March 3 , 2003

Today is the day to eat pierogis

Not that Opium Magazine doesn't always kick proverbial ass, but this month, it does so especially hard. That's because it's being edited by one of my favorite people in the world, Mike Sacks. It behooves you to read it. You will laugh and laugh, and then laugh some more.

We all have those times, even if we're known for being charming, sweet, polite, quiet. You open your big fat mouth and suddenly you've insulted a person, maybe a culture or even the infirm. But one thing always makes us feel better: hearing when other people do it.

Foot-in-Mouth Disease

Kristi Plamann:
Back in high school, I was staying after school, working on some debate stuff with a guy on the team. He asked me to get him a pencil. I replied, "You've got two legs. Go get it yourself." This guy was in an accident as a child, and part of his leg was taken off. That leg is a prosthetic - so technically he doesn't have two legs. He gave me a look, got up and found a pencil. I was mortified. That's what I get for speaking in cliches.

A.J. Daulerio:
I worked at a hotel bar down the Jersey shore for a couple summers in college. On the weekends, they'd have these awful cover bands come in to entertain the middle-aged drunk, white people in khaki shorts. The sound guys for these dopey bands would usually come in around 3:00 p.m. to start setting up the gear, which was usually the same time I came in to start setting up the bar(read: wipe down some bottles, make myself a drink, smoke 86 cigarettes). Anyway, the soundguy for The Flamin' Harry Band was snooping around behind the DJ booth looking for some sort of circuit breaker or something and he asked if I knew where the switch for the main floor lights were. Now, I was behind the bar and this guy was behind the DJ booth so I could only see the top half of him from his shoulders up. When he asked me about the light switch I was trying to be funny and told him not to worry about the switches because all of the stage lights were hooked up to The Clapper. Well, the sound guy came out from behind the booth and it turned out that he was missing an arm. Immediately realizing the insensitivity of my joke, I decided that the best way to get out of it was to really act like the lights were triggered by The Clapper. So, I looked at the stage and with as straight a face I could muster at that point, proceeded to clap. The sound guy was looking up at the lights also hoping for my sake that the lights were really going to magically start to flicker thanks to my moronic, seal-like clapping exhibition. Well, after a couple of extremely awkward minutes with both of us staring at the stage, I stopped. He went back to searching behind the DJ booth and I went back to wiping bottles and poured myself a shot.

Claire B.:
In my high school Statistics class I sat next to this boy I adored. He was kind, smart and funny and we both shared the sentiment that watching grass grow was a thousand times more interesting than boxplots and standard deviations. Together we sat in the back row, faking our data and discussing early In Living Color skits.

One day we got onto the topic of evolution and I began to spout about how stupid Creationism was. Then I decided to go further and wonder aloud how dumb it was for Creationists to go and study in science fields and yet not adopt a serious foundation of science. I made some awful
analogy involving an illiterate copy editor and signed off bitching that our town was stupid because a good chunk of its residents are fundamentalist Christians (Central PA wuh wha?).

Calmly and with a slightly embarrassed smile he turned to me saying that he was fundamentalist Christian and a Creationist.

My throat seized and then seized again when I remembered that less than two weeks ago I was congratulating him on his near full ride scholarship to study Biochemistry at Penn State University.

Mary Gustafson:
I come from a fairly fertile family. While my mom's family was raised Catholic -- a family that became a large family, several of her siblings converted for their Protestant husbands. However, whether due to their Catholic upbringing or fertility, many of these relatives produced large families in return. Well, I had one aunt who was pregnant a lot when I was younger. She also, sadly, was prone to miscarriages. But, since she was pregnant often, I took to calling her "watermelon woman" because somebody had once made her a sweatshirt bearing that name, with a puff-painted drawing of a watermelon.

I was probably around ten or twelve when I made my royal mistake. She called one afternoon, and I answered the phone, overly cheerful, not really catching on to the solemnity of my aunt's voice. So I just kept chattering to her while I found my mom and gave the phone to her. Before I handed the phone over, I said something along the lines of "How are you watermelon woman?" Without really pausing to consider her answer, I handed the phone to my mom.

My aunt was calling to tell my mom about her miscarriage. And I had just called her watermelon woman. I was humiliated. And ashamed. Why couldn't I have kept my mouth shut? I've felt guilty ever since.

