1. Return of the Mack by Mark Morrison—I fully understand that you believe that this song is probably the best song every written and recorded. I gather this by your violent head bobbing and DJ booth gyrations. And you play it with the enthusiasm of a dedicated fan. EVERY SINGLE TIME. Whenever I enter the Roaster, I feel certain that I will get a dose of Return of the Mack, as though it was released a few months ago, and not in 1996.

2. Too Close by Next—Hitting the air waves in 1997, Too Close is another one of your “90s Jam Master Mix” that you refuse to let die. I grant you that you choose it’s placement in your song list masterfully. You wait until there are a handful of incredibly drunk and horny people on the dance floor, then you unleash its power. Somehow, the dated lyrics trigger thrusting pelvises and booty grinding. Too Close has led to thousands of romantic one-night stands and hundreds of unwanted pregnancies via the Roaster dance floor.

3. Grease Mega Mix by the Grease movie cast—Really? I mean…Really? And why do you look so unbelievably proud of yourself when you play it, EVERY SINGLE TIME? It’s the clapping. I know you love the clapping, and the way the music softly flows from one Grease gem to the next. And stop bobbing your head so violently, you look stupid. It’s Grease. Grease!

4. Get Low by Lil’ Jon & the Eastside Boyz—I appreciate that you are trying to be “hip” and play “new” music, if new to you means 2003. We all love a little Lil’ Jon, who doesn’t? His incredibly annoying voice has become a staple of our generation, “what!!!”. But, in all seriousness, must you play Get Low every single time? Although, I do add points for entertainment value, somehow it is still slightly funny to watch grown adults in their 50’s sing “To the window, to the wall, to the sweat drip down my balls…” all the while trying their hardest to get low, get low, get low. It lost it’s hilarity about 4 months ago. “You scared, you scared”.

5. “BY REQUEST”—You always seem to have requests for the same lame songs. How does that happen, when no one ever walks to your booth to request a song? I know this, because I am watching you a majority of the night, trying to figure out God created a DJ so inept at his profession…
These are only a few of them, DJ. There are so many more. Cross my Heart by George Strait, Gasolina by Daddy Yankee, Gimmie More by Britney Spears, Dancing Queen by ABBA, You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC, Love Shack by the B52’s, Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry, Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard. I think it is possible that I have listed your ENTIRE playlist. And you simply play them Over, and Over, and Over, and Over, and Over , and Over, and Over again, and again, and again, and again and again….This is your ONLY JOB at the Roaster.

You are killing me. You are seriously killing me, DJ at the Roaster. I would refuse to go there, but my sister loves that place, despite how horrible you are, and I am merely a tag-along. She isn’t as sensitive as me I suppose. I hate you DJ at the Roaster, and you’re glasses are ugly.

See you next week.

Our thoughts, beliefs, trends, habits are all shaped by outside influences; or, evolve from internalized reactions to events that make impressions on the conscious or subconscious. These experiences assemble in complicated patterns to create who we “are”.

Now, when I say commonalities I am not talking about music, books, and favorite tv shows. I’m not thinking of favorite foods, childhood toys, or preferred beverages. Finding these things in common with someone else is fun, it gives you a sense of comfort, and it allows you to sit across from a stranger and have a conversation. But these shared interests are merely coincidental. They only describe what we like.

It can be blinding. It can make it easy to convince yourself that these common interests are indicators of like-mindedness.

But, I think that true commonalities, the ones that matter, are so much more than a mutual fondness for chocolate ice cream.

We can have different viewpoints on any subject under the blazing sun, and still have something in common. We can be polar opposites and still be connected. Because at the fundamental core, you and I are alike. It can be as simple as stopping for someone to cross the street. It can be as complicated as attempting selflessness. These are the values that define us.

These commonalities vary from person to person. But, somewhere in the mess, interwoven into the complicated patterns, there is a single strand that connects me to you and you to me.

An encounter with a Scooter Demon is much like facing the wrath of an angry bull. As we push to the left, the Scooter Demon swerves to meet us, ready charge mercilessly at a defenseless moment.

Why must we live in constant fear of these tormentors?

