A Season’s End

You spent a whole year becoming invested. It started innocently, with modest expectations. At the beginning you were skeptical and detached, keeping yourself grounded while still recognizing the impressive potential that lay hidden underneath the covers.

After a little bit of time, the possibility became tangible. You latched onto it with guarded optimism, trying to keep the gravitas of reality within reach while still admiring those brief glimmers of brilliance with wide-eyed enthusiasm. You did so from a safe distance, though, to avoid the inevitable letdown that you’ve been seasoned to expect.

As the year went by, the doubts started to erode with what might, in retrospect, be described as false hope. The positives were inflated to disproportionate levels while the negatives were glossed over and excuses made to cover the tracks of their short-lived appearances. Despite months of evidence collected and in lieu of the rational thinking that was prevalent before, you started to buy into the promise. In a mere fraction of the time it took to build it up, you cut through your personal web of objective analysis and level-headed reasoning, replacing it with a string of unrealistic expectations that you clung to steadfastly as the winds blew all around you, bringing the year to an end.

Ultimately, when the light shined to reveal what you had so readily turned a blind eye to for the past few months, it hit especially hard. Not only was it an abrupt end to a potentially great situation, but also a devastating reminder why you were so guarded to begin with. There’s not only a gaping void that you know won’t be filled next weekend, but there’s also a looming sense of stupidity that you allowed yourself to get so invested. You question how you could be so foolish to look past everything you had cautioned yourself about in the beginning, and you begin to wonder how that delusion could manifest itself in the future; you wonder if you’re smart enough not to fall into the same trap over again.

When the next one comes around, you’ll try to keep yourself contained. You’ll tell yourself that there’s so much left to prove before you get too excited. You’ll remind yourself of the disappointment you felt at the end of last year and how your guard being let down magnified it so. You’ll swear to yourself that it won’t happen again, that you’ve learned from the past. You’ll be sure of it. But the first time one of those beautiful spirals flashes across your eyes, you’ll be hopeless again.

Maybe it’s because you’re not terribly smart. Or maybe you’re in love with the idea of blindly throwing your faith into something and seeing how it turns out. (And maybe one of those is a direct result of the other). And maybe you’re destined to repeat it all over again until the end of your days. On the surface, that realization might be terrifying, until you grasp what that uncertainty brings along with it: hope. Hope for tomorrow, for next week, for next year. Along the way there’ll be a healthy share of setbacks and some flashes of glory that leave you euphoric, and they’ll all add up to be memories to file away and learn from, to look back on, to share with others. With those memories, though, there will always be that hope that the next one will be the one – and if all of the stars align and you’re lucky enough to actually see that day, you’ll be left with something incredible, something lasting, something you’d never truly appreciate if you hadn’t invested yourself like this in the first place.

Your hope is wounded, but it’ll heal; it always has. So you look forward to what lies ahead, because you feel like greatness is just around the corner. You’re willing to risk feeling this low again just to give chase to this elusive possibility, even if you’re not quite sure you’ll ever catch it.  You wouldn’t have it any other way.

A Return Trip to the Skymall: Whiskey, Wizardry, and Wasting Time

If I’ve proven anything in the past with some of these ramblings that eventually end up posted on the interwebs, it’s that I’m not afraid to beat a dead horse if it means not needing to think up new or original material.  It’s a basic tenet in my life to avoid putting in maximum effort in most things I do, probably so I can have some sort of built-in excuse in the case I end up falling short in whatever endeavor it is I’m pursuing.  Even now, I’m totally half-assing this armchair psychoanalysis, which shows how committed I am to this strategy.  With that established, because I really enjoyed the results the last time I did this and because I found myself spending an inordinate time sitting inside the cabin of an airplane last month, I decided to check in and see what kind of new and innovative products good ol’ Skymall is offering these days.  So on one flight back home, I yanked the latest copy from the seatback in front of me and started to peruse their goods, earmarking the pages with the most ridiculous items so I could revisit them at a later time.

First, though, like all great writers (or just plain alcoholics) I need some ‘thinking juice’ to help the right words flow.  Well, not exactly, but I really like the idea of breaking out the line “Go pour your Uncle Jason a drink and he’ll tell you a story” later on in life, in some capacity.  If the nephew would learn to walk and be dexterous already, I wouldn’t have to wait for that sort of sick hilarity.

First up is this pair of amazingly subtle video-recording sunglasses.  Obviously, given their completely normal appearance, they will allow you to “discreetly record all that you see” without anyone around you being any the wiser. My only suggestion for them would be an optional fake nose/mustache combination attachment for the cases when your investigations need to be incognito. Sometimes some of my more sensitive stakeouts require the most sophisticated in disguise AND spy gadgetry, so it seems like a natural fit.

Regardless, if this technology isn’t already deployed by the government, I think Skymall can expect a very large order to come in from the CIA any day now.

I can imagine the espionage-related dialogue now:

Foreign Dignitary: Hey, Jason, where’d you get those sweet shades?  I like how those giant boxes on each side make them look incredibly uncomfortable and difficult to wear!  I find it a little perplexing why they’d design normal, everyday sunglasses with such unruly, extraneous pieces, but you’ve disarmed me with your charm and wit, so I have no reason to read much more into it beyond that!

Me: Great.  Now let’s get back to the discussion about those secret affairs we were talking about earlier.  And can you please speak directly into this totally inconspicuous, purposeless hole in the middle of my frames?

If you want to completely freak out your significant other, you’ll buy this telekinetic obstacle course and devote a solid 2 hours each night, staring at it in complete silence.  Mix in some intermittent grunting and/or maniacal laughter for added effect.

I actually managed to get a copy of the instructions included in the packaging.  Let’s take a peek:

1.  Strap seat belt around head.
2.  Affix little clips to earlobes
3.  Now think.  Think really, really hard.
4.  What do you mean it’s not working?  Think harder, a-hole.

I know what you’re thinking.  You’d love to be able to play pool with your friends, but it’s so difficult to tell where that unwieldy pool cue is aimed most of the time.  You’re convinced that you’re about to strike that pesky white ball and the next thing you know, you’re breaking windows or violating innocent bystanders.  You’d think they’d make it easier to guide a straight stick into a target that rests centimeters away.  Rest assured, my functionally retarded friend.  Now there’s a handy laser guided pool cue that will place a distinct red dot wherever it is you’ve got that stick pointed.  Now if only someone made a laser-guided fork so you could eat your food as easily as you’re sinking the 8-ball, your life would be a lot easier, wouldn’t it?  I guess you’ll still need to wear a helmet at the dinner table for the time being, Mongo.

