Column: The Mystical, Magical Slurpee Tour

I wrote some columns a few years ago that few of you have seen. They were on the old version of the site before I redesigned it.

(Entire redesign process: [log in to Blogger] “Oooh, new templates!” [click] “Hey, where are my columns?”

***

The weather forecast was wonderfully wrong today. Sixty-five degrees, sunny the whole day, and the supposed afternoon showers didn't show until nightfall. I rode my bike for an hour and a half on the local trails.

I love bike trails, but they invariably have boring names like "W&O Trail" or--when the park department wants to turn on the Shake n’ Bake--"C&O Trail."

Where is "The Trail Less Traveled"? "A Trail of Two Cities"? "T-Rail Owens?" I'm already vibrating my lips like a motorcycle when I turn corners. Silliness isn’t a problem. Reality is.

Then again, reality occasionally has its moments. After my bike ride, I was parched and went in 7-11 to buy a Slurpee. My experience, without exaggeration:

ME: "Hey, can I try the flavors? I don't know which one I want."
7-11 EMPLOYEE: "Breakfast?"

(Perhaps this is a good point to mention that I have a severe stutter and many of my conversations start with mutual confusion.)

ME: "Take two. Can I try the Slurpee flavors?"
7-11 EMPLOYEE: "Try the flavors?"
ME: "Yes!"
7-11 EMPLOYEE: [thought hard for a moment] "No?"

In my younger years, I would have left, disappointed. Not this time. One, for all I knew, he may have thought we were still talking about breakfast. Two, he made a fatal mistake. He left doubt in his voice, like a person who is asked, “Do you want me to not not punch you?” Time to repeat what I want until he caves in.

ME: "I want to try the flavors before I buy a Slurpee."
7-11 EMPLOYEE: “Um...”
ME: "I'd like to try the flavors before I buy a Slurpee."
7-11 EMPLOYEE: “Try...flavors?”

(His manager notices the commotion and comes over.)

MANAGER: "What's going on?"
7-11 EMPLOYEE (about to cry): "He wants to try the flavors."

The manager, used to serving food critics, got me a Dixie cup. The situation was over. I poured a bit of the sour strawberry. To victory. I lifted the cup up to my lips, feeling strangely uneasy, and turned around.

They were both staring at me. These two were smarter than I thought. My original plan was to sample Dixie-cup sized Slurpee flavors until I was bloated, and then dash out of the store on my bike while those suckers foot the bill. But that was a trick no pony was going to pull on them.

At first, I tried to ignore them. I sipped the sour strawberry. Tangy and very promising. I advanced towards the root beer.

MANAGER: "You don't want that. It's frozen."

It didn't look more frozen than the other frozen Slurpees, but who was I to argue? I’m not an ice technician. I grabbed the handle for cherry.

MANAGER (and let me remind you that this is not made up): "That's cherry. Why do you want to try cherry?"

I turned around and gave my biggest fake smile. They both left. But her words made me think.

Perhaps his question was not accusatory but philosophical. Why did I want to try cherry? Why did I want to try any of the flavors? Why did I want to go bike riding, or eat Cheerios for breakfast, or scratch myself in CVS but refrain from doing so because of those damn 1984-style mirrors?

It tasted good. Is that enough of an answer? I feel almost sacrilegious saying this, but...could there be more to life than Slurpees?

I thought about this until I saw Blue Raspberry.

Good April Fool's Jokes

"H-h-h-hi. D-d-d-d-do you have any t-t-t-t-t-t-t-two bedroom apartments a-a-a-a-a-a-a-available?"
"Is this a joke?"
"Y-yes, it is. April Fool's!"
"I knew it! I knew you didn't really stutter."
"No, I do. The A-A-April Fool's is that I don't really care about y-y-y-y-your crappy apartment."

There Is No Greater Struggle Than The Fight For Cake

A few weeks ago in my Saturday morning stuttering therapy group, our therapist mentioned that we wouldn't be meeting for a few weeks. She said something about having to go to a few conferences, but I suspect she is seeing another group on the side. I catch her turning around to peek out the blinds around 11:30, and she is very insistent about us leaving at noon.

Once, group ran until 12:15 and she made us walk out the back door wearing our jackets over our heads. She said, "Pretend the paparazzi are trying to catch you stutter." While it was fun, I figured out the truth on the car ride home after my jacket slipped over my eyes and I almost ran into a telephone poll.

