Everyone has their comfort zone, a location where his/her mind sifts through the daily garbage and life's weighty decisions. It is in this comfort zone where the brain is in its wheelhouse and fires the most level-headed cerebral neurons. For some, this zone is a serene, ambient coffee shop; for others, it's behind the wheel on a country road; for others still, it's in the confines of three tiled walls and a shower curtain. My most thorough mind-scraping is performed in a gym with barbells in hand or on a treadmill.
I have yet to pinpoint what about the gym is so desirable, especially when a third of my attendance requires an inner pep talk or some sort of post-workout gastronomical negotiation with myself. But I love it. It could very well be the riddance of the day's amassed perspiration and frustration; or the pleasure in knowing that my entire hour-plus workout just negated the caloric damage of that fun-size Baby Ruth I polished off after lunch; or maybe it's the giggly towel-snapping I do with "the boys" in the steam room.
Whatever the reason, I leverage the good vibes flowing through the fitness to knock out some serious, gut-wrenching conflicts and mankind quandaries. Like, just the other day, between sets of bicep curls, I contemplated effective means to reduce the national deficit, which opened up a swirling rabbit hole of the ramifications of China one day deciding to suddenly stop loaning to the U.S. federal government and start collecting, which somehow led to me deciding to frugally purchase Christmas gift-wrapping supplies at Big Lots rather than Walmart. I mean, that's at least eight bucks saved. Now, that’s conflict resolution!
An undeniable common denominator among all gyms worldwide is the repeating personality traits among the clientele. Every gym has its predictable, standard characters -- it's a sitcom waiting to be written:
- The guy who works out all the time and yet shows no visible signs of change in his three-year gym tenure.
- The aimless wanderer who aimlessly wanders around with a towel over his shoulder but with no intention of ever using the towel because he only aimlessly wanders around.
- The girl who actually applies more makeup prior to her cardio class and uses a water bottle with layers of dried lipstick around the opening.
- The older gents who prefer their sports conversations to only occur in the openness of the locker room. While naked. And facing each other.
- The meathead who groans and grunts obnoxiously, uncomfortably, and utterly unnecessarily loud with each muscle exertion as if those of us around him are on the brink of witnessing a scientific breakthrough in the first male-birthed child.
- The boney, wiry guy whose entire dresser drawer of gym attire consists of Under Armour.
- The guy who appears to be flirting with himself in every mirror, in every stance and flexed position imaginable.
- The curvaceous female who saunters the gym like it's a Paris runway in totally nonfunctional skin-tight sweat pants.
- The dude who bench-pressed the day before yesterday, bench-pressed again yesterday, and today is on an ab-crunch machi--oh, nope, never mind, he was just waiting for a bench press to be freed up.
The list is truly endless. Yet somehow fairly universal. It's as if standard gym protocol mandates that each fitness center has this many weights, that many machines, and these people. Trust me, I used to work part-time at a gym myself -- you couldn't dream of more impeccable people-watching. It's like a fountain of youth for your self-confidence.
Oh, and that back-to-back musical one-two punch courtesy of Ace of Base and Nickelback you hear over the gym speakers? It's no accident. Someone actually requested that radio station. What kind of sick world do we live in?
It's crude. It's controversial. It's a collection of connected phalanges.
The inappropriateness of the middle finger has always miffed me. It's befuddling to me that just saying "middle finger" almost feels risqué. It's the only body part I can think of that can be exposed at all times with no thought or offense, until it's in one particular position. One moment it's a high-five constituent; then, at the blink of an eye, it's a literal digital F-bomb. A right-angle formation changes everything.
It's ridiculous enough that people -- well, Western civilization -- find it offensive. But when TV stations blur it out -- actually go through the editing trouble to blur out a finger based on its posture and solitude -- something seems preposterously awry. Purely because someone at some point in history assigned vulgar meaning to that finger once it is elevated to a certain level and distances itself by a socially agreeable measurement of space from its appendaged counterparts, that regular ol' finger becomes lewd, distasteful, and demanding of censorship. So, it's blurred out. A finger. A finger is blurred out. A series of knuckles and a single nail plate are completely, fleetingly blurred from our vision. Then the finger returns to normal resting stage, and the blur is removed.
We know what the finger looks like -- we just saw it before and after the blurred image. And we know what is happening behind the blur. We can actually make this same signal with our own middle finger. Yet they blur it out.
It's a finger, people. It has gotten to the point where you have a better chance at watching a TV show where a chick gets topless than that chick gives someone the middle finger.
So, what about the thumb, huh? How does the thumb get away with it, being all upright and okay -- literally "okay." What is so darn special about the thumb that it is not only welcomed when vertical and singularized but encouraged? I mean, who doesn't like a thumbs-up? Would you rather be on the receiving end of an upright thumb or an upright middle finger? Exactly. But why?
I wonder what it was like to be the first recipient of a middle finger. Something (probably the speedball I did intravenously at lunch) tells me it was introduced in an old western town circa late 19th century around high noon. I imagine the conversation immediately following went something like this:
Flipper-Offer: "I think you're on my horse, buddy."
Horse Thief: "Yep, 'cause I’m stealing it!"
[Flipper-Offer flips Horse Thief off]
Horse Thief: "Wait, what was that?"
Flipper-Offer: "That was my middle finger."
Horse Thief: "Saw that. But why?"
Flipper-Offer: "That's me saying, 'Screw you.' You know, 'Up yours' for stealing my horse."
Horse Thief: "So, why didn't you just say that?"
Flipper-Offer: "I don't know. That's just what I do."
Horse Thief: "Alright. Well, see ya later."
The whole premise of a finger being insulting is just silly. I know I'm supposed to be indignantly appalled when someone singles out his/her middle finger and flashes it in my general direction, but I can't. To me it's the hand signal equivalent of calling me a "honky": Am I supposed to be offended? I guess, but why am I laughing so loudly?
