Big Events

My life currently is pretty devoid of big events.

Most of my friends who are ever going to get married are. No bellies are swelling with babies. Since leaving age 40 in my rearview, birthdays haven’t been packed with pizazz either. (Now every January 4 is just met with a sigh of relief that all my body parts are still in working order. For the most part.) This lack of big formal shindigs has forced me to put an inordinate amount of importance on some pretty mundane things.* Three of the biggies fall in this nether region of the calendar that is February through April. Sadly, all involve a lot of me staring at the television and experiencing a heap of vicarious experience. But on the positive side, none of them involve me having to wear a tie, match the color of socks to my belt, or any personal hygiene more intense than an every-other-day shave.

*I feel like there was a whole bunch of big events when I was younger. It always seemed like something was coming up, be it proms (voluntary formal wear), graduations (diplomas and gifts involving money), and weddings (my first open bars). I remember getting amped up for teacher meetings because of the days off from school. My standards may have been a bit low. The moral of the story is, nothing in life seems as cool once you lose summer vacation.)

For brevity’s sake, I am leaving out the extremely mundane things, movie premiers and TV show finales. (I can’t move forward without mentioning this: I am writing this a few hours after watching the How I Met Your Mother series finale. Yes, that sentence alone is worth every ounce of ridicule you have been storing up. Go ahead and let it out, I can wait. Finished? Anyway, I watched all one hour of it and it was horrible. Just…bad. I am running the finale of Breaking Bad in the background to the taste out of my mouth. So if things turn a little dark and methy, you know why.)

Let’s run it down chronologically-

February:

The Oscars. I wish I could tell you why I was addicted to this show, but it is just beyond me. There is no reason for a heterosexual man to be this interested in the movies’ dog and pony show each year. But I am there without fail, soaking in it like a sponge. I should probably find a support group to meet with.

I understand, there is plenty to hate about the broadcast. I loathe the rundown of who wore what and who looked best in it and blah blah blah my head just exploded. I can’t tell one designer from the next. Here is what the pre-show red carpet show looks like to me: ‘Look! A blonde, skinny 20 something actress in a fancy dress! Oh wait, there is a brunette 20 something in a fancy dress! Those girls look hungry, I wish someone would give them a sandwich.” Repeat for 30 minutes and you know what it is like in my head.

The other things that baffles me about the Oscars is how much crap people give the hosts. I don’t know why any quaso-comedian/personality/hose would ever agree to do it. The Monday morning* after the awards is a parade of columns about how horrible the host was for a multiple of reasons. They were in the wrong format/too stiff/not interesting/played it too safe/misogynistic. It is literally a no-win situation, unless you are Billy Crystal in the 80s or Johnny Carson for like 50 years before that. Please, Tina Fey and Amy Pohler, don’t’ ever do it; I can’t take the abuse you will undoubtedly get.

*Why are all award shows on Sunday? I feel like it is a subtle way to shove it normal peoples’ faces how rich and famous you are. “Oh it’s Sunday, I am so rich and famous I don’t’ have to worry about getting up and going to work and starting the work week.” Sorry I have a real job, various Academies.

 

I think there are two reasons I got so sucked into the Oscars. One, the many, many clips. At the ripe age young age of 13ish, there was no way I was seeing clips of critically acclaimed independent or foreign movies other than the Oscars*. I consider it educational programming, like Sesame Street.

*The Moxie is an independent theater currently in Springfield, MO. It specializes is showing independent films, foreign films, and documentaries. A teenage Michael Allhands with a Premiere Magazine subscription would have killed somebody for this kind of theater. Instead, I was stuck trying to rent the one copy of Do the Right Thing from the local video store.

Number two, there used to be a whole heck of a lot more surprise involved. In the pre-internet days, there could be a great deal of mystery about who won. Now, if you read any entertainment web site at all, you know exactly who will win.*

*12 Years a Slave won best picture this year. I have not seen it, so I suppose this means I am a racist. As for the nominated movies, I felt like Her and Gravity were the best. However, the Spectacular Now was the best movie I saw last year.

