Nonfiction. By Harmon Leon. Nation Books. Grade: A

Book in a nutshell: Humor writing is a tricky business. How does one translate real-life anecdotes or humorous thoughts into laughs on the page? In his first four books - most recently National Lampoon's Road Trip USA, which commemorated the 25th anniversary of the film National Lampoon's Vacation - author and comedian Leon gives a veritable clinic on how to be funny in print.

Leon's shtick is to adopt a persona and "infiltrate" unsuspecting organizations by posing as a potential member - with madcap results. In past outings, Leon has worked as a bounty hunter, dined with white supremacists, partied with Promise Keepers and even co-hosted a DVD prank show with O.J. Simpson.

Here, Leon rubs elbows with folks in search of the American Dream, be it carnival workers in the Midwest, pot farmers in northern California, would-be immigrants in Mexico and suburban swingers. He even gets outed - for the first time in his career - at a celebrity impersonator convention, proving that it takes a fake to spot a fake.

Beneath all the humor is a human touch. While mocking the absurdity of particular groups and situations, Leon's writing shows a fondness or at least appreciation for his subjects, be they fundamentalist Christians or carnies running the ring toss. He even lets his targets have their say, introducing each chapter with an essay from a member of the community he's infiltrated-including one penned by Boulder-based Ozzy Osbourne impersonator Don Wrege.

Best tidbit: Leon's 10-page account of his appearance on the television show Blind Date, which involved heavy doses of public intoxication and lederhosen. (Hilarious footage of this is available on YouTube.)

Pros: This book will make your sides hurt.

Cons: The personal essays from Leon's targets disrupt the comic momentum without adding much to the final product.

Final word: A master of disguise - and literary hijinx - Leon satirizes all that's comical and commendable about the American Dream.

Dr. Scott Calonico and I have created a new website:

freedomhaters.org

The theme is Politics, Irony, Conspiracy, and Nachos.

Look for new updates every day.

Hey Friends-

You can check my recent interviews about my book, The American Dream, on NPR and WCCO right here:


http://www.nhpr.org/audio/audio/wom-2008-10-14-vp2.mp3

http://www.830wcco.com/pages/1453194.php?src=onAir

Harmon

You can check out my recent interview on Pirate Cat RAdio on the Drinks w/ Tony
Show right damn here:

http://drinkswithtony.com/harmonleon

Here's the first review for my new book, The American Dream, for the folks
at Civilian Reader:




"The American Dream", by Harmon Leon (Nation Books)
An amusing, poignant look at the less-than-ordinary pursuits of happiness

Harmon Leon, an award-winning author and journalist, is a very funny man. In American Dream, he has taken a magnifying glass to the various different ways that people in the US pursue their idea of what constitutes "the American Dream". America is perhaps the epitome of the individual-centric nation. Despite that, politicians for generations have talked about what the American Dream might be, usually coming up with a rather conservative, standard ideal of owning your own home, a car or two, a secure and well-paid job and being able to care for your family (and eat whatever you like). All well and good for the majority of Americans, but what about those others who have a different idea in mind? How would one go about defining the American Dream? "In order to better understand the ellusive definition behind these words, I'll infiltrate the lives of vastly different people," Leon writes. And so, he infiltrates the subcultures of...
Illegal Immigrants: dreaming of being able to earn a decent wage in the Land Of The Free, mainly because there's no work in the broken economies of their home countries, they put up with back-breaking conditions to earn just over $8/hour. Leon decides that he's going to see what it's acatually like, to start in America as an illegal, so he goes to an "Illegal Immigrant Park/Resort" to experience the crossing, without actually doing it. It's a rather bizarre experience, and one he describes in vivid detail. A more serious chapter, Leon gives a good account of what life really is like for illegals in America, balancing the humour nicely.
"Carnies": travelling carnival workers who all seem to think Leon's an undercover cop, all of whom seem to be complete freaks who have done jail-time. ("No matter how hard I try freaking out the carnies, they always end up freaking me out more.")
Bible-thumping Christians: a common enough subject for anyone studying the American experience/experiment. While Leon deals with them very well, I can't help but feel that Matt Taibbi and Nicholas Guyatt do a better, funny-and-terrifying-at-the-same-time job of trying to explain the ever-increasing number of evangelical Christians in America.
Celebrity Impersonators: "The American Dream is in thrall to the ideal of 'celebrity'... In this cult-of-celebrity obsessed world, simply looking and acting like a famous celebrity is an American Dream." Following an intro by an Ozzy Osbourne impersonator, Leon infiltrates the world of celebrity, attending a convention for impersonators in Las Vegas (where else?) populated by plenty of Cher, Shania Twain, Elvis and Willie Nelson impersonators. Leon tries to pass for a blonde Austin Powers impersonator, with some pretty funny results.
Leon also looks at life as a pot-farmer, a gun-toting military-nut, a swinger (a very funny chapter), and a Hollywood hopeful (reality TV, too).
Sprinkled with serious observations and facts, Leon manages to get across the real nature of all these people; describing the difficulties faced by illegals, for example, but also painting honest portraits of his subjects that both entertain and enlighten. If I had but one criticism it would be that his editor needed to weild some scissors a little more enthusiastically, and perhaps reign him in a little more, as he's not as skilled at maintaining the funny as some other authors. (The chapter about Carnies was too long and repetitive, for example.) Nevertheless, The American Dream is filled with laugh-out-loud moments and satirical fun at the expense of Leon's subjects.

If you're down with American humour, you'll like this a lot. Underlying the whole book is a large dose of silliness - Leon will make fun of anyone and anything - the book has brilliant, wry one-liners throughout. And because Leon doesn't focus solely on the usual subcultures (i.e. Christians), The American Dream will surely have something for anyone interested in reading a little more about the less-"standard" people in America.

So I saw this casting ad on Craigslist for a new reality TV show. It read:

Have you lost a loved one in Iraq?? National TV show wants? to help... (Los Angeles, CA)

I like getting on bad reality TV shows. I email back with the simple:


I have a dead brother in Iraq.

Armando
¬¬¬¬¬¬_____________________

A few days later I hear back from Hollywood. I've filled their niche of person who has lost a loved one in Iraq. Hollywood reality show producer emails me back:

Hi Armando,
I am so sorry to hear about your brother.
This show is called, "Lisa Williams: Voices from the Other Side".
We are a television show starring medium and clairvoyant, Lisa Williams, who had a show two previous seasons on Lifetime Television.
If you are interested in submitting yourself for the show, please email us your PHOTO and a brief reason why you would like to connect with your brother (ex. if you have any unanswered questions).
If you would like more information please go to: www.producerscasting.com

Thank you so much.
Jen Friesen
Casting Director
LISA WILLIAMS: VOICES FROM THE OTHER SIDE
Lifetime Television


Well fuck me sideways! A TV psychic wants to talk to my fictional dead loved in Iraq. Who the hell is this Lisa Williams from the Lifetime show, Voices from the Other Side?

Here's what give her the credentials to speak with anyone dead loved one in Iraq:


Lisa Williams has known of her abilities as a psychic and medium since she was seven years old. She didn't accept her psychic talents until her grandmother, who was a well-known psychic, died in 1996.

Lisa is married and has a husband named Kevin and a young son named Charlie. According to Lisa, Charlie also has special abilities, including a talent for speaking with spirits and natural healing.


Yes, not only is Lisa Williams a psychic, but also her young son is blessed with THE GIFT!!!!

I email back:


I have so many questions I want to ask him I don't even know where to begin. If your show could help me speak to him I'd be so very grateful.

I never got a chance to say goodbye to him in person and I'd like to do that first
of all. I was also wondering why when we were in our teens and got into that big fight
that one time why did he leave home for a week and was he still mad about that. He was
also really good at giving advice I'd also like to ask him advice on if I should get married to his old girlfriend. I miss my brother who I lost in Iraq!

Thanks for any help,
Armando


I send the producer a photo of a friend of mine and myself from the time we infiltrated the Christian Wrestling Federation in Georgia. Day turns to night then back to day again. Pages fall off the calendar. Still no word about when I'll be able to speak to my dead loved one in Iraq. This Lifetime TV has raised my expectations that I might, once again speak with one from THE BEYOND.

This is really getting my panties in a bundle. I once again contact the producer:

I emailed you a few days ago about my brother I lost in Iraq.
Would you be interested in having me on cuz there's so much I'd like
to ask him. I really would like to talk to my dead brother again!



