Ashlee Lavigne

Okay, so help me out.

Does Ashlee Simpson have black hair or red? Because I was under the impression she had red hair and ran around with sk8ter punks. But then, I was informed over and over and over again that the sk8ter girl was some Canadian chick. So I looked her up to try and figure out who she was and found out she just released some song about stealing some girl's boyfriend.

But then, that's confusing because she had blonde hair and I wasn't aware blonde hair was an option between these two and I thought the song was about how the singer didn't steal some girl's boyfriend.

Does anyone else find this trend somewhat scary? Maybe I should backtrack and ask whether anyone but me - a 26-year-old graduate student - is even paying attention to either of these girls? It's an honest question and one that warrants serious consideration...

...just not be me.

April Lavigne's record label shockingly misspelled her name as "Avril", which is French for April. Apparently April is from deep Canada where they misspell names in French. Not like Windsor, Canada, which is right next to Detroit... where nuthin' gets spellt right.

Anyway, I think April did, at one point, have red hair. But not now. Now she's blonde. But she's still Canadian. Apparently, there are just some things even record companies can't hide.

Hook noses ain't one of the things record companies can hide either because Ashley,* who apparently has a famous blonde sister, recently sandpapered that sucker down to an angular rock-nub and made her lips puffy. My understanding of the junior Simpson is that she set out to make her mark on the world by being an individual, by stepping outside the norms of social stratas and pop music sensibilities.

This is her explanation for having black hair, wearing ripped pantyhose and a necktie around her band t-shirt...

...Or was that the red headed Canadian? Wait. Which one shot the video jumping up and down on top of a vehicle in public? Oh. They both shot that video, huh? And here I thought their similarities ended at April fitting la-la's into the chorus of "Complicated" while Ashley ingeniously fit la-la's into the chorus of "La La".

I sure do hope these girls are buddies, because these two needles in haystacks have so much in common. Who knew such industry revolutionaries would find their way into the public eye at the exact same moment in time?

This is like the time The Beatles went to Graceland.

But this hair thing, it's confusing. They're both blonde now? Why would two punk-poppers want to go beach bunny on their fans? Surely, there's more to it than the adage about sex selling.

I think to truly understand why one is denying stealing your boyfriend and the other is adamantly attempting to steal your boyfriend, we need to travel back to their childhoods.

Let's look back on 2004.

...Aw forget it. Nostalgia is never accurate. I'm sitting here watching Fergie's new video for "Glamorous" where she pretends that she still zips through Taco Bell drive thrus (in limos no less), like she did in 1994 before she assisted the Black Eyed Peas in selling their souls to the Devil.

I just can't keep up this charade.

I just can't be like Fergie anymore.

Look, I'm not a revisionist, okay? The Beatles and the Byrds existed at the same time. The Beach Boys and Jan & Dean recorded songs together and most people think Bruce Springsteen wrote "R.O.C.K. in the USA." Popular music has been doing all it could to capitalize on something that works for decades.

But what exactly works for these two girls?

I'm asking honestly because, if you haven't guessed by now, both "Girlfriend" and "Boyfriend" have made it onto my regular iPod rotation.

Is it the power chords? Is it April's high-socks or Ashley's hot, hot sister? What is it?

I dislike Candians almost as much as I dislike Texans.**

The Texan looks like any other girl on television these days. Straight nose, puffy nightcrawler lips, shiny blonde hair with the (sneaky) desire to steal your boyfriend. What did you do to Ashley to make her want your boyfriend so bad? She clearly has anger issues and those issues are manifesting into a controlling battle for male companionship.

So that's the Southern fried version of punky power.

The Canuck version consists of basically the same shiny blonde hair, only now with a few streaks of pink, and a less subtle attempt to take your boyfriend away from you. This strategem includes giving you whiplash at the go-kart track, tossing you in the mini-golf lagoon and causing you to tumble in the arcade Port-O-Let.

Now, I'm not sure why these girls hate you so much, but I'm questioning why these ex-boyfriends of yours feel it's perfectly safe to hang around crazy Southerners and Northerners.

