though I’d never actually liked going to school, I didn’t want to leave. Mainly because it was the only environment I had ever truly known. I was afraid to let go.

So, I coped with my fear the only way I knew how: nostalgia. I was as nostalgic about public school as anyone who’s still in public school can be (so, I wrote this article).

And aside from the constant nostalgia, panic attacks, and the petty teenage stuff that goes along with High School, nothing incredibly important happened.

Before I knew it, I was graduating.

Sitting in a silly blue gown with a silly blue hat in the blistering heat, I waited for my name to be called so I could receive my fake diploma ( I had to make up a few classes in summer school [mainly, because I like to sleep] before I got the real one.) And, as I was sitting there, our class’s “Graduation Speaker” came up to the podium and delivered his speech. Which made me resentful, mainly because the speech I had written was rejected. So, I’ll end this article, and my adventures in Education, with the speech I had written, which I think sums it all up pretty nicely:

Glastonbury High School Football Rules!

A speech by: Alex Traynor

Ladies and Gentlemen, Class of 2007, I stand before you today, not as a guy standing on a podium, but as one of you. Brothers and Sisters in the class of 2007.

After today, the class of 2007 will live on only in spirit, as we’ll all move on with our lives. 15 years from now some of you will be doctors. Some of you will be lawyers. And I know at least 7 of you that may very well be homeless. But it’s not about the pursuit of our inevitable futures that keep us moving from day to day. It’s about the people we meet and the experiences we have.

Now, most Graduation Speakers use the art of ‘analogy’, often comparing graduating classes to blossoming flowers, or something fruity like that. As your graduation speaker, I promise to not analogize, because the Glastonbury High School Class of 2007 is much more complicated than a blossoming flower, or something fruity like that. Each and every one of us is unique, and for the most part, not all that fruity.

For the past 13 or so years, we’ve bonded together, more than I previously thought a group of 500 self-absorbed teenagers ever could. We’ve been through it all together:

The good times: When the school’s power went out and they let us go home.
The bad times: Every time the school’s power didn’t go out.
The sad times: 9/11.
And the downright miserable times: The day when my hair looked shitty and I didn’t notice it until 6th period.

We’ve all grown up together. From frightened, bed-wetting toddlers, to frightened, bed-wetting adults. Or is that just me? Out in the crowd lies my first best friend, my first girlfriend, the first person to beat the shit out of me, and the first person to make make me realize what this is all about. I feel like I know all of you, since you’ve all impacted my life a great deal.

Whether it’s the teachers who hated me, or the janitors who loved me. The girls who went out with me: all 4 of you, or the girls who turned me down: the rest of you. The black people I was unintentionally racist to, or the white people I was intentionally racist to. All of you have impacted my life more than you could’ve imagined.

At the end of the summer, we’ll enter the next phases of our lives. Some of you will be going to community college, and some of you will be going to real college. But we’ll always remember the times we had at good ‘ol Glastonbury High.

What makes this day so bittersweet is that I have to say goodbye to each and every one of you. I have to say goodbye to my best friend in 5th grade, and to the guy who picked on me in 7th grade. To the dude who crapped in the urinal, and to the girl who gave a handjob to everyone on the football team.

Now I have some confessions to make:

First of all: I didn’t know what our school’s mascot was until last year. A Tomahawk? Really? We’re named after a weapon?

Secondly: I was “absent” from school so many times, the nurses thought I had come down with Fake AIDs.

And finally: I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.

Also, I stole that last line from The Lord of The Rings.

In conclusion, GHS Class of ’07… Fuck you!

Epilogue

It’s August 28th 2007, the first day of classes at Glastonbury High School. Alex Traynor, exhausted from staying up the last night playing videogames, walks into homeroom and passes out on his desk. A teacher comes up to him.

"Didn’t you graduate last year?" She says.
Alex pauses for a moment to think. "Oh yeah"
"Then why are you still here?" she replied.
"…I don’t know. Habit?"
"Go home"
"Really? I can just go home? Like that?"
"Yeah"
"Hooray!"

So, Alex picked up his new backpack, with his new school supplies, and ran to his car and drove home. Where he would eat cheetos and watch Bugs Bunny in his underoos for the rest of his days. Well, until he went to college, that is.

The End. (Fucking Finally)

K-12: Adventures in Education. Part 6

2007-08-20T21:01:00.000-04:00

This is part 6 in a 7 part series chronicling the adventures of young Alex Traynor in public school, to read the abridged version, click here.

Freshman Year – Glastonbury High School

In August of 2003, I had finally arrived at Glastonbury High School; the beginning of the end of my lengthy career in public school. GHS is your average high school; chock full of puberty, insecurity, depravity, and most importantly, assholes (literally, and figuratively). The school itself houses more than 2,000 students, a gym, a pool, an elevator for the handicapped kids, and a vending machine that never works. On the whole, GHS is your average New England High School.

I had always thought (and still kinda do) that ‘maturity’ was just a term older people made up to make themselves seem superior to younger people in their own minds. Now, while this still rings true when the elders throw around the insult “You’re acting Immature!” – Like when you ride a go-kart around the neighborhood in your underwear, or when you fall asleep during a funeral - the term ‘maturity’ takes upon a new meaning when you actually do mature. The word “Immaturity” has been linked to the words “stupid” and “reckless”, but those assertions are false, at least in my mind. “Maturity”, to me, means “responsibility”, and not in the sense of wearing a seatbelt when you drive 90mph down the highway (naked), but in the sense of responsibility for your legacy. The question, “When I die, what do I want people to remember about me?” comes to mind. 9th Grade was the year I started to mature.

Anyway, halfway through the year, something happened so inane and trivial that it could only change the course of Alex Traynor’s life forever:

Somebody took a dump in the urinal.

On Tuesday, March 3rd, 2004 (I’m probably making that up), my life changed forever. Throughout the day, I started over-hearing strange whispers about something in the urinal. So, I inevitably went there to check it out, and there it was: dookie, in the urinal. Instantly, thousands of questions sprung to my mind, among them:

1. Who did it?
2. Why?
3. Did a confused girl wander into the boy’s bathroom?
4. Why was it smeared against the back of the urinal?
5. Does that mean that somebody had to poop in their hand first and then transfer it to the urinal?
6. What did the perpetrator have to gain by this action?
7. Seriously, who would do this?
8. Are the Russians behind this somehow?
9. Why do I care so much?
10. Will I ever forget this?

The only one of those questions I’ve been able to get an answer to is #10. And the answer is a resounding no. I will be telling my grandchildren this story. Chances are, I’ll be telling this story on my deathbed, whether or not anyone wants to hear it.

It was just something about the sudden sighting of human feces in the wrong receptacle that shocked my fragile 9th Grade mind to the core so much that I could never possibly forget it. It opened my mind to new ways of thinking, and instilled a sense of abstract appreciation that exists to this day.

I stood staring at the shit for about a minute until someone else walked into the bathroom. Not wanting to look like some weird, feces-obsessed perv, I ran back to my table as fast as I could, and sat in remote silence, pondering my legacy, through mostly existential questions:

Will anyone remember anything I do?
Could I potentially be happy without any influence?
Do I even care what I’m remembered for as long as I’m remembered?
If I fell down in a forest, would anybody hear me?

Through that train of thought, I came up with the following philosophy: Live memorably. From that moment on, I was a different person; I talked about and did things I wouldn’t have done before just because I’d be remembered for them. Among those things:

I told people I wanted to die with a “rocket up my ass,” because it would, quote: “get me in the papers.”
I told people that on the last class of the last day of high school, I would pull down my pants, poop, get up, leave, and never come back.
I once jumped over the Grand Canyon on a Razor™ Scooter.
I lied about the last bullet-point.
Occasionally, I drive on the wrong side of the road and talk in an English accent to freak people out.
I speak mostly in sentence fragments.
Like this.
I once jokingly said, “9/11 was the most hilarious thing to happen since the holocaust!”
I took this photo.

From that day on, my life was forever changed by someone shitting in a urinal. You never know where profound inspiration is going to come from, but don’t be afraid to let even some of the most trivial things change your life (feces.)

Sophomore Year – “Hell”

Everybody has a year when all of the lessons they’ve learned in previous years go completely and utterly ignored. Sophomore year was that year for me. The year where I, in many ways, regressed intellectually and as a person.

Now, while the vast majority of my grade school career was spent suckling off the taxpayers’ teat in public school, there was one notable exception: In 10th Grade I spent one month at boarding School. Now why was I in boarding school, you ask? For four main reasons:

1. Just like in 8th grade, I hardly ever attended school. So they told me to leave.
2. When I did actually go to school, all I did was sleep and pretend to have better things to do.
3. I was incredibly reclusive during this point in time, and my parents wanted to get me out of the house.
4. I was too sexy that most teachers claimed I was a distraction to all the girls in the class(not true, but for the sake of my ego, let’s just pretend it is)

And with that brief explanation, begins Alex Traynor’s one month adventure in: Boarding School!

Now, while I still remember the name of the boarding school, for the purposes of this article, we’re just going to refer to it as, “Hell.”

My miserable time in Hell is best divided into three main chapters:

1. Social Alienation:
Social acceptance is really a crapshoot wherever you go. There’s no telling if you’re going to be surrounded by friends, or by people who hate your guts. And in Hell, most of the people hated my guts:

David Safdie – Me and David started out as buddies, but our relationship quickly deteriorated when I realized he was an Orthodox Jew. Now I was fine with David being Jewish, but seeing that I learned all of my racial tact from ‘South Park’, it really didn’t come off that way. Apparently, he didn’t see the humor in my awesome Hitler impression.

Josh Levin – To this day, I can count Josh Levin as easily, the most incompetent person I have ever met. Now, I can go on and on for days about just how frighteningly incompetent Josh is, I’ll leave it at the example that rings foremost in my mind:

Josh liked to sleep in the nude. And I slept in the bunk above him. One morning, I woke up as usual and jumped off my top bunk, only to land on a very naked Josh Levin who had apparently rolled off the bed the night before. So, I hit his body at full force and fall flat on my face, while he’s screaming bloody murder. Then he gets up, still completely naked, and starts yelling at me, accusing me of jumping on his naked body on purpose. Now, while I was on the floor, ignoring the yelling, and writhing in pain from the impact, Josh decides to kick me in the ribs to get my attention. Once I regained the ability to speak, I was able to shout out, “Put on pants!” The following response from a very naked Josh will forever be embedded in my brain, “What are you talking about?! Pants have nothing to do with this! This is about you jumping on top of me; don’t try to change the subject you little shit!” Eventually, my other roommates woke up and were finally able to break it to Josh that he was naked, and yelling and kicking me for no apparent reason. A week later, this was Josh’s apology: “Sorry for peeing in your hamper last week, I was really mad after you jumped on me...” Prior to that apology, I had no idea he peed in my hamper.

Andrew Something – Self-described as “Avril Lavigne’s Biggest Fan”, need I say more?

Mike Kaplan – Quite possibly one of the most disgusting people I have ever met. Mike Kaplan is what you get when “the-kid-on-the-playground-who-will-eat-anything-for-a-dollar” grows up.

Richard Cooch – I didn’t actually speak to Richard Rodney Cooch much, but I remember him not liking me after I discovered that the shortened version of his name was “Dick Rod Cooch”

2. My first and last foray into giving a shit about politics:

I’ve never actually been an overly political person (well, despite running for president), but this was especially true in my earlier years (where I had actually thought Dick Cheney was the announcer on The Price Is Right until 2002.) In Hell, my longheld policy of political inaction changed rather suddenly with the announcement of Two Words: Free Pizza.

Pizza is my favorite food, as it has always been. Not even my genetic urge to consume more and more potatoes and Lucky Charms could help me overcome my infatuation with pizza. Pizza is the greatest food on earth. Some say that it was invented by the Italians. I say that is false. Pizza is so perfect that I could only have been invented by Scarlett Johansson’s left nipple. I enjoy all types of pizza, with many different toppings, and in all of its different forms (regular, bagel, Hot Pocket, and calzone.) My love for pizza knows no bounds, as this paragraph has been proof.

I supported John Kerry in the 2004 election. Not because of his position on the Iraq war, not because he opposed privatizing Social Security, and not because he supported increasing the minimum wage. I supported John Kerry because his campaign gave out a lot of free pizza. And most of the time, it was really good.

On my third day in Hell, an advisor urged me to join a few extracurricular activities, and looking through the list, only one caught my eye:

Ultimate Frisbee Club Enjoy some fun with a Frisbee!
Chess Club The game of champions!
Bird Watching Club Come look at Birds!
The Young Democrats Club FREE PIZZA!

So, obviously, I showed up at the first Young Democrats meeting of the year.

There were three people there: myself, the aforementioned Mike Kaplan, and some fat chick. We all ate the pizza in relative silence, assuming that the Young Democrats would disband after the pizza was gone, until the optimistic teacher who set up the meeting told us that we were all invited to a John Kerry rally the following day. When asked, “Will there be pizza?” the teacher responded, “Of course, there’s always pizza.” I was sold.

At the next meeting I was elected president of The Young Democrats (basically because no-one else gave a shit), and I worked out a plan that had the three of us going to a different John Kerry party/fundraiser/get-together every night until the election. Me and the others ate delicious free pizza courtesy of the Democratic party every night of the week, and all we had to do was pretend to give a shit about politics and say “George Bush really sucks” when asked any question.

And after two weeks, when it seemed my scam was at the top of its game, I did something stupid enough to fuck it all up:

I became President of The Young Republicans.

At the time I equated: Young Republicans + Young Democrats = Pizza^2, and for a time, it worked that way. I was eating free pizza two meals of every day, and it was awesome. Until, someone realized what I was doing.

Turns out, you can’t be president of two rivaling organizations without someone noticing. The members of both organizations argued that this was “a conflict of interest” and that I “was only in it for the pizza”. My counterargument was, “How can it be a conflict of interest, since, when has this not been about the free pizza?”

Ultimately, both groups impeached me because they were jealous of my pizza-getting savvy, and there was nothing I could do to appeal, I was out.

On the rebound, I started The Young Green Party Club, but quit after a week since I was the only member (no-one else was willing to stoop low enough to go to the Green Party parties), and the parties mostly offered shitty vegetarian pizza.

Depressed at the new lack of pizza in my life I was considering drawing up plans to rob a Pizza Hut, that is, until something much worse took place.

3. The Minivan “Incident”:

One would assume that the time when I was 5 and “air-fucked” an audience of 500 dressed as Elvis would be the low point of my life. But, that coveted spot would later go to what I affectionately refer to as “The Minivan Incident.”

Desperation is what makes the world go round, and it’s the driving force between such products as station wagons, Old English malt liquor, and rubber vaginas. My time in Hell was fueled by a rampant desperation to go home. And that desperation was bad, comparable to the levels of desperation where crack whores start to look appealing

From my third day in Hell on, I started scheming for a way to get out. And after about a month of being unsuccessful, I had had enough.

As you learned from the ‘Social Alienation’ chapter, I didn’t get along much with my dorm-mates. We fought constantly and had very little in common. Well, except for one thing: A game we had made up (or just conveniently stolen, I don’t remember) called “Extreme Pillowfighting.”

Extreme Pillowfighting is remarkably similar to pillowfighting, with the main notable difference being that we were actually beating the shit out of each other, unlike 14 year old girls at slumber parties. We put on heavy metal music with a strobe-light, got our pillows, and started whacking each other with them until we bled. Half of the time we played without the pillows, and most of the time, someone was seriously injured. The reason we even bothered to call the game “Extreme Pillowfighting” after we had ditched the pillows was to fool our ignorant dorm adviser (who thought any game with the word “Pillowfighting” in it was inherently gay, and the worst thing that could happen was one of us would get AIDs)

Well, one night Extreme Pillowfighting got kinda out of hand, and I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but about 25 minutes into the game I was kicking Josh Levin in the throat and screaming, “this is for my hamper!” Eventually other people got involved (before I had the opportunity to murder Josh) and broke up the game(fight.) But, no-one was able to calm me down.

I had had enough of Hell, and had decided to escape. So I did what any reasonable 15 year old would do: I tried to steal a car.

I didn’t start out with that decision though, and for a half an hour, I started running towards home (actually, I only ran for about thirty seconds and then walked the rest of the time because I’m perpetually out of shape.) I made it about a mile before they realized I was running away, and as soon as they did, they chased after me, in one of the School’s minivan’s.

They pulled the minivan past me about 100 feet, got out, and tried to convince me to come back to the school. I responded with something along the lines of “Fuck You.” We argued for a little bit, until I saw my break: They left the car running. Upon this realization, I broke out into a mad dash past the administrators and into the seat of the neon Ford WindStar.

At that point in my life I hadn’t learned how to drive a car, so I did what they did in the movies: Shifted it into drive and put the petal to the metal. That was not a good idea, mainly because before I knew it I was going 80mph head first into a tree and I had no idea where the brake was. Eventually I turned to avoid the tree and took the petal off the metal until I coasted to a stop. And while I was stopped after nearly killing myself, a sudden realization came to my head:

I WAS STEALING A MINIVAN!

Not only did I realize that this was a crime, but I realized that this was probably the lamest crime ever. In the eyes of the law it was the same exact thing as stealing a Ferrari, except, I wasn’t stealing a Ferrari, I was stealing a neon Ford Windstar with a dented hood. Just as felonious, twice as lame.

I started to cry. And not just because I had nearly beaten to death a kid for peeing in my hamper. And not just because I desperately wanted to go home. But, mostly, because I was going to go to jail for stealing a minivan. From then on I would be a laughingstock; I would be “the mini-van guy.” I’d be derided daily in all the local newspapers. Women would laugh at me, and men would spit on me. My parents would disown me. And I would probably die a virgin. Well, except for all the anal rape that was sure to come my way in prison. Right before they put me in the electric chair.

Faced with that frightening future looming in the horizon, I realized I had to right the situation. I left the car and walked back with tears in my eyes to where the administrators still stood, and had this conversation

“Where’s the car?” they asked.
Which prompted me to bawl uncontrollably, “It’s sooo shitty”
“Is it alright?” they had asked.
“No! It’s a fucking Neon minivan, It’ll never be alright” I managed to utter.
“Did you crash it?” they replied.
“No, but I wish I had” I said.

The day after the incident, I had figured the police would come and take me away for my little joyride, but the administration never pressed charges (probably because pressing charges would only bring attention to the fact that they all drove minivans), they just kicked me out.

So, in the end, the incident did actually get me out of Hell, but at what cost? I ALMOST STOLE A MINIVAN!

After Hell, I went back to my sweet sweet life of poor attendance at Glastonbury High School, where I would finish my adventures in public education.

To be continued…

Stuff I wrote when I was high on sleeping pills.

2007-07-18T01:32:00.000-04:00

Tuesday, July 3rd, 2007

You can only hit on women at your local supermarket using the line, “So, I was helping my elderly grandmother shop, and I noticed you were beautiful” before it starts to make you sick. Sick for a number of reasons. Sick because you’re actually helping your elderly grandmother shop, instead of, say, something more lucrative (like snorting blow off a hooker’s chest in Tijuana). Sick because you feel the need to invoke your grandmother while hitting on women. And, mostly, sick because it doesn’t work.

The thing is: I never hit on women. I have the confidence levels of a small rock (I assume since rocks have no brain, they have small, if non-existent, levels of confidence.) To say that I’m afraid of rejection is an understatement: I’m fucking terrified of rejection. I’m more afraid of rejection than I am of spiders, heights, zombies, nuclear weapons, and Mormons (possibly even more than I am of a radioactive Mormon zombie holding a spider next to a cliff)

The fear has caused me quite a bit of social anguish, mostly because it renders me unable to introduce myself to people (in fear that they might spit on me for no apparent reason.) Most of the time at social gatherings I just slump in the corner until people come to me. I realize that this is a pretty bad policy (although, in its defense, sometimes it makes me look mysterious and brooding, which is not so bad of a way to meet chicks in itself) because, most of the time I actually end up looking like a guy that just doesn’t have the balls to introduce himself.

To this day, I’ve never actually asked a woman on a date. Most of the time, I just hang around them long enough until it becomes completely obvious that we’re dating.

