In that movie A League of Their Own, Geena Davis comes down the stairs as an aged woman whose days of youth and excitement have long passed. We don't know for sure what kind of stories she has from her life, but when she stares at an old photo, a window from her past is opened. With the simple view of this picture, distinct memories flood her mind. Had we glanced at the photo unassisted, we would have seen a picture only as deep as the photo paper would allow. The keeper of the photo, the one whose life crossed paths with the frozen image, can see much further inside that same picture.

I don't know why I thought of that today, but it led to my playing a little game. I decided to randomly open a picture saved on my computer, and from there I would connect that image to an experience not directly apparent when observing the picture.



You look at this picture and see a cute girl with a studly Italarican. You assume that they know each other from the body language. From the drink and the people in the background, it's obvious that some sort of party is going on. You see and guy and a girl having a good time at a party.

What I remembered from looking at this picture: a few days before said party, one of the more surreal moments of my life.

A year and a half ago, during my life-changing trip to South Africa, my group planned on hitting an improv comedy club. Whose Line is it Anyway still had a decent following, and all 36 of us planned on sitting in the audience, hoping there'd be a poor man's Colin Mochrie that would call one of us up to make a complete fool out of ourself. Well, I was suddenly hit with a strong fever and a stomach bug that afternoon. When we returned to our hotel early in the evening, I decided to get some rest rather than go with the group. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and it got darker and darker.

I'd open my eyes... still sunny, about 7:00.
I'd awake again... a burnt orange tint to the sky, 8:15.
I'd finish a dream... navy blue cloud of fog, 9:45.
I'd wake up with nausea... blackness, 11:55.

The shivering of my body contradicted the damp sweat stains on my sheets, and I continued to fall in and out of sleep. All the while, most of my group--- including my roommate--- explored the nightlife of South Africa. I never expected to see any of them until I went down for breakfast the next morning.

So it was to my astonishment that when I awoke again sometime around 3 or 4 in the morning, I felt the weight of another person on my stomach. I could not figure out whether I was in the midst of a vivid dream or an unexpected sex romp. All I could tell by widenning my squint was that I had someone straddling my waist, from the silhouette I could tell it was a young woman, the bed sheets were removed from my body, and this girl was staring at me, awaiting my attention.

I figured out that I was indeed awake. The room was completely absent of light, so I couldn't pinpoint the identity of my mounting lady until she spoke. Her breath smelled strongly of alcohol--- from what I can recall, some vodka must have been involved--- and she asked me if I felt any better now.

I bent my head upward, and she leaned her torso closer, so that we were now talking with our faces inches from each other. Our voices kept quiet with that breathy morning tone, continuing a previous conversation about underground music and touching an array of topics for maybe five minutes. Then she looked at my nightstand and noticed my wallet. It was open to a photo of my girlfriend, whom I had only been dating for two weeks. She inquired about my girlfriend: her name, how we met, where I thought it was going, that whole deal. I responded directly to each question, reflecting my content in my current situation, all the while trying to figure out where the bed sheets were, how this girl got in my room, and whether or not I was aroused. We remained motionless, same quiet tone, same facial closeness, I wondered if I could get drunk from the alcohol on her breath. She then tells me about her guy back home and her romantic life, and that was it. She swung her leg across my waist, lifted her butt from my pelvis, put the sheets back on me, and said goodnight. I told her I'd see her at breakfast. She acknowledged, walked out the room. No dream, no sex romp. I went back to sleep.



(By the way, the girl in the photo and the girl in my story are one in the same, but I'm sure you figured out that puzzle.)

Friday: A day of solitude.

Favorite Line of the Day, Song: I love you like a fat kid love cake. (50 Cent, "21 Questions")
Favorite Line of the Day, Poem: And then we did it like a pair of sweaty geese. (Jason Killingsworth, "Untitled")

My next friend is out there somewhere. I've met most of my best friends in conventional settings: the classroom, across the hall, or out with one of my friends. A few days ago at The Swamp I shared in some brief but sincere conversation with my waitress. Later that day, I wondered how much I had in common with this girl. I could not remember her name or even reconstruct her face, but I wondered if maybe she liked to play frisbee, if her favorite character on The Sopranos is Christopher, if she works out but doesn't mind gorging out on some buffalo wings, if she's had four-hour conversations with her best friend about love.

