Alone Time

I recently watched a clip of Louis CK on Conan where he talked about not getting his kids a Smart Phone.   I’ll embed the video so I don’t have to paraphrase it.

The basic gist is that we are constantly reaching for technology when we find ourselves in a moment of being alone.

It really is sad to think that we, as a society, are too hooked into social media and technology that we can’t sit with our own thoughts for five minutes without wanting to text 20 people just to get a response.

I’ve found myself in the same situation, but to Louis CK’s point, I wouldn’t just randomly text people while I’m in my car driving.   Besides being illegal, I’m somewhat of a luddite when it comes to texting (I have 250 text limit). I tend to only text when it’s absolutely necessary.  There are times when I go a little crazy and get close to that limit but it’s still usually because there is something that actually needs to be addressed.   And there are times I just want to say something because I am feeling that loneliness, too.

What did we ever do before cell phones or the Internet allowed us to be only a few bytes away from getting a hold of someone?  We used to hand write letters and mail them.  Now, depending on the distance to that pen pal, it could be a week before they actually receive the letter, read it, and then write you back.   Then, you’re talking two weeks from the time when you mailed that first letter until you get a response.  And we were OK with this process.  Do people even write letters to one another anymore?  Do people correspond in handwritten, random life event telling letters to each other?  Isn’t that what email has become?  Hasn’t the postal service been relegated to delivering holiday or occasion cards to friends these days?   Today, as long as we have access to technology and the Internet we can reach out and simply say HI, send a picture, or share a video.   And in the time it takes to say “Reach out and touch someone” we can get a response.

But why?

There are times in life when we need to be alone.  We need to be with ourselves.  We spend so much time building profiles and likes and showing the world who we are.  Do we even believe it?  Are we really our online selves?  Do we like the things we REALLY like, or do we like the things that make us more likable?

Maybe being in the spotlight is what has destroyed our sense of selves.  There’s a concept in sociology that our self image is  simply made up of perceptions of who we are by other people.   And we are constantly looking for that approval.  We constantly put our lives out on the Internet, looking for someone to respond.  I do it.  This blog is evidence enough of that.

I primarily write to hear myself type.  It’s a writer thing.  I like to write to TRY and keep my skills somewhat more than blunt.  I don’t have nearly the amount of time needed in this world to hone those skills.  I also don’t have the life that would deem anything I write worth reading, but I do it.  Sometimes I think about things in Pop Culture that amuse me and I write that.  That’s definitely a “look at me” moment.  I’m showing off my Pop Culture prowess in an effort to prove to the world that I am talented and clever and need a job in the industry.  Well, if anyone actually this stuff they would say, “Yeah, and you wonder why no one reads your stuff?”

Other times I reflect.  I reflect on what life has thrown me and I try to make sense of the things in this world by way of Pop Culture.   Finally, I write from the place just below my gut and above my ass.  That’s where my head usually is.   These are things I write for myself.  You are just privy to them.  But, by posting them, knowing that people aren’t reading them, I’m focusing on that alone time.    Half of my hour long commute involves me frantically switching stations for good driving music.  Revelation; there isn’t any on today’s stations.   The other half is me thinking.    If I’m not listening to NPR, I have the radio off most commutes.  I run through thoughts in my head.  Concepts.  I look for meaning and worth.  I also argue a lot.  Fictional arguments or debates with myself are the norm.

And while I probably never miss an opportunity to comment on something, I try to listen.  Granted, I am probably a HUGE offender in the Facebook First Responder club.  Every time that little green light goes on next to one of my friends I immediately think of something to strike up a conversation.   I’m like that kid that shows up at your house the first day of summer vacation and doesn’t leave until the street lights come on.  I am Dennis the Menace.  I am trying to not be alone.  And while I am not alone, I have a family after all, the times when I do these things are when I am usually by myself.  Technology has given us the greatest gift, engagement.  We never have to be alone ever again, and yet sometimes I think we are more alone than ever.   After all, technology has removed the biggest obstacle to being alone, physical presence.  We don’t have to go to stores and engage with other customers or employees.  We can just shop online.   We don’t have to go to bars or public places to meet people in person.  We have Match.com.   Hell, we don’t even have to meet down in the park to play chess.  We have online gaming.  Dennis the Menace just squatted on your newsfeed for the next 20 minutes.  Being alone means you have to deal with yourself, though.  And when you are alone, do you like what you see?  

 

First Responder Shirt 

Strip away the opportunity to post a lyric, a video, a quote, or to comment on someone elses life and who are you?  

That’s what you need to find out.  Alone is a good thing.  Alone allows you to feel life.  Alone means you’ve got nobody to impress but yourself.  And if you can do that, then you are ready to not be alone.

Tekkoshocon and other objectifiable things

Ah yes, Pittsburgh, home to the furries and also Tekkoshocon. 

Now, this may piss off one side or the other, I’m not sure.  In any case, here goes.

I’m a guy.  I’m as red blooded as the next stereotypical version of a guy.

