The End of Days - Yours, Mayan, and Ours

As you may already know, tomorrow is the last day of life on Earth as foretold by the Mayans. This is not to say that our spirits won’t continue to exist on some ethereal plane, or that our mortal frames won’t continue to exist as space debris after our planet explodes, but life as we know it – with our souls firmly rooted in our breasts and our appendages all attached and uncharred - is about to end. Let us all take a moment and flip the freak out.

 AAAAAHHHHHOLYCRAPWEASELS!!!

Now, pull yourself together. We’ve only got a day to live, and daggumit, we’re not going to spend it rocking in the corner and sucking our thumbs. It’s time to grab Life by the stretchy part of the elbows and headbutt its teeth! Let’s all spend this last day doing everything we always wanted to do, like breaking windows and setting things on fire! Who’s with me?!

Wow, you guys really didn’t need that much convincing. I was just kidding.

Although it would no doubt be fun to hurl an office chair through a giant pane of glass Die Hard style, all the real things most of us want to accomplish can’t be done in a day. Or a week. Or a month, even. One could argue that we are still young, and it’s normal to not have accomplished everything we’d like to by this point in our lives, but I would like to argue that if we’re looking at percentages, the Mayan statisticians say our lives are 99.9999% over. And although we’ve known about the world’s impending doom for several years now, we are still unprepared. Sure, we meant to do all those things on our bucket lists, but the television was on, and what were we suppose to do, not watch it? Oh, if only our encyclopedic knowledge of Jersey Shore could save us from certain destruction instead of help usher in our untimely demise!

I am, of course, calling myself out first and foremost. If there’s one thing I’ve learned too late, and I’m not quite certain there is, it’s that I can’t sit idly back and expect great things to happen. I can’t reasonably expect anything to happen unless I set something in motion. For example, if I want a new job, I have to apply for it and then physically wrestle into submission every candidate in the waiting room before the interview. Also, shouting “I want to be an astronaut!” doesn’t have any weight while I’m watching Apollo 13, but people would be inclined to take me seriously if I was shouting it out of a rocket window.

“Mission control to Nathan. Do not open that rocket window.

You’re going to kill everybody. Over.”

I have to be proactive, and I have to think long-term. I have realized this in retrospect several times, and if history is as tenacious as everyone says it is, I will keep realizing it. Well, until a race of angry lizard humanoids eradicate us from the Earth tomorrow (Did the Mayans say how the world’s ending? I’m just throwing out some guesses here).

So how did I get where I’m currently at, reassessing my decisions while holding an umbrella in a futile attempt to protect myself from tomorrow’s forecast of ‘cloudy with a high chance of torrential buffalos’? I remember one of my teachers in the youth program at church explaining this concept on the blackboard by drawing life as a horizontal line. The line would abruptly slant upward and downward, and the crook of each angle represented a decision made. It was to demonstrate the impact of righteous and unrighteous decisions, but its application spreads to all aspects of life. Practiced violin for an hour? Line slants up. Used that hour to chase squirrels instead? Line slants down. Every decision sets you on a certain trajectory, and you can follow that decision tree backwards to find out how you became a concert violinist or a lunatic with a dead squirrel collection.

I’m going to love you and squeeze you and call you George.

…George, get back here! Why won’t you love me?! George?!

Sometimes it is easier to see life as a daily vignette instead of a seamless movie with a beginning, middle, and end. And choosing to look at it the easy way is, well…easy. And that’s how I find myself apprehensive on the eve of the day gravity dramatically increases and all our organs get crushed under the weight of our own bones (Possibly. Again, the Mayans were pretty vague).

So, I’ve chased a few squirrels. But should the Mayans be wrong – they have never lied to me before – and I wake up on the morning of December 22 still clinging to existence, maybe I’ll try a little harder. Maybe I’ll do something productive that could have bearing on my future. Or maybe I’ll just take a breather, because realizing I need to be better is half the battle, and I just escaped the Mayan rapture, and hey look the television’s on!

So I guess what I’m trying to say is, “Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die!”

Or, one day soon we’ll wake up fat, hungover, and disappointed. Whichever.

An Idiot's Guide to Moving for Dummies and Idiots

When I was little I always wanted to move. I was born in the house my parents still live in (I mean, not literally - Alabama has hospitals, you know), and I was jealous of my brothers who switched houses several times before I arrived. But now that I am older, I am thankful for that stability in my younger years. I made up for it by moving a gajillion times after high school as if I was I on the run from the law and my real name is Beezow Doo-Doo ZopittyBop-Bop-Bop.

Ha-ha! What a silly thought!

I have found, however, that moving is terrible. It requires a lot of hassle and manual labor, two of my least favorite things outside of Lenny Kravitz and the thought of starving kittens. Each time I moved to a new apartment I would loudly declare, “I am never leaving! This is where I am going to die!” But, as the saying goes ‘nothing mold can stay’ (I have lived in a couple of crappy apartments), and six months later I would find myself moving into a new apartment and shouting empty promises about being buried under the floorboards. But I mean it this time, despite the fact that my rent is about to considerably increase and that my upstairs neighbor snores like Godzilla and has trained her two dogs in the lost art of canine tapdance.

I felt like I should do something with all this acquired moving wisdom, so I decided to write another informative guide for the uninformed, gullible masses. But don't feel pressured to buy anything now. Enjoy these free excerpts*!

*Reading these excerpts legally constitutes a sale.

