The Point of the Story

Your #1 Source of Unsolicited Life Advice

Author: BJ (Page 22 of 35)

Oh, The Places You’ll Go (When Your Tank’s Really Full)

20 December 2020 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

Nothing really matters, ’tis all but a dream!

So ahead we shall go, full-stream…

When I was around 9 years, I had this random dream that I was in this old early 1900’s-era house with archetypical Ozarkian architecture. You know exactly what I’m talking about–the kind that has the master bedroom at the front of the house with the other bedrooms in the back, and in the dining area there’s a floor furnace that really ties the room together. Indeed, a classic example of “archetypical [early 1900’s] Ozarkian” if I ever saw one.

Ok, so I’ll confess that the reason I’m so confident in these oddly specific details is because, in fact, this house was the very same house in Springfield that we happened to be living in at the time.

Anyways, in this particular night-vision, there wasn’t much context or plot. It started with me standing somewhere in the front of the house, in either the living room or my mom’s bedroom. And all I knew is that I was super-tired and needed to get back to my bedroom, which was through the dining room and past the kitchen at the back of the house.

I know, I know. It seems kind of redundant to share such details about the floorplan, given that I’ve already established pretty clearly that this was an early 1900’s-era Ozarkian home. But–believe it or not–there are actually people out there unfamiliar with this school of thought within the architect community, so bear with my while I kindly suffer these ignorant fools.

Okay, so there I was needing to get from the front of the house to the back of the house. Simple enough, right?

Well nothing is ever that simple is it? About 4 steps through the living room the plot got a whole lot thicker: I realized that I had to pee. Like a mother ----- racehorse. I had never had to take a whizz so bad up until that point in my life, and perhaps has only been surpassed by the now [in]famous OMG-The-Nurse-Touched-My-Wee-Wee experience.

Now, I don’t have to tell you fans of early 1900’s-era Ozark residential architecture twice that my newly re-calibrated destination–the lone bathroom in these types of homes–was about 12 good paces from my location in the living room, off to the side of the dining room.

Nor would I want to insult your spatial visualization skills by painting a mental image for you like you were a 5-year-old. No, no, don’t let me interrupt you as you envision in your mind’s eye what it would be like to be standing where the living room and dining room meet, looking at the bathroom door, and then looking down at your feet to see the floor furnace conveniently located only 1 pace from your current location.

And since you’re already reliving the dream with me in your head, I bet you’ve already jumped to the clear and obvious logical conclusion that, in retrospect, seems kinda genius: “Why suffer a full bladder all the way to the bathroom, when there’s a perfectly good floor furnace right here? I mean, ----- it, this is just a dream, so who cares, right?”

Truly, I was quite relieved by the realization that I was merely experiencing a consequence-free dream…

Relieved–just like my bladder was in that dream-version of our family’s floor furnace! *rim-shot*

*sigh*

Apparently, this mildly-interesting-at-best dream stuck with me, on account of me-thinksing me-self to be such a clever boy. Honestly, though, I was kind of proud of my display of quick-witted problem-solving skills, even if it was only in my imagination…

Later that year, Mom and I were doing some light spring cleaning, and we were almost done with the living room. The last task? That neo-classical early 1900’s era Ozarkian floor furnace, of course.

We got to scrubbing on it, and something about it vaguely reminded me of a distant dream that was just beyond the grasp of my consciousness. Mom must have been able to tell from my face that I was trying to put some puzzle pieces together in my head, because she got this funny look, like there was something she should say, but was trying hard not to.1Hmmm…where have I seen that look before?

“Did you notice faint hints of an odd scent, perhaps?” she finally said.

“Yeah, a bit,” I replied. “Did a bunch of mice get in here? It smells like hot-baked urine–but not like hot-baked mouse poo, oddly enough.”

“Well, actually…”

Her pause only confirmed what I suspected to be true. I was starting to see the pieces fit 2That there’s a TOOL Schism reference, for the very select few of you who’ll appreciate it. alright.

“You see, a few months ago I was up late working in my bedroom, when you showed up out of nowhere asking to borrow a pen…”

“Umm…okay…”

“I was so shocked to see you that I had to ask you to repeat yourself, but instead of answering you just mumbled unintelligibly and wandered out of my room. Next thing I know, it sounded like you were pouring water out of a gallon jug into a really big metal cup.”

“You don’t say…”

“Confused, I went to investigate, and there you were, just doing your business right there in the middle of the dining room. You seemed to really be enjoying yourself in that moment, and I guess I was too embarrassed to say anything. So I figured it best to never bring it up again if I could help it.”

Of course.

Of course, it would turn out not to be a dream after all…

I think the real lesson here, though, is that perhaps a good rule of thumb to live by is that any time you’re inclined to say to yourself “f*ck it!” and proceed to do something slightly ill-advised despite the possible consequences, maybe that’s your first clue to not do whatever your dumbass is about to do.

I mean, have we learned nothing from my Very Merry Bar-Shitzvah?!?

What? You didn’t think I would let my birthday pass without bringing that up, did you?

Bonus: For all you pun-loving Bob Villa fans out there, I thought it would be nice to toss a little sumpin’ your way…so you should know how badly I wanted to entitle this post “Piss Old House.”

Content created on: 15 December 2020 (Tuesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Famous Last Words Of A Guy Needing A Reliable Ride

17 December 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

Sometimes I fancy myself a bit of a guardian angel:

Unseen, but always looking out for unsuspecting fine young honeys everywhere…

One of the wonderful benefits of riding public transportation to and from one’s job is that you get to meet all sorts of new and interesting people. For example, a few years ago, I was waiting at my usual bus stop waiting to head home after work. There I was, just minding my own business when one such new and interesting fella approached me. I could see hunger in his eyes, so I was fully expecting him to ask me for some money for food.

Instead, he proceeds to launch into this long and complicated tale that started out like any other “I need bus and/or gas money to get from Point A (our current location) to Point B (a very important place that I need to be most urgently).” I sat there and smiled and nodded politely, not paying close attention at first because, hey, if you’ve heard one of these stories, you’ve heard ’em all, right?

