Life in the Salt Mines Part II

or, That's Rev Hands to You.

Let's start with a confession: I am a humongous sap.

Honestly, the sappiness knows no bounds. I should be stored in an Aunt Jemima bottle. It gets misty at home every time I watch It's a Wonderful Life or Singin' in the Rain.* Need a big grand gesture for a minuscule, made up special occasion like "32 Day Anniversary" or "3/4 Birthday"? I'm your man. Have a blank Hallmark card just begging for a lengthy sentimental passage? Hand me the pen. The bottom line is it often gets dusty at the Allhands' domicile.

*The most unlikely thing that sets off the sap? Those "every kiss begins with Kay" commercials. If you haven't seen them here is the basic set up: Dude finds some insanely sweet way to give his wife/girlfriend/lady companion an extremely expensive piece of jewelery, there is a big kiss and the Kay theme song plays. The one that reduces me to a whimpering mess: A deaf girl's boyfriend has learned sign language for her and then give her something sparkly. Kisses and eternal happiness ensues. I realize there are some major plot holes here (Wouldn't the guy likely already know sign language before asking this girl out? Otherwise that may be the worst first date ever.), but that is beside the point. All I know is must guys would be crying at the price tag; I am reaching for the tissues at the set up. I am an advertiser's wet dream.

I'm not sure where this particular trait comes from. I don't remember my mother ever dressing me in girl's clothing, nor were there any overdoses on romantic comedies, soap operas or the soulful sounds of Air Supply. I am going with genetic defect as the likely culprit. Whatever the case, it is what it is. There could be worse things-I'm not a habitual puppy kicker or a chronic nose picker, for example. Aside from numerous embarrassing moments* the sap is at least partially responsible for most unlikely part time job I ever had: Reverend.

*Number one on that list: Lots and lots of bad poetry. I mean volumes. You would think I spent ages 13 to 16 sitting in my room, writing poems, parting my hair down the middle and listening to Chicago 17. If anyone reading this was every a recipient of one of these epics of embarrassment, I ask that you destroy it for the sake of my ego. With fire. Really, I will pay you.

Before you click the tiny "x" of death in the upper right corner, let me stress this has nothing to do with any sort of religious conviction. There was not any kind of "calling" or Divine moment of intervention or clarity. I am not going to pelt you in the forehead with one of those tiny red new testaments*, I am not going to say a prayer for you or profess some concern about your immortal soul. The reasons for my ordination are complex and multifaceted: A friend asked me to.

* This is how old I am: I can remember in very early elementary school those little new testaments being given away. In public school. Let me repeat that: People were given away bibles in school. Can something be charming and terrifying at the same time? For some reason, I remember them being black, red, white or pink. I am skeptical this really happened. Like all of my pre-age 9 memories, there is a 64.3% chance they are paste/crayola/play dough induced hallucinations.

The reaction to this request was an emotional roller coaster. Step right up and lets walk through them, list style. You must be at least this tall to ride:

1) Flattered.
Honestly, I can't think of a more humbling experience. Maybe a request to be a godparent? The only thing that has surpassed it in my life is when a friend asked me to speak at her funeral. Contingent on, you know, my living longer and stuff. That seeming like a bigger deal may have something to do with me being a tad morbid. Regardless, I was a bit speechless after getting the request. Weddings still count as memorable days, correct? Essentially, it is one of the biggest non-child, non-birthday related days you have. Which leads me to....

2) Anxiety
There are basically two types of memorable weddings: "Ah, that was lovely, they make such a happy couple, I hope they go forth and multiply, where is the open bar?" Or, "Wow, that was a train wreck, I hope they can replace her tooth, I give them less than a year, I really hope there is an open bar." Guess which of those scenarios is the one people tend to remember the reverend ? There are a multitude of things that can go wrong when you are up there trying to get two people hitched, but I feel we can narrow it down to three biggies:
A-Performing the whole ceremony with your fly down.*
B-Repeatedly calling the bride by the wrong name.
C-Getting drunk at the reception and hitting on bridesmaids. Bridesmaidens? Bridespeople? You get the picture.

*When I was a kid, my parents and grandparents called this having "your barn door open." Ah, growing up rural.

I have heard stories of all of these actually happening. It's amazing how any one of these tend to color the view of the officiant. Despite that, I was fairly confident I could avoid the Big Three of Shame. So eventually anxiety gives way to...

3)Resignation.

I imagined this might entail having to attend some sort of class, or people putting hands on me, or a large check to your local church. I also had a phobia it would involve holy water, Kool Aid, and some sort of ceremony that included at least one costume change and a black light. This may or may not indicate I have seen way too many horror movies. With all of this in mind I sat down with my good friend Google to figure out what it took to marry people and braced for the worst.

The total time it took me to get ordained: 15 minutes. There were no seminary classes, no training session and not even a check required. Thanks to the Universal Life Church, all I had to do was list my name and sign some agreement that I believed in something. It could be death and taxes, the Easter Bunny or Bigfoot, just as long as I believed in something. I clicked submit and the next thing I know, I am an ordained reverend. The web site went on to tell me that my name would be "hand written" in their list of reverends. So I got that going for me, which is nice.

My thinking at this point is that the worst is over. I am an ordained reverend and I would get up in front of people and wing it.  My plan was intro, joke, emotional story that would leave the crowd in tears, you may kiss the bride and head to the reception. What I didn't stop to think about was the fact that the bride may actually want some say in the ceremony. Who would have thunk it?

The brides in both weddings has a very specific plan for their big day, which involved a very specific performance by the reverend. In other words, I now had lines. When you wing it, it is impossible to screw up as long as you avoid the big three listed above. Now there was an actual script to follow which means the possibility of mistakes just increased by 100, right along with the bride punching me in the nose after the wedding. This in no small part helped move us along to the next stage...

