Trivia Night – Benchly'sword

He looks at the smiles of the crowd on the street …

This weekend, after helping Mama and Papa Benchly prepare for their impending move to a house called Happy Ever After, I slowly made my way through our downtown pedestrian-friendly marketplace to a local coffee shop. Along the way, I passed people preparing for their impending belated celebration called Mardi Gras. Kids wearing beads were crying after being refused additional beads, parents were wearing the kind of facial expressions usually reserved for traffic jams and school snow day closings, and other adults were screaming and swearing at the tip top of their lungs because society told them to do so. Yes, it was a Mardi Gras celebration alright, even if Mardi Gras (aka, Fat Tuesday) happened nearly two weeks ago.

I walked through the crowds wondering if anyone knew anything about the celebration they were celebrating, because, to be honest, I didn’t know that much about it myself. In fact, it wasn’t until last week and thanks to Trivia Night that I learned what the purple, green, and gold colors represented (justice, faith, and power, respectively [of course, what that has to do with Lent I don’t know]). And as sure as I am that society has lost sight of the meaning of Christmas and especially Easter, I’m fairly certain that most of those crying children and screaming adults would be surprised to learn that they were crying and screaming on a day associated with religion. How else to explain the Progressive Party-sponsored float I saw rolling by the coffee shop’s windows with campaign signs plastered on the float’s sides telling us how to vote next Tuesday?

I wonder if the separation-of-church-and-state¬−Progressives knew that they were openly condoning campaigning during a religious event. Not that I blamed them for missing the significance, especially considering how often people in this world (present company included) march blindly and aimlessly toward a common and often meaningless goal. And if you’re surprised that marching “blindly and aimlessly toward a common and often meaningless goal” is a segue into a discussion on marriage, and specifically, my impending marriage, you’re not the only one.

In case you missed the news (an unlikely scenario, considering that all of my readers [read: reader] can be classified as friend or family), I recently became engaged, which, I discovered, is a side effect to proposing to your girlfriend. And because all of the wedding books say so, my fiancé and I have been slowly creating a wedding website to send to our loved ones (if you want the URL, email me). One of the website pages we’ve created details our respective versions of how we met. In my version, I mention how, despite not knowing what I wanted in a life mate, I impatiently went out of my way to find her. Along the way, I attempted to verbalize the attributes that my soulmate would possess in the hopes that my friends would point me in the direction of someone with those same traits. I spent my days dreaming of what she’d look like, act like, sound like, what she would wear, how she would move, what she would say, etc., and I did all of this because I was marching toward marriage.

Since the day I began to expect things in life, my plan was to fall in love, get married, have a family, and live the rest of my life the way I always expected to live it: Happy Ever After. I marched toward that destination, never really knowing why I wanted to reach it, or even if I wanted to reach it at all. It seemed the logical choice for a goal, but only because it seemed to be everyone else’s goal. It wasn’t a meaningless goal, of course, but I certainly didn’t understand the meaning. I was celebrating Mardi Gras because Mardi Gras was there to celebrate. I voted Progressively because I was progressive.

But now that I’ve met the woman with whom I’m going to spend the rest of my life and with whom I’ll be heading toward a Happy Ever After, I can say without a doubt that in the days and months and years before I met her, I was ignorant of what love was, what my soulmate was going to look like, and why I was marching toward her in the first place. And I say this now knowing that in these days of bliss, I’m completely ignorant of what our love will look like in a year, or 10, or 40. How could I possibly know, right? And I guess that’s my point.

It’s taken me nearly 33 years and one long search for a dream to learn that I don’t really understand love and probably never will. 20 year old kids think they know everything there is to know about the world, 25 year olds know they don’t know everything and are eager to learn, and here I sit at 32 knowing that there’s more about this world that I don’t know than there are things that I will end up learning, and that’s the way it’s always going to be. But I’m OK with that because during every Mardi Gras from now until the end, and on every day in between, I’ll be marching in an amazing parade arm in arm with the great love of my life, always thankful that I found her in spite of my ignorance. And that’s most definitely something to celebrate.

I could hide ‘neath the wings of the bluebird as she sings

“But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
The glory and us clinging
Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing:
O men! It must ever be
That we dwell in our dreaming and singing
A little apart from ye.”