As you can imagine, his request was indeed for money for the bus fare so he could get himself on over to the neighboring city in a most expedient manner. “But what such pressing matters could there be for this young chap in the neighboring city?” you are indubitably wondering right now.

Well, it turns out, there was a “fine young honey”1I can’t remember the exact street slang he used here, but this is a pretty good approximation. in that city impatiently waiting for him to show up for their second date. And he made it pretty clear that if he didn’t make it in time, they wouldn’t be, um…”pressing [their] matters” together later. I mean, he was nearly in tears as he confided in me his worst fear: that there would be no bumping-of-uglies that night.

Oh, things were starting to make sense now. That hunger I had seen in his eyes? Pure sexual hunger. This dude wasn’t asking for gas money; he was asking for ass money.

But the best part was that he tried the classic empathy-inducing “We’ve all been there, right?” line on me.

No, dude, I can’t say I’ve been in your shoes. I have never had to beg strangers for bus money so I could make it to a 2nd-date booty call.

Though I gotta confess, I was tempted to give him the money, as I felt him more than deserving of points for honesty and/or creativity.

Trying to keep my professional demeanor I suppressed my grin as I told him I didn’t have any cash on me and sent him on his way. In the end, I really had to think of that poor young woman. I actually had enough cash to cover his bus fare, but I didn’t have enough to cover what he really should be spending his money on: rubbers.2Kids, this what people used to call condoms, believe it or not.

#DontWantNoScrubs3This tale was initially live-tweeted to my secret Twitter account, so #hashtags make much more sense in that context. And a few select people out there will appreciate this hashtag include in the original tweet: #Gintus.

Moments after this encounter, while I was busy patting myself on the back for helping that young lady dodge a bullet, I noticed the randy lad approach another regular bus stop patron who had just walked up.

I happened to be within earshot, so I got to listen in as he solicited this other guy. After the Scrub-Looking-For-A-Sensual-Rub finished his pathetic plea for ass-money, Guy #2 replied he had just spent his last bit of cash buying crackers at the nearby gas station for another guy who had asked him for money.

“But next time,” he reassured the Scrub, “I promise I’ll buy you some crackers.”

Clearly, this was not the outcome our pitiful supplicant was hoping for.

Before stomping off in disgust, he loudly muttered:

“Man, I don’t want no crackers!”

Now that I can relate to…

#DontWantNoCrackers

Content created on: 12 October 2017 & 17 December 2020 (Thurs/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Forgotten Dreams Of A Promising Young Boy, Revisited

13 December 2020 / / 2 Comments
5 Min Read

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.

Proverbs 13:12, The Good-ish Book (NIV)

As long as I can ever remember, I have been pretty certain that I wanted to be one thing and one thing only in this lifetime: Inventor.

I mean, sure, I wanted to be a firefighter for like two weeks after I finally found the courage to go down the fireman’s pole on the playground. But that was just a momentary 5-year-old’s fling that was never meant to last. Naive puppy love, if you will.

Being an inventor, though–that has truly stood the test of time. In fact, that’s still my answer when someone asks me what I want to be “when I grow up.” I suppose that everlasting desire of my heart is rooted in the allure of being patently1Pun intended, mother ----- . clever. In fact, you may recall how I once mused that “clever” is the single word I want on my tombstone (if they’re charging by the character, that is). That’s probably not going to change any time soon.

But there’s a fundamental truth about inventing that I learned early on, and that is inventing is hard.

When I was six or so, I had found an old 1950’s-era radio at the town landfill and instantly knew what I was going to do with it. Shortly after I brought it home with me, I set about the task of inventing something with it.

And sit I did. In fact, I sat there for probably at least an hour, just staring at it, thinking to myself, “I’m inventing! I’m inventing! I’m…so…when does the actual inventing start?”

Clearly, “inventing” isn’t something that you just go and do. Like life, it’s much more complicated than that. But a boy can still dream, right?

“Professional Nomad.” That’s a fairly apt description of my career thus far. Sure, I’ve been in the field of the physical sciences most of my adult life. But that’s a pretty big field, and I’ve taken more than my share of opportunities to wander in that wilderness.

Honestly, I have had a hard time establishing–or even just settling on–a professional identity. True, I’ve had some achievements worth celebrating: earning a Ph.D., becoming a published author,2Published in scientific journals, just to clarify. working on interesting scientific and medical problems in some high-caliber labs, etc. But without some sense of identity, that nagging feeling of wandering persists, leaving me to wonder if I’m ever going to do anything worthwhile with my life.

Then came along the Year 2020.

I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I’ll confess this to you: it’s been a rough year on me. I like to pretend that I’ve had the mental fortitude to thrive in this ----- -up year, but the wheels are going to eventually fall off that wagon. And not least of these struggles have been job-related.

For starters, I’ve had to share a workspace with the Boss Lady, whose competency and skill has only been put on steroids in these times of crises. No lie–she is literally being dragged up the corporate ladder kicking and screaming. She’s deserving every bit of the glory coming her way, and I couldn’t be more proud to be her Marty Ginsburg.

Meanwhile, in the other corner of the bedroom, though, I’m sitting here feeling like I’ve been running in place as a part-time scientist. Running in place–at best. Not to mention the underperformance of my other side hustles, like The Prissy Pet Project.

But you know what the icing on the 2020 shit-cake is for me? In but just a few days I turn 40. And oh boy, I’m starting to feel all the trappings of going over the Hill starting to creep up on me–namely, the early stages of a mid-life crisis. For someone that had so much potential in their youth, I have to fight tooth and nail against the fear that my life is going to pass me by and I’m going to be left with nothing but the realization that I’ve squandered all that potential.

Seriously, ----- 2020. ----- it right in its skull-holes.

Earlier this morning, as I was desperately trying to finish my diatribe about the dangers of talking to your parents about drugs, I noticed an email pop up in my work account. I glanced at it just long enough to see the term “Disclosure”–noting that it was undoubtedly yet another bureaucratic task in which I have to verify that I have no “conflicts of interest.” This is common paperwork for almost everybody in academia…and also yet another reminder that no, I’m not doing anything remotely close to being of monetary value with the time that I’m not being a scientist.

