On a recent somersaulting trip down Memory Lane (an actual dead-end street near my house in Phoenix), I began flipping through old photo albums of myself to see how my infant appearance compares to that of my darling progeny.

 

What I discovered was that I was a fat, hungry-looking baby.  The kind that I avoid eye contact with at the pediatrician’s office.  Then, as I stared disconnectedly at myself through three decades, I was tangentially sucker-punched and left pondering the nature of continuity and the self.

 

But then I found this gem, and snapped right out of it.  Notice anything…special?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you see it?  Of course, you see it.

 

Impressive, huh?  Even as a toddler I apparently couldn’t control my excitement in public.  But clearly, I could handle it, if you know what I mean.  And I know you do.

 

Maybe a color portrait will give you a better idea of what you’re looking at.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still left wondering what it is that’s protruding from my waist and being proudly hefted in my youthful hands?

 

Or, maybe wondering why my toddler (pee-pee / willie / wang / scallywagger / Official Flagpole of Sausagetown – whichever term of endearment you prefer) appears to be orange in hue?

 

Perhaps wondering if your prolonged gaze at questionable portraits from my toddlerhood constitutes pedophilia?  (I checked and it does, you filthy, filthy pervert!)

 

Here’s the other photo from the shoot for purposes of illumination.

 

 

Enlightenment feels good, doesn’t it?  Like one of those annoying pictures you stare at for hours and hours and everyone sees some damn dolphins jumping over a waterfall but all you see is a bunch of stupid pink and purple and black spots and then you finally see it and think: “Wow!  I just wasted two hours of my life, but I see the truth now!”  It’s kind of like that feeling, isn’t it?  Except, if you were staring at my portrait for two hours, you’re probably under house arrest and restricted from going within a hundred yards of schools and playgrounds.

 

But you should have been able to guess Big Bird from the beginning.  Big Bird.  Ya get it?  Do you get it?  Big.  Bird.  Big is, well, big.  And then bird.  A cock is a bird. 

 

Do you get it now?  Huh? 

 

Why do you never get it?  You clearly have some kind of humor-detecting deficiency and should probably be in therapy.  Just saying.

 

I can’t decide whether the photographer who took the picture, developed it, and handed it to my mother with a straight face was either the most oblivious person in the universe or a visionary, evil genius that knew he’d just provided the boy in that priceless photograph, many years down the road, one of the best Facebook profile pics of all time.

 

 

PS – You’re still a pervert.  A filthy one.

In honor of Sesame Street’s 40th anniversary, I’m repackaging and regifting this little essay I wrote a couple years ago about my favorite hirsute dessert enthusiast.  

 

C is for Cheapskate, that’s good enough for me.

 

COOKIE MONSTER SEARCHES DEEP WITHIN HIMSELF AND ASKS: IS ME REALLY MONSTER?

 

  

  Me know. Me have problem.

 

Me love cookies. Me tend to get out of control when me see cookies. Me know it not natural to react so strongly to cookies, but me have weakness. Me know me do wrong. Me know it isn’t normal. Me see disapproving looks. Me see stares. Me hurt inside.

 

When me get back to apartment, after cookie binge, me can’t stand looking in mirror—fur matted with chocolate-chip smears and infested with crumbs. Me try but me never able to wash all of them out. Me don’t think me is monster. Me just furry blue person who love cookies too much. Me no ask for it. Me just born that way.

 

Me was thinking and me just don’t get it. Why is me a monster? No one else called monster on Sesame Street. Well, no one who isn’t really monster. Two-Headed Monster have two heads, so he real monster. Herry Monster strong and look angry, so he probably real monster, too. But is me really monster?

 

Me thinks me have serious problem. Me thinks me addicted. But since when it acceptable to call addict monster? It affliction. It disease. It burden. But does it make me monster?

 

How can they be so callous? Me know there something wrong with me, but who in Sesame Street doesn’t suffer from mental disease or psychological disorder? They don’t call the vampire with math fetish monster, and me pretty sure he undead and drinks blood. No one calls Grover monster, despite frequent delusional episodes and obsessive-compulsive tendencies. And the obnoxious red Grover—oh, what his name?—Elmo! Yes, Elmo live all day in imaginary world and no one call him monster. No, they think he cute. And Big Bird! Don’t get me started on Big Bird! He unnaturally gigantic talking canary! How is that not monster? Snuffleupagus not supposed to exist—woolly mammoths extinct. His very existence monstrous. Me least like monster. Me maybe have unhealthy obsession, but me no monster.

