Inside the Mind of a Watermelon

It's in the fridge, as I write this, I can hear the friendly echoes of a voice in the past. Like oars on a lonely lake when you go fishing with your sweetheart by the moonlight...

It's calling.

But the hour is late and I can't tell if it's just the oars or if a night swimmer is in trouble. Did you hear that? Is it a friendly plea for help? Or something more sinister? I know what it is. It's been slowly growing in volume for two weeks. I heard them all laugh when I said, "yeah, it only took me about an hour to hollow it out."

Someone: "ya know, if a Watermelon were actually alive, and could talk that's exactly what it would look like!" If they only knew... Yeah, it's for a sketch, but I knew. I knew when I first walked by the cardboard box holding all of the melons at El Super Mercado. I could hear it then, "Me and You, We'd MAKE a GREAT team."

Now, it's in my fridge and I hear it again. Cooing through the metal. I glance to my left and see the door and it's handles, dull white. I imagine it in there peering. Trying to catch a glimpse of me through all of the metal and butter and jam jars. It's behind the door.

Good thing fridge doors are thick. Could probably stop a bullet, if necessary. It doesn't take much to drown out the sound. Just turn on some U2. I still haven't found what I'm looking for... he'll never get a hold of me now. I really only need him for one more show and then he'll probably be too moldy to wear anyhow. I'll move on to other sketches. Other things. Maybe I can work on that Snow Vacuum I've always wanted to build. Yes sir, I'll be safe as long as I'm out here breathing in the warm -freshly polluted- California air. While he's in there...A cold vault, keeping him fresh...

What was that? Above the music? I know my U2. It's my favorite. And there's no thrashing on The Joshua Tree. No smashing of cheap metallic shelves. No babies crying. The sound, it's ungodly.

Luckily, though, there's the fridge door muffling the sound. (Muffling the violence.) As if a child thought it were a time machine on trash day. Make it stop... BUT it goes away after a while.

Maybe it grows tired? Mayhaps it's dead? Then, foolishly, after a tense and quiet time later I think to myself, "Perhaps I should check. Plus, I really could use some Orange Juice." I turn off the band and I sit for an interminable period listening.. I say out loud, "There's nothing to worry about." Afterall, I'm bigger than him. And before I can stop to think...

I...
Open...
That...
Door...

I open the door to his crypt and he's on me in a flash.

"Aaaaaaaahhhhh!" I cry. Then I'm tearing at my own head. Fingernails digging into the base of my skull.

"Get it off of me..." To no avail.

Instantly it fills me full of power and makes -me- everything, somehow better. Somewhere inside, the pain of life goes away and the joy of being a watermelon fills my mind. Everyways it's all clear now. Spread the seeds... Watch them grow. Teach them.

First, culture and see what exactly "human PEOPLE" are and all about and why?. If you want to change the world, you've got to plan, coordinate, strategize. You don't accomplish anything by going about it LIKE A MONKEY!!!! OH NO no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no... NO. This here's gonna be a whole new thing. Seedless. But with Seeds.

After a little bit of pondering, some thought, and a nice cup of Joey...

...my head is full of good ideas and I'm off to show the world.

Here I come World...
HERE I COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMME!

LOOK OUT fer me, would'ya, Please? Do it fer yer old pal, huh? I'll be somewhere in Los Angeles, World. Somewhere in Los Angeles between La Brea and Fairfax. All day tomorrow and for the rest of my life. Most likely on Melrose Avenue. And when you find me, tell me all your secrets, please. Tell me what I have to do to show you a good time. I want to be your friend because GUESS WHAT? I'm: "a far out fan." And you sure are a fucked up place. Let's be allies.

Heh, heh, heh, heh...
(Watermelon)

B-N-E

My buddy, Joe List, has a wonderful habit of saying "this is the best night ever!" He says this when a crew of good folks gather or even if there's only a couple of people having a good time. I would like to say that TONIGHT was the best night ever. Not much has to be said about it except that it was incredibly fun. The Celtics were victorious over the Lakers in Game 4 of the NBA finals to bring the series to 3-1 Celts and we had a dy-no-mite show. Camaraderie followed. There's more but, well... let's just say, "Best Night Ever!" Thanks to all who participated, (Including Will Smith for making "Hancock.")
Chris

The Mosquito

I was trying to get to sleep but there was this little bug "buzz buzzing" in my ear. It was a mosquito and I hate mosquitoes. Now, "Hate'" is a strong word, which is why I'm using it... I hate mosquitoes. Mainly because they get in your ear while you're trying to sleep.... "Buzz, buzz, buzzzzzzz." No matter what I did I couldn't swat him away and the anticipation of getting bitten was killing me.

