Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 6

Recap: CP writes Jeff a letter to confess his feelings and then runs like a little girl.

Dear Jeff,

This is going to be very awkward for me to write. If you don’t mind, please do me a favor and return this note to me when you are done reading it because I do not want it to fall into the wrong hands.

Ok, the truth is I don’t actually remember what I wrote verbatim, except of course for the most salient parts of my letter to Jeff. But I can paraphrase — so just work with me for a few minutes. After all, this was over twenty years ago.

I have enjoyed getting to know you and hanging out with you this semester. The problem is, sometimes I think maybe I like you more than I should. Sorry if it is awkward or uncomfortable for you to hear this, but I thought I should tell you what I’ve been thinking.

Nothing has to change between us at all as far as I’m concerned, but if you feel uncomfortable being around me after I’ve told you this I will totally understand. I guess I just wanted to say something to you because sometimes I think maybe you could feel the same way, but maybe I’m totally off base.

Anyway, I hope to talk to you more about this soon. If you would like to, that is.

Sincerely,

Tom

I let the letter sit in an unsealed envelope in my top dresser drawer for a few days while I worked up the nerve to give it to Jeff. I already knew I would have to hand deliver the letter rather than leave it in his student P.O. box, since in those days the boxes were not private at all – no locks, and multiple students sharing one box. And since there were well more than one Henderson on campus, it would have been easy for the wrong person to intercept and open the letter.

So I waited until the following Friday when, as usual, I could drop by the snack bar toward the end of Jeff’s shift as per my weekly custom.

“Hey Jeff, how’s it going?” I said as I approached the snack counter on that fateful Friday, trying to act as if I were not about to reach down into my stomach with my bare hands and rip out my intestines.

“Hey Tom, not much, what’s up with you? Want to hang out when I get off?”

“Yeah Jeff, that sounds great!” I’ve always been good with the fake enthusiasm in times of crisis. So I stood next to the snack counter while Jeff closed up, and probably talked his ear off about God-knows-what until he had his coat on. When we exited the building into the cold night, Jeff turned to me and asked what the plan was.

“Actually Jeff, now that I think about it, I’m kind of tired and I think I might need to go back to my room and crash. Is that ok?”

“Yeah, sure Tom, whatever you want.”

“Great. Oh, Jeff, here is something I wrote that I want you to read if you don’t mind. Can you read this and not show anyone else?”

“Um.yeah, Tom…is something the matter?”

“No, everything’s cool. So just read it and don’t show it to anyone, ok? Talk to you later!” I couldn’t bear to say another word so I quickly turned and walked away, not looking back for a second. When I turned the corner around the building and became sure I was no longer in Jeff’s line of vision, I started to run as fast as I could toward my dorm.

“I CANNOT BELIEVE I JUST DID THAT” was all I could think. My mind raced ten times as fast as my legs, and I felt like I was going to throw up.

————————to be continued——————————

Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 5

CP spazzing out

Recap: CP confesses his crush to Lulu, who encourages him to put on his big-boy pants about it and grow up.

In those days Lulu was my telephonic confidante about all things romantic, and on several occasions I bent her ear to the point that it just about broke. To be fair to myself, I reciprocated for Lu on more than one occasion, though I’ll have to let her share that as part of her own story. In any event, I called her the morning after my romantic walk in the rain with Jeff for a dose of her usual counseling.

“I’m doomed,” I told her. “He’s not into guys after all.”

“What makes you say that?” Lulu asked, trying to pretend she wasn’t already sick to death of hearing about my obsession with Jeff.

“He wants to get married.”

“Yeah, and….?”

“Married. As in, to a woman. He wants to have kids.”

“So what? A lot of people want to have kids. I’d like to have kids some day. Wouldn’t you?”

“I have no idea. How can I ever have kids if I can’t even get a date?”

“Don’t get all technical on me, CP.” Lulu could actually be reasonable in those days. And that was years before she would do the most reasonable thing anyone has ever heard of, which is to move to Bangladesh. “You asked the guy a simple question: would he like to get married. A lot of people think they want to get married. Plus, you were sitting there smoking pot – what was he supposed to say? You’re putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think?”

Despite the fact that I never even understood what it means to “put the cart before the horse,” I agreed with her. Primarily because my non-stop fretting was probably about to drive her away, and I needed her sympathetic ear.

“Well, I don’t know what to do.”