Someone proposed in the meantime we get together on a weeknight, November 30^th. My birthday. Five years ago, I would have never mentioned my birthday was the same day. When you're extremely self-conscious, the thought of dozens of pairs of eyes staring at you while they holler a ballad honoring the day of your birth is mortifying.

That was before I got my first full-time job and learned a valuable lesson. You find a way to mention your birthday is coming up, you get cake. You don't, no cake.

Furthermore, if you don't mention your birthday and next week a co-worker asks about your weekend, and you let it slip out that you went out with a few friends to celebrate your birthday, you will become a social pariah. Because not only did you deny yourself cake, but you denied the whole office cake as well, in addition to an hour or two off of work.

In short time that part of my self-consciousness quickly eroded to make room for an altruistic desire to use my birthday to further in my own small way the global consumption of cake products. So when my stuttering posse, after rejecting half a dozen dates to meet and finally arriving at a day that miraculously seemed to work with everyone else asked for my acquiescence, I decided to play hard ball.

"Hmm. I'm not sure I can make it then. The 30^th is my birthday."

"What's that? Celebrate my birthday too? But by what manner do you propose...oh. Cake. Well, let me ponder upon your proposal for a moment. Hmm. While you do have my deepest gratitude for your offer of eating plain cake on my birthday, I fear I must...yes? Hmm-mmm? Chocolate cake? With sprinkles? What a novel idea. You know, I do believe I will be able to reschedule my plans for the 30^th. For the good of the group."

So I got my cake. There it was, sitting next to several platters and trays of food and a humongous cake, Cake Sr., to celebrate the one of my friends in the group moving to Princeton next month. Mary, the sucker who bought me the cake, lit a candle on Cake Jr. and they sung Happy Birthday. Then someone handed me a piece. I laughed. Ha! I'm not actually going to eat the cake! I just wanted someone to buy it for me.

Nine-tenths of the cake is now sitting on my counter. It's a waste, but I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Need...More...Turkey

Zombie Jason...needs more turkey. With stuffing. And graaaaaavy. Only Ramen at home. Turkey-flavored noodles...not same thing.

I had an eventful week. Last Tuesday, I went to a meeting of a sketch comedy group that arose from the primordial comedic ooze a few weeks ago. I am usually uncomfortable around new people, so I was forcing myself to chat and ask questions. Everyone was friendly. A good time was being had.

So it's near the end of the meeting. They had a show this upcoming Sunday and were doing group readings of the scripts so the director could cast the show. The last script had eight people in it, and everyone was tired of reading, so I thought: "I'll help out with the reading. I have a severe stutter, so it's not like the director is actually going to cast me."

I picked a small part, read it. On the second go around, I picked another small part no one wanted to read.

The next thing I know, the director says to me, "Okay, you're Swami. Meeting adjourned. Everyone, see you this Saturday at rehearsal."

What the f---? Hey, crazy director. I don't like performing. During periods, like the past few weeks, when my stuttering is very severe, I don't even like speaking. I hide under the covers when the phone rings and let my roommates answer it. Read my alpha waves: cast someone else. Like a monkey. Monkeys are funny. Everyone loves monkeys. Monkey monkey monkey monkey....

Alas, as it has been the fate so many times in my life, there was no monkey to be found.

I'll compress the rest of the week. In short, having to perform turns out to be very good motivation to work on one's speech. Confronting some of the avoidances I let develop in the past few months helped my feel better than I have in a long time.

The performance was yesterday, and it went very well. I made stuttering part of my character and made it part of the joke. We filmed the performance and ran it twice, asking the kindly audience to be a laugh track if they had to.

I got almost no laughs the first time around because, to both my pleasure and disappointment, few people laughed at my stuttering. After the first show, we introduced ourselves and I said I'm a real-life person who stutters. I think that made it okay for people to laugh because I got a much better response the second time around.

Overall, it was worth the stress and I'm happy that I got drafted into doing it. I might even do it again, if I can come up with a character who stutters.

Of course, this is assuming the circus still won't loan me the monkey.

Things You Don't Want To Hear

…about your new haircut.
"Did you do that on purpose?"

…after telling someone that you walk dogs.
"Oh, Jason. Always with the jokes."

…from an audience member at an open mike after a particularly bad stuttering day.
"What's the deal with your stuttering? I mean, you don't really stutter that much, do you?"

