October 19, 2009

The History Of Reading

The library can be a frustrating place. The thousands of books range from subjects such as Israeli Politics to Elephant Birthing Habits and can be a bit overwhelming. In theory, each book offers potential to learn, grow and find a passion to direct your life. With most books, I’d settle for a bit of trivia to spurt out in the elevator between floors 4 and 8 just to keep the awkward silence to a minimum. (“Did you know there are 118 ridges on a dime?”)

Even though borrowing a book is free, the cost can be substantial. The last thing you want to do is read 150 pages of a book to realize that you have, surprisingly, zero interest in learning about Genghis Khan’s Dermatological History. The investment of time can keep those without a system circling the racks, trying desperately to judge a book by its cover.

The good news is I finally have a system. After 40 minutes of not having a clue what to read, I grab the first book I find that I can hold in one hand (necessary for Subway reading) and has a title that makes me look like a bad ass. This has been successful with books such as The Plague, but been less successful with books such as the Lovely Bones.

I didn’t always used to be a reader. In fact, I’m quite new to it. Despite my father’s pleading and eventual threats, I always found something better to do than spend time with a book. Here is my History of Reading.


– Age 10 –

The only thing I read up to this point was the typed screens in Super Mario Bros 3 at the end of each level. Without reading those, I would have never known the princess needed my help.

– Age 12 –

Determined to get a free lunch, I read the entire list on the Dorothy Canfield Fischer (DCF) list. If you read ten books from the list, you would be entered in a drawing to get lunch with the author of one of the books. If you read all twenty, your spot was guaranteed. I pushed myself to get through every word of each book because my school lunch experiences to date involved blocks of shredded wheat and a bag of oats my mother had packed me. When it was announced that the school’s talent show would be the same day, I elected skip the lunch in order to reprise my famous one man play called FUTSO – the basic premise of which was that I fell down and said, “Dum de dum doo!” for 15 minutes.

– Age 14 –
Thinking I had discovered a loop hole in my teacher’s grading system, where he awarded points based on the number of pages read instead of number of books read, I tried to casually slip in a couple generously thick books such as The Tommy Knockers. When asked to prove that I had read the book instead of simply watching the movie, I simply described the plot of the book based on the picture on the cover since I had neither read the book nor seen the movie.

– Age 19 –
In a quest to find an identity, I decide to become an expert on something, anything. After hours of thought, I decide on Coyotes. Despite an honest effort, my expertise in Coyotes was limited to knowing that they are part of the dog family and that I didn’t give two shits about them.

– Age 22 –
Therapy costs about $120 an hour (otherwise known as $120 more per hour than I had to spend). However, library books are free and there are billions of titles in the Self-Help aisle to assure me there isn’t a problem in the world that can’t be solved through reading a book. After reading ½ a dozen books all with the following formula “You have (blank) as a problem. Stop doing (blank)!!”, I decide to write a book called, “You Can’t Help Yourself.”

– Age 23 –
While you can’t judge a book by its cover, you sure as hell can judge a person by what book they’re reading. Therefore I push myself to read books that are in excess of 1,000 pages and written in Latin.

– Age 25 –
Reading is a form of entertainment. School is over. Why all the pressure to learn? I refuse to read anything that is less than 7/8th dialogue and has a main character who is only referenced by his last name. “Hey, Davis…where’d you get that nice watch!?”

– Age 28 –

I considered getting a Kindle, but realized owning a Kindle shows you’re REALLY serious about reading. Perhaps a little too serious. In many ways, it’s equivalent to wearing a helmet on the subway.

And now the history continues. My new system may last me a lifetime, but seeing how my reading has changed throughout the years, it may not last for the rest of this year. Hmmm…I wonder if they have any books at the library on reading habits that have cool looking covers…

October 5, 2009

Problem Solving Lion

Dear Mother and Father,

How are you guys? Have either of you thought about Christmas yet? I have. I think about it every day. I look forward to seeing both of your shiny (glowing?) faces. Speaking of Christmas, I’ve thought of something you guys could get me a little early this year. As you know, I’ve been struggling a little bit – I was caught crying under my desk at the office yesterday – and I’ve been looking for something to get me out of this funk. Well, I think I’ve come up with the perfect solution. I would like you to buy me a lion. I was watching this video and got all teary thinking about having a companion a savage and powerful lion be powerless to the might of our love for each other.