Sadly, my speaking-to-my-lost-loved-one-in-Iraq parade is rained upon:



We have wrapped casting for this cycle, which is airing on Monday, October 27th - 31st.
If the week-long special rates well for Lifetime Television, then they will continue to make more episodes.
I will keep your information if we do go to series.
Thank you so much for your emails.
Sincerely,

Jen Friesen
Casting Director
LISA WILLIAMS: CONVERSATIONS FROM THE OTHER SIDE


That Lisa Williams is GOOD! Obviously she's a professional psychic cuz she clearly saw right through my ruse. Either that, or the soul of the Hollywood reality TV show producers needs questioning.


CHECK OUT MY NEW BOOK, THE AMERICAN DREAM, AVAILABLE OCTOBER 6TH

Sarah Palin's baby-mama-pregnant-daughter Bristol went to a school where teen abstinence education was taught.

Here's my experience infiltrating the world of teen abstinence education and why, as you see, it's soooooooo effective:


I GOT LAID AT A TEEN ABSTINENCE EDUCATOR'S CONFERENCE!

Teen abstinence is our great president George W. Bush's favorite method of birth control. Though abstinence has been preached for thousands of years, the Bush administration, thank God, has finally gotten it right. Over the past five years, the US Government has spent nearly $1 billion to bring the message to the classrooms and convince teens that condoms are ineffective and that the only safe form of sex occurs within marriage. They did it! Problem solved! Disregarding thousands of years of human nature, they know that the way to stop teen pregnancy and the spread of sexually transmitted diseases is for teens simply not have sex. It's just that easy. Sign me up.
No, literally.
I'm going to attend a three-day conference sponsored by the group Life Choices. (Get it? They're cleverly one-upping "pro-choice.") There, I'm to be trained as a teen abstinence educator, learning the ins and outs of what's needed to teach kids in public schools not to have sex. We've heard the whiny liberal rhetoric about teen abstinence programs, the complaints that they give erroneous information about health, sexuality, gender roles, contraception, and the prevention of sexually transmitted diseases—that they're full of medical and scientific inaccuracies, all under the guise of education.
Boo-hoo-hoo, whiny liberals. What's wrong with a little misinformation here and there when it stops kids from having sex—why should they have all the fun?
You might not know this about me, but my politics have become soooo conservative, ideologically speaking, that I make Jerry Falwell look like a fluff boy at a gay men's bathhouse. When did this ideological transformation happen? After I became a born-again virgin. (It's never too late.) Yes, if I'm attending a teen abstinence educator's conference, I want to practice what I preach. So I took the virginity pledge. But first a little preparation for attending the conference.

Born Again Virgin Preparation
* 1 fanny pack
* 1 sweater vest
* 1 pair of dress slacks with tennis shoes
* 1 mop of hair tucked under a Kangol hat
* 2 hand puppets (to help further the cause of teaching teen abstinence)
* 1 pseudonym: Quentin Smalls

How do I look? Like a guy who never gets laid, of course.
My catchphrase: "Guns don't kill; having sex with unmarried people kills!"
One hour outside of Portland, Oregon, I journey to a secluded lodge in the woods near a mountain town of 1,190 people, where the weekend also boasts X-Fest—an "underground" Christian music festival. Yes, I'm in God's country.
Instead of attending Burning Man, the desert art festival with thousands of naked bodies (where I'd certainly feel the pull of the devil's pitchfork of temptation), I've opted to attend this long, very long, three-day abstinence conference. Good thing that I'm now a born-again virgin because one thing I think I know for sure: I'm not getting laid this weekend.
Walking by some trucks with American flag stickers, I make my way inside, passing tables with literature and posters; one placard says, "Abstinence—The Healthy Alternative" and shows an awkward couple wearing backpacks. The message is clear: Instead of fornicating, go backpacking. Another sign reads:

A—affirming the power to create
B—body respect
S—sexual postponement until marriage
T—teen lifestyle training for fidelity
I—instant gratification delayed
N—no to premarital sex
E—energy focused on goal achievement
N—no conformity to media and peer pressure
C—confidence in the value of self and others
E—exercise self-control

Hmm, I never knew "abstinence" was really an acronym. If I remember correctly, when I was in high school, my abstinence wasn't an acronym. It was just something called "not really getting any."
As I adjust my Quentin Smalls name tag, I start talking with other attendees. A man who runs a Christian bookstore, upon hearing my overly enthusiastic aspirations as a teen educator, pipes in: "It's good to see someone taking the initiative."
"I was really inspired by the Silver Ring Thing," I explain, referring to the Cirque du Soleil of teen abstinence programs, which uses rock concert theatrics and a high-tech style: incorporating music, laser lights, humor, and skits in order to relay the message to kids, "Don't have sex!"
"I want to start my own big theatrical teen abstinence show." Pause. "I'm also toying with the idea of puppets," I explain, moving my hands to simulate just that, while talking in two different voices and introducing him to my teaching aid, Mr. Wait Until Marriage.
"You know the Silver Ring Thing is in a lawsuit right now with the ACLU," he says.
"You're kidding!"
It's true. A $75,000 federal grant to the Silver Ring Thing was suspended after the Bush administration was accused of using tax dollars to promote Christianity.
"I think the ACLU is just jealous over the cool mixture of laser lights, hip-hop, and the teen abstinence message," I reason.
Apparently I've misread the conference literature and showed up too early. So I kill some time by checking out some of the teen abstinence tables. "Abstinence—Because 100 Percent Matters" reads a poster showing a guy rock climbing. (I don't really see the connection, other than that's what you can do—climb rocks—instead of sex. I weigh in my mind, "Which is riskier?") A table set with pro-life literature, dolls, and gift items has a sign that says, strangely, "Support Our Troops."
Confusion is the message here: "Save unborn fetuses, but send our troops to a place where they can get killed." Color me stupid, but shouldn't pro-life include protecting people currently living?
"Everyone, this is Quentin," is how I'm introduced to the group of roughly eight people, who head the conference. They consist of two humorless types, adorned with glasses, goatees, and button-down shirts, who eye me with suspicion. As questions are fired faster than bullets toward Keanu Reeves in The Matrix ("Quentin, what church do you go to?" "How did you hear about this, Quentin?" "Why did you come all the way from California?"), I compensate by overly smiling (mental note to self: have better back story prepared for next teen abstinence conference).
"I brought hand puppets!" I announce with pride to stunned silence, adding after a few beats, "As a teaching device." Sighs of relief abound as a brief discussion of the effectiveness of hand puppets commences.
Sitting in a conference room and eating fifteen-dollar box lunches (turkey with mayo on white bread, of course), we engage in shop talk. One topic: All public health websites should refer to the failure rate of condoms rather than to their effectiveness. Another: should extreme graphic slides be used when speaking to students about STDs (which condoms, of course, don't prevent)?
"We're kind of split on the effectiveness of graphic slides," explains a stoic woman who looks as though she'd advocate prohibition in another era.
A bubbly lady, biting into her sandwich, changes the subject to her boss's daughter and his new son-in-law—both life virgins until marriage. Raising her eyebrows, she says, "I think they were ready for the wedding." She had teased her boss regarding the honeymoon deflowering process. "I said it to him: 'Guess what's happening to her during the past week?'" the bubbly woman says. "He turned all red. That's my way of getting back at him for sticking his finger in my Reese's Peanut Butter Cup during lunch."
After the honeymoon, the new son-in-law supposedly commented about his new father-in-law: "I won't even be able to face him, knowing what I did to his daughter the past ten days."
"Did with his daughter," someone corrects.
"A bunch of women got together and threw her a party. She got a pair of lacy underwear as a gift. She held it up, then turned all red," she explains. "Everyone yelled out, 'That won't stay on long. That's going to end up on the floor!'"
The woman across from the bubbly woman changes the subject to her college-age son and his girlfriend, who made a pledge to a program called Master's Commitment. "They made a commitment they wouldn't date, so they could focus on their education," she says.
I look at my dry, tasteless turkey sandwich and can't believe this fucking thing was fifteen dollars' worth of food. The mood suddenly shifts.
"Have you seen the video?" the bubbly woman asks in the same manner as if someone did a bad smell.
"No. I haven't," I reply. "What video are you talking about?"
"It's put out by Golden Gate Planned Parenthood in San Francisco."
Since I'm the new kid on the teen abstinence educator's block, someone yells, "Show him the video."
"This is what they think of us," the group's leader says with distaste verging on revulsion.
With the aid of a laptop, the Planned Parenthood promotional video is projected. An animated female superhero soon appears; a cartoon bubble reads, "It's Sexy To Be Safe."
The group watches with frowns and crossed arms.
"It looks like its time to take out the trash," proclaims the female superhero, grabbing a one-toothed, evil protestor wearing a black villain hat and holding an "Abstinence Education" sign. He is dumped in the trash. I let out an audible gasp.
An animated large condom is then put over the head of a large, cretinous abortion protestor. It explodes. The superhero declares she has the right to be pro-choice. Resentful heckles come from across the table: "Great! Why don't I choose to blow myself up!" The animated superhero adds, "You, too, can be a superhuman for a change!"
Lights on. Tense hush of silence. Unhappy faces.
"I just gave away my black hat last week," one of the abstinence educators sarcastically remarks.
I shake my head, disgusted. "What a load of a horse-hooey! What did you think of it?" I ask, directing my question to both the bubbly woman and my hand puppet Mr. Wait Until Marriage.
The bubbly woman momentarily is not bubbly.
" I was shocked by the violence. Are they saying it's OK to blow people up?"
"Yeah, and put very large condoms over people's entire bodies," I add. (Then again, that would keep people extra protected.)