March:

The NCAA Tournament. The odd things is I am not particularly a big fan of college sports. I have never understood cheering for a school where I have never set foot on the campus, let alone attended for a second. Being a Missouri State alum, that means I have a rooting interest in tournament games about every 15 years. Yet every March I take the first Thursday and Friday of the tournament off, gorge myself for two solid days of basketball at a local establishment that has many televisions and adult beverages, and root like crazy for upsets.*

*A few years ago the first day fell on St. Patrick’s Day. I hope all evidence of my activity that day have been destroyed.

Some observations:

-Within the 48 hours, it becomes very hard not to hate the word “bracket.” I start to feel like I am stuck in The Manchurian Candidate and bracket is the work that triggers me to start assassinating people. At least that is what I am going to tell the authorities. In addition to people going on and on about how their brackets are doing, who do you have in your bracket, and I really need this team to win for my bracket there are about one million web sites who do their own “creative” pop culture brackets. I have seen things like brackets of Most Annoying People, to Best Characters in the Wire, to Worst Names of the Year. And yes, I read every single one. Stop the insanity!

-I see about the same five commercials over and over. The most annoying are promos for the 501^st version of CSI, ads for local attorneys (if I ever have to hire an attorney who is running ads on local TV, something has gone horribly wrong), and, new to this year, was Pringles. The Pringles ad slogan was “You don’t just eat ‘em!” Really, Pringles? Because I am pretty sure I just eat them. I am really not sure what else you want me to do with them. Build an addition to my home? Make very salty necklaces? I think I will stick with just eating them.

-Any year Duke is out in their first game is a success.

April:

Opening day of baseball season. Yes, I am one of those air bags who loves to wax poetic about the new baseball season every year. No one wants to spend a lot of time in conversation with “that guy.” So, I will try to spare you. Just go watch the James Earl Jones in Field of Dreams, I can’t put it any better than that. (Why are baseball movies by far the best sports movies? It has to have something to do with the pace of the game, right? It is really easy to insert witty or dramatic dialogue into a sport that require standing around for at least 80% of the actual game time.)

I am a walking cliché when it comes to baseball. My youth (which makes it sound much more important than it actually was) was spent bowing at the altar of the NBA. You can’t blame me; I was growing up when Magic and Bird were in their prime and Jordan had just arrived in the league. But as I have grown older, baseball appeals more and more to me. There is an intellect to the game that cannot be matched. We are getting really close to blow hard stage here, so I will cut it short.

So, that’s it, that’s the list of the big events in my adult life of big events. At least until I get invited to another prom.

The Hate List

Have you ever seen the Shining?

I realize this is widely considered the scariest move ever made now, according to those annoying critics list/polls that come out every Halloween.* My experience, however, is that very few actual living breathing human beings I know have seen movies that top any “Best Of” lists. Be honest, how many people do you know who have actually seen Citizen Kane? Vertigo? (Yes, I have seen these and I am a huuuuggggeeee snob about it.) By contrast, every pixel on my lap top screen claims to have seen everything ever made. So, going by my assumption that real carbon based life forms are reading this (and I realize, this is an enormous leap of faith on my part), what follows is a fairly big 34 year old SPOILER ALERT.

*I have always felt the Shining was a tad bit overrated. It is filled with a wonderful sense of dread and like all Kubrick films is stunning to look at, but I feel the whole thing doesn’t add up to what it could. I am a huge fan of the book, so maybe I am biased. The Exorcist and the vastly ignored Rosemary’s Baby will always be the scariest movies I have ever seen. (Brief plug: The scariest thing currently on TV is Hannibal. It looks, feels, and even sounds like nothing else I have ever seen. Please watch it, so I will continue to have something to do on Friday nights at 9.)

You probably know the movie is set in a hotel. In the basement of said hotel, is a rather large furnace that has seen better days. In fact, it is in such disrepair someone must periodically turn a valve to release the pressure that has built up, otherwise the whole thing will go ka-blooey.

Think of this as my release valve.

What follows is a list of things that at this specific moment of March, 2014, annoy me to no end. They range from the ridiculous to the slightly less ridiculous. All I ask is you take off your powder wigs, put down your gavels and refrain from passing too much judgment.

