I enjoy hearing embarrassing stories.  I’m sure you all do.  Everything is always funnier when it happens to someone else and with that said I would like to present a new repeating column called, “That Was Embarrassing”.  Feel free to post a response of your own embarrassing story or send them to robinsonandtom@gmail.com

                I work in an industry – the special events industry – that demands strange hours.  Sometimes my work day will last only a few short hours of checking emails and keeping up to date on industry news; and some days I’m at an event from 6 AM until midnight or later.  Because of this fact, food consumption is of secondary, maybe even tertiary importance.  Basically, when I get a chance to grab a bite to eat, I do it.  The other day was one of those jam-packed days and I hadn’t had a chance to eat lunch.  I’ll inform you now that nothing makes me grumpier quicker than being hungry.  I was heading to the subway which I take to the bus station from which I take a bus home when I spotted a fruit stand.  At this point I decided a banana was the only thing that was going to calm my increasingly volatile anger.  So I pay my 40 cents, peel my yellow snack and start to have at it while continuing on my way home.  Now you may not be familiar with the security measures of the NY subway system or bus stations but garbage cans, if any at all, are few and far between.  Instead of littering like so many careless folks do, I said to myself, “How long could I possibly have to wait for a trash can?” and waited for the next one to come along.

No can ever came.

From the subway to my bus terminal is about a 10-12 minute walk underground with about 200-300 other pedestrians, musicians, homeless, and crazies.  It’s hot, it’s crowded, it smells like wet garbage, everyone is in a mad rush to get home and I’m no different – I need to get the fuck out of that death trap.  Walking at a brisk pace, I start scanning all the usual places a can could be found – a newspaper stand, next to columns, ANY FUCKING SPOT ANYWHERE – but my searches were fruitless, I was stuck with my fruit.

So here I am, cruising down a very long, crowded and smelly hallway with a banana peel in my hand as if I was looking for the person who stole the banana out of it.  I realized at that moment that a person never looks quite as crazy as when they are carrying around a banana peel for no good reason.  Have you ever seen someone do this?  I would venture to say not because banana peels are always discarded of immediately. 

Another fact playing against me was that bananas and banana peels are the equivalent of rare and precious gem stones in the world of comedy.  Imagine with me if you will standing inside a crowded bar with a few of your closest friends.  You scan the room looking for someone you may know and happen to land on an interesting fellow standing with a group of his friends.  Because you are a creep like me, you stare.  You begin obsessively watching his mouth because you notice he has a disturbingly large area between his nose and upper lip.  Inadvertently, you read his lips as he says to his friends, “hold on, my phone is ringing” and dives into his pocket.  He reaches around inside his pants, pulls out a ripe yellow banana, holds it up to his ear and begins to speak into it as if everything is normal and copasetic.  Do you question why this is happening or laugh hysterically?  Would this be as funny if it were a vine full of grapes?  I think we both know the answers.

So the fact that I was angrily carrying around a banana peel was embarrassing enough.  Then the ridiculousness of the situation dawned on me and I of course had only one option: laugh hysterically.  The more I thought about my current situation, the ridiculousness of it all, and the fact that I was laughing out loud, the harder and harder I laughed.

So now here I am, an apparent professional in the world of special events production, walking around laughing hysterically at my banana peel in the underground tunnel of the New York subway system.  It wouldn’t have been that embarrassing if the transformation from livid to out loud laughter wasn’t so dramatic.  One second I’m bombing through the tunnel shouldering anyone who happens to be in my way and another I’m leaning against the wall next to a homeless man – who has a sign that reads: TELL ME OFF FOR $1 – with tears in my eyes because I look as crazy as he does.

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Whether or not my story is as funny to you as it is to me is obviously debatable.  You may not believe that bananas are the beacon of comedy that so many people believe it is; and no one blames you for that.  But that’s not the point.  My column is not meant to be a recount of my daily activities, my bulletin board where I tack on life lessons and try to sound smart, or a place where I examine life’s little quibbles – not by a long shot.   I may use those methods in order to get you to the water’s edge, but I can’t make you drink.  What it is however, is an attempt to get you, my dear reader, to not take yourself or life so seriously.  We all need to be able to appreciate the humor in the world and the enriching quality it has on us.  Especially in times like these, when crisis after crisis attaches itself to our lives like burrs to our childhood sweatpants, it becomes imperative that we laugh in order to maintain our sanity.

The final question then becomes: if you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you?

There are few things in this life that are ironclad and not open for negotiation: gravity, the U.S. Constitution, the superiority of burritos, and, most importantly, calling shotgun.  When a human being calls shotgun there is a chemical reaction in their brain that makes them so incredibly satisfied that there is a noticeable additional swagger in the step of said individual immediately following a successful shotgun call.  Shotgun Swagger, as it is technically called, results from the very real knowledge that with shotgun comes great responsibility.  Once you have shotgun locked down.  You are somebody.  Somebody with more legroom, but its so much more.

Odd numbers are always challenging to human beings because our natural propensity is to couple; both sexually and platonically.  Two people works swimmingly, but as the saying goes, three is often a crowd.  Driving in a car is no different.  This is why, with three people going into the car with two passengers, shotgun is so incredibly important.  Getting shotgun in this situation instantly promotes you to the trusty, literal, right hand man to the incredibly important captain of the vessel.  People remember Batman and Robin, Captain Hook and Smee, or Han Solo and Chewbacca, but no one remembers Batgirl, the guy who got put in the Boo Box in Hook, or this guy.  With shotgun, you are the trustworthy partner known for your navigational prowess and willingness to make fun of the person in the backseat ruthlessly while the captain focuses on driving.  Because seriously, that guy in the backseat is a  joke.  The person in the backseat is taken about as seriously as the guy who you give O’Douls then pretends to act drunk or the guy who actually thinks that a 3% hike on income tax breaches the threshold into a socialist state.   Marco Polo and Batman could be in the backseat giving you suggestions for a speedier way to get taquitos and you would ask God to give them the bubonic plague just to keep them from speaking.