I'd make a terrible housewife.
I can't cook; I survive on frozen waffles, frozen pizzas, frozen vegetables that I detest but only buy because it makes me feel better about myself knowing that I could totally eat them at any moment of my choosing -- really, whatever is 5-for-$10 in the frozen food aisle that week.
I can't sew or stitch -- although I'm pretty incredible at cutting sleeves off of T-shirts. It's an organic gift for Kentuckians, a skill naturally developed somewhere around the time you learn how to drive a four-wheeler and learn that there's a huge difference between a kitty cat and a polecat -- usually just before your fifth birthday. But if I needed to reattach the sleeves to that shirt, thread and a needle would do me no good. Honestly, I'd probably just reach for a stapler.
And I certainly can't do laundry worth a lick. I wish I was kidding.
I think I'm just a bit daunted by the unreasonable complexity with laundry. Some clothes must be washed in hot water and dried with a low, tumble dry. Some clothes insist on being washed with "like colors" in cold water on a gentle cycle and dried with medium heat for only a few minutes. Some clothes can't handle any heat. Some clothes require dry cleaning, whatever that is. Some clothes must be washed inside out, while others can only rub against their own kind. (So prejudiced.)
I know a lot of people who run laundry like it's an art form. They intimately know and respect their laundry's cyclic demands. They build different piles, they run different water temperatures, they dry with machines and hangers and racks. They segregate -- sorry, separate -- by colors, fearful of the intermingling of the blacks, whites, and... hot pinks. (So, so prejudiced.)
I envy those people. I worry for their social lives, but I envy those people. Their trends and tips are admirable, but I decline to implement them in my own life. Instead, week after week, I dump the entire basket into the washer. Same settings: normal cycle, cold water. Because I'm a normal guy who enjoys some refreshing, cold water. Even though cold water probably couldn't take the marinara sauce off the kitchen countertop, much less from within my dress shirt's polyester fabric.
Controlling your laundry is tough. It's rolling around, flipping and flopping inside those machines, and all you can do is stand helplessly, hoping for the best. Have you ever actually tried to shrink clothes? It never works. Maybe you bought some clothes that are too baggy or one size too large. Or maybe you finally stopped buying your weekly groceries from Costco and ended up shedding a few pounds -- hey, good job! Either way, those clothes just need a little shrinkage. Unfortunately, it appears the only clothes that actually shrink are the ones you like just the way they are. The excellently aged T-shirt you can’t part ways with, the low-rise boot jeans that cost $160 at the outlet mall, the black pleather club pants that perfectly hug the buttocks with each pelvic thrust to the club remix of the other club remix of that Kylie Minogue song you love -- these are always the clothes that will shrink at the first five-degree upward rise in temperature. But those XXL sweatpants aren't shriveling anytime soon, buddy. Better hope they have a reliable drawstring.
Yep, I'm pretty much useless on the domestic scene. Unless I have a Swiffer pad in hand. Seriously, I will Swiffer circles around you. Dust-free circles.
There are three things that commonly make even the most astute person go nutty publicly: drugs, alcohol, and TV cameras. It doesn't matter how cool and controlled you perceive or portray yourself to be, overindulgence of either one will likely produce overexposure of yourself. In either case, regrets wait for you in the morning -- if not immediately.
Go to any sporting event and you'll encounter countless people falling prey to their immediate desires to be on TV or the Jumbotron, only to wind up waving unnaturally excitably, kissing someone sloppily, dancing in a crazed, frenetic fashion that resembles the most explosive seizure, or any number of acts that humans weren't designed to do in front of 20,000 in attendance, much less 90,000,000 cable subscribers.
What is it about TV cameras that makes us humans flip our flippin' lids? What compels us to momentarily shed all dignity and act eight years old again?
TV cameras serve as a reminder that we not only demand attention from others, but that we demand attention from ourselves. We look for our reflection in windows, we adore mirrors, and we even try to momentarily catch an enchanted glimpse of ourselves on the security camera monitor in department stores. Sure, you could brush it off as mere curiosity, but what's to be curious about? It's we. We're looking at us. And unless you have amnesia, or Christ just rubbed dirt and saliva in your once blind eye, there's nothing new to see here -- it's the same ugly mug we have always had and self-affirmed in a different mirror 12 minutes ago. I think we have a pretty good idea what we look like, people.
There appears to be an inherent fascination with seeing -- or simply knowing others are seeing -- a projection of ourselves. We will literally go out of our way -- yes, push far heavier strangers -- to get caught on tape if even for a split second just to wag an index finger upward and ambiguously yet adamantly assert to all viewers that something somewhere is indisputably number one, or just to wave and exclaim another inane "Hi, Mom!" to a mike-less TV camera. (Has Mom ever happened to be tuning in at that moment? And if so, has she ever blushed with pride and affection at the muted sight of her half-painted, beer-guzzling son saying hello?)
All that said, while I don't understand the whole premise of screaming and flinging your arms around upon spotting yourself on "the big screen" at the aforementioned sporting event, I'm amazed -- honestly bewildered -- that more people don't flip the ol' middle finger, mouth profanities, or flash their goods at the TV camera. I mean, you'd think that at least one person would consider in that moment, "If I'm gonna be an idiot in this solitary televised opportunity, screw it, I'm going all out." Then, boom, free boobs.
Something to aim for, folks.
It's hard to imagine an era where food products were packaged sans the now ubiquitous nutrition facts label. But it occurred. I can't recall much about that time in history, but it occurred alright. I can only assume that before nutrition facts graced the grocery aisles everyone was happily wrapping all foods with bacon before deep frying every morsel.
