Valentine's Day

Brandon Figliolino

January 25^th, 2016

Valentine’s Day

               I have a lot of disdain for Valentine’s Day, and it’s not because I’m an eligible bachelor, and have been for a long, long time because I’m a narcissist and undateable. No, I have an aversion for V-Day because, at its essence, it’s a greeting card holiday. It’s a time where you express your love to your significant other with expensive, affectionate gifts of chocolate, candies, flowers, followed by sex. In my cynical opinion, if you need a holiday to show someone you love them, you’re not in a healthy relationship. Just sayin’.

               Because I dislike this “holiday,” last year, a good friend of mine and I decided to rebel in a very “hipster” sort of fashion against everyone who would be spending Valentine’s Day eating at fancy restaurants and licking whipped cream off their significant other’s stomachs before bedtime.  We decided to host an “Anti-Valentine’s Day Party.” It was going to be the crux of the dopey month that is known as February! We’d have red and pink balloons that we’d prick with needles. Pop! Pop! Pop! There’d be barbeque chicken that we’d eat with our hands, and then, to finish off the day, we’d all sit in the hot tub and mock the couples making out in the cabanas on the other side of the courtyard. Mix in a few alcoholic beverages and some breakup songs, and we’d have a party unlike any other, or at least, so we thought at the time. It was going to be epic!

               Except, no one RSVP’d to the party. They all had dates.

               That was disappointing.

               Our large party became a party of two. “Haha,” I said, “Now it’s like we’re on a date, for Valentine’s Day, with each other! How ironic.”

               My friend rolled his eyes and shoved me onto the sofa.

               “Did you get balloons?” he asked.

               “No.”

               There was silence.

               “Do you have chicken to barbeque?” I inquired.

               “No.”

               “Well, I guess we should think of something to do; besides hold hands and make out.”

               Decide we did! We made our way downtown to the movie theatre, where we bought two tickets for Fifty Shades of Grey. We watched that bland, unoriginal film about a girl who is terrible at writing, terrible at dating, and terrible at being a person overall, inside an empty theatre because no one actually wanted to watch that movie on Valentine’s Day, or at all. Once the movie was finished, we went to the store, grabbed some chicken, and continued our Anti-Valentine’s Day party at the apartment. Even though it was just the two of us, it was still an enjoyable time. We simply ignored all the couples making out beside us while we listened to Taylor Swift in the hot tub.

               Looking back, having an Anti-Valentine’s Day party only makes me seem like a bitter and resentful person, even though I am most definitely not, in most instances. A few weeks ago, I began conjuring up some ideas for what I could do this year for Valentine’s Day that would be exhilarating and helpful to those around me. I don’t have a date, and I don’t have a Fifty Shades of Grey sequel I could mock until I get escorted out of the theatre. I had very few ideas. Then, a “suggested” ad appeared on Facebook that was perfect. I clicked the link, paid my dues, and began preparations.

I hate Valentine’s Day, but this year, instead of drinking alone and venting about the reasons I think it shouldn’t be a holiday, or meeting up with someone on E-Harmoney, I’m going to do some good in my community.

               I’m stripping to my underwear and running several city blocks in the heart of downtown Denver.

               Boy, did this story take a dramatic turn or what?

               That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, if you’ve ever been curious about what I look like naked (don’t deny it), you’ll get the chance on February 20^th (which is technically after Valentine’s Day, but who cares?) as I participate in the Denver Cupid’s Undie Run.

               It’s not often I take my clothes off in public, but when I do, it’s not because I’m drunk or stoned.  It’s because I am raising money for the Children’s Tumor Foundation. I, along with hundreds of other exhibitionists, will strip down and run around downtown in order to raise money to help kids with serious illnesses.  Afterwards, we’ll celebrate our run and fundraising with beer and wings—in our underwear.

               That sounds pretty exhilarating, doesn’t it?

               I’m not really sure which pair of underwear I’ll don for the race, but I can guarantee I’ll be bringing sexy back. I want something that will look cute and fun, but not detract from all the hard work I’ve done on my chest (thanks, Crossfit!) I’m thinking I’ll wear a pair of boxer briefs that are rainbow colored; they’ll draw attention, for sure. While I could undoubtedly get some numbers and some whistles, anything skimpier than boxer briefs would become a detriment towards my future career in public service. I’d also be cold running in a jockstrap. Boxer briefs it is! Maybe I can even paint a rainbow across my chest, so if I see someone attractive, I can say, “Hey, baby. You’ve made it to the end of the rainbow, and I’m your prize.”

