A Very Pickled Christmas

Christmas is all about tradition in my family, like I assume it is in many families across the globe.  Some families attend church in celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ; some watch a marathon of Christmas-y movies; some begin to return all of the maroon and purple sweaters they received from "well-meaning" elderly relatives.

Our family had the Christmas pickle.  When I was young, after a Christmas Eve full of hearty foods to driving around and looking at the beautiful displays of Christmas lights in all the non-Jewish parts of the neighborhood, I would retire to my bed, donned in my Santa hat, preparing to wake up at 5 o'clock (at the latest).  My parents were big fans of this.

After unloading my stocking full of candies and mini-shampoos ("Thanks, Santa!"), my younger brother and I would rush down the stairs and practically throw ourselves at the Christmas tree, because hidden somewhere among the pine needles and assorted colored balls was a glass pickle that Santa had covertly placed.

Our tree.  There's a ninja pickle in the somewhere.

Whoever found the pickle first would receive the first present of Christmas, cleverly titled "The Pickle Present."  The Pickle Present was always something awesome:

And while the task may seem daunting, like finding a vegetative needle in a festive haystack, I proved surprisingly adept at locating the shiny, artificial cucumber within the conifer's prickly camouflage.  So much so that after the fifth-or-so consecutive year of finding the pickle first, I began to play it stupid, allowing my brother to come out the winner, in the spirit of Christ's magic pickle.

It wasn't much of a loss; I would use The Pickle Present just as much, only without any personal label of ownership.  This would also allow me to give my brother less for his birthday without any guilt on my conscience.

Sadly, this year is the first year since the introduction of the tradition that our family is not partaking.  This is unfortunate because the gifts were always a pleasant surprise--never anything on my Christmas list, but just as necessary... to completing my N64 game catalog.

I understand the reasoning behind it, though.  It appears that Santa has had an increasingly difficult time in finding a gift that would appease both my brother and me, depending on who could find the pickle first (me, unless I'm feeling generous).  So finally, Santa threw in the towel this year, seeing no common thread between an 18-year-old high school student whose current sole purpose is to buy his own car, and a 21-year-old writing major who would be happy getting a new box of Legos.

Personally, there was only one possibility I could think of, but Selena Gomez is hard to get a hold of these days.

"Thanks, Santa!  It's what I've always wanted!"

So, with this tradition coming to a close, I think it's getting to the point where I need to start my own traditions.  By the time I have children of my own, I can hopefully find a plastic food item to entice them into a holly-jolly version of I Spy.

Let's just hope that the practice of turning our family's prided traditions into relish doesn't become a habit.  I just know the mini-shampoos are the next to go.


UPDATE: So, I posted this Christmas Eve and by the next morning, and by the next morning I found this:

So, we got the pickle present after all.  My brother received the wonderful dice game, LCR.

Why Apples to Apples is a bullshit game

Wow, I get it!  Everyone loves Apples to Apples!

Only... I don't get it.  I don't get it at all.

Apples to Apples is not a fun game, yet all of my friends call me a killjoy for saying so, only to throw up their arms in bored frustration three hours later.

God forbid anyone says that I'm right for once...

For those of you unfamiliar with the game (i.e. those of you who graduated from high school before Y2K), Apples to Apples is a card game played with thousands of cards.

Literally.  Thousands.

These cards are divided into two colors, red and green (like apples, get it?!).  These two colors serve different functions:

Each green card contains one adjective.  These adjectives are often very vague and could apply to anything.

Each red card contains one noun or proper noun.  These are often disturbingly specific and could only apply to one thing.

One person draws a green card, shows it to the group, and the rest of the players must put down a red card they believe corresponds best with the given green card.  The green card-layer doesn't see who put down which red card and then decides (and this next part is very crucial) BASED ON THEIR OWN OPINION which red card works best.

Four scenarios can occur here:

1) The green card describes the red card perfectly, like two halves of a whole.

2) The green card is the complete opposite of the red card, and the juxtaposition is too hilarious to go unappreciated.

3) Something in the middle of those two.

4) Someone plays the Helen Keller card.

The game is supposed to pit friends against friends to see who really knows each other's sense of humor/association the best.  It's like some kind of misguided Rorschach test, only instead of ink blots, it uses words.  And instead of lasting five minutes, it lasts an entire evening.  And instead of trained psychiatric professionals, it's your drunk friend attempting to convince everyone that The 1970's is "totally Cultivated as shit, man!"

The real problem with Apples to Apples is the amount of time that it takes to make a decision.  Before placing down a red card, each of the five (or some other strangely specific number) people playing has to deliberate on each of their cards, intent on catering just the right noun to their roommate's friend's cousin from across the state (or some other strangely specific person)'s green card.

The fact of the matter is that you can never fully reach into your aquaintance's psyche, and unless you and your friend share a blatantly obvious inside joke about Aggressive Cow-Pies, your chances of winning the round are about even with the rest of the group.

On top of that, the green card-layer then weeds through the random red cards in a painfully slow manner, explaining why they are not choosing each specific card.

Alright, just pick one...

Yep, keep the game moving, chief...

Are you fucking kidding me?

What bothers me about the scenario is not the time wasted (although I could be doing more productive things with all of this guessing time, like performing my own lobotomy), but that every single person playing the game remains under the impression that there is any strategy involved.

For the record: there's not.  There's about as much strategy going on in a game of Apples to Apples as there is in a game of Rochambeau.  Either way, by the end of the game, I feel like I've lost all feeling in my balls.

(This may have something to do with posture.)

