My family always makes me feel better when I'm having a bad day.
Remember how I crashed my car? It's totaled. After my manager made me cry today because it was our last shift together before my transfer to another department, I had to go clean out my car so the insurance company can total it.
I cried for a while. I had so many good memories in that car.
I came home and I just wanted to talk to my mom. "Daddy, where's Mum?" I asked.
"She's sleeping. Go wake her up," he responded.
I entered my parent's room, where I found my mother snoring. I quietly said, "Mum, it's past 5:00, you need to wake up."
Mommie Dearest, still half-asleep, started to stir and announced, "I was watching the 5:00 news..."
That's when I looked at the TV. "Mum," I started. "You're watching BET."
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
It's Like That Daniel Powter Song...
I had a bad day.
January 18th, 2010.
At midnight, I spun out in the snow on the ground and hit a telephone pole with my car. The Mustang is a light car and doesn't do well in the snow. Usually I can recover from a skid, but I ended up taking the turn too fast this time.
The neighbors emerged from the house behind the telephone pole I almost took out.
"Are you okay? Do you need us to call someone?" a woman with a baby asked.
"No, I'll be fine," I said, calling my parents to come help. "Thanks, though."
Eventually, my dad and little brother rushed to the scene to stay with me to wait for a police officer and a tow truck to take my poor Fagmobile away. The officer arrived first and asked me, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, the car's not."
"Oooh, child!" she exclaimed. "You need ta be mo' CAREFUL."
I stopped to wonder why my police officer was acting like a racist Tyler Perry character for a second, but figured I had to continue the conversation so as to not look like I had been drinking (which I hadn't, but the last thing I wanted to do was take a sobriety test in freezing weather).
"Yeah, I will. Thanks, Officer."
To add insult to injury, a Sander drove by the car wreck a few minutes later, attempting to make the road less slippery... I wasn't laughing.
Eventually, I watched as a tow truck came and took my baby away, and my father brought me home. I was ascending the stairs to the top floor of the house to get ready for bed when I heard my mother call, "COAH! COME 'EAH!"
Fuck. I braced myself for a lecture on safe driving. Conveniently, the tears immediately started flowing.
"Mummy! I. HATE. EVERYTHING. I FEEL SOOO BAD. THIS IS GONNA COST SO MUCH MONEY."
My mother's expression softended. "Coah, look, insurance will take care of it. What happened?" I recounted the events of the night, only to be berated over the proper use of "LOW GEAHS." She then snapped, "Go take some PM's and go to bed."
My parents firmly believe that Tylenol PM is a recreational drug. One night, I complained to my father that I hadn't been sleeping through the night, and he handed me four pills. "Dad, I wanna get a good night's sleep. I don't want to sleep FOREVER," I told him.
"Oh, okay, then just take three," he responded. I put the pills back in the bottle and went to sleep.
Anyway, I took the pills and shot off a text message which I had been meaning to send for a while. Having just survived a car crash, I felt like it was as good a time as any to be brave and ask the burning questions. Shortly thereafter, I fell asleep.
I woke up to a telemarketing call, which I ignored. They called back again. I ignored it. And then they left a voicemail, threatening to call back. "Really? Are we doing this right now?" I asked myself. But I figured that morning was as good a time as any to call my insurance company and get this whole thing underway.
"Your insurance policy was canceled," the customer service rep. told me.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!"
"It's showing up as canceled."
This was when my mother intervened. Convinced she was in the right (and she was!), she printed a copy of the check the insurance company cashed for this month's insurance, faxed it to the insurance company, and insulted the Brazilian girl who answered the phone. All that aside, my car is being fixed and paid for, which is nice.
It was then I got the response to my important message. And lucky me, I got the "Let's just be friends speech." Again.
Feeling vulnerable, I went into work at 2 p.m. and announced to everyone at the Concessions Counter: "We're gonna play a really fun game today!" Everyone stared and I continued, "It's called, 'Let's Not Piss Corey Off So He Doesn't Slash His Wrists In The Breakroom!'" I got a couple of groans in response and began working.
