Month: January 2018

This post will not have a picture for reasons that will become extremely apparent in a moment, if they haven’t already.

In the past, I’ve detailed a few of the very particular and less-than-obvious joys of watching, let’s call it “adult entertainment.”

This feeling is an extension of those previous feelings. Like so many things about handling your business that aren’t discussed or are dealt with in secrecy, we typically tend to watch these fine pieces of cinema with either limited or no sound.

The reasons are fairly obvious, right? First, it’s sort of embarrassing. Second, it’s really embarrassing. Third, there’s not often much you need to actually hear.

But, every so often we’re talking about one of those super-corny ones with some semblance of “dialogue” and “plot” that honestly just have to be heard. Is she going to get that A? Will the teacher show lenience? Without the sound, you’ll never know, would you?

Side note: someone is actually writing that dialogue, you know that right? It’s obviously not ad-libbed. There’s someone who pitches stories and writes lines for these people. That job… good lord. I could write a full… I could spend days discussing just that person’s job.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Getting caught. Obvious, but so, so soul-crushingly true.

This happens to me, at least once or twice a month. I can’t imagine that with age it will get any better or easier.

There’s something I need to get that’s mildly important to my life but not essential to my day-to-day.

Here are some examples:

• 9-volt batteries for my smoke detector
• Salt and/or pepper
• Vegetable oil
• Dish soap (I haven’t yet run out)
• Toilet paper/Paper towels (Again, I haven’t yet run out)
• Laundry detergent

You get the point. All of these things I know I’ll eventually need, but it’s easy as hell to make excuses in your mind that lower the priority of actually remembering.

• Come on, who can’t smell or feel a fire coming?
• First off, there has to be more pepper in that can. Second, I could stand to have less salt in my diet.
• I have olive oil, who gives a shit?
• I haven’t run out, and even when I do, I have hand soap.
• I haven’t run out of both yet, but even when I do, I have the one I didn’t yet run out of.
• I can just buy more clothing.

See? That wasn’t so hard. You can forget anything you put your mind to.

Now, it should be noted that as a single man, I tend to grocery shop based on need and not with a regular frequency. Some times I’ll go and pick up three items, other times I’ll spend over $100. It really varies.

When I’m in one of those ruts where I keep forgetting about that thing, I typically remember when I’m somewhere between half and three-quarters of the way home from the supermarket. I then vow to totally, definitely, no-questions-asked remember it for next time.

And then I forget again next time. And the time after that.

But suddenly, I’m walking through a random aisle and–boom!–it hits me. I need 9-volt batteries!

That ah-ha! moment is what I’m talking about here.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Remembering to get whatever it is, but the place you’re at not having it.

You know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about here.

It’s been ungodly cold over the last few days, weeks, whatever. Perhaps it’s snowed a lot. Maybe you haven’t seen more than a few passing hours of the sun in days. Whatever the specifics are, you’re ready for it to end.

You don’t need it to be balmy or, hell, even over 55 degrees. In fact, that’s sort of the humorous beauty of it, no?

When you get that first sunny, good-weather day after a depressing avalanche of shitty, brutally cold days it doesn’t matter what the actual temperature is. It could only reach 52 degrees and it feels like the Fourth of July.

When I was at Syracuse, the first sunny day was accompanied by girls in bathing suits in the quad, everyone wearing shorts, day drinking and grilling. In the midst of all this joyous revelry, we all sort of agreed to forget that it had barely cracked 50 degrees.

That’s the point, though.

The temperature itself is irrelevant. It’s the feeling you get, the contrast from what you previously endured to what is in your present.

It’s hopeful, it’s uplifting, it’s pleasant.

Plus, who doesn’t like a girl in a bikini.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Mid-to-late March, you think you’re in the clear… and there’s one more big snowstorm that comes out of fucking nowhere.

About four and a half years ago, specifically in July 2013, I had a plan.

It was to start this fucking list and finish it at some point before I passed away.

The good news? I have yet to pass away.

