May 21th, 2001 Note the trademark symbol in my feature title below. Yeah, I know it's already a movie, and that they beat me to coining the phrase, and that even that's a shameless rip-off from The Flintstones' theme. I guess I just wanted to see if any legal battles would ensue if I claimed ownership. I think I'm just bored. I just graduated, and now I'm home. I'm also grounded. But hey, while I have you here, the least I can do is tell you about my folks. Okay? Fine, lets... Meet the Parents™ By Gary "Miguel" This is Miguel and Linda. They're not my real parents. I wanted to use real photos, except that because of their being evil and undead, my parents don't reflect light. In place of real parents, I uploaded my picture to an online reverse-compositor (you may know it as a "forensic decompositor") and it kicked back these folks, and so I guess that'll do. I get an 89% match-up with Miguel, who, like me, enjoys karaoke, horseback riding, and "getting out of prison." "Linda" Gary sells his mother's things on eBay Linda and I are a 97% match, which makes her more my real mom than my real mom. I know this because of a gene test I had done. Okay, a gene test they had done, but I was all for it. Alright, I wasn't all for it, but at least I was supportive about it. Okay fine. I hated the whole thing. I kept crying and crying that they were my real parents and that I couldn't believe they were asking some doctor we didn't know to prove it. I know they were just pissed off at me for selling all their clothes on eBay. God, they have NO sense of humor. At least I got a few good right hooks in on the doctor before his nurse jumped me and beat me unconscious. When I woke up, they told me that the people I thought were my real parents, in fact were. Actually, my father told me, and he said it like this: Biological father: "Ah Jesus, he woke up." Biological offspring: "Papa?" Biological papa: "You're one-hundred percent sure he's mine?" Doctor: "I'm just telling you what the machine told me." BioDad: "Ah Jesus." BioMom: "C'mon Greg, we're going home." BioGary: "Yay! Can we stop for ice cream!? oh, and my name's 'Gary.'" BioPops: "Ah Jesus..." I've only been home for about a week, and already the troubles have started. I don't know what these people expect. It's high expectations that have left me unable to function in the real world. Well, that and about 14 years of art college. They can't believe that after all that time and money, I still can't draw, and that I think our president is Ronald Reagan. To make up for all these shortcomings, I've been bending over backwards trying to prove to them that I'm really creative and useful, despite my short attention span, inability to control my arms and hands with any accuracy, night tremors, hip dysphasia, and bedwetting. NOTHING I do is right. And YES, I AGREE with most of what they say, but I can't be held responsible for everything that goes wrong, especially when I'm just trying to help. The pressure washer has NO warnings of any kind anywhere on it that it can't be used in a kitchen. Same thing with the leafblower. And I don't even want to talk about the whole "Buick Riding Mower" fiasco. That was just a waste of gas, duct tape, and front lawn. Surveying what I must mow Speaking of lawns, ours is enormous. I live in Endless Nasty Woods, New Jersey, and for whatever reason that I can only assume is a side effect of being undead, my folks feel an abnormal need to keep ALL of it well-manicured. Maybe this is normal. I wouldn't know. Florida, with it's "subtropical" taglines sounds in many ways as though it would be filled with wildlife, and that I'd need a machete to hack my way to school and back home each day. This couldn't be further from the truth. The Florida I have come to know and love, and was only just recently yanked from, is essentially indoors. It's easily about as natural as Michael Jackson. I'm serious. The lawns are all plastic, and riding lawn mowers don't have blades, they have 'grass polishers.' If you leave your G.I. Joe's in the way of dad's tractor, you don't lose them. You get them back all shiny and new. The mayor of my city has even begun enclosing our highways in tunnels, and erecting an enormous dome over top of us. It's all just an effort to increase the quality of life for Florida's wealth of senior citizens. These are people who want it 80 degrees all the time, but simply can't afford to move to Hawaii. As far as biting members of the animal kingdom go, the Florida I know has none. No gators, no mosquitoes, even