Speaking of which, I'll be in Baltimore at the National Stuttering Association convention for the next few days. It started today; I got back a hour ago. I rented a SUV and I'm commuting from home (60 miles one way) in an attempt to simultaneously destroy the environment and save money. You know how some people in DC sell The Washington Post or bags of fruit while people are stopped at red lights? Today, I saw a man selling hair clippers.

(About the quotes: friends told me the first two, and I was instantly amused. The third happened almost a year ago, and while I think about the comment rarely, part of me hasn't yet released the Anger Bird so it can fly over the ocean and eventually drown in the Sea of Forgiveness due to starvation, the lack of food caused by overfishing of the Carp of Seething Resentment by the Wharfing Boats of Willy-Nilly. )

Random Thoughts

* I saw a video clip of Britney Spears after her knee injury. Britney Spears is the only person in the world who can wear a full-leg cast and still show some butt cheek.

* I stutter a lot on vowels. I'm the only American who wishes he was born in a better place: Kyrgyzstan. Maybe the two countries can set up an exchange program with me and a stutterer we know loves apple pie, aspires to assist others, and absolutely hates the KKK.

* In my sketch writing class yesterday, we each made a list of three emotions, three professions, and three physical deformities. We put each word on a separate slip of paper, organized them into three piles, and picked one from each pile to generate a character. My list is "confused, carpenter, no hair". At the end of the class, the instructor asked three of us to hold onto a pile for next week.

I got the physical deformity pile. When I woke up today for a walk, I found out that the slips of paper fell out of my notebook and were scattered on the ground. I wonder what people walking by thought of seeing a pile of paper with words on it like "deformed head," "No Leg (amputee)" and "dozens of ears."

Stuttering Haiku

I w-w-w-w
w-w-wish that th-th-th
Oh, forget it. Shit.

A Poem About Stuttering

I want to take a break from the comedy for a moment. It's silly to do a fundraiser for the National Stuttering Association and barely write about the topic.

I wrote a poem about stuttering called "Stuttering Sucks." I thought it would be a good to share my voice instead of hide behind the written word this time. As you can tell from the reading, it's an emotional topic for me. I don't expect anyone to be touched by the poem, but I hope you enjoy it.

Hodgepodge

It has been a long time since I have had to write on deadline. If this were a job, I'd be fired by now. "Walther! Where's the Pinsky report?" "I'm working on it. But in the meantime, check out this web page about handlebar mustaches."

* Thank god this is for sale.

* I need an average amount of sleep. Average amount for babies.

* I'm not one of those writers who blames his readers when his don't laugh at my jokes. I put the blame squarely on where it belongs: God. That fucking asshole.

* If you stutter on tv, and say a curse word, at what point do the censors bleep you out? "F-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-dge! Gotcha!"

* A trailer for a war movie started with "Armed only with their courage..." These movie soldiers may be brave, but they're also incredibly stupid. Take a gun with you the next time you go to war, dumb ass.

H-H-Hello

I haven't signed up for the national Do Not Call list. And I never will. Because I like telemarketers.

As a person who stutters, telemarketers are free speech practice.

TELEMARKETER: "Is Mr. Poarch there?"
ME: "No. But I am!"
TELEMARKETER: "This is Tim from MCI. Do you spend over--"
ME: "Tim, that's wonderful. Let's talk about sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-shovels."
TELEMARKETER: "What?"
ME: "Sh-sh-sh-shovels. Sh-sh-shovels. Shhhhhovels. Hey! Shovels!"
TELEMARKETER: "I don't understand."
ME: 'And you don't have to. Because I want to talk about how much I'm willing to pay per month for MCI's "Sir Call-a-Lot" phone plan: t-t-t-t-t-t-t-twenty t-t-two dollars."
TELEMARKETER: "We don't offer any plans that low."
ME: "I'm willing to go up to t-t-t-t-twenty three."

Could They Have Called it Something Different?

This Wednesday, October 22 is International Stuttering Awareness Day. Or, as an acronym, "I-SAD."

I'm thinking of doing a 24-hour blogathon next Wednesday (the 29th) to raise money for the National Stuttering Association. I'll write an entry once an hour for 24 hours, or until my throbbing knuckles induce local rigormortis in my knotted fingers. If there's enough interest (5-6 people, a few dollars each?), I'll give it a shot.

(I already know the comment my Mom is going to make: "Why don't you apply for a JOB every hour?")

I hate asking people to donate money because when people ask me to donate, I end up giving money out of guilt for some dumb cause like "Cure for Cancer" or rejecting the person in a slightly mean way, like the time I said, "If I wanted a box of overpriced cookies, I'd go to Fresh Fields, you damn, dirty ape. Hey! Stop crying. I don't care if you're really a Girl Scout. If you don't want to be called an ape, listen to mother and improve your posture."