My ex-girlfriend threw a Twix Bar at me the other day. I’m not sure why specifically, but, in the larger sense, I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that she hates me. I’m not really sure why she hates me, but I’m sure she does (even though she denies this.) I think this because in the past, I’ve dated solely women who hate me. I used to chalk this up to a mixture of desperation and coincidence, but recently I’ve been toying with the idea of subconscious self-loathing: I hate myself so much, that the very projection of my inner hatred turns me on.

Most of my relationships start innocuous enough, and then out of nowhere, it’s a month later and she’s throwing things at me. Which makes me think, “How deluded must I be to think I can date the same type of woman, and not have things thrown at me?”

The answer to that question: Very deluded.

My last girlfriend was Scarlett Johansson, or, at least, I thought she was. In actuality, I dated a tone-dead Vietnamese girl by the name of Ling-Ling (not true, but for the sake of glaring contrast, I’m invoking my literary license). Ling-Ling was the exact opposite of Scarlett Johansson, yet for some reason I was able to pretend for the entirety of our relationship, that they were not all that dissimilar. I chalk this up to two main reasons: desperation, and laziness.

Desperation, because, when you sit in the corner of the room and brood, you don’t exactly get a lot of choices to pick from. And laziness, because, well, I’m sure it would take a lot of effort to get Scarlett Johansson to like me.

It’s not that I don’t see a lot to like in myself (I can burp the alphabet, which, in my mind, is monumentally impressive), it’s just that I can’t deal with the thought of someone not being incredibly enamored by my boyish charm, so I pretend that the women I date are well, not, incredibly flawed. Which is, in itself, very flawed.

I think I need to see a psychiatrist. I’m fucked up, yo.

Also, I don't get alot of sleep.

Sunday, July 8, 2007 – 2:15 AM

As I type this, my cat’s eating its own throw-up. I’m contemplating telling him to stop, but I realize there’s really no merit in telling a cat to stop eating its own vomit. Obviously, it still remembers throwing the food up, so it clearly knows what its doing, and who am I to tell the cat to stop eating the food, when I was perfectly cool when he did it the first time. If the cat wants to eat his own vomit, I’m not gonna intervene.

Sunday, July 8, 2007 – 2:20 AM

The cat just threw up its own throw up, that’s kinda funny.

Sunday, July 8, 2007 – 2:25 AM

Oh god, he’s eating it again. This is fucked up. Is it possible that this is all the cat eats, and that he’s been repeating this cycle for ages? Wow.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

(Alex's Note: I'm not really sure why I'm putting this up here, since it's in fairly poor taste [although, that's not incredibly uncommon for this site.] Although, it is funny, albeit one giant poop joke. Proceed with discretion.)

Today, I drove my mother to get her colonoscopy. For those of you not in the know, a colonoscopy is a procedure most people get in their fifties to check and see if they have Colon Cancer. Basically, for lack of a more direct explanation, they stick a camera up your ass.

For the past week, I’ve pretty much been making fun of my Mother non-stop. Sure, I still owe her for giving birth to me, but, they are sticking a camera up her ass. That’s just too rich to pass up. My favorite joke has been to ask her if they’re going to make a movie of it, and then imply that somehow Martin Lawrence will be starring. None of my colonoscopy jokes make a great deal of sense, but then again, a team of trained professionals anally raped my mother with a probe, so, they don’t really have to.

This all harkens back to the time when I had my colonoscopy. Yes, I had a colonoscopy. No, I didn’t enjoy it. Now, to this day I’m not really sure why I had to have a colonoscopy, but, when I was 13, I did have one.

Before you go in for the colonoscopy, you have to fast for 48 hours, and on top of that, you have to make sure that your Colon is completely empty. And what can ensure Colon emptiness better than the almighty Enema. For those of you not in the know, an enema is a device used to stimulate bowel movement. Basically, it’s a baby bottle you use to squirt water into your asshole. Here’s a step-by-step guide to the process:

1. You take your pants off, and extend your ass high into the air.
2. Check to make sure you’re not in prison.
3. Wonder why you didn't do step 2 before you took your pants off and extended your naked ass.
4. Insert tip of bottle into ass.
5. Try not to scream.
6. Squeeze the bottle.
7. Try not to scream.
8. Once the bottle is empty, pull it out of your ass and throw it as far away as you can.
9. Wait five minutes, ass extended in the air.
10. When you cannot honestly hold the crappy shit water inside you any longer waddle to the bathroom.
11. Be sure not to shit on the floor on the way over to the bathroom.
12. Finally, once on the toilet, let loose your anal dexterity.
13. Marvel at the waterfall of shitwater coming out of your ass.
14. Briefly wonder if this is what it feels like to pee as a woman.
15. Once the shitwater has finally passed, breathe a sigh of relief.
16. Spend a good few minutes wiping everything off your ass.
17. Flush the toilet.
18. Oh shit, it’s clogged!
19. Run!
20. Repeat 3 more times.

As for the colonoscopy itself, it’s incredibly comparable to anal rape. First they put me in a nice waiting room, made me comfortable, then they drugged me, and put a large metal tube up my ass.

I’m sure in some doctors office lies photographs of what the inside of my ass looks like. Since I actually haven’t seen the photos, I imagine it looks somewhat like Cancun.

I don’t actually remember much of the colonoscopy itself, since I was pretty heavily drugged, but I do remember one thing. I briefly woke up during the middle of the procedure and felt a good amount of pressure on my ass. I looked around and saw a tube, and in a semi-conscious state I yelled, “Stop stealing my poop!” I don’t really remember my reasoning as to why the doctor would want to “steal my poop” (or why anyone would want to steal my poop, for that matter)

Turns out, I didn’t have colon cancer. So, basically, they stuck a camera up my ass for no apparent reason. When I get famous, that video better not end up on youtube.

Yes folks, that’s how I lost my anal virginity… to a probe.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

What continues to surprise me is my unfailing ability to be miserable everywhere I go. What doesn’t surprise me at all is that I was miserable all throughout my family’s 3 day vacation to Maine.

Some have asked me what I have against the state of Maine, and to be honest, I’m not really sure. But this much is certain: I do not like Maine.

I’ve never had any reasoning for this argument, and all my attempts to argue against it fall flat (“The only thing Maine is famous for is lobster! Lobster is over-priced shit! …Even though, admittedly, I love lobster.”) But just because I can’t explain myself doesn’t mean that inside me doesn’t exist a hatred as large and grotesque as Rosie O’Donnell.

Wait, what was I talking about?

Oh yeah, Maine sucks.

I really need to get some sleep.

K-12: Adventures in Education. Part 5

2007-06-25T17:58:00.000-04:00

This is part 5 in a 7 part series chronicling the adventures of young Alex Traynor in public school, to read the abridged version, click here.

7th Grade – Smith Middle School

In grades K-6, you couldn’t meet a more hard-working and eager to learn “mathletic” genius than the young Alex Traynor. In grade 7, that all stopped. It gave birth to the underachieving slacker known as the Alex Traynor of today. The Alex Traynor who sleeps till 3 in the afternoon, reacts unfavorably to the prospect of getting up and putting on pants, and who hasn’t really deeply cared about anything since before the new millennium.

Part way through the year I came to the stunning realization that I didn’t give a shit. Now, I didn’t stop bathing and pick fights with random strangers, instead, I stopped doing my homework, became an insomniac, did arguably retarded things because I was “bored”, and stopped paying attention to most of what they teach in skool,

While, arguably, I would’ve stopped giving a shit regardless, it’s possible a number of conditions led to this enormous waste of potential:

1. The Friends

As kids begin to venture towards puberty and beyond (“There’s hair everywhere!?!”), social groups and friend circles begin to become increasingly polarized. What once was a giant friend circle where everyone held hands, sang songs, and finger-painted, was suddenly fractured into many different groups with many different characteristics. While the groups become more intricate with age, their early stages are a good indication of their characteristics:

The people who like sports – This social group enjoys watching sports, playing sports, betting on sports, and jerking each other off in the showers.

The nerds – This group enjoys lying about what the jocks do in the showers, Lord of The Rings, and Graphing Calculators.

The skateboarders – This is the clique advertisers market “eXtreme Go-Gurt” to.

The girls that wouldn’t go out with me – This clique consisted of every girl at Smith Middle School. Man, were they well organized.

At the onset of 7th Grade, due to my extreme shyness and questionable fashion sense (technically it was my Mother’s fashion sense), I was grouped in with “The Nerds”. Even though we didn’t have a hell of a lot in common other than our devoted love of The Lord of The Rings movies (I only like them for the non-nerdy reasons, like shit blowing up and people getting stabbed and junk) they weren’t that bad of a group to hang out with.

But, I partially blame my time being a “nerd” as the reason I no longer give a shit. Being surrounded by a bunch of overachievers who unwaveringly gave a shit affected my motivation in a very negative way. All of them busted their asses staying up late nights to get straight A’s in a Grade that doesn’t really matter in the long run unless you fail. Sure, some of them are going to Ivy League Universities in the fall, but what will that do for them, I ask? Sure, in 10 years they might all be millionaires with supermodel girlfriends, but that takes hard work and dedication, and honestly, in 10 years I’ll have gained something from slacking off that cannot simply be accomplished by going to an Ivy League University: A really high score in Tetris.

2. The Teachers

7th Grade was one of the first years where I had teachers that I actually liked. Now all of them may have been pretty bad at actually “teaching” me things, but they instilled in me some basic values that are far more important than knowledge of Early World History, and, the, benefits, of, proper, punctuation, usage. They were important to the complete obliteration of my academic ambitions because they taught me to love things other than chemistry, history, and math. Although it’s not what they might have planned, they shifted my interests away from academia, and towards personality.

Mr. Falcigno – Bald, and sporting a key-ring bigger than the janitor’s, Mr. Fal, the science teacher, was one weird mother fucker. Aside from his complete refusal to say the word “No” (in favor of adopting a robot voice and saying the word “Negative”), Mr. Fal was actually pretty cool. Now, I don’t really remember anything of what we learned in his science class, but he did teach me one important lesson I’ll always remember: Be eccentric.

Mr. Fal was one of the most eccentric people I had ever met, and while eccentricity is not always laugh out loud hilarious, it’s always amusing. Every day he would do at least one weird thing that confused somebody:

One day he brought in one of those electronic talking fish that were so popular in the late 90’s and sang to it for a few minutes. On Arbor Day, he pretended to be a tree. He would occasionally slip into and out of a foreign accent to throw us off. Once when I fell asleep in class he put one of those emergency fire safety blankets over me and whispered, “You better be dreaming about Physics or I’m going to have to wake you up.” One day, he announced to the class that he had to leave to go to a conference and we could spend the rest of the period doing whatever we wanted without a substitute teacher. After we all finished cheering, he started teaching us basic chemistry and pretended he never said anything.

Mr. Fal was, at the time, a hero of mine, and he made me fall completely in love with doing incredibly odd things that confused people. ¡Estoy escribiendo esto en español!

Mr. Giroux - Part Math Teacher, part World War II Lieutenant, Mr. Giroux scared the crap out of each and every one of us. Now, we all liked the man a great deal, but his teaching style, for lack of a better word, is best described as “intense”. Generally I don’t like teachers who throw chalk and erasers at you if you fall asleep; Mr. Giroux was the exception. He made me fall head over heels in love with violence. Now, not murderous violence, or even incredibly violent violence, but funny violence. The kind where somebody gets hit really hard with a thrown eraser and instead of crying or getting angry, starts laughing. Like in Jackass™, when they crash into various objects whilst in a shopping cart, or in America’s Funniest Home Videos, where, really, anything happens. Mr. Giroux opened my heart and soul to the joys of somebody getting hit really hard with something, and for that, I thank him.

Mr. Moynihan – Part History teacher, Part retarded hobo, Mr. Moynihan deeply disturbed each and every one of us. Whether it was his constant wheezing, or the fact that he claimed to be in love with a 30,000 year old skeleton, Mr. Moynihan, as opposed to being occasionally eccentric, was a complete weirdo 100% of the time. He had this kind of presence that emphasized just how incredibly different he was from everyone else. He thought differently, he talked differently, and would just be abstract in every sense of the word. But, one thing is certain, he was damned funny (even if I was the only one who recognized it.) I learned three things from Mr. Moynihan; 1. Be different, 2. Weird is funny, and 3. If you’re going to be weird enough to piss your students off, check your morning coffee for laxatives.

3. Television

Long ago, Television and homework had an epic battle over the attention span of Alex Traynor, and in 7th Grade, a winner was declared. Now, I’ve been watching the ol’ boob tube for the vast majority of my life, but 7th grade was the year when I decided that the big shiny box of entertainment was more important than, well, most of my other responsibilities.

My chief reason for initially quitting homework was quite simple: TV is funner. Though now I have a lot more reasons to not want to do Homework (porn), I still come back to my honorary third parent: Television. I’ve learned more things from TV than I have from 13 years of public school, namely, if you get hit by something, shout ‘Doh’, and, if you see Chris Hansen, run.

Also, a lifelong dream of mine has been to get on TV (and not just on Dateline: To Catch a Predator this time), so actually sitting down and paying attention to TV may help with that.

4. Insomnia

If you’ve ever met me in person, it becomes frighteningly apparent that I don’t get a lot of sleep. 7th Grade marked the beginning of my many years of insomnia. Now, I’m not exactly sure how my inability to sleep started, and I’m not sure why it continues, but I am sure of one thing: sleep deprivation fucks things up.

Aside from the zombie-ification process that occurs with being awake for three days straight, another unfortunate side effect of sleep deprivation is the boredom that comes with being the only person awake in the middle of the night. During the period of time after Late Night with Conan O’Brien ends and before the sun comes up I’ve done some pretty stupid things out of boredom:

One night I emptied the contents of my backpack into my microwave and created a small electrical fire. I’d like to be able to have a good explanation for this, but I was rrreeeaaalllyy bored.
Towards the end of the year, I’d sneak out of my house and take a series of 2 A.M. trips to my condo complex’s swimming pool. During one of these trips, my bathing suit fell off in the process of jumping into the pool. And since it was 2 A.M. and pitch dark, I was unable to find it again, and had to walk home through a heavily populated condo complex ass naked. What makes the story even worse is that my dad happened to be awake when I was arriving home. Walking through the front door naked and catching my father gasp and give me a look to the effect of, “We will never speak of this again” was one of the most painful experiences of my life.
Word of advice: Never shave your pubic hair.
I kept a number of poorly-written journals during 7th grade that I wrote in while awake in the middle of the night. They contained my thoughts on girls I thought were cute, things that made me laugh, and incredibly violent stick figure drawings. The journals were all destroyed years later upon realization that I come off as a retarded lunatic while sleep deprived.
One time, I took all the food and shelves out of my refrigerator and crawled in there to see if the light really went off when the door was shut. Problems arose when I found out how difficult the door was to push open from the inside.

Sleep deprivation has changed the kind of person I am. It’s lessened my ability to concentrate on monotonous things, given me 8 extra hours a day to come up with jokes and think about my life, and it’s made me a much stupider person. But still, telling people stay up all night every night does have quite a ring to it.

In retrospect, my new philosophy worked out incredibly well, seeing that I practically slept in every class I took from 7th grade forward and still got into college (Hooray for the SAT’s!)In conclusion, 7th Grade changed my way of thinking and paved the way for more massive changes of perspective in the future (Specifically, the next chapter.)

8th Grade – Smith Middle School

Everyone has a year that defines them. The year where a person changes from who they once were to who they are now. The year when you ‘grow up’, although not strictly in the traditional sense (you can still watch SpongeBob and laugh at fart jokes.) 8th Grade was the year I found my sense of purpose and it marked the emergence of the Alex Traynor you all know and love today.

After the summer break, I arrived back at Smith Middle School with a newfound confidence. I was a different guy. The shy, quiet Alex Traynor was a thing of the past. I finally let most people, not just my friends, see me as someone more than just Mr. generic pre-teen. I talked the way I thought, instead of holding back. And most importantly, I made people laugh. I was the funny guy.

While sitting in class, hundreds of thousands of joke ideas come to my head, most of them shit, but at least 20 of them are mildly funny, some better than that. 8th Grade was the year I actually started to say them out loud, instead of giggling to myself or whispering them to a friend. And for the most part, people thought I was funny. I had never gained that type of mass acceptance before, and I was absolutely thrilled to think that people I had never even formally introduced myself to thought I was funny.

And then, one fateful day in Miss Scarola’s English class we were given an assignment. We were told to create a short story on the topic of our choosing and read it to the class. Being the twisted fuck I am, I wrote a story about a suicidal squirrel named Skippy. While others may find writing a short story and reading it to a classroom to be a trivial experience, it marks an important milestone in the life of Alex Traynor.

It’s important because it introduced me to “The need.” The compulsive need to make a room of complete strangers laugh. I had made the class laugh before but after reading my story, I felt a certain compulsion to do it again. I became inclined towards making people laugh, or at least trying. It became who I am.

Skippy was also important, because, by response, it was the single funniest thing I had ever done up until that point. People were laughing hysterically during my nervous reading of it and people talked about it all week. Sure, they probably forgot about it the next week, but the effects of that reading lasted much much longer for me.

Reading over the story again today, I’m surprised at how much of it I still find funny. Sure, there a quite a few jokes that fall completely flat today, but for something I wrote at 3 A.M at age 13, it’s pretty good.

In lieu of actually including the whole story, I present you with a condensed version, containing actual lines taken from the story in bold:

Skippy The Suicidal Squirrel

The Condensed Edition

Skippy was an ordinary squirrel that lived an ordinary life; he ate acorns, climbed trees, and had a severe case of ADHD. Skippy is wandering through Central Park one day when he stumbles upon “a mysterious brown liquid” (that’s all the explanation I gave) and suddenly becomes freakishly intelligent. He thought of things he hadn’t thought of before; he finally came to his senses and realized that OJ did it; I mean come on, DNA evidence doesn’t lie. He then goes home to his fellow squirrels, who are quite freaked out by the sight of the ‘new’ Skippy. They ran away faster than my uncle when the cops show up. Skippy realized that he was now permanently different, and he would never be the same. His heart sank faster than an anorexic Vietnamese midget carrying a Taco Bell Chalupa, being thrown into an eternal pit of doom! (Not that that’s a personal experience or anything….) Skippy then realizes that suicide is the only reasonable option , so he climbs to the top of a tall building and jumps off. He remembered that he was a flying squirrel. Skippy then tries to fly into the side of the building but accidentally flies into an open window and lands on a pillow. Next, he tries to kill himself in another hilarious way, that’s, unfortunately, too stupid too mention. The chance of that happening is equal to the chance that this Short Story will cure the common cold and win a Nobel Peace Prize. While still in the apartment he flew into, Skippy hears the door opening, and in enters a pair of Mafioso stock brokers who argue over one of them investing a lot of money in Enron until one pulls out a gun and shoots the other. After that, Skippy takes the gun and shoots himself with it. He later wakes up in a dumpster near the river. Apparently he had just shot his leg off. Skippy wanders toward the Hudson River and looks at his reflection in the water. He looked like an unfortunate combination of Disney characters. After this, Skippy starts to get really hungry. “Self-cannibalism!” thought Skippy. He becomes instantly enamored by the taste of himself and starts a fire in a nearby park to cook himself with. He then hears a loud roar come from a nearby forest. He hid behind a bush and saw a huge bear in a ranger hat and blue jeans. It was the infamous “Smokey” the forest fire prevention bear. Smokey proceeds to maul the shit out of Skippy, but stops when he sees that Skippy isn’t struggling at all. Disparaged by this, he asks, “What the hell’s your problem?! You’re ruining this for the both of us!” Skippy’s amazed by the fact that Smokey can talk and inquires as to where Smokey got his talking powers. “What powers? All it took was a dictionary and the motivation of the US government pointing a gun to my head” They then get into a prolonged verbal fight using “Yo Momma” jokes I stole from the internet. “Yo momma so stupid she thought the Nazis were saying "Hi! Hitler" By the time the insult fight was over, the flames from the forest fire had engulfed Smokey, and he died from the thing that he spent his whole life trying to prevent. After the unfortunate death of Smokey, Skippy reevaluated his life and realized that it was worth living after all. He wanted to run and jump through the forests and live his life to the fullest. And then Skippy was run over by a drunk driver.

