The Point of the Story

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Category: My Own Damn Freud (Page 2 of 6)

Who needs to pay a psycho therapist when you can do it yourself! Paying for a shrink? To quote Gellieman: Pfffffft!

How To Know When You Need To Surf Or Hit The Turf

16 January 2022 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

For those of you who believe “time is a prison”:

My Dude, you gotta look to the Surf Watch for wisdom…

“Never! I’ll never wear this prison-on-a-wrist! I simply refuse to do it.”

“But it’s that weird-ass shade of green that you seem to love so much. Not only will it make you look like you know what you’re doing out there–and lord knows you need every bit of beach-cred you can get–but it will coordinate perfectly with your board shorts and rash guard. Practical–and stylish, too!”

Admittedly, I probably wasn’t in the best emotional state to be shopping for a surf watch, which almost certainly factored into my over-reaction to the Boss Lady’s suggestion that I treat myself to such a purchase.

Being fairly new to Hawai’i, I had yet to learn some very important rules when it came to surfing. And that particular morning, I had learned from a very, very angry surfboard shop proprietor that you never ever go into a surfboard shop, take one of their surfboards, put it on the floor, and give it an in-store “test ride”.

Like, how the hell was I supposed to know? I mean, how else are you going to know if it is of the right proportions for your bespoke surfing style? It would seem that common sense would dictate that you do exactly that. But noooooo, you almost break a board floor-surfing one time, and you dang near get banned from surf shops state-wide…

Speaking of “surf” and “style”, back to the topic at hand (or should I say at wrist–#DadJoke): the alien-green surf watch.

Bonus lifestyle tip–“thou shalt not take surfboards for test rides in store”–aside, there was actually some philosophical nuggets of wisdom awaiting me in that water-sport accessory that I was convinced would only make me miserable.

You see, I’m what you might call a “wild spirit”–in general, I detest rules and other types of constraints on my personal freedom (or at least that’s the self-image I have of myself). For example, if I want to eat Miracle Whip on my bananas, that’s none of the Food Police’s ----- business. And I’m sure many a soul out there can relate. Well, maybe not to the Miracle Whip example, but I know that a disproportionate number of you out there are anti-establishment hippies at heart.

You can then easily imagine that the last thing a freeman like me wanted while surfing was to be enslaved to some turgid1To quote The Princess Bride, “You keep using that word…I do not think it means what you think it means.” timepiece hanging off his wrist. Who would want a constant, ever-present reminder that their time to enjoy themselves was steadily dwindling away?

Not me, that’s for sure!

“I bristle at your arbitrary chronological construct of ‘time’!” I shouted in my head at The Man.

However, despite my defiance and shaking of my fist at the wind, I ultimately gave into the Boss Lady’s observation that I would never regret buying and wearing an item of such a counter-culture color of green.

I mean it’s kind hard to argue with logic like this:

“Just think, Honey: with this, you can loudly and proudly give the Fashion Police the finger whenever you like. Oh–except when you’re out in public with me…”

It wasn’t too long before I made an utterly shocking, earth-shattering discovery: I was wrong.

Dead wrong.

That watch was no prison–nay, I dare say it was pure freedom. Yes, this was absolutely contrary to my preconceived notions about “personal liberty,” as I elaborated on above.

Instead of constantly wondering if I had overstayed my welcome in the water, and whether I was risking being late for work–yes, I had the luxury of surfing before work on a regular basis #HawaiianHumbleBrag–I had the peace of mind knowing that I was still on personal time, and that my only job in that moment was to enjoy myself. All without feeling the least bit guilty to boot!

On top of that, I got pretty good at estimating how long it would take me to catch a nice wave, ride it, and subsequently paddle back out and be ready to catch the next one. That meant I could pretty reliably tell myself, “Alright, My Dude, we can savor three more sweet, sweet waves until we need to paddle in.”

