Pork Chop Night Part 3

At the top of the stairs there was a door that opened into a large living room with a baby grand off to the left and back a little. I hated it because it was black and I had to dust it nearly everyday to keep it nice. My mother always told me not to bother with it and that the maid will just get it in the morning. But she wouldn’t, not well enough at least. She always left dust in the cracks, every crack, and it drove me mad. I was always dusting it and it was always dusty. I made my way past the dusty piano, trying not to look at it, and into the formal dining room, which is where we always ate. The places were already set, one for me my mom and my dad. My dad’s plate and silverware were missing leaving just an empty tablecloth and an unused glass. My mother was sitting at the table waiting for me. “Hello Marcus!” she said in a voice a little to high and a little two loud. She was drinking a Highball, she loved Highballs, and from the tone of her voice I could tell it wasn’t her first. I hated it when she called me “Marcus” too. She always put the emphasis on the ‘ma’ and sort of forgot the rest like ‘MAHcus’. She only says it that way when she has had at least two Highballs. “You’re a little late for pork chop night.” She said. She hated it when I was late for pork chops. I’m not sure why, she didn’t even cook it. Tony the cook did.  “Your father is having his in his study.” She said as nicely as she could muster. “It’s just you and me tonight.” I said nothing. I didn’t say much to my parents ever. Not that they would really listen anyway. I mean, they did hear. They always heard what I said but the never really thought about what I was saying.

“I said, your father is eating in his study tonight. It’s just you and me. How does that make you feel?” They were always asking me this. “How doe’s that make you feel.” Or, “What were you thinking when you did that?” I go to this doctor who asks me questions like this all the time. My dad hates it. “He doesn’t need to go to no brain doctor, Maxine.” He said when my mother suggested it. “He’s just fine.”  Dr. Anderson is his name. He keeps talking about some Freud or something and asks me questions about just about everything. I don’t say much to him either.

I didn’t care much either way if my dad was eating in the study or in the damn foyer. He often took his meals in the study saying, “I’ve got work to do.” My father was the New York City Council Speaker. Pretty high up I guess. He’s always got some dinner or gala he’s got to go to.         

My mom and me ate in silence, not unusual. But it was a palpable silence. There was something very unusual about it. I finished the pork chops and most of the apples that were in the glaze. I left the lima beans. I hate lima beans. They are the vilest of all the beans in the bean world and they cannot be trusted. Tony brought another highball into the dinning room and set it right next to my mother who had her forehead resting on her cocked arm which was on the table, rumpling the table cloth into two small waves. She didn’t look up. I left the dining room and made my way down the long, wood lined hall to the study. I found the door slightly ajar. I go on my hands and knees and crept through the door on all fours. My dad’s chair was one of those big, green leather jobs with the big brass pins in the back and the scrolled wood arms. He was sitting in it as always and it was faced towards the window overlooking the park as usual. I crawled over to the large cherry wood desk and leaned against the back of it. I did this often. He didn’t know about it, but I liked the smell of his cigars.        

Happily In Pursuit.

Well, I broke my back. I was mountain biking, I leaned back a little too far, I reached the fulcrum point of my dirt jump bike, and I looped out and landed on my back. Luckily I only cracked one vertebra on the anterior surface. It’s OK and I will make a full recovery. I hate telling people I hurt myself because then they always say, “I’m so sorry, are you ok?” and the answer is yes, I’m fine. I hate it when people feel sorry for me, so I usually just say, “yes, I’m fine” even if I’m not. But I am fine aren’t I? Even if I don’t think I am. I am so blessed and privileged that for me to show even the slightest discontent would be grossly frivolous. My life is amazing, and so is yours. Yes, my back hurts, but my access to modern medicine is enviable around the world. Its all relative, and relatively speaking, we all have it pretty damn good.

I turn 27 years old this week. When I was 7, or even 17, I would have never guessed in a million years that I would be here with a broken back writing this right now. When I was 7 I wanted to either be a Vintner or a Garbage Man. This was back when the garbage man still rode on the back of the truck, I thought that looked like fun. As for being a vintner, I was a very strange child. When I was 17 I had no idea what I wanted to do, all I did know was that I wanted to be a millionaire and drive around Ferraris. I had no plan of action to obtain that goal, but that’s what I wanted. And here I am, 27, a part time graphic designer and a part time warehouse manager with a broken back and thinning hair. And you know what? It’s amazing. I didn’t plan any of this. My “wildest dreams” did not come true; I’m just a putz living in a suburb. But here is the thing about dreams. You’re always told that dreams are something to attain, like you can own them someday. Put them in a mason jar under the mattress and save them for a rainy day. This is not true. The pursuit of happiness? Bullshit, but only the pursuit part.

