Everyone needs an escape. 

Confined in a metal box to stare at a computer screen during the day, and spending my nights in a chair listening to someone read to me the chapter of a book I read the night before, is more than enough to make one go insane.  And to top it off, I have to wear tie.  So how do you escape the ever tormenting insanity that plagues us everyday?  There are those surrounding me that escape by manipulating their bodies at the gym, or those who destroy it by filling it with toxins.  Some play music on their precious Ipod, or build something they could easily purchase.  So what is my escape?  I know, I know, as a writer I am supposed to stand up and declare without hesitation that writing is my escape.  That writing frees my mind and allows my soul to breathe.  Writing is the ultimate escape.  Right?  The love of writing?  To express oneself through words?  Eh, who am I kidding.  Okay, so you caught me.  Guilty.  Writing is not my escape.  Because how do you escape the frustrations of writing?  The curse of writer’s block?  Surely writing cannot be the escape to writing.  Or maybe I’m just making excuses.  I don’t care.

  Breathing underwater is my escape.

            If you ever wanted to know what flying feels like, I suggest you try scuba diving.  And before all you sky-diving enthusiasts start screaming about the joy of their so called sport, and how that too is flying, I am going to burst your bubble.  Sky-diving, to what I have done, is not flying. It is what it is.  It’s falling.  Nothing more.  Now, if you were to rise back up and down, left and right, before smashing to the ground, then perhaps you would have an argument.  But you can’t.  Therefore the reality is, you and I wasted a hundred or so bucks to fall out of an airplane.  And now to justify the money spent, we have to run around convincing others and ourselves that we were able to fly.  But let’s be honest.  With all the excitement and intensity that was advertised, you now feel ashamed that you wasted your money on fifteen minutes of joy.  Much can be said the same about a prostitute. 

            Scuba diving is nothing like that.  You are flying.  You are floating in a dream.

            I really thought it was beauty of the ocean that created this new addiction for me.  The seemingly endless spectacle that creates a brand new experience each time you embrace it.  To be in a world you know you were not created, evolved or designed to play in.  To fly with the fish in their home, trying your hardest to forget you are human.  To forget you are due back in the office in twenty-four hours, to figure out why the Johnson file was sent to Optical Character Recognition Exception, instead of directly to the Appraisal Department for review.  To forget the madness.  I really thought I loved the fish for that reason.  Because they were truly free.  They were beautiful.  Fish do not have to worry about reading chapter eight from the Varieties Political Experience in the Eighteenth-Century before Wednesday.  I envied the fish.  Perhaps that’s why I picked the name of “Frank the Fish”.  Maybe it wasn’t the drugs.  I loved the fish.  I would spend my breaks at work reading books on the fish I saw, and the fish I wanted to see.  Some days I wanted to name each and every one of them myself, and put them on my MySpace.  Maybe I was crazy, but at least I felt free.  

So every week I would spend more money to go deeper and longer, to see more fish.  To make new friends.  I would dive and dive and dive.  I simply wanted to see it all.  To experience it all.  I even signed up to join the Santa Monica Baykeeper organization to help protect the sea life from human destruction.  I felt like I was more than a friend.  I was their protector.  I mean after all, the ocean did give me what I desired most, an escape. 

I was to find out later I was completely wrong about my ocean escape being a love for the fish.

Terribly wrong.

Shortly after I began my friendship campaign to fish, I soon found myself signing the death warrants to everything that had a fin.

As irony would have it, my escape had taken a sudden twist. Every single one of those bastards were going to die. 

To be continued…

… continued from December 23, 2005

            I woke up at 7 am and got ready for my big day.  I put on my best suit.  Come to think of it, I only own one suit.  But I suppose by default it was my best suit.  Nevertheless I looked sharp.  Supervisor sharp.  I walked out into the living room ready to conquer the corporate world.  Nothing was going to stop me.  I had made up my mind.

            I was four feet away from the front door, when my eyes shifted towards the lights blinking to my left.  My feet stopped.  I stood there in my living room, staring at my Christmas tree. 

Our apartment’s little Christmas tree was not much to stare at, more or less even glance at.  My roommate’s unrelenting insistence that we get a tree, was the reason we even had that plant in our apartment. But it was of my own unrelenting insistence to not waste money, that made the Christmas tree fund a total of eight dollars. Therefore one could safely say that our tree was quite hideous.  If only it had been October, what a fine holiday decoration it would have made.  But instead the tree was just plain pathetic  It stood only five feet tall, and was as much brown as was green.  The tree’s trunk was weak and old, and caused it to lean to one side.  So to offset the lean, we placed ornaments on one side only. There were no presents underneath, nor was there a star on the top.  And most of the lights had burnt out already, so at most five lights were blinking at any given time.  The tree everyday begged for the shredder.  But I could only whisper to it, that it needed to stay strong for a few more nights.  As much as I hated seeing the plant suffer, it would be much worse to face the wrath of my roommate. 

