Writing with Creative License

“Did that really happen?” people often ask me. “Is all of that true?”

Then I look them in the eye and say, “No, it’s not.”

Yes, I admit it. I, Mike Lee, am a liar.

Many of these entries are not 100% true. It’s impossible for them to be, especially if I’m trying to recall an entire conversation that happened years ago. Some conversations are amalgamations of two or more actual discussions; if they complement each other, I combine them.

Other conversations are entirely fabricated from my noodle. Mr. Lee’s Workshop. The Cranium of Insanium. My Psychology of Writology. Um, you know what I mean.

Occasionally, I’ll create a work of fiction. That may be obvious, especially with entries like “Gemini’s Horoscope” or “The Hulk”. They’re a change of pace, a way to brain stretches and cerebellum yoga.

More often than not, I’ll write slice-of-life stories. These are snippets of experiences as viewed through my Storyteller Lens. When I look through this lens, life becomes a series of stories. Each is self-contained and packaged in a little box. Sometimes with a bow, sometimes with a scar.

This means I write with careful yet generous creative license. I’ll deemphasize or omit pieces of an experience if it’s not relevant to the story. I’ll tweak a scene or conversation to gel the story together. All in the name of good storytelling.

I’m not great at this yet, but I’m trying.

“Why?” is often the next question people ask me.

Because, that’s why.

• Because writing is therapy. Recollecting the past gives you a different picture when you do it on paper than simply in your head. Translating feelings into words can add a new dimension of clarity and closure.

• Because writing is enriching. Remembering the past is a way to distill important lessons for the future. Some of my grandest epiphanies have come while I was writing.

• Because writing is fun. Reliving the past is like getting a free second ride. I’ve always dreamed up worlds ever since I was a kid playing with my Transformers. We all have. Perhaps the difference with me is that I never really stopped dreaming about those worlds.

• Because I want to be a storyteller. I want to be one of those grandfathers who can tell his grandkids funny and fantastic stories. Unfortunately, I’ll never get to slay a dragon or rescue a princess, but if I can tell a good enough story, hopefully it’ll bring a smile to my grandkids.

I started this site way back in November 1998. Kind of a long time ago, huh? My oldest entries suck monkey ass. They’re still online, archived and available for the world to point and laugh. I’ve written almost every weekend since then. Occasionally, life gets too busy and I miss a weekend or two. But if I can, I’ll write.

In my library are a few books on the art of writing. I try to take this craft seriously. One of the main lessons is to write a lot and write often. Hence this site. Almost every week since November 1998 ought to be a lot, eh? All of this practice ought to improve my craft, I hope.

This is why some of my entries aren’t 100% true. If I gave you the entire experience, it wouldn’t be the same. First, there’s all the background information. Who’s who, what’s what, why she’s saying this, why he’s doing that.

Then there’s the ugly fact that, well, real-life dialogue sounds crappy on paper. They’re full of grammatical mistakes, “ums” & “uhs”, clichés, and colloquialisms. Even news reporters know this—many (but not all) edit their interviews so their subjects sound more intelligent.

A packaged experience flows much better. Everyone knows this subconsciously. Let’s say Bob is telling you what happened to him last night. As he tells his story, you get lost in his words. There seems to be no point, no reason behind it. You feel like he’s spewing verbal diarrhea all over your ears. (Nice image, huh?)

Now say Bill is telling you about that same night. Except he’s able to make it sound exciting and crazy and funny. You’re enraptured, you’re hooked in, you’re listening to every word. When Bill relates the experience, it sounds like a fantastic night. But when Bob tells it, it sounds like a bore.

What’s the difference? Bill is a better storyteller because he is able to package up the experience and present it with a neat little bow. Sure, he omitted certain incidents and exaggerated others for comedic value, but by doing so, his story flows much better.

That’s basically what I’m doing too.

I hope it’s not too much of a shock for you, but yes, I, Mike Lee, am a liar. I’ve been feeding you lies since November 1998. I’ve been looking through my Storyteller Lens and using careful yet generous creative license to package my experiences, all for the art of good storytelling.

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Is Honesty Always the Best Policy?

Short answer: Hells NO.

Long answer: It depends. Don’t lie to me and tell me you’re over your ex-boyfriend, then have me find a photo of him in your camera, taken two days ago, with him standing half-nekkid in your apartment. That kind of thing is what we call denial, or a Big Fat Lie. I’m just sayin’.

Or that rash you have on your cooch is from when you went for a pee in the woods and got poison ivy all up in there. Nuh uh, ain’t gonna buy that.

Outright lies like that are what can kill a relationship faster than Britney Spear’s cooch can appear on the Internet. (And what a funny word, “cooch”. Cooch cooch cooch.)

Trust is a major part of a successful relationship. Without it, there IS no relationship. The tricky thing about trust is that it’s hard to gain and easy to lose. That’s why an outright lie can crumble a relationship so quickly.

