Marvin Should Have His Own TV Show

Sometimes you witness encounters that defy expectation. You find people interacting in ways you never anticipated. You observe unique individuals coming into contact with other unique individuals resulting in utterly unpredictable scenarios. Something along the lines of a Hari Krishna giving directions to a midwestern pipe fitter outside of a San Francisco hotel.

Well, I witnessed one of those firsthand the other evening. Without a doubt, it was the highlight of my evening.

I left Farmer Brown's at about 10:15 on that Thursday evening. I was well lubricated with the drinks I'd imbibed with my cousin and his girlfriend and a woman I've gone out with a few times. Drinks had been drunk for going on about four hours and I was feeling no pain. After wandering down Market Street for a of couple blocks, I strolled into the Powell Street BART station. Inserted my fare card into the turnstile which opened with an audible "swoosh-clunk". Looking around, I simultaneously noted the absence of anyone else in the station and the dizziness that resulted from turning my head side to side. After contemplating the possible implications of both, I proceeded to the stairs and descended to the train platform below. I don't know if I ever appreciated a railing like I appreciated the one on those stairs.

Reaching the bottom, I was greeted by the familiar sight of any train station in the country. Cold cement floors. Posters advertising movies and tv shows and sporting events and improved cell phone coverage. A schedule and a map with a rainbow of colored train lines imposed on a simple, easy to read map. And an utter diversity of people. Businessmen and laborers. Young and old. Students and teachers and travelers and preachers. Social and racial diversity that could rival any jury room. And on this night, I was blessed with the opportunity to witness a bit of economic diversity as well.

As I stopped at the black marks on the floor that signaled where the doors to my car would open, a group of six older people walked up behind me. They were dressed in expensive evening wear with overcoats and scarves and furs and broaches and the like. And out of the three men and three women, two of them were carrying orchids. As if the rest of their presentation wasn't descriptive enough, there were two blossoming metaphors for high society staring me in the face. Their discussion was focused on the opera they had apparently just seen and they seemed to have enjoyed it as all of them agreed that the lead soprano was a burgeoning star. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why they were taking BART instead of driving or taking a cab. Maybe they were conducting an experiment for one of the college classes they taught. Maybe they lost a bet.

And then, as I saw him approaching, a smile crept across my face.

Walking up to us was a homeless man who could have been anywhere from 35 to 60. His hands looked callused and worked. His jeans had gone from the blue of their beginnings to a color that reminded me of the SF bay. His red shirt hung loosely off of his thin frame and left a portion of his stomach exposed where a hole was burned into the material. But his face was smiling. He was talking to everyone he passed and his wrinkled, dusty brown face was dominated by that grin. As he got closer, he noticed the group beside me and focused all of his attention there.

"Hey, can y'all help me out? My name's Marvin and my wife's been kidnapped. I need 75 cents to get her out. Any of you got 75 cents? Yah ha ha ha!" He was as pleased with his invention as I was with what was inevitably unveiling before me. The three couples shifted and turned as they attempted to ignore Marvin.

"Seriously, folks, y'all got any change? I got some jokes for you. I don't expect to get somethin' for nothin'" The group kept up its absurd pretense of ignorance.

"Aight, here's the first one. What time is bedtime at Michael Jackson's house? When the little hand's big -- I mean when the little hand's on the big hand! Oooh hoo hahaha!" Marvin's cackle echoed through the station.

At this point the group could pretend no longer. Marvin was right in front of one of the men and eye contact had been made. Not wanting to miss even a little bit of this exchange, I took out my phone and pressed "record" to get an audio file of it all. All that I was missing was a couch and a bowl of popcorn. The show continued.

"You like that one? I got more of 'em . . . Uhhh, yeah . . . Ummm, here's one. Why'd Michael Jackson go to Macy's?"

The man in the group finally acknowledged Marvin by responding, "I don't know."

"Because his pants were off-- uhh, wait a minute, that's not it. Because kid's pants were half off! Ahahahah! 'Cause the kid's pants are off and Michael likes those boys, ahahahaha! You like that one?"

An uncomfortable smile appeared on the man's face as he offered an ambiguous response, not wanting to agree and not wanting to offend. Seriously, I was as riveted to this scene as I'd ever been to an episode of the Sopranos or Lost or any of that other crap. This was awesome.