Thanks for asking, though. Assholes.

When I got around to directly looking at the subject line, it turned out that’s not what it was at all. Instead, it was “Invention Disclosure Received.” Okay, well, clearly this wasn’t directed at me. I’m pretty sure that I would remember if I had submitted any invention anywhere at any point in my lifetime.

But then I got to actually reading the email itself, and saw that it was addressed specifically to me, alongside several of my collaborators and coworkers from when I was a full-time scientists a couple of years ago.

Wait, what? This isn’t junk mail or busy work or random spam–this is something worth paying attention to.

Now, in the academic research world, there’s often a years-long delay between “work done” and “pay-off for work done.” So I’m actually used to finding out third-hand via similar-looking emails that I’m an author on some paper that’s about to be published–despite that project being 5 years in my rear-view mirror.

But, lo and behold, this wasn’t just another scientific paper to append to my modest-yet-respectable LinkedIn C.V. I read through the email carefully 3 times and confirmed, yup, this was indeed a project that I had poured waaaay too much time into. I figured that for my efforts I might get to be a footnote on the paper that would (maybe) eventually be published.

Apparently, though, this technology was novel enough that it was being classified as an invention. Very cool.

And one little detail had escaped my attention that I finally caught on my third read-through:

“If you are an inventor, please click here to complete the signature portion of the Invention Disclosure Form…”

An increasingly interesting work email

Did you catch that?

“If you are an inventor…“

Holy. Shit. They are talking to me.

Or, in the language of the 1984 Rob Reiner cult classic mockumentary, This Is Spinal Tap, I’m “Authorized Personnel:”

It took a few minutes for this new reality to sink in, and even then, I could hardly believe it. Me. Inventor? Yes, it really was true!

And I gotta admit, I never saw this one coming. I’m mean talk about the Universe coming through with–if I may be so bold–The Best 40th Birthday Present. EVER.

In one fell swoop, on the doorstep of what was going to be one of the most depressing birthdays in the midst of one of the most traumatizing years that any living folk under the age of 98 will ever experience, out of the blue comes the most pleasant of surprises:

  • Childhood dream fulfilled before 40? Check.
  • That identity that I have been long searching for? Check.
  • A Tree Of Mother- ----- Life? Check!

Sometimes I have a hard time knowing where the line is between inviting others to share in the joys, celebrations, and victories of my life vs. just plain #HumbleBragging like an oblivious asshat.

But you know what? I’m gonna unapologetically own this one. My hard work has unexpectedly paid off, my heart is delighted, my countenance is lifted, and my spirit is soaring.

In the middle of all that is going on around us right now, the world needs all the uplifting stories it can get it.

Thank you, you’re welcome, and–why the ----- not, since we’re already here–Happy Birthday, Me!

Signed Yours Truly,

–The Inventor

Content created on: 10/11 December 2020 (Thurs/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Talking To My Parents About Drugs Sure Was Informative, Man

10 December 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

“And the award for ‘Least Amount Of Substances Abused Over A Lifetime’ goes to…”

*ahem* Drum roll, please…

When I was in my early twenties, my mom and I went on a road trip together, and it turned out to be a great opportunity to get to know her as an adult. Somewhere around Saint Louis the topic of illicit drug use came up, as I was curious as to what kind of wild youth she might have had before I came along.

To my surprise, that conversation was much shorter than I expected, as she was able to exhaustively inventory the handful of experiences she had in under 10 minutes. As one might suspect, she had samplings of beer or wine spread throughout her adult years.

Oh, and that one time when she was in grade school when she learned a very valuable life lesson the hard way: once she and her cousin Kenny once dared her uncle to let them have a puff or two on his cigar. In true King Solomon-like fashion, though, he obliged them…on the one condition that they smoked the whole thing.

I’m not sure who called who’s bluff here, but they oh-so-unwisely took him up on his offer, and–in a shocking turn of events–both got sick af. And, she hasn’t touched tobackkie since that fateful 1960 summer day…

While that the tobacco story was quite entertaining and in fact left me laughing so hard I could barely drive, I must say I was a just a wee bit disappointed.

No LSD. No drunken benders. Not even a single drag of the icky-sticky Mary Jane. Not a single ----- skeleton in her closet to incorporate into her eulogy one day.

If I was hoping to hear mind-blowing stories about popping acid I guess I chose the wrong parent to talk to about drugs…

Given her sparse history with judgement-altering chemicals, then, I naturally assumed that there were no new shenanigans of hers to be discovered if the subject were to ever surface again. Or at most, that said shenanigans would be of the “cheeky and fun” variety.1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNPW2wZ4D2s

Fast-forward to a couple months ago when we were just chattin’ away when one of us happened to joke that the two-year-old in the household was acting lightly inebriated. You know, the classic “toddlers are basically drunk midgets” joke and all.

“Ha ha, well you don’t exactly have a whole lot of first-hand experience with that, right, Mom?” I casually commented.

“Just twice that I can think of,” she replied.

Well, this was a mildly interesting development.

“Oh, you’ve actually drank that much before?”

“Yeah, on one of our dates your dad and I went to Hugoton and I drank an entire Bloody Mary. I was a little tipsy after that.”

“Hah! You’re such a lightweight, Mom!”

She just stood there in silence, lightly blushing.

“Hmmph,” I thought to myself, “I’m not sure why my mother’s inability to efficiently metabolize alcohol would warrant an awkward pause…”

After a few more moments of silence, it occurred to me that she seemed to be working hard to not say anything more about that particular incident.

“Wait a minute…”

No doubt she could tell by the look on my face that the puzzle pieces were falling in place in my head.

“Did I…did I just…”

No, surely it couldn’t be.

“Did I just accidentally hear the story of how I was conceived?!?“

Now, the correct response here would have been an immediate and emphatic “No, of course not, Sweetie! That’s silly–you were a spontaneous localized manifestation of multi-dimensional positive energy, just like any other angel.”