 

No. Me wrong. Me too hard on self. Me no have unhealthy obsession. Me love cookies, but it no hurt anyone. Me just enthusiast. Everyone has something they like most, something they get excited about. Why not me? Me perfectly normal. Me like cookies. So what? Cookies delicious. Cookies do not make one monster. Everyone loves cookies.

 

Me no monster. Me OK guy. Me OK guy who eat cookies.

 

Who me kidding? Me know me never actually eat cookies. Me only crumble cookies in mouth, but me no swallow. Me can’t swallow. Me no have no esophagus. Me no have no trachea. Me only have black fabric throat. Me not supposed to be able to even talk.

 

Me no eat cookies.

 

Me destroy cookies.

 

Me crush cookies.

 

Me mutilate cookies.

 

Me make it so no one get cookies.

 

Everyone right. Me really is cookie monster.

 

 

The folks over at QN Podcast (formerly Quirky Nomads) did a reading, in character, a few months back.  Check it out here.

I found this while sifting through some old essays I’d written.  I believe this is the product of a contest at my former place of work to write about our scariest personal experience.

 

A Tale of Inaudible Terror South of the Equator…

 

Rather than regale you with tales of ghostly apparitions or stories of the supernatural, I offer you this: a bone-chilling account of nonfiction involving a most vile and loathsome creature, a beast so thoroughly repugnant and detestable that it is cursed to roam the earth in deathly silence.  I am speaking, of course, of the taciturn relative of the already-frightening category of entertainers known to us as clowns: the mime.

 

It was the summer between my junior and senior year of college and my academic quest for knowledge and truth led me to the deserts of South America, where I was to partake in my first archaeological field project.  Before our crew was to set out for excavations in the Atacama Desert, we gathered for a week in the bustling city of Iquique in northern Chile to prepare our supplies.  One evening, as I wandered the dusty streets with some fellow students, I beheld the most horrifying of sights on a dimly lit sidewalk.  Perched high on a wooden crate and towering over the assembled pedestrians was a shadowy abomination whose face was contorted in cartoonish shades of glossy black, bleached white, and glittering silver and imprisoned by a container that no human eye could detect, yet from which it failed to escape. 

 

“Mimes.  Why did it have to be mimes?” I whispered to my companions as I valiantly attempted to conceal a sneer of disgust at encountering the degenerate clown.  As we strode past, I expounded upon my apprehension of mimes and detailed my theory of their demonic origins. 

 

Just as we passed the mime, it suddenly burst from its invisible box and ran up next to me.  Startled, I cursed at him in English and quickened my pace.  But it was to no avail.  For several blocks, the mime pursued me, stepping mere inches from my heels and engaging in a cornucopia of ridiculous gestures and feigned activities.  Whether the mime understood my English or was instead driven by evil forces beyond my comprehension, I will never understand the motivations responsible for compelling this sparkly spawn of Satan to stalk me through the city.  Departing Iquique a few days later, I was grateful to put the mime and the traumatic event behind me, but fate had other plans.

 

Six weeks later, at the conclusion of the archaeological field season, the crew gathered in central Chile for the festival of La Tirana, where tens of thousands of people converged on a normally small and barren town for music, food, and dance.  As I was pushed through a meandering throng of people, past the makeshift food and retail stands, I gazed to my left and the breath promptly died in my lungs.  Standing on a crate, roughly 50 feet away, was the same mime in the same makeup and outfit.  I turned away immediately so as not to garner any attention even though I was certain that it would be impossible for anyone to find me in the sea of bodies.  Covertly casting glances out the sides of my eyes, I was mortified to see the mime suddenly jump in the air, point excitedly at me, and push through hundreds of people to stalk me for the better part of a half hour.

 

To this day, I would venture that being stalked by a mime in a foreign land, across two distant cities, is perhaps one of the most frightening/supernatural events a person can experience.  While I was unable to avoid such circumstances, may this serve as a warning to those of you who take your mime-free days for granted.  Mimes can materialize anywhere and at anytime (most likely when you least expect it).  Terrifying and unpredictable, mimes are poorly understood creatures, but to the best of my knowledge, they are immune to all supernatural repellents: holy water, crucifixes, and garlic (I am not certain if silver bullets would work, but I would be willing to try).  Therefore, please take extreme caution in the future with regards to potential mime sightings.  You never know when precaution might save you from a lifetime of mime-induced therapy.