"You wanna hear another one? I've got a whole bunch of 'em. I keep 'em in my folder here. Y'all like these jokes?" His enthusiasm would have put Robin Williams to shame. Not waiting for any encouragement, Marvin proceeded, "What did the man say to Michael Jackson at the beach?"

Engaging Marvin more than I anticipated, the opera afficianado said, "Well, I assume that the answer will have ironic significance so I cannot possibly know." Was this guy trying to portray the cliche of pretention? My only solace was in the fact that Marvin didn't miss a beat.

"Get out of my sun! Ahahahahah! Not like the sun in the sky! Oooh hooo hahahah! Like get your dick out of my son! Hahahahaha! I like that one." The smile returned to my face as Marvin continued laughing and describing what was so funny about the last joke. He certainly wasn't bashful.

Then the man who was the acknowledged representative for the group decided to really class things up. He made a chivalrous move backwards and slid in behind his wife, using her as a shield against future vulgarities. It was special. I mean, the guy was so uncomfortable that he was willing to sacrifice his own wife in order to extricate himself. And there she sat, with a horrified, confused look on her face. Marvin reiterated his need for 75 cents in ransom money to the woman and kept on laughing as, to the woman's relief, he decided to move on to another more receptive audience.

I hit "stop" on my phone and sat there for a moment contemplating what I had just witnessed. Then I noticed an Indian man, about my own age, standing next to me smiling.

"That was pretty amusing, wasn't it?" he said.

"The highlight of my night. And I got almost all of it recorded for future enjoyment." I held up my phone and smiled as I said this.

"And I thought you were holding it out to your side trying to get reception down here."

"Just trying to preserve a bit of real life."

The train arrived cutting our conversation short. It was a nice reality check, though, to know that others out there find these interactions as amusing as I do. Seriously, it was better than any movie I've seen in a while. I'm just mad that my phone doesn't record video. Fuck Kenny vs. Spenny or Survivor, Marvin should have his own reality show.

Gary vs the Key-tar

Don't tell me there is more of a rocker on the planet earth....ladies and gents....Gary Grr....vs the Key-tar.

All Hallow's Eve

Last night I found myself staying in. I wasn't terribly interested in getting trashed on a Wednesday night and certainly wasn't inspired to dress up. I blame it on the unstoppable passage of time and the effect it seems to have on my life. Not that getting older has impaired my ability to suck down liquor or anything. It's just that I don't need to search for reasons to party it up anymore and Halloween sounded like more trouble than it was worth. Plus I'm already doing a costume party this coming weekend.

So, there I was, sitting on my couch watching tv and sipping on a beer when the doorbell rang. A moment of panic passed through me as I contemplated who could be at the door and then it hit me. Of course, it was trick-or-treaters. Kids excited about the prospect of free candy, maybe even a full sized bar if they were lucky. But, unfortunately, this was not gonna be a lucky house. During my contemplation of how to spend my Halloween evening, I hadn't even considered buying a sack full of candy to hand out to the little pirates and ninjas and Dora-the-explorers. And might I ask, in what warped world does "Dora" rhyme with "explorer"? Unless your in the Kennedy household.

Nevertheless, there I was. In my house with three kids on my front porch awaiting their bounty. I stayed perfectly still and gradually turned down the volume on the TV until it was a barely audible hum. They knocked again. Tiny fists pounding on the wood and glass of my door like a cacophony of woodpeckers. Persistent beyond reason. I sat there deciding whether it was prudent to answer the door and apologize for my lack of preparation or to simply pretend I wasn't home. Pretend I wasn't home despite the lights shining through the blinds and the changing volume of the television. It seemed like a better approach than answering the door and either giving out something lame in place of candy or explaining my predicament. I have a distinct memory of approaching a similar house when I was a young and knocking on the door despite an utter lack of light from the front porch. After waiting for at least 60 seconds, a man came to the door with a slightly panicked look on his face and unrolled something out of his shirt and into my bag. I left, satisfied that I had successfully gained more candy only to find out that the guy had given me a tin of tumeric. That's right. Turmeric. I mean, who the hell comes up with turmeric when trying to find a suitable substitute for candy? Turmeric? Really? Perhaps that's why my mom subsequently sent the cops to his house.