Abstinence Fun Fact! Why not tell kids to try to abstain, but if you are going to have sex, use a condom? According to my new friends, that's an easy question to answer. Saying, "If you must, use a condom" is like saying, "Don't drink and drive, but if you do drink and drive, make sure you wear a seatbelt." Or saying, "Don't go and shoot a cop, but if you are going to shoot a cop, make sure to wear safety goggles and earplugs." So when we say it's OK for a teen to use a condom, it's like saying it's OK to shoot a cop! WHAT PART OF "WAIT UNTIL MARRIAGE" DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?

Roughly a hundred folks are now gathered in a large conference room for the evening's events. The crowd is composed entirely of African Americans, Hispanics, Asians, and Jews—just kidding. It's not only very white here, it's whiiiiiiiiiiiiite. Most of the people in the audience are poodle-haired old ladies in flower-print shirts—all with a similar small-town glow. The woman in front of me is quilting—no kidding. Those who are young already have families with several kids. A cell phone with a gospel music ring tone goes off.
"I want to applaud you, 'cause you're deep in the trenches, fighting the fight," remarks a cool pastor. (He makes references to Led Zeppelin and the movie Zoolander. Whenever he gives his abstinence state-of-the-union address, these references must really appeal to kids!) "What victories and struggles you face."
Watching this, I wonder what the fun people at Burning Man are up to at this very moment.
"When I was five years old, five, neighborhood children introduced me to Playboy," the cool pastor notes. "The way to prove my manhood was to pursue promiscuous behavior and pornography. The question can't be answered by porn and a promiscuous society."
For some reason, I'm reminded that there's pay-per-view porn in my hotel room.
"We are presenters of a message," the cool pastor intones, and soon other speakers take the mike and "present" away.
"Each of you are heroes to give lives to children that are here today," remarks a stern, gray-suited older man who's wearing glasses and a tie. ( If this convention is about teen abstinence, why would teens be getting pregnant and have un-aborted fetuses?) Representing a foundation that's thirty years in the cause, he adds, "I'm thrilled to be with you today and say, 'You are my heroes. You are my heroes!'"
He then harks back to the good old days of 1860, when US abortion rates dropped, explaining that more abstinence education could bring things to that hallowed state once again. (Was he around then?)
"Change occurs because of heroes! I'm bringing the message of history to you to say we can change it. If history repeats itself, and it does, we can create a culture where women are respected and babies are saved," the stern man says.
Then comes a series of TV commercials produced by his foundation, to be aired during Oregon State Beaver football games, showing the consequences of teens who don't practice abstinence. "This ad changes the English language by changing the view. We need to see the woman as a hero for bringing a baby to term."
The first commercial shows a hot-looking blond female firefighter (you see them all over the place) saving a tiny baby from a burning building. She mentions that her mother, who almost had an abortion, would be very proud today that her decision saved more than one life. "When you work with women coming to your clinic, they're heroes!" (Somehow they never show Jeffery Dahmer's or John Wayne Gacy's mother in these commercials.)
"The next commercial deals with selling abortion to blacks in inner cities," the gray-suit man dryly explains. "They [the blacks] usually have their first child, so we put the child in the ad." The ad has the feel of a Folgers coffee commercial. We see a smiling black woman in a middle-class house; she has a small child. With a huge, satisfied grin, she says she's decided to have her next baby as well!
There's more. A seventeen-year-old white girl clad in a nice running outfit is jogging. "You can't run away from your problems," she says. "I'm keeping it." She runs off. (I would guess back to her middle-class home, where she'll have the opportunity to jog off to college and have Mom and Dad share baby-sitting duties.)
But a question pops into my mind: Where's the TV commercial with the woman (or hero) who's been raped by her alcoholic stepfather and the words "Abortion—let's not have two victims!"
"Thank you again for being heroes!"
Though it is the week after Hurricane Katrina, there's no mention of praying for the people in New Orleans. I guess the focus should be more on saving children who, currently, might only be a drop of sperm.

Abstinence Fun Fact! Planned Parenthood promotes abortion but discourages abstinence. Wake up! If teens didn't have sex, there would be no unwanted pregnancies. And, as we know, sex is caused by Barry White albums; therefore, we must forbid our teens from listening to Barry White albums. WHAT PART OF "WAIT UNTIL MARRIAGE" DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?

Training Day , I decide to alter my look
for the second day of the teen abstinence educators' conference,. I'm now dressed real sleazy—tight shirt and jean shorts, cut really high. So high, in fact, that I run a risk of one of my nads popping out. Why? To take God's test on this whole born-again-virgin thing. I've also decided to talk in sexual double entendres to see where that leads, but, most important, I've brought my trusty hand puppets.
"There's just the three of us," says one of two overly nice ladies who's teaching the workshop. She looks a bit disappointed that I'm the only one who turned up for the hands-on training session that explains the abstinence curriculum taught in their public schools.
"A threesome," I mutter in a low, breathy voice, biting my lower lip. "That's more personal attention for me." I flash a mischievous smile.
"OK, here's something we teach," one of the overly nice ladies says, handing me a paper clip; this paper clip is supposed to give me something called a Life Lesson Analogy. "Make that paper clip as straight as possible."
I do just that, looking proudly at my handy work. Is that all there is to teen abstinence teaching? Will kids not want to have sex after doing that?
Oh. There's more. "OK. Now put it back," she insists.
Aaaah!
Using professional balloon twisting skills, I bend the paper clip into the shape of a poodle.
"What would you need to put it back, to make it look identical?" she asks.
"Technology. Maybe tools," I throw out, spreading my legs wide apart. "Perhaps even an assist—from someone with . . ." Pause. "Beautiful eyes."
The paper clip symbolizes life's journey, apparently. "Don't give up; you're going to make mistakes," she says, implying that in life, as in bent paper clips, time is needed to fix things, for example, sexual promiscuity. "Stop and think before we charge on through. It's not hopeless." Huh?
"Through experience, I found that hand puppets are also effective in explaining this," I add to nods of agreement.
An overhead projector flashes the words "CHOOSING NOT TO DO SOMETHING EVEN THOUGH YOU HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY." Then the other overly nice lady takes over. "You decide not to take drugs," she notes. "Sexual abstinence is choosing to reserve sexual expression for marriage."
Just a choice? That's all. Problem solved. You just have to choose. This whole time I thought it had something to do with biological urges. But choosing not to have sex, for teens, is like, say, choosing Coke over Royal Crown Cola.
"Why do some teens choose to participate in sexual relationships?" the other lady pipes in. Several reasons are listed: "Drinking, friends, media . . ."
"Bragging rights," I congenially add.
"Girls, it just offends them." She says that she explains when guys in her classroom mention the bragging. "Girls will say, 'Dude! Come on!'" She uses "today's" language.
"What if they want to be a gangsta rapper?" I inquire, running my hand down my thigh. "It seems to work for them."
"Is it a good enough reason to take this risk?" one of the women responds. "Is it worth the risk?"
"I dunno. It seems fun to be a gangsta rapper," I remark.
Besides, think about it—without sex before marriage, would we even have rock music or, for that matter, Italian cinema?
"What are the consequences of sex? Girls feeling really exploited," the woman says. "Petting? That's just bad behavior. That's how rumors start."
Let's see, no petting. So hand under the shirt, over the bra is obviously taboo. And masturbation is likely out of the question.
"Hold true to your own dream, or life will be disappointing," she says. "Whatever that dream might be. I don't know, president of a big company maybe. It can happen." (Sure, except like many company presidents who fuck their way to the top.)
"Look at your goals. Having an STD is going to impact your goals," nice lady no. 2 jumps in. "If they pursue relationship goals, each step that they take to get more and more sexual increases their chances of risk! Condoms will reduce risk of STDs, but not all STDs, but not eliminate it. There's still a 20 percent chance." (A twenty percent chance. Damn, she surely got her statistics from a different source other than the mainstream medical community—perhaps it's the same scientists who confirm the world is only a few thousand years old?)
"They have so much they can put focus on! School, sports, what's really important to them," lady no. 1 says, putting forward a theory that, if correct, would greatly expand teen softball leagues. "It's taking that energy and using it for something else."
"How about origami?" I throw out, then take a hard look at the boundary chart the ladies have passed me. "Avoid arousal" is one of the key boundaries.
"What if dancing makes you aroused?" I ask. "Should we, as instructors, tell kids not to dance?"
"If you found that as a weak spot, then avoid it," nice lady no. 1 states. (The premise of the movie Footloose suddenly makes sense.) "Maybe they can pick a different kind of dance? Instead of freaky dancing, maybe try, I don't know, square dancing."
"Square dancing, yes; freaky dancing, no," I repeat.
"Pick a boundary at maybe holding hands; move it back a notch," she suggests.
"How about direct eye contact? What if that makes you aroused?" I say, making direct eye contact.
"You've got to train, like an Olympic athlete," she answers. Yes, indeed, train like an Olympic athlete—an Olympic athlete with a big, insatiable boner!
It's an interesting theory. I've been a born-again virgin for two days now, and the crack of dawn is making me horny. (In fact, my hand puppet Mr. Wait Until Marriage is looking pretty darn good at this point.)
What other methods might curb the sexual libido?
"Use a keepsake as a daily reminder, such as a bracelet or ring."
"Like if you're trying to lose weight, put a picture of a tropical place you want to vacation at on your refrigerator as inspiration."
"Wouldn't people get married just to have sex?" I ask.
"People aren't going to get married just to get laid," she scoffs. Marriage, she explains, is about becoming a friend to your spouse.
"I have a younger son," lady No. 1 concludes. "He's made a pact not to date because he thinks dating is too much stress."
She explains he'd much rather focus on studying. "He keeps a honeymoon jar. He puts money into the honeymoon jar in order to keep focused on school." The money from the honeymoon jar will be spent on his future wife. Whom he hasn't met yet.
Pause.
I nod my head and repeat, "A honeymoon jar!"