Happiness is not a destination, it is a realization.

I have a friend who writes a blog called Finding Freedom. Here is the thing though, freedom is already here, it’s not lost, you don’t have to find it; you already have it. You just have to see it. People think that “if I quit doing ‘x’ I will be happy” or if I start doing ‘y’ then I will be happy” or “if I have ‘z’ then I will be complacent”. Happiness is not just around the corner, its right in front of you. Its all around you, its in you right now. All you have to do is open your eyes. Nothing can make you unhappy, or angry or sad or anything else for that matter. You can only make yourself these things. Say a gust of wind comes and messes up your hair. Did the wind make you angry or did you choose to be?

I struggled with depression for years as a teenager and young adult. I took anti depressant pills and everything, the whole works. I know I know, If you are unhappy its always because “X” made you unhappy or because “Y” hurt your feelings, never because you chose to react that way to the situation right? Wrong, it’s a choice, it’s an awakening. This American dream that has been shoved down our throats, want this, want that, want more, want more. If you live in a $600,000 house you want a $1,000,000 one, that will make you happy. (Guess what happens when you get to that million dollar house?) You Drive a BMW? If you had a Land Rover you would be happy. You have a flat screen? A bigger one would make you happier. Overweight? If you loose 50 lbs you will be happy. And on it goes. Its not real, its BS. Sure there are moments of happiness sprinkled in here and there but when does it end? When do we realize that we are no happier in a 3 million dollar mansion than we are in a $20,000 trailer home? The answer is when we finally open our eyes and look around. When we finally realize that this peak that we all try to climb to, this Mt. Happiness, is all smoke and mirrors. Its like raking leaves in the wind. We have to stop relying on the things that don’t matter to make us happy, because eventually the ether will wear off and we will still want more. We need to stop relying on each other to make us happy because people will let us down, whether they mean to or not. And we have to start making that choice to open our eyes and look around and realize that happiness and freedom have been side by side with us the whole time.

All these things by the way, the Ferrari, the mansion, the yachts, loosing weight etc. these aren’t bad things. These are very good things. The problem arises when we put these things on a golden pedestal and say, “I can’t be happy until I attain them”. If these things are your goal, as they are mine, then go get them! But you must cut the tether that your goals have on your happiness. Because that’s not how that works. Why should you not be happy in your pursuit?                     

Pork chop Night. part 2

Thunderstorms are hint of the power that can be had when many small things work together, whether on purpose or otherwise. This power can be seen in many things; people, ants and water droplets. But is not limited to physical beings or tangible objects, it can be stored as small comments unforgotten and memories long un-thought. The madness of crowds and small multiples is nothing that can be planned, although it often happens on purpose and is sometimes overdue. Anger and dissention rise like a thunderstorm, with feeble beginnings and innocent grudges, and slowly but exponentially grows over time, sometimes unknown to its captive. One cannot hold forever this weighted state and will one day give deluge to it’s furry, even if unknown, hidden within.  

“I very much like dogs,” I say to myself as I pedal home. I don’t think I would like to own one, but I like the idea all the same.. There was something happening overhead. The clouds were giving up their independence and joining into something greater. Low rumbles of thunder were starting to make their way to my ears. I loved thunderstorms.

It was getting a little dark as I neared our building, and by the time I reached the front stoop it was raining slightly.  I pulled my hawthorn up the eight steps to our front door. I know it was exactly eight as I counted them ever time I went up or down. It made me happy that there were eight and not seven or nine. It was an even eight, a good sturdy number, plus I like the sound of the word eight. Its like ‘ate’ but slightly different. I like words that are close but not quite. The front door was open slightly, a weird open. Not all the way open as if to suggest purpose, and not just barely to suggest a carless closing, but sort of not quite half way open. Or maybe a little more than half closed. I pushed the door open all the way and pulled my shining and now water droplet stricken bike into the foyer and leaned it on the wall under the coat rack, pinching the sleeves of one of my dads camel hair coats between the handlebars and the wall. I pulled at an end of my scarf, which hung on the rack all year long, until it fell off the hook and over the top bar of my bike like lace. I took both ends and dried my bike with back and fourth polishing motion. My mom would be furious if she saw me do this, after all it was from Macy’s. I put the scarf back on the hook with a sort of lasso motion but not letting go of either end. It caught the wooden peg on the third try and as it did I noticed the tag. ‘Marc Wollard’. My mom had written my name on the tag with Sanford’s ink so as to identify it to me. For some reason all my scarves kept loosing me. I closed the door behind me, locked both the handle and the deadbolt, and made my way up the stairs and into the house proper. 