It is for this reason that the term “backseat driver” is coined.  ”Backseat” in this context is synonymous with “kid in your first grade classroom who thought dinosaurs and cavemen lived at the same time.” 

If you really had any knowledge you would have squired shotgun for yourself.  There is of course no phrase about “shotgun driver” or “passenger seat driver” because all advice and suggestions regarding the ultimate destination of the vehicle are taken seriously.  For example,  if a chihuahua runs out into the road and the driver accidentally hits it, the person riding shotgun will hopfully suggest to immediately stop the car, put it in the reverse and run over it a couple more times to make sure its dead.  Because no one likes chihuahuas. 

On a sidenote, why are all chihuahuas when they are anthorpomorphized in movies depicted as being Mexican.  I understand the breed originated in Mexico, but chihuahuas are born in the United States every day.  They don’t all have accents and have a penchant for lowriders (I’m talking to you Oliver and Company).    This would be like having all cheeseburgers talking in American accents.  That would just be ridiculous.  Everyone knows cheeseburgers are born all across the globe every day and grow up to speak a variety of languages while contributing much to their local culture.  Some people are so ignorant.

In addition to being navigator and trusty sidekick, upon claiming shotgun people know that they become the DJ for the vehicle.  As DJ,  their mixes, and their mixes alone, can keep the morale of the car at the maximum output for the five minute drive to pick up beer.  If the wrong mood is struck by a song, even for an instant, the whole operation is in jeopardy.  All people think they are capable of avoiding this gaff, but as things often go, usually there is some  person operating under the grand delusion that a solid song to follow “Still D.R.E.” is “Like a Prayer” by Madonna.  Foolish.  You always follow “Still D.R.E.” with “Bawitdaba” by Kid Rock.  Everyone knows this.   Read a book.

And finally, the most important role of the person riding shotgun is that you are the last defense between getting “L” and needing “D”.  If you don’t know what those letters mean, the first is a popular television show involving a mysterious island and the second one is what my life is lacking at the moment.  Avoiding L and D is very important for men because this would involve us admitting we are wrong.  It is critical that the person riding shotgun avoid this anomaly at all costs especially if there are other females in the car.  And if the person riding shotgun is female with a male driver then you might as well just come to terms with the fact that you’re on your own and you’ll be listening to the soundtrack from Rent for the duration of the trip.  If there are two females in the car, and if Thelma and Louise has taught me anything its that women are incapable of driving without careening into the Grand Canyon.

To close, the importance of calling shotgun is really just a microcosm of what life is.  If the car trip is our life and we all have the same final destination, then it is patently human to wish to enrich the trip with music, conversation, and the best way to get there.  If we accept all of this, then to call shotgun defines what it means to be human:  to influence and enrich a trip we will be making even if the destination always seems a little too close.

I want to know the precise moment in time when men’s clothing became smaller.  What was it that did it to the male fashion industry that demanded shirts be smaller?  I know as I was growing up that I was a large kid.  At fourteen I was 5’11” and upwards of 215 pounds.  Needless to say I was a size large in pretty much everything, but then t-shirts started getting smaller.  It’s almost as if the small size and the medium size were morphed together because everyone believed that men should be skinnier.  I call this The Smedium.

The Smedium is the really, really tight shirt size you started seeing men wearing around the year 2000.  The sleeves are higher and tighter and across the chest it is even tighter; showcasing the naturally ripped physique of all men.  Tight abs, developed pectorals and ripped biceps are a must and must develop quickly.

I remember going into Abercrombie and Fitch around the age of fifteen and purchasing a large collared shirt thinking it would fit me perfectly as all larges had since I was about thirteen, I went home to try it on and this thing looked like the equivalent of me trying to fit onto a big wheel.  It definitely was not happening. 

As if a large sized fifteen year old didn’t have enough self esteem issues as is, suddenly I’m discovering that in order to even wear clothes I had to be really skinny; like a gazelle.  And the terrible thing was that  I always thought I was safe in clothes: “ Okay, if I wear this shirt I don’t have to worry about those remnants of baby fat”.  And by baby fat I mean Double Stuff Oreos that I took one side off of and put together with its clone to make a Quadruple Stuff.

And as I discussed this with girls the same age I thought they were going to put my hand in a blender.  Apparently this has been happening to women since 10,000 B.C.  Honestly, who even knew?  I bet they barely touch on this in the Women’s Studies curriculum at Smith College. 

Now I’ve been doing a little bit of research and it seems that a woman’s physique does not  naturally adhere to the rigorous expectations of the modern fashion industry.  This was certainly news to me.  Women can’t just walk into a store and know that a size whatever fits the same as a size whatever elsewhere.  I remain skeptical despite overwhelming empirical evidence.

Back to my troubles.  Does anyone remember the clothing store Structure?  Well I do.  Here’s why:  Because everything fit me as it should.  I still have a t-shirt from that place that I bought when I was a freshman in high school and it fits me to this day the same as the day I bought it.  Then along came Express for Men.  Apparently Express originally was a women’s store with ridiculous expectations for clothing.  Once again, I’ve never seen any of it, but let’s assume for arguments sake.  Express took over my beloved Structure and made it Express for Men and everything fit like I was stealing my clothes from Gymboree.

Now I don’t want to blame metrosexuality, because it’s done wonders for my personal hygiene, but Express for Men turned Structure clothing  into clothing that was really tight.  These clothes were tight the way the Americans have obesity issues.  And as you can infer, shrinking male clothing and an escalating rate of obesity don’t really mix.  Like oil and water or zombies and nursery schools.  The result is not going to be pretty.

To this day I have finally figured out what women have been fucking babbling about for so many years.  Sometimes society’s expectations of what is fashionable and chic aren’t necessarily reasonable or even practical.  Who would have thought?

Meet Larry.  He’s a really sweet guy, does well in school, is really funny and is incredibly nice to people, but he doesn’t have “swagger”.  He is almost too nice because he figures, “Well heck, there’s nothing wrong with being nice to people; especially girls.  That should work.”