4) Soaked

No, I am not referring to rain showers, water balloon fights or swimming pools. I am talking about good old fashioned pressure induced sweat. On top of that, add 90 degree temperatures and me in a suit and you have a recipe for a walking sauna. Or, as I like to call it, the best weight loss technique ever. My nerves increased as the the minutes ticked off the clock and we got close to wedding kick off. I decided to invite my friend Mr. Crown to the ceremony to ease my nerves. In fact, I invited him three or four times. However, the level of sweat I was going through kind of insured he didn't stick around long. The clock finally ran down to zero, leaving me standing there, note cards in hand and watching the blushing bride walk down the aisle.

5)Elation

I wish I could tell you I rose to the occasion and delivered a ceremony that is still talked about in hushed tones to this day. In the fiction version of the wedding I am sure my words brought tears to the most hardened male relative, caused aunts and grandmothers to swoon and led to the conception of babies that night. I can't imagine any of those things are true; however, I didn't exactly sink the event either.

What dawned on me about five seconds in is that no one really cared what I had to say, or if I said it correctly. As long as I avoided profanity, a seizure or racial slurs, everything would go off without a hitch. The thing I think people in the position of imagined importance, like referees, reverends or hosts in general, tend to forget is that absolutely no one is there to see them. The best thing you can do is keep a low profile and make sure things run as smoothly as possible. That became my motive. I stumbled through my prepared lines, nailing most, fumbling a few, and then just got out of the way. Doing so allowed me have an extremely unique and satisfying experience.

 It is a wonderfully intimate experience being the reverend at a wedding. I felt extremely close to the family and was genuinely touched by any compliments or thanks for being there and doing the job. I found myself doing a lot of standing in the background and just watching the family and friends interact. No, no one was there to see me; however, none of it would have happened if I hadn't been there. That is a uniquely satisfying feeling.

I did two weddings and moved into reverend retirement. (I feel some pension or 401K should be included in this. I would settle for being allowed to collect a tithe at any public eatery I find myself in.) There are no plans to do another one, unless someone I care a great deal for asks me to. But based on the flattering yet humbling experience of those two events, I would call being a reverend the best part time job I ever had.

My Life in the Salt Mines-Part I

Appropriate to the theme of procrastination that is my life, I did not happen onto a career until fairly recently; specifically about four years ago. Let me take my shoes off and do the math...I could have went to high school and college again in the amount of time it took me to find "my special purpose."* How did I get so old again? While it is impossible to predict what will happen over the next 25 to 30 years, I don't anticipate changing careers. However, that does not apply if any of the following opportunities present themselves: Astronaut, old timey detective or professional pie taster. That's it, that's the list.

* Kudos if you get the reference. I think there may not be a more underrated comedy than "The Jerk." Anyone who was born a poor black child knows what I mean. "He hates these cans..."

Basically, the above paragraph was just a long way to say I have had a lot of crummy jobs. What's that? Just how crummy? I'm glad you asked. The entire list is novel length, so here are the big three:

1- McDonald's. I followed the path of many dumb 16 year olds before me into the shadows of the golden arches. I've met many people through the years who turn their nose up at this and say something to the effect of, "I would nev-ah work in fast food, hrrrumph," as they adjust their monocle and sip their tea. When did flipping burgers become the equivalent of, I don't know, dealing drugs? All I know is at 16, my options were limited, I had a newly minted driver's license and an empty gas tank*. Give me that spatula and show me where to point it.

*Two months into the job, I would fall asleep and wreck the car I was on the way to work to pay for. On the irony scale, this lands on "Most Mundane Twilight Zone Episode Ever".

Two truths I learned from my time working shoulder to shoulder with Ronald, Grimace and his honor Mayor McCheese:

A-Time never moves slower than at a bad job. The 5 to 8:30 shift was Sisyphean; I swear I left with a ZZ Top beard on several occasions.
B-For a work force consisting of high schoolers in place no one wanted to be, everyone got along smashingly well. I still have friendships with some of these coworkers. Evidently, smelling like a deep fryer is the great social equalizer.

For the first three months I worked there, I made the biscuits every morning. I don't now which is more unfathomable: Me baking or the fact McD's actually made these fresh at one time.

Dos-Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing. Or 3M if you are short on time. I don't remember much mining going on there; however, I was on third shift for the majority of my stint, which resulted in a lot of stumbling around in a haze. For all I know they could have been cloning; they make everything else, are people that big of stretch?

This was a horrible match from the start-me vs. the glue factory.* The finer points include working with hazerdous chemicals (I fuly expected someone to sprout a third eye from chemical exposure at any moment), dangerous machines, overnight shifts and ungodly amounts of overtime. So naturally I worked there for seven years. I am the definition of a creature of habit. I now have three rules for any jobs: Don't work anywhere I have to wear a resperator, that has an exit plan in case of explosions and that may lead to mutation.

*Number one question I got while working there: "Where do they put the horses?" This was funny every single time. According to my confidentiality agreement, no horses were harmed in the making of any of the post it notes.

3-Retail management. I feel like an ass using the term management; it comes across so self important. Being a manager in retail is like being the attendant at the asylum: The only way to tell you apart from the patients is the big ring of keys you carry.  I've worked for three different companies and had many different titles: Assistant*, Executive Assistant and Store Manager...it is a classic lip stick on a pig scenario. The world of retail is its own special level of hell. You can label it whatever you want to, but the job boils down to this: 10% of your time counting money, 15% of your time trying to organize a schedule, 75% of your time trying to catch people who are shoplifting. One of the most popular stolen items I came across: Gold or silver spray paint. Evidently huffers like to feel classy too.