The bad news? I have yet to complete my plan.

However, as was indicated by the fact that this feeling is over 100 spots lower, you can clearly infer that completion is far more satisfying than initiation insofar as planning is concerned.

Still though, let’s not take anything away from the seeds of the idea. There’s something sort of magical, sort of dreamy and fun and hopeful about the beginning. You haven’t actually begun to do any real work, you haven’t encountered any pitfalls or problems. It’s just open road and fresh ideas all laid out in front of you, stretching as far as your mind’s eye will allow.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Where I’m at currently, four years into this fucking thing and still, despite the insane increase in productivity, at least 6 weeks away from finishing. This will never end.

I’ll be honest… I don’t wash my sheets as often as I probably should. These people who do it every weekend are insane and while I’ll never get into that habit, I could likely stand to throw them in for a cycle with a little more frequency.

To be fair, it’s almost exclusively just me in between those sheets so what does it really matter?

Either way, just because I don’t partake as often as others, doesn’t mean I don’t get the appeal.

I’ve seen, in cruising around the web for an image for this post, a number of memes that echoed the sentiment of this feeling.

One that particularly caught my attention was the following:

Man, does that resonate. Sure, I don’t shave my legs, I don’t even own a single thing with any lace, I rarely wash my sheets, I don’t really like ice cream and I use someone else’s Netflix account… but outside of those specifics, this meme hits it right on the head for me.

Just because I can’t dunk, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate how awesome it is. Same for this feeling.

The scent, the softness, the enveloping freshness. It’s pretty sweet.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Having someone new in your bed and they make a comment about the scent.

This one ranks just a slot above yesterday’s feeling because you’re the man now, dog. You’ve got the juice, you get to play God, you’ve got the power.

Without repeating everything from yesterday that’s located just a few mouse-rolls south of these very words, what this feeling encapsulates is when you have the power to actually do something and you exercise it.

Think about this: you’re on a two lane highway and there’s been a guy that’s weaving in and out of the lanes, driving like a fucking jag-off for as far as you’ve been clocking him in your rearview.

Finally, he gets close to you and you put that left-turn signal on. You’re now in the fast lane not because you want to be, but because gosh darnit, he’s going too fast and someone needs to do something about it.

He sees what you’re doing, almost immediately. He didn’t get this far as a jerkoff by not spotting moral highroadists like yourself a mile away. So he puts his right-turn signal on to go around you.

Not so fast, douche.

You’re on the ball today, you don’t even have time to put your signal on. You just go to the right first, like you’re a fullback in Madden blocking for your running back. Only difference here? You fucking hate your running back.

Essentially what winds up happening is a real life, borderline life-threatening but ultimately petty and extremely satisfying version of the game Frogger.

Is it worth it? Maybe not. But the look of anger on his face as he/she gives you the finger when you finally let them pass and you’re simply smiling in ecstasy… that’s priceless.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Pulling this move and you’re the one that gets pulled over.

No, I’m not talking about an accident.

Sure, there are times when you see that dickhead driver do something shitty and you momentarily wish you had a rocket launcher or were driving a bumper car so you could smash the shit out of that person… Alas, you’re not a “go-to-prison-for-manslaughter”-type so you opt for turning the stereo up louder instead of homicide.

Injuries aside, what I’m talking about is when you’re minding your own business and there’s that douche that does any of the following, in no particular order:

• Cuts you off
• Honks at you to go THE FUCKING MILLISECOND the light turns green
• Stops short every ten seconds
• Drives as slow as is humanly possible
• Drives as fast as is humanly possible
• Weaves in and out of traffic lanes
• Did I mention the honking thing?

The feeling I’m talking about is when you experience someone doing any/all of these things in your vicinity. You feel powerless, that this person will continue to drive like a jerkoff without penalty.

Then, out of nowhere, there’s the po-lice. Finally, Johnny 5-0 is on the case. The ol’ blue and whites to the rescue, the wailers go on and you know—hell, everyone around you knows—who it’s for.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Every single time this happens and you do nothing about it, especially when something else shitty has happened to you that day or night so you’re even more annoyed.