But, oh, those nutrition facts changed everything. Now it's all about the calories. Those stupid little calories. And fat grams. Gotta watch the fat grams. But eat more protein. Yes, can't forget about the protein. But watch your calories with that protein -- and, for God's sake, easy on the fat grams!
I think we all try to act like we know more about the nutrition facts label than we honestly do, dissecting its percentaged contents with a meticulous eye. But what do we really know? Well, that the meat lovers' pizza we assumed was terrible for us is actually lethally terrible for us, and that the salad topped with dressing we decided to eat instead was only about two shreds of lettuce and a baby tomato less lethal than that pizza.
For all the additional detail and helpful insight that little nutrition facts white box has provided, it sure has generated an equal amount of gastronomic paranoia. I'm internally sweating over the saturated fat content of every spoonful of ice cream I shove in my mouth simply because I've seen the insanely large percentage per serving in the nutrition facts (even though I'm not completely clear on what saturated fat is, but the combination of "saturated" and "fat" together makes me think of Kirstie Alley in a wet T-shirt contest, so I know it can’t be good for me), and I know I, like all other persons in human history, have never limited myself to the suggested serving size since, you know, we eat ice cream out of bowls and not shot glasses. And in my frantic, unsettled state of mind and feeble attempt to counterbalance the self-administered physiological destruction wrought by ingestion of cocoa and cream, I convince myself how strong my bones beneath all that saturated fat will be thanks to the phenomenal amount of calcium I'm consuming in that pint of double chocolate Moose Tracks. This is how I "enjoy" a cold, refreshing dessert courtesy of the nutrition facts.
I am entirely obsessed with this white label with black stripes, vague food words, and generic percentages. I get really pumped when the food I'm consuming contains a lot of vitamin C, even though when comparing a day of high vitamin C intake against a day of low vitamin C intake, I detect zero difference in how I feel or behave. Regardless, I know vitamins are essential for life -- probably in part because "vitamins" sounds like "vital" (essential) and "vitality" (life) -- so I look to the nutrition facts. I live and breathe by the nutrition facts.
Not always a good thing, though. Example: there's a lot of hoopla suddenly around antioxidants and something called omega-3, as if enough of either one creates a force field of immunity from cancer and heart disease; thing is, neither can be found in the nutrition facts. And I'm so programmed now to look at nutrition facts that if a nutrient isn't listed somewhere within that rectangular label of dietary greatest hits, I just don’t worry about it. I mean, I figure if something in the food is important enough to brag about, it would find its way into the confines of that precious nutrition facts block. So instead I focus my attention on stuffing my face with foods high in magnesium, a nutritional element of which I know diddley-poo but can only assume is imperative to sustaining immaculate health since, when present, it's listed alongside the nutrition facts' "good guys" like iron and riboflavin -- you know, just below the bastardized fat and cholesterol grams section.
Sure, the nutrition facts take out almost all the fun in eating, but without it, we'd probably continue to naively eat deep-fried bacon. ...Well, wait -- deep-fried bacon has a lot of protein, right?
Look out, sleazy used-car salesman jerk face, there's a new swindler in town. And he sells textbooks.
Allow me to explain with some reader participation: Examine a textbook and compare your findings to that of a regular book. [SPOILER ALERT: Answers ensue, so please do not read further unless you've completed your book comparison.] Most likely there is a cover, there are pages, there are words -- perhaps even pictures if you're lucky -- on those pages, and, well, that's about it. So, where does the price gap between that $24.95 regular hardcover history book and the $89.95 textbook that covers virtually the same material and timeline earn its justification? That's what I'd like to know.
Yet anyone who has been a student on one end of a textbook transaction knows the madness doesn't end there.
While the textbook prices are outrageous, the buyback cash offers bookstores extend to desperate students are arguably even more outrageous. Buy an economics book for $120 and sell it back to that bookstore four months later for $8. Here's a better idea, student: keep the economics book and read it again, primarily focusing on the chapter about profit gains and losses. You're welcome.
Fortunately in this tech-savvy age, students can try maximizing their textbooks' resale value on the net. Amazon, eBay, Craigslist, and a plethora of other sites allow customers to sell and buy directly to and from each other. It's a win-win for students -- but a loss-loss for textbook companies.
But, of course, they're fixing that.
Apparently in recent years, textbook companies have weaseled a new factor into the mix: access codes supplementary to new textbooks that "unlock" additional material online. Obviously if that material is desired -- or, worse, required -- a used textbook without the access code may as well be a baby booster. Since when do you need a Game Genie code to tap into the secret treasures behind a textbook's material? Isn't that what the textbook is for?
If there was ever a time Congress should involve itself in the marketplace, textbook vending is it. Seriously, lawmakers, step away from verbally barbecuing the steroids-jacked ballplayers for a second and help a few college students out with this colossal dilemma. It's not really an issue where the consumers can boycott and say, "We don't need your textbooks," because actually, yes, they do need those textbooks.
Teachers/Professors (since I know you frequently refer to this peer-reviewed, scholarly blog), I implore you to stand your ground and consider the ridiculousness imparted by these textbook companies. Why update your class curriculum around a new textbook version every year or even every other year? Wastefulness aside, how much sense does that make with the basic truths and logicality within your class lessons? How many updates since the first edition of your chosen textbook have been made to the botanical process of photosynthesis? Or to the assassination date of Abraham Lincoln? Or to the calculations of a circumference? Or to the published works of any dead author? Is that new, colorful flowchart in the 17th edition really worth asking your students to purchase a brand new textbook? Be thrifty, man, they're college students. They need the money for booze and regrettable tattoos.
In college I had a math professor who did his part in refusing to exacerbate this problem: he wrote his own textbook. "Yeah, but lots of professors do that -- and those are the same textbooks that sell for $100." Sorry, let me clarify: he wrote his own textbook independently. In pencil. And ran his own copies of his pencil-written textbook on standard printer paper and sold it out of the college bookstore for $10. Even copyrighted the darn thing. Now that's a problem-solver. Which is fitting for a math professor.
