Who hasn’t wanted to do this?
I honestly have wished for extreme wealth if only so that I could feel free to smash my electronics whenever they didn’t work they way I’d like.
My mom used to always complain that the iPad wasn’t working properly for her. Perhaps it was the internet itself that was betraying her. My dad’s main culprit used to be the lack of passwords, though that afflicted my mother as well. Point is, in their minds, the tech was always seemingly letting them down (except of course for the hours and fucking hours it worked perfectly fine).
But if you step back and think about it, how nice is the feeling when you’re trying something slightly above your normal ask and it works perfectly fine?
I’m not talking about your phone’s Google app working properly or your iTunes shuffle making you think that there’s someone in there that knows your moods (admit it, you’ve considered this before).
I’m talking about something like streaming some livecast of something on your phone then onto your TV via some new thing you know everyone else has but you’ve never used and can’t possibly imagine is as simple to use as they say it is but it turns out it is because of course it is did you really think Nick could use it and you couldn’t. Exactly.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: The next time you try whatever it is you just did, and it doesn’t work. Get your hammer out.
This isn’t the first feeling on this list that’s been pretty much an exclusive male sentiment. I can’t imagine women love getting their faces shaved in public. If they do, good for you. Enjoy yours, kid.
But, as a man that grows a beard often—more accurately put, as a man that doesn’t shave regularly and looks like he’s growing a beard but is really just too lazy to shave and then gets caught in that in between area where it’s not quite a beard and not quite stubble but he has to go to work so he shaves it into the beginnings of a beard just to keep appearances, even though he has no real intentions of keeping it much longer—there’s not much that beats the hot towel, the cooling sensation of the shaving cream and application therein and the actual shave with the single blade.
What’s safer than letting a stranger take a blade to your throat while you keep your head back and eyes closed? If you can think of it, let me know. Leave it in the comments, because for me that’s about as comfortable as it gets.
And, this says nothing of the fact that it’s almost always the closest and best shave you could ever imagine.
Feels great and looks great? Outside of Men’s Wearhouse, that’s impossible.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Watching the person giving you this shave dip the blade into that fucking blue liquid. Barbacide? Is that what it’s called when barber’s commit suicide? Or, more to the point, is that what it’s called when barber’s commit homicide via their tools?
This deserves clarification:
Someone who can cook is someone who doesn’t just boil water for pasta or throw Pillsbury biscuits in the oven (even though they’re fucking delicious) or order Seamless.
And, it should also be noted, this excludes anyone that’s related to you. And, especially excludes anyone that has to cook for you so you don’t starve. Like, you know, your parents.
What I’m talking about is when a girlfriend or boyfriend that hasn’t done this yet makes you an unexpected (and if you’re lucky, unbelievable) meal.
Typically, I’ve been the one that’s cooked for the women I’ve been in relationships with, and I have no problem with that. I’m a decent cook, it’s something I enjoy doing, so it’s honestly a pleasure.
It’s probably because of this that I tend to enjoy the rare occasions where the script is flipped. I don’t need to do anything, I just show up with wine and eat. One girl actually made an incredible homemade dessert (In fairness, she was a professional baker, but still… homemade ice cream cake, son!)
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Have you ever went over a friend’s house to eat and the food was just no good? The macaroni’s sour, the peas all mushed and the chicken tastes like wood. You try to play it off, like you’re thinking you can, by saying that you’re full. Then your friend says, “Mom, he’s just being polite, he ain’t finished, uh-uh, that’s bull!” So your heart starts pumping and you think of a lie and you say that you already ate. Then, your friend says, “Man, there’s plenty of food.” So, he piles some more on your plate. And while the stinky food’s steaming, your mind starts dreaming of the moment it’s time to leave. Then you look at your plate, and your chicken’s slowly rotting and there’s something that looks like cheese. Then you say, that’s it, I’ve got to leave this place. I don’t care what these people think. I’m just sitting here, making myself nauseous with this ugly food that stinks. So you bust out the door, while it’s still close, still sick from the food you ate and you run to the store for quick relief from a bottle Kaopectate. It’s like that.