It must be acknowledged that there are other forms of intimidation that take a more subtle approach. One way a Scooter Demon shows his massive power is through his control of automobiles. In one particular case, a Scooter Demon decided to demonstrate his control through the immobilization of rush hour traffic in downtown Wenatchee. Sitting in a sea of idling cars, I saw a Scooter Demon rolling toward the two-lane one-way. The pedestrian traffic light blinked a bright red, demanding that he stay where he was. As cars flew by him, I could see the Scooter Demon preparing to shock us all with his power. Finally he had his chance. The light changed to a bright white walking signal, and it was then that he made his move. Slowly he inched forward, timidly taking a curb and smiling at the gentle jostle it created. And there he stayed. A few feet beyond the safety of the sidewalk, the Scooter Demon made his impression on every car within sight. He had stopped traffic, he had wielded his power in every way conceivable. No car could turn right, no car could move forward. The Scooter Demon remained perfectly calm and regal, as though he was sitting upon his royal throne, and we, his lowly court, were awaiting his instruction. He sat there, through the green light, through the yellow light, through the red light. And suddenly, tired of his own game, the Scooter Demon turned around, his flag soaring behind him in the same direction he came from.

I understood. We all understood. He did it, because he could.

I need to clean my room. Badly. I don’t know how it got this way, I swear it wasn’t me. I’ve decided that it must be the work of the evil gnome I kicked the other day walking out of Fred Meyer. It was just staring at me, with its unblinking plastic eyes, its stiff red hat, its gaudy gold belt. What was I supposed to do? Rationality would say, “Leave the gnome alone. It’s an inanimate object. Don’t be weird.” But my instincts told me to kick the stupid looking thing because it deserved it, for merely existing. It looks like he won…the bastard.

I think I’m going deaf in my left ear. It would make sense, it’s the ear I use the least…

My summer reading list has grown from a modest 10 books to a heaping 22. Can I still call it a summer reading list if it extends to next summer? Hmmm…Would I just have to call it s reading list? For some reason simply calling it a reading list doesn’t seem as fun, as dedicated, as ambitious. Not that it matters in the end, my admission of the existence of a summer reading list is usually met with looks of confusion or pity. I bet Oprah has one. That makes it cool, right?

Marta thinks I should take up photography. She says there is big money to be made in discovering normal, everyday objects that form the shapes of letters. For example a lamp post that looks like a “t”, a tree limb that looks like a “w”, a bike handle that looks like a “u”. But the more I search for them, armed with my CoolPix camera, the more I find myself saying, “That looks like a robot.” I wonder if people would pay money for fire hydrants that oddly look like robots…I know I would.

New Kids on the Block is experiencing a rebirth of sorts that has taken them from the abyss of normalcy and catapulted them to cruise ship appearances, headlining concerts, and a national tour.

And the people want them. No, the people crave them.

Not that I don’t understand, there is a certain element of youth and excitement that comes along with seeing someone you once idolized. I mean, I remember asking my sister Myra to buy their Christmas album “Merry, Merry Christmas” on tape, sneaking it into the tape deck, and waiting for my dad to turn on our blue Astro van so I could sing along to their harmonic voices. It was during summer vacation in Lake Tahoe. I was six.

I’ve changed since then. And apparently so have they.

Their songs are new, infused with current popular references to Grey’s Anatomy, incorporation of musical giants like Ne-Yo, or Akon in a pearl called “Put it on my Tab”, the appropriate lingo or “street talk”, and the hip use of digital music and the “talk box”, or as I like to call it, THE ROBOT VOICE. I know the songs, and in all honestly, they are not bad. In fact, if listened to with a discerning ear and an open mind, they’re catchy.

It’s not the old New Kids. This is the new and improved New Kids. The torn jeans and hats with the tops cut out have magically transformed into sharp black suits and fedoras. Lyrics like “please don’t go girl, you’ll be ruining my whole world” have changed to “I don’t care where we are, on the hood of my car, out in public, making love in the streets”.

I understand. They have progressed with our rapidly changing society. Sex sells. I get it. But, some music is untouchable. Whenever I hear an old song, I am automatically transported to my childhood. I’m six or seven years old standing center stage on a makeshift apple crate stage at the annual Mexican Fiesta talent show. My hair is parted into two long braids, my blunt bangs skim the top of my eyebrows, and I am chewing my bottom lip. I’m in my sunglasses, mismatched neon socks, and flamingo tee-shirt, waiting for my song to start. I push back the apprehension of knowing there are people watching. Watching ME. And then “The Right Stuff” starts to sound through the speakers and I start to dance. Without a care or any choreography, I throw every move I’ve ever learned, invented, or tried to mimic into my performance, whole-heartedly. I won first place that year.

Do I appreciate their new music? Sure. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sing along to “Single” featuring Ne-Yo, which is actually kind of a tight song. But, who they are now will never compare to what they were back then. At least for me. The six year old in me still wants to believe in the innocence of Christmas albums and corny ballads.

