Posts Tagged ‘ Frank-n-Blog ’

So we had the big Homecoming dance on friday. I realize putting the word “big” in front of Homecoming makes me sound like a 70 year old grandmother from the 50′s, but whatever. Anyway, we have this new transfer student who just started this year who’s in my grade, and she’s the new quarterback of the football team. That’s right. She. Her name is Sarah Matthews and besides being hot and smart, she’s also amazing at football. I know, don’t you just hate her? But actually it’s impossible to hate her because she’s also really nice. I know, don’t you just hate her more? Well like I said, you can’t.

So in honor of her and the amazing season of football we’re having so far, they decided to make the Homecoming dance Sadie Hawkins style, which is where the girls ask the boys to the dance and is supposed to be all about female empowerment or some bullshit like that. But really, don’t girls always have the power in these situations anyway? It’s not like us guys are gonna hit them over the head with a giant stegosaurus leg bone and drag them to the dance. We have to sweat it out for weeks trying to build up the courage to ask these girls and they have the power to crush our souls and our self esteem with a single word. No.

I say all that as if I’ve had to worry about this shit, but really, me and Jamie haven’t gone to a school dance since our sixth grade social when I threw up on Molly Dolan’s shoes. He says he likes to skip them because it enforces a dogmatic straight agenda, but really, for a gay guy, he’s a terrible dancer and I think he just enjoys avoiding all that nonsense as much as I do. So we were all set to enjoy a night of video games on friday when the impossible happened.

Sarah Matthews asked me to the dance.

That’s right. Let that just soak in for a moment. The most popular girl in our school asked me to go to Homecoming with her. I mean, she’s like the it girl (like Megan Fox before Jennifer’s Body and Jonah Hex came out) who could have asked anyone to go to the dance with her and she chose me. So of course I said yes. The hard part was going to be telling Jamie, but thankfully I was able to distract him with asking him to go shopping and help me pick out something to wear before he could call me a pussy whipped traitor, which I’m pretty sure was on the tip of his tongue. While picking out a paisley (which is apparently a pattern, not a color) blue tie and a corduroy sports jacket which Jamie assures me doesn’t make me look like a 70′s detective, I was able to talk him into going to the dance also.

It took my Dad some convincing to let me go to the dance. He normally doesn’t like me being out at public events any more than I have to for fear of something Frankenstein-like happening, but I assured him that I would avoid doing any limb-losing sambas in the center of one of those giant people dance circles. But like Jamie, I was able to quickly distract him with the prospect of making me a corsage to give to Sarah. The resulting corsage actually came out pretty cool. He stitched tiny little football beads and mini LED lights into it, and I’m pretty sure the resulting masterpiece would make Martha Stewart proud.

Unfortunately I don’t have my drivers license yet and couldn’t even offer my Dad to drive us to the dance, so Sarah’s parents had to pick me up at my house, which I waited outside of to avoid any parental unpleasantness. Sarah was wearing a baby blue dress that matched my tie. Apparently Jamie called her to see what she was wearing so we could color coordinate. Gays. She said I looked nice and in my head I told her she looked amazing, but it came out more like “thnksutoo”. I gave her the corsage, which she liked, though I think her equally perfect mom and dad liked it even more. After taking a few awkward pictures in my not-picture-worthy front yard, they drove us to the dance.

When we pulled up to the school, Jamie was outside waiting for us where he promptly fixed my tie and called Sarah “stunning”. We entered the gymnasium which was decorated with balloons and cardboard pillars, but still looked remarkably like a high school gymnasium. There was a line of tables for drinks that three quarters of the school faculty was guarding like vultures. Okay, maybe vultures don’t necessarily guard things, but you get the idea. Music was blasting, but hardly anyone was on the dance floor, but the people (read: girls) who were dancing, I recognized as Sarah’s inner circle of friends. She asked if I wanted to dance, but she didn’t seem too upset when I mumbled something about getting a drink instead and she was gone.

The night progressed pretty uneventfully. The girls danced, the guys they forced into coming stood awkwardly, and no one went near the drink tables for fear of being given detention or having to converse with teachers. It wasn’t until our principal Mrs. Yolkman needed to make announcements that the music stopped and Sarah joined me and Jamie again. I thought she’d be mad that I wasn’t dancing, but she was as happy as could be and just asked if I was having fun too, which I of course said yes, even though the whole thing was a bit of a snoozefest.

