A Hedonist with a Moral Compass

“Don’t ever get old…but I guess it’s better than the alternative”

2012-11-09T19:01:00.002-08:00

The demands and expectations of the young and old alike are nearly identical. Both demographics can use their age as an excuse to validate their devious acts and blissful ignorance. The young use their parents to finance their lifestyles and the elderly live off a combination of the government, their own wealth, and their children’s goodwill. Young and old people stress about trivial matters that do not have long-term impacts. Dwelling on wether or not correlation implies causation when applied to the effects of yellow-5 intake and testicle size can hardly be considered a life altering event for a young person. Likewise, old people only busy their minds with inflation statistics, weather, and the implications of Hi-Def televisions. Stress, in its most refined form--the kind that can make you prematurely bald, or punch out a Starbucks Barista--is only really felt by people between the ages of 25-65. These folks work for a living so that they can subsidize the lifestyles of their dependent children and parents. They spend the best part of their lives worrying about everyone but themselves. As they drink an immense amount of coffee to artificially stimulate their enthusiasm for making money and acting like an “adult” everyday, they ask themselves iterative, ulcer inducing questions like: How is my 401k looking? Is it possible to be TOO diversified? Does it make me a bad parent if I let my children eat McDonalds once a week? Am I the reason my child was placed in the slow reading group? What are the long-term impacts of drinking soymilk? If my wife were to divorce me right now, would I ever find love again? Am I having enough sex? Should I be prescribed Xanax? How is the economy doing? Surviving 40 solid years of this mind boggling, selfless purgatory is a major accomplishment in and of itself, and I really do not know how people do it. The first 22-25 years of your life, you can be as selfish as you want and then suddenly—almost all at once—people start depending on you to be something you have never been before. The next 40 years of life scare the shit out of me and I have begun to realize the closest I will come to being young again….is when I’m old.

“Don’t ever get old…but I guess it’s better than the alternative”

I’ve lived at my grandparent's house for almost a month now and my grandpa finds a way to work this phrase into a conversation almost daily. Usually the statement follows a long-winded story about how he cannot eat and talk simultaneously because his hearing aid amplifies the sound of himself chewing. I’ve become fascinated with the context in which he delivers this message, it’s not necessarily the raw meaning of what he says but rather the way he says it. Generally, he looks out the window at the dawn’s early light where a pack of geese defecate on his kingdom, exhales deeply, and says, “Don’t ever get old Son…but I guess it’s better than the alternative”. He says this in a tone laced with a feeling of deep remorse, leading me to believe that he doesn’t believe what he is saying at all. It's almost as if his grandpa used to utter this banal platitude in his waning days and my grandpa has since adapted it as his mantra so that he has a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Is getting old really better than the alternative? He must ask himself this question everyday. Watching my grandpa gaze out the window while he thinks (as I fictional his thoughts) about a different time when he had the sonar hearing of a bat, the looks of a Sinatra, and the durability of a European immigrant, all I can think about is this quote from Jack Kerouac’s On The Road:

“The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced in the womb and can only be reproduced (though we hate to admit it) in death.”

Life is filled with transitions that make us question our learned identities and force us to become something else. At each of these touch points we lose something within ourselves. As we learn, and become exposed to adult themes and consequences, we lose our sense of curiosity. As we begin to fear failure, we abort the youthful method of trial and error, positioning ourselves to exert effort only when we know we will succeed. The most painful transition is when we reach the realization that there is nothing left to lose and begin to question if we ever had anything to lose at all.

As I walk into my grandparent’s house, it is clear to see that they gave up on modernization around the time that my grandpa retired. Every room is stocked with at least one—if not two—pullout couches that are as uncomfortable folded up as they are pulled out. Manual “tick-tock” clocks line the hallways and general living spaces. On the hour—every hour—the clocks gong with precise unity. In the basement, my grandma has a sewing room where she spends countless hours assembling an array of quilts, novelty holiday sweaters, and crocheted dog beds. Between them, they have assumed traditional gender roles that would have modernist clamoring for female empowerment. My grandpa refuses to let my grandma drive anywhere, driving is a man's job. The other day my grandma called my grandpa and I into the kitchen for dinner. To my grandpa’s surprise, his wife had already cut the roast she had been baking all day. You would have thought she had slaughter his first-born son the way he reacted. Throughout 60 years of marriage, his job as a man has always been to cut his wife’s roast. Any change—even in the slightest—threatens his stability and understanding of his role in the world.

As a casual observer of his lifestyle, I have developed an internal laundry list of ways that I could make his life easier and more efficient with the application of technology and modern logic. A smartphone could alleviate the stress of looking at a map while driving, likewise, applying simple scientific reasoning could free up hours of worshipping a false deity. However, he is always resistant to change. The question is why? The simple response is stubbornness but that does not even begin to provide legs to a legitimate answer. The real answer is fear—fear of having more free time. He fears that evolutions in efficiency will leave him with long mundane pauses where he is left to contemplate existence and his place within it. It's not like he has an infinite queue of activities that he has been putting off because of time constraints. Because of this, I have refrained from asking him "what did you do today?" because I know it is just as painful for him to answer that question as it is for me to listen to it. When we are young, we are always looking for ways to make things easier. As things become less strenuous, we have more time for our kids, our hobbies, our deepest desires, and ourselves. When we age, time is no longer a constraining resource--although it is certainly finite--but there are less dependencies vying for our attention….which I’m sure is met with an ambivalent feeling of liberation and depression.

I’ve had this theory for sometime that there comes a point in every man’s life where he becomes frozen. Frozen in the sense that he is no longer willing or even able to adapt with the world changing around him. His thoughts become as stagnant and archaic as his wardrobe. My grandpa has long been the structural foundation for this theory. Like most people during his era, my grandpa retired at the age of 55 in 1985. Retirement on the surface seems rewarding, a luminous opening at the end of a dark tunnel. Finally, all of the hard work he put into providing for his family and achieving financial freedom would materialize into copious amounts of free time to do the things he neglected for so long. However, it was at that point that he gave up on being an adaptive human being. What was left for him to accomplish? He worked hard and excelled at each transition from college, to employment, to marriage, to raising children, to watching his children obtain a similar continuum of material success. A man can only play so much golf and vacation before he reaches a vegetative point of no return. Work—as much as I hate to admit it—forces a person to be engage and challenged on a daily basis. The workplace is essentially a holding tank filled with people of various demographics, ideas, creativity, and technological advancements. When my grandpa retired, he was no longer obligated to be around the complicated fabric of a workplace ...which is perfectly fine, retirement is suppose to be a time for relaxation—an escape from the hustle and bustle. Now, the only way my grandpa is able to think about the present is to contrast it with how it is not like the past. His brain is filled with a finite amount of stories about the musings of his life and he finds it very difficult to make or enjoy new memories. At some point his ability to do this stopped completely.

At first I found myself becoming frustrated with my grandpa's complacency. How could he possibly be satisfied? Everyday my grandpa wakes up at 5 am to read the Chicago tribune. At 630 AM he joins me for breakfast where he shares stories about his past or societal observations that bother him about the present. In the last 3 weeks, he has told me about the time he went to a Cubs World Series game in 1945 for $1.50 at least 10 times...but I never have the heart to tell him "Hey! Granps you told me this exact same thing yesterday." I thought he might be senile, but I have since ruled that out. I'm convinced that he tells me these things over and over again not because he is crazy but rather because he can...and I have to listen because his mere' longevity commands respect. He does not have to be anybody except for who he wants to be at this point. Isn't that purest form of happiness? When we no longer have to change to the demands of the world around us or alter our personalities to assimilate to the expectations of others? When we reach that final frontier the anxiety that greets us at every other transition point is no longer present. I can't wait to reach that plateau where I can just be content and completely comfortable in my own skin.

If i've learned anything over the last few weeks it’s that my grandpa speaks a different language than my peers. Sure it’s English, but he speaks with sincerity rather than sarcasm and irony. I've spent the last six years of my life building friendships and relationships by speaking with a snarky ironic tone, which is a tool that is imperative for survival in my generation. Being sincere and direct is not only ridiculed with the label of "uncool" but it’s almost a sign of weakness. From my skewed lens of the world, interacting with people is a constant negotiation. You are trying to see what is on my piece of paper and vis-versa. If I tell you directly, what I have to offer then I give you all the leverage. Irony is a powerful weapon that I use to protect myself from exposing the raw nerve of vulnerability. I feel like everyone around me is constantly being ironic. Has our generation entered a tipping point, in that we spew more sentences laced with irony than without? If the use of irony becomes the implied expectation of every conversation then doesn't the very definition of irony fold on top of itself? Is it now ironic to be sincere? Think about the last time you chewed a piece of Bubble Yum and you bit your tongue by accident--it fucking hurt. You feel that pain, and anguish from your brain to your bowels. Now sink the tips of your canines into your tongue as hard as you can, the reaction isn't nearly the same. In fact, you could probably chew on your tongue all day until it became a bloody mess but the pain would still feel relatively numb. Why? Because you've consciously conditioned your brain for what is to come. That sharp pain? That is what irony used to be. It used to cut deep and make you feel something. Now, here we are...we have all become figuratively numb tongue'd users of flippant language, where we never really mean what we say or confront what we mean. Now, I'm not removing myself from this equation by any means. I've built my whole persona on irony. Honestly, I want my wedding song to be "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one your with" By Crosby Stills and Nash. Not because I feel that way about my bride but because if she can appreciate the irony and humor of this, then I've probably found my soul mate.

Anyway, my grandpa is a living artifact. He is a relic of a generation that is no longer embraced by the masses. Soon, to the grave he will take with him...sincerity. His value in the world—though he may not be consciously aware of it—is to prolong a lifestyle that will soon be scrubbed clean from humanity. At some point, I, like my grandpa, will become a man frozen in time. My children and grandchildren will nag at me and try to force me to adapt. They will guise their disgust for my obsolescence with "thoughtful" Christmas gifts filled with the cutting edge technology of time that I will subsequently store somewhere in the basement, unopened. They will role their eyes as I tell the story about my white eyebrow for the 100th time at Thanksgiving. I will undoubtedly resist them like an index finger wrestling its way out of a Chinese finger trap, but my hope is that they come to the realization that I have in the last month, that even though my bones are brittle, my take on social progression is a little too conservative, and my ironic tone seems trite....my presence has value, because soon I, and the micro-culture that I inhibit, will cease to exist.

Without fail, my mind forces me to perpetually contrast the ways I see my grandpa dealing with his destiny with my own transition. I’ve been working a real job for exactly three weeks now and I feel like I’m being forced to relearn my identity. Every morning I dress in a way that I never have before, as I meet and greet my superiors with banal pleasantries so that I am perceived as a diligent worker. Sure the structural elements of my personality remain, but I am in a foreign place where I am forced to adapt. My "go to" crutches of sarcasm and irony that have carried me this far in life are useless in a corporate setting. However, in my work environment there is a silver-lining…if I stand up and prop myself on the tips of my toes, I can see out a window that over looks highway 294. I look out this window and let my mind wander to another place and another time. A time when I was not necessarily happier, but different, less inhibited, the word reckless comes to mind. And, even though I am content with certain aspects of my current surroundings, I wish I could reach back into my past and stay up until dawn drinking, laughing, and clinging to the metaphorical night that is my dwindling youth, or accelerate thru the next 40 years of stress. In the midst of this bizarre nostalgic/futuristic reflection, I exhale, think of my grandpa, and say to myself “I may be getting older…but I guess it's better than the alternative”.

Black Keys and Will.I.Am Form Super Group: Black Eyed Keys

2012-08-26T11:50:00.001-07:00

Black Keys and Will.I.Am Form Super Group: Black Eyed Keys

The Black Keys are just about everywhere these days. It is impossible to be coaxed into a buying a car, a meat-lovers pizza, or a soft drink without Dan Aeurbach cramming a bluesy guitar rift down your throat. Gold on the ceiling….it’s just matter of time before you drive a Kia. In a generation where music listeners have gravitated towards synthesized pop and ringtone rap, Dan and his drummer Patrick Kearny have become nostalgic representations of what Rock Stars used to be. Unfortunately, there is no room for Rock Stars on the radio anymore unless they have been vetted by a 6-month American Idol stint. Although widely successful, the Black Keys have an insatiable thirst for more exposure—a thirst, that cannot be quenched with a 30 second Sprite ad during March Madness.

In dramatic fashion, the duo has decided to merge with the Black Eyed Peas to form a transcendent super group called the Black Eyed Keys. “Dan and I have always been about the music and looking good in a way that says we don’t give a fuck. We always liked the idea of being understated and content with an anarchist approach to our style and music. Of course, not giving a fuck has limited our ability to achieve crazy success…we can’t get the radio to play our shit! Then I saw the 2011 Super Bowl halftime show and I looked at Dan and was like this is it. This is what we need. Fireworks. Shoulder spikes. Glitter. Lots of fucking glitter. It was at that moment we realized that the Black Keys needed a makeover that only BEP could provide. The merger will push us into the U2 zone, both in terms of ticket prices, and ability to cure AIDS first. The race is on Bono” Patrick said in an interview with Rolling Stone.

In 2009, the Black Keys won a VMA for their song Tighten Up and MTV mistakently sent them a trophy embossed with BEP’s name on it. “At first I was pissed. I wanted to beat the braids of Will-I-Am with it but then I realized it was not his fault. MTV needs to stop pretending to be in the music business and stick to glamorizing birthing children as teenagers. I have nothing but respect for Will-I-Am’s talent” Auerbach said in response to the mix up.

Will.I.Am will be working full-time with both Patrick and Dan to improve their image and ability to captivate the attention of the masses. “I am very grateful for the opportunity to turn a seedy grunge band like the Black Keys into a global sensation. With the right amount of theatrics, songs with onomatopoeia instead of lyrics, and my maternal relationship with Oprah, I believe this will be a lucrative opportunity for the both of us. Watch out world! Boom Boom Pow!” said Will-I-Am about the group’s merger. The Black Keys have long been plagued by Auerbach’s misogynistic lyrics about heartbreak, which has alienated a potential female fan base. Nevertheless, a timely appearance on the Harpo network or perhaps a private concert for single mothers ailing with lupus could be the cure all. The intangible value of having Oprah on speed dial cannot be put into words.

Fergie could not be reached for comment and it is unclear at this time if she will be a part of the project. Regardless, the music world has changed forever. The Black Eyed Keys self-titled album will be released this coming fall.

Male Tandem Floats Down Wolf River Unscathed. Bro-mantic Triumph.

2012-06-20T20:36:00.004-07:00

Male Tandem Floats Down Wolf River Without Being Brutally Mauled!

NEW LONDON—Historically, New London, Wisconsin is known solely for its disproportionate cattle-to-citizen ratio but the editors of their Wikipedia page will need to rewrite the opening paragraph to include the heroic act of two 23-year old males on June 16^th. Unknowingly, Brett Scarbok and Michael Bradford made history yesterday, as they became the first male-tandem to float down the Wolf River without being brutally mauled--both physically and verbally--by the packs of traditional tubing groups.

Lazy river tubing at its best involves a co-ed caravan of young adults drinking an excess amount of libations until everyone loses enough inhibition to partake in an impromptu skinny dipping session, leading to some questionable underwater indiscretions. Worse case scenario, no girls show up and the event turns into a bi-lingual bro-fest with lots of beer bongs, misogynistic chanting, and homoerotic activity, all of which is permissible because of memory-altering BACs. Brett and Michael evaded the wrath of these common lazy river participants, breaking the status quo.

