Living on the Edge: A Word on Suburbia

Can I talk to you for five minutes about suburbia?  If there’s one thing I know – and I’m not saying there is – it’s suburbia.  This is because since late-1992 I have had considerable and consistent exposure to cul-de-sacs, tiny trees, ice-cream trucks, and other hallmarks of “residential communities within commuting distance of a city.” With the exception of a few weekends where I’ve been taken to the woods and been made to sleep on the ground after miles of forced marching, I have done most of my growing up in the suburbs.

Unlike many of my contemporaries, I am not bitter about this.  I don’t feel that my development has been stunted because I know more Starbucks employees than I do gang members.  I don’t feel my worldview has been somehow dimmed because I can speak intelligently on the difference between Lowe’s and Home Depot but can’t tell you how to make “purple drank.”  My parents felt it important that my 2^nd grade teacher have a higher IQ than me and that my ride to school passed car dealerships instead of trash can fires.  So they moved me and my brothers to the suburbs.  As a result, I have never participated in a drive-by or eaten at Popeyes.  Woe is me.

While my affection for suburbia runs deep, I’ve also spent enough time in 7-11 bathrooms to realize that the suburbs aren’t perfect.  Chick-fil-A isn’t open on Sundays.  The Wendy’s by my apartment took the Junior Bacon Cheeseburger off the dollar menu.  Some movie theatres still don’t have stadium seating.  I think you’ll agree, suburban living isn’t always a cakewalk.  And even when it is a cakewalk, it’s probably not a delicious Baskin Robbins ice-cream cake.  So what if we have driveways and garages?  Life is still hard; doesn’t matter if you live on Twisting Oak Terrace or Martin Luther King Blvd.

That said, there is one thing the graduates of Malcolm X College have that me and my friends in the Whole Foods dining area do not: excitement.  It goes back to those drive-bys and trash can fires I mentioned earlier.  While not always pretty or pleasant, life in the hood is at least more dangerous than life in the burbs.  Which means it’s more exciting.  Which means it’s more fun.

The Silent Treatment: Dropped Calls are Ruining My Life

Those of you who have ever been around me for more than five consecutive minutes have in all likelihood been witness to one of my frequent rants about my phone.  In fact, I have previously written articles on this very site on the subject of my phone with specific regard to how much it sucks.  While it is not my intention to beat a dead whore (that’s the expression, right?), I’m afraid there is more to be said on this point.

Remember those commercials Cingular released a couple years ago about how they never drop calls?  I’m sure you saw them.  Two guys would be talking and one of them would make a joke and the camera would show the other guy laughing but the jokester would hear nothing but silence because the line was dead.  He would be filled with paranoia and trepidation and, thinking his joke had been received poorly, would begin profusely apologizing.

Funny stuff.  We all had a good laugh and everyone went out and bought Cingular service.  In one of those ironic twists of fate that make the mobile phone industry so endearing, Cingular has since become AT&T and AT&T – as we all know – drops calls like there’s no tomorrow.  Hilarious, right?

As an iPhone user and frequent creator of potentially offensive humor, my life has become one of those old Cingular commercials.  It’s not nearly as funny as it looks on TV.

Not a day goes by without me partaking in some version of the following conversation.

Good Friend Who’s Getting Married: What day are you flying out for the wedding?

Me: Oh I dunno, probably Tuesday evening.

Good Friend Who’s Getting Married: Nice.  We’ll get some time to hang out.

Me: Nah, I’m coming out early to hang out with [his fiancé] Emily.  I want to make one last pass at her before the wedding.

(silence)

Me: Ummm… HAAAA!  Just kidding bro.  You know I wouldn’t do that.  You my boy.  She’s your girl.  I’m not about to mess with that.  I’m not that guy.  (continued silence) Plus, you’re like twice the man I am.  She’d never go for me anyway.  I mean look at you!  Shoot, maybe I’ll make a pass at you instead of her.  HahaHA!  (terrible, terrible silence) Hello?  Bro?  Bro….?

A Little Bit Louder Now: A Word On Weddings

Can I talk with you for a few minutes about weddings?  As I mentioned earlier, the reason for my recent radio silence was the decision made by two couples I know to start calling each other by the same last name and the decision made by me to travel to Minnesota and the other side of LA to watch them do it.  Much as I’d like to write about BP’s slip-n-slide in the Gulf or how much it pains me to see good things happen to The Lakers, I can’t do it.  I’ve got matrimony on my mind.  There’s no sense trying to talk about anything else.