Anyway, Mrs. Yolkman said it was time to announce the winners of the Homecoming Court contest. Every year for Homecoming, the seniors vote for their Homecoming King and Queen, and each of the younger classes vote for a Homecoming Prince and Princess for each class. Sarah was actually on the nomination list for Princess of our class, and at that moment I felt bad for not taking the time to vote for her, but in my defense, she asked me to the dance after voting closed. Okay, that’s a bad defense, whatever, shut up.

So after much fanfare (seriously, this is life or death to these people) they announce the King and Queen, who I recognize as Jamie’s brother’s friend and his girlfriend. Good for them I guess. They are crowned and take to the dance floor to have their victory slow dance. Meanwhile, they announce the freshman and sophomore princes and princesses who get smaller crowns and tiaras and join the King and Queen on the dance floor. Finally, it’s the juniors’ turn and I’m positive Sarah’s name is going to be called since the dance is practically being thrown in her honor. First, they announce the junior prince and it’s Chris Alberman, one of the popular guys from the football team, which I assume guarantees that Sarah will be called next and I’ll have to suffer the humiliation of seeing my date slow dance with someone else.

But it wasn’t Sarah. After covering the microphone and saying something to Stephanie Hendrick, our class president, who only nodded, Mrs. Yolkman announces that the junior princess was a write-in winner, Jamie Preston. That’s right, my gay best friend was just elected our Homecoming class princess. A lot of things happened in those few seconds after the announcement was made. The entire gymnasium erupted with laughter, but more infuriating was watching Chris Alberman drop his crown on the ground and join his friends where he was smugly high fived. I turned to Jamie to see him standing still as stone next to me. His eyes were glossing over and I could tell that he was going to start crying at any moment. I have no idea how or why this happened. I thought I was the only one who knew he was gay, but evidently I wasn’t, or other people just assumed he was. Regardless of those questions I had, I grabbed his arm and told him we were leaving, but Sarah stopped me.

“No,” she said. “We’re going to rock the shit out of this.”

Sarah took Jamie’s hand and they walked up to the podium where Mrs. Yolkman was standing. The laughter picked up when Sarah practically ripped the small tiara out of Mrs. Yolkman’s hand and put it Jamie’s head, which was turning so red I thought it might explode. But then the noise turned into a kind of confused rumble as Sarah picked up the prince’s crown and put it on her own head and took Jamie out onto the dance floor where they joined the other couples. Even from where I was standing across the gymnasium, I could tell that Jamie was nervous as hell. He wasn’t so much dancing, as he was swaying back and forth, but as the moments wore on, I could practically feel Jamie loosening up and as the song came to a close, he even allowed himself to be dipped by Sarah and when he came up I could see that they were both laughing.

The song ended, and the crowd nervously applauded, not really sure if they should or not. The Homecoming Court left the dance floor, and Sarah and Jamie walked back over to me, still hand in hand. In my head I told them how awesome and brave they were, but it came out more like “mmmzing”. Thankfully they more or less ignored me and we left the dance when Sarah suggested we all go to the diner for cheese fries. I continued to be more or less ignored by the two new BFFs who apparently watch all of the same television shows, but the cheese fries were really good.

Ugh. It’s 3:52 AM and I’m wide awake. Dad is in his room going crazy. Worse than usual tonight, which is saying something. Okay, maybe “going crazy” is a bad way of putting it, but if I told you he’s been moaning loudly all night you’d probably get the wrong idea. Besides, I’m pretty sure my Dad doesn’t even know what sex is because making babies that way is a whole hell of a lot easier than piecing one together in your basement. But then again, my Dad is such a dork I’m sure he’d still have built me anyway even if he did know what sex was. See what I did there? I’m treating my Dad not knowing what sex is as fact. Try it sometime, your quality of life will increase exponentially.

So yeah, Dad moaning like some wild banshee. You see, he was in an accident before he made me and his leg bothers him a lot. He’s in his forties and has to walk around with a cane and he never ever wears shorts. I only saw his leg once when he fell in the shower and I had to help him out. It just happened the one time, but like any normal family, we never spoke about it ever again. But it was crazy. His leg was like, mangled. It’s the only word I can think to describe it. Like it was crushed by the giant cartoon gears of Big Ben (I don’t know, for some reason when I picture the inside of Big Ben, it’s a cartoon) or something. That reminds me, when I’m president, I’m making a law where anyone over the age of thirty has to wear a bathing suit when they take a shower just for situations such as these. Gross.

He doesn’t like to talk about the accident, but apparently it was with some former employer which he then sued the pants off of and got a ton of money, which is why he doesn’t have to work anymore. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we certainly don’t live like Hiltons or anything. In fact, kinda just the opposite. Like, there aren’t gun shots outside our house or anything, but it’s not like we live in the best neighborhood either. But the way Dad explains it, he’d rather us live modestly and let the lawsuit money last longer than live in some lap of luxury or whatever and be broke in a year. But we’ve lived here my whole life and even though it isn’t the swankiest house around, it’s still home. Plus I would imagine it would be a major bitch to move Dad’s laboratory (and I’d probably be expected to help) so it’s probably best we stay here.