“How about just being a friend? Is it the worst thing in the world to find a guy you like and be friends with him? Look at you and me!”

“Are you saying I should listen to him babble on incessantly about whatever his latest romantic crush is? No thanks, I’d rather be alone.”

“Yeah well CP, speaking of babbling incessantly about crushes, have you thought about maybe doing some schoolwork? Speaking of which, I need to get busy with some of mine. Talk to you later.”

Although I would generally never admit it in those days, Lulu had a point. I decided to try to calm down and just be a friend to Jeff. That was what I was pretending to do with him anyway – I may as well just stay true to my word, I decided.

Jeff and I got together regularly from that point on – we had meals together after choir practice, we would take study breaks together, and I got into the habit of stopping by the snack bar near the end of his shifts on Friday nights. We never involved other people in our get-togethers – it was always just the two of us. And although I had resolved in my mind that Jeff and I were just friends, something about our friendship felt different. I never invited him to go along to meals or anything with other people, and neither did he. We were always a two-some, and I felt confused.

“I still feel like there is more going on here,” I told Lulu one day. “It’s like we’re friends, but it almost feels like we’re dating. We never do anything with other people when we’re together.”

“Well CP,” Lulu said, almost sounding exasperated, “if you want to know how he feels about you, have you ever considered just asking him? Or maybe telling him how you feel?”

“Are you crazy???” I replied. The concept of telling a “straight” guy about my gay feelings was something I had never allowed myself to consider, not even for a second. It was just too risky, or at least that’s how it felt. “How could I ever do that? Don’t you realize what could happen?”

“Yes, and what could also happen is that I will have to listen to you go on and on about this for the rest of my life — and I would occasionally like to talk about something other than Jeff. I think it’s time to stop torturing everyone and just have it out with him. Ask him what’s going on.”

I agreed that I would think about it, but still thought she was nuts. Nevertheless, I was tired of the constant wondering, and the drama. I sat down at my desk and composed a letter to Jeff.

—– to be continued —–

Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 4

Last night I walked in the rain with you

Recap: CP finally spends some private time with Jeff and gets all dramatic about it.

I was lucky to have three very nice guys as my college roommates that year, even if I would have been terrified to come out to them. Although they are still good friends of mine today, heaven knows what they might have felt compelled to do or say back in 1987 if they had found out they were living in such intimate quarters with a gay guy. The four of us shared one large room containing bunk beds, other assorted furniture and a marked lack of privacy. I think (or hope) that today, at least in major metropolitan areas and/or non-Kristian colleges, a gay roommate would no longer be such an issue. But back then my friends would have had cause to have me removed from their midst. Retelling this story reminds me that I want to ask them what they think they would have done had they found out.

The gay-straight conundrum notwithstanding, my roommates and I were lucky to have such a large room because we were able to use at least half of the space as a living area with a carpet, large armchairs, a stereo, television and extra bookcases. It was a charming and cozy spot, perfect for hanging out in and pontificating as 20 year olds are wont to do.

When we entered my deserted lair, Jeff sat down and made himself comfortable while I fetched my stoner bag from wherever it was that I used to hide it. I filled my mini water pipe and lit up, offering the first toke to Jeff. He accepted, much to my pleasure.

“I don’t do this often,” he sputtered, obviously trying to hold his breath and not cough.

“Me neither, “ I lied. I smoked far too much pot that year, my junior year of college. I had experienced an emotional summer before, having been fired from an elite on-campus job, a trauma that rocked my good-boy image of myself to the very core. I responded to the situation by enrolling in two visual art classes, giving myself a strangely lopsided haircut and dressing primarily in oversized sweaters, rolled up pants and moccasins. It all made pot smoking seem that much more sensible, and at times I even secretly reveled in my new artsy-mischief-maker self image.

Once I got our heads swimming with the pot, Jeff and I began conversing. I don’t remember the topic of most of our conversation, because that night I had only one item on my true agenda: to figure out whether Jeff were gay, or at least curious, and if so whether he were in a mindset to admit it. Because unless any of the former were true, I knew that I would probably be screwed. And not in the good way.

“So Jeff,” I said through the fog of my high, “what do you see yourself doing in the future? Are you going to try to make a lot of money? Or save the world? Get married? Have a family?” Of course I could not have cared less about the answer to the first two questions; they were just there to help me hide my true mission, which was to calculate my chances with Jeff.