               Of course, I’d never say anything like that.  I’d say something like, “Look at this pot of gold!” as I wiggle wiggle wiggle. BAM!

               So, I ask you, does stripping down to your underwear to run one mile and then party afterwards sound like a blast? Of course it does! Come join the cause! I would love to run in a group with you crazy ladies and gentlemen. You can join the race by clicking on the link at the bottom of this article. We can even carpool together. What could be better than that?

 If you’re not as braggadocio as myself, or don’t own underwear, you can make a monetary donation to my campaign, which would be much appreciated. I’m hoping to raise $50.00 by the race, and as an incentive, if I achieve that, I’ll post pictures of me at the race on Facebook, until they get taken down by a prude whose jealous of my slender physique. If I don’t raise that amount, I guess you’ll just have to try and find me on the numerous dating apps from the Google Play Store to see if I posted the pictures there to attract attention to myself.

               Last Valentine’s Day, I wasn’t a contributing member of society. I was self-serving, gorging myself upon delicious chicken wings while making sex jokes in a hot tub with a man.  This year, I’m putting myself to good use, running to raise awareness for an admirable cause. If you don’t have any plans for Saturday, February 20^th, I hope you’ll join me.

DONATE AND JOIN TODAY: https://my.cupids.org/BrandonFigliolino

Storm Door

Brandon Figliolino

January 18, 2016

Storm Door

               As of late, I’ve developed an affinity for doors. In particular, I’ve become interested in front doors. I’m intrigued by the styles, colors, and materials that people select. A front door is an extension of one’s personality, and if selected appropriately, can enhance the appearance of the home in which it is stationed.

 My parents’ house has a grandiose oak front door. It has mission-style front panels, and a half-circle piece of beveled glass sets atop it. The handle on the door is a light bronze, and although it squeaks when turned, the knob’s finish is steadfast and hasn’t rubbed off in the decade it’s been employed.

I very much like my parents’ front door, but there’s a door that I like more; the storm door. The crème door, installed in front of the oak one, is fairly simple. Its metal lines have a pattern, rising vertically halfway up the door before twisting into a flower finial. The two pieces of glass on it are interchangeable, and can be swapped out for screens during the warmer months. It’s a solid piece of work.

What I love most about the storm door is the gift it gives us, weather permitting: sunlight. During anytime of the year, when the temperatures are warm, the oak door is opened, and stays opened. Sunlight cascades through the storm door on these days, casting shadows from the dancing ironwork across the foyer. It’s on these days you’ll find the cats curled up against the warm glass bottom of the storm door, comfortably resting in the sunshine laid out onto the plush carpet.

               I remember throwing open the oak door when I was young, shouting, “Here comes the sun!” the light from outside blinding my eyes.

There’s something magical about opening a door and looking out onto the world, even if it’s just a cul-de-sac you see. Being able to see the activity taking place outside—the neighbor playing catch with his son in the street, the widow mowing the lawn across the way, my father tending to the front garden—has a cathartic effect. I feel a sense of calm when I open that door and experience life. The rabbits can be seen gnawing on grass, and when the door is open, the birds that nest in the trees by the drive can be heard singing. It’s magical.

Having a storm door does have drawbacks, though. If the weather sours, the house becomes chilled; storm doors may protect the foyer from rain, but cold permeates easily through its glass. While you can see out of the door, so can everyone on the outer threshold. Privacy is gone, so it’s best to mind your manners when the oak door is opened. Of course, when only the storm door is closed, it’s impossible to hide from the sleazy door-to-door salesman and the energetic canvasser, too.

To my dismay, my condo doesn’t have a storm door. I’m not afforded the opportunity to open the steel front door and leave it that way; it’d allow my two cats a free pass out. With finances tight, I don’t foresee a storm door being installed in the near future, which leaves me two options. The first option I have is to keep the steel door shut and stay inside, protected from prying eyes and poor sales pitches. But I choose the second option, the one where I walk out the front door and stay out. I’ll be vulnerable to crooks and salesmen and hurt feelings, but I’d much rather take that risk than live a life without light.