Just a little about my Dad. His name is Isaac, like Sir Isaac Newton. Between the ages of nine and thirteen, I got my Dad nothing but presents with apples on them. You know, like the apple that fell out of the tree and taught him about gravity? A tie with apples on it for Father’s Day, a silver apple paperweight for Christmas, so on and so forth. I thought I was being really super clever, you know, them both being scientists and all. Yeah, well, my Dad didn’t get it. Turns out he isn’t really a fan of apples (who doesn’t like apples?) and had no idea why I was so obsessed with them. For someone whose name stems from the hebrew word for laughter, he can be a bit of a stick in the mud sometimes. One time me and Jamie convinced him to play Clue with us and he spent the entire time complaining about the fact that the weapons could be ruled out a lot faster if he could examine the body. And while yes, if Mr. Boddy had a gunshot wound, you can be fairly certain that he wasn’t killed by the candlestick, that isn’t the point of the game.

He’s never been married and doesn’t leave the house much. I have to do most of the shopping for us, but Dad is definitely the cook. He’s obsessed with Martha Stewart and watches her show like everyday and copies all of her recipes. That’s right. My Dad the mad scientist is in love with Martha Stewart. He says he admires her “stern focus and scientific approach to achieving goals” whatever that means. She scares the shit out of me. But I’m sure my Dad would love nothing more than for her to be my Mom. “Welcome to my home Martha, here is your new stepson Frank. I made him in my basement. Shall we have duck bourguignonne with chestnut spaetzle tonight?” But to be honest, I have a feeling Martha would be pretty cool with the whole Frankenstein’s monster thing. She’s just that fucking crazy.

Okay, Dad seems to have settled down for now. I need to go to bed. I have a spanish test tomorrow today.

Good news! Me and my friend Jamie are friends again. I’m actually writing this from the attic of his house as a matter of fact, which is our usual hangout. And the fact that I referred to him as “my friend Jamie” even before telling you that we were friends again was a pretty good indication that we would be friends again. But I’m not gonna lie, it was looking pretty grim there for while. The last time we hung out was the first monday (fuck you spellcheck, capitalizing days of the week doesn’t make any sense) of summer vacation for the first of many video game marathons, which has kinda been our thing since we became best friends in the third grade. And for those of you counting at home, we just finished tenth, so we’ve been best friends for over seven years.

So yeah, me and him not talking. Here’s why: on that monday Jamie came out to me as gay. Although, what else would he be coming out as? Black? Have I mentioned how white he is? Anyway, he didn’t really tell me, so much as plant a big wet one on me right after I kicked his ass for the million and a halfth time at Mario Kart. He’s reading this over my shoulder and says I’m exaggerating, but that’s totally not the case. OW. He just hit me. Aren’t gays supposed to hit like girls? FUCK MAN! He did it again. This is abuse. I’m calling whatever organization protects straight people from discrimination. Oh yeah, I’m straight in case all of this self-reflection and the fact that I write a blog was making you think otherwise. I mean, haven’t you ever seen Doogie Hoswer? He was totally writing an early version of a blog. And yeah whatever, bad example now, but you get the idea. “Boobs man, gotta love em.” That’s what Jamie just said and even though him saying he likes boobs makes him sound even gayer, I have to agree with him, they are kinda awesome.

Alright, to make a long story short, I freaked out when he kissed me and I may or may not have pushed him off me a little too hard. He’s saying I ran from the room screaming like a little girl, but that’s just not how I remember it. So yeah, we didn’t talk for the entire summer, making it the worst summer in the history of all summers. Even worse than the summer Jurassic Park 3 came out. But then when school started up again and I saw him around it was hard to trick myself into thinking I didn’t miss hanging out with him. Plus being in school again reminded me o

GHOMNO EXOPLOSDION!!!11!!

Yeah, okay, so that wasn’t me. That was Jamie’s older brother Jason (a senior who is annoyingly popular and likable to anyone who isn’t his little brother or little brother’s best friend) who pushed me out of the chair in order to write that oh so amazing opus to intelligence. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to say HOMO EXPLOSION, which is what he calls us (and what he was yelling in a voice that was half George of the Jungle, half Jabber Jaw, when I was pushed out of the chair) but as you can see, the thought synapses just weren’t quite firing the way they should. He doesn’t even know Jamie is gay (only me and you, faithful reader, know that) he’s just been calling us that since homosapien was a vocabulary word in his biology class two years ago. I thought about deleting his brilliant contribution to this already brilliant post but I figured it should stay here as a testament to Jason’s ineptitude. Millions of years from now when space aliens come to the ruins of Earth on an archaeological mission, one of them will find this blog entry and simply nod knowingly as to why their mission is archaeological in nature and not diplomatic.