I’ve seen it before. Tragically, even in marriages. A friend’s parents were part of an arranged marriage back in China. Her father has a gambling addiction (like what Chinese guy doesn’t? Kidding!). He tries to hide it from her mother, but her mother is too smart for him. Over the years, a dance of lies and denial played out. The parents are now bitter, angry adults held together by a mere tradition.

Growing up in a household like this, my friend is utterly distrustful of anyone she meets. Her first instinct is to expect the person to lie to her.

That’s perhaps an extreme example of the horrors of dishonesty, but if you base your relationship on one outright lie, more are going to grow like weeds in a garden.

So when is honest not a good policy?

When she asks you, “Do these jeans make me look fat?”

Or, “Am I gaining weight?”

Or, Heaven forbid: “Do you think I’m becoming my mother?”

In those cases, LIE YOUR ASS OFF. Lie like you’ve never lied before. “No, I think you’re too skinny for those jeans.” “No, and omigosh, are you losing weight?” “No way, you’re a beautiful and talented individual; I think your mother would be so proud of what you’ve become, and if she doesn’t that’s because she doesn’t understand you for who you are. And oh, are you losing weight?”

Otherwise, you ain’t gettin’ any cooch cooch cooch.

. . .

Do you think honesty is always the best policy?

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The Fantastic Flying Cousins

“How did you get up there?” our little cousins asked. They were on their tippy-toes, as if their toes would magically get them on the roof too.

“We flew,” my brother and I answered.

“No you didn’t. Did you?”

“Yup, we did. And you can’t come up because you don’t believe us.”

Our cousins bounced up and down. “We believe! We believe! Can you take us up there too?”

“Nope. It’s too dangerous for you two. You’re too young.” My brother and I smirked. Behind us was ledge we climbed across from our bedroom window. But we didn’t tell our cousins that.

“We want to fly! We want to fly!”

“Sorry. Maybe someday when you’re older.”

“No fair! How come you get to fly and we can’t?” Their frowns almost made us laugh, but we kept as stolid as we could.

“Because.”

“Because why??”

“Just because.”

“Awww c’mon!” They ran around the house, flapping their arms. “We want to fly too!”

My brother and I ducked back from the edge and hooted. “Oh man, this is too funny! They totally believe us!”

“Look, I can fly! I can fly!”

We peeked over the edge again. One of them was jumping up and down.

“You’re not flying. You’re just jumping around.”

“Nuh uh! I was flying for a few seconds! I’m just too young to fly all the way!”

I hid my face and laughed again. My brother kept a straight face. “You’re doing it wrong. You have to flap your arms like this.”

“That’s what I’m doing!”

“That’s all wrong. You’ll never get it. Forget it; you’ll never be able to fly.”

Our little cousins hollered and ran around the house again. They leapt about as they ran, arms flapping. “We want to fly! We want to fly!”

“You know, I’m beginning to think that you’ll never be able to fly. With that awful arm flapping, you’re not going to go anywhere.”

The cousins skidded to a stop. One of them stared at us defiantly. “Stop it! You guys can’t fly!”

“What? Of course we can! How do you think we got up here?”

“Prove it! Show us you can fly!”

We flapped our arms and got onto the tips of our toes. “See? We’re going up, we’re going up, we’re… naaah, we don’t want to fly right now.”

“That wasn’t flying! You can’t fly!”

“Sure we can! There’s no other way we could have gotten up here.”

“Maybe you climbed up.”

“Oh yea? Look around the house. Do you see a place we could have climbed?”

Our little cousins circled the house again, touching the fences and wall in various places to asses their climbability.

“See, there’s nothing we could have climbed. We flew.”

“Nuh uh! You can’t fly!”

I looked at my brother. “I guess they don’t believe us.”

“Yea,” he answered. “I guess they’ll never be able to fly.”

“You guys are lying poopie heads! You can’t fly!”

My brother and I darted from the edge and quickly crawled into our bedroom. We rushed downstairs while our little cousins continued shouting at the roof.

“Hi!”

Our little cousins stopped in mid-word. Mouths still open, they swiveled to see us standing next to them. “How did you get down so fast??”

“We got bored up there and decided to fly down.”

“What?! You flew down?? When? We didn’t see you!”

“You didn’t? You should have been paying more attention. We flew down right next to you.”

“Nuh uh! You’re lying poopie heads!”

“Okay, fine.” I stared the cousins deep in the eyes. “You want proof?”

“Yea!”

I looked at my brother. “Okay, let’s fly back up!” We took off around the house.

“Hey!” Our little cousins came after us. Their little legs couldn’t match our speed. We made it halfway around the house before they made it a quarter. With our cousins out of sight, we ran into the house, up to our bedroom, and back out the window again.

“Hey you guys! Up here!”

Our little cousins tumbled over each other as they tried to stop. Their little eyes were as wide as golf balls. “You flew!!”

“Yup!”

“You guys can fly! You guys can fly!”

“We told you we could.”

“Take us up with you! Take us up with you!”