In most cases I chose not to look at our horrible little tree.  I usually walked as fast as I could by it, pausing only to throw a cup of water at it, which might explain why the lights shorted out. Either way, I did not like looking at it.  So why on Friday morning was I staring at the ugly plant?

It was trying to tell me something. 

With all ten ornaments hanging from its brown leaves, its five blinking lights, and starless head, it was trying desperately, with whatever energy it had left in it, to tell me something important.  And for no more than a split second, that little tree rotting away in the corner of my living room, was the most beautiful Christmas tree in a thousand miles.  It was within that split second that it showed me that the spirit of Christmas was not dead.  Not yet.  And I alone had the chance to save it. 

I was Four feet away from a promotion.  Four hundred and eighty inches to a window view.  And yet there I stood watching my poor, little Christmas tree blink with all its glory.  I turned around and walked back to my room.  Ripped off the tie and jacket, and put on a pair of jeans.  After I left a message to my manager saying I was sick, and that I regret not being able to make the important meeting, I wrote a quick note to my roommate saying: Went to Arizona to find a girl. Have a Merry Christmas. 

            I said goodbye to my little tree friend, and set out on my Christmas journey.

            The Phoenix store that held the Invisible Woman action figure was called Samurai Comics.  I actually called them before I set out, hoping they would save me the trouble of driving six hours up and back.  Hoping maybe they too had the Christmas Spirit flowing through them.

            “Samurai Comics,” the man finally said after three calls.

            “Yes, hi,” I said, “I am calling about the Invisible Woman.”

            “What about her?”

            “Well, I have one reserved under my name-“

            “Reserved what?”

            “The Invisible Woman-“

            “I know that,” he snapped back, “but what are you referring to? Comic, trading cards, hardback novel-“

            “Oh sorry, I’m calling for the action figure.”

            “Sheez, you swear I’m River Tam.”

            “River who?”

            “Ooooh,” the clerk said with a chuckle, “you’re the one wanting the Virgin Mary, huh?”

            “Excuse me?”

            “The Holy Grail of action figures.”

            “I think so?”

            “1991 first edition of Marvel’s Invisible Woman, right?”

            “Yes, that’s the one.”

            “It’s seventy-five galactic credits,” he laughed, “or US dollars, whichever you prefer.”

            I nearly dropped the phone.  This Christmas Spirit thing was getting quite pricey.  1,000 miles in gas added to that too!  I was trying hard to find away around al the complications.

            “Is there anyway you can ship that to me?”

            “Nope.”

            “I’ll pay you.”

            “Store policy, buddy.”

            “Come on, please.  It’s Christmas.  This is for a two year old boy, who is waiting for Santa to bring it to him.  And if you help me out, you will be doing something very special, more than you can believe.”

            “What part of store policy, don’t you understand?”

            “But-”

            “We’re only holding it ‘til the end of today. So make like the Flash and get here pronto.”

            The bastard hung up on me.  I really hoped there was a Santa in existence, and that he would be giving that comic guy two very large lumps of coal.

            The drive was horrible.  That’s all I’ll say about that.  Driving across the desert is never a joy.

            By the time I got to the store, I had to wait another fifteen minutes while their employees finished their card game.  And I’m not talking about poker.  They were all playing that stupid Magic card game.  After much cheering and high fives over a supposed big finish, I was finally helped at the front counter.  A thirty-year old guy wearing a batman t-shirt, and a name badge with “Warren” on it, approached me.

            “Pretty exciting match, huh?” asked Warren.

            “Yes,” I said sarcastically, “You have an Invisible Woman action figure on hold for me.”

            “Ah, yes,” he said, “so you’re the seeker of the Invisible Woman.”

            I just nodded, as Warren pulled it out of a glass case of action figures.

            “You know,” he said, “this action figure is sort of sentimental to me.” 

            “That’s nice.”

            “I had to trade a limited edition Kashyyyk Wookie bowcaster for that.”

            “That’s very wonderful.”

            “So I’m not sure I really want to see her go.”

            “What?” I said sternly.

            “I’m not sure $75 is a fair trade,” he snickered, “I am thinking more along the lines of $150.”

            “You can’t do that!” I yelled, “That’s not ethical. You quoted me $75 this morning!”

            “And clearly the toy has gone up in value through time,” he laughed.