“I sent a mass feeler text the night before, hoping to get a large group of people together but Michael is the only one who responded. We grabbed a thirty of Key Stone Ice, hopped in my ford focus and went to the river. The decision was simple—it was hot out and we wanted to drink and float” said Brett on how the event came together.

Wolf River Campground owner Lenver Westwood has managed the property and tubing service since the late 90’s. “Oh boy, since we started recording police calls and property damage in 2004 no male tandem has made it safely to the end checkpoint without a punctured tube or a deflated sense of self-confidence. I don’t know what it is…the alcohol, the sun, or a combination of both but these kids are brutal to each other. They throw stones, chant obscenities, and at times, assault one another.” Recently, Westwood has begun posting signs in the rental areas that discourage tandem male tubing.

Bro-mances have always been thumbed at with snarky suspicion. Two males cannot enjoy a recreational activity like sharing a mo-ped ride to the local CVS, taking a tandem bike for a jaunt in the park, or splitting a much to large for one entrée at Chili’s—no matter how practical or functional—without being ridiculed in some way. On the heels of president Obama’s decision to publicly support gay marriage, perhaps an unintentional paradigm shift has occurred in the collective consciousness: same sex relationships—physical or plutonic—are progressively becoming more accepted.

Jerrod Tinsley, a fellow river go-er offered up another opinion “Really? I remember seeing that group but there was definitely a girl with the taller man. She had long hair, a pair of shades on, and asymmetrical breasts that she—for some reason—felt comfortable exposing. If I would have known they were dudes, I would have swam over to them and punctured their tubes with my bottle opener in the name of heterosexuality. Its called MAN-ifest Destiny for a reason bruh.”

Was the brave quest of Michael and Brett the biggest victory for bro-mantic relationships since the country begun to accept Matthew McConaughey and Lance Armstrong’s insatiable thirst for running shirtless down Venice Beach and subsequently showering the sand out of each other’s crevices…. or was it merely a coincidence? The result remains to be determined.

Tommy Pickles Existential Crisis

2012-06-03T23:15:00.002-07:00

Tommy Pickles: I don’t know what to tell you Dr. Lip Schitz, I cannot escape this feeling. I look at myself in the mirror every morning and I feel like Patrick Bateman in American Psycho. There is an idea of Tommy Pickles, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real “me”—I am simply not there.

The other night I spotted this beautiful girl at the bar. She was wearing a pair of jeggings that perfectly captured the voluptuous contours of a collegiate body that was bound to lose its appeal within the next five years. A modest t-shirt limited my ability to gauge the size of her milk mounds, but the screen-printing on her shirt was all I needed to fully understand her degree of sexual promiscuity. The front of the t-shirt said “4^th Floor Hutch Hunnies” and the back boisterously stated “We like it on top”.… I’m sure her parents would be proud to know that their baby daughter explicitly advertises her preference to be the pace-setter during missionary sex.

Anyway, I approached her with some cheeky humor, filtering her responses for intelligence/socio-economical status in hopes of making a superficial connection that I could capitalize on. I overheard her talking about the Hunger Games Trilogy with her friend, so I used that as my entry point—women love thinly veiled romantic fiction, especially when compartmentalized into trilogies. Remember that Doc. Our conversation exponentially blossomed from there. Because she was the most attractive girl at the bar, every meathead wearing a hemp-necklace approached her with the fury of a soon-to-be neutered golden retriever….I felt her interest in me waning. At this point, I was faced with a scenario that I have become all too familiar: fuck or flight.

Honestly, I try to develop relationships with women and friends based on the merits of my personality, but when my efforts fail, I always have a smoking gun—I’m Tommy fucking Pickles. Anyone who possesses a cable connection and a birth certificate from 1987-1993 knows who I am. When I expose this celebrated attribute, all the girls want to see my “pickle” and all the dudes want to know what it is like to bathe with Angelica.

I’ll spare you all the monotonous sexual details that led to the climax of my identity crisis Doc, but basically I went home with this broad. Naturally, she assumed the “on-top” position. I gazed longingly into her vapid eyes as she moved up and down…but then my brain was struck with a vision that crippled my ability to enjoy the act of fornication. Suddenly, I saw myself from the third person perspective as if I were an audience member watching my own reality show. The past, present, and future all began to meld into one central feeling of despair. Whenever I have sex, my abs ache the next day as if I had put my body through a rigorous sit-up routine at the gym. Every time I move, or flex my torso, I feel a strain in my stomach. It is not a painful feeling but rather, a welcomed feeling of triumph—a relic of my sexual conquest. Historically I am a fan of said feeling, but at that moment I became disgusted with the actions that enabled me to lay this girl in her sleep number bed and the very idea of my contrived identity. I am nothing more than a character whose actions have been shaped by the cheers and jeers of an audience for 21 years.

Who am I? I remember screaming out at this innocent girl. A cold sweat came over my body and my member went flaccid. No explanation could have set this girl’s fragile emotions at ease….so I left. All of my friendships and relationships are dependent upon the character and fame that I acquired as an adventurous bald headed one year old.

Dr. Lip Schitz: That is a troubling story Thomas. At what point in your life would you say that you began to develop this keen sense of seeing yourself from a “birds eye” view?

Tommy Pickles: As the show accurately depicts, my Dad, Stu Pickles, was an inventor—err actually a “failure” is a more accurate job title. He just liked to play with power tools and tinker around with toys in the basement to compensate for his sham of a childhood. Regardless, after 20 years of failing to come up with a single invention capable of putting food on the table, he invented the Yak-Bak which he sold the to Mattel for a lucrative sum. Shortly there after, my mom caught him in the garage with a freshly “legal to consent” Suzy, beat-boxing on his flesh bone like Biz Markie. I always thought that my dad was referring to snickers bars when he said he loooooooved chocolate, but alas, he was expressing his affinity for ebony chicks. Last I heard the two of them were living somewhere in Barbados off the royalties of my Dad’s Yak-Bak Fortune.

As it turns out my psychotic woes were not brought on by my absent father, but more so by his legacy invention—the Yak-Bak. I would play with the Yak-Bak for countless hours, mimicking “Macho Man” Randy Savage’s guttural voice in those Slim Jim commercials. I would record, playback, critique, and rerecord my voice until I sounded the way I wanted to. In theory the Yak-Bak sounds joyous, almost fun, but it’s the first time I remember being able to view my actions in the past, critique them in the present, and make favorable changes for the future. The Yak-Bak enabled me to become a casual, and eventually critical observer of myself.

Now I know that self-reflection is imperative for growth. Presumably, people have been reviewing, analyzing, and judging their pasts and altering themselves for the future since the dawn of time, however, technology has changed the process of healthy reflection. Personally, I never had the chance to reflect on my actions and find my identity in a healthy way because of the television show I was on, and the digital era I grew up in. It is impossible not to see myself from the third person perspective as some sort of character. Between the Rugrats, the Yak-Bak, home videos, blogs, and Facebook, everyone one of my memories has been chronicled in a vivid way. My T.V. career may have ended years ago, but technology has enabled me to rewind, fast forward, and critique my existence as if it were a show stored on my DVR hard drive.

Facebook, specifically is damning because the validation or rejection of self is so instant and visual. By visual I mean that there are a series of videos, photos, status updates, and wall posts throughout my life that evoke vivid emotions, allowing me to either marinate in my triumphs or wallow in my despairs. Whether it’s looking at photos of my state winning high school football team, or that summer I spent in France indulging on crepes, chardonnay, and Parisian whores, I always feel energized by the documentation of my happiness, but it is just as easy to mull over life’s disappointments.

Facebooks “see friendship” function is a window into my social progression. Every digital conversation that I have ever had will exist for eternity. Sometimes I’ll look over conversations with people that are no longer in my life and try to pin point when the tone of our friendship/relationship changed. I try to use the digital dialogue to aid my mental memory of events, but the faintest ink is better than the strongest memory and soon the only recollection I have of an event is how it is represented on Facebook.

The Facebook machine is also instantaneous. Whenever I update my status, it’s a stream of consciousness—a cathartic release of emotion or whit. I sit and wait for the that little red number to appear over the globe in the left hand corner—a “like”, a comment, anything really. As I feel incrementally better about myself with each response. It teaches me what people want and do not want from me and in the process contrives my personality. In other words, what type of statuses, photos, and memes, and the characteristics/themes associated with them are worth adopting into my being? This process supplants internal reflection. Everything is a public decision that I share with an audience for their approval or disapproval. All of this probably sounds like technical jargon to an aging man like you Doc, but the truth is that the digital representation of self is nearly synonymous with identity.

Dr. Lip Schitz: You seem to be lacking a clear and defined purpose. Structure is crucial in order for you to realize Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs. If you have nothing to get up for in the morning, then surely you lack a reason to go to bed at night. Time loses its value without structure, goals, and benchmarks for reaching those goals. What would you say is your purpose in life? What do you want out of this world and…yourself?

Tommy Pickles: That’s a deep question Doc…. Admittedly, my goals are just as conceited and selfish as the next individual. I want to be loved, even liked by as many people as possible. I want true and meaningful relationships and friendships. I want to see the aggregate of my hard work materialize into a college degree with my name on it. I want a 1040 with a six-figure income. I want to return to my hometown and donate enough money to the local library that they will rename it in my honor and people will drive by and think “wow that guy really did something special with his life”. I want to wrap myself in a cocoon of material possessions until my insecurities and vulnerabilities are protected by the intangible value of my 5-stall, centrally heated garage.

The Greek’s have a word called Thurmos that literally means the desire to be recognized by people, not only now, but also for eternity. Every morning, while I am asleep, the sunlight pierces my windowpane and numbs my brain, reminding me of the consciousness and the reality that I must face. At that moment, I turn and bury my head back into my pillow for one last taste of solace. Dreams are free of noise, expectations, and obligations—a beautiful state of tranquility. Recognition, fame, or whatever you want to call it, is a slippery desire. If you do not have it, you want. You strive for it. However, coming from somebody who has it, I would do anything to let it all go. I am merely the victim of someone else’s selfish desire to be recognized. My parents and the creators of the show traded my privacy for fortune, my identity for fame, my childhood for instant gratification.

Dr. Lip Schitz: Wouldn’t you say that the fame and fortune that you acquired from being on the Rugrats has enabled you to achieve all the goals that you mentioned?

(Jason Russell-Kony 2012 Creator)

Tommy Pickles: That’s exactly my problem. Most people spend their whole lifetime climbing Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs, whereas I was handed enough instant fame and money to supplant the steps of true self-actualization. And, this all happened to me before I even developed a conscious or learned to wipe my own ass. People who achieve mass recognition without the struggles of hard work and the creation of value are not equipped with the emotional and intellectual tools to survive. Look at child actors, lottery winners, film makers who disguise themselves as philanthropist dedicated to taking out Ugandan terrorists, and especially reality T.V. Stars…the list goes on and on.

I don’t even know who to blame anymore. Money always muddies the feeble parameters of morality. Reality television especially disgusts me. People who have no skin in the game continuously exploit modest individuals by putting them into social constructs with the promises of free booze, an unlimited wardrobe sponsored by Under Armor, minimal obligations, and of course international fame. Audiences everywhere root for mayhem and the psychological destruction of normal human beings. The more mayhem, the more entertained the audience is, and the more money everyone makes. The humans on the show become cartoonish versions of themselves with each passing episode. This happens, in part, because much like the Facebook status, the gratification or rejection of self is so instant. Countless websites, fan forums, and post-show specials give audience members a platform to actively participate in the formulations of the characters they want to see on the show. The characters on the show become critical observers of themselves and pander to the audiences responses because their relevancy and essentially their paychecks comes from pleasing them.

Dr. Lip Schitz: In the time of Ancient Rome, people used to pile into the Coliseum to watch gladiators fight each other to the death. Though on the surface this may seem crass, I would argue that it is an essential component of keeping humanity sane. Freud came up with this idea of the Id vs. The Ego. Simply put, the Id harbors the innate, animalistic components of personality—the need to reproduce and destroy. The human brain is obviously more complex than that of an animal, so throughout time we have learned that there is much more to life than passing on your seed and dying. The Ego focuses on the reality principal by trying to please the desires of the Id in realistic ways. I would argue that reality television picked up where the blood shed at the Coliseum left off—it provides the masses the opportunity to service the desires of the Id in a healthy way—at the expense of only a few.

Tommy Pickles: Ha-ha. Listen to yourself, at the expense of only a few? Can’t you see that I am apart of that few. I have seen first hand what fame and characterization does to people. Chucky had a predisposition for anxiety on the show and now he is a delusional schizophrenic mess. He calls me periodically to pitch ideas about how to get the Rugrats back on television. “When is the gang getting back together for another movie? How about a reality Rugrats series where we live in Italy for three months and work at a pizza shop? American Idol is looking for two new judges, use your celebrity to leverage us a spot Tommy”

Phil’s level of delusion and desire to get back into the spotlight is even more depressing. Every time I see him he is wearing the same Austin 3:16 t-shirt that he purchased 15 years ago. His skin looks more tan and glabrous with each passing day. He has been trying to get onto the reality series WWE: Tough Enough for as long as I can remember. Like most wresting stars, or childhood actors with unrealistic expectations of reaching the limelight one last time, he has battled drug addiction and alcoholism since 13.

As a child, I had no sympathy for Angelica because she was a narcissistic twat but now I pity her. More than anything, she wants to be a Kardashian. She married J.R. Smith about two years ago but it ended after three months when Deadspin broke a story about J.R. tweeting a photo of his dick to a Stanford co-ed. She plans to audition for Basketball Wives this fall.

These testimonies perfectly capture the destiny of anyone who has ever been characterized by a television show—once a reality star, always a reality star. If there is not a camera to document their existence then they are left with a crippling sense of loneliness, emptiness, and delusions of importance.

Lip Schitz: Thomas, you need to take a step back and look at what you have. You are young and still have a lifetime to make whatever it is that you want of yourself. Do not let your past define your future. Depression is simply an illusion of circumstances, as is the “character” you feel has been created in place of your identity.

Tommy Pickles: It is too late for me Doc. My character follows me wherever I go. It hunts me. It haunts me. It chases me like a fire-breathing dragon named Reptar, except the grave consequences of life cannot be summarized into 15 minute parables like they can on Rugrats. Maybe I am ungrateful, and perhaps we are all just actors in a play called Life!, waiting for the right casting call to help us achieve temporary happiness….I just wish I were given the chance to choose my character.

Dr. Lip Schitz: Who are you?

Tommy Pickles: Nothing more than an idea Doc…as fictional as the reality in front of me.

7 Facebook Personas We Could All Do Without

2012-03-14T19:02:00.002-07:00

Facebook Personas

Facebook does not operate with the same social norms of face to face human interaction. Thus parasitic personas have risen to the surface that six years ago would have been stifled by simply saying "Larry, are you seriously expressing your emotions in Coldplay lyrics right now?" or "Devon--if you hi-five yourself one more time after making a joke I'm going to break your hand off".

This is the world we live in....

1) The guy who likes his own status.

This type of guy is subtly the most irritating persona on the web. Liking your own status is like wearing a t-shirt for your own band. Of course, you like your own status—otherwise you would not have posted it! However, this does not mean that you should give yourself a thumbs-up like an ass clown. Look, my dog can lick her own privates but I still look her right in the eyes when I catch her doing this and say “a bit indulgent, don’t you think?”