Anyway, now that I have thoroughly dispatched with Jason (read as: Jamie told him Mom and his Mom kicked him out while I was cowering under the desk unplugging the monitor so Jason couldn’t read what I’m writing) as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, being in school and seeing Jamie reminded me of that time I got detention for kissing my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Sperin and Jamie pulled the fire alarm to get me out of it. There are two valuable lessons to be learned from this: 1) As boys, we generally want to kiss anything that moves, so Jamie kissing me isn’t really that big of a deal, and 2) Jamie would do anything for me, and the one time he needed me to be a good friend I let him down. I won’t let that happen again. Plus he handled the whole built in the basement by my Dad thing (I told him way back in the third grade because little kids really aren’t all that good at keeping secrets, especially when those secrets include cool looking scars) a hell of a lot better than I handled the whole gay thing. He only hid in the closet for about an hour until I promised not to eat his brains, which doesn’t even make any sense because Frankenstein’s monster didn’t eat brains, but whatever. It got him out of the closet. Oh shit, that’s totally ironic and stuff.

So my arm fell off today. Yeah, I know, gross. But it’s not what you think. It does that a lot. Thankfully I was wearing long sleeves (it was picture day at school and Dad insisted I wear a dorky button down and tie because he still thinks this is the 1950′s even though I have to pass through a metal detector to get into school, but at least the cuffs were tight enough to hold up the weight of my arm) so it just kinda dangled there for the rest of the day, which is good because I don’t need another leper rumor going around school again. Seriously, that happened. Are there even lepers around anymore? Wasn’t that just in Jesus times or something? Okay, I just checked wikipedia, and leprosy is still around, but it’s totally treatable, so you don’t need to worry about it. Not that I’d need to worry about it anyway, because for the millionth time I’m not a leper.

Wait, you’re probably like “What the hell is he talking about?” I get that a lot.

Alright, from the beginning. My name’s Frank. My dad made me in his basement out of old parts like Frankenstein’s monster. I know, and he named me Frank. Isn’t that just shoot me in the face hysterical? Nevermind that whole misconception that the monster’s name in the book is Frankenstein (hello, it’s the doctor’s!) but if you build some freak kid in your basement and you don’t want anyone to know about it, wouldn’t you try and avoid comparisons to the book? Why not John? Carl? Hell, I’d even take Todd. Whatever. Parents aren’t the brightest people around, regardless of what they like to think.

Anyway, even though I’m a freak who was made in his dad’s basement, I’m pretty much like any other teenager, which is just about as freakish. No, my skin isn’t green, although it is kinda olivey (that should totally be a word) so most people think I’m just mediterranean (thank you, spellcheck!) or something which just means I tan pretty well and make my irish friends jealous. Okay, friend, but if he didn’t put about a million layers of sunscreen on every time he’s out in the sun I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be so vampire looking. Oh, and my head isn’t flat, except when I want my hair to be spiky, and I don’t have any bolts or anything stupid like that coming out of my neck. What are those bolts even for anyway? If I had those they better damn come with some radio reception.

Oh right, dismembered arm. Luckily it was my left, so I was still able to take notes in class for the rest of my day and dad patched it back up when I got home. And just a note to all you other kids out there who were made in your parents basement, and not in the gross way: never blame your arm falling off on your parents’ shoddy craftsmanship, because they won’t think it’s as funny as you do, and then they’ll punish you by making you wait till the next day to put your arm back on. That only happened one time though, but unfortunately it was my right arm which was annoying, but it was the weekend so I didn’t have to worry about going to school. It did teach me the joys of jerking off with my left hand though. Seriously, it’s like a totally different person. Hell, as soon as he attaches my arm again, there’s a Frank-shaped cloud of smoke in his lab as I run to my room to take advantage of the few minutes it takes for all my nerve endings to realign or whatever the fuck they do.

Oh what? You think the Frankenstein’s monster kid can’t jerk off? I’ll have you know that everything down there works just fine, thank you very much, and how many times do I need to tell you that I’m a normal teenager? If you’re gonna throw that whole made-in-my-dad’s-basement thing in my face, I’d like to remind you that your parents probably made you by having sex, so I’d say we’re about even.