“I’m not sure what I’ll do as a career,” he replied. “I’ve thought about dentistry maybe.”

“Oh, dentistry would be cool!” I replied with as much fake enthusiasm as I could muster in this tense moment. “So are you planning on getting married?” He was killing me, forcing me to ask a second time. What was he trying to do, blow my cover?

“Yeah, I guess I’ll probably get married. Maybe have kids.”

My heart sank that very instant.

It’s interesting how far we’ve come in the twenty-plus years since the night of this conversation I had with Jeff. Not only am I now legally married to a man (in a few states at least); many gay people get “married” to each other and have children, either by adoption or, in the case of those lucky womb-bearing lesbians , the old-fashioned way.

But for a closeted guy living in gay-hostile territory in 1987, the only way to reach out and break the isolation was through code. “No, I don’t plan on getting married” was code for “yeah, maybe I’ll make out with you and we’ll see where it goes from there.” By stating that he would probably get married, Jeff was clearly not offering to make out with me, despite my quarter-ounce bag of fresh weed and deserted dorm room. Double-triple rats. I hoped I wouldn’t cry.

We talked for a while longer until one of us claimed sleepiness as a reason to end the evening. I didn’t bother inviting him to crash in my room rather than schlepping to his dorm on the other side of campus, a 10 to 15 minute walk. I needed Jeff out of there so that I could have some time alone to process this devastating conversation.

But when I looked outside, I saw that it was raining. Jeff had on a polo shirt, jeans and a light jacket. Nothing warmer and no umbrella. So I did the gentlemanly thing, even though I was stoned: I offered him my grandfather’s black & white checkered hunting coat and an umbrella so that he could get himself back to his own room without getting soaked and/or freezing.

“But it might rain this weekend some more, Tom. Do you have an extra umbrella or is this your only one?” What a thoughtful guy. I could have murdered him for giving me the wrong answer to my earlier question.

“Well, it is my only umbrella,” I admitted. “But you know what? I’m actually in the mood to go for a little walk, so why don’t I walk you back to your dorm and then I can return with the umbrella. That way we’ll both stay dry.”

I guess I may have possibly been a catch too, huh?

Out we went into the rain together, Jeff in my grandpa’s wool jacket and I holding an umbrella over the two of us. I nearly swooned at how romantic it felt. I almost didn’t care that Jeff and I were never going to make out because just walking with him like that was such a beautiful experience.

When I got back to my room I didn’t break down or anything as I had feared I might. Instead, I stayed true to my art-fag form and got out my typewriter (remember those?) and composed a heartbreakingly dramatic poem called “Last Night I Walked in the Rain With You.” I wonder if I still have it somewhere.

Now, you might think that my story with Jeff comes to an end here. But you would be wrong if that were your thought, because there is more yet to come.

……to be continued………

Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 3

This is where I lured my date

Recap: CP being stalking Jeff at his workplace and lures him back to his dorm room to enjoy a little Mary Jane...

I don't remember much about my first dinner with Jeff Henderson, except the fact that I was too nervous to pay attention to anything he said. I also ate like a bird in those days, and even more so when I was wound up (which I was about something or other, most of the time.)


Jeff and I would enjoy many more dinners together, and one time he commented on the paltriness of my food tray, which consisted of a bare dinner plate with one thin slice of ham accompanied by a side dish of about three lettuce leaves and a glass of milk.


“Is that all you’re having, Tom?” he asked. I didn’t even understand the question. How could ANYONE eat at a time like this? Of course it was usually a “time like this” for no one but me.

Returning to the topic of our first dinner date, although I barely listened to most of what Jeff said because I couldn’t focus, I did manage to keep my ears perked up for clues to such relevant items as “does he like girls?” and “where does he spend his evening hours?”

While his like or dislike for females remained frustratingly obscure to me, I did manage to remember that he worked in a small student-run snack bar on campus every Friday night.
And so of course, the Friday after I learned this precious gem of a tidbit, I suddenly became hungry for a snack at about 8:30 – or a half hour before the snack bar was to close.

“Hey, Tom! How’s it going?” Jeff called out from behind the counter when I entered the all but deserted snack bar.

“Hey Jeff, not too much, how about you? Working much longer?”

“Nah, I’m just about to close this place down. Want something to eat?”