Are you sick of people staring at your ghostly white feet?  Ever wish you could have more than 5 toes per foot? Just stick your feet into this box and it’s eerie green glow and see what happens.

No, really – could you let us know what happens, too?  We’re curious.

Extra Uranium sold separately.

Finally, an accessory for my truck that complements my gun rack, naked lady mudflaps, and decals featuring Calvin peeing on some of the things that I dislike the most. They do seem to have left out the following blurb from the description, but I can assume it’s implied:

“Only works on American trucks.  Because fuck you, foreigners.”

I also can’t tell you how psyched I am that the people who are sticking this crap on their cars are the same people that own and operate guns regularly.

I want to know who was directing the photo shoot for this absurd cranial-massaging contraption.

“Can we see ‘contemplative’?  Imagine you’re thinking to yourself:  ‘Why am I wearing this ridiculous fucking helmet that looks like it belongs in the 80’s movie Tron?’”

Nothing demonstrates being in a significant meditative state like that classic fist-to-chin pose while this alien device violates your innermost thoughts.

Also, please note that it is a “patented Italian design”, so you can abort any inkling you might have had about your own vibrating space helmet and the millions of dollars it’d generate.  After all, nothing says “innovative technology” quite like Italy.

A whole page of wizard-related paraphernalia?  Which way to go with this?
Take your pick (it’s like a ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ book!):

• “You’d think the target audience here would already be tired of playing with their wands.”
• “Not included on that map?  A girl’s bedroom.
• “Loneliness included with every purchase!”

From the item description:
“What better way to instantly acknowledge great performances, achievements, or personal relations.”

Gee, I don’t know if I could dream up any better way than with a giant fake gemstone with a ridiculous jewel-related pun emblazoned on the front of it.  Imagine the excitement when the object of your affection opens up the elaborate gift box, giddy with the possibility of what treasure might be held inside, only to find this completely useless hunk of glass etched with cheesy sentiment!  She’ll surely swoon!

What do you do with such an inspirational trinket, you ask? Well, perhaps you might erect a shrine in your home to display it prominently to all your visitors. Or use it to hold down a stack of papers. Or violently hurl it at the dipshit who gave it to you. The possibilities truly are endless.

Well, I hope round 2 at the Skymall was informative, entertaining, and completely fulfilling for all those who took the journey with me.  Maybe even so much that it’ll inspire someone to toss a “Keep Shining!” in my direction.  It’s the least y’all could do.  In the meantime, I’m going to finish this whiskey, put on my robe and wizard hat, and pore over this map one more time to see if I missed… ummm… something.

A Brief Tourism Brochure for Newark, New Jersey

I’ve been doing an awful lot of writing lately, in a variety of capacities.  Whether it’s at work, on a plane hammering away on a tray table-turned-desk, or repeatedly scribbling drafts of hand-written letters at my dining room table, I’ve spent a large chunk of time searching for the exact words that sound right in my convoluted head.  The good news is that it’s a renaissance of sorts for my creativity (if you can use that word to describe the nonsense that tends to leak out from my fingertips onto the screen).  I’ve got a load of cell phone pictures from a trip to Vegas and a brand new issue of Skymall that I’ve leafed through momentarily and skewered in an attempt to entertain myself.  So there’s a mere glimpse at what you have to look forward to, if you’re bored enough to ever entertain reading it.  But first, a still fresh-in-my-mind recount of a one day business excursion to Newark, New Jersey.

This entry is being written entirely from the plane, where the stewardess just came by with the dinner cart and unexpectedly shoved a mound of sustenance, heavily wrapped in plastics, in front of me.  To Continental’s credit, they did so without charging any sort of exorbitant fee, so I gladly snatched the free meal without hesitation and threw it back like I’d been trapped in a Sally Struthers commercial for the past decade.  I’ve detailed my tribulations with airline food in the past, so you might imagine I was slightly hesitant when I started to unwrap my bundle of quasi-nourishment to reveal a mini plastic trough of mixed greens (I believe this particular mixture was 1 part fresh lettuce, 2 parts wilted) accompanied by a tiny plastic cup full of dressing.  I took a deep breath and sized up my 2-inch high adversary, pausing for a minute as my mind flashed back to our previous battle.  In a brief moment of bravery, I faced my fears and tugged lightly at the foil seal.  This time my prior experience in hand-to-hand dressing extraction proved most valuable as I succeeded in keeping said condiment off of my lap and the seatback in front of me and instead was rewarded with a magnificently dressed side salad to accompany my entree.  The delicious main course in this case was a hockey puck-shaped cheeseburger, a sickly warmth emanating from it as if someone (an angel?) had nuked it half-heartedly for 15 seconds in a vague attempt to make it more palatable.  As I wolfed down this mile-high delicacy, I imagined this would be what a dinner in prison might be like, which was fitting considering the depths of hell from which I was flying this evening.

I thought of a number of ways to segue into this ode to a quaint little town on the East Coast, but I think the thing most befitting of a charming villa like Newark is poetry.  So here now is my introduction to New Jersey’s crown jewel, in haiku form:

Newark, New Jersey
Festering shithole of plight
May I ne’er return

(I also struggled for about 5 minutes on whether “ne’er” could be considered one syllable or if it was two, if that gives you any insight on the creative process.  I also feel compelled to document this stuff for the inevitable DVD extras after this turns into an acclaimed blockbuster movie, so I’ve got something to talk about in the commentary feature that no one ever listens to)

I arrived in Newark around 10 PM on Tuesday night and headed straight to the hotel, which was approximately 2 miles from the airport.  When I got to the cab stand, the attendant asked my destination.  When I told him, he seemingly arbitrarily threw out a $20 quote, scribbled it on a paper, and dismissively handed it to me while pointing to a vacant cab.  When I got into the cab, the driver made no effort to get out of the car, pop the trunk, assist with my meager carry-on bags, or utter a single word of greeting to me.  I hopped in, closed the door behind me, and after a few seconds of silence, without looking back from his seat, he mumbled “Where to?” with a little tinge of disdain.  Those were the last words I heard until we arrived at the destination.  To be clear, there are few things I hate more than cabbies drilling me for my life story as we drive from the airport.  I generally abhor any sort of smalltalk where it’s very apparent that neither party has an interest in the answers and are merely trying to uphold some sort of formality because silence is unacceptably awkward.  This guy, however, crossed over that line into an unpleasant edginess which made me resent him quietly from the backseat.  After spending one night in Newark, though, I’ve now absolved him for his actions and I’ll pray for him, as his soul has obviously been downtrodden from being constantly immersed in this surrounding cesspool of a city.