Larry is what some girls would call “cute”.  He cleans up nicely and has a girl or two that like him, but he is not a stud.  Larry knows this and thus he carries himself with a certain level of modesty and humility.  Women, generally, find this self deprecation and aggressive modesty unattractive.  Larry doesn’t understand this.  People aren’t supposed to like people who are overconfident, right?

Larry likes a girl.  Her name is Michelle.  Michelle is very pretty, used to getting lots of attention from guys, enjoys the attention, and likes to flirt.  She is a very good friend of Larry’s. She has always considered him a friend and nothing more.  Oh, and one more thing:  Michelle dates assholes.  Larry knows this, but doesn’t quite understand it.

Now, as you can probably guess as time goes on Larry begins to develop feelings for Michelle.  Larry spends many hours listening to Michelle’s boy problems, showering her with compliments, making her laugh, remembering her birthday and trying his best to be appealing to Michelle.  He does what only what he thinks might work and should work.  Be nice and funny.  Girls should come around because all he’s heard his whole life is that the things women find most attractive are sense of humor and doing gentlemanly things; like holding doors.

Larry also nurtures a foolish hope.  Larry hopes that maybe, just maybe, Michelle has feelings for him, but she hasn’t said anything yet.  She is waiting for Larry to make a grand gesture.  Grander than the thing we previously mentioned that Larry does.  It is the source for his greatest strength and his greatest insecurity.  It goes on like this for a while.

After months of having feelings for Michelle he decides to finally tell her how he feels.  He walks on eggshells every time he talks to her, is nervous around her and spends an inordinate amount of time listening to songs he would like to slow dance to with Michelle.  So something needed to happen.

Larry decides that today is the day.  As he holds the phone in his hand he gets nervous.  He wants to throw up.  No.  He wants to sit down.  He definitely has to pee though.

Larry walks up to the cliff.  He presses the send button on his cell phone.   After an eternity Michelle picks up.  She was on the other line with Brian.  This guy she likes but is having “trouble” with.  Larry is always there to listen. They exchange greetings.  Larry puts one foot out into mid air.  Quickly, before losing his nerve, Larry puts his other foot out … and jumps.

 “Michelle, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure Larry, anything.  What’s up?”

“Well I don’t know how to say this.”

“Say what?  You know you can tell me anything.”

“All right.  I’m just going to go ahead and say it.  I like you Michelle.”

“Oh Larry, I like you too.  You’re such a good friend to me.”

“No, Michelle, that’s not what I mean.  I like you more than just a friend.”

“Oh.  Well thank you.  That’s really sweet of you.  How long have you felt this way?”

“A few months.  It was getting to be too much.  I had to say something.  It was killing me inside.”

“Wow.  Well Larry, I don’t know what to say.  I value your friendship so much I wouldn’t want to ruin it.  It means too much to me to have it potentially get ruined by us dating or anything like that.”

“Right.  Of course.  I understand where you’re coming from.  I just wanted to tell you because you mean a lot to me.”

“Oh, Larry.  I just don’t want to ruin the friendship is all.  It’s too important.  Plus, I just like jerks.  I know that about myself and I think you deserve better than me.  You’re such a great guy I want you to be with a girl that deserves you.”

“Oh.  All right.  That’s cool.  I understand.  Forget I even said anything then.  I have some laundry I need to do so I guess I’ll just talk to you later or something.”

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It seems as life often goes we are not satisfied with what comes naturally.  We push our bodies, our minds and our souls to strive for things no rational human being should want.  This is, of course, where the rub lies. 

This is a unique facet of human behavior:  our propensity to do one particular thing that is precisely irrational, detrimental to our psychological well being, crushing our spirits and dampening our will to persevere.  What could it possibly be?  What is the thing that we human beings do consistently that is so patently unreasonable?

What we do is that we develop romantic feelings for people that don’t like us back or treat us in a way that does not do justice to our own sentiments.  A few months ago I discussed with much fanfare and scathing criticism the sad reality that women date assholes.  Everyone knows this is true.  As I got to thinking I realized, as is often the case, there is always an equivalent in the male world.  There are always two sides to the coin.  Women have Sex and the City and men have Entourage.  Women have romantic comedies and men have action flicks.

For those of you who are shaking your head already, this is my disclaimer. I am not suggesting that only women like romantic comedies or that there aren’t any women who like action flicks.  I am just pointing out which crowd these movies target.  Let’s not kid ourselves.  Do you really think more men or women went to go see 300? 

But as I suggested there is indeed an equivalent to women dating assholes in the male world.  That corollary is nice guys who go for girls that don’t like them.  We will call this “The Corollary”.

It is important to understand the psychology about the Nice Guy (NG) who likes the Girl Who Dates Assholes (GWDA).  NG likes GWDA because of the way she makes him feel about himself.  GWDA probably has some status attached to her.  She might be “that girl” to many different guys and is universally admired by most of the men in her life.  Why would NG like GWDA?   If we use the transitive property we can see this:  

A)      All desire Michelle.

B)      Larry desires Michelle.

C)      If Larry dates Michelle, then all admire Larry.

What we see is that Larry just really wants to be socially affirmed and liked by lots of people. Being with this girl is a way of asserting yourself in the social sphere as someone to be reckoned with and respected. 

The first trap that Larry is falling into is that he wants to be liked by everyone (we all fall into this trap) and the second is that he thinks dating someone is the best way to do that.  NG’s want to date GWDA’s under the false pretense that they really  want is to date this particular girl and they admire qualities about her, when in reality they just admire the admirable qualities that are approved by other people.  If they approve these qualities and these qualities are associated with me then I will be approved by all people.  This is also why NG’s are so nice to begin with.  They’re incredibly insecure to begin with and require approval by large amounts of people.

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One of the fatal flaws of the NG is to think that giving compliments to the target of his affections will translate into a relationship of reciprocity in feelings.  This is the first false assumption.   His compliments and the things he does for her create the illusion not only of control but of progress.   This is the part of NG that is still rational, “Compliments plus humor over time equals progress.”  Theoretically, for NG, this should work.  NG likes GWDA for all the right reasons, but continues to for all the wrong ones.