The Case for Marriage
"What we think of marriage is not what the world around us thinks of marriage," the bubbly woman from earlier tells a room now 90 percent filled with gray-haired ladies attending the afternoon workshop—"The Case for Marriage." "This is the will of God that you should abstain from sexual immorality. We believe that human sexuality is a divine gift, a primal dimension of each person."
"No question about that. God is pretty clear where he stands on that!"
I realize now that abstinence education goes deeper than telling high school kids not to have sex. It's imposing a code of conduct into our public schools directly from the Bible.
"Let me tell you. MTV started out bad and is only getting worse."
Then the bubbly woman prescribes an easy solution: "Protect your eyes, protect the music you listen to!"
An effective method of eye protection, she notes, is a practice known as "look and drop." When a guy sees a woman and feels lust, he should train himself to immediately bounce his eyes away—look and drop!
"The mind works fast. This trains him to look away. He doesn't allow the visual image to take hold," she explains. "That's why pornography is so dangerous. Porn sets unrealistic expectations on women.
I do a quick look and drop around the room, but I wonder if she's including amateur porn in her analysis. After all, the amateurs set some very realistic expectations.
"Great [that] we're getting our message out there: co-habitation is not the goal. Awesome [that] we're getting our message out there," she says, noting that marriage causes less disease, alcoholism, and depression than "living in sin." "We have the studies. We have the documents. We have science backing us up. But the message that society gives off, that's our battle."
Finally comes the opportune moment to utter my catchphrase. I raise my hand. "Guns don't kill; having sex with unmarried people kills!" I declare, looking and dropping at all the women in the conference room.

Abstinence Fun Fact! If God says you should save yourself for that one special person in your life, the one you're going to marry, then all bets are off once you get divorced. (Because God lets you sometimes save yourself for a second special person in your life.) WHAT PART OF "WAIT UNTIL MARRIAGE" DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?

Bring on the SWAT Team!
"We're going to start out with a skit," announces a tall, lanky guy with glasses who helps coordinate the SWAT team. I don't think in this case that "SWAT" stands for "Special Weapons And Tactics," but something less exciting that involves not having sex. Instead, it's a group of perky kids (tall, lanky guy; chunky blond gal; and, correct me if I'm wrong, daddy's little girl, all adorned in matching SWAT team T-shirts) who go around to high schools and do skits about teen abstinence and get other kids to TAKE THE PLEDGE.
I'd have to say, my favorite forms of entertainment (in no discerning order) have to be:
Bare-knuckle boxing.
Hand-bone.
And, of course, teens doing skits about abstinence.
"This skit is called 'The Pieces of My Heart' skit," announces the lanky guy.
A female volunteer is brought up from the audience. Blond chunky gal narrates as tall, lanky guy holds a paper heart. She says that he and his girlfriend decide to have sex. (Damn, this is not shown.) "She breaks up with him and breaks a piece of his heart."
Tall, lanky guy subsequently symbolizes this by tearing off part of his heart and gives it to blond chunky gal. This same interaction occurs again. More sex. More paper-heart-tearing.
"Now he has a really dinky heart," explains the chubby gal. Tall, lanky guy presents the paper heart remnant to the audience volunteer, who portrays the future wife of the now small-hearted man.
"So how does that make her feel?" asks chunky gal.
"Not good," admits the audience volunteer.
She directs her attention to the lanky guy. "How does he feel?"
"Like poop!" he blurts.
Here comes another fun teen abstinence skit.
"Does anyone want this twenty-dollar bill?" asks daddy's little girl, pulling out some currency. Assuming this is not a trick question attached to a moral lesson on teen abstinence, I quickly raise my hand and shout, "I do!" Some old ladies also raise their hands. (This better not be a trick!)
"How about if I crumple it up and step on it?" She does just that to perfectly good American currency! "Would you still want it?"
"Yeah!" I scream, waving my hand. "I'll have it!"
Then comes the lesson: "This is how we deal with born-again virgins. You're still worth the same. You can always start over. You can always change."
Ohhhhh! I get it. This is not about free money. She's simply making "an analogy." This is great news, being that I'm a newly born-again virgin myself. (Though I'm not entirely sure how that works, anatomically speaking, for women; do born-again Christians in lab coats, for example, cultivate laboratory hymens in petri dishes for reinstatement?)
But there's a more important message here: Those who decide to have sex are nothing more than something crumpled up under one's shoe.
"Are you still giving away the money?" I ask.
No.
In steps the SWAT team's mom adviser. How does the adult adviser suggest that teens curb their libidos? "By setting boundaries!"
"As a couple, you should agree [that] at this point, we're going to go no further, and we're going to be safe," she explains. She looks at a handout titled "Progression of Sexual Activity" chart. It's divided into three sections: the Safe Intimate Zone (spending time together, holding hands), the Caution Zone (simple kiss, prolonged kiss), and, of course, the Danger Zone (not only sexual intercourse and petting, but also French kissing. Why? It explains: "He's aroused!").
"My boundary is tea-bagging," I solemnly state to the old woman next to me in a low, raspy voice.
"Convey to kids that they can start over, and they are very valuable, and they are important to society," the adviser explains. She looks at tall, lanky guy; chunky gal; and daddy's little girl. "I don't even want to know your boundaries. That's your choice."
According to the Journal of Adolescent Health, teens who take virginity pledges often remain technically virgins by engaging in oral and booty sex. It makes sense: If they're trying to preserve their virginity, oral and anal sex fit under the definition of not having sex.
Which is great because I like those two things way better anyway.
"Can I have the SWAT team take over again?" barks the mom adviser; the three perky teens jump into place.
"Why do we choose abstinence?" asks chunky blond gal. "Like the 'Pieces of My Heart' skit, I want to give myself to my husband. I don't want to think of another woman there."
(Ewww. That would be icky.)
Tall, lanky guy adopts a pirate voice and explains the 3 Rs—responsibility, religion, and respect.
Then comes daddy's little girl. "I got a lot going on in my life," she says, listing off a dozen activities she's involved with, concluding with the varsity golf team. "I feel I have so much going on right now that I don't want to risk getting pregnant or getting an STD. I want to go to college. I want to travel the world. I have trouble getting out of the house in the morning; I can't even imagine having to feed my kid."
She laughs, but there's more. "I have a boyfriend. He's pretty well known. He's a wrestler. He went to State." Woo! She tells everyone that she and her pretty-well-known-boyfriend (he went to State) choose abstinence. Hurrah for the annoying, overachieving popular girl who doesn't put out and rubs everyone's nose in the fact!
"That's our choice," she says. "We choose to be abstinent."
(Besides, sex is totally icky!)
"Paul is on the SWAT team as well," the mom adviser pipes in, identifying the popular girl's pretty-well-known-boyfriend. (Ah, so it's Paul!)
"People out there say that teens have raging hormones and can't control themselves. I can. I'm not running around trying to make out with everyone, " says the popular girl (who most likely got a new car for staying a virgin).
The tone dramatically shifts. "The other side of this is the broken honor code," states the mom adviser. She makes a sad face. The SWAT team looks at their shoes. The mom, looking at no one in particular, says, "This young gal broke the honor code. And I said, 'You got to talk to her.'"
So the SWAT team spoke to the fallen teen about her lapse in following the code ("To honor my future spouse, I choose to save sexual activity for marriage!") and then betrayed that by dancing the humpty-hump.
"You can tell she was very, very broken," the popular girl says. "He was pretty proud of breaking her code, so it was all over the school. And we have a big school."
So what happened? Was a scarlet "A" branded upon her chest? Did she receive a good pelting with rocks? Were condoms provided, in case it happened again?
"She wrote a letter to the entire SWAT team and told them she broke the code and asked for forgiveness. She told her parents," the popular girl explains. Pause. "You know what? She's back on the SWAT team!"
Holy fucking shit! I let out an audible cheer, pumping my fist in the air. (Still, I have to wonder: Is there a limit to the number of times you're allowed to become a born-again virgin?)
"The parents called up and said, 'Thank you very much.' She knows what she did, and she won't go down that road again until she's married,'" the mom says with a firm, certain smile.
"You guys are very brave," an adult from the audience shares. "You're earning my respect."
"After you graduate, hit the colleges!" one of the gray-haired ladies says to the three perky kids, who are all high school seniors.
Tall, lanky guy points to a button on his shirt that sports a picture of a dog and the slogan "Pet Your Dog, NOT Your Date."
Hey, isn't that bestiality?
"That's the hot item to have right now," injects the mom adviser.
"That's so funny!" someone blurts out.
"How about 'Pet Your Pussy, NOT Your Date'?" I ask.

