My Kingdom by the Sea

I found myself perched peculiarly atop a peninsula of pointy boulders in the Gulf of Mexico armed with only a kayak, a paddle, and my wits - the very same stupid wits that marooned me there in the first place. Maybe I should resign myself to living here, I thought while surveying my rocky, oceany kingdom. Maybe I can be the new lighthouse keeper. Or, since there is no lighthouse, maybe I’ll yell really loudly at boats.

"Hey...Hey boat! Turn around boat! There are rocks! Hey!

.......I'm so lonely."

But first, the beginning of the story. Some friends and I loaded into Blues Traveler on Friday morning and departed for Panama City Beach to spend the weekend at a large Mormon retreat swimming, camping, and significantly lowering the per capita blood alcohol level. It had been two years since I last saw the beach, and I was ready to unleash my paleness like a kraken on the shores of Florida.

“I AM THE DEVOURER OF SUNLIGHT! THERE WILL BE NO SURVIVORS!”

We arrived at our destination late that afternoon, set up our camp at St. Andrews State Park, and then went to a nearby church building for a dance. I had never been to a Mormon dance so far away from home, but it was nice to see that dances, just like the Church, are the same everywhere. I Cupid Shuffle’d with the best of them. I Cha Cha Slide’d my face off. I Cotton Eye Joe’d so hard that the local congregation wrote of my athleticism in sacred scrolls. The song choices might seem perplexing, but Mormons are suckers for line dances. Maybe we like the conformity.

After the dance we returned to St. Andrews State Park and walked the beach before heading to our campsites. I had borrowed a two-person tent from my brother, and it would have been perfect had there not been three of us. I was the last to retire, and not wanting to be the piece of ham in a man-ham sandwich, I opted to sleep outside the way St. Andrews, the Patron Saint of Mosquitoes, intended. I spent the night alternating between being an open bar for bloodsuckers and being completely covered by a blanket to the point where the heat from my body was showing up as suspicious activity on North Korean spy satellites.

The next day was beautiful, and it made up for the terrible night’s sleep. I had a great time throwing frisbee in the surf and walking down the beach with friends. The ocean was pleasant, the sand was fine, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky or enough sunblock in Panama City to prevent my legs from turning the exact shade of red as the warning flags flying all along the shoreline. We heeded the flags’ advisory to avoid swimming in the ocean because of strong currents, but those flags didn’t mention nothin’ bout no kayaks! (I hope the previous sentence is one day used in court, verbatim, to establish a pattern of negligence in a case against the State of Florida).

We set out in a small flotilla from where the island comes to a rounded end, and we paddled left to head towards another island in the distance. I was surprised at how suddenly the calm waters turned aggressive as we left the shore, but I found the up and down of the rolling waves exciting. I tried to catch up to my friends, though they had started to scatter. After a few minutes I noticed we were pretty far to the right of our launching point, closer to the open expanse of the unending Atlantic. I called to my friends and paddled to correct course. And paddled. And paddled harder. “Haha, hey guys, I don’t think I’m going anywhere,” I said to whoever could hear me.

“Hey Frank, did you hear that? Kid said he’s not going anywhere…”

I looked over my shoulder to see that a few of my friends were now a football field behind me. We were definitely being sucked out into the ocean, away from both St. Andrews and our island destination.

I feel I should note here that I was never in any mortal danger. There were enough people and boats around that I could have yelled for help, but being the prideful man that I am, I was hoping to get out of this with minimal embarrassment. Still, I confess to a certain amount of anxiety.

Buckling down, I thrashed with my paddle against the current. After a couple of minutes I was not even an inch closer to the shore, but I was growing tired. To the left of me there was a jetty - a long barrier of giant rocks - and I knew that on the other side was a calm lagoon. I was able to cut diagonal across the current to the wall, steady my kayak, and rest as I looked for my friends. I could no longer see them.

I hopped out onto the bottom rock and started the slow, arduous task of portaging up the mound of boulders. I had to be very careful where I placed my bare feet on the rocks for grip, lest I found myself wedged in a jetty crevice wearing a kayak like a hat. Finally, I pulled my kayak to the crest and saw a fisherman standing below me on the other side of the jetty. We locked eyes, and I stood motionless as he tried to put me and my kayak into context. Civilizations rose and fell during our stare down.

“Hi.” I broke the silence like a middle school kid introducing himself on the first day of school. He continued to stare at me.