            “You listen here,” I said pointing at his fat face, “I just drove seven hours to purchase that damn toy at a price you quoted at $75.  Not to mention the trouble I created at my job cause of this. I am not paying $150 for that.  I will report you to the Better Business Bureau.  But not before I take your lightsaber hanging over there and beat the crap out of you.”

            “You have no power over me, and you know it.  I have the toy.  I hold all the cards.  You have nothing.  I have everything.”

            By then a handful of geeks crowded around the counter all waiting to see what would happen.  A few were referencing some Star Trek episode I had no clue about.  I went over to the lightsaber.  It was a nice heavy one.  It wasn’t the cheap plastic one.  But the expensive fiber glass one.

            “If you touch that lightsaber, I will call the authorities!” yelled Warren.

            I lifted the lightsaber off the stand.  It made swooshing sound effect as I brought the blade upright.

            “Your move,” I said calmly.

            We both stood silent for about a minute, staring into each others eyes.

            “One hundred dollars,” said Warren breaking the silence.

            “Eighty-five,” I said back.

            “Ninety.”

            “With gift wrap.”

            “Deal.”

            I put the lightsaber back on the stand and paid for the toy.  As I was exiting the store, the geeks parted away making a path for me to walk.  Warren chuckled after me.

            “It was nice doing business with you.”

            I stopped and turned around, “You know you’re right.  You do have something I don’t have.”

            “Wisdom? Courage?” he answered back, thinking hard.

            “No,” I replied, “virginity.”

            I left laughing. I think he started swearing at me in an alien language.  Probably Klingon.  I didn’t care. I got the damn toy.  I headed back to California with my prize.

            On Christmas Eve I drove to my cousin’s place.  Micah’s parents were in disbelief that I had found the toy.  They kept asking where I found it.  I just said it was a long story.  I looked at Micah running around in his Christmas outfit.  Just looking at him running around made me realize it was all worth it. 

            After opening presents on Christmas morning with my family, we drove back to my cousins.  I rushed through the door expecting to find a two year old boy still jumping up and down that Santa had brought him the Invisible Woman.  I wanted to hear the shouts of joy coming from his mouth.  The hours of watching him play with the action figures.  The many adventures he would go on in the coming months.  All of that I wanted to see.  But when I burst through the door, there was no child running around.  It was quiet.

            My cousin told me that Micah was in the other room playing with his gifts.  When I walked into the family room, there was Uncle Robert.  But where was Micah?  It was then I noticed him glued to the television screen.  And no wonder.  The Fantastic Four video game was on the screen.  Micah didn’t even notice I was there.

            Found out shortly, that evil Uncle Robert got him a damn Xbox 360!  Why the hell would you get a two year old an Xbox 360?!  The Fantastic Four video game doesn’t even need to be run on that console!  But that’s not even the point.  Sigh.  It was devastating.  It’s like giving crack cocaine to a kid.  It just wasn’t right.

            The mother told me that Micah did like my gift a lot.  She tried to reassure me that he cherished it and will play with it.  But I didn’t know what to believe anymore. I tried so hard to make the magic of Christmas visible to Micah.  For him to see the true beauty of Christmas, and that believing in it is well worth it.  I wondered if my little journey was worth the price I paid.  Maybe later, I thought, Micah will understand the importance of that toy.  Or perhaps the magic of Christmas, like the toy, will remain invisible.

            Nevertheless, I still believe.

This whole month has been extremely stressful.

          I haven’t been able to sleep. I haven’t been able to eat. And it’s a clear sign that I haven’t been able to write. I am a total mess.

          All this because of a woman. One woman.

          A woman that I have spent the past few weeks desperately searching for. A certain woman I need to find in less than three days, if I do not want to break a promise to someone that means a lot to me. And I do not intend to do such a thing.

          But now I am stuck with a dilemma. And I am not sure what to do.

          Perhaps I should start from the beginning…

          I have this adorable little nephew(or is it cousin?), named Micah. Micah is my cousin’s two year old son, whose relation to me has resulted debate to whether he is cousin or nephew. Regardless of what his title is, one thing still stands. And that is Micah is considerably cute and brilliant. Yes, yes I realize every living person on this planet claims the child they know is the cutest and smartest. But the difference between those people and me, is that they are horrible liars. I am not. Micah is half Asian and white. And he can do trigonometry and read in three different languages, including ancient Hebrew. Okay, maybe he’s not that smart. But he is pretty smart. There is another person involved , to which I have nothing good to say about. That person is Micah’s uncle… Uncle Robert.

