The Call of the Void

I set sail in Blues Traveler on a Friday afternoon for the distant shores of Lake Michigan. Many people asked me what caused my sudden departure, confused by the fact that I was being associated with words like “sudden” and “departure”. As many of my close friends know, I am about as well traveled as a sequoia and only half as spontaneous. But as many of my close friends don’t know, once every 28 years I have the urge for adventure - a biological mystery manifest by compulsory travel north like the noble salmon - and Chicago seemed as good of a place as any to drop my eggs and die.

Frankly, this doesn't look as appealing as everybody makes it out to be...

But seriously, I was sick of Atlanta and sick of the grind and just wanted something new for a weekend. And if the FBI is reading this, my trip was in no way related to your investigation of an underground kitten fight club in the vicinity of my garage. Those kittens chose a life of violence, and the last time I checked cheering was not a crime.

Mis – ter Socks! Mis – ter Socks!

The drive was long, tedious, and infinitely more enjoyable than any stupid webinar I would have been on back at the office. A solid, thin sheet of snow covered the ground from mid-Kentucky up. It was a dull blur in the dark, but almost glowed in the interstate overpass lights to welcome me into new climes. I finally arrived in Chicago around 2am, dropped off my bags in my hotel room, and then wandered the streets for a bit, where I quickly discovered through my superior powers of observation that it was 10 degrees outside and that I was dressed for Miami. I basked in the city for as long as I could and then took refuge in my hotel until morning.

The next day I met my friend Sarah for lunch at Lou Malnati’s, one of Chicago’s most acclaimed pizza joints and not-so-subtle front for the Illuminati. Sarah helped me work out a game plan for the weekend, as I pretty much just showed up as a reverse carpetbagger with nothing but a bindle and the dream of eating deep dish pizza. As we dined it started snowing heavily, and I watched through the pane glass walls as Chicagoans couldn’t be bothered to care. It’s like they didn’t even notice. It was all I could do to keep the snow-panicked Southerner in me from grabbing a megaphone, jumping on a nearby bench, and exclaiming “DEAR OBLIVIOUS YANKEES, IT IS SNOWING! I REPEAT: IT IS SNOWING! PLEASE RUN FRANTICALLY HOME, SHUTTER YOUR WINDOWS, AND IF ANYONE KNOCKS ON YOUR DOOR DON’T ANSWER. IT’S A YETI, AND IT’S THERE TO CONSUME YOUR CHILDREN!”

 "Just a reminder, yetis will not attack those in possession of a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk..."

Afterwards the plan was for Sarah to drop me off at Millenium Park where I was to wander around and take dozens of pictures like some big out-of-town goon before using my iPhone’s map to find a bus to take me back to my hotel. Instead what happened was Sarah dropped me off at Millenium Park, I took three photos, my phone instantly shut down due to the bitter cold, and I walked around Chicago lost like some big out-of-town goon. This was a constant issue while I was there. Any time my phone was out of my pocket for longer than 30 seconds I swear Siri would shout, “Nope, I’m outta here! Hope you die in the cold, sucka!” and maliciously switch herself off. I genuinely have no idea how Northerners communicate 50% of the year.

I developed a plan for my long, frigid treks while I was there – find a Starbucks, order a coffee, pour it down my pants, walk until hypothermia starts to set in, repeat. I may have substituted hot chocolate for coffee and my face for my pants, but the concept is the same.

I finally made it back to my hotel and loaded my bags. I had reserved a room at a hostel in Wicker Park for the following two nights. I wasn’t really sure what staying at a hostel would be like, but it felt like having a slumber party at a community college frat house. That night I took the L train back into the city to explore Navy Pier and look out over Lake Michigan. The surface was frozen for as far out as I could see, a serene white expanse that bade me walk. Luckily my common sense took over and bade me live. The following morning I went to the YSA ward before checking out the prestigious Field Museum. I was relieved to find out it was not a collection of dirt samples from various meadows and grasslands, but was instead a sprawling complex with thousands of ancient artifacts from all over the world. Perhaps their most famous exhibit is the world’s largest T-rex skeleton, Sue. Although certainly big and capable of eating me like a Snickers bar, Sue did not live up to the preconceived notions that television and movies had given me about the size of dinosaurs. It’s almost like movies have skewed my expectations and sense of reality.

