Marital Chocolate Cake. It's mmmm good.

I'm single. Forgive me, Lord, for wanting to be able to have my cake and eat it, too.


“Today we’re beginning this sexperiment, seven days of sex,” he said, with his characteristic mix of humor, showmanship and Scripture. “How to move from whining about the economy to whoopee!” - Rev. Ed Young, "Pastor's Advice for Better Marriage: More Sex," The New York Times, 11/23/2008

Read that NYT article first, or else you'll be lost from here down.


When I was in sixth grade, I had a Religion teacher at St. Vincent's named Sister Dorothea. She had the same gentle, a-glass-of-hot-milk-helps-me-sleep temperament as Happy Gilmore's grandmother. One day, Sister Dorothea gave our class a homework assignment: choose a random Bible passage, any passage at all, and write a one page essay about it. The instructions were vague -- write a one page essay about a Bible passage? -- so I opened up my Good Book to Leviticus, which is hands down the funniest book in the Bible.

Leviticus is the book of laws given to the Israelites by God, which, when read today, are in a word, wow. If you ever want to have a laugh, please, I implore you, flip through Leviticus (just as if you ever want to experience what a bad mushroom trip feels like, please, just skim through the Book of Revelation). Anything an Israelite would ever have wanted to know about how to sacrifice rams, when it was appropriate to touch a woman on her period, how to clean himself after a wet dream, the protocols for removing mold from his house, what guidelines a priest was to use when doubling as a dermatologist, or which animals were okay to eat and which were "detestable," it was all written, in plain Hebrew, in Leviticus.

From my earliest days, I remember how hilarious I always found these arcane sections of the Bible to be. They don't talk about these laws much in church, or in Religion class, mainly because they are anachronistic and describe things like period blood and man juice -- stuff no Clinton hating, twin bed sleeping pastor is apt to discuss from the pulpit without turning the brightest shade of red. But for a sixth grader being asked by an elderly Catholic nun who probably loves needlepoint and Matlock to "pick a Bible passage and write a one page essay on it," Chapter 18 of Leviticus was just too tempting.

Chapter 18 is the good stuff. For that homework assignment, it was literally a God send. That's the chapter when YHWH gets down to the nitty gritty of letting all those Israelite freaks know what is and isn't acceptable under the sheets, in the eyes of the Lord their God. (The Old Testament God had an ego bigger than Mike Jones, by the way; can someone do a count of the number of times He randomly reminds His chosen ones that he's not their friend but their LORD their GOD, and DON'T FORGET IT?).

According to Chapter 18, YHWH says you can't...

• have sex with your father
• have sex with your mother
• have sex with your sister ("either your father's daughter or your mother's daughter, whether she was born in the same home or elsewhere," as those Israelites who were into literal interpretations were informed by verse 9)
• have sex with your grandchild
• have sex with your sister-in-law; or your aunt; or your child; or another dude, if you're a dude; or a woman on her period...

Basically, you can't have sex with anyone but your wife according to Leviticus 18.

Which is something a lot of married Christians seem to have forgotten, in the Reverend Ed Young's mind -- not that you're not allowed to do your dog, but that you're supposed to do your wife. And that's what this pastor from Grapevine, Texas is trying to remind his parishioners of. (Okay if you haven't read the article yet, I'm giving you one more chance. Read it now.)

If I ever re-become a Christian, I know which church I'll be attending: Ed Young's evangelical Fellowship Church.

"That's the church I want to be in," The (very Catholic) Bob said when I asked if he had heard of this crazy business: an evangelical preacher exhorting his married parishioners to do it more, rather than less. "The men are like, 'YES;' the women," he said, as he mimicked a contemplative expression, eyebrows raised and forehead scrunched.

"'I guess if God says I have to...'" I finish his thought.

I tried to block out the imagery of where my mother came into play in this little give and take with my father, neither of whom I'm allowed to have sex with according to Leviticus 18.

The Reverend Ed Young is a marketing genius. I know he claims his Seven Day Sex Challenge has nothing to do with publicity or gimmicks, but it just sounds way too much like something Pepsi would come up with for me to believe that. In an age of ever-increasing competition for American Christian souls among all the new mega-churches in this God-fearing land, Young has found the ultimate ad campaign for attracting married parishioners: Come to the church where your pastor condemns you for not getting laid every day!

I mean, who isn't in a good mood after a little, as they say in Swahili, kutombana? Why don't all Christian churches pump up the idea of sex-as-divine? After all, it is. I mean, isn't that why God came up with the entire concept? Explain to me the evolutionary purpose of the body part that rhymes with Dolores if you disagree. For having children? Please. We all knew how to pinch our noses on the rare occasions our moms made us eat our Brussels sprouts. Having children is not the only reason God wanted the Israelite ladies to enjoy themselves when getting down. They were wandering in the desert for 40 years, y'all. You think they've got cable TV out there in the Sinai wilderness? Even today, I bet not. Ain't much else for a couple to do than to engage in the Seven Day Sex Challenge, every single week. The Baptists have got it all wrong on this deal.

Reverend Ed Young, I applaud you. Sister Dorothea, I'm still a little upset you gave me a D on that essay. Inappropriate?! The harsh critique you wrote, in red pen at the top of the page, next to an equally unforgiving frowny face (a :( in the days before AIM and texting), was completely unwarranted. After all, as I argued back then, and still contend to this day, it's in the Bible!