The dirty 3D glasses needing to be washed were calling my name (as that job requires being in a room alone, listening to music and not being near people). I plugged my iPod into the radio, and found myself developing grudges against Lady GaGa ("Bad Romance"), Beyonce ("Poison," "If I Were a Boy"), and Michael Buble ("Haven't Met You Yet").
The night passed without incident, until the last show was to be loaded. Short staffed as we were, things were going smoothly, until someone got trapped in the revolving door. Meanwhile, I had a woman throwing her popcorn at me because it was too salty.
"TASTE IT! I DARE YOU!" she growled.
10 p.m. rolled around, and by Massachusetts Law, minors cannot work past that point in time. That left only me and Grace to clean everything up. An hour later, most everything was done, when an old, Indian woman approached me and attempted to explain that, "I HAVE MADE DE VOMIT ON YOUR RUG."
I looked up at the sky and asked anyone who might have been listening, "Why?" I ask that question often, but this day will forever go down as "The Day I Died a Little Inside."
January 18th, 2010.
At midnight, I spun out in the snow on the ground and hit a telephone pole with my car. The Mustang is a light car and doesn't do well in the snow. Usually I can recover from a skid, but I ended up taking the turn too fast this time.
The neighbors emerged from the house behind the telephone pole I almost took out.
"Are you okay? Do you need us to call someone?" a woman with a baby asked.
"No, I'll be fine," I said, calling my parents to come help. "Thanks, though."
Eventually, my dad and little brother rushed to the scene to stay with me to wait for a police officer and a tow truck to take my poor Fagmobile away. The officer arrived first and asked me, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, the car's not."
"Oooh, child!" she exclaimed. "You need ta be mo' CAREFUL."
I stopped to wonder why my police officer was acting like a racist Tyler Perry character for a second, but figured I had to continue the conversation so as to not look like I had been drinking (which I hadn't, but the last thing I wanted to do was take a sobriety test in freezing weather).
"Yeah, I will. Thanks, Officer."
To add insult to injury, a Sander drove by the car wreck a few minutes later, attempting to make the road less slippery... I wasn't laughing.
Eventually, I watched as a tow truck came and took my baby away, and my father brought me home. I was ascending the stairs to the top floor of the house to get ready for bed when I heard my mother call, "COAH! COME 'EAH!"
Fuck. I braced myself for a lecture on safe driving. Conveniently, the tears immediately started flowing.
"Mummy! I. HATE. EVERYTHING. I FEEL SOOO BAD. THIS IS GONNA COST SO MUCH MONEY."
My mother's expression softended. "Coah, look, insurance will take care of it. What happened?" I recounted the events of the night, only to be berated over the proper use of "LOW GEAHS." She then snapped, "Go take some PM's and go to bed."
My parents firmly believe that Tylenol PM is a recreational drug. One night, I complained to my father that I hadn't been sleeping through the night, and he handed me four pills. "Dad, I wanna get a good night's sleep. I don't want to sleep FOREVER," I told him.
"Oh, okay, then just take three," he responded. I put the pills back in the bottle and went to sleep.
Anyway, I took the pills and shot off a text message which I had been meaning to send for a while. Having just survived a car crash, I felt like it was as good a time as any to be brave and ask the burning questions. Shortly thereafter, I fell asleep.
I woke up to a telemarketing call, which I ignored. They called back again. I ignored it. And then they left a voicemail, threatening to call back. "Really? Are we doing this right now?" I asked myself. But I figured that morning was as good a time as any to call my insurance company and get this whole thing underway.
"Your insurance policy was canceled," the customer service rep. told me.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!"
"It's showing up as canceled."
This was when my mother intervened. Convinced she was in the right (and she was!), she printed a copy of the check the insurance company cashed for this month's insurance, faxed it to the insurance company, and insulted the Brazilian girl who answered the phone. All that aside, my car is being fixed and paid for, which is nice.