If you are reading this, you have already been billed.

from Chapter 1: Looking for a New Apartment

Searching for a new place to live can be daunting. Luckily there are many fantastic resources online to aid in your search, but none of them are Craigslist. All housing on Craigslist is riddled with peepholes and old syringes. If you don’t believe me, I suggest purchasing my first guide here and then returning to this chapter.

.........

Welcome back. Congratulations on narrowly escaping what was described as a “One bedroom basement apartment. Very quiet. In fact, no one can hear you scream." Now you can move on to more reputable search sites to find your new Shangri-la. These other sites are not bereft of misgivings, however. You have to be careful of the ads’ wording. I’ve never seen ad copy that hasn’t stated it was “nestled in a picturesque forest” or “nestled in a pristine valley”. It doesn’t matter where the apartment complex is located, it is nestled there. In reality the only thing you will be nestled in is the greedy tendrils of a 12 month unbreakable lease.

The apartment complexes’ names are also designed to mislead you. They all have flowery, scenic names that can’t reasonably be backed up. Can you see an air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror of your neighbors ’77 Skylark? You must live in “Pine View”. Is there a hole in the parking lot that fills up on rainy days that the neighbor kids play in? Welcome to “Lakeside Crest”. Do the cracks in your bathtub sprout mushrooms? That’s “Fun Gus’s Gardens”, and you really should have figured that one out.

Nestled in a magical grove of oaks, make your new home at beautiful Riverfront Terrace!

from Chapter 4: Packing up Your Apartment

The first thing you’re going to want to do is buy lots of packing boxes and neatly organize your belongings. Resist that urge. That would take time and effort, and I’m going to show you an easier way.

Step 1: Haphazardly throw all your belongings into a pile on your apartment floor, excluding pets. If you have any experience ransacking or pillaging, this will come in handy.

Step 2: Douse that pile with your favorite liquid, just as long as your favorite liquid is highly flammable and does not require a special license to purchase.

Step 3: Light a match.

Step 4: Collect your $17 in insurance money. Although you owned a lot of stuff, let’s face it, most of it was worthless, and you could really use that 17 bucks to care for all the burn wounds you just sustained.

from Chapter 8: Moving to a New State

If you have been following this guide closely, you are now wanted for arson, insurance fraud, and something called first degree pre-meditated animal larceny, so you’ll probably want to move to a new state where people won’t recognize you. Georgia, for example.  This has its own set of obstacles, because you will now have to get a new driver’s license. Depending on what state you’re in, you may want to allow plenty of time for your field trip to the DMV. If you want to be first in line, I suggest camping overnight in the parking lot and ambushing the tents of anyone who has a similar idea. Again, this is where your experience in ransacking and pillaging will come in handy.

Please remember that to qualify for a new license you will have to bring an original copy of your birth certificate, a utility bill addressed to your new residence, your social security card, a vial of your blood, a receipt from the last time you ate at Applebee's, and an in-state church attendance record notarized by the Pope, regardless of your religious affiliation. The state doesn’t actually want to give you a driver’s license, but should you succeed in accumulating these items, they are regretfully required to issue you one.

The people who work at the DMV are notoriously surly, so I like to butter them up with compliments as soon as I step up to their counter. Admittedly, this has never worked because all my compliments are, “Yo girl! You smell like biscuits!” It is my hope that one day my assigned worker will 1) be a female, and 2) accept that compliment in the spirit in which it was intended.

When it comes time to take a picture for your new ID, you will want to mentally prepare yourself, because this photo will haunt you for a minimum of 5 years, and perhaps much longer should you be wanted for a crime (which you are) and the news people splatter it all over the television (which they will). I like to practice this mantra over and over in my head as I’m waiting for the camera’s snap: “Don’t look like a felon. Don’t look high. Don’t look like a felon. Don’t look high.”

 Crap.

from Chapter 15: Dieing There

So now you're all settled into your new apartment. I am happy that you have benefited from the knowledge gleaned during my many painstaking experiences. Now all that is left is to hunker down and wait for death. And should our paths ever cross, say, during a monster truck rally or federal court, I will happily clasp your hand, dear reader, and thank you for purchasing my book, and then remind you that moving is awful and you swore you would never do it again.

Also, no refunds.

Quantum Sasquatch

It’s hard to ignore when the universe brings two seemingly incongruous things and throws them in your path. “Here’s some random crap!” The Universe bellows. “Do something with it!” It’s how the peanut butter and jelly sandwich was invented, and it’s how the platypus was born. But sometimes it just clicks. The fog of ambiguity is lifted, and the future makes perfect sense. Those two random things perfectly align and forever change your fate. For me, Art, and Steve, those two things are the love of sasquatches and the desire to crush N*Sync. Let me explain.

Steve and Art drove over from Birmingham to visit me this weekend, and as it so often does, the conversation turned to sasquatches. I have long been fascinated with the legend of the North American wood ape, and have spent many hours reading through cryptozoology blogs, watching documentaries, and just generally making sure I have nothing sane to contribute in social situations.

I don’t necessarily believe these sasquatch sightings are true, but I will concede that there is a part of me that wants them to be true. I mean, an 11 foot bipedal creature that roams American forests and has not been proven to kill or maim campers? What’s not to love?