So if you're interested, leave a comment and share your generosity with the world. But if you are already are aware enough of stuttering or worry about the effect of a 24-hour writing session on my health, please continue reading 99.44% guilt free. I promise not to change my blog name to "[your name] Is Poop."

Unless you pay me.

P-P-P-Poem

I spent way too much time deciding if I should capitalize all of the p's in the title. Anyway...

I wrote a poem.

Forward

My mouth
gurgles words
like a brook choked
by mud. They float

in a pond
like pay, pay,
paper swans. They soak

the water, the scum,
bump into the lily, and drown.

Monks write haiku
on this same rice paper
and let them glide down a river
folded into boats
never read.

I wish I could fold my words
into boats, and not care
if they leaked, or if
the sterns unfold
into tails, waving

for help

before they crumple,
silently,
in the middle of a closed sea.

Hi Ya

For 7 years, I had a dream to do stand-up comedy, but I never got beyond the stage of fantasizing about it because I stutter, sometimes severely. Besides the fear of stuttering in front of a large group of strangers, I couldn't see how I could be successful in an art where timing is everything.

Well, I still stutter, but I decided to practice a short stand-up act and perform it at the National Stuttering Association convention (a.k.a. "Stutterpalooza") in Nashville. The extremely bare-bones version of the story is that I performed my routine at the closing ceremonies in front of a few hundred people. I told myself before I took the stage that just getting up there, no matter how it went, would be a success. Just between you and me (okay, and Tibor too) I also secretly wanted to make their spleens explode from laughing. I got nowhere close, but I got enough laughs and compliments afterwards that I'm thinking about giving it another shot.

I have a lot more to say about the experience, and the conference itself, but after replaying a tape recording of my act several times and watching the emotion and memory bleed away from it with every playing, I'm not sure I want to replay it again, even if the replaying is in a different medium.

Pronunatin'

A few years ago my stuttering therapist suggested that in addition to stuttering, I may also have a speech disorder called cluttering. Among other signs, people who clutter tend to talk fast (check), revise sentences more than normal when talking or writing (check), and leave out syllables in words (chk).

I was happy to know that I am probably a clutterer because it rhymes with stutterer. It has a kind of cosmic logic to it. I think all disorders, diseases, and quirks should have a buddy:

DOCTOR: "Mr. Jenfry, I have some bad news and some good news. The tests show that you have cancer. But they also show you have a strong genetic disposition to being a dancer. Here are 200 mg of Taxol and a top hat."
MR. JENFRY: "Showtime!"

I mention this because recently, I have become aware that I have been leaving the 'ta' out of 'comfortable'. I'm not sure this is related to cluttering. I just thought that 'comforble' was the correct way to pronounce the word, and everyone else was being a pretentious ass.

To combat this, I have been practicing pro-nun-ci-at-ing the word by bringing it up casually in conversation, like when I was talking to my friend Sean ("Shawn") today.

ME: "My chair is very COM-FOR-TA-BLE."
SEAN: "That's nice."
ME: "Yup, I sure am COM-FOR-TA-BLE right now."
SEAN: "Okay..."
ME: "Hey, let's play a game. I'm thinking for a word that starts with C and means 'relaxed'."
SEAN: "Is it--"
ME: "Give up? It's COM-FOR-TA-BLE."

I'm looking to expand my practicing beyond my circle of friends, as I don't want to annoy them and end up with a dot of friends. That's why I'm trying to get a job as a spokesman for a furniture store.

"Come for the tables! Stay for the sofas."

My first impressions are longer than I would like

I stutter, sometimes severely. Last week I was introducing myself and I had at least a 15-second block on my name, Jason: “J-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-…” Midway through, she said, “Well, whatever your name is, it’s nice to meet you.” (I kept on going. My philosophy is that if my pants are down, I might as well go all the way and moon the person.)

It’s times like this that make me want to cut my losses. “My name is Ja-a-a-a-a-a-a-…Jay. My name is Jay.” Or perhaps I could go German (Ja) or trendy (J!).

If the courts allow me, I could even change my name to a hand signal. “Hi. My name is” [infinity sign around nipples, one ass slap, hands on hips] Acquaintances could introduce me to their friends. “Mark, this is…I’m sorry, I’m having a brain fart. How many ass slaps is it?”