It was then I got the response to my important message. And lucky me, I got the "Let's just be friends speech." Again.
Feeling vulnerable, I went into work at 2 p.m. and announced to everyone at the Concessions Counter: "We're gonna play a really fun game today!" Everyone stared and I continued, "It's called, 'Let's Not Piss Corey Off So He Doesn't Slash His Wrists In The Breakroom!'" I got a couple of groans in response and began working.
The dirty 3D glasses needing to be washed were calling my name (as that job requires being in a room alone, listening to music and not being near people). I plugged my iPod into the radio, and found myself developing grudges against Lady GaGa ("Bad Romance"), Beyonce ("Poison," "If I Were a Boy"), and Michael Buble ("Haven't Met You Yet").
The night passed without incident, until the last show was to be loaded. Short staffed as we were, things were going smoothly, until someone got trapped in the revolving door. Meanwhile, I had a woman throwing her popcorn at me because it was too salty.
"TASTE IT! I DARE YOU!" she growled.
10 p.m. rolled around, and by Massachusetts Law, minors cannot work past that point in time. That left only me and Grace to clean everything up. An hour later, most everything was done, when an old, Indian woman approached me and attempted to explain that, "I HAVE MADE DE VOMIT ON YOUR RUG."
I looked up at the sky and asked anyone who might have been listening, "Why?" I ask that question often, but this day will forever go down as "The Day I Died a Little Inside."
Technology and My Family (Part 3)
It was a warm, fall day when I was at school, checking my e-mail. I signed in and found this:
"September 17, 2009
To: esaunders@student.framingham.edu
From: Lois_Saunders@____.com
Lois Saunders"
Obviously, I ignored it. I had no use for my mother's tweezers and I was AT SCHOOL (Read: trying to learn but actually socializing).
A few days later, this appeared in my inbox:
"September 21, 2009
To: esaunders@student.framingham.edu
From: Lois_Saunders@____.com
Yeah...they are still not BACK !!!!
Thank you,
Lois Saunders"
"Corey, what are you doing over there?" Jess asked me.
"My mom just sent me an angry e-mail about her tweezers..."
Everyone at the lunch table laughed at me. Can you say your mom sends you harassing e-mails? Exactly.
Why me?
"September 17, 2009
To: esaunders@student.framingham.edu
From: Lois_Saunders@____.com
Who TOOK my tweezers from the bathroom ????????
Thank you,Lois Saunders"
Obviously, I ignored it. I had no use for my mother's tweezers and I was AT SCHOOL (Read: trying to learn but actually socializing).
A few days later, this appeared in my inbox:
"September 21, 2009
To: esaunders@student.framingham.edu
From: Lois_Saunders@____.com
Yeah...they are still not BACK !!!!
Thank you,
Lois Saunders"
"Corey, what are you doing over there?" Jess asked me.
"My mom just sent me an angry e-mail about her tweezers..."
Everyone at the lunch table laughed at me. Can you say your mom sends you harassing e-mails? Exactly.
Why me?
Technology and My Family (Part 2)
During my sophomore year of high school, I got my first real cell phone. It was a small, silver flip phone with a mirror on the face (which I used to my advantage. A boy has to look good!). The best part was the text messaging plan. This was 2005, when text messaging was slowly becoming more and more prominent and it had yet to permeate the headlines at 5 o'clock.
We all thought text messaging was great; Anyone could send a secret message to anyone else during class. As a high school gossip, this was a fantastic tool for the art of shit-talking.
My mother decided that she wanted to get in on the action one day. It was a Thursday and I was in the TV Studio at lunchtime, sitting on the couch with some of the crew. My phone vibrated and I opened it up to find a message from "Mom."
"How's your day going?" it read.
"Good," I replied and left it at that.
The next day, I was in Devlen's office, discussing story ideas for the following week, when my phone rang again.
"I love you!"
"Corey, put the phone away!" my teacher snapped.
