Bentz Deyo's Blog

MLK Day

May I start by saying Martin Luther King Jr day meant nothing to me as a teenager, only that it was a wonderful thing, since there was no school, providing me and my idiot friends the opportunity to slam down beers,

And burn down smokes in the woods all day. The holiday, and the man, they weren’t

Real, in the sense of having any meaning to me. I think to appreciate a life like Martin Luther King Jr’s, and how he lived it, requires a change in perspective, which can only happen when

The time comes

In your own life when you’ve collected at least a few kernels of wisdom so that you can be receptive to what this man did for our country. That he was fearless in his faith, and that he was a hero. And it feels like we

Need some of that heroism now. We’re

Lucky he set the example, but we need to follow it. And we need to

Understand that more importantly than what he did and when he did it, is how he did it. He didn’t

Teach those who believed in him how to make pipe bombs.

He didn’t order anybody to get on a bus with a bomb taped to their chest. Martin Luthur King Jr taught peace. His belief in peace and love made him powerful; a gentle power that all the greats seemingly understood. In the

End, he was murdered by ignorance, but what he preached and how he inspired are gifts he left to the living. Honor. Integrity. Courage. Conviction in his cause, proven by action. But most impressively—and you either believe this or you don’t, there is no middle ground—he was a shining example that peace will, in the end, always, defeat violence. It

Really will. Just as good always beats evil, and that love trumps hatred and fear. And we can play our part, and it’s not that difficult, by adopting his values and virtues:

Kindness. Equality. Truth. Passion. Compassion. But it’s time to wonder

If his teachings have been forgotten.

Now, today, he’s up there shaking his head at the racial tensions poisoning our country. It’s just so stupid. I sometimes think that if every black person woke up tomorrow morning and their skin had magically turned fluorescent

Green, and all the white people woke up and were bubble-gum pink, would people still be racist? “Welp, that guy’s green now, Willie. Fuck it, I say we still hate him.” I understand the issue’s more complicated than that, but it’s an equal level of stupidity.

Just do ONE thing today for good old Martin Luther: do something nice for somebody. A family member or friend works fine. Be bold. Kindness. Give it a shot. Its powers are

Real.

3 Awkward Teen Memories

Teens. The smartest and most awkward of creatures. To write them well, you have to be one. To write them satisfactorily, you had to have been one. Below is a sampling of my times as one of these wonderful creatures.

a graduation photo that couldn’t get any more awkward

The gym. 8th grade. The game is European Handball, which is basically running around and throwing balls like Europeans. My best friend and sworn nemesis (I don’t want to name names, so I’ll just call him “Garrett Yaralian”), gives me a look that says there’s no way I’ll block his shot. Oh, really? I guess you forgot I’m the best goalie in town, son, I say back at him with my look and he shoots. I miss it completely. I might as well have been waving at gnats. His team, and my team somehow, carry him off in a whirlwind of glory. I sulk off, cursing Europe.

 6th Grade. Dating this hot chick, went by the name of Jen. Running from my house to the basketball court down the street, high as the wind. I’m saying to myself, “If I make this shot, I’ll marry this girl.” I burst onto the court and launch up a prayer, a half-courter, maybe even longer. I remember watching it as it took to the air. My eye stayed right on that ball, there was nothing but the ball. It went in, it wasn’t a swish, but it was an absolute no-doubter. She dumped my ass less than a week later. But 15 years later, I married her. I plan on dumping her ass someday to even out the score.

My parent’s house. Sophomore year high school. I’m hosting a party. The girl I like is there. Beirut, which you numbskulls call beer pong, going on in the backyard. Most likely DMB or Sublime jamming out of a hand held boom box. People laugh, people talk, people look at the driveway every so often checking for parents or cops. I go inside to look for the girl. She’s making out with my buddy on my mother’s loveseat. I go outside and launch a piece of deck furniture halfway across the lawn. The world has ended. I am unaware at the time of the future Family Guy episode where they spoof One Tree Hill by putting Chad Michael Murray near a lake looking at the ripples in the water while a voice over sings, “High school is such a serious thing. These problems matter.”  View it here

5 Things Guaranteed to Happen When it’s Dad’s Morning with Baby

1.    Baby wakes up 45 minutes earlier than she does on Mom’s morning. Why? I don’t know. But Dad’s gone an entire day careful not to accumulate any bad karma and it still happens so….

2.    The look of disappointment on baby’s face when she peeks through the crib bars and realizes it’s Dad’s morning, not Mom’s, which Dad’s actually good with because it’s a step up from the full-grade meltdowns of months past.

