The day I learned how to ride a dirt bike.

Let me preface this by saying that I have a giddy, longing interest in small, self-propelled machines, whether they be motor scooters, four-wheelers, snowmobiles, broomsticks or experimental flying machines. 

The only real experience I’ve had on any of these, however, is a snowmobile. And you may remember that I threw out my back after rolling it into a ditch and trying to flip it back over last Christmas. 

[Foreshadowing.]

Also, every time I go to my girlfriend Christie’s house, I embarrass myself in some way. (Perhaps this little post about me and a faulty pocket door will refresh your memory.) These instances are always avoidable with the help of something that I like to call “thinking ahead” which is not necessarily something that I’m good at. 

[Also foreshadowing.]

It was a beautiful late-August day.  Everything was going smoothly at Christie’s Bon Voyage party, and Christie and I were mingling with her friends and extended family amongst folding tables in their open garage. I was drinking a Pepsi and happily munching on some pasta salad. Her brother was taking the kids on dirt bike rides around their yard. The first time he took off with a kid, the bike jerked forward and a few people around me gasped, but he righted it and drove off. My heart continued to beat heavily. 

[Foreshadowing. Seriously, I should 

have figured this sh** out.]

CHRISTIE: You should try that when he’s done! 

ME: What? No. Not while everyone’s watching.

CHRISTIE: No, it’ll be fine! My brother can teach you! Come on, Brian; it’s a small, self-propelled machine...your favorite...

ME: Don’t try to tempt me. I’m not going to learn to ride it. Besides, your dad’s watching; he already thinks I’m a wimp.

CHRISTIE: No he doesn’t! Well, not anymore at least, ever since you finally gave him a firm handshake...

ME: MY NORMAL HANDSHAKE IS PLENTY FIRM. He just wanted to have a Hand Squeeze-Off, which I wasn’t prepared for! 

CHRISTIE: And, see? Now everything’s okay! 

ME: Still. 

CHRISTIE: Just get on the bike. It’ll be fine, okay? Nothing can go wrong. 

ME: My eye’s twitching involuntarily.  

CHRISTIE: Oh, come on. Let’s go. 

So Christie and I walked over to her brother, who gave me hasty instructions. I have to admit, I began to get pretty excited. 

HER BROTHER: So just squeeze this blah blah blah when you blah blah blah and let out the blah blah blah but not too much blah blah blah clutch gas brake engine radiator. Sound good? 

ME: Sounds great! No helmet or pads, of course.

HER BROTHER: You’re not a wuss.

ME: Damn straight! And I certainly don’t need to know what to do if something goes wrong, especially since I’ve never driven any sort of manual transmission.

HER BROTHER: Of course not. 

ME: Sweet! Here I go, Christie’s onlooking family and friends! I’m about to drive a dirt bike for the first time without a helmet on an inclined blacktop driveway! 

EVERYONE: GODSPEED, BRIAN! 

[Every middle school English teacher on the planet just got a strange tingling sensation in their nose. This story has more foreshadowing than To Kill A Mockingbird.]

So I started up the dirt bike death machine, and gave it a go. I squeezed the blah blah blah and let out some blah blah blah and...oh crap...I didn’t listen to anything Christies brother was saying...and the bike immediately jerked forward a few times, and took off like an unknotted balloon. This is what I believe was my trajectory: 

And all I could think about while I flew through the air to my imminent death was:

After my short liftoff, I landed on my side, and slid down the driveway. It seemed as though everything was fine until I realized that the driveway wasn’t, in fact, made out of piles of marshmallows and sweaters but asphalt, to which I had generously donated a few layers of skin on my elbow, thumb, palm, knee, shoulder, and hip. 

And then this conversation happened:

EVERYONE: *GASP!* 

ME: Oh sweet Jesus.

CHRISTIE’S MOM: Oh no! Are you alright?

ME: Yeah, I’m fine.

CHRISTIE: Oh gosh, let’s get you inside.

ME: Ow. I really should have seen that coming. I feel like there were a lot of red flags.

CHRISTIE’S FRIEND: Wow, how embarrassed you must be!

HER DAD: Let out the clutch too fast. 