Of course I wasn’t able to eat a thing, but I did stand next to the counter, making small talk about God-knows-what for the next 20 minutes. I’m actually quite proud of my ability to become social upon demand. Normally, given the choice, I keep my nose in a book or glued to the TV set or in the face of someone who’s known me for 20 years. I’ve never felt comfortable talking to new people.

But when you’re paying me a salary, or scaring me to death because I like you and really want you to like me, I can become quite the empty conversationalist. Comes in handy in my sales-related work. And it used to come in handy when I was still dating. Or trying to date.

I rambled on at Jeff about miscellaneous topics until he had his coat on and was shutting off the lights. I simply walked with him to the exit and out into the night, as if we had planned it all along.

“What are you up to now, Jeff?” I asked.

“I don’t know, really, what about you?” he replied, proving to me that God did in fact exist.

“Well, my roommates are away and I was thinking of lighting up a joint and chilling out…want to come?”

I was just a little bit of a pothead in those days, which is odd, considering what a bundle of nerves I usually was. It makes me afraid to think of what the world could have been like for me without the wacky tobacky to even out the rough edges.

And although I don’t remember doing so specifically, I must have vetted Jeff beforehand for his position on marijuana, or else I never would have asked a question like that.

“Sure, that sounds good!”

Off I went with Jeff to my dorm room, happy yet beside myself in the knowledge that my roommates were out of town for the weekend.

…. to be continued …….

Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 2

This is not the old caf at St. Olaf. But it conjures up the cold, Lutheran ambiance of which I speak. I mean, write.

Recap of this episode: CP, who is normally unable to converse with strangers, mans up, talks to Jeff and invites him to dinner.

Just figuring out Jeff’s name seemed like such an important feat that I hadn’t even thought of what I might do with the information once I acquired it. I was always a fairly shy person and had never, at least in my own memory, manipulated a situation so that I would have a chance to talk to someone in particular. I was used to letting things happen and unfold as they may, which would probably explain the many disastrous events of my life up to that point.

I decided it was time to take control.


A few days later as I was walking toward choir rehearsal I saw him about twenty yards ahead of me. I knew I needed to get his attention and slow him down right then before he reached the choir room, depriving me of a chance to walk with him and chat him up for a few minutes.

“Jeff!” I called out. He stopped and turned around.

“Oh, hey Tom! What’s going on?” I quickened my pace to catch up to him.

“Not a lot.” (Yeah, right Tom.) “So how are classes?”

I was so nervous that I had absolutely no idea what he said in response. I had always been like that; it was so unusual for me just to start talking to someone I barely knew that my self-consciousness overrode anything else about the situation, including the ability to listen to the other person. Most of us shy folk can compensate by developing an ability to recognize the cadences of typical small-talk, and are able to imitate having an actual conversation with all the perquisite give-and-take.

It’s remarkable how many people in life have told me I’m a “good listener.” If they only knew.

I could not have repeated even five minutes later what either of us said to the other. There was just one very important part of the conversation that had to, and did take place: setting the stage so that I could run into him again and casually suggest having a meal together.

Over the next several weeks I took note of the various directions from which he approached the music building before choir practice, which was three afternoons a week, and made sure to be in the general vicinity each day so that I would be in place to chat him up. It worked.

One day, as we were approaching our rehearsal I said “So are you doing anything for dinner after choir? Want to go to the caf afterward?”

He he, the caf. It still makes me laugh today when I think about the caf, as we called the dining room at St. Olaf. Having a companion at meal times was crucial in the caf because it was this large room with two separate entrances, filled with long rectangular tables spaced out in perfect symmetry. It was a cold, glaringly lit stark room with a decorative motif that would be best described as “church basement pot-luck industrial.”

No one ever wanted to sit alone in the caf, especially not at dinner time, because there were no safe corners in which a lone diner could tuck him or herself away to hide. If you went to the caf alone, there you were for the entire student body to see, pathetic and friendless under the glare of the unwaveringly Lutheran interrogation lamps—I mean, white lights.

In other words, asking someone to eat with you was a foolproof way of getting face time with the object of your interest. No one in modern history has ever turned down an invitation to have a dining companion in the St. Olaf caf, at least not until the college upgraded its facilities long after I graduated.

“Yeah Tom, that sounds great! I’ll meet you at the door after choir?”

SCORE!! An actual dinner date!!! I thought. And I even had the rest of choir rehearsal to think up things to say to him!

…..to be continued…….

