Month: February 2018

I debated how high or low to put this feeling for a while. There was a significant time when I wasn’t even sure if it should be on the list.

How often do you get recognized in public for something you do? And if you do get recognized often, do you even like it? Isn’t it just commonplace or irritating at a certain point?

I don’t have the answer to any of these questions and that’s because I am never, at least not any longer, recognized for anything in public.

The reason this feeling made the list and why it made it this high (or low) is because there was a time when it happened to me and it was fucking amazing.

In college, I wrote a humor column for the daily school newspaper. I only wrote it for a year and it would come out once a week. This was back in 2007 and 2008, before the meteoric rise of smart phones and back when people would actually read newspapers to distract themselves from having to pay attention in class.

As a side note, what I just said feels positively prehistoric at this point. Keep in mind, we all had phones and we all had computers. But, very few of us had smart phones and even those that did barely used them in the way we do today–mostly because the devices couldn’t even remotely handle the workload. This was just 10 years ago.

So yeah, people read the columns and this made me something like an E-list celebrity around campus for those few months. Every so often someone would come up to me and tell me they read it. It happened at parties, at the bar, in class.

I can say all of this without fear of looking like a douche because it was 10 years ago and who the fuck cares at this point, right? It’s not like I still think I am the man. But back then? You couldn’t tell me shit.

The idea that this rinky-dink little column I was scratching out in my room once a week was being read by a bunch of people I’d never met before and enjoyed by those same people to the point that they wanted to tell me so when they’d see me…man, it was too much to wrap my mind around.

For someone that’s never been and never will be famous in any way, shape or form, it was cool to think that someone out there enjoyed what you were producing.

It’s a pretty cool feeling, even for something as obviously insignificant as a humor column in a college newspaper.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: The person coming up to you to say that you fucking suck. That also happened.

 

They say that the journey is more important than the destination.

I’m not sure that’s entirely true in every situation, but in the case of the road trip I’m fairly confident in saying that the journey is, at the very least, equal in value to the destination.

A handful of years back, my roommate and I would go on mini-road trips during the summer to various baseball stadiums. One year we hit up Toronto. Another year we took in Cleveland and Pittsburgh. The only rules were home games and seven hours or fewer of traveling (each way, not combined).

In both cases, the destinations were really amazing (I mean, as amazing as Cleveland can be, sure). It was really fun to get to see those ballparks, to explore those cities, to travel.

But, for me, the definite highlight was the journey. There’s so many parts to the road trip that are fun–the random stops along the way, the radio stations you pick up, the music you bump–but easily the best part is the beginning.

You’ve loaded all your shit into the car, you’ve got your snacks and your gear and your waters. If there’s a God in this world, the sun is shining and the sky is clear. You lower your windows, slightly put on the AC, turn on the navigation and crank the fuck out of your music.

Carefree, as a descriptor of the feeling you have at this moment, isn’t a carefree-enough term. It’s beyond that. It’s so devoid of concern for anything other than absolute fun and total enjoyment that you’re in a state of pure bliss.

That’s what starting a road trip feels like.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Getting in the car for the ride back to Hoboken from Pittsburgh. Giddy up.

 

Most of my college friends do not live in the area.

Somehow, despite having gone to college in New York state at a school that sends primarily from the Tri-State area, all but one of my friends live elsewhere.

Chicago, Vermont, South Carolina, the greater Boston area, Florida. They’re fucking everywhere but here.

As such, on the rare occasions when any of them decide to leave their homes and get onto a plane or bus and visit New York–and as a by-product, visit me–I’m fucking elated.

I suppose that is what makes it such a great feeling, no? If they lived close and visited often, it’d become commonplace.

Either way, the anticipation of the arrival and the actual arrival are my two favorite parts.

You know this person is coming for a good month or so, but in the days leading up you’re as excited as you’ve been in a while. Finally, something to distract you from the monotony of your every day life. Finally, you get to share your boring shit with your friend. Thank the lord.

Of course, the actual arrival… the first hug or pound or high-five or whatever your pleasure… that’s pure joy as well. It’s been months or more since you’ve seen this person–that release of happiness into a greeting is unlike many others.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Your friend is visiting and they didn’t tell you they’re bringing along their girlfriend or boyfriend or wife or husband. Of course, you don’t really like this person but beyond that the weekend is irrevocably changed and there’s no way you can explain that to your friend without sounding like a jerkoff.

I put the qualifier in there because buying new tires isn’t exactly fun.