2) BFF’s (who love to advertise their best friendship)

This persona is the joint effort of two people who, throughout the day, write on each other’s walls. These people clutter and dumb down news feeds with the sustained fury of a caffeinated Rush Limbaugh. The content of their posts range from inspirational memes, to ludicrous spring break plans—which usually leads to one friend declaring to the other: “we need to have a SKYPE DATE to discuss the plans and quotes I posted on your wall earlier!!!!” 90% of the time these two people are roommates and could have had the exact same conversation in person, in a matter of minutes…but where is the social validation in that?

3) The Guy who inexplicably posts rap lyrics

I could be wrong, but I am willing to guess this guy has never sold drugs or broken a hundred dollar bill on anything besides a pack of skittles. Likewise, I doubt they will ever develop enough respect to be deserving of being referred to in the Spanish formal tense. These dudes usually have girlfriends and yet their posts consistently refer to woman negatively. As long as the message is delivered under the guise of a rap lyric—all is well.

4) The Political Pusher

Politics should only be discussed—with any type of intensity—after a couple of beverages. This type of person constantly jams up the news feed with articles from obscure publications and quotes from their favorite presidents (only on slow news days). Usually they end their posts with some sort of call to action like “Get out and Vote!” or “What are you doing about reducing your carbon footprint?????”

5) The obsessive/aggressive sports fan

Everyone has a friend like this. They are not fun to watch the game with in person, but it is entertaining to watch them chronicle their aggression on the social airwaves. If the Packers are playing, they will post after every offensive play that progresses over 6 yards. “Niccce cut Ryan Grant”. The support is kosher but this type of person will flip on a moments notice as soon as someone drops a pass or the ref blows a call (so really anything that negatively effects his team’s efforts). “Roughing the passer Are you f*cking kidding me? The NFL is for p*ssies.”

6) The guy/girl who posts song lyrics to describe their mood

The difference between the rap lyric poster and this type of persona is that the lyrics are actually applicable to a person’s current state. That does not, however, make them any less annoying. As a rule of thumb I try to avoid referencing Ke$ha when summing up my struggles with the opposite sex—and John Mayer for that matter.

7) The asshole that is always trying to get you to read his blog

This person might actually be the worst type of person on the web. They are generally arrogant and misguided. Their ego is artificially swollen into believing that anybody would want to read their take on anything. Where was their authority derived from? Where do they get off thinking that anyone would actually want to read their take on something like credit cards, or Facebook personas? Fuck this person. :)

Thanks for reading ;)

Wake up Mr. West--I have a problem

2012-02-27T14:03:00.002-08:00

Whenever I run on a track, I make sure that Kanye is there to narrate my attempt at physical fitness. A movie montage breaks out in my head with the song “Last Call” playing in the background. The camera angle cuts back and forth from the first person perspective to a side view of my stride. A feeling of invincibility rushes over me as the song builds up to the chorus. Everyone in the gym starts to feel my heart rate increasing, the burning in my gluts, and even the bittersweet irritation of my nipples chaffing against my cotton t-shirt. A sizeable crowd begins to mount behind me as they cheer me on to a successful workout. It is almost as if everybody is listening to the exact same song I am at the exact same time. And we all have this incremental boost in our swagger, which materializes into running that much faster. It takes every ounce of my self-restraint to not yell out “Mayonnaise colored Benz—I push miracle whips!” as I finish mile one.

I am a self-diagnosed Kanye-A-Holic. If I go longer than four hours without hearing a song off the College Dropout album I get the shakes. But like a heroin addict who can get by on xanax until their dealer comes thru, I am able to settle for a crappy synthetic radio jam like 808 and Heart Break in a pinch. I often find myself trying to parallel his lyrics in conversations ranging from the meaning of life to the Cuban Missile Crisis. The question is why? I do not have the slightest idea what its like to stunt on a jumbo-tron, or to be the owner of a 20,000 dollar Jesus piece, or to have bi-weekly brunches with Jay-z and Beyonce….but by god I would love to.

Music panders to every emotion imaginable and when an artist pours his soul into a rhythmic, cathartic release, it is beautiful. The beauty of any art is this: we continuously harbor painful/triumphant memories, and the crippling self-awareness of our shortcomings and vulnerabilities—that we need an escape from ourselves. We become bored with the trite voice inside our heads so we live vicariously through someone else’s description of the human experience. Sometimes we can directly relate with the message of the artist and other times we cannot, and yet we do not care. The latter is exactly how I feel about Kanye West.

Who else has the bravado to shit on america's
sweetheart? And still bounce back.

I cannot directly identify with what he is saying but I respect the way he carries himself. He speaks with confidence, candor, and consistency. Too often, I let social norms and the status quo dictate the person that I am but Kanye is not shackled by the rules of normalcy. I suppose when you are rich, famous, and talented you can get away with just about anything but Kanye does this with an attitude and style unlike any other artist. I wish I could go through life like Kayne but I would be perceived as cocky, arrogant, and thick headed. But that desire is the empirical value of his music: he personifies a demeanor we wish we could all ostensibly present but instead we can only embody him internally, and by ironically imitating his lyrics at house parties or in the privacy of our vehicles. His music describes the human experience through his eyes and its kind of romantic to try and imagine the lens with which he sees the world through, if only for a moment.

Art, in any capacity, has a lot of value to me because it’s a means of expression, escape, and it has an eerie way of unifying people. For example, many people think that Bon Iver’s “Skinny Love” accurately describes their romantic plight, just like their are those who believe daily horoscopes accurately describes the essence of their lives. It’s a self fulfilling prophecy in the belief that “we are never alone”. Social interaction is driven by the fear of loneliness and the silence that is associated with it. Music solves both of these problems because fans connect with other fans and thus are not alone as the music fills the silence.

The perfect example of this is of course concerts. Concerts alter our moods, inhibitions, and confidence. We have a chance to be around people who all came to see the same person purge their emotions into a symphony of theatrics. There is something rather comforting about having at least one thing in common with thousands of people in a single area. This comfort allows you to relax, release, and enjoy. I specifically remember my knees bending in ways that they never have before while listening to the sweet live guitar rift of Blink 182’s “What’s my age again”. Similarly, the first and last cartwheel I ever did in my life was when I heard the live sax-a-phone solo in Dave Matthew’s song “The Warehouse”. I was hardly myself and I never felt better.

I suppose as a white male I can identify with somebody like Dave Matthews or Blink 182 more than Kanye but they do not evoke nearly as much emotion out of me. I don’t even want to know how I would act if I ever got the chance to attend a Kanye concert but my guess is I would have a hard time reverting back to reality after having my swag gland artificially stimulated for two straight hours. Music is so important because it gives you a chance to either affirm your reality with a new perspective or temporarily escape it, while simultaneously connecting with both the artist and the people around you.

I bought my whole family whips, no volvo's 
Next time I'm in Church please no photos,
Police escorts, everybody passports, 
This the life that everybody ask for

Sorry, that was the last Kanye reference --Watch the throne while I am in Kanye Rehab. The cure? Two hours of Jason Aldean’s Pandora station followed by one hour of Garth Brooks, followed by Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” played continuously until I stop referring to myself as Ye’.

Cruise-Ships & The Banality of Relation-ships

2012-02-09T12:57:00.000-08:00

Cut to a setting at a coffee shop near the Miami coast. The weather is gorgeous, the crop of people trekking thru the area are youthful, determined, and ignorantly oblivious.

Gerald: (sets down his chi latte) Yo! buddy its good to have you back in God’s country. How was the Caribbean cruise? Tell me everything. What was the spread like? Did you meet the indigenous people of Disney Island?

Arnold: (takes a deep breath and stares off into the horizon) Gerald, you have no idea what I have just been through. In the weeks leading up to the cruise I found myself loathing the very thought of it. My preconceived notion of cruises was based on that one Cuba Gooding Jr. movie where he mistakenly boards a gay singles cruise. I thought the boat was going to be littered with overweight tourists who wanted nothing more than to eat buffet food, drink to excess, and tan their pasty white complexions into a lobster tail red.

Gerald: Sounds like heaven, what chu bitch’n about?

Arnold: That’s just it man, I thought I was going to hate it but it was heaven. It may have been the greatest week of my life….until I arrived at the realization that it was all an illusion. Cruise ships are like being in a relationship.

Gerald: How is cutting through the Caribbean on a 80,000 square foot vessel that has an Old Country Buffet every 10 feet like being in a relationship?

Arnold: Think about any girl that you’ve ever dated in your life. When you are getting busy the excitement stems from the unknown. What is she going to do next? Whoaa was that her tongue nearing my ahhh…is she really going to let me hit it from behind?

But it doesn’t have to be sexual, maybe she blows your mind intellectually or emotionally in a way a girl never has before. It’s the honeymoon phase, you know? She can’t do anything wrong because it’s all new. You want to explore every inch of her body, every fold in her brain. You cannot get enough.

The first day on the cruise ship was just like the euphoric feeling of being with a new woman. The cruise staff greeted me with a pineapple cocktail the second I walked on the ship. I didn’t even need to pay cash, they just asked for my room number. I felt compelled to explore every crevice of the ship initially but I got caught up at the self-service ice cream machine that was located on the ships upper deck. I grabbed my cone and dipped my toes into the wading the pool while the multi-cultural staff tended to my every need. I have never been so happy in my life. The breakfast buffet, in particular was like nothing I had ever seen before. The lox were fresh, the bagels were soft, and they even had bacon wrapped honeydew topped with a sliver of brie. Bacon wrapped honeydew with a sliver of fucking brie! Can you imagine? Every corner that I turned there was something new and exciting. Bacon wrapped honeydew is to the cruise ship what stand up 69-ing is to a relationship—an unbelievable perk.

Gerald: You’ve seriously dated a girl who doesn’t let you hit it while stand-up 69-ing?

Arnold: It’s a metaphor you jackass…keep up. The honeymoon stage went on for a couple of days and things just kept getting better. You know the little things. It’s the way the wait staff fluffed my pillows every morning. It’s the way they made sure there were fresh towels in my cabin at precisely 9:30 am. It’s the way they looked at me sincerely every time I passed them in the hall and said “how are you today sir”.

I had dinner every night at 5:30 at one of the five premium restaurants on the ship. The same wait staff would rotate each night to the restaurant that I was eating at so they began to get to know me. Well, not the “real me” but rather, how I like my steak done and the fact that I prefer desserts filled with chocolate vs. fruit. The little things add up and I had a growing sense that these people cared about me. Then I instantly grew bored with them. At that moment, I realized that there was nothing left to discover. The cruise staff spoiled me rotten and I found myself growing progressively disgusted with the whole thing. The only means of excitement left on the trip was when the boat docked for “day trips” on an island. But it was a controlled and contrived excitement because the cruise line planned everything that I did in advance. Part of me was turned off by this contrivance, but the other part liked the comfort of not having to make decisions for myself.

The boat stopped at a total of three islands and I did the exact same thing at each: para-sailed, went to the gift shop (strategically placed close to the harbor) to purchase a neon cutoff t-shirt that said something like “I was here: Key West 2012!” and a post card to send back to my friends as proof of my vacation….before B-lining back to my place of comfort—the boat. Sadly I went to three exotic Caribbean islands and all I have to show for it is six fucking neon t-shirts and a half smoked faux Cuban cigar. At the time, I saw no purpose in venturing any further than that because I just wanted to get back to the boat where people knew how I liked my steak!

Gerald: Thanks for sending me a post card asshole….

Arnold: By the fourth day, I had sampled nearly every drink on the menu and I had devoured every type of cuisine. In order to keep things interesting I began to test the limits of the wait staff’s hospitality. The more I pushed the more accommodating they were and the more frustrated and bored I became with the whole thing. I ordered 4 cheeseburgers with 2 sides of fries from room service at 4:30 in the morning and the food arrived 20 minutes later. I didn’t even eat it. I just let it rot on my desk in front of the vanity mirror for the wait staff to clean up in the morning. I wanted someone to express some real emotion to me. Discontent, jealousy, frustration, anything! But they didn’t…they took everything in stride with a smile on their face.

Every night at dusk I would go down to the boat’s 3^rd floor deck to run laps. As I circled the boat I became infatuated with how beautiful the horizon looked and how deeply blue the water was. However, the infatuation soon faded into lust and romantic fantasies about leaving the boat behind. I just wanted to get into one of the rescue boats and trek off into the horizon but where would I even go—there was no land in sight. Who would I even be without the comfort of the cruise?

Gerald: So you are saying that your identity entered a temporary state of paralysis while you were on the cruise?

Arnold: Exactly, a cruise ship is like a pressure cooker for simulating the stages of every relationship. At first, everything is exciting and euphoric. After the excitement fades away, the basis for the relationship becomes the established comfort zone. Exclusive relationships exist solely because they are efficient, easy, and predictable. It’s much more efficient to spend time finding one person who embraces your strengths, hobbies, aspirations, and overlooks your faults, than it is to convince multiple people that your life has some sort of value. You use this comfort zone as a crutch to avoid any scenario that threatens your perceived well-being and in the process your individual identity is compromised. The identity of you and your significant other begin to meld into one indistinguishable, interdependent being. Suddenly you find yourself only associating and socializing with other people who are also in relationships, thus eliminating the possibility of ever lusting for someone or something else. This leads to complacency. When you feel completely satisfied with who you are in terms of someone else, it’s easy to abuse the relationship, either consciously or subconsciously. That’s the precise point that a relationship begins to erode—when you know someone too well to the point that you exploit them. The longer you rely on the comfort of someone else, the more difficult it becomes to reenter society as an individual. When you are locked into a long-term relationship life becomes a calculated set of destinations, rather than an aimless, yet, organic journey of finding yourself.

On the last day of the cruise, I awoke and went down to the accounts payable office to settle my outstanding bill. I left the wait staff a generous tip for their service over the last week. After that, I headed towards the breakfast buffet one last time before docking on land. As I approached the buffet, I was astonished to see that the bacon and honeydew were in separate trays. Why are they not wrapped around one another? And where the hell was the brie!??? The wait staff had already been tipped out, what was their incentive to impress me? Their hospitality was an illusion, their sincerity was an illusion, the whole goddamn cruise was an illusion that I grew to depend on over a week. Although at times I tested their affection just to keep myself entertained, having the option of neglecting someone is more appealing than having no one who cares enough to let you neglect them. The second they stopped caring, I realized just how much that week meant to me--even if it was an illusion. With them, I was a needy, selfish human, and without them, I was a lost, torched soul who did not know where to turn.

Gerald: So, much like a woman, the wait staff neglected you after your perceived value had diminished. You have been back in America, on solid ground for three days now …how are you holding up?

Arnold: (Staring off towards the Caribbean Sea) I would kill for some bacon wrapped honeydew with a sliver of brie wedged in between…

Gerald: Wait.... are you talking about the food? The standup 69-ing? A woman? The cruise wait staff????

Arnold: Its a metaphor Gerald, life is one big metaphor....

Is Alanis Morissette an Idiot? Irony vs. Coincidence

2012-01-10T16:42:00.000-08:00

Alanis played the character of god in Dogma. A woman
playing god: is that ironic? or a coincidence? Don't ask the
woman pictured.

“Isn’t it ironic how Michael Phelps, my favorite athlete, got caught ripping a bong at a college party and then two weeks later I got busted in the dorms for smoking weed because I tried to use a Doritos bag to block the smoke detector.”