THE END!!!

By: Alexander “Danger” Traynor

Yes folks, it was a dumb story about a suicidal squirrel haphazardly trying to kill himself that told me what I wanted to do for the rest of my life: Be funny.

After that, making people laugh got easier confidence wise, and although I would eventually get on people’s nerves for trying to be “too funny” (read: annoying), the year greatly helped me improve my skill and learn from my beginner’s mistakes. And halfway through the year, I was on top of the world. I was the happiest I had been for a long time and things were looking good.

And then I stopped showing up.

For the last half of the school year, I showed up approximately seven more times. Just, suddenly, one day I didn’t go to school for a month, and then I came back for one day, and then stopped showing up again.

Up until now, I’ve never told anyone what I was actually doing during my extended vacation from school. Always giving a sarcastic answer when asked. And now I’m finally ready to reveal the true answer to the world in this very article: I did nothing.

Yes that’s right, I stayed home, and did nothing. I didn’t come down with the plague, I didn’t move to Tahiti, I didn’t run over a nun and go to prison, I didn’t get accepted into Harvard 5 years pre-maturely, and I didn’t join a rock band and start touring Europe. I sat at home on my couch and watched TV.

What started out as a one-day vacation to get away from the stress that school caused, turned into a week of absence, which turned into months of blatant truancy. And I’ve never told anyone why I felt like not coming to school for half a year either, partially because I’m not 100% sure why, and partially because it didn’t, and still doesn’t, make a lot of sense.

I can basically chalk it up to two reasons:

1. I had a minor stress induced breakdown and my absence from school eventually turned into habit, making it harder and harder to stay back in school.
2. The same lesson I learned last chapter: TV is funner.

Now, my truancy (anti-social tendencies) would never get this bad again, but I did take away from the experience a lesson (Albeit, a very stupid and counter-productive lesson.) I learned something I like to refer to as “The joy of absence.” It’s a stupid philosophy that I’ve lived the past five years by (Yes, even though I agree it’s stupid and counter-productive, I don’t plan on completely ditching it any time soon.) Basically, whenever you feel slightly inclined towards not showing up to a responsibility, act on that urge, and not show up. You can do whatever you want in that absence: watch TV, sleep, hang out with friends, go to a movie, sit in the corner crying, drive 90 Mph on the highway, teach a small child from Paraguay how to dance, really, anything you could possibly feel like doing except what you’re supposed to do works fine. Here, let me describe it like I’m doing an infomercial for my philosophy:

Have a hard test you don’t feel ready to take? Stay at home!
Do you have slight back pain? Go back to sleep!
Break up with a girl in your Geometry class lately? Avoid her by not showing up!
Get a detention and think not showing up the day of will get you out of it? You thought right!

And although absence has fucked me over a lot in the past (more on that in tenth grade), I’ve had a shitload of fun with it too, especially during my 8th grade “reclusive period.”

List of fun things I did instead of show up in 8th grade:

Rode my motor-scooter all around town and did various delinquent things, such as riding to the local supermarket, taking handfuls of candy, eating them in the store, and then walking out without paying.
Pool parties! (by myself)
Riding my scooter to school, banging on the windows of the classes I should have been in, and then riding away.
The Price is Right!
Day-Dreaming about moving to Tahiti, getting accepted to Harvard 5 years early, running over a nun, and joining a rock band and touring Europe.
Indoor Baseball. (My mom still kinda hates me for this one)
Listening to punk rock all day and jamming out on air guitar.
So many more things it’s hard to list them all.

To Be Continued…

K-12: Adventures in Education.

2007-06-25T16:01:00.002-04:00

In June of 2007, life as I know it will be over. Gone will be the days of waking up at 7:00, dragging my ass to the local learn-a-torium, going back to sleep, being awoken 45 minutes later by an obnoxiously loud bell-sounding alarm clock, repeating that 7 more times, and then leaving at 2:06. Hell, as of June 2007, I can just stay in one place while I sleep, and when I wake up I can do whatever I want. I can stay home all day, eat cheetos, and watch Bugs Bunny in my underwear. That’ll be the life.

But, at times I get nostalgic; will I ever miss the world of forced education? Maybe someday I’ll be a 35 year old working for a paper factory, dreaming of being a young and stupid third grader again. And the worst part is, I can never come back. Well, unless I want to spend a couple of years getting a teaching degree, or want to sneak in and risk being perceived as a dirty dirty old man.

And while it’s true that I haven’t really learned anything intended in the curriculum since third grade, really, when has public education actually been about education? If I’ve learnt anything these past twelve years, it’s how to deal with people. How to not be annoying. How to not act too pissed off when you get un-invited from a birthday party. How to lie convincingly. How to make people laugh. Why I should give a shit about what I choose to wear in the morning. Why I shouldn’t tell a girlfriend she’s fat. Why I should be nice to kids who might someday become mass murderers. Why someone pooping in a urinal is so funny. Why I shouldn’t fuck people over. How to pretend you give a shit when other people are talking. And most importantly, It taught me who the fuck I am.

But that knowledge didn’t come overnight folks, it took me thirteen years (four of which I was still wetting the bed during). And so, I’m about to share with you thirteen years of experiences, bad choices, ruined friendships, oh, and why someone shitting in a urinal is so memorable. Sit back, relax, and try not fall asleep. Hell, you might even learn something.

Kindergarten- Mrs. Bacon's Class

“I don’t want to go to school,” I said to my mother, “Why can’t I just stay home forever?”
“Because if you go to school, you’ll become smart like me, and then you can do whatever you want when you grow up.” she replied.
“I just want to watch Barney,” I stated.
“Well, if you stay home you’re not going to be an astronaut when you grow up…”

Eventually I caved to her idle threat, but in retrospective, I get the feeling that my time in Kindergarten would’ve actually been better spent watching Barney, because unless NASA decides to get drunk and raffle off tickets to space, I ain’t gonna be no damn astronaut.

In Mrs. Bacon’s class, our time was pretty evenly split between sleeping, building block towers, and learning how to write our names. While not exactly the pinnacle of intellectuality, I do remember having fun. Well, at least I had fun for a little while that is.

In November of 1994 I received my first nickname, a nickname that would last at least four months. I’m not really sure who it was that decided it would be a fun idea to give everyone in the class a nickname, but if I ever found out, I would shank that person in the ear.

As kindergarteners, you could tell our intellectual abilities by what we chose to call each other. My best friend was called ‘Booger’, and I was called ‘Potty Traynor’.

When it came time to give the both of us nicknames, we both were sort of enthusiastic at the prospect of being known by names other than ‘Alex Traynor’ and ‘Brett Thompson’. They gave Brett the nickname ‘Booger’ first, obviously he was sort of pissed off at this, but I guess he should have thought better than to pick his nose when it was nickname deciding time. It took them a while longer to come up with my nickname, since I dressed appropriately, wasn’t considered weird, and currently wasn’t either a.)Picking my nose, b.)Shitting my pants, or c.)Peeing. The best they had on me was that my last name was a noun.

“Hey everybody! Let’s call him Lion Traynor!”
“You’re kidding me? Lion Traynor? I like Lion Traynor, geez, if you want to come up with something abusive, you should call me Potty Tra……… shit.”

And so it was, Potty Traynor was born. The nickname haunted me for the next four months, almost completely destroying my chances of having a girlfriend that year (Since I doubt anyone would be enthused about telling their friends that their new boyfriend’s name is ‘Potty’). But thankfully Potty Traynor didn’t last long, as it was replaced by a new and more flattering nickname: Elvis.

It started out as any other day, we said the pledge of allegiance, we built some block towers, we wrote our names a few times, and then a woman walked into the room. We didn’t get many visitors, so our full attention was directed towards the strange woman. She explained that she was the director of art at our school and that she was auditioning roles for our class play.

She started giving away roles in the play like they were STD’s in a brothel. She assigned a couple of girls as dancers, a few of the guys as baseball players, before she got to the lead role in the play, Mr. C. We were doing a play on the letters of the alphabet (What did you expect?), and Mr. C stood for Mr. Cotton Candy, and for some inexplicable reason, Mr. Cotton Candy looked and acted exactly like Elvis Presley. She gently explained the nature of the role, and then started asking for volunteers. After about ten seconds of absolute nothingness, it looked as if no-one was going to volunteer. Then all of a sudden, up darts my friend Drew’s hand. Now, it was a well known fact that the girl I had a crush on in that class had a little thing for Drew, so not to be shown up, my hand darted up as well. I had never considered acting before that moment, but there was no way I was going to let Drew get all the attention. After my hand went up, well, Booger’s hand went up too, and I’m not completely sure what his reasoning was, although I did find out a few years later that he was slightly mentally retarded.

There we were, the three of us standing in front of the whole classroom eagerly awaiting instructions from the teacher lady. She pulled out a boom box she brought from another classroom and put on ‘Jailhouse rock’ and then told us to ‘Twirl around’. So, there we were, standing in front of our fellow classmates twirling around like three retards (technically there was only one). I quickly took notice of how fast Drew was twirling and made sure I did it twice as fast. She gave out a couple more useless commands, and for each one I did it better than Drew. She then gave out her final command (which now makes me realize that all of those other commands were mere foreplay), she told us to ‘shake our hips’, which Elvis was notorious for.

Now, if you were to walk into that classroom at that very moment, you would see one of the most unsettling things you’d ever see, and then you would probably call the police and ask for an investigation. You see, as Kindergarteners, none of us really knew what ‘humping’ was. Therefore we couldn’t separate the fine distinction between ‘shaking your hips’ and ‘humping the sky’. Now picture three oblivious 5 year olds furiously humping invisible women in front of a classroom of more confused 5 year olds, while a bunch of adults laughed their asses off, all set to the tune of ‘Jail-house Rock’. What took place that day will surely go down in history as the most blatantly homosexual audition in the history of auditions. Not even the auditions for Moulin Rouge could top this one.

So there I was, little 5 year old Alex Traynor shedding off his former innocence and doing something 30 year olds could possibly get arrested for. And, I make no understatement when I say this, it went on for a full minute and thirty seconds. Frankly, because our teachers were too busy laughing to tell us to stop. Thankfully, the rest of the class had no idea either that what we were doing was so very very wrong, so I was spared of any embarrassment.

A couple minutes later the teacher announced that I had the role. Furiously humping my way to the top. I was high as a kite, that is, until two weeks later when the play came up. I’ll spare you the gruesome story, but just picture the audition, in front of 500 more people, oh, and me dressed up like Elvis.

Come to think of it, Kindergarten sucked.

1st Grade - Ms. Conn's class

Ms. Conn had long brown hair, with blond highlights, and it did this thing that curled at the end. She had this kind of reassuring smile that gave of the general vibe of “I don’t really care who peed on the seat, I just want to know so I can teach whoever’s responsible how to aim”. She always brought in candy for us, and she was really nice. But, most importantly, she laughed at my jokes, the key to my heart. I had a crush.

And looking back at our class photo, and her less than enthusiastic responses to my journal entries, it’s kinda hard to see what I saw in her way back then. Basically, what it chalks up to is the fact that I needed a crush. It was a period in time where I was just coming to grips with the realization that the ex-woman-of-my-dreams turned out to be a dirty dirty whore, and my last teacher Mrs. Bacon was considerably less than appealing. I guess Ms. Conn was the right girl at the right time, she was nice to me, she had a car, and she was under the age of 75 and never lost her dentures during the middle of class.

I’d like to say that something ever happened between me and Ms. Conn, but unfortunately for all of the boys in that class who pined over her, she wasn’t a child molester. Although, even when we got actual confirmation of this (Booger asked her out), that didn’t stop our pining. What can we say, we were hopeless romantics.

Although most every guy in that class wanted to marry her, I know of one who didn’t. His name was Gus, and he was the first actual gay person I ever met. Now sure, I have no actual confirmation of his sexual orientation, but the fact that he hung out with all of the girls in that class was confirmation enough for me. You see, when you hang out with exclusively women, and are over the age of 13, there’s the distinct possibility that you’re boning each and every one of them. But when you’re in first grade and choose to hang out with all girls, no doubt about it, you’re gay.

Now, I didn’t know what ‘gay’ was back then, and it wasn’t until third grade when I started listening to a lot of ‘Village People’ music did my mother finally explain the concept to me. So, at this time, he was just plain old Gus, not being persecuted for his sexual orientation whatsoever. And me and Gus were friends.

We didn’t have very much in common other than the fact that his sister was on my brother’s baseball team, and we hung out playing tag and other stuff while their games were on. Of course we could have just watched the games with our families, but I’ve always hated baseball, and Gus… well, Gus was gay. We had fun during those baseball games, and we developed sort of an unlikely friendship.

Which is why it might come as a shock when I tell you that I consider Gus as one of the single worst influences on my life. He taught me something that rid me of my sense of common decency, and made me the enemy of parents everywhere (and no, it isn’t anything gay).

F-U-C-K, just four simple letters that have gotten me into so much unbelievable trouble over the years. Sure, they are just four letters (all of them they teach in school), but apparently when you put them all together in that order, they’re evil.

Now, Gus had a very morbid sense of humor, so instead of coming up to me and saying, “There’s this word, fuck, that when you say it, people get mad at you”, he came up to me and said, “I’ll pay you 25 cents to go up to the board and write F-U-C-K”.

Obviously, I accepted the proposition like a cheap hooker, never doubting for a minute that Gus wasn’t a complete dick. As soon as it was up, the rest of the class started giggling like 1^st graders normally do, and as I wondered aloud what was so funny, I was interrupted. By a deafening scream.

It was my fiancée, Ms. Conn.

“WHO IN HEAVEN’S NAME DID THIS?”

Instantly everyone in the room pointed at me, including Gus.

Needless to say, Gus was no longer my friend. (“Et tu, Gus?”)

Ms. Conn whisked me out of the room, and started yelling. Even after I explained the situation, she didn’t stop yelling.

Needless to say, I was no longer attracted to her.

Eventually she calmed down, and then sentenced me to one of the longest timeouts ever. Also, the bitch called my mother, which resulted in the most awkward conversation in the history of awkward conversations.

“Honey, you know what you did in school today was very very bad, don’t you?”
“What, writing ‘fuck’ on the board?”
*Gasp* “Honey, don’t say that.”
“Why the fuck not you fucking fucker?”

Needless to fucking say, first grade fucking sucked.

2nd Grade – The Blob’s class

Second Grade was one of the better years in my elementary school career, as it marked the beginning of my decade long transition from ‘generic, nose-picking, nap-taking, power ranger lovin’ child, to… well, something slightly more complex. You see, all Kindergarteners and First Graders are fundamentally the same, they all like the same things, they all act in the same hyper-retarded manner, and they all, for some mind-boggling reason, love the Power Rangers. Second grade was the grade where you became known for something slightly less shallow than how much you picked your nose, or how unfortunate your last name was. It was when you developed a personality, and the first age where you first started to show your true colors. I’m sure second grade was the first time that Neil Armstrong showed an interest towards walking on the moon, the time where Einstein first developed an affinity for nuclear-physics, and the time where a young Ted Kaczynski developed a penchant for sending bombs through the mail. And for the young Alex Traynor, well, he had a thing for making people laugh.

I honestly can’t remember my 2nd Grade teacher’s name, but I do remember that she was monstrously obese, so for the sake of this article, were going to refer to her as ‘The Blob’. The Blob was the first in the incredibly long line of incompetent teachers I would have in my public school career, and as they always say, you never forget your first. She was the kind of teacher who would constantly be late for school because she locked her keys in her car, and one time she forgot to tell the janitor to keep the heat on in the room over the weekend and as a result, the class gerbil froze to death. And even though I can’t remember her real name, she taught me something about myself I never knew before: I’m an idiot.

It was a pleasantly warm month of November for the mediocre state that is Connecticut, and unbeknownst to the whole rest of the world, a chain of events that would only minimally shape the life of a small freckled Irish boy was about to take place. My desk was located near the left corner of our humble classroom, and I sat next to my friends, Matas and Chris. While, I wasn’t close to being the class clown or anything, I was what you would call ‘the funny one’ in our group of friends. Not that I hadn’t dreamed of being the class clown though, since making people laugh has always appealed to me. And at that point in age, I figured that if I could make the whole class laugh at the same time, everyone would like me. And I was constantly looking for an opportunity.

Now, one fateful day, The Blob was checking homework when I decided it would be a great idea to, when she got to me, tell her a wildly absurd excuse as to why I didn’t have my homework, bask in the laughter of my fellow classmates, and then just as once as she’s about to reprimand me, shout “GOTCHA!”, and then present my thoroughly completed homework paper. Well, somewhere during the execution of that poorly thought out plan, something went terribly wrong.

Now “The dog ate my homework” is a joke excuse that’s been going around for ages, and in this day in age, I’m somewhat surprised when someone doesn’t recognize it. It’s even more surprising when someone believes it, because honestly, unless you rub bacon grease all over your homework and then dip it in a vat of chocolate pudding, chances are your dog won’t swallow your homework.

The teacher came up to my desk.
“Where’s your homework Alex?”
This was my moment in the sun, all I had to do was flawlessly pronounce four simple words, and I’d be the coolest kid in all of Pine Grove Elementary.
“The dog ate it.”
It was perfect, at that moment I felt that no joke could ever be told in a manner that could top that, and just as I started to see my classmates laugh uproariously and as I pictured what my life as Mr. Cool would be like, The Blob ruined everything,
“Really?”
Uh-Oh.
I wasn’t expecting that. Not once while I was formulating my scheme did I ever think of a back-up plan. I hadn’t even considered the logistics of a dog eating my homework, let alone pre-formulating a cover-up lie.
“Yeah…”
It was all I was able to muster out of my shocked little head.
“What kind of dog do you have?”
Now, I didn’t have a dog at the time, and asking a second grader to remember any singular breed of dog on a seconds notice is like trying to Google ‘google’(weird shit happens, trust me). My mind hit a blank.
“…”
“Alright, then what does your dog look like?”
Now, under normal circumstances I’d be able to come up with an imaginary description for an imaginary dog on the drop of a hat, but for some odd reason, I was still drawing a blank. It was about 5 seconds of blankly staring into The Blob’s triple-chinned face until I realized I should look for inspiration. I faced my attention towards the classroom bookshelf and saw two books that caught my eye. “101 Dalmatians” and “Clifford the Big Red Dog”. Now, even the most retarded of second graders (Booger) would have told her that their dog had spots and was a Dalmatian, but for some reason I went with Clifford.
“He’s red!” I shouted with triumphant enthusiasm.
I count that statement as among one of the dumbest things I have ever said.
“You have a red dog, well that’s odd, I’ve never seen a red dog before”
“Well, I hadn’t either before I saw him”
“What’s his name?”
“Clifford!”
I take my previous remark back, THAT’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.
Now, even a woman as incompetent as The Blob could tell I was an idiot.
“Let me guess, he’s big?”
“Oh yeah, he’s fucking huge!”
About a month prior she had decided to just ignore whenever I said my favorite word after she couldn’t successfully convince me of it’s evil ways.
“Do you have any other dogs”
“Yeah…”
“How many?”
“One Hundred and One... and they’re all Dalmatians!”
“…”

By that time, she had forgotten all about the homework and had begun to imagine me as a thirty five year old living in a cardboard box in an alley somewhere. That conversation changed the rest of my adolescent life, and now only upon reflection do I realize that I’m a terrible terrible liar. And while I could tell you about the time I convinced The Blob I was late for school because I was abducted by aliens, I’ll just leave you with a little advice: If you’re ever stuck in a tight conversational situation and find no possible way to redeem yourself, convince the other person that you’re insane, and hopefully they’ll forget what they were talking about.

3rd Grade – Mrs. Schwartz’s class

As a child, I was always what people would consider a ‘crybaby’. Lost my mom in a JC Penny? I’d lie in the fetal position and bawl. Found out the grocery store was sold out of Doritos? Weep hysterically and shout the F-word. For pretty much every mildly upsetting occasion there was a distinctive cry. And for the most part, that all changed in 3rd grade.

During my tenure at Pine Grove Elementary school, each year we went on a different field trip. In first grade, we went to a play. In Second grade, we went to an aquarium. And, in third grade, we went to Old Sturbridge Village.

