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Science fair flashbacks

I think back to high school, all of those awkward social moments, the never-ending double periods of calculus or physics, nothing was worse than the annual science fair. Nothing. I can look back at every other terrible adolescent memory and think, well, that wasn’t necessarily pleasant, but I got through it, and I’m fine now. But I’m still haunted by the science fair. What a nightmare.

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The whole idea is ridiculous. We’re going to tell a bunch of teenagers that they’ve got a month or two to start working on a big science project. “Don’t let it get to be too late!” was the generic advice, our teachers warning us that we’d have to present our final projects in front of everybody, that the whole thing would be something like half of our final grade for the trimester.

And I can only speak from my experience, but of course I always let it get to be too late, every single year. But with so much of my GPA on the line, it’s not like I could ever just give up. That would have been academic suicide. So I had to come up with ever-ridiculous ways to somehow bullshit my way through the science fair.

Freshman year I remember laughing at this kid who started growing silt samples back in September for his science fair project due in March. What a nerd. But then I’d see him bringing in all of these tinfoil trays containing silts of various sizes and colors, asking for constant guidance from the teacher, really taking the phrase “above and beyond” and shitting on it, like ha, above and beyond, that’s cute, I went above and beyond back in October, now it’s January, look at all of this silt I’ve cultivated, not only am I going to get a hundred, I’m going to bring everybody else’s grade down just by comparison, because look at this, what do you have, do you have anything? Do you?

Of course I had nothing. So I kicked it into the next gear. Which wasn’t actually a gear where I got any work done, no, but at least now I was conscious of the work that lie ahead. Whereas before the science fair loomed in the distant future, something that I thought about only when prompted, that once-a-month reminder from the science teacher, “Don’t forget about that science fair, boys. Don’t let it get to be too late!” now I started to feel the ever-approaching deadline encroaching upon my thoughts with more of a weekly regularity.

And then it was February and I really started to panic. Mind you, this was all way before the modern Internet. I mean, the Internet existed, but it was just AOL, a shitty dial-up modem that, even when I connected, it’s not like Google was Google yet, it’s not as if there were a lot of even semi-legitimate web sites to rip off ideas from. Science fair projects must be so much easier now. You go online, you watch some YouTube videos about great science projects, it’s got to be a breeze.

But no, I was in full last-minute mode. I found something about sundials, how you could make a rudimentary shadow clock with your basic arts and crafts supplies. I had my mom drive me to CVS to buy all of the essentials, the oak tag, the foam-core board, scissors, a protractor. And then I started folding things and poking holes and about ten or fifteen minutes later I had this really crappy version of something that, if I told you it was supposed to be a sundial, you might scratch your head and say, “Oh yeah, I guess that kind of looks like a sundial.”

I put it in the sun and I got a reading, only it wasn’t anything close to the actual time. I consulted whichever science fair book I’d checked out from the library, and it turns out I had to do all of this work to calculate my latitude on the planet, like I was supposed to use that data to position the sundial at a certain angle to be able to make any sense.

But then I got an idea, I can just make up all the results. Like, I could go back, I could make a chart that showed what it would have looked like had I actually done all of that work. And it’s not like I needed video proof, no, I could just take a picture of the sundial and put it next to a digital clock that I’d rigged to show exactly the matching time. I did this like thirty or forty times and, bingo, all of the sudden I had months of hard work to show for.

Was I actually going to get away with this? I typed out and printed all of these nonsense paragraphs about sundials, I cut out those paragraphs and pasted them to the foam-core board, making sure to use construction paper as a border, to make everything stand out. In the center of my science fair booth I displayed my really shitty looking oak tag sundial and waited as the teacher made the rounds on the day of the science fair.

“Wow, nice job,” he told me after a cursory glance at my complete fraud of a project, “Ninety-five.”

“Thanks!” I couldn’t believe I’d gotten away with it. All of that stress, the two-month-old pit in the center of my stomach, all for nothing, the whole thing was over in about two minutes. I looked over at silt-boy, standing there with his massive trays of homegrown vegetation. Sure, he got a hundred, but I got a ninety-five, and for a fraction of the effort. Talk about winning the science fair, I don’t care who got that ribbon, I totally won the science fair.

And so sophomore year, I didn’t give it a second thought. I figured I could bullshit my way through the same way I did the year before. I waited until about two weeks before everything was due and I bought a bunch of plants at the Home Depot. I arranged the smallest specimens in one group, mediums in another, and after everything was sorted out by size, I cooked up the results that I was looking for had I actually bothered to do any work.

“You see,” I explained to the teacher the day of my second science fair, “I fed these guys water, these medium-sized plants were given soda, and the small dead looking guys only drank beer.” It’s science. The teacher looked at me and was like, “Well, this is kind of a grade-school project,” and I don’t know if he expected me to say anything back, like I certainly wasn’t going to argue with that, but whatever, look at the oak tag, don’t you like my plant illustrations? I did those with colored pencils.