No. It is not ironic. It is a coincidence—and a minor one at that. Seattle columnist Dan Savage successfully altered the history of the word Santorum, much in the same way that Alanis Morissette obliterated the meaning of irony. Her song “Isn’t it Ironic?” does not come close to exemplifying a sliver of irony, which confused a mass amount of people, thus resulting in 15 years of statements similar to the one above. The events that Morissette describes in her song are mostly coincidences.

A coincidence is when two independent occurrences collide to form a unique, and often-hilarious outcome. Situational irony (the type Morissette aims to convey) exists when actions have an effect that is contrary to the expectation. The expectation needs to either be universally understood by being implied or explicitly stated. When the result of something is contrary to the expectation, irony exists. The lyric, for example, “10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife” by itself is just a coincidence. If Alanis found herself in the same situation at, say a Steakhouse, then it would be ironic because one would expect a steakhouse to have a breadth of knives. Nevertheless, forget abstraction—let us get concrete.

Examples of Irony (Some of these are hypothetical so please do not take offense)
Lets start simple:

-You are a dentist who has a serious case of gingivitis.

-You are a child who only prays to God for two things:
1) That Santa will bring you an iPad 3 this Christmas.
2) That your parents over sleep their alarm every Sunday morning.

-A bully on the playground constantly berates and harasses you. As a means of retaliation, you retort to the bully with a cocky and clever sing-along “thas alright, thas okay, urrrr gunna pump my gas someday.” Twenty years later, you find yourself working at a 711 outside your hometown pumping gas for the bully who is now the owner of said 711.

-You pull up to a stop light and look to your right. In the lane next to you, there is a Chevy 4x4 with a Jimmy Johns delivery topper perched on the roof of the vehicle. Disgusted, you turn your attention to the car in front of you only to see an equally repulsive Toyota Prius with a “Drill Baby Drill” bumper sticker.

-You are the head of CIA. Your job is to protect and secure our borders by providing the government with top-secret information about our enemies. However, you begin to worry about how the recession will affect your career. Fearing job security, you decide to sell some weapons to our enemies. Over the next 15 years, you work on locating the weapons and suggest to the government that we wage a couple of wars in order to keep our borders safe. Years later, you write a tell all book in which you state “The decision made absolute sense from my standpoint. A temporary breach in national security led to a generation of job security for my division and the defense department as a whole.”

-You smoke Camel Crush cigarettes and puncture the mentholated bead in the filter before lighting.

-You used to think that ESPN’s NFL pregame was paramount in terms of insight, humor, and opinion. Then the other day you watched the telecast for a whole hour after accidently hitting the close captioning button. You realize just how obtuse and humorless the show really is when all of the on-air personas are boiled down to pure text. As you sit on the couch reading the transcript of the show, you cannot help but notice the excessive use of the word “man” and how often everybody refers to themselves in the third person. Suddenly, you begin to feel bad for the person sitting in a cube somewhere typing word for word what these guys are saying.

Keyshawn: Boom where’d you get that haircut? You look like Danny Devito in Taxi
Boomer: I’ll tell you what Key, this cuts looking a lot better than your ability to predict games this year.
Keyshawn: hahahahahaha ahhh man Boom you sure know how to zing me (slaps the table)
Ditka: (raspy tone) God I love football you guys crack me up.
All: (Unison laugh)…….
“”
“”
“”

Boomer: (Out of breath) Alright folks--we are having a lot of fun here this morning but lets take a commercial break. Up next the Mayne Event! Kenny finds out what type of shampoo Tom Brady is using on his luscious locks and how it’s the Key to his success.

-The state of Wisconsin is livid about people who drink and drive. Legislation and smear campaigns have raised the collective consciousness to the consensus that it is in fact a bad thing. However, many bars in Wisconsin prohibit people from parking in their lots over night. Not sure if you are too drunk to drive? Don’t worry there is a breathalyzer at the door for a nominal $1.00 fee (buy one blow, get one free!). But hell--its much easier to criminalize and lock people up than it is to provide the means for a solution.

-John Cougar Meloncamp makes millions of dollars singing about how rewarding it is to grow up in blue-collar Middle America, thus ensuring that he will never have to drive a tractor, fix his own vehicle, or live in a little pink house ever again.

-Barack Obama is the leader of a country where he could not even vote for himself 150 years ago. 45 years ago, he could not enjoy a Coca-Cola at the same establishment as a white person in any state below the mason Dixon line. Now he is arguably the most recognizable and powerful man on the planet—how’s that for situational irony? Sometimes irony can be poetically just.

Part 2: Examples of Coincidence Coming soon

Hey Credit Card Companies-->F*ck You.

2011-12-18T18:40:00.000-08:00

The American dream, according to Wikipedia, is defined as:
A national ethos of the United States in which freedom includes the promise of prosperity and success….life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement.

That is a beautifully written, outdated fallacy. The new American dream (or perhaps the real American Dream) looks a little bit more like this: It is every Americans civic and economic duty to spend as much as they can today to ensure the future prosperity of America. This new ideal is the not the creation of the consumer but rather a debt perpetuating instrument called the credit card.

Credit card companies present themselves as enablers of this dream. They position themselves as selfless philanthropists by granting American citizens the opportunity described in the latter half of the Wikipedia definition—a chance at “a better, richer, fuller life” (minus the need for ability or achievement). Strip away the fluff of the phrase and it is easy to see the underlying truth: “Spend today….pay for it for the rest of your life.”

Credit cards have ushered in a generation of people that buy into these debt-enslaving instruments and the culprit is not the consumer, but rather the entity. These instruments have not only wronged a generation of people (myself included) but also the very dream they claim to be aiming for—the future prosperity of America.

I showed up on my college campus as a savvy 18 year old. I thought I was a lot smarter than I was, but as it turns out, I was more naive and obtuse than most. During the first week of school, I found a coupon in my dormitory mailbox for free pizza at a local restaurant. Within a week of college, my body was already craving the dietary staples of pizza and beer—so the mere mention of “free” lured me in. At the entrance there was a slick man shaking hands while handing out clipboards and pens. The man was of course a credit card tycoon. Behind him, there was a mountain of “free“ pizza. He told me that if I filled out a short personal information survey, I was free to indulge.

Personal information surveys are the equivalent to offering a woman a backrub during the seduction process. It’s a seemingly harmless excuse to get close to another person without stating intent. Sensing my skepticism, he told me that there was no obligation to sign up for a card, as he stressed the importance of building credit and earning rewards. Eager to eat, I scribbled my contact information on the form and the man thanked me with great delight. I engaged in flirtatious foreplay with the debt devil.

What happened next was a rollercoaster ride of blurred euphoria and a subsequent mixture of regret and shame. It all happened so fast. When my pre-approved application for a Discover Card came in the mail a week later, I filled it out and started charging everything—all in the name of building credit. Suddenly, I found myself 1,500 dollars in debt. My incompetent spending earned me a Discover Card fleece blanket, and four 8 oz. vacuum-sealed skirt steaks—in 6 years. Under the influence of pizza aroma, and the promise of financial freedom, I became the victim of a heinous credit assault.

I am fully aware of my stupidity but some of the blame should be put on other pivotal enablers. Why did the university allow the credit card company to solicit our business with direct mail? Why did the owner of the pizza joint endorse the man pushing credit cards on 18 year-olds?

The reality is that credit companies are malicious when it comes to targeting young people. They lure naïve individuals who define adult independence as purchasing their own groceries and wiping their own asses, with complimentary gifts. The practice is flawless from a revenue standpoint because a person, who is stupid enough to trade their personal information in exchange for pizza, is likely to indulge in frivolous spending habits. Unfortunately, “good business” can be guised under unethical false advertising.

What is there to actually discover at discover.com? That I’ve been pre-approved for a high interest rate credit card that has a 5,000 dollar limit? Finally, a company that understands my innate desire to mortgage my future so that I can start living the way I want today!.....because as a Black LT Discover card holder, “anything is possible.”

Credit card companies are legal loan sharks that compete for business with clever product names and tag lines in attempt to empower a consumer’s sense of freedom and identity. Companies that sell easily abused products should be required to use generic names like “Credit Card Company 1” and “Debt Device 2”.

For instance, look at the prescription drug industry. Drugs are named with basic scientific titles that evoke little to no emotion from users. To most, the terms Ritalin and Adderall mean absolutely nothing, but their function is widely understood. If a doctor offered his patient a choice between the two, they would likely be indifferent. However, imagine that Adderall renamed its product “Magic” and the patient was approached with same scenario. Magic would be the drug of choice a 100 times over because the name is more appealing.

Discover’s product differentiation model is equivalent to the above hypothetical scenario. Isn’t it ironic that a domain that suggests exploration and wonderment belongs to a credit card company? The Discover domain should be reassigned to a company that actually makes sense. (I suggest stumbleupon.com be granted the domain)

The last cigarette advertisement aired during the Johnny Carson show in 1971. Since then, the FCC has outlawed the glamorization of cigarette usage on television. Likewise, companies that sell alcohol are not allowed to display people drinking their products. Companies that sell inherently detrimental products are not allowed to romanticize what it is like to be a user. Credit card companies, on the other hand, are allowed to depict people climbing mountains, flying first class, and eating cuts of steer only available in the remote annals of Africa. The underlying theme of these commercials is obvious: with card X anything is possible—or as Discover eloquently puts it: It Pays To Discover.

Companies like Visa and Discover are able to plaster their names all over the country’s biggest events because they have loads of money. The irony is that they make their profits from consumers that are the exact opposite of their commercials. If people were able to pay their balances on a timely basis, then the credit card industry could not afford to advertise. Instead, they fictionalize the lifestyles of card members and reap the benefits of people who default on their debts trying to live out these fantasies in reality.

Furthermore, increasingly austere tobacco regulations are making it unattractive to continue to smoke. In the near future, congress will pass a bill requiring cigarette packs to depict the inevitable results of usage—so mangled babies, black lungs, and rotten teeth will be on packs of Marlboro Lights soon. Credit card companies should be held to these same standards.

Credit card companies offer consumers the opportunity to customize the image on their cards. They do this by collaborating with a local sports team or by allowing users to put a picture of their Great Aunt Nan on the card. This practice plays into the American consumer’s obsession with customizing a ubiquitous product with their uniqueness. In the process, a device that promotes frivolous spending is assigned to the consumer’s fanship or family. The ill intent of the device is guised under these customizations.

Instead, cards should depict the likely result of usage—a man sitting on a park bench, dressed to the 9’s with his shoulders shrugged, pockets turned inside out, and a look of despair and confusion in his eyes. The picture should be watermarked so that in bold 16 point font a warning can be issued that says: WARNING: YOUR CREDIT SCORE DETERMINES YOUR ABILITY TO SECURE A JOB, A MORTAGE, AND YOUR OVERALL WORTH AS A HUMAN BEING! SPEND WISELY!

Sadly, the barometer for a person’s competence in modern society is based on their ability to borrow and buy goods and the masses need to constantly be reminded of this. Just like we are constantly reminded that cigarettes are bad for our health with anti-smoking campaigns, TRUTH ADS, and lawsuits.

As Credit card companies continue to incentivize acquiring cards with customization packages and free airlines miles, they are in turn creating habitual errant spenders. Awareness is crucial, and the above suggestions, though hyperbolic, are steps in the right direction.

Look, I understand that not everyone is in credit card debt and those who are foresighted and fiscally responsible will never be victimized by Credit Card companies. However, American culture, down to its very core, is built on consumerism--the need for the newest, brightest, and most expensive product of the season. Day after day, we are bombarded with advertisements that remind us of our inadequacies and media hubs telling us that the only way to avoid the next great depression is to SPEND NOW.

With unemployment and wealth disparity at an all-time high, where are people suppose to get the money to, well, be American? Credit Card companies feed on these ideals by exploiting consumers who cannot stop indulging their every whim.

Employ a recovering alcoholic at a nightclub and eventually he will be back on the sauce; offer high-interest short term loans to people who are born to consume and eventually they will be in debt for life. Debt instruments only hinder the possibility of prosperity and success described in the old American Dream. The new American Dream casts a grave shadow on American citizens, but at least someone was nice enough to give them a chance to Discover.™

Cigarettes and Iphones: Which has more utility in the modern world?

2011-12-06T15:10:00.000-08:00

With the analog apocalypse and yearning for a simpler time aside, I am still reluctant to purchase an IPHONE. Until my recent epiphany my biggest gripe was the price. AT&T offers an unlimited text, calling, and the smallest data package for 75 dollars month—who has that kind of money? Then it hit me, I spend that sum (roughly) on cigarettes every month. If only I could just burry my addiction to tobacco I could easily become an IPhone owner.

Now I know it may not be proper literary form to assume what the reader is thinking, but I’ll assume most of you are screaming “EASIEST FUCKING DECISION EVER, put down the cancer sticks” as you are reading this. But what I am suggesting to you is that my concerns run much deeper than just the price—it’s actually my skepticism about giving up one for the other. So it has come to this: before I assume the role of an IPHONE owner I must fully hash out what I will be gaining by the purchase and what I will be giving up.

Stylistic Liquidity

Much like a woman recovering from a self-esteem boosting boob-job right at the peak of ovulation (leading to an unexpected pregnancy), the decision to purchase an IPhone is going to take some precise timing, planning, and a little bit of luck. Monumental purchases always have unintended consequences if the timing is off. The problem with purchasing technology is that the marketplace reinvents itself too quickly. If I wait for the price of the IPhone to drop, I will be stuck with an old model. If I purchase the phone too soon I will spend a ton of money and deal with a bunch of preliminary software bugs.

If I purchase an IPhone I am going to be locked into that purchase and the brand identity that is associated with it. The opportunity to develop a unique identity amongst a sea of other IPhone owners is difficult because it is expensive to do so. The only way I could distinguish myself is by purchasing an array of accessories. If I start to think like this, I know I am in trouble:

  “Maybe I’ll go with the green case today, or perhaps the red one. Screw it the fourth of July is coming up, where is my red-white-and-blue case? The one with strategically placed rhinestones in the shape of stars that captures the very essence of my patriotism.

Ask any pubescent child who has ever tried to ease the social aggravation of wearing braces by periodically customizing their teeth caps to reflect the current holiday or their artistic angst. The verdict? You can’t accessorize something that is socially repulsive into being acceptable.

It’s much easier to alter my cigarette smoking habits to reflect my current feeling. Camel lights are my baseline brand but my purchases alter depending on my mood. If I am feeling especially frugal, I’ll roll my own. If I am feeling cash saturated, I will throw down for some Parliaments. Because cigs are so cheap (relative to the IPhone) and quickly consumed, I am able to adapt my brand to fit my current need. (ADVANTAGE CIG)     

Social Worth

I’ve been smoking cigs for about 14 months so I feel like I am able to speak on the behalf of habitual smokers. Yes cigs are expensive and yes they are bad for your health but let me remind you that they used to be a perfectly acceptable social norm. I use cigarettes for a variety of things but I think it’s most valuable use is to connect with other people and also myself--in reality.

In today’s social world, we have become progressively numb to letting our guard down in the physical because of the Internet and its omnipresence. When I see someone smoking a cigarette outside of a public place, I feel an instant connection with them because they are openly advertising something about them self that I can easily identify with. My hope is that the conversation progresses beyond just talking about cigs or the weather but our shared interest is the catalyst to that opportunity. IPhones on the other hand prevent this type of connection because users are always buried in asocial world that exists somewhere beyond the immediate present. I fear that by replacing cigs with an IPhone I will lose many opportunities to spark organic conversation.