Some people just don't like to talk about, or have, sex, I guess. That, or maybe they're just damn tired of eating so much chocolate cake.

I met a nice guy today at work. He was kind of trailer park, but nonetheless, seemed like a solid dude. I noticed some tattoos on his fingers. Maybe his name? First and last? Or the name of a girl, past or present?

"What's tattooed on your fingers?" I ask.

He shows me: "Born in hell," he casually responds.

"Oh," I say.

He also had two crucifixes tattooed on his forearms.

"How can you not kneaux that?"

Last Thursday, on Day 2 of the job in Baton Rouge counting Persian rugs for the salvage company I'm working for these days (same company, just neaux longer rim jobbin'), I got a pheauxn call from David. He wanted to kneaux if I wanted to geaux to the LSU-Ole Miss game. Miguel, the guy David had eauxriginally invited, had turned the offer down because of a lacrosse game he was ceauxching Saturday. Seaux that left me as the next man in line.

"An SEC football game?" I said. "Feaux sheaux, breaux!"

I'm sure, in hindsight, David wishes Miguel had said yes.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!

"I didn't kneaux what that meant for seaux long," David said as we were tailgating outside the stadium.

He was pointing at the words emblazoned across beauxth of our chests, in big, white block letters. They were brand new shirts; David's sister Lauren had bought them for us that very morning when we stopped at Wal-Mart for supplies. It was the first time I'd worn a new shirt in four days, seeing as when I left for Baton Rouge Wednesday morning, I didn't bring a change of cleauxthes (or a toothbrush), since the job was billed as a one day thing. One day became two, then three, then five, once the weekend hit and I had gotten an invitation to the game. Seaux much time spent in Lewseeanuh made me feel like I needed to bring back a souvenir.

And it was pretty obvious what that needed to be: a shirt that said "Geaux Tigers" -- the greatest collegiate sports pun since a Wahoo fan from Virginia came up with the "Hoos Your Daddy?" campaign back in the days of Roger Mason, Jr.




Let's get back to David.

"Like how long are we talking about?" I asked.

"I deauxn't kneaux, till I was like 22?"

I'll admit, when I was in pre-K, I thought there was a letter between 'K' and 'P' called 'elemena,' but I figured out that I was slurring the 'L-M-N-EAUX' verse in the song by the time I started reading. David grew up going to LSU games -- his dad played offensive line there in the late 60's/early 70's -- and didn't pick up on his French heritage until a few years ageaux.

What did David think it said, you ask?

"Something like 'GRRRRR ... Tigers.'" He added a subdued tiger clawing meauxtion for effect. Grrrrrrr!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On a somewhat related note, my friend Robbie Orthwein, whose real name is "Big O," apparently has a lake named after him in Lewseeanuh, by the way:

Lake Bigrrrrrrrr!

I'm a big fan of the boo. I boo at every possible opportunity. There's something about it that is just so ... thereapeutic. "BOOOOOOO! BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" You should try it some time; you'll thank me.

I did a little booing today, at the LSU-Ole Miss game in Baton Rouge. To put it succintly, LSU got stomped. And since I was wearing my new Geaux Tigers t-shirt that David's sister Lauren bought me, I had to play the role of the "angry LSU fan" in the stands, which explains the hearty boo's I was belching out today -- I may have extremely soft hands, but I can boo with the best of 'em. I'll put my boo up against anybody's, except the guy from The Green Mile, and the guy who used to read out cheesy love letters in Boyz II Men songs -- their voices are too deep to conquer in a booing contest.

Well anyway, guess what happened? One of the LSU fans (who had no idea that I myself was not actually an LSU fan) sitting next to me complimented me on my booing.

"That's a really nice boo, man."

I honestly don't think I've ever been more flattered.

Rod Stewart Impersonator? Really?

Remember that time I was supposed to drive up to Baton Rouge and come back home in the same day? That was on Wednesday. Today is Friday. I'll be back Sunday.

A job that was billed as supposing to take "a few hours" did last a few hours, if you substitute the word "days" for "hours." Not that I minded. I was having a good time, even though I didn't even bring a toothbrush, let alone a change of clothes. More on that later.

I got a phone call Thursday from my friend David. David's dad played football at LSU in the 60's. "Where are you?" Baton Rouge. "No way, I was actually calling to see if you wanted to go to the LSU-Ole Miss game this Saturday." Thank you, Miguel, for turning down first dibs on that invitation. That's why I'm staying until Sunday.

So we're at this bar tonight, and Rod Stewart walks in. I mean, the guy was a ringer. It was Rod Stewart. That's exactly what the guy wanted you to think. Turns out he rolls that way, all the time. He is a Rod Stewart impersonator. He loves Rod Stewart so much -- or, as the bartender at George's would have you believe, he loves attention so much -- that he decided to become an impersonator of Rod Stewart. He wears a black suit with a skinny black tie, he has a wrinkled, perpetually agitated-appearing face, and he has Rod Stewart hair. He bleaches and teases his hair, which is styled into a Rod Stewart mullet. This is the life of a Rod Stewart impersonator.

Why? Why are there people in the world like this?