Sue and I, moments before she disappointingly did not reanimate and run amok through the city.

After the Field Museum I went to the Shedd Aquarium. As with any animal exhibit, I spent most of my time wondering what the displays would taste like and concluded that most of the animals would fall on a spectrum of “delicious” to “very delicious”. I left before I could end up in the headline Hillbilly Goes Noodling for Rare Amazonian Catfish, Calls it ‘Almost as Tasty as Captain D’s’.

My final morning in Chicagoland was spent at Willis Tower, the second tallest building in the United States and the first tallest building formerly called Sears Tower. They took me up to the 103^rd floor to a fantastic view, and they have a few glass-floor alcoves where you can live your nightmares by stepping out and visualizing your death 1,300 feet below. It’s hard not to think ‘what if I jumped?’ when up that high – not from a dark perspective, but from a purely inquisitive daydream. I don’t think I’m the only one who has these compulsions, because the French have a term for it - l’appel du vide, or ‘the call of the void’. I spent quite a while up on the 103^rd floor just soaking up the city and thinking. I was happy to be there, happy to be experiencing something new and to be taking steps outside myself.  Maybe the void isn’t the pavement on Wacker Drive in downtown Chicago, but maybe it is Chicago. Or Taiwan. Or Abu Dhabi. Maybe it’s just the compulsion for the unknown, and maybe I had already answered the call when I drove 12 hours north for the weekend by myself. 

Or maybe, as most people told me when I got back, I’m an idiot who drove straight into the coldest Northern winter in recent memory instead of driving to Miami and getting a tan.

Little bit of Column 'A', little bit of number 2.

How to Raise a Baby (and Possibly a Despot)

If there is one thing women ask me, it’s “Nathan, how do I raise my baby?” To which I reply “Oh, crap! It’s not mine is it!?” To which they reply, “If you had even the most basic understanding of human reproduction and recalled the limitations of our friendship, you would know that isn’t a possibility.”

First of all, I don’t know what you’re talking about. We tooootally high fived.
And second, did that mean nothing to you!?

So I haven’t actually raised any babies myself, but I feel pretty confident in playing armchair quarterback on this one. I mean, I was a baby once, and according to those Polaroids I was adorable and blurry. Also, I’ve Photoshopped a diploma that says I hold a doctorate in Early Childhood Development and Fascist Studies. (It was a dual degree. The fake college I went to was very avant garde.)

Now that my credentials are out of the way, enjoy these excerpts from my latest book, How to Raise a Baby (and Possibly a Despot). Because you can never be sure your spawn isn’t destined to lead a brutal regime.

From Chapter 1 – The First Day

Congratulations, Parent! You have just expelled a baby from your womb! You are now ready to bring that purple little alien back to your house and raise it into a less purple, possibly ruthless human adult. This is day one of an eighteen year endeavor, or even longer if your love for and/or fear of this kid transcends legal obligations. What you do today will set the tone for the rest of your parenthood, so it is important to take the correct first steps. You’ve got to let your baby know up front that you are in charge, otherwise the child may eventually throw a tantrum on you during an inopportune time, like a church service or political cleansing.

Your baby will also be looking for the upper hand, and it will do anything to get it. And I mean anything. Your baby will urinate just…just everywhere. This has something to do with its underdeveloped bladder control muscles, but more to do with a power struggle. Babies, much like dogs, assert their dominance by marking their territory. I suggest that the first thing you do upon bringing your baby home is to mark each corner of their room before they have the opportunity to do the same. I hope it’s not too early in this book to mention that I’m now taking pre-orders for the follow-up guide, Let Your Scent Do the Parenting. Early reviews are already calling it “completely devoid of science”.