“Where’d you come from?” he asked in a deadpan. I pointed off in a vague direction and mumbled something about getting sucked out into the ocean. “Well,” he replied, not breaking eye contact, “do what you gotta do.” And with that he returned to fishing. It was as if I had climbed a mountain summit and he was the all-knowing guru, and the answer to all of life’s questions was “Do what you gotta do.” At that point I would have settled for a little help.

“Do what you gotta do….unless you’re trying to drag a kayak across a jetty. 

Then you should probably just give up.”

I bumbled down the rock slope, taking great care not lose my balance or my kayak in the process. By this time my friends Signe and Janessa were on the lagoon side, and they helped steady my kayak as I jumped back into calmer waters. It was smooth sailing from there. I learned that a couple of my friends had been picked up by boats and returned to the beach. “What about you guys? How’d you make it back?” I asked Janessa.

“We paddled around the jetty and into the lagoon.”

Oh. Arooooound the jetty. That would have made much more sense.

‘Around’….’over’……’portage’. These words are confusing.

Despite my stupidity, and the bug bites, and the sunburn, and my stupidity, it was a fantastic trip. I am looking forward to next year when I bring a larger tent, industrial strength albino-grade sunblock, and a motorboat. Until next time, Ocean!

My friends and I in front of Panama City Beach's world famous "Tow Away Zone" sign.

How to Tell if You're Dating a Mannequin

There you are at dinner, pushing your SpaghettiOs forlornly around your plate while your lover sits in silence across the table. You search for words to break the awkward tension. "Say anything", you think to yourself. "Tell her how beautiful her eyes are. Lie if you have to." You look up only to meet a cold, icy stare. Her dead expression pierces you straight to your failing kidneys. "How did this happen?" you wonder. Maybe you’ve been emotionally distant and the detachment is finally settling in her gaze. Maybe the longing and passion that once filled her eyes has been replaced with the same apathy you showed when the two of you were looking at paint swatches. “Moose Lips isn’t a color,” you had said. “And even if it was, for the thousandth time I don’t care what color the toaster is.” Or maybe, just maybe…that loveless, unblinking face is because you’re dating a mannequin.

Seriously, how are you supposed to tell?

It’s an all-too-common scenario, so don’t feel bad about it. Sometimes people wear their shirt inside-out all day without realizing it, and sometimes they get in a three year relationship with a woman who turns out to be a mannequin. My personal research has concluded that nearly 4 out of 10 relationships consist of at least one mannequin partner. Unfortunately there isn’t an easy way to discern if your girlfriend is, in fact, a mannequin. Sure, you could ask her directly, but just take a moment to think about how rude that would be. You don’t go up to overweight people and say, “I couldn’t help notice how big your belly is and that you are currently lying on a hospital bed with a baby protruding out of you. Are you pregnant?” If you are incorrect in your assumption, not only would you be embarrassed, but you’d be hurting the feelings of the fat lady in labor. So, in figuring the mannequinhood of a girlfriend, it is best to stay away from mentioning her stoic nature or physical rigidity. Instead, ask yourself the following important questions to help you unravel the mystery.

Did You Meet Her in a Department Store?

The odds that your girlfriend is a mannequin sky rockets if you first met her at a department store or Gap. Statistically, 9 out of 10 women found in these types of stores are made out of plastic, and of those 9 women 7 will be mannequins. Think back to your first interaction. Was she wearing stylish clothing all from the same manufacturer? Or conversely, was she completely nude and didn’t show the slightest hint of embarrassment? These are both telltale signs of mannequinhood, and although not entirely damning, these clues should not be ignored. To test this theory more, invite your partner for a day of shopping. Once you assess her silence as default acceptance, carry her to the store that you first made your shy introduction. If you are immediately greeted by the store manager with “There’s that sicko we’ve been looking for!” and are subsequently arrested for larceny, your girlfriend is probably a mannequin, and there is probably video evidence to support that she has always been one. But hey, you could be wanted for stealing any number of things, so this will not provide you with the concrete answer you are seeking.

Does She Freeze-Up around Your Friends?