Tyson Tune:
A few years ago I was sitting in a bar in LAX, having a couple of beers and listening to the new Aerosmith album. After several Pabsts, I made my way towards the gate, humming along to the CD and paying no attention to people
in front of me. As sometimes happens, I smacked face first into one a man, knocking him to the ground.

I was looking down in shock, forming words of apology in my throat, when I realized that the man I had flattened to the concourse floor was Steven Tyler. His music was pounding in my ears.

We had actually met once before. This was in Boston at the Bang and Olufson store where I would go to drool and he would actually purchase things. That time he had been quite cordial with me, and signed an autograph for my girlfriend. He hit on my girlfriend, but that's okay, she's hot.

This first occasion probably never occurred to him, but I swear I saw a slight glimmer of recognition before I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. I was laughing do hard I couldn't stop. The whole thing was so ridiculous, listening to the CD and them banging him to he floor. Maybe I was a little drunk.

All of that to say, Tyler was not happy. I helped him to his feet and he stomped off in a huff, which I found even more hilarious.

Fate would have it that he was going to Nashville too, and I would have to march by him in the snug first class seats, more glares from the rock god.

Eric Wrisley:
In my office we had 3 of us - separate offices in one suite. Cathy was Jen's supervisor and my peer. Cathy and Jen were having a heated "discussion" about dress code or
something equally important. In her frustration, Cathy
sent me an email (she thought) saying, "I HATE her!!"
unfortunately she sent it to Jen instead.

Luke Rosa:
In the course of the conversation, however, it became clear that something about her was "off." She couldn't think of the word "floor" nor remember the name of the bar where her friend's band was playing later that night. But she's extremely friendly so I continue the conversation only to discover that the reason for her--I guess "forgetfulness"--is a prior brain surgery to remove a tumor.

Cut to my friends and I leaving a little while later. She follows me out, still trying to remember the name of the bar so we can meet up later. Finally she says, "Why don't you give me your number so I can call you and tell you where we'll be."

So I say, "Well, you'll never remember it, will you?"

Now, I wasn't at all thinking of her condition. It didn't even cross my mind. We were out in a parking lot, each with a couple drinks quaffed already, and she doesn't have a pen. I wouldn't remember her number in that situation. I would have said the same thing to Will Hunting, or any other person with a great memory, fictional or not.

She paused for a second, then gave that look of mock offensiveness and assured me she would remember. Of course, she never called me. And I bet she did remember my number.

Tim Kane:
So I have a group of friends. A small group who have known each other for most of our lives. One of these friends has a very distinctive voice. Deep, somewhat monotone, with other quirks and intricacies. Its the kind of voice people love to imitate, just about everyone who meets him seems to imitate him at one point or another. This includes the group of friends. We reminisce about the past all in our own voices until we quote him, then we each take our crack at the imitation.

At one point this happened in a car, near the end of a long trip, and just as I finished my imitation he says, "You know if there is one thing I wish I could change about myself its my voice." We are all stunned. None of us can even look at each other and no one says a word the rest of the trip. This has been going for ages and has he always felt that way? The first minute we are all together and he is out of the room we all talk about how surprised we were how we never knew he felt that way about it, how we each feel terrible.

We go over his words again and again, "If there is one thing I could change..."

Every time we tell the story now we always imitate him when we get to that part, the imitation is that irresistable. And that's flattering right?

Leonard Pierce:
When I was in high school, I was pressured by my dad, who like everyone man in my family had been in the military, to join ROTC. Which I did, to avoid getting yelled at, but it's safe to say that I didn't enjoy it. I rarely wore my uniform, I malingered and goldbricked, I said provocatively political things to incite the teacher, I faked an injury at boot camp to
get out of marching, and I generally acted like a snotty punk rock kid who had been forced to take the class, which was in fact the case.

Nonetheless, I was tolerated (the program needed as many students as it could get to remain viable and get a chunk of the budget), and I even befriended some of the other marginal slacker types in the class. It's safe to say that, while I wasn't loved, or even liked, I was at least put up with.

Until the beginning of senior year.

Despite the inherent grimness of ROTC as a concept, the people in my class tended to be a pretty genial bunch, and didn't have the sullen teenage demeanor you tended to find from other places stocked with sullen teenagers, like homeroom or gym. So when I went to class (it was my first class of the day), everyone was generally in a good mood. But not on this one particular day. Everyone was sitting around, looking as moody, sullen and self-absorbed as the depressed-failures-in-training in my 6th period drama class.

