The Taste of Yellow
If you have read many of my other posts you will have noticed that I talk about my nieces and nephews a lot. This is because, coming from a very large family, I have a ton of them, and I was a pretty young when my first niece was born. In fact, I often tell people that I was an uncle before I could vote. Dumb, I know, but it is true. Well, I thought I would tell you a babysitting story that I often think back on that always makes me smile as it was a battle between the young and the younger.
Many years ago, my sister, who has two kids, asked me if I would babysit for a few hours. This wasn’t a big deal; I liked her kids and wasn’t really doing anything else with my time. So, I loaded up some board games and headed over. Her kids were a then 8-year-old boy, who does best when he is alone and who I wasn’t even sure would notice that his mother was gone. And a 5-year-old girl who needs constant entertainment and human interaction. If anyone was ever brave enough to choose to not participate in her need for mental and verbal stimulation, my niece would just talk at said person until either she or they would kill over; and time is always on the side of the young.
When I arrived, I was met with my sister and niece at the door. My sister thanked me for coming and helping her out, and my niece jumped in and announced that she was hungry, staving even! My sister then said, “Oh yeah, she has not eaten because she decided that she wants a sandwich and that it needs to specifically be made by you.” This confused me. Making her a sandwich was no big deal and whereas these days I am pretty good in the kitchen, this was not always the case. My sister thanked me again and headed out the door, promising to return soon.
We went inside and immediately my niece told me again that she was starving. I put my stuff down, and we went into the kitchen. Without me asking she confidently announced “I want a turkey sandwich.” I looked at her strangely “Ah, turkey… The most carpet flavored of all the lunch meats!” Seeing that she was not amused by this, I went on “Uh, what else do you want on it.” and this is where the confidence ended. She looked back at me with a completely blank look on her face. Clearly her mother knew all the things that she liked, but she only knew the tastes, not the names.
“Do you want more than just turkey on it?” I asked. Still with a blank look on her face she simply nodded. The universal gesture of a child who does not really know what they are talking about. “Do you want cheese?” I asked. To this she perked up and smiled saying “yes!” Awesome, we were getting somewhere.
“How about some Mayo?” Again, blank. “Mayonnaise?” I asked, just in case the word ‘Mayo was not a thing in this house. Still nothing. Alright, time for a new plan I thought as I pulled over a chair. I told her to take a look inside the fridge and see if she recognizes any of these things. She seemed pretty excited for her chance to build her own sandwich and for the most part it worked. She was definitely better at pointing than she was at naming, and with my help, we gathered up the makings for a pretty basic sandwich; and I started to build.
Anyone can put together a sandwich when you know what goes on it. When I finished our culinary masterpiece I cut it in half, she put some chips on her plate and she was ready to eat. I sat her at the table and then walked off to check in with her brother. When I got back there was only one bite taken out of the sandwich, and I returned just in time to see her deconstructing our creation. We have all been there and seen this look before. Someone who just bit into something that they did not like at all. They are still hungry and want to know if it was a fluke or if this is going to be a persistent taste.
“What is wrong?” I asked. She looked up at me and said, “I don’t like it.”
“Well, what part of it don’t you like? Does it need more or less of something? Or did you just now realize that turkey tastes like wallpaper?” I asked, clearly unsure of what the issue was. She tried another bite and I could tell that this one was no better than the last. She scrunched up her face and said, “It tastes spicy” This was very confusing to me and I asked her what she meant.
“You mean like hot?” I asked.
“No” she said. “Like, tingly on the tongue.”
This, I thought, is why children are so bad at explaining when there is a monster in their closet…
“Tingly like a pickle? Like sour?” I asked, but I knew she and I were pretty far apart on this explanation.
She again looked at it before saying, “It tastes like yellow?”
“Ohhhhh!” I said “You have Synesthesia. I have always wondered what the color Razzamatazz tastes like. Is it just like a party on the tongue?” I asked.
Staring at me with that all too familiar look of growing frustration she said in a louder voice “No. There is too much yellow!”
This was still not making sense to me and she could see it in my face. With a huff and an eye-roll she jumped off of her chair and stormed over to the fridge. Rooting around she found what she was looking for. “Too! Much! Yellow!” she said accusingly while using one hand to point at her other hand which was holding a large bottle of mustard.
“But… you wanted mustard.” I said confused.
“Yes!” she said exasperated “But a little girl amount. Not a YOU amount!”
I made her a new sandwich, and I ate the first one. She was right, it was ME amount of mustard, and it was perfect. But this event has always left me wondering, what does Razzamatazz taste like to someone with Synesthesia?
Fears of Formaldehyde
Reading through my blog you will notice that there are a lot of stories from my time in college. This isn’t because I have some great love for my time there, but rather because I had a lot of strange experiences when in college. Every year around this time I am reminded of a very specific and odd event that I always thought I should write about.
