F.A.Q. Advice for the 21st Century

FAQ One: Houston

Chapter One

Warren blew through the revolving doors into the bustling American Airlines terminal. He stopped when he heard a loud crash to his right, glancing around so quickly his Accuview soft contact lens slid off his eye.

He attempted to close his Totes umbrella while stepping carefully around a collapsed tower of Samsonite, moving quickly toward the entrance to gate 13. He narrowly missed being maimed by an electronic cart carrying a pair of Gezzonairs toward their jet bridge at an alarming speed, checked his watch, and began to scan the crowd in the waiting area for his cousin Angie.

Angie was dressed in an Elizabeth Ashley pants suit that caused every businessman traveling through Houston’s Earl Campbell airport to wish he had read the book, ‘The 50 best pick-up lines in America’, a little more carefully.

Warren approached her, smiling and extending his hand.

“Hi Angie, what’s the latest?”

Angie looked Warren over.

Exactly six feet, brown hair, green eyes, his gym work obvious through his clothes. She met his eyes.

“We should go someplace to talk,” Angie said, and smiled.

Warren took her hand.

“I know just the place. I can fix my contacts and we can indulge in a refreshing beverage.”

The Rumor Mill Bar and Grill opened early every day to serve Bloody Marys and eggs to any and all comers. The bartenders moved at a decent pace usually not associated with union workers and the jukebox vendor had rigged the machine to play for free between 8 am and noon.

Angie took a seat at the bar and Warren ordered two Bloody Marys with extra celery before heading to the men’s room.

She looked up at the monitor playing airport CNN with ex-New York anchor Jack McCafferty reporting the details of some major corporation merger sure to make some big cheeses smell even more of money. The rain had caused several flight delays and the bar was beginning to resemble a Louis Vuitton catalog.

Warren returned and the drinks arrived. Angie turned to Warren and said in her sweetest voice, “Have you heard from your family in the last three weeks?”

“I e-mailed Thomas last week, you know, the usual, junk about my career, my car, and my latest gear.” Warren glanced at the bartender, wiped his mouth with a Rumor Mill napkin, and put on his sunglasses.

“Why?”

Angie rubbed her leg underneath the bar, feeling the expensive fabric of her Donna Karin slacks for courage.          “Your Uncle has called a meeting of the tribe ‘to discuss implementing family evaluations to determine a worthiness quotient which I will apply as a fund disbursement guideline’, his words. I was assigned the task of bringing you back to the pack. ‘That kid’s last chance’, his words again.”

Warren bit into a celery stick, chewed for a moment, and said, “Have you ever been on a bike, let’s say a Honda Silver Wing, no, let‘s say a Harley Sportster, no, let’s say a Kawasaki 500…”

Angie kicked Warren in the shin.

“That’s gonna be a health claim. So, just before sunrise, throttle wide open, no other vehicles in sight, zooming though the morning on questionable pavement, knowing that at any second your whole life could change because of an oversized rock in the road? You know at those speeds most Japanese bikes are barely touching the roadway. The heavy Harley’s do better, but they’ll crush you like a grape if you crash just right, so you have to be aware of every vibration and have your moves ready, what moves you’d be able to make at 150 plus, that is.”

Angie stirred her Bloody Mary and showed no signs of looking up.

“I have, and I loved that feeling. I felt so free. I don’t kid myself about the danger, or the odds of succeeding at that type of behavior on a continuous basis, but I carry that wind in my hair high-speed memory with me wherever I go. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

Angie looked up, not entirely happy with the way this conversation was going, although the Bloody Mary wasn’t half bad.

“I’ll tell my father not to expect you. But quite frankly, that wind in your hair thing is exactly what we’re worried about with you. This fantasy world you’ve built for yourself. I logged on to that Internet site you call F.A.Q… Advice for the 21st Century, and read an e-mail from some guy in Denver I think it was who was having trouble with a neighbor that had a Nikon with a 4000x zoom lens who insisted of taking pictures of the man and his wife having sex in their hot tub and posting prints at the local A&P. Your advice to him was to make an appearance, sign some autographs, and enjoy, because fame is fleeting! What the hell? You’re taking a chance of losing your legitimate gig, which is questionable enough…”

“Hey! You’re talkin ‘bout the Zippity Do Dah Basketball Association! The ZBA!”
Angie stood quickly, knocking over her half finished drink.