*This reminds me of my favorite bit that Norm McDonald ever did on SNL: Forbes does their list of "Worst Jobs" every year, and according to Norm, the top of that list was Crack Whore. Except one year, in a stunning upset, something replaced it: Assistant Crack Whore.

There are a lot of horrible things about retail: Being open 365 days a year, 60 hour weeks with no overtime pay, taking inane complaints, dealing with an extremely unreliable work force...but there were three instances that top the charts.

A-Catching a really large transvestite attempting to shop lift. When they invented the work awkward, this is what they had in mind.

B-Getting a call that someone had attempted to burn down the store. I'm not talking a wake me up in the dead of night at 3 a.m. emergency call. This joker set fire to the lawn and garden section (which was inside) in the middle of the day, while the store was open and customers and employees were all around. This was not some middling spark either-it was a full on, get-the-fire-extinguisher-call-the-truck-and-the-dalmations-fire. The arson motivation was unclear; I like to think it was some form of protest.

C-A customer feeling the call of nature and leaving me a "blue light special" in the clothing department. I'm not sure what combination of confidence, derangement and digestive issues combine to make someone capable of this. In fairness to the customer, they did cover up the evidence with a shirt off the rack. I believe it was cleaning this fiasco up when a need to reassess my career path finally kicked in.

As you can see it is quite a list. If I ever went back in time and told 15 year old Michael Allhands that he would spend the next 15 years or so working fast food, manufacturing and retail, he would punch present day me right in the mouth (and start trying much harder in math class). Obviously, it wasn't all bad. For every burger flipped, batch of glue made or irate customer handled I have at least one solid friendship, polished one skill set and at lost at least one year off my life (I'm telling you, the chemicals at the glue factory were scary). I have a job I adore and could be very content to do for a long, long time; it just took me little longer than most people to get there. I will happily be the tortoise to other’s hare in this fable. I'm at least 73.4% convinced that has made it more enjoyable.

Having said that, imagine my surprise when one of the most unique and enjoyable experiences of my sort of short life came last year while doing a side job I took as a lark.

PART II COMING SOON

A Rose by Any Other Name?

            If you’re reading this you have probably noticed my last name* is a tad unusual.

*That’s the surname, correct? Surname is one of those archaic words that confuse the hell out of me. Why can’t we just say last name like normal people? Also on that list: former and latter. I have an intense fear of having to make a choice based on knowing which is which. “Your choice is a million dollars or being beaten about the head with a blunt object. Would you rather have the former or the latter?” My fallback if that situation ever arises is, as always, to fake a seizure.

            I have never met another Allhands, family excluded. However, I have heard the occasional rumors of others, you know, like one hears about Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. I remain skeptical. Four or five times a year someone invariably will ask if I know So-and -So Allhands. My typical response is to smile and say I’ve never met them; however, I’m sure we’re related somehow. This usually satisfies their curiosity and they tell me “Well, they are a really good person” as if to reassure me that the general reputation of the family name is in good standing far and near. I feel Smiths never have this conversation. Someday I’m going to respond by leaning in and whispering, “Oh, that’s the bastard strain of Allhands” just to see the reaction.

            I have never researched the genealogy of the name. I’ve heard it is German (which would explain my pasty complexion, complete inability to tan and propensity for starting international conflicts) and I’ve also heard it is English (which would explain the crooked teeth). People who want to know everything about their ancestors are much braver than I; it’s too big of a gamble. Sure you may find a Revolutionary War hero or Pilgrim in the mix, but there is an equally good chance of turning up a serial killer. I need better odds than that to dig any deeper than asking my parents where we came from. I will just assume my forefathers were pleasantly ordinary and cut my losses.

            Typically the progression for people once they hear my name is disbelief to sympathy to ridicule, or, as I like to call it, the circle of life. Let’s break it down!

           

            Disbelief: For some reason I have never understood, people rarely call me by my first name, be it Michael or Mike*. This translates to me being introduced, more often than not, as Allhands, which in turn leads to eyebrow raising and/or double takes. This is my cue to hastily explain that yes that is my actual name, not a nickname.

*Odd observation from my life #164: I have been called Mikey more often than I ever thought possible. Granted, once is more often than I ever thought was possible. I firmly believe no one older than eight should be called Mikey and calling someone that reveals some creepy things about you. There are two exceptions: The person you are addressing made a small fortune in Life cereal adds in the 70s or is a 1930’s gangster.

            Why the haste? There are two reasons anyone would be nicknamed Allhands. Uno: The individual has some sort of significant athletic prowess, like catching footballs or fielding baseballs. Observing me for approximately 1.27 seconds would rule out this possibility. Which brings us to reason B: The individual has a reputation as a molester.* Trust me, you want to head that stagecoach off at the pass.

*From first through fourth grade, my teachers, without fail, would make this joke on the first day of class: “Allhands? Good luck getting a date with that name! Nudge nudge, wink wink, amiright or amiright kids?” Thank you, ma’am, for that boost to my confidence. My therapy bill is in the mail.

            Sympathy: There a few standard expressions here. They range from fake enthusiasm (“Really? How interesting!”) to knowing aren’t-kids-jerks condolences (“Wow, I bet you got teased a lot when  you were growing up”). While the sentiment is truly appreciated, I wish we could just skip this step and move on to where the real fun begins…

            Ridicule: I realize that carries a pretty negative connotation; however, this one is by far the most fun. What’s the fun in having a fairly goofy last name if you can’t wring some hilarity out of it?