Abstinence Fun Fact! I don't want kids thinking they'll be protected by condoms, because it won't protect the most important body part of all—the heart. And isn't that the area of the body most susceptible to raging gonorrhea?

Contraception
I'm one of two guys in yet another sterile conference room full mostly of old white ladies from small towns. To further test the sincerity of my born-again virgin pledge, I've decided to hit on some of the attendees at the abstinence conference.
I nudge my chair close to the seventy-year-old woman next to me; she has a button of George W. and Laura Bush on her purse. (There will be no worries about getting her pregnant.)
"Quentin, that's my cousin's name," she says after introductions, holding my handshake a little longer than usual. "What organization are you from?"
"Mimes for Abstinence," I reply, motioning as if I'm trapped in a box—of condoms that is, which I will be discouraged from using! I move in closer, licking my lips and making direct eye contact. "We try to slip in the message slowly, with hard facts, then pull out information, generating a gush of excitement."
Taking out my hand puppets, I explain why kids shouldn't have sex and graphically describe in detail the type of sex they shouldn't be having (tea-bagging, of course), which includes listing specific positions and a graphic, sexual hand-puppet demonstration, concluding with my theory that Popsicles promote oral sex. Before she can respond, I'm interrupted.
"We're trying not to make this a real controversial topic," explains the director, a soft-spoken woman in a cheery pink top. "What is our organization's policy on contraception? When I say this, I mean artificial contraception."
To help clarify, she asks people to raise their hands as she asks questions about who they think should use contraceptives.
"OK for singles, OK for married couples?"
No hands go up.
"OK for singles, not OK for married couples?"
Huge laugh. (Of course, no hands go up.)
With that, she launches into "A Modern-Day Fable about Holly and Steve." A slide shows Holly and Steve hugging and holding flowers, much as happy, married couples do. Trouble then enters paradise. "Holly began taking oral contraception—the pill. She gained ten pounds and felt tired and irritable. She couldn't maintain her full-time job. She soon felt resentful of Steve's sexual advances. No one in her circle of Christian friends had experienced this.
"Holly was being robbed of her happiness."
I look again at the slide of Holly and Steve hugging, holding flowers. What went wrong? They look so happy. To think it was all because of birth control.
We go next to the Bible, specifically Genesis 38:10, in which Onan spills his seed on the ground and is struck dead by God. The soft-spoken director questions the appropriateness of married couples using artificial contraceptives. "That's our objective: understand God's plan for marriage and families," she says. "The purpose of sex is procreation."
Apparently, once we separate sex from creating children, she explains, the door is open to a whole (pardon my French) hell of a lot of trouble: "Protestant church tolerance of birth control paved the way to the legalization of homosexuality, sodomy. And you know where we are today with gay marriage."
A murmur runs through the crowd. I wrinkle my forehead and frown. The old woman next to me wrinkles her forehead and frowns. Another old lady gets up and leaves, looking upset, moving her lips as they turn purple. Two court cases from the 1960s that found birth control to be in a zone of privacy protected by the Constitution are mentioned as precursors to Roe v. Wade.
"When we allow for contraception on demand," she says calmly, "we allow for abortion on demand."
The only acceptable solution is Natural Family Planning—NFP—or the so-called rhythm method, which, she explains, involves married couples not having sex during the time of the month when the woman is fertile. Yes, all that is required for God to smile upon married couples is sometimes abstaining from sex.
It's just that easy! It's just that fun! And, unlike condoms and birth control, it is approved from above. "The big difference," regarding other forms of contraception such as condoms, "is there's a violation of the natural law," she continues.
"It also cuts down on sensitivity," I say to the woman next to me with a wink.
Another big difference: "If a couple uses contraceptives, and it happens to fail, they are disappointed when the wife gets pregnant." In the case of NFP, however, God is part of the intimacy and decision making for the couple: "They know it could happen, and they totally surrender to it!"
To emphasize this, she calmly shares the story of a married couple's first time having sex. "When they were coming together, they could see the Lord," she explains. "They could see the Lord, they could see children. Do you not hunger for that kind of experience?"
Wow! I've heard of some freaky-ass shit, but a menage a trois with The Master? Oh, Jesus!
"There's a zero percent divorce rate for those who practice NFP," she says. (I didn't know birth control was one of the leading causes of divorce. But won't those who think birth control is a sin certainly think divorce is a sin?) "Birth control definitely affects relationships; I know that from experience!"
Now I fully understand why abstinence educators tell kids that condoms are ineffective. It's not a scientific or logistical issue; it's completely a moral issue for these folks. They think birth control correlates to something in the Bible (my favorite work of fiction next to Battlefield Earth). They're not thinking of kids' health; they have a moral agenda. It's like teaching creationism over evolution in the classrooms. It's religion over science, except here it's religion over facts and the health of kids.
"I want to ask her if it's OK to get a vasectomy," I later say to the woman with the George and Laura button on her purse afterward. "Or if that will break up my marriage, since it's birth control?"
"I'd like to find out about that, too," she replies, then tags along at my heels.
When I ask about vasectomies, the soft-spoken director gathers her notes. "There is a high risk of prostate cancer," she says.
"Oh, so it's more of a medical thing," I remark, shaking my head. Unlike the tragedy of Holly and Steve, this surgical form of birth control is fine, except . . . GOD WILL STRIKE YOU DOWN WITH A HORRIBLE CANCER!
"What if I'm teaching a teen abstinence class and someone says they're going to have sex?" I ask next. "Should I tell them it's OK to use a condom?"
"Condoms send a mixed message," she says, straightening her notes.
"Yeah," I add. "It's almost like we're saying it's OK to have sex."
"Exactly."
"I could go on for hours about that," interjects the woman with the George and Laura button.
I throw out a solution that could possibly win me one of those Nobel Prizes.
"Know what they should do? Teach abstinence in Africa. That way it would completely wipe out the entire AIDS problem over there, because there would be no way to spread it!"
"Yes! That's right," says the soft-spoken director.
Pfffew! World crisis solved!
"And the best way to teach it is through hand puppets," I add.
"Quentin! Quentin! Quentin!" one of the organizers screams, as I walk by in a haze of misinformation, momentarily forgetting that's the name I'm going by.