Warren reached into his inner coat pocket, pulled out a folded magazine page, and handed it to his cousin.

“You know, Angie, you should lighten up.”

Angie unfolded the piece of paper, looked up, and smiled in spite of herself.

“Is this advice to me, Warren Piece?”

She took the Victoria Secrets order form and placed it in the Bloody Mary puddle on the bar, kissed Warren on the cheek, turned, and left the airport.

Chapter 2

“Has anybody seen Piece?”

Frank W. Coleman, sports editor for the Houston Journal Express, leaned on the counter of the Journal Express’s mailroom. His dark black shaggy eyebrows contrasted with his short thick white hair and turquoise eyes (the result of a drug his mother had taken during pregnancy) to give him the look of a crazy man. A gentler soul had never been born but Frank didn’t discourage people from their initial impressions, especially when he considered them helpful in getting what he needed.

“WELL!!!” he thundered.

A couple of the mailroom staff looked up from their game of Pinochle and scratched their heads.

Parfaae, today dressed in a snappy Betsy Johnson outfit that accented her black skin and did nothing to discourage dinner offers, played the Jack of Hearts and spoke without looking up.

“He called in about an hour ago, wanting us to fax him the stats on the center for the Houston Crocketts at this address.”

She reached inside the headband of her K-Mart knock off Indiana Jones hat and gave Frank an e-mail address, a big wink, and a shot of her breast as she leaned over the table to pick up a throw away card.

Frank grunted, stuffed the address in the pocket of his Dockers, and picked up the mailroom phone.

“Audrey, this is Coleman. I expect Piece to fax us his column from Campbell International. Watch for it. No, nothing from Starbucks, thanks.”

Frank hung up and left the mailroom without a backward glance.

The ZBA Loses It’s Center

by

Warren Piece

Katrell Freewell slashes to the basket. He’s up, tomahawk jam, and nobody stops him.

Adam Diverman drives through the lane, and nobody slows him down. At 5’11’ he’s a midget by all ZBA standards, but he can score 40 a night.

What happened to the power in the ZBA?

Last year, coaches were concerned about being miked on the sideline. Now we know why!!!

They were all lamenting the fact they didn’t have a center!!!

Heard from a Coach Jif Nutter Butter huddle in New York…“Pat, I know your knees hurt, but dammit Maplewood can’t bail your butt out anymore since we traded his nappy ass to Toronto, so act like a center, and rebound, damn your ligaments. And Wurd, are you still friendly with center Dickie Tango?”

Heard from a Coach Don Bellboy huddle in Dallas…“Hey Johnson, you’re the skinniest guard in the ZBA, have a steak I mean dammit you look like a project for the world hunger federation…by the way, Adcock, are you still friendly with Tango?”

Heard from Coach Putt Roadkill in a Miami Crepe Suzette huddle…”Hey Easybean, I’m tired of hearing you bitch about your knees, start throwing up some threes or I’m going to shoot our All-Star center Fonzie Cloaking here in the head with the revolver Pajama Cyan left in his locker after we traded him to Charlotte. By the way, Easy, are you friendly with Tango?”

See, they all want current Atlanta Pigeons center Dickie Tango because he is the last center in the ZBA, except for Baba O’Rielly in L.A. and the redoubtable San Antonio twin tower show of I’ve got a tongue ring Tan Toucan, and clear the decks I’ve got to lay down and rest my back Goliath ‘Maytag’ Robertson.

Colleges don’t train ‘em, the pros can’t find ‘em, and even ESPN Classic shies away from games where one was featured.

The ZBA lost it’s center of gravity when Mickey Jardan retired, and it’s centers in general about a year later.

The only available center in the ZBA is in Atlanta wearing a defensive player of the year trophy for a hat.

Tango.

Hey, don’t get me wrong, I, along with the ZBA, love the current crop of players. I would just suggest a few rule changes to help the obvious transition from power game to a game of free form artistry Leonardo Da Vinci could appreciate.