I was at this bar with one other guy when we first saw him. Guy's name is David. A different David. David tried to talk to him -- "Yo man, I'm sure you get this a lot, but..." And a funny thing happened: Rod Stewart Impersonator ignored David. He acted like he was a big star, much too big to listen to a plebeian like David! Rod Stewart doesn't talk to David, after all. Rod Stewart goes on in conversation with his unattractive date and acts like the fame doesn't bother him.

It's Rod. He pretends to be Rod Stewart.

Where is my camera when I need it?

Thank you, Willard!

It's just about to hit 6:30 a.m. on my alarm clock -- well, actually, it's about to hit 7:30, because I still haven't changed it for daylight savings -- and I am getting dressed and about to walk out the door. My job is sending me to Baton Rouge, Louisiana for the day (geaux Tigers!). I am driving, four and a half hours, there and back.

Thank Heaven, for little iPods.

"Dude, don't drive back," my Cajun football player friend told me last night. "It's a hell of a drive." He knows what it's like to drive through Louisiana -- in short, there are trees, and there are swamps, and that's about it. It is, as Borat would call his dead wife Oksana, "a boring."

I'm assuming this means he is worried I'll fall asleep on the road. That's why I'm bringing some porno.

Thank you, Willard!

My phone has dementia.

I had a phone interview today for a sales job in Portland. It was just the first round; I'm sure I won't get the job. But still, you don't want a cell phone like mine when you're going through this process, whether you think you've got a fighting chance or not of getting hired. That's because my phone is like an old person in a retirement home: it's cracked and creaky-jointed and it falls asleep all the time.

When I say "falls asleep," I mean it just cuts off, without warning, without reason, all the freaking time. On average, it happens about once every ten minutes. Sometimes, like tonight when I was talking to Tom, it will go a full hour without hitch. Others, like this afternoon when I was talking to Tom, I wouldn't even be able to finish a story without having to redial.

That's why, after the words "hello" and "yes," the first thing I said tonight in my interview was, "Listen, before we start talking, I just want to warn you: my phone is really old, and sometimes it just dies. So if that happens, please, bear with me."

Literally less than four seconds later, all went silent.

When she called back, a couple of minutes later, I made some joke about how I needed to euthanize my phone soon. And she laughed! This was a good sign. A good rule of thumb when looking for jobs is that, during the first interview, if you make a euthanasia joke, and they don't laugh, that means you probably aren't going to get the opportunity to make a euthanasia joke during the second interview, for there probably won't be a second interview.

Me? I got the second interview.

Willard's tips on long drives

I met a truck driver on my job site last week named Willard. I can't say I've ever actually met a man named Willard, though I know they must be out there somewhere. I really wanted to buy his work shirt.

Willard is a big, strong, oak tree of a man. He played football at OU in the late 80's. He packs fat dips in his bottom lip. He speaks with a confident, non-threatening assurance, the kind of voice that you know is capable of exploding, but which chooses to be friendly most of the times.

Want to know Willard's trick for staying awake during long hauls behind the wheel of an 18-wheeler?

"Naw man, I don't drink coffee or nothin', just drink water. But I also put on some porno, man! I just put on some porno. Don't even have to watch it; I just hear it, man. 'UGH! UGGGHHHH! AHH!' Yeah man, that's the ticket. Just pop in a porno, and you drivin'!"

You will never feel safe on the highway again.

I just saw the film "Waking Life" yesterday for the first time. It left me pretty frazzled, in a good way. All human contact for about an hour afterwards though was freaking me out. It was like I was coming down from a psychedelic experience which had erased all certainty in my mind about what is real, and what is not, and what the definition of the word "real" even means, which is maybe the scariest thing a human being could ever contemplate.




This morning I talked on the phone with my friend Ana from Belgrade. I asked if she had ever seen that movie.

"What is that?"

"It's this movie about whether or not we're awake when we're dreaming, or asleep when we're awake," I said. "It's crazy, you really can't tell me that you know for certain that you're not dreaming right now."

Ana does not live a dream life. She has a much harder life than I could ever dream of.

"I promise you, I am awake," she said. "You wanna know how I know I'm not dreaming? Because in my dreams, I have a fat joint and a big house and lots of a money and a beautiful boyfriend, all to myself. And I don't have any of those things, so I am awake, man."

Those Serbs. No time for fluffy philosophicals like "Are we dreaming or awake, man?" They're awake. They know this because they don't have any money. I miss Serbia.

I saw Matisyahu perform two nights ago. It was a good show, not great, and I paid for my decision to attend, in the form of my zombie state the next day at work (I got less than five hours sleep, and I have to stand up all day, resulting in one cranky Tuesday Billy). Plus, the next night was further penance; I crashed at nine.

Matisyahu, for those unfamiliar, is a reggae singer who happens to be a Hasidic Jew.




There was a whole lot of Judaism going on in that scene Monday night, which is officially the worst night ever for concerts. One kid in front of me was throwing up gang signs all night. Yes, you heard it right. Gang signs. From a Jew. And just guess what he was chunking up there.

A Star of David. A Star of David with his fingers.

If only I'd been a little closer. I could have asked him what he was doing, in a legitimate, "I'm just curious" tone of voice. Then, he'd have to explain it. And I'd just stare at him, blankly. Then, he'd have to make a decision: 1) act hard, which would have been a continuation policy, essentially, or 2) realize how ridiculous he looked, and stop putting up gang signs of that nature. Instead, I just got to point it out to my friends and laugh.