But instead, she only blushed harder.

After another pregnant2Yes, of course this pun was very much so indeed intentional. pause, I said the only thing I could think to say in that very dazed and confused moment.

“Welp, I guess I just walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

Looking at me with pity in her eyes, she simply replied, “Yup.”

While typically I would leave you with a singular zinger of pithy life advice, I thought I would change it up and share with you a few of the alternate endings I was kicking around. Here’s an excerpt from my notes as I workshopped the possibilities:

  • “I used to think that those who claimed ‘you learn something new everyday’ were full of shit. Oh, how I wish that were true…”
  • “Well, that was unexpected.” Narrator: “That’s what your mom said!”
  • “…and through all this, it was apparent that Mother had learned yet another very valuable life lesson, as she has never had another beer nor another child since…”
  • Or simply: “Beer: The Fountain Of Youths!”

The truth is, though, it’s alternate beginnings that I’m left wishing for.

Like, what the hell am I supposed to do with this newfound knowledge that I was a Beer Baby?!? Oh, the ----- humanity!

Content created on: 9/10 December 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

All I Want For Festivus Is My Rightful Tech Fortune

6 December 2020 / / 2 Comments
5 Min Read

In the timeless words of Frank Costanza, “I’ve got a lot of problems with you people, and you’re going to hear all about it!”

So, Harvey, if you’re listening, this grievance is for you…

While it’s debatable whether or not I really invented Cake Pops, one actual claim to fame I have is that I was part of the 3-man team that built the very first U.S.D. 217/Rolla High School website. I know it’s hard to imagine, but before Mr. Taylor’s ’97-’98 Computer 3 dream team came along, www.usd217.org was nothing but a 404 Error in one’s browser, a Digital Void in the Nothingness of the Interwebs.

At first, me and my two partners in crime–my beloved brother 1SkinnyJ, and David, the captain of our Scholar’s Bowl squad–were pretty pumped. Here we were, three of the most creative minds in the school, and we were given a blank canvas on which to create the outside world’s portal to our school and community.

This was also the same year that our school had acquired it’s very first digital camera, and it’s hard to overstate the sense of limitless potential this gave the students and staff. It didn’t take but a day or two before I had convinced everyone of this potential by Photoshopping 1SkinnyJ’s head onto the body of one of the cheerleaders.

Well, maybe “convinced” isn’t quite the right term here. Turns out that the only one bemused when that picture was found mysteriously plastered all over the school was 1SkinnyJ himself. That particular cheerleader? She was pissed af. Which I didn’t get, because you couldn’t even tell it was her! And, honestly, how did the teachers not see the humor in all of this?!? But I digress…

Perturbed by the lack of appreciation for my artistic work, I decided to channel my creative energies into the school’s website instead. While boring ol’ Rolla is literally a one-stoplight town (see Figure 1), it wasn’t long before I realized that this was actually a huge opportunity to do something cool.

Figure 1. Rolla, KS, circa 2020–which is pretty much the same as “circa 1997.”

Digital camera + basic website navigation + small town = ???

It was the perfect idea: Why not create a virtual tour of our little hamlet?

If we wanted to show off our community to the outside world, why not literally do just that? As you can see, Rolla is roughly just a 13×8 grid. It would only take us one or two beautiful Fall afternoons to go down each street, taking 4 pictures at each intersection, and then another 4 pictures in each direction in between intersections. By my calculations, that would have been around 1000 pictures–okay maybe it would have taken 3-4 afternoons, but tractable nonetheless.

Slapping together a web page with Left/Right/Forward buttons that would navigate between the various views from the streets of Rolla was well within our technical abilities as well. This was going to be the coolest ----- thing since the invention of the internet, and it was all well within reach.

But, alas. Just like my bro’s head on a cheerleader’s bod, my genius was ahead of its time. And for someone so ahead of his time, it turns out that I’m a bit stuck on the past.

And thusly, Mr. Harvey Taylor, I hereby bestow upon you the honor once only reserved for one Mr. Howard Raff: you is about to be only the second Rolla High School teacher to be the recipient of a grievance that’s more than a couple of decades overdue.1For the record, I only air grievance against those teachers I actually was pretty fond of. Consider it an honor, if you will.

I gotta say, Mr. Taylor, you blew your chance at being a part of something revolutionary, but noooooooo. You just had to shoot down my proposal. I guess it turned out to be perfectly on brand for your vision of the website, though: the world must know that at one point you actually demanded that we make it as boring as possible because “you gotta think about who might be looking for information on the website: old people. Old people will only be confused if you make it too fancy.”

Yeah. Whatever. Well, it was bad enough to have all our great ideas–and collectively we had a lot of them–preemptively shot down in the name of being practical to a stupid degree.

Well, then, one can imagine how I felt then, when, 10 WHOLE YEARS LATER, Google launched Street View. Yeah, that’s why my idea sounded so familiar to you: it was exactly Street View–over a decade earlier, and at least a year before Google itself was even founded.

Perhaps you (Dear Reader) can’t imagine how I feel about being robbed of the glory and other trappings that would have come my way, if only that dastardly Mr. Taylor would have let this little light of mine shine. So let me try communicating in my second-favorite language I like to speak in these parts: semi-obscure pop-culture references…

In the 2003 hit movie, The Italian Job2https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0317740–the one with Marky Mark Wahlberg, not the 1969 one with Alfred from Batman–the lovable and zany Seth Green plays Lyle, the hacker/computer expert of the gold-heisting team. Yes, the very same Seth Green that appeared at the end of my recent chestnut of a pop-culture reference as the son of Dr. Evil.

In what may be one of my all-time favorite completely unnecessary plotline, Lyle claims to be “the Real Napster”–the true inventor of the free music-sharing internet platform that was ubiquitous back from 1999-2001, but (likely story) his college roommate had stolen the code for it from him while he napped and received all the glory instead.