From Chapter 7 – Teething

Babies are notorious whiners, and don't even get them started on teething. Traditional science says that babies cry while teething due to the pain of their teeth breaking through their gums. However, my research has found that babies cry while teething purely for vain and selfish reasons. All they've known up until this point in their lives is adorable gumminess, and they see this as the source of their power to make people feed them, bathe them, and cater to their every whim. Now they're being forced to transition to a life of garish horse teeth, which they view as weakness. In order to soothe a fussy baby, I suggest fashioning tiny little baby dentures so they can see that one day a mouth full of teeth will command something more powerful than adorableness – fear.

Wait, no. Respect. One of those two, but definitely not both.

Anyway, in the short run it will greatly aid their efforts to masticate everything they can reasonably fit into their face.

“I believe it’s time for my breastfeeding.”

From Chapter 11 – Socializing your baby with others

Humans, when left alone to freely socialize, inherently fall into a structured hierarchy. The lower levels consist of the feeble-minded, the weak-hearted, and YouTube commenters. The top level consists of brilliant thinkers, decision makers, and tyrannical rulers. It’s important to teach your baby how to properly integrate into playground politics as to become one of the latter.

Again, because your baby is a baby (probably), it lacks the motor skills necessary to vocalize its need for peer companionship/servants, which makes the complex social landscape of the playground even more challenging. However, I believe babies understand more than they are able to acknowledge. In order for your baby to find friends/devotees, you will have to be its mouthpiece.

Hold your baby in front of your face, approach the nearest baby stranger, and start talking in such a way that clearly identifies your baby’s intention to form a friendship/start a revolution.

HELLO, I THINK YOU ARE NICE! DO YOU LIKE PLAYING ON THE SWINGS?
WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS ON NEO-MARXIST POLICIES AS A MEANS TO SUBJUGATE THE PROLETARIAT?

From Chapter 79 – Revolution

If you are as slow of a reader as I am, you should be at this chapter somewhere around your baby’s 18^th birthday. And if it turns out your baby was destined to become a despot, you should be moments away from witnessing your baby’s first political upheaval. Despite your own personal political affiliation, it’s important to be there for your child during this process, if only because dissension is generally a capital offense. You may want to remind your tyrant-in-waiting that coups are hard, and they may not succeed during their first try. If they do indeed fail, probably because the current dictator’s mom also bought this book and applied its principles better than you did, give them a hug and offer to kiss any boo-boos that may have resulted in battle. Just don’t do this in front of their aides. Despots hate that.

But if they do succeed in overthrowing a government and placing themselves on the throne, then congratulations! You have successfully raised a baby (and definitely a despot). You can thank me by suggesting I be appointed to a governmental post with a humble title (Minister of Awesomeness maybe?) and a modest harem.

High five!

Things That Burn My Biscuits: Workplace Interactions

Welcome to another surly edition of Things That Burn My Biscuits, the series in which I expound on all of the small, mostly benign things in life that make me want to start throwing air punches and never stop. “Workplace Interactions” may seem like a very narrow topic, but according to the spreadsheet I made, it has been the cause of 90% of all my trivial rage (the remaining 10% being caused by superfluous spreadsheets). More precisely, if I take the product of my rage (cells A8:A37) and divide it by the triviality of the source (cells H4,I7,J2,K5), I have enough acute pettiness to rage-paint the Sistine Chapel mural on a grain of rice.

I generally get along with my coworkers, but I find much of my day is spent trying to minimize interaction. Either I’m a reclusive, crotchety employee, or you’ll empathize with these selections and validate the temperature of my biscuits. Or maybe we’re both crotchety employees. You decide.