Pork Chop Night

“Hi.” I said as I approached. There was no answer. I slowed my bicycle to a stop two feet from the dog, still in the street, my front tire resting on the 6 inch curb. It was a Hawthorn Zep that my dad, of course with much persuasion from my mother, reluctantly bought me for my birthday last year, August 16th. “Ordered brand new from Montgomery Ward’s.” I would tell anyone who asked, and often those who didn’t. The bike was considerably to big for me but my mother kept saying “he’ll grow into it in no time”.

  

I set my bike on its side near the gutter but out of the street, careful not scratch the shining new paint. ( I had already polished it three times with the turtle wax I found in the garage)  The dog didn’t look up or even give an afterthought to my arrival. He just lay, lethargic in his summer boredom, on his side. He was a ridiculous looking dog. The kind with the skin two sizes too big. He looked as though he were melting into the sidewalk.

“Hi.” I said again, and was met with an abrupt “you can’t pet him.”

“Why not?” I said, looking over at her.

“He doesn’t like you.” She said. She was sitting on the second step, just above the dog.

“I never met him. How does he know he doesn’t like me?” I said nonplussed, proud of my on-the-spot logic.

“He just doesn’t, or wouldn’t. I know him pretty well. After all, he is my dog. Besides, he’s real vicious. He could bite your arm off an’ eat it if he wanted. I’ve seen him do it before”

I looked down at the dog. He gave a lazy sideways glance and went back to thawing into the concrete. “He doesn’t look mean.” I said, matter of factly. “He looks down right nice if you ask me.”

“Well he’s not.” She said. “Why do you think we hadda’ move here?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“He killed a man, our neighbor, where we used to live up north a little. We had to leave in the middle a’ the night to avoid the cops. It was really quite exciting.”

I looked at her, dumbfounded, and picked up my bike.

“Where did you get that bike anyway.” She said, in a tone no doubt gleaned from her mother and her friends. It was the kind of tone reserved for such quips women say in private company, like, “where on earth did she get that haircut?” or “did you see those shoes?!”

“Ordered brand new from Montgomery Ward’s.” I said with pride, bathing in the jealousy I knew was coming from her.

“Well, I don’t like it.” She said, “and neither does Charles.” She said positioning her nose ever so slightly but almost unnoticeably higher and to the right than it was before.

“Is Charles his name?” I asked. “After Charles Lindbergh?”

“Yes its Charles and no it’s not after Lindbergh.” She stated. “You really believe that guy flew al the way to Paris? Seems a little fishy to me.”

“They said he did at school.” I said, and, “can I call him Charlie?”

“No, his name is Charles, he’s dignified.” She said, followed by, ”You believe everything they tell you in school?”

With that I turned my new Hawthorn toward the street and started to walk away.

“Hey.” she said calling after me.

I stopped and turned my head slightly over my left shoulder. Enough to let her know I was listening but not enough to show her I cared. 

“He’s named after Charles Chaplin.”  

“Oh.” I say as I continue walking.

“I’ll talk to him tonight. Maybe I can convince him not to eat your arm.”

I kept walking.

When I got to the street corner I kicked the pedal of my bike backwards, taking advantage of the freewheel, to get it in just the right position, put my left foot on and stood on it, letting my weight propel the bike forward as I swung my right leg over the seat. I rode home, as it was getting late and my mom was making pork chops. She hated it when I was late on pork chop night. Any other night seemed to be ok but certainly not pork chop night.  

Lighten up and live a little

We are a generation defined by what we hate. Or should I say my generation, and the generation right before mine, and the one directly after. And I think this is killing us. It is so easy to give our opinions on a global scale and we are taking advantage of it by spreading such negativity and rage. Don’t believe me? I dare you to find a Youtube video where the comments section is nothing but stupid opinions and hateful replies. It could be a video of Kittens cuddling with a baby in front of a butterscotch waterfall with angels singing in the background and some jackass with the screen name “epickilla1997” will say “that’s not an accurate depiction of a butterscotch waterfall, they are much more yellow than that.” To which another ass hat will reply, “You’re such an idiot, have you ever even seen a butterscotch waterfall? I have one in my moms basement.”

