Estrogen Assault

Meet Chester. Chester is a college student who uses his title as a way to get instant credibility. He works less than most people his age, but it's okay because someday he will have a degree. And he will make more money than the people who are working hard now. Chester is proud of how he thought this all through and looks forward to a time when he can rest on his laurels and live the high life. Because Chester isn't living the high life right now. Not at all. Chester needs to go to class periodically and some of his professors actually require him to do the readings. Life isn't hard for Chester, but it isn't as easy he'd like it, either.

It was nine o'clock at night and Chester was lounging in his room. His room was, at that moment, in the happy place between several month-long stretches of absolute disorganization. Chester could see his floor. It's always special when Chester can see the floor of his room. Chester had homework to do, but didn't want to do it and was creating all sorts of odd emergencies that needed resolving in order to avoid the ominous book lying prostrate on my desk in a manner that can only be described as unattractive. Chester had to eat something, Chester had to drink, Chester had to do some push-ups. Chester was almost ready to start preparing to get in the mindset to warm up to think up another excuse to avoid studying when his phone buzzed.

It was Bertha, an intelligent 20-something Chester knew from high school. He'd always liked Bertha, but never quite worked up the nerve to tell her or even act on his feelings. Bertha was home for the summer and wanted to hang out. Did Chester want to come over for a movie night?

Did Chester want to come over? Does Batman fly? Do basketballs bounce? Do Rice Crispies make weird popping noises after you pour the milk? Of course Chester wanted to come over. When could Chester come over? Were there any other excuses Chester could use to visit?

Chester did not think about what he was agreeing to. He did not ask what movie would be showing or who else would be present for the "movie night." His mind was completely occupied with thoughts of Bertha. An evening with her would be pleasant no matter what. Chester convinced himself of this.

Chester arrived at Bertha's house in his typical fashion: a few minutes late, out of breath and slightly disheveled. His afternoon had been stolen by YouTube and he only regained control of his body in time to sniff check his shirt and speed to his friend's house.

When Chester pulled up, he saw Bertha's father sitting placidly in the front yard with a .306 rifle. Chester knew he was Bertha's father because of his Dad T-Shirt. Chester stopped his car, but left his engine running. With the air from his car's central system cooling the sweat drops that formed on his brow, Chester debated the merits of continuing. He had a fast car; he could zip out of the driveway and be on the interstate before Bertha's Daddy could draw a bead. Chester wanted to see Bertha, but Chester did not want to be shot.

As if to make up Chester's mind for him, Bertha's Daddy motioned for Chester to get out of the car. Chester gulped, twisted the key out of the ignition and slid the door open. After brief introductions ("You must be Chester"), Bertha's Daddy pulled the rifle to his shoulder and squeezed off a quick shot toward the a fence outlining the perimeter of the property. When Chester extricated himself from the fetal position and the blood returned to his head, he saw a collection of tin cans on the fence. Bertha's Daddy was taking target practice.

"Missed," Bertha's Daddy muttered. "You'd best get inside and get cleaned up; looks like you might have done something involuntary." Chester hadn't, but he appreciated the other man's concern and walked briskly toward the house. Once inside, he had another shock.

If the outdoors were teaming with testosterone, the inside was paved with estrogen, hard compacted and then decorated with more estrogen. Bertha had invited a bunch of female friends for the occasion and the house was a roar of giggling, cooking and dress making. Yes, dress making. Even Bertha's brother, an overweight n'er do well with whom Chester had a lot in common, had flown the coup for the evening. Chester did not know what to do. He wanted to be very small, to be an ant on the ground that everyone ignores. Some of the girls tried to talk to him, but Chester didn't know what to say or how to answer. The conversation continued without him and he felt utterly lost, surrounded by a bunch of beautiful, giggling people who he would never understand. Chester almost felt that facing the .306 would be more pleasant than the estrogen assault. Almost.

Dinner was worse. Chester spoke English, not estrogen and he had a hard time keeping up with the pigeon dialect of his host and the other guests. At least Daddy Bertha was there. Chester now found him comforting as the bastion of masculinity in a sea of girls. He was the buoy Chester used to navigate his conversational ship and, although Daddy Bertha brought his .306 to the table with him, Chester started to like the man.

Chester had forgotten all about the movie that formed the pretense for his visit when Bertha asked if everyone was ready. Chester had never been asked whether he was "ready" for a movie before. He thought that was funny, but didn't laugh because his throat was too constricted.

To this moment, Chester cannot remember what movie he saw. It might have been the utterly pointless Beaches, the overrated Sleepless in Seattle or the tragic failure Steel Magnolias, which was, by the way, saved from utter destitution only by the stunning Dolly Parton. Chester does recall that Daddy Bertha did not watch the movie and that everyone in the room but him was bawling like a hungry two-year old somewhere near the end. Chester didn't see what was so sad, but he had a hard time staying awake, too. And at the only remotely interesting part of the film, the others told him to look away. Crazy.

When the credits rolled, Chester found an excuse to leave, got into his car and drove a mile or so, his mind blank. Then he got out and rolled in some dirt. He didn't know why, but it made him feel better - more like a man. He also stopped by GNC and purchased some supplements that would be illegal in the NCAA. Chester knew he wasn't Dara Torres; he could take these drugs.

