In Memoriam

Take a look at this picture.



Probably hard to make out. Here's a better one. Look familiar?




It's been 12 years since I've last been able to confront this haunting specter that has weighed heavily on my conscience and sanity. It's still hard to talk about, but I'm just gonna say it and admit it.

I had a twin brother.

That guy in the picture is not me. That's Space Matt. He had a real name, but I've called him Space Matt out of respect after the tragedy. See, this was the last picture ever taken of Space Matt. Cover boy for the book Space Camp: The Great Adventure for NASA Hopefuls. A promotional shot for NASA's space camp in Alabama.

Space Matt beat me out of the ol' cervical suite by 11 minutes. I have no clue how that happened, because in my experience, I always come first. Always. But, I assume I was making sure I came out of that uterine cave sexy as all get out. And it definitely paid off, because I was by far the sexier twin between the two of us. That book would've been a best seller had I been on the cover, leaving only my final frontiers to the imagination of the lady readers.

But it isn't me on the cover of that book. And it wasn't me who went to space camp. But, it's also not me who is no longer alive. And in a way, I still feel like Space Matt's accident was somehow my fault.

See, for our 11th birthday—which happened to be our double golden birthday—Space Matt and I both wanted to go to space camp more than anything. Seeing that kid float around in a simulated zero-gravity room as the grand prize for being the first to scale the Aggro Crag in Guts or picking the impossible booger flag out of the giant nose at obstacle 6 on Double Dare was the flippin' sweetest prize possible. That, or a 10 speed Huffy bike.

But...as is family tradition, he who breached first, opened first. So Space Matt opened his first birthday present. A ticket to Space Camp. He was ecstatic. I was something less than that. Call it an inferiority complex. That somehow, by being 11 minutes slower, I wasn't as good as my twin brother. It drove me to always want to be different and not follow in his footsteps no matter how recently he had just made them.

So as soon as I saw he was going to space camp, I no longer wanted to. Who would want to always be 2nd? Never the first at anything, but always just a repetition. A mimetic echo of an event already stitched into the fabric of time. Simply tracing the lines that had already been drawn. A clone stuck just minutes in the past, reliving events that had just happened.

I mean, how long do you think Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin argued about who would be the first one to set foot on the moon? Did they flip a coin? Play rock, paper, scissors?

It was my turn to open a present now. And guess what? A fairly similar shaped gift was given to me to open. Hmm...wonder what this could be? A Digi-Pet since I accidentally jumped into our neighbor's swimming pool with my Tamagotchi in my pocket and ruined it? Of course not!

I knew if I went to space camp with Space Matt it would be the same old thing. He'd get to sit in the front seat on the way there. He'd get to pick what fast food place we stopped at. He'd get to check into the camp 11 minutes before me while I would have to sit and wait in the car. So, I said the first thing I could think of.

"I don't want to go to space camp. I want to go to scuba camp."

It was the most distant and different thing I could think of. Who cares if something like that actually existed, I just wanted to get to do something by myself. To have my own unique identity. It was more of a bluff than an actual request. I didn't want to go to some camp where I learned how to suck air through a tube. That's what being Terry Schaivo was like. I wanted my parents to guilt Space Matt out of going to space camp, so I could go by myself.

But my parents looked into it for me, and a few weeks later, I was signed up for an actual scuba camp in Florida.

So while Space Matt prepared to shoot for the stars, I was going to disappear beneath the water.

We were signed up for our camps during the same week since it was easier to drive down to Alabama (space) and Florida (sea) and pick us up at the same time rather than having to make two separate trips. And it was going to be the first time in our lives that we would be apart from each other for more than a day or two.

It was that separation that I believe cost Space Matt his life. Even though all along I had wanted to create my own special experience, I wonder what might have been had I just gone to space camp with Space Matt.

Maybe we both would have been on the cover of that book. Maybe we both would have lost our virginity at age 11 to that chubby 6 from Iowa in zero gravity (not at the same time though, obviously). And maybe we both would have still been alive after camp.

Space Matt had excelled in all the space camp activities throughout the week. He was one of the few kids that didn't have autism, so he was much better at following directions and remembering things he was taught. I don't know what it is with autistic kids and space camp.

He got first place in the freeze dried food eating contest. He had the best Michael Jackson moonwalk impression too.

And he was the only student that didn't poop on an instructor when they practiced voiding your bowels in zero gravity.