But suddenly I was able to empathize with that guy's actions and understand why he made such an odd choice. He was sitting there, unwittingly unprepared for Halloween when the doorbell rang. He panicked and grabbed the first thing that seemed vaguely appropriate. And, now, there I was as well. I chuckled to myself as I perused the spice rack while searching for a bit of sweets. And then, in a rare moment of clarity and maturity, I decided to answer the door and apologize for my lack of holiday enthusiasm. I walked across my living room to the entryway, turned the knob and swung the door open only to find the front porch utterly empty. A subtle smell of half eaten almond joy still hung in the air. The kids had been unwilling to wait for me to find my candy or make it to the door or to do whatever else it is that makes us grown ups dawdle. Or maybe they'd just already filled out their spice collections.

Stupid Ambition

I have this friend. Well, actually, he's my cousin. We grew up blocks apart from each other and spent our entire childhoods together. Family gatherings, summer vacations, school, parties, you name it. It was a blessing to have a cousin who was also my best friend. If nothing else, it certainly made family gatherings more palatable. The thing is, though, we are remarkably different people. And our differences are most noticeable when examining each of our respective approaches to responsibility.

Today was another day of TV watching, smoking and wandering around Oakland. Sure, I spent about 45 minutes perusing job listings and even revised my resume a bit, but the majority of my day was spent trying to get as little done without thinking about the implications of how little I was getting done. Lethargy has become effortless. Wait, I suppose it always was. Regardless, I'm a pro. I was just finishing the Price is Right when I got a call from my cousin.

"Hey, Pat. How's it goin'?"

"I'm just fine. Getting ready to go to the library to do a little work." This, of course, was a blatant lie.

"Nice. I've been real busy lately. I was in the office until about 10 o'clock last night."

"That's rough. I don't know how you keep that up. You have any plans for the end of the week and the weekend?"

"Well, I've been working on a job application for the federal public defender and I want my resume and cover letter to be good. I'll spend some time on that. Also gonna go into the office a bit on Sunday after I play volleyball in the park. How about you?"

"Uhh, I'm gonna have some drinks with friends on Friday night. Think I'll play some basketball Saturday and then go over to Brian's place for dinner and drinks." The basketball was an exaggeration. At most, I would focus on my Playstation skills (my thumbs are the envy of the gaming community). The parts involving drinking, however, were entirely true.

"Nice."

"You feel like getting a drink this evening?"

"I would, but I've gotta focus on this application a bit. Plus, I've got my Spanish conversation group tonight."

". . . right. Spanish conversation group."

"Cool. Well, talk to you later."

"Later."

I've determined that, although I love this cousin of mine, interaction with him tends to do little more than highlight my tendencies towards apathy. I find myself detailing days of productivity that never occurred. Telling him all of the things I should be doing as if I was really doing them. I rarely mention Bob Barker's lustrous silver hair. Nor the unlikely fact that the second showcase is always better than the first. I mean, what would you rather have, a trailer camper and a living room set which has apparently been in the PIR stockroom since 1978 or two brand new Dodge Chargers and a trip to Tahiti? I've written to the producers to ask if this is a matter of blind chance or one of intention but am still waiting for a response.

The thing is, I really don't understand the mindset that inspires the kind of dedication my cousin has. How do you decide that, although you could sit around all day smoking and drinking and playing golf and poker and video games, you'd rather get that assignment that's due next month out of the way? For me, an evening of ping pong will always prevail over an evening proofreading and editing my latest cover letter. Perhaps I need to write that letter before I can edit it anyways. In spite of all this, though It's a damn good thing that he's in my life because once I do take that next productive step, it'll be awfully nice to have an accomplished attorney around to write me a recommendation.

Why Meeting Someone Wouldn't Suck:

10. Two for one Wednesdays at the Parkway.
9. While my eyes do have a blue sparkle to them, gazing into them in the mirror doesn't have quite the right effect.
8. I keep on tying myself at Scrabble.
7. Despite what some may say, sitting on your hand until it falls asleep and giving yourself a "stranger" isn't terribly convincing.
6. There's this uncomfortable zit on my back I just can't seem to reach.
5. I think my body pillow's starting to feel a bit abused.
4. There's something a little creepy about a candle lit dinner for one.
3. Dirty texting's not quite the same with my guy friends. For some reason, they've stopped calling me.
2. Picking out all of my own clothes is exhausting.
1. People keep telling me about this happiness and fulfillment thing. I'm pretty sure they're lying, but it may be worth a shot.