I want to meet more people like this, to be blown by surprise and discover that person in the DVD section of Best Buy likes jazz and would love to have lived in the 1950s.

What happened when I tried to ask my favorite boxing analyst an off-the-subject question in his weekly chat:
Anthony (Gainesville, FL): Hey Max, have you seen yourself on amiannoying.com? Not doing so hot.
Anthony (Gainesville, FL) (1,000x): Hey Max, have you seen yourself on amiannoying.com? Not doing so hot.

He did not publish my question, but he did submit a response:
Max Kellerman: Anthony - had you not posted that message 1,000 times, I would have posted it and responded to it by now.

Max did, however, publish my reaction (albeit much later):
Anthony (Gainesville, FL): Oh snap!

Have you ever called your friends looking for a ride to the interstate--- not for something that requires travel on the interstate, but just a ride to the interstate?

"Yeah, hey man, it's me. I just need someone to drop me off on the I-75 ramp. It's ok. I'll get it from there."

So I found my ride to the highway, exited the matchbox-sized Miata, and climbed aboard the auto-towing semi truck waiting for me on the shoulder of the highway. Two tries to pull myself the six feet the get in my seat, but I got in. By five the next morning, I had returned to my hometown of Pensacola, where I had been gone all of three days. My sister was to graduate high school the next day. To me, the girl is still the little squirt who sucked her thumb until age 9, but she has blossomed into an incredible young woman, finished with the Florida school system and ready to enter that phase of responsibility and balancing checkbooks we call adulthood.

Just three years before, we had all been inside this auditorium, but it was I who sat on the ground level, wearing that maroon cap and dress. Now I am a spectator, sitting in the stands, waiting ages and ages to hear one particular name. Camille's name is called, and she gets one of the loudest ovations of the 461 graduates, though my perception may be clouded by the fact that I was surrounded by fifteen Camille supporters. After the ceremony we are supposed to find my sister among the herd outside the Civic Center, but I am tackled by the calls of old faces. I chatted with old friends from high school. Not much is different, but everything has changed. I even spotted a girl I used to have a crush on. She was even hotter than ever... it has to work out that way, or else you wouldn't get to kick yourself in the head. Camille later tells me that the girls I knew from her graduating class told her I was hot and inquired about my dating status, which admittedly makes me wish I were more into the traditional girl-a-few-years-younger-than-guy relationship model. Blasted Mrs. Robinson fetish!

As a graduation present, my parents are accompaning Camille and a few of her friends on a cruise to Mexico. The last time my family left town for a lengthy period, we brought our dog to one of those doggy hotels. He got his own little walking space, a window view, a bed, and a bad case of homesickness. The kennel manager lady said she had never seen a dog so miserable, and that he could get really sick if he was back (JR has a tendency to not eat when he is depressed). My mom tried to find a place where JR could stay without attacking someone or starving himself. We were running out of possibilities, so I volunteered to shelter JR in my apartment for the week.

We're not allowed to have dogs here at Country Village, so I'm keeping this on the downlow. I've already discovered some things about being alone with my dog for the week:

1) He still has no clue where he has been sent.
2) Whenever I leave, he just sits on the couch waiting for my return, staring at the front door until he hears the knob turn.
3) He loves to play ball when he is bored.
4) Sleep takes a great chunk of his day.
5) My bed is a power struggle between the two of us.
6) He will wake me up for his 7 am breakfast.
7) He will wake me up for his 8 am walk outside.
8) He loves to lick and will plant his tongue across my face whenever I entertain him in the slightest.
9) My apartment will be forever embedded with jack russell hair.

Reason #14 not to have your wisdom teeth plucked out.