It was the end of August and I had signed up for an Anatomy class. This class is infamously hard and comes as two parts, the first is the lecture and the second part is the labs. The labs are where the class dissects a human cadaver throughout the 12-week course. Well, after about a month of being in this class it was pretty clear that cutting up bodies was not for everyone. Forgetting for a moment that you are dissecting a human, everything else about the lab was pretty terrible too. You had to be careful where you set your bag down because everything was coated in a disinfectant that, to quote one of the teacher-aids who actually runs the lab “That stuff will melt the soles of your shoes if you stood in here too long!” I don’t know if that is true, but all of the aids wore the same kind of shoes.
But, as bad as that was, there was nothing worse than the smell. It’s not the smell of bodies, although that was very distasteful, it was the smell of all the chemicals. The formaldehyde was so strong that I would leave there every week just feeling sick. The best way that I can describe how overwhelmingly terrible this smell was is by quoting an email from the class professor “Really, everyone should be wearing half mask respirators” …
After the second month there the class was getting much smaller, and soon the lab only had about 18 people, down by more than half. Well, one day I was working in the back of the room with a small group when suddenly we heard a loud crash. I remember the sound being very specific, almost as if someone had just roundhouse kicked the appendicular skeleton that was in the room. All of us looked around but couldn’t tell what had actually happened.
However, on the other side of the room where the sound came from, every face was staring down in complete shock. No one moved and no one made a sound. It was pretty clear to me that something was not right, so I started to walk through the group of people gesturing for them to move out of my way. Following the eyes of the other students I looked down to see that the noise had been a student fainting and he had indeed fallen on the skeleton on his way to the ground. I sprinted over to him and grabbed his arm; I didn’t know his name but he was a large fellow. Checking his pulse, I started to sternly shout “Hey! Hey buddy! You have to wake up! Come on. Wake up!” After a few seconds he opened his eyes and they were spinning.
The room around us was silent, but when his eyes opened one of the teacher aids came up to us and said “We have to get him to his feet.” I assume this was because of the pure poison that apparently they mop the floor with and I otherwise would have agreed, but it was pretty obvious to me that this guy was not going to be able to stand yet. The aid started to pick him up, clearly overestimating his own ability to lift a limp 220-pound body. “Wait!” I said “Don’t lift him yet.” The aid looked at me and started to ask why when at that moment, just as I expected, the guy passed out again. Once more I started speak to him in a firm voice “Come on buddy! Time to go! Let’s go! Get up!” Again, he opened his eyes and I could tell that this time was a bit better as his eyes didn’t seem to be actively spinning. He stood up but he was shaky, really shaky. I told him to put his arm around me and that we are going to walk towards the door. He did as he was told and we shambled to the fresh air outside.
It seemed to me that all he really needed was to be away from either the fumes, or the bodies and the best place for that was the shade in the grass. We walked over and he immediately dropped to his knees and rolled onto his back, putting his arms over his eyes. He started to mumble something and I looked back at the aid who was standing 5-feet behind us with a shocked look on his face. Having not heard him I leaned in closer “I need a drink” he said. I told him to wait there and jogged back into the lab. When I arrived, I was surprised to see that no one had moved an inch. They all looked up at me in shock as I walked over to my backpack and removed a bottle of water and headed back towards the door. Finally, one of the other aids asked me if he was going to be alright. I really didn’t know why he fainted in the first place, but I figured that he would be okay away from the fumes. But even if he wasn’t, what could these people do? I simply nodded as I walked out.
When I got back to the guy he was at least sitting up. He took the water and drank all of it. I stayed with him and he told me that he didn’t know why he fainted. I told him that I assume it was because of the formaldehyde, that stuff is just terrible. He agreed and we sat there until he felt good enough to get his bag and leave for the day. All-in-all it was a very strange afternoon.
That night it got even worse.
When I got home, I saw that I had an email from that professor. I was surprised and apprehensive about this because he was not a nice man and I figured that anything he wrote would reflect his brash personality. When reading the email, it was clear in the first sentence that this was not a friendly message.
He started out by telling me that when the student fainted it was not my responsibility to get involved and that by doing so, I interfered with those who were much more capable. He informed me that his aids were medically trained and that any student who couldn’t handle the fumes should wear a respirator and any student who couldn’t handle the bodies should not be in his class in the first place. He ended his email by informing me that my presence there surely did more damage than good.
I wanted to write him back and inform him that I did not see anyone who was ‘more capable’ and that he must be referring to his other aids as being medically trained, because that is not what I witnessed. But also, if we should be wearing masks, why aren’t we? Why are we only hearing about this now? Lastly, I wanted to inform him that I highly doubt that the student in question thinks I did more damage than good and that his email was the silliest thing I have ever seen a grown man say.
I wanted to say all of this, but I have a firm rule against arguing with crazy or stupid, so I let it go.