I watch Game of Thrones for the breathtaking locales and expositional dialogue as much for everything else.

I’ve played video games for decades and I loved Tomb Raider when it came out. 

All of these ideas are pointing towards the sexual objectification of females in media.

(This is the point where I totally get shit wrong about cons and manga and anime and comics but bear with me.)

If I were to walk around Tekkoshocon, I’d be looking.  First, because I’m not used to seeing people dressed up in costume outside of Halloween.    Secondly, because well…  It’s gonna happen.  You know it is.  And by that definition, shit be effed up. Necessarily

Let me put it this way.   And, I know this is the wrong genre, but let’s say a girl dresses up for a con like Power Girl.  Does she warrant unwanted behavior based on her clothes?  Will she receive unwanted behavior based on her clothes.

No. Probably. 

Now, take that same girl and put her in a costume she found on the Internet under the “Sexy (Insert Benign Occupation Here) Costume”  and do you think that changes anything?

My point is that one, the system is broken.    

Whether or not that girl chooses the superhero costume or the sexy garbage worker costume, she is opening herself to unwanted negative behavior.  Does she deserve it?  No.  But if I were to walk around some neighborhoods with hundred dollar bills hanging out of my pocket, I should expect some unwanted negative behavior.  Doesn’t mean I deserve it.    It’s totally my right to do it, but shit may happen.  I should be ready for it.   If I just happen to walk around a neighborhood that I don’t belong in, everything tucked in my pockets, I may get some looks, but the chance of it ending badly is probably lessened.

The system is broken in the objectifying case because media is to blame.  The artists, the writers, the game developers, actors, directors, all of them have held such a male centric target demographic for so long that they need to evolve just like everything else in this world does.   Comic Book artists created girl protagonists that are strong, but a majority of them are drawn with rather improbable proportions.    Power Girl is probably a great role model.  Powers, abilities, does good deeds.  She just happens to be drawn with a large chest and most of her top missing in key areas. 

And while I am still missing the point between comparing comic books to anime or manga in this case, my point is universal.  There will be people who dress up for these cons as the characters they identify with or want to emulate.  Some will dress to impress, either with complexity or… simplicity in their costume.    Unless they dress to conceal their entire body, say in a full costume with mask, they want to be noticed.  They want to be looked at.  Maybe for thumbs up on their creativity or effort in constructing said costume.  Yet, some will be there to get the nerd juices flowing.   Be ready for some of that unwanted negative behavior, though.

It’s 2013 and we still don’t get it yet.  Men still run the world.   If a woman does it as well or better, she’s either a heartless bitch, a fake, or a lesbian.    I know that sounds horrible in that context but think about it.    If a woman created a comic book character or whatever and it was purely for reasons of strength and intelligence, and did not show up scantily clad to save the day, people would assume she’s a feminist or one of those people who spell women wrong.    Whether or not  the material was top notch, it would get panned or not receive the following it would deserve.

Look at Ripley from Alien.   The character wears a jump suit for the entire movie.   Loses everyone on that ship to the Alien.   Faces down certain death.  Survives. Wins.  Spends the end of the movie in a tight tank and a pair of panties while duking it out with a giant creature with a phallic chomping second mouth.    Even the inspiration for Alien came from the Sci-Fi monster movies of the 50s and 60s, most where the monster is carrying the damsel, who is objectified by her manner of dress and restraint.

Horror movies use the concept of the final girl.  Halloween sort of sparked that idea with Laurie Strode.  The final girl is usually virginal and pure... because that's sexy while maintaining an innocence.   The monster is there to take her innocence, in which we mean kill her.   The promiscuous girls get killed.  It's almost somewhat religious or allegorical in nature.  Yet, most movies have final girls that are the embodiment of what sells, which is sex.  Ripley at the end.  Jessica Biel in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake. 

The gaming industry introduced Lara Croft, much to the delight of gamer boys in their teens and 20s.   Over the years, as the technology rendered a more lifelike Lara, her dimensions changed.  Her shorts got shorter.  Her tops got tighter.   Even Angelina Jolie helped boost that image as did the promotional models who appeared as Lara at cons and events.  With the reboot, they’ve toned down the image of Lara, but really all they’ve done is made her younger.    Lara had become Demi Moore and the fans (Ashton Kutcher) still wanted the same looks on his gal, just 20 years younger.  

Girls who play video games have a lot of stigma to overcome either through the industry’s male centric characterization or the few brash and stereotypical representatives who ruin it for the core subset of the gender.

Girls either get picked on for trying to play the same games as boys or they get hit on or objectified.   Quite frankly, you have to understand that for every nerd who is a nice guy, there are ten others who are too socially awkward to understand that just because a girl plays video games, it doesn’t mean they stand a chance.   Common interests don’t make up for lack of chemistry and compatibility.    And both genders have to also realize that anyone who plays games can like any game and still be considered a gamer as much as the core subset of gamers need to realize that yes, in fact, Angry Birds is a game.  As much as they hate that Farmville gets used to denote a gamer.  I  know.  I don’t get it myself, but whatever.

