scott spinelli

This has mostly manifested itself for me on the basketball court (or sporting field of some kind). I don’t really remember sitting down for a history exam, shouting to the person sitting next to me, “Calvin Coolidge was a punk biyatch!” or something similarly ridiculous.

But, you see, that’s the fun of shit talking… in any other forum, any other venue or walk of life that type of talk is completely and utterly stupid. It doesn’t apply, it doesn’t fit and often it could get you at best in trouble and at worst your ass kicked.

My most recent shit talking experiences have come with my niece. She’s ten (now) and likes to try to beat me in basketball. To be fair, she’s been trying to beat me pretty consistently since she was maybe 6 or 7 (possibly earlier). Throughout that time, I was always approximately 19 years old and significantly more experienced in the art of roundball.

Now, you may be thinking… Scott, how could you possibly talk trash to your ten-year old niece? How is that fun? What is the point?

Well, I answer you, pathetic loser, by saying simply, “WHY NOT?” She needs to get punked every so often, to know that if she offers up weak stuff in the lane, it’s going to get sent the fuck back. It’s rough out here on these streets–she’d better learn.

But, more than anything, I’d answer by saying, “It’s fun. And funny. And ridiculous. That’s why.”

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: This is pretty obvious, but being the guy who talks a whole gang of shit only to have it all (and I meant, it all) blow up in his face.

This one, in many universes, could be number one. It could even be higher than number one.

Think about how rarely it actually happens.

How often do you A) get the opportunity to say something outside of the banal at a work meeting, B) think quickly enough on your feet and C) find yourself in the right company where whatever mix of wit and sarcasm you’re brewing up is actually appropriate?

In my job, I’ve found myself in the position of leading a meeting here and there. More often than not, I either am not presented with the proper opportunity or don’t think it would be a good idea to make that joke in front of those people (had I written this years ago, I’d have barely been able to even write that sentence, as I thought every joke that crawled into my brain had to be delivered to the masses, including those in much higher positions than me at my place of employment).

In fact, even worse than any of those situations is the one we all have encountered, the one our bespectacled friend George here ran into: not being able to come up with the right line until much later.

But, every so often, the planets and moons and stars and executive vice presidents align… and you’re able to drop that STUNNING one-liner. That no-look, behind-the-back alley-oop of a joke or jab that EVERYONE FUCKING LOVES. Even the guy that never smiles at your meetings, the woman that not-so-secretly can’t stand you… everyone.

To the victor go the spoils.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Overestimating how much time that line bought you, talking too much after it and either ruining the success of the line or making people forget how good it was in the first place by your pointless drivel.

I primarily made mixes on CDs, not tapes, but I thought that image was a lot cooler than a CD. It’s really the only advantage the tape has… it looks cooler.

Currently I drive a car that has a CD player. It’s about the only place I know where I can listen to these mixes, and I fear that’s going away. Well, I know it’s going away, but I fear that eventuality.

Sure, the ability to carry around all your songs on your phone with incredible audio quality is an upgrade. But, like with most positive change, you do lose some good. In this case, it’s the permanence that burning/taping a mix created. That was a timestamp as to what you were listening to, what you thought was cool at that exact moment in time. It wasn’t nearly as easy (and in many cases, impossible) to make changes on the fly to your playlist.

There’s something really fun (and funny) about unearthing a CD with “Scott’s RAP BANGERZ” written in my shitty pen on a CD, featuring Nelly’s “Country Grammar” and, because I put it on every cd, Common’s “The Light”. And, finding that I still enjoy the hell out of the CD… more than 10 years later.

Long live compact discs.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Being really excited to listen to this CD, but finding out it’s so scratched you can’t get more than one verse into a song without it skipping all over the place. And, of course, the songs you don’t want to hear, it plays without issue. Of course.

This feeling is entirely about the moment of anticipation. You know, that thing the entire movie industry is based upon nowadays. Teaser trailers and first looks and full trailers and international trailers and second trailers and revealed scenes and director insights… all at least 8-18 months before a movie even comes out.