The next day, when Bertha asked if Chester wanted to join her next weekend for a shopping trip, Chester did not hesitate before giving a negative response. He had been cured; at least for a little while...

Life Tip #77

Do not get angry when your lawn mower does not start.

If you must get angry when your lawn mower does not start, do not drink alcohol to assuage the anger.

If you must get angry when your lawn mower does not start and drink alcohol to assuage the anger, do not shoot your lawnmower with an illegal short-barreled shotgun.

Waiting on the women

We were getting ready for a long hiking trip, the kind of excursion that makes heels blister and ages knees rapidly. The "we" in that sentence refers to an amalgamation of friends who held roughly the same age but occupied positions all across the gender spectrum. I was one of the guys in the group. The planned hike was sixteen and a half miles through some of the most gorgeous terrain in California - which is saying something - to the top of a national icon and back again. Only a handful of us were cognizant of the strenuous nature of the expedition, but even the ignorant like me knew the most important task to tackle before starting out: visit the trail head's head.

We approached the semi-sanitary lavatories with all gaiety. Afterall, we hadn't hiked but a click and our spirits ran high from the calorie loading of the day before. At least, my spirits ran high. Some of the members of our group felt mischievous. But I'm getting ahead.

Our tempers were dampened only a little by the long line that formed in front of the cement water closets. The queue was reminiscent of the formation by the men's room during the seventh inning stretch; a dead caterpillar that had no thoughts of revival.

I don't think any of us guys even noticed the line (although I did see an attractive brunette who smiled at me and said something very nice that I didn't understand in a foreign language when I asked the time) as we marched to the male lavatory and did our business. We expected the girls to do likewise in the facility marked for their own use.

When I emerged from the trail head's head, relieved and ready to start hiking, I discovered the girls had a completely different strategy in mind. Rather than wait out the lady line, they asked us to post a guard and shut down the men's room for them. Being impatient as well as gullible, we obliged.

Although I'll deny it vehemently if you ever bring this up at a party, I am a total klutz socially. Those of you who know me are entirely too aware of this fact, but it needs to be raised again for reference sake. I have the social skilz of a demented three year old, as evidence by the fact that I just used the word "skilz." But I am comfortable in my uniquely awkward persona and total inability to charm. I am satisfied with my delinquent personality and sub-par conversation abilities. I'm okay with being pushed around by those who are more assertive and better able to get their way than me. I am fine with being the door mat for all my friends. Really, I am.

For the record, I didn't write the paragraph above. I think it was Chip, our latest contributor, but if you have better information, please let me know.

For whatever unimaginable reason, I was chosen to guard the door. As soon as I assumed the bouncer position, a heavy-set male with a ruddy complexion and an Owen Wilson nose approached the door. Something about him told me he had to use the bathroom.

"Can I help you?" I learned the line from the service industry.

"Uh, yeah, is this the men's room?" Ruddy Nose looked tired; he wasn't in the mood to add another crook to his schnoz. I wasn't in the mood to give him one. For the moment we were amicable. But I had to answer this question.

"Some young ladies needed to use the restroom and didn't want to wait through the line which you can see to your left is longer than a Desperate Student post. If you'll just wait patiently--" My sentence was interrupted by a peal of laughter from the estrogen-swamped men's room. I grimaced and Ruddy Nose gave me an amused look.

But it got worse. I cleared my throat, adjusted my collar and spread my legs out to improve circulation. I felt a bead of sweat start to form at my hairline and reached to wipe it away without thinking much about it. Ruddy Nose noticed and evidenced his perception with a tight grin. He really had to go.

Another girl from our group arrived late and looked around for her friends. It didn't take her long to do the math and run into the men's room to join the others. I tried to stop her, to explain that there was now a guy in line who had a long established right to first restroom entrance and that there was another facility where she had the right of way. She would have none of it; her friends had invaded the testosterone sanctuary and she wanted to be in on the fun too.

I looked at Ruddy Nose, intending to shrug sheepishly, but noticed that a couple more guys had lined up behind the first male arrival. Each looking very ready for the trail head's head. Very ready. My shrug turned into a stare that extended straight forward above a gulping swallow. Now was not a time for making light of the situation; no joke would alleviate the tension.

If only the girls felt that way. Another peal of laughter accompanied a louder remark: "You are doing your makeup?" Whoa. I inhaled deeply, ignoring the pine scented air and tried not to think about the travesty I was dragging the other male hikers through. Or rather what the primping girls were dragging them through.

More laughter and jokes followed from the young ladies as the minutes ticked by. Three, four, five minutes passed as more men joined the parade in front of the blocked door like an extended tiger's tail. The line had grown to a couple dozen people by the time the girls emerged, looking nice, but too happy.

None of the guys said anything or even made eye contact with the exiting females. They were zebras leaving the giraffe's cage. The girls tried to claim that their shenanigans were planned and that they intended to put upon us. They said that and other things designed to assuage the tension and drain the embarrassed red from my cheeks. I didn't know whether or not to believe them. I still don't. Regardless, it'll be a while before I close down another men's restroom.