People who read the paper/headlines out loud to anyone who happens to be around:

-There is one of these jokers every place I have ever worked. There are 1,237 cable news channels (all numbers approximate) and everyone has constant access to the internet every second of every day. At this point we are one mother-may-I baby step from having the news of the day piped directly into our frontal lobe while we sleep.  So why do these people feel the break room is so desperate for a town crier? I am not sure what they think they are accomplishing or what the motivation is. The subtle brag that they can read at a fifth grade level? Listen bozo, yes, I have heard the top news stories of the day, and even if I haven’t, I am more than capable to pursue such information on my own. The level of hubris and narcissism is staggering-just because you have a paper in front of you doesn’t make you any more informed than the rest of us. Walter Cronkite you are not. Give it a rest. These people are directly related to….

People who won’t stop talking while I am trying to read: 

-Ways to tell I don’t want to have a conversation with you: 1) A complete refusal to make eye contact. Don’t mistake my complete my lack of interest of what you have to say for shyness. 2) My replies to all of your statements, no matter how outlandish, is a series of grunts. For example: “Have I shared my opinions about the current administration and how it is going to lead to the end times?” “Oh, yeah?” “Yep, I continue to work on my compound.” “Huh.” And so on and so forth. 3) There is a book open in front of me.

Why is that third one so difficult to understand? My only theory is that certain people can only associate reading with some form of punishment, like homework and whatnot. Well Mr. I-Have-Never-Read-a Book-Voluntarily, brace yourself for this truth-bomb- some people actually read for pleasure. Let that soak in for a second. Next time we are in a room or at adjacent tables in a fine eatery, don’t assume I am reading out of boredom or loneliness. Hold off on sharing your opinions of why the Chiefs are winning the Super Bowl or how many inches of snow you think we are getting because I am really invested in who wins the Quiddich match I am reading about. (Timely reference!)

Google Play commercials:

-These have been inescapable lately if you watch television at all. Someone is watching a recent movie on their tablet*, something recent like Dallas Buyers Club or Captain Phillips, and they suddenly pause the movie and unearth a bunch of information about one of the actors in the move. Who watches a movie this way? I am not writing a research paper about every movie I watch Google Play. Spare me your useless features.

* Item #538 of reasons I sound like a crazy old man: No matter how advance the technology gets, I am never going to get used to watching a movie on my phone or tablet screen. Remember when a really large TV was a sign of status? Please let me watch a movie designed for large projection on the smallest possible way to deliver it.

Boondock Saints:

I don’t get it. I have watched this movie twice and hated every second of it. Yet during any conversation I have about beloved movies this one invariably comes up, and it baffles me. I hate all the faux Boston/Irish ain’t we cool attitude, I loathe every single character, and I hate how it oozes with self-satisfaction and is just so damn in love with itself. Yes, I just went on a rant about a 15 year old movie. The next things on this list will be video rental rewind fees and how much New Coke sucks.

I have never met a woman who like this movie; every single fan is some lunk-head guy who just thinks it is the coolest thing ever. Blah. These are the same guys who…

People who make elaborate toasts:

I think it is the rhyming. The rhyming is annoying. Can we please take this drink without you living out your Dr. Seuss fantasy? Didn’t people used to just say “Cheers?” How about something subtle like clinking of glasses? If you really need to display your wit, here is a Sharpie, go write limericks on the men’s room wall.

Cinnamon flavored whiskey:

 So trendy! I feel like every few years some new flavor of drink comes out and is all the rage. A few years ago it was honey. Now I can’t go anywhere without people going crazy for cinnamon. I assume this is people who really like the flavor and consistency of cough syrup but feel weird buying Robitussin on a weekly basis. I get it, whiskey and bourbon taste, well, kind of bad. But I feel like this is the trade-off, a few seconds of making that “this tastes awful face” for the benefits of drinking. You know benefits like getting to make really bad rhyming toasts.