(1) Make the teams get the ball over the half court line within five seconds or a fan gets to bounce the ball off the offending team’s coach’s head.

(2) If a team takes three consecutive shots from beyond the arc and misses, the other team gets to lie about their rebounding percentage to the Elias sports bureau for the next five possessions.

(3) The last two minutes of every game the rules are suspended. A free for all including fan participation and fisticuffs is instituted, giving a great deal of satisfaction to each and every fan that had to pay through the nose to attend these games.

If you‘ve got to pay through the nose, at least that nose should be bloody!

I love the ZBA!

Chapter 3

Warren Piece rolled over, rubbed the bare back of his Filipino lover, and got out of bed. He paused briefly at the window of the room in The Houston Hilton and pulled the curtains open. The day was bright and hot, according to the thermometer on the National Bank of Texas building across the street, and confirmed by sweat inducing shimmering heat waves rising from the asphalt parking lot.

Piece scratched his chest through his silk pajamas and contemplated the day. There was a Crocketts game tonight, a press conference this afternoon by Crocketts owner John Snyder, who was in town to make some sort of energy deal with one of Houston’s oil magnates. He heard stirrings from the bed and turned to see Kanois looking at him with one eye open and her lips slightly parted. She pushed herself up causing the quilt to fall from her body, revealing some very exciting aspects of her personality.

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” she whispered.

When the door had closed behind her, Warren walked to the telephone, ordered an a’ la carte room service breakfast and the days papers as he plugged his Apple laptop into the room’s comm port.

Time to make the doughnuts.

He signed on to the web site F.A.Q….Advice For the 21st Century, to check his latest correspondence.

Hey Piece,

I’m a postal clerk in Spokane Washington who is an avid comic book fan. My boyfriend, an avid Mariah Carey fan, recently sent my entire X-Men collection to her Hamptons beach house in a misguided attempt at first contact.

I’m really p.o.’d, because he used Federal Express!

I’m avidly thinking of going postal and turning him into a Unich right after I take my meds for social anxiety disorder and polish off last night’s leftover Dominoes sausage pizza.

Janet Smores

Yo Janet,

You’re actually in pretty good shape here. I know the postal service has a liberal vacation policy. You are really close to Hawaii. Why don’t you take some time on the big island, maybe indulge in some spiked tango juice with a well-built Samoan.

And when you come back, forget the X-men. Collect Elvis stamps instead. Mariah haaates Elvis!

Hey Wardude,

I’m a 67 year old snowboarder/stockbroker from Aspen, Colorado.

I’ve recently decided to take my 10th wife on a ballooning trip deep into the Swiss Alps for a two-week seminar on the history of Fugal Horn blowing.

I’m hiring an out of work logger for minimum wage to watch my sled team, and I’m wondering if I should make him pay for the dog food out of his own pocket?

I mean, if it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t even have a job!

Chuckles Poonang

Chuckles,

I checked the postmark on this letter, and since you mailed it seven days ago, I’m sure by now you have a tree trunk planted up your butt, so any advice I could give you is moot.

Officer Peace,

I’ve been working in a municipal police department as a patrolman for ten years. Yesterday in the locker room I noticed for the first time my recently promoted partner had donned boxers. Our squad had been serving under a female captain the last three months, so I was kidding Tony, my partner, about this choice of underwear when he winked at me and pulled them off to reveal of very nice pair of black satin panties!

I was so shocked I sobered right up, totally wasting the free beers I’d had for lunch.

I had a lot to think about.

My problem as I see it is this:

I want to move up to detective, but I’m not sure in the current environment if I have the right wardrobe.

signed

Officer Standish

Bunzie,

I happen to have extensive experience in the area of women’s underwear, as my old college roommate is now a woman. I think as long as you wear the right mascara and continue to shoot straight this phase of your law enforcement career should go smoothly.

Only begin to worry of you become attached to long hot baths using Calgon bath oil beads.

Hey Wardo,

I’m a pilot for major airlines that lives in Orlando, Florida. My life consists of flying jumbo jets around the world while trying to make millions in the stock market with my Palm Pilot Internet connection.