To win the game, you must have seven of your red cards chosen.  With each red card chosen, you get the corresponding green card.  Collect seven green cards, and that should be the end of the game.  But it never is.

Invariably, some asshole in the group (one of the people who lost) will chime in, saying "I mean, if no one can think of anything else to do, we can just keep playing to ten."  Somehow, everyone's conscience is wiped clean of any possible alternatives, anything that could possibly be more fun than combining Lovely with The Far Left (like folding laundry).

Then, after someone reaches the ten card goal, the same douchebag always suggests (because he is still losing), "Hey, let's just play without keeping score."

The game can go one for hours after this because no one wants to break the cycle by announcing their fatigue.  Who would want to?  It's Apples to Apples, after all, and everyone loves Apples To Apples.

But not this guy.  I prefer Risk.  It's a much better way to kill six hours.

A brand new episode of Glee!

Due to the high production costs of last season, Fox has cut Glee's budget in half, prompting some noticable changes in the next season.  Here's a sneak-peek at a script of an upcoming episode:

Occupations in the media

Click to enlarge... that's what she said.

Shark Week (Day 6)

To conclude:

SHARK FACT: There are over 400 different kinds of sharks known.  While a lot of similar traits unite them as a species (dermal denticle, cartilaginous skeleton, a weakness for devil's food cake), there are many significant differences.

Appearance:
Most sharks can be differentiated by simply looking at them.  Whale sharks, for instance, are known for their immense size, sometimes exceeding 35 ft.  In fact, the whale shark got its name from its resemblance-in-size of an elephant, the whale of dry land.

Goblin sharks are also easily recognizable, because they are ugly as shit.  Looking like the bastard child of a narwhal, the Cloverfield monster, and something I puked up after that tenth shot of El Toro, the goblin shark was likely teased during its youth.  This likely scarred the goblin shark, and in later years, couldn't keep a steady job and turned to heroin for comfort.

There's not much to say about hammerhead sharks...

Speed:
In case sheer appearance is too easy of a shark identifier for you, speed is another alternative.  The shortfin mako shark is considered the fastest shark, can swim at over 30 mph.  While that might seem like a feet in and of itself, the mako shark can also smoke twice the amount of marijuana of Michael Phelps.


Diet:
The way a shark eats can also tell a lot about the shark itself.  As stated a couple of days ago, tiger sharks will eat almost anything.  The only problem with this all-you-can-eat style is that the tiger shark doesn't tip very well.

Angel sharks are much sneakier about their feasting.  Rather than chase prey all over the ocean like a deadly game of tag, angel sharks lay flat on the ocean floor, camouflaging themselves, and wait for their food to swim nearby.  In this way, I can empathize with the angel shark, because that is exactly what I do with my food, as well.

Shark Week (Day 5)

SHARK FACT: Scientists haven't found an ideal shark repellent yet.  This isn't to say that sharks will stop at nothing to attack boats, humans, and livestock, but some ways discourage sharks only as much as the color yellow entices them.

According to Wikipedia, sharks tend to avoid places that contain a chemical secreted by a dying shark.  However, according to personal research, I believe that this repels sharks based on the fact that they can be completely over-dramatic about dying.

An article about Aztec methods of shark repulsion on HowStuffWorks.com (and my professors say I never do any viable research... pfft...) stated that sharks can withstand an insane amount of noxious chemicals.  But the Aztecs claimed to have found a way to deter sharks from capsizing their boats: by dangling chili peppers into the water.

This makes sense, considering the well-known fact that sharks hate spicy food.

For the record, they aren't crazy about Italian food, either.

It turns out that this method of hanging peppers off of boats is not very effective, proving once again that the Aztecs never knew what the hell they were doing.

And we wonder why there are no Aztecs around anymore...

Shark Week (Day 4)

Shark Week continues, and so does my coverage of bizarre-but-true shark facts.

SHARK FACT: Tiger shark livers are saturated in oil.  This allows for more buoyancy, so sharks can balance in the water better.  This explains the sudden spike in pelicans and dolphins in the Gulf who can not only balance better, but cannot physically submerge themselves in water whatsoever.  This is totally acceptable though, because most dolphins are hydrophobic anyways.

Sharks are also excellent trash collectors, as they eat almost anything, from license plates to car tires.  Garbage collection companies all over the country are currently researching into the possibility of replacing all sanitation workers with sharks, to reduce the amount of landfill space.  Unfortunately, the road tests were less-than-helpful.

Shark Week (Day 3)

And on the third day, The Lord made turtles and sharks.  And it was a fight to the death...

SHARK FACT: Sharks haven't sold out like turtles did.  It's a known fact that sharks are far superior to the snails of the reptile family, but this didn't have a physical manifestation until Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles turned up in comic books in the mid-1980s.  Since then, the image of these turtles has been produced in every possible licencing agreement, from TV shows to movies to action figures to video games to backpacks (of which I may or may not own one).

Sharks have kept pretty low-key, except for a brief while to kick ass in Street Sharks, which was an acceptable venture.  (It's one thing to let your enemy get all the spotlight, but it's another to fade entirely into obscurity.)

Also, Street Sharks was so much more "jaw-some" than TMNT was "far-out."

Everything else, from Jaws to the squeeky shark toy from Toy Story, is simply an unauthorized representation of a shark.  Really, they just want to be known for what they do best: comedy.

To summarize, shame on you turtles.

And shame on you, kid.

Shark Week (Day 2)

On the second day of Shark Week, I decided I'd share something I learned yesterday, during some repeat shows.

SHARK FACT: Sharks like the color yellow.  Of course, no shark has yet to admit this fact in an interview, but numerous tests (including one on MythBusters) show that sharks are most attracted to the color yellow.  This means that canaries, lemons, and the asian Power Ranger are advised against swimming in the ocean.