Now, before you guys say this is just another one of my stupid ideas (I still think a water gun that shoots ice cubes is a fantastic idea and I’m sorry if my initial start up estimates were more conservative than what was really needed. I’m not pointing any fingers, but you were the guys who thought getting Milton Glaser to make the logo was “overkill”), let me explain why this idea would be different.

This idea isn’t going to cost you a thing. Well, virtually “not a thing.” Actually, it’s going to cost about $14k. Keep in mind, that’s a fraction of what I could spend. I’ve researched high and low and found a man in Flatbush who is selling his lion cub for about 1/3 of what I would have to spend if I sought the same cub from different sources. All I need is the money in cash, to ask zero questions and to bring something called, “the stealth of god.” At least that’s how it translates into English. I might be translating it wrong so I’m bringing a backpack filled with dice (it’s the only other thing I think “dios” could mean).

Of course I’ll need some supplies as well so we should just round the initial investment to an even $30k – did you know you have to have lion cages custom built out of really strong metal?

While there won’t be any monetary return on your investment, there will be a substantial return in love. And secrecy. I don’t think I need to remind you about the time Dad yelled at me in the 6th grade for picking my nose too hard. I wouldn’t want “certain departments of child protection” to find out about that. I also wouldn’t want anyone, especially the local hospital, to find out that the brownies mom and I made for their bake sale had Crisco in them instead of vegetable oil, would you? I think our secrets are best left hidden deep, deep in ourselves.

If nothing more, I ask you to do this because I’ve asked for very little in my life. Besides college, those three graduate degrees and that (what was I thinking) PhD, I’ve never asked you for a dime that wasn’t used for rent, business start up costs or the occasional rare Star Wars memorabilia. What I need now is to have the love and devotion of an animal that could maul me at any moment – it’s the only love I can know is sincere.

Please don’t tell my younger sister that you’re going to provide me with any funds or that I’m getting a lion. She’s very spoiled and would want a lion for herself (can you imagine Katie with a lion? That thing would get one view of her phone bill and rip her to shreds, right?)

In closing, I’d like to impart a quote I tell myself every morning: “To know yourself in the essence of madness is the only true nature of watching things grow in a way that can be sufficiently satisfying to the individual that we all strive to be forever without understanding the true thoughts we hold true to each moment of our lives in the realm.” It rambles a bit, but I’m pretty sure the meaning can be distilled clearly to: Get me a fucking lion.

Thank you. I will name my lion after you both – FarMom.

You’re loving son, you’re good-little boy, you’re “little captain”,

Carl

September 25, 2009

Movie Pitch

Hello, Gentleman. Have you guys tried this Pumpkin thing they are selling at Starbucks? It is freakin unbelievable. I know what you guys are thinking, “freakin? This guy must be the only guy in Hollywood who doesn’t swear!” Well, I’m a believer in that you write like you talk. I write movies that all of American can love and that’s why I’m here today. I’ve got a pitch for you guys that is gonna make it worth getting off your mistresses, putting on those expensive pants – where do you guys shop for pants around here? Never mind, we’ll talk after – you put on your pants and come to the office for ideas like this.

Picture this: The year is 1975. Superman craze has hit the entire country. Everywhere you look, Superman this, Superman that. Even the local Middletown Pee Wee football team gets into it when one of the teams names themselves the “Middletown Supermen.” They’re so into it, that all their players wear capes when they play.

If you’re waiting for the big meat, the hook that you can sink into that shark alongside your boat and reel in…this is it – the capes turn out to be a not so good idea. The problem with football and capes is they don’t mix. Players on the other team would just wait for a player to run by, grab them by the cape and just YANK! Unfortunate for the little kids of Middletown, capes go around your neck and a sharp enough yank is liable to make a kid’s head go pop – right off.

So in the course of this game, every player on the Middletown team gets decapitated. It’s the biggest tragedy in Pee Wee history. 11 players, dead and headless on the field.