Last week after takeoff, I had a chance to buy a stock I can’t name just before their CEO announced he was marrying a super model, causing the stock to go through the roof because Wall Street digs CEO’s with beautiful, self-centered wives.

Unfortunately my co-pilot claimed the Palm Pilot was causing the rear stabilizer to function erratically and he crushed my computer and investment strategy under his left heel.

I want to hire a hit man.

Or, I want to apologize to him in a manly fashion, then offer to set him up with a certain hot flight attendant I know who loves video cameras, if you know what I mean. She’s so good I’ll have compromising video worthy of a Senate investigation before my current overseas flight rotation is over. I will then e-mail this to his wife (using Quicktime 7.0 of course). That should lock up his personal hard drive, the rat bastard!

My question is, which method should I use.

signed,

Flying blind with rage

Yo Rage,

I’ve got an Australian friend of mine (whose currently hiding out in a nice parish in western Pennsylvania) to advise me on the ramifications of an airline pilot becoming involved with men or women with a violent enough nature to execute option one.

You don’t want to go there, yo.

The second option sounds like a move you could regret

one day at around 10,000 feet (‘I don’t know, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the cockpit doors opened, he shouted some Swahili chant, and jumped…he was a sob sob good pilot, even though he’s recently had some sort of enhancement surgery he was unhappy with…’)

I then spoke to a psychiatrist friend of mine who specializes in anger management and she thinks you should back off your planned retaliation for three months. In the interim, she recommends electro-shock therapy, preferably after the preflight prep.

Dear Mr. Peace,

I’m a third grade student in Boise Idaho. I’ve been secretly letting my dad beat me at Mario Kart Double Dash since I got it for Christmas. He’s always Yoshi. Last night I heard my Dad and Mom talking, and he kept referring to me as Peach. As a boy and an excellent Nintendo player I’m offended. I’m offended on so many levels! Is it time to hit my Dad with a spiky blue shell?

signed,

Jeffrey Poetic

Jeffrey,

Oh yeah, kid! I would even suggest following that spiky blue shell with a lightning bolt and a Yoshi flattening run-over. Remember though, he is your Dad, so maybe after he’s recovered from the blinding light reflecting off the rhinestones embedded in your Game Cube championship belt you could offer him some of the macaroni and cheese from your kid’s meal.

Warren signed off F.A.Q…Advice For the 21st Century, and went to the hotel room door to retrieve breakfast.

Kanois drove the Mitsubishi 300xl as though Warren had an open artery pumping blood onto her custom red leather tuck and roll upholstery and the maid was out of town. Houston, Texas whizzed by to the tune of Sting’s Brand New Day. Warren tried the electric window button. When the control didn’t respond, he snuck a glance at Kanois, who smirked at him and said, “Yeeeeeessss?”

“You,” Warren said, pointing his finger, “are a control freak.”

The window slid down halfway as Kanois made a particularly intriguing lane change at the same time she unlocked the passenger side window.

Warren said, “Mind if I change the radio station?”

Kanois waved her fingers in the air as she used a neat toe heel action to avoid an encounter with an oil carrying Mobile tanker truck.

Warren punched the 2 preset for KSPT, KSPORT Radio.

“…and I don’t get it!!! Why be shy? They are spending millions of dollars in Dallas and here in Houston we’re still waiting on Aheem to invent a new post up move.”

“Well, let’s be fair now, Aheem has meant a lot to this franchise, and he’s not demanding 37 minutes a game like a lot of aging franchise players do. You sound like just another ungrateful fan that exhibits that sickening win now attitude that pervades the world of professional sports these days. Next you’ll be telling me you have a way to update Rudy Tomjohnabitch’s hairstyle! Call me back when you have your Prozac prescription refilled or when you get your AARP card, whichever comes first. Until then, you’re Outta Here! Dawn from Sugarland, you’re on KSPORT!”

“Hi, Mad Wolf, love your show, I’m sorry to hear you’re leaving.”

“I’m leaving! Who said anything about my leaving!!! I’m not going anywhere…”

“I saw in the Houston Journal Express this morning you’re being replaced because last week you trapped the general manager in the station bathroom. Demanded a contract extension while waving a branding iron?”