Here is the problem. Everybody all of the sudden decided that their opinion really matters in the course of the world. I have news for you; you ready? Your not gonna’ like it. YOUR OPINION DOESENT MEAN SHIT. It used to be that people who actually did something with their lives got the privilege of having their opinions heard. If you were a plumber you were a plumber. That’s it. You plumbed, you went home, you ate dinner, you kissed your kids goodnight and you got up the next day and did it all over again. But now, any turd burgle with a computer and wireless internet stolen from their neighbors can have their stupid asinine opinions projected to the whole world, regardless if their thumbs don’t oppose and they are still living in their parents basement. I think this has gone to our heads a little bit. We are like the police, we have this ultimate power and we maybe flex our muscles a little to much. We have the power to take down a local business with a few stupid comments on Google and to ruin some ones self-esteem for life with even stupider comments on Facebook.

I think people have forgotten how good we have it so they are trying to find something, anything, to complain about. We are so comfortable that we let butterscotch baby fountains just piss us off.  We can send messages around the world instantaneously. We have the collective knowledge of the world at our fingertips through websites like Wikipedia and Wolfram alfa. The world we live in is spectacular! In the words of one of my favorite comedians, everything is amazing and nobody’s happy, and it’s true. Think about that the next time you send someone across the country a text message. That shit is going up to a satellite IN SPACE and being delivered to the person of your choice instantly. THAT’S AMAZING!   

I think maybe we need like 2 years where we have donkeys and horses and shit and we have to grow and hunt our own food to survive like it has been for, oh I don’t know, 99% OF MANKIND’S EXISTANCE. I tell you what, after one day of that we would be a hell of a lot more grateful for the world we live in know. All I’m saying is that we all need to take a step back and realize how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things and how really good we have it. We need to just lighten up and live a little.  

All American Heroes

It sure has been a while, and boy do I have a lot to talk about. I’m not sure why I have these ups and downs with posting new material, or writing it for that matter. I never run out of things to write about but for some reason I sometimes I just don’t write. And sometimes I do. I think my real problem is laziness. I have excuses for my laziness, Facebook is a big one, I’m also addicted to Hulu. These are the distractions that prevent me from writing, working harder, having more friends etc. But they aren’t are they? They are just cop-outs. The real distraction is me. It’s my own mind. I chose to watch 37 episodes of pawn stars in a row instead of creating something new or writing another ridiculous blog and something has got to change.
 I would like to talk about my heroes now. We all have them, men or women who we admire and look up to. Most people simply think of a hero as someone whom they want to be like. While this is true to some degree it misses the point of what a hero should be. A hero should be a role model for how to live a productive meaningful life. A role model should inspire you to be who you are. A hero should inspire you to be a better version of yourself, not a shadow of them. I have three heroes: Teddy Roosevelt, Ernest Hemingway, and Eddie Bauer. Lets start with Ernest Hemingway.

Ernest Hemingway Was born in Illinois where he grew up. He enrolled in the Red Cross as an ambulance driver during World War I. He was sent to Italy and arrived as the German army was bombarding the country. He immediately saw action and after a very brief time on the front lines was seriously injured. Despite his injuries he carried an Italian solder to safety and received an Italian silver medal of bravery. (Similar to a medal of honor) “Cool.” You might say. But you have to remember that Hemingway was not even 18 years old at this time. How many 18-year-olds do you know that have the dedication and courage to stand up for what they believe in and fight, completely devoid of self, for another mans safety? Now Hemingway is famous for his novels but perhaps more famous, or infamous rather, for his personal life. He had 4 wives in his life, the first of which he took with him to Paris. While in Paris he met and befriended Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, and Ezra Pound and so began his writing career in earnest. He of course went on to be one of the most influential American writers in history. Hemingway was a man who knew what he wanted to do and he did it. No apologies. He wrote what he knew and never looked back. This is admirable. He was a scoundrel and a saint and a friend to many, and a drunk and a good man and a damn good writer. He lived his life on his own terms and even died on his own terms. He treated women with respect despite his many wives and was a gentleman to all, at least if he liked you. I admire him for his creativity and wisdom.

