I couldn't think of a "snappy" title

Not too long ago I saw two cars with license plates that were a little out of the ordinary. And by out of the ordinary, I obviously mean made of cardboard. Now, I’ve seen this before, but not two cars in the same day. It got me thinking, does this really work? Rather than going to the DMV and waiting in line for 6 weeks to get a replacement tag, can I really just grab a piece of poster board and a sharpie and make a new one? Does anyone actually believe I lost my tag? Do the police really let that slide?

I can see it now:

Officer: Dispatch this is Unit 471 following a vehicle with no license plate.
Dispatch: Roger 471, keep us posted
Officer: We've got 8 juvenile males in the vehicle and what appears to be a US Postal Service blue mailbox with the concrete base still attached hanging out of the trunk.
Dispatch: Roger 471
Officer: Dispatch, I’ll be initiating a traffic stop on a brown, older model, caprice classic with 3-22 inch rims and 1 spare-donut-tire and what looks like a jaguar hood ornament hot-glued to the hood.
Dispatch: Roger 471
Officer: Dispatch, got a little closer and saw they do have a license plate, it’s a hand written job on cardboard and it blended in with the car. Gonna let em’ get along their way.
Dispatch: Roger 471, glad you didn’t waste your time on that one.

So if it does work, I thought that maybe I could save some time with some other things too. Here are some hypothetical examples:

At Moes:

Me: I’ll take the Coctostan Combo (that’s what I always get, with lots of fresh jalapeno)
Cashier: That’ll be $8.62
Me: Here you go.
Cashier: What is that?
Me: It is my frequent diner card, see I’ve got 10 stamps.
Cashier: That’s a drink cup lid.
Me: Yeah, but I punched all my stamps with my hole punch at home and as you can see I’ve got 10.
Cashier: Alright, we’ll take it, but you only needed 9 and then you get the 10th one free, so we’ll go ahead and punch one on a new card for you.
Me: Thanks.

At the Notary:

Notary: …Great, I’ll just need a second form of ID.
Me: Here ya go.
Notary: And what would this be?
Me: My passport.
Notary: Sir, this looks like you cut up a cardboard box into pages and punched holes in them and hooked them together like a book with zip-ties.
Me: Isn’t that what passports look like? A little book with your picture and information? As you can see I pasted my picture in there and I wrote my height and weight on the next page.
Notary: Well, the picture looks like you and all the info is accurate…I’ll take it.

At the airport

Ticket lady: I’ll just need your boarding pass.
Me: Here you go.
Ticket Lady: What is this?
Me: My boarding pass
Ticket Lady: This is a napkin from Cinnabun.
Me: Yeah, it’s OK. I didn’t have time to check in, so I wrote all the flight information and which seat I would like on this napkin.
Ticket Lady: Oh, sure. I’ll just need to see your ID.
Me: Here ya go.
Ticket Lady: This is a business card for a body hair removal service.
Me: Flip it over.
Ticket Lady: Oh. Yep, there you are. Looks just like you; the colored pencil shading was a nice touch. Here you go. Looking at your boarding pass, it looks like you’re in first class.
Me: Hmmm, look at that. First class. Thank you.
Ticket Lady: Enjoy your flight.

The possibilities are endless. Give it a try.

Truck...Truck...Goose!

I have a rhetorical question (That’s just a big word that means I don’t expect an answer). So my question is, “Do professionals in a specific field have a responsibility to set a good example for others aspiring to reach the pinnacle of their field?” For example, should politicians, who make laws, have no major criminal convictions? Or should professional athletes mentor younger players? Should orthodontists’ kids have straight teeth? Should a chef be fat? I tend to lean towards…yes! So, if that is the case, (that professionals have a responsibility to be a model of best practices for amateurs) I want to talk about a group who is not keeping their end of the bargain. Truckers.

