So I’ve made an informative and ridiculously funny educational video about sustainable, raw, organic, local honey from urban farmer and notorious boob, Konstantine Von Fäntzipäntz. Watch these hilarious human bees puke this delicious honey everywhere and sell to health conscious hipsters.
I play Konstantine. My friends play the bees and hipsters. This was a labor of love. Please like and share so that all the world can know more about the origins of sustainable, raw, organic, local honey!
Jeffrey took an interest in the mailman when he was seven years old. It was summertime and so he was free to sit by the bay window at one o’clock each day to wait for the truck, refusing to return to his toys until the mailman had visited our mailbox. He waited for three hours one Sunday before Dad told him the mailman wouldn’t be coming.
Jeffrey claimed his fascination for the mailman stemmed from a social studies lesson about the United States Postal Service. He was carefully observing the mailman each day because he was considering a career in the mail business. We told him he’d have to wait a couple years before he could career-shadow a mailman.
I happened to come home at a quarter to one on a Tuesday and saw Jeffrey marching to the mailbox with what looked like a letter in hand. We made eye contact as I pulled my bike into the driveway. He spun on his heels and walked back inside.
I found him pouring over an episode of SpongeBob like nothing had happened. Asked him about the letter. He didn’t hear me the first time, so I asked again. He said he didn’t know what I was talking about. And, could I please be quiet so that he could pay attention to SpongeBob? He didn’t observe the mailman from the bay window that day.
I found him at his post the next day. Sitting on the loveseat. Staring expectantly, through the bay window, at the mailbox.
The mail truck crept into view. A mailman with a bushy grey mustache sifted through envelopes, grabbed a few, and opened the door to the mailbox. He furrowed his brow when he looked inside. He pulled out a sheet of paper and read it. Then he looked at our house and considered it for a moment. His face was forlorn.
Jeffrey chuckled and left the room.
The next day, I announced that I would be running some errands. I could feel Jeffrey’s eyes boring into my back as I marched out the front door. It was a quarter to one and I had nowhere to go. So I rode my bike around the block.
When I came back, Jeffrey was visible through the bay window. He jumped to his feet as I approached the mailbox. I found a folded sheet of unlined paper inside. In the erratic penmanship of a second grader, Jeffrey had written:
i hate you and nobody ever loved you
yours truly, jeffrey
Jeffrey had fled his perch by the window and before I could walk the driveway the mail truck pulled up beside me. The mailman opened his mouth to say something but shut it again when he saw Jeffrey’s letter in my hand.
He said, got more hate mail for me? Well I got mail for you, too. Then, he shoved our mail in my face and drove away.
Jeffrey stopped writing him.
I met Alan Thicke while working on my first real movie in 2006. It was a low-budget comedy and he was starring. I’d never heard of him before.
I was hired to be a producer’s assistant. Which really meant that I was an unpaid intern. The executive producer told me that he had absolutely nothing for me to do. He’d only hired me for tax purposes.
We were shooting on an empty floor in a Daytona Beach hospital. The set was crawling with leathery grips, who were indistinguishable from plumbers. All of the camera technicians looked like the walking dead with oysters under their eyes. The AD ran amuck like a headless chicken. The entire crew seemed perpetually stressed and miserable and haggard.
But talent were glamorously pampered. Each had his and her own trailer and enjoyed television and air conditioning and praise. The crew bowed and curtseyed and rolled out the red carpet each time an actor descended on set. They made out like bandits.
The only thing I ever had to do was help Alan Thicke troubleshoot his television remote. I was aimlessly wandering the hall when he stuck his head out and said, hey guy, can you help me out here? I stepped into his room and he pointed the remote at the television and shrugged. It didn’t work.
I vaguely recognized him. He had familiar features. A square-nose below a pronounced forehead below a thick silver mane. I fiddled with the remote, trying to place his face.
He was familiar like the neighbor with whom you’ve never spoken but always wave to. Like a grocery store manager you pass in the frozen section and nod to. Or like an old pediatrician I’d long forgotten. Namely because he was wearing scrubs for his upcoming scene.
They later told me that Alan Thicke was the dad on Growing Pains. I’d never seen Growing Pains before. Had to google it to figure out what it was.
No matter how many times I pointed the remote at the television, it wouldn’t work. Pressed the buttons as hard as I could and still it wouldn’t turn on. I began to sweat.
All the while, Mr. Thicke observed me with a sense of detachment, like he was in another room watching from a security monitor. I didn’t want to fail the only task of my internship. I didn’t want to let him down.
It took me a few minutes to discover that the television was unplugged. So I plugged it in. Then the television and remote worked flawlessly.