I got a ninety. I’ll totally take a ninety. I got a ninety the next year also, when I did a complete last-minute science fair project about neon lights. And this one I actually feel a little bad about, like in my total disregard for even trying to show that I put even the smallest amount of work into a project, I’m sure I’ve done a disservice, to my teachers, to my school, to the entire education system.

It was the night before the science fair and, aside from picking a topic, I hadn’t lifted a finger. I don’t even think I had any foam-core. And my mom was like, “You’re waiting until the night before to ask me to take you to buy science fair supplies?” That was when the urgency of the situation started to kick in, like, maybe I had grown a little too cocky in my belief that I could pull anything out of my ass, maybe it was going to be hard to fake a couple of moths worth of work into one last-minute all-night work session.

But I didn’t even need the whole night. I found a speaker from an old stereo system in the basement. Next I took a bunch of cardboard paper towel rolls and wrapped them in different colored construction paper. “As you can see,” I presented everything to the teacher, “These rolls represent neon lights. And this here speaker is a model of all of the science stuff that goes into making the neon lights possible.” And I connected the box to the rolls with wire and printed out all of these charts about neon gas, pictures of neon light clipart that came preinstalled on my computer.

“Ninety?” I remember my mom’s disbelief, “You seriously got a ninety?” I’m pretty sure she almost wanted me to get some sort of a ridiculous failing grade, so I could come home and get punished and learn some lesson about hard work and grades and responsibility. But I got a ninety, and so my mom couldn’t really say anything.

During senior year, the science fair was a little different. Each student had to make a bridge out of thin pieces of balsa wood. The whole thing had to weigh under a certain amount, and on the actual date of the fair, the teacher would attach a bucket of weights to the center of the bridge, the winner determined by who’s bridge could support the most weight.

It was the same night-before nonsense, I didn’t even consult any of my resources, I just cut and glued together a bridge that looked like what I thought a bridge was supposed to look like. And yet I was still a little surprised when the whole monstrosity collapsed immediately after the teacher attached the empty bucket used to support the weights. What did I expect? I doubt I even gave the carpenter’s glue enough time to actually dry, and I walked away from my final science fair with an eighty, the minimum grade, the grade everybody got just for showing up with a bridge.

And I kind of felt a little bad, like that eighty hit me all at once, the realization that I never even gave it a shot, the science fair, I never took it seriously. And what else hadn’t I taken seriously? Which of my other classes did I give only the minimum effort, coasting through with mostly unearned nineties and ninety-fives? Couldn’t I have maybe achieved something if I’d actually tried?

Who knows? All I’m left with is that feeling, not of accomplishment, not even the relief of having gotten away with presenting a totally subpar project, but the dread, that pit in the center of my stomach, knowing each year that I’d have to scramble last minute, sweating while I tried to come up with another way to fool my teachers into believing that I’d actually done some work. And who was I fooling, really?

Barefoot running

I wish we didn’t have to wear shoes. Like every day, leaving the house, going to work, wouldn’t it be cool if we could just lead barefooted lives? Every day I get home and the first thing I want to do is take my shoes and socks off. And then after that, it’s like my feet have been cooped up for so long, the abrupt exposure to the air is jarring, it’s like having the lights turned on in the middle of the night, your eyes are too dilated, it hurts even to look around.

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I read this book where the author talked all about barefoot runners, how as animals we’re supposed to be running around nude below the ankles. So I went to the park and I took my shoes off and I started gunning out some laps. But after like ten minutes it really hurt. Like, I think I might have stepped on a pebble, a really, really tiny one. But it just kind of sent this current of pain surging up my body. I made this face, like a really dramatic pained expression, and I think I may have audibly gasped a little too loudly.

And of course, I was at the park, there were a ton of other people there. Anybody that had been paying attention to me, I mean, it’s not unreasonable to think that I wasn’t turning at least a few heads, I was definitely the only person exercising without any shoes. But right when I stepped on that pebble, I stopped, I was in the way of all of the other runners. This one guy trotted up beside me and said, “What did you expect?”

And I don’t know. This didn’t really jive with how I envisioned it all going down in my head. But after I thought about it, I realized that it wasn’t my feet’s fault. No, if anything, it was my fault. I was the one who’d kept them hidden inside of my shoes my whole life. Of course they’d grown weak, the skin on the soles way too sensitive to brave the elements of the natural world. I just had to endure the pain, fight through the discomfort. If I could get myself to run barefoot for a couple of weeks, a month, I don’t know, I was sure that my feet would grow calloused enough to handle a few tiny pebbles, maybe even some bigger pebbles.

I mean, you think about our ancestors, right, they didn’t have fancy running sneakers with patented gel nimbus soles to cushion each step. No, they didn’t have anything. They didn’t even have paved roads. I’d definitely be fine, I just needed to give it some time.

I went back to the park the next day, but I don’t know, it was even tougher than the day before. Because while previously I’d made it like five minutes before the pain became too unbearable, now it was hurting right from that first exposed step. I hoped that nobody was watching me this time, although they probably were, because like I said, it’s just weird, right, you see some guy head to a track in the park and take his shoes off, I mean, I’m not looking for attention, but I even have to admit, it’s just something that people don’t normally do.