 Awwww, it brought you a gift

So on our way to church Art and Steve, who also like watching bigfoot documentaries, started talking about the theory that sasquatch bones are never found in the wild because porcupines eat them (note: this is a real theory poised by some sasquatchologists, and was actually not made up by me. My own theory is that sasquatch bones are never found because they interbred with the Highlander centuries ago). I then brought up the also-not-made-up-and-some-people-actually-believe-this-stuff theory that bigfoot are interdimensional creatures, and so could transport out of our plane of existence upon their death.

The sasquatches’ home dimension

Steve then said something about ‘quantum sasquatch’, and I mentioned that Quantum Sasquatch would be an awesome name for a band. We all laughed heartily as we walked into church, and those who overheard our conversation clutched their purses a little tighter and hoped we would not sit by them. It was decided that I would play drums, Steve and Art would play guitar, and that we would be a Foo Fighters cover band.

Ah, but our aspiration of being a poorly named tribute band was short-lived, for later that night I stumbled upon this article on Reddit. It says that N*Sync’s “I'll Never Stop” holds the record for most cassette singles sold for the past three consecutive years. In 2011 they obtained this distinction with 11 cassettes sold. Only 11!  We quickly figured out that we, Quantum Sasquatch, could easily outsell N*Sync next year if we bought all our own cassettes, and then we could yell to women and former bullies, “WE ARE THE HIGHEST SELLING BAND OF 2013!” And then under our breath mumble, “asterisk, footnote, cassette singles."

Finally, we had found our purpose in life. It’s not to market widgets in a cluttered cubicle all day. It’s not standing in a sterile lab, pouring liquids from one vial into another vial until science happens. It’s being the stupidest, loudest, worst mockery of a musical act to ever technically hold a national record. This is where I should also mention that we are going to dress up like sasquatches on stage, and instead of singing we are going to make monkey whoops and bang trees together, the way real sasquatches communicate.

“The lyrics…*sniff*…they are so beautiful. It’s like Quantum Sasquatch knows exactly how hard it is to be middle-class, white, and attractive.”

All that stands in the way of us reaching obsolete fame and archaic glory is the fact that we need a record deal. Nothing fancy. We don’t expect to sip bubbly with Bono or swap age-defying tips with Madonna, but we do need distribution into stores that are affiliated with Soundscan, the music industry’s official album counter. So, we’re looking for a tiny label willing to press a limited run of cassettes, maybe around 20, just in case N*Sync sells an unusual amount this year. And then those cassettes need to be shipped to some remote truck stop where we will purchase them as Christmas gifts for 20 of our closest and most polite friends, who will feel obligated to tell us something vaguely nice, like "If this were the 80's, I would totally use this cassette to scare animals out of my garden."

But why stop there? Having the highest selling cassette single will not be enough. We will embark on a national tour, where we will play at bigfoot conferences (which are actual things) and be pursued by beautiful bigfoot groupies (not actual things). And then when the scientific bigfoot community, after years of careful observation and blissful denial of the evidence, figures out that we are not actual sasquatches playing melodic deathmetal they will banish us from their festivals where we will land on basic cable as a Saturday morning kids' show. The ratings will be great until one of us gets arrested (probably Art), and then we will languish in obscurity for a couple of decades until we become retro-hip again.

I have seen my destiny clear as day. And although I haven’t quite taken the first step down that path yet – I’m waiting for that record deal to fall in my lap first – I can still dream of the glory days ahead of me. I can also start Photoshopping our album art while at work.

 Be afraid, N*Sync! Be very afraid!

Things That Burn My Biscuits: Business Attire Edition

Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a fan of dressing up in business attire. ­I guess I don’t mind for special occasions like church services, weddings, or probation meetings, but on a typical day I just don’t see the point. I work in a tiny cubicle in a tiny office, and only a handful of people see me each day, none of which are customers. As a marketing professional, I sit quietly at my desk and market things/write silly blogs, so why am I dressed like a bar mitzvah is about to break out?

If it were up to me I would wear jeans and a t-shirt every day of my life, because having to wear business attire is a terrible crime against comfort the likes of which The Mongols would have enforced if it weren't easier to just burn entire cities. The reasons for this are many-fold, and I am about to go into excruciating detail. And while I’m typing this I am currently wearing slacks, a collared shirt, and a tie, so I can guarantee that my trivial rage will be fresh. These burned biscuits are straight from the oven. Enjoy!

The Pants

Dress pants come in a variety of shapes, colors, and materials, but they all have one thing in common – they were tailored by the devil to maximize discomfort. The waist bands of most slacks were designed to rest on top of your hips, if your hips started somewhere in the middle of your sternum. Adding to the discomfort is the fact that you are required, by society, to tuck two shirts (under and outer) into this waistband. And then you’ve still got your underwear all up in the mix. You know how a butterfly flapping its wings is said to cause a hurricane somewhere on the other side of the world? Well now that all of your main articles of clothing converge at your pants’ waist band, moving your arms can create a ripple effect resulting in a wedgie in your southern hemisphere.

And then there are the pockets. Ninety-seven percent of all dress pant pocket openings are cut diagonally at an angle carefully measured by Beelzebub to evacuate all your belongings as soon as you sit down. Because if there’s one thing Ol’ Scratch delights in, it's making you lose your quarters for the Coke machine.

  

 “WHERE ARE MY QUARTERS??!!….

There. Will. Be. Blood!”

The Tie

Wearing a tie is much like being constantly strangled by a little old lady with arthritis. It won’t restrict your breathing, but you’ll certainly notice it.