The next week when I walked into the lab, I was met at the door by the aid who came outside with us. He reached out and shook my hand and told me that he was happy I was there. I didn’t see the student in question in the labs again, but I did see him in the lecture where he found me, sat down next to me and introduced himself. His name was David, and we never spoke about what happened.
I have never been sure if I did something that was right, wrong or even just irrelevant. But I know this: If I passed out in a room because of noxious fumes, I would definitely want someone to drag me to safety.
Enough?
I am not a minimalist person. Not because I don’t want to be or that I don’t see the value of it, I was just never very good at it. For years I have collected books and even though I would never give up my collection it is to the point now where I have to constantly weigh my choices of if I have space for all the things in my life. Not just physical space, but mental and emotional space as well.
I was reminded of this the other day when I was given the opportunity to acquire a new Samsung Tablet for next to nothing. Naturally I was very tempted and after tinkering with it and realizing how sleek and powerful it was, there was no doubt that this tablet was worth a lot more than I was going to pay for it. But there was something that just didn’t seem right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. After a few days of thought I finally figured out what the issue was. Now that I am older, I feel like this happens more and more and I am still not very good at recognizing it. So, let me tell you a story that I refer back to in times like this.
Many years ago, prominent writer’s Kurt Vonnegut (Slaughterhouse-Five) and Joseph Heller (Catch-22) were at a party that was hosted by a billionaire on Shelter Island, NY. While there Kurt leaned over to Joe and said:
“Joe, how does it make you feel to know that our host only yesterday may have made more money than your novel ‘Catch-22’ has earned in its entire history?”
To which Joe calmly replied “I’ve got something he can never have.”
Kurt playfully asked him “What on earth could that be, Joe?”
And Joe said, “The knowledge that I’ve got enough.”
I think about this all the time. I believe that the concept of having enough and knowing when one has enough is truly the key to being happy in this life. Think of all the people you have seen or met who have less than you, but are just as happy as you are. I know that I can think of plenty. What is really interesting is that I know many people who have a lot more than I do and are not nearly as happy as I am… I bet you do to.
There is no doubt that there is a certain kind of fulfillment that comes from acquiring things, I feel that with my book collection. But there is an overflow where it is too much. Too much to care for and too much to care about. This is the point where instead of something making life easier or more joyful it adds more problems and complications. At least in me, this causes Decision Fatigue and wears me out in a way that I cannot shake and it just makes me crazy.
After remembering all of this it was easy to see that this Tablet, although incredible, did not have a place in my life and it was something that I had to pass on. My goal is that when I find myself in the position of choosing between want and need, I will always think back to this story and ask myself “Do I already have enough?” Because so far, I am constantly surprised at how common it is that I think back to that small memory and remind myself that yes, I have enough.
Except for books… I need all of those.
Richard’s Ring
The other day I was reminded of something that happened to me many years ago. When I was in college, I didn’t really take any classes just for fun. It’s not that I have a problem with classes like bowling or ceramics on a college level, it’s just that I never found a class that I enjoyed enough to spend my hard-earned money on that wasn’t required for my degree. The topic that did always interest me was cultural history. But I never got around to exploring that until closer to my graduation when I took a Celtic anthropology class. I was always fascinated by the Celts and really love to learn about them. So, after completing that class I took an advanced class and completely immersed myself in Celtic culture.
Of the many cool aspects of Celtic life, I always really liked their style. Their style of clothing, weapons, hair, tattoos. All of it! One particular group of Celts was known for wearing leather rings, which was a personal favorite of mine. They would braid them and treat them to make them soft. Well, when I read about this, I wanted one so bad, but at the time they were impossible to find (you actually can find leather rings now). Making one wasn’t much of an option as I have no leatherworking skills and my artistic abilities are lacking at best. I even called a man who makes custom leather pieces to at least see what it would cost, but this did not interest him at all. It was then that I realized that a leather ring might be a dream that has to wait for a different time in my life. However, this did get me curious about what other kinds of unique rings were out there.
I started my search and was disappointed to find that the most unique rings I could see were cheap spinners. Almost everything that looked remotely cool was bringing me back to Amazon so I figured I would continue to search everything that they had in this area. Most of the rings were pretty unimpressive, but a few of them were unlike anything I had seen before, good or bad. I even found some silicone rings that, although were pretty basic in their design, were at least unique. There was one silicone ring in particular that I really liked and considered buying, but again, it was just so plain. So, I gave up my search and let the dream die.
Months later I was back on Amazon shopping for a birthday present when I noticed something kind of strange. On the Recommended for You section, they had a lot of items that were of a particular category that Amazon likes to call “Health and Personal Care”. I didn’t really know why it was recommending these to me, but they were things like: Personal vibrators, lubrications and sex toys. I ignored all of these, careful not to click on them and I moved on. Well, the next day, the same thing happened. Different items but the same category. There was even a sex swing on the list this time.