Why aren't these boys interested in getting stolen by someone sweet, rather than salty H8er Grrrls (do you like that? I just made that up). These boys should bring home the pop princess that thinks you're beautiful? Y'know the one that says you're beautiful and your face was seen in a crowded place. The one with angels on a subway and stuff...

That was who? Who's Bl...? James Blunt? Who's that?

That was a man singing that song?

James Blunt is a man?

I give up.

Listen to what you want, I don't care.

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* She also misspelled her name. She added a superfluous "e" instead of a "y". Seriously, wasn't anyone spell checking this stuff?

** Sorry Mandy. You know you don't count.

Heaven's First Hour

If I die, I really hope there's a window of time that Saint Paul or the apostles or one of God's innumerous henchmen allows me to take stock on the life I just left behind. I've heard from several people who visited there that once you die and go to Heaven, all the friends and feelings; lovers, joys, sorrows, our favorite songs and movies will no longer carry any meaning for us.
They say that up in Heaven we are both embraced and expanded.

Okay. That's cool. But I'd like to believe that the newly dead get a modicum of time to reflect before it's all washed away. I'd like to believe that right as the biggest mystery of both Heaven and Earth is at the precipice of becoming revealed, we get to ask for clarification on a few of our own personal mysteries.

I imagine my opening Q&A with God might go something like this:

"Who killed JFK?" says Adam innocently.
Without blinking - because God doesn't blink - He replies, "Oswald."
Adam's eyes confusedly search the clouds for answers. None come. He is torn between disbelief in God's divine word and the realization that, in his current state of being, disbelief in God's word seems fairly ludicrous.
God says, "Oh, don't look so surprised. Stranger things have happened."
Adam pauses a moment, pondering whether he really wants to inquire about what God means by this.
"What do you mean by that, God?"
"First of all," says God. "You're in Heaven now. Feel free to call me Josh..."
Adam makes a mental note of this.
"Second of all, if we're talking about strange things, why don't you explain why you never spoke to Clara O'Dell at any point in high school. You loved her, that's why I made her best friends with the girl at the locker right next to yours," God said teasingly. God had a way about him that allowed him to get away with mocking most of the eternal souls that he encountered.
"Oh man! Clara liked me?! How'd I miss that?"
Adam stops a moment to think, then looks up at the blinding light that he's deduced to be God and continues, "Why didn't You give me a sign or something?"
God laughs. His laugh was deafening.
"Don't blame me, kiddo," reasoned God. "I put Clara in your proximity, but you always seemed more interested in hanging pictures of Meg Ryan in your locker. You can lead a horse to water, y'know?"
Being all-knowing often made one quite reasonable
"You coulda done better by me, Josh," Adam frustratingly says.
"Don't push it. You're here aren't you?"
Adam says nothing, considereing instead about changing the subject by asking God about the O.J. Simpson case.
God continues, "Clara will be here in about 14 years. You can have another shot at her then if you'd like."
"Fourteen years?!"
"Don't worry, the time goes much faster than you'd think."
Adam nods his head slightly, not sure what to think about anything. Having a convesation with God is kinda heavy and mind-blowing and it was taking it's toll on Adam.
God continues, "But Adam, when she gets here, you're on your own."

I'd also like to believe that God has a sense of humor and gossips like one of the kids from "Laguna Beach."

When life on earth is over, I really don't want it to end cold. I'm not sure anyone really wants that. The argument could be made that human nature's desire to belong to a bigger picture is the foundation upon which religion itself was built. I want fanfare and rememberance if I die. I'm not talking about a funeral. Funerals are for the people left behind. I'm talking about that first hour one arrives in Heaven. I'd like to believe that each of us gets one hour to reflect on the life we finshed living. I'd like to rewatch the major portions of my life on a bank of monitors equipped with the ability to queue video from my life on Earth (imagine a control room from the average television news station - only with angels singing somewhere nearby).

