Normally I put my links on the right…but this was too flipping hilarious to put anywhere else but smack dab in the middle.

Weight Watchers recipes circa 1974

Have you ever noticed that the more “stuff” you have in your life, the more burdened you feel? Now, I realize that this is not some grand, sweeping philosophical realization here, but hear me out.

I’ve been pondering for quite some time now just how much I abhor the duality of consumerism. All economic and political ramifications aside, consumerism is a shifty and underhanded foe. While it obviously is good business, it drains your hard earned money with little return on your investment. Now realize that this is a generalization, meant to quantify only some of what the average American consumes. Plenty of purchased items are valid and needed assets.

But not all are necessary. The $40 set of kitchen utensils; the three large sets of Tupperware containers; the nineteen bottles of car detailing chemicals; forty candles, in different shapes, sizes, textures and colors; or five hundred and some odd CDs? Are all of these really essential items in one’s life? I fear not, yet I can’t seem to reverse the natural and commanding presence that this Culture of Acquisition has on my life.

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t see myself as a faceless victim of a society gone wrong. No masked cartel is out shopping with me, forcing me to fork over money for yet another decorative knick-knack for the living room. I do it willingly, freely and often quite happily. But why?

Well, there are plenty of reasons ranging from void-filling to immaturity. But the main root of my problem (read: speaking only personally here) from which most of this mass-acquiring feeds is that, by nature, I’m like the Eternal Boy scout. I have no idea how I got this way, whether it’s a genetic trait from my Irish ancestors or just a learned behavior. Nonetheless, I feel the need to always be prepared, to have the right tool to get the job done well the first time. If it takes nineteen bottles of chemicals to restore the paint on my car to mint condition (therefore enhancing my initial investment), is it an issue? If having a garage full of wood-working tools allows you the freedom to make custom furniture or fix up a house, is it worth it? I would argue yes, but at the same time, no.

See, my main issue is that it never stops. Ever. The further along the timeline of life that I travel, the relentless march of the years procures countless “phases” in my life that with it comes “stuff.” I may be into car audio for many years, which naturally (when wanting to do the job yourself) brings with it a box full of wires, tools and gadgets. I may want to learn how to sandblast metal objects. And guess what? That requires more equipment. I may get further into photography, which? You guessed it…more crap. I feel prepared. I feel secure and even joyful that I am blessed enough to buy the right equipment so that I don’t have to half-ass the job. But at the same time, I’m left with truck loads of crap. I fear ever having to move because it will take nothing short of a professional team to realize the goal of actually getting everything out of one place and into another.

There is no real answer here, I suppose. I cannot turn off either my natural desire to learn new things, or my innate need to be prepared with the right tools. I suppose that in the end I will just have to keep everything in check, doing so only in moderation at all times. I don’t want to be thirty-eight years old and have more vacuums than children, or more dog toys than treasured memories.

This fight is not an easy one, and one that I’ll most likely have to contest the rest of my life (assuming that I’m lucky enough to be able to spend money of frivolous junk). Every shopping trip will be a weighing of “do I need this? or do I just want this?” A delicate balance, to be sure.

All I know is that Target better not keep putting stuff on sale. Except that Todd Oldham crap. You can have that.

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll just sit over….”

As my mother and sister trailed off into a distant store, I begrudgingly sought respite from shopping at a nearyby mall bench. We were in Toronto and it was April 20, 1994…the day of the Oklahoma City bombings, Hitler’s birthday and the day of the future Columbine massacre. But all I knew was that I was at some lame-ass mall and that we had been walking all day and I sure as hell didn’t want to go into that store with them.

As I flopped myself down on the bench as only a sullen 14-year old can, I began watching the crowds. With “My Name Is Jonas” on repeat in my head, I slipped into a better mood and watched people pass. “You know,” I thought, “Canadian kids look just as poser-ish as American teenagers. Huh. Who knew?”

Oh the things that adolescents ponder. The profundity…

Time passed, and I grew impatient with my familial lingerings, wishing that we could just go back to the hotel so that I could read or listen to music. But then my fate approached me. From the left, to be exact.

Dressed in a nice suit, not too tall but not overly short, he approached me and sat next to me on the bench. Visions of child abduction should have been racing through my mind, but suprisingly (frighteningly) I accepted his presence as status quo. We exchanged glances before he introduced himself, and I gathered from his demeanor that he was genuine; trying a bit too hard to “be that guy,” but not a slick salesman.

“Hey. I’m Mark Christensen. I gotta ask you something…”

“Oh crap, here comes the soliscitation,” I thought.

“We’re shooting a movie here in a few weeks. It’s the new Jean Claude Van Dam flick, called “Sudden Death.” We’re trying to recruit extras for the set, kids around your age. You up for it?”

I blinked. All I could think of was some cheeseball asshat running across the tops of trains as they barrelled down the tracks and the camera panned dramatically, sweeping shots from overhead (most likely from a helicopter). I thought about what I knew about extras, how they had to wait around for like 10-12 hours a day, how it was boring, and how most of the extras thought in some strange paralell universe that it would be their ‘big break.’

Then I remembered that I was in Canada.