Bert never went skinny-dipping again...

Other, lesser-known, things that attract sharks include perfume, fish body-suits, a sense of humor, and people who can just be themselves (they're tastier that way).

Again, please post any shark questions or facts (I use the word 'facts' very loosely) in the comments below.

Shark Week (Day 1)

This week is Shark Week, and to celebrate, I am planning on dropping some shark knowledge on everyone, one day at a time.  If you have any shark questions or shark facts you wish to share, please do so in the comment section below.

SHARK FACT: Sharks mate.  While sharks aren't considered the cutest in the animal kingdom, somehow they still want to bone each other.  Unfortunately, it appears that male sharks want it more than female sharks.  Post-coitus, most girl-sharks are seen with bite marks.  There are sereval hypotheses as to why this happens.  Most scientific experts believe this is so the male doesn't "fall off" during sex.  Personally, I think it's so the sharks feel more like humans.  According to Wikipedia, the bites may symbolize a male shark's affection for a female, much like a young boy kicking sand on a girl.  Or, there is the alternative:

Shark high school can be brutal...

It also makes adult shark entertainment a little awkward...

For those of you who can't load the video, it's basically two sharks having rough sex in an '80s shark porno.

For more shark trivia, please come back tomorrow.

My Roommate, the Drunk

My 21st birthday was last week, and while I continue to nurse my hangover, I recently recalled a particularly embarrassing incident that happened a while back, and I've decided to share it with the general public to explain why I've chosen to be responsible with my alcohol consumption.

This whole ordeal happened a while ago (decades)--back when it was technically (and federally) against the law for me to "drink."

However, it was my friend's 21st birthday, and I simply assumed that campus security would give me a free pass to booze it up.  I mean, her parents were there, so how illegal could it really be?

Oddly, some people get discouraged when they hear that grown-ups will be attending a 21st b-day party.  Personally, I relish it (literally) because parents love to provide food for their offsprings' drunk friends (i.e. me).

I arrived at the party, mid-winter, with nothing but a half-pint of peppermint Super Schnapps and a positive attitude.  I remember that it was a great party and everyone was having a good time, especially me.  I enjoyed mini-cheeseburgers, exciting conversations about which character from 'Dexter' was hotter, and every random shot that was passed my way.

This party really opened my eyes to the different beverages that I could consume within two hours.  I learned how a Gin & Tonic tastes, how tasty a Surfer On Acid is (very), and that two different flavors of Burnetts vodka tastes just as bad as the individual flavors.

Between these drinks, the cups of beers handed to me, and sneaking swigs from my Super Schnapps, I reached my alcohol level rather quickly during the evening.

As a side note, let me clarify that a bottle of Super Schnapps contains twice the alcohol of regular Schnapps, but is just as delicious.  And by 'just as delicious,' I mean 'easy to polish off a half-pint in a stupidly short time span.'

I remember standing in front of the beer pong table, patiently waiting my turn by yelling obscenities at both sides and waving my arms as a distraction and... wiping puke from my face.

And as I knelt over the anonymous toilet, I could only think of two things:

1) How long it had been since I had last thrown up: When I had the flu during New Years 2003.

2) STOP THINKING ABOUT THROWING UP!

As the random shit projected out of my mouth, I attempted to think about how I ended up here.  Looking around, I noticed that the bathroom I was occupying was my own, and that I was puking into my own toilet.  This was too be the highlight of the rest of my evening.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for the next half hour, my right arm in a constant raised position.  This was not only so I had easy access to the flushing mechanism, but also resembled a Nazi salute, because when I get plastered, I also become frighteningly anti-semitic.

For the record, while peppermint Super Schnapps may taste yummy going down, it tastes like candy cane death coming back out, which is not as pleasant as it sounds.

I watched my vomit begin to swirl, partially because it was going down the toilet, and partially because... it was transforming into a face.  My eyes strained to focus on who I was looking at, and it quickly became clear that it was an unfamiliar face.  The face was attached to a uniform, and my first thought was 'Thank God, a plumber!  I think I clogged the toilet..."

But as I realized that I was lying down and no longer leaning over porcelain, I knew that I was not looking at a plumber, or any astute member of the sanitary profession.

The blurred edges grew sharper and sharper, until I could clearly see the latex gloves and the medical emblems stitched onto the uniform.  The only letters I could see were "M," "I," and "P."

The man stared at me, and I immediately snapped to attention, because that's when you do when you're about to receive a future-destroying penalty.  Nothing sobers a college student quite like the imminent feeling of getting royally boned by campus security.

The paramedic immediately began to bombard me with questions, quizzing me with impossible mindbenders:

1) "What's your phone number?"  The phone number I gave was a combination of my own and my brother's.  Apparently, alcohol gives me momentary numerical dyslexia.

2) "What's your address?"  Unfortunately, this was a question I didn't know the answer to sober, but I couldn't for the life of me remember where I put the piece of paper that held the correct address.

3) "Did you have anything to eat today?"  My answer was "pizza," which I claimed to have had at lunch.  That statement turned out to not be true, and I had inadvertently lied to the paramedic.  I failed to remember to bring up the already 'brought-up' mini-cheeseburgers.

He then asked me to sign an electronic pad.  I'm sure my drunken signature looked more like a child's rendition of a jungle cat instead of any word in the English language, let alone my name.