If you still aren’t sure if your girlfriend is a mannequin, it may be time to seek answers from your friends. In the likely event that you do not have friends, eavesdrop on a co-worker's phone call until he mentions a party and then loudly announce, “I will be there! And I’m bringing a date, if you know what I mean” while jabbing him repeatedly with your elbow. Once you are at the party, prop your date up against a wall and wait to catch the averted eyes of passers-by. Introduce your date and then study her social skills carefully. Is she lively and engaging in conversation? Or is she frozen in a catatonic state? If she isn’t talkative, it may be a sign that she’s a mannequin and is therefore lacking the vocal cords and motor skills necessary for verbal communication, but it could also mean she is human and simply suffers from social anxiety. Again, this is not surefire proof one way or the other, but it is worth noting. Perhaps a spreadsheet will help you better organize your findings.

 Hmmm.....inconclusive

Does She Like the Movie ‘Mannequin 2: On the Move’?

This is the toughest but most definitive way to determine the humanity of your lover (or lack thereof). Mannequin 2: On the Move is a 1991 movie that features, as its title suggests, a mannequin as a main character. It is widely regarded by film critics and humans alike as inferior to the original Mannequin, but actual mannequins regard the film as more faithful to the source material. 

It's their 'Gone with the Wind'

After a romantic, candle-lit dinner of SpaghettiOs, retreat with your lover to the couch, dim the lights, and pop in your VHS copy of Mannequin 2. As the title screen appears sit back and monitor her response. Here are a few common human reactions to watch out for:

• “Mannequin 2? You said we were watching The Notebook, you SpaghettiO-faced liar!”
• “Seriously, we’re watching the sequel? Samantha from 'Sex and the City' isn’t even in this one, you SpaghettiO-faced idiot!”
• Violence

However, if the reaction elicited is that of a gentle, unflinching reverence, it means that she is enthralled by Kristy Swanson’s portrayal of a mannequin in love, and is therefore a mannequin in love herself.

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Now that you have deduced the woman you spent the last three years with was born of a polystyrene mold, you can let her down easy and move on with your life in pursuit of a partner who can biologically bear your children or donate a kidney when you inevitably need a new one. But, should you decide that three years is too long for you to just throw it all away...well, I'm not here to judge. No, that's what society is for, and society says you're a freak. Also, the courts do some judging, so the two of you might want to stay out of Macy's for a while. 

The South Will Rise Again: The War of Southern Digestion

The South is known nationally for many things, and let’s face it, none of them are positive. In the eyes of the general public we are all fat. We’re uneducated. We’re incestuous. And, worst of all, we call shopping carts “buggies”. Now, I’m not saying these things aren’t true for a small but loud percentage of the population. But aside from the few obvious advantages (our own flag, being really far away from Canada, etc), the South has many redeemable qualities that are kept generally hidden from the rest of the nation. And, as I've pointed out before, most of them are food.

I didn’t realize growing up that the food served on my plate at dinner was vastly different than the food served on the plate in front of some kid in California. I knew it was different than what the Chinese were eating, but I just assumed we, as Americans, all had mothers who went to the same culinary school, or wherever mothers learned that stuff. Now that I’m grown and have many friends who are Yankees (people born north of the Mason Dixon line, west of the Mississippi River, or in Florida), I have no idea what they had for dinner when they were young. Judging by their puzzled looks when I try to tell them about a typical childhood dinner, they also have no clue what I ate. They do not recognize my words as English, much less as food.

So here’s a list of good ol’ Southern dishes that apparently the rest of the country has never heard of. And although I don’t personally enjoy all of them, goshdangit I respect them for their cultural significance.

Fried Corn

Let me first state that my mother is a wonderful Southern cook, and that if anyone ever disagrees I will challenge them to fisticuffs, even if the best I could hope for is that they break a knuckle on my mandible. Southern cooks are a dying breed, as evidenced by the fact that one of my favorite dishes my mother serves, fried corn, is hard to find in the region even now. In fact, I only remember having it at home and at my grandmother’s house.

Fried corn does not refer to an entire ear dropped into a deep fryer, although I’d probably eat that, too. It’s very similar to creamed corn except it has been loaded with sugar and fried in a skillet. I think. I’m not actually sure how it’s prepared – all I know is that I want to bathe in it. Although bereft of cleansing properties, I could wear the residue as a mid-morning snack. I would be known as “That Guy Who is Always Caked in Corn”, but I wouldn’t mind. That’s how much I love fried corn.