 Next we have a choice that might seem a little strange. Eddie Bauer. “The clothing guy?” Most people usually ask, and the answer is, “yes, the clothing guy.” Now I’m not a huge fan of the current Eddie Bauer lineup of clothes but there is much more to the story than that. Eddie Bauer was an adventurer and an entrepreneur. He started his business in the back of a sporting good shop in Seattle in 1920. It was originally called ‘Eddie Bauer’s Tennis Shop’. And he fixed tennis rackets in the summer time. Leaving the rest of the year for his adventures. It wasn’t until he experienced hypothermia on a fishing trip that he decided to turn his attention to outerwear. Eddie Bauer invented the down parka, as well as many other things like the regulation shuttlecock for badminton. His shuttlecock is still the standard of the sport today. He believed in himself and his product so much that he offered his customers an unconditional lifetime guarantee, a tradition that the store still honors. Isn’t that the way it should be? Shouldn’t all companies do that? Among his other notable accomplishment are: He outfitted all the early American attempts and the first successful American expedition to summit Everest. He brought the very first black lab into Washington State and bred them. He designed the first flight suits for the U.S. Air Force, and he outfitted the first and only successful accent of Everest’s east face. I like Eddie Bauer because he was a great businessman and a great person. He believed in his product, he cared about what he was selling. He took a $25 investment and turned it into a multi-million dollar corporation. He saw a need and filled it and is a great example that when you do something, and you do it with your whole heart, you can and will succeed; the perfect American success story. I admire him for his work ethic.

 And last but certainly not least, Teddy Roosevelt. This is the obvious choice. The quintessential mans man. I don’t need to go into to much history of him. We all know he was a badass. What didn’t Teddy do? He was a experienced naturalist, and a published ornithologist all before he graduated Harvard. He was a boxer a hunter, a conservationist, a cowboy, a statesman, a police commissioner, and an explorer, and oh yea, the president. He had a large hand in our national park systems and was an all around cool guy. He got SHOT IN THE CHEST AND DECLINED GOING TO THE HOSPITAL SO HE COULD FINISH HIS SPEECH! What a boss. He’s the kind of man you want to be but hate at the same time. He inspires you to get off your ass and do something. I admire him for his tenacity and determination.

 All these men have this in common. They did what they wanted, they never took no for an answer and in return didn’t answer to anyone. They looked at their lives through a lens of temperance, wisdom, and humility and always considered all sides and every possibility. They were slow to take credit and quick to admit fault. All things that we could all be a little bit more of.

The past is hilarious #2

Yet Another Broken Resolution

Cory Campbell
feb 26, 2006

So the New Year has come and past. In fact, we are just past the two month mark. With the New Year well on its way I've had plenty of time to wallow in the self pity of knowing I'm a loser. I had two resolutions going into the year of our lord 20-06 and two days in I was two resolutions down. The first of my two broken resolutions was to not make fun of other people as much as I had been. Needless to say this resolution was broken within the first five minutes of the New Year. But what can you expect? I'm not perfect. Get off my back! The second on my list of New Years' hopes was, just like everyone ells on the planet, to "get fit." You know, just get ripped or something. But, just like everyone ells on the planet, I failed. It wasn't until the next morning when I found myself eating a healthy portion of chocolate chip pancakes from V I (that's village inn for the uninformed) that I came to the staunch realization that I was not going to put the time or effort into getting in shape this year, so why even try just to let myself down. My resolutions were broken and so was I.
As each year passes it seems that I go through the same thing. Year after long, uneventful year. So here is my suggestion for avoiding the New Years doldrums. Don't make a list of resolutions. The word resolution suggests that you've done something wrong; it has a very negative connotation. Instead of looking at the glass half empty we need to start the year off with our glasses half full. Why don't we simply make a list of "possibilities" for the upcoming year, this way if we don't get around to making our lives better we can write if of by saying something like "Well, it was just a suggestion anyway right?." Or, "So what! I've got all year, besides these are only possible solutions to my routine, mundane existence." And that's the one thing you have to keep telling yourself for my sure fire method of new years happiness to work. They're only possibilities, and remember the old adage, the possibilities are endless.
While we are on the subject of the New Year I would like to share with you my list of possibilities for 2006.

