Snack Pack For War

SETTING: The Kilroy Household. It is lazy Sunday in the late afternoon. The sun is setting outside. We see a young man (the brother, Matthew) making a snack pack in the kitchen, as a young woman (the sister, Caitlin) sits across a dining room table where she is working on some kind of art project.

"What are you doing? We're going to eat dinner soon." - sister

"Oh, I know. This is just for war." - brother

"What? War? What are you talking about?" - sister

"I'm making a snack pack for war. I'll probably get hungry while I'm out there." - brother

"War...? Oh my freakin' god, is this for Call of Duty? Are you seriously making a snack pack for Call of Duty?!" - sister

"Yes. Yes, I am. I need to be prepared." - brother

"You are an idiot!" - sister

"You know, it's people like me who protect your right to say that." - brother

Urinal? No, You're A Null!

I have come to acknowledge that there are few events as trivial yet surprisingly uncomfortable as two male co-workers (who know each other enough to nod but not converse more than exchange greetings in the hallway) peeing next to each other in total silence.

Hot Chicks Have Places To Be, People

I was playing basketball Friday night and, for some reason, I thought about the many times I would play evening games with friends years ago.

When my friends and I would play basketball at night, girlfriends would show up. And it wouldn't really just be girlfriends there, but the semi-girlfriends, the friends with benefits and those girls that we would never really explain what was happening because we never wanted to seem shallow to each other, though we absolutely knew how shallow we/people could be.

“So…are you two together, dating, just hooking up or what?”

“Hey, do you ask what every ingredient is in your favorite dishes at restaurants? Or do you just chow down and worry about it later?”

“What the fuck, man…? What the hell is wrong with you? What kind of analogy is that?”

“Look, I just know what tastes good and what doesn’t. Right now, it’s delicious. I’ll figure out the price and recipe later.”

“What the shit are you talking about? Are you hungry or retarded? I really can’t tell at this point.”

Anyway, when the girls would show up, I slowly noticed that the hotter ones were always the ones holding their car keys. Even if they sat down for the entire night, they would have their car keys in hand, as if they could leave at any second. I don’t know what kind of trickery it was, but it could symbolize a number of things: “You barely have me,” “You’re lucky I’m here as I have other places to be but I chose to be here,” or, “Hey! I have a car!”

But I would see them and wonder if they were actually staying or if this was some devious, suspicious and inane ploy. They would be blondes with party girl ponytails from the swim team or cheerleaders in hoodies. They were comfortable with how they appeared, not exactly decorated like they usually were at school. So it seemed like they were extraordinarily relaxed with the situation, but there would be the small, quiet stress in their palms.

If they came here, why did it seem like they were always leaving?

Over time, the car keys in hand became a symbol of how much maintenance the girl required, which as a teenager, was sometimes matched or intertwined with how attractive the girl was. Whether it was on purpose or not, the whole car key thing intrigued me. They made the effort to come to the game, but they also came in pajama bottoms with car keys in hand. I suppose as adolescent males with boners every few seconds, we were supposed to think things like, “My god, she could leave at any second! I better say something cool during the next water break!”

I don’t know if this has carried over to my deranged stint as a twenty-something. It very well could have. I don’t know, because we all don’t have the free time we had then. So a girlfriend might not come to any games. Instead, she might work overtime until her boyfriend comes over. Who knows? Also, I exercise so infrequently, I can only concentrate on my own fractured breathing pattern instead of any girl on the sideline.

You know, that's probably why. It's because we were in better shape when we were teenagers. Now, if a girl came to see us play basketball, we'd probably shun ourselves like vampires in daylight, screaming, "Don't look at me!"

But it used to be, "Hey, you should drop by tonight and watch me do a dozen backflips when I dunk the ball, all while flexing my stomach and popping a couple boners all at once."

Shrug.

Maybe next time I see a girl there for one of the guys with car keys in her hand, I’ll senselessly yell, “Where the fuck do you have to be? Nowhere. Or you wouldn’t be here. Just put the car keys away and stop fucking with our heads. We don’t get boners every few seconds anymore, so we’ve evolved. Kind of. We know you just want us to talk to you and throw down game, but the only game happening is this one and the score is totally fucked right now.”

It would be totally bad-ass, unless of course I was the one dating her, in which case, I would probably say something closer to: “Hey, you look really pretty tonight. I don't usually play that bad. Usually, I have a six pack. So, what are you doing afterwards? Do you want to do something or do you have somewhere to be?”

Are You Dating Me?

There's a certain phrase that some people use around this office and it strikes me as peculiar every time.

"Are you dating me?"

This, of course, is used when one person makes another person feel old.

An example:

"Oh, I don't know if you would remember that toy craze. That may have been after you were a kid."

"Execuse me, are you dating me?"

And then the two laugh.