          A couple months ago Uncle Robert decided to show Micah the Fantastic Four movie. What drove that crazy man to show a two year old a PG-13 movie is beyond me. But fast forward a little a bit, and we have Micah tossing away Goodnight Moon and Curious George, and going straight for the Fantastic Four comics. Yes, I am serious. I actually read to him Ultimate Fantastic Four Vol. 2 as a bed time story, believe it or not. The movie may have been terrible, but the graphic novels are still quality. But for a two year old? Whatever puts him to sleep, right?

          So I thought it was only natural for me to hand down Micah my childhood collection of Marvel action figures, since they were only gathering dust in a box. When I gave him the box he immediately took out the four figures: Mr. Fantastic, the Human Torch, the Thing, and the Invisible Woman. And started playing with them. I laughed when he picked up the Human Torch and dropped it, saying, “Ouch. It’s hoooooooot.” And from that point on, they were his favorite toys. Uncle Robert’s stupid Furby gift didn’t stand a chance. His mom called me later that week saying he slept with the toys every night.

          Not too long after I gave Micah the toys, one was missing. With a bit ironic fate, it turns out that the missing figure was the Invisible Woman. Now obviously the toy did not have invisibility features. It had some gimmick, where you add warm water, and the figurine turned clear. Nevertheless, it could easily be found with the naked eye, But after many days of searching, and Micah crying, the Invisible Woman failed to show up anywhere. The search for the toy was suspended indefinitely.

          Now there is one lucky thing that the Invisible Woman was the toy lost. Micah’s mother ingeniously told him that the toy was invisible, and he could not see it, but it was somewhere close. He seemed content with that. And everything went back to normal. Until this month.

          As our families convened for Thanksgiving, I made the regretful decision to ask Micah what he wanted for Christmas.

          “Hello there Micah.”

          “Hi.”

          “I hear there’s a big holiday coming up.”

          “YES!” shouted Micah.

          “Yup,” I said with a smile, “Easter is coming!”

          “Nooooooooooooooooo,” he said smiling back.

          “Halloween?”

          Micah just shook his head widely back and forth.

          “Canadian Boxing Day?”

          “No,” he corrected me, “it’s Kiss-maaassss!”

          “Oh,” I said, “well I’ll be.”

          He then leaned over and said in a slight whisper, “Santa is coming.”

          “That’s awesome!” I replied, “And what do you want from Santa?”

          Micah sat still for a couple of seconds, before looking back up to me.

          “I want to see,” he simply said.
 
          “See?” I asked confused.

          “Yes.”

          “See what?”

          “I want to see the In-veez-see-ball- Woman.”

          This wasn’t good. Not good at all. Micah had found away around our little cover up. Now to make things right for Christmas, we’d have to find an Invisible Woman action figure. Piece of cake, right? There were hundreds of thousands of those toys littering every major toy store. Oh boy was I wrong.

           A few hours later after Micah was put to bed, I was talking to his parents.

          “I don’t understand what’s the problem,” I said, “so we go to the store and buy him another Invisible Woman.”

          “It’s not that simple,” sighed his father.

          “I don’t get it,” I said.

          “We already tried buying another toy right after he lost the first one,” said his mother.

          “And?” I replied.

          “It’s not the same,” said his father, “He noticed right away. Wouldn’t even touch the new one.”

          As it turned out there was a pretty big time difference between the manufacturing of the toys I gave Micah to the replicas of the current movie. About fifteen years or so. And the figurines looked nothing the same. Not a total loss, right? Just have to do a little eBay search or visit a local comic book shop. It’s only a toy. One simple little toy.

            I did a few days of research and found that the toy I use to own was no simple toy.

          The 1990s Invisible Woman action figure was extremely rare toy. Only one Invisible Woman toy was placed in every crate of one thousand Marvel action figures. How I ever ended up with one is beyond me. I really have no clue. All I knew was that I needed to get my hands on one. A kid’s belief on Santa Claus was resting on it.

          And so I searched the greater parts of Northern and Southern California. I even checked Central. I called hundreds of shops and hunted online. I employed my friends for assistance. I even put out ads in all the major cities on Craigslist. I kept telling myself this was all worth it. It was for Micah. To make a little boy’s eyes light up on Christmas morning. To show him that the magic of Christmas is real. That heroes like the Invisible Woman do not die, but live forever. I also wanted to be the cool uncle. The uncle that saved Christmas. The desire to find it drove me to devote hours up hours of time and energy. The quest for this toy became an obsession. And after three weeks I came up empty handed. I realized it was time to throw in the towel.

          It was about twenty-hours ago that I decided to give up the search and admit defeat. I had a restless sleep and went to work the next morning. Around noon two major events happened.

          First my phone rang. It was Jason, my former roommate, and professional comic book critic.