Yet…
Donnie continues to be the “bad boy”. Joey has the voice of an angel. Jordan is the hottest. And they still hide Danny and Jon in the back.

I guess some things never change…

The day began normally for a Saturday. I woke up lazily and stretched myself into awareness. I smiled because I had finished my book the night before, which meant that I could now celebrate by buying two more novels. I eased myself out of bed and walked into the hallway. “Good morning!” my Mom sang from the living room. “She’s chipper,” I mumbled, then quickly remembered she had been paid the day before. I would be chipper too if I had money in the bank.

“I was at Hastings the other day and I saw a book you might like. It’s about this woman who was married to some guy who had a lot of wives and she left but then she came back…you would like it. Get dressed, I’ll buy it.” She smiled, knowing that was exactly what I wanted to hear. I might not get that book, but I knew that I would be getting “a” book…and if I played my cards right, I might be able to sneak in another.

3 hours later: Hastings:

The drive over was incredibly annoying, the heat was pelting down on the car mercilessly. The conditioned air blowing at high was not sufficiently cold enough and I needed to get out. “Lets go, lets go!” I urged quickly, knowing the refreshing coolness that awaited me inside the double doors. Not to mention the overwhelming feeling of purpose and excitement I felt upon seeing row after row of books. All waiting for me.

We entered the building, and as I expected the air was crisp and revitalizing. “Third table over” she called to me as she moved toward the bored looking barista. I nodded and walked in the direction of the book tables, eyeing them carefully as I passed. I let my fingers slide over the covers that caught my attention, I’ll be back, I told them silently.
I knew instantly which book she was recommending and knew it wasn’t one I would be adding to my collection. But, I grabbed it and started to thumb through the pages, looking at the dated pictures in the middle. “What do you think?” she asked, looking at me expectantly. “Hmmm, it looks good, but maybe I’ll wait until it comes out in paperback.” I smiled. She shook her head and chuckled, “Well, get something you like then. You always read such weird books. Get two if you want.” I grinned and headed for the Classical Lit section.

1.5 hours later: Red Robin:

“Will there be anything else?” the waitress chirped. “Nope, I think we’re good, thanks,” I answered. Today has been a great day, I thought to myself, free books, free lunch, great Mom. “Ready?” she asked, pulling herself from the booth. “Yep,” I said, following behind her. Making our way to the door I could tell she was tired and limping slightly. I remembered she had forgotten to take her pain pill before we had left the house. After her open heart surgery in February she had been taken off of her arthritis medication and had been in pain since then. We reached the door and I saw her struggling to heave it open, her small frame losing a battle against the metal and glass. I’ll take care of that, I thought. “Here, let me help,” I insisted. I pushed the door open above her head. I felt something under foot…

It all happened so quickly, yet I could see it unfolding in slow motion! I saw her stumble, her arms flailing to catch something, anything, to regain her balance. My arms stretched forward in an attempt to catch her. One knee went first, then the other. Her arms plunged ahead to brace the impact. “Maggie, help!” she cried. I could hear the pain in her voice as I bent to help her up. “Wait, wait!” she yelped. The grimace on her face told me all I needed to know. Panic swelled up inside and I found myself staring at her, sitting on the floor of the Red Robin vestibule. My mind started racing, who do I call, what do I do? “Is she okay?” a voice sounded behind me. I looked over my shoulder and recognized the hostess. “Ummmmm…” I didn’t know what to say. Should I tell her what happened? I could imaging the look on her face as I explained, “Well, hostess lady, I was helping my mom through the door and guess what, funny story, I stepped on the back of her flip flop and almost killed her.”

40 minutes later: Wenatchee Valley Clinic Emergency Room:

“I’msosorry, I’msosorry, I’msosorry,” I muttered as she sat in a wheelchair waiting for the nurse to take her in. I glanced at her knees, swollen and bleeding, crippled, all because I had stepped on her flip flop and had maimed her. I felt like a criminal. The worst kind of criminal. A criminal who beats up poor defenseless people and waits around to see the carnage. “So, what happened?” the nurse inquired. I looked down in shame, my face melting from the heat of embarrassment. “I tripped her walking out of Red Robin,” I disclosed softly. “I’msosorry.” My mom grabbed my hand and squeezed it, “Accidents happen.” I felt my eyes start to burn and tears began to form. My mother, so much the angel, the saint, that even in her pain and discomfort felt the need to make sure I was okay. The nurse smirked and teased, “Well, you could have had a worst last meal.” Bitch. This wasn’t a time for jokes. This was serious. I had done some irreversible damage. Her kneecaps could be shattered. She might have to have surgery…again! And this nurse was making jokes? My mom laughed, “ Then I guess I should have had the fries.”