What the hell is going on?
I tried to simply clear my history to remove the culprit but back in these days this wasn’t as easy as it now… I’m not even sure that it was possible. I figured that if I didn’t get to the bottom of this I would continue to trigger this cycle and I would just get more “Health” products filling up my Recommendations. So, I opened Amazon in an incognito page and started searching for the same products that they were suggesting to me. After what seemed like a very long time, I ran across something that I had seen before, months earlier… A small, plain, silicone ring.
I remember that! I really wanted a leather Celtic ring and ended up finding this silicone ring. But why is it on here?
Clicking the ring there wasn’t anything strange about it. It didn’t have much of a description, since it didn’t seem to really need one. It was just a very basic silicone ring. I looked down at the similar items and saw another ring just like it. When I clicked on it, I was surprised to see that it had a much larger description which read “Dick Ring: For Longer Lasting Pleasure” And to my shame I realized that the ring I was looking at months before was not for the finger at all and Amazon had just assumed that I really wanted a sex swing to pair with my new interest in dick rings.
Of course, I have no problem with any of these products being used in their intended way, but I like to imagine now what it would have been like to have bought it, and worn it proudly on my finger only to one day have a stranger tell me that he has the same ring at home in his nightstand…
Bee Stings and Other Things
The other day I was asked a question that, although I can answer simply, it is much better to answer with a few stories. I was asked “When was the last time you were stung by a bee or wasp?”
Well, it just so happens that I have had 5 incidences of being stung… totaling 33 stings! Yeah, you read that right. In fact, I don’t know anyone who has been stung or swarmed more than me.
Now, the first time that I was swarmed it was just kids being dumb. But the other time I was much older and it is actually a pretty interesting story. And since I have been stung enough to pretty much be a professional on the subject, let me share my experience with you so that you can learn from my mistakes.
My mother had a neighbor who burned wood in his fireplace all year round. He didn’t need to, but he really enjoyed it. Apparently, he was offered some wood from someone he knew. However, what he thought was going to be a year’s worth of firewood ended up being a lifetime supply. My mother, being the good neighbor that she was, offered to store some of it under the very large deck that she had in her backyard. However, as time passed her neighbor knew that he would never use that large amount of fire wood and told her she could just get rid of it.
She called me up and asked if I would throw it all out for her. I was not excited for the job, it being the middle of summer and all, but it was under a deck and there were worse ways to spend a Saturday. So, I called my friend David and asked if he would help.
Now, one thing that is often forgotten about when working outside is all the bugs, and we ran into plenty this day! As the hours wore on, we were attacked by all kinds of creatures, but it wasn’t until a spider crawled up my arm that things started to get real.
Truth is, I really don’t hate spiders; In fact, I am pretty fascinated by them and love them from afar. But, when one the size of a chihuahua with a ten thousand babies on its back crawls up your arm, there is only one thing to do, we all know it, we are all kind of ashamed of it. That is to swat yourself multiple times WAY harder than is necessary to kill a spider while making noises like “Ughhh” and “Ahhaahhh” And my personal favorite “Huuhaaahuiihh” until you are finally free of the monster but somehow spend the rest of your day unsure if you actually ever got it or if it has now just made a new home in your hair.
Once I did this David had a field day making fun of me “Oh! You’re scawed of a wittle spwider?” He said. Clearly, he was not seeing the same Jumanji sized beast that I just fought off and who I am pretty sure just laughed at me as he casually sauntered away. Now, I have learned that when I have told this story in the past, I might be explaining the size of this spider a bit wrong. Because I was underselling it! It was easily 10 to 30 times larger than most cars and I remember gallantly fighting it off single handedly in what was nothing less than a battle for Earth itself! But that is neither here nor there.
So, after about an hour, the universally agreed on amount time it takes to shake off a vicious spider attack, we were starting to finish up when suddenly David said “Whoa. There are some bugs over here.” He had started to pull up some of the grass that had died under the deck. To this, I took my opportunity “Ohhh, are you scawed of a wittle” He interrupted me “There are a lot of bugs! Something weird is going…” And it was right then that I felt it. Something hit me in the head with the force of a rock. Was it a bb gun? Did I get shot? I reached up and started to pull whatever it was out of my hair. It fought, grabbed and tore at my head. Looking at it I feel like it took me a whole minute to see what it was. It was a bug of some kind and I could see pure hate and malice in its face. Its mandibles were trying to tear their way through my glove and as I finally made sense of what it was and why it was attacking me, many things happened all at once.
First, I heard David again, this time he was yelling “AH! OW! Ahhaahhh!!!”
Then I felt multiple dagger like stabs. First in my side! Then my neck! Then my back!
A loud roaring sound rumbled in my ears.
Looking up the sky was peppered with black specs zooming around me.
More stings! One was in my glove. One was trying to get into my ear.