          “Hello hello,” said Jason, “do I have some good news for you.”

          “This really isn’t a good time buddy,” I said, “I really can’t talk about comics right now. I’m at work.”

          “No you pacifist,” he snapped, “this is about a certain lady. A lady with invisibility powers.”

          I literally fell back in my chair.

          “Tell me you’re kidding,” I said quickly. “You found it?!”

          “Well I have good news and bad news.”

          “What’s the good news?”

          “I did indeed find a shop that has a 1990 Invisible Woman action figure for sale. And I even took the liberty in reserving it in your name. They’ll hold it for one day.”

          “That’s great!”

          “Yes, you’re welcome.”

          “Wait,” I paused, “what’s the bad news?”

          “The shop is in Phoenix, Arizona.  And they do won't ship.”

          “Crap.”

          “How bad do you want it?” asked Jason.

          “Bad.”

          “It’s only a six hour drive or so.”

          “I have work tomorrow,” I sighed.

           “Get it on Saturday then, I’m sure they’ll hold it until then.”

           “I’m leaving Saturday for up North.”

           “Then take off work tomorrow for Christ’s sake. Sheez. I thought you wanted this really bad.”

           “I do. You’re right. I’ll call in sick”

           At that exact moment the second event happened. My manager walked by my cubicle and motioned me to his office. I quickly told Jason I’d call him later for the details. I really hoped I wasn’t getting in trouble for talking on the phone. Or in trouble for anything for that matter. I had been taking home office supplies by the box loads recently. But it turns out the meeting was the exact opposite.

          “Make sure you look extra sharp tomorrow, “ said my manager.

          “Why is that, sir?” I said nervously.

          “The V.P. of Production wants to meet with you tomorrow for your review and evaluation.”

          “Review?”

          “Don’t worry,” said my manager noticing my face, “It’s a good thing. I recommended you for a new position. You will be supervisor for the Due Diligence department.”

          “Wow.”

          “You do a good job here, and I think you deserve this opportunity the most. Just answer a few questions for the VP and be yourself. The position is practically yours. You just have to show up.”

          “Thank- you. That means a lot.”

          We shook hands, and I left his office with a huge smile.

          My smile lasted for ten seconds.

          I realized that unless I developed some sort of super powers really soon, I was going to be in a bit of a predicament tomorrow.

          It is now almost one in the morning, and I still do not know what to do. I close my eyes and picture myself sitting at that new cubicle by the window. I then picture the look on Micah’s face as he wakes up early on Sunday Morning to find out that Santa had come to visit him.

          What is more important to me? The chance to move on up the corporate ladder and be supervisor? Or the chance to make a little boy’s Christmas wish come true?

          Santa if you’re reading this, a little help would be appreciated.

Another Thanksgiving has passed, and I am sorry to say that I did not have another encounter with Steven Spielberg, or any other celebrities for that matter (November 30^th). That is not to say that I do not have a story to tell. You do remember my dearest friend, Dina, from our neighboring country to the North? (February 19^th) Well she and some of her Canadian friends, also attending UCLA, decided to partake in our American tradition of Thanksgiving, by throwing a pre-Thanksgiving feast. Yours truly was invited, as well as a handful of other Americans.

     It was a couple days prior to Thanksgiving, when I got the phone call that I was invited to Dina’s attempt to replicate one of our nation’s most treasured traditions. She thought it would be fun to participate in Thanksgiving, as if she was like some tourist in Mexico buying maracas. And although Dina is known in this lifetime and perhaps the next, as a girl who has no culinary skills whatsoever, her Canadian friends were quite the opposite in the kitchen; which is primarily the reason I did not argue whether they should be having "fun" with our traditions. My reason being simply: free meal.

     I arrived a bit late to everyone’s dismay, but had also brought a good wine, so was quickly forgiven. With my arrival, everyone was present, so dinner could begin. There were ten people in all, with six Canadians and four Americans. These numbers are important, but not right now. We all sat down to an enormous banquet, whose sight and smell, made me take back any objections to Canadians taking part in Thanksgiving. Dina and her posse had nailed Thanksgiving dinner with a perfect bulls-eye. There was everything from mashed potatoes to sweet potatoes, to homemade gravy and pies. And of course a giant turkey, perfectly baked, sat in the middle waiting to be devoured. Even the decorations were superb. Any pilgrim or Indian would have been pleased to sit at that table. Everything was text book. Well almost everything. I could not say anything positive about the cornbread.

     "Who made the cornbread?" I asked carefully.

     "I did," said Dina proudly.

     "Oh," I replied.

     "Yes," she continued, "I made it all by myself."

     "I can tell," I said nicely with a slight nod of my head.