The point is, don’t objectify the person you see.  Do see the person, objectively.

And don’t stare at the girls in cosplay.  They don’t like it.

The Slater Exit Strategy: Quitting With Style

Steven Slater did what most people only dream about. He quit his job. Not only did he quit his job. He did it with some dissident style. Of course, for all his service industry employee heroics, he was rewarded with a trip to jail.

In case you missed it, Steven is/was a flight attendant on JetBlue Airways. On a flight from Pittsburgh to JFK International he reached his breaking point. When a passenger decided to stand up and retrieve luggage from the overhead compartment, before the plane had stopped moving, Steven did what all flight attendants do, asked the passenger to please remain seated while the plane was moving. Varied accounts describe the following altercation but the high points are that the bag swung out of the compartment and hit Steven on the head. Whether it was accidental or on purpose is debatable. This was followed by the passenger allegedly telling Slater to ‘Eff off, when Slater asked for an apology.

Steve, who had been, by his own account, in the airline industry 28 years had finally had it with rude passengers, I guess. He returned to the front of the cabin, grabbed the microphone and gave everyone his two week, er two minute notice. He reportedly said, “To the Mother Effer who just told me to Eff Off, Eff You.” He then recounted his years of service, said, “I’m Out Bitches”, grabbed a couple of beers and left the plane. But the kicker to this story isn’t that he quit. It’s that he left by way of the emergency exit slide. He blew the hatch which inflated the slide and took one last ride to freedom. Later, at his home he was arrested.

You can get Later Slater on a shirt.
Check out my Store blog to find out how.

Now, I guess you could make a case for this being highly dangerous. It’s more than likely that he broke several FAA rules by taking the scenic way out. CBS news reported he was arraigned on charges of criminal mischief, reckless endangerment, and trespassing. Charges that could land him in jail for seven years. Not to mention, his stylish exit strategy could have injured someone from deploying the slide.

Should Steven go to jail? That’s a toughie. Unfortunately, we live in a post 9/11 world where the rules of air travel have gone beyond simply being slapped with a misdemeanor. If the courts want to continue to be effective at enforcing rules, he will probably be sentenced to some time. My thoughts are he should be given a fine and probation time and possibly barred from working in the industry, again. Just to set an example, that is. However, what I find irreprehensible is that the passenger was not cited or arrested for anything. By the same token as what Slater did, this was a violation of FAA rules governing the interference of flight crew duties by a passenger. Where is the justice in that? Did Slater’s escape trump the need to uphold those other rules?

Let’s face it, air travel, anymore, sucks. The airlines are grasping at straws to keep afloat, fees are outrageous, and flying generally is not a fun thing to do. Furthermore, because of all these factors, working in the industry is no longer enjoyable. Stricter rules, not that there shouldn’t be, cause more delays. The economy woes make passengers more surly when having to pay out more in fees and service charges which, in turn, creates more confrontational moments with staff. Flight attendants are imagined as these happy as all get out, smile while we ram the drink cart into you, carry-on luggage Nazis who take pride in being difficult and will go off on you at a moment’s notice for not having your seat all the way up. Really, they are just people in the service industry like everyone else. Customer Service can be a rewarding and all together exhausting experience, especially in what can be perceived as a hostile consumer culture, nowadays.

It seems, anymore, that consumers are frustrated with the quality and prices of everything. IPhones that drop calls, McNuggets that don’t get delivered at the drive through and banks that charge outrageous fees are just a few of the game changers that has pushed the norm from “buyer beware” to “seller lookout.” Litigious as we might have been, pre recession, it looks to be a more strained relationship between customers and vendors since everything on Wall Street went out the emergency exit. The atmosphere is thick with stress and heat and the powder keg is set to explode.

Yet, why is Steven Slater considered a hero? Is it because he voiced the plight of the common service industry worker? Is it because he told off a rude passenger? Is it because he defied convention and escaped in style? In this world model of consumer vs. seller, that I just explained, Slater should be the enemy. He works for the company that is causing the consumer issues. However, the manner in which this whole drama played out painted Slater as the victim. He was a guy just trying to do his job in a hostile environment and he had enough of it. Later Slater stood up for the blue collar worker and this passenger, no matter who they were was “The Man.” This wasn’t an issue where a service worker broke the law and caused an incident because they were harassed. This was a “rise up” moment where the beaten down service worker took flight out the exit of a job that they had finally reached their breaking point.