"Sorry, it's my mom. She loves me, apparently."
The weekend passed and Monday afternoon, I found myself in class, and my phone buzzed ONCE AGAIN. All it said was: "The eagle flies at noon."
I called Joanne over. "Read this, will you?"
"...What does that mean?" she asked.
Having no idea, I asked my mom when I got home that night.
"Coah, it's a code word!"
"For what?"
"I don't know."
It was then I realized that adults shouldn't be allowed access to modern technology. This theme continues still today. Recently, I posted a Facebook status which read:
"Dear Justin Bieber,
You are 12 years old and have no concept of what 'love' is. Kindly suck a dick.
Love,
Corey."
My mother took the opportunity to comment: "Do you think this is appropriate language for EVERYONE to see?"
"When haven't I thought that?"
I am so changing her password as soon as I can figure it out.
We all thought text messaging was great; Anyone could send a secret message to anyone else during class. As a high school gossip, this was a fantastic tool for the art of shit-talking.
My mother decided that she wanted to get in on the action one day. It was a Thursday and I was in the TV Studio at lunchtime, sitting on the couch with some of the crew. My phone vibrated and I opened it up to find a message from "Mom."
"How's your day going?" it read.
"Good," I replied and left it at that.
The next day, I was in Devlen's office, discussing story ideas for the following week, when my phone rang again.
"I love you!"
"Corey, put the phone away!" my teacher snapped.
"Sorry, it's my mom. She loves me, apparently."
The weekend passed and Monday afternoon, I found myself in class, and my phone buzzed ONCE AGAIN. All it said was: "The eagle flies at noon."
I called Joanne over. "Read this, will you?"
"...What does that mean?" she asked.
Having no idea, I asked my mom when I got home that night.
"Coah, it's a code word!"
"For what?"
"I don't know."
It was then I realized that adults shouldn't be allowed access to modern technology. This theme continues still today. Recently, I posted a Facebook status which read:
"Dear Justin Bieber,
You are 12 years old and have no concept of what 'love' is. Kindly suck a dick.
Love,
Corey."
My mother took the opportunity to comment: "Do you think this is appropriate language for EVERYONE to see?"
"When haven't I thought that?"
I am so changing her password as soon as I can figure it out.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Lights, Camera, Action (Part 2)
My sophomore year in College, I took an "Intro to Film Production" class. With my background in production from high school, I knew that I'd ace the class and wow my classmates with my extensive knowledge and organizational prowess.
As a gay man, I often like to express how I'm feeling through clothes. If I'm wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants and the colors don't match, I'm in a bad mood or too tired to care how I look. But this first day of classes, I put on a new, button down shirt from Martin + Osa, with a beautiful light blue, dark blue, and light purple stripe pattern. I coupled that with new, dark jeans from Express, and my brand new, white Puma sneakers. I looked like $200, which is how much the outfit cost.
I was already familiar with Framingham State's TV Studio, having had a Studio class in there a year before. I walked into the dilapidated, darkly lit room, expecting a large group of fun, TV Production majors like my studio class.
I was wrong.
I looked around the room. There was one girl (who turned out to be really nice), wearing dark blue jeans and a black North Face jacket... and 10 guys. They were all wearing sweatpants and hoodies, much to my horror. I stuck out like a sore thumb, all dressed up with my hair molded into a fauxhawk.
The irony here is that the Professor showed us one of his student films, a "blog" starring someone who was ranting about film students:
"THEY DRESS BAD AND THEY SMELL," the actor screamed. I nodded my head, appreciating how ridiculous my life really is on a daily basis.
I sat down in my chair, wide-eyed and expecting the worst. That's when a boy wearing jeans came into class. Yes! Score one for the anti-sweatpants team! Not far behind him was a red-headed girl wearing boots and jeans. I started to feel less alone at that point.
Eventually, the teacher assigned our groups for our student film projects, which would span the semester. I ended up working with the boy in the jeans and the red-headed girl, later known as Matt and Jess, one of the boys in track pants, Ryan, and the kid who never showed up.