So, here’s the deal… I have all the “feelings” for this list already written down. I know what number each is assigned to and which I have left to do. If you’ve been following along at all, you know I’ve done it wildly out of order. With that in mind, I’ve been skipping around in the various number brackets (250-150, 149-100, 99-50 and 49-1) when choosing which to write so that it’s not too repetitive.
The last two were from previous brackets, this one takes us into the under-50 bracket. However, I must have written this feeling years ago because I’m not entirely sure how on Earth it could make it into the top 50. Especially not when it’s anywhere near this one, which is clearly a way better feeling.
At the current place I find myself in, it’s hard to fathom it as even a top 250 feeling, frankly. Maybe it’s better than smushing a pudgy dog’s face. Maybe.
(But then again, is it?)
Still, I’m willing to acknowledge that one point, in some place, with something in mind, I felt that this was a real thing.
If enough people are in these relationships, they all can’t be faking, can they? Let’s say even just 20-40 percent of them are full of shit, that still leaves the vast majority at least somewhat fulfilled and marginally content.
That has to count for something.
I’m sure it does.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Not having to ask her if you can (insert ANYTHING).
When you’re a kid, before life really hits you in the nuts, there’s a bunch of things that can disappoint you in the small world you’ve created for yourself.
I felt, among other things, disappointment when I realized Biggie wasn’t going to be releasing any more new music.
Each year, when the Spurs or the Yankees or Bucs (everyone’s three favorite teams) would inevitably lose and see their seasons end, I’d feel disappointment.
Those were all upsetting, to varying degrees. But for me, neither compared to when The Fugees broke up.
Biggie and Tupac dying was sad, but I understood death. I mean, as a 9-10 year old I didn’t have a true grasp of what it really meant, but I got it enough to understand the finality of it.
With the sports teams, while each season’s end without a championship was crushing in its own way, you always knew they’d come back and try again next year. There wasn’t going to be a next season without the Yankees or Spurs. Bucs, maybe.
But when The Fugees broke up and stopped making music, not because someone had died or because of some other permanent reason, it really fucked me up. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the concept. If they’re all still alive, why aren’t they making music? The last album was so, so, so great. How could that be it? That can’t just be it. Can it? Fuck.
About 10 years ago, Pras said the following, making it pretty clear where things stood: “Before I work with Lauryn Hill again, you will have a better chance of seeing Osama Bin Laden and [George W.] Bush in Starbucks having a latte, discussing foreign policies, before there will be a Fugees reunion.”
So, I know now not to take any of the multitude of rumors of a return seriously… however, like anything we wish to be true despite the long odds, it’s really hard not to imagine. And in that vein, we have this feeling.
The idea of them reuniting for a new album, to put music out once and for all after this time, would be so damn fun. The music itself might be garbage but, fuck, if it wouldn’t be fun to hear an album filled with Lauryn Hill verses and Wyclef tracks again.
Just like anything else, the fact that it’s been denied of us for so long is what makes it so sweet.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Knowing this will never happen. The Fugees aren’t fucking getting back together, Scott.
(You try finding a picture that captures this feeling).
Figure if we’re in the lane of efficiency and task management, might as well stay here.
I likely get this desire to get started early on things from my father, a man that never saw an event he couldn’t leave his home earlier for.
But, unless you’re one of those chronically late people—and if you are, do everyone a favor and just stay the fuck home already—you’ll understand what I’m talking about when I say there’s a certain joy to actually getting out in front of a project, an assignment, a thing you have to do.
I’ve never been one of those people that enjoys waiting until the very last second to start doing something. In college, I wasn’t one of those people studying all night or writing papers til 4 AM the day before it was due.
For me, it was more of a relief to actually do that first part, submit that thesis statement, call for that first interview, schedule that initial consultation, whatever.
So, in this vein, it does feel good to get started on finishing this list. Feeling #112 and feeling #154, only 42 apart but so closely linked.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Like I said, I’m not really the type to wait until the very last minute, but I’d imagine the opposite of this feeling is the manifestation of every single anxiety dream, every single “I’m back in high school, naked, with a presentation to do” dream, rolled into one.
Trust me, I’m aware of the meta-nature of this feeling.
A list of feelings has a feeling that is finishing that list.
It’s also not lost on me that this is the first thing I’ve contributed to this list in literally over 11 months.