            Not that it is all Grade-A hijinks. Listen, I’m thirty mumble mumble years old; I have heard exactly 99.94% of all possible jokes about my name before. A little originality goes a long way, but I understand we are walking on well traveled paths here. I don’t judge to harshly. Even if you throw out the nautical classic “All hands on deck” I will give you a polite smile and nod. In fact, there are only two that out and out annoy me:

1)      Nofeet. Aw, I see what you did there! You took it and made it the opposite of what it was! Because opposites are hi-larry-us….when you’re seven. Come on, show some effort! You are better than that!

2)      AH. Now, this is not a jokey one, per se. I’m just annoyed by thought you are too busy to take the extra quarter of a second to spell/say the entire thing. This whole abbreviating everything is on the wrong side of moderately irritating. Wtf.

If you are shooting for annoyance, those are guaranteed winners. The vast majority are pretty fun and I find most of them pretty endearing. Three that stand out (and I promise this is the last list):

Hands-There is something appealing to having this drunkenly yelled out. It’s kind of the “Norm!” effect, which is oddly comforting.

Any emotion followed by hands. For example, Giddyhands or Bitterhands. You might think these are a little on the simple side, but they never, ever fail to crack me up.  

And Bananahands, which is a long story. Evidently a giant banana costume tends to stick with people. Who knew?

In all honesty, the name thing has never been an issue or bothered me at all, even as a kid. I enjoy that people find it entertaining. It’s not like anyone has a lot of say in the name game.  I’m a fairly average white guy; anything that comes across as unique is probably a good thing.

Besides, at least it’s not Humperdink. That would be embarrassing.

Not Quite Cinema Paradiso

Going to the movies was always something of a magical experience for me.

I’m sure this somehow related to how rare a trip to the theater was as a child. After spending at least 10 minutes thinking waaaayyyy back to my childhood, I’m 89.78% confident I saw a movie in a theater exactly three times before age 10. I think I know kids who had been to Disneyland more often.*

*Our big family night out consisted of a Friday night trip to McDonald’s and Walmart, where I would whine my way into getting some sort of Star Wars toy…ironically, a movie I had never seen. Yet through some sort of cultural osmosis I could tell you every single detail of that movie. Don’t ever let it be said my priorities were misplaced as a child.

My cinematic biography, through age 9:

1) “The Cat from Outer Space”…or, as I like to call it, the most straight forward movie title of all time.* The details of this one have faded over the last 30 years; all I remember is the titular cat had a glowing collar that let him do awesome stuff and he wanted to get back to his home planet. It was like a 70’s “E.T” but, you know, with cats. And less quality.

*I want studios to get back to this. No fancy, arty titles with deeper meaning; just straight descriptions. “Transformers III” would be “Nearly Three More Hours of Robots Fighting” and “The Hangover 2” would be “The Exact Same Move You Saw Two Years Ago-Now with More Asians”.

2) “Coal Miner’s Daughter”- This was my first experience with a drive-in movie, so my biggest memory is the wonder of watching a movie in a car and an obsession with the insane amount of popcorn we brought from home. In my memory it has grown to a 30 gallon size trash bag full, which means my mom would have been popping it for the entire spring of 1980. Sadly, it didn’t take long to get seven year old me gorged on snacks; I was in a food coma before the halfway point of the movie. So I never found out what happened to this Loretta Lynn person, I hope she did ok.

3) “Poltergeist”- I was taken to this by “friends” of the family. The quotations are necessary because I’m pretty sure they were trying to scar me for life. This movie terrified me. I was so traumatized while watching it I resorted to hiding my face in my shirt and faking having to go the bathroom so I didn’t have to watch what happened next.* This movie installed my fear of clowns, which no childhood is complete without. I did learn to never, ever build your house on an Indian burial ground, so I’ve got that going for me.

*These remain my go-to escape tactics from any situation. When all else fails, cover your face with your shirt. It is amazingly effective.

Over the next several years I made friends who went to the movies more often and, most importantly, didn’t mind dragging me along. By the time I managed to get a driver’s license, I was a full blown junkie: I would see just about anything and loved the experience of physically being in the theater.

So when did going to the theater start sucking so much?

I used to go at least once a week; now it is a chore to go once a month. While this has freed up a lot of money for other endeavors (hello, beer) and time for more ambitious activities (much longer naps), I miss the joy of the movie-going experience. So what went wrong? Let’s break it down with an anal retentive, over generalized list.

Five reasons going to the movies is no longer fun:

1)Babies. Please do not misunderstand, I am not opposed to the idea of babies in general. Rumor has it they are quite enjoyable and sometimes rewarding. I am, how-evah, opposed to the idea of bringing a baby to a midnight show of “Pulp Fiction”.

This practice has ruined going to late shows for me. I can’t take watching people bring sleeping babies in at 11:59, presuming that their child will sleep through the entire thing. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe the parents have an infant cineaste* who is there to enlighten us all with a critical analysis of the movie. I am more inclined to think your child will wake up screaming because movies are, you know, loud.

*I feel this baby would wear a tiny black beret, smoke a thin cigarette and have a perfectly groomed baby goatee.

Making matters worse, it is never family fare showing when the babies are brought in. It is the most gruesome, violent, hard-R rated stuff you would ever see. I can barely make it through that stuff without screaming like a baby, let alone an actual infant.

2) The Sheep Mentality. I have a high tolerance to watch nearly anything, including foreign and art movies. This has led to me sitting in nearly empty movie theaters several times.* Why do people insist on sitting practically on top of me? There are 150 empty seats in here, is the group mentality so strong you still had to sit that close to me? This happens no matter where I am sitting in the theater, from the front row to the back corner. Maybe I am anti-social, but I don’t think we are all going to bond over the next two hours and become life long friends. I also don’t trust anyone sitting behind me that I can’t see. I don’t know what is going on back there. I have been known to seriously creep myself out during horror movies by imagining someone behind me is slowly moving closer to me, a row at a time, while I watch the movie.