Thomas Xavier

Brandon Figliolino

Thomas Xavier

January 14, 2016

               For entertainment, I sometimes will download GRE, SAT, and other collegiate-level test practice applications to my smartphone. I go through different sections, answering questions; filling in blanks and selecting multiple choice options. Most of the time, I’m right—except for the questions on mathematics, which I pretend don’t matter as much as the ones that ask about literary time periods or nineteenth century artwork.

               During my lunch hour today, I was answering some questions on an app, when one in particular caught my attention. It was a “which of the following can be inferred from the passage” question. These are my favorite type of questions! I was ecstatic. The passage detailed the use of pseudonyms by female authors, explaining the reasoning for doing so, and the ramifications of it. I selected my answer. It was correct. Score a point for Brandon! Those are the questions I like, as opposed to those that ask for equations and calculations. Who needs to know the average speed of a bus going along a stretch of highway at night? I don’t, but that’s mostly because the bus service in my area is lacking, so I don’t use the bus as a means of transportation.

               This passage about pseudonyms got me thinking about the brief time in my life where I decided to write under a pseudonym. After reading some works by J.K. Rowling and Lemony Snicket, I thought it would be interesting to present my writing through an “alter-ego” of sorts. However, since I was in high school at the time, I mostly just thought it’d be cool.

               The name I selected perfectly encapsulated my writing: Thomas Xavier. I chose Thomas, seeing as that it was my middle name. When I was younger, I thought Thomas was a better fit for my zodiac sign. Plus, it allowed more flexibility when it came to nicknames. Tommy, Tom, Tommyboy. There were so many choices. How many nicknames can you get out of Brandon? None.

 Because my last name is practically impossible to pronounce correctly, I decided to ditch it. I selected Xavier because it was the last name of the Patron Saint of Writing, Francis Xavier. When I was younger, I memorized his novena, and to this day, I still wear a necklace with his picture and name etched in the metal medallion. Thomas Xavier was born out of a love for myself, and a love for a prolific writer.

On the day I decided to adopt my second persona, I went to my Windows 98 computer, and flipped on the Pacard Bell monitor. After it booted up, I put my purple floppy disk into the drive. I proceeded to change the name Brandon Figliolino to Thomas Xavier on every story and poem. To be honest, I felt like a badass, free to write whatever I wanted without giving anyone the ability to identify me as the writer. I could write the most obscene storylines without being reprimanded by my mom. At the time, I had neglected to think of the instance in which I wrote and submitted a story about a father being impaled by a fence post to my ninth grade honors English course, which happened the week before my decision to take on a pseudonym. I’ll have you know, my teacher LOVED the story, despite the dour ending. I even received extra credit.  

               Therein was the problem, I quickly realized. By hiding behind a pseudonym, my writing was no longer mine. Sure, I’d written it, but any and all credit—had the stories been published—would go to Thomas Xavier, who didn’t happen to exist. Praise and condemnation would go to him as well.

               I’d be left stewing in the aftermath of his glory.

               I’ll be honest; I’m an arrogant and prideful young man. I want people to know that what they read was crafted exclusively by me, Brandon Figliolino, not Thomas Xavier. I want the recognition and notoriety, the fame and the fortune. Mostly, though, I don’t want to hide. Some of my work clearly is offensive (I wrote an undergraduate story about assault), and others are joyous and heartwarming (one was about a wedding; and another, a birthday party). I want appreciation for everything I write, which is why I never actually submitted to journals or magazines under the name Thomas Xavier. It felt wrong. Plus, I didn’t have $10 to satisfy the application fees for submitting writing.

Shortly after I changed all my stories to being authored by Thomas Xavier, I went onto my purple floppy disk and changed the name back on all the stories to Brandon Figliolino. Who cares if someone can’t pronounce my name at the bookstore? Barnes and Noble staff are knowledgeable enough to know a customer saying they want the bestselling novel by Figalolini actually meant to say Figliolino.

So I did it. I pressed the backspace and as fast as Thomas Xavier appeared on the Word Perfect 2000 software, he disappeared. Bye-bye. Once the task was done, I moved everything to flash drives, and pushed my Pacard Bell computer off the roof. Splat.

               Thomas Xavier doesn’t exist. Though, I must say, that is a pretty awesome name for a guy. He sounds pretty dope. If the guy were real, I’d probably have lunch with him sometime. I guess for now, I’ll just have lunch by myself, while trying to solve for the variable x in its relationship to y.