"I always wanted a gay BFF," Jess cooed as we got to know each other.
As a group, we developed the movie. The pitch? "A clown who's afraid of kids runs away from the circus," Matt announced.
I burst out laughing. Everyone else stared. But sure enough, the script came to life and we began shooting our student film. The shooting isn't the important part though. This semester in question was really more about the bonds we all made together.
Justin, who played our clown, held a wrap party for the movie, which was also a going away party for our professor. In his trailer.
"He lives in a trailer?!" I asked, incredulous.
Jess tried to calm me down, as she often has to do when I'm louder than necessary.
Turns out, it WAS a trailer park, but they weren't mobile homes. Just really small houses, which were actually pretty nice. The night of the party, I was greeted by Bock, our professor who was moving away, his 18-year old wife, and their 6-month old. Having been the producer of our film, he gave me a book on being a Producer and one about film scheduling. Man hugs were exchanged, no homo.
It was then that the alcohol started flowing freely. I started insisting that I was one of the girls and we needed a girl group picture.
At one point, I decided I would be the party's DJ. I hijacked the computer, cranked its speakers, and made sure "Put it in Your Mouth" by Akinyele echoed throughout the trailer. For anyone who doesn't know, this song goes:
"Put it in your mouth.
I said your mother fucking mouth.
Or you could just eat me out.
You can eat me out."
Then I smacked a straight guy's ass. I have never seen anyone look more confused in my life.
And to think, that never would have happened had I not taken this class!
As a gay man, I often like to express how I'm feeling through clothes. If I'm wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants and the colors don't match, I'm in a bad mood or too tired to care how I look. But this first day of classes, I put on a new, button down shirt from Martin + Osa, with a beautiful light blue, dark blue, and light purple stripe pattern. I coupled that with new, dark jeans from Express, and my brand new, white Puma sneakers. I looked like $200, which is how much the outfit cost.
I was already familiar with Framingham State's TV Studio, having had a Studio class in there a year before. I walked into the dilapidated, darkly lit room, expecting a large group of fun, TV Production majors like my studio class.
I was wrong.
I looked around the room. There was one girl (who turned out to be really nice), wearing dark blue jeans and a black North Face jacket... and 10 guys. They were all wearing sweatpants and hoodies, much to my horror. I stuck out like a sore thumb, all dressed up with my hair molded into a fauxhawk.
The irony here is that the Professor showed us one of his student films, a "blog" starring someone who was ranting about film students:
"THEY DRESS BAD AND THEY SMELL," the actor screamed. I nodded my head, appreciating how ridiculous my life really is on a daily basis.
I sat down in my chair, wide-eyed and expecting the worst. That's when a boy wearing jeans came into class. Yes! Score one for the anti-sweatpants team! Not far behind him was a red-headed girl wearing boots and jeans. I started to feel less alone at that point.
Eventually, the teacher assigned our groups for our student film projects, which would span the semester. I ended up working with the boy in the jeans and the red-headed girl, later known as Matt and Jess, one of the boys in track pants, Ryan, and the kid who never showed up.
"I always wanted a gay BFF," Jess cooed as we got to know each other.
As a group, we developed the movie. The pitch? "A clown who's afraid of kids runs away from the circus," Matt announced.
I burst out laughing. Everyone else stared. But sure enough, the script came to life and we began shooting our student film. The shooting isn't the important part though. This semester in question was really more about the bonds we all made together.
Justin, who played our clown, held a wrap party for the movie, which was also a going away party for our professor. In his trailer.
"He lives in a trailer?!" I asked, incredulous.
Jess tried to calm me down, as she often has to do when I'm louder than necessary.
Turns out, it WAS a trailer park, but they weren't mobile homes. Just really small houses, which were actually pretty nice. The night of the party, I was greeted by Bock, our professor who was moving away, his 18-year old wife, and their 6-month old. Having been the producer of our film, he gave me a book on being a Producer and one about film scheduling. Man hugs were exchanged, no homo.