25 minutes later, I was driving down a skinny winding road. The latest Counting Crows album was playing through my stereo but barely audible; I tend to lower the volume of my music whenever I'm carefully scoping a place I'm driving through for the first time. This road appeared to have no end, even though I distinctly remembered the sign a quarter mile behind that read "North Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center." Eventually multiple structures of the complex became more and more visible. A few thoughts raced through my head as I reached the entrance to security: if this internship would include some cool tasks, how excited I would be to make this drive a month from now, whether I had overdressed, whether I had underdressed, if I would ever be in danger, if there were any hot chick interns...

I sat in a lobby outside the gates for about ten minutes until a supervisor from my department came along. Bobbie welcomed me as a volunteer/intern at NFETC, a treatment facility for criminal offenders deemed too mentally incapacitated to be involved in a court proceeding. We passed through the security chamber and entered the campus grounds, where many offenders were freely walking and within a few feet of me. I could tell by the smell that many of them smoked a lot and didn't like to shower, but others seemed just like anyone you'd find in your neighborhood (or even your office). Workers would later tell me that the way to tell whether anyone is a worker or a resident is to look for an identification badge; anyone without ID is a patient. Trust me, without the ID rule, you'd have no clue in some cases.

The first building to the left looked almost like a stand-alone thrift store, but in actuality this was the Learning Resources Department, my headquarters. Inside I discovered that for the summer I would be surrounded by pale blue walls and one of those street signs you buy at the mall (this one read "Parking for Gator fans Only"). Bobbie introduced me to some of the staff: DeVaughn, the stocky, cordial head honcho; Fred, the obsessive compulsive administrator who must leave at 4:23 everyday; Paul, the computer lab instructor stricken with cerebral palsey; and Phyllis, the lanky and quirky general education teacher who immediately called me Antonio.

Bobbie led me out the door for a brief tour of the grounds. Once she acquainted me with the music room and art lab, I could no longer hide my confusion. I had to ask a very important question: "So, what exactly will I be doing here?" I still don't quite get it. Maybe I'm just like those fire hoses in the glass cases that you're supposed to break open with a little hammer in case of an emergency. The Learning Resources Department provides opportunities in education and the arts for some of the better behaved patients. As the little man in the case, I have the honorable task of shadowing the workers and offering assistance whenever they be in need.

I got really psyched when Bobbie told me that on Wednesday she would let me sit in for rounds, when a panel reviews the facts surrounding the patient and his court case, talks face-to-face with the man, and determines whether to continue on course or alter treatment. My hand grapsed Bobbie's shoulder--- maybe a little too forcefully. I'm thinking that he wanted to tell Bobbie what I most wanted to see. She looked at me and said, "You know, the tour can wait. Let me see if I can get you in Fred's session. It's going on right now."

By the time the patient with the big beard stared into the corner and stroked his beard while explaining that he never signs anything because of fear that he may be signing to allow Bush to perform tests on him, I knew my summer days working at the treatment center would not be without some memorable moments. There's all sorts of cool stuff here. I was given a computer where I can access background checks on any patients I may meet! I bounced against the walls of the padded room with a hot chick intern! The cafeteria has some good food that is wicked cheap--- I got two chicken cutlets, garlic bread, a large bowl of fries, carrot cake, and a large lemonade for $1.75! They gave me a badge!

But the coolest experience, by far, came in the afternoon, about an hour before I was to punch out. I was chilling at the computer, checking out a certain guy's case and diagnoses, when I heard Phyllis calling for Antonio. One of her math classes was in session, and she sought some extra assistance. After I verified to her that I did indeed advance beyond eight grade math, she paired me with a balding thirty-something-year-old man slumped over, scratching his head with his pencil eraser. He read me the instructions, stuttering through the multi-syllable words and barely comprehending what the instructions actually meant. We were learning how to find perimeter. We talked about the basic meaning of perimeter, we read through word problems, I drew him example pictures, and he never missed a problem. We would read each story, figure out what we were supposed to do, write out the addition equation, and solve the problem. No, wait. He would solve the problem. He may have paused longer than most people would, and he may have messed up once or twice in areas that wouldn't trouble a third grader, but he got the answers. By himself.

What's important is not that he learned how to find perimeter and correctly add three-digit numbers. Deeper than that, he accomplished something and completed a task on his own, a feat he never believed he could pull. The man Phyllis would later tell me was "highly suicidal and rarely smiles" left the room with a big grin, his voice rising an octave as he looked back at me and said, "Thank you man. That was great. What's your name again?"