“No way! You called us lying poopie heads. And that hurt. So we’re not taking you anywhere.”

“Puh-leeeeease! Take us up there! We want to fly with you!!”

My brother looked at me. “Since they didn’t believe us, they’re never going to be able to fly, are they?”

“My my, you are correct,” I nodded. “What a shame to never be able to fly. Sad.”

“We believe! We believe!”

“Yes, very sad indeed.” My brother rubbed his cheek to wipe an invisible tear. “Sniff sniff.”

Our little cousins stood below us for a frozen moment, mouths agape like a pair of turkeys, then they darted into the house. “Moooooommie!” we heard them cry. “They said we’ll never be able to fly like them! We want to fly too!”

As they sobbed, we heard our aunt and uncle trying to stifle a chuckle. My brother and I tumbled over and laughed until we couldn’t breath.

“Think we should tell them the truth?” my brother asked between chortles.

I smirked. “Naaah. Let them go back to school next week believing they have flying cousins.”

Have you ever been a lying poopie head to younger cousins or siblings?

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The Mystery Phone Call

“I’m pregnant.”

I blink. “What?”

“Mike, I’m pregnant.”

“Who is this?”

“You got me pregnant, Mike!”

My heart skips a beat. “What??”

“You don’t recognize my name?!” Her voice is agitated.

“Who is this?”

“Mike, I’m pregnant! You got me pregnant!”

My brain jumps into fifth gear. I know this was impossible. Right? I haven’t… not in a while… impossible… right? “Is this a joke?”

“I can’t believe you don’t know who I am!!”

I gulp. This has got to be a joke. It’s impossible that it’s real. “Ha ha, very funny. Really, who is this?”

“Mike, you got me pregnant! I’m pregnant!”

“I heard you. Who is this?” I try to match the voice with someone I know. “Joanne?”

“I can’t believe you can’t remember my name!”

I scratch my head. “Joanne, is that you?”

“No!”

Pause. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, though I can’t quite place it. Closest one I can think of is Joanne’s. I scratch my head again. “Okay, who is this?”

“Who’s Joanne?!” Shit, she sounds mad now.

“Um… Uh…”

“I’m pregnant, Mike, I’m pregnant!”

“Well, whoever you are, it couldn’t have been me.”

“Yes you did Mike! You got me pregnant!”

Something seems fishy. I’ve searched through my mental rolodex. This is impossible. “Okay fine…” I decide to play along. It’s a joke. It’s got to be. “Is it a boy or girl?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You don’t know yet? Bullshit.”

“I’m only three weeks in.”

NOW I know it’s a joke. “Okay. Well, then, congratulations on the baby. I wish you well.”

Pause. There are muffled sounds on the phone.

“Hey you.” It’s a man’s voice. “You got my girl pregnant.”

I blink. “What the hell? Who is this?”

“You’re going to pay for the abortion.”

“Congratulations on the baby, dude.”

“The abortion. You’re going to pay.”

Then recognition hits me. “Eric, is that you?”

“You got my girl pregnant. I’m going to kick your ass.”

“All right dude, I recognize your voice Eric. Nice try.”

“Ha ha! Got you!”

Whew! I knew it was a joke! I wipe my brow. “Who else was on the line? Anne?”

“No, that was Christina. Heh heh. Man, we got you!”

Sigh. What great friends I have.

Have your friends ever played a phone prank on you?

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Speed Dating

A few years ago, some single friends asked me to go with them to a speed dating event. I wasn’t able to make it, but I really wish I could have. Here’s why:

Me:

Hi there, I’m Mike. I’m a sanitation artisan.

Girl #1:

A what?

Me:

A sanitation artisan. I make large-scale animal replicas from found objects that have been disposed of by others.

Girl #1:

Wait, what? Do you mean you make sculptures out of… out of garbage?

Me:

I prefer to think of them as animal replicas. I specialize in small woodland creatures. My favorite is the North American chipmunk.

Girl #1:

Oh my God, how can you dig through people’s garbage?

Me:

It’s very simple. Most people never secure their trash receptacles, so I can sift through and find hidden gems very easily. You’ll never believe what people throw away.

Girl #1:

Oh my god, that is so wrong. You go through other people’s garbage without them knowing! You should be arrested!

Me:

But my art brings joy to the lives of many. I can show you my Finnish Long-tailed Rat one day if you’d like. I made it out of milk cartons.

DING! “Next table!”

Me:

Hey, wassup, I’m Mike. Oh man, have I had a bad day.

Girl #2:

Hi Mike, I’m Samantha. I’m sorry to hear that you had a bad day.

Me:

Tell me about it! Say, have you ever had anything stolen?

Girl #2:

I lost my jacket in a club once, but I don’t think it was stolen. You had something stolen?

Me:

I had to go shopping today and parked my car right outside. Since it was going to be quick, I left my car running.

Girl #2:

Ohmigosh, someone stole your car??

Me:

No, I was in and out of the store. But when I came back, I saw the trunk wide open.

Girl #2:

Someone opened up your trunk??