They are wrong because the girl is playing a very complex game with the guy.  The role NG serves for GWDA is twofold.  Like all human beings, GWDA is insecure.  This insecurity is exacerbated by media, society, and preposterously thin models.  Not everyone is sure of themselves, but GWDA has the means to find a way to alleviate the pains of insecurity.  Insert NG who not only adores GWDA, but likes her so much that he will do anything to make her feel good about herself especially in an attempt to win her affection.

Secondly, NG’s will always do things that The Asshole won’t do.  Doors will be held, birthday gifts will be sent, hair will be held for her when she gets too drunk, and buying meals are all things that one might expect NG to do for GWDA.  So she receives positive male reinforcement regarding her physical and social insecurities as well any number of romantic/chivalrous gestures of good will and affection.  She gets all the positives from NG, but none of the negatives.

What are the negatives?  Well, in her deep subconscious, GWDA does not think she is shallow at all.  In fact, she thinks herself a pretty cool chick and she would never go after a guy just for his looks.  It’s just a coincidence all her previous boyfriends are chiseled pillars of physical achievement, but tragically deficient in traditionally admirable character traits.  The negative aspect of NG, for GWDA, is that she doesn’t find NG physically attractive.  This in itself is not a crime.  Just because a guy is nice to a girl and does things for her she is in no way obligated to date him. 

This is not a crime, but what is reprehensible is that she, even on a near subconscious level, uses NG to deal with these insecurities and fill the void left by deficient character in the guys she typically dates.  How does GWDA use NG?  She uses hope against him.

You see, to put a name to NG again, Larry thinks about Michelle a lot.  He thinks about her when he’s running or when he’s in class and sometimes before he goes to bed.  But there is always that rational part of his brain that is tells him to move on and that she is using him to make herself feel better.  Larry can leave at any moment, but he doesn’t because hope is kept alive.  It is a very dangerous thing. 

Think of Larry floating in an ocean and he doesn’t know how to swim at all.  All he has to survive is a life preserver that has been gradually losing air.  In order to keep afloat he, will require another life vest.  Did I mention that Larry is floating next to a boat he can’t get into? Also, the engine is broken so the boat can only go as fast as Larry can swim. Plus Michelle is the captain.  Michelle needs Larry because he is the only one who knows how to keep the engine from breaking altogether.  So until Michelle knows how to fix the engine herself, she has to keep Larry afloat by throwing him more life preservers.  These come in the form of compliments, hugs, and flirting.  It is these kinds of things that keep Larry interested in Michelle.

 Larry needs Michelle because he likes her and wants to be with her and Michelle needs Larry because she’s insecure and needs positive male reinforcement.

When Larry confronts Michelle and pours his heart out, he is saying either let me in the boat or let me drown. 

Now when NG lets GWDA how he feels she does have some common decency to not want to emotionally destroy NG. She doesn’t tell him she doesn’t find him physically attractive or that she’s simply not into him, but she saves face, yet again, in the eyes of NG, by trying to pass off her rejection as something humbling to her while also paying a compliment to NG.  It sounds something like what we heard Michelle say, “You’re too nice of a guy” “I don’t deserve you” “I don’t want to ruin the friendship” “I only date jerks and I’m messed up and you deserve so much better than that because you’re such a great guy.”  These are all last ditch efforts to smooth things over with NG who, if he has any common sense, will realize that she is completely hosing him and saying those things only to not destroy a human soul.  What we’re hearing is something that smacks of the old standby excuse, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

What have we learned?  Well we’ve learned that men will act against their own best interest just as women do.  What is it about human beings that we consciously will do things that will hurt us?  Is it the spirit of competition?  Do we like a challenge?

I’m thinking I could plug the notion that we can’t help who we like or that we’re all insecure, or blah blah blah, but I think it would be more poignant to bluntly state that things get complicated like this when people are using each other to achieve ends they either can’t admit to themselves or because they simply don’t know what they are really after.  When this happens situations arise where people are being used as means and as ends unto themselves.  The problem comes up when we don’t know who are or what we want or what really makes us happy so we take a stab in the dark by trying to get  attractive, popular, GWDA to date us when we’re really all just looking to be accepted.  This is the most difficult part of affection: discovering if what you’re after is the person themselves or what that person could potentially bring to you.  Hold onto your life preservers.

Its 9 a.m. in Washington D.C.  The sun is shining brightly on the brisk morning at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.  President Barack Obama walks briskly out to his first press conference since being sworn in as the leader of the United States of America.  He steps up confidently to the podium.

The President:  Good morning everyone.  I called this press conference to let everyone know I fixed everything.  The global warming, the economy, welfare, racial strife, energy, universal healthcare, education and the war in Iraq.

The Press:  What…?  Seriously? Everything.

The President:  Yep.

The Press:  Sounds about right. 

Its 9 a.m. in Washington D.C.  The sun is shining brightly on the brisk morning at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.  President Barack Obama walks briskly out to his first press conference since being sworn in as the leader of the United States of America.  He steps up confidently to the podium and a collective gasp is heard rippling through the crowded room.

The President:  Good morning everyone.  I wanted to come out here and answer any questions you all had now that I am officially president.  I’ll be fielding questions for the next twenty minutes or so. Yeah, Jerry.  What’s up?

Jerry:  Jerry Price, MSNBC, President Obama, what are you wearing?

The President: Oh this?  This is traditional Muslim garb.  Yep.  I’m feeling nice and comfortable in this stuff.  You white folks got it all wrong with that shirt and tie business.  So stuffy.  Yeah, Jeanette?

Jeanette:  Jeanette Dempsey, Washington Post, President Obama, you seem to be yawning a lot up at the podium, tired from all the excitement and celebrating of last night?

The President:  Well actually, white devil, I’ve been up since sunrise.  I was praying towards Mecca this morning while you were still dreaming about supply side economics.  Yes, you over there?

Mark:  Mark Davidson, New York Times, what is that piece of paper you seem to be clutching there President Obama?