Now, while the audience is trying to catch their breath, we flash forward to present day. All of a sudden, people in Middletown start showing up with no heads on and no one has got a clue as to who’s doing it. Is it the town drunk? Is it the Mayor trying to get even with people who didn’t vote for him? No. It’s none other than the ghosts of the kids from the Middletown Supermen. Creepy, right? Imagine all the people screaming in their seats, hugging their popcorn and sucking on their freakin straws as these ghostly, headless shoulder pads come running out of the mist on a pair of children’s legs. Not creepy enough for ya? How bout a little song the Supermen sing, “da da da daa daa da da da…Pop goes the weasel…” I get sweaty just thinking about it.

I know what you’re thinking – “Where is the romance?” Well, I’ve got your romance, protagonist and context in one character called Dennis…Floorlamp. Ok, I was looking at that floor lamp when I said that. His name shouldn’t be floor lamp. It should be something gruffy. Maybe his name IS gruffy. Dennis Gruffy. Either way, he’s gotta be played by Craig T. Nelson if he’s still alive. Well Dennis used to be a coach, but he’s all washed up now. Couldn’t coach his way out of a wet paper bag. That’s probably going to be one of his lines actually. So he falls for this woman named Denise. Denise comes to Dennis because she needs his help. Those demons are terrorizing her and she needs him to reach down deep, believe in himself and coach them straight to hell. See her connection is that her kid was on the original Pee Wee team as the backup quarterback.

Not sure what happens for the next 40-45 minutes, but the end is a dramatic scene at the original field. They find out that the field was built on an Indian burial ground. Then either Dennis finds the courage to coach this team of damned, headless – that wasn’t a swear, I was saying they were damned, not that they were damn headless, ok? – he coaches them straight to hell or he digs up the Indian bones and assembles them in some sort of ultimate defensive formation that keeps the headless supermen trapped for eternity. I don’t know, you’ll have to focus group that. Either way, he and Denise then make love on the 50 yard line and it turns out that her son isn’t dead…and is Tom Brady.

Credits roll, people cheer and we start on the sequel to the movie – which I think should be called, “Keep Your Head in the Game” but can be anything. This movie could be called, “Hey, you, ugly?! Get in here and watch a movie, you pathetic slug!” and it would clear $200 million.

I know how you guys work, so I’ll let you guys get to it. I’ll leave my cell phone number with the receptionist and look forward to talking dollars with you guys soon. We’re gonna be so rich, you’ll be able to buy Panama. Ciao for now, mis amigos!

September 23, 2009

Microsoft’s BIG Comeback

Just weeks after Steve Job’s return to the Apple keynote address in San Francisco, Microsoft saw an opening. The surprisingly lackluster response to the introduction of the iPod Nano with video recording capabilities was more of a reaction to the Apple obsessed crowd’s desire to see the same technology put on the increasingly popular and significantly more powerful iPod touch.

Meanwhile, Microsoft has been waiting for an Apple slip up. While the stylish designs and usability of Apple’s products has given it market share that borders on dominance, Microsoft sees an opportunity to bring the same conceptual designs of pieces like the iPod and bring them to another sector of the retail market.
At this morning’s press conference, Microsoft will be introducing the first ever 64 deck playing card shuffler. This is a severe upgrade over the latest incarnation (a 32 deck playing card shuffler – which many thought was the apex of card shuffling technology).

Only three years ago the thought of shuffling more than 3-4 decks in a single shuffling machine seemed impossible. “When I was growing up,” says Microsoft Chief Execution Executive, Paul Randal, “we had to cut the deck in half, flop them all together and make a huge mess of things. And that was ONLY one deck! Now, shuffling 64 decks is as easy as a flip of a button, a turn of a crank and the simple loading of 64 decks into this multi-slotted loading panel.”

Could this be the new Macro Shaft?

Could this be the new Macro Shaft?

Many in the industry are impressed, including electronics editor of Dimples magazine, Harry Barnstorm. “Microsoft has often been accused of being a follower, but this clearly shows that they can play the role of innovator. Hewlett Packard has been working on a 40 deck shuffler for the past several years, but product development deemed the technology impossible.”

While Microsoft likes hearing their praise sung throughout the industry, what the consumer thinks is what matters most. In a teaser campaign on its website, Microsoft had a video showing 2 second clips of the falls at Niagara with an end message saying, “There’s got to be an easier way.”

Rumors surrounding the product’s design have been flooding the Internet. The most popular design among tech heads is a vertical design that has detachable straps and a waist centered brace for easy portability. Microsoft is being tight lipped about which design is real. Says Randal, “I can promise you this – it’s going to be much smaller than you think as long as you think it’s going to be roughly 10 – 12 feet tall.”

