Albuterol For The Soul – LittleCubeNews.com

I recently had to get a sleep test (SPOILER ALERT – it turns out I have severe sleep apnea).  I was worried the entire time leading up to it about my ability to even doze, much less enter the kind of deep slumber I assumed they would need to detect abnormalities in the REM cycle, also known as the mystical… dream sleep. I had no problems dreaming, but they would be better classified as “hallucinations”. I discovered that I tend to go a little crazy strapped in one position for hours on end, especially with the added pressure of having to eventually fall asleep when one is not sleepy at all.

The first step was wiring me up to several electrodes, the ones on my head having to be applied with a thick glue substance. At some point in the night, a drop began to inch down and across my face like a slow, confused worm.  I was not physically restricted enough that I could not wipe it away with my forehand, but I had become so convinced I was undergoing some sort of torture that I would “lose” if I brushed it off.

Much of that abused mentality was due to the fact I watched the season finale of  reality show “The Housewives of New Jersey” before I turned off the light. It was not readily apparent who these women were, if they were really housewives or really lived in New Jersey – only that one of them saw fit to let her children sit at the table while she “joked” about her husband raping her when she was drugged up after her breast implant operation, but she told the children to leave when a discussion about the destructive power of gossip came up.  I’m not phased by too much on television, but presumably because of the circumstances, I couldn’t stop thinking about these ladies – I began to focus and hate, then focus my hate, then hate my focus – my thoughts began to spin wildly out of control to other subjects as well.  Soon, my legs were shaking with frustration and anger (SPOLER ALERT – i was also diagnosed with “concurrent movement periodic limb disorder”). I have my doubts to the validity of this finding – my kicking was largely voluntary.

The electrodes on my legs actually got pulled off a few times. This led to Brian, the technician, sneaking into the room to reattach them. A large black man sporadically sneaking into the room and pulling down my covers was another big reason I had trouble falling asleep. No, I am not racist, and I was not having flashbacks to prison (I have never been incarcerated)…  It was more about flashbacks to my childhood.

By 4am it was looking like I was not going to fall asleep at all. As the air conditioning came on causing the ceiling fan to start squeaking again (a curious feature for a room designed to facilitate sleep, for sure), I seriously considered ripping off all the wires and running out. This was right after I seriously considered masturbating to achieve some sort of drowsiness, even though I was being monitored by a camera and microphones.  At that point Brian came in again to “adjust” something – foiled again, guy, I was still awake!

I did ask him if I could have taken an Ambien – I had assumed they needed a natural sample of my sleeping and not the stoned version where I vocally marvel at the shadow puppets on the wall before drifting off. He said I could have taken one, but did not recommend doing that now since it was so late. I took one as soon as he left.

He woke me up two hours later and gave me a glass of orange juice. I almost passed out several times on the way home, but I had given them 2 hours of deep sleep and enough evidence for a diagnosis (which you already know if you’ve heard the spoilers). I’m not totally convinced of their competency, though, as there was no mention at all in the report of when I was wide awake, but began to fake-snore for about 10 minutes to see if I could fool them. I guess I did.

Sure,  I woke up a bit hungover, but I’ll probably be too drunk to read later, much less proofread, so I’m writing this now.  What a day! It started off kind of on a downer by looking at Facebook photos of vacationing “friends” in South Carolina, Portland, and Ecuador… whatever, I’ve got a bowl of cereal and a movie about post-partum depression on Lifetime.  Seriosuly, don’t leave her alone with the baby – she’s already cut off the tip of her finger “accidentally”. Well, it was time to go to Target – I needed to pick up some new swimming shorts.  What better time to eat some thick, greasy corrugated fiberboard? Sadly, the personal pan pizzas at the snack bar had to suffice – hardly on the same level.  I came home, and while in my boxers and listening to L.A. Guns, replaced the LCD screen on a Macbook for a lady at work (I wonder if she’ll pay me?). Then, I realized it is stupid for me to ever have self-esteem issues. I also watched the end of Cocktail and the entirety of Overboard on A&E. An entire bag of pretzels and slices of extra sharp cheese are delicious. In the shower, a song from Twisted Sister came on off the album, Still Hungry. It is a 2004 note-by-note re-recording of their seminal album Stay Hungry. Isn’t that the best thing you’ve ever heard of? If somone will pick me up, I’m supposed to go to Toby Keith’s bar in Mesa called I Love This Bar. I love this life.