“Oh, sorry mister. I’m not from here. I’m just on spring break. Sorry.”

We exchanged friendly smiles and off he walked towards another crowd of what he was hoping were underage Canucks. Then my mother and sister returned and we prepared to wander back to the hotel. And just that quickly, my entire future veered back to middle, avoiding a potential fork in the road.

As we left Toronto headed south a few days later, my outlook had changed. Weezer still blared in my headphones, still slumped in the backseat of our Honda Accord. But as we waved goodbye to the city, I left knowing that Canada did have some redeming qualities. Canada was cool because they had talent scouts (or lets hope that’s what he was) looking for kids like me. Somehow it was both insulting and validating to know that I could have been one of the faceless masses in a “major” motion picture.

I’ve never seen the movie. Nor have I ever regretted not living north of the border in order to cash in on the opportunity. But it does still make me wonder what different paths a few simple choices in life could have taken me.

OK, so being in a low-budget action flick isn’t exactly “going somewhere,” but you get the drift.

The apocalypse is nigh. First the cicadas are coming. Now this. God must have it out for Cincinnati. Maybe it’s ‘cuz the Reds suck(ed) for so long….

There’s something about the art of adolescent banter that I miss dearly. Perhaps it’s the quick witted, thinking on your toes aspect. Or maybe it’s just the notion of pubescent one upmanship, self aggrandizing and boisterous displays that is both timeless and amusing. Does every male go through this stage in their life? Do young girls? I’d be hard pressed to believe that intelligent, well mannered pillars of purity such as 14 year old females would stoop to such sophomoric actions. But man, guys certainly do. At least my circle of friends did.

Picture, if you will, a lunch table full of high school freshman. All it takes is one mildly agitating or grandstanding comment thrown into the open like an grenade with the pin pulled. The game has started. Early contributions tend to be trivial, off the cuff and inherently rookie in nature. Typically containing references to “biting,” “your mother,” or most assuredly some anatomical part of your body, these comebacks are easily dismissed by the participants. It’s as if all present realize the unprepared nature of these preliminary words and all equally disregard them as such.

As the game progresses, the true stars rise to the top. By the end, only two or three remain, with the others adding a soundtrack of “oooohs” and “daaaangs.” With comebacks and retorts that are supposedly witty and ingenious, boys throw them out into the arena for approval of their peers—the highest test possible. And all lines are delivered with the greatest sense of apathy possible. You cannot show that you care for what you’re talking about. The odd thing is, that the intention of the comments tend to be less about hurting the targeted victim as opposed to merely outdoing what was said before (in both cleverness and delivery). It’s as if an unspoken ranking is established in a group of friends by this process. Could it be the equivalent of physical fighting? I know that in my group verbal tussles always seemed to determine who was more aggressive and who the weaklings were. But believe that not a scratch was found on us from actual fighting.

Perhaps this indicative of a new breed of males. Less schoolyard tomfoolery, less physical intimidation and more verbal swashbuckling. Or maybe my group of friends is atypical and just plain nerdy. Both are equally probable.

But nonetheless I miss this playful sparring. I miss having to think defensively, having to improvise sharp retorts even while eating or walking to class or in front of girls we liked. Or perhaps I just miss my high school friends. Or maybe I miss your mom.

Today the world stopped. Well no. Not literally. But in a John Woo sort of CGI sort of way, everything came to a Matrix-style halt. I’ve seen the man behind the proverbail curtain.

Have you ever had that instant, that fleeting moment of time where everything in life just clicks? At that moment things that have felt so murky and muddy suddenly are as lucid and vibrant as can be? Few and far between, these precious seconds are what makes other unbearable times worth trudging through. It’s hard to describe really. Cinematically I would liken it to too many cliche things, but it’s worth a shot.

Weeks of tireless chaos. Time passes both quickly and slowly in concurrence. Each day is a prison and a passing ship. You’re standing in the middle of a malestrom of traffic and bustle. And then it hits. Cars stop. The camera of your mind’s eye sweepingly pans around, harsh greys and blues begin to thaw and warm up to bright greens and yellows. It’s as if life has a yellow contrast filter on it. Everything oozes vitality. Truth. Reason for being. Problems fall to the ground, frustrations and roadblocks become transparent to what’s happening around you. Life clicks.

And then, like a stutter of breath while sobbing, things jolt back to normal. Nothing’s changed, except that your presence of being has been reaffirmed. You realize that things “are” for a reason. You don’t know what that reason is, but can feel the gravity of it’s presence. It’s a recentering or sorts.

Trying to grab on to some sort of visual is pointless. Perhaps there is a reason why these things are difficult to articulate. Maybe we’re not meant to pin down in words what this does for the soul.

The gentle breeze. The setting sun. A mixtape in the making while lounging on the porch swing. Life resets itself at the most odd times.

PS - I write horribly. Run tell aunt bertha.

Welcome the newest member of the house. The little guy sure has moxy. His name is Daedalus and best of all, with this one I got to cut the cord. Literally. He’s wireless! He’s a bit hefty compared to the other kids his age, but with all the extra brains in his little head, it’s no wonder.

Thank goodness he sleeps well.

Today I’m just enjoying this site.