Throughout the course of this interview, the paramedic's partner was busy looking in my open closet, commenting occasionally on my extensive DVD collection (particularly 'Fargo').  My roommates claimed that the only reason I did not get an MIP that night was because my choice in movies does not paint a picture that I'm much of a partier.  It was a smart decision on my part not to have purchased the 'Animal House'/'Superbad'/'Adam Sandler collection' bundle pack at Best Buy earlier in the day, when I wasn't eating imaginary pizza.

I don't remember my exact blood alcohol content for the evening, but it was embarrassingly low for the state that I was in.  For reference, feeding an infant the proper dosage of cough syrup would yield a higher BAC than me.  As the paramedics left, they told my roommates to tease me incessantly about how much of a lightweight I am.

Touché, Mr. Ambulance Driver, touché.

I thanked the gentlemen as if I didn't want them to leave, saying how "wonderful" it was that they "took time out of their busy schedule" to "help me get though this."

My roommates left my door open and all went back to their respective bedrooms.  I unflinchingly thanked them as well, as if I didn't want them to sleep.

The next morning consisted of a combination of making Oatmeal, not eating the Oatmeal because of the memories it conjured up, and going back to bed.  Now, I have an amazing ability of not being able to get hangovers, but this particular morning felt as if all the potential hangovers decided to collectively wait until this particular morning to take effect.

However, I did not have a headache resulting directly from alcohol that night.  Rather, it was from spending countless hours bouncing my forehead off the bowl of the toilet while I evacuated my stomach.

I spent the next couple of days reenacting scenes from 'The Hangover' and doing a bit of detective work.  While my evening was enjoyable, I was only able to recall half of it.  My friends were able to piece together the rest of the night for me, and I present them to you like they exist in my mind, as deleted scenes:

1) Still at my friend's apartment, I inexplicably took the opposite side of the 'Which Dexter girl is the hottest?' debate, firmly cementing the fact that I am just a horny fanboy.

2) I played one of my better games of beer pong.  However, I could not for the life of me remember the house rules for more than a few seconds.  There was a behind-the-back rule that I could not follow due to a short attention span, until the moment finally clicked in my brain that said, "Hey, buddy!  Just play the rest of the game behind your back."  We lost.

3) I puked in the hostess' toilet.  While I began the night's degradation, my roommates could not find me or get a hold of me, as my cell phone's vibrations were masked by my constant ralphing.  Finally, I heard enough knocks on the door to unlock it and--for a reason I will never understand--hide behind the door as someone entered.  Fortunately, my friends decided it was time to drive me home.

4) Sprawled in my roommate's backseat, I blearily tried to remain conscious.  As he drove me home, my roommate demanded, "Dude, whatever you do, don't throw up in my car."  Being the kind and generous drunk I was, I responded with, "Yeah, god forbid I puke in your piece-of-shit car."

5) Upon arrival to our apartment, I dashed to the bathroom and continued where I had left off at my friend's place.  The entire time I was face-down in the toilet, I apparently adopted a new mantra, which I continuously mumbled in between barfs: "Fucking idiot.  Such a fucking idiot..."

6) After an hour or so, my roommates claim that I began shivering violently and breathing heavily as though I was dying of some crazy flu, so they called the paramedics.  Little did they know that I was merely attempting to shake and breathe the rest of my bodily fluids out.

7) In an attempt to get me to stay awake before the ambulance arrived, my neighbor asked me to tell him a story, because if there's one thing I'm going to college for, it's to tell stories.  Instantly, I launched into an engrossing tale that pulled inspiration from some of my favorite authors: Crichton, Updike, Meyers.

"So... my friend eats pancakes.  No, no... wait... he is a pancake.  No, no...  I feel bad saying that because he lost all of that weight during freshman year..."

It was, in a single word, riveting.

As a result of this single evening, I have learned to take it easy in regards to consuming alcoholic beverages.  Not necessarily because I could have died from it, but rather because every time I put booze near my lips, my friends always ask if they should have 9-1-1 on speed-dial, just in case.

Also, peppermint-flavored beverages now make me nauseous.

Of course, my night of supposed time travel and upchucking was not the most over-the-top drinking event of all time.  In fact, I know of several nights that were quote-unquote "crazy."  But I refuse to apologize for the fact that a tiger didn't end up in my bathroom.

Now that I'm 21 years old, I feel like I just graduated high school again; I get asked the same annoying question by every single person.  After high school it was "What's your major?" which may not seem like a big deal, unless you were undeclared like me.  After my 21st, the question was, "How was your birthday night?  Do you remember any of it?"  Haha, asshole, you're so funny!

And even if I did remember any of it, I wouldn't tell it to a dick like you.

Sorry about the outburst.  It's just the hangover talking.

My summer (so far) [part 1]

As many of you know (or, 'as many have been the victim of my complaining'), I traditionally work at a summer camp every summer (Camp Talahi, donations are always welcome, whatever...).  It was a wonderful place, filled with fascinating people, and--above all--paid a decent summer wage.

You may remember a few posts ago when I described my carny job as my first real job, which I still consider true, as working at camp was more pleasure than business.

Either way, the camp closed, and Summer 2010 has consisted of nothing but me wasting my time until the fall semester of classes.  While I should be focused on securing a stable summer job that pays money instead of 'thank you's and free food, I've spent the first part of my summer going to concerts, camping, cat-sitting, experiencing my first social-marijuana affair, living off-the-grid in Canada for an extended weekend, riding in several broken cars, watching lots and lots of movies, and an extended list of other non-productive activities.

All of this has really helped show me the person I really am: the laziest motherfucker on the planet.