Adult men named Terry:

They are not to be trusted. I have zero evidence to support this. In fact, I don’t think I know a single man named Terry in real life. (Except for maybe Terry Bradshaw, via the TV, and I think we can all agree he is a certifiable odd ball.) This will not stop me from assuming they kick puppies, take your book mark so you lose your place, always want to split the check evenly at group dinners, and other general nefarious activity. But I am sure Terrys everywhere have nothing but good things to say about me.

That’s it, that’s the list. The furnace has returned to safe levels, the coals are cold, and we may now safely move forward. One quick disclaimer- I reserve the right to partake of any and all of these things at any given time. If you witness this, please do not hesitate to accuse me of hypocrisy. Especially if your name is Terry and you can do it with a rhyme.

I am Cliff Clavin

I have been watching a lot of Cheers lately.

Like everyone else, this means binging for a few hours at a time on Netflix*. I am old enough to remember when you were only able to watch a TV show once a week and cable was a novelty*. Sadly, this may be our greatest achievement of my life time (aside from erectile dysfunction medication, but, alas, that is a subject for another day): Instant gratification. Virtually anything you want is available in seconds; we are slowly eliminating patience as an actual characteristic. Yes, this paragraph reads older than anything other than the Bible.

*Speaking of Netflix, let me air one complaint. While their TV selection is fantastic (Mad Men, Breaking Bad, etc.) the movie selection is a smelly armpit. Here are two suggestions from me that you likely haven’t heard of and I cannot recommend high enough: Goon and Croupier. Just watch them. This is assuming they will still be streaming when you see this; what is available is less predictable than Bigfoot sightings.

*I also distinctly remember having three channels, four if you count PBS. Though if one of your family was willing to wrap themselves in tin foil with a coat hanger in one hand and the TV antennae in the other while thinking happy thoughts, you could sometimes pick up a fifth from Joplin, MO. This channel showed the exact same shows as another local channel, but it seemed more exotic somehow. This is the first time in history someone has called Joplin exotic.

Any-who, Cheers. For my money, this is the most underappreciated sitcom of all time. Everybody talks about Seinfeld, the Simpsons, and Friends, and somehow this gem gets lost in the shuffle. Hell, people talk more fondly about I Love Lucy and that show has to be 90 years old by now, give or take 50 years. This was a great character based show that managed to move from sublime to slapstick so deftly it has lead to it being so underrated. There is no Parks and Rec or the Office without it.

But I digress. What I really want to talk about are the characters, and one in particular. Cheers was made up of a group of people who spend most of their free time in a Boston bar. (Do not underestimate this show’s power: it actually made people from Boston seem likable.) If you have ever spent any regular time with a group of people in a bar, sooner or later you try to figure out which Cheers character you are. Many people want to be Sam, the lady killer bartender, or Diane the perky waitress. Most people had someone they could relate to, a character who was funny, charming, and relatable. But be sure of one thing: no one, and I mean no one, wanted to be Cliff.

People are fine with Norm, the fat lovable drunk. I even had a friend say they would be Paul, a wall flower who had maybe five lines in the entire 10 year series. No one wants to be Cliff, to put it simply, because he is a know it all. A blowhard. He was a fountain of useless, and often incorrect, knowledge that washes across the bar to indifferent and often annoyed ears. There was no subject too random, obscure, or pointless that Cliff would not offer some trivial fact.

No matter how much I try and deny it, this is me. Just slightly more subtle.

I mean, I am not wearing a full postal uniform into a bar, as entertaining as that sounds*.  Cliff’s modus operandi is to show up in his mail man uniform (short hand for someone who is maybe a little less important than he thinks he is) and loudly hold court about a whole lot of unverifiable stuff. The absence of uniform is not due to my own foresight. If not for technology I feel I would have been just as over the top as a character from an 80’s sitcom. And that technology is a simple blue box.

*The only uniform I have ever worn is a Cub Scout uniform, and I have the third grade photos to prove it. I am discounting football and band because you couldn’t show up for picture day in those uniforms and expect to get home with your humility intact. Plus, the Cub Scout uniform had a neckerchief. Come on, how often do you get to wear a neckerchief?!