An e-mail for the other Nathan Fuller accidentally landed in my inbox the other day.  Apparently, my shadow Nathan is experiencing some heartache… or something…

Hi Mr. Wall

Thanks for the email. =) I see your reasons and I respect them, that is ok.  I was actually praying that whatever you would say would determine what I would do.  I am content to be just friends, and if sometime in the future if the interest is still there we can continue are friendship at a better more logical time.  Essie is young, and your right about her not needing anything official with any guy while at NCA.  I appreciate and respect both you and and Essie =) thank you for the email.  Essie did say that if I wanted to talk/email her after I left that I needed to ask you first.  Do I have our permission to email/chat with her?

~Nathan Fuller

His response…

Yes, that would be fine. Thanks for taking the time to write as well.

Dave

And my response to Mr. Wall, in hopes of getting a restraining order taken out on somebody…

Fortunately, I have had a change of heart via the transmission of God’s Will through my daily prayer sessions. Ultimately, I must do what God says, not (like I had hoped) what you say – I’m sorry.

True love is a gift like the holy sunshine and we must bathe in its warmth – so I will follow Essie to NCA! If we cannot live together right now, then I have found a small room for rent  in very close proximity to campus. It is under a bar – technically a basement – but the rent is cheap if I agree to work as a busboy and I share my space with unopened palettes of beer.

I understand your concern that Essie is young… very young… but there is no age requirement for love. I mean, legally, there might be one according to man’s law, but that is not the Law I follow… anyway, I don’t think that necessarily applies here. How old is Essie again?

I have yet to make it official with Essie but as soon as she logs into her IM we will chat about it. I’m sure she will be happy to here my decision! I long for the day when she sends me the “love emoticon,” which is a little throbbing heart – I must say I’m getting frustrated by the constant smiley faces.

Sincerely,

Nathan

The stripper wasn’t on my list. I was just supposed to pick up helium balloons and maybe a birthday card. The goal was to buy as many balloons as it would take to fill a bedroom so they would spill out when the door was opened – surprise! It turned out balloons, especially three hundred of them, cost a lot more than I was willing to spend. Still, I got everything on my list and made it Abbey’s surprise party just in time (stuffing two dozen balloons into the cab of a truck takes some work… another reason why three hundred would not have gone smoothly). Some other people had some lists, too, and they were just as successful – chips, streamers, beer, and as you may have inferred, a bronzed hard-body named Emmanuel.

The birthday girl, Abbey, was a friend of mine from work. She has a roommate named Val, who organized the whole thing… and yes, by “thing”, I do mean penis. The “thing” did not arrive till later in the night. The reason for it for even being there had more to do with Val’s love for good times than Abbey’s love for man junk. Earlier in the day Val had ripped the entire back of her dress open but continued to run errands (sans underwear), often proclaims to pee herself when excited (I know from my mommy friends this not unusual if you’ve given birth, but she was childless and I think she was kind of serious), only stops drinking to take vomit time-outs, and tried her hardest to order the midget version of Emmanuel (he was already booked) – that’s just who she is.  She does what she wants.

Around ten o’clock, Abbey was informed a cop was at the door and there was a noise complaint. This had the ring of authenticity because they had gotten several of these before. Not so authentic was this policeman’s overpowering cologne and boom-box. Abbey was too drunk to notice, though, so it seemed to come as a shock to her when the young patrolman took off his shirt and backed her onto a stool. He quickly disrobed down to his thong, and while he was quite muscular, he was not as endowed as I expected. Never having seen a (male) stripper before, I just assumed this was a job requirement and he would make us all call him by his nickname the “Hispanic Horse”.