*I have been the only person in a theater exactly once. It was a late show of “8 mm” yet another bad Nicholas Cage movie. Evidently, no one saw me in the theater and the movie was stopped about 30 minutes in because it was believed the auditorium was empty. This would not have been an issue; however, I had fallen asleep at some point. You don’t know disoriented until you wake up at 1 a.m. in an empty theater with no movie playing. I think there may be a Twilight Zone episode like this.

3) The Food Issue. Here is what you should be allowed to eat in a movie theater: A-Popcorn. B-Candy. That’s it, that’s the list. It’s a theater; it should smell like popcorn, not jalapeno covered nachos. There is a place to eat those kinds of foods and it is called a ball park. If I can no longer have a beer at a movie in Springburg, you can’t eat a hot dog.

4)The Confused Older Viewer. These are common at early matinees. They are usually there in couples, at least 60 years old and, god bless ‘em, can’t keep a single damn detail about the movie straight. Characters, plot points or even what day it is are all just too much to handle. Unfortunately, these people have the loudest whisper in the history of man, so we all get a running commentary of there attempt to keep up. “What just happened?” “Who is that?” “What else is he/she in?” “Why are they fighting?” The rule of thumb should be: If you can’t keep up with the fast pace of “Matlock” episodes, you should probably just stay home.

5) 3D. What’s that, box office worker? I get to wear these ridiculous plastic glasses for two hours? All while I stare at screen that is so much darker than normal it’s as if someone smeared mud on the projector? While people in the movie do asinine things like jab sticks toward the camera so I get the “full effect?” And it’s only $12.50 a ticket? Sign me up! Sigh. With all the advances in technology we are back to the gimmick of 3D. I thought we left this stuff in the 50’s, with things like Smell-o-Rama and vibrating seats.

I just read that list again; it seems my evolution to cranky old man may be complete. The bottom line is even if I go to the theater much less than years ago, I will never give it up completely. Because when it all goes right and you are seeing something great, there is just nothing like it.  I will keep plunking down the cash for tickets, at least until Smell-O-Rama comes back.

Reunited and it feels....better than expected

If you are only as old as you feel, my AARP card should be arriving any day now.

            The various aches and pains I wake up with every morning are a grab bag of entertainment. Getting out of bed is like a check list for a space shuttle launch: Back pain? Check. Roll over too fast and cause shooting pain in my shoulder? Check. Lay completely still for five minutes to convince myself I can stand up? Check.* Even worse, I walk like Red Foxx from “Sanford & Son” for the first hour I’m up every day. This leads me to yell “Lamont, ya big dummy” at extremely random times, so it does have its benefits.

*This doesn’t even include the self inflicted pain I put myself through. Example one: I suddenly decided to take up tennis for the first time in my life a few weeks ago. The final image of that experiment: Me, flat on my back, racket no where in sight with a rapidly swelling ankle and mumbling “Where am I?”  Example numero B: I fully expect to wake up some Saturday morning after a Friday night bender to discover my liver has moved out, leaving only a tiny little letter that says “You should have treated me better…”

            Aches and pains aside, little has made me feel older than receiving the invitation to my 20 year high school reunion.

            Twenty years, how did that happen? If I had been born the day I graduated, I would now be older than I was then.* Due to my job, I routinely talk to kids who where born after 1991 and can drive a car. This is always followed by a double take. Evidently I’ve become that guy who thinks the world should adjust to my personal time line, meaning nothing after, oh, about 1996 counts. So these kids are perpetually three to four years old in my mind. I desperately do not want to be that guy, it leads to being pissed at anyone younger than 25, hating any music released in the last 15 years, wearing pants hiked up to my nipples and deciding Denny’s and Golden Corral are the two best restaurants ever.  (If anyone ever hears me say, “Back in the good old days…” please feel free to poke me right in the eye hole.) Obviously, I need a reality check, so I decided to attend.

*This sounds like either the beginning of the most complicated word problem ever (all that’s missing is a train departing from point A) or the plot of a new “Freaky Friday” style Disney movie where I have to live life as a 17 year old and learn the error of my ways.

            I skipped out on the 10 year job, so I didn’t really have any idea what to expect. According to the ridiculous amount of bad movies I have seen, this is the top five things to expect:

            1-Through a series of wacky mishaps the football team replays the big game against their rivals;

            2-Embarassment over where life has taken me will force me to lie about my life and I will tell everyone I invented post it notes;

            3-I will attempt to hide my lucrative career as a hit man; shenanigans will ensue. Bonus: This is accompanied by a soundtrack of really good 80s songs. No, wise acre, that is not an oxymoron;

            4-The super hot girl/dude from high school turns out to be gay;

            5-The evening culminates with someone getting it on in the locker room.

            That’s it, that’s the list.*

*If you can identify all of those references…you need to get out more. Seriously, go outside, the fresh air is good for you.

             I don’t think any sane individual is putting a lot of stock in that list, so I decided the best bet was going into it open minded. That’s not entirely true: After deciding I lacked the time to get in mind boggling shape, the luck to win the lottery or the funds to go buy an awesome sports car and rent a trophy wife, open minded was pretty much the only option remaining. Let’s break it down, running diary style:

            5:00 p.m.:  The “social gathering” portion of the evening starts at 7:00. Evidently there was a picnic and tour of the new high school earlier in the day and there was approximately (-52.46)% chance I was attending that. I can count on one hand the number of times I have been back in a public school since graduating; the entire experience is unpleasant. I immediately feel like I’m doing something wrong by being there and expect the jerk vice principal to spring around every corner to yell at me. I don’t need that kind of stress.     