3.   The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse episode that’s airing while baby drinks her bottle is either the one where Martian Mickey comes to Earth and promptly loses all his space pets and needs normal Mickey and the gang to round them up, or the one where that bastard Goofy is calling for Baby Red Bird the whole time. (It doesn’t really matter which of the million episodes you get stuck with, it’s what kind of mood you’re in, and if your baby wakes up early and only wants her mom and Mickey calls for his Mouse-Ka-Tools one too many times, you feel like going inside that TV and giving that mouse the beating of his life.)

4.    Dad dresses baby for the day in one of those onesies with a million snaps and pants that are super tight around her ankles, and she of course dirties her diaper the moment everything’s on just right and pretends it’s just a coincidence.

5.    In her high chair, baby holds out her arm and drops a piece of waffle or a blueberry on the floor, on purpose, while looking Dad straight in the eye. Dad pretends he’s a strict parent with stern eyes, but she wins the stone-face-killer stare-down every time, which is sort of impressive. She’s figuring out the game of life by testing the limits, and though he’s tired, has butt paste on his hand, and that goddamn Hot Dog Song is on repeat in the background, Dad, still pretending to be mad, couldn’t be happier.

30 Days To Magnificent Weight Gain

The last month has been a whirlwind—scary and glorious all at once—and I’m not talking about creatively or professionally. It’s been a whirlwind of overeating.

30 days ago. Weight: 182. Begin a new habit of getting a bagel and 2 cream cheese packets (oh, and a sugar cookie) from the Barnes & Noble where I write. Separate myself from previous routine of eating fruit for breakfast.

25 days ago. Weight: 183.  Tweak my hamstring over-exerting myself on my nightly run when my iPhone shuffles to Pompeii. Opt not to put together a nutritional plan of food intake while sidelined. Instead drive to McDonalds and spend over $14 on a bag for one.

20 days ago. Weight: 185.  Christmas, 3:30pm-1:00am: a succulent type of beef, grits soufflé, mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, rolls, none of the salad, cheese cake, a little bit of some other type of cake, ham sandwich, Sun Chips, mashed potatoes, cereal, mashed potatoes, Fruit Roll-Up (Fruit Roll-up, for Christ’s sake, it’s midnight, I’m 33 years-old!), popcorn, Twix bar, juice box.

15 days ago. Weight: 188.  Hamstring feels okay, but too cold to hit the pavement. Opt to consume upward of 3,500 liquid calories on New Year’s.

10 days ago. Weight: 190.  Drop a fistful of popcorn (Have you ever sprinkled it with Parmesan cheese?) and each piece lands on belly; none make it to the lap or floor. Notice that my pajama shirt does not cover entire belly. Mull over diet plans while nibbling on Haribo gummy bears.

5 days ago. Weight: 194.  Limit myself to bottled water, fruit salad, turkey on rye no mayo, one serving of delicious chili. Lie in bed wide awake, observing like an innocent bystander my willpower battling growling belly. Growling belly convinces weak man to submit to the dark cloud that is late night hunger pangs. A frenzy of kitchen activity ensues for the next 45 minutes.

Today. Weight: 193.  193!!! No clue how it happened, but lose one pound despite no diet and no exercise other than walking from one sitting place to another. Feel tremendous about the dropped pound. Feel unstoppable. Ready to take on the world after I finish this blog post and this Reuben sandwich.

 

3 Things That Mattered Tremendously in Middle School

1. Disproportionate Body: When puberty began its assault I was under the horrifying impression that my head was distancing itself from my shoulders at an alarming pace. My neck was so long to me, in fact, that I refused to wear any upper-garments that didn’t at least partially mask this abnormality. Apparently the most logical solution, of course, was to wear a yellow turtleneck year round.

2. Kissing: A glorious occurrence now, but what a wondrous source of pubescent anxiety! Should I go left or right? Am I using my tongue, and if so, what the hell do I know about using my tongue? Should I take out my orange and blue orthodontic rubber bands and clean the Doritos out of my teeth before go time? And on top of all that, you’ve got to deal with High School Tommy saying that you might as well “grab a knocker” while you’re at it. It’s too much!

3. Enormous Zits: Who gives a crap now, but we all remember the sheer horror of waking up in the morning with Mount Vesuvius growing out the tip of your nose. If you have the nerve to show up at school on those days (because I recall faking sick once or twice thanks to the nighttime emergence of a few real dandies), you know, not assume, that everyone is staring; the teachers wondering if you know how to wash your face, the students wondering if tears will be shed whenever you muster the courage to pop that sucker.