Epilogue:

Every person who walked into my mom’s room today asked what happened. It was my burden, my punishment, that I had to answer them honestly and incriminate myself as a potential murderess. The guilt was palpable as I looked at my mother on the hospital bed. The more she laughed, the worse I felt. But as I see at her now, limping around the house, knees bandaged up, back hunched over, her sternum scar peaking out from the top of her shirt, I realize that as dangerous as I might be, it’s going to take more than a flip flop debacle to take this woman down…

Here. A preview.

1. Romantic Comedy would be a required course for all students. It is important that people know how to act uncomfortable and slightly awkward in front of people they find attractive. It would include an avid study of Hugh Grant films, such as the shenanigans of “Two Weeks Notice”, or his travel book loveliness in “Notting Hill”. “Love Actually” and “Bridget Jones” will be studied in depth.

.. ..2. All people must first consult GOOGLE for the answers to life and love before they ask other people. Google has the ability to give you every answer you had ever hoped to know. How do you know if you are in love? When is the world going to end? How do you reset your iPod? Does the tooth fairy exist? What is sexual tension, and how do you know its there? Google has the answers. Just ask.

.. ..3. There would be a 24 hour channel that showed only reruns of Conan O’Brian. Hornymanatee.com. Genius.

.. ..4. Every household would have to have a pet fish. Only one fish. And every fish will be named Blimpty. If one Blimpty dies, another must be bought to replace it. It too will be called Blimpty and the death of previous Blimpty should be ignored. Blimpty will never have an “official” death. In essence, it will live forever.

5. All people must drive Dodge Neons. They will form neighborhood DNG’s (Dodge Neon Gangs) and protect the streets from criminal activity. It will be legal to street race rival DNG’s for gangsta credit.

.. ..6. Swaying and waving your hands in the air will be outlawed. There is no reason that ANYONE should sway and wave their hands in the air. No reason at all.

.. ..7. Ed Norton would be named President of Hollywood. He would have no actual duties or power, but he would have all of the prestige that accompanies the title. I think he is amazing…therefore he will be awarded accordingly…
..

8. All normal newscasters will be replaced by people in clown suits. If we have to hear horrible news on a daily basis, Clowns should be the ones to deliver it…
..

9. Dell Financial Services will be eliminated, and all debt erased. .. ..

10. DJs are NO LONGER allowed to talk in remix tracks. All they do is remix the song… then they spend the rest of the song saying “DJ E-Z Doz It! Remix! This is the Remix!”…yeah I know it’s a remix. Want to know how I know? Because it doesn’t sound like the original song…it sounds like a remix.

Confused?

An example:

There is someone who you know, you have had conversations with this person, exchanged information, some personal, some small-talk. Then some time has lapsed and you don’t see that person. All communication has stopped. Then, out of the blue, you see him cruising the classics section of the bookstore. He looks up. And in that exact moment, you have to decide if you know him, or if you want to have friendship amnesia. Without missing a beat you turn your eyes and continue on. You have friendship amnesia, and it’s 100% undoable.

I don’t really know where I was going with this….

Recently I’ve been having vivid Fred Meyer flashbacks. A song, a lipstick tube, a badly made sweater, or the squeak of a shopping cart wheel will trigger a rush of memories.

I blink and I am suddenly dressed in black from head to toe, my name tag hanging crookedly from my shirt and I am covered in cardboard particles. I am staring a customer straight in the eyes, feeling scared, totally confounded, and utterly unable to answer her question. She thrusts a pair of organic bamboo socks at me, looking at me expectantly. Nervously I fumble them and they drop to the floor. I stoop to pick the socks up, terrified that I can’t remember what she asked me. When I rise, I’m in the check-out stand, watching a woman shove a roasted chicken, Gain detergent, and a can of olives onto the moving belt. She starts to scream at me, “You forgot to put the coupon in, the chicken is supposed to be 20 cents less, how could you forget to put the fucking coupon in?” My heart starts to race and I feel sweat starting to bead on my bright red forehead.

The sound of a can hitting against the sides of an empty shopping cart jolts me into the present. I’m back, standing in the condiments aisle in Safeway.