Awkward College Romance - Recap of Part 1

I have no idea who these people are. I needed a picture, so I Googled "cute college boys." Theirs is the first fully-clothed photo that appeared.

Before I finish up this series, I'm going to repost the prior installments --- with pithy recaps added for the convenience of those of you who read it the first time.

Summary: Our winsome protagonist, CP, agonizes over being a 21 year old gay college kid in homophobic 1987. He meets a cute guy on campus who, for some odd reason, just starts talking to CP. CP returns the favor by stalking him.

The whole story, part 1:


Quite a while back on this very blog I wrote about my more significant childhood crushes and in doing so promised to tell you a certain story from my college days. No one can ever accuse CP of not keeping a promise, even if it takes me three or more years to deliver.

Well Gentle Readers, today is your lucky day because I’m going to tell you a story that has kept many a friend on the verge of his or her seat when I’ve told it in person. A story of early 20-something romantical suspense, one that is sure to melt your heart. Or melt something.

In college I was just barely out of the closet – I had only told three or four people about my feelings for other guys, and most of these friends didn’t live anywhere near me. My friend Lulu was one of the lucky ones who knew, partly because I considered her “safe”: she lived far away and didn’t know any of my other friends, so there was almost no chance of her being able to rat me out inadvertently.

The year was 1987, and I was especially touchy about anyone at my college knowing about me because, above all, I feared scandal in my dormitory: I had three male roommates, not to mention a whole floor of guys I had to share a shower with.

Although I’m sure it still happens today in some parts of the country, back in those days it was par for the course that if a straight person found out their roommate was gay, they would raise a stink, go to the housing director and demand that the gay person be removed. This chain of events would result not only in the serious upheaval of one’s routine, but also public shaming and involuntary outing. And trust me, being outed involuntarily as a gay person in 1987 was not what you wanted.

It distresses me to this day that so many of us had to live in that kind of fear during our most formative years, years that are supposed to be filled with the magic of youthful self discovery, first kisses, heavy petting (and, if you were a girl, seat-wetting).

Oh, well.

So to summarize our story thus far, we’ve set the scene with a 21 year old gay boy living with a bunch of straight guys, afraid to be discovered yet starved for affection and also in possession of the normal 21 year old boy hormones. In other words, quite the dilemma.

My 21 year old boy hormones led me to take an acute interest in a certain guy who sang in the same choir I did. I didn’t remember where I had met him, but I must have met him somewhere because several different times he walked by me and said “Hi Tom!”

“Hi Tom!” Wow! What on earth could this MEAN????

I had no idea who he was or even what his name was. But I kept a close eye on him for weeks, until one day I noticed him wearing a monogrammed crew neck sweater. (Parenthetically, should I actually have been wondering if this guy in my choir with a monogrammed sweater was gay?)

So that day, after memorizing the initials on his sweater, I went up to the music rack where each choir member was given a shelf to store his or her music, and scanned all the names on the rack until I found one that matched his initials. This uncannily brilliant detective work on my part led me to the irrefutable conclusion that name of the object of my interest was Jeff Henderson.

(For the record, Jeff Henderson is not this person’s real name. But I hope you can sense in this story the first stirrings of a first-rate cyberstalker in the making!)

to be continued……..

Okay!! Okay!!

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with what I'm writing about. It's just me and my family on a sleigh ride on Christmas Eve in Vermont. Ain't it pretty?

Okay everyone, I know I promised I was going to write more on the blog this year --- and already I've let nearly a month go by. I'm just going to have to sit down and do this, to see what happens. Who knows ---- maybe the Great American Novel will just come flowing out of my fingertips like 'tude flowing out of Tonya Harding. (I always think of old Tonya when I hear mention of the word "fingertips" ---- some dumb thing she said in an interview once. You know me, CP, mind like a steel trap.)

I have two series I need to wrap up --- one about Alyssa Milbert sucking my balls --- and one about a romance I had in college. I think I may start by paraphrasing what I've written about so far so that it won't be so painful for you to catch up with me.

It also helps that it's 3:12 am PST and I have insomnia. And I'm getting on a plane in three hours. Huzzah!

CP

An Early Welcome to 2011!

If you text in front of me one more time I will have you killed.

It's fun having a New Year's Eve birthday because I get a whole fresh start x2. Here are my 2011 resolutions:

1. Pay more attention to Coaster Punchman's World.

2. Quit Facebook.

3. Make more people-friends.

4. Never let my lower back go out again. Which means regular strengthening exercises once I'm up off my back from the episode I'm currently experiencing.