A Six Year Old on Skates

Not every derelict college student has a six-year-old brother. Some do, but those cases are rare, and generally limited to the older brother variety of the derelict species. I am, as befits my variegated and diversely endowed existence, a member of that particular strain.

A six-year-old brother is an uplifting if tedious addition to just about any activity imaginable, particularly in the summertime when classes are out and teachers have relinquished their tyrannical but protective custody over the student's mind. Actually, the custody is never relinquished at all. It is turned over to the brother. This transfer of authority became especially clear to me on a particular day last month, as I watched the brother wobble out onto an ice-skating rink. He was doing a good job, I thought, watching him coast a few feet at a time. He showed excellent coordination for the very brother who had an attention deficit so extreme that he couldn't hold a violin under his chin without forgetting it was there and dropping it to the floor for my mother's special enjoyment, and who was always up at six in the morning, eager to conduct a frenzied chat that would frazzle all impatient nerves.

In fact, he was skating so well that I concluded that there couldn't be much to the feat. If the six-year-old brother could do it, anyone probably could. In fact, if the six-year-old brother could do it I probably could. So I rented a pair of skates.

It wasn't as if I expected to be a virtuoso. I had never worn skates before, and I knew attaining a graceful air would take a bit of practice. So I sat for a while at the edge of the ice, watching the advanced skaters waltz and frisk along the shimmering surface. I observed how one foot would gracefully fall in front of the other as they rounded turns. I noticed how they stepped into their allotted trajectories with forward momentum, not backwards thrust. I even noticed the deft little flicks of the blades that sped the skaters along backwards whenever they wished to speak to their partners behind them without stopping. Now, I just needed to implement my new knowledge.

Soon I felt confident enough to try on the size-fourteen behemoths that had been silently handed to me by a dubious-faced youth behind the counter. I removed my shoes (vulgar things they now seemed!) and began with the laces to ascend a Matterhorn of holes and hooks that seemingly stretched up to heaven, or at least to my knees. Who wouldn't feel a bit overconfident after completing a task like that?

They don't tell you this until you've already burned the bridges, but outside of their intended environs, skates are very awkward things to walk in. They're generally leather and universally rigid, allowing no ankle movement at all, which presents many difficulties to the skater. First, there is the necessity of either goose-stepping or brass-band-marching across the floor before reaching the ice. This is not pleasant in the presence of ruddy-faced gliders and ecstatic waltzers who were apparently born in skates (talk about a painful pregnancy!). Second, balance on the ice can be achieved only by an uncomfortable standing squat, or by bending over backwards and falling on one's tail bone. I am a proponent of the former option, but only in theory.

My brother was finishing his lesson as I stepped onto the glassy circle, but I was glad he still had a few minutes left of watching his teacher instead of me. I grasped the wall for my life, and took one step, one thrust, one stumble at a time. I had wondered why that little boy's legs seemed a bit shaky. Now I understood. But I was determined, and I gradually let go of the wall and began to learn to skate. "It's just like roller-skating," I told myself, which felt like encouragement at the time because I had forgotten how bad I was at roller-skating. I took a few steps, threw my weight forward, and fell on my tailbone. The six-year-old brother came gliding up beside me. "Take little steps," he said, his cherubic face denying my planned retort. I got up, and he showed me how to spread my feet apart: "This is how you stop."

He glowed with energy. "You're doing really good for your first time. When everyone is done, a truck comes out and puts snow all over the ice to make it smooth. Did you know what Nick and I do? We watch the water come out of those little gates. Are you going around again?" Indeed I was. I worked around the rink a few more times until I started to get the hang of it. Once again the brother glided along side of me, slowing down so he wouldn't pass me by. "Put your hands out like you're holding a table," he said. I did, but it didn't help. He sped off.

It was then that I resolved in my heart of hearts to skate faster than he did. His legs were not even half the length of mine, and I put mine to work. I skated doggedly for half an hour. Epic theme songs welled in my head, interrupted only every thirty seconds or so when my brother meandered out in front of me and I had to slow down so he could tell me about the crackers we had waiting for us when we got done, or the teenage Olympic candidates who would come to practice later, or his teacher or his sister or his cousin or his toys.

At the end of the half hour I felt like I was getting pretty regular. My brother was in front of me again, but this time instead of slowing down to talk I stepped around him and started off as fast as I could. He came up beside me, gazed at my feet in his hyper way, and gave me a tip. "Take little steps and glide," he said and demonstrated, shooting far ahead of me. I stopped, panting. "How did you do that?" I asked. He showed me: "Like this." I tried to do it. I could not.

Then, with heavy spirits, I knew that I had to leave the rink. I was defeated, and my pride lay on the field as wounded as my tailbone. But as I turned toward the door, so did everyone else. The open session was over, and the truck was coming to smooth the ice for those Olympic candidates. I was saved by the bell.

Public Service Billboards

It appears F is still alive somewhere, because he just emailed us these billboards. We're not sure what he's trying to say, but that certainly hasn't stopped us from posting in the past.