Surprisingly, I couldn’t find a great clip or two from the movie that fully expressed how big of a chip on his shoulder this was, but the first 30 seconds of this scene (which happens to be the best Seth Greene scene in movie history for entirely other reasons), will give you a taste:

[Editor’s note: the original clip that was shared here is no longer available on YouTube. If you’re curious what happens after the first 30 seconds in that clip, you can see that here. As a poor substitute, here is a clip from later in the movie which vaguely references the now-missing clip–in that clip our character had aired a grievance about how his college roommate had stolen the idea for Napster from him…while he was napping. Hope everything else after this still kinda makes sense. If not, just go watch The Italian Job (2003 version) in its entirety.]

Yeah, I feel ya buddy. So now if you’re wondering how I felt about the whole “Rolla virtual tour” thing, you can just imagine me blurting out with an air of utmost grievance to random strangers on the street: “Me! ME! I’m the real Google Mapster!”3This a direct parody of one of the scenes in the movie, I just couldn’t find a clip of it.

Anyways, the point of the story is that maybe–just maybe–you shouldn’t take yourself too seriously.

Sure, you just may rightfully be the Google Mapster, but isn’t it about time you moved on?

For more information about the wonderful holiday known as Festivus, you can start by visiting https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Festivus and/or donating to the Human Fund: “Money For People.”

Content created on: 11 November & 5 December 2020 (Weds/Sat)

Update on 21 February 2022 (Monday) to replace broken YouTube link, and to sheeplishly try to convey the humor and relevance of the original clip.

Footnotes & References:[+]

Tis Better To Just Lust After Your Neighbor’s Wife Instead

3 December 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

Some call me The Human Garbage Disposal.

Unfortunately, I thought that was a compliment…

“You gonna finish that?”

Rosie stared at me blankly, pulled what little remained of her sandwich out of her open mouth, and stated flatly, “Probably not. Would you like my leftovers?”

“Sure! I let nothing go to waste–and that cranberry turkey sandwich was really what I should have ordered in the first place. You’re the best, Rosie!”

I proceeded to pick up that juicy morsel and devour it in a single gulp. Man, did she sure know how to order the most delicious dishes!

You know, in hindsight, though, I would have been much better served had I picked up on her dry sarcasm instead.

To the objective observer it would have been more than clear that she was not done savoring her sandwich–on account of it already being inserted halfway into her oral cavity and all. At that point y’all gotta know she’s pretty much committed to the act of mastication, and wasn’t exactly hemming and hawing any more about whether she was going to polish it off or not.

Yet somehow, all that was obvious in that moment escaped my grasp, and I sat there and enjoyed the final moments of her meal in blissful oblivion.

Maybe my social faux-pas wouldn’t have been so bad had I not been a grown-ass college student. At the time, I had a summer job toiling away my days with the maintenance crew at a resort in Colorado.1Snow Mountain Ranch in Winter Park, for future reference. Joining me there were a bunch of other Jesus-loving college students all taking part in a larger work-ministry project,2If you need more context, I was heavily involved in the Navigators Christian campus ministry throughout college, for what it’s worth. and we would get together twice a week and have ourselves little church-like meetings. Somehow I fell bass-ackwards into the role of bassist in the band that led the Jesus-loving music for these meetings.

Now, near the end of that summer, the handful of us that comprised the Band–Rosie included–had snuck into town to enjoy one last meal together and reflect on all the memories we had made. And in the midst of this sentimental and solemn moment, there I was, passive-aggressively stealing my bandmate’s food like a complete jackass.

Fortunately, this incident didn’t completely pass without at least one kind soul pointing out the error of my ways.

Chip, the band leader, had come to our celebratory lunch with envelopes containing personal letters for each of us, thanking us for our time and efforts over the last 3 months. Once we were all finished up eating and had a few minutes to chat amongst ourselves, he passed them out to us one by one.

I opened mine and as I read through one thoughtful and touching reflection after another, I found myself trying to not get all misty-eyed. And then, I noticed a last-minute addendum scribbled in the margin at the bottom:

“Seriously, though, you need to let people finish their dang meals in peace. I love you, man, but…what the hell is wrong with you?!?

In Christ, Chip”

Clearly, this was a very important life lesson that he felt needed to be passed on to me with an utmost sense of urgency…

Turns out, his wisdom has proven quite prescient. You wouldn’t believe how many times over the last 13 years the Boss Lady has given me the exact same advice. I’m embarrassed to say that all too often I’m still that same oblivious knucklehead that succulently harassed3It’s a sexual harassment pun…though on second thought, I’m not so sure it’s a funny as I thought it would be… Rosie 20 years ago.

On occasion, though, there are glimpses of hope. One time I had finished my pizza before the Boss Lady had, and caught myself gazing lustily at the half-piece left on her plate.

Realizing that it was already enough to ruin the remaining pleasuring of her palate, I rued quietly to myself, “I wish I could take back that look…”

Self-awareness takes time. But I’m getting there.

Ironically, though, it has been becoming a parent that has really driven the lesson home for me. Sure, it’s a bit self-serving for me to care about this now, but it’s for their own good that I constantly press this hallowed fatherly advice upon my insatiable little goblins:

Always remember: “The Last Bite Is Sacred.”

the #1 Rule of Social Eating

Seriously, though, somebody should have beat my ass in Christ’s name4This is a random place to bring this up, but, Fun Facts: Chip lived next door to me in the employee dorms where we were staying that summer. Then I later found out that Chip and Rosie ended up dating and getting married a year or two later. So in sense, I was lusting after my neighbor’s future wife’s final bit of food. True story. long ago for trying to take their precious final crumbs from them…

Content created on: 2/3 December 2020 (Wed/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Survival Of The Squintiest Scooterist You’ve Ever Seen

29 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

“Always wear sunscreen,” they said.

Little did I know how horrible that life advice would turn out to be…

The very first time I visited Hawai’i, I had flown out there by myself for my (ultimately successful) job interview. Not to be deterred by my lack of a companion, I added a day to my stay so I would have an extra chance to explore paradise.

But was I going to pay tons o’ money for a car? Pffft! Hecks no! True to form, I embarked on my adventures on a rented scooter, intent on soaking up every last ray of beautiful sunshine and savoring every last whiff of that sweet, sweet tropical breeze. As the youths probably never say, I was living life “to the max.”