My favorite part of the Academy Awards are the montages. Whether it's a Western movie montage or a montage of classic New York scenes or famous romatic kisses, watching recognizable things in rapid succession is my bread 'n' butter. And because it's my bread 'n' butter and because I feel Heaven is Heaven because it supplies everyone in it with their own idea of a perfect existence. This is why I believe that if I want a montage or two of my life - I'm damned sure gonna get it.*

My first montage would almost certainly be composed of the funniest things to ever happen to me. Think about how awesome it would be to see images of the top 20 funniest things to ever happen to you. You probably can't readily remember the 20 funniest occurences in your life. Honestly, can you even remember five of them? But there'd you'd sit, in a comfortable Laz-e-boy (or the Heavenly equivalent) watching clip after clip, laughing your ass off realizing that yes, in fact, that was one of the funniest things to ever happen to you.

Then I'd have "Heaven"** spool me up a series of clips (digital or film, depending on the year each clip is from) showcasing the biggest secrets my friends and family kept from me. In an hour, none of it's going to matter anyway, I might as well find out what my friends actually said behind my back, whether that girlfriend I suspected of cheating actually did and all the lies my children ended up getting over on me.

Children lie to their parents - it happens. I'm just aiming to catch them at least two-thirds of the time.

I once thought I understood people and I included myself as one of the people I thought I understood. As I get older, I'm willing to conceed that I don't understand myself, let alone anyone else. All of this further illustrates my desire - when my bucket gets kicked - to have some ethereal force render everything more sensical to me.

I'd like to believe that eventually, something is going to explain why Clara O'Dell and I never fell in love. Explanations as to why I was born with a big forehead and protruding ears will become evident. I'll know what truly happened to my childhood security blanket that I fell asleep with each night (I suspect Mom threw it away). And I might even solve the greatest of all Shafer family mysteries: whether or not my sister hugged Princess Diana on June 6, 1992. ***
I want answers dammit and if I die and I don't get them - I'm gonna be pretty friggin' unpleased.

Before my mind gets wiped clean like the humans who witness alien encounters in "Men In Black", I want reflection to be sure, but I'd also appreciate a ranking. I'd like to think that upon request, I can get a printout of the "goodness ratings" for every resident of Heaven.
Do I outrank my ex-girlfriends?
How about Mother Theresa and Martin Luther?
Did any of my bosses even make it into Heaven?
And while I'm sure I'll find Elvis Presley in Heaven, I wonder what version of him I'll find.
I'd hate to think that I'm gonna get up there and see the King's gutfat hanging past his sequins jumpsuit. That ain't no kind of heaven, jack.

So maybe I'm being childish. Maybe I'm taking Heaven too lightly. But it's better to openly greet Heaven than to fear it, right? The ascent is gonna be the party to end all parties (and technically, I guess it is the end of all parties).
Let's be honest, who wouldn't like to rewatch Bobby Smith lining your bedroom with rose petals in leu of asking you to Homecoming? Lord knows that was the highlight of my senior year.
Wouldn't you like to see your game winning homerun? Your first kiss? The moment you said "I do"? Wouldn't you like to see the first time your infant son smiles at you one last time before it's gone forever? Wouldn't you want one last private hurrah of your life before none of it means anything?
I'd like to think our lives matter and that we find their meanings in our deaths. Wouldn't you like to know your rank? What you meant to the world, even if it's represented by something as simple as a single number.
Maybe we're all created equal, but we aren't destroyed that way. Have you ever seen those acrobats from the Cirque Du Soleil? Those guys are amazing. Do you mean to tell me that those spinning-twirling flame-throwing acrobats from The Cirque Du Soleil are equal to me; a guy barely able to rub his stomach and pat his head?
No. We're not equal in God's eyes or my own. I want to know where I stood when I was alive.
I want to understand God's plan for me and give explanation for something as seemingly illogical as a human life - my human life.

I just want it all to mean something. And also, imagine how kickass the montage music could be.

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* What do you think the word "damned" means in Heaven? I feel like once you make it there, damnation no longer means anything. It's like saying the word "sqwarfed". The letters are there, they sound like something, but in actuality... the word means nothing.

** I don't really know how they allocate jobs in Heaven and therefore I don't want to assume St. Peter spools up the video. I'd hate to offend Peter, Zeus, Hermes or whoever it may be that actually is employed in the Montage Department in the Sky by claiming someone else as being responsible for the task.
The mythological Greeks are Heaven's employees, right?

Anyway, until I get there, I'll just label the Head of Heavenly Montage as "Heaven".