My thesis tonight is a simple one: I love weddings.  I love them with a love I typically reserve for burritos, funny accents, and hot tubs in wintertime.  When done properly – as the one’s I attended this month most definitely were – they are some of the most fun a guy can have with his pants on.  Which is not to say you necessarily have to keep your pants on at weddings.  Simply that it’s still possible to have a great time if you do.

I think one reason that I love wedding weekends so much is that they are formatted the way I like to format my life: busy, festive, loud, filled with friends, dotted with milestones and big decisions, featuring sporadic contemplation of the serious and the sacred and parties that rage late into the night.  What’s not to love?

The “filled with friends” part is definitely key.  Weddings are basically birthday parties for grownups.  Think about it: It’s a big day in one of your friends’ lives.  All your other friends show up.  Everyone’s hoped up on cake and “party favors.”  You’re all hanging out in an empty church or a big tent or a backyard with a swimming pool.  And everyone’s running around making as much noise as possible while the parents watch in exhausted amusement, wondering if anyone’s going to get any sleep tonight.

FROM THE ARCHIVES: A Word on the Stupefying Laziness of the Single, Adult Male

In honor of whatever holiday this is that makes it so I don’t have to go to work, I have decided to take the week off from trying to be funny.  I promise to try twice as hard next week.  While I am sleeping, carousing, and sleeping you can enjoy this post from the annals of Talking Mirror past (originally posted September 29, 2008).  Enjoy.

After making a three year incursion into the third decade, I can state unequivocally that being a single male between the age of 18 and 30 is one of the most catastrophically unhealthy decisions a person can make and I’m not even talking about the usual binge drinking, smoking, and fornicating depicted on The OC, Gossip Girl, and the news. Yes, these hobbies – along with Tivo and microwave dinners – are destroying entire generations of Americans, but what terrifies me most is an entirely different threat.

While much is made of the considerable effort young men invest in shortening their lives, far more dangerous is the stupefying and awe-inspiring laziness that single men are capable of. To put it simply, we will die young because we expend no effort to keep ourselves alive.

It is impossible to overstate the lethargy that my generation is capable of. Truly, it defies credulity and the furthest reaches of the imagination. If it weren’t for the civilizing effects of Christian marriage, I am convinced that none of us would live to see thirty. Temporary fixes like jobs, and visits from mom can force short bursts of exertion, but they do not touch the languid gene that controls the minds and limbs of me and my peers. Allow me to cite some unsubstantiated, anecdotal evidence to affirm this.

The Beginning of the End: Life After College, Part 5

This is the fifth in an infinite part series about life after college.  You can read a few of the previous ones here and here.

It’s been awhile since my last missive of post-collegiate maxims.  I trust you have been doing well in my absence.  I’m sure you have.  I’ve noticed a reduction in Facebook albums with titles like “when we were young” and “remember when…” which is a sign of growth.  Most of you are no longer including three versions of “Forever Young” in every playlist you make.  The rest of you have reduced your return visits to campus to the occasional women’s volleyball game and trip to the cafeteria to pillage cups and silverware.  You guys are doing great.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.  You graduated from college, right?  You’re already smarter than the average community college professor.

But there remains much for you to learn.  One of two of you are still wearing clothes you’ve owned since the 8^th grade.  I don’t care how “broken in” it is or how well you’ve kept your figure.  It’s time to move on.  Send the shirt to your mom and have her sew it into your “memory quilt.”

Others of you are still looking to Stouffers to prepare five out of seven dinners a week.  I’ll be the first to admit that Stouffers makes a damn fine mac n’ cheese, but it’s important to change things up every now and then.  Trust me on this; mixing in a Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready once a week will do wonders for your soul.

For several reasons college has been on my mind often in recent weeks.  The first reason is that my alma mater recently concluded another commencement weekend.  This event marked my second consecutive year spent outside an academic institution.  To those who never thought I’d make it this far, I have only this to say: booyah.  Unfortunately, this anniversary brings with it another milestone which is at once disturbing and unwelcome: my 25^th birthday.

Boys Will Be Girls

I’m not thrilled about giving the Harvard Sailing Team a voice on my blog, but this was too good to keep to myself.  Enjoy.

Nasty, Brutish, and Short: A Word on Intenet Commenters

Can I talk to you for five minutes about why the internet is a bad idea?  Three words: comment enabled websites.