I wasn’t selling myself short by accidentally calling it a day too early, and thereby robbing myself of joy. Nor was I unintentionally cutting into my work day, and thus what could arguably considered stealing from my boss who faithfully employed me.

It was juuuuuust right. You know, like Goldilocks. Which is kinda appropriate, since, thanks to my luscious lion’s mane, I’m something of a Goldilocks myself.

In the end, it came down to this: knowing exactly when and where I was supposed to be, and fully embracing the moment of being there, then. That is a luxury we often don’t afford ourselves in this day and age…

The point of the story is please don’t get caught up in ideals about “personal freedom” and such, my friend. Trust me, unlimited freedom is way overrated anyways.

It’s that time of year2If you’re reading this expo facto, note that this is my first original post of the New Year. when we often take on new self-imposed constraints in search of a better self, whether it’s a diet, trying to stick to a budget, or a resolution to spend approximately 150 minutes a week showing yourself some self-love surfing under the early-morning Hawaiian sun.

The key is to be thoughtful about how you want to spend your calories, money, or time (or whatever limited resource you may have) ahead of time. Be deliberate about it.

Then, instead of feeling shackled to an arbitrarily-defined set of so-called ‘rules’, you can embrace the situation for what it really is: knowing exactly when and where and what you’re supposed to be doing, and fully embracing the moment of being there, then, doing that.

That, My Dudes, is the Wisdom of the Surf Watch.*

*Note: Blindingly-neon-green-give-the-Fashion-Police-the-finger-but-just-don’t-embarass-your-wife-in-public surf watch optional…

Content created on: 13 January 2022 (Thursday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Never Bet On Your Brother To Be The Better Man

17 October 2021 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

Almost everyone has had that little brother that won’t stop whining.

Or been that little brother…

“That’s not fair!”

As those words reverberated out of my little 9-year-old pie-hole and into the chasm that was the cab of my dad’s farm pickup truck,1Not the same one from last week; ’twas Big Red’s predecessor. I could hear another more subtle–and more painful–sound amidst the echoes of my whining.

It was the sound of a dollar bill stealthily crumpling out of my hip af fanny pack and fluttering off into the money clip of one of my much older brothers, whom we’ll call “Lyle”–wait…what?!? That’s his middle name? Dang, I’m just now finding this out? I’m such a terrible little brother.

Anyways, I digress…

‘Twas the summer of ’91–a year after our recently detailed foray into juvenile delinquency, but still 8 long years before the Crazy-Ass Summer of ’99–and my closest-in-age bro, 1SkinnyJay aka 1SJ, and I once again found ourselves taking a break from the bustling city life of Springfield, Missouri, finding respite in our dad’s farm in SW Kansas.

This particular summer, Lyle, late in his college years, had decided to join in the whole family farm business thing, and so us 3 brothers found ourselves spending copious amounts of time together.

Also that summer, I apparently was rediscovering my keen interest in social justice, and it wasn’t more than 2 or 3 weeks in before Lyle started to pick up on that theme.

“That’s not fair!” he would silently mouth behind my back, perfectly in sync with my audible gesticulations describing what a grave injustice it was that 1SJ got to get off the tractor a whopping 5 seconds before I did.

I actually don’t remember if that was one of the legion of situations that made me think, “Hey, man, this aggression against the harmonious balance of the Universe will not stand! I better say something…” followed immediately by the whiniest “That’s not fair!”

My “That’s not fair!” refrain was like clockwork–eventually to the point that Lyle was fed up with me boo-hooing about every tiny perceived hardship I found myself not-so-quietly enduring.

“Alright that’s it, let’s make a deal–no a bet: For every day this summer you go without saying ‘That’s not fair!’, I will pay you three dollars. On the other hand, every time you say it, you’ll owe me a dollar. Sound, uh…’fair’ to you?”

“Oh man,” I thought to my greedy little self, “this fool is just practically handing me $200!”

