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.”

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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.