Popcorn

Most snacks you can keep secret. Stash a few Oreos away deep in the food pantry, behind the oatmeal packets and sugar-free cereals, and unleash 'em every now and then -- who'll know? Keep some Little Debbie cakes in your desk drawer at work and munch 'em down when no one's near your cubicle -- you're in the clear. But with popcorn... the secret is out, man. With each kernel's pop and the scented trail of chemical buttery goodness, you're officially stepping out of your snacking closet. Popcorn is a public declaration that, yes, I'm snacking, and, yes, you know exactly what it is.

As long as you're okay with the outright attention, you get the green light on popcorn.

Now, to eat popcorn you must know that you face two problems right off the bat. The first problem is your teeth. No matter how delicately or strategically you attempt to chew popcorn, its pieces -- the popcorn shrapnel, as I like to call them -- will inevitably, indubitably find their way between your teeth. And they will not seek a gaping crevice or a moderate-size space between teeth; rather, they will unapologetically push and squeeze their thin, little way through the smallest of spaces, ensuring dental discomfort. If not painful enough, they will happily penetrate that ultra tiny crevice that separates your gums and enamel -- perhaps even pierce some surrounding flesh along the way -- really just to piss you off. Dental floss by your side is recommended.

The second problem is the odor. This is a big one. If you don't mind upsetting your own nervous system with the occasional accompanied bouts of pain from the shrapnel, then you must weigh the likelihood of upsetting the olfactory system of everyone around you with the lingering, overwhelming stench of popcorn, especially if this is in an office or otherwise public setting. It might smell good at first, but when the odor's intensity hasn't waned in a half-day, tempers tend to flare.

And if you burn the popcorn, whoa buddy, it's a whole new ballgame. Find a trashcan and sacrifice that bag of popcorn quickly -- and then just get the heck out of there. If you're spotted as the culprit, repercussions range anywhere from being the recipient of office contempt and cold shoulders to possibly being dragged beyond the city limits and stoned.

Enjoy with caution.

Children's Books

Much to my surprise, and truthfully personal satisfaction, I've recently rediscovered the joys of reading. I say "rediscovered" because, as an English major, I read an extraordinary amount of forced literature -- forced meaning I had no say about it. Basically, read it or fail. And I think I speak for most when I say it's immensely difficult to pleasurably benefit from reading when a metaphorical gun by way of a letter grade is held to your head.

I say "rediscovered" also because there was a period when reading was synonymous with enthusiasm, imagination, suspense, comfort, actual participation, and thus fun. I'm talking about the era of children's books, a time defined by sitting Indian-style (or whatever the politically correct euphemism in today's world) before a book with knees supporting elbows, elbows supporting open hands, and open hands supporting chin, signifying unmitigated awe and wonderment at the words and vibrant colors before me.

These weren't simply tales of a cat in a hat or a big red dog. I'm talking pop-up books, books with puzzles and sounds, and books where you got to determine the fate of the main character -- you literally got to play God -- by simply choosing to continue on page 14 or 39. It kind of makes me wish that all books followed suit.

Think about how much better every piece of publication would be if it was solely comprised of pop-up pages. Open that math textbook up and, POW!, the quadratic formula in your face! Unfurl the Wall Street Journal and, look out!, here come the stock indices! Unfold the church bulletin and, sweet Moses!, the dedication of today's flowers all up in your business! It would just never get old.

If you can walk by a pop-up book today without feeling the slightest temptation to open it up, lock yourself up in a morgue because you have officially taken life way too seriously.

Movie Trailers

I recently had a back-and-forth with a friend about movie trailers and how simply preposterously they've evolved. I'm not referring to the 30-second commercial spots that just show spliced segments of emotions and explosions; I'm talking about the full-blown mini-movies shown prior to your cinematic feature presentation on the silver screen.

I realize I may be coming across as if I don't enjoy movie trailers. False. I actually thoroughly enjoy them. Even more, I look forward to them and am immensely disappointed if I miss any. But I think I enjoy them for the same, ironic reason that they're problematic: Most of them are essentially a condensed version of the movie.

Let's see, they introduce the characters, reveal the plot, explain the ups and downs, unveil the special effects, and unload all the best scenes and quotes; and from there I can pretty much surmise the obligatory plot twist and conclusion in my head. All in two and a half minutes, or roughly 2% of the two-hour flick. Perfect! I mean, what's left to see in the movie? The unnecessary characters, the plot filler, the expanded edition of the ups and downs, the much less interesting special effects, and all the other scene moments and chiefly forgettable quotes that reinforce the good scene moments and funny/dynamic quotes divulged in the trailer.