Then came the whirlybird. That twisted contraption that spins you around at high speeds to experience the extreme g-forces you would encounter during launch and reentry. They don't ever let the kids do more than 4 gs at space camp, but everybody thought Space Matt could handle more. So they cranked it up to 8 gs.

It would be those gs that killed him. Crushed his little chest and sternum in on his heart after draining all the blood from his brain. I like to think he lost consciousness before his ribs compound fractured and the broken, jagged edge javelined through his heart—that his death was painless.

They said he rag dolled around on the last few revolutions before the whirlygig finally came to a stop. They didn't necessarily think anything was wrong, as it is quite common for people to lose consciousness from the tilt-a-whirl, but the worst had happened.

Space Matt had died.

NASA gave him the highest honor. A burial in space. For several months after they launched his coffin into space I worried that some alien civilization would obtain his corpse and be able to clone and reproduce him from his genetics. My genetics. Not just one twin 11 minutes my senior, but hundreds, maybe thousands.

Fortunately, they mistimed the space funeral launch and his body pod got caught in the Moon's gravitational pull and was slingshotted back around towards Earth with enough speed to reenter Earth's atmosphere. The coffin was reported to have landed in the Atlantic Ocean, the same ocean where I had my scuba training. Space Matt disappeared beneath the surface and became just another secret of the seas.

Maybe Space Matt wasn't meant to be among the stars. Maybe it was I who was destined for the stars all along, and it was Space Matt's fate to sink beneath the tides and be forgotten.

It's funny how even amongst the weightlessness of sea and space, that heavy burdens can weigh you down for so long.

But now, 12 years later, I can finally be weightless again. Because Space Matt's death wasn't my fault. And just as the brightest stars burn out faster, the best of us die young. Space Matt may be dead, but he was a better Matt than I'll ever be.

Simon Says...Be A Heretic

Everybody knows children's games instill terrible morals and vices into kids. Pin the Tail on the Donkey—Animal abuse. Spin the Bottle—A gateway game to a life of casual sex and multiracial orgies. The Three-legged Race—Oh, haha, it's so funny and silly being physically handicapped. And I don't think I'm going out on a stretch here either.

These were the classic games that I, and most my age grew up playing at birthday parties.

Ah, preteen birthday parties. A way for the low-income families to bring their child closer to equal terms with their middle class schoolmates. A few extra bucks and some cool new gifts out of the other families' pockets went miles into maintaining the illusion that they were doing just as good of a job at raising their kid as the white collar families. It almost seemed like their son or daughter now had the same things that the more well-off kids had. That is, of course, until the rich kids' had their next birthday party at the awesome playplace with over 300 arcade games, redeemable tickets, tokens, infinite pizza, a bouncy house, and laser tag instead of at their parents' house with the creepy basement, a tire swing tied to a tree, a 13 inch television, 5 large pepperoni pizzas from Dominos, and a dog that might not bite one of the girls and make her cry for 20 minutes, ruining the party.

Ah, those were the 90s. But, I don't want to lose sight of what's really important here. Making sure parents know what classic kids' games to immediately ban from their household.

And as a child of Christianity, I feel it is my duty, no, my destiny to warn all the fellow christians of the one game that is the biggest threat to our religion.

Simon Says. Seriously, ban this game right now. I've been sending letters to the Vatican for weeks asking for the Pope to publicy damn this game. Excommunicate this "Simon." Cut him off. Who does this guy think he is?

Simon Says is an absolute affront to one of the most important Christian doctrines. The belief in Free Will.

This game completely removes all free will from the kids playing it. It teaches you that you don't get to make your own decisions. No! You can't do Jumping J's now no matter how bad you want to, you have to make a face like this instead. All of your actions during this game are controlled, fated, preordained, by some 40 year old spinster clinging to what remaining bit of youth she has left by being the "cool mom" who threw the party for her 10 year old son with the clown AND the magician.

Oh, and what happens when you no longer play puppet to the creepy uncle who's last command was, "Simon Says...all the boys take your shirts off," and make your own decision? That's right, you lose. No choices here with this game. No Free Will. Just that guy telling you to take your shirt off, and I don't think the Church would ever stand for that.

Look, free will is important. I've been kicking ass and making choices since back in the womb. That's right, even as little fetal Matt, I was in control of my life. You think I came out at around 9 months because of science and biology and all that magic hocus pocus? No! I made the conscious decision of when to come out of there and let the world surrender to my sweet dimples and disproportionate legs.

Basically, I felt I had spent enough time in there and that the world was finally deserving of my physical presence. It was kind of like my own little debutante ball–my baby beautillion.