The President:  Funny you should ask Mark.  This piece of paper is actually my revised plans for taxation of the rest of the country.  You know how I originally said it was only going to be a three percent tax increase?  Well you basically got punked.  For pretty much the first time… well ever,  Fox News, Bill O’Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, and yes, even that asshole with the creepy mustache were right.  I am a full blown communist.  As we speak members of the military are seizing factories and businesses across the country; everything should be fully nationalized by sometime around next Tuesday.  Yes, Sally?

Sally:  Sally Lu, Los Angeles Times, So President Obama what you’re saying is you’re now a Muslim who will be nationalizing all industries and also admitting that every single conservative pundit was right about you?

The President: Yes Sally.  And that’s not all.  I also don’t support the troops and want the war in Iraq to fail, miserably.  Because when it really comes down to it I actually hate freedom.  Plus Osama Bin Laden is my cousin.  I can’t believe you guys didn’t figure that one out! Oh man I was so nervous this whole time.  Whew!  No, but seriously I also just wanted to let everyone know that I really was trained at a terrorist camp in Indonesia when i went over there, don’t have an American birth certificate because I was actuallyborn in Kenya.  Oh and I also plan on applying for welfare as soon as possible so the government will jack my salary up a little bit more.  Boo ya.  Plus Puff Daddy is replacing Joe Biden as my Vice President.  This is “change” bitches!

The Press:  Fuck.

Everyone knows that growing up is difficult.  You are constantly discovering things, having new experiences, meeting people, experiencing joy and sorrow, loss and gain.  This process we call growing up is the most difficult thing human beings undertake.  So difficult in fact, that is ultimately kills us.

As we grow up certain things are harder than others to learn and pick up.  For me it was much easier to run around naked and work on my magnum opus of watercolor painting that was aptly named “Clusterfuck Retard” than it was to, oh I don’t know, wash my bellybutton. 

I’m sure we all had things like this that were easy for us to understand, but there are some truths about the world, about the nature of our existence on the planet, that are so earth shattering that they stood as momentous pillars of individual discovery.  We can call them “game changers”, “paradigm shifts”, or “you’re bullshitting me” moments.  Whatever you choose to call them, we’ve all had to deal with these realities in some way or another.  These are the growing pains that hurt your brain, not your body.

Death – I remember exactly where I was when my mom explained to me, very calmly, that all people, except Keith Richards, die.  I was three years old, sitting in my car seat, and my mom was driving through downtown Portsmouth, NH near what used to be a barber shop.  I believe it went something like this:

Me:  Hey Mom, we all live forever right?  People only die when owls kill them, right?

*Note* I was absolutely terrified of owls growing up.  Don’t ask me why.  Perhaps I was a field mouse in a past life.  In any case I recall my parents spent many a night reassuring me that the owls were kept at bay by not only the vigilance of my parents but our windows.

Mom:  Oh…No, honey.  Everyone has to die some day, but not usually until they’re much older.  You don’t have to worry about anything, sweetheart.

Me:  You’ve got to be fucking shitting me?  People can die?!  Why didn’t you say something? 

Mom:  Pooh bear, you really don’t have to worry about it.

Me:  Worry?!  Lady, I am beyond worried.  You’re going to have to change my diaper again.

Mom:  You’re four.

Me:  This is awkward.

Why my mother wasn’t concerned about my foul language is beyond me, but does everyone remember that moment when you realize things could end at any moment?  That it wasn’t just owls that could get you, but you know…two or even three owls? 

This is not to say I went out and starting seizing the day all over the place at four years old, but it definitely made me appreciate what I had going on.  I of course, not being brutally murdered or dismembered by some ungodly force of destruction and death.

Heaven forbid you read the Bible as a child or were informed of some of God’s actions in the Old Testament.  Every other book it seemed that God’s fist, lined with lava and genital eating piranhas, would descend upon some poor kingdom just for messing up the worship ceremony.

Before learning about death my greatest fear was being left at the grocery store with the scary people at the bakery or biting my tongue because you can best believe I did that at least once a week.  

And once you learn about death you start keeping a mental tally of the things that can kill you.  Owls?  Check. Sharks?  Check.  The monsters under my bed? Check. Closet too?  Absolutely.

Gravity – Until you hear about gravity every kid thinks that if only they jumped high enough they would ultimately take off and be free to steal apple pies off the window sills of mean Old Lady McFargus.  I think that’s the plot to every single episode of Leave It to Beaver. 

Because of you think about it, unless kids actually believed their parents, how would a kid ever conceptualize “I don’t seem to be taking off, I bet there’s a universal law in physics that attracts all objects to each other, especially planets and their inhabitants.” No.  You’re thinking, “If I could only get high enough.”  I spent many of my days jumping off chairs in my kitchen telling my mom I was “really close.”  The closest I ever came to flight was either jumping off a swing or doing that thing where my dad balanced me on his feet with him lying on his back.  Yeah it was a great substitute but every kid was thinking the same thing, “Fuckbeans.” 

There was also a sense of urgency in learning to fly because you would just die if that douchebag Spencer from down the street learned to fly before you did.  He was so full of himself.  Ass.

Your Parents Aren’t Invincible – Some of us unfortunately have to learn this at a very young age if one of our parents becomes incredibly sick or, god forbid, a parent passes away.  For most of us we go through our childhood believing that our dads have superhuman strength or our moms have superhuman comfort skills.  How did she know I wanted a tuna fish sandwich during my lunch break from work?! HOW?!  Why do you think kids say things like, “I bet my dad could beat up your dad.”  Dads are our superheroes, our action figures, able to defeat any and all foes. 

It is often not until we are much older when our parents sit us down and “have a talk” to explain that dad needs heart surgery or mom has breast cancer.  It is an incredibly difficult experience, it truly is.  This is not because we don’t understand the effects of cancer or how serious heart surgery is, but it is difficult to psychologically adjust to it because we often imagine this happening to other people; and certainly not our parents.  Because it did seem like only yesterday that your dad could, with relative ease, pick you up and put you on his shoulders in one fell swoop or your mom could run around with you outside playing hide and go seek.  Unfortunately our parents are no longer physiologically Superman, but unfortunately Batman.  There isn’t just one weakness, there are thousands.  That actually just makes their deeds that much super.