The night itself wasn’t terrible, as I spent the entirety in the hotel.  The highlight came at the vending machine near the lobby, where I spied this bag of Herr’s potato chips.

I’d never before seen Herr’s potato chips — and while this might seem like the most mundane of observations (it is) and sad that it eventually turned out to be the highlight (also true), it reminded me of a hilarious scene from ‘The Office’ where Jim and Karen torment an annoyingly eager Andy Bernard after trying to hunt down a bag of Herr’s potato chips all day.  I checked for a Youtube video, but since NBC is a Communist entity, they won’t allow any of their clips there.  Instead, I bring you the magic of a transcript of this hilarious moment:

Andy:   Hey, what are we doing; what’s the game? I want in.
Jim:      Oh there’s no game; we’re just trying to get these chips for Karen.
Andy:   Did you check the vending machine?
Karen:  The vending machines! How did we miss that?
Jim:       I have no idea.  We went right for the copier… and then we checked the fax machine…
Andy:   Did you check…your… butt?  (angrily turns away)

That’s obviously just as good as watching it, right?  Who wants to see Rashida Jones, anyway?  Yuck.

The next morning I woke up early to meet some colleagues downstairs so we could carpool to the hospital where our field engagement was to take place.  On trips like this it’s a constant struggle to go to bed at a reasonable time, given that my body is still operating on Pacific Time.  So generally I’ll end up falling asleep around 3 or 4 and then need to wake up at 7 AM to start the day.  I pulled myself out of bed in time, and eventually found myself in (surprisingly productive) meetings where I (surprisingly competently) advised some clients on how they could save a pile of money by implementing a solution the correct way.  Am I learning the ropes and actually starting to provide modest value to the company, or was I delusional from lack of sleep and merely dreaming it all happened?  Beats me.  That’s neither here nor there in my story of the forced sodomy that is Newark, New Jersey.

While at our meetings, one of my coworkers needed to leave early to catch a flight out of town.  He told me to take his rental car so I could drive myself and another guy to the airport after our day had concluded, so I obliged and took the keys from him.  At the end of the day after our engagement was complete, I packed up the little Saturn SUV, hopped in, and started to configure the GPS to take me out of that raging hellhole.  The only problem was that the guy who originally rented the car never told me from which agency he rented it.  One would think that inside the vehicle you might find a shred of documentation linking it to a certain company, but this thing was as clean as a whistle.  Nothing on the keychain, in the glove compartment, or in the center console.  The GPS’s saved locations inexplicably had three separate rental agencies listed in it, as well, leaving us a 1 in 3 shot of getting the right one.  After trying to call to find out where he rented the car from only to be met with instant voicemail, I took a stab in the dark on Avis, punched it up on the little GPS screen, and then followed the robotic lady’s voice as she screamed directions at me through the busy streets of Newark.

This particular GPS must have had some added functionality of “Most Depressing Route” that I was unaware of, because we winded through some of the shadiest backstreets that I’ve ever seen in my life.  Everywhere you looked there were police lights, degenerate high school kids slowly sauntering across busy streets while bringing traffic to a halt, and run down housing with boarded up windows.  It was an eye-opening look at someplace I hope to never be again.  After about 10 minutes, I was begging the pushy robot woman in the GPS to find me a highway already so I could get the hell out of there.  While my past complaint with business trips were copious amounts of strip malls, chain restaurants, and chain restaurant bars, Newark took it to a new level.  I don’t think I’d dare leave the hotel after dark, let alone wander around to try and find an Applebee’s bar to get terrible food and pour light beer down my throat all while listening to the semi-attractive bartender prattle on about her Golden Retriever.  The proximity to New York City is enticing, but vastly outweighed by the prospects of getting shivved by any of the gauntlet of unsavory characters I saw milling around outside the closest train station.

My prediction that the rental car was from Avis was actually spot on, and when we arrived in the parking lot (holding our breath) and the attendant scanned the barcode on the window, he welcomed me (“Hello, Mr. Louis!”) and I tried my best to stifle my laughter as I told him what a joy it was to drive this particular Saturn SUV for the past few days.  “Handles like a dream!” I added, feigning enthusiasm.  “You can quote me, Mr. Louis, on that.”

So as it turns out, my favorite place in Newark is the airport because it means that I’m leaving soon.  I happily spent my remaining hours at a bar in terminal C,  enjoying some steak and beer while giving the bartender a hard time for being a Bears fan and discussing their terrible wide receivers and the beatdown the Packers provided them in week 1.

Once we boarded the plan, the flight was delayed for an hour because — as the pilot described it — a piece of duct tape on the top of the fin needed to be removed.  First off, an hour (he estimated it would take 10 minutes initially) to pull loose duct tape off of a plane is ridiculous.  More importantly, though, why the hell is there duct tape holding the fin of my plane together?  Unnerved, during the hour delay I started to burn through the book I’m currently working on, Nathan Rabin’s memoir.  Rabin is a writer for the Onion, and that fact alone makes him qualified enough for me to give any book written by him a shot.  It also came to my attention as a recommendation because I enjoy the works of Chuck Klosterman, who is probably my favorite writer, so I earmarked it especially for this trip so I could make a solid dent into it.  Without getting into too much detail, though, the book reads exactly how I don’t want my writing to read, if that makes any sense.  I spend the entire time I’m reading this book cringing at some of the passages and hoping to hell that it’s not how I come off.  If there’s anything in this life that I don’t need, it’s something to drive me to be more self-critical, but this book is accomplishing just that.