And maybe if I actually knew how to run barefoot, maybe I’d be able to get past all of that nonsense. But like I said, this second day, I could barely even stand. Some guy came up to me after a minute and was like, “Hey buddy, are you all right? You need some help?” And I shook my head no, “That’s OK,” I told him, “I’m trying out this barefoot running style.”

I actually made it like halfway around the track, I wasn’t running, not really, and the pain level hadn’t yet reached critical, but some guy in a Parks Department uniform came over and told me I had to put some shoes on.

“Come on dude,” I protested, “That can’t be a rule.”

But it was a rule, it was right outside of the track, screwed onto the chain-link fence that bordered the furthest lane, “Park Rules.” And yeah, it said something about shoes. I couldn’t believe it. What is this, a police state? You’re going to mandate that human beings have to cover up how they naturally are?

I made a big stink and stormed out of there in a huff, holding my shoes in my hand as if to prove a point, like fine, kick me out of your track, I don’t care, the world is my track. And I started jogging home, on the pavement, but this only lasted like half a block or so, because while I thought that the track was bad, the paved street was much, much worse. Like I was acutely aware of the gravely texture, and all of the twigs and dirt and debris that you don’t even really see on the sidewalk, but it’s there, right on the street, right before you get to the curb.

And then I saw a bunch of broken glass like ten feet ahead and I thought, fuck this, and I put my shoes back on. But man, if only I got to live like a thousand years ago, that would have been awesome, no shoes, just awesome hard feet.

Can I submit to Clickhole, please?

I’m currently freelancing over at Thought Catalog, and I think my writing is a good fit for Clickhole.
Here are some of my clips:
I’d love to contribute to Clickhole. Can I submit my work? Please and thank you.

Fireworks

Every once in a while I’ll hear some fireworks nearby but I won’t be able to pinpoint the source. And that’s frustrating, because I want to see those fireworks. They do two things, explode into a colorful and fiery lightshow, and make really loud noises. Only getting the second part, that’s no fun. In fact, if you simply isolate the sound, if all you’re getting is those loud booms, I don’t think there’s really anything positive about that at all. It’s just annoying.

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But the booms with the lights, that’s great. Fireworks are awesome. Which is why I’m so pissed off right now, I keep hearing fireworks go off in ten second bursts, not like any sort of official displays, but just people around the neighborhood setting off some choice works from their own personal stashes.

One time I was riding my bike home from work when these guys half a block in front of me set off this gigantic firework. I didn’t see it coming, and so the loud crack coupled with my not having seen it coming at all actually threw me off my bike. I fell sideways, but even as my body made contact with the pavement, I still made it a point to crane my neck to the side, to look up, to get a good view of that firework. It was awesome, totally worth it.

When I was a little kid, my mother always told me this story about how when she was a little kid, her brother and some neighborhood friends were messing around with fireworks. Guess what happened? One of the kids lost all of his fingers, and my uncle took a firework right to the mouth. Right inside of the mouth. He had to get all of these stitches to sew up the insides of his cheeks.

That’s what my mom told me anyway. She also told me that she swam the English Channel. And I was only in Pre-K, so I totally believed her. I remember asking her questions like, “How did you swim for over a day?” and she’d tell me stuff like, “Oh, you know, someone follows you in a boat and throws you food.” I told my teachers, everybody, I’d always think to myself, why do they keep laughing? Why does everybody think this is such a big joke?

Unproductive

I had such hopes for this weekend. I wanted to get up really early, that was my first goal ruined by my inability to get up on time. I think it was like ten or eleven when I finally turned the alarm off, and when I managed to actually get out of bed, it wasn’t early anymore, definitely late, like all of the restaurants and fast-food places were way past their breakfast menus by now.

Not that I wanted to go out for breakfast. My plan was to make breakfast, my own breakfast, a huge meal, one of those morning feasts. But, even if I had gotten up early, I wouldn’t have had anything in the house, nothing except that bulk package of bacon. But the bread, it was all moldy, I guess I should have maybe gone to the store yesterday and picked up some fresh bread.

And the milk, it was the same with the milk. It wasn’t moldy, but it was the milk equivalent of moldy bread. Sometimes I have to really get my nose in the carton to see if the milk is still good, but this time, nope, all I had to do was open up the top and I knew, my nose knew, the whole house knew that the milk had gone bad.

So now I had all of this coffee brewing, I still wanted the coffee, but black? It’s kind of a warm day for hot black coffee. And so after a few minutes of just putzing around in my pajamas, I put on a pair of shorts and went to Dunkin Donuts. I had a large iced coffee and something like six donuts. I meant to only have three, but I couldn’t even stick to that modest goal, because the lady behind the counter was like, “It saves money to buy six.” And even though I said, “No thanks, I only want three,” she was just like, “Well, it’s the same amount of money, so I’m just going to give you six.”

And of course I ate six donuts. And now I just want to lay down and take a nap. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I can make something of myself tomorrow.