Cigs also provide an escape from awkward social situations. Whenever I find myself in a place where I lack confidence or there is a great amount of tension, I am able to step outside and collect my thoughts with a cig. If I tried to step outside and collect my thoughts for five minutes without a cigarette people would think I was nuts. The same concept applies to public places with lots of people—if I were to just stand around without appearing busy, people would instantly discount my social worth. A cigarette puts me at ease.

The IPhone could solve much of what I just described of course because anytime I may be feeling frightened, alone, or awkward, I could just bury my attention into the digital abyss of entertainment that my phone provides. The difference is that I will not be reevaluating my situation and looking within myself for answers but rather leaning on the social comfort of my phone. An IPhone is a means of extro-spection and a cigarette is a means of introspection. (ADVANTAGE CIG)

Ability to consume:

The utility of a cigarette has been marginalized by legislation preventing smoking indoors. This is probably for the betterment of everyone, but it limits where and to what frequency I can smoke. The hurdles to consumption provide me with a feeling of delayed gratification which only makes the cigarette that much sweeter. There is nothing better than a smoke after a long hard day at work.

As an IPhone owner possessing the power of 3G and a fully charged battery, I could theoretically consume whenever possible. Indoors, outdoors, in a car—Hell I could even surf the Internet hands free during sex thanks to SIRI technology. (ADVANTAGE IPHONE)

Social Taboo

I used to look down on people with smartphones because they always seem pre-occupied with validating what they are doing in terms of what the rest of their social-sphere is not doing (thank-you Facebook status updates) but the presence of smartphones is so wide spread now that it is completely acceptable to do so. I often find myself referencing someone’s twitter update or Facebook status during a real conversation and the moment passes without criticism. We live in a digital world and being perpetually attached to the digital dimension is completely normal.

Cigarettes, on the other hand, have regressed in terms of social acceptability. They stink. They kill. They are completely taboo. Whenever I meet a new group of people or hang out with someone for the first time I Fra-breeze the hell out of my car and I try not to smoke in front of them in order to avoid judgment. Being a closet smoker is becoming progressively difficult and time consuming. At my parents’ house I migrate towards deciduous shrubbery when disposing of my butts in order to avoid the criticism they will offer up when the leaves fall of the trees.

In the middle of writing this paragraph, I stepped out for a cigarette in front of a coffee shop and a man driving a gas guzzling Chevy 4x4 slowed his truck in the middle of the street just to yell “SMOOOOKER!” at me, as if I had just exhaled a vile toxin into his precious air. (ADVANTAGE IPHONE)

Perception from Law Enforcement

I’m obsessed with petty crime or at least getting away with frivolous acts. Some of my favorite past times include jay-walking, stealing range balls, and texting while driving. There is a fine line between someone who is texting and driving and simply changing a song on their IPhone.

As an IPhone owner I would relish the opportunity to trick law enforcement of the latter. I imagine that if I were to be pulled over by an officer I could simply hold up my IPhone and say “sorry sir, there must be a misunderstanding, you see I am an IPhone owner and I was simply trying to shuffle my playlist. “

The officer’s look of disgust would quickly turn to envy at the misunderstanding. At that point I would toggle over to my apps page and show him my police radar application to service his ego. “I’m a big fan of your work sir, some people listen to the radio, but I enjoy listening to police calls. He’ll laugh and ask me what I pay monthly for the phone while simultaneously motioning that he would like to give the interface a try. I will direct him to the shotgun application and let him aim it at cars passing by and we’ll have a big chuckle. The life of an IPhone owner must be sweet.

Recently I’ve been hand rolling my cigarettes (to save money) so to the eyes of a skeptic they may appear to look like joints filled with schedule 1 narcotics. Although I am sure I could convince the same officer that his “reasonable cause” for pulling me over was just a big misunderstanding, I can’t imagine the post-pullover-chit-chat would be nearly as inviting. (ADVANTAGE IPHONE)

Transitioning from once vice to another is always tricky because I am forced to make a decision that compromises my immediate identity, paving the way for my future being. But sometimes I just know when a change is needed, and I need a change.

Cigs, or the IPhone? I think my analysis has led me to the inevitable decision of becoming an IPhone owner. The IPhone may cause my social skills to regress 15 years but in the end, I suppose that is better than losing 15 years of my life to cigarettes.

We had a good run “Cigarettes” but being able to showcase a flush Angry Birds scorecard, complete with 3 stars at each level has become just as much as a conversation starter as you ever were.

Outdated Technologies I yearn For (AA part 2)

2011-11-13T18:26:00.001-08:00

Look, I am just going to say it--I want an IPHONE. I have a pressing fear that I am going to be left behind by a digital generation.   I am only 23 years old and I still have time left to adapt. I consistently find myself making the follow three arguments about technologies that I yearn for that make me sound like a prehistoric punk destined to be left behind on judgment day.

1) Downloading media from Napster: I miss the Napster logo with the weird alien wearing headphones. I miss cursing at my dial-up connection as a bootleg .mp3 version of Puff Daddy’s Bad Boys 4 Life downloaded for countless hours.    I even miss the imminent threat of being stuck with nothing but static at the end of a long download, or ending up with an edited version of a rap song because some wise-ass up-loader named it incorrectly--but the delayed gratification made for emotions of frustration and satisfaction. Pandora,Spotify-Bit torrents--its all a bunch of madness in my mind.
   Before Youtube swept the nation some 10 years later, Napster was the only place to download user videos (i.e. porn, human folly, cat bloopers). Now its easy to stream video and watch montage “still photos” to see if the video is even worth watching. Again, back in the day all there was to go on was the brief description of the video.

2) T9 texting is like a virtual editor: For all you trash talkers who criticize the limitations of T9, I think of it as a virtual editor of every text that I send. It forces me to spell words correctly, discourages profanity, and eliminates acronyms from taking the place of whole sentences. But most importantly, it makes me think about what I am sending rather than just releasing a half-witted comment.

Countless times I have grabbed my phone and tried to T9 the sequence 78779 to patronize a friend. My phone returns “puppy”. In that moment I am faced with two options—either use a different word, or go through the intellectually numbing process of “adding” my intended word to my T9databank.  T9 polices my ignorance and encourages my literacy.

3) The innocence of AOL Instant Messenger: I have a theory that by simply wearing a pair of sunglasses people can escape himself or herself and drop a certain level of inhibition. The shades create a new perspective and an altered reality. A reality in which they do not have to own up to what they say with direct eye contact.

The same is true of mascots. I once spent a week dressed as a human sized Dalmatian slanging fireworks and freedom on the side of a highway to draw in customers. Wearing a “costume” is freeing because it creates a level of anonymity that is not otherwise achievable. Suddenly my identity was no longer open for immediate ridicule because “I” was not the one doing the hand-jive with two American flags in my hand—it was the Dalmatian. When the week was over I was able to re-enter reality with ease. My screen name on AOL AIM was like being a mascot with ran-bay aviators glued to my nose.

As an awkward overweight 12 year old, I did not have the capacity or the confidence to present myself in an appealing way but AIM kind of changed all that. It allowed me to “customize” my appearance in a way that could not be done in reality. I would run home everyday after school so that I could “sign on” and starting trolling the digital airwaves for an infinite amount of social possibility. Under the guise of my screen name Carousel 182 182 I talked to girls with ferocious whit, collected and compared buddy lists like trading cards, and obsessed over finding the perfect song lyric that personified the preteen plight to use as my “away message” (the original status update).

As a 12-year old, a typical Friday involved having a couple of friends sleepover and going on AIM to drum up some entertainment. Our objective was animalistic and simply--to get girls to say provocative things. If there were not anyone online worth talking to, we would create a new screen name and impersonate someone else. Yes, in today’s hypersensitive world we were committing a combination of identity theft and cyber bullying but I’ll rationalize it by saying AIM was innocent. We were innocent. We were simply experimenting with the Internet and how it affected our identities. We had no idea what we were getting into.

It is hard to remember but the Internet and AIM were still a huge novelty 10 years ago. The Internet supplemented our lives but it was not our lives. What is unique about AIM is the clarifying adjective “screen” in screen name. Screen acknowledges what was said and done under that digital persona was almost “surreal” or on a stage. An identifiable reality still existed in absence of the Internet, but now Facebook has taken it to an extreme. The line between a “real” identity and a “digital” identity are now blurred.

My Facebook screen name is my NAME whereas AIM was just my favorite band. What was said on AIM was contrived and phony but we knew it because “Matt Baumann” was not saying these things, Carosouel 182 182 was. Today, the way we present ourselves on Facebook is approached with less suspicion and its almost considered fact because social connectivity has lost its anonymity. Everything that is said and done on the digital airwaves is categorized and chronicled under our names. In a way, we have all become firework-selling- Dalmatian-mascots, except we cannot take the head off to re-enter reality anymore because a new reality has been created.

The Analog Apocalypse (Part 1)

2011-11-06T18:51:00.000-08:00

Steve Jobs is to Jesus as Bono is to Peter. Keep it moving Bono, in the name of love.

The analog apocalypse is here. I keep having this dream where Steve Jobs is actually this millenniums Jesus Christ figure. In the dream Jobs pulls out his IPhone from heaven and sends out a video text only to Iphone owners. He tells them that a new world is in order and those who believe in the devices that he has created have been chosen to represent the future of the human race. His demands of the masses are simple, "loot all the modern digital devices you can and meet me in Times Square".

Over the next six hours IPhone owners begin to pillage the earth until it is washed clean of all modern digital devices and then begin to storm the city of New York. The crowd becomes progressively dense as the Iphone owners wait for Jobs with great anticipation.

"Look! It’s Him," shouts a pompous IPhone owner as the crowd looks up to the sky to see Jobs in the flesh.

Add caption

Jobs descends from the sky wearing his finest black silk turtleneck, designer jeans, and a pair of heaven-white Adidas all-stars. His body is kept afloat by a hovering, gold plated IPad that stores a list of names of those who will be joining him in the new world. Without hesitation and in a near simultaneous fashion, the Apple brand identifiers utilize the "Flashlight" app on their phones to illuminate the darkened sky as Jobs cuts through the horizon on his golden Ipad before landing on the mound of digital devices.

Jobs delivers a brief manifesto about his vision for a new world that is based on social connectivity, pure entertainment, and the future of technology. He states that his efforts have gone unnoticed on earth by those who have ignored his digital movement. At this point he sets a blaze to the mountain of digital devices he has perched himself on and turns his golden IPad into a fleet of IPad hovercrafts. He announces, "MacHeads--the digital rapture is here and you have been saved. Join me in the new world". With Jobs leading the way the crowd members jump on their newly issued hovercrafts that are powered by the heat of the souls trapped inside the analog hell on earth and ascend back into the sky.

Me and the other people left behind are forced to live in a world free of apple products and the digital infrastructure that Jobs created during his life. The analog reality is bleak. Our reality is reduced to buying music from the Microsoft Zune market place (Joan Osbourne's "what if god was one of us becomes the number 1 song in the country in matter of days) , printing out map quest directions, and trolling AOL instant messenger looking for social get togethers--literally hell on earth.

Then I wake up from my dream soaked in a pool of manic sweat. I turn over and look at my Samsung flip phone (circa 2005) and feel a sharp pain of emptiness. Then the tag line from the popular Iphone advertisement, that stars no actual people but just the device itself, begins to play in my head. "If you don't have an IPhone...then, well, you don't have an IPhone".

Why do you want this job?

2011-10-12T17:26:00.000-07:00

“Why do you want this job?”

Well Chuck, do you mind if I speak candidly, about exactly why I am sitting here before you? By now, you probably have a good sense of my ostensible persona. Up until this point I have pandered my answers to your liken, but I feel I need to be completely honest when answering this question. If you really want to understand me as a person, and the pain that is associated with the dichotomy of thought I am feeling then I hope you embrace what I am about to describe to you. Know that that this is my last attempt at abstraction. This is merely an effort to describe who I was, what I want to be, and how that will benefit your company.

When I was in grade school there was this awesome substitute teacher named Mr. Quill. He was a wide-eyed, jubilant man with an insatiable desire to have fun and make kids laugh. He was as much a novelty as his quirky last name suggested. Out of the entire, substitute-teacher-pool the students prayed to get Mr. Q. Like all substitutes, he never required us to do any real work but he always leveled with us in a way that we respected him for. He usually led off class with a goofy joke, followed by a brief attempt at doing the “assigned” busy work before he would just say ‘screw it, push your desks aside, we’re playing a game”.  

Mr. Q was somewhat of a celebrity in the local performing arts scene. He was a staple member on the prominent improve team in town called Comedy Sports. He always incorporated a level of goofiness from the stage into his teaching persona. As an 8-year old I hoped to one day have the same type of energy and enthusiasm for living that Mr. Q had as a middle-aged man.  

As I aged, Mr. Quill continued to substitute teach in my classes a couple times per year. Around my Junior year of high school I noticed a sharp change in his demeanor. His tone became more desperate, his pitch more monotone; it was like he had lost his will to entertain, to create, and essentially to live. Soon he became a shadow of himself, exhibiting little enthusiasm while he hid behind his computer for most of the period and forced us to do the type of busy work he once despised. Students resisted this change. Every class had a few who couldn’t help but point out to Quill that he was no longer who we thought he was.

“Hey aren’t you a comedian, tell us a joke funny guy” is what they would say to him in a condescending voice.

Quill would just shake his head, sink his shoulders, and disappear deeper into the abyss of his once vibrant mind. He would sit behind his computer while he sporadically typed in a manic fashion. I assume he was working on a novel that he had ambitions of finishing before waking up on the wrong side of 25. The weight between his waist and sternum constantly reminding him of an adulthood filled with overconsumption. His aging face and smokers cough were evidence of a lifetime riddled with unchecked impulses for “living in the moment”.

It was not until I started searching for jobs in the business world and thus having to deal with the reality of adulthood, that I understood what happened to Mr. Q. He was dealing with the realization of being creatively exhausted and irrelevant.

I can take one of two paths as I transition into adulthood. I can either be a speculator/distributor of someone else’s value or I can be a creator of my own value. However, there is a third option, which is a combination of both roles. This is the most dangerous path because the two ideas are so conflicting in and of themselves. This is exactly what Mr. Q attempted to do.

He was using the guaranteed income of a substitute-teaching gig to supplement his creative aspirations. He probably figured he would do the teaching thing while he tried to launch his writing/acting/comedy career. Slowly he realized that he was never going to make it. He was never going to make a living in a creative capacity. Yet, everyone at his rational career (students and peers) already had this expectation of him to constantly be creative and funny. In a way, we were all rooting for him to reach his creative potential but it never happened. Can you imagine what it must be like to be expected to play that role all the time? Can you imagine trying to earn a paycheck based on your personality and ability to make someone laugh? This must be the loneliest place a human being can be. A human life trapped inside a character-- typecast for eternity.

So, what does any of this have to do with me being here? If life operated in a vacuum, there would be no reason to be afraid of anything. No risk too dodgy. No desire too selfish. No deprecating thoughts that could inhibit and destroy the mind. In this vacuum accomplishment is limitless and creative thought is infinite. However, I do not operate in a vacuum. I live in the real world. A world that is dictated by dollars and cents, haves and have-nots, successes and failures. And the barometer for success is always money.