How could this happen?  Unfortunately, we must come to terms with the grim reality that there are a host of health related things that older folks have to worry about.  One of the most trying ordeals children have to go through is scraping their knee because they fell off their bicycle and it is difficult for us to understand not having something scab over and heal within a week’s time.  This is indeed the hardest of pills to swallow.  Many brave kids have to do it at a very young age.

You Can’t Grow Up to Be an Animal – This also includes dinosaurs, but most of you know what I’m talking about.  As we grow up we realize that we, are humans… and we can’t do anything about it.  We’re just humans and we can’t, as we get older, become bears or tyrannosaurus rexes.  No matter how much we stomp around the house with stunted arms we are still not a dinosaur.  Eventually we learn to embrace our humanity mostly because we enjoy using indoor toilets.  This is of course unless you’re this guy.

School Sucks – I’m not entirely sure when it happens, but I’m guessing its somewhere around fourth or fifth grade that the homework starts getting a little more serious and your school days don’t simply consist of finger painting, puzzles and learning about “estimating” by guessing how many M&M’s are in a jar.  I remember sitting in school one day and realizing. “Fuck me.  Where is the candy?”  There comes a point when we’re all trying to take standardized tests to help schools get more funding and learning the history we’re fed, but most of the stuff I learned as a kid turned out to be total bullshit anyways.  Yeah, Christopher Columbus was a real nice guy.  The Civil Rights movement also fixed everything.

We come to realize that much of this stuff we will never actually have to know or that I learn more from an hour conversation with my parents than I do spending six hours in a brick building designed to repress a natural affinity for activity.

Commercials Lie – I may have written about this beforehand, but I had this realization around the age of six.  I was watching television when I saw a commercial for NesQuik chocolate milk mix.  These kids, who apparently live in a universe where cartoons and real humans live harmoniously (not unlike Who Framed Roger Rabbit?) mix up a diesel batch of chocolate milk and they are magically transported to a water park except all of the water has been replaced with chocolate milk.  As a kid, can you honestly imagine anything better than that?  I can only think of one thing better:  if the chocolate milk has actions figures floating in it.

I promptly got up from the television, marched into the kitchen and informed my mother that upon her next visit to the grocery store that I would like some NesQuik.  She informed me that Hershey’s chocolate syrup in the refrigerator would do just fine.  I then calmly, but urgently reminded her that she must be off her fucking rocker because Hershey’s syrup cannot conjure a magical chocolate water slide out of thin air.  I also told her to “get to it, bitch.”

After recovering from my mom throwing me through a wall for mouthing off, I was thoroughly disappointed the following week when, despite vigorous and robust stirring, nothing happened.  No chocolate water slide.  No animated and quirky brown rabbit whose ears twist sparked by the consumption of chocolate powder and milk.  I only drink Hershey now.  I hope that rabbit gets impaled by a rhinoceros.

The Importance of the Opposite Sex – I remember when things were so much easier when I didn’t care about girls.  Or boys… wait.  You know what I mean.  I mean if you were a girl that time when you didn’t care about boys.  I can’t stress enough I was speaking hypothetically.

In any case, once the opposite sex is introduced, everything becomes more complicated.  You care what you look like, how you smell, if you need braces, what kind of “fly gear” you are rocking, and so on and so on.  Imagine getting back all those hours you have spent trying to appeal to the opposite sex or contemplating how to adequately do so.  I think many of us would have four PhD and we would have invented the hyperdrive right now.  And by hyperdrive I mean interstellar space travel, and by interstellar space travel I mean I’m a nerd.

And for anyone who is reading this pretending to be really indy and pretend like they didn’t care what they looked like because you shopped at Hot Topic or wore JNCO jeans or put gel in your hair to make it look messed up you can actually put your head in a microwave.  Everyone cared what they look like.  Don’t pretend that you just were really into surfing and didn’t wash your hair.  You cared.  You were playing an angle.  Don’t lie.

Money Rules the World – This one is fairly self explanatory, but I recall being acquainted with the notion of inflation at around the age of eight or nine.  Most kids loved their toys growing up and whether it was Barbies, action figures, Legos, or an Easy Bake Oven, they all cost money. 

And then the prices magically were hiked up.  What kind of sorcery is this?  “Inflation?”  What in the name of Holy Christmas does that mean?  A simple five spot can no longer buy a toy.  You might as well have spit in my Jell-O pudding while kicking me in the shins.

As children this betrayal does not make us disillusioned with money as a theoretical construct, but because we’re Americans we’re incapable of shrugging off this prod into reckless consumerism, but it actually fuels our fire, our want, and our need to have things.  I’m convinced that inflation is the reason allowance was invented and raised as the child got older.  Oh you used to get two dollars a week when you were seven and now you get twenty dollars a week at eighteen.  That’s actually the same amount of money.  This is why I hate math.

Grownups Make Mistakes – This might be another one of the hardest things to understand.  I was blessed with a “nuclear” family that never had to deal with divorce.  I had a dog that never ate a baby’s face.  My upbringing was ultimately perfect save my mom’s unwillingness to let me watch The Simpsons, buy me a Power Wheel, or wage an all out war on owls.

But there is a moment in our childhood when we realize that Mom and Dad make mistakes, Mr. President makes mistakes, Officer Friendly makes mistakes, and Mr./Mrs. Teacher makes mistakes.  Some extreme examples of this are when Dad leaves Mom’s suitcase in the bedroom when going on vacation, or Mom forgets Dad’s special low sodium salt in the cabinet on the way to Applebee’s and “ruins” dinner, or Officer Friendly forgets to read Mr. Criminal his Miranda rights and Mr. Criminal goes back out on the street because of a procedural technicality.  Or we see Mr. President cheating on his wife and lying about it or Mr. President doesn’t listen to sound intelligence forecasting a potentially devastating attack on a symbol of America’s economic preeminence in the world market and thousands of innocent people die.  This has been known to happen.