Now, this of course means "dating" in something far away from that whole familiar but always semi-unfamiliar process of kindness, generosity, awkwardness, furious anger and fondling.

Actually, the latter variation of "dating" is way more complex. At least the former version can be explained by science.

It took me a while to legitimately understand what people were talking about around here, because, for so long, I didn't hear the first part. I would only hear the person say, "Are you dating me?"

Every time I'd hear it, my head would crook and I would wonder what the hell was happening around this orgy of an office.

"Everyone is sort of dating everyone here or is at least unsure of what they're doing with each other, similar to a Ross and Rachel kind of sexual experiment, I suppose," I would think (very much like a scientist of only the most interstellar magnitude). "Also, they pose the question like a crazy person."

It wasn't the much more traditional and uncomfortable sentiment, "So...are we, like, dating or what?"

That question seems more familiar to me.

However, I often ask it differently. It usually comes out like, "So...do you really all of a sudden have feelings for me? Are you seriously going to ruin this perfect setup we have? Oh man...does this mean that we can't just watch romantic movies, cook dinner together and fool around all the time? Does this mean we can't just go on weekend getaways, laugh a bunch and never discuss our feelings? Do I have to start meeting your stupid friends? Are they going to talk about people from your high school that I don't know? Are they going to mention your ex-boyfriends all the time just to hint to me that I should treat you right and not be a douchebag like your exes? Do I have to pretend like I don't know they're doing that? Do I have to go to your holidays? Do I have to figure out if I need to buy your family stuff just in case they give me presents? Does this mean I can't do any of this with other women? UGH. WHY ARE YOU BEING SO DIFFICULT? I DON'T NEED THIS! SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!"

Then I would smash the nearest breakable thing of hers and jump out the window, screaming, "FREEEEEEEDOOOOOOOOOM!"

Also, I would perfectly time the jump so that I landed on a bus (obviously). Then I'd stay on the bus until it took me near my car, which, as you and the girl may not already know, is not at the girl's apartment, because fuck being followed. I know women. Can't trust 'em. Be a spy in every situation with a woman or be a fuckin' chump, I say.

Then, I'd get drunk and call the girl's hot friends and ask, "Are you dating me?" before laughing uncontrollably and hysterically. All phone calls would probably end abruptly.

So, anyway, you can only imagine how put off I am when everyone around the office keeps asking, "Are you dating me?"

The Best Postcard Author I've Ever Known

I got a postcard from The Jen yesterday.

She remains the best postcard author I've ever known. I've saved everything she's ever sent me by way of a postal service. Even after two and a half years of being on rocky terms, she continues to impress me and fill my heart with warmth whenever I get mail from her. I'm glad we're finally on speaking terms again.

Apparently, she's in Australia these days, as the front of the postcard is an artistic (and colorful) rendition of Darling Harbor and, on the back, there's Bernard O'Dowd's poem "Australia."

From The Jen:

November 13, 2009 - On the road: Brisbane -> Melbourne

This country (continent? commonwealth? cangaroo?) looks like California, smells like Hawaii and tastes like England (albeit the passion fruit). It sounds like a squinty-eyed drunk. It feels…it feels like nothing else I’ve ever encountered. So, I’ll let this nice chap to the rest. Hit it, Bernie!

[little dance step arrow doodles go on until they point to the name Bernard O’Dowd and the last line of his poem, which is “ocean at your knees”]

Bit of a show-off he is, eh?

Jake, I had a feeling I’d find you here.

Always,
Jen

Well Played, Panera

By adding gourmet mac 'n cheese to the menu and hiring increasingly attractive female employees, I feel like Panera has discovered an incredible marketing scheme that applies specifically to...me.

But, it has certainly worked, Panera! Well done! I will soon be turning over entire paychecks to your new, good-looking "femployees."

Oh, The Humanity...And The Boredom

"The boredom bores me." - James Park

Oh No

Hark hear those ears until they bleed,
marked down by a character assassin.
Truly, let these words pour out of me,
like liquor out of bullet holes, and grin.

"Don't Tell The Prizefighters"

"Don't Tell The Prizefighters"
written like a lackey in an office by jake kilroy.

Don't tell the prizefighters that I'm taking a dive,
something I hope goes swimmingly tonight
(though I'm already in sweat like a suit)
(cutting up my nerves like rope burning through)
'cause when they come, they come like machines;
they come like soldiers of misfortune,
loading their guns up with some noise so mean;
oh, they come with the worst sound in your heart
(as you hear the busted boombox pumping savage blood);
the parades come with the fury,
the laughs come with a growl,
and you can't turn your back on them
even if you think you can, somehow.

So I say, sure,
let 'em hype, let 'em jump,
give 'em life, give 'em some,
hear 'em call, hear 'em talk
give 'em hell, give 'em knocks,
get 'em up, get 'em down,
give 'em luck, give it now.
But don't tell the prizefighters 'bout me.