CHRISTIE: Ooh, those cuts look bad.

HER BROTHER: I CAN SEE BONE! 

ME: No you can’t. I’m going to get some bandages.

HER BROTHER: That’s bone I see! That’s what your elbow bone looks like! 

ME: Nope. It’s not my bone.

HER FRIEND: It’s going to suck to show up at your second interview at church covered in all those bandages...

ME: What? Oh that’s right. Thanks for reminding me.

HER BROTHER: Can I touch your elbow bone?

ME: If you can excuse me, everyone, I’m going to go disappear for a bit. 

And so I went inside and used all the bandages I could find to cover my mutilated body.  When I was bandaged up, my body started to actually understand the fact that I had just been thrown onto a driveway like a bony ragdoll and I began to shake. I grabbed some water and sat down inside for a bit. Then Christie, her siblings, and her dad came in. 

HER BROTHER: Looks like you should have let the clutch out slower.

ME: Yup.

CHRISTIE: No, it’s not the clutch. He should have blah blah blah, then blah blah blah blah. 

ME: Guess so. 

HER DAD: Actually, what I think happened was, he took the blah blah blah and didn’t blah blah blah first, and...

ME: It’s really nice to know that there are so many things I did wrong. Let’s keep talking about it.

HER DAD: Well, you know what they say: Time to get back on!

ME: I don’t think so. 

HER BROTHER: Yeah! Like riding a bike!

CHRISTIE: Ooh, bad analogy. Brian fell off his bike too. TWICE.

ME: I’m so glad you brought that up. 

HER DAD: Let’s go! Back outside to try again.

ME: Thanks, but I’d rather die. Maybe I’ll get back on the bike after some therapy.

CHRISTIE: You can do it, Brian! You just have to take out the blah blah blah and blah blah blah clutch gas brake engine radiator. 

ME: Okay. I’ll get back on if I can ride the bike inside a bouncy castle. 

CHRISTIE: Huh?

ME: What part of ‘bouncy castle’ don’t you understand?

CHRISTIE: How about trying it on the grass? 

ME: Bouncy castle.

CHRISTIE: We don’t have a bouncy castle. 

ME: No bouncy castle, no ride. 

CHRISTIE: Fine. 

And that’s the day I learned how to ride a dirt bike. And by “ride” I mean “immediately and violently crash.” 

I still have a scar on my elbow from last August. If only Mederma could reduce the appearance of emotional scarring as well. 

The day I learned the truth about Santa Claus

Inside my memory, for some reason, is a 60 Minutes episode I watched as a third grader, about a boy around my age at the time who was going to college. He was a genius, and Walter Cronkite or whoever the hell hosts 60 Minutes couldn’t get enough of him. They ran clips of the boy walking amongst people around my current age, discussing blah blah blah with them from their blah blah blah class. Obviously a vivid memory.

The one thing I remember distinctly from the documentary, though, is Walter Cronkite or whoever the hell hosts 60 Minutes asking the boy, “Do you believe in Santa Claus?” 

The boy genius, who was in college at the time, said, “Well, I know the Tooth Fairy isn’t real, and I know the Easter Bunny isn’t real, and although my parents have not told me yet, I have deduced that of course Santa Claus is not real.” And I was all...

I was not swayed. I had a firm and steadfast acceptance of Santa Claus AND St. Nicholas,  thank you very much, according to my second grade journal.

A year later, however, on Christmas Eve, it suddenly struck me. It was like a beacon of light from heaven, except it was a bitter, cold, lifeless light that illuminated exactly what I didn’t ever want to see, that which my parents and The Flight of the Reindeer  and The Santa Clause and The Polar Express worked so fervently to keep me from realizing.

This is the day I learned the truth about Santa Claus.

And as I said in the post about my second grade journal:

When my parents told me that the Tooth Fairy isn’t real, I cried. 

I was sad when I found out that the Easter Bunny isn’t real. 

When I figured out that Santa isn’t real, I was PISSED.