     The cornbread, if you can call it cornbread, was some sort of hardened, yellow mixture in the shape of a small-sized muffin. And when I use the word, "hardened", I use it in the same sense as one would describe a brick, or one of those cement anchors you use on small boats. Either way, the cornbread was in no reasonable shape or form to be digested in the human stomach, or of any of God’s creatures for that matter. However I did make every attempt at that table to consume a piece of that cornbread. Why would I do such a thing to my health? Well, I could tell that Dina was watching us with eager eyes, for that smile of approval, and those treasured words of, "This tastes great." I was a guest of Dina’s, and I did not want to be rude. So began the tiresome trials of eating the cornbread.

     I first pounded the piece of cornbread with my spoon, with the idea of breaking the yellow block into smaller pieces, as to not damage any of my teeth. This only resulted in a bent spoon.

     My next idea was pouring a large portion of hot steaming gravy over the yellow rock, to soften the texture to a degree of edibility. Surprisingly the gravy had no effect, and failed with the spoon. The cornbread remained as hard as before.

     I then carefully snuck away from the table towards the kitchen, concealing the cornbread in my hand. I placed it inside the microwave and set it to the highest level of defrost. One can probably guess what happened when I returned to the machine. Not the slightest difference. Still hard as hell.

     Running out of ideas, I grabbed the very large, and very sharp, carving knife from the turkey. Using long strokes I tried with all my strength to saw the stoned cornbread. I had gotten about halfway into the rock, when the knife snapped, and we were left with no knife to carve the turkey.

     Frustrated and beaten, I looked around at the people sitting beside me, and noticed they had a better and more practical way of consuming the cornbread. I glanced down at the my bent spoon and broken carving knife, cursing myself for not thinking of that method from the start.

     The method was this: I simply picked my piece of cornbread and slyly put it underneath the table upon my lap. I then chewed on an imaginary piece of food and licked my lips.

     "I must say, Dina," I said smiling, "the cornbread is very delicious."

     Dina smiled and was happy. My job and part was finished.

     After fifteen minutes into the feast the entire plate of cornbread was gone. Well, technically it was only gone from view. What a funny picture it would have been if someone had looked underneath the tablecloth.

     Aside from the cornbread, the meal was absolutely ravishing. I must have least put on an extra twenty pounds. And it felt good. I loosened my belt a couple of notches. And it felt better. With the avoidance of eating Dina’s cornbread, and eating a lovely meal, I was about to declare this dinner a success. Little did I know, the night had just begun

     "Are you still pursuing that silly writing dream of yours?" Dina asked me, as we were finishing up dessert.

     "If by silly writing dream, you’re talking about publishing," I answered annoyed, "then yes, I am."

     "Well that’s good for you then," she snickered, "my parents would have killed me if I had went to school to be an artist. All that money and all. Not that I wanted to be an artist. Where’s the money in that? But I guess you’re happy, and that’s all that matters."

     Dina had this secret enjoyment of publicly embarrassing me, especially in front of her friends. More often than not, it would consist of putting me down or trying desperately to crush one or all of my dreams and hopes. One might call her evil, but that would be an under-statement. I just smiled and let her have her fun. The price we pay for a free meal.

     "What is your book about?" asked one of her Canadian friends.

     "Oh don’t bother asking him," said Dina before I could answer, "He writes fiction and nonsense."

     "Not everything I write is fiction," I said in my defense.

     "Well I think you should write about more serious material," argued Dina, "especially if you want people to read your work someday."

     "And what is serious material?" I asked.

     "And furthermore if you are serious about this as a profession," said Dina ignoring my question, "I think you should prepare your skills in a better fashion. I mean, you’re reading children’s books for Christ’s sake. How is anyone going to take you seriously?"

     A few of Dina’s friends giggled, as I let out a sigh. I realized I was in a room full of aspiring engineers, lawyers and doctors. There was not a single soul on my side. I proceeded in the discussion alone.

     "I assume you’re talking about Narnia, right?"

     "I can’t believe you talked me into reading that," said Dina laughing, "that is the last time I take a book recommendation from you. I mean what’s next? The Dog in the Hat?"

     The room erupted with laughter, as I sat trying to correct her by saying, "It’s Cat in the Hat." But no one was listening.

     "Did you at least read the books I gave you?" I asked once the laughter resided.

     "Well, I didn’t start with that Witch in the Zoo book, I started with The Silver Chair. That was the only one with a title that interested me."

     "It’s the The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe!" I practically shouted, "And you were supposed to start with that book."

     "Calm down," Dina said, "you’re getting all worked up over picture books."