Looking back, it was all so stupid, wasn’t it? But we’ve got to remember that silly stuff matters to middle schoolers. They’ve got a lot on their plate. That’s why the next time some awkward thirteen-year-old gives you the stink-eye at the mall, it’s best just to let it slide.

The Burping Nanny

Before my mom quit work to spend more time with me and my sister Jackie, our nanny Annie (don’t laugh) took excellent care of us, discounting the fact that she was nearly blind and once drove into the woods on our way back from school.

However, before those six blissful years that Annie the Nanny ran the show, the position changed hands so often it seemed my parents were firing and rehiring nearly every month. Some of the reasons for their quick downfalls were more obvious: one woman forced me to walk to school in the middle of winter without a jacket when I was five years old (granted I might’ve locked her out of the house for an hour when she went to retrieve her inhaler from her car); whereas others got the ax for more minor grievances, like the one whose boyfriend would come over and leave looking much happier, or the lady who kicked our dog Daisy in the ribs.

The craziest by far, though, was a very tall woman whose real name I don’t remember, so for the purposes of this story we’ll call her Belch Salad. Part of Belch Salad’s brilliance was that she never spoke one word to us, not for one minute of her full three weeks. Instead she communicated in a series of grunts, and the times we spoke to her directly, she would just sit back, stare at us, and release a burp toward the heavens.

And, oh my oh my, how her gaze never strayed when she churned out strings of burps so lengthy and variant she might as well have been performing in an orchestra. That was what was so horrifying; Belch Salad looked you dead in the eye while she played her instrument. And I remember her hair, even when she sat at the kitchen table, brushed up against the ceiling.

“Why do we always eat salad? We’re children, we like candy.”

BELCH!

“Please, miss. This is iceberg lettuce and a tomato. It’s nine o’clock in the morning.”

BELCH!

“We don’t want this, please, how ’bout just a slice of bread?”

BELCH!

You know something, though? Thinking back on it, maybe Belch Salad had it right. Kids are annoying—we all know it—especially during the jerky ages of five through twelve. When you’re ten years old and throwing raccoon shit at the neighbor’s window, even you know you’re a jerk. Yeah, I bet Belch Salad knew just what she was doing.

Receding Expectations

It’s been way too long since my last blog post (my sincerest apologies to my one follower), and I guess this inactivity can be attributed to being busy, but the truth is I just sort of forgot. Forgetfulness, I’ve now come to realize, is a part of getting older; one of many side effects of the disease, of which I’m now afflicted at 32, known as aging.

In the morning when I look in the mirror, my eyes habitually flick to my hairline and I marvel at just how big a forehead can get. My eyes trace down, settling for a moment on my chest and stomach while a sadistic voice inside my head dares me to do a half-turn and check out the profile. I never do, though, it’s too much to deal with so early on. Instead, it’s just one quick look up—Hairline! Hairline!—then I’m out of the bathroom and headed for the closet, often trying to remember if I ate my Activia last night…

Hanging from hangers, shelved on shelves, I gape at the clothing of a much younger man, a routine of increasing pointlessness. As if I’ll ever again leave the house in that skintight tank-top that says GUARD. So I grab a t-shirt—standard navy or taupe—and, for the eighth day running, step into the same pair of shorts, the type old men wear while whittling pieces of wood. I take the stairs one at a time (if I do every other, I risk the bones in my legs turning to powder), open the fridge to do an Activia count, and then I’m out the door.

Here things get interesting. It seems that the more gray hairs that come to nest above my head, the more eventful operating a car becomes. Do I remember not to back into the recycling bin and spray Werther’s Original boxes and empty Pepto-Bismols all over the street? Do I, like I did a week ago, brake at a stop sign and wait for it to turn green? The other day, I swear to you, I got into the passenger seat, keys in my hand, and actually buckled up and sat there for a moment before realizing something was amiss.

And of all this is just the first part of the morning!

It’s foolish, though, not to also revel in the good stuff that age provides. My golf game sharpens, my writing becomes richer, I have a beautiful baby who actually thinks my jokes are decent…all great things. So I say let’s attack life with good humor as we age, with an eager expectancy of what good things are still to come.

And if you’re young, enjoy all the fruits of youth. Just don’t snigger too much at those of us loading cartons of prune juice into our shopping carts, because, inevitably, that’s you someday, my friend.

Pythons, Ostriches and Giant Women

Who is this guy who’s been putting a python in with his customers inside the back of his cab? Have you heard about this maniac? I can’t decide if the dude’s bonkers or a modern day genius, but I know I’d lose it if I got into that taxi.