Get a job: Hey why not? I could use a little extra money. The only problem I see with this one is that fact that I have no desirable, employable skills, except one that I just thought of. I've made so many sandwiches in my life. I have made so many sandwiches that I don't even have to think about making sandwiches anymore, it just comes naturally. I think that is a very desirable skill.
Start Smoking: I know what you're thinking. How could I possibly consider this to be a positive possibility for 2006? Well let me tell you. Quitting smoking is one of the most respected things a person can do. If I take up smoking and then quit everyone will be super proud of me! And lets be honest my ego could use the occasional "good job!" and "I'm proud of you."
Not get Arrested: Lets just face the facts, any year you don't get arrested is a good year.
Win the Nobel Peace Prize: I figure I'm just as likely a candidate as the next guy. I might as well win it. And remember, these are just possibilities; it doesn't mean I have to actually do all of this.
Stop Procrastination: I really just don't have anything to write about this other than the fact that I know for sure that I'm not going to get around to this one.
Get a Girlfriend: One thing I will never understand is how the ugliest, stupidest Guys are always with the most beautiful women, while I, a perfectly normal, somewhat entertaining individual, cannot even get a girl to glance in my direction. So here is my proposal, if you are hot, a girl, and have a nice car, give me a call. If not then don't bother. (Maybe my expectations are too high)
Add more to the List: I've got all year right? So why do I have to do it all now?

The past is hillarious

I found a bunch of old articles I wrote in the past for various publications. I am going to start posting these up here. enjoy!

Chad not Charlie
February 2006
By Cory Campbell

I have this Neighbor who… Wait a minute let me start over.
Have you ever had someone call you by the wrong name for as long as you know but for some reason you just haven't bothered to tell them your real name? I have this neighbor who for some reason called me Charlie for the longest time. Charlie? I mean come on, that's not even close! But for one reason or another I just never told him the truth, my real name, besides, I kind of liked Charlie. I grew accustomed to the alternate lifestyle it allowed me to not only create, but to live out. At school or at work, or wherever, I was just Cory, period, just plane, old, boring Cory. But when I saw that neighbor I was Charlie! Hell Yea! I could be anything I wanted and before you know it I was a legend. Everyone around the world (or at least the greater Gleneagles neighborhood association) was hearing stories of the great Charlie.
The worst part about this scenario is that the neighbor is bound to find out somehow, it's inevitable, it's going to happen. At some time during some bar-b-q, or another block party some inept friend or family member is going to let the proverbial cat out of the bag, and I'm going to go back to plane old boring Cory. And I know this is going to be the most awkward day of my life when it does happen.
When my neighbor found out he was just like, "so, your names not Charlie?" I start to panic and think to myself, "I love Charlie! I need Charlie! I've been Charlie for like two years how can I not be Charlie!" (I got a little attached to the alternate Persona it allowed me to create.)
I'm definitely feeling more awkward at this moment than a pre-teen in a gym class locker-room. I'm fumbling for words, "I'm Sorry… I just didn't…" Then he said the most beautiful thing I've ever herd. "Why didn't you just tell me your name was Chad? It would have been fine to just correct me." YES! I can keep living the lie! Chad, Yea, I like that. I think I can do something with Chad.

It has been a long year so far...

It has been a long, long time since my last blog entry. 4 months and 25 days to be exact. Over these past couple of months I have underwent a lot of changes in my life. And I have had a lot of time to think about the things that really matter in life. That being said I need to get something off of my chest that I have been thinking about for a while now…

What’s that thing that’s a mix between a donkey and a horse? You know the one that they use to go down the grand canyon. A Mule? Is that what that is? Who’s idea was this? All I know is the horse probably didn’t have a say in the matter. You walk up to a hose and say, “see that donkey over there? Would you hit that?” the horse will immediately say “oh hell no.” How drunk do you think you would have to get a horse before he will have sex with a donkey? How drunk before the horse starts looking at the donkey and says, “you know if you look past the ears and the nose she really isn’t that bad.” Seriously. At least try and mate something cool like a lion with an albatross so at least we will have awesome flying bird-lions to fight the terrorists with.

There, I’m glad I said that. Now we can move on.