Me:

No, I had accidentally kicked the switch to open my trunk in my rush. But as I closed the trunk, I heard this blaring noise from inside my car.

Girl #2:

Gasp! Don’t tell me someone was inside your car!

Me:

No, I had left the radio on and it was playing some real awful song. So I jumped into my car and quickly lowered the radio. As soon as I did that, I saw this kid running away from my car.

Girl #2:

What did he steal?

Me:

My porno mag.

Girl #2:

Blinks. Your what?

Me:

My porn. I was in that store to buy the latest issue of Big ‘Uns. But when I closed the trunk, I put the mag on top of my car. Then when I jumped inside to lower the radio, the kid saw my Big ‘Uns on my car and stole it. Now what am I going to masturbate to?

DING! “Next table!”

Me:

Before you give me your name, let me ask you a question. Do you like dogs?

Girl #3:

Smiles. Yes, I do. Are you trying to pull off something from “Must Like Dogs”?

Me:

Huh? Oh, I never saw that movie. But I do like dogs.

Girl #3:

Laughs. Okay. For a moment there, I thought you were going for some kind of new pick-up line.

Me:

Nah, that wasn’t my pick-up line. This is: can I cook you dinner sometime?

Girl #3:

Wow, very forward of you. Don’t you want my name first?

Me:

Well, I just perfected a great new dish and I want someone to try it out. It’s my own concoction and is pretty exotic, if I do say so myself.

Girl #3:

You like to cook, huh? Tell me about this new dish of yours.

Me:

It’s based on an old regional cuisine from Asia. Very old recipe. That’s all I can tell you. The rest is a surprise.

Girl #3:

Laughs. Okay, fine. But we’ve got to get to know each other a little more first before you cook me dinner.

Me:

Okay, so what kind of dogs do you like?

Girl #3:

I grew up with a golden retriever, so I really like those. I would love to have one again, but my apartment is too small and I’m not home enough to take care of one.

Me:

Golden retriever. Cool, I can make one of those.

Girl #3:

Tilts head. Make?

Me:

Oops, I gave away the surprise ingredient.

DING! “Next table!”

Me:

Hey, my name is Mike.

Girl #4:

Hey Mike, I’m Lisa.

Me:

Hey Lisa, you’re pretty hot. You should come to my show someday.

Girl #4:

Show? What do you do?

Me:

I’m a musician. I play lead guitar for my band, Nosey Bloody Nosebleed. It’s a heavy metal band. Once you watch us play, you’ll bang your head so hard you’ll get a nosebleed.

Girl #4:

That’s gross.

Me:

Well, the name is just a work in progress. Another choice is The Drunken Monkeys.

Girl #4:

That’s a bit better than Nosebleed.

Me:

It’s Nosey Bloody Nosebleed. But yea, The Drunken Monkeys is more like what we look like on stage. We all get trashed and throw ourselves around like monkeys.

Girl #4:

You guys sound very talented.

Me:

Don’t let the name fool you. We play our instruments very carefully. We’ve also considered Halitosis Hal. Our lead singer usually has really bad breath, so if we named ourselves Halitosis Hal, his bad breath would be our hook. You know? Our hook? Every good band needs a descriptive name and a hook.

Girl #4:

That’s even more gross than Nosebleed.

Me:

But it’s a lot better our last choice: Urination on the Nation.

DING! “Next table!”

Me:

Hi, I’m Mike.

Girl #5:

Hello Mike, I’m Charlene.

Me:

Pleased to make your acquaintance.

Girl #5:

So what do you do, Mike?

Me:

Me? Oh, I’m an exotic dancer.

Girl #5:

Looks me up and down. You?

Me:

Yup. I work for an escort service that specializes in a more mature clientele than the usual services do.

Girl #5:

Really? What do you mean by a more mature clientele?

Me:

It’s mostly women of certain age.

Girl #5:

Shakes head and shrugs shoulders.

Me:

Older women. Mostly grandmothers. Hey, don’t laugh. Even grannies need a little loving once in a while. I provide a service that they might not be able to get otherwise.

Girl #5:

Oh my goodness. So you sleep with old ladies?

Me:

No, no no, not all of them are looking for sex. Many just want a studly young man around the house. Sometimes I’ll get their pills or change their diapers or give them a sponge bath.

Girl #5:

Do you… enjoy what you do?

Me:

If it makes my clients happy, then yes. And I think it does. It’s actually very satisfying, I think. Plus, you want to know a secret?

Girl #5:

Blinks uncertainly.

Me:

Some of these grannies are total hornballs. They haven’t done it in decades and just want their motors greased again, know what I mean? Say, you have a grandmother, right? What’s her number?

DING! “Next table!”

Me:

Hi there, I’m Mike. I’m a proctologist. Extends hand to shake.

Girl #6:

Keeps hands under the table. Um, hi. I’m Amy.

Me:

Hi Amy. Say, have you experienced any rectal pain lately?

Girl #6:

Excuse me?