It was then that the alcohol started flowing freely. I started insisting that I was one of the girls and we needed a girl group picture.
At one point, I decided I would be the party's DJ. I hijacked the computer, cranked its speakers, and made sure "Put it in Your Mouth" by Akinyele echoed throughout the trailer. For anyone who doesn't know, this song goes:
"Put it in your mouth.
I said your mother fucking mouth.
Or you could just eat me out.
You can eat me out."
Then I smacked a straight guy's ass. I have never seen anyone look more confused in my life.
And to think, that never would have happened had I not taken this class!
Friday, January 8, 2010
Lights, Camera, Action
In my junior year of high school, I was one of the Producers of the school's daily news show. Despite all of the high school drama, I don't regret a minute of it. Working closely as a team teaches you a lot.
Important life lesson: Don't Shit Where You Eat.
Coming out in high school is a trying experience to say the least. Having a crush on the captain of the football team, who has had sex with more high school girls than days you've been alive, makes it that much harder.
The winter months brought Student Emmy season upon the crew of our show. Everyone was scrambling to put their news stories together and run rehearsals for the big day. The stress levels were high, as were the hormone levels. Nick and Liz's break-up rocked the cast and crew and divided everyone into two sides. Everyone knew about my crush (without me having to say a word). It was pretty obvious. "Can I help you edit your segment for tomorrow?" I'd ask with a big smile.
We started the Emmy shoot on a Friday afternoon. After two hours of preparation, and three and a half hours of takes that were not up to snuff, Nick, our male anchor announced he had a party to get ready for and stormed off the set.
The crew murmured behind his back after he left and the terms "Prima donna" and "Asshole" were thrown around like ecstacy and weed at Amy Winehouse's house party.
Eventually, we agreed to meet at school after classes Monday to finish the shoot. Knowing the rhythm of the show, having the lighting set up and a fresh start would definitely make a difference.
There was only one problem:
Six inches of snow fell the night before and school was closed. Never ever had I cursed because school was closed before that day. I called Frankie, the sports reporter, in a panic. "Corey, just go see if any of the doors are open." Because I lived so close to the school, I walked over and eventually found that the loading dock doors were unlocked. A few quick phone calls brought the entire crew to school (on a snow day), and we shot the show in a half-hour.
We then opted to celebrate at the local California Pizza Kitchen, where Frankie worked. To help his sister (who was waiting on us), he took our orders. I had never been to CPK before and had no idea what was good, so I asked Megan, one of our reporters, who pointed out a pizza which I decided to order.
"What'll ya have, Corey?" Frankie asked.
"The sweet and spicy italian SAUSAGE pizza--"
Everyone stared as the words came out. Not realizing the double entendre until it was too late, I was a bit embarrassed... to say the least.
The next day was Valentine's Day. Joanne, one of my best girlfriends to this day, came to school in a black dress with black make-up and black jewelry. Her protest to this hateful holiday rang true for many of the self-proclaimed "TV Geeks," including myself. Ever optimistic, I came to school that day in a pink polo shirt, with felt roses for my best girl friends and little paper valentines for my talent and crew.
Between the previous day's shenanigans and my entering the TV Studio that day, it had come to my attention that Frankie was laughing at my expense, behind my back. "I'm Corey's valentine!" he'd announce to the vicious gossips I call "my friends." The fact that he didn't think the news would get back to me still puzzles me to this day.
He walked in the front door of the studio, coffee in hand and announced his presence. As he approached the 3-Camera Set-up, I spread my arms wide and said, "Frankie, thanks for being my valentine!" That's when I took a step to get closer, and to intimidate him a bit, and I tripped over a camera cord, knocking us both to the ground.
"WHAT THE FUCK, COREY?!"
That's when Devlen, our teacher, intervened. "Outside. Both of you. NOW." We left out the backdoor, with everyone staring. "WHAT WAS THAT?"