Saturday Night at the Teen Abstinence Educators Conference—Woo-Hoo, It's Party Time!
After my loooong day of workshopping, I begin to doubt my decision to remain a born-again virgin. It seems that this group is using abstinence as a vehicle, pretending to be concerned about public health when the larger picture is to advance a religious program and its agenda. It's a bit "One Nation Under God"-ish—a back door for Christian America to get into public schools and teach moral values quicker than you can say, "Scopes monkey trial."
That's why I've taken to putting large amounts of whiskey into my complimentary Starbucks paper coffee cup. Is there a term for having a hangover from an overdose of too much Jesus talk?
Grabbing my Starbucks whiskey coffee, I check out the Saturday night events, where I find more tables with more old ladies in more floral shirts. Strangely, no one sits at my table. (Could it be my teaching-aid puppets?) The overly friendly ladies aren't as friendly as before, the bubbly woman is less so, as I make it just in time for the SWAT team to do its "Pieces of my Heart" sketch once again. (I could never get tired of that.)
"We're not serving alcohol in here tonight," the waitress says when I order a double bourbon.
"There's the sound of the distant thunder, walking together, moving together," remarks the head of the conference, clad in an orange shirt and khaki pants. "The battle is getting greater!"
He goes on to speak of the beacon for the immoral agenda. "The gay newspaper protested our abstinence office." He's actually referring to Seattle's regular weekly alternative paper (I guess he's using gay as an adjective and not a noun), which did a story on the local pro-choice group who threw a Screw Abstinence party—to promote birth control. "The opposition has sent a plant," he remarks, saying he wants the plant to go back and tell them how it really is.
I give a quick look around the room to see who the hell the mole might be. Where is that sly, crafty bastard? I thought I was the only one infiltrating this conference. I'd like to meet this guy.
"To be strong, we must have God's grace, with this new wave of God's spirit," the conference head continues. "As God's spirit is sweeping America. Keep your eyes set on God, as we advance, 'cuz it's going to be a bumpy ride!"
Since the ride is going to be bumpy, I decide to get the hell out of there, sharply making my way toward the exit as eyes follow me.
While driving into Portland, my born-again virgin status is tested. The devil whispers in my ear, and I end up at a bar called Shanghai and notice a cute blond girl. I try to Look and Drop, Look and Drop, but it just doesn't work. All this talk of the evils of sex and abstinence has just made me horny. As an ironic twist, the cute blond works for a public access TV station and, for a freelance gig, once directed teen abstinence videos.
Our shared abstinence background breaks the ice.
Going back to her place, I end up severely crossing my boundaries (except for the tea-bagging part). I'm caught up in the moment. I'm about to break my born-again virgin pledge and fornicate (without a condom, of course, since I've been taught how ineffective they are and don't have any). Fortunately, the blond's prepared. (By no means would she have sex otherwise.) Thus, Quentin Smalls once again becomes a man!
Though I wasn't planning to have sex, and I made a pledge not to, the cute blond made me realize, whether teen or adult, you always have to be ready to protect the Johnson!

Epilogue
The days pass slowly now, as I dwell in permanent sin with a broken born-again virgin pledge, living in complete fear of ineffective condoms. Missing the old gang, a few days after I get back to San Francisco, I mysteriously get an e-mail from the head of the conference, the guy who eyed me with suspicion on the first day:

Hey Harmon,

I just wanted to see if you enjoyed the conference last weekend.

When you are done writing your piece on the conference would you mind forwarding it to me? I would love to read it!

Huh? What the?! Was it my puppets that gave me away? That's not just creepy, that's creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepy!

Hey Friends-

Check out our appearance on Fresh Air, the Edinburgh student radio station:

http://www.freshair.org.uk/_up/festival/interviews/interview_jokeoky.mp3

Running through the Mexican wilderness, I hear the sound of gunshots. The guy behind me slips on a rock and falls. Holding out my hand, I help him up. More gunshots. The sound of border patrol siren's permeate the air. We keep running as we're told to stick close to the group, and most importantly, to keep quiet, there's still a long, long way to go before we reach the border.

Throughout our nation's history immigrants have come to America to make a better life for themselves. Yes, their American Dream simply involves being able to work in America. Yet being illegal in this country is one of the hardest things a human being can possibly do, involving living in fear, always hiding, and not being able to go back to your home country to visit your family. In order to get a taste of what this would be like, I shall become an illegal alien.

First, I need to sneak over the U.S. border. Thousands risk death, journeying across the desert in order to enter the United States and provide for their family. Death-risking seems a little too dangerous for a humor writer.

Fortunately, there's a tourist attraction deep in the heart of Mexico where every Saturday night people can pay roughly $20 to simulate what it would be like to be an illegal immigrant sneaking over the U.S. border while being chased by fake border guards. I shit you not! Sign me up. Yes, I shall sneak across the fake U.S. border in order to live the true American Dream.



THE JOURNEY BEGINS

Parque Eco Alberto is a nature reserve near the town of Ixmquilpani in Hildago, roughly 700 miles from the U.S. border—the site of my make-believe, nighttime illegal alien border crossing experience. I need to drive about 3 hours from Mexico City (add a few more hours when unable to read road signs) to the 3,000 acre eco-park communally owned by the Hnahnu Indians. (Of the 2,200 locals only 700 reside in Mexico while 1,500 live in Nevada, mostly working as labors.)

Driving out of Mexico City is one of the scariest experiences I've ever had—ever! (I hope my border crossing experience isn't this scary!) Given the choice, I'd rather be a non-trained lion tamer then drive completely lost in a severely dented $8 a day rental car with no air-conditioning in the middle of thick Mexico City traffic.

Not knowing how, but very thankful, I finally make it to Hildago. The clock still ticks away. The sun goes down and the rural landscape turns to darkness. I drive frantically through the Mexican countryside on twisty one-lane roads. "No Inglias! No Inglais!" people exclaim when asked directions, pointing vaguely towards the mountainside for the benefit of the manic, fast-talking foreign man sweating profusely. Will I have to return to the United States without getting a chance to cross the fake United States border? Directed via a road sign that says Alberto, emblazoned with the international symbol for swimming, I take my chances and veer down an isolated road into pitch black.


PARQUE ECO ALBERTO

"I'm here! I'm here!' I scream sprinting in the gravel parking lot from my dented rental car, with arms flaying, running towards a gathering of people speaking loudly in Spanish, illuminated by a small, lit cabana. I once again cry, "Don't cross that border without me! I'm here!"

A Poster reading Caminata Nocturna (nighttime hike), showing the silhouette of several people under a moonlit sky standing by a cactus and a waiting pickup truck, confirms I'm at the right locale. It's not exactly an illegal alien theme park. By day, families come here for the waterslides and swimming.

Funded by the Mexican government, the fake border crossing experience has been Parque Eco Alberto's main moneymaking attraction since 2004. (Will the waterslides be a part of it?)
"I'm so happy to be here!" I exclaim to Yuri, attractive and clad in khakis— one of the three coyotes on our evening's journey. She's also the first person I met today who is fluid in English (she worked as a nanny for a year in Connecticut).
"We were expecting you earlier," Yuri responses, (How? Why? ).
"Do I need to fill out any forms?" I question, wondering if being chased in the dark in the Mexican wilderness by fake border guards requires a heavy insurance waiver.

The answer: No insurance waiver needed, just 200 pesos payable in cash!

Noting the forty jubilant people gathered for tonight's border crossing; a good mix of young and old people, some little kids, and one a pregnant woman (is she planning to have her baby across the fake US border to mooch off our fake social security system?), I ask,
"Is this a fun Saturday night out for people?"
"Most come from Mexico City," Yuri explains about the middle-class tourists in attendance. "But a good amount are locals."

The border crossing experience has even attracted those as far reaching as Russia and the Netherlands, who come to Mexico to get a US border crossing experience—700 miles from the real, actual border.

"How close is this to the real thing?" I ask handing Yuri my 200 pesos (a bargain compared to the thousands people pay coyotes to sneak over the actual border).
"This IS the real thing!" she exclaims.
"Will we get chased?" I gleam with enthusiasm.
"Yes!"
"What if they catch us? Do we get deported from the park?"
"We wont get caught because we're smart. If we do, we'll walk away," she assures, once again restating, "Cuz we're smart."