I was first introduced to bar trivia about ten years ago.

I had just moved to St. Louis and my girlfriend/fiancé/future ex-wife/crazy lady who would later threaten to kill me really liked hanging out in bars. Like needs an intervention liked to hang out in bars. At the time, I was a very light drinker*, and the bar could get a bit tedious. And that is when I stumbled onto Buzztime.

*By light drinker, I mean I had never had a drink until age 31ish. I blame Jesus. My first drunk experience happened when I moved to St. Louis. Here is all you need to know about that experience: Grape martinis, passed out in a bathroom stall, and puking on a tree. I will let you fill in the blanks.

The little blue box that greatly resembles a Timex home computer from circa 1983. For anyone under the age of 30, or whose family could afford a real computer, picture a really big, basic calculator/adding machine encased in plastic. A Commodore 64 was the things dreams were made of in my family.  (Here is my only memory from computers at that time: Running that program that made the entire screen fill up with my name. State. Of. The. Art. Yet, according to the movies, people my age were hacking the missile defense system. I feel like you lied to me Wargames!!) It contains a full keyboard, which is never used. Essentially all you need are the 1-5 number keys to play the game. How it works: The typical game is 15 questions long, multiple choice with four choices. The longer it takes to get the answer, the less points you receive. That’s it, that’s the list. It is the same basic process of any game show, but with no spokesmodel or prizes. Except for “player plus points” which you accumulate every game and have no value or meaning at all, other than to show the rest of the world just how much time you spend in bars playing games.

Basically, you log on* and see just how much useless knowledge is crammed down into the dark recesses of your skull. It took me about 42 minutes to become absolutely and completely hooked. It started innocently enough: Something to do while my significant other got bombed on martinis. Win/win!

*Log in names, as you can imagine, are an interesting time. What is it about entering fake names into games that turns people into third graders? I am pretty sure there is a Pac Man game from 1983 out there somewhere with a top score by “BOOBS.” My extremely creative sign on name: Mike. I know, where do I come up with these things? There is little more humiliating than playing under your real name and losing to “Camltoh” and “Wang-ho”. It tends to keep the ego in check.

It was fun, for a while, basking in the glory of an extensive knowledge of 70’s Oscar winners, capitols of Pacific Islands, and bones of the inner ear. And by a while, I mean about 10 years. However, I should have been taking notes during Cheers. There are reasons Cliff is the most unpopular character. Among them:

-The isolation. It is a lonely world in the bar trivia universe. One man, one machine, and one beer (at a time). Hawthorne can keep his scarlet letter; that little blue box is much more of a pariah than some mild adultery. There are many options of what may keep people away: the fact I am hunched over what looks like a giant desk calculator, the fact I am staring at a TV screen like it is the last minutes of a ball game I have gambled every cent to my name on, or the constant muttering under my breath. (It is probably the muttering. The self-loathing after missing a question can be intense.) The one thing all of the reasons have in common is that they are self-generated. I have become an expert at generating a force field of “leave me alone” energy. The ways to communicate this are numerous; Batman’s utility belt has less options. Refusal to make eye contact with whomever is speaking is usually first off the deck, followed by grunting in response to any questions, and finally turning my body at a precise 34.5% angle away from the speaker/person sitting next to me/completely normal social person enjoying an adult beverage.* That tends to do the trick.

*This would be a good point to introduce this statistic: The number of girls met/won over while playing trivia is exactly 0.0. Here is what that pie chart looks like: 0.

-The disdain. I don’t know what it is about knowing stuff, but it sure tends to annoy people. People like to voice their judgments of you when you know ridiculous information about what state Mary Todd Lincoln was born in. There are lots of cat calls like “Who knows this stuff?” and “Someone needs to t a life.” Sadly, they are all accurate and true. The most typical reactions are: “There is something wrong with you for knowing this,” “you play so much you have these memorized,” and “I quit, I like talking to real people.”* The best way to avoid this is to sit at the very end of the bar, make minimal requests, and wear a hat. People tend to not notice you in hat. The good news is the end of the bar is near the servers’ station. They will be friendly to anyone. It has just dawned on me how many bar staff I have met playing trivia. Those people are the salt of the earth. Or really bored.