Me:

Rectal pain. You know, sharp biting pains in the rectal area are often an early warning sign of a hernia or muscle tear. If not treated immediately, it can lead to a lifelong struggle with ass pain.

Girl #6:

Um, that’s kind of private information. I’m not comfortable talking about that with you.

Me:

Oh, okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I myself have experienced rectal pain though. It used to bother me that other people knew about it, but I’m comfortable talking about it in public now.

Girl #6:

Okay, that is way too much information.

Me:

It’s really nothing to be ashamed about. So with a daily application of rectal cream, I can live a normal, comfortable life now. Sitting on a chair like this now doesn’t cause me painful inflammations anymore. See? Wiggles around in seat. No pain at all!

DING! “Next table!”

Me:

Hi! I’m Mike. What can I do to you?

Girl #7:

Huh? Oh hi, I’m Julie.

Me:

Hi Julie. So where have you done it?

Girl #7:

Excuse me? Done what?

Me:

Speed dating. What do you think of this thing so far?

Girl #7:

Well, it’s okay. I haven’t met anyone I really like yet. There are a lot of weirdos here.

Me:

Feel me up about it. I can barely talk to any of these girls, much less get in there.

Girl #7:

Um, yea. I just can’t wait until I’m done.

Me:

Do you often finish off quickly?

Girl #7:

What? What are you talking about?

Me:

Just trying to make conversation. So how much do you like in you?

Girl #7:

Excuse me?

Me:

Alcohol. I see you’ve got a drink there. Taste good?

Girl #7:

Yea. For this event, I’m going to need more of it.

Me:

Me too, all night long. With you, baby.

Girl #7:

Excuse me?

DING! “Next table!”

Me:

To Girl #7: I said, it was nice meeting you. Goes to next table.

Girl #8:

Hello! My name is Sara.

Me:

Hi Sara, I’m Mike.

Girl #8:

So Mike, tell me about yourself.

Me:

I am a professional mascot. I put on different kinds of costumes, usually furry, and dance around for teams.

Girl #8:

Oh. What team are you a mascot for?

Me:

None at the moment. I’m currently between teams. It’s a dry mascot season. So instead, I’ll dress up for children’s parties and corporate events.

Girl #8:

Really? Corporate events too?

Me:

For my last party, I was a four-assed turkey. It was challenging, getting four asses onto that turkey costume. But I did it. I’m rather proud of it too.

Girl #8:

What in the world is a four-assed turkey?

Me:

A turkey with four asses.

Girl #8:

Oh.

Me:

Before that, I was a giant enchilada. I would go up to people on the street and shout, “Enchilada!” and hop up and down excitedly. But the kids would cry and the mothers would bat me away with their purses.

Girl #8:

Oh my. I guess you didn’t make much business for that restaurant then.

Me:

What restaurant? I wasn’t working at that time.

Girl #8:

Oh. But… then… why were you a…

Me:

Hey, do you have a birthday coming up? I could dress up as a keg or something, complete with a fake pump. People could press the lever and I can spit at them or something.

Girl #8:

No, that’s okay…

Me:

I could also dress up as a dirty Easter bunny. It comes with a leather vest and chaps. I could run around and spank your guests. They would love it!

Girl #8:

Really, that’s okay…

Me:

Don’t worry, I won’t hurt anyone. I’m a professional.

Girl #8:

No really…

Me:

Or, if you’d rather, I can wear my four-assed turkey costume instead.

DING! “Thank you everyone for coming out tonight! We hope you enjoyed this event! Have a great night!”

. . .

Have you ever done speed dating?

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The Suave Pool Hustler

Dave fancies himself a pool hustler. To his credit, he is a pretty good one. I rarely see anyone beat him. And if someone does, usually it’s because he let the person win for some reason.

Let me tell you a story about Dave the Pool Hustler.

The setting is a dimly-lit, smoky pool hall in New York in the mid 1990′s. I’m playing pool with him and two other high school buddies. We’re all drinking beers and watching Dave kick our collective asses.

A few tables over, two girls rack up and begin a game. One of them, a hot blonde, catches Dave’s eye. He watches her in his peripheral as he sinks four balls into the pockets.

The girls are tipsy and giggly. They seem new to the game and hit the balls around randomly. Judging from their martinis, they appear more eager to drink than to play pool.

The hot blonde is wearing a black halter top that hands perilously low every time she shoots. Her skin-tight, low-rise jeans also provide a tantalizing glimpse of her black thong (which, as we all can see, matches her black bra).

The hot blonde notices Dave. She pauses and smiles at him. Dave grins and finishes our game without breaking a sweat. I groan, grab my beer, and take a big gulp as Dave wanders over to the girls.

“Can I interest you ladies in some pool lessons?” Dave asks.

“What? You think we can’t play pool?” giggles the hot blonde. She flicks her hair back. “We can play fine!”

“Oh yea? How about a game then?”

The hot blonde looks at her friend, who nods at her. “Okay, sure.” She licks her lips and racks up the balls.