In this scenario, the worker trumped the consumer because he now represented the consumer. He represented those of us who would to tell our cable company to ‘eff off over the price of our service. The desire to stand up and say “Get bent” to the employers and services that oppress us is all rather Freudian. In fact, the Steven Slater Exit Strategy is a perfect example of the Id, Ego, and super-ego in Freud’s structural model. The Id is Steven Slater. He is the primal instinct in all of us to just flip the finger at the world. All of us observing Slater in the media represent the Ego or the part of us that wishes we could be like that but accept the reality of our position. I can’t tell my boss to eff off and then jump ship. I have a mortgage, bills, and a family. I need to keep my job. I have responsibilities. The Id is the twenty year old us and the Ego is the 30-40 year old us. The Super-ego represents the us that says that Slater should go to jail. It’s not a case of “I wish I could do what he did.” It’s a matter of “He was wrong and should be punished for breaking the law and endangering people.” The Super-ego is usually the voice that comes out of us when we are asked by superiors if we think Slater was in the right. The Super-ego comes forth from our psyche as the representative while the Ego wrestles to keep a hand over the id’s mouth.

As a 14 year veteran of the service industry, there have surely been one or two days where I wanted to stand up, give everyone my business finger and pop open a window and slide out to the parking lot. My Id is constantly plotting my exit strategy while my Ego looks as the realty of my situation. My Super-ego is the guy that sits in his chair, all smiles, saying he loves his job. But sometimes the Id can tie the Ego and Super-ego up with duct tape, grab a gun and go apeshit like Omar Thornton did in Manchester Connecticut. Fortunately, in this case, Slater did not go “postal.” He simply exited the plane in the same way most people would probably love to quit their jobs. He used the sentiment of The David Allen Coe, the language of Half Baked’s Scarface (Guillermo Diaz) and coupled it with the style of Carson Kressley. He is a modern day Howard Beale shouting over the in flight PA system, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore." Definitely, RAGE is the new black.

Frankly, barring the safety issues and Slater’s obscenity laden sign off, I think the Slater Exit Strategy could be applied to a lot of situations. So, if Steven does lose his job and have to switch careers I have a couple of ideas for him.

Of course, the most obvious choice for capitalizing on his new found fame would be to go on a reality show, say Survivor. Will he win? Don’t know. However, I think, in either case, he needs to go out with style at tribal council. After Jeff Probst extinguishes his torch he can turn to the rest of the council and tell them to ‘eff off before jumping on a huge inflatable water slide that takes him down to a splash lagoon. If that doesn’t work, I say hire him as a chief strategist in Afghanistan. He understands air travel and can relate to the struggles of having to be the bad guy in cases where he’s just trying to do his job. Of course, as the campaign winds down, he can offer up his exit strategy. Allied forces simply tell Al Qaeda and the Taliban to ‘eff off as we jump onto a huge slide that carries our troops safely into India.

So, thank you Steven Slater for giving all our Id’s a chance to dream. Now, I must get back to work.

One in Ten Addicted To Video Games, Nine Others Just Suck.

I love video games. Have I said this before? I mean I love playing video games. I love driving a kick ass car through cities towards a finish line. I love blasting away zombies and various residents of Liberty City. I love figuring out little puzzles and sliding down pipes into dark worlds looking for coins. But am I addicted to video games? No. Do I play video games more than I should? What’s the standard?

There was a report done by Forbes magazine on how there is a rampant addiction to video games among teenagers. It’s nice to Forbes is stay on top of things. Actually, the study was done by Iowa State University so they are to blame for this. Forbes just waited around to report on it. since video games have been around since the before the 70’s. The point is, whether they are upright and accept coins or sitting in your living room and have a little controller attached, video games are everywhere. They are accessible by young and old and have been for years. They are as prevalent into today’s society as the multiple television home and the nine year old with a cell phone. Now, if you want to talk about addictions, let’s talk about cell phones. I think people abuse texting far more so than video games.

OK, that statement might be a little unfair. Before the proliferation of cell phones among the adolescents of the world in a time, long, long, ago, known as the 80’s. Kids spent copious amounts of time on the telephone chit chatting away with their friends. They’d tie up phone lines for hours causing parents to install a second line for their hooked in teenagers. There is not much difference between the teen spending hours on a phone with the ratty old curled up 16’ cord and the teen running up huge bills over texting and talking on cell phones.

But back to video games. Is there such a thing as video game addiction? Here’s an excerpt from the Forbes article…

“Experts don't agree on whether such a thing as "video game addiction" really exists. At present, it is not listed as a mental disorder in the American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. The next update of that manual, which describes criteria for diagnosing various psychiatric disorders, is due out in 2012.”

So, in order to be recognized as a disorder, we have to wait another 3 years? Why don’t they just put a little hourglass at the bottom of the report and have it spin around like the loading screen for a video game? OK, let’s get something straight. While there may not be a disorder called “Video Game Addiction”, there can be an addiction to video games. Just like addictions to other behaviors, video games represent an escapist resource. Bad day at work, run over pedestrians in Grand Theft Auto. What we fail to realize is that it is not the fault of the video game for the addiction. When is the last time we actually blamed alcohol or cigarettes for the addiction? I’m not talking about the companies that manufacture, market, and distribute cigarettes and alcohol. They are partially to blame for enticing people to engage in addictive behaviors However, an inanimate object is not responsible for someone’s inability to show some restraint and enjoy that behavior in moderation. I’m not saying that all behaviors are something you should enjoy, I’m just saying you have free will.