Over the past few months I have quit my job. A good job with good money, but a job I hated. I have gone back to school to be a pharmacist, because if the real world has taught me anything its that having a degree in graphic design is about as useful as a kardashian sister on jeopardy. I am a lot poorer, and a lot happier. I never thought I would say those two things together. I always though that money=happiness=fun. I always tried to convince myself that I didn’t think this way but I did. And it’s not really true is it? I think that the money brings a sense of security which is often confused with happiness, some of the happiest moments in my life are when I let go of control and just let what happens happen. It’s like when your driving a car. If you drive a Volvo, the world’s safest car, you feel very good, very secure. Safe? Yes. Comfortable? Yes. But happy? Not really. Complacent yes. But fun? No. You need a big car, like a Viper, or a Ferrari, with an engine the size of Cayce Anthony’s conscience at the front, and two seats, and real wheel drive, and no traction control and no room for anything more that a tampon in the trunk. And when you go around a corner a little too fast and you see the tree coming a little too close and there is smoke from the tires and all of the sudden the car catches just before you hit said tree side on killing your passenger and maiming you for life, that’s fun. That’s happiness. loosing control for a little bit. Letting life happen instead of trying desperately overcorrect. You may have botched that corner but at least the Ferrari gave you the opportunity to either mess up, OR look like a driving god. And if you survive there is always another corner coming up that you can take what you have learned from the first corner and try again. Pretty soon you’re Michael Schumacher.

Look, all I’m trying to say is don’t get stuck in a situation that doesn’t allow you to take risks and have a little fun. I could have looked up in 10 years from the same desk with the same people and just though, “what if.” My bank account would be happy, my life would be complacent but would I be? Life is a lot like the Ferrari described above. It’s big, and its serious, and its fun, and its ridiculous and bright red, and if you get it wrong your going into a tree, but If you get it right it sublime, and its beautiful. That doesn’t mean there won’t be some tire smoke along the way but that’s half the fun right? So don’t drive it like it’s a Volvo. Besides, you can always replace your tires.

Fashionable food

Food is good right? I mean like really good. Some food is better than others, some food is downright gross, but sustaining. Food is a big part of my life and lets face it, it’s a big part of your life too. Think of the last great time you had with your friends. Was there food involved? Probably. What about a favorite childhood memory, any food there? Most likely. So what happened? Chances are that anyone that was born in the nineties didn’t have many sit down with the family every night dinners. It’s a little sad and a little eye opening. I think the dinner table is a sort of cultural barometer. It shows where our priorities are at any given point in time, from the fast food boom and hustle and bustle of the eighties and the dot come, “I’ll have a triple-non-fat-carmel-three-pump-americano-machiato, to go please” of the nineties, we emerged into the new millennium not really giving a shit about what we ate, or where it came from. But then, all of the sudden, we did. Something changed. There was a network on TV devoted to food, the slow foods movement came and people started to care about where the food they put into their mouths came from, and this is a good thing.
But lets be honest here. Hasn’t it gotten a little out of hand? If I here fair-trade-free-range one more time I’m going to shit a brick, as in “I ONLY eat free range organic fair trade lima beans.” Come on, you don’t care, you think your friends care, but they don’t. They only care because they think you care. You have a t-shirt from the local co-op but you eat street food from a guy who probably stores his kebabs in baby panda pelts. It’s gotten to the point where food is a fashion accessory, like your ugly mustache, or your t-shirt that doesn’t fit. So here is what I will do for you. Lets talk about some food phrases and foods you can eat that will surely get you some street cred at the next Vampire Weekend concert.

The number one most fashionable food, and don’t forget to bring it up anytime your can, is Pho. Pho is so hot right now I think I saw it with ray bans and a fixie the other day. And don’t be so naïve as to say “PHO”, its pronounced “phaUHhh”, everyone will know you’re a fake. And it is good, oh so good, salt savory beefy. Yum. And P.S. there is no such thing as vegetarian pho.

Number two. Sushi. Its not as hot as it used to be. It used to be dangerous and trendy, now every real housewife of wherever eats it on every episode. On second thought sushi is lame, don’t even bother.

Number three. Anything ethnic. But don’t just say, “We went out for Mexican”, say “We had some delicious ethnic food last week.” It also helps if it’s slightly exotic, like Indian, or Greek.

Number four. Small birds. Mention you had quail last night and you will be respected. Mention you know what an Ortolan Bunting is and the proper way to eat it and you will be a god.

Side note, Co-ops, join one and ride your bike to it, smile at the hippie girl at the counter, and comment on the freshness of the cukes. You will be invited to the next cheese tasting.

Number five. Street food. Insert the term street food into as many conversations as possible so people know you’re serious about food AND you’re down with the working class.

There it is, follow these rules and you will be a foodie faster than a vegan to a peace rally.
I hope you enjoy your next bowl of fresh, local, sustainable, free-trade, pho.