– Arthur O’Shaughnessy

On a Wednesday evening last fall, on my way home from Trivia Night in Mama Benchly’s car, I found myself stopped at a red light a few miles down the road from my home. While listening to the late-night radio and patiently but tiredly waiting for the light to change to green, I noticed a 20-something man in a wheelchair rolling his way across the crosswalk. As he neared the midway point to the other side of the road, he stopped rolling and looked my way. He let out a big grin, pressed a button on the armrest and instantly, the chair took off by itself at a seemingly unsafe speed, stopped on a dime, did a 360-degree turn, and sped the rest of the way to safety. Before I could question what had just occurred, the light turned green and I began the final leg of my trip home.

In the movie Office Space, the main character says that when determining what to do for the rest of your life, you need only to look at your answer to the question “what would you do if you had $1 million?” His answer: “Nothing. I’d do nothing all day.” What about you?

The recent $315 million (and counting) PowerBall lotto jackpot has caused quite a commotion in my office and while I’ll be the first to admit that I’m partially responsible for this unprofessional distraction, it’s fair to say that these visions of being-able-to-purchase-one-billion-sugar-plums dancing in our heads would have existed without my encouragement. As per the usual human behavior when wondering if you’ll win the all-too-elusive multi-million-dollar jackpot, the office and carpool topic of conversation has consistently centered around the trivial Office-Space-like “what would you do with the money?” question. I’ve discovered that a great many hours of entertainment can come from debating such a question with others or, if you’re as pathetic as I am, with yourself.

This past weekend’s drawing produced six numbers that proved to be unlucky for the millions upon millions of money-greedy Americans who seemingly played every combination of numbers except for the six correct ones, and consequently, the jackpot increased by $25 million. When the jackpot surpassed $180 million, I took interest, and I have since purchased a total of 14 1/2 tickets (Freckles and I split one) and of all the numbers I selected between 1 and 55 on all of the tickets I purchased (a total of approximately 30 unique numbers), I managed to match exactly two of them. As luck would have it, though, these winning numbers were on the same ticket and so, naturally, in spite of Freckles’s concerns, I did the Gambling Addict Dance into the local convenience store to exchange my $4 prize for four more $1 tickets to the next $205 million drawing. Needless to say, a few days later, I was not dancing as I made my way to the trash can to dispose of the losing tickets.

That day, on my drive back from the convenience store where I was hoping my life had taken the beginning (read: $4) steps to changing forever, I imagined what would happen if I won and, to simply and redundantly put it, my life was changed forever. Knowing that it would be impossible to spend all of that money in my lifetime except, of course, if I decided to buy 205 million lottery tickets, and because I like to imagine being able to provide for those I love, I imagined scenarios in which I was able to reveal to loved ones how all financial stresses in their lives had vanished in the time it took a machine to randomly select six ping pong balls. And because I’ve never been prescribed medication to prevent me from doing so, I imagined in my head, the hypothetical conversations that would happen if such an event took place.

After walking through the literal and metaphorical doorway back into the sane real world of my insanely mind-numbing job in the town known for producing granite, which, on my ultra-cynical days, I believe to be the only product the collective workforce of the town is qualified to produce, I attempted to silence these voices and return to work. As I sat at my desk, unable to concentrate except when focusing on how to spend millions of dollars, I decided that these imaginary conversations and “what if?” debates are not-too-distant cousins of the people-watching game I described in a previous entry. Simply stated, they’re the favored past-times of daydreamers. What followed this realization was an epiphany the likes of which I’ve never experienced save the day I realized that Pickles were Cucumbers, now they’re Pickles, not Cucumbers.

While moments as bizarre as the wheelchair incident do not occur on a daily basis, it’s safe to say that more often than not, I find myself in situations that beg me to question their reality. Whether I’m unexpectedly but delightfully thrown into the role of Loser Cruiser driver for a day, or playing chess against Niece #1, or contemplating staying at a Shaker bed and breakfast, or driving a bride to her wedding, or seeing a man driving to work while practicing his clarinet, or walking down the street side-by-side with a friend on a unicycle, or joining a nomad, a drunk, and a paraplegic to make up the audience for an impromptu street performance, I almost always feel as though only my imagination could have ever invented the life I’m living.

