I read a news story yesterday on how one of the Joe Millionaire contestants was a former bondage & foot fetish film star. Naturally, I carefully read the article. I couldn’t believe it when I saw the name of the contestant—Sarah Kozer. One of my former crushes from college. Sarah was in a few of my GMU classes, but the one I remember her most from is my Intro to Journalism class during my sophomore year. She and I were in the same small group for one of our class projects. We were supposed to create a mock-newspaper or magazine. Since those were the days I was publishing my own ‘zine called “M,” I told the group we should make a ‘zine & I would come up with most of the content, as well as take care of the Xerox copying. Everyone else was assigned a simple topic to write about. It was easy work, but we had plenty of slackers in the group—none more so than Sarah. She showed up to the first group meeting, and that was it. She would occasionally come to class, but never showed up for any more of our small group gatherings. Everyone else in my group grumbled about her absence, but I kept making excuses for her. I told them she had been submitting stuff directly to me, because she couldn’t make the meetings. That was a lie. She did write one article, but it wasn’t anything special. She certainly deserved a D or C for the project, but I told our professor that she did, indeed, contribute much to the group, even though I was the only one to see it. Because I was the natural leader of the group, the instructor accepted my view of the situation. Everyone in the group got an A. I didn’t feel bad about covering for Sarah, because I was doing the majority of the work, compared to everyone else, so I just attributed some of my extra effort to her. It was my choice to make. And besides, I had such a huge crush on her. She was really amazingly stunning. She had eyes that made me weak in the knees. I couldn’t take my eyes off her during class. After classes, I would try to walk with her in the direction she was headed (whether I was heading that way or not). We would strike up small talk occasionally, but she always seemed preoccupied. I can’t remember if she ever thanked me for covering for her during our big group project. What I do remember is finally getting the guts to ask her out to dinner and her refusing. It was a let down for sure, but you know what? At that point, I was just happy to hear her say something directly to me. I would rather hear “No, thanks,” than nothing at all. It was the most pleasing rejection I’ve every experienced. I can still picture her face. Her eyes were wonderful.

She moved to California after graduating GMU—I guess to pursue an acting career. Now she’s on TV, playing a gold digger. (Well, maybe not playing.) I hope she wins, then dumps Joe when he reveals he’s a construction worker… Then becomes pissed to no end, when Joe picks someone else & reveals that he is retired, really does have millions, but works in construction as a post-retirement hobby. That would be funny. That’s what you get, Sarah, for refusing me! Your life is empty without the big M.T.! Get on your bicycle, and race to your Micheal! True love was close, yuh! And his name was Tolosa! Forget Joe Millionaire and get wit da debonair!

Okay, so where do I get those bondage films…?

I died yesterday. It was the damnest thing. There was a clog in one of my arteries, and I immediately dropped to the floor with a heart attack. I was in my apartment, watching television, when it happened. My body was in so much pain—the kind of pain that makes every second seem like an hour—the kind of pain that makes you stare up into the sky and stop breathing for fear of making it hurt worse. I remembered back to the time I was in a head-on auto collision on my way to work. The seatbelt saved my life, but it bruised my entire chest and made everyday breathing a thing of agony for me (not to mention sneezing…ouch). My chest felt like that, as I laid there on my living room floor. I grabbed at my heart and stared at my ceiling. My ceiling was completely bare—solid, flat white. I remembered houses that had tile ceilings. I remembered counting the tiles, while lying in bed, making checkered designs in my head, and becoming irritated at how the walls would always interfered with my imaginary patterns. Some houses have rough, prickly painted ceilings—the kind that looks like mini stalactites…or stalagmites…whichever ones hang from the ceiling. I remembered jumping up & down on the top bunk of my bunk bed as a kid, flopping my arms in the air like a whirly bird. I remembered swatting the top of my hand against that bastard ceiling and scratching up my knuckles. I remembered a time when my sister shared a room with me and my brother. She slept on a bed at the foot of our bunk bed. I remembered sitting on the top bunk, imagining I was a sea diver. I sat at the edge of the top bunk and fell backwards onto her bed, like a diver falls into the sea from the edge of a boat. I remembered a sharp pain in my back. I thought I had broken my back. I managed to crawl down to the bedroom floor and just laid there on my back, staring up at the ceiling. I was crying, and it was hours—or maybe seconds—before my uncle finally came into the room and asked me what was wrong. I was crying, because I was so scared that I had foolishly ended my life…or at least hampered it. By the end of the day, I knew I hadn’t broken my back, but I swore to never again be so stupid and careless. I grew up to become a very careful, conservative man. A man who became inactive and unhealthy. A man who was laying there, now, on his back, dying from a heart attack.

Three people, whose only bond is I, gather together in Fairfax City for dinner, movie and drinks. My recently-ex-girlfriend rides with me, and the two of us arrive first. Jeff, my best mate, turns up shortly, and Cheryl, the happy (but exhausted) schoolteacher appears later. A boy from Fair Oaks, a girl from Centreville, a boy from Ashburn, and a girl from Silver Spring, Maryland have traveled far and wide to the very inconvenient City of Fairfax on a blustery Friday night to socialize, amalgamate and be entertained. The entertainment for the evening is “Chicago,” a movie/musical in limited release at local art theaters. For all the trouble, it is a relief to us that the movie is so magnificent. The mood afterwards is jovial, and we decide to congregate at a local late-night establishment for drinks and soup. We laugh and talk, but when our table is silent, I begin to appreciate the late hour and think how wonderful a thing friendship is. To be with your mates. To find comfort in silence. And be alone, together.

Douglas is a pretty lass
With great flamboyance and panache
Like a lass, I give him cash
To drop his pants and touch his ass.

“We had snow yesterday, and as I was cleaning off the car I noticed that it stuck together very well, so I decided to make a snowman, actually two. I put hats and scarves on them and took a picture. Then removed the hats and scarves and took them inside. It was evening anyway. During the night one of them fell down. Oh well. I guess it rained. The snow is already starting to melt. But… more coming this evening.”