Suddenly every lie from this wretched holiday was exposed. I felt like Bruce Willis at the end of The Sixth Sense, when **SPOILER ALERT FOR THE TWO PEOPLE WHO HAVEN’T SEEN THE SIXTH SENSE YET** he finds out he’s dead and suddenly everything starts to make terrifying sense.  

I saw right through everyone.

My family, The Conspirators.

My older sister, The Traitor. 

The worst was when we went to church and, as per tradition, a man dressed as Santa went to Holy Communion. I was always inspired by the thought that Santa, in his busy night, came all the way to St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church in Holmen, Wisconsin to partake in the body and blood of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. However, with my new understanding how this cruel world works, I was disgusted. 

We got home and lo! there were presents on the ground (which explained why my dad “had to go to the bathroom for a long time while we were waiting in the car to go to church”), two piles for me and my sister, who I now realized was playing along just for my sake. As she opened presents, I noticed her saying “Thank you, Santa!” and winking at my parents. 

So pissed.

I opened my presents with disdain, knowing it was all an elaborate joke, and that I was the only one in my family not in on it. I remember seriously considering throwing all of my new toys on the ground, stomping on them, pointing an accusatory finger at my parents, and saying, “Santa Claus isn’t real and all these toys are TAINTED WITH YOUR BETRAYAL. I'M LEAVING." Then I'd storm out and move to a place where people aren't manipulative and mean. 

But I didn’t. I just played along like a little bitch. 

The next day, my parents sat me down. 

THEM: Brian, why were you so sad last night?

ME: Because Santa isn’t real. 

THEM: [pause, glancing at each other] Yes he is, Brian.

ME: Don’t try to make me think otherwise. Santa isn’t real and I’ve been your patsy for the past 10 years. 

THEM: Do you even know what patsy means?

ME: I KNOW DAMN WELL WHAT PATSY MEANS. 

THEM: Okay, calm down. You’re right. He’s not real. 

ME: Whatever. I’m over it. First the Tooth Fairy, then the Easter Bunny, and now Santa? Who else isn’t real? Grandpa? You might as well break it to me now.

THEM: Grandpa’s real, Brian. You’ve seen him. 

ME: Yeah right. And that red light I saw flashing in the sky wasn’t actually a radio tower,  as would be the obvious assumption, but the shining nose of Rudolph, which you insisted it was. And all those years, you told me “Wow, Brian, the Santa whose lap you sat on this year must have been the real one.” You seem to say the same things about Grandpa. “Wow, he must be your real Grandpa, the way he looks like your dad and all...”

THEM: Okay, so we spent a lot of time trying to encourage your belief in Santa. We just wanted to keep the spirit alive. Your Grandpa, on the other hand, is totally real. We promise. 

ME: And why should I believe you, with your planting sleigh tracks in the front yard snow with 2x4’s and throwing half-eaten carrots on the roof as if they had been eaten by reindeer? Such great measures you took to keep me docile and ignorant!  Grandpa’s house is just a cardboard set, isn’t it? He’s just some dude you hired to act all grandpa-like, isn’t he? 

THEM: Do you seriously think your Grandpa isn't real? How long have you thought this?

ME: CAN WE STAY ON TOPIC, PLEASE?

This went on for a while, but soon I realized one can’t put spilled toothpaste of Truth back in the tube. Everything was exposed. My innocence dashed. No more fictional characters to believe in. This is probably why I doubt the existence of so many other things now. 

It's been over a decade now, and I’ve moved on. And contrary to what The Polar Express says, I can still hear bells even though I don’t believe in Santa.

Happy Holidays, faithful follower(s)! 

The day I learned basketball really isn’t my thing.

It was really my parents’ fault. 

THEM: We just want you to be well rounded.

ME: I weigh 110 pounds and I’m six feet all. There’s nothing round about me.

THEM: You know what we mean. You can do the music thing all you want, but just try some sports. Just try. You’re in sixth grade; you still have a bunch of potential to unlock. 

ME: Why should I continue sports, though? I tried football already, and that didn’t work... 

THEM: You quit when they started hitting.

ME: THAT WAS MERELY A COINCIDENCE. 

THEM: Listen, you know how everyone always says that you’ll be good at basketball because you’re so tall?

ME: Yes.

