getting to know you

This morning I was standing behind a middle-aged dude (hold on – am I middle-aged?  When does that start?  45 right?) waiting for the train and I noticed that he was wearing a backpack.

It was a Jansport, so of course I admired him for doing his Backpack Research because those things last forever.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I have a Jansport under my bed that was passed down from a caveman who needed it to carry some cool rocks he found.

While studying him I was slightly disappointed that he didn’t opt for the One Strap/Cool Kids Who Got Laid Look but instead had both straps over his shoulders.

And that’s okay, I mean, maybe he doesn’t like being Cool.  It’s certainly not for everyone.

The more I thought about this man and his Jansport though, the more I wanted something to spice it up.  I wanted it to be like in high school, when you could find out everything you wanted to know about a person by what patches and writing they had on their backpack.

Wouldn’t it be great if they made Adult Patches so we could put them on our bags and luggage?  If you said no, fine, please go back to reading Glamour and how to send the perfect romantic text message (Don’t you click that link!  Don’t you do it!), but if not, then here are some suggestions for patches:

“I’ve Got Three Kids And They All Disappoint Me”

“Me + Beer = Lonely”

“I ❤ Wearing Age Inappropriate Clothing”

“Still Can’t Add Without Using My fingers”

“I Make More Money Than You”

“I Regret Everything I’ve Done Since College”

“Me + Debt 4Eva”

I really think this is a good idea.  The patches could add some flavor to our bland adult lives, and in the process let everyone know a little bit about us.

Oh, but just a suggestion, if you happen to come across a guy sporting this one:

“I Wear Diapers”

Don’t stand to close.

cover letter

Sometimes I sit at my desk and think to myself, “How is this what I ended up becoming?”

When I was young I had much more exciting things in mind for myself when I got Old.

Not once do I recall imagining myself as a pseudo-writer who obsesses about his blog and sometimes wishes he could drink whiskey at his desk.

No, I had much more planned for myself when I was a kid.

First I wanted to be a firefighter. This dream fizzled out when I realized that firemen had to actually fight fires – which are hot – and not just push around a toy fire engine and say, “Vrooommm!” all day long.

Though I think some of them still do that.

After that, I thought maybe I could be a Sound Effects Man for the movies. I could make really good sound effects, like the sound of a gun or something blowing up, so I thought that would be A Good Career. I had no idea that sound effects are made by a machine and not a kid who wears green corduroys, so that idea died.

Then I wanted to be a member of the A-Team. Sadly, this idea disappeared when I was playing A-Team with some friends and I thought some girl was A Bad Guy, so I punched her like any good A-Team member would do. She was not playing A-Team with us, so I had to sit in the corner.

I got the teacher back by crawling under the desks whenever she turned her back to the class. I was a Good Student.

After The A-Team Incident, I saw Raiders of the Lost Ark, and wanted to become an archaeologist. Somehow I failed to realize that they do not actually get to kiss pretty women, defeat the Nazis and dodge boulders all day long, so that career faded for me as well.

Now, after all that, here I am.

Not fighting fires, not making cool stuff with B.A. Baracus and definitely not defeating the Nazis.

Sometimes though, when my boss edits an article of mine entirely too much, I wait for her to turn around and bam! I’m crawling around under the desks.

I guess things turned out okay after all.

revolutionary

When I was eighteen, I got my tongue pierced.

My friends and I, on the last day of senior week at the beach, decided we’d all get something pierced and I went with the tongue.

I decided on the tongue because it felt Rebellious and it was Something For The Ladies – if you know what I mean.

If you don’t, that’s fine too, because I have no idea either.

I had that stupid piece of metal in my mouth for about six years, mainly because I forgot about it being in there.  Eventually I took it out because it was stupid and it didn’t make me a rebel like Che and it was Time To Grow Up.

How fucking dumb is it to get something pierced as a way to be rebellious?

I remember when I got it I was thinking, “I won’t conform to this society!  I won’t do it!”  And then I went into my room, wrote shitty poems and listened to The Toadies.

When I have a son and he decides that he wants to Rebel Against The Man, I’m not going to let him do something stupid like I did.

Son: [Approaching me in my Man Room] “Dad, I’ve been thinking, I’m gonna get my eyebrow pierced.”

Me: [Still watching the game] “Oh yeah?  Why would you do something dumb like that?”

Son: [Getting the disapproval he wanted, and now excited] “Because I want to, okay?  Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean I don’t!”

Me: [Commercial is on, so I look up] “Look.  If you want to be rebellious, do something truly different.  Don’t do so many drugs that you forget what you ate for breakfast.  Maybe even get a career that doesn’t make you want to punch yourself in the skull from nine to five everyday – that’s rebellious.  Not getting a piece of metal stuck through your face like some idiot.”

Son: [Shocked and unsure what to say]

Me: [The game is back on] “Good talk dude.  Let’s play some pool when the game’s over.”

World’s Number One Dad?

Fucking right.

letting it go

Thanks to the wonders of genetics – one day probably about ten years from now – I’m pretty sure I’m going to be bald.

That’s right.

Bald.

Bald scares people.

I imagine when people first started going bald – whenever that was – mothers would rope their children in quickly when stumbling upon a hair-less head, explaining, “We don’t go near the scary bald men, they are evil. Not to mention ugly.”

I’m not scared of going bald though.

I’m scared of roller coasters (because hurtling through the sky at 70 miles an hour with only a single bar of steel across my lap keeping me from becoming a splattering on the pavement is not my idea of fun) but not of losing my hair.

I figure, things change when you get older. You know, you start to get confused and frightened by teenagers, your conversations with friends always end up being about what sickness you have and for me – I’ll lose my hair.

I’ll tell you what I won’t do: I won’t be trying one of those treatments or hair-replacement surgeries.

The guys that do that are confused about life. They think, for some reason, that as they age life is supposed to get better.

It’s not.

By getting the hair-replacement, they think they’ve beaten fate and things will be better from now on. But in reality, their friends, instead of saying “Man, Bob’s really losing his hair, huh?” They say, “Man, Bob’s really got hair from his ass on his head, huh?”

I’m going to be fine when I lose it all. It’s served me well, it deserves some time off.

And besides, I couldn’t have gone through all of my life looking like this – could I?

I don’t think so.