Hotels

Unless you have a relative, friend, or a hookup on a free condo close by, traveling will likely result in a hotel (or motel) stay. There isn't a bigger gamble involved in traveling than exchanging money for keys to a hotel room, especially if you blindly booked the room over the phone or internet, and double especially if you know nothing about the area you're visiting. Even with a chain you trust, you're rolling the dice on a 50/50 chance of a pleasant stay or a scene from Psycho.

Pleasant or not, the idea of thousands upon thousands of people taking turns sleeping in the same bed is extremely weird to me, and to a point uncomfortable. We don't know these (literal) strange bedfellows, nor do we know the history of that bed. And, like the ingredients of a hotdog, those mysteries are probably best left unsolved. We instead just close our eyes and hold tight, horizontal between those Egyptian-cotton bed sheets, to the extraordinarily minute likelihood that perhaps the laundry detergent the hotel used eradicated every microbial bit of evidence of any previous human contact with those sheets.

The best part about staying in a hotel room is, outside of holding a rock star after-party, you are virtually free of any normal, humane responsibilities. Included in the outrageous price of the room (which somehow tends to rate about ¼ of a monthly mortgage payment per night) are limitless laziness and irresponsibility. Leaving the room looking like a train wreck is not only acceptable, it's expected. Not that I am encouraging anyone to depart from a hotel with their room resembling an al-Qaeda hideout, but the option is basically there. You just can't beat hotel housekeeping.

Now, that said, I personally try my very hardest to upkeep my room while visiting. Besides the fact that I prefer not to voluntarily subject myself or my living quarters to filth, even if only temporarily, I have immense empathy for people who are subjugated to housekeeping duties for 40 hours a week, cleaning up the mess and debris of others while trying to maintain their own self-respect, so I always put forth some effort in not coming across as a total slob.

I wonder how clean housekeeping employees' hotel rooms are when they're on vacation. It would make my day to know they unapologetically wreak havoc, strewing towels, bedspreads, and toiletries across the room in a free-spirited, rebellious rage.

Free Food

Already I bet you're alert and interested in reading because of the subject matter alone. Perhaps you're thinking about the last situation in which you encountered a smorgasbord of free food, or how freaking sweet it would be if you turned your head 90 degrees right now and saw a mountain of whatever your culinary vice mysteriously piled upon a plate with a small sign on top that simply read, "Free." Perhaps you're even salivating right now. Wait, what's that? Was that a stomach grumble I just heard electronically through the computer monitor despite the fact that that's impossible and also you're not reading this in real time as I write? Amazing.

If any of the above applied to you right now -- without so much as seeing a picture of anything edible -- you have just witnessed the power of food. Especially when the word "food" is preceded by the single qualifier "free."

So powerful is free food that it entices you to do, say, or attend things you normally wouldn't. I can't say with scientific certainty this is true, but I would guess there is more scientific truth to that claim than anything you tried proving with your grade school baking-soda-and-vinegar volcano.

Mmm... baking soda and vinegar. With rainbow sprinkles? For free?

Think for a moment about the last wedding you attended that you really didn't want to but did anyway because the food and beverages at the reception were both catered and free. Or how about that banquet or conference to which you begrudgingly showed up only because your taste buds talked you into it. Or that date you went on with that not-a-snowball's-chance-in-hell creepy dude because you knew you were getting a free gourmet dinner out of him (whatever "gourmet" means).

The folks at Klondike nailed it. They knew that human beings would do darn near anything for free food, primarily a chocolate-covered handheld square of ice cream. I mean, what would you do for a Klondike bar? Wrestle a grizzly bear? Call up an ex you detest just to say hi? Bungee jump into a swamp of alligators while wearing only the harness? Hmm... how many Klondike bars again?

Free food also just brings people together. It unites. I mean, how many conversations have you had in your life with people you honestly couldn't care less about but, hey, there was free food involved so... if having to listen to their family vacation story again meant an opportunity to enjoy some red velvet cake, you suddenly encouraged more wacky tales of that baby cousin's first attempt at putt-putt? Again, it just unites.