"Maybe I should change my clothes," I say, gesturing towards my shorts (I too am smart).

"That would be a good idea," she replies, knowing we'll soon be traversing desert, hills, brambles, and riverbeds in our faux crossing of the Rio Grande from Mexico into the US.

CHECKLIST FOR CROSSING SIMULATED BORDER IN SIMULATED MANNER:

1) Don't wear shorts.
2) Bring a jacket.
3) In regard to shoes, make sure they're tied!

After changing into proper attire, I make it back for border-crossing roll call. Big smiles, filled with anticipation, are plastered on everyone's faces. Though everyone is speaking Spanish, a distinct female voice with a LA twang, proclaims, "This is going to be weird!"

Suddenly, a video camera is shoved in my face. Putting up my hand like a border crossing Paris Hilton, I blurt to the woman, "No pictures!"

"But you are in a public space," she protests like we were in America,
"Yeah, but this is a different country," I respond, acknowledging a large, girthy man with military buzz cut standing next to her.
"I have a show on Fox News radio in LA," the girthy man interjects, gesturing to his young, hot assistant. Well fuck me sideways! Who would have thought, here, deep in the heart of Mexico the only other Americans for a simulated U.S. border crossing would be from Fox News! Could I ask for a more perfect comedy foil for my night border crossing adventure?

"So what do you think is going to go on?" I ask.
"I'm just going to tell about my experience," he explains with a gleam in his eye for what is to follow.

This isn't the first time the Fox News man has done a story involving border issues. He's also covered the Minutemen Project; the elderly vigilantes who took to patrolling the US/Mexico border while sitting in lawn chairs, in order to prevent the feared onslaught of illegal aliens entering our country.

"I was impressed how they really had their stuff together," he says with admiration. Now the Fox News guy is here in Mexico to make sure the rumors aren't true that this is an illegal alien training ground for those gearing up for the real thing.



LET THE GAMES BEGIN


On instruction, my border-crossing-compadres and I pile into four pickup trucks. We're driven down a darkened road into the unknown.

"If it's about anything its about our culture." Yuri explains as we squat in the back of the moving vehicle under the clear star-filled night.
"What do people think of the experience?" I ask, adjusting my cramped, crouched position.

"We don't tell them anything," Yuri says staring in my eyes. "We want them to figure it out for themselves. They should discover it for themselves!"

The pickup trucks park in front of a small isolated church. Upon arrival everyone mill about in the dark not knowing what to expect. Will this be like an illegal alien Renaissance Fair where instead of a children theater groups adopting bad English accents, there are coyotes and fake border guards? Already, the paunchy Fox News guy is in front of the church filming his hot, assistant, who provides on-camera commentary to fill us in on the action.

"What everyone is doing, waiting for the church service to begin, preparing for what is to come," she recites, then flubs the line. "People are gathered in front of this church to pray for safe passage…" She flubs the line again. "What are they praying for? Safe passage."

"We can't do that many takes," the Fox News guy snaps and gets irked. (How will we ever make it across the fake border, if members of our group keep up this Lord of the Flies animosity?) Looking at the collective participants, the Fox News guy adds with snide smirk. "It's probably easier to sneak into the US border."

"I came across the US border," interjects a man who manages a motel in town, now acting as the Fox News' hired guide, holding their camera equipment. (Probably being paid much less than a US camera assistant while doing twice the work.)
"Why didn't you tell us that?" Fox News radio replies
"I came across in 1995," he confirms in broken English, as brownish moths dart about in the air. "We were 15 guys. For 2-3 hours we run. 2 trucks were waiting for us. Then we waited for 12 hours in a house. Finally we said, Let's go!"
"Why did you do it?" Fox News questions.
"Work!" he replies with the obvious answer. "I find work in Dallas Texas painting houses." The local motel manager only returned to Mexico when his mother passed away. "It's harder to work in the US than now," he confesses. "It's the same thing everyday. You have to wait for work all day." (Pause.) "I don't want to cross again. It's too dangerous. I have friends who've died there!"

Suddenly all the lights go off. Silhouetted by the moonlight, the church steeple now resembles an ominous giant at the gateway to the new land. When the lights come back on, three men in black ski masks appear. (I hope they are part of this.) The leader, wearing a straw hat on top of his black ski mask, commands the group in Spanish.

"What's he saying?" I ask Yuri, as we gather in a circle under a tree dripping moss. She leans in close and puts her hand on my shoulder.

"He crossed the border 25 years ago, cuz he had no home, no family, no food. There was no cars, no roads, no schools. But now things are better! You can work here there's a lot of things you can do here." Unlike those who think this is a training camp for illegal aliens, the main purpose is to pay homage to the path immigrants have beaten across the desert. Yuri continues to translate, "The desert has claimed many lives but tonight we will make it across the border!"

Under the star filled night, she rubs my shoulder and asks, "Are you scared?"
"I'm not sure."
"He could lead you but he could fall down too." My coyote touches my shoulder at ever translating opportunity, (does my coyote have a mild border-crossing-crush on me?), whispering in my ear while grabbing my arm. The sound of a dog barking grows in the distance.

"When they think of us they think of Speedy Gonzalez," I see the ski masked man act out the character (I can see why they cast him in his role). "This is how they know us! We are no alien, we are humans too. We are good workers!"

Call and response shouts of "Si" break out. People look ready to go. A little kid starts crying. Let's get on with the action. Damn it, I have a fake US border to cross to begin my life in the American Dream!

"Where are the Mexicans?"
97% of the group raises their hands.
The ski-masked man questions the Fox News posse, "Where do you come from?"
"We're from LA!"
"Heaven," the ski masked man responses. (Has he been to LA lately?)

We're then given 20 seconds to think about why we want to cross the fake American border. Closing our eyes and holding hands, I imagine living in the land of Tom Cruise, coked-up Lindsey Lohan, and Coca Cola—my American Dream.

A flag is unfolded and the Mexican National Anthem is sung. Then, "Stylistos Ready?"
"Si!"
My coyote squeezes my hand real tight. "Remember, run!" (Am I getting signals from my coyote?) "Are your shoes tied?" (See, shoe tying is essential to border crossing protocol.)
"Yes!" I say with confidence. "My shoes are tied!" Then noting my jacket, I confess, "Perhaps wearing a bright yellow soccer top isn't the best idea for sneaking across the border!"



ONWARD TO THE BORDER!

There're shouts of "Rapido!" There're shouts of "vamos!" We take off running, directed to first circle the church. "Be real quiet and stay close." Within five minutes the sirens start. They are on to us! More shouts of vamos and rapido. A speeding vehicle with police lights careens in our direction. All forty of us are running. I'm running while laughing. (Who doesn't enjoy being chased in the dark!)

"Shut off the light they're coming. Fast! Fast!"

The headlights draw near. "Rapido! Rapido!" We're directed to duck into a building site. Red police lights dot the dark barren landscape. This is purely mental. I'm now crouched behind a building wall with forty others, giggling like a schoolgirl. The simulated border patrol truck stops in front of the building site with its searchlight traversing the landscape in our direction. Simulated tension is in the air.

"Get down. Get down." Someone warns me in broken English.

We huddle in a corner. "Turn it off! Turn it off!" someone sternly says to the Fox News assistant, who annoyingly has her camera light on. Can the simulated border patrol officer hear my schoolgirl giggling? One question though, if we're still in simulated Mexico (real Mexico actually) than why are we running? Technically on simulated legal paper, we really haven't done anything wrong other than a public display of nighttime running.

For some reason the fake border patrol didn't detect us (or hear my schoolgirl giggling). They drive off. There's a collective sigh of relief. If that's all it takes to ward off the border patrol, then so far sneaking into the U.S. is pretty easy. In fact it's kind of fun. It's like capture the flag. Is it wrong that its fun?

Like an irate high school gym teacher, as soon as the fake border patrol departs the ski-masked leader instructs us to run, and run fast (no slackers in border crossing).

"Rapido! Rapido!

In groups of four we're again made to run down the darkened, deserted road. Women and children go first. Yes, forty people running like it were a nocturnal Running of the Bulls. I soon find myself, fully sprinting; still laughing my head off. Is the girthy Fox News guy able to keep this pace? He's nowhere to be seen, though his assistant runs alongside the man who manages the local motel, now holding her camera. Is it going to be all sprinting from here on out?! My lungs puff like a six-pack a day smoker. My sides ache. My muscles are stiff from driving all day in a dented rental car. Fortunately, we slow to a trot down a muddy path near a beautiful rushing river gorge lit by the moon and stars, surrounded by mountains dotted with cactus and sharp, rocky bluffs.