*** My mother and my sister visited Chicago's Northwestern Memorial Hospital the day after my 12th birthday to catch a glimpse of the famous icon in her first trip to Chicago.
And while they both agree they saw the Princess, my sister swears she was allowed to scurry up to the front of the barricade alongside many other children where the Princess hugged her.
My mom says this never happened and questions the circumstances in which she would ever let her 7-year-old daughter scamper out of sight in a crowd of thousands.
To this day, my mother and sister are positive their story is the correct account. I'm dying to find out and frankly, it looks like death is going to be the quickest way to find out.


Monday. March 25, 2002

3rd Grade Girls

Saturday mornings are for kids.

Most of us had a period in our lives in which we woke up with the sun, fixed ourselves a bowl of sugary cereal (or three or four) and sat in front of the television enjoying cartoons until the a.m. turned to p.m.

There was no guilt about this period of our lives. Back then, I never thought, "Gee, I'm so lazy. I really ought to go out and run a mile to get my exercise."

To be fair, I don't think that now either.

Saturday mornings were what compelled us through the doldrums of Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. The entire point of Saturday was its morning cartoons.
Eventually, Saturday mornings shifted from being the cartoon Mecca of the week to the period of time binge drinkers recovered.
I don't know if the networks even show cartoons on Saturday mornings anymore and not knowing this (or more specifically, not caring) bugged me. I decided to rediscover my Saturday mornings. I'm tired of sleepily ignoring, what was once the greatest period of my entire week. And while I can't claim to still enjoy the bevy of cartoons I did 15 years ago, I have figured out a way to make Saturday mornings about kids again.

* * * * *

For the past four weeks I've been the referee of local pee-wee basketball games. Technically, they don't call the leagues pee-wee anymore. I think a dwarf or little person complained that the term "pee-wee" was demeaning to small people and so they got rid of the term.*
I've never refed a game of basketball in my life, but I've played plenty of them in my day. Each game causes me to run or jog 1.7 miles over the course of 45 minutes. I never ref less than three games, sometimes I ref up to six. That's a lot of miles, man. I didn't know how much I'd have to run, but I did know the rules to the game - at least the basic rules, which I figured were all we'd be using.
Being a referee in a 3rd and 4th grade game of basketball is tough. Not because it's difficult to make proper calls, but because there is actually very little basketball being played.
I'm not alone when I ref. I'm usually stuck with any number of ragamuffin 17-year-olds who were forced to get jobs and whom, in no reasonable sense of the ideal, have any desire to be awake at 9 a.m.
If I'm not stuck with Shaggy and Scooby, it means I'm stuck reffing with Joe. Joe is the 40-year-old, clubfooted park district manager with a disarming inability to look people in the eye.

I love Joe like a brother, but he's gonna get me killed. Joe thinks that 4th grade boys are old enough to understand the finer points of the game, whereas I'm just hoping the boys remember to dribble the ball. While I'm keeping an eye out to insure the boys don't foul one another, Joe's calling lane violations and illegal defense.
If you're reading this and you don't know what "illegal defense" means - imagine how a 10-year-old feels. The first game I ever refed, Joe gave me a busted whistle** and made sure I took the area of the court where all the angry fathers were standing.
Joe proceeded to call ticky-tacky fouls that would confuse LeBron James, leaving me to answer to the steroid-clad father trying to live vicariously through his son. And Papa Steroid's kid would be successful too, if only Joe would stop calling over-and-back fouls.
I've imagined myself dying a million different ways – usually, I've pictured my death in relatively cool ways.*** Never once have I imagined a 300-lb bruiser choking me to death with my own pre-broken whistle.

One of the angriest fathers I dealt with was my 8th grade woodshop teacher, Mr. Burton. I had to admit to being surprised to see Mr. Burton because Mr. Burton is one of the most physically unattractive men walking the Earth. His presence at the game either meant that he miraculously found someone willing to procreate with him, or he wasn't a parent to one of these children and was just there to watch.

I found myself uncomfortable thinking about either scenario.

It's worth sweating through the boys games though, in order to get to the girls games. There's nothing better that's going to happen to me on any given Saturday than being a ref in a 3rd/4th grade girls' pee-w... I'm sorry, midget basketball game.