Let me break down my summer in chunks, so you can better understand me:

SOMETHING STICKED THIS WAY COMES. Yes, I worked as a carny for 11 days.  Yes, I ate more sausages and stuck more corndogs than Oscar Meyer.  Yes, I got six hours of sleep a night, dreaming of nothing but serving processed meat.  And yes, we washed our hands before handling your food (unless you were being a dick, or we forgot).

I still have no qualms about my quick stint in the concession business, giving people food just the way God made it.  It kicked off my summer, giving me the most productive attitude I've had since giving my speech on the American Constitution in the 6th grade.

Still, let me be clear: It was gratifying.  But would I do it again, if given the opportunity?  Kick yourself in the balls.

THE... UM, SOMETHING... OUTDOORS. Just because my summer camp has closed down, doesn't mean I can't enjoy nature on a weekly basis.  Every other week or so since summer began, a few friends of mine have decided to start camping at an undisclosed location (remarkably similar in style/location as our old camp).  Being the out-doorsy person I am (with my MacBook and my fear of spiders), I was an obvious candidate to join in on these camping trips.

What, you may be asking, would set me apart from the rest of the pack, to make me such a natural camper?

The answer is: allergies.  Even with my dog, cat, and horse allergies, I still managed to obtain unfavorable reactions to outdoor-things, specifically... nature.

We really rough it out in the woods, shitting against a tree, listening to an iPod play through a car's speakers with the windows rolled down, and texting 'round an open fire.  We even manage to break into the cabins when we don't want to sleep in tents.

For the record, I no longer have keys to such buildings, because I gave them back to my boss at the end of the summer.

Let me rephrase that: I no longer have the keys I gave back to my boss at the end of the summer.

POT-LUCK COMMUNITY. I was certainly a high commodity in the camping world during the first part of this summer.  In fact, I went camping with a completely different group of people, who were 'high' in their own respects.

As it turns out, the main focus of this camping trip was not to become one with nature.  Rather, it was to smoke as much nature as possible, in a remote area, away from cops.  This was all fine and good, as long as I was not asked to participate.

While I am a firm believer that marijuana should be legalized, I have not--and am not about to--try it myself.  I mean, 'Twilight' is legal, but I'm not about to watch one of the movies.

Even though I had been in the proximity of ganja, bongs, pipes, etc. before, this experience seemed entirely different.  For one, our campsite was bordering a state prison.  This didn't seem like a pressing issue until someone found a sign nailed to a tree, stating:

Just like that, the man had harshened the mellow.  No slap on the wrist, no misdemeanor, no grumpy old Clint Eastwood wannabe grumbling to get off his property.  And no stoned midnight walks into the wild.  It was enough for even myself to say, "Hey, man... What's the big deal, man?  This is all our land, brother..."

I may not be a hippie now, but if I ever decide to become one, I know who has got the good shit.  And I know the exact place that I never want to be when I light up.

IT'S A CAT, CAT, CAT, CAT WORLD. Someone asked me to look after his cat for a week.  Despite my aforementioned allergies, I am still a cat person.  I am a cat person, mostly because a cat respects ones' allergies and leaves one alone.  Dogs, on the other hand, crave affection and will stop at nothing to make sure that your snotty nose resembles their saliva-slathered jowls as they jump on you while you're trying to eat your fucking chicken pot pie.

So I assumed that taking care of Mary The Cat would be a nice, simple gesture.  Sadly, it was not that, because my childhood memories of "taking care" of pets does not resemble the realities.  Being the manipulative child I was, I always promised to take care of any animal I wanted ("I'll feed it, walk it, not shoot at it with Nerf guns!"), and abruptly forget the animal's very existence.  Actually working to keep an animal alive was an entirely new concept for me.

Transporting the cat from one house to the other, 50 minutes away, was one of the most stressful situations of my summer.  Unfortunately, my friend's car is not in the best condition of its life, with a faulty speedometer that always reads 0, a mechanism in the shifting column I can only describe as 'don't take that pin out or we could all die,' and a complete lack of air conditioning.

I had grown accustomed to all of these flaws for some time.  Mary, however, seemed less-than-comfortable, specifically in regards to the air conditioner situation.  Even with our windows rolled down, Mary was still being a whiny little brat about everything.  I took this as a sign that something was wrong.  As a result, our entire trip consisted of the cat peeking through the bars of her kennel and meowing and me yelling at her to not die.

Yes, I was concerned what Mary's owner would think of me if she did end up becoming an ex-cat.  How irresponsible would it look if the feline died in the 50 minutes it took to transport?  Pets aren't supposed to die in-transit; they're supposed to run into the road after some lesser animal, right in front of Mr. Vermeiser's Oldsmobile.

Fortunately for me, my mom had already started to care for a stray cat living on our back porch, so there was no need for me to buy food.  However, Jeff's specific instruction was that Mary is strictly an indoor cat, which meant one thing: litter box.  Three days later, after I cleaned the litter box for the first time, I immediately hugged my mother, apologizing for the thousands of times she must have shoveled kitty poops out of that plastic box when I was little and ignoring my pets' presence.

I will admit, when it was time for Mary to leave, I had grown quite a relationship with her.  She was like family, if there was such a family member you could have for a week before sending her away again.

Sure, I enjoyed the time I spent with Mary, but I would've liked it more if she was a cactus instead; to my knowledge, I'm not allergic to a cactus.

Going on 6 years now...