“Hey, that’s just good old fashioned Southern negotiating tactics. Thanks for the call Dawn, now get back in the kitchen and make me something to eat! You’re outta here.

Listen people, I’ll just say this. Man, can you believe Dawn. I love you but I’ve got to kill you. I’ve worked at this station through sports seasons with strikes and seasons with championships. Sure I’ve had my share of problems, but whom are they going to find to replace the Mad Wolf? I’m the man! I don’t usually like to discuss my status at the station on the air, but after that call from Dawn, hey Bobby…”

Mad Wolf’s engineer keyed his mike.

“Yes, Wolf.”

“Did you read the Journal Express this morning?”

“I did, Wolf.”

“Well, what did it say?”

“There was just a blurb really. Mixed in with stuff about Andrea Lover’s latest sweeps stunt…”

“Oh, what was that?”

“She’s going on the ‘Fear Factor’ reality show to bungee jump into the Grand Canyon or some damn thing. You were listed as a likely candidate for the KSPORT DL, is how they put it.”

“So I’m going on the disabled list? You know what. The season isn’t over until the fat lady sings. And for today I’m outta here!”

Warren reached forward to lower the volume of the radio as Kanois performed a neat 360 skid into the parking lot of KSPT.

Kanois leaned over and grabbed Warren’s lapels, pulling him close. She licked his lips and pushed him back.

“Tell me again how you happened to get an interview for this radio gig, I believe you called it.”

“Well,” Warren answered as he opened the car door, letting the Houston heat speak for a moment, and shutting the door again, “Ben Harper knows my Houston Journal Express editor, Frank W. Coleman. They were having a conversation in the steam room of the Nike sports club about the Crocketts when Harper mentioned he needed a quick solution to a particular personnel problem at the station. Something about ratings receding faster than the Ozone layer and a need to tighten security around his daughter Bailey when a certain afternoon drive time sports talk host was within shouting distance. Frank said he had a kid with a big ego who knew sports and could probably bridge the gap until Ben could hire a radio professional, that is if Ben really wanted to make quick work of this particular problem. So, Ben called me on his cell and asked to see me today. I know about the steam room and stuff because I traded Frank a box of Havanas to tell me. Like that.”

Kanois made a face at Warren and said, “Well, good luck with your pitch. Call me when you’re done and I’ll think about coming to get you.”

Warren exited the vehicle and walked the short distance across the parking lot to the doors of KSPORT Radio.

Warren pushed the button that alerted persons unknown inside the building of his desire to enter.

When his button push produced a series of gunshot type sounds from inside, Warren laughed out loud. Sports geeks, always associating games with war, all the way to rigging the doorbell.

He took a step back to look up at the building. The door banged open and a man ran out.

Warren extended his foot in a reflexive moment and interfered with the flight of the intruder. The unknown sprinter went sprawling across the sidewalk, a rather large handgun skidding from his grasp toward some blooming dogwoods. Warren jogged over to the gun and kicked it soccer style toward the parking lot where it came to rest under a Ford Expedition painted a particularly nasty color of green.

Four Houston Police cruisers squealed their arrival, sirens going full blast. Officers leapt from each vehicle and in some sort of twisted Greek chorus shouted, “HANDS UP!!! DONUT YOU FREAKIN’ MOVE!!!”

Warren put his hands up. The unknown stranger put his hands up and started to blather.

“Arrest this man! He just shot three women, two children, and I think he chipped my solid walnut desk! Shoot him now!! Ask questions later!!!”

“Sir,” one of the officers said, “You’d want to be quiet at this moment. We’re going to cuff you boys and take you down to the station, so ya’ll just be calm, now.”

Warren Piece turned his head to look at the man he now knew was radio personality Mad Wolf Sherman. One of Houston’s finest patted Warren down, found his wallet, and checked his I.D.

“Are you the Warren Piece who writes for the Houston Journal Express?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you know anything abut what went on inside that building?” the officer asked.

“No sir.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well,” Warren said, peeking over his shoulder “I have an appointment with the owner at 4:00 o’clock, and if I leave now, I just might make it.”

“You’re not keeping that appointment I’m afraid,” said an officer who had approached from the direction of the building.

“That man is dead.”

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