As time passed by, I began to wonder if that’s all this really is; is my life the product of my imagination? My creation? My daydream? And that’s when I had my epiphany, which, subsequently, gave me my answer to the Office Space question. If I win the lottery and I have millions of dollars, and even if I don’t, and if/when I have to decide what to do for the rest of my life, I now know what my answer is: I’ll daydream. So if you need me, I’ll just be over in this corner, imagining a winning lottery ticket.

Song of My Anecdotal Self, Volume 2: My Juxtapositional Life

Part 1.
For the next few weeks, the Loser Cruiser will be driven by a substitute driver while its regular driver, Deane, visits with his son who is on leave from the military. I don’t know the new driver’s name but she seems nice and unlike the regular Friday morning driver Steve, she actually knows how to drive a big bus and how to drive on the highway.

Tuesday morning, I was the lone passenger as we departed the B’town bus station. Monday morning, the driver had to ask where to make one of the turns but by Tuesday, having memorized the route completely, her only question was whether or not to stop to pick up a man standing at a bus stop on the side of the road. Without hesitation, I said, “no, he’s waiting for another bus. Deane always waves to him as we pass him.” I was alarmed at how familiar I’ve become with the route and routine.

A few minutes later, I instructed the driver to stop for the silver-haired Daddy Sutherland standing on the side of the road nowhere near a bus stop. I’m not particularly fond of this man, a state senator, but I figured it was my civil responsibility to make sure he made it to work on time. Not coincidentally, I was reminded of a recent conversation I overheard him having with another state senator in which he said, “sometimes you have to vote for the things you disagree with in order to make sure the ones you really want pass.”

As the bus made its way onto the highway and its patrons cozied into their seats for their morning nap or read, I wondered what it must feel like to be a substitute driver. For all I know, she’s only been hired until Deane returns in which case, what must it feel like to do a job efficiently while lacking any job security whatsoever and never knowing if the seat you’re sitting in is a temporary or a permanent one? And if you were worried you were only in a temporary job, would you have it in you to do the job well?

Part 2.
Wednesday was Othello’s 4th birthday. To accommodate everyone’s schedules (including my own), I scheduled a birthday party for Tuesday night. After spending the first half hour eating and talking and letting Othello get used to so many people in the apartment, my mother, Sarah the L, Smoochie Poo, Jay Peak, CAT, Hypothetical, Montana Girl, Surfboard Guy, and I quietly sang happy birthday to the kitty while Smoochie Poo carried into the room a food dish with Fancy Feast and a lit candle in it.

After Othello ate a little of his birthday “cake” and while he went to the bathroom 5 or 6 times (he’s a nervous kitty and his bladder goes crazy whenever he’s nervous), I opened his presents for him. Considering that Othello was able to cope with an apartment full of people and then he spent most of the night playing with his new toys, I think it’s safe to say the party was a success.

Afterwards, after most everyone had left, I sat there with Sarah the L and Smoochie Poo, playing catch up for all the time we’ve lost now that Sarah no longer works with me. At one point, she asked me if I would be willing to watch her kitty for a day or two this weekend while she and Smoochie traveled to Connecticut. Considering I had no way of getting to her apartment, I had to regretfully decline. This prompted Sarah to wonder if her indoor kitty would be OK alone for two days. I reminded her of what I had heard about cats: most cats, after being left alone 2-3 days, believe their food supply has been cut off and start looking for a new home. So while her kitty wouldn’t be able to escape, she would most certainly greet Sarah’s return with a very cold shoulder.

Part 3.
This next part, I’m surprised to say, I’m finding incredibly difficult to write. Last night, as is always the case on the second Wednesday of every month, was Trivia Night. My team, the Hotties, gathered for yet another attempt at the Trivia Crown. Our team consisted of myself, CP, CP’s mother, CP’s brother and his girlfriend. Sadly, Sarah the L was not in attendance. The night started without fanfare as we barely found an open table at which to sit. We were surrounded by obnoxiously drunk legislators and for a brief moment, I considered packing it in and calling it a night. But then…

After the first three rounds, One Flew Over the Hotties Nest (our name for the night) found itself alone atop the leader board with a perfect score. Only after the next two rounds when, unlike past Trivia Nights, we found ourselves just one point out of first place, did we begin to think something different was happening. And even then, we were prepared to lose. You see, we Hotties are accustomed to losing. We’re like Cubs’ fans and our motto has always echoed what a summer beer league softball coach once told my team: “It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s HOW you lose that matters.”