Obviously, I'm not proposing every employed teacher/professor grab a sketch pad and a mechanical Bic and draft his/her own textbook, but I think every teacher/professor -- like every textbook publisher, bookstore owner, and congressman -- should look at the insane, exponential price-gouging behind a stack of continuously reversioned textbook pages, priced like they're turkey sandwiches at an airport, and think to themselves, "Do students and parents really deserve this?" like my math professor did.
Your move, everyone else.
"The lake" is an interesting place if you’ve never been. (I like how people always refer to going to "the lake" regardless of where they are and where they’re going. It’s not "a lake" or "Lake [name]" -- it’s just "the lake." Sort of like "the grocery store" or "the mall" or "the drug dealer." You get me.) If you’ve never been to the lake, you’re missing out on getting to miss out on life.
Yes, you read that correctly. See, when you’re at the lake, you’re not just geographically removing yourself from your typical life; what subsequently, inevitably occurs is the mental and emotional detachment from life itself. Your workplace doesn’t matter, your workload doesn’t matter. Your unopened e-mails, your unreplied-to e-mails, your opened-but-saved-as-new e-mails all don’t matter. The world wide web doesn’t matter, the television set doesn’t matter, the gruesome news headlines don’t matter. Politics, conflicts, utility bills, and personal finances don’t matter. Life for all you know in that moment of retreat doesn’t exist beyond the sandy, treed coastlines of that lake water.
Also, cleanliness doesn’t matter. Hygiene? Minimal. Sanitation? Laughable. Manners and societal cues of civilized responses are not simply tabled but hidden away and forgotten. Burps and farts are the rest of the world’s sneezes and coughs -- just bodily reactions that require emission, not suffocation. And when nature calls, you relieve yourself on nature’s mother. (Take that, you old hag!)
Adding to the inimitable temperament of the lake is its clientele. Quite different from the beach, let me just say. The beach is very showy, like everyone walking the sands is on parade. Lots of scantily clad men and women, the essentials barely covered, conveniently allowing the bounciest of corporal protrusions to bob and sway to and fro with every rigid footstep in loose sand and every bump of the beach ball. It’s a very sexy scene.
"Sexy," on the other hand, may very well be the last word that comes to mind directly after "lake." I think that’s because the attitude at the lake is a "come as you are" mindset, while the beach requests that you "come as you imagine yourself to be -- also, please suck that gut in." The lake requires zero self-maintenance -- which for many is the attraction. It’s the place where those flowery one-pieces that resemble a picnic tablecloth go to retire on the backside of a woman who hasn’t bathed since the weekend began. If the beach is a boisterous, spotlighted stage, the lake is its disheveled backstage janitor’s closet.
That’s not at all to suggest the lake lacks beauty and amicability. Quite contrarily, it effuses these things, with a splash of serenity. How do you think it found its way into so many Bob Ross paintings?
So, I’m not demeaning the lake one bit -- it’s just a different world out there. Matter of fact, its primitive nature is partially, if not wholly, appealing. That is its selling point.
The lake just doesn’t care to impress you. Neither does that scruffy man out on his pontoon with his belly hanging over his camo cutoffs and his free hand mindlessly scratching himself.
I’m addicted to fast food. There, I said it.
There are several factors that contribute to this addiction, all of which I’m fully aware (e.g. I’ve been out from under my parents’ roof since I was 18; I have little time or patience to cook; and even if I did, I find zero pleasure in cooking -- probably because I cook as well as Rush Limbaugh and Arianna Huffington split a cab ride), so this fast food addiction isn’t some new realization. But as a result, I consider myself somewhat of a fast food aficionado. I know my way around a wide array of drive-thrus pretty well and have developed a fairly lengthy mental list of where to get the tastiest quick-meal when in specific U.S. locations.
I also have developed a mental list of where to never eat, even in the hungriest, most desperate, most apocalyptic conditions. It’s a much shorter list -- well, really only two places: McDonald’s and Subway.
I’ll leave McDonald’s alone and let all you Mickey D freaks continue your pee-free parade. For now.
But about that Subway... Boy, those folks love to tell you how "fresh" they think they are, don’t they? Subway advertises and sells on the premise that bread + deli meats + diced vegetables = fresh. While simply reading that (even typing that) sounds like a fresh meal, "fresh" isn’t a term derived by type of ingredients alone; before ingredient type, I think ingredient age and ingredient quality. "Fresh" would be walking on a farm, picking up a head of lettuce, ripping off a few leaves, and slapping it between two slices of bread that were kneed, rolled, leavened, and warmed in a country kitchen a few acres away. And that’s a Subway I haven’t seen yet.
Seriously, what’s fresh about food that’s been sitting out in plastic containers all day? When does fresh stop being fresh? And what is that "chicken breast" anyway? It has the look and texture of an old beach sandal without the straps.
I’m not trying to put Subway Jared out of a job (well, he is annoying -- you’re right, not Michael-Winslow-does-sound-effects-for-an-hour’s-worth-of-stand-up-comedy annoying, but fairly annoying), but has anyone at Subway’s board of directors ever been to one of the other sub sandwich joints? Quiznos? Jimmy John’s? The quality and taste is incomparable. Better yet, have they ever actually eaten at Subway before? I’m fairly certain that one trip on that bologna train would squelch their proclamations of pinky-sworn "freshness."
Sure, Subway, go ahead and say it -- scream it until it rings true, Subway: Eat fresh. If by "fresh" you mean "a SUBstantially SUBpar SUBstitution for quality and taste."
But I do like your cookies. Let me know when they’re fresh.
I always promised myself I’d refrain from ever writing anything political here. Forgive me.