I then proceeded to practice trying to do it myself, but it was way too complicated. Go ahead, try. Bet you it takes too long to figure it out.

"It's like a Rubick's Cube," I said just before giving up.

Also, there was a Jewish rapper there, whose name I forget. He wasn't bad. But he's a rich, white Jewish kid from Boston, and when I heard him talking after the show, he had an accent that sounds like a Death Row Records employee. He pronounced the words "five dollars" like this: "feye dolluhs." That's just not believable. Gangster Judaism, is not believable.

Ironically, my favorite anecdote from the night happened with a guy named Christian, of all names. Christian is the drunk guy that pushes through a crowd, leaving a trail of angry people in his wake, then, when he sees that he has annoyed someone (me) with where he decides to stop (right in front of me, and I mean right in front of me), tries to talk it out and "make sure we're cool."

Here was our conversation, which took place at one of the most serene moments of the entire show, when Matisyahu was basically praying in song form on stage, and I was in a very peaceful place -- that is, until Christian arrives on the scene.

Christian: "Am I blocking you man?"

Me: "I mean, yeah. You are."

Christian: "Sorry man. I'm Christian!" (extends his hand for me to shake)

Me: (I reluctantly shake, then turn my attention back to the stage, hoping Christian will leave me alone)

Christian: "What's your name man?"

Me: (pause) "Billy." I didn't feel like the "What?"/"Bayless"/"What?"/"Bayless"/"Wow, that's a cool name, where does it come from?" game with this guy. I just wanted to watch the show.

Christian: "Billy? Nice to meet you man! Hey, are we cool man? I don't want to block you!"

Me: "It's fine dude."

Christian: "Are you sure?"

Me: "Yes."

Christian: "I just want to make sure we're cool man! I don't want to block your way!"

Me: "It's fine."

Christian: "You sure we're cool man?"

Me: "Just f***ing watch the show man!" This is the part where I thought Christian might turn on me and make sure we were not cool.

Christian: (a little taken back) "Oh, all right. I just wanted to make sure we were cool man."

It's like, Christian. Take a note from all the Jews and just focus on throwing up gang signs and saying "feye dolluhs" and we'll be cool. It's annoying enough that you're shoving your round peg body into the square hole that is the crowd, but if you're gonna bowl me over trying to get closer to the stage, at least show me the common courtesy of not trying to shake my hand and make sure we're cool afterwards.

I know that seems counterintuitive, but it's a concert. Unless you're a good looking girl, I'm not interested in chit chat during the show.

What I didn't learn in primary school that I wish we all had.

When you're on the phone with someone, and you get cut off, I think there should be an understanding that the one who made the initial call be expected to redial. This is America; you get tacked for minutes whether you make or receive a call, unlike Europe or Africa. So it doesn't matter financially whether or not you've got to make multiple calls. Rather than play this little game, where we both call back and get one another's voice mail, or where both of us wait and there's a two minute lull, at which point we both dial and get one another's voice mail, we should just know: the person who called is redialing.

It's related to the issue of when two people are walking towards one another on the sidewalk. We've all done it thousands of times in our lives. You see a person headed your way; they see you; let the zig zags begin. Oh-oh-oh-ooohhhh, in body language, until you pass one another and continue on. Why is there not a set direction each person goes? We've got rules like this for driving. We should just transfer them to walking. If you're in a country where you drive on the right hand side of the road, each person should go right. If you're in England or any of the other former British colonies, like Bermuda or Tanzania, where people drive on the left, you should go left. Mainland China, go right. Hong Kong, go left. Enough with the oh-oh-ohhh body language when both people start zig-zagging all over the place for the last ten yards before crossing paths.

"But Bayless, how will this dream become a reality? How can you spread the word that this is the way things should be done? No one reads your blog; this surely isn't a sufficient mouthpiece."

Easy. Eliminate useless information on Helen Keller and Amelia Earhart and the Pledge of Allegiance in primary schools, and replace it with "do's and don't's" of everyday life.

(That was the first time I've ever written "do's and don't's," and I can't help but notice how awkward the two apostrophes in "don't's" appears.)

I am 24, going on 23, living at home for free.


I fear I am slowly re-becoming "Them."

I heard an anecdote about Ken Lay the other day, taken from the days when he knew the ship was sinking at Enron, but before the world was to find out. It was his wife's birthday, and he threw her a lavish, $200,000 party. Why? they later asked. Why would you throw away all that money when you saw the writing on the wall? Because, he answered, he couldn't not live that way any longer. He'd become too accustomed to the lifestyle of a man who can afford to throw $200,000 yacht parties to go back to a cake and a cookout.

I can kind of relate to Kenny Boy.

For over two years, everything in my life was new and fresh and exciting and significant, all the time. I wrote, about everything, some on my blog, more in my journal, and even more in the little notebooks I always carry around with me in the side pocket of my Carhartt's. I wrote because I was bursting at the seams, with ideas, and love, and passion, and angst, and humor and fear. I was bursting with life. Never did I feel so alive as in those days. "Those days." I speak as if they ended long ago. They ended in August. Back when I was young.