Buttermilk

Buttermilk is uniquely Southern, and it is also uniquely disgusting. For those who are unfamiliar, buttermilk is regular milk that is slightly curdled, and is therefore thick and lumpy. You can make your own buttermilk at home by leaving your milk jug on the counter for a couple of days or by squeezing the teats of a particularly unhealthy cow with clogged arteries.

97% of all commercial buttermilk comes from this cow

My father loves buttermilk, or at least he pretends to. I’m quite certain he would just drink it at the dinner table to assert his manliness as the head of the household, should any one of his three sons think about overthrowing him. This theory is consistent with the fact that he deemed most meals accompanied by buttermilk as “meals fit for a king”. He’d gulp it down, his milky chalice glistening under the lights, and dare us to try it. It might as well have been wolf’s blood dripping from his lips, but about once a year the three of us would gather the nerve to take a swig.

My father’s household remains unchallenged.

My father at the dinner table as depicted by legend

Salt Pork

Imagine your favorite thing in the world. You’re picturing bacon right now, aren’t you? Well, you are now if you weren’t before. Now imagine that bacon being 5 times as thick, 10 times as flavorful, and with a hard rind, and now you’ve got salt pork. This was considered a rare delicacy growing up, not because it was hard to find or expensive, but because when cooked it tended to fill the entire house with salty smoke that hung in the air and invited attacks by neighborhood animals and sasquatches.  

Salt pork also goes by the name of ‘fatback’, but I will deport you to the North if you use that phrase around me. I can’t think of a less desirable term for something so delicious.

 

 There are many images online I could have used to illustrate my point.

Consider this mild image my gift to you.

Okra

I am not a fan of okra. It came up in conversation around my Yankee friends, one of which had never heard of it before. The best I could describe it to him was that it was a straight, squishy pepper covered in fine hairs, like the upper lip of a 12 year old boy, and that the consistency when chewed is not unlike sneezing in your mouth. If that description sounds appealing to you, then you have many problems, and I’m putting you on a watchlist.

I have a theory that okra is actually pubescent cucumber

Okra is often served fried, which makes it more palatable. My brother Jared loves them pickled, which proves my point that okra can only be salvaged if you cover it 3 inches thick with batter or douse it with acidic liquids. Maybe there’s a reason okra hasn’t swept the culinary industry.

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I’m sure there are many more Southern treats that people from the Union would not recognize. I encourage your entries in the comments, but I doubly encourage you to invite me over and serve me these entries personally. And, as Southern custom dictates, I will bring a carton of buttermilk. Whoever chugs the most keeps your house.

Heck's Kitchen

“What’ll it be for dinner, Toodles ol’ chum? Taco Bell or Krystal?” I ask while swatting a week’s worth of Taco Bell and Krystal wrappers off the couch. They rain down on Toodles’ head as he angrily looks up at me with his black, beady eyes.

“For the last time, Nathan, I don’t eat. Stop buying me food!” He motions with his flippers to a pile of uneaten burgers and tacos on the counter, the stench of which hits my nostrils as if on cue.

“Remind me again why you don’t eat? Because if it’s the caliber of food you’re complaining about, I’ll remind you that those were Doritos Locos tacos, buddy. The filet mignon of tacos!” I exclaim, pronouncing each word phonetically.

Mr. Toodles has the defeated look of a man who has to explain calculus to monkeys. “Because”, he says softly in a feeble attempt to quell an outburst, “I am a Pillow Pet.”

That's exactly what someone pretending to be a Pillow Pet would say...

“Wait, I thought you were a penguin? Penguins eat food, right? Because I made a list of animals that don’t eat food one time, and the only thing on it was ‘puppies’.”

“YOU HAVE TO FEED PUPPIES!” Toodles shouts. I reflect silently and regretfully on this new information as he collects his cool. “As I have told you before, I am a Pillow Pet first and a penguin second. It’s true that Pillow Pets do not eat food, and they also do not talk. And you’ve been having a conversation with one, so…” His words trail off, and I can tell he expects me to fill in the rest of the sentence. I stare at him quizzically.

“Soooooo,” I say while looking around the room, stalling for time. “I’mmmmm…..also a Pillow Pet?”

“No, you idiot! You are a human and you’re having another sanity break!” Mr. Toodles sinks his beak into his cottony flippers.

“Oh. That makes more sense,” I assure him, even though there is no cause for assurance. “But I usually have these breaks when I’m stressed out, and things have been really chill recently. What gives?”