Anyway, the story brought about thoughts and images of my fears. Ostriches are number one, no question, and sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night, my eyes dart around the room trying to adjust because I’ve somehow convinced myself there may be a circle of them surrounding my bed. I can pinpoint when the ostrich phobia was birthed, actually—we were at the drive-thru safari at Great Adventure and my dad basically let one of those mythological beasts into the car—but there was this other fear of mine that terrified me as a small child and I didn’t know why.

My bedroom when I was a kid was at the end of a long hallway on the third floor and I used to keep my door wide open at night because it’s much scarier having it closed. Trying to fall asleep, an image tormented me nightly, playing out like a video in my mind. It was of a tall, thick woman in a frock and wooden shoes and she was creeping down the hallway toward me singing something softly with a disturbingly low voice. And she was really tall, too—her head brushed the ceiling as she walked, and a Dutch boy-like wig was perched atop a face masked in shadow.

I never figured out why that haunted me. Who knows where some of these phobias come from. Do you have any good ones of your own? The weirder and freakier the better, because these things make for great fodder when writing creepy or disturbing scenes.

Haunted by the King

So honestly I’ve been scaring myself to the bones lately, you know, shivering my own timbers. It’s my memory. I can’t remember things I should be able to. Like right now, I know I have underwear on, but I can’t remember which pair, and I literally got dressed a half hour ago. Sure, my memory has no problem recalling what girl clogged my friend’s toilet back in middle school, yet it seems to struggle with the important stuff. Not that what undies I’m wearing is important, but probably some other forgotten things are.

For example, I have the word KING written in black marker on the back of my hand, and it might have major significance. I wrote it yesterday at the library and when I got home I had no idea what it meant. At first I thought maybe Stephen King, but I just knew that that wasn’t right. An actual king, like a monarch, didn’t tickle my fancy either, and it wasn’t Kings grocery store—although their pastry department tempts me daily—because why wouldn’t I have added the S? To save ink?

Could it’ve been King like the chess piece, or “King Me” for checkers? I don’t know, but I really hope not. I mean you gotta be really messed up to marker your hand with something that has to do with checkers.

And it haunted me and haunted me, like Will Smith’s performance in Wild Wild West. I was talking to my mom on the phone before I went to bed, but what about, I don’t know. All I could think of was KING. I think she might’ve been talking about something serious, too, but who knows. Eventually, I asked my wife if she had any thoughts on the matter and she kindly offered, “What are going to forget next, that your baby’s in the car?”

Is there anything I’m missing, because I need help.  A playing card, a king-size bed…I may never know. But I will say this. Whatever it is, it’s probably stupid.

A BLOG? ME? SAY IT ISN’T SO…

Am I really starting a blog? A terrifying question and one I don’t even want to think about answering. Do I have what it takes to be one of those people who blog?  Okay, let’s go with that, it’s a little less nauseating. But without doing any research, ever reading a blog, saying the word blog, or meeting a person who blogs, I ask my brain-fingers to sift through the clutter and dig up anything I might think I know about blogging. So they sift and they sift and eventually unearth three “truths” of people that blog—we call ’em bloggers in the biz, a biz I have absolutely nothing to do with—which I share with you now.

Number one: All bloggers have mustaches. That’s a given.

Number two: They aren’t out in the open, at libraries or Starbucks or anywhere with good lighting. No, these shifty bloggers stay hidden. They dwell in dark, strange, underground places. Like that nut from Silence of the Lambs with the skin-dress—I bet that guy blogged.

Number three: Bloggers are obsessed with what they blog about. I bet if I searched for a blog specifically about soups that old people like, I would find it, and I’d guarantee that blogger is either obsessed with soup or old people, maybe both.

So, then, in summary, bloggers are obsessed people that inhabit dark places and have mustaches. Those are the three universals—the bloodline of blogging.

My problem is I’m not really obsessed with anything. I mean, I once ate shrimp for a stretch of ten consecutive lunches and dinners, but it forced me off seafood for several months so that fixation is a thing of the past. And without a single true obsession, I’m afraid my blog-posts-to-come are going to be pretty much random. You know, we’ll get into books and writing a little bit…certain movies or shows that people seem to like even though they actually stink…possible reasons why this one cashier at the grocery store hates me—stuff like that. And hopefully you’ll enjoy some of it.

Let’s not kid ourselves, though, without fulfilling all of the blogging criteria stated above, we know the odds are against me: a thirty-two year-old kid just trying to make it out there—a lost man-child trying to find his way. But since I’m sitting Indian-style in the dark corner of somebody’s basement right now with the upstarts of a nice wispy little mustache going on, I figure two out of three gives me a shot.