"Rapido! Rapido!"

Apparently we didn't give the actors portraying fake border guards the slip. Just as we catch our breath, they're back with sirens blasting, parked on the roadway right above the canyon. Made to huddle bunched together in the thick, thorny bushes, the flashing red lights illuminate the mountains. Searchlights traverse across the foliage, hitting all areas but ours.

This time the uniformed fake border patrol actors stretch their thespian prowess. They send a message via bullhorn, taunting us in both English and Spanish, echoing throughout the wilderness, "Don't try and cross the border you have family here. You have a life here. Don't trust the coyote he will take your money and desert you!"

The searchlight steers towards our general, thicket hiding direction. We're signaled to crouch lower. A thorny bush goes up my ass. A little kid starts crying, "Will you shut that damn child up!" I feel like screaming. "Do you want to ruin this for us!"

Again, I'm really not sure what fake laws we are violating. We're not even close to being in fake United States yet. Maybe when crossing a fake border there's different legal jurisdiction? Is it illegal to huddle in bushes as a large collective group?

Then gunshots. Blam! Blam! Shots are fired out. I'm pretty sure the fake border guards are only firing fake bullets (then again we didn't sign an insurance waiver). Regardless, I'm being shot at in my quest for the American Dream!

"We know where you're going. Give up now!"

Question: Where the hell is the Fox News guy? He's nowhere to be found. Did they shoot the girthy right-wing radio presenter or is he leading the charge? (Trying to prevent fake jobs being taken once we cross the fake US border!) Unlike last time, the fake border guards exit their white pickup trucks and set out on foot with flashlights in hand, roaming the bushes, still taunting us in both Spanish and English.

"Don't trust the coyote he will take your money and desert you!"

There're only three of them and there're 40 of us. You know, I think we can take them. I'm pretty damn sure they're only firing blanks as well.

Once more we've given them the slip. They get back in their trucks and drive off. These must be the dumbest fake border guards ever. Surely they could have heard my giggling (though not as loud as it was before).


THE JOURNEY CONTINUES

A bonding camaraderie develops amongst the border-crossing participants. Someone lifts a fence for me to duck under. Another holds a branch out of my way. We form a line and traverse a narrow rock ledge, where improper footing would land one from the elevated bluff into the rushing river. (Good thing we didn't sign an insurance waiver). I hold onto the shoulder of the person in front of me. The person behind me does the same.

Like it was a wilderness haunted house, one of the ski-masked assistants hide in a bush, grabbing people's feet as they pass while making monster noises. Someone loses a shoe in the mud. Another child starts crying. Then, there's a body. Lying in the path, one of the guides is face down on the ground, unmoved.

"Man down! Man down!" I cry, stepping around him as the group keeps moving.
Is he really hurt or, through the art of acting, simulating being a dead person?
"He got drunk," someone shares with a laugh.
Regardless we walk by, assuming the latter. There's nothing we can do anyway. The border patrol is hot on our ass—he'll have to be left behind! A tree branch hits me in the face.


DOWN BY THE RIVER

By the river, at a picturesque clearing, rumors fly that we have crossed the border. Have we crossed the border? Is that it? Are we now in the fake US? That wasn't hard.

"The stars really bright tonight?" says Yuri as the rush of the water reverberates in the air.

We're told to hold hands, as the leader gives, what I assume, is a congratulation speech. (If there's handholding, surely we must be in the fake U.S.A.?) Our ski-masked leader instructs everyone to throw a rock into the rushing river. We pick up stones and toss them with a series of splashes. We're throwing rocks in celebration, right, cuz that's what one does when they cross a fake border?

"Now we climb," whispers Yuri.
"Climb? What? Didn't we just cross the border?"
"No!"
"Then why the rock throwing?"

Before she can explain, the Fox News assistant completely ruins the mood and loudly explains to her camera. "We throw river to symbolically expel evil spirits, so we can continue our journey." (Continue?!) She demonstrates by tossing a rock (which involves three takes). Emerging from behind a tree, the Fox News guy makes a return appearance. (Strange, you never see him and the fake border patrol at the same time—coincidence or something more?)

"Now we climb," Yuri says again with a smile. No longer do I have time for our budding, border-crossing romance; I must now climb!


THERE'S A TUNNEL AHEAD


And climb we do. We scale up the mountain bluff. Loose rocks slip from under my tired feet. More effort is needed not to fall down. I grab a tree branch for support. "Aaaaah!" It turns out to be a prickly cactus. I'm starving from not eating dinner. We've been hiking for three hours and I've already had enough. One can only imagine doing this for days on end, across a desert without water.

"We need to go into the tunnel," Yuri says gesturing to a tiny entrance underneath a roadway.
"Really?!"
"You have to trust the leader. Otherwise, what do you do if you're left on your own?"

The group walks tightly together through a small, echoing, dark tunnel. Suddenly, the border patrol resurfaces on the road directly above us. (They're really starting to get on my tits!) Swirling red lights greatly contrast the still darkness, from our cavernous tunnel vantage point.

"Mas pequito! Mas pequito!" quietly, but firmly stresses the leader (I know from 7 CD Spanish lessons it translates to more smaller). Hellishly claustrophobic, I'm stuck directly in the middle, as we're made to move tightly packed together inside the tunnel.
"Are you ok?" asks Yuri, noting momentary panic stricken across my face.
"Sure," I say, contemplating turning myself in and surrendering to the fake border patrol, except I'm unable to move.

"We know where you're going. You have a life here," once again taunts the border patrol actors with their bullhorn. And then, "Forget about the American Dream!"

Shit, I've come this far, there's no way I'm going to forget about my American Dream.
As claustrophobia increases, the border patrol sticks around much longer than the previous time. My schoolgirl giggling has permanently ceased. This isn't as funny as before, in fact my mind now thinks about all those immigrants who pack themselves in the back of trailer trucks, in brutal, desperate inhumane conditions. For those who think this is an illegal alien training course, it's become more like scared straight.

After they depart, more running, more loose rocks, more tripping, more branches in the face.



THE PROMISED LAND

It's well past midnight. Arrests have been made. For some reason, four teenaged boys jump out from the bushes when they hear the patrol sirens and try to make a run for it down the middle of the road. They don't make it very far. Futilely caught directly in the vehicle searchlights, the culprits are frisked by the fake border guards, slightly manhandled, handcuffed, and then thrown in the back of their pickup trucks. They then speed off, satisfied with their catch. The rest of the group watches from the safe distance from a nearby bluff (at least I'm given me a chance to momentarily sit down).

Something is slightly fishy though. Those who are arrested weren't with the rest of the group prior to the point of being arrested. I think they are also merely actors. If so, this demonstration has somehow become like the Illegal Alien Batman Forever Stunt Show at 6 Flags Magic Mountain. The Fox News crew stands directly on the side of the road filming the apprehension without any interruption or questioning—I knew they were in cahoots with the fake border patrol!

Once again, the group is instructed to get in the back of 4 waiting pickup trucks.

"Put this on!"

Blindfolds are handed out. Instructions are made not to peak. Too tired to disagree, I wrap the piece of cloth around my eyes. The pickup trucks take off. Around hilly terrain and windy roads we drive in complete utter silence and darkness. Is this a trap? Will our fake border-crossing end with us getting faux executed by drug lord impersonators? I should have listened to the fake border patrol's stern warning and not trusted the coyotes.

Coming to a stop, we're guided from the vehicles to a grassy area, once again made to hold hands. Surely we must be across the fake U.S. Border. As the ski-masked leader lectures the group in Spanish, I'm left imagining what the fake U.S.A looks like. Will we take off our blindfolds to find our leader now drinking a Coca Cola while wearing an Uncle Sam outfit as firecrackers shoot at his ass to the tune of God Bless America?

A countdown begins.

"4-3-2-1!"

Slowly the cloth is removed from my eyes. I can see. We're welcomed to the Promised Land. The entire mountainside is lit up. Thousands and thousands of candles scale the large bluff, logistically situated to form the outline of the country of Mexico. Faces glow from the light. It's an amazing site, though I feel slightly lonely, unable to verbally communicate this to anyone here. A random guy hugs me. I hug him back. Yes, we made it. We truly are here.

Here's the latest hate mail I got regarding my latest National Lampoon
video about infiltrating the world of guns:

"This queer, Pauly Shore reject is clearly Canadian.."