Finally, I heard the desperate words erupt from my mouth as I reached out and grabbed David “RUUUUUN!”
Together we took off running as the sky around us went black. We ran around the deck and I knew that David was being stung as much as me. Continuously they got me. My back. My ankle. My head. When we made it inside, I ran to the bathroom and ripped my clothes off only the see the scariest sight of all, two of them flying out of my underwear… They weren’t just trying to sting me; they were trying to end all future ME’s! Looking around the bathroom I saw there were 10 if not more inside there with me. Knowing I could not stay in this small room with them I opened the door, covered myself with both hands and I yelled out “I’m sorry in advance for this David” and I took off running.
After fighting them off with a magazine I returned and I found David laying on the floor groaning. A book laid next to him and there were clear signs of a struggle. I asked him if he was alright and he nodded then pointed to sliding glass door that we ran in through and to my shock and horror the door, and all the windows around the house were covered in wasps. I was completely amazed to see how many of them there were. Standing there with my mouth hanging wide open I heard David say “We live here now…”
Well, there is nothing left to do now but get our revenge! David did not like the sound of that, but he knew as well as I did that this was war. Those Wasps were waiting for us. Besides, what were we going to do, just leave 2,000 wasps for my mother to take care of? The next few minutes went by like a really bad movie montage. Us picking up an item and trying to figure out if it would be an effective weapon. In the end we were armed with the strangest assortment of sport equipment ever used on a battlefield, and we went out to try to reach the hive.
As I am sure you guessed have, this went very poorly and we were awarded with many new wounds. But eventually we did make it to the hive, which was actually underground. Turned out that as David was pulling up dead grass, he was standing on top of it. Also turns out that Wasps are not into that kind of thing. So, using a trash bag we covered the hole that they were coming though and started to dig it up. Night had fallen at this point and the wasps seem tired and confused. We were not doing much better. Neither of us wanted to kill the wasps if we didn’t have to but we just didn’t see another way around it. We did what we had to.
We dug up the hive up and it was massive! It was round and weighed about 15 pounds. We wanted to see inside but knew that this was not a great idea. So, we froze the hive until the next day, and cleaned up the bodies that died in the war. The next day we cut the hive open and learned that there were thousands of wasps still inside. I ended up filling a 1-gallon Ice Cream pail, and two mason jars! We thought there were about 2500 wasps in total. At the end of the day David was stung 7 times and I was stung 11 times and we both got pretty sick.
I spoke to David not too long ago and he asked me “Hey, do you remember that time that you conned me into a war with a superior wasp army that ended with you grabbing your testicles and running out of a bathroom.”
Not, uh. Not my proudest moment.
Hey! If you like stories where trying to do the right thing goes horribly wrong, then you will love this one! No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
The King and Myself
Anyone who knows me would tell you that I love all things scary and dark. In fact, when it comes to horror, I have generally read it, seen it and in some cases experienced it. (check that out here: Know Your Fire Exits).
Because of my love for horror and all things dark I have often been asked by people for suggestions for books and movies. But this isn’t always as simple as it sounds. Because to me, there are very few things that are scary or even that dark. In the past I have made the mistake of suggesting horror to people without really knowing what they considered scary and the results have been bad. Because of this when it comes to books, I like to just take the safe route and suggest a classic like Dracula or Frankenstein which are two books that I have a great love for. Or even something much safer, like Stephen King; not because his works are not scary to some, but because now he is such a household name that people generally already know what they are in for.
Since most people have seen or read something by Stephen King this usually prompts the question as to which of his works are my favorite. Well, I have read many Stephen King novels over the years and even though I can tell you my favorite with ease, I think instead I will tell you all a secret. One that could get me killed in the circles that I run in: I really don’t like Stephen King that much…
Now I can already hear you fellow horror lovers yelling “What kind of person claims to love horror but doesn’t want to read Stephen King?” Well, there are a few reasons for that and I could go into all of them, and to be honest I think that a lot of you who have read his work would agree with them. But that will have to be a story for another time.
Because this story is not about Stephen King…
At the beginning of 2018 I got an itch to read a good horror novel. So, I started to search the internet for some suggestions with just one stipulation. No Stephen King!
Well, as it turns out, I am not alone. If you search for great horror that is not written by Stephen King, you will find many people who have created blogs, threads and sites dedicated to exactly this. This was a perfect jumping off point to find the kind of horror that I was looking for and I was pretty successful. Although, I did find a list that had Richard Bachman’s: Rage on there. (For those who don’t know, Richard Bachman is Stephen King’s pseudonym) You know there is no escaping the guy when a list dedicated to books not written by Stephen King still had Stephen King on it…
But I digress, after all, this story is not about Stephen King.
So, I found a list that I liked, the author shared my respect for King’s works, but understood that there are other horror authors out there and some real gems waiting to be found. I actually found many books and authors that I had never heard of! A few of them had multiple horror novels and had clearly made writing their life. All told, I found 3 authors and a total of 7 books that I wanted to read.