Morning Greetings

Let me start out by saying I do not hate all small talk, and I realize its significance in human interaction. If you are a friend and we are making small talk, chances are I genuinely enjoy our banter and I'm interested in your response, and I am not secretly fantasizing about poking you in the eyes like one of the Three Stooges. But at work I don't feel it is necessary to have a long morning ritual wherein we volley empty greetings, because I see you five times a week. A simple “hello” or “good morning” or some sort of throat clearing grunt/mumble hybrid are all perfectly acceptable as an acknowledgment that yes, I am arriving for work and you have spotted me.

My boss is the worst offender of this. Just about every morning we go over the same unnecessary and vacant exchange.

Word. For. Word.

Boss: Good morning, Nate.
Me: Good morning, REDACTED.
Boss: How are you?
Me: I am fine. How are you?
Boss: Lovely, thanks for asking.

Sure, it seems innocuous, but over time the rote recital becomes Chinese water torture. I approached the problem scientifically by altering the variables. I tried changing the subject. Steered back to the greeting. I tried not saying 'how are you'. Sarcastically replies that he is lovely, thanks for asking. I tried replacing 'I am fine' with a less embellished 'ok' or 'alright'. Wants to know why I am not fine. So, what I've learned is that THE GOOD MORNING SCRIPT WILL BE DELIVERED AS WRITTEN AND THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT. Drip, drip, drip.

Others are just naturally excited in the morning and greet me with an exuberance that, frankly, I don't warrant. I'm sure I look and act like I just woke up 5 minutes before I walked in the door, which I did, despite the fact that my commute is 20 minutes long. Still, I muster my most enthusiastic veneer of a response, which comes out as an indecipherable mumblegrunt.

“Good m-unghfdb#phw%!”

Break Room

The break room should be a refuge from the storm, a respite from work and all its responsibilities and everyone who might be a part of those responsibilities. It should be a place free from all thought, where a workman or worklady can silently play mind-numbing iPhone games while enjoying a gas station turkey sandwich. Instead, it is often the room where the moment I wrap my face around said sandwich, a flock of coworkers descend and loudly talk about reports while they use the microwave to heat up last week’s sauerkraut and tuna fish soup.

I always approach the break room stealthily, like a lion stalking a gazelle or a particularly vigilant turkey sandwich. If I so much as hear a rustling of napkins I immediately freeze and then scurry back to my cubicle with my tail between my legs. A few minutes later I will sneak up again, peek one eye around the corner, and, if spotted, proceed to mumble something about a plastic fork, shuffle through some drawers, then go sit in my car. I’m not allowed to eat at my desk, even though its horizontal ledge is perfectly suited for keeping my turkey sandwich from falling on the ground. But that’s a bit of rage for another day.

“Turkpf!vym Sandp&kch”

Office Parties

I’m all for a good time. In fact, my nickname in college was Party Pants, a moniker I gave myself and told absolutely nobody about. But being pressured to kill a precious, precious Saturday night with people you already see too much of during the week does not a party make. Sure, you can skip the event, but you are most certainly being judged. And when it comes time for a raise, you better believe it will show up on your evaluation.

“ZzZzZzzzzz…”

Sales Calls

Sales calls embody everything I dislike about workplace interactions, because they are so disingenuous. Both sides have an unstated but obvious agenda. The salesman wants to talk me into padding his paycheck, and I want to bang my head on my desk until I can no longer hear his voice. But he can’t just say “Hello, would you like to indirectly give me lots of money? I have several addictions to feed at home,” and I just can’t say “I have a Spice Girls song stuck in my head, and I’m going to tune you out until the appropriate time that I can hang up and not be considered an offensive crapweasel.”

Often I am on the other side of that coin, however. I strongly believe in being courteous and helpful when dealing with people. I really do. But I don’t like being forced to be saccharine, such as when I answer my office line “It’s a great day at COMPANY REDACTED!” I don’t feign enthusiasm very well. I’m certain I haven’t tricked anyone into thinking it was a great day, and they might wonder if they’ve actually reached the right company, and they may even question what they previously thought about article adjectives and prepositions.