Old Sturbridge Village is what they call a ‘living museum’, and it’s basically a replica of an 18th century colonial village, that hires actors to pretend that they’re really from 1785 and that they’ve never ever heard a cell-phone before (“WITCH!”). Now, these aren’t your normal actors though, they’re at the absolute bottom of the whole ‘actor’ hierarchy. Not only do they have to churn butter all day and deal with snobby third graders making fart jokes, but they have to pretend to like it. Also, since it was supposed to be a replica of 1700s New England, they didn’t have video games(X-treme Butter Churning, anyone?), which made me loathe the idea of ever stepping foot in Sturbridge. Needless to say, I would’ve rather gotten lost in one of The Blob’s many crevices for a year than get lost in Old Sturbridge Village for a day. And that’s exactly what happened (The Sturbridge Village thing, not the crevices thing).

Now, almost everyone in their public school career has had a teacher who hated teaching, but I’m sure only a select few have had a teacher who hated teaching as much as Mrs. Schwartz did. It seemed like she had genuinely liked teaching at some point in her life, but I guess that years of third graders calling her names and peeing on the seat in our classroom toilet wore her down. Initially, she masked her hatred of us, only muttering negative sentiment behind our backs. Eventually, she stopped giving a shit about us liking her and decided to yell at us on a weekly basis (or whenever she was having ‘the cramps’). She quit one week before school ended, right after she told the class that she “hated us” and that she was “moving to Vegas”. To this day, I’m still surprised her resignation speech didn’t involve a shotgun and a handful of dead third graders.

Getting away from Schwartz was the primary reason many of us were looking forward to that field trip, and when the day finally came, we all felt as if we were on top of the world (Well, I guess we actually were if you want to think about it in a technical sense). We all woke up extra early and had our parents drive us to school, and when we got there, Schwartz handed out a sheet of paper telling which students would be assigned to which chaperone. And luck had it; I was assigned to Mrs. Schwartz’s group. A field trip that had already seemed to me as appealing as jumping off a cliff and landing in a pile of John Tesh CDs, had somehow managed to get even worse. Also, for extra safety reasons, the school management had decided to employ the all reliable ‘buddy system’ within our subgroups. And luck had it, I was assigned with Booger, my old friend who I had decided to not hang out with anymore after he started saying the phrase “I like Pancakes!” way too much.

Hmmmm, I wonder what could go wrong in a pretend 1700s village eighty miles away from home with staff members who hate their jobs and the tag team duo entrusted with the glorious duty of making sure I didn’t die consisted of a 65 year old woman who hated my guts, and a retarded kid who, apparently, really liked pancakes.

It took us an hour and a half on a ridiculously hot school bus to travel all the way up to Sturbridge. When we got off the bus a rather unattractive woman wearing a bonnet and a frilly old dress came onto our school bus.

“Now children, this isn’t an ordinary school bus, it’s a time machine! When you step off this bus, you’ll find yourself in the year 1795!” she said rather enthusiastically.

“Bullshit!” I thought quietly to myself, “If this school bus was a time machine, we’d probably be doing something more constructive right now, like killing Hitler, or giving Nintendo 64s to the slaves”

“I want you all to have a fun time back in ol’ Sturbridge, and remember don’t get lost!”

Instantly, a bad feeling came over me and I started to panic. All of the other ‘field-trip-welcomers’ I had met said something along the lines of “If you get lost, come to the front desk or talk to an adult”; something definitely wasn’t right when a place’s policy on lost children consisted solely of “Don’t get lost”. I almost started crying right there.

We shuffled off the bus in a disorganized 3rd grader way, and formed into our respective groups. There were 6 people in Mrs. Schwartz’s group: Becca (The class bitch), Christina (Teacher’s pet), Ross (The weird kid who would eat anything for the right price), Feldman (The obnoxious Jew), Booger (The kid with the lowest IQ in the class), and me (The kid with the highest IQ in the class).

Schwartz had this look on her face as if she hated 1700s style villages just as much as I did (and probably as much as this guy), and wanted to get the day over with as soon as possible.

The day started out like any other boring field trip, we did some sight-seeing, we walked around a lot, Booger made an off-color remark about Feldman’s extremely large nose, and I started to daydream (primarily about me going back in time and killing Hitler). It was around noon when we found our way over to the local tavern. The pretend barkeep gave us a speech about the importance of the local tavern in the late 1700s, the barkeep’s assistant made an offensive remark about me (the Irish 8-year old) being in a bar in the middle of the day, and then my group was gone. I’m not completely sure how it happened, but I look down for a second, and when I look back up everyone in my group had left. And it isn’t like I had wandered off, or ran away; I was standing in the same exact position. I started to cry, a deep blubbering cry.

“They left me” I tried to whisper out beneath the crying.
I looked around the room and everyone was staring at me.
“Hey, we’re not out of imaginary beer yet, drunky!” joked the bartender’s assistant.

I stood there crying for about twenty minutes, no-one even bothering to cheer me up. Eventually I ran out of tears and regained the ability to walk, but decided to wait in the tavern for another ten minutes anyway. I figured that once they realized I was missing, they’d come looking for me in the last place they saw me, but after a half an hour of waiting I came to the harsh realization that they weren’t coming back.

So I started to walk around. I really had no place to go, I just felt like walking. On the surface, I tried to convince myself that I’d find another group and be taken in as one of their own, but deep down I assumed I’d be stuck in the year 1795 forever. I tried to feel betrayed at the fact that my group left me alone to die (well, technically just to live in the 1700s, but they all knew I would’ve killed myself without some serious Sonic The Hedgehog time anyway), but it’s not like I wasn’t expecting it, they all pretty much hated me for good reason. Becca pretty much hated everyone, Ross was upset that my sophisticated jokes had become significantly funnier than him eating worms, Feldman resented me because I had a bigger house than he did, Christina resented my good looks (alright this one’s a lie, I had no idea why she hated me), and Booger, well, he didn’t hate me, he was just retarded.

About fifteen minutes after I had begun my glorious walking journey to nowhere in particular, my tear ducts told me that they had regained their ability to make me look like a fool. I told myself to resist the urge, that it was no use. And for the first time in my life, that actually worked.

To this day I’m still surprised that the first time I was ever able to stop myself from crying, came at a time where I felt my death (suicide) was imminent. I experienced a rush of self-empowerment at this newfound ability to stop the tears that had previously plagued my over-privileged-white-kid life.

Suddenly, my metaphorical shield of self-imposed misery was lifted and I was able to see the sole benefit of being 80 miles away from home in a shitty living museum: no-one knew who I was.

The rest of my day was spent as follows:

Running into colonial townhouses, yelling “Fuck You!”, and then running away.
Spending all of the money my mother gave me for the day on rock candy, and then throwing it up a few minutes later.
Explaining the benefits of modern machinery to the local Blacksmith, and then basking in his feelings of inferiority and crushed self-worth.
Telling the pretend mayor that the real mayor of Sturbridge, MA was replaced by a town council in 1934, and then basking in his feelings of inferiority and crushed self-worth.
Asking the townspeople where they kept their slaves.
Demonstrating to the town postman how my Nike™ Sneakers were more versatile than the shoes he wore, and then watching his mouth gape open when he found out that little neon lights lit up in the back of the shoes whenever I took a step.
Hiding behind an arriving school bus and then yelling out “Then where’s the flux capacitor?!”, after the field-trip greeter gave her whole time-travel speech.
Sneaking into the town church and yelling, “My name is Feldman and I’m Jewish!”

To my surprise, a day that I assumed would be excruciatingly miserable turned out to be a lot of fun. At around 3:15, when we were due to leave, a surprised Mrs. Schwartz discovered me leaning up against our school bus.

“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Well, I’ve been away from the group for about 3 hours now…”
“Really?”
“Yeah…”
“Oh… Well, next time don’t get fucking lost!”

Although I wouldn’t completely conquer my predisposition towards crying until 7th grade when I accidently took the wrong bus, Sturbridge Village taught me how to not be such a pussy, and how much fun it is to be a dick to people who will never learn your name. Now, if you were to ask me again whether I’d rather spend a day lost in Sturbridge Village, or a year stuck in one of The Blob’s crevices, the answer would be easy… actually, wait… which crevice?

1st half of 4th grade – Paddock Road Elementary, Omaha, NE

“You’re moving?!”
“Yeah”
“Where to?”
“Nebraska”
“What’s Nebraska?”

“What’s Nebraska?” is a question I first received 8 years ago. And 8 years after the fact and with a little firsthand experience, I still have no fucking clue just what the hell Nebraska is. Sure, it is a state, and I did live there for 6 months, but saying I know what Nebraska is, is like Elton John saying he knows what a vagina feels like. Sure, he did come from one, and he spent 9 months living there, but that was a long time ago, and vaginas are long in his past. I’m from Connecticut (home to gigantic mansions, luxurious public facilities, and primarily, rich white kids), and deep down I’ll always be a Connectikitten (that’s my term, back off, bitches). Moving to Nebraska was a fun excursion (like when Elton John said he was ‘bi’ in the mid 70’s), but ultimately I belonged in Connecticut (and Elton John belongs in another man’s asshole?)

Now, some might assume that since I lived in Omaha only a short time, that it’s not that memorable of an experience. Not only did it give me a boost in self-confidence and a mild sense of purpose, Omaha taught me how to do something that’s changed my life: Pander to the lowest common denominator. Whether its fart jokes, pee jokes, crude sex jokes, or just donkey fuckin’ jokes, if it wasn’t for Omaha, I wouldn’t be telling them today.

I said goodbye to every friend I had ever made in July of 1998, and embarked upon a halfway cross country road trip with my parents, grand-parents, brother, and dog Max all stuffed into a 1997 Jeep Grand Cherokee. We arrived 7 days later and I would go on to describe the trip as ‘very corny’ (that was a pun; we saw a lot of corn on our way there). After the summer was over, I was introduced to Paddock Road Elementary School, a K-6 Elementary school with a playground, one long hallway, and a luxurious “gymnacafetorium”.

Within the first day, it became very clear that I didn’t fit in. For one main reason: I was the smartest person in the entire state. Sure, there may have been times when an exception could be made (such as a plane of normal people flying over the state), but for the most part, I had learned more in my previous 4 years of education than most Nebraskans learn in their lives.

Throughout the day, I could practically watch my prospective friendships shatter whenever I would utter a word they didn’t understand (“Stop using such big words!” “Big words? You consider ‘because’ to be a big word?” “What the fuck does that mean?!”). By the end of the week, I didn’t have a single friend, that is, until I lowered my threshold of “acceptable” friends, and met Logan.

I met Logan when we were partnered together for “Cafeteria Duty”(Omaha Legislators decided to lower the school budget, eliminating the funding for Cafeteria Workers, so the school administration utilized the next best thing: Fourth Graders!), and we started hanging out most of the time after that. Our friendship was based mainly around desperation. I was the new kid who had an incredibly large vocabulary, therefore, I was shunned. Logan gave everyone the creeps, and was possibly retarded, therefore, he was shunned. We didn’t have very much in common. I liked Star Wars, while Logan really really liked professional wrestling (and it wasn’t like he was a casual fan of the World Wrestling Federation either; he was fucking infatuated with that crap [to the point where he would throw chairs across our classroom]). Now, while Logan may not have been the perfect friend for me, I was desperate… and he had a Nintendo 64.

For two whole months, I almost exclusively hung around Logan, and in the time I got to know him I learned two things valuable to increasing my position in the social hierarchy.

1. Don’t use big words.
2. Farting is hilarious.

Eventually, I implemented those teachings into my everyday speech pattern, and my social status began to steadily increase. Within time, I had almost completely morphed into a semi-retarded “Omaha-approved” version of myself. Here are some examples:

Regular Alex: “This Nintendo 64 game is awesome”
Omaha Alex: “Let’s play some football!”

Regular Alex: “Ew, somebody just farted”
Omaha Alex: “Hahahahahahahaha”

Regular Alex: “I think that the socio-economic impact of 19th century Poland drastically altered the current monetary system”
Omaha Alex: “Let’s play some football!”

After a month of Omaha Alex, I had at least 5 new friends (with at least 3 of them being people who didn’t practice Wrestling moves on me [not competitive wrestling moves either, painful WWF chair-throwing wrestling moves]). And suddenly, in early December something happened that would promote me to near celebrity status at Paddock Road Elementary. I remembered this rhyme:

Old Macdonald sitting on a bench
Picking his balls with a monkey wrench
Wrench got hot and burned his balls
Peed all over his overalls
Went to the doctor, and the doctor said
“Gee, Old Mac, but your balls are dead”
When I die, bury me
Hang my balls on a cherry tree
When they’re ripe, take a bite
Don’t blame me if you barf all night.

In a day, I became the most popular kid in my class, possibly even the most popular kid in Nebraska. All because I “Created” (I didn’t actually make it up, people just assumed I did and I “forgot” to correct them) that rhyme.

From then on, life in Omaha was great. I’m not exaggerating that that stupid rhyme made me god-like at Paddock Road (I’m actually pretty confident that if the kids had to choose between me and a reincarnated Jesus, and I recited that rhyme, they’d totally forget about the whole “dying for your sins” thing). A lot of things changed after that rhyme, here are some of the more notable:

Girls who normally wouldn’t speak to me were hitting on me like I was every member of the group “Hanson” rolled into one.
I was made quarterback in the recess football pickup games, even though I had a terrible throwing arm, and thought football and soccer were the same thing until I was 8.
Whenever anyone would fart, the whole class would look towards me. If I laughed, the fart was officially funny.
Other students started to imitate my uniquely patented style of dress: Jeans and T-shirts (although it’s possible they would have worn that stuff anyway)
A few of them actually let me teach them how to spell “Connecticut” (It sure ain’t “Kinettikut”)
I was exempt from all sleep-over “cage matches” (They would lock you in a large closet with the class “big dumb idiot” [Logan], and he would wrestle you until either: A. Time was up or B. You died.)
I got to mop the tables in Cafeteria Duty (which, trust me, was the only job that didn’t involve dirty plates and a gigantic hose)

I had never been happier in my life. Sure, I had to change myself into someone my normal self would consider to be retarded, but that was a small price to pay for true happiness. My future in Omaha looked brighter than it ever had in Connecticut, and I started to imagine myself in Omaha for the rest of my life.

And then I moved back to Connecticut.

The memory of Omaha means a lot of different things to me. Other than the thought of a great alternate future in Omaha being the bane of my existence, my stint in Omaha was an essential stepping stone in shaping the very person I am today. Aside from all the great fart jokes it taught me (*fart*), it taught me that I have no problem acting like an idiot as long as people like me for it. Which for the most part, is an indispensible part of who I am.

*FART*
heheheheh….
hahahahahha…
HAHAHAHAHAH!
Oh shit, that still gets me every time.
Hilarious.

2nd half of 4th grade – Mrs. Bliss’ Class

During every person’s young life, there are certain adult concepts one must grasp before venturing onto adulthood. I refer to these concepts as the “big four”: Sex, Death, Abortion, and Racism. The revelation of these concepts can be quite jarring to a child, since they disrupt the child’s view of reality, and each revelation is a significant emotional milestone. I remember them all very clearly:

Sex: 3rd grade (“So babies don’t come out through the belly button?!”)
Death: 6th Grade (“Mommy, why is that hobo not moving anymore?!”)
Abortion: Last week (“They do what to the what-what?!”)
And finally Racism: 4th Grade.

In December of 1998 I moved to my current place of residence, Glastonbury, CT. Upon moving to Glastonbury, I’ve met many people who’ve influenced me a great deal, but none of them have influenced me as much as Charles Sims: The first black person I had ever met.

Now, I had seen black people before, mainly through TV and the movies (Lando Calrissian!), but I had never actually seen one up close and personal before. I would characterize my initial reaction as: shocked (“He’s like a big gigantic bar of chocolate!”). Although, eventually the shock wore off and I began to notice his skin color less and less.

Now, I’d like to tell you all how Charles and I overcame racial barriers and became good friends who frolicked through meadows and celebrated diversity together, but I can’t do that, because of one main reason: Charles was an asshole. He was probably the meanest kid I had met thus-far in my life.

Initially I had tried making friends with him, but it quickly became clear that we hated each other and what we both stood for. He resented my cocky arrogant 4th grade attitude (he kicked my ass in basketball after a week of me advertising my “mad skills” [I had thought for a little while that I was really good at basketball after I beat everyone in Omaha at it. Turns out, everyone in Omaha ‘really sucks’ at basketball, while I just merely ‘suck’]), while I resented the fact that he didn’t like Pokémon (I mean, come on, they’re tiny monsters that you catch in balls! What’s not to love?). Our dislike of one another grew and grew, until one fateful day in March of 1999, when it all came to a climax:

For the first three hours of the day, Charles and I were going at it like usual. He was taunting me, and I was taunting him back. Things didn’t escalate until recess. I was trading Pokémon cards with the rest of the class, when Charles walks up to the group.
“Cheat any more kindergarteners out of their Pokémon cards again today, Potty Traynor?”
Charles had just picked a fight, by crossing two gigantic 4th grader lines that you just do not cross. First of all, he had criticized the well-respected 4th grader practice of deceiving the younger kids into trading more valuable cards for significantly less valuable cards (“Look how shiny this one is! It’s obviously worth like a bazillion dollars!”), something shunned upon by the community (lest our secret get out). Secondly, he had called me “Potty Traynor”. Thems was fightin’ words.
I knew I had to come back with something huge, something both funny and relevant enough to win back the respect of the trading circle. I had to do something unprecedented, give Charles Sims a nickname. I searched my brain rapidly for some pop-culture reference to connect the name ‘Charles’ to.
“Go to hell, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!”
Everyone gasped.
In retrospect, I realize how incredibly racist calling a black man “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” is, but at the time, I had no clue.
I stood there smiling for a few moments until I realized that I was the only person smiling.
“Oh crap, I must’ve screwed something up”, I thought to myself.
I realized that I needed to fix my botched joke.
“I mean, go to hell, Charlie and the Shit Factory!”
“Ah, now that’s better,” I thought.
But no-one else started to smile. I looked around the group, who had been collectively silent for a minute, and I looked at their awkward, stunned faces until I reached the face of my friend Andrew, who was nodding disapprovingly.
That was the exact moment I grasped the concept of racism.
I realized that somehow I had to mend all the racial harm I had caused and I had to do it fast. My strategy was to call Charles one last nickname. Although this time it would be an innocuous, racially-sensitive nickname, to prove that I only meant the other mean nicknames in a strictly non-racist way.
“Go to hell, Charlie Brown!”
As confident I was in my third try at a comeback, once I heard yet another collective gasp, my thought process went as follows:
“Everyone loves Charlie Brown, there’s no way anyone could think that’s racis… brown… oh shit... RUN!”
I ran and hid behind the playscape until recess was over

Eventually my new nickname, “Racist”, faded and it took backseat to another (“The A-Trayn”, given to me by a gym teacher), but the remnants of my supposed racism lingered for weeks. That was, until Charles realized that I wasn’t a member of the KKK, but rather one of the most socially inept people he had ever met. From then on, things weren’t as tense with Charles, although last time I checked, he was still an asshole (Pokémon rule!). I’ll conclude this chapter with a little advice: Never ever call anybody “Charlie and The Charlie Factory”, even if their name is Charlie and they do own a chocolate factory, because there’s a good chance that they’re black or know someone who’s known a black person at any point in their life and could be touchy about it.

5th Grade – Mr. Sturm’s class

Throughout history, nothing has been as feared and dreaded as “the class project”. For centuries, nay millennia, civilizations have risen and fell to the beck and call of the so-called “class project”. Here are some notable examples:

Class projects in history:

Rome – 88 BC – Students are asked to get into groups and create a large model out of clay. On the day the project is due, Julius Caesar’s group stabs him in the back (not literally [this time]).

Nazareth - 0 D.C (During Christ?) – Students are asked to create a fictional belief structure and promote it. Jesus founds Christianity.

Outer Mongolia – 1173 AD – Students are asked to pick an ordinary daily occurrence and make a science experiment out of it. Genghis Khan kills seven Persians and tries to relate it to Physics.

Germany – 1902 AD – Students are asked to write an essay on their favorite season. Hitler kills seven Jews and tries to relate it to Physics.