I decided not to overcomplicate things, and had planned on a very bare-bones itenary of snorkelling in gorgeous Hanuama Bay1https://hanaumabaystatepark.com/ first thing in the morning, followed by a brief break back at my hotel in Waikiki, and then I would scoot on around to the Windward (northeast) Side of the island for a late lunch at some some random burger joint. The details of this restaurant are largely inconsequential: I had just arbitrarily picked it to give me an excuse to explore that part of Oahu. After all, it’s not about the destination, but rather the journey. That’s what they all say, anyways.

This simplified schedule would give me ample time to relax another hour at the hotel before finding my way to the airport for my 6 o’clock flight out of there. This would also minimize the possibility of some unforeseen plot twist causing me to miss my flight. Shenanigans? No thanks, not this time!

Now, being the lily-white myopic responsible adult that I am, you can bet your sweet Hawaiian buns that I was popping in my contact lenses and slathering up with sunscreen that morning before hitting up Hanauma. But you know what, sometimes it seems that doing the right thing only invites punishment…

By the time I got back to the hotel after snorkelling, I could tell that a little bit of the sunscreen must have seeped down through my Oompa-Loompa eyebrows and into my eyes, as they seemed slightly irritated. No problem, though! I just took out my contacts, caught a quickie nap, and hit the road for the 22-mile scenic af journey to The Shack in Kailua.

However, between sweating under the Hawaiian sun and the previously-lauded tropical breeze in my face, the sunscreen-in-the-eyes situation was only worsening. It was still bearable, though, and I figured that I would rinse my eyes out at the restaurant and that they should be good to go after a good 30 minutes or so of rest.

Oh boy, was I WRONG about that. I tried to enjoy that hamburger in spite of the tears streaming down my face, a combination of trying to let tears do their intended job of cleansing my peepers, along with the emotional despair of realizing that I was blind, stranded, and almost for sure going to miss my flight. I mean, while I could always get a taxi back to the hotel, I still had the problem of getting the scooter back to the scooter rental place.

I was kicking myself this whole time for declining the scooter roadside assistance in an attempt to save $20. Why? Because I realized that had that insurance been in place, I could solve all my problems by strategically placing a borrowed steak knife in one of the scooter’s tires. Boom! Then I would have a ride back for both myself and the scooter. But, alas, I’m a cheap bastard at heart, and was now paying a steep price for it.

So there I was, with my eyes ablaze trying to figure out how the hell to get myself out of this heck of a pickle. And the burning was only exacerbated by the presence of oxygen, meaning that any attempt to keep my eyes open was excruciatingly futile. On top of this, they had become rather light-sensitive as well. Needless to say any attempt at exercising my gift of sight only resulted in immediate decent into pure misery.

After sitting in a dark corner of The Shack for about an hour and a half with no relief in sight (no pun intended), I realized that I was running out of options–and time. Ultimately, I had no choice but to get my ass back on the scooter and hit the road, irregardless if I could actually see where I was going or not.

For almost an hour I carefully putted down that 2-lane highway with my eyes closed ~85% of the time. I am not exaggerating one bit when I say that I couldn’t keep them open for more than about a second at a time. So I was stuck in this soul-sucking loop of squeezing my eyes tightly shut for 3-5 seconds, then putting every ounce of energy I had into keeping them open for 1, 2 seconds tops. Then rinse and repeat, as they say.

I even tried that trick of alternating which eye is open and which eye is tightly shut, but given that the trade-off was loss of depth perception, I’m guessing it was only slightly less dangerous. The trip was made even longer by the fact that I had to pull over for a couple of minutes every time my spidey-sense started tingling, letting me know that maybe I was edging just a little too close to dying in a fiery crash.

I’ve often heard from other people that when they try to imagine what Eternal Damnation might be like, that “trying to stay awake when you’re extremely tired but have to keep driving” is the best guess they got. Well, just imagine that on crack, with the lovely addition of having hot pokers jammed in your eyes.

You shouldn’t be surprised then to hear that this landed squarely in the Number Two slot on my list of this-must-be-what-Hell-is-like life experiences–barely edged out only by that time I about died getting my tonsils removed, of course. Good gracious! It triggers my PTSD just thinking about it.

While I somehow miraculously made it back to the scooter shop in one piece, my misery didn’t end there by any means. Trying to blindly stumble the 10 blocks or so back to my hotel from there was an unpleasantly surprising swift kick in the crotch, given what I had just endured. I actually got lost in one of the buildings I tried cutting through in an attempt to avoid the sunlight like I was ----- Dracula or something.

Needless to say, when I finally made it to my seat on the plane, I couldn’t have been happier to be leaving that so-called Heaven-On-Earth. As we took off, I pried my eyes open one last time so I could gaze over the island that I would be calling home for the next two years. And when I was completely sure the island was looking, I gave it a stout, 15-second middle-finger salute…

The point of the story actually is that you should never judge an experience by how it begins. It turns out that those next two years were by far the best two years of my life. And yes, I was still a diligent Caucasian and wore sunscreen the whole time–keeping it far away from eyeholes, of course.

But I will never forget what I learned that fateful day: did you know that you can completely exhaust the muscles that keep your eyes open? It’s true! You most certainly can…

Content created on: 10/12 November 2020 (Tues/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

I’m Dreaming Of A Black Thanksgiving…And It’s A Genuine Terror

26 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

When you ask whether I prefer “white meat vs dark meat”, you’re talking about the turkey, right?

Right…?

Boisterous, intoxicated uncles. Politically-opinionated and genetically-related geriatrics. Dairy-induced gastrointestinal events. If there weren’t enough reasons to dread what we Americans like to call Turkey Day, please, allow me to give you one more that you most definitely didn’t ask for.

As you may know, I love to eat. So one might be tempted to think that the cornucopia of culinary delights at my disposal at Thanksgiving would be a real windfall for a little glutton such as myself. Without question, I should be going buck-wild in a debaucherous frenzy, right? It should be my Legendary 12th Birthday every November, indeed.