“You got it, dude!”2Err…that would be a Full House reference. I replied, thinking to myself how that verbal handshake might as well have been the sound of some mad coin clanging around in my fanny pack…

“And that, my friends, was the summer I learned how to show some executive function, as well as developing the skill of eternal gratitude for the all the wonderful little things in my relatively privileged life…”

…said no me, ever.

Yeah, wouldn’t it have been nice to have learned such great life lessons at such a ripe young age? Probably would have made for a more balanced and well-adjusted adulthood, that’s for sure.

But nooooo, did I make off like a bandit with hundreds of dollars thanks to that foolish bet Lyle made?

No. No, I did not. I guess I already said ‘nooooooo’, so I suppose I ruined the plot twist on this one.

Fair or not, we kept a running balance sheet of who-owed-whom for the better part of the rest of that summer. With a few weeks left, Lyle mercifully cut off the bet. Was it because he was embarrassed by how money he had lost? Pfft! Don’t I wish.

Nah, it probably had more to with the fact that I had ran up a tab of about $113 with him by that point. So yeah, you could say he was embarrassed–embarrassed to have such a hopelessly self-entitled little brother, that is!

Anyways, I’m guessing you’re not surprised to learn that I managed to blurt out “That’s not fair!” 100+ times in the span of ~40 days (which seemed impressive until I realized that’s only 2-3 times per day–pfft!).

You’re probably even less surprised to learn that, for someone with such a keen interest in fairness, I never paid him a single dime.

But I’ll bet he already knew that before he even made his little wager with me. I mean, given what we’ve learned about him here today, we can be pretty sure that he had the following divine revelation by the age of ten:

“Your middle name is Lyle, kid…

*ahem*…

C’mon, you’re actually going to make me say it out loud?

Fine. I’ll say it:

‘Life’s not fair, kid. Get used to it.’

There I said it. You happy?

Oh, and be sure your little brothers get the message…Lyle.“

The Universe, who apparently is a bit of an A-Hole…

The point of the story is…

*checks notes*

Oh.

Oh sh*t.

That kind of ‘fair’.

Well, don’t I feel like a…um…”Universe.” I was supposed to be writing about the fair this whole time, instead of dragging my brother’s ass on account of his middle name.

Yeah, ‘fair’–you know, like the Morton County Fair, or the North Carolina State Fair. Fun and cheeky sh*t like that.

Well, though I may have copulated the canine on this one, you, Dear Reader, are still entitled to some fair-themed tales. So why don’t you enjoy my classic, The Prize Pig Story? Or perhaps take a philosophical stroll down the Midway with some deep thoughts about people-watching and other unsung Fair activities?

While you do that, I’ll be over here, feeling like this biker dude from the 2001 comedy classic, Super Troopers…

Content created on: 15/16 October 2021 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

10 Easy Steps To Becoming Parents Of PhD-Worthy Little Pussycats

24 January 2021 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

So you’ve finally decided to take the plunge and expand your family, eh? But before you go and make any rookie mistakes that might doom your young’uns to a life of ignominy and infamy, here are 10 quick and easy pointers to help you help them get started down the path to prosperity instead…

Part Un: Preparing For And Procuring Your Pet

1. Do It “For All The Right Reasons”

Just like having kids in an attempt to save a marriage, getting pets for the wrong reasons can come back and bite you in the ass. For example, you may think this is a good way to teach your children responsibility, but be warned that will probably just end with one or more resentful adults in your household.

It is therefore critical that you have righteous motivations for your decision. If you want to rest easy at night, save yourself the heartache and choose from one of the following to justify your new lifestyle:

  • Companionship: Because making new friends is ----- hard.
  • Stress relief: Petting a furry family member can be quite therapeutic.
  • Family memories: You had the joy of growing up with pets. Why deprive your kids of that?
  • Paranormal sentry: Many people get way into real ghost stories and become paranoid that supernatural entities may be watching them while they sleep, but have formulated a theory that animals experience reality at multiple quantum resonant frequencies which allows them to see disembodied spirits from parallel dimensions that aren’t normally observable at the resonant frequency of the average human brain, thus making them excellent watch-cats.