The fact that I’m on a flight back home is enough of a relief to overlook most of it, but there are certainly some characters in my general area that are testing my good spirits.  The first is the guy seated in front of me, who is apparently under the impression that his seat doubles as an old fashioned rocking chair that he can forcibly push back on occasion as he flails around to try and get comfortable.  By the way, when they announced that the in-flight movie would be Harry Potter (whichever one of them it was), he let out an AUDIBLE GASP and immediately got up to get his earphones out of the overhead compartment.  The flight attendant had literally not finished enunciating the last syllable of the title and before she could even get out the part about them coming around to sell headphones for those that need them, he was already rummaging around in his bag like a squirrel frantically trying to dig up its last acorn before the ground freezes for winter.  He’s probably around my age, too, so I’d guess he has the mental capacity for “big boy” books, but I don’t want to give him too much credit.  He’s also ordered three glasses of “TOE-MAY-TOE juice, no ice” and in the fits of relaxation when he’s not rocking his fully-reclined chair into my lap, he sometimes throws his arm up over his head and grabs the back of the headrest so that his chubby hands are 6 inches from my face at precisely eye-level.  This affords me the opportunity of marveling at how someone found the nerve (or stomach) to slap a wedding ring onto that one sausage-looking digit of his.  I should have asked him if I could borrow his mail-order bride catalog as it’d probably be a lot more useful than that stupid Skymall rag in the seatback pocket.

Thankfully there’s no one in the middle seat and I’m afforded some personal space, at least laterally, to glare at this dickbag’s greasy fingers and type this rambling mess with my laptop pressed close to my body.  The older gentleman on the aisle next to me makes it a point to get up during the flight, flag down a flight attendant, and ask her specifically if it was okay to use portable electronic devices (which was about 5 minutes after they made that announcement to everyone over the PA).  When she consented, he hurriedly opened up his laptop and started to plug away at something he’s writing that is of seemingly great importance to him.  He’s doing so with some extreme hunt-and-peck typing, though, moving one finger deftly around the keyboard similar to how I might attempt to play chopsticks on a piano.  This technique is probably netting him a solid 5 or 6 words per minute, so I can see why he wanted to get such an early start on this project.  It is entertaining for me to watch, though, and it gets better as I imagine the type of prose someone who types like that might be dispensing.  I like to think it’s something along the lines of an essay on how much he likes lollipops or how shiny the sun is.  I keep glancing over in hopes that I’ll find him with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as he tries to find that pesky comma or figure out a good way to end the story about the playful puppy and his brand new cherry-red rain boots.  It’s also very possible that this whole idea is only hilarious to me, but I’m leaving it here for my own amusement.

I’ve managed to kill about 2 hours in this sprawling diatribe which makes it feel a little bit successful, even though I’m still self-conscious about the content because of that terrible book I’m reading.  It’s time to close up shop for the remaining 2 hours of the flight so I can relax a little bit and maybe try to sneak a peek at this old guy’s manifesto.  In actuality, I’ll spend my time peering down at the smattering of lights below, wondering what life is like in each of those little clusters of illumination, drifting into a new fictional town each time a new group pops up amidst the darkness below.  As I type that, I spot a range of snow-capped mountains with lights scattered around their feet, miles from one another, each seemingly cut off from the rest of the world.  As much as I try to picture being that far removed from society, I can’t — but I imagine it could be a beautiful little life if you find the right person to be confined with.  I suppose that could probably be true of just about anywhere, though — even that diseased rat-trap I was just so happy to leave.  With that glimpse of profoundness, I’ll shut the laptop down, put the iPod on shuffle, sink low in my seat, and let the sounds take my wandering mind wherever they want to.  I can’t promise myself it’ll be the most assuring place – in fact, that’s pretty much guaranteed – but at least it won’t be fucking New Jersey.

 

 

The Windy City: A Cell Phone Picture Journey

Because I’m obviously incredibly important (and obviously incredibly unskilled), my work decided that I should participate in a 3-day long training course on one of the core products that I will be working with in the coming months.  They offered me the ability to choose the location of the training, and upon scanning the list of possible destinations I decided to take the opportunity to make my first ever trip into Chicago.  Once the itinerary was booked using our internal travel service (who ever-so-efficiently managed to wrangle a flight for a mere $1200 – way to go, travel gurus!), I prepared to make my maiden voyage into the Windy City the following Sunday.

First, though, I had to make my way to the airport bar to kill some time pre-flight and grab a bite to eat.  I slid into a barstool at the large oaken bar at the SeaTac Anthony’s, and ordered up an Alaskan Amber to sip on while checking the menu.  When I looked over and down the bar, I noticed Joel McHale, host of one of the funniest shows on television (E’s ‘The Soup’) a few seats down.  I didn’t bother him, minus my lame attempts at coyly snap off a picture with the cell phone at the request of my sister.

Now as you can tell from this picture, that is most definitely Joel McHale.  Or possibly any other white male between the ages of 25-45, I suppose.  You’ll just have to take my word for it.  I chose not to harass the guy, as he was reviewing a binder full of documents the entire time he was there.  In all, it doesn’t make for a terribly interesting anecdote, but I did notice that he was wearing a cap with a ridiculous thatched front along with a pair of really terrible cargo pants with draw strings around the ankles that made them puff out and look like they belonged on a pirate.  Because of these dubious choices, I’ll forever judge him whenever I see him on the television, despite how witty and funny he may come off on ‘The Soup’.  I hope the comfort of those puffy pants was worth my scorn, McHale.

The flight went relatively smoothly, and I arrived at O’Hare around 8:30 PM before catching a cab and careening wildly (an understatement – I think the cabbie played a lot of ‘Bump ‘N’ Jump’ as a kid) into the downtown area.  Once I checked into the room and set the thermostat as low as it could possibly go, I decided to briefly check out my surroundings.  I didn’t go far before sliding into a little Irish bar a few blocks away and saddling up for a beer.  As luck would have it, this fine establishment had Bell’s Oberon on tap, so the choice was easy.