All of us guys eagerly shuffle over to watch. Dave eyes her coyly and explains the basic rules of eight-ball. As he finishes, he asks her if she wants to break.

“No way. I’m horrible at breaking the balls.” Another hair flick. “They never go anywhere. You break them.”

Dave leans down and breaks, sending two balls into pockets.

“Ohmigosh, are you some kind of pool hustler?” she asks.

“What, me? Nah, that was just luck.” Dave feigns a poor shot. “See? Your turn.”

The hot blonde leans over the table. All the guys shuffle to the opposite side to watch her intently. If she knows that about every guy in the pool hall is staring down her shirt, then she hides it well. She takes her shot and misses completely.

“Ohmigosh, this game is so hard!” She turns to him. Dave glides next to her.

“It’s not so hard. Here, watch me.” He explains his finger positions and how he lines up his shot. She watches him with a grin. Dave knocks one more ball in before missing intently. “Okay, now you try it.”

The hot blonde bends over the table. Dave, being the gentleman that he is, comes up behind her and puts his hands on hers. “Here, like this.”

She peers up at him and he smiles. “You trying to cop a feel so soon? We’ve just met each other.” Dave’s face flares in red and he backs away apologetically. She giggles and hits the ball. It goes in.

“Wooo! That was fun!” she shouts and touches Dave’s chest. Her next shot bounces no where near a pocket. She looks up from the table and gives Dave a coy smile. “No advice this time? You too busy looking down my shirt to watch my balls, huh?”

Dave blinks, not quite ready for such a line. “Uh, no, I think you’re handling those balls just fine.” He pauses. “In fact, I think you got quite a way with balls.” She giggles again and brushes by his shoulder while the rest of us groan.

As the game continues, Dave makes his best attempts at touching her or watching her bend down, while she flirts back and eats up the attention. The last few shots of the game drag on. Dave keeps one of his balls on the table and lets her win.

“I won! I won!” she cheers with her friend. They jump up and down. The guys watch eagerly. “So what do I win?” she asks with a smile. Dave looks at her drink and orders her another martini.

“How about another game?” he asks.

“Sure! But you’d better not lose again, ‘cuz you’re going to get me drunk!”

“Make you drunk?” Dave winks at us. “Me? Never! Here, have another drink!”

The rest of us return to our table while Dave continues to play with the hot blonde. Her friend walks off to join some friends at another table. We occasionally steal glances at the hot blonde and her matching black undies.

After a few games, I stumble over to Dave’s game. I see a pile of twenties on the table. “Playing for money now?” I ask.

Dave grins. “Yea, she asked for it.”

“I’m going to beat you!” she shouts, nearly knocking over her martini. She gasps, grabs her martini, and pulls it away the table.

Dave winks at me. “I’ll take it easy on her. It’s her number I’m after, not her money.”

I laugh. “Good luck man. I don’t mean on the game, I mean on getting her number.” He smirks and returns to the table. Since I lost the last game and have some time to kill, I decide to watch Dave (well, really the hot blonde) play for a while.

At the first game I witness, Dave beats her by one ball. “No way! That was a close game! Let’s play again!” she sputters. She puts down a twenty. Dave orders her another martini as she racks up the balls.

After the next game, the hot blonde wins by one ball. Dave shakes his head. “Gee, I guess I’m losing it now.” She sticks her tongue at him and chalks up her stick. We both stare intently at the way she rubs the stick. He puts down a twenty.

After the next game, the hot blonde wins by two balls. Dave turns down an offer for another beer. “Done drinking for the night?” I ask. He nods silently, puts down another twenty, and racks up the balls.

After the next game, the hot blonde wins by three balls. “Woo hoo! I can’t believe I won again!” She jumps up and down. Dave wipes some sweat off his brow and is noticeably quieter now. I ask him if he’s okay and he just nods. He puts down another twenty.

The next game starts off real close. I see the competitive side of Dave coming out. He’s playing for real now. The veins in his neck are throbbing. And what’s worse, she’s still flirting with him and giggling and bending down generously over the table. The hot blonde wins by four balls. He puts down another twenty.

By this time, all of our friends and her friends have gathered around to watch. The hot blonde and Dave are both quiet now. A tall stack of twenties are perched precariously on the table. She seems a lot less inebriated now and the stress in Dave’s veins must have pushed the alcohol out of his system too.

While the rest of us stare at the hot blonde, Dave’s eyes are focused only on the pool table. She breaks the balls wonderfully and keeps a commanding presence on the table. Our mouths drop when we watch her pull off an amazing display of English: the cue ball strikes her remaining solid into a pocket, then rolls backwards and knocks the eight ball into a pocket.

“Hey Dave, I think that’s enough for tonight,” one of our friends tells him. He shakes his head and continues racks up the balls again after throwing down another twenty.

By the end of the night, the hot blonde is $320 richer. She waves the money around and giggles. Dave silently congratulates her.