But don’t you just think of pure evil when you hear the name Hitler? Of course you do, which is why it’s so often used in the world of politics to describe opponents of someone’s agenda. Which is also why it’s the single most ridiculous human comparison to make.
Sadly, this synonym for malevolent insanity of unreachable levels is tossed around in political rings and the "blogosphere" (a word almost as annoying as people who compare other people to Hitler) like it’s a perfectly accurate, articulate critique of a politician whom they oppose.
Comparing someone to Hitler is the cheap, juvenile "your-mom" of political jabs. It’s when you’ve run out of actual fact-based talking points and creative comebacks and got nowhere else to go except taking it as extreme and left-field as possible; so you pull out the Hitler card in front of the live TV cameras or doodle a Hitler ‘stache on a Xeroxed headshot and throw it on a sign. (Do people call awful black-and-white copies "Xeroxes" anymore, or was that savvy technological argot laid to rest 20 years ago?)
When a person reaches for the Hitler-resemblance-in-policies-or-tactics accusation, he's intentionally aiming for the PR jugular of the highest, most outlandish mudslinging proportions. The obvious intent here is to demonize someone by providing any sort of connection between that person and the half-mustachioed leader behind the Holocaust. It's silly. Any shared trait you may have with Hitler hardly necessitates a finger-pointing "Ah-ha!" moment. ("You like cookies and the color blue, huh? You know who else liked cookies and the color blue? Yeah, that's right -- Hitler! Reveal your swastika!")
Look, I don't like politicians either. Matter of fact, I can think of maybe three whom I don't strongly distrust (and, yes, both sides of the aisle are represented in those three, thank you very much). But when a person tries to link a politician to the likeness of Hitler in any fashion, I often wonder if that person has any clue as to how dangerously strong of a charge he's making. Here's a man who was so corrupt, so acrimoniously, psychotically corrupt, that he wanted to graphically annihilate an entire race off the face of the planet -- and actually acted on that desire, ordering the systematic exodus and execution of several millions of human beings -- and this is the man to whom some talking head with a radio show wants to try drawing parallels alongside a dopey politician because of his proposed agenda on health care? Or tax? Or hunting down a terrorist? I mean, Hitler was inventing new degrees of atrocity -- atrocity that not even Carrot Top’s surgically butchered mug can emit -- yet a random political or social commentator with a mic in his face genuinely believes a lawmaker or president is going to lead us down a path that mirrors the Third Reich?
In the past 10 years, there have been an ungodly amount of picket signs and t-shirts and billboards and commercials and bumper stickers that hint at or just outright accuse someone is Hitleresque in six words, images, or symbols or fewer. Disagree with the politician, fine, but seriously, think about the severity of the charge, man. Think about that. Bush was not Hitler. Obama is not Hitler. [Insert given political figure] is not Hitler. There will never be anyone who touches 50 miles of the brink of evil displayed by Hitler. There just won't be.
So any validity you very well could have in the bullet points about your opponent immediately go right out the window once you drop the H-bomb. Calling such a perverse equation "disingenuous" is in itself disingenuous -- because it's beyond disingenuous. Or any other word in the dictionary.
Try telling a Jew or a Pole that you think so-and-so running for office is like Hitler. Afterward your mug will probably share more in common with Carrot Top's than that politician's agenda does with Hitler's.
No death is easy.
Let me rephrase that: no death is easy for the people still alive. Death for the dead is pretty easy.
Well, let me rephrase that again: no death of a non-villainous person is easy for the people still alive. Terrorists, murderers, rapists... I think we all pretty much concur those ignoble turds deserve whatever they get. (Bet I’m the first one in mankind’s history to use the phrase “ignoble turds.” Feels pretty good to make history.)
Most difficult of all, though, are early deaths. You know, the people who “died too soon.” (Which is an odd expression if you think about it. I mean, I get what people are saying when they refer to someone dying too early. It’s a shame the person died at an age when most of us are leading our first piano recital, or dissecting our first frog, or getting dumped for the first [or nineteenth] time, or enjoying our first “real world” job offer, or playing our first old-man softball game with our wife chasing the kids down through the bleachers. I understand there’s an average life expectancy floating around out there, but couldn’t every death be considered too early? A 98-year old woman who gets run over while crossing the street with her bag of groceries in essence died too early. Because there’s this vague, unwritten human rights rule we all seemingly, inherently agree upon that if you don’t die in your sleep naturally at a wrinkly age, then you’ve simply died too soon. Same deal if you die before you ever get a chance to cash in on that hard-earned college degree. Or a chance to seize that “American Dream” [which I presume is a family with perfectly parted hair, a job where you have dainty minions to fetch your daily coffee, and all the desired tangibles that, when prematurely acquired, primarily under social scrutiny, result in debt oozing out of your every pore].)
But I digress. Early deaths are tough. They’re shocking, they’re unexpected, they’re extraordinarily inconvenient. They force everyone to stop momentarily and say, “What just happened?” while the ones from “natural” causes are often shrugged away with, “Well, they’re gone. It was time anyway.”
The advantage of dying early is that you never get a chance to wear out your welcome. In fact, you immediately garner an air of mystery about you -- this certain significance incomparable to any living humans -- regarding all the potential you had, all the wonderful things you could have done. (Meanwhile, the person who lives and actually does those things is often overlooked and rarely receives the due recognition.) Take for example any number of famous “early” exiters: Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Buddy Holly, John F. Kennedy, Janis Joplin, River Phoenix, Aailyah, Heath Ledger, Tupac Shakur, James Dean, Ray Combs (yeah, that’s right, Ray Combs -- and don’t you dare suggest this “Family Feud” host doesn’t deserve a spot on a list of all-time too-young-to-die notables) -- the accomplishments, versatility, and wit of these people are undeniably magnified because they died in their heyday -- which really means they died before they exhausted their talent and became boring and washed-up.