Tentatively named the Microsoft Macro Shaft (named after it’s tall multi-slotted loading panels) the revolutionary shuffler comes in 4 different colors or “skins” and is expecting to be priced only slightly higher than the previous version at $799. “Technology has come such a long way,” says Barnstorm. “It’s a true testament to Microsoft’s genius that we are pushing the outer limits of card shuffling.”

As to what’s next in the card shuffling industry? Only brave chat room participants can guess. Says one poster, “The ultimate card shuffling technology may not be here today, but we are seeing glimpses of it with the introduction of the Macro Shaft. One day the thought of being able to quickly shuffle 100 decks of cards in a single device that not only looks great, but can fit easily in most passenger cars’ back seat will become fully realized.”

The entire tech industry will be watching the live webcast of Microsoft’s announcement this morning and as most analysts predict, the Microsoft Macro Shaft with 4 skins promises to be on almost every tech head’s Christmas list.

September 19, 2009

Criminal Status

My brother means no offense. How do I know that? He tells me right before he says something incredibly offensive. We’ll be sitting at a bar, having a beer, discussing something like what it means to be successful and he’ll say, “No offense…but you’re too ugly and stupid to be successful.”

None taken.

So it’s with that concept in mind I say: No offense, but the tragic murder of the Yale student this past week has made me laugh. The murder itself isn’t funny, but the way it’s being reported is. Journalism used to involve tiny note pads, knocking on the neighbor’s doors and asking people’s friends and co-workers questions to figure out what a potential suspect was really like. Now that makes as much sense as a JC Penny catalog because of sites like Facebook and Myspace.

Unfortunately, for every teen busted for being tagged in a picture holding a beer can, there are as many desperate stretches to paint a picture of someone through the information on their page. I especially liked a moment in a NYTIMES.com piece about the person who would later be arrested for murdering the 24 year old Yale grad student. It delved deeply into possible motives by painting an illustrious portrait of Raymond Clark and his girlfriend Jennifer Hromadka. When talking about Jennifer they pulled in this golden nugget:

Jennifer wrote on her MySpace page that she’s not perfect, but cautioned people not to judge her.

“Who are you to judge the life I live? I know I’m not perfect and I don’t live to be, but before you start pointing fingers make sure your hands are clean!!” the 23-year-old wrote.

That’s some incredible journalism. I wonder if the journalist managed to actually go to myspace or simply looked over her co-worker’s shoulder while she surfed through Jennifer’s page. While the fall of journalistic integrity could be a valuable rant, I was more focused on the fact that Jennifer’s myspace status was under such judgmental scrutiny.

What would happen if, for some reason, I was placed in a very public investigation and MY facebook page was scoured for psychological insight? Here are actual Status Updates and what a criminal psychologist could potentially write about me. I encourage you all to do this for yourself and see how “normal” you seem.

Would a poached egg over a brownie be a bad way to start the morning…or a perfect way to set the tone for a stay at home Sunday?

The suspect has a very unusual and unhealthy diet. He thinks he is a god who is above dietary concerns such as high cholesterol. He barely ever leaves the house and leads a secluded life – fantasizing about his next victim.

Off to the land down under – Mexico

The suspect has the geographical knowledge of a 4th grader. Oddly, his college transcript says he majored in Geography which means the college degree was acquired fraudulently. Probably lures his victims through an intricate series of lies.

The over under for how many hot dogs I could eat in one sitting is currently 6. What do you guys think?

He is always seeking approval and looks at normal activities as cumulative goals in the same way a serial killer internally competes to rack up a high kill count.

Governors Island…the blindest island in New York

He is a hateful person who murderously dislikes handicapped people, viewing them as inferior people who are a drain on society. He has a problem disconnecting people and objects – thus explaining his ability to kill humans in such a potentially gruesome manner.

32 Across: A place you’ll find bellybutton lint

He plays games with people – which is a common trait among cinematically depicted serial killers. A confession from him would surely be a cryptic message sent through the media.

You go to an acupuncturist to get acupuncture. You go to a chiropractor to get chiropracty?

The suspect is distrustful of doctors and people in authority. He disregards all science as heresy and believes healing can only come through rituals and sacrificial ceremonies.