You could probably end a war if you posted flyers advertising "Free Peace Treaty Potluck" around war trenches or heavy combat zones. Maybe even advertise a "Free Enemy Mixer/Ice Cream Social." Military conflict resolved.

Coffee

To those whose offers for a freshly brewed cup of coffee I've denied -- nay, scoffed -- over the decades of my existence, I have good news: I'm slowly putting on my big boy pants and adapting a taste for coffee. I've been around its influence and propaganda for years, but its scent, its aromatic fumes I enjoy, is finally finding a soft spot in my gustatory system. This doesn't mean, though, that I'm seeing any further logic in the consumption of this dark bean juice.

Let's start there: bean juice. That's what it is. The ground extraction of a bean in a liquid format, supplemented with water. I guess that's okay. I mean, I like both chocolate and vanilla beans and their extractions. But, I don't know. Willingly drinking the juice of a pulp-free product just doesn't sound right to me. Makes me wonder when lima bean smoothies and pinto bean shakes will catch on.

Additionally, I partially fear materializing manila-folder-yellow teeth that so many coffee drinkers acquire over time. But probably not as much as I fear developing a permanent case of that horrendous halitosis yielded after downing a cup. You know these people (perhaps you even share an office space with them): they're carrying -- and cheerfully sharing -- coffee breath every minute of that 24-hour day, and they don't mind speaking closely enough for you to know it. I mean, how could a scent once so delectable, so inviting produce a "back the F away!" odor in a matter of minutes?

Now seems like a good time to interject a quick remark regarding the smell of urine excreted directly after drinking a cup of coffee. It's just... bad. No need to search for a grander adjective; "bad" pretty much sums it up. It's quite honestly disturbing. Let's be fair, I've not stood over a toilet of urine that I wanted to bottle as a fragrance (repulsive visual, my apologies), but I'm mortified by coffee's version. Again, simply bad.

Yet somehow this coffee stuff is growing on me. Gradually. Maybe it's the caffeine.

So, yes, I will take you up on your cup of coffee offer. The one I rejected back in the fall of '98.

Cream and sugar, please.

Pro Wrestling

It is with great pride that I can profess having no childhood obsession or even minor infatuation with professional wrestling. I recall several of my neighborhood buddies owning toy bins filled to the brim with WWF (as it was then referred to) action figures, masks, outfits, trading cards, video games, and other random bits of painted, polymeric paraphernalia.

The video games were always good. Quite honestly, 95% of the 3% I know about pro wrestling was learned through the early video games. The Ultimate Warrior, The Big Boss Man, Andre the Giant, The Undertaker, and of course Hulk Hogan -- these names, Royal Rumble, and a couple moves like the piledriver or the Boston crab are all I knew, mostly thanks to the Frankfort Wal-Mart's miniscule arcade. That's about as far as I got, though.

Something about grown men, who are otherwise overflowing with machismo, and their awestruck sons paying top dollar to see buff, festooned, long-haired men in skin-tight spandex is rather disturbing to me. Personally, the only air-tight packages I'm interested in paying for say "Rubbermaid" on the side. But, hey, maybe that's just me.

Growing up, I frequently played the role of the childlike equivalent to an atheist, trying to throw human reasoning as a nonbeliever at my WWF-smitten playmates to convert them to what science and the rest of the world recognized as truth: The wrestling events and everything about them were completely fake. I think, though, at the time there was still an air of mystery and confusion as to the proclaimed falsehoods surrounding pro wrestling, as if no one was entirely confident that the shows were merely theatrical productions. But now there's no question. In fact, the WWE, or whatever organization acronym the big dogs of pro wrestling are hiding behind now, make no bones about it: they openly admit each show is storyboarded. Yet this has obviously failed to soften the interest of its fans. I don't know the statistics, but I would venture to say pro wrestling is as popular as it ever was. To me, bewildering.