Things like this happen all the time, every single day, and we don’t notice them as we’re growing up because we haven’t formed our own opinions or developed our own sense of what is right or wrong yet.  We’re still following and not leading, therefore it is difficult to spot mistakes by people that otherwise might not be noticed by a recently formed juvenile psyche.

The ripples of this realization serve as a catalyst for us to embrace the notion of imperfection as a human condition.  Human existence is full of trial and error, decision and indecision, choice, temptations, and ultimate judgment.  As children, when we see the mistakes grownups make we hope to learn from them and form our own direction, but we also realize it’s ok for us to make mistakes as well.

******************************************************************************

All of things we learn as grow up point to one final truth about life and the world:  it’s pretty messed up.  This is not to say that it is messed up in comparison to some everlasting universal standard of order that normatively explicitly states how the world should be, but rather the world is messed up in the sense that it is challenging, confusing, exciting and knowable. 

Figuring out all of life’s problems and harsh realities is like putting together a puzzle in the dark where when you find more pieces the brighter the light gets.  We use the light to illuminate and understand their purpose in the grander scheme of things.  Let’s hope some of us get all the pieces before the light burns out.

 

 

Picture this.  You’re a woman and you wake up one day and look outside your window.  Houses are on fire.  Fire hydrants are spraying water.  Car alarms are going off and there is an eerie feel to your neighborhood.  No one is around except bodies that are aimlessly walking towards you.  You don’t quite understand so you call to the person stumbling towards you.  As the person gets closer you notice that something is incredibly wrong.  They have a vacant look on their face and their eyes are a strange shade of white.

It is at this point that we have two options.

a) If female, scream and allow person to bite you. 

b) If male, bash that fuckers head in with the blunt instrument you have equipped yourself with.

It should be clear to most of you that what we’re dealing with is the Zombie Revolution.  Inexplicably the dead have come back to life and they are turning other people into the undead.  What could you possibly do?  Contact the nearest man and he has a plan.  I guarantee it.

Every guy, since hearing of the concept of a zombie has been formulating a plan for what will happen if the Zombie Revolution takes place.  But that’s just it.  Most guys think about this event as not a matter of if , but when.  Guys will think very seriously about these things and their preparation usually revolves a few basic plans.  For the ladies reading who are in complete disbelief, ask your respective boyfriend or close guy friend and if you ask them, in earnest, what they would do if there was a zombie invasion tomorrow.  It will look something like this:

Cheryl:  Tom, I feel silly asking this, but if there was a zombie invasion tomorrow what would you do?

Tom:  *suddenly very serious* Well I would first head down to the trading post and grab as many guns as possible while also grabbing as many gas cans as possible in the event of our eventual need to make a run for a boat or island that is potentially not devastated by the Zombie Revolution.  We would need close range as well as long range weapons and we would need to move in a strict phalanx formation while weeding out the infected from the uninfected and making our way towards the fire station.

Cheryl:  Why the fire station?

Tom: GOD Cheryl! Do I have to explain everything?  The fire station is fortified with brick, they have vehicles, axes and access to communication equipment to talk with other potential survivors.  We could do that or the mall.

Cheryl:  Who are you?! And yes, the mall sounds great.  Nordstrom is having a sale.

Still don’t believe me ladies?  Don’t believe that every single guy you know has a plan?  Ask them this question.

Cheryl:  If you could have one weapon for the Zombie Revolution.  What would it be?

Tom: *without hesitation*Baseball bat or kitana.

 

Cheryl:  What the heck is a kitana?

 

Tom:  GOD Cheryl!  It’s a sword used by the samurais, the shogun protectorate of the city-state in Japan up through the feudal era in the late 19th century.

 

Cheryl:   Who are you?!

 

Now there are several key reasons to why men are not only prepared for the zombie revolution but also kind of looking forward to it. 

 

Firstly, there are no rules.   Men hate rules more than anything.  Both written and unwritten.  This is because for years while they were growing up they weren’t allowed to fight or hit people with baseball bats or drive one hundred miles per hour on the highway in a firetruck equipped with chainsaws and a turret gun.  It’s tough for guys.

 

Secondly, they get to use their Zombie List.  What is a Zombie List you ask?  Well it’s a mental list a guy keeps of the people he would hang out with in the event of the Zombie Revolution.  It’s generally a list of his buddies who have certain admirable qualities.  For example, I would absolutely choose my best friends from college because not only do they understand the gravity of the situation but they also understand the different strategies.  They would also make good decisions regarding survival which leads to the final reason.

 

Thirdly, weapons.  Guys love weapons.  In fact they love weapons almost as much as they hate rules.  Guys hate rules partially because it forbids the casual use and display of weapons.  Guys are really bent out of shape that people don’t just carry around swords anymore.  Try not to bring it up.  But weapon selection is an important part of the Zombie List.  Bats, golf clubs, swords, even a bowling pin would be effective.  But weapon choice should generally be roughly the length of a baseball bat and be able to either bash a head in or cut one off.  Every guy knows this and often will determine his Zombie List through a simple screening process.

 

Jeff: Yeah I know last night was so crazy.  Say, in the event of the Zombie Revolution, what one weapon would you use?

 

Rob:  That’s easy!  Ninja stars bro.  Those things are bad ass.

 

Jeff:  I see.  What is your second choice?

 

Rob: Definitely a blow gun.

 

Jeff:  I see.

 

In this case, Jeff will mentally note that Rob would have to be ditched in the event of the Zombie Revolution because ninja stars are of finite usage and a blowgun would be completely ineffective against a staggering or sprinting zombie horde.

 

I’m not sure where guys are expecting to find an abundance of samurai swords during the Zombie Revolution, but I think we all imagine that there is some sort of box in every building that says, “In Case of Zombies, Break Glass”, and happy Kwanza, you’ve got a kitana.  I’m sure FEMA has taken care of it.