So, out of some malformed amalgam of curiosity, whimsy and jest, I found myself asking, in what I now remember as a loud, altogether too jovial voice: "Hey! Who died?"

Of course, someone HAD died. One of the kids in our class, a really upstanding, funny guy who had moved to Arizona from Mexico under extremely difficult circumstances, had in fact drowned that weekend at Lake Powell. It's safe to say that on the short but robust list of mortifying embarrassments I have suffered in my life, being informed that he was dead
after my noisy spouting of that lame cliché has to be in the top three.

Steve Gozdecki:
My embarrassing comment story revolves around an utterance I didn't even address to the person who took offense. Hell, it wasn't even made to a human!

A few years ago I was at my nephew's birthday party -- a big, crazy affair with a house full of screaming kids and a number of harried-looking parents. So it's probably understandable that my sister's cat, which the nephew named "Elephant," was in hiding that day.

Toward the end of the party, the cat came out and sauntered through the living room. So, using my finest, idiotic "I'm talking to an infant or pet" voice, I exclaimed "There's an Elephant!" At that moment, I felt twin laser beams of extreme displeasure burning through me -- and looked to see a rather rotund man who had been playing with his son glaring my way. I then said, "I was talking to the cat" and sidled out of the room and headed for the basement.

and one that does not involve words in general but still one of my favorites, inadvertant-insult-wise:
Steve Delahoyde:
I have always thought of myself as a friendly person who wishes nothing but the best for everyone, and very much in particular, that the lives of my peers be blessed by good fortune. Yet, to hear this story, one would think that I'm a dastardly evil man. And as I have nothing to go on but the words of friends, I've even begun to think of myself as such, at least in this instance.

I had a very good female friend for a number of years who one day announced that she was pregnant. After this, she nearly completely disappeared, spending most of her time, I'm certain, with her fiancé, both of whom were probably constantly glowing about their great-with-childness. Nine months pass, as is usually par for the course, gestation-wise, and she gives birth to a healthy child (probably even more glowing ensues therein). A few more months pass and they reach that stage where they start to bring the baby out so that they may watch people oogle and coo at it. On one such instance, I happen to be there, at a party. They show up, baby in carrier, we chat a bit, a few hugs, and then I'm tired, so I leave. As far as I assumed: end of evening -- good to see the new baby.

According to my friends however, and this baby-fied former pal of mine, this was not the case. As the story goes, when I first gazed upon the baby, I apparently made a face that was a healthy blend of shock mixed with vulgar repulsion. Personally, I don't remember doing this. I remember thinking, "That's not a very attractive baby, but what do I know about babies? I'm sure it's probably a normal looking baby and I'm just unaccustomed." (Yes, I often think in complete, overly wordy sentences). But after I leave said party, the mother is just repulsed by me, telling a number of my other friends how I looked at her infant with such disgust. Promptly, I was removed from the couple's wedding invitation list, and have not seen them since. In addition, this story is brought up whenever I claim to be a good person. Me, I'm still confused.

The moral: that baby probably really wasn't very attractive and they were just upset that I had the wherewithal to act accordingly and not be clouded with delusion like everyone else obviously was. Hmph.

Sam Forsyth:
I was 12. My friend, a Boy Scout and all around good person invited me to go to a Boy Scout Meeting or gathering or tribunal or whatever they're called.

I agreed to go and his mom dropped us off at some gymnasium somewhere. Being raised in the church and more specifically by the detail oriented, "Christian Boy Scouts" the Royal Rangers, i was thoroughly unimpressed with the way the meeting was being run.

I seemed most disgusted with the lead guy, or teacher, or commander or whatever they're called. To me, this guy was everything I wasn't used to. His hair was scraggly and he didn't have a stitch of uniform on. On top of all this, I believe he was drunk, or at least I could smell the unmistakable scent of beer escaping through his toothless smile.

The night went on and they tried to teach me stuff I'd already learned years ago in the Royal Rangers. It was hopeless. These Boy Scouts could never challenge me the way I needed to be challenged.

After realizing all of this and after being disgusted by the sloppy toothless commander, I decided to tell Paul that the Boy Scouts weren't for me.

"Why not?" He asked me.

"Because The Royal Rangers are just better."

"Oh, okay."

"Hey, What's with that guy anyway? That one Dirty gross guy with no teeth?"

"That's my dad"