When I went to college 5 years ago, I thought a business degree was the next logical step. A proverbial security blanket in case I didn’t achieve wild creative success or start a retail phenomenon equivalent to silly-bands. But that turned out to be an ideal fantasy. A myth buried inside my head. For 23 years I have lived my life with a complete sense of wonderment, and curiosity. I have woken up in foreign places, said things I shouldn’t have, used and abused substances/friendships/relationships all in the name of “finding myself”. I have taken a lot of risks in effort to find my creative self but it's easy to be idealistic and socially rogue when I don't have any adult responsibilities like paying bills. I need to let go of my childish ways and start living with some foresight because the future scares the shit out of me. My youth and my careless approach to life have been catalysts for creative output and I feel that as soon as I commit to an "adult" life, the rigid domains of reality will limit my ability to find joy the way I once did....but its something I have to do.  

Have you ever loved something and then slowly watched it slip away because of factors you felt you had no control over? I’m talking about a pain where the lingering sense of loss presents itself in subtle, yet myriad ways. It’s the feeling you get when you brush your teeth in the morning and see your youth fading away in the mirror day after day. It’s the look of terror in my parents eyes as they watch the news and begin to realize that the “American Standard of Living” that they once thought was infinite, is actually eroding. The best parallel I can think of is the thought of treading water in the middle of the Atlantic ocean—delaying the inevitable.

I know that I cannot commit my life to working in a creative capacity while the jaws of reality nip at my heels and because of this, I am here to take the brunt of the pain now, rather than deal with a lifetime of depression due to a lack in myself. I want to avoid what Mr. Q went through at all cost.

As I see it this job provides structure, vertical promotion opportunities, and most importantly a consistent paycheck. I need to be “Jared the Insurance Salesman” from 9-5 and Jared the human being after hours. This separation is key for my peace of mind. Someone with creative aspirations is never off the clock. Their workday is not finite because as an “artist” their job becomes all encompassing. It must be impossible to approach ANY situation--social or even in solitude, without thinking about how they must produce something. Eventually their minds eat them alive. I am here to plug-in and bury my idealistic vision of myself for my own safety and well-being. I am leaving that part of me in the past and opting into a life of certainty.

However, this does not mean I am completely done making irrational decisions. Someday I may use my savings that is earning minimal interest in a CD to buy a boat. I may assume the role of a boat owner. I will wear retro fitted caps and measure my relative bravado against other men in terms of horsepower and hyperbolic fish stories. I might even play the lottery on a weekly basis and internally romanticize about the things I might do if money were no longer a problem. But this is a different type of irrational behavior in terms of my worth to you as an asset to this company. My temporary lapses in frugality will only further insure my dependency on the paycheck that this job will provide me.

The dark truth is that I am a coward. I do not have the balls to commit to a life of uncertainty and make an attempt at creating value. But I know that my commitment to working here is not selfish--it is actually the most selfless thing I can do. People say that “surviving” is just a euphemism for slowly dying, but people who are “living” are simply selfishly desiring. This type of creed works for some people and I have the utmost respect for them, but I am too cowardly to make that commitment. My dream is to give my son a chance to pickup where I am going to leave off. I hope that I can provide him with a life of consistency and stability that will allow him to grow into what I could not be. To give him the bravery and encouragement necessary to find success in making the “unknown” work for him.  

By the time I was 12 I realized my athletic limitations were going to prevent me from ever playing in the NFL and some 12 years later I am realizing that I will never be a creator of my own value. I don’t think there is a better counter weight to that realization than being a salesman who insures someone else’s value. I am here not because I want to be, but because I have to be; and in that desperation, you will find an employee that is so unequivocally dedicated and addicted to the idea of stability and the importance of success that I will make the best “Yes”-man-employee this side of the Mississippi.   

….Soo what do you think Chuck….am I fit to sell insurance?

The quest for Packer Pie: To divinity and beyond.

2011-09-09T13:56:00.003-07:00

If Walt Disney and Jesus decided to purchase a NFL team and subsequently design and shape a city, they couldn’t have done much better than Green Bay. Disney would obviously assume the roles of civil planner, brand manager, and merchandising expert. Jesus would be in charge of developing the creeds of citizens to worship and idolize the organization and its players. The truth is that the city of Green Bay and the Packers organization are one synonymous brand. Green Bay’s commerce, culture, and most importantly its national relevancy are derived from the success of the Packers. Without the organization, Green Bay would be less relevant than Gary Indiana. The team is able to survive in such a small town because of the fans undying appreciation for their packers. Football is not a hobby--it is a way of life. Packer fans in Green bay are like little kids at the Epcot Center in Disney World. Kids (fans) wander around the confines of the park (Green Bay city limits) knowing that the Disney mascot cast is somewhere in the park. They hope to catch Mickey Mouse signing autographs while waiting in line for Space Mountain (seeing Aaron Rodgers at the hottest club in town), but they get a sufficient level of satisfaction from catching a glimpse of Donald Duck exiting the men’s room (seeing Atari Bigby devour a basket of wings and bottomless margaritas at a Chili’s franchise). I’ve been apart of this surreal theme park for nearly 23 years. I worship. I idolize. I am a Packer’s groupie.  

I grew up in the most unique football franchise city, during its return to glory. I became a Packer fan as soon as I was able to identify with the nationalistic colors of green and gold. I don’t know exactly when I became aware of the Packers omnipresence in Green Bay, but it probably did not begin until sometime after I left my hometown for college. It was not until then that I realized just how ingrained the Packer fanship is in this town.

For three years, I went to Vincent T. Lombardi Middle School and earned a valuable education in a building dedicated to the greatest Packer coach of all time. For years, I drove down the streets of Packerland and Lombardi to work at a local grocery store. En route, I would pass the stadium and homemade shrines located in residential backyards that lined the stadium’s perimeter. The makeshift monuments included papermâché Lombardi trophies the size of full grown adults, Packer “G” spotlights, and what was famously known as “Steve's Fence.” Steve was a hardworking resident of Green Bay who gained stardom in the local community by painting his fence directly across from Lambeau every summer
with a slogan or team motto. When I drove by this week it said "In McCarthy We Trust," which is all too telling of the way the Packers are viewed in my hometown.

The divine presence of the Packers in Green Bay is not only evident with the homemade shrines, street names, and schools named in honor of the organization, but even in actual places of worship. I distinctly recall my pastor wearing a green and gold robe every Packer Sunday. He always commenced his sermons with a Packer related pun and asked the almighty to bless the team. For instance, he once said, "Lord please allow the Packer’s defense to contain and bury (Barry) Sanders.” While he was preaching, he would simultaneously mimic Gilbert Brown’s signature "grave digger" post-tackle celebration. My pastor may have been the biggest fan in all of Green Bay--yet I doubt he ever had the opportunity to attend a game or even enjoy a tailgate (the ministry is no place for any football fan). He would hold a Sunday service knowing that the Packers were playing merely 2 blocks away from the chapel.

Being confined in a packed pew with anxious Packer fans while listening to meaningless scripture is the closest I’d like to come purgatory and I am sure my pastor felt the same way.
It wasn't until he instituted a bit of "clever worshipping” that he was actually able to attend a game. When the packers started to prosper in the mid- 90's he realized that Sunday worship service attendance was declining, so he enacted the "Saturday night Packer service". Fans could henceforth spend mornings enjoying every minute of the Packer tailgating experience without evoking the wrath of the big man himself. Sunday services were still offered, but my pastor eventually pawned them all off on associate pastors while he was busy worshipping his new found idol.

By now, the legend of the Green Bay Packers has been perpetuated into oblivion by the likes of John Madden, mainstream pundits, and big name sports writers passing through town. Green Bay is known for its hard working people who played a pivotal role in the inception of NFL. Green Bay continues to be such a huge success because of its undying dedication to the organization. As I’ve aged, I’ve begun to wonder what the consequences of the fan-team relationship really are. Is it a parasitic or symbiotic relationship? What do the Packers expect out of their local fans and what do the fans of Green Bay expect out of their Packers?

For instance, during the early 2000's, the Packers “held Green Bay hostage” by demanding an increase in sales tax in order to pay for a larger, more aesthetically pleasing stadium. The Packers’ organizations pulled on the emotional strings of their dedicated fan base and were able to get the deal passed because we knew that the team was our ticket to relevancy. The stadium now looks more like a Vatican fortress; which would probably allow my pastor to easily justify Saturday services (to everyone’s mutual benefit). The organization holds a great deal of power over the citizens of Green Bay so who benefits from this relationship—the city? The people? The wealthy? Or perhaps everyone? On the surface the Packers and the city of Green Bay seems like an organic underdog story however, underneath the façade of the legend lays the surreal underbelly of how the Packers function in this town.   

Celebrity Status

I began to idolize athletes at a young age. That passion only strengthened as I grew older and became more exposed to them and their lifestyles on a daily basis. My parents purchased a house in a developing suburb on the skirts of Green Bay during the early 90’s. My dad, like most citizens, moved here to earn a paycheck from the city’s main economic provider: paper mills. After the Packers won the Superbowl in 96’, our neighborhood became a hotspot for players and coaches alike to call home. Brett Favre, Robert Brooks, and Reggie White were the first three players to move into the neighborhood (and were arguably the most threatening QB-WR-DE trio in the league).  

A group of neighborhood kids and I would crowd onto my front yard at 5:30 pm everyday just to get a glimpse of Favre and Brooks driving home after practice. I made sure to always have a football in my hands when they passed (just in case they wanted to oblige us with a game of tackle football). Favre drove a massive truck and always had a piece of hefty chaw in his mouth after a presumably stressful practice. He would usually acknowledge our group with a grin. Although Favre was quickly becoming the city’s golden boy, Brooks was definitely the envy of the younger generation. He would always drive by in what seemed like a brand new car every week. If it was not his black Prowler, or original Hummer, it was his drop top Lamborghini (useable about 6 weeks of the year in GB’s wicked winters). Brooks collected cars like Jay Leno. He actually ended up selling his house to Gilbert Brown after a couple of years because his garage was not large enough to harness his insatiable car fetish.

Brooks/Brown's House. They lived right next to Farve.
Brooks ran routes, Favre slung passes, and gilbert
provide a simulated pass rush in the front yard.

Reggie White (RIP), on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as accessible as the other two Packer players in my neighborhood. He lived in a house near my grade school, Martin Luther King Elementary (the school board must have run out of Packer names and decided to defer to a civil rights activist). A wooden fence separated his backyard and my school’s kickball courts. Everyday during recess the kids on the playground were more interested in peering through the slits in the fence in hopes of seeing Reggie and his children playing in the backyard than they were with their own recreation. I did calf raises like crazy those couple of years in hopes of building an adequate level of leg strength so I could kick a ball over White’s fence and get a chance to ring his door bell and see him in person.

It wasn’t until Tyrone Williams (my boyhood idol after his one-handed interception during the NFC championship game in 96’) moved his family into town that I had an opportunity to be exposed to the Packers from the inside rather than from Favre’s rearview mirror or the fence slits on my grade school playground. Tyrone had two sons that were about my age, and they instantly became the center of adoration within the neighborhood. To no surprise, they loved football and were always trying to get a backyard game together. These two guys became good friends of mine during grade school and because of them, I was exposed to a bunch of players/coaches and their families.

One specific football game I can remember (a truly “holy shit moment”) happened while we were in the Williams’ front yard. The game included a bunch of neighborhood kids like me but also the likes of Brittany Favre, Ray Sherman Jr., Tommy Donatell, (soon to be the nastiest safety the Big Ten has ever seen), Mike Sherman’s two sons, and Tyrone Williams as the full-time quarterback (Favre apparently was not available). At the time this occurrence seemed so normal to me but I now realize the bizarre nature of it all.

The Packer’s kin were troubled with an awkward situation where they wondered if they were liked, whether it was because of their dads or was truly based on the merits of their personalities. The Packers themselves were on an untouchable level in the small city of Green Bay, but their children essentially became a tangible branch of their parent’s celebrity that everyone my age wanted to be around. A friend of mine dated Favre’s daughter during grade school and has told me how she once handed him a note that said, “do you like me because of me, or because of Brett?”

How is an 11 year old citizen of Green Bay supposed to answer that question candidly when the culture of this city raised him to idolize Brett Favre? The relationship didn’t last long, but my friend’s proudest moment (and the closest he ever got to exchanging words with Brett), was when he emerged from playing basketball in Favre’s basement at about 10:30 at night only to catch Favre himself enjoying a bowl of fruity pebbles in nothing but his underwear. To this day, my friend will work into conversation the fact that he dated Favre’s daughter and witnessed him doing something so pedestrian. To no surprise, armed with this story, he continues to reel constant residual ass from female Packer fans, like a B-list 90’s sitcom star, all because of how close he came to becoming an immortal part of Green Bay’s elite.

The relationships that I developed with these kids over the years exposed me to see how idolized and worshipped their dads were within this town. It would be hypocritical of me to say that I did not buy right into it. I wanted to feel like I belonged. I wanted a piece of the Packer pie.

Tangible/Intangible Paradox

Ingrained in the mystique of Green Bay is the idea of how the city owns the team. Walk into any dedicated packers fan’s living room and sure enough, there will be a “Packer Stock Certificate” proudly framed and hung on the wall to be showcased like a Master’s degree. This idea of team “ownership” is a recurring theme in Green Bay. I have a friend who (like many) paid twenty dollars for a piece of Lambeau’s destroyed turf when the organization replaced the field during the late 90’s (known as ”the frozen tundra”).

My buddy plans to pay for his children's college education
with this artifact.

This friend is in college now, and every time he moves to a new apartment, he makes sure his turf is the first thing he grabs from the freezer. He has literally held on to a piece of decaying sod for 13+ years to prove his fanship and proverbial “ownership” of the Packer pie. The truth is, my friend is not an outlier by any means--this is the norm in Green Bay.

Since Green Bay is such a small town and the people of the Midwest historically come from a collective society, we feel as if we are more than just fans. Rather we think we are actually part of the Packer’s organization. This perceived closeness causes some awkward situations between players and fans.

There are only a finite number of outlets where players can dine, indulge in culture, and live in the city. This limited domain often enables fans to know where players hangout and live. I can’t even recall the amount of times I have been playing in my front yard as a child and a car would pull-up at suspiciously slow speed into my driveway. The drivers were decked out in Packer gear and they always wanted the same thing -- “where does Brett Favre live?” At the time, I thought nothing of it, but now I fully understand the ridiculousness of such a request and the violation of privacy. However, I think it exemplifies just how close fans feel to the players. Favre eventually hired a full time security guard who parked at the end of the cul-de-sac he lived on to prevent people from pulling into his driveway and taking photos of his house.

Favre's Kingdom--where he feasted, fornicated, and found
his way in Green Bay.

On the surface, the Packer players seem so accessible because they can be seen in public and fans feel that they have a level of ownership over them, but often, they cross a line of reasonableness. The paradox is that players seem so accessible because they are everywhere yet they are intangible because they operate in a social class way above the rest of the Green Bay citizens. (It’s not like Favre accepted invites to happy hour from his middle class neighbors.)  

When Tyrone Williams first moved into town I asked my parents if it would be appropriate to wear my Williams jersey over to their house to play football with his kids. My parents, being tax payers of the new stadium, encouraged me to wear the jersey over to his house and said he would probably be flattered and give me an autograph. I never received an autograph, and I hate myself to the day for believing that I ever deserved one while coming off like a fan boy.