While most people probably don’t think of them this way, truckers are, for all intents and purposes, professional drivers. Which is why I don’t have a problem with the “trucker’s crack.” If they were fashion designers or butt models I might have a problem with peeping at a smattering of hairy coin-slot. But they aren’t and I don’t. You know what? I take that back, I do have a problem with it, but it is not because they are style icons, but because nobody needs to see that. Like the ancient Peruvian proverb states, “Plumber’s crack is never attractive.”

If they want to leave their trucks running all night with nothing but those stupid parking lights on, more power to them. Have you ever had the joy of being jarred awake at a truck stop in the middle of the night on a road trip and opening the door only to have your hearing permanently damaged by 6000 decibels of diesel engine? It’s not like they won a Nobel Prize for climate something-or-other and are preaching sermons to me about exhaust emissions. So I’m ok with it.

I don’t even blame them for all the horrible 1970’s billboards for strip clubs with free “Trucker Showers.” After all they are not proselytizers and I don’t expect them to have a sterling moral record.

What I do have a problem with, is truckers talking on a cell phone or texting while driving. And using the left lane for something other than passing. And not having their lights on in the rain. And swerving recklessly across 4 lanes before slamming into a bridge abutment and dumping toxic sewer spooge all over the highway. That I have a problem with. And frankly, I’m seeing too much of it. There are generations of drivers that are looking to truckers to be leaders in the world where rubber meets asphalt. So, if you see a trucker who isn’t living up to his or her high calling as a steward of the motorway, just remind them…we’re looking up to them. (And if they are looking down at you…they’re probably looking down your shirt)

As far as the Yosemite Sam “Back Off!” mud flaps go, we are just going to have to agree to disagree, because with gas at $3 a gallon I’m not backing off, I’m drafting.

Think (before I speak)

Sometimes I have a hard time not saying what I am thinking. And it occasionally makes for some awkward moments. Take this conversation I had yesterday at work for example.

Guy: This is a nice little cup, and it's double walled.

Me: Looks good

Guy: It isn't as expensive as the other double walled mugs

Me: Uh huh (kind of annoyed because I should have been in the back listening to the Gator game on the Internet, but instead I'm watching this guy give a full body exam to every cup we have on his little double-walled-cup safari)

Guy: (obviously delighted with his find) It's cheap and it's pretty cute!

Me: (before I could stop it from coming out and with an appropriate dose of sarcasm) Is that how you like 'em... cheap and cute?


(Cue very, very, long awkward pause)


Guy: Um, I'm married.

Me: (making a half hearted attempt to show him my wedding ring) Me too.

Guy: I think I'm going to go look around a little more.

Me: Right.

I've heard that the first step is admitting I have a problem. I've never doubted there was a problem, I've been getting in trouble for running my mouth since I was in first grade. At least I don't have to stand with my nose in the corner anymore (That's what she said! Whoops, there I go again).

A picture is worth...

I love the creativity of random humanity, but even more than the creativity I love the willingness to deface anything to let that creativity be seen. I took this the other day at the Linville Gorge Wilderness. Note the addition scratched in the bottom of the sign.

Public Service Announcement

I am little concerned about the plight of the American youth. Within my lifetime I have seen a new predator emerge. A threat, which, if left unchecked, will steal the lives of our children. So what is the threat? Drugs? Alcohol? Internet predators? Bocce ball? Try video games. That’s right, I said video games. Now before you throw your wireless Xbox controller at me, let me explain.

Childhood and adolescence are a critical time in a youngster’s life where you learn vital skills like: covertly stealing cookies from the cookie jar, ratting out your siblings, and where to hide that stalagmite of a booger you just pulled from your nose. But, perhaps the most important thing to be learned is how to interact with other people in a social environment. And this is what is at stake. Now don’t get me wrong, I have partaken in a video game session or two. I mean, who can pass up some NCAA Football or some Splinter Cell? And Contra. Remember Contra? Up-up-down-down-left-right-left-right-B-A-start got you 30 lives. Remember that? But the difference is, I can distinguish between real life and virtual life. I know I am not a college football player ((I could have walked on, but I chose to focus on my academics) I hope you read that in a deep “I am a jock” voice with your chest puffed out. If not, read it again). And I know I am not a spy. But that doesn’t preclude me from leaving messages in code for my handler on crumpled crossword puzzles in the predetermined wastepaper receptacle.