“Funny…I don’t remember putting a tie on this morning…”

If a golden formula for tying a tie the correct length exists, I am not privy to it. I’d say on average it takes me 1,713 attempts before the small strand does not exceed the big strand, or the big strand does not exceed my knees. On the rare occasion that I get it right on the first try, the heavens part, a single ray of sunlight shines directly on my chest, and a choir of angels sing Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus. That’s when I know it’s going to be a good day.

  

The Socks and Shoes

Dress socks come up comically high on your leg, which I guess they have to, because many dress pant legs recede like the tide before a tsunami when you sit down. If the socks came up any higher, they would have to be reclassified as panty hose. At best, when I wear them, I feel like a kid at an early 80’s summer camp.

The marketing firm of Finkelstein & Nehisock

Dress shoes come in two different comfort categories – Vietnamese Rice Field Sandals and Dutch Wooden Clogs. And for the women there’s Chinese Foot Binding. I wore slip-on street shoes to work the other day, because I ran out of black dress socks and wearing white ankle socks would have looked ridiculous, and it felt like I was walking on clouds. There was just something about wearing comfortable shoes out of context that made it feel so much better. Of course my boss immediately noticed, because he notices if I don’t shave or if there is a wrinkle in my shirt (there is always a wrinkle in my shirt). But for that one day, I felt like Mr. Rogers would have felt had he ever put on his Keds before going to work.

"9 a.m and I'm wearing tennis shoes? I'm feeling saucy!"

Bonus Gripe: Casual Day

Bosses know good and well that their employees hate dressing up for work every day, and they exploit it by offering casual days as a prize for superb performance (this does not include my boss, who wouldn't offer a casual day if I lost my clothes in a fire). It just feels like being a little kid and receiving a gold star. It’s so patronizing. But don’t get me wrong – I would still throw you under a metaphorical and physical bus if I thought it would result in me being able to wear a t-shirt to work. I just don’t like comfort being harnessed as a weapon, or, as the boss sees it, being used as a motivator. “Congratulations! You have earned the right to be comfortable!” Gee. Thanks. Prisoners may lead a rough life, but you can’t argue that at least their wardrobe looks comfy.

“I killed my co-worker when I lost my soda quarters.

And then I was sentenced to 20 years of casual Fridays.”

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

So now that you've read 900 words of me complaining, let me say that I, of course, am grateful to have a job, and that I know it could be much, much worse. I realize some dress standards have to be present, or else the office would descend into a stained-pajama-and-inappropriate-slogan-shirt fiasco. But if I can't vent my pathetic and frivolous frustrations to the internet, who can I turn to? So thanks, Internet, for being an attentive ear. Let me return the favor by stating your least favorite dress code in the comments. Let it out, Internet. Let it out.

For more steaming piles of insignificant vitriol, read The Holiday Edition and the Public Bathroom Edition.

The Dark Nate Rises

This is the thrilling conclusion to the epic Unemployed Superhero trilogy. You can read Natman Begins here, and The Dark Nate here.

“Birmingham doesn't need you any more, Nate.” I groggily awaken and raise my head to meet inches from Mr. Toodles' beady, dead eyes. I'm not sure why all my sanity breaks involve him, but I've come to consider the plush bugger as a sidekick. “And why are you only wearing underpants and a bedsheet tied around your neck?”

“I don't know, Mr. Toodles. Why are you a talking Pillow Pet? The world is full of questions.”

“For the last time, Mr. Toodles. My name isn't Nate! It's Natman. And it's not a bedsheet! It's a fancy tablecloth.” Mr. Toodles' gaze is unmoving. “Look, you know I can't afford a real superhero costume.” I'm standing up now, with Mr. Toodles at an unfortunate underpants level as I continue. “Have you seen the price per yard on flame-retardant polyurethane silk blends? You can't just buy that stuff in the fabric section of Wal-Mart.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you!” Mr. Toodles' thick British accent always makes him sound huffy. “You're not a 'super hero' anymore.” I notice he did some odd motion with his stubby little flippers while he spoke.

“Air quotes, Mr. Toodles? How chaaaahmin'.” I do my best to mimic Mr. Toodles' accent, but it comes out sounding Jamaican. I realize that all my fake accents sound Jamaican, and I start practicing the word 'charming' over and over under my breath. Mr. Toodles sighs deeply, but obliges. Several minutes pass.

“Still Jamaican,” he huffs. “And now, let's get back to the matter at hand.” I stare quizzically at Mr. Toodles. “You know....” he continues, “the fact that you're not unemployed anymore, and that you've moved to a new state?” I cradle my chin with my index finger and thumb to accentuate that I am in deep thought. “I am in deep thought,” I proclaim to further accentuate that I am in deep thought. I'm not sure Mr. Toodles was getting the picture here, and I really wanted to drive that point home.

“Focus, Nathan!” he shouts as he slaps me across the face with his stuffed flipper. It feels like a breeze caressing me with clouds, but I play nice and throw my head in the direction of his aggression. Mr. Toodles is very sensitive about his cuddliness. “You've moved all your belongings and left most of your friends to work as a marketing manager at a realty group in Atlanta! In fact, you've been in Atlanta for about two months now!”

Stunned, I look around the room and realize that I am not in my Birmingham apartment. I sink onto the bed next to Mr. Toodles, and he unlatches himself and sprawls onto his back. I accept his offer and rest my head on his cottony stomach as I try to piece everything together. “Bu- but why would I do that? Birmingham is all I've known the past eight years. Who will be her protector? Who will slink in the shadows and impede the progress of villainy?”