I'm not sure what it is about the girls, but it's as if they've never been introduced to the game before stepping onto the court on Saturday morning.
I don't mean to imply that they aren't happy to be playing, quite the opposite. They love being there.

Well... everyone except Joyce. Poor Joyce is a little Jewish girl who hasn't yet realized that she doesn't actually enjoy basketball and in fact, probably hates all sports.

Joyce wears jeans under her shorts.

But everyone else digs being there. But they dig it in a weird way that I'm just not used to seeing in sports. When two girls are going after the basketball, they'll both grab a piece of it, realize they're fighting over the ball and will let go of it simultaneously. So while the ball bounces pitifully between them, the two girls both look at each other and giggle.
There's always one girl on the court with a killer instinct that I'm pretty sure comes from her father. Dad always ends up pushing this girl into lesbianism sometime down the road. And while dad's pressure might cause some headaches for him later on in life, his little bruiser-angel usually racks up eight points a game because she's the only one willing to fight for the basketball.
Eight points in a game from a 3rd grade girl is like the night Kobe Bryant dropped 81 points on the Toronto Raptors: everyone knew it was possible, but they just never imagined they'd be there to see it happen.

Kobe Bryant is my least favorite player in basketball, so whenever the 3rd and 4th grade girls games get a little slow, I like to play a game inside my head called "What if Kobe Did It?" The rules are simple, one of the girls on either team will do something out of character for a basketball player and I'll imagine Kobe Bryant doing it in an actual NBA game.

A precocious blonde girl named Dayle made sleepover plans with her teammate Lucy while dribbling up the court. It's the middle of the third quarter and I hear:
"You can just come with me to Caitlin's. My mom will pick us up and you can just change clothes with us at my house."
I almost blew the whistle on the girls, but I wasn't sure what foul to call.
I had to distract myself, it was the only way I was gonna let these girls play. I imagined Kobe Bryant offering Lamar Odom a ride to his house after the game so that they could watch "The Princess Diaries."

Later in the game, I actually did blow the whistle on a girl because she took too long to inbound the ball. The rules state that you have 10 seconds to throw the basketball into play. If you don't throw it within 10 seconds, the other team gets the ball. Because no one in 3rd or 4th grade actually plays defense, inbounding the ball never seems to be too much trouble.
But one girl named Katie held the ball over her head for a few seconds and then began laughing uncontrollably.
Her faced reddened, her knees buckled and I worried that she was nearing collapse. This made everyone on her team start laughing along with many of the parents.
When Katie finally gasped enough breath to explain herself, she said, "I just passed gas! That's why I'm laughing so hard! I just passed. I passed gas!"
As far as I could tell, no one misunderstood her meaning, but through her laughter and my eventual whistle-blowing (a solid 20 seconds after she was told she could inbound the ball), little Katie kept reiterating that her laughter was because she was passing gas.

This of course, was made funnier when I imagined Kobe in the same situation.

Okay look, I want to make clear before I continue that I don't find it funny when one of the girls wrestles for a rebound and gets knocked square in the nose. I'm not saying it's funny when she begins bawling, drops the ball while it is still in play and runs toward the sideline into her mother's arms. For the record, I'm not saying any of that is funny, okay?

That would be heartless.

But I am saying it's funny when I imagined Kobe Bryant doing it.

I know that I have the potential for greatness. Frankly, I think most of us have that potential and I know that recreating some of the Saturday morning fun isn't the most succinct path to my untapped greatness. But there can be no doubt that watching three little girls idly standing around bickering over who gets to dribble the ball up the court this time, only to have the one bruiser on the opposite team steal the ball at the behest of her muscle-bound father, has got to be some sort of step in the right direction toward untapping this greatness.

At the very least, it can't be a step in the wrong direction.

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* I wonder… if I were to angrily call a midget a "3rd grader," would they become upset by that? Does that count as a taunt?

** I didn't even know whistles could wear out. It's a piece of plastic with a wooden ball in it - how does this happen?

*** My favorite is the one where 'Free Bird' blares on the radio inside the convertible I accidentally drive off a cliff. I picture me plunging to my death right when the fast guitar solo kicks in.