A Day in the Office

In my work, I occasionally have the privilege of taking part in depositions. I'm sure most of you know what a deposition is but, in an effort at condescension, I will explain. A deposition is a way for an attorney to obtain sworn testimony prior to a trial. The lawyer asks questions and the witness or party answers those questions under oath. There's a court reporter and everything and both sides end up with a transcript of the whole thing. It's a fairly important part of a lawsuit and they occur routinely so most attorneys have developed a little spiel they give to their clients prior to being deposed. Just preparing them for what will be happening and what will be expected of them. I make it as straightforward as possible but there have been occasions when it didn't go as smoothly as I had hoped. This one happened about a week ago:

ME: OK, so you’re going to be deposed tomorrow. As you know, this involves the other attorney asking you questions which you have to answer under oath. Now, I’ll be there to object to any improper questions and to make sure everything goes smoothly, but there’s only so much I can interfere. In the end, it’s gonna be opposing counsel asking questions and you answering them. So, I’ve got a few basic ground rules that we’ll go over now. OK?

CLIENT: Is there gonna be a bible or something that I have to swear on?

ME: No, nothing like that. But the oath does mean that you will be testifying under penalty of perjury. That’s important and that’s why we’re going over these ground rules.We want to be sure you’re truthful without offering unnecessary testimony.

CLIENT: No bible, though.

ME: No, no bible.

CLIENT: OK. So long as there’s no bible.

ME: Uhh, ok. Right. No bible . . . So, the first and most important rule relates to how you answer a question. For any question asked, you should try to respond with one of four answers: “Yes”, “No”, “I don’t know” or “I don’t remember.” These answers will be sufficient for 90% of the questions asked. They’re important because they provide a truthful answer without providing the other attorney with additional information. Does this all make sense?

CLIENT: Sure.

ME: So, what are the possible answers you can give?

CLIENT: Yes, No, I don’t know, I don’t remember.

ME: Great. Let’s try a few practice questions and answers.
Are you a resident of Oakland, California?

CLIENT: Yes.

ME: Good. Were you driving your car on the evening of October 4, 2006?

CLIENT: Well, I was for part of the night but my wife was for part of it –

ME: –remember, you’re only answering with yes, no, I don’t know or I don’t remember if possible. Were you driving your car on the evening of October 4, 2006?

CLIENT: I don’t remember.

ME: . . .

CLIENT: That’s one of ‘em, right?

ME: Yes. Yes, that is one of the options. But what I need you to do is to choose the option which is the most truthful. You can’t just choose one of the four responses randomly. They have to be truthful answers. Remember, this testimony is being given under penalty of perjury.

CLIENT: But maybe I don’t remember. That could happen. Maybe I don’t remember if I was driving or not.

ME: If you don’t remember something, that answer is fine. This question is about who was driving the car the night of the accident, though. It’s what the entire lawsuit is about. If there’s something you don’t remember, you should answer that you don’t remember. If you do remember, though, you should give a truthful answer.

CLIENT: But maybe I don’t remember. I could maybe not remember something like that.

ME: . . . Yes, that is possible. But you do remember. This was the night that you totaled your car and your wife almost died. Let’s try again. Do you remember driving the car on the evening of October 4, 2006?

CLIENT: Sure. We had just left a party at my buddy’s.

ME: . . .

CLIENT: Yes.

ME: Do you see why answering “yes” is a better option?

CLIENT: Sure. There's definitely not going to be a bible or anything though, right?

ME: . . . no . . . no bible.

It's What We've Renamed "Tay-Tay"

My brother and I are close these days. We talk about books and our family and our lives and our hobbies and our dating. And lately, we've been talking about ping pong. You see, we grew up playing the game (sport? leisure activity? effective method for never having a girlfriend?). There was a table in our house when we were young and, more importantly, we would play for hours a day during our annual summer trips to tahoe meadows. There were two green tables set up at the beach and you simply couldn't convince us that there was anywhere better to be. They were located up in the sand behind the main house and we would hoo ride our janky bikes up to them every morning. The first order of business was fighting to see who would have to play on the table with roots protruding from the ground at your feet. It wasn't an aesthetic preference or even one of balance. Rather, it was the desire to not repeatedly stub your shoeless toes inevitably resulting in a bruised, if not bloody, foot. Even that risk was worth the reward of winning a game or two, though. And there we'd sit for hours and hours. Sure, we'd occasionally venture into the water and we had some brief stints with volleyball, but ping pong remained a faithful, reliable source of entertainment for years and years.