2. Let Others Do The Leg Work

Now that you’re confident expanding your household is the right move, it’s time to make your dreams a reality. Many people make the mistake of trying to handle the impregnation and carrying of a kitten to full term themselves. But this is extremely difficult and requires technology that hopefully will never be invented. Don’t work hard–work smart: let somebody else do all the heavy lifting for you and adopt!

3. Buy In Bulk

Let’s be honest: nobody would choose to be an only child if they were actually given the choice, so why inflict unnecessary suffering if you can avoid it? Adopting brothers/sisters or a bonded pair of feline buddies may cost you more, but will pay off in the long run, as the natural sibling rivalry will toughen them up for the cruel world that awaits them. Also, the assholes at most adoption agencies won’t let you take a singleton kitten home with you, even if you wanted…

Part Deux: Choosing The Purr-fect1Go ahead and call the Pun Police on me. See if I care. Names

Acquiring the cats was the easy part. Now for the truly hard part: giving them names that will make them winners in life. After all, you plan on living vicariously through them, don’t you?

To demonstrate how to go about this daunting task, consider the curious case of these two cats: Flotsam–aka Brett (Figure 1) and his sister, Alana–aka Rylee (Figure 2). Cute cats, yes, but let’s not ignore the elephant in the room. The cold hard truth is that they’re guaranteed to go absolutely nowhere in life with loser names like those. Let’s see if we can fix that…

Figure 1: Flotsam/Brett.
Figure 2: Alana/Rylee.

4. Listen When The Universe Speaks…

Inspiration is all around you, if you only choose to look and listen. Take the time to carefully observe your new housemates. What/who do they look like? Sound like? Smell and/or taste like? Now close your eyes, clear your mind, and say the first ten names/phrases that come to mind. Congratulations! Now you and your co-parent have narrowed your name argument down from (1/2 x infinity) possibilities, to just 10!

Now let’s apply this principle to sweet ol’ Rylee. Despite looking like a clone of a previous pet and tasting like salty chicken feathers when licked, it just makes too much sense not to go with this little kitten’s most distinguishing feature…

“Alana”? Nope! “Rylee”? See ya later, you bougie-ass name! Ladies and Gentlemen, meet…Checkers! Because, uh…you know, the whole mouth-thingy…

5. …But Don’t Go For Looking Signs That Just Aren’t There

Like with any pair of siblings, parents tend to expend all their creative and emotional energies on the first one, seemingly giving the other one the short end of the stick. This is normal, so don’t feel bad about it. Pat yourself on the back for the job well done on Number One, and realize that efficient pragmatism has its value in life as well.

In practice, this means that the Pet Formerly Known As Brett is going to get the name he’s going to get and he’s going to have to learn to live with it. Buddy, you don’t necessarily look like a “Chess”, but, hey, we’ve got other important shit to do today.

6. Pets Are People, Too!

Now that you have their nicknames settled, you can decide what those cute monikers will be “short for.” This is your chance to truly give them the dignity all members of your clan deserve, so let’s start by giving them your last name–a solid choice, and frankly, a no-brainer.

Oh, and speaking of last names that end in “-on,” the inherit renown they bestow make them excellent candidates for first names as well. I dare you to tell me that Chesterfield Anderton and Checkerson Anderton2Not their real last name. But close… don’t sound regal af to you–you simply can’t!

7. Seek Inspiration From The Written Word

If they’re going to be distinguished in life, it is imperative to chooses names that help distinguish your wee ones from all the other “Emmas” and “Evas” in their kindergarten class. If you’re not sure where to start, French literature can provide an absolute abundance of options for high-falutin and uncommon names.

