Month: January 2018

Sure, those three places are all different, for different reasons. Las Vegas is, by and large, cleaner and nicer than the other two. Atlantic City is cheaper and no frills, plus it has a beach. New Orleans has zepolis (come on already with the fucking beignets) and no issues with drinking in public.

But what they have in common is that they’re all  dens of sin. Whether it’s gratuitous drinking, excess gambling, wild overeating or any combination of the three or those unlisted, you never leave there without some level of regret.

A full weekend in any of the three is more than enough time for any of us to spend there on vacation.

So, when it’s time to finally pack it up, get in the cab and head to the airport or bus terminal or wherever you’ll spend the next few hours feeling sad about your life choices, the only thing that should stop you from taking your life or laying face down in your own vomit is the clear notion that you’ll be rid of these places in short order.

To be clear: I love going to each of these places and I will go back multiple times before I’m done on this Earth. However, each time it’s over, I’m more than ready to head home.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: It’s hour three of a delayed bus/train/plane and you haven’t left yet. And you don’t know when you’re going to leave. And you’re hung over. And you’ve got no money left. And you hate your friends.

Somehow, many years ago, I was in my old library, across from my middle school, in the town I grew up in. Even more without reason, I found myself looking something up on the fossilizing computer.

I came across two games that I played all the time as a kid, that we all played as kids. Those games were Oregon Trail and Where in the World is Carmen San Diego? 

The feeling of double-clicking on those icons to fire the games back up after what had to have been at least 8-10 years since having previously played was a combination of both joy and horror.

Joy in that I was really excited to experience the games again, see all that I had missed over the years. However, actual nervousness over the fact that I knew these games most likely didn’t stand the test of time and that I’d surely be disappointed by how shitty they actually were.

The amazing thing? Outside of the two-bit graphics–which I knew would be the case– the games didn’t really skip a beat for me.

If anything, I found Carmen San Diego to be harder than I did as a kid. I’m not joking. Frankly, I’m not sure how any kids were good at that game. Did anyone know what the primary exports of these various South American countries were? If Carmen stole the Statue of Liberty or the Eiffel Tower, isn’t that on the fucking doofuses at TSA to let her know, “Umm, miss, you can’t bring national monuments on board with you, you’ll have to check that bag.”

Oregon Trail was as simple as I remembered it being–the only difficulty, that was difficult back then as well, was attempting to shoot those squirrels. The game was pretty straightforward and fun… shoot a few water buffalo, leave a few children behind either because of lack of room on the wagon or typhoid fever and call it a day.

Either way, it’s not often you get to run into RBI Baseball or NBA Jam or Carmen or any of these old school games and have them not let you down. It’s a great feeling when they don’t.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Getting all geeked to play whatever the game is, and it either won’t load or won’t play or won’t start or whatever. You get nothing. And you have nothing.

On its face, this seems like it actually would be a bad feeling, no?

If asked, we’d probably all instinctively answer that we prefer to have plans. Very few openly admit they like having no plans… although secretly, that’s what we all want.

The truth is, it’s not so much about sitting in a room doing nothing all day and night for two to three days in a row. It’s really about getting some minor shit done, things like cooking that pain-in-the-ass soup you love but haven’t had time to make during the week or binging a few episodes of (insert Netflix show here) or getting some reading done.

Basically, here’s what you’re looking for… by the time it’s over and you’re back at work and someone says, “How was your weekend?”, you have nothing to say other than “Didn’t really do much.”  You know you got a ton of shit done and had a great time barely ever leaving your apartment, but it’s so banal you don’t even bother to waste this person’s time with a detailed answer.

Side note: Unless I cured polio during my time off, I almost always answer with some variation of “not much” to that question. I hate conversation like that.

That silent feeling of satisfaction knowing you did exactly what you wanted to do, no matter how little it actually was… that’s this feeling.

Oh, and the fact that it’s the oasis in a drowning, all-encompassing, until-you-drop-dead struggle known as 9-to-5 work.

Yeah, that too.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: That third weekend in a row where you go from thing to fucking thing without a break in sight. Basically, the month of December.

It’s just sweet, sweet release isn’t it?

Taking a dump has its own merits, but this is just slightly better in my opinion for a few obvious reasons.