I figured I would read all the books by one author then move to the next. The first book I picked up was called Heart-Shaped Box and once finished I knew that it was not going to be the top of my list, but it was enjoyable. If not for the fact that it had a pretty weak ending and a fair amount of fluff that could be erased it would have been really good! Incidentally, this is often how I feel about Stephen King. (Don’t worry. This is not about Stephen King, just realization on my part)
Moving on to the next book by this author I felt the exact same way. There was something about these stories that I kind of liked, both of them weren’t scary, but solid horror, weak endings and maybe not the most original but certainly worth the read. So, before leaving this author and moving on to the next I thought that I would look into more of his publications and see what else he had written.
As I was researching, I was surprised to see that I had actually seen a movie that was based off of one of his books. I was pretty interested and thought to myself that I would read a lot more of his works. But then I saw something odd when looking at his personal information, it said: ‘Joe Hill, born in Bangor, Maine.’ I stopped right there and thought to myself “Maine? Who the hell is born in Maine? The only person I have ever even heard of that is from Maine is Stephen Ki…
“Oh no! … No! It can’t be!” I felt the disbelief overwhelm me. “Could Joe Hill also be one of Stephen Kings pseudonym’s? That would explain the writing! The poor endings! The needless fillers! The lack of overall horror! Did I just get dupped?”
I started to frantically scan his bio until I found it: “Joseph Hillstorm King, the Son of author Stephen King”
(sigh)
DAMN YOU, KING’S!!!
I cannot escape them…
I am always looking for some new horror that is not Stephen King. So if you have any suggestions, let me know!
Obviously not THAT sorry.
Two weeks before Christmas in 2019 there was a blackout across 3 cities in my area. All told, the blackout lasted for only about 6 hours, and it was kind of nice to pull out the flashlights and candles. At some point in this, I even decided I would go to the gas station, which are powered by generators during power outages, and buy myself some water. When I got to the gas station, I learned that I was not the only one who knew they were open because the place was packed. The way that the cashier’s station is set up is like a horseshoe with four stations around the bend. However, of the four only one of them was open.
The kid at the front of the line was having some kind of issue and I could see that he knew that he was holding everyone else up. I was the fourth person in line and the person in front of me was a large angry looking black man. I didn’t know if he was genuinely angry, or if that is just how he looks all the time, often referred to in the name-calling industry as RBF or Resting Bitchy Face. Either way, he did not look like someone who wanted to talk to anyone.
Well, little did any of us know. but there were actually like 6 other employees in the building and after about 3 minutes one of them came and open another register kitty corner to the one whose line I was in. I, being the fourth person in line, waited to see if anyone ahead of me would change lines. The second person in line left for the new register and I again waited to see if the man in front of me would go. After about 30 seconds I figured that he was content to be where he was, and that meant that I was free to move to the new register without hurting any feelings. However, as I walked around the half circle, another register, the one that was directly behind the one I was previously waiting in, opened as well. Since I happened to be right there when she opened it, I figured I would just claim my spot. After all, it seemed like it would be pretty strange to go wait in a line while this one was completely open, so I put my stuff on the counter.
Once my transaction was completed, I realized that the water that I bought was actually damaged. So, I told the cashier that I was going to go trade it. To which she replied “We normally just sell damaged drinks because it doesn’t affect the taste” I found myself thinking how do you know that it doesn’t affect the taste? Do you try them? Also, I think I am more concerned about things getting into my water than I am about the taste. Don’t they say that botulism has no taste?
As this was going on, I heard the man in the line next to me, the first one to open up, say “sorry, do you want to come over here?” I looked up and to my surprise I saw that the kid who was having troubles was still up at the register and still having problems. Behind him, the black man shook his head in an angry and upset way at the man in the line next to me.
I went to trade out my drink and as I passed the man I said “Hey, I’m sorry that you got kind of skipped in line there” knowing, as I said this, that there was very little I could have done about the way the chips fell. I couldn’t force him to move lines, fix the kid at the front’s issues or make the cashiers help him first. I could have offered that he take the spot in the line that opened right in front of me, but I think that would have been far more awkward than kind. All I could really do, is what I did.
He snapped his eyes at me and glared angrily before saying
“Obviously you aren’t that sorry.”
I said, “Well, I feel b…”
He cut me off “No, you obviously aren’t that sorry!”
I looked at him confused about his use and emphasis of the word ‘that’ and said “You could have gotten in that line; it wasn’t a big deal to me. I was fine…”
“No!” He snapped, again cutting me off. “If you really were that sorry, you wouldn’t have cut in line.”
“Cut in line?” I said confused. Remembering that the line did not exist before I walked into it.
“Yes! Right in front of me!” He said like some unspoken law of gas station lines had be completely violated.