Critics to my bewilderment would probably argue that it's merely entertainment -- a testosterone-infused, Broadway-style show upon a stage enclosed with stretchy ropes. Still ridiculous, but okay. However, most fans call this a "sport" -- it's clearly not. Entertainment, sure. But there's no competitive event taking place. Find a new term.

Mostly I feel sorry for the wives and mothers who have to deal with this obsession in their households and/or are dragged to the shows and also for the parents who are still subletting their basements to their fanatical 40-something-year-old sons.

Facebook

I have a feeling this "take" will generate the most perusals.

And why shouldn't it? Facebook has taken over the world -- literally. It, with the combined forces of text messaging, literally has changed the way we socialize and, in some cases, rearranged our priorities. Not just we Americans, but we the world. Sure, there are other social networking sites, but I'm addressing Facebook as (A) it's the largest, most used one right now and (B) it's the only one I use; I haven’t yet ventured out to "tweeting" on Twitter or posting nude pictures of myself in hopes of seducing 11-year-olds on MySpace.

Facebook is the lazy man's answer to "keeping in touch." If you despise phone conversations, have little time for lengthy discussions, or only contact certain people at a certain frequency out of some amiable obligation, Facebook is there for you to sum up that hour-long call in 13 words and a smiley face. There you go, friendship intact. Matter of fact, thanks to Facebook, I hardly call anyone anymore. Sorry, but some acquaintanceships are really only worth an occasional approval of the other's status update.

But like pairs of escalators, there are downsides. (Get it?)

You open yourself to stalkers; beware, they no longer lurk simply in sunglasses and a trench coat (with Facebook, your coworker is probably one of them). Various relationships you have may falter due to Facebook content. You may see and read things that you had hoped to never come across.

Some people just flaunt their true colors on there, don’t they? Man... Withholding and reserved for years, but give 'em a keyboard and monitor to hide behind and suddenly -- [cue loud, explosive mouse click]!! -- they'll throw out their life wishes and sexual preference and relationship status and current employer and alternate means of being contacted and photos, hobbies, moods, fears, regrets...

Oh, wait. That's all of us, isn't it?

I mean, where's the bashfulness in Facebook? Nowhere. It's out the window. No physical space intrusion, no awkward face-to-face confrontations, no social demand for chivalry. And virtually no censors, baby. Post whatever the capital f you want. Go ahead, cuss someone out -- typographically key someone's vehicle -- what can they do? Upload a risqué (albeit within reason) picture, talk sensually to anyone you feel, adamantly promote any agenda you care to -- you can be the real you that you can't be at work, or you can be the desired you that you can't be when being the real you at work.

According to Facebook, as of this writing, I have 589 friends. I know I don't actually have 589 friends. I don't make enough money to have 589 friends. But Facebook has redefined the word "friend." A friend now can range anywhere from someone who knows all your darkest secrets to a friend's friend's friend whom you think is hot and with whom you happen to share equal interest in a local indie band. If you think of the reason why you initially got on Facebook, you'll probably laugh. Most everyone got on there to either find long-lost friends from yesteryear or to supposedly network. Or both. But here’s the conventional depreciation in Facebook friendship acceptance: childhood friends > current friends > people you sort of know > some chick with whom you hazily recall splitting a pitcher last night.

Tweet that.

Award Shows

And the winner is...

Not me. And not anyone watching, really. Or at least that's how I feel about award shows. What a waste of human existence those shows are. Oscars, Golden Globes, Emmys, Grammys, Tonys, you name it. I hate that they're occurring, and I hate that people are watching.

I already know this is an unpopular opinion, believe me, so don't bother attempting to "awaken" me from my discontent. I've (apathetically) heard every argument for award shows that there is. But my mind can never be changed; award shows are meaningless, self-righteous affairs.