When I was 22, and school had finally finished, my brain was working harder than it ever had before. I was on the road, man. By myself! There is nothing more invigorating. Every conversation with every new person was a case study in the search for a truth that could transcend race and nationality, history and religion, as if I would finally be The One to find it and spread the news with the others. I viewed my life as a narrative coming into its own, which is why I paid attention to details, to words that hit my heart, as the storyline took its unseen twists and turns.

I simply trusted the ending would be a happy one.

Being alone for much of the time, I became more independent, and more confident. At different times, I became enlightened. But at the end, I came home.

And now I find myself sitting in my room, a few months away from turning 25, with a treasure trove of memories that make me smile, and give me goosebumps, but seem as if they never happened at the same time. And when I really try and tap into those memories, I find that there is a lot of stuff that I've just forgotten.

Like the whole thing never happened.

Here I am, in the midst of some of the most uncertain economic times in a century, with a job (albeit, temporary) paying me more than I am worth, and a free place to stay, and a loving family around, and yet I feel anything but content with my life. I want to feel content, but I don't. I worry that I have made it impossible to do so, by setting the bar so high for what I want my life to be:


Freedom, foreign languages, constant stimuli in my everyday world, exotic women, and plenty of time for introspection, something that is too hard to do when in the presence of those who knew you back when you were someone else entirely.


Maybe I've become too accustomed to a certain standard of living, like Kenny Boy.

I daydream about leaving, on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again. Like an alcoholic who drinks to keep his buzz going. Oh babe, I hate to go. Too many places to see, too many people to meet, experiences to have, stories to tell. It would never be enough, I know that. After South America, what next? The Middle East? Then what? Asia? Australia? Is that it? No. Russia? Alaska? How about somewhere else in the United States? I've always wanted to live in Portland, but New York would be so cool, too.

This is how my mind works, at 100 miles an hour, every moment of every day. The second I start to get any kind of money, I'm only thinking of how long I could travel on it. Or where I could move to, and how big of a cushion I'd have before this latest act of irrationality put me in a tight squeeze.

The only problem is this: will I long to stay 22 for the rest of my life?

Where do you draw the line between staying true to your heart and doing what makes you happy, and realizing that you've got to take the next step forward in life? I don't want to wake up at 30 penniless and jobless; I don't want to wake up at 30 with a lot of money and no stories. I want my cake. I want to be able to eat my cake, too.

Why didn't anyone ever tell me how hard it would be, this transition? Why didn't my dad ever tell me he didn't magically transform from a kid into a man over night?

I don't know what's going on. I just shaved my head, too. Bob Marley would have words to say to me: "Them crazy.... them crazy..... we gonna chase those crazy baldheads, out of town."

That actually might end up being a good thing.

Oh, craigslist. What will you offer next?

JEWISH EGG DONOR NEEDED by LOVING JEWISH COUPLE $20,000+ not an agency

---

Reply to: lovetogiveandshare@yahoo.com ^[?]
Date: 2008-11-09, 2:31PM CST

JEWISH EGG DONOR NEEDED by LOVING JEWISH COUPLE $20,000+ALL EXPENSES PAID

Reply to: lovetogiveandshare@yahoo.com


"We would love you to be part of our miracle"

We are a loving, caring, Jewish couple who are accomplished, secure and happy. It would mean the world to us to share our love with a child and make our lives truly complete.


We appreciate intelligence, education and learning. If you are a student it would be our pleasure to assist with your tuition and related expenses (by paying you $20,000).


You are an ideal donor if you are:

* 100% Jewish with a biological mother and father who were born Jewish
* a woman between 18 and 33 years of age
* between 5'1" and 5'10"
* Warm, caring, responsible, reliable (is this genetic?)
* Motivated and passionate about what you do (how about this?)
* an individual with high self esteem (again, genetic?)
* Highly intelligent with high IQ, SAT scores & GPA
* Attractive
* at healthy body weight
* a non-smoker and drug-free
* Free of genetic diseases (such as Tay-Sachs) in your primary blood line
* able to make about 5 visits to a highly respected Fertility Doctor.

You will not be carrying a pregnancy. You will not become pregnant.
You will be providing an egg.

Please e-mail us, in confidence, what you feel is special about you,
with as much detailed information as you feel comfortable sharing, addressing the points above such as your age, SAT score etc. (what about the ACT?), and a recent photo to lovetogiveandshare@yahoo.com

• Compensation: JEWISH EGG DONOR NEEDED by LOVING JEWISH COUPLE $20,000+ ALL EXPENSES PAID
• Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
• Please, no phone calls about this job!
• Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.

PostingID: 912121154

Bolded red comments my own. Obviously.

Now "that" would have been funny.

"Neeegahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

The owner of the place where I was doing the rim job is from Beijing. I suspect he has not been in America for very long, because he still speaks pretty rudimentary English. Horrible pronunciation, badly in need of a thesaurus, the standard immigrant's command of any new language. He has three Chinese secretaries under his employment, whose English is pretty much on the same level as his. So they speak Chinese to one another.

Down the stairs, his star salesman sits at his desk. He is not from China. He is a black dude whose mannerisms and general enthusiasm for life reminds me a lot of Chris Tucker.

"Maaan, a BLACK GUY is the most powerful man on EARTH!" That's the first thing he said to me last Wednesday, after he'd pulled up to work and gotten out of his car to unlock the office for all the Spanish speaking warehouse workers, while not bothering to turn down the volume on his sound system that was probably sending vibrations all the way to the owner's childhood home in China. "He BLACK! The president is BLACK! YEEE-UHHHHH!"