He started toward the door as he said “I don’t even know why you apologized; you clearly weren’t even that sorry.”
Confused by this bizarre situation I said “Look, I do feel bad, but your right, I am not ‘THAT‘ sorry.” making air quotes over the word ‘that’ as I said it.
“I didn’t know that my level of sorry was being measured in this apology… I put it at about a 4! A 1 after this bizarre tantrum of yours.”
“Whatever, Man!” he spat and he stormed out.
I really try to mean the things that I say, and really only apologize when I feel bad about something, my fault or not. Before this day I didn’t know that I needed to have a specific amount of sorry to apologize about something. But I think after this incident, I will give it a number.
I will say: “Your cousin died? I am sorry, like a 4!”
“No, I liked your cousin… A 7! I am sorry a 7.”
If you like stories with strange interactions with strangers, check this one out: Kill them with kindness.
Ol’ Teddy
Anyone who knows me knows that my favorite president was Theodore Roosevelt, Hands Down. 
Now, I could sit and tell you hundreds of reasons why I look up to him so much, but since it is the time of year to give some much deserved love to all those who founded our great country, I thought instead I would tell you a story that my history professor in college told to the class, which led me to one of my favorite sayings and mindsets.
So, for those of you who don’t know, Theodore Roosevelt was born very sickly. In fact, it was thought that he would never make it to adulthood due to his breathing. And this is actually what Roosevelt attributes many of his biggest accomplishments to. He overcame these debilitation by taking on a very strenuous lifestyle of health and fitness. Often when people look at pictures of him, they think he looks portly, but the truth was, he was a big, healthy and powerful man.
During Roosevelt’s presidency a French ambassador came to visit him at the White House. Before he arrived, Theodore found out that this ambassador was into health and fitness, so Roosevelt decided that he would show the ambassador his own workout routine and they could do it together.
When the Ambassador arrived, Roosevelt wasted no time and they started by running around the white house for an hour. They then took to swimming laps in the pool for an hour. Then they did weight training for two hours. After lunch they did more weight and cardio training for two more hours. Then immediately moved into playing tennis.
After all of this Teddy turned to the ambassador and asked “What would you like to do next?” and the ambassador, exhausted and trying to catch his breath, looked up at Theodore and said “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. President, I would like to lay down and die.” To this, Teddy burst out laughing and pat him on the back. Then, together they moved on to the less demanding sport of skeet shooting.
So now any time that I am worn out and there is more that I have to do, I think to myself “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. President, I would like to lay down and die” And I think of Ol’ Teddy just laughing and patting me on the back… because quitting is never an option.
Fun Fact: When President Theodore Roosevelt died in his sleep in 1919, Thomas R. Marshall, the then Vice President, was quoted saying “Death had to take Roosevelt sleeping, for if he had been awake, there would have been a fight.”
If you liked this story, I have another patriotic story for you called: Real Hero’s. Check it out!
Terror By Any Other Name
I think that i
t is really easy for those who have not had a lot of interactions with professors to imagine them like Hollywood makes them; professional, unshakable and brilliant. However, this is actually nowhere near what professors are really like.
They are just trying to make a living by using the many years of school that they have under their belts. And they are fully capable of failing to deliver that grand message of inspiration that Hollywood professors are so famous for spreading.
Well, I wanted to tell you a story about my interaction with a very unprofessional professor.
In my 2nd year of college I decided to take an advanced film class to fill up some credits. I had taken an introductory film class before this from the same professor and genuinely enjoyed it. Now, if you’re wondering what an advanced film class might consist of, it is watching movies that either altered what we know of film, or ones that defined their genre. Then, we would have a big discussion to go over how and why they did what they did and then write a paper to highlight what made them so definitive. Finally, at the very end of our class we were to take one of these films and write a 15 page paper on it.
There were many films that we watched throughout this class, but there was one in particular that I thought was very unique. Therefore, I decided that I would write my paper on it. The film was Michael Moore’s first film titled: ‘Roger & Me.’
Now, if you are not familiar with Michael Moore, let me fill you in.
Michael Moore is a documentarian who takes advantage of the American people by creating propaganda films that are designed to scare people into buying ‘fear prevention’s’ which in the case of Michael Moore, come in the way of more of his films, because nothing sells quite like fear. It is a brilliant tactic when you are selling the truth; but the truth is much harder to sell, even in the form of fear. So, Michael Moore rigs his interviewees and where the shots are taken so that he can sell the “kind of ‘Real Truth’ from the angle that will generate the most fear, and therefore the most money.”
So, back to my story.