It’s all about getting you hyped, quality and originality of content be damned.

The original Dumb and Dumber was, maybe, my favorite movie as a kid. I honestly rented it so often from Blockbuster that my dad forced me to get something else eventually. We definitely rented it enough that we could’ve simply bought it several times over and saved money. Ah, the days before internet shopping.

So you could imagine my excitement when I discovered there would be a sequel of a childhood favorite. Sure, it was two decades later, both star actors looked way past prime for an endeavor of this sort, and comedy sequels very, very rarely work… But I was in.

That was, of course, until…

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Watching the actual movie.

First off, I think it merits mentioning that in looking for pictures to use for this post, I was so nauseated by the images that came up in my search (close-ups of belly buttons, thick pieces of lint and the like) that I seriously debated getting rid of this feeling entirely.

Then, I scratched my own belly button and found a piece of the shirt I was wearing and all was resolved.

There’s actual studies on how this even happens at all. Seriously, this guy dedicated three years to studying this “phenomena”. I mean… what is the joke for that? Honestly? A man dedicates three plus years to studying fucking belly button lint. Low-hanging fruit doesn’t even begin to describe this.

Anyway… I don’t know why or if I’m the only one who finds a bit of weird satisfaction out of getting a nice rip out of the ole belly button. Maybe it’s the cleanliness of it? I don’t know, but I know I like it.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Finding out your significant other has an outie belly button and having to tell them you can’t see them any longer.

This one goes out to all the ballers out there, grinding on the playgrounds of America and just hoping (praying) for that one chance. That one opportunity to make a play.

Nay, not just any play.

A sprinting, diving, full-extension, game-on-the-line-and-the-outcome-actually-means-something-and-you’re-not-just-diving-because-you-got-a-late-break-or-want-to-show-off-but-because-you-really-had-to-dive-to-get-it diving play.

That’s the stuff dreams are made of. Hell, the only real reason I still play softball with friends any longer is so that maybe, perhaps once a summer, a ball will randomly be hit to an area on the field just far enough away that I can’t get to it easily but close enough where I can still get to it if I put (whatever I now consider) max effort in.

At this age, I’d still even consider a half-slide, half-dive to be equal to this feeling. It’s great because it’s rare, sure, but it’s also great because it’s the same athletic excellence-feeling as dunking—something most (read: all) of us will never (ever) do.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Watching the ball go flying past you before you hit the grass/dirt and totally whiff on the catch, letting not only your team, but your entire extended family down in the process.

When I was a kid, I worked. I mean, “work” is relative, I suppose. It’s not like I was a farm hand or electrician’s assistant. I referee’d basketball, umpired baseball, counseled campers and for a few summers/winters in the most blatant STAY IN SCHOOL job I’ve ever had I stocked shelves at an auto parts warehouse. That job alone could get it’s own post, but I digress.

Point of all this is… I think now, if you’re a gainfully employed adult, you take paychecks for granted. Hell, most of us don’t even actually receive hard-copy paychecks any more. When they do get deposited into our accounts, it’s just a little bit we use to stave off the beast of bills, rent checks, mortgages, bank statements, car notes, college loans and other not-fun-things we spend money on as adults.

But think back, if you will, to getting those first checks. Some of mine would arrive, after what was at that point a full work week (I worked all of Saturday afternoon and two nights during the week! Gee wiz!) totaling no more than $100. Typically, it was far less. But, boy did it feel great. You didn’t care how much money was being taken out of your check, you didn’t have bills to pay. Your only concern was how fast you could spend it… how many CDs you could buy or candy at the mall or movie theater tickets or video games or jerseys… The world was yours (provided, of course, you officiated enough sporting events).

This is a top feeling because we’ll never go back there again, and primarily that’s a great thing. But, the joy of having money you earned yourself and being able to spend it only on fun shit… god, that was the life.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Every other Friday of your adult life, until you retire or die.

I think we can all agree, once and for all, that the red sour patch kid (or, SPK as those dear to my heart call them) is clearly the most delicious.