Wants to remind you to call your mothers. They miss you/me.

He believes all people are connected to one mother being, which may or may not be extraterrestrial. He thinks his main purpose is to protect this, “mother” against those who wish her harm at all costs.

Wrote an article on puke

The undoubtedly guilty suspect has a fascination with excretions such as vomit and blood. He believes we are all sick and must be cured through his ritualistic killing. Has a general infantile predilection towards the world.

September 4, 2009

Next Year’s Basil

Another year and another failed attempt to grow basil in my apartment. My lack of patience, outdoor space and general knowledge has left me staring at a pot of dirt wondering why I couldn’t keep my basil alive for the 3rd year in a row. Next spring, I’ll have forgotten all the lessons I was intent on remembering. Therefore I’m compiling some tips to remind myself so I don’t make the same mistakes again for next year’s basil.

- Each tiny seed in the packet is a seed meant to grow into a plant:
Because the seeds are so small, I usually convince myself I’d be better off dumping about 1/2 of the package into a single hole or “mass grave”. No matter how much the package urges me not to, I can’t help it when laziness is one of the options.

- Plants need three things – Sunlight, Water and Food:
They don’t need Vivaldi, a stern talking to or beer.

- Making a contraption that acts as a makeshift window box is not advisable:
Since I don’t have a backyard, front yard or fire-escape, window boxes are my only option to get my plants direct sunlight. For some reason, I’ve convinced myself that since sunlight is free, I should figure out free ways of getting my plants to it.

- Don’t get angry when the window box made out of tape and old books breaks:
Trust me, the people who are more upset about my crap box breaking are the people who almost had it fall on them.

- Don’t name your basil:
Ultimately, it makes people feel uncomfortable. Especially if it’s a human name and you refer to it when recalling what you did over the weekend – “Lilly and I watched a movie.”

- Don’t over water:
When my plants are looking sad, chances are it’s because they lack sunlight. Unfortunately, since I can’t coax more sunlight to come into my apartment, I convince myself that a little more water ought to do the trick. This is equivalent to giving a kid who has cut their hand off some candy to get them to stop crying.

- Plants aren’t as sensitive as I think they are:
I’m sick and tired of feeling like my basil is dying because it saw me naked.

- Read to your basil:
I’ve heard talking to plants is beneficial to them, but it can be depressing for me. When I open up about my secrets and deep concerns in life, they don’t really talk back. Note to self: research books that make plants happy. Do all research on a non-company issued computer so I won’t have to explain why I’m researching plant porn. Again.

- Appreciate other people’s basil:
Going to the farmers markets and acting snarky to the people who have beautiful basil plants for sale won’t make my crippled and unfortunate plant grow any better. Just because they have nicer basil plants doesn’t mean I can refer to them as, “the Gestapo of the gardening community.”

- Stop referring to yourself as a gardener:
I might as well be telling people I’m a fisherman because I buy canned tuna.

- When the plant dies, throw it out:
Watching a dead plant rot, while waiting for a miracle is both lazy and makes people uncomfortable. It’s like wearing Crocs with socks.

- Don’t call anyone to mourn:
You are officially allowed to mourn the loss of your summer project for 3.5 seconds. Don’t go put on black and stay away from the phone. This is not a time to share your sensitivity or else people won’t pick up the phone when you call between the months of June and September.

- Don’t take it personally:
I’ve never gone over to friend’s house, seen their less than successful gardening attempts and gone, “I knew it…they are completely worthless people.” However, that’s what I assume everyone thinks when they see my basil. I’ve developed a habit of not returning things just so I could blame my lack of pet sitting gigs on something other than my basil growing abilities.

- Make better list for next, next year’s basil.

August 10, 2009

Communication of Drinks

It’s been a while since I gave anyone good advice. Still, I have friends who come to me asking me questions like, “Should you tip a plumber?” and “When should you tell your girlfriend to stop cheating on you?”

This past week, a single friend of mine prepared for a first date and asked a seemingly simple question: “How many drinks can you have on the first date?”

The more I thought about it, the more I realized this was a critical question without one specific answer. Therefore, I decided that instead of giving my friend ONE answer, I’d let him know what each additional drink was telling his date.