His dance started off with a gentle waltz of tease and insinuation, but that did not last for long. He then spanked, humped, face-crotched, straddled, and did a bunch of other things to her whose names can only be found somewhere in the dark corners of the internet (Melon Dive, anyone?). While I cannot say I found this appealing, someone sure did. Val. After Abbey, she took her turn that involved even more positions and an even more alarming proximity between the buttocks and face. She also did some flashing. Did I mention that her parents were in attendance? They seemed pretty nonplussed by the whole affair. Once the performance was over, Val’s dad shook Emmanuel’s hand and expressed his respect for the fact he could perform and chew gum at the same time.

Overall, my first experience with erotic male ballet was… eye-opening. And I’ll be having another birthday of my own someday. I’d put Emmanuel on my own list… but I think I want the midget.

Every two months or so I get an e-mail for someone with my name, and from what I can judge about the inquiries, he is apparently a furniture mover in California. Whatever business card or napkin he accidentally put my e-mail address on – he has not made much effort to correct it. I’ve held my tongue even though I’m sure, somewhere out there, he thinks he’s better than me just because he can maneuver a right-hand turn in something larger than a Toyota Tacoma. The latest e-mail was from someone giving rates for vans and the required insurance to rent them. No one tells me what insurance I need (besides my state government), and I was bored at work, so I was forced to respond:

Dear Sydney “Penske” Larson,

First off, I don’t remember talking to you, but that is not necessarily unusual, so I’m sure it was a nice conversation, and I appreciate you getting back to me with some info it seems I may have asked for.

The way it looks, I would not mind renting several vans from you for many years. Do you not have yearly rates or 5-year rates? Is there any charge for removing any carpeting I might install?

I do have some concerns about the insurance requirements. I, of course, do not have any insurance at all, much less a “minimum combined single limit of $1,000,000 for tractors and $750,000 for straight trucks”. How do I go about getting something like this? Are
there driving tests involved or do I also need an official license? That could be somewhat of a problem – let’s just say I ran someone over once… but at least one of us was drunk! Ha, ha, jk – it was only him (wink, wink). No really, I’m joking, you would have to be crazy to rent vans to someone who admitted to alcoholism.

Sincerely,
Nathan

To my surprise he actually wrote back and informed me that “legally, you do need an official license to drive the vehicle, as you would need driving any other motorized automobile/truck on CA road’s and highways”.

Hey Penske,

Hmmm, it seems we may be getting closer to an oral agreement (I, of course, will not “do written contracts” as I have had my fair share of hassles with those in the past). The carpet could be a deal breaker, but I could probably rip it out myself. And while I assume you do a standard inspection of the vehicles upon my return of them, I must insist a forensic-style black light NOT be used.

I did not realize you came by my facility… I’m a little creeped out. Did we meet? Also, I’m suprised you would assume I have insurance on the vehicles parked in the lot, or that they are even mine. You know what they say you do when you “assume” – you make a real asshole out of yourself. It’s all good, though, because I have plenty of insurance. I am not sure if I have a “certificate”, so I will need you to send me (via postal mail) a certificate just exactly the way you need it except for the name part empty – just so I can see EXACTLY what you are looking for – then I can go through my filing system and find it. Sometimes, dealing with all this beuracratic mumbo-jumbo so the feds can have their goddamn paperwork can be such a hassle. This next part is a joke because my brother told me once its illegal to talk shit against the government over e-mail, but sometimes it makes me want to fire bomb a DMV.

Unfortunately, as you probably know, it seems the only legal way to protest our government is not to file taxes.

Sorry, I am going off on a tangent. Talk to you soon, Syd!

Nathan

Well, he wrote back again informing me that “standard procedure for all rentals require a ‘rental agreement contract’ (his quotes). I wish you the best of luck with your business.”

Syd,

Why does this always happen to me?!