I really liked the star salesman at that place. No matter how I was feeling, whenever I chatted with him, my spirits were lifted. Kind of like how I'd imagine it to be for someone who worked at a bling rim warehouse with Chris Tucker answering the phones. I doubt I'll find another guy like him at my new job site out in San Jacinto, where I start tomorrow morning.

I had been itching to ask the star salesman about something I heard my second day on the job for almost a month, but on Thursday, the day before I finally finished the rim job (I hope to never see another chrome-plated car rim for as long as I live, after a month of inspecting three entire warehouses full of them), I broached the topic:

Have you ever noticed that Mandarin has a word that phonetically comes out as nee-gah?

I swear to God this is true. When the Chinese owner was speaking to one of his secretaries in front of me for the first time, he said it every third or fourth word.

"Yao tsao tso sheh sheh neegah kung pao neegah, neegah neegah neegah, sank chao pooh ow. Neegah."

(My face: Is he really saying ... what I think he's saying?)

Which is what I asked star salesman.

"Awwww MAAAN! I know what you sayin', man! Dat's what I thought, TOO! Fool be walkin' by me one day, and I was like, I was like, already in a bad mood, know what I'm sayin'? And he be like, 'Blah blah blah nigga.'"

(My face: convulsing in laughter.)

"So like I said, I was in a bad mood, you know? And I hear dat fool call me a nigga. And in my mind, in my mind I'm like, 'Awww HELL nah!' But I turn and axe him, 'You say sumpin' to me?' And he turn, turn and say, 'No, no say nothing.' But I axe him again, 'You got sumpin' to say?' And he be all confused, he say, 'No, no. No have nothing to say.'"

(My face: crying.)

"So I axe one of his secretaries, 'Hey, in Chinese, y'all got a word that sound like nigga?' She didn't know what I be sayin', so I was like, 'Sumpin' like "nee-gaw," sumpin' like dat?' And she told me, 'Oh yeah! "Nee-gah" mean "that" in Chinese.'"

The word that comes out as "nee-gah" means "that" in Chinese.

The only thing I asked star salesman when he was done with his rant was, "Why did they not capitalize on this joke in any of the three 'Rush Hour' movies??"

I saw Craig Biggio's wife today at this cafe down the street from our house. Garland and I were eating lunch. Mrs. Biggio was on the phone, talking to one of the parents from her daughter's softball team. They had just come from a game.

"Did your wife not call you and tell you we pulled it out in the last inning?" we overheard her ask.

"Did your wife not call you and tell you we pulled it out in the last inning?" she asked again, after a brief pause.

"Please say that again," I said, half under my breath, half to Garland, hoping Mrs. Biggio would be forced to engage in the ole "Can you hear me now?" exercise of repeating a reasonably long sentence on the phone for a third time, something that rarely happened back in the days of land lines.

Garland brought up an interesting point: if Mrs. Biggio had been forced to repeat herself again, for a third time, with people listening, she would have changed the sentence slightly, probably into something more along the lines of, "We won it the last inning," and then, once it was established that she'd gotten the crux of the message across, would likely add the detail about assuming his wife would have already called to tell him.

It's not because it's easier to understand, "We won it in the last inning" from the other end of the connection, it's because people are listening. You change it. It's funny.

This is Sallie.

No jive turkey

Sallie has worked for my family since I was about three years old. I remember her first day, because it is my earliest recollection of seeing a real, live black person in my house. This event scared me, naturally. In a three year old's mind, it's akin to an alien from outer space strolling into your living room. The strange woman sent me running behind my mother's leg, hiding behind something that shielded only a thin sliver of my body from the flat topped stranger.

Sallie has been my second mother since that day. I hate to say "She's my maid," or "She's our housekeeper," a) because it sounds so genteel, and b) because she's much more than that. She knows me about as well as my real mom, the white one. I guess intimacy is a natural by product of washing a dude's underpants for two decades.

(See, what happened to me in the bathroom at the Texans game last December. "Oh I KNOW you done did somethin' bad!")

Sallie likes to say that she "ain't no jiiiiiive turkey," she likes to go to clubs, or, if not, "drink some tequila" when she goes home every day, and also to constantly remind me of how hot she is -- in her own words, "I'm fiiiiine" -- despite her 62 years of age. This is irrelevant to the story. I just thought you'd like to know that.

She realized long ago that I am sentimental about strange stuff. It may look like trash, or scrap paper, or a bag of hair (which is still sitting on our kitchen counter, waiting to be mailed to Locks of Love), but that doesn't mean she can throw it away. Countless times over the years, I've accused her of disposing of some trinket or another, ones I couldn't live without, that I adamantly denied having lost myself. Almost every time, the trinkets would turn up. My mom throws my stuff away all the time; Sallie never does.

All growing up, my folks would periodically rage at how untidy I kept my room. They would desperately try to teach me a lesson. "Sallie, under no circumstances are you to set foot in Bayless' room, do you understand?" Invariably, this led to my room becoming dirtier and dirtier, until it began to look like a college dorm room. At this point, Sallie would secretly go in and clean it all up. She just could not take it. She's got some O.C.D. like tendencies.