Staying with my mom for the summer has meant that I spend most of my days snooping around the house to see how clever and creative I used to be when I was younger. Recently, I found an ancient artifact: my very first column I ever wrote, back when I was 15. And here it is, unedited, complete with every last footnote. It's dated November 5, 2004 and is titled "Queer Eye, elections, and menorah fields." I apologize in advance for all the scrolling you're about to do:

As many of you may know, I am a guy¹. And sometimes a guy has needs². And sometimes those needs need to be met. So I grab some Tostitos, an Aquafina and watch Queer Eye for the Straight Guy³. In case you’re unfamiliar with this show, it’s about five gay guys⁴ helping a straight dude out in meeting women⁵, getting a house festive enough for a party, and so on.

But in between shows like that, there are commercials⁶. These commercials claim that you have every illness that they are selling the antibiotic for, such as a runny nose. Of course, us average people think, “Oh, well, there’s nothing wrong with that.” But those commercials prove how stupidly unaware we are about our body⁷. Because those boogers can eventually become hard and crusty and will tear away all of your nostril hairs and eventually eat away all of your nose⁸. So they’ve come up with a brand new way of getting rid of those boogers: your finger, which can be yours for only three small payments of $19.95⁹. Note: I made this commercial up; TV commercial people cannot sell your finger¹⁰.

Up until about last week (or some other time of the year), they have been showing commercials about the President¹¹, and his running opponent¹². Now, don’t get me wrong, this has been a hunky-dorry last four years¹³, but let’s face it, Bush hasn’t been the greatest president¹⁴ this side of Funky Chicken Town¹⁵. Now before some of you quit reading this, keep in mind that this dude choked on a pretzel. I know that that shouldn’t change my mind about an issue such as who is running this country, but this guy was worried about weapons of mass destruction when what really should concern him is the next Rold Gold he devours.

But, to tell you the truth, I am happy for Laura Bush. Her birthday was on November 4, and what a present she got: “Honey, I’m back. Traffic was terrible, but guess what? Ohio says that I’m President!” Yes, those two lovers just might make it¹⁶.

Anywho, Thanksgiving is coming up sooner or (yeah, well, sooner) and that means that you can pull out last year’s leftover- uh, I mean, a brand-spankin’ new turkey and secretly put in another wishbone for the kids. As you are probably noticing that there are not a lot of places selling things for Thanksgiving¹⁷, and that’s okay¹⁸, for the turkeys at least, who are most likely cowering behind their turkey couches hoping that an Elmer Fudd-like guy will decide to go to their turkey neighbors’ house and get them¹⁹. It is very amazing that Thanksgiving is a national holiday²⁰, and Christmas²¹, isn’t and yet you don’t see any “Kill Your Own Turkey” fields around here²². But that’s probably not the best place to take your kids. But, they may already be messed-up, causing them to need help from five queer guys²³ in their future²⁴.

¹ And for those of you who say, “Really?” I hope that you’re using sarcasm and if not, then no soup for you!

² Food, water, television, urinals

³ And I tinkle standing up during one or two of the commercials. (It really just depends on how much water I drink and how long I think I can hold it.)

⁴ Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

⁵ Because apparently women are more apt to fall for a guy who comes off as about a straight as a circle.

⁶ And I’m sure a lot of you are saying, “Duh!”

⁷ Proving that we really are not going to be using what we learned in anatomy class. (Or are we?)

⁸ Insert Michael Jackson joke here.

⁹ This amount of money seems to be the base of advertisement costs. Everything these days seems to cost this much.

¹⁰ Unless you loose it and do not claim it within 30 days.

¹¹ For security reasons, he can only be named Dubya.

¹² For security reasons, he can only be named Senator John Kerry.

¹³ Does the word “Gigli” ring any bells?

¹⁴ Can you say, “Controversy?”

¹⁵ Which reminds me; I would like to see Mr. President do the Funky Chicken, or even the Cotton-Eye Joe accompaniment dance.

¹⁶ Or will they?

¹⁷ The only people making money for this national holiday are the cranberry makers, the gravy distributors, and I can’t think of anyone else except for the turkey manufacturers, but that tradition is as about as out of date as the electoral college.

¹⁸ They’re already setting up for Christmas, 2005

¹⁹ They still haven’t returned that cassarole dish and measuring cup.

²⁰ Meaning that everyone celebrates it.

²¹ …Or Hannukah, or Kwanza…

²² Then again, you don’t see any menorah fields or whatever-Kwanza-celebrators-marvel-at fields

²³ Not that there’s anything wrong with that

²⁴ This took a lot more foot-notes than I had previously anticipated.

A new source of income

I'm thinking about starting my own advertising company. Let me know if you think it can be profitable:

White lies (vision dreams of passion)

I am a compulsive liar. It's true, and some people may call me a bad person for that. But it's only with small lies, white lies, lies that don't end up hurting anyone except myself.

Most of my lying occurs on AIM (Automatic Insincerity Module), and my most common lie occurs after I leave the computer to go to the bathroom. Upon returning, I will see that my girlfriend has asked me a question, and my response is 10 minutes of silence. Instinctually, I type:

I lie, which I feel is more thoughtful than saying, "I know you were investing time in inquiring something of me, but I thought I would rather evacuate my bowels."

Disastrously for me, my girlfriend is inquisitive, so she inevitably asks:

Of course, it's not like she's trying to catch me in a lie. Rather, she's simply a genuinely nice person who is curious about what her boyfriend is eating. Unfortunately, I'm no Grandmaster Flash of lying; I'm like the Kevin Federline of fibs, and I am suddenly trying to think of one food, ANY food, to build another lie on top of the first one. Sadly, out of the entire spectrum of food in existence, nothing comes to mind.

(Oh sure, I can list dozens of foreign dishes, pastas, breakfast cereals, and fruity snacks now, when I'm not under pressure...)