We slowly walk our defeated friend out of the pool hall, too stunned to offer any condolences. As we get to our cars, the hot blonde and her friends drive by.

“Hey, thanks for those pool lessons! They really helped!” she shouts out the car window. Then they drive away.

Have you ever been hustled?

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Very Bad Things

So Mom, here’s how it went down.

I met her at Golden Gate Park one weekend. I was just chilling near the Conservatory of Flowers, reading a book. She came over and sat down next to me. I looked up and smiled at her; she smiled back.

That was my cue to start talking to her. So we talked for a bit. Her name is Mary. She’s got the cutest dimples when she smiles. After half an hour or so, I suggested a walk. We got up and headed over to the Japanese Tea Garden.

We talked for the entire day. After wandering around the Garden aimlessly, we exited to find a more secluded spot. In her backpack she had a bottle of Charles Shaw wine; she had been to Trader Joe’s that morning.

We broke open the wine and sat on the grass. We drank perhaps a bit much, a bit fast. Being a bit tipsy, I leaned over and, well, kissed her. She kissed back. Then one thing led to another, and…

Well, so that was several weeks ago. Last week she called me up and said she gave herself a test. One of those, you know, pee-in-a-cup home tests. ClearBlue Easy, I think it was. She dipped the test paper into it and a little plus sign showed up.

Now before you go crazy, don’t worry, I would never have a kid out of wedlock. You raised me right; I know what must be done in situations like this.

So this weekend, we flew down to Las Vegas and jumped into the Garden of Love Wedding Chapel. We went for the really cheap package, the $40 one. It was quick and easy. I had my digital camera with me, so the pastor took a few pictures of us. I’ll send them to you later.

I had some wine at the wedding too. Maybe a bit too much. I guess we both like wine a lot. So while I was driving our Hertz rental car back to our motel room, I kind of hit someone.

He just jumped out of nowhere. I wasn’t ready for him. He was a homeless guy who was running across the street. I hit him squarely in the legs. He bounced off my hood and fell to the side. It was a horrible sound; I think I even heard his bones crack.

The Las Vegas Police Department got me for DWI. Plus, I had forgotten my driver’s license in our motel room. I was wearing a suit and in the rush to make our wedding appointment, forgot to grab my wallet. It’s still sitting on the nightstand near our bed.

So I’m in jail right now and I need bail money. Mary’s family doesn’t have much money. They’re back in Nigeria, Africa. She doesn’t speak that much English and kind of freaked out when the police came. So I can’t ask her for bail money.

Plus, when I say she freaked out, I mean she ran away. I don’t know where she is right now. The police are still looking for her. She’s a very fast runner and sprinted away from the scene. So I’m alone here in jail right now.

I already spent my one free phone call on 1-800-A-LAWYER. They weren’t much help. So I can’t call you right now; you’ll have to call me. Please wire me $1000 too.

Oh, and I also made an illegal u-turn last week and got fined $183.

Okay, that was a lie. That’s not true. I didn’t drive while drunk. Or hit a homeless guy. Or get married. Or get a girl pregnant. Or meet a girl named Mary. All of that is not true.

Except for the illegal u-turn part. That part is true.

But when you look at it in perspective of what else could have happened, that’s not so bad, is it? Is it?

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Wingman

I am a great wingman. A truly magnificent beast of a wingman.

I am always ready to take one for the team, especially if it means the squadron leader can take home the prize.

I have it all down to a science. With a repertoire of conversation topics on hand, I can keep her friend occupied for hours. These are topics that have been gathered and carefully honed after years and years of being a traveling consultant.

I have a watchful eye to monitor the leader’s progress. Those subtle cues for when he suddenly needs backup are instantly relayed to my alert centers. In a moment’s notice, I can jump in there with a stupid joke to take the heat off of him.

I admit; it’s a tough job being a good wingman. You can’t outshine the leader. You can’t take his glory. Your ultimate purpose is to make him the best, the sharpest, the strongest member of your team. It’s no place for an ego.

I am a great wingman though; I know all of this. I know when to walk away and when to spill my drink. I know how to look like a complete dork (some would say I know how to do that pretty darn well) and I know how to focus her friend’s attention completely on me.

I even know when to take on this role without an openly expressed request. There will be times when, in the midst of a battle, I can see my friend’s target. He’s got her in his sights and is moving in for the kill. There’s no time for him to relay a message to me. But those subtle cues are all I need to draw fire from her friend and cause the necessary diversions.

I do this because I know my friend will do the same for me. The wingman and the leader are interchangeable roles. We’ve all taken round-robin training and can execute each role expertly. We count on each other for this flexibility.

I know just as well as my friend does that if I ever come upon a target, he’ll gladly take one for the team as well.

I’m a great wingman, but I can only be a great wingman with great friends.

Are you a good wingman/woman?

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What Kind of Superpower Would You Want?

What kind of superpower would you want? Say you could have any superpower you could think of. You could fly or walk through walls or read minds.