So she feels compelled to clean my room on the one hand, and fears the consequences of cleaning my room on the other. It's a very interesting dichotomy. This is why I thought it'd be funny to conduct a little social experiment on Sallie.

Geww.

This is an orange I snuck into Austin City Limits, which was in September. I forgot about it, deep in the recesses of my backpack, and never ate it. I came home. A week or two went by. I found it while rummaging through the middle pocket one day. The orange was bruised and old, and besides, the two that I did eat at the festival were pretty tasteless anyway. I placed the orange on my bedside table, and forgot about it the next morning when I woke up and left.

When I came home, I couldn't help but notice that Sallie had left the orange where I'd placed it the night before. This happened again the next day, and the next. It was at this point I decided, I am not going to throw this orange away; I'm going to see how long it takes Sallie before she finally decides it is too disgusting, that I can't possibly want to keep a piece of decomposing fruit like it's an autographed baseball or something.

Today is November 8. ACL ended September 28. How many days is that? I'll tell you how many: 41. When I woke up this morning, still, the orange had not been moved. Scroll back up and look at this thing -- that crack formed on its own volition, not from me cutting it or dropping it; and the mold is quite noticeable at this point.

The experiment is over. I am throwing in the towel. Sallie has defeated me. I typically fare well in wars of attrition, but this time, it's starting to affect my health. I can't handle the thought of breathing in all that mold for the sake of "winning" a competition during an "experiment" that Sallie doesn't even know is taking place.

Still, though, I find it fascinating to ponder just what it is that goes through Sallie's mind when she's sees this orange every morning she shows up for work. Because she definitely notices it, and definitely makes a conscious decision to leave it be.

My favorite is when I'm being asked by people down here in Tejas why I like Obama, and they proceed to explain to me what the "trickle down effect" is. It's like they think all of us who voted for this man simply must not have heard of it; otherwise, clearly, we'd have the sense to vote for a Republican.

No, not even kidding, that really happens to me, all the time.

It really happened.

I teared up at several points during the day yesterday. Without warning, without explanation, it would just hit me. Yes, we can. I'm not even black. I have very few black friends, at least American blacks. I'm friendly with lots, but I'm not boys with many. I have very little understanding of how it feels to be black in this country. All the empathy in the world won't bring that to me. And yet, I felt my eyes burning all day.

I'm not ashamed to say it, even if Michelle Obama got heat for it: yesterday was the first time I've been proud to be an American in quite some time.

Since just before the Iraq War, with an exception for Team USA's gold medal run in Beijing, I have felt a sense of isolation from those who say "God Bless America," as if we are truly a city on the hill. It had been that long -- six years. Our family friend cringed when I said that last night. "No, no, that can't be true." Well it is. And it feels good to be back.

My perspective on things is a little different than the average 24 year old kid from Texas. I left the state for college, and met people from other states. I left the country after college, and met people from other countries. And then I left the western world a little while later, and met people from different planets. The sum of all those experiences left me with a very nuanced view on America's place in the world. People everywhere love the idea of what our country represents. They love Americans. Even in Serbia, the vast majority of people, they feel this way. Almost all of these people, not just in Serbia, but everywhere I've been, feel that America got lost somewhere. She forgot herself. She forgot what she represents.

Hope. The idea that anything is possible.

That's why yesterday was so emotional for me. We showed the world that they shouldn't give up on us just yet. We showed the world that we are still capable of coming together, over an issue not related to terrorism, or boycotting French wines. To me, that is worth the risk. I haven't learned what it feels like to pay bills just yet. That day is soon coming. And maybe it will hurt a little when I feel the sting of a Democrat in office come tax time. It's worth it to me. It's worth the feeling of hope, the feeling of pride to be an American again. Yesterday, for the first time since the Twin Towers fell, I cried for my country. But they were not tears of sorrow.


p.s. To all the travelers I've met over the last two years who are from America and put Canadian flag patches on their backpacks, so as to hide their nationality from judgmental eyes, I have no respect for you. I may have not been proud, but I was never a bitch like you. I always stood up for my country and explained its actions in the world, even if I didn't agree with them. You, however, pretended to be from Canada. You know who you are. And I hope President Obama's first act in office is to strip you of your passports.

The scene: about two hours after his speech in Grant Park. Malia and Sasha have just gone to bed.

Barack: "Can we do that thing I like to do on special occasions?"

Michelle: "Yes, we can."




If Barack has ever wanted to try something new in bed, tonight is the night to push the envelope. He has a mandate to go to town on Michelle's behind.

You know when you overhear someone's conversation, and they say something that you really want to comment on, but you feel like it would be awkward and/or rude to do so?

This is happening to me right now.

Ms. Chatterbox behind me has been talking at a hundred miles an hour since she and her punk rock suitor sat down. They clearly do not know one another very well, as their conversation so far has consisted of her nervous, self-absorbed, rambling pontifications (sounds like me!), and his numerous replies to this ongoing monologue, such as "Wow," "No way," "Dang," "Uh huh," "Right," and then, of course, that laugh you do when someone talking laughs at a point they've just made -- this laugh is as calculated and awkward as any of the aforementioned lines.

Here is the part that made me want to cut in. Ms. Chatterbox is the one speaking:

"My dad is trying to convince me to take a trip around the world when I graduate. And I'm like, 'Dad, I don't want to take a trip around the world.' And he's all, 'Why not? I did when I finished college.' And I'm like, 'Well, you had bigger balls than me I guess.' I'm just worried about what might happen if I just decide to take a walk around the world for a year, because then, I'll never want to stop traveling."