 

The next reason, and one of the most important, is that during the Zombie Revolution, anarchy has broken out and guys are allowed to break rules.  For example, on a normal day, if someone who is sick looking comes staggering towards you, the end result would be you calling 911 and helping this person out.   Not on the day of the Zombie Revolution.  That fucker comes walking toward you and you open up a bonanza of whoop ass on that zombie’s face.  You can’t do things like this in a normal day.  We’re told to “use our words” to deal with anger, or to “not wipe our boogers on the side of the couch (even though no one will ever see that side of the couch)”, or the “trellis isn’t for karate practice” or “no football with grandma’s urn of ashes”.  Guys get carte blanche to misbehave because survival is the only thing that matters.

  

The most important thing to consider is that guys spend every day holding in their aggression and testosterone fueled shenanigans and the Zombie Revolution is basically a perpetual valve of release as well as an excuse to break the rules.  Your family was devoured?  Take it out on the zombies.  Rick was a douche and ate the entire rationof Mike and Ikes?  Take it out on the zombies.

 

It is also a perfectly normal for a guy to want to destroy things.  To, as Fight Club posits, “destroy something beautiful”.  Freud called this thanatos or the urge to destroy.  Ask any guy about playing with Legos or K’Nex and how he would be in the middle of building something, feel something weird in his gut, and then just throw it against the wall or wreck it with his hands.  This would usually be followed by a twisted smile or a roar so as to emulate a T. Rex. 

 

 We spend our whole lives building our lives, our homes, our families, our bodies, our resumes, our vocabularies, our music collections, our wardrobe, but the Zombie Revolution will blink it all out in an instant and guys will become the ultimate utilitarian.  The most good for the most people by killing of those who can’t be saved.  We must destroy humanity to rebuild it.  And we are going to roar while we’re doing it.

 

For those of you who read this and still think, “Not my guy.  No way.  He’s normal.” …  well you’re fooling yourself.  If you don’t believe me, the next time you catch a guy spacing out when you walk into a new building; quickly spring this question on him, “Do you think this would hold up in the case of the Zombie Revolution?”

 

He will be hesitate, but quickly respond, “No. There are too many points of entry.”

 

“Who are you?!”

 

“I’m a man.”

 

 

*Update 1/6/09* I would like to formally apologize for any jaded female readers.  It seems I was clearly overstated in my assumption that women don’t have plans for the Zombie Revolution.  It seems girls think about this stuff too.  I’m still guessing not as much as guys.  But prove me wrong womenfolk.  If you’re a woman and you read this blog and you do indeed know what is up when it comes to zombie survival, please shed some light on my ignorant assumptions.  And gentlemen, you’re letting me down here.  There is only one guy comment on this thing  (Thanks to my boy Jimmy).  Let’s get some feedback either way folks.  How will you survive?  Stay strapped y’all.

-Robinson

I don’t want you to think that I’m a complainer.  Granted, the majority of topics that I’ve written about so far have been criticisms on how things aren’t the way I want them and how things would be different if I were in charge.  To combat this perception of me, I would like to present you with an “Oh, The People I Meet” that is more of a celebration rather than a condemnation.

 

I recently lost my wallet and subsequently a good amount of things that were of value to me – most notably my license, credit card and insurance card.  I called my bank of choice today and, as expected, was directed to customer service where my problem of a lost card could be handled.  What I did not expect was the unnaturally polite and eerily willing-to-help attendant that greeted me on the other side of the telephone.  All too frequently am I met by Beth or Trevor the soul-dead, crushed by the world, nothing left to lose person who’s only taking a job so that they have something to do in between suicide attempts.  That may be a harsh generalization, but that’s the vibe I get when I hear their lackluster rendition of the greeting prompt.

 

Not this time.

 

This time I was met by James Smith*.  Not only was the script outstanding with promises of exemplary service, undying love and cinnamon buns – maybe not the last two but it was still pretty nice – he also apologized for my wallet getting lost.  He then asked what he could do for me and I explained the predicament that I was in.  His response brought me into a comfort zone that I hadn’t been in since I went to Hooters for the first time and was told that I would be “taken care of” rather than “served”. 

 

An account statement that I ordered as proof of address for my new license was going to cost me $5.  Now $5 isn’t a huge amount but I can just wait for my next one for free so it made no sense to pay for one now.  James understood my situation and the fact that I hadn’t been warned about the impending charge.  However, there was nothing he could do to stop it from occurring.  Rather than emptily apologizing and scurrying me on my way to deal with the next poor sap, he gave me his personal phone number and told me to call him when the charge hit my account and he’d refund the money for me.

 

What. A fucking.  Sweetheart.

 

Not only did this man express genuine regret that my personal belongings were no longer mine; he listened to my situation and found a solution that most people wouldn’t have bothered finding.  James has single-handedly renewed my faith in humanity with his act of kindness.  He didn’t have to be so cordial on the phone and FSM knows he didn’t have to give two shits about my wallet.  But he did.  And that little bit of effort makes all the difference when dealing with people.  Rather than being The Bitch, James did his job with respect, honor, and most importantly class.

 

Let’s face it.  The job that James works at is, at best, mind numbing.  He has to deal with people who not only are entering their encounter with a sour attitude because some part of their service needs fixing, but they are automatically assuming that the representative on the other side of the phone is a complete fucking retard.  James assuredly understands this but still decides to come into work everyday and provide his customers with an experience that they can walk away from smiling.  I say bravo to him.  You don’t have to have a million dollar job to like what you do.  When it comes down to it, the paycheck you receive at the end of the month will never come close to affecting you the way the image in the mirror does at the end of the day.

 

How does yours affect you?

 

Listen guys.  I’m sorry.  I truly, truly am.  I haven’t written anything in over three weeks, but I have a valid excuse.  Seriously.  I would first of all like to thank Tom for taking over things for a while.  I knew this would happen eventually.  What I am talking about is that I had to apply to graduate school, meaning, all my free time for writing is spent on scholarly things.  I’m not happy about it and I’m sure you’re not either.  So I promise, that sometime in the next few weeks things will get back to normal around here once I am done with all this terrible, terrible academic writing.  We have lots to talk about and I intend on weighing in a long list of things that require scapegoating.  Thanks to all who have continued to check the blog but I WILL  be back soon. 

-Robinson