Then, something weird happened. We discussed why I was PISSED BEYOND BELIEF, when Meathead gave me a hug and said, "...But you ARE my valentine."
In retrospect, I should've known he was just appeasing me to diffuse the situation. But a kid can dream, can't he?
After graduation, we didn't talk. We were still Facebook friends. But it was understood that things were just too awkward for us to ever say anything to each other. I'll just file that one under, "Mistakes."
Important life lesson: Don't Shit Where You Eat.
Coming out in high school is a trying experience to say the least. Having a crush on the captain of the football team, who has had sex with more high school girls than days you've been alive, makes it that much harder.
The winter months brought Student Emmy season upon the crew of our show. Everyone was scrambling to put their news stories together and run rehearsals for the big day. The stress levels were high, as were the hormone levels. Nick and Liz's break-up rocked the cast and crew and divided everyone into two sides. Everyone knew about my crush (without me having to say a word). It was pretty obvious. "Can I help you edit your segment for tomorrow?" I'd ask with a big smile.
We started the Emmy shoot on a Friday afternoon. After two hours of preparation, and three and a half hours of takes that were not up to snuff, Nick, our male anchor announced he had a party to get ready for and stormed off the set.
The crew murmured behind his back after he left and the terms "Prima donna" and "Asshole" were thrown around like ecstacy and weed at Amy Winehouse's house party.
Eventually, we agreed to meet at school after classes Monday to finish the shoot. Knowing the rhythm of the show, having the lighting set up and a fresh start would definitely make a difference.
There was only one problem:
Six inches of snow fell the night before and school was closed. Never ever had I cursed because school was closed before that day. I called Frankie, the sports reporter, in a panic. "Corey, just go see if any of the doors are open." Because I lived so close to the school, I walked over and eventually found that the loading dock doors were unlocked. A few quick phone calls brought the entire crew to school (on a snow day), and we shot the show in a half-hour.
We then opted to celebrate at the local California Pizza Kitchen, where Frankie worked. To help his sister (who was waiting on us), he took our orders. I had never been to CPK before and had no idea what was good, so I asked Megan, one of our reporters, who pointed out a pizza which I decided to order.
"What'll ya have, Corey?" Frankie asked.
"The sweet and spicy italian SAUSAGE pizza--"
Everyone stared as the words came out. Not realizing the double entendre until it was too late, I was a bit embarrassed... to say the least.
The next day was Valentine's Day. Joanne, one of my best girlfriends to this day, came to school in a black dress with black make-up and black jewelry. Her protest to this hateful holiday rang true for many of the self-proclaimed "TV Geeks," including myself. Ever optimistic, I came to school that day in a pink polo shirt, with felt roses for my best girl friends and little paper valentines for my talent and crew.
Between the previous day's shenanigans and my entering the TV Studio that day, it had come to my attention that Frankie was laughing at my expense, behind my back. "I'm Corey's valentine!" he'd announce to the vicious gossips I call "my friends." The fact that he didn't think the news would get back to me still puzzles me to this day.
He walked in the front door of the studio, coffee in hand and announced his presence. As he approached the 3-Camera Set-up, I spread my arms wide and said, "Frankie, thanks for being my valentine!" That's when I took a step to get closer, and to intimidate him a bit, and I tripped over a camera cord, knocking us both to the ground.
"WHAT THE FUCK, COREY?!"
That's when Devlen, our teacher, intervened. "Outside. Both of you. NOW." We left out the backdoor, with everyone staring. "WHAT WAS THAT?"
Then, something weird happened. We discussed why I was PISSED BEYOND BELIEF, when Meathead gave me a hug and said, "...But you ARE my valentine."
In retrospect, I should've known he was just appeasing me to diffuse the situation. But a kid can dream, can't he?
After graduation, we didn't talk. We were still Facebook friends. But it was understood that things were just too awkward for us to ever say anything to each other. I'll just file that one under, "Mistakes."
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