Seattle, WA – 1953 – Students are asked to create a diorama of Colonial Pennsylvania. Jimi Hendrix gets really high and forgets to do the project.

Glastonbury, CT – 2000 AD – Students are asked to invent a helpful product to address an everyday need. Alex Traynor makes a fool of himself.

In 5th Grade at Buttonball elementary, every student is required to participate in what I refer to as “5th grade inventions” A class-wide project where every 5th grader is asked to “invent” something. How did the projects turn out, you ask? Exactly as well as you’d expect: utter shit. But that’s what happens when you ask a bunch of 11-year olds to come up with innovative ideas. Half of them invent useless crap, and the other half forgets to do the project.

To illustrate just how bad these “inventions” were, I’ll venture back in time and review the most noteworthy:

________________________________________

Inventor: Alex Traynor
What it’s called: “The Portable Air Conditioner Shirt!”
What it really is: A poorly constructed shirt made out of plastic and hot glue, with a pocket for ice cubes, and a makeshift Soda Can drainage system.
Intended Use: To cool you off in the hot summer heat.
Actual Use: To make you look like an idiot.
What it looked like:

How was it made: I spent about a week constructing a shirt made out of thin plastic, when it wouldn’t stick together, my mom bought me a Hot Glue Gun. Two weeks and about 48 Glue Sticks later, it successfully stuck together. Five Weeks after that, the burn wounds had finally healed.
Did it actually work: Nope, it leaked everywhere. Also, since I made it out of stiff, rugged plastic, it wouldn’t move enough to allow anyone to actually fit in it.
What the inventor was thinking when he had to present his project to the class: “Please don’t ask me to demonstrate it, please don’t ask me to demonstrate it”
Verdict: Useless Crap.
Usefulness: 1 Creativity: 6 Ease of Use: 1 Practicality: 1 Overall: 3

Inventor: Charles Sims
What it’s called: “The Squirt Bottle I bought at Wal-Mart”
What it really is: A squirt bottle Charles bought at Wal-Mart
Description: The title pretty much says it all; Charles bought a squirt bottle, and then invented the squirt bottle he bought.
How was it made: Paraphrased from Charles’ display, “How I made my invention: Step 1 – I bought my invention. Step 2 - I brought my invention to school. Step 3 – I got thirsty and drank from my invention..”
Verdict: Ignoring the fact that Charles didn’t bother to hide that he didn’t “invent” anything, it was still probably the most functional invention of them all.
Usefulness: 8 Creativity: 0 Ease of Use: 9 Practicality: 8 Overall: 2

Inventor: Nick
What it’s called: “The Pencil Box Opener”
What it is: A complex contraption made out of pencils, paper-clips, and gum. Once you press down the “switch”, pull the lever, crank the pulley, and push the other switch, your pencil box is opened.
What’s easier: Actually opening your pencil box.
Time it took Nick to make: 4 minutes.
If Nick were to make a commercial advertising his invention: “Do you enjoy opening your pencil box? You do! Well, do you like opening it so much that you wish you could spend thirty minutes a day trying to figure out how to open it? You do! With ‘The Pencil Box Opener’ all your dreams are answered!”
Verdict: Crap.
Usefulness: 0 Creativity: 3 Ease of Use: 0 Practicality: 0 Overall: -6

Inventor: Frank Hickey
What it’s called: “The Underwater Pocket!”
What it was supposed to be: A waterproof pocket to store your valuables in while you went swimming.
What it turned out to be: A plastic bag with stickers all over it.
Verdict: Crap.
Usefulness: 0 Creativity: 4 Ease of Use: 1 Practicality: 0 Overall: 0

Inventor: J.J
What it’s called: “J.J’s Dog Food”
What it really is: A brand of Dog food made almost exclusively out of clay.
Was it only a prototype and not an actual invention: Yes.
Does that mean it won’t kill dogs if they ate it?: No.
Verdict: J.J is a sick fuck dog murderer.
Usefulness: -7 Creativity: 5 Ease of Use: 5 Practicality: -37 Overall: -84

Inventor: Lauren
What it’s called: “Safety Star”
What it really is: An “On-Star” knock-off that’s placed in the center of the steering wheel of a car.
Are you telling me that Lauren actually built a computer and then welded it into a car: Nope, she was the only person who got to “draw” (I use quotations because it was a crappy drawing) her invention.
And you’re still bitter about it?: Hell yes I am. I slaved for a month putting hot glue onto my invention, and that whiny little bitch got away with a fucking drawing!
It was almost 8 years ago, maybe you should see a therapist, you psycho: Shut the fuck up, it’s a very touchy subject for me.
How so?: Well, first of all, getting over the fact that she only drew it, where would the airbag go?
You make a good point: Damn straight I do.
You have a lot of violent thoughts toward Lauren, don’t you: Maybe.
Usefulness: 0 Creativity: 0 Ease of Use: 0 Practicality: 0 Overall: Negative Five Million

________________________________________

Another thing I learned in 5th Grade (as opposed to learning that hot glue + plastic = useless crap) is why I shouldn’t over-react so much. Now it may come as a surprise that I’ve had a longstanding history of over-reacting, and beside from a few isolated incidents, (“I told you to not put lettuce on my fucking cheeseburger you Fast-Food piece of shit! Do you know how much money I make on my paper route?! Enough to buy and sell your ass into slavery! Fuck you! And fuck your fucking lettuce!”) over-reacting is mostly in my past.

Frank (The inventor of The Underwater Pocket!) and me started to become friends towards the end of the year, when we co-created the recess playground game “Booboo Monkey”. It consisted of one person being “Booboo Monkey”, while everyone else was an animal control officer. The aim of the game was for the animal control officers to track down Booboo, and use excessive force when necessary (or unnecessary). Basically the game was just a big excuse to beat the crap out of Frank. Eventually, the game was banned by the teachers after things started to get out of hand (I threw a chair at him), but just because the game was banned didn’t mean the bond between me and Frank just died out. For weeks our friendship grew. And then, it happened.

I’d like to state upfront, the following: Birthday parties are the bomb, yo. The “birthday party” is the place to be when you’re in grade school. Being invited to one is an almost surreal experience, like being personally touched by God (or Allah, Buddah, Zeus, or Tom Cruise) himself. Grade School Birthday Parties are quite possibly the most awesome kind of parties you’ll ever attend (with the notable exception of Toga parties). Whether it was the exciting locations (generally it was always Laser Tag), or the cake, there was something about birthday parties that had me absolutely nuts as a child.

It was on a Monday when Frank started handing out invitations for his birthday party, which was to be held at LaserQuest™ (the happiest place in the Greater Hartford Area!) on Friday. Throughout the day my excitement was at an all time high picturing myself shooting younger kids with a laser gun (and by ‘laser gun’ I mean ‘real gun’ and by ‘younger kids’ I mean ‘Nazis’). I couldn’t have been more psyched about going to a birthday party, and at the end of the day, Frank was handing out invitations to my friends Mike and Dylan when I decided to join the conversation, to get my invitation:

“Hey guys! Laserquest is really cool…”
Awkward silence.
“Yeah, I like all the lasers and stuff”
Awkward silence.
“It’s all like laser-y!”
I start laughing at my own, really bad joke.
“So… yeah, it’d be cool if I could go there, you know…”
“Yeah, about that, you’re kind of not invited”
“Wh-wh-wh-WHHAT!?!?
Though that may seem like an exaggerated re-imagining of my response, I remember actually pronouncing each part of that.

Frank went on to explain that he could only invite a limited number of people, and unfortunately I didn’t make the list. I was understandably upset and bitter, so out of curiosity I decided to find out just who “made the list”. And, after I conducted my official poll, I found out exactly what Frank meant when he said “Limited Number of People”. Frank invited 25 people to his birthday party. 25 fucking people! Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I wasn’t one of the elusive 25. Now, if he could only invite 5 people, I wouldn’t have been surprised, but 25?! Come the fuck on! (Yes, I’m still bitter) [Side Note: Eventually I found out that the only 2 people Frank knew that weren’t invited were: Me and Charles Sims (We could have spent the afternoon together, celebrating racial harmony!)]

Now, at that point, I was under the impression that just because Frank didn’t invite me to his party, didn’t mean I wasn’t actually gonna go to the party. I figured that if I persisted long enough, Frank would either change his mind or just decide to not have a birthday party altogether (If I don’t have fun, don’t no-one have fun) So, for the next week, I bugged the living shit out of him. I started by subtly hinting at what I wanted (such as gently whispering “Invite Alex to LaserQuest” in his ear and then running away) and then I took out the big guns: I started to beg.

And by the day of the party, nothing had worked, so I decided to use plan B: Temper Tantrum. Now, like all of my other pre-pubescent temper tantrums, this one has been repressed, and cannot be recalled without either A. a bottle of Scotch or B. Lots of Therapy. But, since I assume it was similar to all my other temper tantrums, just assume the day ended with the following:

1. Tears.
2. The F-Word
3. Thrown objects
4. Knife Wounds

But, the over-reacting didn’t just end with the temper tantrum, oh no, it continued onto the bus ride home. I enlisted the help of my possibly-retarded Latin neighbor Steve to make Frank’s life a living hell. That afternoon, me and Steve hatched all sorts of kooky revenge schemes, most of which we didn’t follow through on (Steve was too chicken to take a dump on his front lawn), but the one scheme we did follow through on still has me cringing to this day.

The single worst prank phone call of all time:

Frank’s Mom: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi, is Frank there?”
Frank’s Mom: “Yeah, may I ask who is calling?”
Me: “Alex”
*Mother gets Frank*
Frank: “Hello?”

*To the tune of the song “All-Star” by the band Smashmouth.*
"Somebody once didn’t
Invite me to their party
So I called them up
and hung up on them"

*click*

Reasons why that was the worst prank call of all time:
1. Never ask for the person you want to prank, just go with whoever answers.
2. Don’t fucking give them your name.
3. Calling someone just to hang up on them is retarded enough, but calling them to inform them that you’re about to hang up on them is a billion times worse.
4. Smashmouth sucks.
5. Don’t be retarded, just, don’t

Instantly after the phone call, I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I realized just how retarded and misguided my attempts at retaliation were. Now, while the phone call didn’t have any direct consequences other than giving me an inability to look Frank in the eye for the next month, I still regard it as one of the dumbest and most ill-informed things I’ve ever done. And from that feeling of deep regret on, I’ve tried to limit my over-reacting to when it’s completely necessary (“What do you mean you don’t ‘Supersize’ things anymore!? You fucking fast food piece of shit, if I want my damn order of fucking French fries Supersized I damn well better get them supersized! I can buy and sell your ass into slavery! White slavery!”)

6th Grade – Academy School

6th Grade was a year of giant change, because not only did it mark my first year out of Elementary school, but it also marked my transition from Alex Traynor: Skinny White Nerd to Alex Traynor: Badass Motherfucker (some are still actually debating that). Academy School was a 6th Grade only public school with the purpose of transitioning students to Middle and High School. It was located right in front of the town Sewage Treatment Plant (I’m not shitting you [pun intended]), and because of that, it constantly smelled like dog shit.

Nathan Xu lived in the same apartment complex as I did, and aside from just being an annoying Asian kid whom I hated, he served a much larger purpose in the life of Alex Traynor than you’d imagine. He made me into a man (get your mind out of the gutter, sicko)

After my parents got divorced (Two Christmases!) me, my mom, and my bother moved where every newly divorced family moves: an apartment complex! “Colonial Village” Apartments is quite possibly one of the worst places to live in Glastonbury. But don’t just take my word for it, here’s a review I found off of apartmentratings.com:

“The guy who runs this place is not a nice man; he seems like an ex-convict who will kill you if you complain about your apartment. The parking is horrible, there are never any spaces. The washers are broken and it's just a trashy place.”

On top of those amenities, there was a pool (Although swimming in the pool is not recommend, since I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to yell “Someone took a dump in the pool!” on one hand).

The only things worthwhile about Colonial Village were the kids who lived there. During my time there, I became very close friends with the neighborhood children, and we formed somewhat of a bond that lasts till this day. Among the members of the group were: Me (the skinny freckled nerd), Tony (the dumb Italian), Kerry (the Tomboy), Carol (The Asian girl with an Australian accent), and Kristy (the girl who took a dump in the pool).

Nathan moved to Glastonbury in the middle of 6th grade, and instantly, he became one of the gang (mainly because he had a Nintendo). But, after a while, we all began to hate Nathan, for one main reason, he irritated the shit out of us. So, while we all continued to hang around Nathan (we liked videogames), that didn’t stop us from making fun of him directly to his face.

So, for about a month, I vented my frustration through insults about his girly voice and his uncanny resemblance to North Korean Dictator, Kim Jong Il. And then it all started to change. He started to get pissed off, and after insults he’d vaguely threaten me (my guess is his mom made him attend a “Be Assertive” seminar). Then, one day, I had had enough.

Me, Tony, my brother, and Nathan were all hanging around my house one afternoon, when I make a particularly funny joke about Nathan (“Shut up… Kim Jong Gay”). Then, Nathan takes his threatening to the next level, he puts his tiny Asian fist up to my face (a gesture so characteristically un-threatening it scared the crap out of me). And that’s when I lose my cool.

What took place next will forever go down in history as the most pathetic ass-kicking of all time.

With his fist in my face, I let the inner rage within me unleash. Since all of the fighting techniques I knew I learned from wrestling videos Logan showed me in 4th grade, I figured that the best course of action was to pin him down (either that, or throw a chair, but there were no chairs). So I decided to tackle him, but since I had never actually tackled anyone before it ended up in execution being more like, “a gentle hug that results in both of us falling over”.

When I got him on the ground and knocked his glasses off, I knew the fight was pretty much mine. But, I figured I’d get a few punches in before I let him run away, just for good measure (and because I pretended he actually was Kim Jong Il). Now, at the time, my punches were actually more like “weak fisted slaps”, but, for some reason, they actually seemed to be hurting him quite a bit. And after about 30 seconds of “punching”, Nathan threw a wrench into the equation that caused serious ethical questions to enter the brain of 6th Grade Alex.

He started to cry. Which raised the question, “Is this really what I want to be doing with my life? Beating the crap out of a tiny crying Asian kid?” So, I let the delusions of me beating up the leader of North Korea out of my head, and walked away. He got up, pick up his glasses, muttered something to the effect of “You’ll be sorry”, and then ran home.

Five minutes later, I found out what he meant by, “You’ll be sorry”. His mom came over to my house and yelled at my mom (who was significantly more proud than she should have been). The kicker is: his mom threatened to call the police if it were to happen again (a fairly baseless threat, since it wasn’t “assault” as much as it was “an unconventional massage”)

Now, while most people would laugh that kind of a victory off, it got into my head. For a while, I actually thought I was a strong, macho man, instead of the skinny Irish boy I really was. That lead to many troubling self-revelations:

I assumed I was astoundingly strong, only to come to a shocking realization otherwise when my Grandmother beat me at an Arm-Wrestling Match
For years, I told people that I worked out “all the time”. Now do I realize that none of them actually believed me.
I always assumed they picked the strongest people last in dodge ball.
I thought I had “6 Pack Abs” and was stunned when I realized that my “abs” weren’t actually “abs”, but rather “ribs”.
I thought I could take on kids that were bigger than me. I miss not having scars.

Now, I’ve spent the entire article thus far talking about things I’ve learned, but this time, let’s talk about things you, the reader, should have learned from this chapter.

1. Ignore the last paragraph. I am an ass-kicking machine.
2. Don’t fuck with me, cause I will beat you up (Only applicable to tiny Asian 6th Graders)

7th Grade – Smith Middle School

In grades K-6, you couldn’t meet a more hard-working and eager to learn “mathletic” genius than the young Alex Traynor. In grade 7, that all stopped. It gave birth to the underachieving slacker known as the Alex Traynor of today. The Alex Traynor who sleeps till 3 in the afternoon, reacts unfavorably to the prospect of getting up and putting on pants, and who hasn’t really deeply cared about anything since before the new millennium.

Part way through the year I came to the stunning realization that I didn’t give a shit. Now, I didn’t stop bathing and pick fights with random strangers, instead, I stopped doing my homework, became an insomniac, did arguably retarded things because I was “bored”, and stopped paying attention to most of what they teach in skool,

While, arguably, I would’ve stopped giving a shit regardless, it’s possible a number of conditions led to this enormous waste of potential:

1. The Friends

As kids begin to venture towards puberty and beyond (“There’s hair everywhere!?!”), social groups and friend circles begin to become increasingly polarized. What once was a giant friend circle where everyone held hands, sang songs, and finger-painted, was suddenly fractured into many different groups with many different characteristics. While the groups become more intricate with age, their early stages are a good indication of their characteristics:

The people who like sports – This social group enjoys watching sports, playing sports, betting on sports, and jerking each other off in the showers.

The nerds – This group enjoys lying about what the jocks do in the showers, Lord of The Rings, and Graphing Calculators.

The skateboarders – This is the clique advertisers market “eXtreme Go-Gurt” to.

The girls that wouldn’t go out with me – This clique consisted of every girl at Smith Middle School. Man, were they well organized.

At the onset of 7th Grade, due to my extreme shyness and questionable fashion sense (technically it was my Mother’s fashion sense), I was grouped in with “The Nerds”. Even though we didn’t have a hell of a lot in common other than our devoted love of The Lord of The Rings movies (I only like them for the non-nerdy reasons, like shit blowing up and people getting stabbed and junk) they weren’t that bad of a group to hang out with.

But, I partially blame my time being a “nerd” as the reason I no longer give a shit. Being surrounded by a bunch of overachievers who unwaveringly gave a shit affected my motivation in a very negative way. All of them busted their asses staying up late nights to get straight A’s in a Grade that doesn’t really matter in the long run unless you fail. Sure, some of them are going to Ivy League Universities in the fall, but what will that do for them, I ask? Sure, in 10 years they might all be millionaires with supermodel girlfriends, but that takes hard work and dedication, and honestly, in 10 years I’ll have gained something from slacking off that cannot simply be accomplished by going to an Ivy League University: A really high score in Tetris.

2. The Teachers

7th Grade was one of the first years where I had teachers that I actually liked. Now all of them may have been pretty bad at actually “teaching” me things, but they instilled in me some basic values that are far more important than knowledge of Early World History, and, the, benefits, of, proper, punctuation, usage. They were important to the complete obliteration of my academic ambitions because they taught me to love things other than chemistry, history, and math. Although it’s not what they might have planned, they shifted my interests away from academia, and towards personality.

Mr. Falcigno – Bald, and sporting a key-ring bigger than the janitor’s, Mr. Fal, the science teacher, was one weird mother fucker. Aside from his complete refusal to say the word “No” (in favor of adopting a robot voice and saying the word “Negative”), Mr. Fal was actually pretty cool. Now, I don’t really remember anything of what we learned in his science class, but he did teach me one important lesson I’ll always remember: Be eccentric.

Mr. Fal was one of the most eccentric people I had ever met, and while eccentricity is not always laugh out loud hilarious, it’s always amusing. Every day he would do at least one weird thing that confused somebody:

One day he brought in one of those electronic talking fish that were so popular in the late 90’s and sang to it for a few minutes. On Arbor Day, he pretended to be a tree. He would occasionally slip into and out of a foreign accent to throw us off. Once when I fell asleep in class he put one of those emergency fire safety blankets over me and whispered, “You better be dreaming about Physics or I’m going to have to wake you up.” One day, he announced to the class that he had to leave to go to a conference and we could spend the rest of the period doing whatever we wanted without a substitute teacher. After we all finished cheering, he started teaching us basic chemistry and pretended he never said anything.

Mr. Fal was, at the time, a hero of mine, and he made me fall completely in love with doing incredibly odd things that confused people. ¡Estoy escribiendo esto en español!

Mr. Giroux - Part Math Teacher, part World War II Lieutenant, Mr. Giroux scared the crap out of each and every one of us. Now, we all liked the man a great deal, but his teaching style, for lack of a better word, is best described as “intense”. Generally I don’t like teachers who throw chalk and erasers at you if you fall asleep; Mr. Giroux was the exception. He made me fall head over heels in love with violence. Now, not murderous violence, or even incredibly violent violence, but funny violence. The kind where somebody gets hit really hard with a thrown eraser and instead of crying or getting angry, starts laughing. Like in Jackass™, when they crash into various objects whilst in a shopping cart, or in America’s Funniest Home Videos, where, really, anything happens. Mr. Giroux opened my heart and soul to the joys of somebody getting hit really hard with something, and for that, I thank him.