Taking a look at the report done by Iowa State there is a HUGE mistake right in the Abstract.

The current study includes a self-report measure of video game habits completed by 607 8th and 9th graders for hand-held devices, video game consoles, and the computer. A scale of addiction was identified and separated into two groups (Non-Addicted and Addicted). The Addicted group revealed more reports of involvement in physical fights in the last year, more arguments with friends and teachers, higher hostile attribution scores, and lower grades. These results suggest that video game “addiction” is a problem among adolescents, particularly among males, and that addiction is associated with adjustment problems such as school performance and aggressive attitudes and behaviors.

Let’s take video games out of that equation and test those students again, shall we? Let’s test these students based on the behaviors they display and then ask them how much time they spend playing video games. What is going on here is that video games are being blamed for kids with pre-existing behavioral problems. The fact that they play video games is a symptom of the problem, not the cause. If video games were not around, the same results would have been attributed to television, or music, or movies, or comic books. In every generation since the end of World War II, sociologists and psychologists are looking to blame some external factor for bad behavior instead of blaming where the behavior stems from, poor child rearing.

This article comes at an ironic time since April 20, 2009 marks the 10 year anniversary of the Columbine Massacre. Somehow, using the word anniversary to denote one of the top five tragedies to ever occur inside the United States is somewhat morbid. I would not even go near the word commemorate. How about observance? That sounds more appropriate. Anyway, 10 years ago, two students, Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris, walked into Columbine High School dressed in trench coats and carrying semi-automatic weapons and homemade bombs, much like a scene from The Matrix. They unleashed a hellacious amount of violence on the students and faculty before killing themselves. From then on, the aftermath of psychoanalysis over bullying, media, and social subcultures look for some rationale behind the cause for these two students to enact such a tirade played out on the television and the courts.

Psychiatrists and investigators concluded from journals that Harris was a psychopath and Klebold was depressive, easily swayed and manipulated by Harris into joining his delusions of superiority over their oppressors. These reports have been listed as inconclusive. Were they a part of some Trench Coat Mafia? Did prescription drugs for pre-existing disorders cause Harris’ actions? Was their addiction to gaming responsible for the desensitization moral behavior and the importance of the life of individuals?

I am neither a psychologist or an expert in any field needed to analyze this type of behavior. What I can tell you is that video games are not to blame for their behavior. Violent music or movies are not to blame for their behavior. These things are merely ways for them to indulge and explore an already established predilection of violent or anti-social behavior. Fuel for the fire. For anyone else they merely exist as a recreational outlet. A person can engage in playing violent video games, listening to music with violent undertones, and watch ultra violent movies without any repercussions. Just like a person who is not an alcoholic can go on a night of extensive drinking and then function normally without needing or wanting to drink for any amount of time afterwards. How is this possible? I am one of those people. I love playing games like Doom or Grand Theft Auto. I own or have listened to the same music that other people have claimed as the reason for violent behavior. I've seen "The Exorcist" about 167 times, and it keeps getting funnier every single time I see it! You get the point.

Now, to say that this type of stimuli, exposed to the mind of a developing adolescent, can lead to violent behavior is not too far from a true statement. Again, the development of adolescents is something that can be influenced directly based upon the amount of exposure and chemical makeup. The same goes for the ability for some people to burn and some people to tan when exposed to sunlight. Some people just have better skin, just like some people have thicker skin. I was bullied in some ways, growing up? Did I ever want to grab an AK-47 and kill them, metaphorically, perhaps, but it’s nothing I would have ever acted upon in reality. Why? Because my parents gave me a proper upbringing and allowed me to learn what is right and what is wrong based on experiencing both first hand in moderation. By reinforcing that I am totally capable of free will and making bad decisions, those decisions have consequences that directly affect the amount of money I see in an allowance or the tenderness of my ass cheeks at the hands of a wooden spoon.

I’ll give you a better example. My wife is a piano teacher. She has a student that fits into your stereotypical designation of a nerd. He’s lanky, has curly hair, wears glasses, and is a bit awkward, socially. He’s the teenage version of Eddie Deezen. Now, he’s getting no help from his parents. He’s been sheltered and coddled by his parents to an extreme amount. His mother sits just a few feet away from him during his lesson. She asks out loud in front of other people if he needs help with his belt when he’s been in the bathroom for a few seconds more than normal. She walks him hand in hand to their car and has him sit in the back seat while it’s parked in our driveway off the street. The kid is just about ready to start high school and he’s going to be the social equivalent to chum in the shark infested waters of high school bullies. This kid could very well snap out, grab a gun, and climb a clock tower. There’s no moderation in either his exposure to everyday concepts such as success and failure or shielding from harmful stimuli. It’s feast or famine. You either get Karen Carpenter or that guy on Inside Edition being led down the street to his wedding on a parade float that looks like a bed.