If you listen to anyone from the Midwest, they’ll tell you that Bell’s Oberon is somewhere in between concentrated sunshine in a glass and the actual tears of Jesus Christ himself.  To anyone else, it’s not so much a religious experience as it is a good beer.  But I take the opportunity to send the picture above to Joe, because I know it’ll inspire a little bit of jealousy and I’m nothing if not a total asshole.  The bartender then informs me that this glassful of happiness is going to cost me $6, and at this point I realize Chicago isn’t messing around.  It’s good, sure, but for $6 I should be handfed grapes by scantily clad women while I drink it.  Soon after, some schlub comes in from the street and drops a cool $5 bill on a bottle of Bud Light, and all of a sudden my Oberon investment is looking better.  I settle in and have another before calling it a night and making my way back to the hotel.

The Chicago River runs directly through the city, and seeing the way the moonlight and glow from the skyscrapers shimmer off of the ripples in the water makes for an incredible sight.  It was cool to walk over the river each day to and from class, and even better to see it like this in the evenings.

The next day after work, I decided to make my way north to check out some of the other neighborhoods the city had to offer.  The plan initially was to start out at Wrigley Field and then go from there, but I never had anything set in stone.  I started walking up Michigan Avenue, which, if you adore crowds of tactless people meandering aimlessly in and out of retail establishments as far as the eye can see, is heaven.  Needless to say, I couldn’t get enough of it.  If I could change one thing, though, it’d have to be more obnoxious children.  Or more strollers.  Or maybe some more clueless foreign people posing for pictures in front of arbitrary nonsense.  God, it’s so hard to choose.  I love them all equally.

I come across this Asian entourage on the way, each of the three (there’s one immediately ahead of the one in the plaid shirt) clad in a different Ed Hardy shirt, complete with ridiculous graphics and the signature writing on the back.  This got me to some deep thinking, leading up to a theory I’ve developed and am quite proud of — that maybe these shirts are their counterpart to ridiculous Chinese character tattoos white people get.  The giant pictures of tigers, panthers, flowers, and bleeding hearts on the front are all revered as beautiful and significant by their culture, and the backs are adorned with writing that they probably don’t understand.  They bring these shirts back to their home country and tell their friends that they symbolize “strength” or “honor” or “truth” when they’re actually just bearing the name of some dickbag fashion designer who charges $50 for a t-shirt and has a cult-like following of douchestains all over the USA (and twenty-fold in Las Vegas).  And yes, these are the things that my mind runs with when it’s left alone for stretches of time.

I kept walking north, making my way through some of the various Chicago neighborhoods, never really knowing exactly where I was, but still taking in all the sights of this new city.  Earlier in the day, I had read about a popular restaurant called Kuma’s Corner (http://kumascorner.com/html/about.html) that was supposed to have some of the best burgers around and a unique rock/metal theme to it.  When I stumbled onto the street it was on by accident, I decided to seek it out and make it my destination for dinner.  The walk was a little longer than I estimated, but I eventually found my way there just as nightfall was setting in.  There was still a huge line out the door for tables, but I managed to squeeze into a seat at the bar after about a ten minute wait.

The décor in this place was pretty sweet.  The first thing I noticed was this two-panel painting of a teddy bear, his face blood-stained, simply saying “Meat.”

That staff member’s shirt says “Burgers, Beer, Broads & Booze.” on the back.  I seem to enjoy all those things, as well.  It was becoming clear that this was a good choice.

I’ll admit it – part of me wanted to come here just because I thought that the entire combination – the filthy meat, the heavy metal atmosphere, the Oberon – would cause Decker’s head to explode when I told him about it.  And he definitely should check it out if ever given the opportunity.  I can definitely vouch for it.  But normally, this isn’t totally my scene.  I mean, I appreciate the burgers, and I think the atmosphere and decoration was pretty sweet, but I’m not the biggest heavy metal fan around.  I especially don’t care for the angrier segment of it.  Bands like Iron Maiden and Slayer are a little bit too much for my taste.  The music at this place lived up to the billing, too, as I recognized some Metallica from the “Master of Puppets” album and some early Black Sabbath during my meal.  So while this might be the perfect storm for some of my friends, it’s not totally in my wheelhouse.  If we were actually tailoring a restaurant to my personal tastes, I’d have to make a few changes.  To start, it’d probably have an acoustic-guitar driven rock soundtrack and make a kickass hummus plate.  Or maybe some 80’s rock ballads and a nice caprese salad.

Shit.  I might have said too much.  What I meant to say was “Grrrrr… Red meat and loud guitars!  I’m angry!”

Phew…  I’m glad I saved that before you all got the wrong impression.  Anywho, I had a few Oberons and perused the menu (http://kumascorner.com/html/food.html) to find the burger of choice.  Now, normally a simple ‘Kaijo’ burger would be right up my alley and I wouldn’t have cause to look further.  But when I got a little more than halfway down the page, I was mesmerized by a burger they call the “Led Zeppelin”.  This marvelous piece of engineering has pulled pork, bacon, pickles, and cheddar cheese.  Yes, pulled pork.  AS A TOPPING.  ON A BURGER.  Have you been reading my diary, Kuma’s?  After you read that description, the words glowing with a magical aura on the page, there’s no more deliberation needed.

The burgers at this place did live up to the hype, too.  They come on a soft pretzel roll (soft pretzels incorporated into my burger, too, Kumas?  Stop it.  This is getting eerie.  You know way too much.) and rivaled the Latona Pub burger for best I’ve had in my existence.  Mix in the hilarious (and hot) little bartender with full sleeve tattoos who kept the Oberon bottles sliding down the bar, and you’ve got a great meal.  The only issue I had with the entire event was the sad-sack “regular” who sat next to me and harassed all of the bartenders and waitstaff who all seemed accustomed to the routine.  They’d all reluctantly ask him how he was doing and he’d regurgitate the same canned response to each one.  “Well, I still got a pulse.  So I guess pretty good.”  And then he’d laugh the same nervous, forced chuckle that made me want to bash my skull (or his) against the bar after the 3^rd or 4^th time I heard it.  All in all, though, it was a successful meal and the start of a good evening.