Number One I'm doing because I miss all of you and I miss writing.

Number Two I'm doing partially to get away from people I don't want to see, but mainly out of protest against laptops and handhelds having taken over society. Poor George and I are instituting a new rule that there is no handheld or laptop use allowed in the common rooms of our house (business use is excluded, however.) So if you are ever in our home and you want to use your laptop or crackberry/iphone/whatever-phone for texting, you will need to excuse yourself to the bathroom or guest bedroom or office. It might be a little awkward enforcing it at first, but we will have a store of polite ways in our back pocket. "Oh, I see you need to text - let me take you into my office where you'll have more privacy." Heh heh.

Number Three I'm doing because I work at home and haven't had a chance to meet a lot of real, live people in San Diego. And it's good for Poor George and me to have to have some separate friends. Not everything has to be done in a group.

Number Four should speak for itself. I have not had a serious episode since the summer of 2007, and now I've been flat on my back for over a week. Enough is enough with this - I'm going to make myself a sign that says something to the effect of "do the work today or be crippled tomorrow. Your choice."

Love and coasters --- and welcome back to CPW!

CP

Nudge me...just like that....

This is Tiny Tim. He is lame, but not as lame as I am.

This morning I got an email from my dear friend Flannery over at Prone to Whimsy, alerting me to the fact that she dedicated a short story to me on her blog.

Unlike some of our blogging friends who have intentionally checked out of our little webiverse, I refuse to let CPW die even though I rarely write here any more. I continue to grasp at the thin hope that I will one day take up my virtual quill and relive my golden days of blogging. Until then, the world will just have to wait for my inspiration to return.

Meanwhile, please be a bunch of dears and email me if you write something you think I would enjoy. By now you all know the kinds of things that will get you my undivided attention: tales to satisfy my sick Mormon fascination; pictures of cats; anything that would make the average person cringe in embarrassment; and of course, anything about me.

I'm so lame that I don't even do that thing where you can get notified if someone links to your blog. All that stuff seems to take so damn long to figure out, and I'm old now.

Love and coasters,

CP

Spanish Inquisition

Gentle Readers,

Couple things:

1. My post is up at the new blog I write for, Our Big Gayborhood. This month's post is on being nosy (hence the "Spanish Inquisition" reference.)

2. There is a major water line break in my REAL gayborhood. Looks like a river in front of my house. I had to move the car so as to avoid it falling into a sink hole. This is not going to be pretty.

Love and coasters,

CP

This guy is my new hero

So this guy from Wisconsin moved to Utah, opened up a beer brewery, billed himself as Another Utah Pioneer! and started marketing this brew:

This is not even a joke. Have you ever anything as wonderful? I have not.

Love and coasters,

CP

Another Awkward Tale - part 5

Gentle Readers,

Happy New Year and happy reading! Part 5 of my Awkward College Romance story is posted here.

It's also my birthday today. Please worship me.

Love and coasters,

CP

Little Coaster Punchman: A Stalker in the Making

This is my childhood ex-neighbor Jenny. She is a stone cold fox and definitely NOT a bitch!

Longtime readers of CPW remember the story of my childhood ex-neighbor Jenny, the little girl who only wanted me for my box. Back when I used to have fans and regular readers, many of said fans and regular readers rallied to support me as I relived this recklessly painful childhood trauma. But as sweet and appreciated as your support was, I now have to confess that Jenny is actually not a total bitch. Or if she is a bitch, she is only 1/3 the bitch that I am.

Hmmm, maybe I'm digging myself a hole here because being 1/3 the bitch that I am is still pretty bad. Let me rethink that and get back to you.

Anyway, later on I related to you the strange tale of how I once stalked Jenny by embroidering her a pillow and sending it to her in the mail along with a secret admirer letter. Somewhere in the comments section that followed the tale I mentioned that Jenny and I had actually reunited on Facebook. Which means that I could contact her any time I wanted.

The result of this confession is that avid commenters GetKristiLove and Chris ganged up and goaded me into confessing the whole story to Jenny while taping it live for the cringy-embarrassment of whatever readers I have left after having neglected my blog for so long.

Mainly because I love to be ganged up on (sick fetish) I took the bait and did contact Jenny. Live. On video. And confessed to her that I was the stalker who hand embroidered her the ugly pillow.