I’m not trying to argue that some Packer players are pricks. But I do feel that there is this unreal expectation of them because the fans feel like the players and organization owes them something. I once witnessed my friend’s dad stick his coaching resume in Mike Sherman’s mailbox after an abysmal special teams performance vs. the Vikings (as if getting chosen for a Packers coaching gig would be a viable option). I’m sure he could have coached that team better (hell anyone could have) but that type of expectation is only something that could happen in this town.

Cultural Shift 

Green Bay is a predominately white Catholic town that lacks a level of cultural diversity that is surely evident in all other NFL towns. Honestly, one positive thing that the presence of Packers in this town has done over the last 20 years is provide a unique level of cultural exposure which leads to cultural tolerance.

Robert Brooks and Leroy Butler did a good job of introducing this community to aspects of black culture. They were flashy dressers, they drove exotic cars, and they listened to rap music. Traditionally, all of these attributes are foreign to the citizens of Green Bay, but Brooks and Butler introduced their culture by being our “ambassadors of swag.” Together, Butler and Brooks developed the Lambeau leap and raised the bar for touchdown celebrations forever. Screw the Ickey shuffle. This celebration led to the much underrated rap career of Brooks with his debut (and only) single “Jump Into the Stands.” The citizens of Green Bay will defend that song to death and will question the authenticity of a fan based on the amount of words they know. Robert used to drive through my neighborhood blasting his one-hit wonder, and on rare occasions, he would stop to pass out signed CDs to kids.

His CD is selling on amazon.com for 2.99

I perhaps assign the pioneering of Green Bay’s cultural shift to Robert and Leroy because they were the dominant black Packer players when I was growing up and beginning to realize the absence of my own cultural awareness. I remember being invited to a Packer game with the Williams brothers when I was 12 and I got the unique chance to go to the post-Packer game party. The party was like nothing I had ever seen before; Packer wives could put any plain Jane in Green Bay to shame. As players filed out of the locker room, the Williams brothers would make comments about each player’s style and clothing. At one point, Bill Schroeder walked out wearing a pair of fitted jeans and a polo.

The Williams brothers instantly started laying into him for his lack of style, but one brother redeemed him by saying, “but he is straight with those Air Force Ones.” I responded without really thinking, “what? You thought he was gay?”

They both laughed hysterically for the remainder of the party at my cultural ignorance. I now know that “straight” is a synonym for cool and I will never forget how I limped into figuring this out.

Now the traditional “cheese and white bread culture” of Green Bay and its transition into a more culturally aware and diverse town have not come without failure. Nick Barnett tried to open an upscale bar called “Club 5-6” sometime in the early 2000’s.

Barnett's upscale club

The club attempted to raise the level of culture in this town by requiring a dress code and a general big-city-club-feel. Barnett pleaded with the city of Green Bay for months to grant him a liquor license. Within a couple of months after opening, the club closed down. The marquee from the bar remains on the corner of Dousman and Broadway st., almost acting as a monument of a failed cultural experiment. Barnett needs to be given credit for trying to advance the culture. It is no surprise that establishments like Brett Favre’s Streak House and Fuzzy Thurston’s bar continue to thrive.

But it’s not to say that the city hasn’t made steps towards cultural improvement during my lifetime. For instance, after the Packers won their first Superbowl in 96’ a bevy of dedicated Packer fans released parody songs. Most of these songs involved crass drinking humor and over exaggerated “wisconnnnnson” accents, none of which gained much national attention (except for maybe the CWA, Cheeseheads-with-Attitude or God forbid—The Packer-rena).

Easy-E is is rolling in his grave

However, this past year when the Packers won the Superbowl, Lil’ Wayne released his hit “Green ‘n Yellow,” which was a tribute song about being a self-proclaimed Packer fan for a life. Weezy’s song provided this city with a new tier of national publicity because it illustrated this famous black man’s validation of our culture. I thought maybe this obsession would only manifest itself in my generation, but I recently asked my elementary school teacher mother if she had heard “Green ‘n Yellow” and she responded, “Heard of it? My entire school sung it during an assembly dedicated to the Pack after they won!” I’ll assume it was the edited version, but regardless, that’s a scene that never would have been embraced 15 years ago. Green Bay has the Packers to thank for that.

Community Protection
For Packer players there is no such thing as anonymity in Green Bay. As I talked with friends about writing a reflection on the Packers everyone had a unique story about past/present players partaking in scandalous activities (more than I could ever write about or back with empirical evidence). I found this phenomenon unique because the wrap on every Packer player is essentially known--not publicly, but within the fabric of the locals. When a story about one of our players gains national attention, it is not “shocking” but rather an embarrassment to our city and our brand. The media, the police, and the community as whole make an effort (be it conscious or unconscious) to protect the Packer player’s images because it reflects on the integrity of our city.

Last summer Deadspin broke the “Favre Dick Shot” story. The national media was outraged and infatuated with the fact that the NFL’s Gun Sling’n Golden Boy was really just a pubescent pervert deep down. Green Bay’s local media covered the story only briefly because it was an embarrassment to our brand. Also, the story didn’t have the same lurid appeal that it did on a national level because we all knew that Favre was a derivative of his contrived ESPN persona.

The local media covers the hell out the Packers—year round. Stories are usually canned products that run like advertisements for the upcoming season rather than hard journalistic news. Reporters and journalists alike know that they must respect the Packers and the access that they are granted or they run the risk of becoming alienated by the city. The lead anchor for the top local news channel in Green Bay is also known as the “voice of the Packers”. He is the one who is paid to sit in a box during games and say “first and ten for GB from their own 34 yard line” over the loud speaker. It all comes back to this concept that everyone wants a piece of the Packer Pie and the Packer’s organization is more than willing to give it to people who can best protect their image. The news station would be hard pressed to report on anything that portrays the Packers negatively because their lead anchor is on the Packer’s payroll. These types of conflicting interests for the sake of protection are evident throughout this town.

In my lifetime, no Packer player that I can recall has ever faced any legal trouble that stemmed out of an arrest in Green Bay. The most high profile players being busted for illegal activities in my years as a fan include Mark Churma’s arrest in Milwaukee for lusting after an underage girl (do yourself a favor and google (“you call this a prom party”), Favre’s Dick story, and Johnny Jolly sipping on purple drank in Texas.
The Green Bay Police force was recently issued the option to wear badges that have the Packer “G” logo and “Superbowl XLV Champions” inscribed on them (the Packer’s brand initiatives are about as shameless as Donald Trump’s).

I can look over the fact that a private company is branding a taxpayers service but what about the identity crisis that police officers in Green Bay must face. On one hand, they are paid to “protect and serve” but they are also HUGE Packer fans just like the rest of us. I’m not saying it is mandated by the city that they protect players from legal trouble but rather it comes from the internal fear of the being the officer who arrests Favre for a DUI (hypothetically). That officer would not be able show his face at work, at a bar, or hell even a Packer game ever again.

The protection of players goes far beyond those who are employed by the police or the media because the community as a whole aims to protect its players. We know that what is good for the team is good for the city. It is one brand. I’ve been in countless conversations with friends and fans about a player’s scandalous exploits but the conversation always ends the same—“Ehh screw it. He’s a hell of a football player”, and how can anyone argue with that?

Conclusion

When the Packers won Superbowl 45 I was 3.5 hours away from Green Bay at college. I don’t remember much about the night besides a city in a complete state of happiness. At one point I stumbled into a bar reeking of a good time only to see my old neighbor Gilbert Brown (he coaches the arena football team in town) pouring a pitcher of beer from the bar’s 2^nd floor balcony into a sea of sexy college girl’s mouths. Gilbert was sporting his massive 96’ Superbowl ring--and he was celebrating like he had just won another. I knew at that moment that I needed to get back to GB to welcome home the Packers.

The next morning I woke up with zero intention of going to class and started the pilgrimage back to Green Bay. The city was in a state of euphoric ecstasy. Businesses and schools closed down for days so that citizens could participate in the never ending Packer celebration. Tickets for the “Welcome Home Ceremony” sold out before I could get my hands on them so I paid 30 dollars (25 above face value) to sit in sub-zero temperatures with all the other diehard fans hoping to get a glimpse of our boys. 50,000 Fans young and old emerged from the bowels of Wisconsin to show their appreciation for their Packers. The energy and vibe glowing from the stadium was poetically beautiful and pathetic all at the same time.

Like any religious following or cult, we are aware of the faults that this dependency creates but we are willing to overlook them because somehow it validates and provides meaning to our lives. There is something special about this town because it is an outlier. Fanship really isn’t an option--we need extreme fanaticism from nearly all 102,000 citizens of Green Bay in order for this thing to work. We pour so much effort into eight Sundays every year because the money finances the whole show. The revenue keeps bars, hotels, and the restaurants running at capacity and more importantly it keeps the citizens of Green Bay motivated and willing to work. The Packer-Fan relationship has several conflicting parasitic/symbiotic functions but I don’t regret growing up in this town because of the existential value I obtained by being here. Fuckit—thank god there is a season, this town needs it more than any. Cheers football fans.

My Summer of Tennis: The evolution of a recreational player into a pretentious poser

2011-08-03T17:07:00.000-07:00

   I’ve always enjoyed a rigorous level of physical competition because it’s the truest way to test strength and power:man v. man. Up until this summer, I only assigned this idea to physical sports like football and basketball because it seemed more “manly.” But this summer, I tried something entirely new: tennis. In high school, I played football mainly because I liked running into people at full speed in effort to knock them on their asses. My perception of tennis players was of dainty athletes stricken with fragile frames because their evolutionary ancestors weren’t attractive enough to mate with the alpha males. I can soundly say after three intense months of playing tennis this summer, I completely refute this notion and despise myself for ever believing it to be true.
   Tennis is a game of physical chess. A game that relies on the mind much more than the body. Football, admittedly, requires some level of intellect, but mostly, the quickest guy with the most creatine saturated muscles wins out. At the beginning of the summer, I was merely a recreational player, but today I stand before you as a pretentious poser.
   I don’t remember how I become so infatuated with tennis, but I know it began with a friend of mine (let’s call him Marco for identity sake) pushing the idea on me. I obliged because I had grown tired of my rapidly declining basketball ability and I was looking for a way to highlight my athletic will and competitive appetite.
   Marco and I rolled up to the tennis court in my 2002 Camry that night, blaring a little rap music, both smoking cigarettes with the windows down. We looked up at the tennis courts to see a group of players varying in talent and style while we choked down what remained of our cancer sticks. We were in the middle of discussing the merits of smoking before partaking in an athletic spar, agreeing that nicotine calms the nerves and therefore increases ability. Pseudo science at its finest. A 60-year-old toad of a tennis player who stopped his game and turned to us in the parking lot abruptly interrupted our conversation. He started barking at us with an acrimonious tone, but we couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying. I figured he was upset about the inordinate amount of decibels my system was pumping out so I turned the music down. After exiting the vehicle, he continued to make indignant gestures towards our presence. Was it the music? Was it the fact that Marco and I were smoking cigs in a public place? No - the headlights on my car, which automatically turn on after a certain level of darkness is detected, were affecting his ability to serve properly. We offered up a very sarcastic apology and proceeded to the court furthest away from this righteous tennis asshole. I already had a preconceived notion about tennis being a sport for elitist pricks and this old gee solemnly confirmed my notion. My enthusiasm for the sport was already eroding at the core, but after a few days on the court, it didn’t take long for me to empathize and fully understand why the old man was so upset.

Equipment
   During the first four weeks of my tennis career, Marco and I were playing with identical youth rackets from the early 90’s. The steel frame made for a choppy swing. And the strings, though presumably once taught as a drum, were sagging after years of use and storage abuse. My shots were guaranteed for as much precision as a Nerf gun. In addition, the balls we were using had seen better days. They had been purchased around the same time as the rackets and had a noticeable amount of family dog slobber on the once neon green (now a pale gray) tennis ball fabric. These balls had a more pathetic apex than a pogo stick that had been destroyed by an insistent overweight childhood friend. Regardless, the equipment limitations were not enough to stifle our obsession with the game, as we played up to 5 times a week over the first month. As our games progressed, we decided it was worth the investment to purchase some new racquets and some fresh balls. In effort to keep the competition as level as possible, Marco and I purchased identical Wilson racquets from Target. The packaging had a picture of Rodger Federer and touted specs that included “V-matrix” technology for a larger sweet spot, an enlarged head for greater power, and a convincing tag line that claimed the racket was ONLY FOR SERIOUS PLAYERS! I couldn’t charge that racket on my credit card fast enough. We also bought a couple of canisters of fresh Wilson tennis balls. I think I might be addicted to the sound the can makes when it is cracked and the rush of sulfur hexafluoride fumes that pollute my brain with a temporary euphoric ecstasy. These investments became the core catalyst in my evolution as a player. At this point, I figured tennis is as much about looking adequately equipped as it is about actually having talent. Now that I had my flashy racquet and a surplus of balls which I treated like Nelly treats his Air Force Ones (rock em’ once and leave em’ behind for the savages), my confidence began to swell.

Attire
   On the first day of my tennis experience I showed up wearing a pair of basketball shoes, shorts that could have doubled as a pair of pants at the right outing, and a sleeveless Orlando Magic t-shirt. The shirt did not stay on my back for long because the hell-like heat of summer forced me to free my hairy torso to the public tennis community. Marco liked to play shirtless as well, so in every way, we were more suited for a game of pickup hoops than a tennis match. The other tennis players weren’t noticeably offended by our presence, but with a quick glance over the remaining courts, it was obvious to see that bare-chested tennis playing was not the status quo. (Unfortunately for everyone else I enjoy bronzing while swinging the racquet.) After our equipment upgrade, we began to change the way we dressed on the court. The standard uniform became modest shorts that were firmly stationed one inch above the kneecap, pristine white tennis shoes that were tended to on a nightly basis with a spare toothbrush, and a white collared polo shirt. The old adage for success in the business world is “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” We applied this concept to our tennis game, and although we were playing at public course, our combination of class and flash stood out like players who were worthy of a country club invite. (Almost all of the points that have been scored on me this summer have come from the result of my incessant day dream in which a person of nobility notices my apparent knack for tennis fashion and calls me a “helluva ball striker,” which subsequently leads to a invite to his country club where I am treated to dinner and offered a large sum of money and/or a job.)

Etiquette
   Tennis is a simple game on the surface, but underneath lies an abyss of dynamic ethical codes and eloquent etiquette. It’s not like a game of bowling, where the only rules you need to know are don’t wear your street shoes on the alley and don’t ash your cigarettes in the finger holes of your opponent’s ball. No, tennis is much more complex. It can take decades, even a lifetime to fully understanding the ins and outs.
What I have learned
1) Its not appropriate to return a serve that is close to being out and then calling “OUT” after seeing how poor your return was.
2) Say the score after each point, always. Scoring discrepancies may start with an inordinate amount of quippy Frasier humor but they always escalate to fist fights.
3) There is no place on the tennis court for trash-talking or even playful banter. The only appropriate exchange between two players is a congratulatory statement after a nice shot when the ball is no longer in play.
4) Profanity does not belong on the tennis court. It took me a while to get over this because I like to release my frustration with a loud “Fuuuck” followed by smashing my racket repeatedly into the concrete and chain-link fence.
5) Keep the ball in your court by any means necessary. There is nothing worse than having a distant player’s ball roll onto your court in the middle of a serious volley. An awkward exchange always follows were the culprit tries to apologize and the victim is forced to hide their anger with a bevy of niceties.
6) It is not appropriate to yell out “Deuce Deuces Gleaming” when the game reaches its end-point tie. Most players will find you ignorant and miss the obvious reference to rap culture’s obsession with 22-inch rims.
7) Bending over to pick up a tennis ball is a tell sign of an amateur tennis player. In order to be taken seriously you must master the “foot scoop” , which involves pinching the tennis ball between your racquet, and the arch of your foot, and swiftly popping it up into your palm in a fluid motion. The foot scoop takes a level of dedication and hand-eye-foot coordination but the dividend you will receive in the form of respect from seasoned players is uncanny.