But if there’s one holiday tradition that’s more dear to my heart than feasting with reckless abandon, it’s the sacred ritual of having all sorts of deep emotional and relational issues come out of the woodwork at the most inopportune time. Nay, I might even argue that that is what “the holidays are all about.”1See, for example: Little Bo Peep Has Lost His Respect For Mainstream Gender Norms

And what better place to find all sorts of ----- up issues than our dreams?

So–true story here–in one recurring dream I’ve had since my teenage years, I find myself in line at a grand buffet2I couldn’t help sneaking in a reference to one of my outside-the-mainstream musical faves, Grand Buffet. with an empty plate. This is going to be so ----- awesome, right? That’s always my first reaction, at least. “I do declare, I must have died and gone to heaven!”

Naturally, I hit that smorgasboard, and I hit it hard. I summarily proceed to scoop one scrum-diddly-umptios dish onto my plate after another, practically drooling in anticipation the whole time. I just can’t wait to sit down and enjoy this feast fit for a king!

Before I do that, though, I have to make sure I’ve hit up all the wonderful options available to me. To my delight, I discover that what I thought was the end of the buffet is actually the beginning of a whole ‘nother section. Just when I thought this dream couldn’t get any better!

But then I find another long aisle of seductive sneeze-guarded options…and another…and another. Just one problem though. At this point I’m long out of real estate on my plate. And that’s about when a very uneasy feeling starts creeping in…

Soon enough, though, around the sixth newly-discovered buffet table, it’s full-on terror. I’ll never be able to practically enjoy all the opportunities in front of me. There’s no way I’m going to be able to eat everything that I want to–nay, that I need to eat.

Too…many…choices. Can’t…handle…decisions. Must…eat…everything.

And every time, in the midst of this crippling paralysis, I finally short-circuit and mentally snap, waking myself up only to find that I’m drenched in a cold sweat.

What kind of ----- cerebral hellscape did I just experience (again)?!?

Seriously. As ridiculous as it may sound, The Never-Ending Buffet is literally my worst nightmare…

Just a day or two ago, the Boss Lady happened to share with me a rather humorous meme similar to this one:

I simultaneously chuckled, drooled, and cried just a wee bit at the thought.

Oh man, you can bet that a Black Thanksgiving spread featuring ribs, BBQ, fried chicken, etc., etc, etc, sounded tantalizing. I mean, let’s face it: who the hell is actually sincerely excited about turkey when KFC is an option?3And let’s face it: KFC is actually pretty shitty but it’s still waaaay better than a ----- gobbler. What is wrong with Caucasian culture that it insists on inflecting so much suffering on itself (for once)?!?

But then in the back of my mind, I began to realize that a horrible, terrible, no-good thought was forming.

Something about this hypothetical situation was making feel very anxious and extremely uncomfortable.

In fact, I still haven’t quite been able to put my finger on what exactly about it that is causing me such distress.

Wait a minute…

*Checks my “Thanksgiving I’ve-Got-Issues Bingo Card“*

Well, I didn’t expect “Fear of secretly being a food racist” to be on here, but it looks like I’ll be checking that one off this year…

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYBODY!

P.S. For a more uplifting Thanksgiving-themed read, may I suggest No, Olive You, Man?

P.S.S. Sorry for being such a Debbie Downer. At least you can be grateful you’re not me, I suppose.

Content created on: 24/25 November 2020 (Tues/Weds)

Footnotes & References:[+]

The Remarkably Beautiful Symmetry Of Dying Buck-Naked

22 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

Well, it was either “ignoble death” or “registered sex offender for life.”

I quickly came to terms that I was probably going to die right there in the water…

I’ve long maintained that I’m pretty sure that I have an utterly stupid and/or ridiculous death awaiting me. If you think I’m joking about this, then you may want to think again. I’m dead serious.

You may have already read about my urine-related brush with death, but I can understand if one piece of anecdotal evidence isn’t enough to convince you of this immutable life-truth of mine. So I thought maybe I would toss another example your way…

Every summer, The Boss Lady and I make an annual trek to hit up one of the many beautiful local beaches, much like many a folk who live within striking distance of one of an oceanic coast. Of course, these days this is now in the form of a luxurious multi-generational beach vacation, but this belies the much, much more humble beginnings of this yearly tradition.

One fine Saturday morning during the first summer of being married, we decided on a Lark1This is a play on words that absolutely nobody is going to get: we lived on Lanark Road at the time, and we had people mistaking our address for “Lark Road” ALL. THE. TIME. to take a day trip to the beach. I had never been to a Carolina beach before, and she thought it would be fun to check out where she grew up vacationing. As a bonus we could hit up the NC Aquarium and nosh on some genuine seafood while we were at it.

Oh, and of course we would frolic in the water and sand a little bit too. I mean, what would be a beach trip without a little sand in the shorts, amiright?

We actually ended up doing the whole beach thing twice in the few hours we were there. The last time, right before we headed home, was a spur-of-the-moment last-hurrah type of affair where we were like, “Hey what say we pull over at this random beach that we’re completely unfamiliar with and get one last bit of salt water in our system?”

It was all fun and games at first, but soon it was time to go, and I found that I indeed had more than just a “little sand in the shorts.” Now the beach we had gone to earlier was the one she had gone to growing up, and a key feature of that familiar beach was that there were showers for rinsing off conveniently located just across the street. No such amenities were to be found at this beach, though.

But that’s not an obstacle that couldn’t be overcome, right? There was an easy enough solution: just go out far enough in the water, take me trunks2Pirate joke or typo? I’ll never tell! off, rinse them out in the ocean, and put them back on. Duh. It’s not rocket science.

I had made it through Step 3 of this Easy 4-Step Plan before running into a slight snag. And I blame it all on the dang geography.

The particular spot in the water that I had chosen in which to do my deed was strategically located between, on one side, a large formidable formation of sharp and jagged rocks. On the other, a large family with many small children playing in the sand.

Still, this doesn’t seem like it should be a near-death experience, right? Well, that’s because we’re overlooking one small detail: the power of the ocean.