Mr. Thicke thanked me and asked how long before he would be needed on set. He wanted to take a nap. I said I didn’t know. He made a pffffft sound and scanned me from head to toe like I was defending a geocentric view of the universe. Then he asked if I wanted to be an actor.
I said that I wanted to be a filmmaker.
He raised his caterpillar eyebrows and nodded in slow motion. He settled on The Price is Right and stopped flipping through the channels and crossed his legs in the British style. Then he turned his full attention to me.
He said that he had a son about my age named Robin. Maybe a little older. But roughly the same age. Anyway, somehow, at some point, Robin had gotten it into his head that he was going to be a musician.
Mr. Thicke said that he’d spent years and years trying to deter Robin from pursuing a career in entertainment. He’d warned his son that it would be a long, arduous struggle and that there was absolutely no guarantee that he’d ever amount to anything.
My heart sank. Mr. Thicke looked me over and smiled. He said that filmmaking was a hard path, too. Even people with connections in Hollywood fail to break in.
What’s Robin’s backup plan? Mr. Thicke shrugged and said that he was a stubborn kid. He didn’t have one. And the unfortunate thing was, Robin’s career was slow going.
Very, very slow.
We were visiting Grandma in Orlando. The last time I’d seen her was when my brother Jeffrey was born. Four years prior.
We’d gone out to Denny’s so that Dad could rest his patience. Mom was talking about how much of a dump Texas was. She hated it there because it was a cultural backwater. And also poorly manicured and dry. The only reason we were there was because Dad was working his dream job at NASA.
She wanted Dad to transfer to Florida, post haste. Cape Canaveral or Titusville or Orlando. Anywhere, so long as it was peninsular Florida. Because Florida was paradise. And Grandma agreed.
During the discussion, Jeffrey was making faces through the window. He was a gifted facial contortionist. Spent hours making faces in front of the mirror, everyday. At four years of age he was already on par with Jim Carrey.
Took me ten minutes to realize that he was actually mocking a pair of Denny’s employees on a smoke break right outside. I egged him on. The smokers noticed him and laughed and made faces back.
Somebody behind us cleared her throat loudly. Like she was hocking a loogie. Or trying to get our attention.
Mom, Grandma, and I turned around. There was a mountainous woman in an Orlando Magic shirt glaring at us. She put on her glasses to get a better look at Jeffrey. Her twenty-something daughter sneered.
I found the girl’s appearance frightening. Namely because she was wearing a leather jacket and not at all because she was cockeyed. Jeremiah Palmberg had told me that the Hell’s Angels wore leather jackets at all times. I should always mind my Ps and Qs around leather jackets.
I’m not sure who fired the first shot. Grandma said something like, why don’t you ladies mind your own business? Which enraged them.
Magic Lady said Mom should learn how to parent. Mom retorted with, I do know how to parent, thank you very much! Magic Lady chortled. Hell’s Angel flexed her muscle.
All the while, Jeffrey continued making faces at bystanders through the window. Puffing out his cheeks. Pulling the skin under his lids to make his eyes bulge. Baring his buck teeth.
I begged them to disengage but they didn’t hear me. Grandma was too busy telling them about Dad’s brawn. Mom said she wouldn’t hesitate to call him. Magic Lady kicked her head back and guffawed.
The waitress came to check on us but nobody paid her any attention and she left.
When it became clear that there would be no resolution to the discussion, Mom announced our departure. Pulled Jeffrey away from the window. Paid at the front.
We got out unscathed and made our way to the parking lot. Magic Lady glared at us through the window. Mom stopped in her tracks. Kissed her fingers. Planted them on her rear end. And cackled whilst wiggling her butt, back and forth and back and forth.
Grandma laughed. I was horrified. Jeffrey was oblivious.
Hell’s Angel shook her fist, leaped to attention, and made her way out of Denny’s. Magic Lady squeezed her way out of the booth and ambled after her daughter. We about-faced. Mom told me to take Jeffrey by the hand and lock ourselves in the car.
Hell’s Angel ran up to us with Magic Lady in tow. Mom spun around on her heels and told her to back the fuck up. Her keys were nestled between her fingers like claws. Hell’s Angel noticed the weapon and hesitated.
I got Jeffrey safely inside the car. Tried to distract him by commenting on the humidity. He ignored me. Plastered his face to the glass and blew raspberries and puffed out his cheeks and flicked the bird.
Grandma was screaming at the women. Pointing and screaming. Spraying saliva. Eyes red with rage.
Mom tried to get into the car. Hell’s Angel grabbed the door and slammed it shut, right onto Mom’s hand. She howled in pain. Grandma grabbed Hell’s Angel by the hair and yanked her head back.