0 Drinks:
“I can’t be trusted. Chances are I’ve had to limit my consumption of alcohol to none because more than that can cause big problems. I shouldn’t be allowed near little children or be allowed to drive in the city.”

1 Drink:
“I own a pair of socks that I reserve for really ‘crazy occasions’. I considered wearing them tonight, but then got too nervous.”

2 Drinks:
“I enjoy seeing how exactly I can drive the speed limit. Passing a car for 6 minutes cause we’re going virtually the same speed excites me.”

3 Drinks:
“I will not drink milk if it’s past the date on the carton. However, I’m a strict proponent of the 15 second rule when it comes to food falling on the floor. What? 10 seconds? Really?”

4 Drinks:
“I think it’s really funny when waiters drop things and everyone claps.”

5 Drinks:
“I believe in gun control…buuuutttt…there’s nothing wrong with having a little fun with an assault rifle every once in a while.”

6 Drinks:
“When I see a dead animal on the side of the road, my first thought is, ‘I hope that wasn’t somebody’s pet.’ My second thought is, ‘Can you eat that thing?’”

7 Drinks:
“There are multiple spots in my apartment that will ALWAYS smell like urine.”

8 Drinks:
“You can spray Raid on your roommates pillow for about a month before they get sick.”

9 Drinks:
“There are legally 32 scenarios where killing someone is legal. I know, I’ve done my research.”

10+ Drinks:
“As soon as we ditch out on this bill, I’m going to show you this unmarked grave that holds special meaning for you…I mean me.”

July 28, 2009

Can You Please Point To Your ‘Belly Elbow’

Come on in, I’m just sterilizing these needles. There are some binder’s on the counter there you can look through. Red binder is for black and white, the blue binder is for color.

Ok, now, what are we thinking this evening, or, I guess, now that I look at the time, I really should say this morning?

Are you ok? You seem a little tired. You haven’t been drinking, have you? I’m not legally allowed to give anyone a tattoo if they’ve been drinking. Or is it that your blood thins too much when you’ve been drinking? Either way, you’ll have to drink some coffee before I ink you up. I’ve got a pot brewing in the back. Hold on a sec.

So what did you decide on? Hmmm…ok, I think I can picture it. You want a unicorn wearing a sombrero across your stomach? Ok, now, hate to pry, but can I ask why you want a unicorn wearing a sombrero and not just a horse wearing a sombrero? I mean, if he’s wearing a sombrero…you won’t be able to see his horn at all. It’s fine to change your mind. It’s not permanent till we ink it on you. I want you to be comfortable with your decision.

Have you thought about getting a Chinese character? This one is for ‘peace’, this one is for ‘harmony and this one is for ‘fighter.’ No, I don’t think I have any that stand for “Gimmie the Sticky.” I could go online and see if they have a translator or something. You also don’t have to get a Chinese character if you’re not feeling it. Pardon me, but it looks like your nipple has snuck out of your tank top. Would you mind…yeah. Thanks.

Is there a message you really believe in? Something religious, sentimental or profound you want to remember always? Did you say, ‘Poor people love Capri Sun’? Hmm…well, it would be my first hate tattoo ever, but…umm…is there a double meaning there or is it as straight forward as it sounds? No, I wasn’t asking you to repeat it louder; I was just asking if there was…forget it. Is that what we’re going to go with? Where would you like me to put it?
I’ve never heard of that, would you mind pointing to your Belly Elbow?

I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re mumbling, ‘Millard Fillmore’? The president? I don’t think most people know what he looks like. I’d have to look up a portrait of him before putting his entire face over your face, but I’m sure it could be done. The face and body won’t be a problem, but, in all honesty, I’m not sure how I’d be able to make it so people could tell he’s on a surfboard. That’s a pretty extensive tattoo. We’d have to do it in stages.

Are you urinating on yourself? Can you please stop? Just stop. That’s a ton of pee. Seriously, you’re not even trying to stop. No, I don’t have a Kleenex, that’s not going to do any good. I’ll get some towels.

Ok, here are some tow- you’re really still peeing? Is this a whole separate urination or is this the same one?
Well…that was impressive. Here are some towels. I’ll grab a couple more from the back.

Just spread these on the floor. I’ll have to Clorox it down later. Let’s get you inked up and out of here before your bladder recharges. What did we decide on? Skunk wearing scuba gear? No problem. Just have a seat in this chair.