Mr. Moynihan – Part History teacher, Part retarded hobo, Mr. Moynihan deeply disturbed each and every one of us. Whether it was his constant wheezing, or the fact that he claimed to be in love with a 30,000 year old skeleton, Mr. Moynihan, as opposed to being occasionally eccentric, was a complete weirdo 100% of the time. He had this kind of presence that emphasized just how incredibly different he was from everyone else. He thought differently, he talked differently, and would just be abstract in every sense of the word. But, one thing is certain, he was damned funny (even if I was the only one who recognized it.) I learned three things from Mr. Moynihan; 1. Be different, 2. Weird is funny, and 3. If you’re going to be weird enough to piss your students off, check your morning coffee for laxatives.

3. Television

Long ago, Television and homework had an epic battle over the attention span of Alex Traynor, and in 7th Grade, a winner was declared. Now, I’ve been watching the ol’ boob tube for the vast majority of my life, but 7th grade was the year when I decided that the big shiny box of entertainment was more important than, well, most of my other responsibilities.

My chief reason for initially quitting homework was quite simple: TV is funner. Though now I have a lot more reasons to not want to do Homework (porn), I still come back to my honorary third parent: Television. I’ve learned more things from TV than I have from 13 years of public school, namely, if you get hit by something, shout ‘Doh’, and, if you see Chris Hansen, run.

Also, a lifelong dream of mine has been to get on TV (and not just on Dateline: To Catch a Predator this time), so actually sitting down and paying attention to TV may help with that.

4. Insomnia

If you’ve ever met me in person, it becomes frighteningly apparent that I don’t get a lot of sleep. 7th Grade marked the beginning of my many years of insomnia. Now, I’m not exactly sure how my inability to sleep started, and I’m not sure why it continues, but I am sure of one thing: sleep deprivation fucks things up.

Aside from the zombie-ification process that occurs with being awake for three days straight, another unfortunate side effect of sleep deprivation is the boredom that comes with being the only person awake in the middle of the night. During the period of time after Late Night with Conan O’Brien ends and before the sun comes up I’ve done some pretty stupid things out of boredom:

One night I emptied the contents of my backpack into my microwave and created a small electrical fire. I’d like to be able to have a good explanation for this, but I was rrreeeaaalllyy bored.
Towards the end of the year, I’d sneak out of my house and take a series of 2 A.M. trips to my condo complex’s swimming pool. During one of these trips, my bathing suit fell off in the process of jumping into the pool. And since it was 2 A.M. and pitch dark, I was unable to find it again, and had to walk home through a heavily populated condo complex ass naked. What makes the story even worse is that my dad happened to be awake when I was arriving home. Walking through the front door naked and catching my father gasp and give me a look to the effect of, “We will never speak of this again” was one of the most painful experiences of my life.
Word of advice: Never shave your pubic hair.
I kept a number of poorly-written journals during 7th grade that I wrote in while awake in the middle of the night. They contained my thoughts on girls I thought were cute, things that made me laugh, and incredibly violent stick figure drawings. The journals were all destroyed years later upon realization that I come off as a retarded lunatic while sleep deprived.
One time, I took all the food and shelves out of my refrigerator and crawled in there to see if the light really went off when the door was shut. Problems arose when I found out how difficult the door was to push open from the inside.

Skippy The Suicidal Squirrel

The Condensed Edition

THE END!!!

By: Alexander “Danger” Traynor

Rode my motor-scooter all around town and did various delinquent things, such as riding to the local supermarket, taking handfuls of candy, eating them in the store, and then walking out without paying.
Pool parties! (by myself)
Riding my scooter to school, banging on the windows of the classes I should have been in, and then riding away.
The Price is Right!
Day-Dreaming about moving to Tahiti, getting accepted to Harvard 5 years early, running over a nun, and joining a rock band and touring Europe.
Indoor Baseball. (My mom still kinda hates me for this one)
Listening to punk rock all day and jamming out on air guitar.
So many more things it’s hard to list them all.

Fittingly, after telling you how much fun I had on my “5 month house vacation”, I’m required to inform you of the direct consequences of my half-year of truancy.

There were none!

That’s absolutely the best part of this story. How I intentionally skipped half a school year, and not only passed on to the next grade, but wasn’t punished whatsoever. Now, no-one’s willing to easily believe that this actually happened, but it’s possibly the most frighteningly true thing in this entire article. Although, getting off the hook wasn’t exactly simple. It wouldn’t have been possible if not for two main circumstances:

1. The amount my parents were willing to argue on my behalf.
2. Smith Middle School’s reluctance to have to deal with the problem (Me) itself for a whole ‘nother year as opposed to just handing the problem down to the next guy in line (Glastonbury High School) to deal with.

They realized that if they were to hold me back, my absence, and my parents constant bitching, would probably just continue. They felt that the easiest way to get out of the whole situation was to illegitimately pass me in all the courses I was failing due to absence, and then to metaphorically fuck Glastonbury High School up the ass.

Because the next four years would completely suck balls for Glastonbury High School.

Freshman Year – Glastonbury High School

In August of 2003, I had finally arrived at Glastonbury High School; the beginning of the end of my lengthy career in public school. GHS is your average high school; chock full of puberty, insecurity, depravity, and most importantly, assholes (literally, and figuratively). The school itself houses more than 2,000 students, a gym, a pool, an elevator for the handicapped kids, and a vending machine that never works. On the whole, GHS is your average New England High School.

I had always thought (and still kinda do) that ‘maturity’ was just a term older people made up to make themselves seem superior to younger people in their own minds. Now, while this still rings true when the elders throw around the insult “You’re acting Immature!” – Like when you ride a go-kart around the neighborhood in your underwear, or when you fall asleep during a funeral - the term ‘maturity’ takes upon a new meaning when you actually do mature. The word “Immaturity” has been linked to the words “stupid” and “reckless”, but those assertions are false, at least in my mind. “Maturity”, to me, means “responsibility”, and not in the sense of wearing a seatbelt when you drive 90mph down the highway (naked), but in the sense of responsibility for your legacy. The question, “When I die, what do I want people to remember about me?” comes to mind. 9th Grade was the year I started to mature.

Anyway, halfway through the year, something happened so inane and trivial that it could only change the course of Alex Traynor’s life forever:

Somebody took a dump in the urinal.

On Tuesday, March 3rd, 2004 (I’m probably making that up), my life changed forever. Throughout the day, I started over-hearing strange whispers about something in the urinal. So, I inevitably went there to check it out, and there it was: dookie, in the urinal. Instantly, thousands of questions sprung to my mind, among them:

1. Who did it?
2. Why?
3. Did a confused girl wander into the boy’s bathroom?
4. Why was it smeared against the back of the urinal?
5. Does that mean that somebody had to poop in their hand first and then transfer it to the urinal?
6. What did the perpetrator have to gain by this action?
7. Seriously, who would do this?
8. Are the Russians behind this somehow?
9. Why do I care so much?
10. Will I ever forget this?

The only one of those questions I’ve been able to get an answer to is #10. And the answer is a resounding no. I will be telling my grandchildren this story. Chances are, I’ll be telling this story on my deathbed, whether or not anyone wants to hear it.

It was just something about the sudden sighting of human feces in the wrong receptacle that shocked my fragile 9th Grade mind to the core so much that I could never possibly forget it. It opened my mind to new ways of thinking, and instilled a sense of abstract appreciation that exists to this day.

I stood staring at the shit for about a minute until someone else walked into the bathroom. Not wanting to look like some weird, feces-obsessed perv, I ran back to my table as fast as I could, and sat in remote silence, pondering my legacy, through mostly existential questions:

Will anyone remember anything I do?
Could I potentially be happy without any influence?
Do I even care what I’m remembered for as long as I’m remembered?
If I fell down in a forest, would anybody hear me?

I told people I wanted to die with a “rocket up my ass,” because it would, quote: “get me in the papers.”
I told people that on the last class of the last day of high school, I would pull down my pants, poop, get up, leave, and never come back.
I once jumped over the Grand Canyon on a Razor™ Scooter.
I lied about the last bullet-point.
Occasionally, I drive on the wrong side of the road and talk in an English accent to freak people out.
I speak mostly in sentence fragments.
Like this.
I once jokingly said, “9/11 was the most hilarious thing to happen since the holocaust!”
I took this photo.

Don’t drive drunk.
Don’t drive high.
Don’t drive both high and drunk.
Don’t drive naked.
Unless you’re really hot.
Hydroplaning doesn’t exist.
Except, of course, when it does exist.
And kills you.
You can’t drive a car into a lake.
Unless it is also a boat.
Stop signs are red.
You should stop when you see them.
I mean, really stop, not just go through the motions of stopping.
Someone could die that way.
Drivers Ed was reaaalllllyy boring.

Glastonbury High School Football Rules!

A speech by: Alex Traynor

Thirdly: I'm actually pretty drunk right now.

And finally: I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.

Also, I stole that last line from The Lord of The Rings.

In conclusion, GHS Class of ’07… Fuck you!

Epilogue

It’s August 28th 2007, the first day of classes at Glastonbury High School. Alex Traynor, exhausted from staying up the last night playing videogames, walks into homeroom and passes out on his desk. A teacher comes up to him.

"Didn’t you graduate last year?" She says.
Alex pauses for a moment to think. "Oh yeah"
"Then why are you still here?" she replied.
"…I don’t know. Habit?"
"Go home"
"Really? I can just go home? Like that?"
"Yeah"
"Hooray!"

So, Alex picked up his new backpack, with his new school supplies, and ran to his car and drove home. Where he would eat cheetos and watch Bugs Bunny in his underoos for the rest of his days. Well, until he went to college, that is.

The End. (Fucking Finally)

K-12: Adventures in Education. Part 4

2007-05-09T18:30:00.000-04:00

This is part 4 in a 7 part series chronicling the adventures of young Alex Traynor in public school, if you haven't read Part 1 , Part 2 , or Part 3 yet, I'd advise reading them before this.

5th Grade – Mr. Sturm’s class

Throughout history, nothing has been as feared and dreaded as “the class project”. For centuries, nay millennia, civilizations have risen and fell to the beck and call of the so-called “class project”. Here are some notable examples:

Class projects in history:

________________________________________

*To the tune of the song “All-Star” by the band Smashmouth.*
"Somebody once didn’t
Invite me to their party
So I called them up
and hung up on them"

*click*

I assumed I was astoundingly strong, only to come to a shocking realization otherwise when my Grandmother beat me at an Arm-Wrestling Match
For years, I told people that I worked out “all the time”. Now do I realize that none of them actually believed me.
I always assumed they picked the strongest people last in dodge ball.
I thought I had “6 Pack Abs” and was stunned when I realized that my “abs” weren’t actually “abs”, but rather “ribs”.
I thought I could take on kids that were bigger than me. I miss not having scars.

To be continued...

K-12: Adventures in Education. Part 3

2007-04-25T18:44:00.000-04:00

This is part 3 in a 7 part series chronicling the adventures of young Alex Traynor in public school, if you haven't read Part 1 or Part 2 yet, I'd advise reading them before this.

1st half of 4th grade – Paddock Road Elementary, Omaha, NE

“You’re moving?!”
“Yeah”
“Where to?”
“Nebraska”
“What’s Nebraska?”

“What’s Nebraska?” is a question I first received 8 years ago. And 8 years after the fact and with a little firsthand experience, I still have no fucking clue just what the hell Nebraska is. Sure, it is a state, and I did live there for 6 months, but saying I know what Nebraska is, is like Elton John saying he knows what a vagina feels like. Sure, he did come from one, and he spent 9 months living there, but that was a long time ago, and vaginas are long in his past. I’m from Connecticut (home to gigantic mansions, luxurious public facilities, and primarily, rich white kids), and deep down I’ll always be a Connectikitten (that’s my term, back off, bitches). Moving to Nebraska was a fun excursion (like when Elton John said he was ‘bi’ in the mid 70’s), but ultimately I belonged in Connecticut (and Elton John belongs in another man’s asshole?)

Now, some might assume that since I lived in Omaha only a short time, that it’s not that memorable of an experience. Not only did it give me a boost in self-confidence and a mild sense of purpose, Omaha taught me how to do something that’s changed my life: Pander to the lowest common denominator. Whether its fart jokes, pee jokes, crude sex jokes, or just donkey fuckin’ jokes, if it wasn’t for Omaha, I wouldn’t be telling them today.

I said goodbye to every friend I had ever made in July of 1998, and embarked upon a halfway cross country road trip with my parents, grand-parents, brother, and dog Max all stuffed into a 1997 Jeep Grand Cherokee. We arrived 7 days later and I would go on to describe the trip as ‘very corny’ (that was a pun; we saw a lot of corn on our way there). After the summer was over, I was introduced to Paddock Road Elementary School, a K-6 Elementary school with a playground, one long hallway, and a luxurious “gymnacafetorium”.

Within the first day, it became very clear that I didn’t fit in. For one main reason: I was the smartest person in the entire state. Sure, there may have been times when an exception could be made (such as a plane of normal people flying over the state), but for the most part, I had learned more in my previous 4 years of education than most Nebraskans learn in their lives.

Throughout the day, I could practically watch my prospective friendships shatter whenever I would utter a word they didn’t understand (“Stop using such big words!” “Big words? You consider ‘because’ to be a big word?” “What the fuck does that mean?!”). By the end of the week, I didn’t have a single friend, that is, until I lowered my threshold of “acceptable” friends, and met Logan.

I met Logan when we were partnered together for “Cafeteria Duty”(Omaha Legislators decided to lower the school budget, eliminating the funding for Cafeteria Workers, so the school administration utilized the next best thing: Fourth Graders!), and we started hanging out most of the time after that. Our friendship was based mainly around desperation. I was the new kid who had an incredibly large vocabulary, therefore, I was shunned. Logan gave everyone the creeps, and was possibly retarded, therefore, he was shunned. We didn’t have very much in common. I liked Star Wars, while Logan really really liked professional wrestling (and it wasn’t like he was a casual fan of the World Wrestling Federation either; he was fucking infatuated with that crap [to the point where he would throw chairs across our classroom]). Now, while Logan may not have been the perfect friend for me, I was desperate… and he had a Nintendo 64.

For two whole months, I almost exclusively hung around Logan, and in the time I got to know him I learned two things valuable to increasing my position in the social hierarchy.

1. Don’t use big words.
2. Farting is hilarious.

Girls who normally wouldn’t speak to me were hitting on me like I was every member of the group “Hanson” rolled into one.
I was made quarterback in the recess football pickup games, even though I had a terrible throwing arm, and thought football and soccer were the same thing until I was 8.
Whenever anyone would fart, the whole class would look towards me. If I laughed, the fart was officially funny.
Other students started to imitate my uniquely patented style of dress: Jeans and T-shirts (although it’s possible they would have worn that stuff anyway)
A few of them actually let me teach them how to spell “Connecticut” (It sure ain’t “Kinettikut”)
I was exempt from all sleep-over “cage matches” (They would lock you in a large closet with the class “big dumb idiot” [Logan], and he would wrestle you until either: A. Time was up or B. You died.)
I got to mop the tables in Cafeteria Duty (which, trust me, was the only job that didn’t involve dirty plates and a gigantic hose)

I had never been happier in my life. Sure, I had to change myself into someone my normal self would consider to be retarded, but that was a small price to pay for true happiness. My future in Omaha looked brighter than it ever had in Connecticut, and I started to imagine myself in Omaha for the rest of my life.

And then I moved back to Connecticut.

The memory of Omaha means a lot of different things to me. Other than the thought of a great alternate future in Omaha being the bane of my existence, my stint in Omaha was an essential stepping stone in shaping the very person I am today. Aside from all the great fart jokes it taught me (*fart*), it taught me that I have no problem acting like an idiot as long as people like me for it. Which for the most part, is an indispensible part of who I am.

*FART*
heheheheh….
hahahahahha…
HAHAHAHAHAH!
Oh shit, that still gets me every time.
Hilarious.

2nd half of 4th grade – Mrs. Bliss’ Class

During every person’s young life, there are certain adult concepts one must grasp before venturing onto adulthood. I refer to these concepts as the “big four”: Sex, Death, Abortion, and Racism. The revelation of these concepts can be quite jarring to a child, since they disrupt the child’s view of reality, and each revelation is a significant emotional milestone. I remember them all very clearly:

Sex: 3rd grade (“So babies don’t come out through the belly button?!”)
Death: 6th Grade (“Mommy, why is that hobo not moving anymore?!”)
Abortion: Last week (“They do what to the what-what?!”)
And finally Racism: 4th Grade.

In December of 1998 I moved to my current place of residence, Glastonbury, CT. Upon moving to Glastonbury, I’ve met many people who’ve influenced me a great deal, but none of them have influenced me as much as Charles Sims: The first black person I had ever met.

Now, I had seen black people before, mainly through TV and the movies (Lando Calrissian!), but I had never actually seen one up close and personal before. I would characterize my initial reaction as: shocked (“He’s like a big gigantic bar of chocolate!”). Although, eventually the shock wore off and I began to notice his skin color less and less.

Now, I’d like to tell you all how Charles and I overcame racial barriers and became good friends who frolicked through meadows and celebrated diversity together, but I can’t do that, because of one main reason: Charles was an asshole. He was probably the meanest kid I had met thus-far in my life.

Initially I had tried making friends with him, but it quickly became clear that we hated each other and what we both stood for. He resented my cocky arrogant 4th grade attitude (he kicked my ass in basketball after a week of me advertising my “mad skills” [I had thought for a little while that I was really good at basketball after I beat everyone in Omaha at it. Turns out, everyone in Omaha ‘really sucks’ at basketball, while I just merely ‘suck’]), while I resented the fact that he didn’t like Pokémon (I mean, come on, they’re tiny monsters that you catch in balls! What’s not to love?). Our dislike of one another grew and grew, until one fateful day in March of 1999, when it all came to a climax:

For the first three hours of the day, Charles and I were going at it like usual. He was taunting me, and I was taunting him back. Things didn’t escalate until recess. I was trading Pokémon cards with the rest of the class, when Charles walks up to the group.
“Cheat any more kindergarteners out of their Pokémon cards again today, Potty Traynor?”
Charles had just picked a fight, by crossing two gigantic 4th grader lines that you just do not cross. First of all, he had criticized the well-respected 4th grader practice of deceiving the younger kids into trading more valuable cards for significantly less valuable cards (“Look how shiny this one is! It’s obviously worth like a bazillion dollars!”), something shunned upon by the community (lest our secret get out). Secondly, he had called me “Potty Traynor”. Thems was fightin’ words.
I knew I had to come back with something huge, something both funny and relevant enough to win back the respect of the trading circle. I had to do something unprecedented, give Charles Sims a nickname. I searched my brain rapidly for some pop-culture reference to connect the name ‘Charles’ to.
“Go to hell, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!”
Everyone gasped.
In retrospect, I realize how incredibly racist calling a black man “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” is, but at the time, I had no clue.
I stood there smiling for a few moments until I realized that I was the only person smiling.
“Oh crap, I must’ve screwed something up”, I thought to myself.
I realized that I needed to fix my botched joke.
“I mean, go to hell, Charlie and the Shit Factory!”
“Ah, now that’s better,” I thought.
But no-one else started to smile. I looked around the group, who had been collectively silent for a minute, and I looked at their awkward, stunned faces until I reached the face of my friend Andrew, who was nodding disapprovingly.
That was the exact moment I grasped the concept of racism.
I realized that somehow I had to mend all the racial harm I had caused and I had to do it fast. My strategy was to call Charles one last nickname. Although this time it would be an innocuous, racially-sensitive nickname, to prove that I only meant the other mean nicknames in a strictly non-racist way.
“Go to hell, Charlie Brown!”
As confident I was in my third try at a comeback, once I heard yet another collective gasp, my thought process went as follows:
“Everyone loves Charlie Brown, there’s no way anyone could think that’s racis… brown… oh shit... RUN!”
I ran and hid behind the playscape until recess was over

Eventually my new nickname, “Racist”, faded and it took backseat to another (“The A-Trayn”, given to me by a gym teacher), but the remnants of my supposed racism lingered for weeks. That was, until Charles realized that I wasn’t a member of the KKK, but rather one of the most socially inept people he had ever met. From then on, things weren’t as tense with Charles, although last time I checked, he was still an asshole (Pokémon rule!). I’ll conclude this chapter with a little advice: Never ever call anybody “Charlie and The Charlie Factory”, even if their name is Charlie and the do own a chocolate factory, because there’s a good chance that they’re black or know someone who’s known a black person at any point in their life and could be touchy about it.