You can view this through two different lenses: (1) Well, that movie is spoiled -- thanks. Or, my personal recommendation, (2) I more or less just watched six other movies at no additional cost -- I'm really efficient and shrewd!

And while some movie trailers are blatantly forthcoming about the content and script details, they seem to omit one important, specific item: the friggin' release date.

"In theaters this fall." "Coming Summer 2011."

What am I supposed to do with this info? Am I supposed to run home and start circling entire months on the calendar as a reminder and round up friends a year in advance? Should I set up a notification on my Outlook application to start looking for this movie beginning that season's solstice?

If I could crush grapes and let the juices age into wine in the span of time between the release of a movie trailer and the release of the actual movie, perhaps that's too much of a notice. Decide on a date and give me a two- or three-week heads-up. The least of my concerns right now is if that comic book movie's sequel is due in June or July of 2012.

Shop Class

I often look back at high school and just laugh. The laundry list of reasons why could fill your grade school Trapper Keeper. Scholastically, one class stands out: shop class.

What is the good expected from shop class? What is a student supposed to walk away with at the end of the semester? That wood can be cut and carved and filed and stained and -- yes, the rumors are true -- burned? That a hammer will drive a nail into wood, that a saw will cut a board in two, and that disciplining a student with detention in the same room as a hammer and a saw is pretty much a bad idea?

I don't want to say that the public school system failed me with shop class, but... the public school system failed me with shop class. I literally learned nothing. It's not that I was unwilling to learn and showed up to class daily with a bad attitude; it's that nothing was taught. It always made me laugh when my shop class teacher tried to give a written test, as if that was supposed to imply that there was actual teaching going on. C'mon, a test? You mean, with paper and a pencil? Who are you kidding, man -- shop class is recess with tools.

P.E. teachers are often classified as the easiest occupations and the laughingstock of education, but shop class teachers can’t be too far behind. Really, how strenuous is setting out some boards and a box of screws and ensuring that the power tools are returned at the end of the period? Is there a lot of lesson plan preparation to such a curriculum?

The only recollections I can recall with precision from shop class are throwing chunks of wood as hard as possible at a wall, skipping class at least once a week to play pick-up ball in the gym, classmates dipping and smoking outside the classroom's back doors, lots of Carhartt jackets, and actually making a heart-shaped coin bank with a scroll saw.

Unfortunately, I've not technically needed to recall any of this information in any life situations. Yet. I'm still awaiting the moment where my experience with launching wood blocks at painted brickwork at overhand high speeds falls to my advantage.

Drive-Thru Windows

Convenience can sometimes be really inconvenient.

Having a dry cleaners right by your house that starches everything regardless of your vocalized preference: conveniently located, inconveniently inattentive. Having a tee time that meets the schedule of everyone in your foursome but is directly behind a group of very amateur old women: conveniently available, inconveniently slow. Having a drive-thru window at your eatery of choice, but hating yourself for a plethora of reasons once in it: conveniently accessible, inconveniently... well, inconvenient.

And, boy, can that plethora of reasons run far and deep.

Yes, the drive-thru window: America's fat, lazy answer to fat, lazy people who want fat, lazy food without having to stop being fat and lazy. I include myself in that less-than-elite source of demand. And why not? The drive-thru window is actually a really good idea. Sometimes the weather isn't cooperative, making the dash inside overwhelmingly undesirable. Or you have kids in the car, and getting them out of the car and into the store and back into the car is hair-pullingly frustrating. Or, again, you're just fat and/or lazy. I have no problem with any of those.

What I do have a problem with are people who act like complete, selfish d-bags in the drive-thru. It takes one drive-thru order to see how people really are -- when friends, coworkers, and fellow church members aren't around -- when it's just them and Ralph with the drive-thru headset and crooked nametag.

What several drive-thru customers fail to realize is that not knowing Ralph or the other folks in line behind you by no means permits you to act like a turd. Whether it's placing four separate orders, or ordering the entire left side of the menu, or rifling off your barely discernible order in a fashion that's somewhere between a militaristic command and an auctioneer's blabbering, consider the employees and the other customers who are trying to use the drive-thru service for what it was intended: a service by which you drive "thru" -- not park and place a complicated order and park again and inch up and park some more and get your food and go and park to check the bag and... Just go inside and let me get my Value Menu sandwich already.