     "I am calm!" I exclaimed with a sigh, "You at least finished, The Silver Chair, right?"

     "Yes, I did. And frankly I don’t see why you love this whole fantasy series so much. Didn’t you find it odd that this book is promoting homosexual behavior to children?"

     "What?!" I shouted.

     "The truth hurts doesn’t it?"

     "I have absolutely no idea what are talking about! Or if we even are talking about the same book!"

     "I’ll show you," said Dina as she stood up and marched to her room. She returned shortly holding The Silver Chair, with her finger marking a page. It was almost like a planned attack. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Dina stood at the table in front of everyone.

     "Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, "let me read to you a passage from this book, and you can be the judge of whether or not there are homosexual tendencies."

     Dina can be such a bitch sometimes. I sat there anxiously awaiting her speech. She cleared her throat in a phony manner and read:

     "Gay, said Puddleglum with a deep sigh. "That’s what we’ve got to be, gay. As if we hadn’t a care in the world. Frolicsome. You two youngsters haven’t always got very high spirits, I’ve noticed. You must watch me, and do as I do. I’ll be gay. Like this-"

     "Hold on a sec," I interrupted, "you are totally taking that out of context."

     "Don’t be so defensive," smirked Dina.

     "Also, are you that ignorant?" I asked, "Look at when the freaking book was written. The word, ‘gay’, does not mean the same thing in today’s society. I swear you didn’t even read the damn book?"

     "I skimmed most of it," Dina replied, "it was rather boring."

     "You are totally killing my favorite books!" I cried.

     "Do you want a tissue?" mocked Dina.

     Everyone around could see the tensions growing, and that someone should step in before things got out of hand. Jimmy finally stepped in.

     "Okay," he said, "how about we do the wishbone, yeah?"

     "What’s the wishbone?" asked Dina.

     "It’s part of the whole Thanksgiving tradition," explained Jimmy holding up the turkey wishbone, "Basically two people make a wish and pull on this, and someone’s wish will come true."

     "I want to do it!" Dina declared.

     "Okay," said Jimmy handing her the wishbone, "who else wants in?"

     "Me," I said without hesitation.

     I carefully slid the cornbread off my lap into my pockets, and then stood up. Dina held out the wishbone. I reached across the table and grabbed the open end.

     "Make a wish, stupid," chuckled Dina.

     "Don’t tell me how to do our traditions, dear," I answered. I stared her down, made my wish, and grinned.

     "Okay guys, on three," commanded Jimmy.

     With over twenty wishbone competitions under my belt between my dad and younger sister, I knew too well how to win this game. The second Jimmy had said three, I pulled away, while exerting a small bit of pressure downwards. Rookie Dina never had a chance.

     "Ha!" declared Dina holding the small end up, "I won!"

     I couldn’t help but to laugh with everyone else. Dina quickly realized something wasn’t right and was not happy.

     "Uh," explained Jimmy, "the longer end is the winner."

     "Sorry," I said sarcastically waving the big end in front of her.

     "What a stupid game," remarked Dina, "seriously, it’s really lame if you think about it."

     "No one likes a sore loser," I added.

     "Thanksgiving really is a lame holiday."

     "I really don’t understand why you’re upset over losing the wishbone," I laughed, "It’s not like your biggest wish didn’t already come true."

     "And what’s that?"

     "You’re in America, aren’t you?"

     My remark did not sit well with Canadian-loving Dina. As much as she resented going to school here, what I said pushed some sort of button.

     "You know what?!" shouted Dina pointing at me, "go screw yourself! You cocky, arrogant Americans think you’re so great! Well let me fill you in on something. Your country sucks! I hate it here! And your holiday traditions are completely pathetic and polluted with commercialism. You celebrate such a stupid, gay thing. A turkey? Give me a break. It’s almost as gay as that retarded author of yours, C.S. Lewis."

     Now my buttons were pushed. All of them. My right hand was clinching one of the cornbreads in my pocket. I could feel the hard thing breaking under my fist. It was my turn to speak.

     "I am only going to say this once," I said sternly, yet softly, "you can insult me, and you can insult my country. But never insult C.S. Lewis."

     "What are you going to do about it," smirked Dina.

     It was then my hand acted on its on. With a quick reaction to her challenge, my right hand flung the cornbread towards her.

     It smacked her dead center on her forehead.

     "You bastard!" screamed Dina.

     It was truly the bullet heard around the world. Dinner was over. The room went into mayhem. And this how The Great Battle of Thanksgiving Dinner of 2005 began. Now let me tell you how it ended.