Here is the result. Admittedly, it may not be as enticing as any of the classic Mama Gin videos, but I hope some of you will enjoy it anyway.

CP

ps: There are several cat cameos in this video. There's an especially good one near the end, where Grover pounces into my lap, demanding attention as I try to wrap up the phone call.

OH. MY. GOD.

Meredith Baxter, my muse, as the murderous Betty Broderick

I'm almost late for work but I just had to take the 5 extra minutes to post this.





Longtime fans of Coaster Punchman's World know about my addiction to the CMTVM (Cheesy Made for TV Movie) and it's oh so important sub-genre, the CMTVMMB (Cheesy Made for TV Movie with Meredith Baxter.)





Well Gentle Readers, my favorite uber-mommie-turned-crazy-beyotch has revealed that she is a big ole' lezzie. And I mean that as a compliment.





Some days at CPW are good days, and this is one!





Love and Coasters,


CP

Another story of my awkward youth - part 4

Gentle Readers,

Thanks for bearing with me as I continue to drag out this story, that is if anyone still cares. Part 4 is posted here on the World of Progress online magazine where my saga has been renamed Coaster Punchman and the College Boys. Please leave comments there if you don't mind, although I don't mind if you leave them here too. I'm such a whore for affection, it's pathetic.

Since even Albert Einstein wouldn't remember what this story is all about, I'll provide links to the first three installments:

Read Part One here

Read Part Two here

Read Part Three here



With love and coasters, I remain yours truly,
CP

Jin’s Sweet Box Contest, Or One more way CP is a freak and a total fool

I can barely even begin to explain this. You'll just have to read below.

Our pastry-chef friend Jin recently posted a contest on her blog. She wants her readers to leave a comment stating the most embarrassing story about themselves they can think of. Whichever story makes her laugh the longest and loudest will entitle the reader to one of her special Sweet Boxes.

Now I’m not all that competitional or anything, but seeing as how embarrassing stories (about myself and others) are one of my specialities, I could not resist the urge to throw my name in the hat.

I started to type my comment to Jin (wherein, as you will note below, I state for the record that I could in no way compete with her reader Jay Ferris who boasts a horrifying story of jock itch and professional nudity) but alas, the “comment” was too long for Blogger to publish – leaving me with no choice but to post my entry on my own blog.

So, without any further ado, I respectfully submit the following entry in Jin’s Sweet Box Contest:

I would really like to play this game, but I simply don't believe I could beat Jay. That story is just so nasty.

But actually, I have thought of a story from my childhood that is just so stupid, it's more embarrassing just to think about what was going in my 12 year old pea-brain rather than the embarrassment of being discovered. (I actually never was officially discovered.)

Here's the set up: You may or may not recall a post I did some time ago about my childhood ex-neighbor Jenny. She and I had been best buddies earlier in life but had started to grow apart as we hit the tween years. One time when I was 11 or 12 I decided to mess with her and send her a "secret admirer" letter, not because I secretly admired her, but just because I was a mischievous imp and wanted to screw with her head.

But this was to be no ordinary secret-admirer letter, mind you - that would have been too normal for my pea-brain. Instead I decided she needed something homemade, something artsy and craftsy to show my fake-love for her. So I decided to make her a pillow.

Yes, that would be a pillow, the kind of thing on which you lay your head down at night to help you go to sleep. I have no idea where this random thought came from, but I took to the project with much aplomb.

I dug through some drawers and found some old pieces of upholstery that my mom had used to recover the seats of our dining room chairs a number of years before. I chose for one side of the secret-love-pillow a patterned fabric with a kind of plaid-paisley thing happening. For the other side of the pillow I chose plain green.

Why just plain green for the other side, you may ask? Because I needed a plain side so that I could do some special embroidery work on it. Just to make it extra special.

I took a needle and a spool of ordinary white thread from Kmart and carefully stitched in a large letter "J" on Jenny's pillow. (You know, so it would be an initial of her first name and all to make it really nice.)

I sewed up the sides of the fabric pieces and stuffed it with some old rags or something. The finished product was the saddest little thing I'd ever seen - like a school art project for which even a special-ed kindergartner would have received a D-minus. It was pathetic, but I was still really proud of it.

Then I proceeded to write her a letter (not even disguising my own handwriting) which read something to the effect of "I like you very much and so I made you this pillow. Signed, your secret admirer." And then I mailed it.