            Only two hours remain to kick off, and I am thinking my “open minded” game plan may have some flaws. I decide to combine it with plan B-back up from my close friends Mr. Miller Lite and Mr. Crown.

            7:15 p.m.:  My above mentioned friends advise me it would be a bad idea to show up on time and I agree. The meeting is happening at a local bar and grill and I commence to circle the parking lot three times before deciding everything is cool, not to not bail and to go on in. I’m not sure what warning signs I expected from a few laps around the lot: People running from the building in terror? A giant flaming finger of god pointing away from the building? Regardless, I am reassured enough to go on in.      

            7:20 p.m.: I wander into the back room and am recognized immediately. This I was not expecting. It leads to me giving the stiffest hug of all time a an awkward round of small talk where I say for the fist time what will become my mantra for the evening: “Nope, I’m not married. Nope, no kids.” I am 94.62% certain I am the only individual in that specific demographic in attendance; I feel like a rebel.

            7:25: Someone has went to the trouble of setting out numerous copies of the high school newspaper on a table. I realize this is shocking, so hold onto your Fedora: I was on the newspaper and yearbook staff in high school. I know, I know, I seem like such a cool cat now… Armed with my freshly magic markered name tag, I spend a healthy amount of time looking this over and reading a few of my stories. My judgement of the quality, 20 years later: Oh, so bad. Laughingly bad. However, they are also somewhat charming in that “My eight year old colored a picture for me” kind of way. My mom would totally hang these on the fridge door. In fact, there may still be some up there.

            7:50 to 8:30: This time is spent milling around in the back of the room and randomly touching base with people here and there. People continue to fill in the room slowly and here is my main observation: From the neck up, everyone looks nearly exactly the same, only a little older. Watching people walk in that you haven’t seen in 20 years and still recognizing them is an amazingly trippy experience. It’s like one of those science fiction stories where the aliens have replaced everyone with their exact double, only they are just slightly off. At this point I realize I may have stumbled onto something and need to stay on my toes. Or, you know, stop drinking for the evening.

            8:42: I run into a guy who spent the night at my house when we were about 10. He recounted a story of how we spent Saturday afternoon trying to chop a tree down with a brick. Hey, I lived in the middle of nowhere, don’t judge me. We had four TV channels; three if the wind was blowing the wrong direction.

            8:55: I am repeating my mantra of having no kids when a gentleman tells me he has five and he would happily give me child number four. I laugh; his wife stops me by saying, “No we’re serious” with a slightly frenzied look. Cue the awkward silence.

            9:05: The topic of who from are class has died comes up. I have set the over/under at three and took the over. The final tally: Two. It’s a good thing for me gambling isn’t legal.

9:15: Someone tells me I was the last person they would have expected to see with a beer in my hand. I can’t decide it I feel proud or insulted by this.

            9:40: I emphatically tell a former classmate she looks exactly the same. I think she is flattered…until I decide to share my replaced by alien pod people theory. To her credit, she politely laughs before bolting for the other side of the room. That, kids, is my cue to exit stage right.

By 10:00 I have made my way around the room and said goodbye to most everyone there. All in all, it was a pretty positive experience, the kind that renews my basic faith that most people are inherently good.

Listen, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck*. I understand that for a 90 minute period anyone can come across friendly and accepting. I get that people might be trying to remember who the hell I am in there head or won’t remember a bit of our conversation after I walk away. Still, there is something reassuring about be greeted by someone you haven’t seen in two decades with a smile and a handshake and genuinely feeling glad to them.

*Where does that phrase even come from? I feel like it should be racist to somebody, but I have no clue what race or ethnic group I am offending by using it. Someone please fill me in.

            The big question: Will I be back for year 30? Right now I would say yes, emphatically. Besides, that gives me 10 years to work out the sports car and trophy wife situation.

           

The Best Man I Barely Knew

It fascinates me when depressing songs become big hits.

Not “who listens to this garbage, what is wrong with kids today” depressing-I feel that can be explained pretty easily by a lack of good taste (and by good taste, I mean whatever I like)-but depressing subject matter. Subject matter such as death, abuse, illness, et cetera, et cetera, and so on and so forth; “woe is me my baby done left me” songs aren’t what we are discussing here. It is interesting that a large number of people want to continually endure three minutes of lyrics about such things.* I suppose it’s cathartic; everyone needs a good cry now and again.

*Having said that, the two best depressing songs that got a lot of radio air play are “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas and “Brick” by Ben Folds Five. That’s it, that’s the list. One is a song about our insignificance, the other is a song about a dude’s girlfriend getting an abortion the day after Christmas. Happy Holidays!

Lately, I can’t escape this “If I Die Young” by The Band Perry. Evidently, it has become one of these cross over hits that I hear every time I turn on the radio, regardless of what type of music the station plays (I’m fairly certain I even heard it on the ESPN station once, but this may have been after a couple of drinks, so don’t hold me to it). I feel as if I’m stuck in the brainwashing scene in A Clockwork Orange, only instead of scenes of violence, my eye lids are pried open to a depressed 13-year-old girl reading from her diary. At least that’s my excuse for knowing every word and singing along, even after the 14^th time I’ve heard it today.* After all this exposure, one lyric hit home this week: “Funny how when you die, people start listening.”

*I get a great sense of satisfaction out of seeing people sing songs that could not be less aimed at their demographic. Judging by the reaction of a car full of girls who caught me belting out a Pink song at a red light last week, I am not alone. 