I’ve spent the last three years of my Trivia Night life crafting email invitations and recaps detailing every which possible way we Hotties could lose. And this is why I’m having trouble finding the right words to say. How do you say “we won”? After so many times trying and failing, after so many close calls and near misses, after so many nights when you dared fate by trying to glimpse into your glorious future, after so many heart-breaking finishes, how do you say you won? I think I’m unable to find the right words because I’m in shock and I’m having trouble accepting the reality. I expect to wake from this dream. But man, oh man, what a sweet dream it is.

Too much time on my hands…

I’ve got plenty to write about. Seriously. It’s going to take me a week to write out everything that’s happened to me in the last three weeks. And I’ll get to that soon, but first, with apologies to Bob Dylan, here’s my latest Trivia Night email invitation. Enjoy!

Come gather ’round Hotties
wherever you roam
and admit that the waters
around you have grown
and accept it that soon
we’ll only talk on the phone.
If your time with us
is worth savin’
then go to Trivia Night
next Wednesday night
for the times, they are a changin’.

Come Dorie and Adam
with your wedding plans
on the eve of your move
to the Carolina sands.
We would all love to see you
‘fore the goodbye hugs and
we regrettfully start
the sad wavin’.
Come lend a hand
and our win will be grand
for the times, they are a changin’.

Come Sarah the L
back to central Vermont.
Leave that new job
you’re not sure you still want
and return to the Thrush
to help as we taunt
all the other trivia teams
that are fadin’.
The Hotties lost then
but next week they’ll win
for the times, they are a changin’.

Come Eric and Tara
and bring your mom, too.
Pull up a chair
and have a Thrush brew.
The Hotties aren’t complete
without all of you.
The Trivia Night battle
will be ragin’.
It’ll turn the Thrush Tavern
into the Thrush Zoo
for the times, they are a changin’.

The line it is drawn,
the e-mail is cast
and as usual Benchly
isn’t mentioned till last.
And the present now
will soon be the past.
We Hotties are
rapidly agin’.
And this Trivia Night
could be our last
for the times, they are a changin’.

Trivia Night Recap

As the Wednesday sun set, and Trivia Night loomed,
we Hotties were prepared for another game doomed
from the start. I joined two regulars, Eric and Tara,
and welcomed back Adam, who stood in for Sarah
(and I have to point out, that as we entered the bar, a
calm, yet purposeful, Tara said, “actually, it’s Tara”).
The four of us Hotties had little hope for the night,
despite our team name: Luck Be a Hottie Tonight.
But as Jen delivered the first questions sugar-coated with fate
our team was clearly starting strong out of the gate.