THEM: Think of this as a way to prove them wrong. 

ME: This is a really strange way to talk me into playing. 

After much more arguing, I begrudgingly signed up for the basketball team. While the prospect of staying around an hour and a half after school was infuriating enough, I was in no way prepared for how much I would despise the entire experience.  

Changing in front of my classmates before gym class was something I had only recently gotten used to. However, changing in front of The Athletic Elite of my grade–I’m talking twelve year-olds with six packs, sideburns, broad shoulders and hair on their legs–was a whole new level of daunting. I hid in the shadow of my locker door as to hide any lack of definition in my puny body, whipped off my school shirt and whipped on my gym shirt as quickly as possible and then high-tailed it out of there before anyone saw that I looked like an actual hairless twelve year-old.

Practice was my tenth circle of hell. The Athletic Elite would be sweaty and intense, making baskets and yelling commands, and then I would be the guy who would miss the ball when it was passed to him, and then try to make a joke, like, “Haha, whoops, so you wanted me to catch that, huh?–” but The Elite were too lost in sport to stop and laugh.

I remember when one of The Elite would be practicing so hard that he would get hurt, like sprain his ankle or something, and have to sit out for the season. That person would still come to practice and watch as we formulated plays, and I remember wanting so badly just to be that guy. I wished that I could just get injured and stand on the sidelines; I would even act like I really wanted to play: “C’mon, coach! Let me in! I’ll be fine! I’m willing to sacrifice my body!” and he would be all, “No Brian, we need you to get well,” and I’d be all, “But this team is like a FAMILY to me!” 

Unfortunately I never played hard enough to get injured. 

When it was time for our first game, the coach brought out a bag of jerseys. Of course The Athletic Elite elbowed their way to the front to grab the perfectly fitting maroon shorts and shirts. And when I got to the pile there was one pair left. To this day I swear that they were women’s shorts that happened to get mixed in with the guys’. I put them on and walked over to the coach.

[I looked like an embarrassed Pepper Ann.] 

By the next game I had bought my own maroon shorts and was ready to play. We were passing the ball around before the game started, a few students and parents had gathered in the stands along with some cute girls who came to make lovey eyes at The Elite, and then coach said the most terrifying words I’ve ever heard: 

I knew how this would turn out. It always happened the same way: Coach would choose who would be shirts and skins and that damn finger of his would always land on me accompanied by the disgusting utterance of the word SKINS, and I would have to take off my shirt and the whole gym–including those cute girls–would see that my elbows were wider than my biceps. 

For those of you who don’t know what it’s like to be a skinny, unconfident teen with his shirt off in the middle of a middle school gym, let me paint a picture for you: it’s awfully breezy. Any sweat that comes out of your armpits is instantly chilled and every once and a while your funnybones brush up against your sides, leaving you with an image of them being humongous bony protrusions–like elbows on your elbows. You nipples feel both really close together and really far apart and your butt starts sweating because it’s all warm and embarrassed for your upper half. Your eyes dry out from sheer anxiety and you occasionally try to flex or something but it's no use and you miss so many passes that your ears start ringing. 

That’s what it’s like.

After an excruciating five minutes, I got to put my shirt back on and we played the game. I remember trying to get into it like the rest of the players (maybe then I could get injured), but no. It was no fun at all. 

My shining moment came at the very end of the game. Ten seconds were left on the clock and the ball was passed to me near our opponent’s hoop. The crowd began to chant:


10...


9...


I knew it was my time to shine. Taking the ball in my right hand over my shoulder, I wound up, took three gigantic steps forward and hurled the ball across the court towards our hoop. 


As it clanged off the backboard, there was a pause, and then I heard the crowd continue, “8...7...” 


Bullocks.


My shining moment was premature. Then the whistle blew. 

How did I cover up this mistake, you ask? Well, it wasn’t with a joke this time. My reaction was remarkably similar to Michael Scott’s in this clip: 


Go watch it. I have it all cued up for you. It'll take all of five seconds.


That’s right, the old “I’m usually much better than this” charade. Not sure anyone bought it. 

And that was the day I learned basketball really isn’t my thing.