In fact, a renowned author’s last name always makes for a very memorable first name. I mean, how could you ever forget a Flaubert3https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gustave_Flaubert Checkerson or Dumas4https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexandre_Dumas Chesterfield Anderton5Again, their last name has been changed to protect the privacy of the minors. once you’ve met them?

8. You Gotta Keep ‘Em Complicated

A great way to make your kids–er, I mean, ‘kittens’–seem more interesting to strangers than they really are is to require them to recite a short novella every time they have to explain that their legal name and the name they go by aren’t exactly the same thing. Your parents hoisted such a burden onto your shoulders; it’s only right that you pass that burden down to the next generation.

When down the road they’re at a fancy conference of professionals, they will no doubt be thanking you for this automatic ice-breaker:

“So, I saw on your LinkedIn profile that you’re listed as Flaubert Checkerson ‘Checkers’ Anderton.6’Anderton’ is merely a nom de plume, people! How interesting!”

“Well, it’s a funny story actually…”

“Oh, that’s okay, I don’t need to hear–“

“…you see, my parents didn’t want me to lead an average life…”

9. Throw In A Dash Of Prestige…

With full names in hand, you’re finally ready to put the finishing touches on your masterpieces before introducing the kiddies to the rest of the world. If your looking to really up your name game, you can channel your favorite pretentious author and insist that people refer to them by their first initials and full middle names.

You can already hear it now, can’t you: “…and the Nobel Prize in Literature goes to…F. Checkerson Anderton!7Not. Her. Real. Last. Name. Amazing! This is the first time in history that one family has produced winners of the Nobel and Pulitzer Prizes in the same year. You folks at home may recall that her, brother, D. Chesterfield Anderton,8You do understand the concept of changing names to protect the innocent, right? took home journalism’s highest accolade but a few months ago…”

10. …But Lastly, Keep Them Humble

Nobody likes a pompous prick. Nobody. To keep the haters at bay and your kits’ egos in check, it is highly recommended to throw in at least one slightly degrading detail before you close up the epithet shop for the day.

You never know when such attention to detail might come in handy. For example, if you ever catch F. Checkers trying to tell her kiddie kollege friends that her name “is pronounced ‘Flow-Bear’, like that old pervy French novelist,” don’t hesitate to step in and put her in place with a firm rebuke such as “Don’t listen to her bullshit! It rhymes with ‘Robert’, like that one renowned 21st-century American blogger. I knew I should have named her Flauberta instead…”

And of course, if you ever hear D. Chesterfield claiming “the D is for ‘Doo-Maw’ like that other old French guy,” you can remind him that he will always and forever be nothing but a “Dumb-Ass.”

Content created on: 13 & 23 January 2021 (Weds/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Are You SURE You’re Making The World A Better Place?

17 January 2021 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

The White Jesus Savior Complex is a lot like the Rapture.

You never really see it coming…

Ah, the New Year. It’s always the perfect time to take a moment and reflect on ways to be a better person–and then try to come up with strategies to make these ideal life-goals reality. For my part, one change I would like to see this year is that I would be more proactive about being a mindful and considerate friend, family-person, and citizen.

For example, last week I found myself on the far side of town after spending my whole ----- morning getting our car serviced at our formerly-local Toyota dealership. Since it was about lunch time and I was already in the area, I figured I would surprise my family by coming home with four extremely large containers of the Triangle’s tastiest Korean fried chicken from a nearby restaurant.

I was able to call in my KFC order ahead, and I had timed it just right where I could pull up, run in, pay, and dash on back out the door lickety-split. Such efficiency was necessary, as I still had a 40-minute drive home and my window of lunchtime opportunity for my famished fam was closing quickly.

When I pulled up into the parking lot of the strip mall where the restaurant was located, I was delighted to see that almost all the parking spots directly in front of it were wide open for the taking. It seemed as if Karma had seen the kind deed this plant-based hombre was doing for his carnivorous loved ones, and was rewarding the kindness with a sweet front-row parking spot.