   Not only did I enforce these rules within my own game, but I also found myself becoming wildly frustrated whenever someone on a different court was not following them. I hated when I pulled my racquet back in effort to deliver an ace of a serve and a ball rolled into my court, or a car alarm would go off in the parking lot, or (god forbid) the slightest glimmer of sunlight blinded my concentration. I remember a time (actually the last time) that I played golf with my grandpa when he flipped out on me for moving during his back swing. (I was a pubescent 12-year old and I had a perpetually itchy crotch.) But frivolous excuses do not matter to someone who has already invested their life into the prestige and etiquette of a sport. I now fully understand why that old man was upset at me for leaving my headlights on while he was trying to serve. To him, I was an amateur punk who had no respect for the years he had put into his game mastering his cross-shot, his drop shot, his look, and even his ability to hide the presence of immense perspiration under his flesh cavities. I know I have only been playing tennis for three months, but I now embody much of what that man stands for. I wanted people to respect my need to maintain the games’ prestige. Tennis has no place for punks. Come ready to play the way tennis is supposed to be played: with class and dignity.

Poser:
   But I now stand before you (or write before you) as a changed man. Not only has my idea of tennis as sport drastically changed, but also has my lifestyle. It didn’t take long for me to buy into the vanity of the sport and for me to become complacent with myself as a player both in appearance and ability. This all changed the other day, however, when I realized I was nothing more than a poser giving the appearance that I had any real skill. Marco and I were approached the other day by a shirtless tattoo riddled individual named Victor. He looked and dressed like I had only three months earlier and I instantly disregarded his dedication and respect for the sport. He came onto the courts alone and asked to play with us. We obliged out of common courtesy (and curiosity for that matter) and attempted to play him 2 vs. 1. Simply put, Victor destroyed us, and he did it with flash rather than class. The array of shots he was able to hit was unbelievable. At one point he returned a deeply placed forehand shot with a between-the-legs hit that had velocity and precision. I was in awe of the way he could hit the ball with a breadth of spin and speed. He beat us 6-2, with the only points scored on him coming from the result of double faults while he was literally trying to knock the cover off of the ball.
   I stood there feeling absolutely defeated. Victor exposed me a for what I was: a tennis player who looked the part, but had no real talent (reminiscent of my 12-year old skate board posing self when I attempted to 50-50 grind a 3-inch pipe in my driveway after being challenged by a group of serious SK8ers. I racked my back, my sack, and my dreams of being a talented border all in matter of seconds. It didn’t matter that I had a pair of red Chad Muska skate shoes with a stash pocket in the tongues, or that I had a 200 dollar board/barring/truck set, I was a poser and in that moment I was exposed as a fraud.)
   I fully expected Victor to treat me with disgust and with a thug-like mentality after he robbed me of my confidence momentum and complacent attitude (A heist on par with when the World Wildlife Fund stole the WWF acronym, thus depleting the seemingly unstoppable entertainment mogul Vince Mcmahon from defining the 21st century with a wrestling zeitgeist. If it wasn’t for Harry Truman we’d all be speaking German or Japanese right now, and if wasn’t for the World Wildlife Fund we’d all be piling into retro-fitted football stadiums to watch our favorite “athletes” tackle, grope, and fondle each other while wearing lycra g-strings.) But he could not have been more kind in his post-game chatter. He told me that he had been playing for a long time and that he thought I was good. He said I had a lot of potential if I just kept at it, benevolent words of encouragement from the man who just shattered my dreams. I realized tennis is not about etiquette and vanity, but rather it is about having fun and doing so however you deem necessary. The next time I came to the court I ripped off my shirt (collars are nooses), cussed like a Kid Rock song (before he turned into a CUNTry singer), and had the time of my life.

The Absurdity of Youth Fundraising

2011-07-30T06:50:00.000-07:00

In my life, the biggest regret in my attempt to achieve coolness is the self-worth I derived from fundraising back when I was in middle school. My school may have been atypical, but where I’m from, a level of status was guaranteed with your ability to fundraise. But fundraising, unlike other factors that determine a person’s coolness, is not a product of the obtuse minds of 12 year olds, but rather an enslaving activity forced upon us by adults.

Fundraising is the most asinine activity that adults could ever make their children or students do. Take away all of the promises of parties and hover-craft rides and  all that remains is an institution enslaving an underage work force to generate revenues under the guise of it being “cool.”.   It’s almost as if our educators stole a trick from the opening chapter in Mark Twain’s “Tom Sawyer.”
             Follow this logic:
Painting fences is work.  Work sucks. Kids look up to those who have more “coolness” than them. Have someone “cool” convince a child that painting fences is cool and those who are not painting fences are therefore un-cool.  Suddenly the masses want to do the WORK for free (and get the alleged status bump) while those perceived as “cool” sit back and reap the benefits. Replace painting with fundraising and let that sink in.

As a twelve-year-old, someone who was older (and therefore cooler) could have convinced me to do anything. So in order for fundraising to gain legitimacy, the idea and the encouragement needs to come from someone. Someone older (but not too old). Someone daring. Someone who could be perceived more like an older brother than an adult or a teacher. Enter: the Fundraising Ringleader.

Every great fundraising initiative has a seasoned sales person to sell the idea of “cool” to the kids. I'll refer to this person as the "Ringleader" from now on because he really was a master of showmanship, rather than just a salesmen. The prototypical ringleader is a male with a rad birth name (or a hoaxy stage name) like Chaz, Taz, or Barkley; he needs to have dark hair, preferably a substantial amount of non-pedophile-esque facial hair, skin that is bronzed to the likening of an iced black-tea diluted from the sun’s sweltering heat, chest hair that protrudes from his strategically unbuttoned dress shirt, a thick lather of product in his hair, and of course, a pair of Ray Band shades. His personality needs to have the enthusiasm of a Regis Philbin but also the subdued smoothness of a MarkWhalberg. Essentially, the Ringleader needs to be a modern day “music man.” Riding in on a golden chariot, causing an insatiable buzz around a group of highly motivated yet misguided teens with the promises of money, novelties, and above all else, elite “coolness.” Through my years as a member of sports teams, youth groups, and as a student, I have seen many of these salesmen, all of which are eerily alike in too many ways. I first encountered this type of person as a bright-eyed 6^th grader in my middle school Gymnasium. The spectacle the Ringleader put on for the crowd was like a cross between a circus and the halftime show at an arena football game; there was music, demonstrations, and bizarre stunts, all that was missing was a t-shirt cannon and a near naked "danceteam". They always seemed to have a glare in their eyes suggesting that they were more of a one-faceted personality than a true person. They never humanized themselves to the crowd by only talking about life in the abstract, throwing around words like “team” “family” and “camaraderie” like a youth-league t-ball coach trying to rally the morale of a depressed, winless team. However, this person who feasts on the ability of the young to peddle magazine subscriptions, wrapping paper, and novelty candies in order to make a living cannot be compared to a well-minded coach. But his ploy works. Twelve-year-olds are easily convinced with promises of vanity items, a status bump, and ludicrousincentives. These incentives were purposely constructed to be unobtainable, but the striking Ringleader made it all seem so feasible. The epitome of these hyperbolic incentives was called the Money Pit.

MONEY PIT
The Ringleader’s pitch on the logistics of actually selling the products is always concise and ambiguous because in order to entertain an ADD infected youth the spectacle must be simple, loud and aesthetically pleasing. Now, I do not remember exactly how many magazine subscriptions I needed to sell in order to get inside the money pit but it was my proudest goal as a ripe teen. During every fundraising presentation, usually in the final ten minutes, the Ringleader would signal to his stagehand to roll out the money pit. The money pit really was just a glorified transparent trash bag with breathing holes and a leaf blower attached to circulate a mass of George Washingtons, but it was a show worth seeing. I had aspirations of one day skydiving, winning a Superbowl, and even curing cancer before my 30^th birthday, but those weren’t on the top of my to-do list at 12 years old. Getting the reward of grabbing cash in the money pit was something I could achieve now; I decided that it was imperative to attack aggressively. The money pit seemed like the most obtainable surreal experience of the moment. It is difficult to have foresight at a young age (I once swapped my Game Boy Color for a bag of War-Head sour candies), but I knew my future would be brighter if I could just get in that money pit. As soon as the Ringleader would roll out the pit the crowd would begin to thunder, flexible limbs would reach for the ceiling, pubescent chanting and screaming always ensued, anything to draw attention to one ’s self in hopes of being selected as the oneluckycandidate to get a chance to walk home with some cash. But money was not nearly the biggest part of the equation. The real appeal was that if you were selected as the one amongst 400, you were instantly catapulted to the rank of school celebrity and became the envy of every student in the room. Unfortunately, I was never selected in my three years of middle school, but still it was always entertaining to watch someone else partake. Everyone watched in amazement as the lucky individual danced for his/her dollars. Everyone in the crowd instantly became a critic, cringing at every strategy flaw and dollar bill that slipped through the participant’s fingertips. (I suspect that the origins of mostwomen whobecame strippers can be traced back to Money Pit fundraising demonstrations in middle school.)

For the Ringleader, it was a simple ploy to turn hopes and dreams into a perceived possibility. By demonstrating the glitz and glamour one can have by selling a certain amount of worthless trinkets, he essentially was able to generate everyone’s interest to GET OUT AND SELL! And we did, willingly.

Incentives

The incentives offered by the salesmen progressively became more outrageous as the years passed. These prizes ranged from twenty dollar carnival games to limo rides and the money pit; I swear one year they offered a customized VW Bug shaped to look like Pikachu. But, of course, anyone who has actually tried to unload hundreds of dollars of crap on friends and family knows the incentives are made to be unreachable…for most. The biggest fundamental problem I have with forcing kids to fundraise is that it reiterates a socio-economic class system that is already in place, but most young-adults are too involved with the innocence of youth to comprehend its evil presence. Fundraising brings this idea to the surface because kids from less fortunate families do not have a surplus of rich adults to sell to. The network of a 12 year old is only as strong as his/her parents. The Ringleader always made a point of saying “never sell to strangers,” when in actuality, that was the only way someone from less means and a broken network would ever have chance to dance in the money pit or take their friends on a wild ride in a stretch Hummer after school. On the other side of the coin, the rich kids begin experiencing their birth right entitlement in the world with little to no work. This is where the fundamental problem lies: in order for the poor students to reap the same benefits as the rich, they must work ten times harder. This is a sad revelation for the youth because the reality of this becomes more evident in everyday life after this point. A network of connected people with buying power/influence will always lead to the path of success in fundraising, applying for colleges, finding employment, and life in general.

After the selling ended, revenues were tallied and prizes were divvied up. Most of the incentives took place at the “Mega-Party,” the lowest incentive which required only fifty dollars in sales. Though I never stepped foot inside one of these parties (my extended family is tiny and my parents have never had any wealthy friends, which means I never even got close to the fundraising goals), it has been described to me as the12 year old equivalent of a Playboy Mansion outing. So essentially, think Chucky-Cheese meets the Discovery Zone with unlimited Mountain Dew Code Red, Meat-lovers pizza, and ice cream. The party always took place during the last who hours on a Friday afternoonin the same gymnasium where the Ringleader first made his pitch. Those who did not make the minimum amount of sales were forced to sit in study hall rooms blankly staring at the wall, reading three-day old horoscopes and trying to figure out what the hell “sudoku” means. Those who did not comply with the above stated options were forced to copy words and definitions out of the dictionary. Some daring souls tried to sneak out of the study hall room and work their way into the mega-party but the parents of the top sellers heavily guarded the gym doors. There is no way the elite would allow that type of injustice and social welfare. Outside the room, you could hear the screams of elated young adults bathing in their affirmed coolness and position in the class system.

Sports Teams
School fundraising was only one facet of exposure and a type that you could avoid with limited consequences besides exiling yourself from an elite club of cool. Fundraising for sports teams was a whole other machine to grind with. Sport teams required participants to fundraise in order to pay for equipment and (most importantly) to secure a relic of your game jersey with your name on the back at the end of the year. Admittedly, Seroogy’s Bars (a locally produced version of Hershey’s chocolate bars) always seemed to be the easiest product to push because they were cheap and delicious. However, during the early oughts there was a growing concern for a health conscience population that led to the direct demise of candy bar sales and thedepletion of self-esteem for youth athletes around the country. In the world of middle school sports, your fundraising revenue was somehow directly related to your playing time and your perceived commitment to the team. Skipping practice, missing games due to academic misconduct, and even having a meltdown on the mound in front of your coaches and fans were all secondary to the consequences of not meeting your fundraising quota. How can you expect a kid to perform on the athletic field or even the classroom when they know that the candy bar money is due to tomorrow and they still have seven dark chocolate almond crunches to unload? Nobody likes almonds; no one is buying that candy bar. The child is fucked.

If you didn't sell all of your candy bars in time, you had to come up with the money somehow. This obligation obviously fell on the parents of the athlete. (A feat that would bring family shame equivalent to a third generation male baring the same name as his father and grandfather from a strict catholic family coming out of the closet at Thanksgiving.) I ended up taking advantage of my parents as much as possible by forcing them to buy all of my candy bars. Thankfully, they recognized my general apathy (laziness) towards everything and agreed to take care of it. My brother, however, was a very pragmatic individual who liked achallenge. Every year in the summer, he set out to sell as many candy bars as possible. He fared decently well until one summer when our neighborhood became saturated with Seroogy’s Bar sellers from the same league/team as my brother and he could not meet his quota. In an act of desperation, I witnessed my brother line up his remaining thirty candy bars and run them over with his 95’ blaze-orange Schwinn. He came running home and told my parents that he had fallen off of his bike and destroyed his supply. My parents saw through his obvious lie and told him he needed to try to recoup the losses by selling the candy bars at half price. A lot of crying and destructive activities ensued. My parents were stuck with thebill and a child whose self-esteem had been completely ruined by fundraising. I can still remember that my brother’s slugging percentage dropped over 200 points during the dog days of summer that year. His personality, and especially his baseball prowess, was never the same after that.

Youth fundraising needs to stop, but how? CALL YOUR CONGRESSMAN. Well, we all know that doesn't yield anything valuable these days. I personally vow to never purchase a coupon book, a frozen pizza, a roll of wrapping paper, or whatever else Ringleaders around the country dream up during my lifetime (unless we are talking girl scout cookies). I refuse to put a child through what I went through; a false sense that my fundraising revenues somehow made me a better person in society. Someday when I have children, I will make sure that they never are forced to sell anything for any reason. That is, if the stress and gut busting ulcers caused by fundraising during my formative years haven't render my semen impotent.....Cheers.