Before I go on towards infinity like a game of Tetris, which even that concept has been debated to infinity, I’ll wrap this up. In fact, I’m going to pull a head fake on you. This whole diatribe, while enormously dear to my heart, is in fact a setup for a new design for my CafePress store. So, here you have it.

Video Games Have Destroyed My Life.
Fortunately, I Have Extra Lives!

Memento Demento

I'm entering this phrase into the lexicon of ridiculous medical conditions. Kind of like Vibrata Nervousa, which is the act of continually checking your mobile phone because you feel the sensation of it buzzing in manner mode against your leg only to find it still. In short, Memento Demento is the compulsion to buy or acquire something from a trip. It could be a ticket stub from that Styx reunion concert. You know the one you went to last summer wearing the "Kilroy was here" t-shirt that was two sizes two small making you look more like a sausage than a middle aged, middle management, left over from the early 80's father of three who still thinks that Erin Gray's Colonel Wilma Dearing was the pinnacle of hotness. It could be a box of God awful Salt Water Taffy from Ocean City, Maryland, that your aunt Twyla buys you every year when she goes on her late May sojourn. This condition is not a new one. I mean I'm not breaking any new ground here. I don't expect to be published in the JAMA anytime soon. After all, buying dumb souvenirs has been around for centuries. When John Adams and Thomas Jefferson took a little break from their diplomatic mission to Europe, they traveled to the birthplace of William Shakespeare and carved little slivers from a wooden chair that supposedly belonged to the late Bard. Granted, these founding Fathers didn't pay a cent for their items but regardless of the item or its price, it's a sickness nonetheless. I am comfortably ashamed to admit that I have indulged in this act on numerous occasions with results that defy logic.

On a trip to Virginia Beach at the ripe old age of 12 I felt that I just had to have a souvenir from my trip. It was such an overwhelming compulsion that I did not give any thought to my selection and only formulated an argument that no matter what I bought, it would be a reminder of my trip to the beach in 1987. So, on a day trip into the heart of tourist trap heaven I was given ten minutes to buy something. I frantically searched as if I was a contestant on Supermarket Sweep. With my allotment of $10.00 I was feeling the pressure. I couldn't get something extravagant but I couldn't get something small and put the rest on a gift certificate. Damn you Wheel of Fortune. I will be forever haunted by the sweeping camera movements over merchandise that I would never take freely let alone spending my winnings on, although that Cigar Store Indian would have found a great place next to my old style gumball machine. Where was I? Oh yes, I was on the quest for the perfect embodiment of a trip to the beach. With sweating palms I flipped through the racks of printed t-shirts, "FBI: Female Body Inspector," ugh that was so 1985. Wait, what was this? What is this pastel shirt that harkened to a highly rated television show cleverly marketed with anthropomorphic rodents sporting sunglasses and sockless loafers. Why, it's beautiful. It's shiny. It's just under $10.00. I must have it. So, I grabbed my purchase and handed it to my mother who held my money.

"Are you sure you want this?" She asked.

"Yes." I quickly answered frothing at the mouth.

"Positive, because you can't return it and we're not buying anything else?" She again, cautioned.

"Good God, woman, don't taunt me further. Buy it already. I can't wait to slip into its silk screened, poly-cotton, decadence."

"Ok." She submitted.

I had it. I obtained my souvenir. I was cool. I... I.... Why the hell did I just buy a Miami Mice shirt?!?!?

This is similar to, but the not the same as the shirt I bought.
The original picture I had here disappeared and I cannot find another copy of it.

Why didn't anyone stop me? Why was there no intervention? Damnit, my $10.00 was wasted! I might of well just threw it all down on double zero in a roulette spin. I was crushed. I wore that shirt maybe once. I didn't dare wear it to school. Lord, if someone had seen me in that shirt it would have been the worst wedgie and swirlie combination of my life. It would have been the beat down of adolescent history. After a trip to Promises and a few sessions with a counselor I felt that I was in control. This was not something that you could cure and you just had to take it day by day.

I was doing well for about two years when my family went to Cedar Point for a vacation in the summer of 1989. It was the end of the 80's and there was a transition into airbrushed shirts. It was all the rage at the County Fair. After all, if you didn't have a license plate with a sunset, silhouetted palm tree and the name of you and your sweetie encased in a heart showcased on the front of your IROC with feathered roach clips hanging from the rearview mirror then you were behind the times. Everywhere you went down the midway, a different artist had set up a shop with his collection. "Hey, look at the Bart Simpson stuck in the ass cheeks of that fat girl with the witty saying of 'Crack Kills!' Oh, would Nancy Regan approve or what?" On the last day of our trip around the park I found myself jonesing for a souvenir. I had to be strong. My sponsor had told me that it was okay to buy a souvenir. The trick was doing it with some clarity. You can't go in half cocked and expect to be all right. You need to relax and find your center. So, I did just that. I took a seat next to a calming fountain in the midway and began to chant the mantra I had learned from my support group.