I told him my name again, and he left happy.

You don't truly know someone until you've seen them stressed, agitated, or hurt. After all, how do you know what's inside a closed jar unless it's shook up?

I'm just going to say it: I know who Clay Aiken and Ruben Studdard are.

What's going on in the world of cable television?

Ch. 3: Commercial, hot brunette, NYPD Blue
Ch. 5: Commercial, cat in window, hammock, commercial for allergy med
Um, this is boring. Nevermind.

Journal Entry: October 7, 1999

During a band trip to Orlando, I asked my friends to say something, and as part of my journal for English class, I would write down the next words from their mouths.

Gary: What? I don't know what to say.
Kristin: Like what? No! No! Don't write that! I did not say that. I did not (incessant giggling). Hi, Anthony.
Andrew: But that's all it was Jan, a job.
Haley: What is it? (big smile on face) I don't want to. Don't write that down! I was afraid he was going to write that down. Great.
Emily: Like what? (points one finger as she thinks... decides to continue stitching)
Gus: All right. Hungry Howie's pizza is pretty good.
John: What? What do you want? (says in grouchy tone)
Jessica: Hey Anthony!
Rachel: Amfonee is hot!
Taylor: What? Uh, I don't know. I don't know how to do my homework.
Jenny: I can't think of anything. Wait! Don't write that!
Crystal: We like monkeys!

I'm always happy to share in some quality family time, but...

I can't think of another family who would all sit on the couch.
To look at the daughter's year book.
To spot all the ugly people.
As a family.

Proof that you cannot automatically tag someone with certain assumptions:
Last Friday, I had a twenty minute conversation about our legal system with a man sporting a mohawk mullet.

Dear Ben,
Thanks for making my drive from school to Pensacola more enjoyable. Normally I entertain myself for five hours by singing to my cd’s, but you called me from your car, fifty miles ahead on I-10. Rather than crooning about how they paved paradise and put up a parking lot, I was able to vent about everything from the stress of the past semester to my convictions against randomly hooking up with the cute blonde with green eyes. I’ll try to get up north later in the summer and visit.
Have a great time,
Anthony

Dear Russ Camaro,
I appreciate that you decided against breaking down in the middle of our 350 mile drive. With that said, I must admit that our relationship has not been the same since you decided to stop conditioning my air last summer. You are giving me more and more trouble by the month, and I cannot afford to continue throwing a month's rent toward fixing your latest problem. Don't misunderstand me here: if you are in dire need, like when you sputtered into paralysis with a dead alternator on Thursday, I will have you towed to the emergency room and get you the proper care you need. But with every trip to the mechanic, the closer we get to parting ways. It may be tough to hear, but every time you give out, I want to give up.
Stay strong,
Anthony

Dear Camille,
There could have been thousands of flashing bulbs of paparazzi trying to catch a glimpse of you, and I would have been none the wiser. You looked like you were walking the red carpet this afternoon in your draping, jewel-studded prom dress. I hope the memories you hold from your senior prom are magical: your sparkling friends dressed like royalty; posing for pictures while “Like I Love You” or some other suck pop hit remix blasts through the speakers; cuddling the arm of your squeeze during that 2 am visit to Krispy Kreme. Get home tonight (tomorrow morning) safely, and we’ll go see Will Ferrell tear it up in “Old School” soon enough.
Your bigger, stronger, hotter sibling,
Anthony

Dear Cameron Diaz,
I have never shared in a four-year relationship--- let alone been engaged--- so I cannot remotely begin to fathom the confusion and devastation that comes when such a relationship withers and dies. The next few weeks should be spent getting reacquainted with your single self. Be free, be selfish, be adventurous. When you’re finished dealing with your breakup and want to remember what a man’s lips taste like, look me up in the UF phonebook. I would be happy to help myself you.
Your most attractive and available fan,
Anthony

Dear Family,
It’s good to be home.
Love,
Anthony

Waiting Game is over...

Not only are finals over, but tonight I delivered Roxanne!