the dogs are all like friendly robots of good will. New Jersey, however, has mosquitoes the SIZE of gators, and the smallest dogs around here are Rottweilers that can mature from birth into evil undead monsters overnight! I've never been bitten so much in my life. Everything here bites me. You don't believe me? I'm typing this friggin' feature with a pencil held between my teeth! I'm in traction, and I can't bend my arms! I can't feel my legs!!! hmm... maybe. no precursors... I don't know... I guess I'm still upset about this lawn thing. I'm not sure if it's just commercials and movies, or if there really is some inborn thing in men to want to take care of a lawn, and make it the "best damn lawn in the whole neighborhood." They're always out there raking, seeding, mowing, or in the case of Florida, simply polishing... Is my father right? Am I gay? I've thought about it, and it just confuses me more and more. The only real differences in the dynamics between a straight man and a woman, and a gay man and a woman, as far as I can tell, is a question of precursors. To a gay man, there are no precursors where women are involved. If he's talking to a woman, it's just because talking is fun. It's not going anywhere. To a straight man, it's always going somewhere. Talking is a precursor to hugging. Hugging, a precursor to kissing, which is a precursor to ripping each other's clothes off and waking the neighbors. All of this is of course, a precursor to marriage, which having no precursors in and of itself, is a precursor to divorce, after which he'll begin searching for a new girl to hug. Of course, gay men tend to talk to a woman for awhile, and then hug her, but that's usually a precursor to leaving, thereby stepping over all the other stages in between. I thought about all this, letting it pass between both halves of my brain, like a tennis match in the mind between gay and straight... I guess it's why I didn't even notice that I was neglecting my chores: Dad: Jesus, what are you doin' out there! Gary: my name is Gary! Dad: You're supposed to be mowin' the lawn! Gary: I finished! Dad: Why do I still hear it runnin'? Gary: Well I guess I just forgot to turn it off! Dad: Is that comin' from the garage!? Gary: Look, I finished your damn lawn, I'm sorry I forgot one thing! Dad: This isn't mowed, you missed spots all over the place! Gary: Oh, well I guess you're gonna tell me more about mowing in rows! Dad: It's simple! You go up in a straight line, and back in another! Gary: Well maybe I don't wanna follow your fascist mowing regime, pig! Dad: What WERE you following, a fucking bottle rocket!? Gary: I was following my heart! I was mowing interpretively, you ass! Dad: Mother... get me my shotgun. This is how most of our talks go. She usually gets him the gun, too. It's not like I'm scared of him. He's not going to really use it on his only child. Ha ha. She even loaded it for him once. I'm just remembering now... But I know he's not really going to shoot me. That's what makes it so funny. I laugh and laugh and laugh. I even remember once she told him that he still had the safety on, just so he knew, in case he really wanted to kill me. But he didn't really fire at me. It was above me, and to the left some. "EVERYBODY TANGO!" Dad: And I told you to pick up all the sticks first! Mom: Here's your gun, father... Dad: ...why are you lining 'em all up on the lawn like that? Gary: I'm sorry, I was making art again. Dad: Wait a minute, what kind of art...? Gary: uuuh.. I don't know... Dad: Boy, you better tell me, and if I don't like what I hear... Gary: ...you'll start shooting, I know... Dad: That's right, now what is this? Gary: ummm, it's a scene from Braveheart? Dad: You didn't see Braveheart! Gary: Yes I did I really really liked it! Dad: That movie was too manly for you, sissy boy! Gary: No, I can prove it! This is when they paint their faces blue! Dad: Well... you got that part right... Go on... Gary: ...and they all wear little... skirts... and then they... dance? Dad: I KNEW IT! You son of a bitch. WHAT ARE THESE STICKS FOR!!? Gary: ALRIGHT, I was reenacting my favorite scene from A Chorus Line! Dad: A Chorus WHAT!? Gary: I WAS PRETENDING TO BE CHOREOGRAPHER MICHAEL BENNETT, so THERE! Dad: Start runnin'... Oh no! I think my parents just pulled in the driveway. Time to upload this feature and pretend I was lifting weights. I've only got a few more days of this, and then it's back to my old sweet land of indoor/outdoor carpeting. I never thought I'd miss Florida so much! Uh oh, gotta go!