To be continued...

Breaking Up: The Alex Traynor Way

2007-03-22T20:56:00.001-04:00

Self Loathing.

2007-03-15T00:15:00.002-04:00

I should preface the following story with the knowledge that me and my cat, Tails (I named him after a videogame character), have had a longstanding hatred of one another. Now, we didn’t always hate each other, I remember quite distinctly loving that furball when I first got him. That didn’t last very long. Through the next year our relationship deteriorated at a blazing rate. First, he threw up on my favorite blanket (my ‘The Lion King’ comforter that I’ve been sleeping with since age 7). I responded by taking his favorite toy and tearing it apart, right in front of him. Things just went downhill from there. For the past month, I’d describe our relationship as all out war, with the noticeable exception of when both sides mutually take a time out to snuggle together (he’s fucking cute). This whole war came to a spearhead last Monday night.

I was sitting in my room watching an episode of ‘24’ (the most intense, pulse-pounding hour on television), when the cat walks in the room. Apparently I had forgotten to close the door, which is normally always closed for the express purpose of keeping him out. Generally I would have chased him down and threw him out, but ‘24’ is just too exciting to interrupt. There were 10 minutes left in the episode, Jack Bauer pulls out his gun and starts chasing a terrorist, you could cut the tension with a knife. And then I hear this weird farting noise.

I look to my right and see the cat standing on top of my bed. We make eye contact, and I swear to god (I know that’s meaningless since I’m an atheist, but trust me anyways), I’m not even sure how this is possible, but he smiles, and not like a smirk, but a huge full tooth-ed fucking cat smile. I’m confused at first and continue to stare at the cat until I’m able to put all of the pieces of the puzzle together.

“HOLY FUCKING BALLS! THE CAT SHIT ON MY BED!”

I spend the next half an hour throwing away my cat-shit-stained sheets and not watching the end of the ‘24’ episode. Had it occurred at any other time I might have been able to convince myself that the cat just forgot where the litter box was and mistook it for my bed, but not during the season premiere of ‘24’. The cat must have realized it was the absolute worst time for him to shit all over the very place I sleep, and judging by the creepy kitty smile and the inordinate amount of shit, he had been holding it for a while, waiting for his moment. The sadistic bastard.

That was the most interesting thing to happen to me all week.

Which leads to the train of thought: “If the most interesting thing to happen to me all week is a 10 pound housecat shitting all over my bed, maybe my life sucks”

While I can never honestly say that I hate myself (how could I hate a man with thighs as great as mine), sometimes I feel dissatisfied with certain aspects of my personality:

________________________________________

Laziness:

The walls in my room tell a lot about what kind of person I am: too lazy to put up posters. But my laziness goes way beyond just mere procrastination; it’s reached a certain pathological level. Here’s an example:

Last Saturday I slept on my couch because I didn’t feel like moving into my bed. When I woke up, the TV was still on, and for some weird reason, it was on PBS. I search around my immediate arm span for the remote control, until I get tired and give up. I watch Barney for the next two hours until I feel like killing myself. Since I’ve never been a fan of suicide, I decide to change the channel in the easiest way possible. I start throwing everything I can reach at my TV; desperately hoping something will hit a button. Finally, I hit a button with my shoe; it’s the mute button. I watch muted Barney for a half an hour before I roll off my couch and try to press the button with my foot. Then my dad walks in the room and tells me I’m an idiot.

Here’s more proof:
• My diet consists of solely Hot Pockets: They take 2 minutes to cook and there’s little risk of me burning the house down.
• I used to be in every accelerated math program I could sign up for, now I’m a High School Senior taking Sophomore Geometry because I like to sleep and play Tetris on my graphing calculator.
• Whenever I make plans to go out, there’s always a little voice in the back of my head that goes, “Aw fuck, this means I have to put on pants now.”
• I sign my signature as “Alex Tray…”
• When I was younger, I used to play soccer. I was always goalie, because when the rest of the team was on the other side of the field running around, I got to lie down and pretend I wasn’t playing soccer.

My laziness is one of the biggest obstacles in my life. Sometimes I’m too lazy to finish…

________________________________________

Perpetually Misunderstood:

I hate to sound clichéd and like a teenager, but most people just don’t get me. This is completely understandable though since I act completely different for almost every person I know. Sometimes I’m the quiet kid in the corner reading, and other times I’m loudly describing felatio between a midget and a zebra. This is mostly due to the fact that it takes different material to make different people laugh. Sometimes I’m so sarcastic, people actually think I mean the crap I say, other times I go on a 30 second long tangent in my announcer voice and people think I have split personality disorder. Here are a few misconceptions:

I am stupid:
This one is completely untrue. Whether it’s my 1340/1600 SAT score (I know parentheses take some people out of the game and make my sentences longer than they should be, but I would like to take this time to profess my eternal love for the SAT’s. Some people would like to de-emphasize the importance of standardized testing in the college admissions process, I for one, am in favor of any test that is able to erase four years of mediocrity in just 4 simple hours. Also, I was allowed to eat a bagel while taking the SATs, which was pleasant.), or my sizable array of vocabulary words, I’m a smart motherfucker. I’m quick as a whip and can do a Sudoku with my eyes closed (I never said I’d get it right), which begs the question, why do some people think I’m stupid?

The main answer to that is: only stupid people think I’m stupid. Generally smart people pick up on the wit and intelligence held within. Now, I’m not saying that smart people see me as a ‘normal’ smart person, I’m generally referred to as an “eccentric douchebag”, but there’s a fine line between eccentricity and stupidity.

For the most part, I speak intelligently about stuff that is widely considered ‘stupid’ (mainly feces and sex crimes). Sure, I can do material on the Theory of Relativity and Marxist literature in the late 19th century, but what’s funny about that?

I talk about things I find funny, and just because one out of every ten jokes I tell is not a knowledgeable quip about weak nuclear force and its effect on 14th century Poland, but rather a crude joke about “the weird crease you sometimes get in your pants that makes it look like you have a boner when you really don’t”, does not mean I’m stupid (An idiot, sure, but not stupid). Also, for those of you who cannot read my sarcasm, here’s a simple rule to understanding me: I don’t think farts are funny, I just think that people who laugh at farts are funny, therefore, I laugh at them.

I have no feelings:
Coming from an Irish Catholic background, when I was a child, I was taught to repress all of my feelings (and to drink a lot but that’s a whole ‘nother story) and never communicate them to anyone. Eventually I learned to mask them with fake feelings and sarcasm, but make no doubt, I do have real feelings and they’re located somewhere inside of me (Doctors have yet to locate the exact position, but modern science says it’s located somewhere near the elbow). Now, if only I could repress my experience as an altar boy.

I’m perverted:
This is a common misconception, and one that requires an explanation. When I go home after doing whatever it is I do, I do not go into a dark corner of my room and think about feces and bestiality. Hell, it hardly ever comes up in my mind out of the blue. It’s just that when I’m in conversation and it comes up, I have no problem talking about it. Nothing really grosses me out. I can honestly say that I’ve seen ‘goatse’ (consider the context a warning) well over 100 times. Not because I particularly enjoy seeing a man pry his asshole open, but because I like seeing people’s violent adverse reactions.

And while it’s true that I’m able to converse about wildly absurd sexual situations without inhibition, that doesn’t mean I actually like that stuff. I’m just as sexually timid as the rest of you when it comes to real life, but boy can I write a thesis on ‘Meatspin’ (again, you’ve been warned).

I’m quiet:
Most of the people who know me are willing to describe me as loud, boisterous, and a gigantic jackass, but there are a select few who are under the impression that I hardly ever speak, and when I do, I’m mildly retarded. The explanation for this is: I’m extremely nervous around people I don’t know or I’m uncomfortable with. I’m not witty, I’m not funny, and there’s no intelligence to be seen for miles when I’m caught in ‘shy-mode’. Eventually ‘shy-mode’ me goes away and is replaced by my normal self (to which some people prefer ‘shy-mode’ me), but that could take awhile.

I’m a jackass:
This one stems from people misunderstanding some of my sarcastic jokes/remarks. Generally I make them purposely over-the-top in order to signal that I’m only joking, but some people don’t pick up on that, so, for the record, here is a list of things I do not believe:

- I do not really think that the only solution to the AIDs crisis is to harpoon every person with AIDs, then carefully remove their blood and place it in a landfill in New Jersey.
- I do not think that fat chicks are ugly (I think they’re really really ugly).
- My Grandfather was not killed by Louis Armstrong, and that’s not why I hate jazz.
- I do not have any cousins who have won an Olympic gold medal for synchronized swimming.
- I do not think that the Russians hate me and want me dead (they just want me in a coma)
- I do not think that “Jewcooker 3000” would be a marketable brand name for an oven in Germany.
- I do not think chicks want to fuck Ann Coulter because she looks like a horse (and apparently horses have big dicks)
- I have never won a Grammy, an Oscar, a Tony, an Emmy, or a Nobel Peace Prize. Although I did win a World’s Sexiest Man award back in ’92.
- Not all Russians are communists (just all the ones who speak Russian)
- I do not refer to my penis as “Gigantor”
- I am a comic genius, but I am not a world-class scholar, and a soft-core porn star. I also didn’t singlehandedly restructure the social and economic revolution of Northern Uganda.
- My father is not a bear, and my mother is not a ghost. I’m just pale and hairy due to radiation.
- I do not actually refer to myself as “The A-Trayn”.

I’m sure if you actually get to know me you’ll find that I’m a very nice guy, and have nothing in common with what I tell you I am (except for the “Gigantor” comment, sometimes I do that).

________________________________________

Self-centered:

One day I was thinking to myself, “What if I’m the only real person to ever live and everyone else is a robot designed to manipulate me?” Sure, I don’t actually believe that, but the mere fact that I entertained that possibility is proof enough. Everyone tells me they have thoughts of their own and don’t live just to be a part of my life, but the fact that I’ll never be able to truly know whether or not the world will end when I die has caused a lot of problems for me. One of the most noteworthy ways it’s caused problems for me is in my inability to care for the struggles of others.

War and AIDs are plaguing Africa; I don’t care.
Gay people are harassed and not allowed to marry one another; I don’t care.
Fetuses are getting aborted everyday; I don’t care.
Why don’t I care? Because I’m not gay, I’m not African, and I haven’t been a fetus in 18 years. Maybe if I were a gay African fetus, I’d be capable of giving a damn, but until then, I don’t give a damn.

Another way my egocentric notions have affected my day-to-day life is that I do things for other people only to get something in return. Not, like I give presents to receive presents, I do it for the positive reaction. Generally, I give people gifts for the holidays just so they don’t think I’m selfish, which is in turn, selfish.

And, lastly, it’s crippled my ability to listen to your damn vacation stories. You know the kind; the kind where you go someplace exotic and something you think is funny happens but it turns out it was only “funny at the time”. I can’t stand that shit. When I ask people “How their day went”, I actually don’t really care how their day went (unless they spent it worshipping me), I just ask so they think I give a shit and then ask me how my day went (so I can tell stories that are not just funny in context).

“You came off as really arrogant in this section!” I imagine you saying. Go suck a fuck.

________________________________________

Delusional:

I think about things way too much. When I’m left alone to my thoughts, things tend to distort and at times change completely. Here’s a representation of my thought process:

I have 357 freckles on my left arm alone.
When I was 7, I made what would I call a “Freckle Constellation map”.
Each ‘constellation’ would have a clever name, like “The Gun of Excelsior” or “The Hammer of Thor”.
I once told this to a girl and she didn’t think it was funny.
She gave me this look like I was a mentally retarded toddler.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been mostly unsuccessful with women.
Seriously, who doesn’t think “Gun of Excelsior” is fucking hilarious?
Everyone I told that joke to loved it…
Except one other person.
He was Russian.
Holy fuck!
She’s a spy!
They hired her!
SHE’LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!
…I need to buy a gun.

This tends to happen a lot, and for some reason it keeps going back to the Russians (I gotta stop reading about the cold war). Sure, the next day I still don’t think they’re trying to kill me, but it’s generally nothing relative to what really happened either. Maybe I need therapy. Or just somebody to nuke the Russians. Either way.

________________________________________

As I finished cleaning up the cat shit, I realized that there are a lot of aspects of my personality that don’t suck. Mainly, the fact that I can tell people that story without throwing up. Just remember, there’s more to me than meets the eye (like Transformers!), or at least, I want to be more than meets the eye.

Adventures in Paperboying!

2007-01-27T14:15:00.000-05:00

A lot of things have changed since I last wrote about the subject of my employment. Firstly, I now have my own car, a ’93 Camry Family Sedan, which is the very definition of “Bitchin’”. Secondly, I now work alone on my own route spanning from Manchester, CT all the way back to my hometown of Glastonbury. And Finally, Roger Anderson fell down a well and died (OK, this one isn’t real, but they say if you dream hard enough anything can come true).

For those of you not in the know, I am a “paperboy”. Now, the combination of those two words may bring to mind the picture of an 11 year old boy who wakes up at 5am to go ride his bicycle around the neighborhood, throwing papers onto doorsteps whilst being chased around by the neighborhood dog. Well, what I do is nothing like that, in actuality; I have the best fucking job in the world. What I do is drive around in my Camry and deliver free, advertiser-supported, auto newspapers to various locales (mostly Chinese restaurants and Liquor stores). While there may be a lack of respect for the profession, the pay is phenomenal, there’s little effort required, the chicks are great (this one’s a lie), and I get to keep all the free auto newspapers I want!

The following is the account of one day on the job:

3:10
I get my cell-phone, mp3 player, and beloved coat and hop into my Camry

3:30
After 5 minutes of heavy lifting, I’m ready to go.

3:35
I arrive at my first stop.

Either Holiday Inn appointed me Employee of the Month, or I’ve just been parking in his spot every Thursday for the past year.

3:58
Ahh, so that's where kids these days get their drugs.4:02
The first of several thousand times I will see this sign.
4:07
This guy guards my papers
4:11
I get bored and decide to stop into Ocean State Job Lot (like Walmart except cheaper and shittier)
4:13
I leave Job Lot with undeniable proof that it is being run by Scientologists.4:16
I wander into a furniture store and fall asleep for the next 15 minutes. I am rudely awakened by a sales associate who thinks I’m homeless and likes to threaten to call the police.4:31
On the way out of the furniture store I gaze upon one of the crappiest cars known to man. I feel better about myself.
4:36
I wander into The Salvation Army and buy some records.

Jane Fonda's Workout Record! YESSS MOTHERFUCKER!

4:52
I am faced with a tough decision.4:53
We have a winner!

5:02
Dinner Time! (Future Diarrhea!)
5:15
I arrive at my most depressing stop, Gold’s Gym.

Now, regular gyms consist of even amounts of:

a.) Fat people trying to get skinny.
b.) Skinny people trying to get muscular.
and
c.) Muscular people trying to make groups A and B feel self-conscious.

Gold's Gym consists of nothing but group C.
I look down at my pale decrepit body and begin to cry.

5:35
It gets really dark, and I arrive at K&S Food Center, the ethnic convenience store that single-handedly ensures I smell like ‘Goat Meat’ for the next month or so.
5:51
I get bored and decide to take a picture of myself talking on my cell phone while driving (which, turns out, only amplifies the danger).6:15
This used to be a Mr. Auto Wash, until Mrs. Auto Wash got it in the divorce.
6:23

One of the restaurants I deliver to was closed. This was their excuse:Maybe their "Familey Problum" was illiteracy?

6:33

I get bored again and decide to take more pictures of me driving.In retrospect, this was a tad more dangerous than the cell-phone one.

6:46
East Hartford Liquor Store: Your number one destination for almost getting carjacked by a hobo!6:57
I arrive here:
While I have never rented a room in an Econo Lodge and cannot attest to their comfort, I can say that based on how fucking comfortable and unsupervised their lobby is, I’d be glad to stay in an Econo Lodge any day of the week.

7:17
After getting kicked out of EconoLobby, I drive past this bus stop.

One day over the summer I was delivering papers the bus stop, when I noticed two girls sitting inside the stop. They watched me stock the papers and when I looked back at them, they were chuckling to one another. And this wasn’t a “look at that cute freckled kid” kind of chuckle, it was a mean-spirited “that kid has a pathetic job” kind of chuckle.

I looked them in the eye, hopped into my Bitchin’ Camry, drove past them, and yelled, “AT LEAST I DON’T HAVE TO RIDE THE FUCKING BUS!”

7:22
I got a lifetime ban from this place after I called the manager something that rhymes with “Fried up old runt”.7:25
I arrive at my last stop (even though I’m over the age of 12, this place’s name still makes me laugh).7:31
I drive past Dunkin’ Donuts to see if my friend Eric is working. Whenever he works Thursdays I drop by and he pays for my donuts while I brag about how much more money I make than him.
7:35
I arrive at the Glastonbury Recycling Center (It’s really just a giant green bin) to throw away all of the unused papers.7:45

7:55

I arrive home a half hour early for a new episode of The Office.
The End.

The Bedazzlers!

2007-01-06T23:29:00.000-05:00

Offbeat Fiction Theater.

2007-01-06T21:52:00.000-05:00

Free Mandela

Alex stands on the corner of the path near the oak tree, right in the middle of Boston Common. He's been standing since noon with his cardboard sign.

"Free Nelson Mandela!" he shouts, "FREE MANDELA!"

He's been doing this for hours now. Every once and again he'll get a quizzical look or two from his audience of park patrons. He looks them in the eye and yells, "Don't you know who Nelson Mandela is?" Some of them laugh, but Alex doesn't care. "They're probably just uneducated high school dropouts", he concludes.

Alex is a humanitarian. He's doing society a favor. He wants to, nay, he has to make a difference. Deep down he hopes that someone with the power to free Nelson Mandela is walking through Boston Common on this briskly sunny afternoon. Deep down he hopes he can enlighten the mind of someone who matters, perhaps someone who frequents the UN.

Alex drove two hours for this. He lives in Connecticut. He had to wake up at 9:35 AM, the crack of an unholy dawn for an individual routinely familiar with a noontime wake-up. He just cares that much. It's been getting colder for the past few hours, and Alex has donned his favorite coat, the same one he's had since age 13. To be perfectly honest, it isn't really the same coat, but he thinks it is. In actuality, when he turned fifteen and started to outgrow his beloved coat, his parents bought him a nearly identical coat and didn't have the heart to tell him his beloved was probably rotting in the town dump. Luckily, Alex hasn't noticed.

On the common, more people walk by.

Alex first learned of Nelson Mandela through his Wikipedia page, linked to him by a friend. He was instantly fascinated. As he read through the page, he began to feel as if this Nelson fellow was just like him, as if they were both seeking the same ideals: Freedom, Equality, and Peace. Alex grew to admire and respect Nelson, and despite his qualms about the accuracy of the Wikipedia article (there was a typo-ridden section about Nelson flying on a spaceship, and some stuff about him being freed in 1990) he figured that it was probably more correct than not, and that was good enough for him.

Even more people walk by. They look at the sign and chuckle.

"What is wrong with you? How dare you laugh at me?! At my cause?! Nelson Mandela is a great man! He deserves to be free!"

"Actually, he was freed in 1990, and he was elected president of South Africa in 1994"

"You may mock me now," shouts a distraught Alex, "but someday, with the help of an international coalition of support and increasing political pressure, Nelson Mandela will escape from the chains of imprisonment and walk the earth a free man!"

Alex still doesn't know that Nelson Mandela was freed in 1990.