“Birmingham doesn't need an unemployed lunatic running around in uncomfortably short underpants,” Mr. Toodles asserts.

“Oh, no they are quite comfortable,” I retort. “They're very thin, so they really breathe.”

“That's not what I meant!” Mr. Toodles is growing more agitated, only serving to make him look more adorable. I work very hard not to reach out and and gently stroke his head. “Nate,” he continues, “you left Birmingham because you needed something different. And now you have your own apartment and a new job. You wanted change and you found it!”

I sit up and face Mr. Toodles again, still confused. “That doesn't sound like me. I hate change! One time a homeless man came up to me on the street and asked me for change, and just hearing the word caused me to curl up in the fetal position and start crying.”

“Yes, I remember that,” Mr. Toodles sighed. “He felt so bad for you he gave you a dollar.”

“So why, then, did I abandon Birmingham? The city needs me!”

Mr. Toodles latches himself back up, and I can tell he is choosing his words carefully. I impatiently wait for his answer. “Because...” his dark eyes flit around the room nervously until, suddenly, his face lights up. “Because your old roommate, Zach, has taken up your mantle as the city's protector!”

“You mean Zobin the Bearded Wonder!?” I exclaim like a little girl on Christmas morning.

Mr. Toodles sighs. He sure does sigh a lot when we talk. “Yes, Zach- I mean, Zobin is keeping a watchful eye on the city so that you can be a productive citizen of Atlanta by holding a full-time job that requires you to wear pants.”

I excitedly stand and pace the room, finally connecting all the dots and remembering my path to Atlanta. I spill out into the parking lot and see that I am in the shadows of highrises as the bustle of city traffic fills my ears. Mr. Toodles waddles outside and stops at my feet. “This is great, Mr. Toodles!” I shout, ignoring the horrified stares of my neighbors.

“Now you've got it!” he replies. “Now you're back on track!”

“Yes,” I agree. “A new city and a new life. There's lots of exploring to do, Toodles ol' pal!” He looks up at me, his eyes squinting and the corners of his beak ever so slightly fading downward as if he was waiting for another sentence. “And lots of villains to catch!” I finish.

“Nate, you've missed the point!” It's too late. I've taken off running down the street with my cape flapping in the wind, undulating like a wave of justice. “You're going to miss work!” he yells desperately.

I pretend I can't hear him. “I can't hear you saying I'll miss work!” My words echo as I duck down a back alley and run straight into a homeless man scrounging through a dumpster. His wrinkled face sours as he looks me over. "Oh, don't worry. I was just talking to my Pillow Pet. He wants me to go to work today, but clearly I have more important things to do." The man silently hands me a dollar and pats me on the shoulder before taking a bite out of a discarded, moldy bagel.

Some things will never change.

Atlanta. She is my city, and I her protector.

The Forgotten 90's

Today we are going to take a test. Everyone please pull out a sheet of paper from your crazy Trapper Keeper with 3D shapes if you are a boy, or your Lisa Frank unicorn folder if you are a girl. Also, please only use a number 2 sharpened Yikes! pencil. Now, let's begin...

Trick question! The test is already over. If you read the above paragraph and had no idea what I was talking about, you were not a child of the 90's, and you have failed. But that's okay. Not everyone was meant to be raised in history's most glorious era.

Glory.

I read an article a while back that got me thinking about all the pop culture from the 90's that often gets looked over or forgotten today. Some things have staying power, and some things just don't. My perception of 90's pop culture is admittedly skewed, since I was but a wee lad during most of the decade. For instance, I was bewildered when I learned as an adult that the 1994 movie Little Big League was a box office bomb, because when 8-year-old-me went to see it in theaters with my dad it felt like a big deal. It could have been Star Wars for all I knew, because I didn't have the full cognizance to understand it's impact outside of my small group of baseball-loving 3^rd grade friends. So here are a few things I think back on from the 90's and go “Hey, remember that?” to which the collective seems to reply, “No, not really.”

Crossfire

I wanted this board game so badly as a kid, thanks in large part to this commercial which played between every early 90's Nickelodeon show. I dare you to watch it without weeping at the realization that your life will never be as cool as the kid's in the leather jacket. (I am prepared to triple dog dare you, but I sincerely hope it doesn't come to that.)

If you were too scared or unable (scared) to watch the commercial, it features two kids gliding on hoverboards into a futuristic arena filled with cheering crowds and lightning for a deathmatch while Kenny Freakin' Loggins or a Kenny Freakin' Loggins impersonator wails “Crossfiiiyyyaaaaaaahh!” The actual board game consists of shooting ball bearings at a cog to move it into your opponent's goal, but really the game could have been anything. It could have been a brick you smash your own face with and I still would've begged my parents for it. “Mom, can we please go to the store and get the game where I smash my own face with a brick? Have you even seeeeeen the commercial?”

I have never stumbled upon this game at any thrift store, which means they either didn't sell many copies of it originally (but really, go watch that commercial again) or, the more probable answer, all the ball bearings were immediately lost the same day the game was purchased by begrudging parents and given to their hyper-active and careless kids. Because, looking back with all the acuity of an adult, that's exactly what I would have done.

Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute

Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute (not to be confused with Zandar, Master of That Thing Where You Thump Your Cheeks While You Open Your Mouth) sold his inspirational rendition of classic melodies on vinyl, cassette, or compact disc through commercials which ran at all hours of the day on every channel broadcast in America for what felt like twenty years during the 90's. There was no escaping these commercials. Even as a kid I was sick of them, and I had an incredibly high tolerance for crap back then. The US has a policy of not negotiating with terrorists, but I imagine President Clinton finally gave Zamfir a few million dollars and told him to move to Canada and never return, because I have not heard a single note from Zamfir's pan flute in many years. But wherever Zamfir is today, probably in some small, icy town like Sasquatchatoon or Moose Butt, he can take solace in knowing that at least one man bought his albums – my father.

Wish Kid/ProStars

Saturday Morning Cartoons reached their Golden Age in the 90's. Everybody remembers the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Tiny Toon Adventures, and Garfield (my personal favorite), but for the longest time I had slight recollections of a cartoon where Macaulay Culkin would slap his baseball mitt three times to make Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky, and Bo Jackson magically appear and save the day with their athletic skill and ingenuity. I brought this cartoon up a few times to people in my general age group, and all I ever got was blank faces and the usual questions as to who I was, how I got into their office building, and why I had interrupted their meeting with trivial nonsense.

“But before security gets here, seriously no one remembers? Culkin? Jordan?...”

It turns out I had remembered it incorrectly. I finally did the internet research, and in my head I had combined two cartoons into one. Wish Kid was the cartoon that starred Culkin as a kid that got wishes from his magical glove, and ProStars was the cartoon that had Jordan, Gretzky, and Jackson battling crime with comically inefficient sports equipment. Both series began in 1991, and both only lasted 13 episodes. I think now is the right timing for gritty live-action reboots starring Kobe Bryant, Tiger Woods, Brett Favre, and Haggard Macaulay Culkin to be aired on HBO long after your children have gone to sleep.

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So what do you remember from the 90's that others have largely forgotten? What didn't quite stick in America's nostalgic mind the way you thought it should have?  These things must be documented. We can't afford to forget the things that subtly shaped us or we risk losing sight of who we were and who we wanted to become.

This kid is the only reason I want to be successful in life.

.....

I'll show him.

Tubular (Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals)

I've decided that I'm going to be an Olympian.

“But Nathan,” you're probably saying to yourself under your breath, “there isn't an Olympic sport that suits your failing joints and outright contempt for practice or dedication.”

“Shut your face!” I am definitely yelling to a random, confused person who happens to be standing nearest me as you read this. “I know that, and I'm petitioning the International Olympic Committee for the inclusion of a new sport more tailored to my unique lack-of-talents and apathy!”

I, of course, am yelling about the “sport” of tubing, or sitting on an inflatable device and letting the current take you wherever the current wants. It combines two of my favorite things – being abhorrently lazy and floating while being abhorrently lazy. I'm not really sure how a winner would be chosen, since making it into a race would defeat the essence of the sport, so maybe there will be style judges like in ice skating.

"Just look at those slouched shoulders, slack jaw, and vacant stare. The judges have deliberated. Tens across the board!"

I went for a tubing test run last weekend. Meredith and I had been looking for a new place to try, and I had heard about Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals near Montevallo. A quick internet search revealed that they did not have a website, which should have tipped us off. After a drive deep into the boonies of Bibb County, we found that Limestone Park is not a state or city funded leisure refuge as I had assumed, but some guy's land with several dozen freight truck tire tubes. The office looks like an outhouse, and the man in charge seemed less than thrilled to be dealing with city slickers. Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals is a decidedly small and amusingly Southern operation, and it is my hope that by typing Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals enough in this blog that I will be the first search engine result so that I can demand the owners give me a kickback in exchange for a favorable review. BWAHAHAHAHA! (Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals)

We met up with Janna and Canella, picked our tubes, and hopped in the back of the "shuttle" to head upriver.

"Don't worry. We've wrecked the shuttle twice, but only one of those resulted in any customer deaths."

After a short ride through some pastures, we climbed out of the shuttle and down the river embankment. We cast our tubes into the cool water, but I was literally confused as to which direction was downriver. There was no current to speak of, and if we had not started paddling we would still be at the launch site having Deliverance nightmares.

Despite having to paddle, it was a fun trip. It was over 100 degrees that day, so the water was relaxing as we floated and talked. The smooth stretch of river was broken up by five sets of rapids that were actually drops just big enough to hurl you butt-first into rocks. I found that the best way to tackle these rapids was to straighten out perfectly flat, what I like to call the "Emery Board Sitting on a Donut Method". Every true Olympian has their signature technique I suppose.

The river led us past scenic Alabama backwoods, beautiful rising bluffs, and 1,000 Coors Light cans. There are signs all over the place about not bringing alcohol on the trip, but clearly many people have disregarded these signs, and in a show of defiance have discarded their empty cans onto low hanging limbs so that a couple of trees look like it naturally bears blissful alcoholic fruit that shines in the sun. The river also led us through some cow farms, the stench of which hits our nostrils like a methane orchestra. The animals all seemed indifferent to our presence, though.

"You realize you're floating in my toilet right now, don't you?"

It took almost three hours to reach our cars. It would've taken an Ivy League rowing team to complete the trip in the operator's estimated two hours, but maybe the river was just unusually slow that day. Wanting to cap off our Southern adventure with a delicious Southern meal, I suggested we have lunch at a random dive restaurant in a nearby town. We turned to Yelp, found some place called Tin Top, and decided that with a name like that it would probably not be fine dining.

We were not disappointed.