Sincerely,
Nathan

This is one of the first videos I made in college. It introduced me to the joy of long hours spent alone in a dark room huddling over a VHS to VHS editing bay. While the bays have been replaced by computer systems, luckily, the long dark hours have remained the same.

I shot this video of my roommate and her friend while spending the day in their leasng office. I mostly only remember Misty (the friend) offering to do a "private shoot" in one of the apartments after work, and I also remember me laughing it off. They did not call me The Lady Killer in college for nothing (it was, instead, for irony).

I drove two hours south of Tucson to capture this video from one of the state’s most popular tourist attractions. I had been there 6 six times prior so it went very smoothly.

At first, the Cat Fanciers’ Association cat show appeared as odd and peculiar as I’d expected. I walked through the temple-like archway of the El Zaribah Shriner Auditorium in Phoenix, Arizona, and every stereotype one might have about a cat show and its participants came to pass… plus a few more. The first thing I saw was a girl who’d wedged herself into a cage with a large, sleeping Tabby. After walking through the gallery of Shriner Imperial Moolahs looking as serious as one can wearing a fez, I entered a crowded theatre of cat ladies in pumpkin sweatshirts and kitty ear headbands, men in feline themed T-shirts, and venders selling cat plates, cat clothing, cat jewelry, cat mats… and romance paperbacks (three for five dollars).

The cats waited in a miniature tent city lining rows of tables – their enclosures were decorated with orange ribbons, black ribbons, cutout pumpkins (this was the Official Halloween show!) and bumper stickers that read Friends Don’t Let Friends Get A Dog or Cats Never Lie About Love. Next to the tents, some of them intricately designed with multiple, carpeted levels for feline lounging, were stations cluttered with tweezers, combs, and freeze dried chicken treats. One owner hunched over a kitten with an iron grip on its head, pulling back its jowls as he squeezed drops into its wide eyes. Another proud exhibitor brushed her kitten while eating a makeshift sloppy joe made with loose meat and two Danishes, ingredients she’d bought from the snack stand that also featured a full bar.

Looking into their tents, I was surprised by what peered back at me. I couldn’t imagine a regal Abyssinian setting its sharp, antelope-like head on my lap as I watch television. I no longer think of Persians as simply a hairier version of normal cats. With their large, round eyes where their cheeks should be, the Persians managed to look both dormant and distressed. These were not your normal house cats. As if there were any doubt, house cats were here, but for a competition that lumped all of them together to be judged, “without regard to sex, age, coat length or color.” One cat is chosen for its “uniqueness,” but as long as they seem healthy, every household cat receives a merit award.

The stately show cats, however, are judged multiple times according to breed standards and are awarded a variety of points, plaques, and colored ribbons. The elaborate scoring system is often confusing for spectators. Judges present their awards independently of each other, and are peculiar in their own right. One pink-tied and bespectacled gentleman sported a muffin-top hairpiece as impressive as any feline mane in the show. He was one of the many judges who evaluate every cat, from testing out its ability to follow the path of a flittering cat toy to lifting up its tail and examining the anus. In order to judge at a CFA show one must participate in a training program and pass a breed standard exam, as well as have ten years of breeding experience. I suppose they should also like cats.

Throughout the day, participants listened for their cat to be called to one of six judging rings. This takes hours, as the cats must circulate through every one of the rings; so many conversations stopped mid-sentence as people froze and tilted their heads to hear the announcer who called numbers monotonously from his seat on stage. He sat above a table of raffle cups with prizes like cat bibs, scratching ramps, and a ten minute consultation with a cat behaviorist, the “infamous” author of My Litter Box was Dirty so I Left a Present in Your Shoe, (whose name, of course, you must already know).

Cat shows, like badminton tournaments or even baseball, aren’t likely to garner a large television audience. “I know the argument is that there’s more action at a dog show,” says Pam DelaBar, vice president of the Cat Fanciers’ Association. “Well, they call it action. All you’re really seeing are dogs running in a circle around a ring. I know people would watch [a cat show]; these cats are living art, works of beauty that purr.”