For millennia, the plebian masses desiring to consume media of any kind – be it newspapers, radio programs, Papyrus scrolls, or minstrel bands – were nothing more than receptacles for the information doled out by the wise and benevolent media overlords.  It was widely believed that the forebears of modern web-surfers had opinions, but for the most part they mercifully kept those opinions to themselves.  Not anymore.

As the internet has expanded in breadth and influence, the proprietors of many popular sites (including this one) have decided to turn their collective back on historical tradition and Natural Law by creating venues for dialogue between the creators of media and the slack-jawed simpletons consuming it.  Thus were user comment sections born.  The result has left people everywhere (and by “people everywhere” I mean “me”) disgusted, disillusioned, and a bit depressed.

December 26th Is A Great Day For A Breakup

Originally published 12/26/2008 on thetalkingmirror.com

My plan this afternoon was to write a painfully hilarious, staggeringly brilliant article that laid bare the frivolity of the Midwestern ethos through the symbolic milieu of stop sign right-of-way etiquette.  It would have been sweet, trust me.  Unfortunately for all of us, I was trying to write this post at the same Starbucks that a pair of local high schoolers had selected as the location for their breakup conversation.

I got as far as “If there’s one thing the Third World does right, it’s…” when I realized that any attempts at coherent thinking were futile.  Not wanting to waste my time or my vanilla latte, I will instead be describing for you the details of this star-crossed couple’s conversation and we shall see what universal truths we can extract from this unfolding human drama.

If I’ve interpreted the heavy sighs, pouty faces, and vague accusations (“You always do this,” “See, this is what I’m talking about” “You look gross when you cry”) correctly, it appears that this relationship was done in –  like so many relationships before it – by a disagreement surrounding the proper observation of the Yuletide Festival.  He apparently did not understand that Her extended family is the most important thing in the world to Her, and She did not understand that He could care less about what was important to Her.

The Beginning of the End: A Word on Life After College

Originally published 7/10/2009 on thetalkingmirror.com

With my recent migration from Chicago to California many aspects of my post-collegiate life have changed significantly.  Not only did I trade gang violence for illegal immigration and political corruption for political incompetence, I also went from living with four guys in an enormous house (read: trash can) to living by myself in a tiny apartment (read: walk-in closet).  This transition has been difficult.  There is no longer an endless supply of toilet paper in the bathroom down the hall.  Quandaries like, “should I eat three of my roommate’s four remaining eggs and be regarded as considerate or eat all four and hope they forget they ever had them?” are no longer relevant.  Since the cable bill is no longer being split five ways, I now have to think twice before ordering “Confessions of a Shopaholic” twice in the same weekend.  The list goes on.

I feel like that old dude in Shawshank who gets released on parole but ends up killing himself because he missed prison so much.  I’m not suicidal or anything, I’m just having a difficult time adjusting to a life of functioning appliances and insect-free beds.  I’ve been institutionalized and I’m sure I’m not alone.  With that in mind, my third post-collegiate survival guide will provide pragmatic rules for navigating the trials, tribulations, and emotional traumas of solitary living.  If you are married (i.e. taking the easy way out) you can go ahead and stop reading now.

Chocolate Milk and Cheesy Puffs: A Word on Grocery Shopping

Originally published 1/5/2009 on thetalkingmirror.com.

If there were any lingering doubts regarding my unfitness for independent living, a quick survey of my monthly grocery bill should quickly put them to rest.  Of course, one can’t really review my bill because I don’t keep receipts and am still unfamiliar with the whole “budget” thing, but you could always look at the selections in my cart if you happen to bump into me at the grocery. That being unlikely, as I only go grocery shopping three times every fiscal year, I’ll just tell you about it.

My main problem with grocery shopping is that I never received any formal training on how it should be done.  The education establishment apparently assumed I would figure it out by watching my mom or through some innate evolutionary hunter/gatherer impulse.  Unfortunately, I – like most young boys – spent my trips to the store with mom whining, throwing tantrums in the snack aisle, and trying to sneak boxes of Gushers into the cart when she wasn’t looking.  This being the case, the art of grocery shopping has taken on a mysterious, almost mythical nature.  I am aware that my mother was able to routinely fill her cart with food that kept me alive, but I wasn’t taking notes on which items she selected.  As a result, I typically find myself wondering the store for several hours before filling my cart with Kraft Mac and Cheese (It’s the cheesiest!) and calling it a day.