Do you feel like a pusher sometimes?
A dealer who fell prey to their own products? They’re not our products though, we’ve adopted ownership without a proper job offer. We work for free for a discount on the latest technology and don’t get health benefits. “You can be the lucky one to beta test.” It’s a lot like an internship with no career at the end. Just bragging rights. I’ll be the first to tell you about the deal I got on my recent smartphone and the features I love best. Then I’d be the next to find an app or plan to help me use it less. There is a very strange balance that we can achieve with technology. It can ultimately make our lives easier, better, more connected to those we love, more on top of our schedules, finances, hobbies, everything. And at the same time, technology can just eat us up like I do to a proper gyro from an authentic Greek restaurant. It reminds you of drug addicts that you’ve either known or seen on TV. You’ve watched them and judged, “Man, look how hooked they are. It’s just pathetic.” Until you’ve had to poop without your phone nearby. Or waited in a line somewhere with a dead battery. Your hand pulls out the dead screen and stares at it, begging for it to give you some purpose over the next 28 seconds. Heaven forbid we be left alone with our thoughts. I noticed when I first got glasses, about a year in (maybe sooner) if I had them off, I’d still find myself reaching up to adjust them on my face. Lately, I swear I’ve felt the buzz of a notification from my phone when it wasn’t in my pocket. I’ve heard a ringtone or message alert when it’s on silent. Smartphones are like yawns, when you’re around someone who yawns, you just can’t help but yawn too. But it’s hard to live without them and I’m not suggesting we do. I have things I can do on my phone that have greatly improved my life, between writing ideas, my music collection, different apps that just make life easier. It’s what I’ve wanted for years. But there’s all this other crap that begs to be seen, purchased, and scrolled through until our eyes are bleeding. It feels like one must come with the other and we--the weak species that is prone to this kind of addiction--are supposed to figure out boundaries to take advantage of the good parts and leave the bad ones. I’m not confident in us, but we have to try. There are a bunch of kids getting their first smartphones soon that need some better examples than we’ve provided so far. At home we’ve started a 24 hour, electronics sabbath starting Friday nights. No screens of any kind but we can still push our own elevator buttons if applicable. We’ve moved our social media off our main app screen, making it harder to access. The next step would be removing it all together, but that’s a bigger step. Do you have any ideas or things you already do? Share them in the comments. We must find an answer to the biggest question of all: What are we supposed to do when we poop?
1 Comment
The racoon roasted in the July sun. He lay just across the double yellow lines like he’d decided to cross but changed his mind halfway. It was a trip he’d taken many times before. Luigi’s Pizza threw out all kinds of tasty toppings every night. The racoon had been making the journey for months. The employees even had a name for him, Bandit. Sometimes they left food out specifically for Bandit, knowing he’d be making his nightly visit soon.
That night it was three quarters of a Luigi Supreme that Bandit dragged back to his den. It might have been the box that slowed him or the neighborhood dogs he heard barking that spooked him into poor decisions, but when Bandit saw the headlights it was too late. The little hatchback didn’t stop, only burned off like they were late for a party. Bandit’s body was spared further mutilation due to his perfect position on the yellow lines. As the sun beat down and flies began to swarm, a rusty Ford Ranger pickup truck slid to a stop on the side of the road accompanied by a cloud of dust. A woman jumped out of the passenger seat wearing nothing but a low hanging mumu. She grabbed a shovel out of the bed and did a quick traffic check before running to Bandit’s side. “You’re gonna make me a shit ton of money,” she said, scraping the shovel along the blacktop until it slid under Bandit. She used a house-shoe-clad foot to flip him into place as a man called from the driver’s side, hanging his head out the window. “You got him, Harriet?” She lifted the shovel off the ground with a grunt and called back, “I got him. Keep it running.” Harriet tossed the shovel--Bandit and all--into the bed of the truck. They pulled away, throwing dirt and stones into the air as they did. The man called over, “Check Ebay. How much they going for now?” Harriet had her phone in hand, scrolling madly with greed in her eyes. “First one I pulled up is over ten K. Doesn’t look half as good as what we got.” “Hell ya,” said the man, shaking his head. “Who knew racoon meat would be the cure for the coronavirus?” Let’s just say it: Parks and Rec was a rip-off of the Office.