The disadvantage here of course is you’re not alive to enjoy the praise that emanated from your death. I’m one of those crazy people who have the gall to believe in a literal afterlife, where the everlasting route taken is directly correlated to previous decisions. But whether you agree with that or simply believe life ends with cold, damp darkness in pure tranquility, the fact remains that you’re gone -- and quite honestly, seeing as how you’re dead, you probably don’t care what’s happening in that oxygen-and-dirt bubble you formerly knew. I mean, your soul is busy doing other things -- in my personal belief either partying with your Creator or ...elsewhere with regrets -- and I’ve a hunch that the worldly acclimation you’re receiving in the meantime couldn’t be farther back on your backburners of concern.
...Man, just think of how momentous this take would be if I died early...
We all have, or had, childhood dreams. Most of them focus on what we want to be when we grow up. Popular aspirations include a firefighter, an astronaut, a doctor, a member of the circus. Or maybe something less occupational and more physical, like taller, bigger, stronger, smarter. Me? A baseball player. That's all I wanted in life -- to be a professional baseball player. I vividly remember from my younger days my dad showcasing me around to friends and strangers alike, introducing me as (1) his son and (2) a future star in the major leagues. And I don't think he was trying to be cute either.
Well, that dream was fun while it lasted. Didn't take long for good ol' reality to pop in and inform us all that professional baseball is unfortunately only reserved for people who are actually good at baseball. If only I had known. Sure, I could catch the ball, throw the ball, and occasionally (heavy emphasis on "occasionally") hit the ball, but I wasn't good. Perhaps somewhere on the upper side of mediocre at best.
But, ah, softball. Now that I can play, friends. And I'm of course not talking about your run-of-the-mill fast-pitch softball that comes with harmonized dugout chants, hair ribbons, and sexual ambiguity. God, no, this is man's softball. Old man's softball. What's the difference, you ask? Well, for starters, we don't have any of those things I just mentioned. Rather we have slow bell-curve-like pitches, rock-scuffed bats, unkempt beards, zero game plan, and T-shirt jerseys with unknown stains from factors completely and inexplicably unrelated to softball. In this form of softball, water doesn't exist. Need to warm up? Try cooling down -- with a parking lot beer. Need to stretch? Of course you do, so streeeetch your hand out for a cold lager. Need Gatorade? Sure thing, here's a new flavor called Milwaukee's Best. Enjoy, big guy.
Yeah... old-man softball.
Now, I'll be the very first to admit that when I lose, I'm little fun. My intrinsic competitive nature convinces me that winning matters at the moment and you can't persuade me otherwise in the one-hour span directly following a game. But while I write this with emotions in neutral, I totally understand that these softball games [...deep sigh...] mean nothing. It's true. I mean, where do you go from here anyway? Even if you're in a blood-thirsty league, face it, you're playing old-man softball. You're going home to empty pizza boxes, poopy diapers, screaming kids, DVR-ed reruns, wrinkled Dockers, plumbing problems, and living partners or loved ones (if anyone) at home who just genuinely don't care what the game's outcome was.
Suddenly, hustling seems a little less important. I'm finding myself rationalizing against backing up a bad throw that might not even happen. The value of top-brand equipment no longer exceeds the shrewdness of clearance rack items. ...And yet I continue to slide into base and dive for pop-flies. I have no idea why.
The funniest part to me about this recreation is I distinctly recall as a child seeing these grown men playing this pointless softball game and thinking from the backseat of the car as it drove by, "So that's when you know your life has reached a dead end." I'm not sure if I was prodigiously provocative with that childhood observation or naïve and stupid. Now that I'm here, I'm really hoping it’s the latter.
Honestly, I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Is "a professional softball player" an option?
If you make it to 75 -- even 65 -- years old, that's a pretty phenomenal feat. Between natural causes and freak accidents, there are just too many ways to die. Life, besides being a box of chocolates, is also a giant gauntlet, where our main focus above all things, whether we consciously think about it or not, is to stay alive. We're constantly on the go, dodging and side-stepping fatal pitfalls, i.e. car accidents, diseases, infections, drowning, natural disasters, terroristic acts, poisonous consumption, improper medication, mechanical malfunction, slipping and falling, getting trapped in a burning building, dropping something electric while in water, taking an athletic object to the head, being subjected to too many Brendan Fraser films, etc. Every day you don't die is a victory in my book. So if you can outlive your joints and smooth, wrinkle-free skin and the full control of your bladder, you should get whatever you want. At that point, you've basically won in life.
This is why I'm a big fan of respecting my elders, specifically senior citizens. Man, they've earned it. They've endured countless hardships and undoubtedly overcome personal tribulations. They've repeatedly kicked the devil in his crotch and just kept going, kept living. For 60 years. For 65 years. For 70, 75, 80 years. Some for 90 years, a few for 100. These are the most remarkable, heroic people in the world. A discounted movie ticket is the very least they should receive; throw 'em a complimentary bucket of popcorn, too.
I HATE to see older people working -- unless of course they simply want to. No elderly person should have to work to live. Not to bark up a political tree here, but I'm not keen on socialistic policies, and yet I find financially assisting a struggling senior citizen a very difficult motion to not support. I mean, they've paid not simply their taxes (presumably) but their dues in life as well. There will come a time in the back-half of life where we’ll all wish we had a little extra help, financial or otherwise. Aspirin and Bengay can only remedy so much.
Simply put, privilege should come with age. You seniors should be commended for weathering time. You wanna cash in on your 10% senior citizen price markdown? I say take 20% off. Yeah, it's cool. You want me to turn that darn music down? Consider it done -- I'll not only turn it down, I'll use headphones. You want that thermostat at 82 degrees? You got it -- and, hey, here's a wool sweater and a space heater, too. Heck, you can drive whatever glacial speed you want. Enjoy yourself out there. And this is coming from someone who freely admits to suffering periodic bouts of road rage (but with good reason: I mean, how hard is it for common, everyday drivers to (1) drive while talking, (2) stay out of the left-hand lane when not passing, and (3) not brake on an on-ramp? Idiots.).