I did see some pretty cats, but I never even heard a meow. I had read about an agility competition but didn’t see any sign of an obstacle course. The cats were not the liveliest crowd anyway. In fact, they were all very docile, which was a bit anti-climactic. One unmet expectation was that there would be a lot of scratching and cats who’d squirmed free of their owners scampering about the showroom, perhaps even criss-crossing in the rafters above. The only act of insubordination seemed to be sleeping in their own litter, as opposed to just sleeping, which the majority of these pets were doing. They sleep until the judge pulls them out of their cage and puts them into another cage along the show ring, where they fall asleep again.

“The moment every cat breeder lives for is that moment of exhilaration when your cat is held aloft and proclaimed “Best Cat in Show!” according to the CFA website. I wondered, were ribbons and points really motivation enough to justify buying a thousand dollar cat, driving from state to state, and paying entrance, grooming, and cage fees for a long day at a show like this one? I wanted to talk to the man wearing shorts that revealed legs covered in scratches (how far up did they go?!), but he was too focused on herding from one ring to the next, so I spoke with the owner of an Abyssinian contestant named Jazzpur.

Joni recently joined the cat show circuit because she felt something was missing in her life, and I got the feeling from several of her tangents, because she has grown tired of her husband. Growing up, she would accompany her mother to dog shows from California to the Midwest, so she was already familiar with showing animals. She says it’s the people she meets at the CFA shows that keep her coming back. “I really liked the community. The people are really cool,” Joni said. By the end of our conversation, I had to cross out the phrase “Everyone’s Crazy ”, which I had scribbled into my notes earlier. Our discussion was cut short when Jazzpur’s number was announced.

After talking to Joni, I realized that as foreign as the cat show had seemed to me at first, it was just another community built on shared interests, no more eccentric than the fraternity of Shriners sharing their auditorium today. No different, in essence, from any other like-minded hobbyist gathering, from Trekkie conventions to poetry readings to Civil War Reenactments. But when I got home and went over my notes and photographs, I realized I was right the first time. These people are freaks.

Written by Sara & Nathan

Sure it may have seemed like the worst series finale ever. What other show could take questions already answered episodes ago that we never cared about anyway (Will Julie marry Bullit? Will Summer join Greenpeace? Does Ryan love Taylor?) and then somehow flash forward 6 months where those same questions all had to be answered again? Yes, it was ridiculous, but how many finales have Kevin Sorbo, of Hercules fame, literally running around all over the place (besides maybe the Hercules finale)? I rest my case.

Besides, the final montage of past events managed to sum up the experience of growing up for all of us, whether we lived in the O.C. or not. I mean, things never turn out exactly the way you planned. Still, like Mr. Cohen says, “Traffic’s traffic, you go where life takes you” and growing up happens in a heartbeat. One day you’re in diapers, the next you’re gone, but the memories of childhood stay with you for the long haul. You remember a time a place, a particular Fourth of July, the things that happened in a decade of war and change. You remember a house like a lot of houses, a yard like a lot of yards, on a street like a lot of other streets. You remember how hard it was growing up among people and places you loved. Most of all, you remember how hard it was to leave. And the thing is, after all these years you still look back in wonder…

1/3 Part Club Soda
1/3 Part Lingonberry Concentrate (available from IKEA)
1/3 Part Vodka
Add Crushed Ice

Most of the time, when I tell people about my signature drink and basketball nickname, The Dirty Nathan, the look of disgust on their face escalates until I am done, and then they begin to ask how I could drink something so disgusting. That’s usually when I tell them about my alternative signature drink and nickname in college I got from an incident in the dorm bathroom… that usually shuts them up.

I recently went to the grand opening of an all-you-can-eat sushi and Chinese buffet named Fuji. My definition of a good buffet is one where you can make it all the way home without stopping at a bathroom somewhere. I still have not found a good buffet in this town.