Give me the serenity
to change the things I can
and to accept the things I can't
and the wisdom to know the difference in souvenirs.
Trendy Fads are always bad
Salted Confections are never a selection
A globe that snows always blows
and a shirt within reach with the name of the beach
is always lame to wear in that city when there.

Once finished I felt as if I was ready to purchase a suitable souvenir. Being a little older, I was in more control of my expenses and didn't have to go through the whole rigor moral of asking 'Mommy' for some cash. I calmly walked up to a vendor and said, "Good day, my good shop keep. I require a remembrance of your retreat here. What is the going rate for your work with hand painted garments?" Noting that the shirt was only $15.00 I felt as if I was getting a break. He had a portfolio of his work in a three ring binder and perused his portraits. He then asked for my selection. Suddenly, I froze. What did I want again? With the mental block of Ralphie Parker trying to remember to ask Santa for an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle I found myself drooling. Dear God, what did I come here for? Who are you people? Where am I? This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife! Getting perturbed the artist began making a sighing sound that mimicked his airbrush. Quickly, I managed to rattle off some instructions. He gave me some quizzical look and said pick it up in an hour.

As I walked around the park for the next hour I thought of all the cool conversations I would have while wearing this shirt. "Why Yes, it is an airbrushed shirt. You are jealous, aren't you? I can see it in your eyes as they continually focus on the hypnotic nature of my cool-ass airbrushed shirt." I envisioned myself at beach parties with the cool cheerleaders showing off my shirt. It was a simple design. It was clean. I was so cool that everyone would want a shirt just like this.

I came back around to pick up the shirt and pulled it slowly out of the brown paper wrapping as if it were a Playboy with Erin Gray on the cover in her Buck Roger's skin tight jump suit brandishing her Lazer Tag styled fire arm and flight helmet slyly placed in front of her naughty bits. This....was.....so....dumb! What did I do? Desperately, I searched my brain for the exact instructions I gave to the artist. A tiny voice played inside my head. "I want my name in chrome." MY NAME IN CHROME?!?! Dear Zeus, what was I thinking? It's not like it means anything, either. It's just my name in bubble type font across a white shirt. I mean, it left a lot of negative space for additional artwork like "Is a bad Mutha F@#ker" to added later, but when in the hell would this ever be cool. Suddenly, my life flashed before my eyes. I was back on that beach talking with Susie Pompoms. "In fact, it's so cool, everyone will want one with my name instead of their own." Then, I heard the sound of shrieking laughter as the entire student body gathers around me to point and laugh. I tripped through more of my life. I'm now 30 and still living in my parents' house wearing this shirt. I go out to the store and people think I must have some mental disability. "Look, the poor thing has to have his name on his shirt so he remembers it." I might have well just had the guy airbrush the words, "If found, please return to..." and my home address. Better still, I could have him airbrush a giant sticker around my name with the words, "Hello, my name is..."

I was crushed. I had gone and done it again. I tried to recall what had gotten me so flustered and formed those words in my mouth, "My name in chrome," but there was no thought. It was all a blur. It's not like I could ever wear this shirt out. It was a high end recreation of my junior high gym outfit. That must have been it. I was probably so psychological damaged from this class that I kept those words deeply rooted in my psyche. On the first day of gym class we were required to bring a white shirt into the teacher's office. He sat there in his navel high pants and short sleeve colored shirt with a Sharpie marker waiting for the next victim. The smell of the Sharpie flooded your senses as he called you in, his voice playing in slow motion as he waved you into the room. Your head pounded from that marker smell. He would pull your shirt tight against your body and began spelling your name across it. God forbid you had a letter I in your name because he would stamp the dot with the force of a pitcher in the Major Leagues. In fact when it became my turn, he had pulled the shirt so taught that he missed the material all together and dotted my clavicle. It was the kind of pain that you didn't feel at first but came on seconds later nearly dropping you to your knees. Have someone take their index finger and push into your ribs as they meet your spine. Then, wait a second. It just keeps radiating out into your body. Somehow I must have repressed that memory and two years later it was unlocked while standing in front of a guy at a booth in Ohio holding a Paasche F#1 single action external mix airbrush.

Sometimes you have to hit rock bottom in order to climb your way out of an addiction and I think this was my lowest point. From then on, whenever I go anywhere on vacation or for business I usually pass on the tourist trap type places. My friends all want to go shopping and I say, "You know what? I think I have to pass." To be fair to others I may linger outside the door or even go inside and just keep my hands in my pocket clutching a penny that I had flattened into an oval and stamped with the Statue of Liberty on a trip to New York. It has become like a medallion and a reminder of the last stupid thing I ever spent money on during a trip since it cost more than a penny to make. It's been quite a few years now and every so often I fall off the wagon and buy something stupid and realize later that I have tripped up but that's okay. The road to recovery isn't an easy one and I take it one vacation at a time.

Here's a list of red flag items that might point out a problem.