Also, before we get started here, a bit of a programming note: you may have noticed that we’re finally going in numerical order. That’s because the first 200+ feelings are done and we’re now down to, essentially, the remaining top 40. From here on out, we’ll be plugging in the holes in the list until we get to number one.

OK, so here’s the story for this one:

When I was younger, all I wanted for Hannukah/Christmas/my birthday this one year was an Antoine Walker authentic jersey. For those of you not in the know, here’s a few basic facts about that previous statement:

1. Growing up, we celebrated both as my mom and dad’s sides of the family were Jewish and Catholic respectively.
2. Antoine Walker was a player for the Boston Celtics.
3. I am not a fan of the Boston Celtics.
4. Antoine Walker shot an inordinate amount of three pointers and often did eccentric shimmy-like dances on the court after making some of those shots.
5. He was a wildly inefficient player and there is no real reason why I should’ve ever been a fan of his, on any level.
6. Authentic jerseys, as opposed to the replicas or swingmans, cost about $150-200.

My parents outright refused to buy me this jersey. There literally was no discussion about it. For the longest time, I hoped against all odds that they were playing possum and that one of those wrapped boxes would actually contain an Antoine Walker jersey.

Their reason was that it was simply too much money to spend on one item, specifically a player’s jersey. In retrospect, they were right to some degree–no 11-year old needs a $150 jersey he’ll wear, max, 7 times. It was completely out of whack. But of course, I didn’t understand that. I tried to reason with them, saying they didn’t need to get me anything else. They weren’t having it.

I mention all this because growing up in this household, I was sort of indoctrinated not to be buying frivolous shit for myself that was unnecessarily expensive. I should note here, the total amount of money my parents would spend on gifts for me was far greater than $150… it wasn’t the total they objected to, but rather the amount for the individual item.

Now, as a semi-adult with semi-adult money and semi-discretional spending powers, I sometimes find myself in the rare but fun area of getting to buy myself something I really want that’s pretty expensive.

Of course, this doesn’t happen often because I generally tend to like plain clothes, plain shit and normal food. However, when I get around to buying a new computer to replace my current one (it’s still soldiering on, basically rock solid since 2009), I know I’ll get that feeling again.

First it starts out with a bit of dread… the nerves of childhood kicking in that I’m spending over a thousand dollars on something. Quickly though, it’s replaced by that feeling of shiny newness that washes over you when you take the thing home.

Like so many feelings from here on out, it’s only great because it’s rare. I suppose the richer you become and more accustomed to buying expensive shit, the less fun and more mundane it becomes.

Seeing as how that future likely isn’t mine, I’ll continue to enjoy it when I get it.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Seeing your credit card statement the next month.

 

Just a few days ago, walking around Brooklyn while listening to music and navigating my way to a pizza place to meet a friend for a quick slice, my phone decided it had had enough.

From 51% to 24% to dead battery in a matter of 15 to 20 minutes. No warning, no explanation. Just dead.

One minute you’re listening to a song, the next it sort of slowly fades out and your phone has passed away.

Now, beyond the obvious annoyances of this happening, I actually did need my phone that night (or so I thought at the time) because I was attending an event for which my ticket was electronically stored on my phone.

As this all happened, I was crossing the street. The music slowed down and went off and having had this happen to me a number of times recently, I knew what was going down.

I took the phone out of my pocket to confirm my suspicions and with little recourse, muttered a few curse words and continued on my way.

HERE is where I’d loved to have been able to smash my phone into a million fucking pieces. I wanted to hurl it as hard as I could into the gutter, stomp on it with my boot, hope a truck backed over it a million times in the middle of the road. There was no shortage of joy I’d have felt had I been able to destroy that piece of fucking trash.

Of course, I didn’t. And we often don’t. Why? Because (and this is in lieu of the Polar Opposite) the immediate realization after the fun of smashing is that you now have to go through the living hell that is buying a new one.

But supposing we were all millionaires with personal assistants that could remedy that particular element of this situation, would you love to be able to smash your iPhone every time it pulled a fucking stunt like that?

I know I would.

Sadly, today isn’t that day.

I mean, it is that day in that today is in fact the day you get to read about this feeling… but unfortunately, this particular Monday isn’t the beginning of a holiday or otherwise shortened week.

No, today is a regular Monday, yet another dull grind in the interminable vortex known as the work week.

But think, for a minute, about the next holiday that’s coming during good weather. Let’s say it’s Memorial Day. And let’s say that Memorial Day is somehow on a Friday this year and you have plans not only on that Friday, but for the whole weekend. You and (insert people you give a shit about here) are all going to (insert place you all would meet) to do (insert thing you and all these people like doing). Pretty wild, no?