When my professor had us watch the propaganda film ‘Roger & Me’, I had a great deal of respect for the movie and for Michael Moore, but not for the reasons that others might have. I looked at this movie and thought to myself “Wow, this movie is just packed full of lies and nonsense. But it is done in such a good way that it could seem believable to someone who was new to the idea of propaganda… And that is brilliant.” So, one week before the class was to end we had to turn in our final reports, and I wrote a paper that clearly explained why Michael Moore was the best propagandists that was alive today. And that he was so successful and skilled in his craft that those who make documentaries will be using the templates that he created for years to come. I titled it ‘Michael & Me.’
Now, I wrote this paper thinking that my professor would love it because it was the truth. It was not based on hate, but rather really told the story that Michael Moore was unmatched in his skill of spreading propaganda. However, the next day I received a call on my cell phone from a number that I had never seen before. When I answered it my professor announced himself. After a few pleasantries his tone changed and he clearly stated why he called. He told me that the bad light that I shed on Michael Moore was unacceptable, and that I would receive a 0% on this paper. I was appalled, but did not back down. I told him that I exceeded this paper in length, citations and concept… it was everything that we were taught in class and it was based on the truth!
He responded by telling me, and I quote: “I never taught you to slander the name of great men, and I never wanted to be the one to break a 4.0 students perfect GPA. So, I will give you the next week to re-write your paper on a different movie.” In other words, he would give me my first grade lower than an ‘A’.
Needless to say I was distraught. I was scared. I remember thinking that this man intends to damage me if I did not bend to his will. ‘I HAVE to do what he says… He could hurt my GPA. The whole reason to go to college! I HAVE TO!!!’
…Until finally, it hit me…
Wait! This is exactly what terrorists do. This is what they demand! “Do what I say or I will hurt you! Do what I believe to be right, or I will kill what you care about!” This is exactly what Michael Moore did to my country. He made them scared. He made them think that everything in our world is out to hurt them.
So, I decided to change my paper… But only the title to better match the situation. The new title was ‘Terror by Any Other Name.’
When I handed it to my professor he took one look at the title and said “Oh Ben, I wish you wouldn’t.” Little did he know that I had made many phone calls to the Chair of my department, and to the Dean of my University. In the end I kept my perfect 4.0 and he and I went our separate ways. But I will never forget how disgusted I felt looking into the eyes of someone who was in a position of power trying to spread terror on my home turf.
I suppose if there is a moral here it is this: Never let them push you around. Whether they’re greedy terrorists like Michael Moore, or a biased Professor. Always stand up for what is right. And always remember that the biggest defense that we have against any form of terror is knowledge.
The Almost Perfect Purchase
Now, when it comes to purchasing things, I am a bit… well, odd. I am never satisfied to just grab the first thing I see and go (need we revisit my bread choices in ‘Fun in the Bread Isle’?). So when I am looking to make a new purchase I make a list of the required criteria in my head that the product must meet. The product in question today is a box of bandages.
Here is my criteria and in order of importance as well:
- Be made of cloth – I just think that the cloth ones work out a lot better due to their flexibility.
- Come in assorted sizes – No one should ever need 100 bandages of the same size… That is, unless you have one of those fearless daredevil children. In that case, you might want to stock up.
- Be relatively cheap – No cut should cost you $5.00.
- They need to be Anti-bacterial – Now, this is low on the list simply because Anti-bacterial bandages are kind of hard to come by whilst still meeting the other 3 criteria.
After a long search, I finally found my bandages. Placing them in my medicine cabinet, they had patiently waited for a day just like this recent one when I cut my finger. I wrapped my finger in a cloth and stared to head to my newly purchased product.
Pulling one out, I was very satisfied that it met all 4 of my criteria. I put it on my finger and started to walk off. However, within seconds one of the sides started to peel up. “Oh, woops, I must not have pushed it down very hard.” I thought, and I gave it a good rub so it would stick to itself as I continued on my way. However, I didn’t even make it 5 feet before it came unstuck once more. Oh well, thanks to my 3rd criteria I can just replace this defective one. Placing the new bandage on my finger it stuck better than the last, but not nearly as good as I was hoping, but I did not give my newfound disappointment much thought.
Later that night, after getting ready for bed, it was time to put on a new bandage. But after making it back to my room, I looked down and saw that this bandage, like its cousins before it, was not sticking. ‘What the hell?’ I thought. ‘Why aren’t you sticking to yourself? You have like one job… one job!!! You know what. It is fine, I will just put on another.’ Squeezing my new bandage tight I tried to go to sleep; after all, it’s not like I am going to be moving much in my sleep anyways.
However, as soon as morning came there was a stinging in my finger. Looking down I saw no evidence that there was ever even a bandage on my finger. I decided to get another one and use the restroom. Once I was in the restroom one look in the mirror revealed the true extent of my failure in this purchase. Stuck in my black hair was the bandage that once covered my finger.
New plan… Bandage plus duct tape!!!
(Sigh
)
No product should suck so bad that you need to pair it with a different product to make it work correctly. From now on when buying bandages I have a new #1 in my search criteria… Actually work.
As Random As Random Gets 