• Local Post Card that you never intend to send.
• Pet Rock painted to look like the location.
• Hermit Crab.
• A piece of rubble from some historic spot.
• Florida Snowman (a jar of water with a top hat floating inside.)
• Big Johnson shirt.
• Paperweight in the shape of a landmark.
• The Bible from your hotel room.
• A stuffed animal bigger than anyone in your party, that you have to carry around all day long, and cost you more than your family's dinner at Red Lobster.

We Are Errant Knaves, All

Believe none of us.

I try to think of myself as an honest person, someone who walks on the right side of the law. A recent topic came up on a message board I frequent that caused me to re asses my virtue. The topic of the thread was "Did you ever steal?" When conjuring up my response I began to find more and more instances in my past of thievery. After compiling the list and posting it, I realized I was quite the larcener.

My pilfering began at an early age when, as a small child, I picked up and carried a Winnie the Pooh doll right out of a department store. My parents have told me that I found it on the floor, discarded by another child. I had always believed it was part of a display and that I had just felt that it needed to go home with me. I still have the stuffed animal, tattered and torn, missing an eyeball, with visual signs of previous surgeries to repair severed limbs, and have given it to my daughter as a passing of the plush.

While in high school I ran with some unsavory crowds. Some members would use their five finger discount at the local music store, sporting a baggy zip hoodie and filling the space between with CDs from the bins. Not wanting to be accountable for actual theft, I refrained from participating but knew full well the actions of my friends. No, I was not up to the big game, I worked on a smaller scale. We would go to a knock off of Chuck E. Cheese's called Sideshow Pizza for the buffet. Their proof of purchase was a colored string clamped on your wrist with a contrasting colored metal clasp. This allowed you repeat trips to the pizza buffet and drink fountains. We would chip in a couple bucks each and purchase one meal, taking turns wearing the loose fitting bracelet. When one member would come back with his plate he would remove the bracelet and pass it to the next person under the table, away from the watchful eyes of the manager. After each trip to the restaurant, our wheelman would remove the clasp from the bracelet and add them to our collection hanging from his rear view mirror. Sometimes, fortune favored the felon and a discarded bracelet from that days color scheme would be found in the parking lot saving us the five dollars outright.

By college, I was a regular Campus Clyde Barrow, setting my sights on the ridiculously overpriced student meal plan. Our plans consisted of 'blocks' equating to roughly five dollars. For a block you get infinite trips to the cafeteria food line which consisted of items found in most institutional settings, both educational and penal. After one trip, it was a crime against humanity to return for more. The other option was a newer, renovated food court which consisted of several themed areas with offerings such as pasta and pizza, a deli, fish, rotisserie, and frozen deserts. In this instance a block would get you a combo meal including a drink. I would usually get my lunch or dinner to go, opting to eat in the comfort of my dorm room instead of the general seating areas. Instead of the mandated two pieces of pizza I would get four, stuffing them into a plastic "to-go container." The heat from the pizza would then steam up the plastic, obscuring the view of the contents. When approaching the cashier, I would not say anything to give away my ruse, allowing them to make the mistake on their own. With a 90% success rate, I could get have leftovers for dinner on one trip. In my estimation, this was reconciliation for the devious methods by which the university would parlay students fear of losing unused blocks at the end of the semester. Their practices of selling cases of soda at the special price of five blocks a piece roughly came to a 500% markup of retail price. Who was stealing from who in that scenario?

Since graduation I have been low key in my larceny. I won't go into any great detail for fear of retribution but I have refused to buy music since 1999. Frankly, my worst crimes are behind me, I mainly stick to small time jobs more consistent with that of a petty nature. Maybe an extra apple of a higher price slips into my bag while going through the self checkout at the grocery store. That coupon is out of date, but you never know unless you try. Perhaps, I don't tell my server they forgot to charge me a drink and then I slip them and extra dollar for tip at my favorite restaurant.

When I really think about all the things I've stolen I realize that I'm probably not as evil as I make myself out to be. We all steal in one way or another. I've stolen a kiss before, and maybe a few hearts. Half of my semi funny observations are probably not my own but unconscious recollections of something I've seen or heard. In the past, I blatantly stole web page code because that's what you did in the early days of guerrilla website design. If you didn't know how to code something, you found it somewhere else and stole the source. I didn't even draw that goofy Mongo picture at the top of this blog. I found a jpeg through Google of some one's drawing of DC Comics' Solomon Grundy character and added the computer. And this blog entry's title, I stole that from Shakespeare. In fact, the sum of our individual personalities are an amalgamation of others'. A saying or action that you may do with regular frequency is probably something that you adopted from someone else. You stole their shtick. Such phrases as, "Shit the bed," "Hell's half acre," and "Huh, Hell! Pay Attention!" are all common sayings that I did not originate but use in my everyday world. While I may have been a thief of just about everything in this world I make reparations with the gift of laughter. That should be enough to balance the scales. Am I right?

Right?

I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven?

Go thy ways to a nunnery.

And don't steal anything on the way.