hoth chocolate.

This morning, as I was on my way to work, I noticed a discarded object in the middle of a street not far from my house. I stopped my car to inquire and was made utterly, utterly speechless by what I beheld:



You guessed it—a Star Wars-themed cookbook. It was just laying face down in the asphalt, all lonely-like. You can bet that there is some little poindexter out there somewhere, heartbroken to have misplaced it, demoralized at the prospect of having to eat boring old earth food for dinner tonight. The pictures and recipes are downright hilarious. Observe:















This next one is my favorite:



I think this proves that something can simultaneously be both pathetic and amazing.

dinner table conversation.

As I've mentioned before, Angela and I are of a dying breed—the young, somewhat newly married, and still childless couple. Almost all the other couples our age are up to their elbows in babies and baby paraphernalia (toys, puke, rotting diapers, etc.). There seems to be a social partition between pre-parents (us) and parents (pretty much everyone else). We work, do homework, come and go as we please, speak in adult voices, sleep through the night and so forth. They, on the other hand, use the word “onesie” at least a dozen times daily. Instead of discussing crocodile wrestling or introducing the concept of hugs as currency, their blogs are meaningful, doubling as scrapbooks, serving to document Olivia’s first steps or Jack’s hilarious crayon tirade.

I’ve noticed that many of these other couples don’t really like to talk about the things Angela and I talk about. Music? Not really. Good design? Nope. Books? There’s hardly time for a good night’s sleep, much less pleasure reading. But one thing’s for sure—they love to talk about their kids. And when discussing their kids, it seems that any subject is deemed appropriate. For instance, the other night at a dinner we attended one mother explained to the rest of those present, “Oh, little Cannon is doing so good at going on the potty. Yesterday I walked by the bathroom and caught him staring into the bowl of his mini-toilet. I asked him “Did you poopy?” and he shook his head yes and held out his hand for a candy reward.” Everyone laughed. “Oh that Cannon…” The story is plenty cute and all. I just think it poses an awful double standard; at the dinner table a mother can discuss the disgusting details of her son’s bowel movement, but not a full five minutes later I ask one hypothetical question about whether or not you would go to the bathroom through your nose for the rest of your life for ten million dollars and everyone looks at me like I’m some sort of sicko.

M & M's.

So I guess everyone is probably aware that the M&M’s have been dubbed “the milk chocolate that melts in your mouth, not in your hand.” I’ll admit that that is one catchy slogan. It really rolls off the tongue—almost with the sort of mellifluence typical of a Shakespearean couplet. But I guess it’s the logistical implications of the slogan that bother me. For me personally, chocolate melting in the palm of my hand hasn’t been a huge problem. In fact, I can’t remember the last time that happened. Typically, if I have chocolate in my hand, it’s only there as a sort of pit stop between candy jar and mouth. If you’re holding chocolate in your hand long enough that it starts melting, I really think that that is a you problem. Maybe you just really like holding things without ever using them for their intended purpose. If that was the case, then certainly I could see the M&M’s slogan really resonating with you. You could hold those tasty treats all day and not worry yourself one bit. But then again, if you’re just into holding things why not try a stapler or a paper clip? Those objects aren’t equipped with an intrinsic proclivity to melting in the first place. You could hold and cling and heft them to your heart’s fullest desire and not for one second teeter on the perilous precipice of melt-ation.

But what’s worse is that until I heard M&M’s slogan about their candies not melting in your hand, I didn’t even think of melting as a fate for which my candy might be at risk. The existence of the slogan causes me to assume that all other candies absolutely will melt in the palm of my hand—for they don’t have a slogan to assure me otherwise. Therefore, my plan is to launch a product that is exceptionally similar to M&M’s—small, beadlike, colorful shell-covered chocolates—except my slogan will be “the milk chocolate that melts in your mouth, but doesn’t explode in the palm of your hand, maiming you for life.”

soap-on-a-rope.

a brief note to reality television

Reality television, you are the bane of my existence. If it wasn’t for you, Family Guy and the various incarnations of Law and Order would utterly rule the universe of television programming, never absent, not for a single second. But no, you, reality television, with your empty promises of momentary fame and brief cases overflowing with prize money lure otherwise decent people into shoving as many maggots into their mouth in thirty seconds as possible.

Craftily, you’ve convinced us that no top models, national idols, dog groomers, chefs, or survivors can be crowned without heaps of melodrama, annoyingly prolonged pauses and text-in poles. Whatever happened to the job interview? What of the days when a person could attain a desired position or job on the grounds of experience, talent, and a fake list of references? “Hey Josh, would you do me a solid and forge my old boss’s signature? And can I put your cell phone as his office number?” That’s America. Not all this hubbub about who’s got talent and who’s the top whatever. I’m downright tired of it all. It almost makes me wish for the return of the late 90s quiz show era when Regis Philbin and his fluorescent-lit, futuristic-looking set ruled the primetime airways.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, whether or not my vote really means anything, reality television, I vote you off the island.

self-concept.

I learned a long time ago that it’s a bad idea to compare yourself to other people. It’s a lose-lose situation. By so doing, you anchor your self-concept to a moving, relative target, thereby setting yourself up for surefire dissatisfaction. That’s why many moons ago I decided to never compare myself to other people. So maybe Johnny rolls on twenties. Good for him. Oh what’s that? By the time Doug was my age he’d already started a successful grout company and fathered three beautiful children. Well great! It’d be pointless for me to compare myself against Johnny’s inefficiently dimensioned wheels or Doug’s grout biz. It does no good for me or them.

So I don’t compare myself to other people. Instead, I’ve found that it’s much more effective to compare myself to other animals. My house is way bigger than any bird’s nest, beehive, or beaver’s dam. And my party etiquette and small talk, no matter how uncomfortably awkward or crassly inappropriate, is leagues ahead of the sort of bum sniffing that so many dogs engage in upon encountering a new acquaintance. And if I’m feeling a little less than confident about my physical appearance, by all means, I’ll just do a Google search for that species of monkey with the big, disgustingly red butt and suddenly I feel like a regular Tom Cruise.

Really, comparing yourself to animals is perhaps the best approach to developing a strong self concept. How else will one be made to feel superior simply by going to the bathroom in a toilet instead of leaving refuse scattered randomly around the house? It’s a great system.

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