Sure, the actual act of doing all these things, of even leaving that Friday for that place with those people to do those things… that’s an incredible feeling.

But what separates that feeling from this feeling is that most Fridays feel pretty damn good regardless, whether or not you’re leaving for such a specific trip like the one I’ve just outlined.

This feeling is SO much better than your typical Monday feeling it’s almost amazing you even still call it Monday. It takes your normal Monday and gives it a B-12 shot followed by a Red Bull vodka and two swift kicks in the ass.

You glide around your office as if you haven’t a care in the world, despite being at least 72 hours from your mini-vacation. The music in the car on the way to and from work is just a bit more enjoyable. The crappy cafeteria food doesn’t quite bother you as much as it usually does.

You, my friend, have a short work week.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Not sure this exists for everyone, but when you are starting a run of either a long string of days in a row or several weekend shifts in a row.

 

Let’s start with this: I like to cook. I am not a great cook, but I enjoy doing it principally because I enjoy eating and, more specifically, enjoy eating things exactly the way I like them.

To me, there’s two types of people that can cook: those that can cook off recipes and those in that Chopped subcategory, where they can take a few random ingredients in their pantry and make something out of nothing.

Outside of a few dishes, I’m decidedly in the former camp. It’s really just in the last few year that I’ve woken to the idea that I don’t need to be a slave to the exact specifications of the recipe. For years, I’d continually add in elements of a recipe that I either knew I wouldn’t like or actively hated–shit like okra to gumbo–and finally I woke up one day and said, “I fucking hate okra, I am making this gumbo literally for only myself… ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.”

Okra-beef aside, my point here is that even in my newly-freed state of mind I still will often go to a recipe when trying out a dish I’ve yet to make. Sure, it’s more of an outline now than it was a few years ago but it’s still a framework I’m following—someone else’s framework.

A lot of times (I’d argue, most of the time), if carried out even remotely properly the recipe will turn out pretty solid. Let’s be fair: most of the people putting recipes on the internet or in books are pretty good cooks. You might even say they’re professionals.

But, rare is the instance when it goes from good to great. When you make something that you expect to be good and it blows your doors off. This recipe for chicken tortilla soup is a perfect example of that. For whatever reason, this specific recipe really hit me in the right spot. I’ve made versions of this soup dozens of times, with a number of similar recipes. I can’t explain why… this one was way better than the rest.

If you cook even semi-regularly, you know exactly this feeling. Your day is nearing its end, you’ve found a recipe to make for dinner that night and you’re excited but in that way that’s more about the fact that you are happier about not having to eat leftovers than anything else. You get home with the ingredients, begin going through the steps and before you know it, the meal is ready to go. You’ve had a sneaking suspicion this might be better than you anticipated but you won’t know until that first bite.

Of course, suspicions confirmed.

Bonus Feeling: Finding a recipe for a thing you really like that a restaurant or store makes and now you can make a version of it at home. The hell with retail, son.

Let’s be fair… gyms are meat markets. Sure, places like Planet Fitness (where I’m a member, I’ll admit) and other similar setups purport to be judgement-free zones.

And while they are, to varying degrees, all gyms are dens of judgement.

You’re judging yourself, that’s why you’re there in the first place. You’re judging the person next to you, that’s how you motivate yourself.

The feeling I’m talking about is when you’re at the gym judging away and you happen to notice that girl or that guy cross your field of vision. Let’s say you’re on a treadmill and they happen to take up residence on a machine just far enough away that you can lazily stare but not close enough that what you’re doing is obvious.

And so you continue doing your reading or your TV-watching or your phone-surfing, all the while sprinkling in a few subtle stare sessions.

I don’t need to get into the specifics of why this is a fun thing to do, I think we all get it. I will say this, however, as a man with regards to women: I think, and I could be wrong, that a lot of women have the mistaken sense that they are at their least attractive at the gym. Workout clothes, sweaty, no makeup, hair up in a ponytail. I can’t speak for anyone outside of myself, but I can say for me, that’s perhaps the most attractive state.

So let’s not lie to one another: we’ve all played the game, without obviously staring. It’s a stealthy game with a far-higher risk than reward because getting caught is at minimum embarrassing and at worst a serious problem.

But we all trudge on, catching a glimpse of that girl or guy on the treadmill, lifting weights, doing whatever it is those machines do… and we move on with the rest of our day.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Getting caught. For real. Total nightmare scenario. Best version of this feeling, the actual feeling, is taking a quick look, enjoying yourself for a sec and moving on. You don’t talk, you don’t engage, you just keep it moving. The opposite? It becomes a thing.