Due to some rare combination of the tide and local topography of that particular spot, there was an extreme variation in the depth of the water as each wave would roll in.

I found this out after I found myself naked in the water, unfortunately.

The first time I tried putting my shorts back on, a wave came in, and all of a sudden I found myself unable to touch the bottom. And it turns out that it is incredibly difficult to put pants on without any secure footing and without having enough free hands to dog paddle and keep your head above water.

But as soon as that wave crashed, the water only came up to my ankles, so in an effort not traumatize a flock of youngsters–and to avoid getting arrested for indecent exposure–I sat down immediately in the half-foot of water, as that was the only way to avoid showing off my family jewels to the whole entire world.

It turns out that there was no “in between”–I was either desperately struggling to keep my head above water or trying to hide my Biblical shame in 6 inches of water or less. There was never enough of the “just the right amount of water” for long enough to get my shorts back on successfully.

Very soon I had booked myself a trip on the proverbial Struggle Bus, and struggle I did indeed. The more I fought, the more exhausted I became; the more exhausted I became, the less able I was to stay in the same spot…wait, why am I so close to those rocks? Oh shit ! This got real, real fast!

My life started flashing before my eyes. Was this it? Could it be true? Was this how I was going to die?

Ass-naked and smashed upon some rocks?

Yeah, you know what? This seems pretty on brand for me. And why not? Who wants a boring Bougie death anyways? Not me! I’m pants-down and Heaven-bound, baby!

Plus, there was some strange satisfaction of having it all end just how it all began. After all, naked and flailing I came unto this world, and naked and flailing I shall leave it…right?

You know, I don’t recall how I ultimately got out of that jam, but much to The Boss Lady’s relief–who was watching this all unfold from the shore with a concerned-yet-laughing look on her face–a somehow survived while also managing to not show off too much of my flesh to that very confused family of onlookers.

Anyways, there you have it, folks: yet another ignoble way that I almost died. Maybe there isn’t really a moral of a story to be had here, but that’s okay, I give you permission to go ahead and laugh at my expense.

And if nothing else, I got to sneak a little bit of Maranasati in, which is actually pretty fitting for the Thanksgiving season: though we may eventually die, let us give thanks for still being alive.

As they say, this is what the holidays are all about…

Content created on: 12/20 November 2020 (Thurs/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

How To Make Your Own Dang Christmas Miracle

19 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

“No! Only I get to stuff the ballot box!” he hissed at me as he grabbed my wrists and wrestled the stack of raffle entries from my hand…

It was Santa Day–well, actually Santa Night–in our sleepy little Kansas town of Richfield, and the holiday magic was in the air! There were carols to be sung, brown paper bags of Christmas candy to be procured, and wishlists to be whispered into the ear of the shady-ass Santa who we later discovered drove a beat-up Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme instead of a sleigh.

Of course there were also various door prizes to be won by the members of our tiny rural community.1Population: 81 (per 1980 census) True, it was mostly boring ol’ frozen critters like turkeys or hams, because that’s how we country folk liked to roll. But there was one glaring exception to this rule: a small stuffed teddy bear that played Christmas tunes when you pressed its paw.

And 1SkinnyJ (my slightly older brother) wasn’t the only one who desperately wanted to win it.

Now, even though I was only 6 or 7 at the time, I already had a lucky streak going in my nascent life. Movie tickets…Easter egg hunts…definitely not greased pig chases…I wasn’t exactly winning the lottery (yet), but I was still doing nicely for myself when it came to profiting from random events.

“This ends tonight,” he stated firmly, glaring at me with pen in hand. “You always win everything, you lucky little bastard. Now, I’m going to win something for once!”

Unfortunately, I didn’t really hear all he had said because in my mind I had already figured out what that rascal was up to, and was like, “Okay, so we’re doing this. Funk yeah. Let me get my own stack of 25+ raffle entries to fill out…”

Once I got done with mine, I patiently watched him stuff the little shoe box to the brim with pieces of paper with his name chicken-scratched all over them, waiting for my turn to tip the scales of chance in my favor.

That’s when I discovered Step 2 of his evil plan: voter suppression.2Okay, so I wasn’t technically a ‘voter’ per se, but it’s an apt enough analogy when writing this in November 2020 (ahem). He let me put my name in once, but wasn’t about to let me put it in 24 more times. Because we both knew exactly what would happen if I did…which was the whole ----- reason I wanted to do it too.

So there we were, in the middle of the Richfield School gym3Actually, I’m pretty sure the table was on the north wall, at the east edge where the gym meets the hallway to the classrooms… scuffling over a stack of fraudulent ballots that I almost got into the drawing. But of course, being the big brother, 1SJ ultimately stopped me from doing exactly what he had just done.

Did his commitment to committing raffle tampering end there? Oh no, not at all. Later that night I tried to sneak back and finish the job, but he came sprinting in at the last second and darn near tackled me. That boy truly believed in his cause, that was for sure.

At that point I said “F*ck it” and gave up. You know why though? Because, it was true: I was a lucky little bastard, and I figured that all I needed was my singular entry to have my name drawn out of the sea of that cheater’s names. Joke’s gonna be on you, bro!

I wasn’t really that surprised when, lo and ----- behold, someone came and found us outside later to tell 1SJ that he had somehow overcome all odds and won himself a musical teddy bear.

Funnily enough, later in its ill-gotten life, that teddy bear’s battery cavity would go on to serve 1SJ very well as a hiding spot for various forms of illicit contraband . So I guess the joke ultimately was on the teddy bear, what with getting drugs stuffed up its butt like it were a Paul Frampton wannabe4Ah, yes, UNC Dept. of Physics & Astronomy’s most famous drug mule: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Frampton#Drug_smuggling_conviction…

Anyways, the point of the story is, if you’re desperately in need of a holiday miracle, sometimes all you need is sheer grit and a little physical restraint to make it happen. And before you know it, you just might have yourself a merry little Christmas bear hitting them high notes for all the wrong reasons5Because, the drugs . All them drugs up its ass. Just so we’re clear.…

Content created on: 18 November 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

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