First, it’s quicker. Sure, taking your time with a good ole number two isn’t a bad thing, but brevity often wins out in my opinion.

Second, unless you’re wildly drunk, there’s far less cleanup.

Third, unless you’ve had some sort of enormous salad with whole milk and Indian food, the great release of a long-held pee is unlike many other feelings in this world.

You’re going for so long, at a certain point, you don’t even feel it any more. You’re on autopilot, just kicking back and enjoying the bliss of piss.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: You’re walking home from the subway or bus or whatever and you know you’ve got at least 4-5 more blocks or 10-15 more minutes until you can finally get to a bathroom… That wait and build up and oncoming UTI are your polar opposites.

Let me say this, before we get fully into this feeling: I can’t fucking stand playing against the people that are so goddamn in tune with one another that they use clues for their partner to guess words that are (seemingly) completely unrelated.

Player giving the clues: “Uh… Ryan Anderson”

Player answering: “Refrigerator”

“Uh… trophy.”

“Carbon Dioxide”

“Uh… uh… stemware.”

“War of 1812.”

And so on, and so on. These people are fucking cheaters and should be dealt with as such, prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law insofar as word association felonies are concerned.

Obviously, there’s a bit of jealousy in these previous paragraphs because who doesn’t love being in sync with someone in a guessing game? But, what I’m talking about in this feeling is the more legit version of being in sync, where each picture gets your right where it’s supposed to, each word clue leads you directly to the right answer. You’re in lockstep, flying so fast through the cards that the only thing holding you back is how long it takes your partner to pull them out from the holster.

Additionally, what’s great about this feeling is that you never quite know when it’s going to crop up, how long it’ll last or who it will get triggered by. Similar to being in the zone when playing any sort of sport, you just know it when you’re in it.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Thinking you’re doing really well in trivia at a bar until they read the scores out after the first round and you’re nowhere near the money.

I should again say it, so we’re all clear… RELAX.

I’m not talking about guns or knives or explosives or drugs or any type of shit like that.

I’m talking about when you get something on the plane that’s not allowed or you’re not sure is technically allowed and somehow you’re good.

They don’t confiscate that moisturizer or bottle of cologne that’s clearly bigger than the allotted limit. Or that bottle of hot sauce you bought in New Orleans that you were worried wouldn’t be allowed in a carry-on so you’d have to check a bag. Or, hell, even the carry-on bag itself… you know damn well that thing you’ve been Hulk Hoganing around the last three days isn’t nearly small enough to fit above you.

But somehow, it gets through. It all works. Your nail file or your shampoo or your Chipotle burrito or your bottle of water… still yours.

Eating that burrito, sipping that water, filing those nails, cologning that stench, moisturizing that body… it’s all now just a tad sweeter on the other side of the TSA screening.

Corollary to this Feeling?: Since it’s pretty obvious that the opposite of this feeling is getting caught and having your stuff taken from you, I figured I’d go this route and add here that a similar and related feeling (that is no longer really a thing any more) was when you’d get away with keeping your phone or your bluetooth-enabled device on for longer than the flight attendants told you to. Nowadays, it’s all allowed pretty much so we can’t get to experience that weirdly satisfactory and spiteful feeling of knowing the plane will be fine despite you listening to your iPod.

I thought, long and hard, about making this specific feeling something cop-related but realized it would be a reference wasted. Of the three-to-six people who may read this post, there’s a chance just one of them would get it. While that’s enough for me, I am pushing myself to strive for greater heights.

So, we stick with the original idea: scratching an itch. Of course, just the act of a good scratch is a quality feeling. What puts this on the list is when you have to delay the scratch for some reason, it builds up a bit and then you get to scratch.

Let’s say you’re at the gym and you’re on a treadmill. And let’s say that at this particular gym, the way it’s laid out, there’s a good number of people behind you. You’re honest with yourself when you note that most people probably aren’t watching you, but still… do you really want to be the person that scratches his/her ass in public like that? At least do that little wiggle/walk thing to attempt to hide it first, no?

Either way, with all the sweat and all the build up in time, by the moment you get to release and scratch til your heart’s content, it’s pure ecstasy.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Having that itch be somewhere particularly difficult during that no-go time and having to wait it out.