And yeah, I was making rational choices in the womb. So stick that in your uterus and mash it around, abortion.

Look, all I'm asking is that the Church makes Simon Says goes the way of the dinosaur—so contradictory to our beliefs that it is assumed to have never even existed in the first place.

Amen.

Your Name Is Toby

Move over unionized workers that are losing your collective bargaining rights in Wisconsin. Your protests are petty quibbles and quarrels compared to what is going on elsewhere.

A new collective bargaining agreement between the NFL and the Players Association was not reached last week, and now the players are suing the league. And the league is responding by threatening a lockout.

This is something that affects all of America, not just kids needing an education in Wisconsin, which face it, isn't going to help them that much anyway for their future careers in the booming packing or hunting industries.

So, with the terror instilled by facing a year without an NFL season—much worse than a year without a Santa Claus–Adrian Peterson decided to make a remarkable statement.

"It's modern-day slavery, you know?"

I couldn't agree more with Mr. Peterson. This situation is the perfect example for modern-day slavery.

Now, some of you might think AD's, (not Adrian Peterson's, that's his slave name) comment is ridiculous just because he makes about 11 Million Dollars a year. But so what?

The thing is, It's all relative. Like Albert Einstein said, "Slavery is a relative phenomenon." If your unathtletic, white owner is making some 25%-50% more for sitting around and playing Farmville with a football team than your enormously supplemented muscles and freak of nature physique is for participating in a deathsport, then that's slavery or at least indentured servitude.

I mean, hey, that's why they called it the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960's and not the Slave Rights Movement. They weren't slaves, relative to others. They were rolling in the deep back then.

And that relative amount of income is why women can still mostly be considered property.

Look, as far as I'm concerned, the NFL logo is on par with the Confederate Flag. The same goes for any team-licensed apparel. Waving a Terrible Towel or wearing a Cheesehead pretty much certifies you as a slave master in my book.

I mean, who's going to refuse to give up their seat on the front of the Jerome Bettis to get some equal rights around here?

It's time to start harboring these poor, victimized fugitives from their oppressive masters. I for one have decided to use my apartment as a place to provide a warm meal, a place to sleep, and safe passage for any of these abused and degraded refugees (and maybe ask them for an autograph, which I'm sure they'll charge me for, especially if they are college athletes) that are trying to get somewhere where they won't be so badly mistreated. We'll be singing Swing Low, Sweet Chariot all night. Just remember, follow the drinking gourd, AD.

I just fear for the day when the NFL will rise again.

Lost Love

Loving and losing. It happens to everybody who is a loser. So I don't really know what it feels like. In fact, I don't know what either emotion feels like. But that doesn't prevent me from understanding the concept. And I have a problem with the analogy we've been using to describe the love/loss situation.

"It's okay, there are other fish in the sea."

Yeah, maybe that analogy is appropriate for the backwoods rednecks who are unaware of anything more important than fishing, but the comparison sucks. One, it's dehumanizing. Comparing men and women to fish. Tiny-brained, gaping mouthed, smelly morons–that only sounds like women to me.

Two, fishing involves tricking a less intelligent fish into biting your hook before you yank it around violently then pull it in and "catch" it. Fishing is based on deception, lies, and violence. Okay, I guess that sounds a lot like the way people I know have fallen in "love," but I still disagree with the comparison.

"There are other fish in the sea." Uh, no. The only other fish in the sea are the one's that people tossed back because they weren't good enough to mount as a trophy on their wall, probably in the kitchen where all trophy wives end up. They're good looking for a reason, and it's not because they are intelligent and pursuing a serious career.

With all that being said, I've taken it upon myself to come up with better and more appropriate analogies for the so, so sad scenario of love and subsequently, the loss of that love.

"It's okay, there are other viral maladies that affect the human immune system."

"There are other bears in the woods."

"There are other stars in the Universe."

"There are other channels that might have something good on."

"There are other things on Facebook you can 'like.'"

"There are other circuses that will come through town."

"There are more shitty Michael Bay movies."

"There will be more waves to ride."

"There are other blogs by Matt that you might like."

Finally, in an attempt to reach out to the people who read this blog? Are there? I'm asking you to submit your own analogies in the comments section. I'll even change the name of the section from "Things stupid people said," to something less offending.

Let's see what other ways we can compare complex human emotions to something extremely simple. And don't even get me started on "All's fair in love and war." Uh, the Geneva Convention.