On the walk back down Belmont Ave, I was approached by a fine young lady who was obviously taken aback by my striking good looks, because she staggered over rather hastily in her elegant evening wear and immediately suggested that we go on a date.  Frankly, I was humbled by the entire ordeal, and not quite sure how to respond.  To top it off, she told me that it’d only cost me $30.  Now, generally I’m a gentleman of fine taste and a good date for me would end up costing a decent amount more than a mere $30, so this intrigued me.  Was she suggesting we keep it casual and cheap on the first date – maybe go to the batting cages and grab some ice cream afterward?  Perhaps a round of mini-golf, ‘Karate Kid’ style?  She was more bruised and disheveled than Elisabeth Shue, I suppose, but that still could be fun.  Reading more into it, was it possible she was implying that she’d pick up the tab on anything above $30?  That would have been awfully nice of her.  I thought it an especially thoughtful gesture for someone who seemingly would have some serious mounting dental bills in the near future, too.  In the end, I decided to politely decline because of the uncertainty.  With such a short time in town, I certainly didn’t want to get attached to anyone and make it any more difficult leaving.  I bid my admirer a fond adieu and made my way toward Wrigley Field.

On the way back into town, I came across a fairly well-renowned music venue called Schuba’s, so I decided to duck in and check it out.  I picked up a piece of literature about the night’s musical act and read it through.  To memory, it was something along these lines:

”Dick Dickerson has a been playing the electric xylophone since he was a small child in rural East Nowhere, Tennessee.  With years of dedication, he’s become the country’s predominant electric xylophone player.  It wasn’t until he met the rest of his band did their unique blend of electronica and bluegrass take form and begin captivating audiences all over the Midwest.  Now, accompanied by roaring trombones, harpsichords, and accordions, he’s bringing this eclectic brand of music across the country as he tours out of his 1978 Volkswagon Vanagan.  Recommended for anyone who grew up in or around a barn.”

I might have missed some details, but that was the general idea.  I politely declined paying cash for this sort of ear-rape, but chose to check out the bar area of the venue instead.  It’s a cool place with some interesting sorts in it, including this joker.

It was obviously very bright in there, as you can tell by the sunglasses he’s still wearing.  And despite the picture of the exterior of Schuba’s (which I took earlier in the day), it’s now well past 10 PM and probably even darker outside.  None of this stops this self-important nutsack from parading around in his shades and telling anyone who’ll listen that “his boys” in that band are gonna be huge.  Luckily, I decided not to listen and disregard him rather quickly.  I ended up staying at Schuba’s for a while as the crowds filled the place nicely, and then ducked out and made my way toward the stadium once again.

“If you were a hot dog, would you eat yourself?”

Wrigley seems like a great stadium with an amazing atmosphere in the surrounding areas.  It’s too bad they weren’t in town during this trip – I would have loved to catch a game sitting in those bleachers.

On the way home, I came across this establishment and immediately dropped to my knees to rue the fact that it was not open at this late hour.  Why must you taunt me like that, Chicago?  Of course I want to pet puppies!  Trust me, you don’t need to insist on this, fellas.  The sign should read “Do you want to pet puppies?  Ahh, fuck, who am I kidding?  Just come on in.”

I don’t know what this place actually looks like inside, but my imagination can certainly paint a pretty sweet picture.  In my mind’s version, you pay an entry fee and are then immediately enveloped in a sea of rambunctious puppies romping all over the place.  There’s football playing on big screen televisions and hot young waitresses who’ll bring you beer as golden retriever puppies play tug-of-war with you.  I’m sorry, I need to take a second to compose myself.  There are tears in my eyes from the beauty…

The next day, I ditched the rest of the class at lunch to pursue a famous Chicago deep dish pizza.  These things are intimidating, because Chicago doesn’t pussyfoot around with their unhealthiness.  They take that shit seriously.  They looked at the original pizza, laughed heartily at it, and then found a way to make it 1000 times worse for you.  “You know what this needs?” they asked.  “More dough and more greasy toppings.  And at least 5 times more cheese.”  I ordered a side salad, and the bartender looked at me like he thought I had a pet rabbit hidden on my person.  I finished most of the pizza, though I was a little underwhelmed by it.  I had much higher expectations after seeing the defibrillators mounted, for easy access, at each of the restaurant’s booths.  That last part might not be true, but I’m not sure it’s that far off, either.  Kudos to Chicago for not giving a damn about stupid little things like moderation, blood circulation, or seeing your own shoes.

I mixed in this handy little cell phone shot, just because it’s sweet and I felt like showcasing some of my artistic side.  It’s a nice little break for you, the reader, but there’s no need to thank me.  It’s what I do.

This guy was apparently born on the street.  Judging from the way he was strutting around (and the fact that he owns that shirt), I’m guessing it was somewhere around the corner of Douchebag Avenue and Self-Important Dipshit Drive.

My last day of training, I snuck off from the group again and hit up a place called Poag Mahone’s for a burger and a few Oberons, finishing the trip the same way I started it.  It was a fitting close to a quick 3 day adventure to a new city.  Hopefully I’ll be able to come back again soon to experience everything I couldn’t fit into my limited free time.  Chicago is a great town, despite their terrible baseball and football teams, and I look forward to a return trip.  And you can bet I’ll be the first in line at the puppy-petting store.  I can hardly wait.

Craigslist in MS Paint — A Phenomenon is Born

OK, so I know that I’m not the only one out there who loves perusing the insanity that litters the craigslist boards. I’m thankful for other aggregate sites that pull out the hidden gems for us (including the legendary craigslist ‘best of’ page), but I feel like something’s missing beyond that. Digging up the lunacy is all well and good, but what about a deeper, more poignant commentary on it? And not just any sort of commentary — commentary in the form of crudely done Microsoft Paint interpretations.

Well, look no further. I’ve finally sat down and created what everyone else has been waiting for. So sit back and soak in the first installment of a brand new art initiative, ‘Craigslist in MS Paint’.

This first ad comes from a stately gentleman in the Seattle metro area. It seems that this mysterious casanova had a ‘missed connection’ with an employee at the auto part superstore Autozone in Burien, WA.

In case you can’t make out the screenshot in your current resolution:

This is going out to Marylou who works at the Autozone in Burien.

Marylou, you have a nice ass and I want to ravish it!! The only thing missing is my hand print across it. If you think really hard, you might figure out who this is. You don’t know my name, I’m just a customer and whenever I’m in Autozone, you and I always exchange stairs.

Drop me a note, I think it’s time for you to step up to the plate and let me squeez that ass of yours and take you from behind!!

Now hopefully young Ms. Marylou is reading or else we’ll all be deprived of one of the greatest love stories of all time. No doubt the Disney corporation is looking on with baited breath, as we can all tell that this is a romantic tale of epic proportions, destined for the treatment on the big screen.