Is this already a known fact and I’m just behind the times? Has everyone been slogging though 7 seasons and just didn’t care? Or do you see it too? It has the same head-dude, Greg Daniels as well as other shared people. Does it not bother you to see the ripped-off characters? The same jokes and situations? Or are you just cool with it? I mean, nothing is truly new anymore, is it? If you loved Led Zeppelin growing up and then heard Greta Van Fleet, what did you think? I grew up with 80s and 90s cartoons and then The Venture Bros came along and made perfect fun of many of them and I love it. When do things pass from rip-off to inspired by, in vein of, or a tribute to? It’s a strange land that we all make exceptions for. The Hunger Games was a family friendly rip-off of the Japanese book/movie, Battle Royale. Brittany and Christina were rip-offs of Madonna. Everyone ripped-off the Beatles and the Stones. Right? I really don’t know. I’m just stirring the pot. I was raised on DC Talk. Final thoughts from Jerry Bosser, Parks and Rec is funny, but it ripped too much for me. The Hunger Games is Battle Royale lite, but it’s still very good on its own. Who or what gets a pass from you? Who or what doesn’t? Share your thoughts and hot takes. We’ve all seen the shows. Whether you like them or not, you’ve developed a plan. It’s easy to be sentimental, but the barking dog? Toss him in the yard. Mr. Snickers just became a snack. (That’s probably more of a cat’s name, so all the more reason to throw him out.) You know what? Make it the neighbor’s yard, the neighbor you’re not fond of. Wouldn’t want to attract attention to your compound.
Weapons? Well, some of us are more prepared (as if a zombie apocalypse is actually a real possibility) than others. I’ll leave that there. (Because if the government, or whomever, wanted us dead they’d totally show up at our door and have a shootout.) Anyway, we’d be prepared with the weapons. We’d know the rules, no loud noises, no lights, no yappie dogs, and if someone gets bit… It happens every show/movie/comic series, you know it does. Someone we care about gets bit and we let them fester, thinking that any minute now the CDC will come up with a cure a thousand miles from us and they’ll somehow get it to us before the 38 seconds pass and the person turns. Yeah, that will not happen in our reality because we’re prepared. Put some of that arsenal to use! Blast grandma for being slow and getting bit during the last wave. Blast her because she tried to hide the bite with some wool scarf she knitted for the middle of summer in Georgia. Blast her before she bites that cute refugee that showed up on your doorstep with nothing but an AK, tanktop, and booty-shorts. Because we all know, if you don’t blast her, she’s gonna bite somebody, and then the whole process starts over again and it’s amazing that anybody is still alive for season nine. But it won’t happen to you because you’re prepared. You’re ready. The last zombie body will still be smoking from all the lead you just put into it when you turn your barrel (or double barrel, am I right?) onto Grandma’s temple. She’ll probably say something about the cake she baked you for your thirteenth birthday, but you’ll remember it was during her healthy phase and beneath all that glorious frosting were shredded carrots, low-fat milk, and artificial sweeteners. Nice try, Granny. Blam! But would we? I seem to remember last summer when Granny skimmed that kid with her bumper while he was crossing the street with his earbuds in, you didn’t take her license. You just tried to tell her the benefits of online grocery shopping. When your dad keeps the TV so loud you can’t hear your mom farting next to you on the couch after the Thanksgiving meal, you didn’t drive him to get his hearing checked. No, we’d like to think we’d do the right thing during the zombie apocalypse. We’d like to think we’d blast our closest loved ones without a second thought, but we can’t even tell our sister about the spinach in her teeth before she goes out on a date with a totally dreamy guy. Okay, maybe that one was on purpose. I guess Granny gets to live too. At least for the next 38 seconds. We all have that fantasy, well, maybe not billionaires, but the rest of us think about the day that we win the Powerball, Mega-Millions, Cash-out-ya-ass, whatever it’s called by you. We think about it from time to time even if we don’t play. “When I win the lottery…” Then we go on to list our purchases:
A castle with a water slide from the third floor bedroom/tower to the pool that’s filled with chocolate pudding. An auto-generated breeze to keep your hair extensions blowing in the wind at all times. As you slide down to the pool, your butler would hand off a glass of champagne, or in my case, probably Vernors ginger ale. Then, as you hit the pudding, your herd of llamas will be waiting poolside with towels made from their wool. Your trained hawk flies down and gently puts your Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses on you (had to look that up), when you realize there is a lot of hair in the pool from the llama fur blowing in the fake breeze. The pudding is disgusting and starting to smell like chunky milk that’s been sitting in the, never-ending, 75 degree sun from your techno-dome. Your Vernors is warm and flat