The elderly are exactly what we all aspire to be: still alive many years past our current age. They have achieved mankind's underlying goal. We want it, and they did it.
Go ahead, park as close to the entrance as you want, old man. I'll walk.
If you're like me (oh boy, and consider yourself lucky for several reasons if you are!), you've got your normal grocery store route charted, with nearly every shopping cart stop plotted. I know what I like, and I know what works for me. An occasional detour for something new to spice things up, sure, but not often.
I think we sort of figure out early in life what our taste receptors customarily dig and find repulsive. Marketers and "new product developers" know this. They know we're slow to venture out on completely foreign taste bud excursions. They also know what food items are familiar and comfortable to us by culture. And with these key generalizations in pocket, they tweak and dabble and spin off what has already been consumer-approved. Think of it as song remixes as opposed to previously unreleased compositions.
Look no further than the cereal aisle for a wide range of examples. This sucker used to be a section comprised of a handful of choices. Then that section expanded to a whole aisle. Then that aisle expanded to the opposite side of the aisle. It's now just a hallway of pretty, colored, rectangular boxes on display. Thing is, Kellogg's and Post and General Mills and all the brains behind the discipline of cereal creation have hit a wall. Nothing in these aisles is new. Everything's a repackaged, reshaped, re-colored twist on what already exists. I wonder if they think we haven't caught on yet.
Every children's movie, cartoon, and pre-teen fad comes out with its own cereal. But what is the cereal? The same darn thing sitting three boxes away, except this one has ghost shapes instead of clovers. Or vanilla clusters instead of cinnamon clusters. Or dehydrated blueberries instead of dehydrated bananas. Or purple, dried marshmallows instead of green ones with a yellow star in the center.
Or it's covered in chocolate. All foods eventually get the chocolate-covered makeover. When your food product sales begin to decline, dunk it in chocolate and stamp "New!" in one of those exclamatory, zany talk bubbles on the package. This is a relatively fail-safe plan B. And plan C. You can never go wrong with chocolate.
...Scratch that -- ever had Chocolate Lucky Charms? Lord, it's like punishment. Feels like you got busted for cussing and have to stand in the bathroom with a bar of soap in your mouth. And not even soap with a delightful scent. I'm talking Lava soap, the kind that mechanics use to scour week-old engine grease off their fingers.
But you get the idea. The cereal aisle is full of repeats and Hollywood sequels. Alas, the well of morning gastronomic innovation has run dry for these cereal scientists in their cereal labs, adding and subtracting artificial flavors and red dyes to their beakers of rice, corn, and wheat. There are only so many times you can duplicate the core originals: Cheerios, Wheaties, Fruity Pebbles, Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes, Corn Pops, Honey Smacks, Honey Bunches of Oats, Chex, Trix, Lucky Charms, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Cap'n Crunch, and Cookie Crisp.
The rest are dirty imposters. They should sit scuffed, dented, clearance-priced, and ashamed next to the Pop Tart rejects, like Frosted Strawberry Milkshake and Cherry with printed Pictionary clues. This is your Breakfast Hall of Shame.
What in the world could ever sound better than being on vacation on some sunny, sandy beach, slumped in a plastic chair with a fruity drink and utterly mentally detached from that thing back home you call your job? Oh, I don't know, maybe being spontaneously visited by a man in a jumpsuit by way of a hovercraft to deliver a partially reimbursed check with your name on it for that vacation you booked.
Sounds spectacular, doesn’t it? Seriously, who could say no to that? That's like Tiger Woods's wife giving him a list of contact info for her Swedish model friends and saying, "Just give me a call Monday morning when you're done."
Some deals are just too darn good to be true.
And so is the deal guaranteed by Orbitz, a travel-booking website and owner of the aforementioned pledge for partial reimbursement should your exact same trip be booked by someone else at a cheaper rate (probably doesn't guarantee the hovercraft delivery guy as depicted in their commercials unfortunately). And you know, when you present it like that, that's a no-brainer of a deal. Book your trip with them, and you've basically dropped your name in a raffle basket for a possible chance at some money-back action. Oh yeah!
Well, hold on there, Orbitz, let's unveil that marketing mechanism of yours to showcase it for the scoop of horse poop it is. First, your promise to reimburse a portion of my trip's expense if someone should book the same trip through your little site is preposterous. Preposterous, but, granted, slightly genius. Because I know that you know that I know that you know that there's absolutely, positively no way for me to ever know if someone did in fact book a trip at a cheaper rate. So if you just decided to not give me my small percentage of sweat-labor cash back should that scenario indeed occur, well, how would I know I was supposed to receive a refund? Am I supposed to walk around the hotel and the beach asking my fellow vacationers how, for how much, and for how long they booked their trip?
Second, what is the honest-to-God probability two people would even book the exact same trip at the exact same place for the exact same dates through the exact same website -- and at different rates? (Again, and know it?) Those are lottery odds, man. Matter of fact, you may as well just play the lottery -- I hear the return on investment is marginally higher.
But I got to give you credit, Orbitz, because while creating a campaign that seemingly puts the "treat" in "holiday retreat," you have successfully -- to paraphrase one of the many legendary quotes from that great cinematic staple of business education called "Tommy Boy" -- took a dump in a box and stamped the word "guaranteed" on the side of it, and no one can call you a liar because we'll never know.
Preposterous, but, granted, slightly genius.