Then I stopped playing. I grew into adolescence and we stopped going to the meadows. The table at home eventually warped from exposure and was discarded just like the mini pool table and tire swing before it. I can just imagine a graveyard of youthful accessories somewhere. A rusted tether ball pole bent around the remnants of a jungle gym, a shredded slip and slide draped over the top forming a crude shelter. Flat, faded red kickballs strewn about like shrapnel in a war zone, the heads of barbies and cabbage patch kids torn from their bodies and stained from dirt and grime. And my ping pong table sitting amongst it all, abandoned. My days of wielding that red and black paddle a distant memory. In time, I actually forgot how much I enjoyed playing. Sure, there was the occasional game during college at the student union or in the game room of that massive house I looked after for a week during law school. But the passion was gone and my drive to play was nonexistent.

Then my brother decided to revive the drive. He discovered that a friend of his in Brooklyn was a closet ping pong fan as well. After a few nights spent regaling each other with tales of past ping pong hegemony, they sought out and found a local club where they could play. After the first game, he was hooked again. He began going on a weekly basis and, more importantly, started describing the feeling of playing again to me. He painted a picture so vivid that I could feel the heft of the paddle in my hand and hear the pop of the ball off of the table. He reached a point where he could no longer call it ping pong. At this level of dedication, you are playing the sport of table tennis. And, at that point, I knew I was destined to reassociate myself and to become a true devotee. The only question was, who was I going to play with and where would this reinvention of my table tennis career take place?

Well, the who was not a terribly difficult problem to parse out. As it turns out, I have a solid 6 friends who have similar pasts with and proclivities for table tennis. Friends who had tables growing up or played at camp or school or wherever. Regardless of where the desire originated, I had a solid core of enthusiasts who would encourage my dream of playing again. The where, however, took a little more time. I searched for local clubs for a while only to be disappointed by their lack of organization or by the inability to get on a table with a friend of mine. Then, one night, my friend had an epiphany. It was around 4 in the morning after a night out. Brian and I were sitting on my couch theorizing on who would whoop who's ass if we finally found somewhere to play. The typical bullshitting that accompanies drunken late night Tiger Woods. I noticed Brian's eyes skirting around the room and saw a slight smile creep across his face as an idea developed in his head. Then, he turned to me and made the statement that would define our future table tennis career: "You know, a ping pong table would fit right here in your living room . . ." The idea seemed preposterous at first. But steadily its truth became apparent. We got up and stood at opposite ends of my carpet, pantomiming a game to see just how realistic it was. I looked up the dimensions of a table and we confirmed his theory with a tape measure. Indeed, a table would fit nicely right in my living room. But, a ping pong table in my living room? Did I dare to push the limits of interior decorating to such an extent?

It didn't take me long to realize that fate had handed me an opportunity and to embrace that opportunity wholeheartedly. In a matter of days, a week at the most, I found a table on craigslist. I borrowed a friend's truck (on the promise that he'd get the first game against me), went out to SF and picked up the disassembled apparatus. Took it home and laid it all out on my living room floor. Within a matter of 15 minutes, I had reassembled the table and turned it upright in the center of my carpet. Now, although I was virtually creaming my panties from the excitement of having my own table, I also was coherent enough to appreciate the absurdity of what I had done. I had a 9 foot by 5 foot ping pong table in the middle of my living room. A centerpiece that few, if any, had contemplated. A green monstrosity that consumed the majority of my open living space. I couldn't help myself as I started to laugh and laugh and laugh. Laughing at myself and at the game and at my friends and brother for encouraging this move. Laughing at the cliche of a bachelor that I had become. Laughing at the knowledge that I was going to fill that room with eager, competitive friends who would play for hours. Who would fill my living room with the pop of the ball off of the paddle, the thump of feet hitting the floor trying to save a slam and the shit talking that would inevitably ensue.

That same night it began and it hasn't stopped since. Late nights just become later when you have a table tennis table in your living room. Especially when you create a spreadsheet to keep track of everyone's record. It's a game, it's a lifestyle, it's what we've renamed Tay-Tay. But, there will be more on that later.






Not the best rally in the world, but the only evidence I have so far.