Tuesday, September 2, 2008

The hottest girl in my class

While moving an old suitcase today, a crumbled piece of pink paper fell to the floor. And even before I picked it up, I knew exactly what it was.

In college there was one task I'd make sure to accomplish at the start of every semester. It wasn't buying the right textbook or studying the lesson plan. It was deciding who the hottest girl in each of my classes was.

This accomplished two independent goals. First, it immediately narrowed down my crush prospect which helped pass many tedious hours, especially in the doldrums of "Environmental Geology" and "Intro to Socialist Nihilism." (I still haven't figured that one out.) Second, I knew right away the one girl I'd never speak to the entire semester.

In the winter of my senior year, in one of my communication classes, that girl was Sara.

Sure enough, I had spent the entire semester thinking about her, yet hadn't said a single word to her. And so, on the last day of classes, moments after the professor wished everyone a happy new year and said goodbye, I turned my head and watched as Sara grabbed her books.

And then I did something most unexpected.

I spoke.

At first I wasn't sure if I was talking specifically to her or simply out loud. She was probably thinking the same thing as she looked over, slightly confused. But then she did something most unexpected.

She smiled.

We walked out of class together and she invited me into her car. And unlike the last time, when it was a graying professor in a van, I didn't foresee a hospital visit and counseling if I accepted the offer.

For the next two hours we sat in her parked car and talked. By the time she turned the key and finally drove me the two and half blocks home, the city was dark. She pulled over beside my apartment and smiled once again. And then she did something even more unexpected than the two previously mentioned unexpected things.

She ripped off a piece of a paper from her notebook and scribbled her name and number.

"Call me." She said.

And so I did. And we went out a few times over the next few weeks. But this isn't a story about a relationship or even a story about a girl I once knew. No…

This is a story about a moment where the hottest girl in my class gave me her number.

And that's what I'll always remember.

The box of porn

Whether it's packed underneath your bed, stuck in the back corner of your closet or hidden under the loose floorboard five paces from twelve feet across the second red dot on your back wall... if you're a male who hit puberty before DVD's and the internet, somewhere in your room exists a dusty box labeled "Memories of Grandma."

But inside the only grandma that can be found is the one getting double stuffed, possibly by a midget or ebony princess.

I'm talking of course about the box of porn. Depending on when your collection began (mine dates back to the fall of 89), inside this living time capsule of sketch exists a decades long compilation of wondrous filth.

In preparation for my upcoming move, I happened upon my own box this weekend while cleaning out my closet. As I turned on Beethoven's symphony number 9 (the Herbert Von Karajan composed version) and proceeded to slowly open the box, a tear slid down my cheek.

Seeing the early 90's work of legends like Jasmin St. Claire and Wendy Whoppers, I felt like I was in my own version of "A Christmas Carol." The last twenty years of my life were suddenly flashing before my eyes.

And for a moment I wondered what to do with the box. Maybe it was time to say goodbye to the past and move on to a bright future filled with HD. But then I thought of the one day when I would sit my own son down and hand him this very box, just like my father did before me and his father before that.

And while that statement is not entirely accurate (both my father and his father never gave me any porn and/or a porn box of any kind) I can think of no better father son bond. (Unless of course, my son turns out to be gay in which case the moment might get a tad ackward.)

And so, as I wrapped the box with a fresh piece of tape and changed the fading label to "My African Vacation," I said goodbye to Jasmin and Wendy.

For now.