because the butler has been standing out there since nine-am and you didn’t get up ‘til noon because you’re a billionaire. A billionaire who is probably going to get food poisoning from the mixture of warm ginger ale and couple handfuls of curdled pudding you just crammed in your face. You jam your fingers down your throat as you try to wade to the side, but again, pudding. You’re drowning in your own wealth when your trained elephant pulls you out and performs CPR. Ever had CPR from an elephant? Well you have now, and it was worse than dying. But you live, sitting poolside, smelling vomit, rotten pudding, and elephant morning-breath as your wife zips over to you on a flying skateboard. (Do they have those yet?) “I told you the pool was a bad idea,” she says. You can barely understand her from the mouthful of cuban cigars she’s puffing. “And I told you the elephant was a good one,” you reply, as Slash plays the opening riff to “Sweet child o’ mine” from the drawbridge. Those would be my purchases. Comment what yours would be. This blog is about you:
You’re a year past being “legal.” You have the world before you. You may be in college or already working. You may be single or already married, but you probably have some options. The world is just beginning to expect things of you. Then one night you’re walking home to your apartment. Your friends went their way and you went yours. It’s a calm, fall evening, and all you’re worried about is how long it will take to cook those pizza rolls at home in your microwave. You hear a noise behind you and turn to see a guy (insert your own gender if you like) in clothes very similar to the ones you’re wearing. You think he looks like a loser, a wannabe. “It’s me,” he says. “I’m you, from the future.” “I don’t have any money,” you reply. “Please go mug somebody else.” He purses his lips. “I know you don’t. We never carried cash, did we? And your debit card from Chase bank probably has just enough funds for gas to get to work until your direct deposit lands Friday.” You look offended. A lot of people probably have Chase bank debit cards and you definitely have enough for gas and a meal as long as “we eat somewhere cheap.” “So what do you want then?” you ask. “Please don’t rape me. I’m no fun in bed.” He laughs. “I know. And when Vicky tells you that, don’t get mad at her. She’s right.” He looks pensive. “It would’ve never worked with her, though. Remember that. Anyway, you’ll get better at sex, but it’s not until you’re too ugly for it to impress anyone.” You take off running, hoping to catch this loony off guard as he’s monologuing about your supposed future but he catches your arm. “I knew you were going to do that,” he says. “I would’ve. Come on, let’s head back to your apartment, share some pizza rolls and talk about a few things.” You let him lead you, not knowing if robbery or rape are truly off the table or not. Inside the apartment, he plops down on the couch and it’s strangely reminiscent. Like it’s the exact action you would’ve taken if you didn’t have a crazy person already in your spot. So you stand awkwardly, not knowing what to do with your hands like you’re being interviewed on live TV. “You gonna make those pizza rolls or are you gonna starve us both?” he asks. “If you really expect me to believe that you’re me from the future, I should probably have a salad.” He rubs his chin. “You could, but it’s really your mid-twenties where it gets you. Have a salad then. That’s my first piece of advice.” You lean your arm on the wall, your mouth salivating for pizza rolls now, but you don’t dare to act. “So, you’re here to give me advice, huh? That’s it?” “Yep.” “Well, let me give you some, stop wearing the same clothes you did when you were nineteen. Damn, you look stupid. Are those the same jean shorts? I swear I have that pair in my dresser.” He looks down. “Could be. Now, make some rolls or come sit down. You’re stressing me out standing there.” You eye him for a few seconds, then slump down in an old chair you got from work when they were getting rid of it. You realize as you sit that you’ve never used it since you dragged it up the stairs six months ago, only guests had. It’s horribly uncomfortable but you’re not getting back up now. “I’m not in the mood for pizza rolls.” He shrugs. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have them either. They tear up my stomach now. That happens around thirty, by the way.” “This is awesome advice you’re giving me. Eat a salad at twenty-five. Stop eating pizza rolls at thirty. Great, anything else?” “Hmm.” He picks up a red and white envelope from your dirty coffee-table. “Is Netflix stock super expensive yet?” “Huh, I don’t know, I don’t own any stock.” “You probably should, and start with Netflix if you can. I’m pretty sure Apple, and Microsoft are a little out of your league already.” He shakes his head as he drops the envelope back on the table. “Seriously, Dumb and Dumber, again? It’s on TBS every week-night.” “Don’t have cable. Or did you forget that?” “I--” “You know a couple things but you don’t know it all.” “Yes I do, and you don’t want to play this game. I know your deepest fears.” “Try me, bitch.” He leans forward like a mob boss who's just been challenged. “You’re afraid to pee in public. You always pick a stall and wait ‘til the bathroom