There is not a greater ego-stroking exhibition than the telecasted award shows. It's one giant four- to six-hour catwalk in front of ogling cameras and cardboard-cut nobody "journalists" foaming at the mouth for a sound bite from a bejeweled, Botox-infused douche, wrapped in sequined den curtains and hiding behind sunglasses at the darkest hour of the night, and on display on a stage abundantly saturated with overproduction, lame one-line endeavors at comedy, artificial live-yet-pre-recorded-and-lip-synched musical performances, and lengthy, trite soliloquies of thank-yous and meandering political commentary. It's a celebration of pompous nothingness.

And they're just crankin' 'em out, baby: People's Choice, Kids' Choice, Animals' Choice, Ghostly Spirits' Choice...

I can't blame the networks; I mean, they'll broadcast whatever people will watch (essentially and justifiably, this is their approach to anything they air). Nor can I blame the individual institutions/academies; likewise, they'll push whatever sells -- and more appropriately, whatever reinforces their own agendas. The people I blame are we. Us. The audience. The "Access Hollywood" viewers. The checkout-lane gossip readers. The dress-alike, look-alike idolaters. They'll only continue the madness if we continue to support it. Sadly, I think most of us want to.

My point is we laud and applaud the efforts of people we laud and applaud anyway. We intertwine our lives with theirs, and we don't even know these folks. Frankly, I'm not the least bit concerned with who wins Best Actor of the Year any more than I am with who wins Best Auto Mechanic of the Year or any other profession's coveted annual recognition of great achievement.

But lay me down a red carpet on my way to tackle an Excel spreadsheet and maybe I'll reconsider.

Headlights

Lots of distractions for the common driver these days, aren't there? Cell phones, GPS devices, iPods, DVD players, etc. -- all on top of what we've already been distracted by for years, like stereos/radios, billboards, passengers, eating... among several other attention-grabbers. Last thing we need is one more distraction for our focus toward safe arrival at our destination, right?

Yet we have headlights. Yes, headlights. "Hold on," you say, "headlights are essential to driving. They’re a necessity. They keep us safe!" When used correctly, sure. But so is radioactivity.

The distractive half of headlights is when folks throw the "brights" on in your face. You know what I'm talking about -- you're driving down the highway, you've got everything under control, until suddenly someone steadily approaches you from behind or oncoming with their bright headlights unknowingly on. Now the focus is on trying to awaken them to their blinding traffic infraction while also trying to find the asphalt and keep your car continuing between the painted lines. Personally, nothing boils my blood like some moron's "brights" blocking my vision. I mean, it would seem to me that there's no driving miscue that's more blatant to the offender than having your bright headlights on in a non-bright-headlight-warranted driving situation. (A blinker when not turning ranks a very close second.) This tells me the driver him/herself is obviously distracted. That or just too stupid to hold a driver's license.

But we'll chalk that instance up to inattentiveness -- or, rather, a distraction caused by a distraction. It's slightly more forgiving that way.

What are beyond unforgiving are the headlight bulbs new to the market as of just a few years: purposely discolored headlights (usually some hue of blue) and ultra-bright halogen headlights. When the shade of your headlights could easily be mistaken for a cop's emergency lights, I question their legality -- oh, and usefulness. But apparently I'm the only one as I've never heard them questioned legislatively. Look, people, headlights are universally urine-tinted maize. Not blue. Not white. Like taillights are universally red -- imagine if folks started switching those up ("Does that car in front of me have green taillights? Couldn't be. Probably a green light. I'll just give 'er some gas and -- wait a seco--" Broken glass everywhere.).

And these ultra-bright halogen bulbs I've seen advertised now, where the commercial explains, "Now you can see farther"... Hmm, care to know why? Because they’re brighter. So, while you're now able to see that deer rounding the bend four miles up, you're killing everyone else's vision, blinding us all into becoming the multiple helpless obstacles you were trying to avoid by installing these National Guard floodlights in the first place, and, in turn, leaving us to use shoulder grooves and street reflectors as Braille.

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.