Chuck Klosterman-bullshit aside, it’s good to be back to this list. I have all the feelings scribbled away, just need to actually write up these posts. I think we’re about 70-80 away from finishing the whole damn thing and that prospect, in and of itself, is a fun feeling.
I started this whole thing just over four years ago and I’ll be damned if I don’t eventually… at some point… finish this list.
And when I do, you can bet I’ll be thinking of this feeling.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Continually looking back at the checklist and seeing that one thing that you either A) keep putting off for any number of reasons or B) can’t actually accomplish. Not sure which is sadder.
You’re waiting in line for… well, anything. Waiting in and of itself is awful, you don’t need me to provide a specific location to make this scenario more dire, but I’m going to anyway.
Let’s say you’re on line at Target. You just had a nice experience buying crap you don’t need at prices you can’t possibly imagine were this low. Now, you’ve made the mistake you always make–you’ve picked the wrong line. It’s a Saturday, it’s busy, so of course the store only has lines 1, 3, 67 and 72 open. 1 and 3 are about a quarter mile down the road, so you picked 67 because the line appeared to be shortest.
Naturally, that was a short-sighted selection as every single person in front of you has a million items, coupons, out-of-date gift cards and basically every other form of delay known to mankind is taking place in front of you.
Then, a gift from the heavens arrives.
No, not the manager coming to your lane. That’s just a sign of further delay.
It’s the woman standing in front of you (or fella, whatever). She’s gorgeous, she’s not listening to music, she doesn’t have a ring, she’s not with anybody.
This isn’t a club, you’re not even necessarily looking to score in any way—be it a number or, you know.
But, now, at THE VERY LEAST, you have someone to make snide comments with.
Don’t pretend you’d rather share those with the dude in the Star Wars shirt behind you.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling? Thinking you’re in with this girl/guy, getting the courage up to ask for a number or even say, “You know, we should hang out some time!” and then getting flat out rejected or having the line suddenly move so fast you run out of time.
This is a tough one to really visualize and enjoy at this exact second, seeing as how it’s absolutely, soul-crushingly cold and bleak out and will continue to be for the better part of the next two months, where in we only get a reprieve in the form of a slightly less-shitty few months before the three good weeks of weather this area of the world is granted per year.
OK, anyway. Point is, it’s cold. It’s not exactly what you’d call “ice-cream weather.”
But, you’re a goddamned liar if you’re telling me that, even in this cold, if you heard that familiar diddy (turns out, like most things from our country’s past, it has wildly racist origins) you wouldn’t turn on a dime to look for that fucking truck.
I’ve never even been a huge fan of ice cream (partial, of course, to sour candy), but I don’t think there’s a time or a place where that propaganda music won’t change my course. It’s like I’m sort of a Manchurian candidate and the only thing that will unlock me and begin my journey is that tune.
It reminds me of summer, of being a kid, of being thrilled with having three or four dollars in my pocket. It’s a great association to have with, ostensibly, a sweaty dude in a white truck.
The Polar Opposite of this Feeling: Finding out they don’t have the good soft-serve ice cream and/or are out of the Sonic the Hedgehog bar.
Wait, you mean you’re not supposed to gluttonously take all of the soap, shampoo, coffee filters, towels, linens, sheets, pillows, televisions and shower curtains that you can stuff into your suitcases?
I was under the impression that going to a hotel room was like a 48-72 hour-long version of Supermarket Sweep. “Whatever you can fit, you keep”, I believe, is the motto for one of the Hilton chains. Not sure which.
Assuming you’re not a goody-goody who has never taken a thing from a hotel room, you’ll know this feeling.
I’ll admit that in honesty, I don’t just take shit to take it. However, if I’m in a hotel and the shampoo is amazing… that shit’s coming home with me. And hell, I’ll ask for more from the room service just so I can take that shit too. I’m a real thug when it comes to looting hotel bathrooms.
There’s also shower caps, conditioner (it’s honestly cheaper for me to go to a hotel once ever few months than buy conditioner on its own), bar soap (long live bar soap, BTW) and other shower accompaniments that are just begging to be taken.
Do them a favor. Bring ’em home.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Having one of those shampoo/conditioner bottles explode in your bag on the ride home.