Sure, there’s the offshoot brands–your fruits and your Xtremes (yes, there’s no “e”… it’s that much of a wild card)–but nothing quite comes close to the magic of the original big red.

Why they haven’t made a bag of just reds at this point is beyond me. To a man (and woman, and child), it’s pretty clear red is the best. Yet, somehow the watermelon gets its own bag. And the peach. And the cherry.

But no red.

Before I get too sidetracked, here’s a fun game I sometimes play when eating kids. And by “fun game”, I of course mean thing I do to forget I’m stuffing my gullet with candy.

I call it SPK Roulette. I’ll blindly reach a hand in to the bag (I’ve stopped fucking with those vending machine-sized pouches years ago… it’s the duffle bag size or bust for me), something most wouldn’t dream of doing. The intent, of course, is to pull out a red. Obviously, green isn’t a doomsday scenario, but you get the point. So, the fun comes when you hit a rip of reds, two, three, four in a row. How long can you push your luck? It’s anyone’s guess, but it’s fun for the whole family.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Biting into a banana runt. Those fucking things are the most disgusting candy on the face of planet Earth, and that includes Good & Plenty.

More often than not, I’ve enthusiastically uttered the phrase “I’m going to frame this!” about that sports thing or this photo. And, more often than not, nothing comes of it. I wind up forgetting or deciding not to even waste the time or money on it. Most of the things I own that are framed were given to me that way.

With that in mind, here’s a story for you. A few years ago, I bought art. That’s a big deal for me, for two reasons: 1) it’s something other than an unframed movie poster to put on my wall and 2) it’s fucking art. You know, the shit grownups buy to put on their wall (read: things men buy when they start living with women and this sort of stuff inexplicably starts to matter).

Now, I should clarify.. the “art” in question here isn’t a painting or something abstract. After all, I am the one who bought it, so it had to have a little of me in it. But still it wasn’t until it arrived from Australia that I even considered the idea of framing it.

Of course, the prints I received weren’t traditionally sized and so it wouldn’t be a simple buy-it-off-the-rack job. No, no. I’d have to take it to a framing place.

Here’s two things I discovered upon visiting a few of these stores:

1. It was going to cost me way (way, way) more to frame the items than it did to purchase them and have them shipped literally from the other side of the fucking planet. I was, and continue to be, at a loss for how something like this isn’t talked about more often. The person creating the art charges less than the person putting a wood square around it. I mean…
2. Just like any other business, they will try to up-sell the shit out of you. One store actually offered me some sort of protective glare thing for the glass on the frame. I calmly explained that I intended to display the artwork on the inside of my apartment and promptly walked out.

So, like any disgruntled framer–or woman looking to get her craft-game on–I headed to Michael’s. I got me a nice black, normal frame (still too expensive) and picked it up a week or so later.

It felt generally ridiculous, the rigamarole and cost that went into it. But, hanging it on the wall as opposed to taping it? Well, that felt (sad as it is to say) shamelessly satisfying.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: The annoying feeling of asking someone, anyone, over and over… how does this look… here? Better here? No. No… Here. Is it straight? It’s even? You’re sure?

This one is tied entirely to a fascination we all have with living our lives like movies. Like most of the feelings on this list, this one is a totally insular one. No one but you gets it while it’s happening, and that’s precisely the point.

Me, being the tool I am, try to have a song at the ready that in some way syncs with the place I’m arriving in. Obviously, this only applies to my final destination (all you loser connecting cities can get lost).

As an example, whenever I go to Chicago… which is at least once a year to visit a friend… I try to have something of Kanye West ready as I walk off the plane and into O’Hare Airport.

You remember Kanye West, right? He used to be a famous rapper/producer that made hits for about 8-10 years straight before he got married, had a family and left the limelight behind. Man, we all wish he’d come back already.

Anyway, that’s me. Headphones on, volume jacked, bass cranked. If the weather’s nice and the song’s right, there’s not much that can beat that.

Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Thinking you’ve got the right song cued or ready, only to either fuck it up, not have the song on your device or have the person that’s picking you up because they’re truly concerned about you call you as you land and fuck up the whole thing with their politeness.