There have been several stories in the news lately about harassment or otherwise hostile actions exemplified by toll collectors to various drivers. You know, unwanted sexual advancements, verbal abuse, and even offers to "step out of the car and fight." Some observers and readers probably call this insanity; I call it the inevitable result of being caged up in a tall box for eight hours with a stool and money they don't even own, day after day. Keep me in there long enough with no professional end in sight, and I'd probably do the same thing, only with my face painted and no clothes.
I mean, where's the humanity in that job? Paycheck aside, that job's about a slow water-dripping faucet away from classified torture.
What exactly is the career outlook for toll collectors? Grim, I suppose. But what's the end game there -- what's the incentive for doing well versus simply handing 50 cents change with a middle finger back to each driver? I would surmise there's about as much opportunity to move up in that occupation as there's opportunity to move around in that toll booth.
Put it this way, if you're a toll collector who calls in sick, you're simply replaced by a metal basket and a different neon light indicating exact change only. Your backup is a two-inanimate-object combo. If that's not salt in the open wound of a dead-end job, I don't know what is. And now you have a couple EZ-Pass lanes breathing down your neck, just itching to take your toll bridge lane. No pressure.
Not that I'm saying your life sucks if you're a toll collector. I'm just empathizing with your depressive situation. Heck, it's a paying job and you've got to make ends meet -- you've got yourself, maybe a family, and definitely a tragically indebted government to support -- so, hey, take what's available. But I empathize with you. Truly. If you're a toll collector and you never smile, or you hate people, or you hate yourself, or you've lost your identity, or you don't bathe, or you spend half your day mentally weighing crimes you could get away with, or your favorite part of the day is reading "Ziggy" and doing the Jumble at lunch, I'm not condoning your feelings or actions, but I certainly don't blame you.
I guess what I'm saying is, just don't kill me, please.
Think of your favorite TV show. Go ahead, I'll wait.
[Thinking... thinking...]
Got it? Excellent. Now think about sitting down in great anticipation to watch a new episode of that show or perhaps a randomly selected episode of that show’s syndication. You're kicked back on the couch with snacks or a meal at a ravenous hand's quick grasp, ready to consume and devour your day's troubles away for the next 30 to 60 minutes. It's just you, calories, and your seven remote controls, and, by God, all is right with the world. TV on, receiver on, sound on, brain off, and--
Wait, what's this? Is this a clip show? Are you effin' kidding me, that's what this is? A waste-of-time, buzz-killing clip show?
And then, sourness... followed by an immense sense of betrayal.
If the phrase "clip show" means nothing to you, don't feel stupid. You actually know exactly what I'm talking about. You've been duped by one before. We all have. You see, a clip show is a TV show episode where all the writers decided that another week of bong hits trumped their moral obligation to present to you, the faithful viewer, a full episode of new material. While indeed technically fulfilling their contractual agreement to produce an episode containing some new, unaired footage, it's a scathing insult to their viewership that assumes those who watch the show are so intellectually aloof that they'll have zero qualms with accepting spliced segments of already broadcasted episodes as sufficient filler for at least 80% of the "new" episode as long as surrounding these recycled one-liners and otherwise highlights is a paper-thin plot that allows for multiple, conjoined "flashbacks" sandwiched between maybe three minutes of newly shot footage.
More or less, the writers pussed out and lackadaisically served up previously seen items and called it new. It's analogous to your grade school cafeteria, when one day's "fresh casserole" looked and tasted eerily similar to several of the previous day's leftover courses, only now there are sprinkled breadcrumbs and far too much mysterious cream sauce added in.
There are really no acceptable excuses for clip shows. The writers, producers, and network would like to sell you on the idea that a clip show is "a chance to bring everyone up to speed on the show" or "a celebration of the show's greatest moments." Yeah, or we can just wait for the series to come out on DVD to relive it all on our own time.
Even if there was somehow a legitimate reason for its existence, there's absolutely no good justification for rerunning a clip show. It's a rerun of an episode of reruns. No one wants to see that crap the first time, much less regurgitated in syndication. I'd like to have the great dishonor of meeting the person who's saving space on his DVR for the rebroadcasted clip show episode of "Frasier."
There are two things I routinely think the moment I step inside my hotel room for the first time: "I wonder who stayed here last night and what sort of unspeakable debauchery occurred," and "Seriously, where do they get these paintings?" Both ponderings tend to remain unanswered, but that doesn't mean I don't try drawing my own conclusions. The former thought, though, mostly by choice, is given little rumination time as I usually just figure it's probably best that I remain in the dark about the events of my room's previous night. The latter thought, on the other hand, is a brainwave I'll bet each of our inquisitive cerebral cortexes has fired off at one point or another.
If there's a majestic, awe-inspiring hotel painting out there hanging above a very bland, wooden headboard bolted to the wall or a basket filled with packets of complimentary mud-flavored coffee, I have yet to see it. I'm not saying the paintings in hotel rooms lack a trace of genuine talent, but I'm fairly confident that in several cases you could wind up with a near replication if you blindfolded a kindergartener afflicted with ADHD and handed him the same '70s-influenced subdued paints and no brush.
I would be interested to know the reaction of one of these paintings' artist as he stumbled upon a print of his work in the corridor of a Holiday Inn Express while vacationing. Is there an immediate sense of pride or dejection? Would he be overcome with artistic acceptance or career-ending humiliation? I feel as if either of the two -- or maybe both -- sentiments would be understandable. I mean, granted, it's no Louvre exhibit, but at least the painting is no longer sitting with a clearance sticker in the corner of TJ Maxx. And, you know, someone found it appropriate (okay, tacky) enough to purchase it and hang publicly.
I say puff your chest, Picasso, and wear that badge of misguided artistry with delight! Someone's painting had to suspend over that handcuffed, balding businessman and his transsexual escort in leather, so why shouldn't it be your canvas print of a coyote atop a queerly zigzagged mesa, howling into the pastel moonlight? High five!