As I swung into my luxuriously appointed stall, I realized that on the bench directly in front of me sat a young guy who looked very much down on his luck. He was wearing a surgical mask and had a heavy overcoat draped over him, so it was hard to get a good take on him, but he seemed a bit spaced out.

“Dang it!” I reflexively thought to myself. “I bet he’s going to ask me for something, and I just don’t want to deal with that right now. Arghhh!”

Fortunately, though, I was rocking my prescription too-cool-for-school sunglasses, and was able to largely avoid eye-contact as I scurried from the car straight into the restaurant.

However, while paying for the food, I remembered that I was wanting to put more goodness out into the Universe this year. Then I also remembered that a few days earlier I had intentionally put a couple of $20 bills in my wallet for situations just like this. I was actually a little embarrassed that my initial reaction was to avoid the inconvenience of this guy at all costs, when the reality was that I had never been in a better position to be financially generous in my whole life.

Lightly pleased with myself for having a change of heart just in the nick of time, I decided, “You know what, I’m going to spare this guy the indignity of having to beg for money, and just give him $20 without either of us having to say a word!” So I pulled out a fat Jackson–and promptly doused it in hand sanitizer to ensure that positive vibes were the only positivity I would be passing on to my newfound acquaintance.

Food in one hand and the money in the other I headed out the door, and as I went out of my way so I could pass directly by him, I handed him the unsolicited financial assistance.

“Hey man, here you go,” I said all casually before heading to my car.

Three steps later I heard the guy call out to me, “Hey, wait a second!”

“Yeah?” I turned around, no clue what to expect.

“Uh…you don’t happen to smoke do you?”

“Sorry man, I don’t.”

He paused for a moment, staring confusedly at the money in his hand, before looking back up at me.

“Why did you give me this $20?”

Well, that was a question I wasn’t expecting.

I started to second guess myself. Had I accidentally succumbed to a White Jesus savior complex? Was I actually being a condescending rich prick without realizing it?

“Oh man, I hope I didn’t insult you. I thought you might be able to use it, but if you don’t really need it, just pay it forward to someone who does.”

“Oh, no. I really appreciate it…”

Thinking that the conversation was wrapping up, I started to turn to go on my way.

“…I’ve just been having a really bad day.”

Out of empathy I stopped and turned back towards him.

“Sorry to hear that, man.”

“Yeah, I just…I just got hit by a car, and can barely walk now.”

Well, this conversation really took a turn into uncharted territory.

“Oh, wow, that’s…that’s just terrible.”

This was followed by a long awkward pause because apparently neither of us really knew what to say at that point. Eventually, auto-pilot took over for me–not that it did me any favors, though.

“Welp! I’ve gotta roll…so…hope your day gets better?”

And just like that, off I rode into the sunset, feeling much more unsettled, conflicted, and awkward as my reward for all my humanitarian efforts…

Honestly, I would rather not talk about it. That encounter made me feel all sorts of weird, and I even considered never telling a soul about what transpired.

For some reason my thoughts kept coming back to How To with John Wilson, a show I had just watched the night before. In the first episode, he tackles the topic of making “small talk.” At one point, he makes the keen observation that it is crucial that small talk never veers off into deep topics. It’s a violation of some unspoken social contract or something like that–I don’t remember the exact way he put it, but the upshot is that most people haven’t signed up to bear the weight of all your issues, yada yada ya.

And now…

And now I can’t stop wondering…maybe this was Karma’s way of telling me–over-sharer extraordinaire–that this whole time I’ve been the one walking into one polite conversation after another, casually announcing “Well, I got hit by a car today…”

…

Well, isn’t this just my luck? Most people have emotional baggage. But me? I am emotional baggage.

*awkward pause*

Welp! I’ve gotta roll, so…

Content created on: 14/15 January 2021 (Thurs/Fri)

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:[+]

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:[+]

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:[+]

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