You see, my main man here apparently frequently attends this Autozone establishment and makes it a point to leer at the backside of Marylou as she’s coyly pretending to concentrate on work. This ‘hard to get’ routine is keeping our protagonist in complete anticipation, driving him to the ultimate tipping point — placing an anonymous ad onto the internet. It’s really some classic fairy tale stuff coming to life.

If all of our prayers are answered and she actually does happen upon this ad, we’re all in total agreement what’s going to happen next, right? I mean, it’s fairly obvious. This shapely young lass will melt upon taking in the good sir’s romantic prose, her heart warming with each perfectly sensual line. By the end (“take you from behind!!”) there might be a single tear rolling down her cheek as she stares longingly at the computer screen, hand-over-heart, taken aback by the display of adoration.

What would follow that is up for debate. Would she succumb to all of her desires right then and fire off an email so ‘happily ever after’ wouldn’t wait another minute? Or could she compose herself long enough to go on, as normal, until the next time her prince charming came into said Autozone store?

I prefer this second ending myself — at least for the movie — because of the drama factor. Just imagine the audience sitting there, anxiously waiting for that moment that she spies him walking through the front door. Barely able to contain the smile on her face, she tries to continue to help a customer with his shoddy alternator, all while her attention is focused squarely on this angel that has been sent to her from above, now perusing the little air fresheners shaped like evergreen trees. When he inevitably looks over to hopefully get a glimpse of her backside, their eyes meet — and the emotions erupt like a volcano dormant for centuries. We’d all be on the edge of our seats.

“Squeez(e) my ass!” she’d yell as she hurriedly came out from around the counter and toward his waiting arms.

“Take me from behind, creepy old man who I reported to my manager after the 12th time he came in last month!”

Anyway, it’s tough to fully capture all of the tension and emotion using words, so that’s where the MS Paint illustration kicks in. Notice all of the intricacies, please, and let them tell the story for you. The beauty of this love story inspired me all throughout the process and the resulting art was channeled through me and onto my computer screen. I can’t take credit for the deep feelings that will ultimately be evoked — they’re all directly pulled from this lovelorn auto repair enthusiast’s incredibly moving, epic plea for the woman (and ass) of his dreams. So without further ado:

I don’t know what else to add. I feel like the artwork speaks for itself. It’s a once-in-a-generation story of true love conquering all.

Please, go ahead and let the emotions overcome you. We all need a good cry now and again. If you want someone to thank for this uplifting experience, though, don’t swing the praise in this direction. Maybe you can go down to the Autozone in Burien and give the credit where it’s due.

I’m exhausted now (From the emotional journey? Or perhaps the beers I’ve been consuming? Hmmm…), but I’ll see you the next time there’s a magical craigslist moment that needs to be captured. Until then.

The Merits of Snark: A Pointless Rebuttal

I have a strong distaste for anyone who tries to funnel all of the negative aspects of internet culture into one sweeping stereotype for the sake of convenience.  That brings me to this article (link), which I can’t let go without a chance to respond.  The comments are also priceless, but unfortunately fall in line with what I’d expect from readers of this blog.

Snark is hostile as spit … hazing on the page. It prides itself on wit, but it’s closer to a leg stuck out in a school corridor that sends some kid flying.

Who doesn’t think it hilarious when a kid goes flying onto his face?  That’s comedy in its purest form.  By the way, does your title of ‘Arbiter of Wit’ allow you to wear a cape and/or carry a scepter?

So writes David Denby in his new book Snark, subtitled It’s Mean, It’s Personal and It’s Ruining Our Conversation. Denby explains:

This is an essay about a strain of nasty, knowing abuse, spreading like pinkeye through the national conversation — a tone of snarking insult provoked and encourage by the new hybrid world of print, television, radio and the Internet… I’m all in favor of … any kind of satire, and certain kinds of invective. It’s the bad kind of invective — low, teasing, snide, condescending, knowing; in brief snark — that I hate.

From Merriam-Webster online:

snarky (adj.)
(apparently you need a subscription to look up ‘snark’, but as moderately intelligent people, we can all infer the definition from the related adjective)
1:  crotchety; snappish
2:  sarcastic, impertinent, or irreverant in tone or manner

satire  (n.)
1:  a literary work holding up human vices and folly to ridicule or scorn
2:  trenchant wit, irony, or sarcasm used to expose and discredit vice or folly

invective (adj.)
1:  of, relating to, or characterized by insult or abuse

So, by my count, the practice of using ridicule and scorn as a vehicle for humor is A-OK, but there seems to be some sort of imaginary line, that you’ve ever-so-vaguely defined, where satire and invective cross over into this dreaded beast known as ‘snark’.  Please, continue on with the sketchy details of this practice that you’re obviously unfamiliar with (yet still steadfastly opposed to):

For Denby, the real problem with snark is not the viciousness and clique like behavior of its practitioners. The biggest sin is that snark is witless.

…[I]t lacks imagination, freshness, fantasy, verbal invention and adroitness — all the elements of wit… If you crave immediate proof, turn to the discussion threads that follow a routine post on so many Web sites… a free-fire zone of bilious, snarling, other annihilating rage … snark is the preferred mode of attack. Everyone, it seems, wants to be a comic.

Yes, as an example of this practice, just go to any discussion thread on the internet.  There it is!  Wow, that was easy to find!

As is the case with any other medium, there are well-executed attempts at humor and there are poorly-executed attempts.  By going to the bottom rung of the ladder for examples (internet message boards), you’re merely cherry-picking instances that fit your definition of crude, uninventive humor and labeling them all as ‘snark’.  Not only is that sort of broad generalization lazy, but it’s completely misguided (and irresponsible, if you want to call yourself a journalist).

And yes, everyone does want to be a comic.  You want me to let you in on the little secret why?  It’s because laughter is one of the most important things that a human can do to stay sane in this crazy world.  Without it, you turn life into a chore.  Are you suggesting we stop trying to make each other laugh?

Denby lays out three criteria that differentiate snark from biting commentary. Snark is anonymous; it is ridicule; and it makes no argument of any kind, intellectual or otherwise. In contrast, biting satire is criticism, in the literary sense of the word. Satire attempts to construct a coherent argument, drawing the listener or reader toward the author’s conclusions. Snark is nothing more than “kneecapping.”