Now, I need to ask you this one last time before I start…are you drunk? ‘Sometimes’ isn’t a good enough answer. I need to know if you’re drunk now. Stars? On your face? How many would you like? Are three enough? No, no, no, it’s not time for bed. You need to stay awake till I start. It’s the law. How many stars did you want?
56? All on your face? Miss? Miss? Wake up, Miss.

Fuck it.

July 22, 2009

W is for What is That Smell

My father is into REAL experiences. He thinks being on a plane that lands without any problems is boring, but a landing where the pilot tells people to “brace themselves” is a real experience.

Somehow he was unable to convince his sons to love real experiences, as our primary goal in life was to watch TV and ruin our father’s real experiences. An example of this is the time we went on a walk through the woods after a summer rain and my father kept remarking on the peace and tranquility of the woods while my brother and I continued to recite lines from the Simpson’s episode we’d just watched. This resuscitation of lines somehow turned into roll playing and my brother and I started to shove wet rocks down the back of my father’s pants.

My father thought our childish behavior would shrivel under his serenity, but forty minutes later the only thing that had changed was the size of our rocks.

Later that year, my father decided it would be best for the family if we picked up and moved across the country to California, a place where people embraced real experiences more-so than the staunchy east coasters we’d always known.

To save money, we decided to cross the country via car and take the most direct route, which, unfortunately, took us through the most helaciously boring parts of the country. On the second day of our trip my father started talking about the Great Salt Lake in Utah. By the fourth day, his tales actually became exciting to us as we had grown tired of flat, corn filled landscapes that required nothing more than an occasional glance every three hours.

I knew my brother and I were excited when we started talking about it without my father talking about the lake’s cool, rejuvenating qualities.

As soon as we saw signs for Utah we were already in our bathing suits and applying sun tan lotion. My brother and I spent the last ten miles of the trip to the lake jockeying for position to be the first one out of the car. As soon as the lake came into site we started banging on the windows begging our dad to drive faster.

What we also saw, however, were camels. A camel in Utah standing by a giant lake is an unexpected site, but it wasn’t what we saw that became the problem. Immediately, a foul odor began to seep into the car. My father rolled up his window saying “uggh…smells like a sulfur mill”.

Even after the window was closed the smell got stronger as we got closer to the camel and the lake. Soon we were breathing with our shirts covering our mouths.

“It smells like someone died,” said my brother in between holding his breath.

My eyes started to water as our car pulled up to the visitor’s parking lot. I refused to get out of the car in fear of the smells that weren’t able to penetrate the car’s steel frame.

“Oh my god!” said my mother, “who knew camels smelled like this?”

“Once we get passed the camels, we’ll be fine,” my father said as he took a deep breath and opened the driver’s side door. As we scurried past the camel, the smell didn’t relinquish, it gained in strength. Exponentially. When we finally got to the lake we noticed hundreds of dead fish lining the shore. None of us had dared to remove our shirts from our mouths but my father refused to be and insisted one of us go in.

My brother and I refused, but for some reason my father didn’t take my refusal seriously and decided to throw me in. He picked my up by my mid-section and with one motion threw me into the stinky abyss. I immediately buoyed to the top, not because of the high salt concentration, but because of the horrid amount of dead fish I fell into waiting to be washed on shore.

I crawled to the edge hoping that at some point I would loose consciousness. As I was digging my fingers into the shores of the Great Lake I could hear my father trying to convince my brother to go in. Fortunately, my brother knew of an outlet and claimed that he would tell the entire Mormon community that my father had molested him if he tried to throw him in the lake. With this comment, my father hung his head in defeat. I wish I had thought of that.

We walked away from the lake with our shirts still over our mouths, a wet son with “beat up dad” on his list of things to do and an entire family hoping to never talk about Utah again. My father insisted that it was our attitude and not the area’s smell that needed to be adjusted. My brother reminded him that no one would accuse him of needing an attitude adjustment if he were to be angry after falling into a big pile of shit.

We didn’t talk to each other the remainer of the trip and insisted on driving straight through, no matter how long it tool. When we drove across the California border we were stopped to see if we had any produce or Mexicans on us. Before the officer could finish his sentence about the importance of keeping foreign fruits out of the state, he stuck his head into the car and said, “Eeewww? What is that smell?” My parents didn’t know what to say so I lifted my head up from the Game Boy I was playing and yelled, “Sir, that’s Utah!”.