And at the end of the round, though we feared the worst,
we had a perfect score and were tied for first!
But our spirits were crushed with the spirit-crushing sound
of Jen’s announcement: Science and Nature was the next round.
But as swiftly as they fell, our spirits then rose,
at the realization that our visiting friend Adam knows
all there is to know about science (and nature too!)
and so with confidence and knowledge we attacked that Round 2.
At the end of the round, we had every answer but one.
Our luck seemed to be fading, and with it our fun.
But then, with more confidence than a matador facing a mule,
Adam leaned in to the group and said, “the answer is Joule!”
And when the answers were read, and you could hear a pin drop,
our score was still perfect and we were alone at the top.
Heading into the Round 3, our strongest round by far,
we IDed all but two pictures: the old guy and the star.
Eric and I agreed that “Chris” was the star’s first name,
and we could name all his movies, some great and some lame,
and just when it seemed we would never shake this picture stupor,
Eric saved the day by shouting out “Cooper!”
And though we guessed Cooledge when it was actually Ford,
Luck Be a Hottie Tonight remained at the top of the scoreboard.
And then a trivia darkness fell, as is so often the case
and Miscellaneous promptly kicked us off the winning pace.
Maybe we would have done better if for another minute we stalled?
But who, for the love of god, knows what the Ouija Board pointer is called?
And how were we to know when they invented barbed wire?
If you told me that you knew, I would have called you a liar.
So at the end of Round 4, with our wounds still bleeding,
we found ourselves 2 points behind the team that was leading,
and staring stone-faced, like someone who’s seen a ghost,
into the demon eyes of the round we hate most.
But then the Music Round started with a Christmas carol gong:
We didn’t have to name the artist, only the song!
Despite our holiday luck, though, we were still short one answer
and our dreams were fading like those of a no-rhythm dancer.
But, it seems, Luck Be a Hottie Tonight was more than a name;
it was also providing foreshadow for the game
because just then, Megan arrived and to keep our team alive she
confidently answered, “The Holly and the Ivy!”
Now we were still two points back, with two rounds to go,
but our lucky night continued when Jen told us “no
Vermont trivia tonight, instead, it’s Hawaii.”
And I said, “No Vermont Trivia!!! Oh my! We
might just have a chance before this night is through!
Let’s hope that we do the best that we can do!”
With newfound confidence, and some “WannaHockALoogie” jokes,
we proved we knew the most about those Hawaiian blokes.
We almost got “Mele Kalikamaka” and so Jen gave us partial credit
and because we nailed the other six, we didn’t let it
get to us. Instead, we prepared ourselves for the thrilling final round,
only a half point out of first, and quickly gaining ground.
We knew the stakes of the round, and what had to be done:
Do one better than the first place team and then we’ve finally won.
So as Jen played different versions of the carol Jingle Bells
Our fate rested on the identity of the owner of the yells
in the very very heavy metal version of the song;
a name that we should have said all along.
Oh! somewhere in this favored land, people take their meds;
Korn is playing somewhere while Korn fans bang their heads;
And somewhere men are laughing and a child flies a kite;
But there is no joy in Hottieville, Luck was not a Hottie Tonight.

Dates, Hotties, and Homosexuality

I went on a first date last night. And that’s all I’m going to say. You see, I’m superstitious about dates and talking about them. I don’t like telling people about a first or second or third date for the same reason women don’t like to talk about their pregnancies in the first trimester. I want to make sure it STICKS before I talk about it. I don’t want to get dumped on my ass after the second or third date and have to deal with the misery of rejection AND the misery of having to talk about the rejection with my friends for the next week. I suppose I do this for the same reason people don’t introduce girlfriends/boyfriends to their family until all matters of the relationship have been resolved. I once introduced a new girlfriend to my family and passed her off as the greatest thing since the Easy Bake Oven and then suffered the embarrassment and shame of getting dumped a few weeks later. Who wants that?

In other news, tonight will mark the triumphant return of The Hotties at Trivia Night!!! Although it has yet to be approved by the Hottie majority, I think it’s safe to say our team name tonight will be:

“There’s No Joy in Hottieville, the Mighty Kerry Has Struck Out.”

Tonight’s team will most likely consist of myself, CP (aka, Hottie #5), CP’s Brother (aka, Hottie #6), and their mother (aka, Honorary Hottie C). Evidently, CP’s Brother has invited a coworker to attend and said coworker once worked in a record store so if she comes, and I’ve accurately described her work experience, we could very likely kick some serious Trivia arse in the Music Round. Wish us luck!

Finally, I wrote a poem a few years ago inspired by a Vermont gubernatorial race between Howard Dean and Ruth Dwyer. Ruth Dwyer basically ran on the “Take Back Vermont” platform that said the state government had gone too far with its universal state education property tax as well as its Civil Union law. Her campaign essentially fed off the blatant old-school hatred toward homosexuals in an attempt to remove from office the man who signed the Civil Union law. In response, I did the only powerful thing I felt I could: I wrote. And 4 years later, the poem I wrote to her can now be appropriately addressed to our president-elect who, in the name of hatred, is determined to proudly discriminate against homosexuals. And so, in response to his views, I feel compelled to share this poem with you…

To President Bush:
Dressed in false truths, a devil in disguise
with tears of hatred pouring from your eyes,
you preach the Word. You’ve come to dispel
the “sin,” the love, the “weak and unwise”
and with promises of the eternal prize
you cast out your Biblical spell
coated with sugar-stained lies.
I shall enjoy watching your demise
while sitting in the throne from which you fell
perched high above in the heavenly skies
with the “sinners,” the lovers, the strong, and the wise
far from the grave you’ve dug in hell.