Anyway, the point is, I can’t think of any other activity that young people participate in that can alienate them from society like playing too many video games. Think about it, what will too much sports get you? A healthy body, good hand eye coordination, lots of chicks, a scholarship to college despite how poorly academically you have done.

And what about too much studying? Good grades, the admiration of your parents and teachers, a scholarship to an Ivy League school, and the sweet feeling of revenge when you hire your former classmates to work for you at an unimaginably low wage forcing them to downgrade from the double wide to a Coleman pop-up trailer.

But with too many video games what do you get? Childhood obesity, cardiovascular disease, an inability to distinguish reality from make-believe, a pasty-white complexion, and social ineptitude. There is no down-the-road payoff. You don’t go from being a fat, sloppy, person who can’t interact with others to CEO or to MD or to Commercial Recreation Master’s Degree holder. It just doesn’t happen like that.

You might be asking what has inspired me to tackle such a huge social issue on my little blog. Can one person really make a difference? I had an experience yesterday while working which really drove home the severity of the situation we are faced with. At work we sell glow sticks. I am not really sure why we sell them and I never really paid any attention to them until last week when somebody realized that our entire stock (several hundred in a smorgasbord of colors) was expired. Now, everyone knows you can’t sell expired glowsticks, so we have been giving them away. This was, of course, after we each took as many as we would ever think we could possibly need.

So this kid comes in with his mom. She was clearly doing the shopping and he was clearly suffering from separation anxiety from being separated from his video game console for a whole afternoon. How do I know this is what was happening? First of all, he was shaped like a pear. While not a guaranteed indicator, when grouped with his ashen complexion, callused fingertips, and t-shirt with an old-school Nintendo controller and the word “GAMER” on the front, it is a dead giveaway. Not to mention he twice tripped while simultaneously reading and walking. After about an hour of waiting while his mom tried on jackets I decided I would cheer this kid up. So when he walked by the counter I asked him if he wanted some free glowsticks. I was almost knocked over in surprise and disgust when I heard his response. While avoiding eye contact and in the voice of a mouse, he said, “Naw, I don’t really have any need for glowsticks right now.”

It was at this point that I reached across the counter and grabbed him by his collar and smacked him and screamed, “No need? No need? Nobody has a need for glowsticks! They are the only product created that nobody ever really needs! But you take them, especially if they are free!”

Alright, I didn’t really grab him, but I wanted to. Because you don’t turn down free glowsticks, you just don’t.

Compare this with the reactions of my coworkers upon finding out about the free glowsticks. One guy gleefully exclaimed that he had enough glowsticks to light an airfield and land a plane in his front yard. The new girl declared that she was going to cut them open and soak a shirt in them to wear out that night. The entire staff participated in our attempt to break the record for the most glowsticks cracked at once (we’re waiting to hear back from Guinness on that one). And even our home schooled high school kid (home-schoolers aren’t usually the poster children for social integration, ours is an exception (he was on a poster...as a child)) declared that he was going to cut them open and pour them into his toilet to make the water glow.

It pained me to see somebody pulled down so low to where they wouldn’t even accept a free glowstick. What a shame. And the culprit was video games. It hurts just to think about it. So my warning to the world is, “Don’t let the video games steal your childhood.” If you think you might have a problem, go get a glowstick. If it doesn’t inspire you, then seek a licensed professional, preferably one who has a glowstick hanging in their office. They can help. Together we can make a difference.