Magic Lady, who’d maintained a safe distance, called off the assault. Hell’s Angel walked back to her mother, gingerly pulling torn hair from her scalp. They paced the parking lot as we drove away.
Jeffrey was awestruck by the fight. He went on and on about how exciting Orlando was. I told him that I found it to be a cultural backwater, albeit well-manicured and humid.
We moved there three years later.
Speedy’s cage started to smell and my mom worried that guests would notice his stink and get the wrong idea about us. She put his cage on the landing, out of the way.
My 3 year old brother Jeffrey thought that Speedy was lonely up there. It became his prerogative to visit the Habitrail daily. He’d shuffle up the stairs to watch Speedy exercise, hoard food, and dig.
One day I noticed that Jeffrey was clutching a No. 2 pencil whilst ascending the stairs. He crouched above the Habitrail and from afar, appeared to be innocently observing the hamster with toddler curiosity.
But he was actually poking Speedy in the flank with the pencil over and over again. Had this vacant look in his eyes while he did it, too. I asked him to stop. He complied.
I put on a pair of gardening gloves and picked up Speedy. He had no visible injuries. I set him down. He lapped at some water and buried himself under the cedar chips.
Mom and Dad interrogated Jeffrey. Why would you want to poke Speedy with a No. 2 pencil? Don’t you realize that he is a living, breathing thing? How would you like it if you were stabbed in the ribs with a No. 2 pencil?
Jeffrey admitted that he had been jabbing Speedy for quite some time. He really didn’t know why he did it. Didn’t have much to say beyond that. Pretty remorseless overall. Mom said he probably didn’t know what he was doing.
Speedy died a week later. He was partially buried under the cedar chips when I found him. He still had food stored in his cheeks.
Mom didn’t want Jeffrey to know that Speedy was dead. She’d have Dad take care of the body while we were at the grocery store.
Jeffrey offhandedly mentioned the Habitrail’s disappearance at dinner the next day. Mom winced and gave Dad a look. Dad said Speedy had gone to heaven.
Jeffrey fell into silent contemplation. He furrowed his brow and looked at my Dad. Opened his mouth to speak, but it took a long time for the words to take form.
Heaven’s in the dumpster?
I was in seat 12A on American Airlines Flight 2493. I am about 6’3” tall, so flying is usually uncomfortable for me. I bent my neck at an angle to rest my head on the window shade. Slid my legs under the seat in front of me so my knees wouldn’t tire.
I fought the bespectacled old lady to my right for the armrest. Her elbow skin was really cold. I didn’t want to touch it. She won.
The flight attendants talked about what to do should the plane drop out of the sky. I didn’t listen. I hung in that fuzzy place between waking and sleep.
Then the guy in front of me released his seat. Dropped it right onto my knees. Woke me up with a start and I accidentally elbowed the bespectacled old lady in the tit.
I apologized to her while the guy kept flattening his seat. Heaving into it with all his weight. Pushing and pushing and pushing until my mantis legs wouldn’t spread any farther. I called out to him, but he kept rocking the chair. Trying to flatten it into a chaise lounge.
Then I said excuse me you’re gonna break my fucking legs. Fucking stop. He stopped.
His neighbor wheeled her meaty head around. She was wearing a teal neck-pillow. She pulled a lock of frizzy red hair out of her eyes and scowled at me. She cursed me for cursing at her son.
Upon further investigation I discovered that the guy in front of me was, indeed, a freckled fat kid of about 10, cursed with his mother’s ginger and jowls. He was frozen. Like a lemming cornered in its den. Everybody was staring at me.
I apologized to the two of them. She wasn’t having it. Gave me a piece of her mind. Said I had no right to talk to anybody like that. I totally agreed with her. I tried to explain why I was frustrated and she dismissed me and turned back to King of Queens. Her boy resumed playing Minecraft on his iPad.
My legs were twisted like a drinking giraffe. The old lady to my right was glaring at me like a gypsy peddler who’s been overlooked by a tourist. I smiled and leaned my head against the window again. She turned back to her issue of Sky Mall. Flipped through it without reading a single thing.
I released a gallon of gas. It was inaudible but heavy enough to shudder the seat. The old lady slowly turned to glare at me again. I pretended to be asleep. Watched her through the crack in my lids.
I ripped another fart made of bodega omelets and Funions. It wrapped its yellow coils around the gingers in front of me. The ginger woman’s head bobbed when the fart slapped her.
She whispered something to her son. He belched a defensive NO! I thought it was you!
Ginger lady was unconvinced. She scolded him. Said something about it being rude. He maintained that it wasn’t him.
She turned back to her show. Ever so slowly, the boy turned his head to peek back at me through the seat crack. I gave him a thumbs up.
When I was empty I fell asleep. I woke with a crook in my neck when we landed.