     Two things happened right after I launched my cornbread at Dina. The first thing was a great food fight started up between the American guests and the Canadian guests. As it turns out, all of Dina’s anti-America comments divided the room during the course of dinner. I quickly found myself not alone in the battle against Dina. The sides were clear. It was America versus Canada, make no mistake about it.

     The second thing that happened was that with everyone hiding cornbread on their lap, pretty much gave everyone a loaded weapon in a food fight. A really good loaded weapon. But when the cornbread started to fly across the room, Dina quickly noticed that her delicacies had gone uneaten. This fueled her rage ten fold.

     Even with twelve hungry college students eating, there was plenty of food leftover on the table to be used as ammunition. This created a terrible, horrible mess in the dining and living room. A mess that would make any maid quit her job at first glance. But no one seemed to care. We only wanted one thing at that moment. We wanted blood.

     I was happy in the beginning of the fight, because Jimmy being American and fighting on my side, was also a former National Guard member. He quickly started shouting out orders to us, helping us conquer the Canadians.

     "Left flank!" he would shout, "Use the sweet potatoes!"

     The Canadians knew he was our Achilles. They quickly aimed all their food at him. He went down quick. A drumstick to the eye I found out later. Jimmy stumbled to the bathroom to fix his contacts. We were down to three guys against their six. It wasn’t looking good.

     The room was set up for Thanksgiving dinner in a way that was perfect for trench warfare. They had moved the couches across the room, facing each other, with the table at one end; forming a large U. Shortly after the first wave of attack, each side grabbed what they could from the table, and scrambled for cover behind opposite couches. And there we waited.

     I looked over our ammunition. A bowl of cranberry sauce, some gravy, the macaroni and cheese, two cornbreads, and the paper towels. I sighed. I peeked over at the empty table, realizing what my enemy had for ammo. They had the turkey, sweet potatoes, the stuffing, two pies, and at least five cornbreads. We were out-gunned and out-manned. And they knew it too. The Canadians began to taunt us.

     "Give up!" they shouted across the room, "It’s useless! You can’t win!"

     "Never!" we shouted back.

     "Stubborn Americans," yelled Dina, "you shall fall like Rome!"

     My two comrades gave me the look of what now? What do we do?. I felt like Prince Caspian held up in Aslan’s How. Any second now, the Canadians would rush us, and we stood no chance. We needed a plan. And quick.

     "I wish to offer a truce," I shouted out, as my side stared at me with surprise.

     "No truce!" someone shouted back, "we want a full surrender!"

     "We both know that won’t happen, for either side" I replied back, "Come now, we are all rationale adults."

     "So says the guy who reads children books," snickered Dina.

     "Anyways, I wish to negotiate."

     "We don’t trust you filthy Americans!" someone else shouted from behind their couch.

     "Fair enough," I said, "here is a token of our goodwill!"

     I then tossed our treasured paper towels, the morphine of a food fight, towards the middle of the room. It landed in no man’s land.

     "What are you doing?!" whispered one of my guys to me.

     "Are you crazy?!" whispered the other, "we needed that?!"

     "Trust me," I said seriously, "I know what I’m doing."

     I quickly told them my plan and we began to work. Timing was everything. They set out mixing all of our ammunition into one bowl. Meanwhile, I stood up and faced their negotiator, Dina. "Steady," I said under my breathe, "wait for my mark." Dina and I stepped over the couches and met in the middle. She carried cornbread in both her hands. I had nothing.

     "Take the paper towels," I said to Dina, "clean yourself off."

     She carefully bent over to pick up the paper towels without taking her eyes off of me.

     "Look at me," I said, showing her my open hands, "I’m not armed."

     Dina dropped the cornbread from her right hand to pick up the paper towels. She rose up with an analytical face. I extended my left hand forward.

     "Truce?" I asked.

     Dina slowly dropped the cornbread out of her left hand and reached for my hand. I then quickly grabbed her hand and spun her around, placing both her hands behind her back. The tables were turned.

     "NOW!" I shouted.

     The Americans leaped over the couch holding a bowl of something not pleasant. Without hesitation the contents of that bowl were placed upon Dina’s screaming head. By then the Canadians knew something was up and jumped up to defend their Queen. They rushed their attack with no leadership, throwing wildly across the room. We simply used Dina as a shield; she took the bulk of their assault.

     After pelting Dina, the Canadians were so confused and lost, that didn’t realize the Americans went around and took their ammo. The war was over. America had won.

     And as I paraded around the room with the Americans singing the Star Spangled Banner at the top of our lungs, I glanced over at Dina standing defeated in the middle of the room, having every assortment of Thanksgiving Dinner dripping from every part of her body. I let out a small chuckle, as I remembered the wishbone.

     Well I'll be, I thought, I guess wishes do come true.