Please RSVP

I am having a party and you’re invited, maybe. If you are a citizen of the great state of North Carolina you are invited. If you are not a North Carolinian then you’re not invited. It is a theme party of sorts. You see I’m inviting all the North Carolinians to attend my I-don’t-care-if-it-is-the-South-and-you-think-you-live-life-at-a-slower-pace-this-is-how-the-rest-of-the-world-works-and-it’s-time-to-catch-up party. There will be drinks and light refreshments provided. In addition, there will be some skits put on by those who are not inbred or have lived in municipalities where greater than 50% of the population is literate.

The first skit is titled, “Despite what the New Mothers Support Group at the trailer park says, it is not ok to fill your toddler’s bottle with cola.” The idea for this skit came from a trip to the NC State Fair. I understand that junior is going to lose those teeth anyway, and by the looks of it, dental hygiene doesn’t run in the family, but for the love of all that’s holy, give him a chance.

The second skit is called, “The left lane is for passing, the right lane is for driving 12 miles below the speed limit.” In the rest of the world if you are going to drive slower than the rest of the traffic, you get in the right lane. If there are 6 lanes, I really don’t care which lane you lollygag along in, but when there are two lanes, do the right thing and move over.

The third skit is called, “Dogs belong on leashes, and kids…don’t.” This skit was also inspired by the fair. Just like dogs get a trip to puppy obedience school, kids need a little obedience training too. Try this: stop putting soda in their bottles, set some ground rules, if they break the rules, punish them, and leave the leash for the canine (that’s just a fancy word for dog). I don’t care if it looks like a monkey, you’re not tricking anyone, it is still a leash.

The fourth skit is called “It is ok to move over to let someone merge onto the highway.” This one is inspired by my drive to work every morning and is pretty self explanatory.

The fifth skit is called “Most pig race announcers don’t have pressed jeans, color coordinated shirts, and a lisp.” Again, from the fair. You’re not fooling anyone, I saw the way the livestock looked at you.

The last and final skit is called, “Whichever of you voted to ratify property tax on vehicles is a schmuck.” I got a bill in the mail the other day. Property tax on a 1991 Honda with no air conditioning and a dented quarter panel? Really? What’s next, property tax on my iron and coffee table? Need a tax base? Try tourism. Heard of it? Maybe you should check it out.

The Secret

I have a secret. A secret that I have never told anyone. Not my parents or my wife or my siblings. It has haunted me since last week when I remembered it.

As of late I have been experiencing some weird changes in my life. My voice is getting deeper and I’m growing hair in places that…just kidding. That all happened last year. The recent changes include things that are less explainable like crying during sad movies, washing my hands after I pee, and listening to a lot of Billy Idol (I really can’t explain that part). But, the real big change I have noticed is that I care a lot less about what other people think of me, something that hasn’t always been the case. I really noticed this the other day when my wife made fun of me for wearing hiking boots with calf-high socks, workout shorts, and a zip up fleece…all at the same time. Whatever.

The point is, with this new apathy towards other’s opinion of me I feel like I can share my secret and finally get the burden off my chest. So what is my secret?

It occurred about 7 or 8 years ago when I was a junior or senior in high school. I was standing in the courtyard of my high school with a group of friends prior to going to what we liked to call our “Advanced Placement” Team Sports class. As all good high school students do, we stayed in the courtyard as long as possible between classes in order to, well… not be in class. So as we were standing around, I realized I needed to pass gas. Not a problem. As I always do when I need to break wind in public, I ran down my mental checklist and evaluated my surroundings. Outdoors equals good ventilation- check. Standing equals no violent noise reverberations- check (you have to be careful if seated, especially on plastic chairs). Large group equals no way to pinpoint the source- check. Everything appeared in order and it looked like I was good to go. So I assumed the position- feet spread apart slightly farther than shoulder width, back straight, tensed butt cheeks- and prepared to initiate a “squeaker.” I had no reason to suspect that anything other than gas would be making its way into the atmosphere. Oh, how I was wrong! Like a lightning bolt out of a cloudless sky, I was struck. Not by 200,000 volts of electricity, but by something far worse, a Hershey Syrup-like substance running down my leg. This is the only time I was ever thankful for our school’s no-shorts-dress-code. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was wearing jeans, this story would have ended there, with my suicide.