July 7, 2009

Rotten 1st Impression

You’ve got to have a great opening line.

Well, how was it? Are you sweating with anticipation for the rest of the piece? Have you stopped reading? While in many cases the adage holds up, it’s not as black and white as most creative writers like to think. To prove it’s not as black and white, I’m going to ignore the fact that the people who stopped reading don’t know they proved me wrong.

Similarly, the first impression is not as critical as many push it to be. I should know, I’ve seen several people on multiple occasions and I’m equal parts annoying and dull on the first go-around. Of course, no matter how many times we reassure ourselves life does not work solely in absolutes, we still strive for a perfect opening line and a perfect first impression.

A few weeks ago I was awkwardly sitting in a living room with a guy I’d just met (let’s call him…Rubbafield. Wait, no, let’s call him, Carl). We made innocuous chit chat while his girlfriend, another person I’d just met grabbed another drink from the fridge (she will be called…Rubba- no, wait, Carla).

I’d known Carl and Carla for only about 15 minutes, but I could tell that a good first impression would be to my benefit. It’s not that I saw an advantage to a relationship with them; it’s just that they seemed nice, intelligent and smart enough to know that I’d just used two words to describe them that are the same.

During a critical awkward pause, I started telling a story about my breakfast – It may be boring, but it’s better than me asking Carl which Civil War battle represented him. The only noteworthy aspect of my breakfast was that the soy milk I had poured on my cereal was thick, chunky and had gone bad. When I finished describing the slobbery gook that fell out of the carton, Carl started howling in delight, as if he’d never assumed something like that could happen. Carl continued to laugh as Carla came in the room. “What’s so funny,” she asked.

Before I could retell my rotten soy milk story, Carl jumped in. “He put rotten soy milk on his cereal because it’s his first time using soy milk and he didn’t know it could go bad.”

Carl’s version was a tad bit altered from my original tale. ‘So this is what Charles Dickens felt like when he saw Michael Bay ruin his classic work, Transformers: Pips’ Revenge,’ I thought. Somewhere in my telling of the story, Carl had deduced that not only was I a complete novice to soy milk acquisition, but that I was too stupid to know soy milk could go bad.

All of a sudden I felt my first impression had the potential of sliding downhill. I didn’t want these people thinking I was a soy milk novice and that I’m in no way capable of understanding the properties of perishable goods applies to milks not from cows. I knew I shouldn’t care, but for some reason, it felt like it mattered.

Part of me wanted to wait until Carl finished a story and then say, “Did you hear that Carla? Carl hasn’t set up the new speaker system because he’s stupid and doesn’t know that electronics need electricity.” That seemed like justice to me. Yeah, it would be a bit over the top, but at least they wouldn’t know me as the guy who didn’t know squat bout soy. I wouldn’t have to worry about them deciding who to invite to their wedding and going, “I don’t know…that guy’s knowledge of soy milk was a little wanting.”

I knew the answer was to let it go. Not to worry about such minor and trivial things.

Then I thought, ‘if Carl exaggerated the story this much just since the three seconds I told it to him, what’s going to happen if he retells the story to other people?’ I pictured myself standing at a BBQ and having someone come up to me and say, “Aren’t you the guy who discovered oil and then sold it for rotten soy milk because you didn’t know oil was valuable?”

That, I couldn’t live with. The other option, besides letting it go or being rude, was to politely correct Carl so Carla knew the truth. Unfortunately, that meant letting everyone know that the altered story bothered me significantly and would give away why I was rocking so much since Carl told the story. That, I couldn’t bear to stand.

I was forced to suck it up and hope they drank enough not to remember the horrible details of my spoiled breakfast. Because no matter what we think we can control, first impressions are based on how people perceive you, not on how you think you are. A man fascinated with pin wheels might love me because my hair reminds him of one he saw in Holland. A women deeply saddened by her grandmother’s death might despise me because I can’t stop mentioning how much I hate butterscotch. You just never know.

What you do know is that, just like you, the people you’re meeting are too busy wondering if their soy milk knowledge is upsetting you, to make an opinion of you at all. First impressions are a two party dance and while you’re focusing on not stepping on any toes, they’re struggling to keep their feet out of the way.