Why, again, is snark required to be anonymous?  I’ve yet to see this included in a definition of the word.  Let me help you out:  Snark may be anonymous.  The same goes for satire.  Or poetry.  Anonymity is not a defining attribute, but rather a way that the snark is sometimes conveyed.

You know why I hate ice cream?  Because it’s butter pecan.  Yuck.

Further, there’s yet another assumption (shocking) that snark doesn’t have any sort of basis or argument.  And yet again, it’s completely wrong.  Just because you don’t understand the purpose of something doesn’t necessarily mean that a purpose doesn’t exist.  Just the same as satire, in many cases the basis for snark is to point out the idiocy, the inanity, and the blatant ignorance that is rampant throughout culture.  While it may be done in a harsh, biting manner, it is because those who practice this means of expression are equipped to appreciate just that.  These people realize that self-reverence is completely asinine — that if you do something fundamentally stupid, you should accept the ridicule and be able to laugh at yourself.  If you’re getting offended at something someone writes as a comment on your blog post, it’s time to take a step back and re-evaluate how seriously you take yourself.

While you may not appreciate snark, it doesn’t mean that this form of humor is any less effective or can’t be utilized in an extremely witty, clever way.  If it’s not your cup of tea, that’s fine.  But to try to manufacture a definition based off of poorly selected samples, tie a neat little bow on top, then rail against your newly-invented concept just paints you as out of touch.

In her later years, my Grandmother had taken quite happily to the practice of channel-surfing, as I showed her how to aimlessly meander through the hundreds of different television programs that her DirecTV dish provided.  I imagine that the first few times that she happened to stumble across MTV she came across some programming that didn’t fall in line with her interests, because she quickly developed a disdain for all things MTV.  Over time, any time something came on the television (regardless of channel) that had loud guitars, gangster rappers, or other content that some might deem questionable, she’d refer to it as “the MTV” and quickly change the channel.  One time, there was something noteworthy on MTV that I thought would be interesting to watch with her, but she wouldn’t have any of it.  “It’s on the MTV?” she asked.  “I’m not watching it.”

This definition of ‘snark’ — this umbrella under which all of the ills of the internet lie — is just like that ill-conceived notion of “the MTV”.

Yet Denby fails to address another, equally important characteristic of snark. Snark is the language of losers. It is the petulant whine of people on the outside, unable to figure out why so many are more successful than they. Snark is an attempt to make its purveyors feel better by whittling down others to their own measly size. It takes joy from hurting and pretends that playground insult is rapier-like wit.

Yes, take your shortsighted views on something and then magically apply it as a “characteristic”.  Bravo.  Us middling pea-brains will be too busy trying to hurt one another by hurling grade-school insults to notice.

Snark fancies itself as Jon Stewart, but is not even a pale imitation. Stewart does not slink behind the cover of anonymity, he is not attempting to hurt the feelings of his targets, and his satire is motivated by a comprehensive and coherent view of contemporary politics. He may skewer Conservatives as fools and hypocrites, but, at heart, he believes that their world view is both philosophically and factually wrong.

John Stewart doesn’t want to hurt the feelings of the targets by “(skewering) conservatives as fools and hypocrites”?  Oh, I can clearly see the difference now.  Thanks for illuminating.  It’s a good thing he’s so well-intentioned (or, more accurately, that you agree with what he’s saying) or it wouldn’t be quite as funny.

As Denby points out:

The trouble with today’s snarky pipsqueaks who break off a sentence or two, or who write a couple of mean paragraphs, is … they don’t stand for anything, push for anything; they’re mere opportunists without dedication, and they don’t win any victories.

How dare they not see that, despite being entertained and entertaining others, their efforts are clearly all wrong?

By the way, this guy is calling me a “snarky pipsqueak”:

I’m going to opportunistically (but not anonymously) break off a sentence or two about how wonderful those Coke bottle glasses are.  Seriously, I could probably see through walls with those things.

Ultimately Denby asks: “What kind of journalistic culture do we want? … What kind of national conversation?”

One where these damn snarky kids stay off of our lawns?  Errr… blogs?

What kind, indeed?

How about one that’s slightly entertaining?  Or one where we don’t have to worry about upsetting people who are way too uptight and think their values and ideals have a higher intrinsic value than anyone else’s?

For the love of God, get off your high horses and laugh a little bit.

.

New Blog Site!

I’ve moved all of the old stuff over to this new site, hopefully for a better blogging experience.  If you haven’t seen the stuff before, check out the archives.  If you’ve already seen ’em, read ’em again.  Then lavish me in praise, in the comments sections, for my ten-cent vocabulary and disjointed writing.  Who needs structure and cohesion when you’re “a handsome young man” and “a real catch”?  Believe me, my Grandmother would have never lied about things like that.

I hope you enjoy it half as much as I enjoy this random picture that I found, even though I have no idea what the hell is going on in it.

 

A Very Special, Very OCD Christmas

My first Christmas tree in Seattle:

If only you knew how much effort it took me to decorate it. 

It was worth it, though.

They Don’t Seem Quite So Gay Anymore, Eh?

My NEW favorite YouTube video of all time.  Or just right now.

Internet Heroes: Product Review Guy

Back again with another edition of people who are way funnier than I am.  This time, in the ever-entertaining world of product reviews. 

I’ll admit, I often find myself reading through product reviews as a means of evaluating potential purchases.  Sure, there’s always a few wingnuts in the group that’ll be overly critical and unrealistic with their complaints — but as a whole it’s a useful tool to get a good idea of the quality of a given product. 

Sometimes, though, you’ll come across someone attempting to use these reviews for satirical humor.  I’ve seen some pretty good ones before, including a much more crude effort over at everythingwolf.com that made me double over in laughter, but nothing quite as well-played as this:

There are 6 pages (and counting) of hilarious Amazon product reviews that you should probably check out if you could use a laugh this afternoon. 

If I could high five this “Hoffman” character for the moments of brilliance he provided me over lunch, I would.  And maybe I’d throw in some blazin’ gun-fingas to further emphasize (in a cool, hip way) my appreciation.  That’s “how I do” and/or “how I roll”.

I have to say — these blog entries are a lot easier when someone else does all the work.