Full disclosure: I cashed out of grandparents over 5 years ago.

And that last one, my mom’s mother who was the shit (lots of people say that about their grandparents–it was patently true about this one), had outlived the previous grandparent by a good 3-4 years.

Point is… I haven’t had a ton of opportunity to experience this feeling over the last 5-8 years, but that hasn’t lessened the enjoyment whenever it does randomly come around. Difference now is, it’s not my grandma.

Don’t get me wrong… some older people fucking suck. I get the distinct feeling I’m going to be one of those people with each and every passing day. They’re often surly and bitter and grouchy and borderline (if not outright) racist and brutally honest and uncomfortably unfiltered. Sometimes they all sleep together in the same bed and don’t offer to help provide for the family until an all expenses-paid trip to a candy factory is proffered and they’re amazingly cured of their bedridden condition.

Of course, there are others. And here’s an example of a small thing you can do to get this feeling, something I’ve done.

You’re cruising down an aisle in your local supermarket, either grooving to your own tunes or just totally digging the in-house playlist (the music at supermarkets is bangin’). You’re so in the mix you totally lose track of your surroundings as you pore over the 37 different varieties of pasta sauce. Are any of these actually on sale or are there just a ton of tags that look like sales? I can’t really allow myself to spend $9.99 on a jar of sauce, can I? Do I really need four different cheeses? These are the thoughts that occupy your mind as you continue your pondering.

Suddenly, you look to your right and towards the end of the aisle there’s an elderly woman seemingly going through the same struggle. Upon further inspection, it’s not the variety that’s giving Nana trouble, but rather the fact that she literally can’t reach or lift whatever she’s gunning for.

Without waiting for an invitation, you go over and ask her if she needs help. If she’s not a dick, she’s thrilled and tells you what she needs. You reach it, take it down off the shelf like an NBA superstar, she thanks you like you saved the store from going out of business in a single swoop and then you both go on your way.

I’ll say this: I think for me the feeling is even better because I can’t capture it unless in the wild.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: I’m not quite sure. Telling your grandma to go to hell? That’s just an awful feeling. I don’t know what the opposite of this is. Fail on me.

Last week, I was out with a few friends at a dive bar. This place was a real dump, in the most lovable way possible. The air conditioning was dripping on the table behind us, the bar itself is a trailer attached to what appears to be a diner, the bathroom door didn’t have a lock on it. It was a wonderful dive.

This preface is given to illustrate the point that we knew, going in, the beers would be cheap at this establishment.

However, when the check came we somehow were still surprised–and boy was that a fun feeling.

The tab came our way, its total being just a tick over $56. For no real reason, the check was itemized… the 13 Rolling Rocks we ordered came to… wait for it… just under $39 dollars. Less than three bucks a beer! Unreal.

Another version of this story can come when you’re out on a date. You go in knowing that you’re picking up the check and that it’s probably going to be fairly pricey. Sebastian Maniscalco details this whole ordeal in much funnier fashion than I can, but if you’re not in the mood to laugh for about 90 seconds, I’ll sum it up: you cannot let on that this check total will bother you, no matter what it is and the whole time you’re doing the mental calculations to try to get a ballpark of what it is you’ll be dealing with when it’s time to pay the piper.

Some number of appetizers and main courses and drinks and desserts and coffees later, the bill comes. You’ve got a number in you’re head, and it’s a biggun’.

Some how… some way… against all odds and by the grace of all Gods… it’s WAY less than you expected. This, of course, is what you want to do:

What you actually do is nothing… but you are quietly thrilled. And that’s enough.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: The obvious opposite, but an example would be grabbing something small from some place you didn’t even want to go to just to be nice to find out it’s crazy expensive. Specifically speaking: you stop into a coffee shop to use the bathroom without telling someone and then feel bad for doing that, so you order a cappuccino—and it’s 8 bucks.