But the story didn’t end there; I now had to extricate myself from a very (literally) sticky situation. One thing I have always been good at is improvising myself out of trouble. This would take everything I had. I immediately went into damage control mode. I knew I had only about a minute until the bell rang and I would have to go to the locker room full of my friends to change into my gym clothes. That seemed like a viable option. I could change out of my soiled clothes into my gym clothes. But I would have to change back into my other clothes for the rest of the day. I couldn’t wear my gym clothes because of the no-shorts-dress-code. I finally decided that before I made any decisions I needed to assess the damage, maybe it wasn’t that bad. I decided to make a bee-line for the locker room bathroom. It was usually mostly empty and I would need to be in the locker room anyway if things turned out to not be that bad. Any other bathroom and I ran the risk of being late for class and being stopped by the “Courtyard Commandos” (one of the rent-a-cops that patrolled the school).

I silently extracted myself from the group and hurriedly walked to the locker room trying to keep the movement in the affected region to a minimum. No need to spread the pain. Upon reaching the bathroom I locked myself in the stall and inspected the carnage. It was bad, oh, it was bad. Words can’t really describe the sinking feeling I experienced.

Teenagers are in a fight for freedom. Freedom from the restrictions of parents and school and all the limitations of society, and I was no different. And in an attempt to gain as much freedom from any type of restriction as possible I wore boxers rather than briefs. How I wish I had slipped into something more supportive that morning. Had I chosen anything other than boxers, the Hershey squirts would have been contained at ground zero. But I didn’t and they weren’t. In fact there was nothing contained about them and the openness of my boxers and the angle of my legs apparently was just perfect to allow them to reach… my sock.

At this point I knew that staying at school was no longer an option. I was going home. By this time the bell had already rung and my classmates were in the locker room dressing for class. They were coming in and out of the bathroom on a pretty regular basis and I couldn’t be risk being seen and having to explain why I wasn’t going to class. So I stayed locked in the stall until they had all gone to the gym. In this time I was able to clean up and plan my escape. I would make my way to the nurse’s office where I would feign sick so I could go home. However, to go out the front door of the locker room would lead me right past the coach’s offices and the open gym door. This wasn’t an option. My only escape route involved the back door of the locker room that led directly outside towards the heavily patrolled student parking lot. I had no choice. I made my way out the door and around the back of the school, knowing if I was stopped I would have no good explanation for being there. I made it back into the school and like a ninja I hugged the shadows until I got to the nurse’s office.

My next obstacle was coming up with an ailment that was bad enough to get a ticket home, but not too bad as to arouse suspicion. What did I come up with? Vomit (write that down, I promise you it will come in handy sometime). I put on my best “I just threw up” face and staggered into the nurse’s office. She bought it, hook line and sinker, and almost instantly I was dialing home. My only hope was that my mom was at home. I knew that my dad could be reached at work, but based on a previous experience I figured I only had about a 50% chance of going home if I called him. You see, in 8th grade I got pushed out of my desk (Whoops, there’s another secret, I told my parents I tripped so that the popular kid that pushed me wouldn’t get in trouble (I thought people wouldn’t like me if I got him in trouble)). Anyway, I split my head open and called my dad to see if I could go home and he decided I could stay at school. The best bet here was to reach my mom, which I did. And I got my ticket home. Luckily I had my car and could leave immediately. Fifteen of the longest, grossest minutes of my life later I was home and nobody had a clue. Even my mom for some reason was remarkably unsuspicious, even when I went straight to the shower when I got home.

Well, there it is. My secret is out. I thought sharing my secret would have some type of cathartic effect and I would feel a weight lifted, but the truth of it is… I’m really just afraid that people are going to make fun of me now. I’m pretty sure I am going to have nightmares about people sending me adult diapers. Life changes or not, I guess some secrets are best kept, just that, a secret.