The topic of the song, combined with the proximity to Father’s Day, has gotten me thinking about my grandfather.

I’m lucky enough to not have been exposed to a lot of death in my 38 years on the planet. I’ve never lost any close personal friends or members of my immediate family. In fact, the only people who had any sort of consistent presence in my life that are now dead are my grandparents. All four are gone, and not recently: My dad’s parents, the above mentioned grandfather, passed away about 15 years ago. He actually went about a year before his wife; I don’t know the exact date, which may make me a bad person. I remember it was early summer and the first funeral I had a role in.

Most of the details of that day escape me now. What I do remember is discovering this whole life the man had that I was unaware of through bits of pieces of stories overheard from guests who had stopped by to “pay their respects.” Two stand out: He was nicknamed Red. This still amuses me as in all of my memories, what little hair left on his head was white; the shade of white reserved for albinos and the elderly. So I am forced to take this guy at his word; he seemed reliable. Numero B: By all accounts, he was an extremely charitable man. One old friend of his told a story of how he had given a poor family some gloves one winter, right off the hand of his own kids. It was a small gesture, but one that had left a mark on this gentleman.

Those were my two revelatory moments. He was 85ish and I can’t tell you many details of his life. As far as I know, he never pulled anyone out of a burning building. I don’t have a leather bound book of his collected platitudes. I’m fairly confident he didn’t take out a Nazi platoon in W-W-I-I, help discover a cure to some disease, win any gunfights with Blark Bart at high noon, shoot down a mad dog in the middle of the street, donate a kidney to a stranger or deliver a eloquent monologue that convinced a jury to free an innocent man.

Yet I would unequivocally say I can’t imagine a better person. Here’s what I do know about him:

Anywhere I went with him, he was always good for a bottle of peach Nehi and a bag of peanuts.  At least one afternoon a week over summer break, he would haul me around on his mail route and never give me trouble for reading comics the first half and sleeping the last hour. He chewed those giant twists of tobacco that look exactly like a king size Tootsie Roll to an eight year old. He was married to one spouse for 60 some years and raised four kids who can say the same. He made up ridiculous nicknames for all of his grandchildren, including “Buckshot” and “Pee Wee”. Nothing fired him up more than leaving a light on in an empty room or killing the lawnmower after running over a large rock. From 12:30 to 3:30 p.m. he was parked in his recliner and not missing a second of his soap operas. He always had a paperback western nearby. He was always good for a five dollar bill on Christmas morning as well as this nugget of wisdom: “Well, we made it through another year.” He always made me feel like his favorite grandkid and I’m sure my sisters and cousins all felt the same*. Did I mention the peach Nehi?

*He was totally lying to them though. Don’t tell.

I believe most people could not imagine a more mundane list of details. Yet I wouldn’t have it any other way. Most of our lives end up much more Goundhog Day than Saving Private Ryan. I hope there is a nobility and inherit goodness in just living a life well. Sometimes the best thing you can do is just show up. I think that is the lesson I keep listening too long after my grandfather is gone.

Happy Pop’s Day.

Confessions of a Drive By Commentator

or, How the Internet Made Me a Bad Person in Four Easy Steps

Like all fiascos, it started with the best of intentions. It's a weak excuse, I realize, so save me all of your "The road to hell is paved..." and blah, yadda, blah, ad nauseum. At the time, it felt like the right thing to do. Ok, that is a lie, at the time it still felt mean spirited, juvenile, and vindictive, but lordy, was it entertaining. Who knew that taking shots at people from behind the anonymity* of the internets could be such a good time?

*Every time I use the word anonymity, two things happen: Uno, I can never spell the damn thing right. This would lead a normal person with a slightly above average education to a dictionary, correct? Nope, I spend eight minutes in a fierce battle with spell check trying different combinations until either I get it right or the computer just gives up. Ok, 15 minutes. B) My brain immediately brings up the image of Stuart Smally on those SNL sketches from the early 90s. TV has left my imagination a waste land of pointless references to sketch comedy.

I admit, in the grand scheme of confessions, it ranks well below murder. How-evah, it sure isn’t going to earn me any gold stars or trophies either. (Maybe a participation certificate; they give those to anybody.) So, kiddos, it’s time to come clean for my role in the decline of civil discourse. I did not create the heap of toxic waste it has become, but I certainly contributed my shovel full.

Step 1: Discovery

I used to have a diehard addiction to newspapers. I like to tell myself it was to stay informed of things like important political issues, world events, and local affairs. The truth is I usually scanned it for salacious headlines and sports news. I think the breakdown would look something like this: Stories read with the words sex, scandal, cover up, murder or any combination in the headline: 80%; Sports: 15%; Less than half a completed crossword: 4%; Stories read to delay getting back from lunch: 1%.

Two things contributed to my AA moment with newspapers: A) Most (and by most, I mean all) of the old papers ended up in the back seat of my car. This would be great if I ever found myself in need of something to start a fire, cheap ass wrapping paper, or a sudden desire to make paper mache. It’s not so great for hauling passengers. Plus, have you ever experienced the stench that is newspaper left for several days in the sun? Not pleasant. I was also terrified of finding a family of mice nesting back there.

Dos) One afternoon at work I was fighting the urge to hide under my desk and sleep by screwing around online. I ended up at the local paper’s web site. All the same stories I read earlier were right there on the computer screen. For free. There was no grumpy Kum and Go clerk demanding the last four shiny quarters from my pocket. After about 20 minutes of intense calculation involving complex equations I came up with this answer: The cost of the paper Monday through Friday=$5 plus tax. Cost of my just reading it online=Free*. Yes, I do have a place cleared on my shelf for my Nobel Prize in Mathematics.