Just bite me already and get on with it. So, I said, "Just go ahead and bite me..." And, as if he could hear me, he did. The Bastard bit me. And it hurt like a sonovabitch! But little did he know that I had set a trap for him. The "you bite me and I got your ass trap." Because it's easier to draw a bead on 'em when they're on the ground, on my ear....

So, I catch him but I don't squash him like most people would. I grab him in between my fingers and I turn on my bedroom lamp to get a better look... and he's stuck there in-between my fingers and he's got a look that says "Hey, I'm a mosquito. It's what I do!" And I immediately say, "Uh unh, no way, oh no you don't. Not this time motherfucker... that defense might work in court where you can get off on a technicality or some such but out here, in the world, crazy shit happens...

"Let's take, for instance, this example: YOU were just going to suck my blood! I think, in fact, I may see some of my plasma in yer little sack there. Now, you could have been anything. Anything at all. When you were a little bug you coulda decided to go to school, become a Fireman and saved lives, any number of things... You had a whole host of opportunities. The world was your oyster... but what did you decide? That's right. You had to be a Mosquito. Well not today motherfucker. Because I got you. And this... is the LAST time you suck mine or anyone else's blood. You little terrorist."

And with that I then tore him into pieces and buried him in the four corners of my bedroom. And I ate his little heart for strength... also, because I'm poor and can't afford a decent meal.

-Chris

Free Throws

Well, the Celtics are in the finals again and I've been struggling through the playoffs. Nearly gnawing through every wood, stone, or space-aged material bar I've sat in-front of watching the games. The thing that troubles me most about watching any NBA game is when a player misses a free throw. It's a good thing that the Celtics are a dynamite foul shooting team. It's a joy to watch. Especially Ray Allen. Like all of us, at one time or another, I aspired to be an NBA player and strongly believed I was just as likely to reach that goal as anybody. Wasn't Michael Jordan cut from his High School Freshman squad?

In retrospect, I was terrible at basketball. My one saving grace? Foul shots. I was a decent-to-good free throw shooter. Maybe my memory is getting shoddy in my old age (as of an hour and eight minutes ago I'm 31) but I'd like to say I was above 80% at foul shots. It's probably more like 62%, though, just to be safe let's call it an even 32%.

I have proud memories of being a great foul shooter. At the end of every JV basketball practice nobody got to go home unless two players could each hit two free throws in a row. Otherwise the whole team would have to run suicides. I was always picked first and I was always ice from the line. You may see this as bragging but I also had many short comings. Butter-fingers being chief among them. For instance: I have terrible memories of dropping passes in games or missing bunny layups but in practice I was ice from the line...

Since we're already easing into the nostalgia a little bit, like Bugs Bunny eases into a hot bath, let's take it back. Let's take it all the way back. To the year of 1992. Let's get immersed into a time of my life where things were reaching a new depth of murkiness and growing more uncertain by the day. Let's take it to the start of my sophomore year in High School. No doubt harsh times for a fresh faced little me. I had finally had the growth spurt I'd been waiting years for. More importantly: I had just recently lost my older brother/partner/consiglieri David to a six hour drive of a University on Long Island. Possibly never to be heard from again... thus began a minor withdrawal into a cocoon of my own making.

That cocoon consisted mostly of basketball. There was a healthy heaping of comedy but mostly basketball. Basketball, basketball, and more basketball. I was a gym rat. As mentioned above, I played on my High School JV squad that year but if you were looking for me you're best bet was the Charlestown Boys and Girls Club gymnasium. One of my favorite places on Mother Earth.