“If you wanna be my lover, ghb$nz mmg h^jnqew hnnnugn…
zig a zig ahhhhh!”

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

Well, I think I've outdone myself in surliness. Is it too late to state that I consider myself a people person, it's just that I value genuine human exchange and the occasional "me" time? Do you think my biscuits are rightfully burned? If so, I hope we can work together someday. Just, uhhh, don't say good morning to me, stay out of the break room, and don't invite me to any parties. See? I'm easy to get along with!

Bloodlust of the Scarecrows - The Movie

INT. SMALL BLUE CAR – MIDNIGHT

Four friends are driving through rural Southern backroads. They are the only car in sight, and it is pitch black outside. Ominous music plays from somewhere ominously. Maybe one of those songs that’s just a violin bow and a wood saw. It’s raining. Wait, do we have the budget to make it rain?...Oh, we don’t? Ok, I’m sure we can figure something out. Anyways, a handsome man with long hair (preferably played by Zac Efron in a wig) breaks the silence.

NATHAN

Boy, it sure is raining hard on these Southern backroads!

RACHEL

What are you talking about? There’s not a cloud in the s-

NATHAN

Yep, the kind of hard Southern rain that can only be felt in memories, or post-production. Hey Tommy, did you have something to say?

TOMMY

Why yes I did, Nathan. I just wanted to say that we are going to meet our friends at a cabin up in the mountains, but due to some comical misunderstandings, they are not expecting our arrival. Also, we are so far out in the boonies that none of our cell phones have any signal.

NATHAN

Beautifully exposited. Thank you, Tommy.

ELLE

(pointing frantically)

Guys, what’s that up ahead!?

HEADLIGHTS flash across a tall, shadowy figure. NATHAN slams on the brakes, and the car screeches to a halt.

RACHEL

(after a long pause)

That was spooky! There is definitely no need to get out and investigate.

ELLE

Awww, I think it was a puppy! I’m going to rescue it!

TOMMY

Oh, did I not mention this in my exposition earlier? We are driving through Dahlonega, and the locals have a legend that on every 7^th new moon after the 7^th leap year that an army of bloodthirsty scarecrows come to life and feed upon humans’ tender organs like they’re all-you-can-eat dinner rolls at a steakhouse. So, Elle, I don’t think it would be a good idea if- Elle?...Elle!

The trio realize that ELLE is no longer with them. They jump out of the car, and just as a side note to the sound guy, it would be neat if we could add some Scooby-Doo “startled sprint” sound effects. Thanks.

EXT. DAHLONEGA, GEORGIA – MIDNIGHTISH

RACHEL

(turns on flashlight and waves it around)

Elllllllleee!!!! Where are youuuuuuu?

ELLE

I’m right…..here!

The flashlight’s beam falls on something and Nathan, Rachel, and Tommy react.

NATHAN, RACHEL, and TOMMY

Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

ELLE

Classic misdirect! That’s a mailbox. I’m actually over…here!

The flashlight’s beam falls onto something else and the gang reacts again. This keeps happening for 27 minutes, because this script is pretty short and I need to fill some time in order to submit this movie to the festival circuit.

ELLE

…No, that’s a sign post….that’s your car….that’s a clump of grass… that’s your elbow….that’s your own face….that’s your elbow again…Ah, there ya go! It’s me!

RACHEL

Whew! You had us scared for a while, Elle.

ELLE

Sorry, I thought the shadowy figure was a dog. But it turned out to just be this stupid ol’ scarecrow.

The flashlight’s beam falls on a gnarled, worn scarecrow. Its head is a burlap sack and its face is a jumble of jagged seams, stitches, and nightmares.

NATHAN

Elle, that could be one of those murderous Dahlonega scarecrows! Step away from him before it’s too late!