My Extremely Awkward and Potentially Scarring Evening With Edgar Allen Poe

It was 6:45 at the Chez Napolean restaurant when my dinner date for the evening, esteemed author and poet Edgar Allen Poe, arrived. Prior to his arrival, the air was filled with the feelings of anticipation and delight; never did I imagine that I would be granted a meeting with a man as influential as Poe.

Months ago I had written an essay for my Composition class detailing what person (living, dead, or fictional) I would like to spend an evening with and why. I had chosen Poe because I’ve always been able to find something captivating in his prose. His writing carries this certain ineffable quality; Even though he was a poet who lived 150 years ago, somehow it feels as if he’s in the room with you, reading every written word aloud in a carefully calculated manner. Poe had always fascinated me, and the levels of admiration I held towards the man had propelled me to write that composition, secretly hoping that someday it would come true.

And then, one fateful September day I got a phone call,

“Poe would like to meet you.” A deep voice bellowed.
“What?” I replied in a quizzical tone.
“Edgar Allen Poe would like to meet you,” he responded.
It was about thirty five seconds of stunned silence before I was able to conjure up my masterful reply of, “Really?”
“Yes. Be at the Chez Napolean restaurant in New York City at 6:45PM on October Thirteenth. Do you need directions?”
“Nah, I can Mapquest it,” I replied nonchalantly.

For the next month I stewed with anticipation, longing for the day I would finally get to meet the mind behind ‘The Raven’. On the day of October Thirteenth, I got in my Camry and drove to New York. I arrived at the restaurant at 6:30 and promptly at 6:45 a large man in a black trench coat came out to greet me. He introduced himself and then showed me into a large private room with a dining table and two chairs. He told me to take a seat and that he would bring Mr. Poe in shortly.

Fifteen minutes later, the man in the black trench coat walked in carrying a corpse in his arms.

I let out a deafening scream.
“What the hell is that?” I managed to yell.
“Why, it’s Mr. Poe.” The man responded.

Now, not once during the writing of my composition did I ever address the fact that if I were to meet with Edgar Allen Poe, I’d surely prefer it if some kind of re-animation process were to take place.

“But, he’s dead.”
“Of course he’s dead, he died in 1849. You didn’t know that?”
“Well, I did. I just sort of assumed he came back to life or something.”
“This isn’t ‘Night of The Living Dead’ or anything, once you die, you’re dead. Are you dumb or something?”
“Am I dumb? You’re the one who dug up a corpse and took it to a fancy restaurant. What would make you think anyone would want to eat dinner with a corpse?”
“This isn’t just any corpse kid, this is Poe’s corpse”
“That doesn’t make it any less corpse-y”
“You wanna eat dinner with Mr. Poe or not, kid?”
“No, of course not”
“So that means I just committed a federal crime and drove all the way here from Long Island for nothing?”
“Apparently so”

Then I picked up my coat and ran out of the Chez Napolean, never to come back.

Moral of the story: If someone calls you up and asks you if you want to have dinner with Edgar Allen Poe, don’t do it. Poe is dead.

Splat!

There I was, cruising down the highway in my 1993 Camry Sedan, wind in my hair, and Radio 106 blasting from my stereo. And that’s when I hear the most disconcerting noise I’ve ever heard in my life.

SPLAT!

Instantly, I slam on the brake and swerve the car off the road.

“What did I hit?”

I remembered seeing a minuscule object in the distance a while back but I assumed it was just a mirage.

“What if it was a kitten, or a dog?
Maybe it was a raccoon, or a hobo that just decided to take a nap in the middle of the highway?
Am I a murderer?
Maybe I’m a murderer.
I don’t want to go to jail, I’m not the jail type, I would be shanked in prison.
Please not be a human being; please not be a human being.”

I got out of the car, and started walking back down the highway.

“What if it was a human being?
Would I tell anyone?
Sure, I’d tell, I’m not a cold-blooded murderer, it was an accident, I’m sure I’d only get a few months in Club Fed, it won’t be all that bad.
But then again.
What if they send me to real jail?
The kind like in The Shawshank Redemption.
It’s not like I’m weak or anything, but I am a pasty white boy and that’s never really a good thing, especially in prison.
Well, if I did run over a dude, it’s a done deed.
I could just get back in my car and drive off; no-one will ever be the wiser.”

It was a raccoon.

“Thank god.
Oh thank the lord.
This is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.
Wait a minute.
I just killed something.
Sure it’s not a crime, but I’ve never killed anything before.
Am I a murderer?
Or worse, am I monster?
A killing machine?
Maybe I’ll do it again.
Maybe I enjoyed it.
Maybe I have an affinity for it.
Maybe I should go to jail.”

I looked at its body. Lifeless, lying in a still position.

“Look at it.
How sweet and calm.
I am a monster.
There he was, the cute little guy,
Wandering across the highway, oblivious to the large pieces of machinery zooming by.
What if he has a family?
Or even worse, what if he was a professional?
Going to work in a little raccoon suit and tie.
He could have been at the top of the trash factory hierarchy.
What if he was the leader of all other raccoons?
Will I go down in raccoon history as a John Wilkes Booth, or a Lee Harvey Oswald?
Will they consider me a mere coward for not challenging the raccoon to a duel before I murdered him?
What if he was a super raccoon?
Who carried a special type of medicine within his veins.
Did I just doom humanity by killing that raccoon?”

And then, merely just to make myself feel better, I pulled a complete about-face and considered the other side of the spectrum.

“What if he was evil?
What if he was a serial-killer raccoon?
What if he put baby raccoons in microwaves, and beat old-lady raccoons to death with a metal rod?
What if he was a con-raccoon, going around scamming old-raccoons out of their pensions?
Will the raccoon society as a whole embrace the murder as a heroic feat and respond with a statue of me in every raccoon park?
You know what, I probably am a hero, that bastard raccoon deserved to die.”

And then the raccoon got up, gave me a quizzical look, and then ran away.

“Maybe I shouldn’t overreact so much."

Love: The Alex Traynor Way

2006-12-17T00:05:00.000-05:00

This is the video version of an article previously published here. I took the article off the main page since the movie version is 50 times better, but if you still want to read it, click here.

K-12: Adventures in Education. Part 2

2006-11-20T18:12:00.000-05:00

This is part 2 in a 7 part series chronicling the adventures of young Alex Traynor in public school, if you haven't read Part 1 yet, click here.

2nd Grade – The Blob’s class

Second Grade was one of the better years in my elementary school career, as it marked the beginning of my decade long transition from ‘generic, nose-picking, nap-taking, power ranger lovin’ child, to… well, something slightly more complex. You see, all Kindergarteners and First Graders are fundamentally the same, they all like the same things, they all act in the same hyper-retarded manner, and they all, for some mind-boggling reason, love the Power Rangers. Second grade was the grade where you became known for something slightly less shallow than how much you picked your nose, or how unfortunate your last name was. It was when you developed a personality, and the first age where you first started to show your true colors. I’m sure second grade was the first time that Neil Armstrong showed an interest towards walking on the moon, the time where Einstein first developed an affinity for nuclear-physics, and the time where a young Ted Kaczynski developed a penchant for sending bombs through the mail. And for the young Alex Traynor, well, he had a thing for making people laugh.

I honestly can’t remember my 2nd Grade teacher’s name, but I do remember that she was monstrously obese, so for the sake of this article, were going to refer to her as ‘The Blob’. The Blob was the first in the incredibly long line of incompetent teachers I would have in my public school career, and as they always say, you never forget your first. She was the kind of teacher who would constantly be late for school because she locked her keys in her car, and one time she forgot to tell the janitor to keep the heat on in the room over the weekend and as a result, the class gerbil froze to death. And even though I can’t remember her real name, she taught me something about myself I never knew before: I’m an idiot.

It was a pleasantly warm month of November for the mediocre state that is Connecticut, and unbeknownst to the whole rest of the world, a chain of events that would only minimally shape the life of a small freckled Irish boy was about to take place. My desk was located near the left corner of our humble classroom, and I sat next to my friends, Matas and Chris. While, I wasn’t close to being the class clown or anything, I was what you would call ‘the funny one’ in our group of friends. Not that I hadn’t dreamed of being the class clown though, since making people laugh has always appealed to me. And at that point in age, I figured that if I could make the whole class laugh at the same time, everyone would like me. And I was constantly looking for an opportunity.

Now, one fateful day, The Blob was checking homework when I decided it would be a great idea to, when she got to me, tell her a wildly absurd excuse as to why I didn’t have my homework, bask in the laughter of my fellow classmates, and then just as once as she’s about to reprimand me, shout “GOTCHA!”, and then present my thoroughly completed homework paper. Well, somewhere during the execution of that poorly thought out plan, something went terribly wrong.

Now “The dog ate my homework” is a joke excuse that’s been going around for ages, and in this day in age, I’m somewhat surprised when someone doesn’t recognize it. It’s even more surprising when someone believes it, because honestly, unless you rub bacon grease all over your homework and then dip it in a vat of chocolate pudding, chances are your dog won’t swallow your homework.

The teacher came up to my desk.
“Where’s your homework Alex?”
This was my moment in the sun, all I had to do was flawlessly pronounce four simple words, and I’d be the coolest kid in all of Pine Grove Elementary.
“The dog ate it.”
It was perfect, at that moment I felt that no joke could ever be told in a manner that could top that, and just as I started to see my classmates laugh uproariously and as I pictured what my life as Mr. Cool would be like, The Blob ruined everything,
“Really?”
Uh-Oh.
I wasn’t expecting that. Not once while I was formulating my scheme did I ever think of a back-up plan. I hadn’t even considered the logistics of a dog eating my homework, let alone pre-formulating a cover-up lie.
“Yeah…”
It was all I was able to muster out of my shocked little head.
“What kind of dog do you have?”
Now, I didn’t have a dog at the time, and asking a second grader to remember any singular breed of dog on a seconds notice is like trying to Google ‘google’(weird shit happens, trust me). My mind hit a blank.
“…”
“Alright, then what does your dog look like?”
Now, under normal circumstances I’d be able to come up with an imaginary description for an imaginary dog on the drop of a hat, but for some odd reason, I was still drawing a blank. It was about 5 seconds of blankly staring into The Blob’s triple-chinned face until I realized I should look for inspiration. I faced my attention towards the classroom bookshelf and saw two books that caught my eye. “101 Dalmatians” and “Clifford the Big Red Dog”. Now, even the most retarded of second graders (Booger) would have told her that their dog had spots and was a Dalmatian, but for some reason I went with Clifford.
“He’s red!” I shouted with triumphant enthusiasm.
I count that statement as among one of the dumbest things I have ever said.
“You have a red dog, well that’s odd, I’ve never seen a red dog before”
“Well, I hadn’t either before I saw him”
“What’s his name?”
“Clifford!”
I take my previous remark back, THAT’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.
Now, even a woman as incompetent as The Blob could tell I was an idiot.
“Let me guess, he’s big?”
“Oh yeah, he’s fucking huge!”
About a month prior she had decided to just ignore whenever I said my favorite word after she couldn’t successfully convince me of it’s evil ways.
“Do you have any other dogs”
“Yeah…”
“How many?”
“One Hundred and One... and they’re all Dalmatians!”
“…”

By that time, she had forgotten all about the homework and had begun to imagine me as a thirty five year old living in a cardboard box in an alley somewhere. That conversation changed the rest of my adolescent life, and now only upon reflection do I realize that I’m a terrible terrible liar. And while I could tell you about the time I convinced The Blob I was late for school because I was abducted by aliens, I’ll just leave you with a little advice: If you’re ever stuck in a tight conversational situation and find no possible way to redeem yourself, convince the other person that you’re insane, and hopefully they’ll forget what they were talking about.

3rd Grade – Mrs. Schwartz’s class

As a child, I was always what people would consider a ‘crybaby’. Lost my mom in a JC Penny? I’d lie in the fetal position and bawl. Found out the grocery store was sold out of Doritos? Weep hysterically and shout the F-word. For pretty much every mildly upsetting occasion there was a distinctive cry. And for the most part, that all changed in 3rd grade.

During my tenure at Pine Grove Elementary school, each year we went on a different field trip. In first grade, we went to a play. In Second grade, we went to an aquarium. And, in third grade, we went to Old Sturbridge Village.

Old Sturbridge Village is what they call a ‘living museum’, and it’s basically a replica of an 18th century colonial village, that hires actors to pretend that they’re really from 1785 and that they’ve never ever heard a cell-phone before (“WITCH!”). Now, these aren’t your normal actors though, they’re at the absolute bottom of the whole ‘actor’ hierarchy. Not only do they have to churn butter all day and deal with snobby third graders making fart jokes, but they have to pretend to like it. Also, since it was supposed to be a replica of 1700s New England, they didn’t have video games(X-treme Butter Churning, anyone?), which made me loathe the idea of ever stepping foot in Sturbridge. Needless to say, I would’ve rather gotten lost in one of The Blob’s many crevices for a year than get lost in Old Sturbridge Village for a day. And that’s exactly what happened (The Sturbridge Village thing, not the crevices thing).

Now, almost everyone in their public school career has had a teacher who hated teaching, but I’m sure only a select few have had a teacher who hated teaching as much as Mrs. Schwartz did. It seemed like she had genuinely liked teaching at some point in her life, but I guess that years of third graders calling her names and peeing on the seat in our classroom toilet wore her down. Initially, she masked her hatred of us, only muttering negative sentiment behind our backs. Eventually, she stopped giving a shit about us liking her and decided to yell at us on a weekly basis (or whenever she was having ‘the cramps’). She quit one week before school ended, right after she told the class that she “hated us” and that she was “moving to Vegas”. To this day, I’m still surprised her resignation speech didn’t involve a shotgun and a handful of dead third graders.

Getting away from Schwartz was the primary reason many of us were looking forward to that field trip, and when the day finally came, we all felt as if we were on top of the world (Well, I guess we actually were if you want to think about it in a technical sense). We all woke up extra early and had our parents drive us to school, and when we got there, Schwartz handed out a sheet of paper telling which students would be assigned to which chaperone. And luck had it; I was assigned to Mrs. Schwartz’s group. A field trip that had already seemed to me as appealing as jumping off a cliff and landing in a pile of John Tesh CDs, had somehow managed to get even worse. Also, for extra safety reasons, the school management had decided to employ the all reliable ‘buddy system’ within our subgroups. And luck had it, I was assigned with Booger, my old friend who I had decided to not hang out with anymore after he started saying the phrase “I like Pancakes!” way too much.

Hmmmm, I wonder what could go wrong in a pretend 1700s village eighty miles away from home with staff members who hate their jobs and the tag team duo entrusted with the glorious duty of making sure I didn’t die consisted of a 65 year old woman who hated my guts, and a retarded kid who, apparently, really liked pancakes.

It took us an hour and a half on a ridiculously hot school bus to travel all the way up to Sturbridge. When we got off the bus a rather unattractive woman wearing a bonnet and a frilly old dress came onto our school bus.

“Now children, this isn’t an ordinary school bus, it’s a time machine! When you step off this bus, you’ll find yourself in the year 1795!” she said rather enthusiastically.

“Bullshit!” I thought quietly to myself, “If this school bus was a time machine, we’d probably be doing something more constructive right now, like killing Hitler, or giving Nintendo 64s to the slaves”

“I want you all to have a fun time back in ol’ Sturbridge, and remember don’t get lost!”

Instantly, a bad feeling came over me and I started to panic. All of the other ‘field-trip-welcomers’ I had met said something along the lines of “If you get lost, come to the front desk or talk to an adult”; something definitely wasn’t right when a place’s policy on lost children consisted solely of “Don’t get lost”. I almost started crying right there.

We shuffled off the bus in a disorganized 3rd grader way, and formed into our respective groups. There were 6 people in Mrs. Schwartz’s group: Becca (The class bitch), Christina (Teacher’s pet), Ross (The weird kid who would eat anything for the right price), Feldman (The obnoxious Jew), Booger (The kid with the lowest IQ in the class), and me (The kid with the highest IQ in the class).

Schwartz had this look on her face as if she hated 1700s style villages just as much as I did (and probably as much as this guy), and wanted to get the day over with as soon as possible.

The day started out like any other boring field trip, we did some sight-seeing, we walked around a lot, Booger made an off-color remark about Feldman’s extremely large nose, and I started to daydream (primarily about me going back in time and killing Hitler). It was around noon when we found our way over to the local tavern. The pretend barkeep gave us a speech about the importance of the local tavern in the late 1700s, the barkeep’s assistant made an offensive remark about me (the Irish 8-year old) being in a bar in the middle of the day, and then my group was gone. I’m not completely sure how it happened, but I look down for a second, and when I look back up everyone in my group had left. And it isn’t like I had wandered off, or ran away; I was standing in the same exact position. I started to cry, a deep blubbering cry.

“They left me” I tried to whisper out beneath the crying.
I looked around the room and everyone was staring at me.
“Hey, we’re not out of imaginary beer yet, drunky!” joked the bartender’s assistant.

I stood there crying for about twenty minutes, no-one even bothering to cheer me up. Eventually I ran out of tears and regained the ability to walk, but decided to wait in the tavern for another ten minutes anyway. I figured that once they realized I was missing, they’d come looking for me in the last place they saw me, but after a half an hour of waiting I came to the harsh realization that they weren’t coming back.

So I started to walk around. I really had no place to go, I just felt like walking. On the surface, I tried to convince myself that I’d find another group and be taken in as one of their own, but deep down I assumed I’d be stuck in the year 1795 forever. I tried to feel betrayed at the fact that my group left me alone to die (well, technically just to live in the 1700s, but they all knew I would’ve killed myself without some serious Sonic The Hedgehog time anyway), but it’s not like I wasn’t expecting it, they all pretty much hated me for good reason. Becca pretty much hated everyone, Ross was upset that my sophisticated jokes had become significantly funnier than him eating worms, Feldman resented me because I had a bigger house than he did, Christina resented my good looks (alright this one’s a lie, I had no idea why she hated me), and Booger, well, he didn’t hate me, he was just retarded.

About fifteen minutes after I had begun my glorious walking journey to nowhere in particular, my tear ducts told me that they had regained their ability to make me look like a fool. I told myself to resist the urge, that it was no use. And for the first time in my life, that actually worked.

To this day I’m still surprised that the first time I was ever able to stop myself from crying, came at a time where I felt my death (suicide) was imminent. I experienced a rush of self-empowerment at this newfound ability to stop the tears that had previously plagued my over-privileged-white-kid life.

Suddenly, my metaphorical shield of self-imposed misery was lifted and I was able to see the sole benefit of being 80 miles away from home in a shitty living museum: no-one knew who I was.

The rest of my day was spent as follows:

Running into colonial townhouses, yelling “Fuck You!”, and then running away.
Spending all of the money my mother gave me for the day on rock candy, and then throwing it up a few minutes later.
Explaining the benefits of modern machinery to the local Blacksmith, and then basking in his feelings of inferiority and crushed self-worth.
Telling the pretend mayor that the real mayor of Sturbridge, MA was replaced by a town council in 1934, and then basking in his feelings of inferiority and crushed self-worth.
Asking the townspeople where they kept their slaves.
Demonstrating to the town postman how my Nike™ Sneakers were more versatile than the shoes he wore, and then watching his mouth gape open when he found out that little neon lights lit up in the back of the shoes whenever I took a step.
Hiding behind an arriving school bus and then yelling out “Then where’s the flux capacitor?!”, after the field-trip greeter gave her whole time-travel speech.
Sneaking into the town church and yelling, “My name is Feldman and I’m Jewish!”

99 Problems

2006-11-12T15:45:00.005-05:00

K-12: Adventures in Education. Part 1

2006-11-05T21:54:00.000-05:00

As kindergarteners, you could tell our intellectual abilities by what we chose to call each other. My best friend was called ‘Booger’, and I was called ‘Potty Traynor’.

Come to think of it, Kindergarten sucked.

1st Grade - Ms. Conn's class

It was my fiancée, Ms. Conn.

“WHO IN HEAVEN’S NAME DID THIS?”

Instantly everyone in the room pointed at me, including Gus.

Needless to say, Gus was no longer my friend. (“Et tu, Gus?”)

Ms. Conn whisked me out of the room, and started yelling. Even after I explained the situation, she didn’t stop yelling.

Needless to say, I was no longer attracted to her.

Needless to fucking say, first grade fucking sucked.

Click here for part fucking two.