The cashier at Tin Top was kind of surly. She was also the cook, and there was a line, so I can see where her frustrations would come from. After taking an order, she would grab a hunk of meat and hack at it wildly with a cleaver, like an angry Swedish Chef or a normal Jeffrey Dahmer. The food, unfortunately, was not delicious. The chopped pork I ordered was all connected by a system of fat, so that when I picked up one small piece of meat the entire sandwich followed in a glob.

Basically I had a rat king sandwich.

We made the hour drive home, and I immediately took a shower to wash the Cahaba River off of me and then fell asleep. It may seem like I've been complaining in this post, but really I had a great day. I enjoy Alabama's nuances, and it was nice to get out into nature and spend time with friends. Also, it was good experience for my new goal in life. After all, the Chinese aren't going to beat themselves.

 The US Olympic Tubing Team - Rio de Jeneiro 2016

(Limestone Park Canoe and Tube Rentals)

Creep for the Stars

I'd like to preface this blog post by stating that I swear I'm not a creeper. Actually, no, that's exactly what a creeper would say. I'm going to use reverse-psychology and state that I definitely am a creeper.

*overt winky face*

*elbow nudge*

* serious face *

Now that my character and motives are no longer in question, let me start at the beginning of how my friend and I came to design Creep for the Stars - The World's First Stalker-Themed Board Game™ (patent pending, illegal in several regions including Hawaii, Alaska, and all contiguous U.S. states). Really it was the confluence of two powerful forces. Much like how the White Nile and the Blue Nile merge to become the mighty Nile - source of life for millions of plants, animals, and people - Creep for the Stars was born of an inside joke and a board game for preschoolers that would become a source of mild amusement and awkwardness for my immediate social group. I am in the midst of setting up business meetings with some respectable board game manufacturers, however, so people all over the world will soon be able to experience that very same oddly enjoyable queasiness!

The backstory: Many of my friends are from my church group - single men and women from the ages of 18 - 30. I and several of my male friends are in the upper half of this age range, especially since the actual ages skew younger and girlier. It became a running joke that we were creepy old men. A few of us ran with this joke and would find it amusing to “creep” on our friends. (We are almost certain they get the joke, and we are also almost certain we are joking.) We even adopted monikers – my friend Derek was the Argyle Creeper, named after his penchant for argyle socks, and I was Creepy Longstalkings, which in no way indicates the fashion of my footwear. Our victim of choice was Hannah, an easy-going freshman with a similarly odd sense of humor whose dorm room at BYU-Idaho I am currently sitting outside of while typing this blog. (Hannah, if you're reading this, I like your new desk lamp!)

So the creeper vibe was already going when my friend Meredith thought it would be fun to get a group and play an old board game for preschoolers called Reach for the Stars. In it you draw cards and have to do tasks like hugging people and whispering compliments into their ear. I'm sure it's adorable when four-year-olds do that, but with a bunch of twenty-somethings, it just felt...awkward. It was designed to build self-esteem, but Derek and I realized its true potential to tear that self-esteem down. All it needed was a few modifications. We told our idea to some friends, got surprisingly positive feedback, and then met at a Barnes & Noble to hash out the basic premise of our new game while dozens of confused cafe patrons presumably debated calling the police.

Some people just like to watch the world burn.

Each character in Creep for the Stars represents a stalker that has broken out of jail. The stalker's goal is to reach Creep Nirvana without getting caught and sent back to prison. Players roll a die and move around different sections of the board – a park, the mall, a university - while drawing cards. Many of the cards have creeper tasks written on them to be kept secret and then performed at a later time, preferably when the victim least expects it. The goal in performing the task is to creep your target out, and if you do you get an extra die roll and become closer to obtaining Creep Nirvana. The tasks are things that might be tried at a bus stop by that homeless man you thought was asleep. For example, one card states “Give target player a forward-facing shoulder massage.” Another says “Breathe down target player's neck”. One of my favorite cards, and one of the most successful during the course of play, is “Rub target player's earlobe.” These things may not seem all that weird while reading them, but the game can be a bit chaotic, and it's easy to forget to keep your guard up while you're playing. If you're not convinced, the next time you're standing around some friends just casually reach over and start gently caressing one of their ears and see what their reaction is. If it's a quick shudder and a verbal threat, my point has been proven. If it's purring noises and a reciprocal ear massage, you are now considered to be courting by many Amazonian tribes.

There are other types of cards to draw. Some make you move backwards (“You fell out of your peepin' tree and broke your night vision goggles. Move back three spaces”) and some give you the power to place a restraining order on another player, which impedes their progress and could ultimately land them back in the slammer. There are also cards that call for a “Creep-Off”. When this is drawn, the player picks his opponent for a duel, where instead of taking paces away from each other and then firing guns you're taking paces toward each other and then firing inappropriate pick-up lines. It usually ends up nose to nose, and I've seen contestants just about break down. Like when Derek waited patiently for Jared, an inch away, to open his mouth...so he could blow into it. As far as I know the two are still friends, but I have a feeling Jared is secretly plotting Derek's demise by some sort of demeaning, awkward blaze of ignominy.

"How does it feel, Derek? HOW DOES IT FEEL!?"

Creep for the Stars is only limited in absurdity by its players. It could easily get out of hand, because it's a silly game with ill-defined rules about stalking. But generally I've found it to run smoothly, although I've only played it within my group of friends. And clearly I have disturbed friends, because, after explaining the game thoroughly to them, they still want to play. And then after they've played the game and someone has given them a dry willie and then someone else has had a conversation with them through a dirty sock puppet, they want to play again. We've play-tested several times so far, most recently about a week ago when we had about a dozen stalkers.