Mr. Toodles ponders for a moment and then replies, “I have a theory that this sanity break is actually caused by the fever dreams of a physical illness. Also, I am manifest from the part of your brain that wants help dealing with change and to help you grow as a person. Losing your job, moving to a new city – I’ve been with you for all of that. I think my duty this time is to get you to stop eating terrible fast food so much.”

“Illness? Eating terribly? Why do you think that?”

“Because,” he replies while pacing the floor, “you are currently eating from the moldy taco and hamburger pile.”

I look down to see that Toodles was right, I had been furiously double fisting green beef into my face throughout our entire conversation. “Owf, tha makth thenth,” I mumble, my mouth full of food.

“Come now. We’re going to the grocery store and you’re going to learn to cook real food like a normal human being.” Toodles bats my ankles and I follow as he waddles out to my car. I obediently drive to the grocery store and walk in with him cradled under my right arm like a football.

“Okay, Nathan, first thing’s first. What ingredients do you already have back at home?”

“Well let’s see.” I lovingly stroke Toodles’ head while perusing the produce aisle. I notice a few customers giving me odd looks, and I decide that they must’ve left their Pillow Pets at home. “I’ve got a pile of moldy hamburgers, some expired milk, and a few cans of Coke.”

Toodles scrunches up his face. “Well that’s not going to make a very pretty casserole. How much cooking experience do you have, anyway?”

“Exactly none. Unless you count that time I cooked fish in a George Foreman Grill. But you probably shouldn’t, because it looked and tasted like rubber bands.”

“Well then we’d better start small.” I nod my head in agreement as I scratch behind his ears. I receive more funny looks from people passing by, and I decide that they wish I was scratching behind their ears. “If you want to be taken seriously, you’ve got to start trying harder, though. How is it that you’ve been living by yourself for nine years and you’ve never actually cooked a meal? This skill might come in handy sometime and might help you persuade others to think that you are, in fact, a functioning adult.”

“You’re right, Toodles! What should I cook?”

“Hamburger Helper,” he responds. “It’s like training wheels for your kitchen. You’ll need a pound of ground beef.”

“A real, home cooked meal!” I take off running towards the meat aisle but stop when I see a very pretty woman carefully selecting items from the meat cooler. I run my hand through my hair, tighten Toodles in a more secure hold, and confidently stroll over next to her shopping cart. “Haha! Silly us,” I chuckle while waggling my eyebrows in what I would describe as a seductive fashion. “Our hands just touched while reaching for the same package of beef.” I increase the intensity of my eyebrow waggles. You can never be too forward with your eyebrows.

The woman looks startled, but calmly and slowly says, “No, actually you grabbed my hand while it was resting on my cart.”

“Dangit, I meant to time that better,” I say dejectedly. An awkward pause cuts a hole in our conversation that I desperately try to fill with the ferocity of my eyebrow dance.

Seen here interpreted by a zero gravity performance group

“Um, I’m going to go now,” she says and starts to pull away.

“Wait! I, uh, noticed you shopping for meat. I’m kind of a great chef myself. Well not a great chef per se, more of a this-is-my-first-trip-down-the-meat-aisle chef. Mr. Toodles here is about to teach me how to-.”

She cuts me off mid-sentence. “Is that a Pillow Pet in your hands?” I look down at Toodles, and he discreetly shakes his head.

“What? This? No, this is my…” I am searching for a suitable answer, my eyebrows now gyrating obscenely at mach speed. “…service animal.”

She considers my answer for a moment, but then quickly pushes her cart past me and Mr. Toodles. She does not stop for the cashiers and is running by the time she hits the parking lot. “Whew, I dodged a bullet, Toodles. That one’s a thief!”

Toodles has the absurdly impossible look of a man that has to explain monkeys to calculus. “Let’s just get home so I can teach you how to cook Hamburger Helper. All you do is put the meat in the pan and poke it until it turns brown, then add the noodles. There are all sorts of things you can cook at home, and once you master all of these simple, third-grade level steps, you won’t have to waste your money and subtract years of your lifespan by eating fast food twice a day.”

I proudly scoop up two packages of ground beef. “One for me and one for you. No fast food for us tonight!” I beam as my eyebrows finally calm to their resting position atop my supraorbital ridge.

Mr. Toodles sighs deeply.

I want to shake that hand's hand.