I had been going to the Boys and Girls Club since the day of my seventh birthday. I had had my share of triumphs and defeats in that place over the years: Winning a Science Fair, more than a few wins at "Battle of the Brains", meeting my best friend Jamie, I once made a ship in a bottle there, Library Council trips to Washington D.C., getting blamed for an adolescent rape by Dan Frangos that I didn't commit, winning an internship at Bronner, Slosberg, Humprhies, at one point I won a structural engineering science contest, overnights, dances, woodworking, and the list goes on and on. But one of my absolute favorite moments came in the fall of my sophomore year of High School in 1992. And it came about as a result of being a gym rat at the Boys and Girls Club.

I was playing Basketball in the gymnasium when the club director, John Killoran, approached me and asked me if I wanted to enter "The Reggie Lewis Essay Contest." I was a lazy kid but the promise of a leather Celtics Jacket, an NBA game ball, and tickets to the Celtics game were motivation enough for me to sit down and write something for Reggie. I wrote about how at another point in my life, way way back in the seventh grade, I had to write an essay about somebody who inspired me and I had chosen Reggie Lewis. I then began to illustrate exactly why he was my role model at both times of my life.


Now, I always assumed -and I still do- that I was the only kid at any Boys and Girls Club of Boston that actually sat down to write Mr. Lewis an essay because somehow I won. I was informed that I'd be going to the fourth home game versus The Washington Bullets. I was also told that I could "bring a friend," we'd be sitting on the floor, and at half time we would be the entertainment. Shooting free throws. Unbelievable. On top of that: my brother, my partner in crime, the "capo de tut de capo" would be returning home from the hinterlands for Thanksgiving, or some such Holly-day, and would be able to attend the game as my buddy-friend.

So, I laced up my pair of Nike Huracchi High-tops and we made way for the Boston Gahden 1.2 miles away. The first half we were a bundle of nerves but the seats were amazing. Once the half ended we were each given a t-shirt and told that we'd be shooting free throws with a separate New England Patriots Quarterbacks. Just before the half ended they took us into the tunnel that the players used to enter and exit and we were given balls to dribble and play around with. There's nothing like an actual NBA ball, by the way. We were then told that we'd be announced once the players left the floor. We were losing our minds with nervousness. Then they had us stand aside, in a stairwell, while the players left the court. They all walked right by us and I was so nervous that I actually called Robert Parish, "Kevin Mchale." Whoa.


We were then told to wait on deck in the tunnel just beside the court while we were announced. "Ladies and Gentleman, we have in the building tonight the winners of The Boys and Girls Club Reggie Lewis Essay Contest. From Charlestown brothers Chris and David Walsh..." The crowd cheered, well... some of the crowd cheered and we ran out. Then they announced the quarterbacks. At this time of The New England Patriots storied history the two QBs were Hugh Millen and Scott Zolack. Zolack was the main guy and Millen was the backup but David really liked Millen and since David knew more about sports, or knew about sports, he chose Millen. We paired off and waited for them to start the clock on the scoreboard.

I can't remember what the actual time was. I think each of us got 30 seconds to shoot. The QBs went first and we had to rebound for them. I think there was some deal where however much we hit there'd be money donated to the Jimmy Fund. EXTRA PRESSURE! I don't really know what was happening down on David's end but I was getting a small stupid speech from Zolack. "Give me passes about chest high and make 'em quick..." Oh, I see, so you want me to give you a chest pass, huh? What's a... a chest... PASS? Goon. Maybe he was nervous too?

He took his shots for 30 seconds... a minute? I'm not sure... but then it was my turn. Normally, I'd be nervous but because I had to rebound for Zolack my blood got going and I had a good little workout. By the time I got to the line I had worked off some adrenaline and I could focus. So, when the buzzer rang and we had to switch I ran to the line, excuse me -the foul line at Boston Garden- and caught a tightly whipped chest pass from the starting quarterback of The New England Patriots and drained my first shot. I missed the second one but then I shot the lights out.

I was on fire. The absolute best part was the roar of the crowd. I could hear a few people cheer the first basket and then feel the excitement grow as I nailed more and more shots. I think I hit about seven in a row. They were losing it. What an amazing feeling. To go from a smattering of claps and cheers to people completely elated over some random kid hitting free throws at "The Garden." I remember walking back to David at center court and hearing the crowd cheering and his first words to me. "What was going on over there?" I must have had the biggest, goofiest grin on my face as I said, "I don't know. I have no idea..."
-Chris