My friend Lily designed the board, and I am currently suing her for libel and using my likeness without my permission.

So, America, are you ready for a board game that makes light of a terrorizing and illegal activity? Well, you better be, because when you wake up tomorrow morning you're going to find it tied to your dog.

Your move, Parker Brothers!  

Things That Burn My Biscuits: Public Bathroom Edition

I feel tense. A familiar pressure rumbles in my bowels. No, it's not the fact that I just ate a hamburger from Waffle House and then half my weight in donut holes .Well, it's kind of that. But it's also that I haven't vented all of the minor, irrational frustrations that every day life has to offer me. I've just let them fester and swell, and now I'm all bloaty and cranky. So you, unfortunate reader, are about to be on the receiving end of a trivial crapstorm I like to call Things That Burn My Biscuits. And in keeping with this paragraph's uncomfortable allusions, this will be the Public Bathroom Edition.

A good public restroom should do three basic things: 1) Allow you to relieve bodily waste, 2) Minimize awkwardness, and 3) Not give you the ebola virus. Sometimes it's very easy to guess when a public restroom is not going to fulfill some or all of these requirements before going in. For example, if you have to request a special key from the Circle K cashier, and it's attached to a hubcap, you can reasonably guess that you are about to stumble upon an active heroin den with an out-of-order commode. If you're lucky you will be mugged for the hubcap before you accidentally become witness to more heinous crimes.

But at least you know what you're getting into before hand. My complaints have to do with respectable establishments who enjoy punishing you for ordering that venti at Starbucks knowing good and well you wouldn't be home for another three hours. They purposefully ignore the Three Basic Public Bathroom Requirements (I just made that a thing. Let's push this amendment through Congress). These elements are the biggest perpetrators:

The Stall Doors

If you pick a random bathroom and take a survey of the stall doors, 4 out of every 5 of them will not close because the door exceeds the frame. However, that last randomly selected door will not properly close because the frame exceeds the door, forcing the occupant to make intermittent eye contact with the mirror images of everyone using the sinks. If you do find a door that is properly measured (statistically, you have a better chance of finding an albino sasquatch), the sliding lock will be approximately four inches higher than the catch.

Holy crap! It's an albino sasqu-...oh wait, that's just Gregg Allman.

How hard is it to correctly measure and install a door? I mean, I could probably never do it, which is why no smart person would ever pay me to do so. But someone's job was to install that door, and they took a look at it afterward and thought, “No one should have given me tools. I am bad at my job. Hey look, breaktime!”

The Entrance

Some public restrooms don't even wait until you get in the door before they make you regret your body's stupid natural processes. Some bathrooms don't utilize a courtesy wall. This is a wall that greets you immediately upon entering that you have to walk around to get to the actual bathroom, thus blocking the view of everyone walking by as someone else opens the door. And people look when doors open. “What's behind that door currently opening?” everyone wonders. “Is it a secret room with a chocolate syrup pool? Is it a room filled with wall-to-wall trampolines? Gosh, I hope it's a room filled with wall-to-wall trampolines.” All of these thoughts take a split second. That's just long enough for someone to glance over and see an old man at a urinal who may or may not be smiling at them. The only way I know to assure privacy in this type of bathroom is to strike up an agreement with everyone else in the restroom that no one else leaves or opens the door, and if anyone tries to come in they are to be attacked ferociously with whatever bathroom utensil can best be wielded for bludgeoning. Basically, I am advocating holding hostages and using violence, because that's how much I like my privacy.

Have you ever beaten someone unconscious in a grocery store bathroom with a toilet brush?

Uhhhh....me either. Just, um, forget I asked.

The Faucets

So you've done your business and now you're ready to wash your hands, or at the very least run water over them to give others the appearance that you are not a disgusting wildebeest teaming with contagions. But alas, the faucet spout only extends beyond the frame of the sink by a couple of centimeters, causing you to contort your hands, trying to get every inch of them under the stream. Why?! Why is the water trickling down the back of the sink!? Because the same guy who installed the stall doors also installed the faucet, probably.

This man. This is the man I blame.

I like for there to be plenty of room for my hands when I'm washing them. Ideally I'd be standing in the middle of a large meadow with an isolated stream of water flowing miraculously down from the heavens. I'd flail my arms around wildly while sarcastically exclaiming “WHERE'S THE BACK OF THE SINK NOW, HUH?” Sadly, this is not a valid option while using a public restroom, nor is it even a sane desire. I would settle for a faucet that extended no less than three inches from the sink wall.

Runner up in this category belongs to the sinks at most Wal-Marts. They are fine sinks, with the faucets providing adequate hand washing room. The problem is that they are motion sensored, but to trigger them you have to stick your hands past the faucet spout. The water promptly sprays your wrists, and the instant you try to move your hands back into the stream, the sensors turn off and the water stops. This results in about 5 minutes of me trying to be quicker than the faucet before I give up and rinse my hands with my own bitter tears of rage.

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Whew! I feel much better now. Thanks for letting me vent for a moment. I'm really not this petty in person, I promise. And if you've ever been in a store and opened a bathroom door only to have me threaten you with a plunger or thrown Ajax cleaner in your eyes, I'm very sorry. It's just that public bathrooms make me a little crazy sometimes. I'm sure you understand.