-The liver damage. Listen, you can’t just sit there and play sipping water. The beers tend to pile up after three to four hours staring at the TV and plumbing the depths of my brain. I can’t imagine my liver is a big fan of the game. Sadly, my scores seem to go up the more I imbibe. Did I mention meeting a lot of bar staff while playing this game?

There are certainly are more social hobbies. But if you watch your Cheers, Cliff managed to make at least 4-5 friends. Or at least people who would tolerate him. Trivia has led me to meet a handful of good people, a smattering of weirdos, and a large number of people I will likely never see or speak to again. This sounds remarkably similar to every other frivolous activity I have ever taken part in. At the very worst, it gives me a valid excuse to read at an unreasonable rate and in a random selection of topics.

Let me leave with this request: The next time you seem so odd looking dude sitting at the end of the bar, bent over a tiny game, and way into the random questions on the TV, take it easy on him. Don’t assume he has a social disorder or strange body odor. In fact, feel free to make some small talk or offer to buy him a beer. Just make sure it is between games.

...and Stay Off My Lawn!

One of my biggest fears is turning into a cranky old man.

Pre-middle age might be a tad early to worry about such things. I think in most areas I pass for my 30-something, advertising friendly self: My knuckles aren't gnarled and curled up like a tree trunk yet; I have full control of my bladder at least 99.4% of the time; the top of my pants still resides closer to my waist than my arm pits; I am still paying full price at my local eateries; and I haven't started mixing my adult beverages with Ensure yet. However, more and more often, I get little glimpses of the crotchety Mr. Hyde residing in my easy going Dr. Jekyll persona*. For example-
* Mr. Hyde was the bad one, right? I find it hilarious that after his transformation he was only Mr. rather than Dr. He must have been very serious about the six years he spent at mad scientist medical school. The fact that I am referencing a 125 year old novel is not helping my case much.

-A complete lack of interest in new technology. I don't have a burning desire to own an Ipad. Hell, I didn't have a smart phone until last year. I had to have special training to just post these little fevered explosions of my ego. If it took more than just clicking the "publish post" button, you would never hear from me again. Don't look so happy about that. In short, I am slowly turning into the guy who has to have someone set all his clocks because it is just too complicated for my addled brain.

-I have, on multiple occasions, eaten dinner before 5:30 p.m. This is "early bird special" territory, there is no getting around it. There used to be days I hadn't eaten breakfast before that time.

-I now factor things like parking, crowd size and what is on TV tonight into deciding my plans.

What's more troubling is a slight change in attitude that tends to waft in unexpectedly. Suddenly, little things just tend to make me cranky and light the fuse to a rant. I do a pretty good job of just rolling with it and not letting things get to me too much. But sometimes when you are confronted with the same inane things, over and over, you have to let somebody know about it. I feel like one of those cartoon characters with the steam blowing out of my ears and a spinning bow tie in those moments. My doctor tells me that smoking ears aren't a good sign, so for one day and one day only I have decided to embrace the grump within. I am going to unleash the rant and never speak of these things again. What follows is a list of the things I am inordinately sick of and annoyed by. There is little rhyme or reason behind these particular items; they are things just happily bouncing around my stream of consciousness.

1-Awards shows. This comes with the season; I can't turn on my TV this time of year without seeing someone get a shiny phallic award for something.  Is there anything more coma inducing than seeing a room of really rich and successful people congratulating each other on being so rich and successful?

Who is it deciding what is the best of everything anyway? I feel there is some shapeless cabal of mysterious old men, with long gray beards deciding these things. The whole thing seems a little arbitrary. Maybe I am too right brained, but I don't trust any results that don't require an equation, slide rule and graph paper. Awards should be approached like word problems: The Artist was the best movie of 2011? I am afraid I need you to show your work.