Finally:

Some people might throw in the towel here, but I am never afraid to go a step further, less because I have something to prove, more because I see it as the only alternative to admitting that I was just on the potty. My mind simultaneously goes through two trains of thought:

1) "Geez, woman, leave it alone! It's a sandwich..."

2) "Why the fuck can't I think of a single kind of sandwich?"

(Again, reuben, club, ham and cheese, tuna, egg salad, grilled cheese, and BLT are all viable options to produce when it's the middle of the day and nothing else is on your mind. Although, now I am hungry...)

Finally:

As much as I hate lying to my girlfriend about toilet time, all of her optimism makes my lie that much worse. Of course, I'll never actually admit to lying, for fear of being called 'disappointing' or hearing the passive-aggressive "It's no big deal." No, I'd rather keep my restroom secret to myself and spare the stomach-churning embarrassment.

Speaking of stomach-churning, I believe it's time for me to get some food.

My carny life

I really don't know who came up with the idea for a carnival. Looking back through history, there can be no one who could ever possibly think it would be a good marketing strategy.

Brilliant idea.

Enter the carny.

Carnies have been archetyped as smelly, greasy, and corrupt individuals whose mere pleasure comes from the misery of others. So how did I get to become one?

Well, money's been tight for me recently, and while the idea of whoring myself out is appealing, I doubted I would have many takers.

Also, I wasn't too fond of my potential pimp.

In a literal "know a guy who knows a guy" situation, I was given an offer that I could refuse, but only if I was incredibly stupid: $100 a day for 11 days. I did the math, and it seemed like a good deal, given my lack of other financial opportunities at the time.

In retrospect, it was actually a very dumb move on my part. First of all, I didn't know the guy who was hiring me at all. For all I knew, he could have been a psychopathic mutant with a distaste for lanky college students. Or a zombie.

That's right, I could have been hired by a zombie.

Secondly, I had no idea where I was staying for the entirety of the week and a half. I knew the general location, but I had no clue as to the specifics of where I was going to be sleeping. Naively, I assumed I would sleep in some sort of bed situation (you know, with a mattress and pillows, and maybe--if I was fortunate--some form of blankets), but there was no way to be sure.

Finally--and some may argue that this is the most important piece of information needed to do my job--I had no idea what my job was. There could have been some mention of food, but for the most part, I was in the dark. I may very well have potentially postponed my prostitution profession so I could clean up horse shit all day.

It's all about trade-offs, in this day and age.

I was fairly unfamiliar with carnivals and fairs at the time, but I had seen the movie 'Adventureland' a couple of times, and used the film as a basis for what to expect.

...Unless my boss was a zombie, in which case, I would use the knowledge I learned from 'Zombieland'.

There were several misconceptions I had about carny working that were quickly debunked upon arrival, including my shift length. I naturally assumed that I would take either the morning or the night shift (or maybe the afternoon shift, depending on how many shifts there were in a day). I ended up working the all-day shift. My point here is that there were less shifts than I expected, and by less I mean zero.

My second misconception was that I would be working in various stands, with various people, creating a spectrum of interesting characters and locations.

False. I worked in the same tiny food cart with the same two dudes for the entirety of my stay. So much for networking...

Also, I assumed that I would receive breaks during the day. Unfortunately, this was based on the assumption that there would be time to do so in between shifts.

I was so fucked.

I had never worked at what people would call a "real job," let alone in the service industry, so my work ethic was not a muscle I had fully exercised yet. It was a daunting scenario, going from complete unemployment to working all day, ALL day, in a setting I was unfamiliar with, with people I had never met before.

I may have cried the night before.

I may not have.

You will never know.

My last exam of the school year was on a Wednesday afternoon, and I was to arrive at the food wagon on Wednesday night, so there was no real "transition time" between my cushy student lifestyle and the anti-cushy carny lifestyle I was entering. My mom dropped me off with her van stuffed with my apartment and I was left to fend for myself in the strange environment with a blanket, a pillow, and four days worth of laundry.

I found my boss and he introduced me to my coworker, a laid-off 40-something who was doing this for some quick money. It was like seeing myself in the future, except he wore a baseball cap.

I tried to learn everything I could that first night before the stand closed. For instance, the stand's primary export was sausage, a food that I have unfavorable feelings toward.

Not that there's anything wrong with sausage, or any breakfast meats for that matter. I'm just more of a cereal guy.

So while the two men cleaned up shop for the night, I attempted to take in as much as possible, which was difficult, considering I still had no idea what I was supposed to do. Standing around like a dingbat, I couldn't get the thought out of my mind: "What the hell have I gotten myself into?!"

Later that evening, I discovered the answer to that question: I had gotten myself into a trailer. This was surprising because, in a million years, none of my expectations for a living situation included a house with wheels. At some point I might have envisioned a tent, but I ask you to find me a tent with on wheels. Impractical? Yes. Totally badass? Completely.

Now, I don't want to piss off anyone who lives, has lived, will live, or desires to live in a mobile home, mostly based on the fact that they are the only people in the world who could kill me and then park their house on top of my grave. Personally, I think living in a trailer takes some major guts. It is an unflinchingly brave lifestyle choice that deserves a pat on the back (with proper hand protection, of course).

The mobile home in which we lived contained only four rooms: a bedroom, another bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room/kitchen. It was difficult for me to collapse into a heap of exhaustion on my fold-out couch, let alone live in the trailer. So for that, I applaud anyone who can stand waking up every morning, eat breakfast, take a shower, and leave for work in seven steps (here, I'm talking about pedometer steps, not '7 Steps To Change Your Life').

But I'm digressing from my main point: my job... whatever it was.