*Obviously this does not include the cost to my employer for all the hours wasted staring at my monitor when I could have been working. I am convinced my productivity would increase by 78.9% if I were forced to work in a dark broom closet.

This in turn led me to the opinions page.

Step 2: Titillation

The opinion page is an interesting place. It’s the literary equivalent to the set of the Mad Max movies: A vast desert populated by crazy people who jump out from behind rocks and shout gibberish at you. The layout is pretty much the same every day. Lead with a toothless editorial from the paper’s editorial board, something that rallies the opposing side to arms. “Our view: Kicking puppies is bad” or maybe “Our view: Pants are great”. That kind of hard hitting stuff. Next is a column by one of the syndicated writers who aim to convince you Democrats are sending us all to hell or Republicans hate you and your mom, depending on the day of the week. We then get our local columnists, which I’m convinced got the gig by being the weirdest combination of demographics ever in an effort to make sure all Springfield’s crazy voices get heard. Monday is conservative Christian sailor, Tuesday is liberal church preacher who supports same sex marriage, and so on and so forth. I’m not sure why they want to write these weekly opinion pieces. Maybe it’s because they get their photo printed beside them? Who hasn’t dreamed of ending up on page 8A someday?

And then, oh then, the crown jewel of the opinion page: Reader’s letters. Give me a second, I’m getting the crack-shakes just thinking about them.                       Ok, better. What kind of topics get people so fired up, so incensed, so passionate that they go to the trouble of putting pen to paper and letting everyone know how they feel? After spending months looking at these things, I can say with confidence the most popular topics are: People in Springfield can’t drive and should use their turn signals more; God hates the sin, not the sinner, but you are all going to burn in hell anyway; everything would be ok if we could just get rid of the churches; everything would be ok if we could just get rid of beer/cigarettes/texting; the sitting President, regardless of who, is a liar, an idiot and hates America; and hey you kids, get off my damn lawn.

It was fantastic. I couldn’t imagine it would get any better until I read one word: “Comment.”

Step Three: The Voice of Reason

A whole world of possibilities opened up to me. One click is all that separated me from setting these bozos straight. Well, one click and the creation of a patently stupid screen name. This is where I enter stage left, riding my white horse and liberating the poor unwashed masses from the tyranny of limited thinking. I would be that voice of common sense in the vast wilderness of crazy town*. I hopped to work quickly.

*Do I realize that all the writers I just mocked above probably had the same intention? Not a bit. Excuse me while I get this piece of hubris out of me eye…

Most of my comments started out rational on the verge of boring. The specifics have left me, but I think the general idea was “Maybe you should calm down a little” or “Aren’t there more important things for us to worry about?” and “Take a deep breath.” You know, solid, if bland advice. I sat back, pleased as punch, and waited for people to bask in the awe of my sense of fair play, of reason. However, there was one tiny problem.

No one noticed.

Step Four: The Lowest Common Denominator

Honestly, I didn’t expect to change the world. I thought I could spark some self reflection, a pump the brakes moment, if you will. Perhaps some tete-a-tete in the comment sections where we share a chuckle over the banality of it all. What I didn’t expect was stone cold silence.

So I dug deeper. Who was getting responses? What I discovered shouldn’t have been a surprise for anyone who spent 12 plus years in the public school system or watches reality TV. Whoever says the most outrageous stuff loudly gets all the attention.

Outrageous doesn’t really cover it. Every base seemed covered: Religious condemnation, racism, sexism, intolerance and, topping the list, just general stupidity. These statements would start conversation threads that would last for days and approach 100 plus comments. We’re not talking in depth examination of the issues; just insults and craziness stacked up like bricks. It was more rock fight than a debate. A better person would have washed his hands of the whole thing and moved on to more lofty pursuits. A better person would have not wanted validation from strangers, weird ones at that. If you know this better person, please tell him he sucks.

So I went down the same path as many hacks before me and took aim. If the conversation was currently in the dark basement of civility, I was heading for the outhouse. At first I tried to stay at least on target with the topics. I was still presenting ideas I believed in, albeit in more colorful fashion. I started slowly, just a few “idiots” sprinkled here and there, an occasional bad joke about someone’s screen name or heritage. The results were predictable; I was certainly getting more responses, as well as many more threats to my health and well being, as well as invitations to molest myself in various ways. Good times!

It got to the point where I no longer even cared what issue I was defending/attacking. I fully embraced the role of contrarian. In fact, I started ignoring the issues entirely and started to just insult the others leaving comments. Cleverness was abandoned. “Let me guess, you are over 70 years old? At least I’m going to live longer than you” or “You misspelled a word genius, try proof reading*” all the way down to “I think you smell and likely have lice.” It was by no means a glorious flame out, more like some animal trapped in a tar pit, slowly sinking…

*For anyone who has spotted the many misspelled words in this piece, please take a moment to enjoy the irony. Drink it in.

This went on for several weeks, when a funny thing happened. I discovered it just wasn’t as fun if my heart wasn’t in it. I might get off a rare funny line here or there, or sting someone with a pointed insult, but it got old pretty quick without any real meaning behind it. What all the letter writers and columnists realized much before I did was that earnestness sells a lot better than bullying. It’s a trait that gets mocked more than occasionally but, in the end, certainly makes for more enjoyable people. In the long run, I would trade all the snark for that.

There you go, my 1,800 word confession. Obviously, brevity is not my strong suit. I can’t say I have quit trolling through the comment boards cold turkey; it’s still entertaining to poke the bear occasionally. If you happen to be on the receiving end one of these days, just take a deep breath and realize I’m just trying to get a rise out of somebody. And by all means, don’t stop commenting; I have a lot of hours of work to kill.