Truth be told, my biggest problem with award shows* is the constant reminder of how out of the loop I am. They nominated nine movies for "Best Picture" this year; I have seen exactly one of them. The Grammy's are even worse; it's a constant stream of bands and music I have barely heard of. It's like a virtual reality machine for Alzheimer's-a parade of people and sounds I don't recognize at all. I find myself thinking "Shouldn't Van Halen be nominated for something?" or "Would it kill you to give something to U2?" Evidently my musical biography stops in 1988.
*My second biggest problem is this cottage industry that has sprung up around these shows were we analyze what everyone wears. And by analyze I mean tear to shreds. I realize this is shocking, but fashion means less than nothing to me. I'm pretty sure these things exist so Joan Rivers can still draw a pay check.

2-Sports "holidays".  The most watched television program every year is the Super Bowl. Perhaps you have heard of it. Amidst the reams of paper* devoted to coverage of the big game every year, some sport journalist, being the original deep thinkers they are, always writes a column that campaigns to make the Monday after the game a national holiday.
*Seriously, reams. I am sure we have destroyed acres of forests to prospect of covering every minute detail of this game.

This is why the terrorists hate us.

Basically we are saying we are going to drink so much beer and eat so much chili, wings or anything else we can fit in a deep fryer that we should get a day off to recover. Here is the deal with being a sports fan: If you are going to get this serious about things this trivial, you have to pay the piper. And by pay the piper, I mean show up at work unshaven and miserable. For example, game six of the World Series was an epic event last year. It featured multiple come backs and drama, lasted for nearly five hours and ended in a remarkable fashion. The ending was so remarkable it called for, nay, required, celebratory beers and shots. Did I mention it was nearly midnight when it ended?

Yet at 8 a.m the next morning I stumbled into work. I smelled strange, there was something on my pants that could possibly have been vomit and I wanted to crawl under my desk and die, but I made it. The piper was paid. Getting to sleep in until noon the next day would have been cheating.

I noticed this same themed article recently in relation to the NCAA tournament. This guy argued we should actually get two days off work, the Thursday and Friday when the games start. Shut up and take sick days like the rest of us.

3-The smoking ban argument in Springfield, MO. Let me state this up front: I couldn't care less if smoking is allowed in public or not. It affects my life in no way. Last year, the voters decided that you could not smoke in any business and in fact could only smoke after descending through a man hole into the sewer system. Or something, I am a little foggy on the details.

It is now one year later and apparently the issue is going back to the ballot. Really? I have to endure all the posturing and rhetoric again? Fantastic. I have an idea, lets just vote on it every single year. We can make it a best out of 25 scenario. Even better, lets just make this a holiday. It can be like Groundhog Day. Every year we can randomly select someone and, I don't know, check them for a lung tumor. If we find one, 52 more weeks of smoking! Think of the t-shirts we could sell.

4-Election year politics. I don't care what party you belong to or your feelings about any candidate. I am not here to try and persuade you any point of view other than this one: I would rather get poked right in the eye than have to tolerate any more election politics this year.

It is a daily parade of inanity and ridiculousness and nobody is throwing candy, only rocks. We are deluged with a constant barrage of garbage about contraception, gas prices, health care, Iran, Rush Limbaugh*, electability....I think one of my blood vessels just ruptured. In my skull.
* Can we take a moment just to agree Rush is a horrible person and we should never be surprised when he says terrible things? I hate all the attention this guy has gotten solely because I am sure it means his ratings have never been higher. Bill Hicks, my favorite comic of all time, does a great bit on Rush; go find it on the internets.

Look, I have no idea who I'm voting for at this point. I have no prediction on how this all turns out* and I think you should vote for the person you think will do best. However, that's the problem: I haven't heard anyone speak about a candidate they are passionate about. All I hear is the venom about candidates people passionately hate. "The person I loathe least" seems to be an odd way to go about filling this position. Maybe that is because the quality of candidates is that bad, I don't know. Whatever the case, November is a long way away.
*I lied, one prediction: Newt's gigantic head will finally ascend from his body and float to the atmosphere like a weather balloon. Have you seen the size of that thing?

That's it, that's the list. I feel cleansed and optimistic. This will last at least 24 hours or until someone cuts me off in traffic on my way to the early bird special.

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.