Our schedule started around 8:00 in the morning, for breakfast. Then we would drive to the food cart and begin to set up by 9:30, and as soon as we arrived at the trailer, we were confronted by people demanding a sausage. I tried to put it as nicely as possible that we had just opened and there was absolutely no reason for anyone to be demanding such a disgusting lunch-time meal at such an ungodly hour.

I mean, I get it; sausages and breakfast go hand-in-hand like a sixth grade couple, but the sausages we sold were not like the links one gets on the side of an order of pancakes. Rather, these monstrosities rivaled dachshunds in size and contained enough fats and amino acids (those are bad, right?) to kill a full-grown hippopotamus Olympian.

Just because it's a funny visualization in my mind, here's an artist's rendition of what that could look like:

And, for reference, this is a baby hippopotamus Olympian (as opposed to full-grown):

So, it's been established that these sausages (or, as I now refer to them, 'coronary failure in a bun') are not appropriate foods to wash down a Starbucks coffee or a bowl of Count Chocula (we have a childish demographic, as well). Therefore I can't understand why people need this food so early in the morning.

"We will be here all day," I said. "And for the rest of the week." I didn't want to have to apologize that our food isn't ready as soon as we arrive at the trailer. In fact, what I really wanted to do was hand the customer a still-frozen Polish sausage, wrapped in raw bread dough. But something tells me that the clientele would not be pleased with such shenanigans.

But it wasn't the early birds looking for worms that were the most annoying (I grew used to their squawking). It was the dodos.

Before I go any further, I want to describe the food cart I worked in, at least enough to get a good mental picture of the outside: There were big signs lining the top of the trailer, on every side, that displayed what we were selling. There was a menu with clearly-marked choices and their corresponding prices. There was a clear plastic counter, so anyone could see into the trailer and see every last possibility available.

Despite these "clues" as to our purpose of business, there continued to be--day after insufferable day--a group of people who would approach the trailer and ask what we sold. Apparently, large banners declaring "Sausage!" and "Home-made buns!" and "WE SELL FUCKING SAUSAGES, YOU MORONS!" did not convey our possibilities adequately enough for some people, who made me want to smack them over the head with a corn dog.

My proposed plan of action may have been a bit over-the-top:

(Goodyear was busy blimping elsewhere, anyways...)

These, combined with the bitter fact that breaks were rare--if present at all during a given work day--made the 11-hour work day seem like weeks, like watching 'The Green Mile.' Staying on my feet for that time was a chore in itself, let alone making hundreds of sausage sandwiches a day, pouring drinks, and counting money.

One of my biggest godsends of the 11 days was the limited menu. Because there was only a few items listed, it meant fewer prices for me to remember, all in even dollar amounts. Even with this blessing, I still managed to fuck up bundled prices and change back. It doesn't seem like a lot of work, adding a $6 sausage with two $3 drinks and a $3 corndog, and then giving back change out of a $20.

Where I would run into trouble was the long string of family members who think it's cute to order "together," by keeping their orders separate from each other. So, adding a $6 sausage with a $2 drink and a $4 loaded chips, with a $3 hotdog and a $3 drink, with a $1 bun and a-- hold on, can you add a hot dog and another small drink to the first one...

Fuck you all.

My brain instantly transmogrified from that scene in 'A Beautiful Mind' to that scene in 'Scanners'.

('A Beautiful Mind')

('Scanners')

Basic mental math is easy once you get a good rhythm going, but even that becomes psychologically draining after 11 straight hours. I mean, I love to do sudokus, but I would never attempt to do them all day, as fast as I can, while other sudokus wait in line to be solved, coming up to the counter and asking, "So, what do you have here?"

By the end of the day, I was ready to call it quits. I just needed a nice, long, hot shower to calm myself after an aggravating day of counting, cooking, and sausage. Unfortunately, that was not in the cards for me, either. As it turns out, the trailer where I was staying had an inefficient hot water heater and would therefore only produce hot water for about 1 minute before thinking to itself, "Human skin loves icy coldness!"

Short showers were all I had to keep myself clean. Sure, I washed my hands on a semi-minutely basis to prevent myself from feeling like an entirely disgusting person, but it was that moment of full-body warmth that so many of us take for granted that was a sweet reminder of home.

Y'know, except for the fact that the bathroom was 3ft by 3ft by 3 ft.

In addition to having limited bathing resources, I used up my four days of laundry rather quickly. This part was entirely my fault, assuming that there would be some form of washing machine or near-by laundromat. Then I was surprised that my clothes got dirty on schedule, and by the end of my stay, my haggard outer-wear reflected my inner self-defeat.

I learned a lot of things, spending 11 days in the food cart. I learned about carnies (a subject I plan on pursuing more heavily in college). I learned that they don't necessarily have tiny hands. They may smell like cabbage (or, in my case, sauerkraut), but you would too if you spent every waking hour processing, cooking, and serving it. I also learned that my feeble feet cannot stand standing for periods beyond 8 hours a day. My feet not only felt like they were about to fall off, but also felt like they wanted to brutally gang-shank me. With some sort of foot-shiv.

Through all of my experience, the last thing I want to do is to tell people to avoid carnival food. In fact, I would encourage it. These carnival folk work damn hard to sell their foods (without breaks during the day). Hell, I could go for an elephant ear, if I could ever stomach going to a fair again.

Sure, it was hard work, but I feel that my time spent in this different world taught me a few things about myself, which makes me glad that I didn't spend my first weeks of the summer on street corners turning tricks.

My next source of income is to teach other people the lessons I've learned from this whole ordeal. Making a lesson plan about my job might be a bit diffcult, though; I'm still not quite clear what my job was.