ELLE

Haha! Don’t worry, silly. This scarecrow is a gentleman, without even the faintest idea of cracking your head open like a coconut and garnishing its contents with one of those little toothpick umbrellas. Come closer and see for yours-

Suddenly Elle is plowed through with a pitchfork. Her body drops to reveal TOMMY behind her and grasping the handle.

RACHEL

Whoa! Tommy! Not ok, man! What are you doing?

TOMMY

Hmm? Oh, wait, did I forget to mention that part in my previous expositions? Geez, I’ve really got to keep track of all this information. Anyways, after the scarecrows feast on your organs they stuff your cavities with straw and you reanimate as one of them.

RACHEL

But…but…How did you know Elle was one of…them?

The camera pans down to reveal Elle’s body bursting with straw, like a hay bale through a colander.

TOMMY

Whew! That’s a load off of my mind. I was really taking a chance there. Last time I plowed through somebody’s torso with a pitchfork I was not as lucky. Let me tell you, things got pretty awkward.

NATHAN

We’ve got no time to reminisce about the good ol’ days, Tommy. Look behind you!

The scarecrow that Elle found is now walking towards the gang, and the once blank burlap face now has glowing red eyes. The camera pans out to reveal an army of dozens of evil red-eyed scarecrows cresting a hill in the distance and heading towards them.

NATHAN

Quick, everyone run into this cornfield for shelter!

RACHEL

(excitedly)

Oh good, I love cornfields!

Nathan, Rachel, and Tommy make a mad dash into the dense cornfield and become scattered.

NATHAN

Raaaacheell! Toooommmyy! Where are you guys?

Nathan’s pleas are met with silence. Finally, after another 19 minutes of Nathan yelling to himself in a cornfield to pad the time, another voice is heard in the distance. He runs toward it, but a SCARECROW jumps out in front of him and slashes wildly.

NATHAN

(while flexing)

I’ve had enough of these scarecrows!

Nathan punches the scarecrow right in his hideous scarecrow face. The scarecrow explodes into a puff of hay, seen from multiple angles and in slow motion.

NATHAN

(smugly)

I guess you could say, that was the last…straw!

Nathan whips off his sunglasses - which he had previously not been wearing - for full smug affect. His smugness is interrupted by Rachel’s scream nearby. He runs to her.

NATHAN

Rachel! I found you! Are you okay? Where is Tommy?

RACHEL

I’m fine. Tommy? Oh, he is safe. Just a few cornrows down from here. Here, I’ll take you to him.

NATHAN

(confused)

But, I’ve been calling his name. Why hasn’t he answered?

RACHEL

He’s okay. Trust me. Take my hand, and I’ll lead you to him.

Nathan takes Rachel’s hand, and they start walking. Nathan looks concerned and then suddenly draws back.

NATHAN

You…You’re not Rachel!

RACHEL

(her eyes faintly glow red, and her lips curl into a devilish grin)

What do you mean?

NATHAN

Of course!...It’s all so clear now! Your love of cornfields - the soft, strawlike touch of your hand - the fact that Tommy’s class ring, still attached to his finger, is stuck between your teeth. You…You’re a scarecrow now!

RACHEL

No…not now. I’ve always been a scarecrow!

Rachel’s eyes glow redder as her mouth unhinges. She slowly advances towards Nathan.

Slowly. For 13 minutes. Just as she is about to kill him-

CUT TO:

INT. NATHAN’S BEDROOM – MORNING

Nathan startles awake.

NATHAN

(confused and shaken)

Wha…what happened? I’m in my bed. The scarecrows…it was all a dream! Haha!

Nathan leaps out of bed and runs to the window. He pushes back the curtains to reveal a sunny landscape without a scarecrow to be seen. There is nothing but rows and rows of docile, un-murderous cornstalks.

Which is particularly peculiar, because Nathan lives in Atlanta where there are no cornfields.

FIN

(33 minutes and 27 seconds of credits)