A few weeks later my cat had kittens, and when I saw Jenny across the yard one day I asked her if she (and her new best friend Joanne) wanted to come see them. Sure, they said, and they came in to see the new kitties.

As Jenny held one of the sleeping kittens in her hand she said, sotto voce to Joanne, "this kitten is so cute sleeping like this - I should go get her a small pillow." Joanne started snickering, and I asked what was so funny.

Jenny looked at me and rather flatly stated "a secret admirer sent me a pillow."

"A pillow?" I asked, in the sort of "what the fuck" tone that would properly befit that kind of statement.

"Yes, he made me a pillow. You should see it - it has got to be the ugliest thing ever." I couldn't tell if she suspected me, but I played along. She went and got me the pillow and the letter and we all had a good laugh. I could tell she was genuinely confused, as was I, frankly. To this day I still have no idea what possessed me to do such a strange thing.

But as an adult I have come to appreciate it as a kind of private performance art. I would consider doing the same to other people I know today except that technology is so much more sophisticated now - it would be much easier to sniff me out. And as an adult I could probably get arrested - or at least slapped with a restraining order - for doing something so awkward and creepy.

I've never told anyone this story, not even Poor George. Consider this my humble submission to the Sweet Box context.

CP

Suze Orman

Hey y'all, I'm not dead. I've just been busy worshipping at the altar of Suze Orman.

I'll be back with my next installment of "Alyssa Milbert" very soon!

Love and coasters,

CP

Alissa Milbert Can Suck My Balls - Part 5

This is part 5 of a CPW series.

Read Part 1 here

Read Part 2 here

Read Part 3 here

Read Part 4 here

Eventually I wrenched out of Lex a solemn promise that he would introduce me to Palison Yarngrim at his earliest convenience. Over the next few weeks I reminded him of his promise daily, or at least as often as I felt I could without giving him reason to have me killed.

"She TOLD you to call her!" I would lament. "She's going to think you don't like her or that you're snubbing her. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want to be on Jellie Joleson's bad side. You should invite her to lunch! And tell her your friend Tom is coming! See how easy that would be? Just pick up the phone! Here, shall I help you dial?"

And then one day I hit the jackpot, pay dirt beyond my wildest imagination. Just as I was about to launch into one of my irritating tirades that would invariably send Lex running into this apartment to bolt the door behind him, he said "Hey Tom, guess what? I got an invitation to Palison's house for her 3rd wedding anniversary party and it says I can bring a friend. Would you like to go? And if I bring you with me will you promise never to speak to me again?"

I was about 65% sure he was just kidding about the never speaking to him part so I eagerly agreed, ready to take my chances that I could be trading in a loyal friend for a night with a washed up Hollywood celebrity. It was an easy choice.

************************************

On the night of Palison's party I struggled to maintain my composure despite my being dizzy with excitement. "I wonder if Alissa Milbert will be there?" was one of the many recurring thoughts I experienced at regular intervals during the long, slow days that preceded the party. I knew as well as the next crazed stalker that Alissa and Palison had remained close friends ever since the TV show ended; in my mind it was more than likely that she should be invited.

As Lex and I drove up to Palison's rather ordinary house in the Hollywood hills, I made sure to note the address since it would come in handy for future stalking purposes. When she opened the door to receive us, it felt like we were going to any regular Saturday night party and not to the home of one of my childhood idols, save for the fact that Palison greeted us wearing a leather bustier and a matching skirt. It would be explained to us later that leather is the traditional gift for a 3rd wedding anniversary, and therefore Palison billed the evening as her "Leather Anniversary Party." Just another indication of her goddess-liness.

"LEX!" she cried out as she embraced him warmly. And to me she extended her hand, saying "Hi, I'm Palison!" As she ushered us into her living room I immediately resolved to put on my "normal" personality so that I could try to fit in for the evening --- at least as well as a fan-crazed stalker-in-training could try to fit into a room full of leather-clad Hollywood types.

to be continued....................................

My monthly piece is up

Gentle Readers,

My latest piece for A World of Progress Team-Zine is up here. Check it out if you are so inclined. If you are not so inclined, that's fine, but remember you're killing me.

Love,

CP

Sad

I feel like we've lost a really weird family member. He's been part of our lives forever and now, just like that, he's gone. He was one sick fuck, and he will be missed.

RIP, Mikey.