Or you could be super-strong, like Superman, and push cars around and open up any stuck peanut-butter jar. Or heal quickly, like Wolverine, and get into fights without fear of permanent damage. Or control minds, like Professor-X, and make people stop fighting each other over useless wars.

You could stop time. That way, you could get extra work or sleep done. Or drive your car through frozen traffic and not miss that early morning meeting. That would be kind of fun; the highway would be a gigantic stationary obstacle course. And if you have a hangover but need to wake up for work the next day, you could give yourself a few more hours.

You could look into the future. Then you’d see the outcome of your test or whom you’d marry or where you’d live. Or even the scores of the Super Bowl. Then you could bet on the winning teams and get rich like Biff in Back To The Future. You could even invent the next killer app and be considered a genius.

You could turn invisible. And be a super-spy, sneaking into foreign government offices and stealing secrets. You’d be cooler than James Bond! Think of all the conversations you could hear. You could sneak over to an Al Queda base and find Osama bin Laden, then kick his ass while making ghostly sounds. Man, I’d love to see his face when he is kicked in the kidneys by “air.”

Me, I’d want the ability to automatically know everything on a particular subject that another person knows, just by touching them.

Then I’d shake hands with Warren Buffet learn how he built his financial empire. Or I’d shake hands with George Tenet and learn the secrets of the CIA (Are there really aliens at Area 55? Who really shot JFK?). Or I’d shake hands with Stephen Hawking and learn everything he knows about physics and the universe.

I could go into work and shake hands with another engineer, then be able to speak the same engineering language he does. My resume could be impressively upped that way too.

I could go to China and shake hands with a native, then be able to speak fluent Chinese. I wouldn’t have to bother with tedious classes.

I could go to Gary Danko or French Laundry and shake hands with their chefs, then be able to make just-as-fantastic culinary masterpieces.

Man, that sure would be a cool superpower to have.

What kind of superpower would you want?

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The Pyramid Scheme

I just finished reading Robert Cialdini’s “Influence”. It’s a book about six basic behavioral principles that can be used to influence people.

So it was with great interest that I engaged in a conversation with Stephen, a gentleman sitting next to me on my Southwest flight to New York. He offered me some drink coupons and then tried to sell me some air treatment equipment.

Instantly, I my radar beeped. Give a gift to someone and he’ll generally feel the need to give in return. (Chapter 2, “Reciprocation: The Old Give and Take…and Take”)

He even added that the air treatment equipment offer would end in a few days. Emphasize how rare something is, and it will seem more valuable. (Chapter 7, “Scarcity: The Rule of the Few”)

Then he gave me his card, inquired into what I did, and expressed an interest in hiring independent contractors. My eyes lit when he said he was interested in hiring freelancers. He asked for my card and I made the mistake of giving it to him. (I didn’t believe it was a mistake until later, of course—I thought he was only an air treatment equipment salesman who needed a web site.)

After he established a rapport with me, peppered compliments throughout our conversation. People are generally more susceptible to people they like, and flattery can get you anywhere. (Chapter 5, “Liking: The Friendly Thief”)

“I can tell you’re an intelligent young man. You’ve got a great future ahead of you. I can tell you how you can make hundreds of thousands, easily.”

He pulled out several charts and brochures. They listed dozens of examples of how his distributed marketing business (basically, a pyramid scheme) could make me rich. Stephen even told me about a “partner” of his in San Jose and how hundreds of others in California are doing this right now.

“Hundreds of intelligent young men just like you are getting rich right now.” People are more apt to do something if many others are doing it too. (Chapter 4, “Social Proof: Truths Are Us”)

It was interesting to hear these how he was using every influential behavioral principle in the book. I wonder if he had read it too.

He described to me a rather polished and formal looking pyramid scheme. The color brochures and practiced speech made it sound even more legitimate. He himself was, in fact, one of the organization’s most successful and knowledgeable members, he told me.

And if I were to join, he, an experienced authority, would personally teach me. People will generally follow those in authority. (Chapter 6, “Authority: Directed Deference”)

Finally, he had me write a list of luxurious goals and dreams (like which sports cars I’d like to own and how many vacations I’d like to have).

“You would like to achieve these dreams someday, right? If I told you I had a guaranteed way to help you reach these dreams, you’d be interested, right? Now what if I told you that all you needed to do to start was to attend one of our seminars for only six measly dollars, you would, right? What’s six dollars, a lunch? Wouldn’t you trade a day’s lunch in order to make hundreds of thousands of dollars in one year’s time?”

By committing to part of an behavior, many people will continue the rest of the behavior in order to act consistently. (Chapter 3, “Commitment and Consistency: Hobgoblins of the Mind”)

It was a very fascinating discussion. After the plane landed, I thanked him and left. As soon as I reached my house, I pulled out Cialdini’s “Influence” and leafed through it.

Wow. Stephen sure gave me a great presentation of the principles in practical use. He probably thought I was thanking him for this “opportunity” to get rich, when I was really thanking him for this cool demonstration of Influence.

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