clears. Pooping? Out of the question. You just got home too, meaning you probably are holding back a big old turd right now, aren’t you?” “Shut up.” You feel your stomach gurgle. “Nope, you asked for it. Your favorite movie is A Clockwork Orange, or so you tell people, you’ve actually only seen it once and you fell asleep. That being said, you’ve seen Anaconda more times than I care to count.” “Okay, okay, shit, stop. Is this fun for you? Torturing yourself?” “A little. Maybe we’re a masochist.” “We’re not.” “Yeah, you’re right.” He looks at you for a little too long, like if you were sitting next to him he’d kiss you. “What?” “Just weird is all. Like looking into a mirror.” “A cracked one from this end and what the hell happened to my hair?” He rubs his head. “Ah, I don’t know. Just starts thinning close to thirty. Hey, that reminds me, skip the Rogaine. You get like three pubic-looking hairs growing on your head and a bunch on your hand that take years to make go away.” You’re laughing now, glad you at least kept your sense of humor. He continues, “Doesn’t matter anyway, when you meet her, you still have your hair.” “Her?” “Yep.” “What’s her name? Do I know her now?” “No way am I ruining that surprise. You’ll know, though. Probably by the third date.” “So, it’s not Vicky.” He gives you a disappointed look. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” you say. He looks at his phone, a huge flat-screened thing almost as big as your laptop. “Shit, we’ve only got a few minutes.” “What do you mean?” “Nevermind. So, uh… Now I’ve gotta say something good.” You can see him start to sweat. “Just chill, me.” “Okay, okay. So, Netflix, I already said that. Consider putting some of your beer and video game budget into a retirement plan. They offer it through work, stop pretending like they don’t. What else? Don’t sweat the petty people. They’re just unhappy with the way their lives are going. Do something nice for them and see if it pulls them out of their funk. If they still treat you bad, move on. Call you mom. She just likes to hear from you. Lay off the processed food. Everyone is obese in my time.” You see his face, your face, starting to fade, like he’s stepping into a thick fog. “Um, hey, are you leaving me?” He looks down at his hands. “I think so." He reaches out his fingers. "Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good.” “What does that mean?” “You’ll see, eventually.” He looks down again and his voice sounds further away. “Damn, this is it buddy. Take some piano lessons, would ya?” “Why?” “I’d just like to know how to play. If you start now…” You just stare at the fading picture as his last words are barely audible. “Love every minute you have with her. Don’t forget that. Don’t forget…” “What are you saying? What does that mean?” You reach out, but he’s not there. Your apartment is silent and empty. What would you tell your 19 Y/O self? Comment at the top. "Getting old sucks." I hear that all the time. Especially working in healthcare. "Enjoy it Sonny, one day your body will fail you and you'll be lucky to keep it up long enough to drain your bladder, much less the other thing." Okay, they don't usually call me Sonny. The point is, when you're younger, you don't think about it. You're more concerned with eating whatever Dorito/Mountain Dew product is out, staying up all night, and challenging fate with every step. Then it begins to creep up. For me, the first sign was my hair retreating from my forehead at 25. What utter betrayal. Did you really want to be combed more? I thought you hated that, bastard locks. I gave you countless bottles of $1 Suave shampoo and hell, I wore a hat and nothing but a hat for years... You know what, nevermind, let's move on. The body was the next to go. Back in the day I could play basketball for hours, eat lunch, then go back for more. Now I have to decide if the hour I did play will give me a headache from exertion and if I'll need some kind of pain reliever so I'll be able to sleep that night. At least Dad Bods are a thing now. They kinda always have been, haven't they? We just didn't call them that. I'm glad we have a nicer term than "beer gut" or "creeping death of getting old." Now it's Dad Bod and maybe even DILF if you've really got it going on. The thing I've found most important as I cross my 30s, gracefully or not, is learning that you don't have to care. (yes I said old and 30s in the same sentence, but 18 year-olds agree and 50 year-olds are like, "Just wait, Sonny." It's all relative) Not caring is the best part of getting old. "That's not the latest fashion. No one wears jorts anymore." Well, I do and it's the same pair I've been wearing since I was 18. They either used to be big on me or they stretched with the introduction of the Dad Bod. What's a more important thought is how many years of booty-sweat they've endured. Impressive material I'd have to say. If you learn anything by being older, it's that the not caring frees you up to finally be yourself. Hopefully it's a you you can be proud of. Hopefully your opinion on what's worth being proud of has shifted as well from just being good looking or rich to how well you can light a charcoal grill and cook a steak. After all, Dad Bods take work.
|
AuthorScott writing the things that come into his head. Archives
January 2021
|