I am dying here; I want to cut in so bad. In fact, the reason I'm at this coffee shop to begin with is because I have a day off from the rim job and I was trying to take advantage of this time to get some writing done on this book, which is about taking a walk around the world, and not ever wanting to stop traveling.

Ms. Chatterbox is still talking. And her guy just did another calculated laugh, then said, "Oh my God." Then he said, "That's crazy." This guy is struggling to get a word in.

"And think about the economic situation: if I leave now, what will it be like when I come back? How will I find a job?"

Yup, thaaaaat's pretty much where I'm at. My dad would love this girl.

Now it's just getting ridiculous. She is still talking. The poor guy. He hasn't had an original thought in over 10 minutes. The closest thing to a sentence has been, "How's the coffee? Is it good?" She said yes. His response: "Sweeeet."

I just want to turn around and pull a Dr. Evil hush maneuver on this girl.

Thom: "I was at church today. Was anyone else here at church today?"

Raja: "No," as he dips his chip, "I was too busy sinning." He eats the chip.

My only regret: not getting a mullet during the summer, so I could go to Ingram Dam and then tube down the river.

Not pictured: my homemade jean shorts, farmer's tan and my cowboy boots. And my Pasadena basketball wife beater I stole from David in high school.

Also, it would have been really fun to have gotten in line Tuesday looking like this, just so I could pretend to be a McCain supporter when in conversation with whoever was in earshot while about to enter the polling booth.

Please notice the Houston Oilers belt buckle, and the faint mustache.

I didn't want to cut my hair, but I knew I'd have to eventually. So I figured, why not just make a mullet for Halloween? And that's what I did. I went as Joe the Plumber (before he lost his hair) for the real Halloween.

And no one got the joke.

Andrew's friends -- at least the ones who think Neil Armstrong is the proud father of Lance -- didn't know how to act when they would meet me. It was a very unsure, awkward dynamic between me and them. Because I wouldn't make it obvious that this is not how I actually look. I'd just shake their hands and say, "What's up, I'm Bayless." At which point they'd give me a quick look over and then pretend that they hadn't just given me a quick look over, usually by averting their gaze or walking away. Or both.

It was really funny.

I had it for three days. But now it's gone. And so are the two and a half years worth of locks that I was growing for Locks of Love.

Some cancer survivor is going to get a wig in the near future made of my hair, and she is going to be looking fine.

Those Armstrongs... they sure are something.


I went to a Halloween party last night in San Antonio. There were some girls there, and three in particular caught my attention.

Not because I thought they were hot. Or anything of that nature. It was just because I overheard them debating whether or not Neil Armstrong is Lance Armstrong's dad.

And I found this to be very funny.

"Lance is like, that f***in, biker guy, right?" The voices carried up the stairs into the hallway I was standing in. The tone of voice, you can probably hear exactly how that went.

I went downstairs. The three girls were sitting around the kitchen table, debating the issue. It was two on one: two for Neil-as-dad, one against. They were really getting into it. I naturally assumed the two were messing with the one holdout. So when they asked me what I thought, clearly, I went along with it. Yes, I nodded, duh. Everyone knows Neil Armstrong is Lance Armstrong's dad.

"Really?" the holdout asked.

"Yeah, I mean I'm not sure..." I paused, for effect, before finishing the sentence, "...whether it's like his dad or just his uncle." I sipped my beer; otherwise I was going to lose it. "But yeah, I mean, everyone knows Neil Armstrong and Lance Armstrong are relatives."

Then Paco walked in the door. He was dressed as Rafael Nadal, again. I asked him to back me up, with eyebrows indicating that he was to play along. He did not pick up the indicators.

"No way man," he asserted with gusto. "Neil Armstrong? No way."

"Dude, yes he is. Let's go Google it."

"Yeah!" all three girls screamed in unison. The ultimate argument solver of Generation Text Me. Just Google it.

"Go find out and come tell us what it says," one of the Neil-as-dad supporters said.

Never have I had to do less to convince three girls of something so far from true. They were digging their own graves, and building their coffins, and making the arrangements with the funeral director. All I had to do was drive the hearse.

When we got to the top of the stairs, Paco was still under the impression that I actually believed this nonsense.

I filled him in on the joke. We chilled for about a minute, then came barging back into the kitchen with the news. Yes, it turns out, we said, Neil is the dad. No way! Yes way, can you believe it? See! I told you so! And so on and so forth. It really wasn't that exciting; more amazing than anything. I began to realize just how it is that kids in America could possibly not be able to point out North America on a map. Miss South Carolina probably got a better ACT score than these three.

I went outside afterwards. When I was telling some other random girl I'd just met about what Paco and I had just done, she asked who Neil Armstrong was.

I wish I could be a fly on the wall whenever this issue comes up for one of those three girls. It could happen today; next month; next year, but it's going to happen. And they'll defend themselves with ferocity. Yes, they'll swear, Neil Armstrong -- "the like, moon guy" -- is Lance Armstrong's dad. And they'll be attacked for it. And they'll go to the ole "Google it" card. Only to find out, much, much later, that they have been had.

By some guy they like met at a Halloween party, or whatever.