Manly Man Movies

So the other day, I'm walking out of the movie theater with a friend, having just seen the Dark Knight Rises. We're talking about our opinions of it and mine was essentially: "Great direction, great acting, great effects, but............ it's a guy movie."

I've used this phrase "guy movie" quite a lot recently because I've reached a point where I recognize what I'm looking for in a movie. In the case of a movie like Dark Knight, I can completely appreciate all the hard work and talent that went into making such a beast of a film. I can barely make a slideshow in iMovie; I get the blockbuster appeal. But I just don't love it. I don't feel the need to ever watch it again.

This is a sweeping generalization, of course. I don't mean to scoff at and disregard all guy movies. And though it may sound like I'm confirming gender stereotypes, I actually don't need bubble gum fairies and rainbow unicorns in a meadow of baby's breath to enjoy a film. I don't cover my ears during streams of foul language or shield my eyes when someone pulls a gun. And no, I don't own the Full House series collection (though, to be honest, I'd love to).

The quintessential "guy movie" I'm referring to usually has three or more of the following:

• incessant, unnecessary violence
• lots of blood, weapons, casualties, explosions and gunfire
• car chases just because
• ubiquitous drug use
• robots and superhuman villains
• curse words every other sentence

Again, I don't have iCarly and My Little Pony episodes saved in my DVR. A lot of my favorite movies do have at least one of the above. The difference is that I believe mine have substance. If it has a deeper layer or something legitimate to offer me as a viewer, I can make peace with some of the dumber aspects. If a movie has a dumb car chase but I laugh so hard I pee, I can probably deal. Maybe half the cast gets shot, but it keeps me on the edge of my seat guessing. Fine. I just need a film to have something more than sensationalistic, surface-level, 3-D blockbuster stuff. Some character development.... a believable love story .... a well-developed story arc.... anything!

Exhibit A:  Transformers

To be fair, never saw it. But I'd bet my life savings this movie's offering a healthy serving of weapons, giant robots, and lots of running. Presumably from said robots with weapons.

Exhibit B:  300                                        

Again. Never saw it. Don't need to. Manly men with muscly armor killing each other. I'll pass.

Exhibit C:  Fast and the Furious             

Boys and their cars. Ugh. I've given up in my attempts to understand the male obsession with anything motorized. I guess I'll just sit back and count the 11 dollars I saved from not seeing this one.

Exhibit D:  Pineapple Express           

From what I can tell, the theme centers on two guys trying to score pot, then smoking the pot, and then looking for more pot. Someone alert the Academy.

 

Exhibit E: Saving Private Ryan             

This is a war movie, I know, so of course there's violence. But I'm not ever going to see this movie. I'm not interested in a long slideshow of people dying. Sure hope someone saved that Ryan guy.

The Perils of Shopping

I almost didn't write this post. I figured I had already expressed my dislike for shopping enough. But after a recent trip to the mall, I felt another Ode to the Salesperson was in order. If I were going to rank my grievances, somehow "trying on endless piles of clothes" and "dealing with crowds of coupon-wielding soccer moms" still fall short to "an overemployed overzealous staff". These garment-pushers drain my patience more quickly than anyone I've ever encountered.

I'll start at the very beginning. ("A very good place to start"). On this particular day, I was on the hunt for some new shorts. After twenty minutes of searching the racks, I had managed to filter out a few candidates from the masses of ripped, acid-washed, butt-peeking variety. Any hope that I would actually leave with a pair of somewhat-dignified, properly-fitted shorts was squandered when I reached the dressing rooms and found an empty counter and a sign: "DRESSING ROOMS CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE". I see. So I'm supposed to just hold up each garment and visualize myself in it? Perfect. I left my jean orphans on a rack of bikini tops and got out of there. But not before stopping in the grocery section and picking up a pint of greek yogurt. I figured if my search for shorts had failed, the least I could do was bring home some protein.

Five minutes later, I had my yogurt buckled in on the passenger side and we were on our way home. (Kidding.) On a whim, I decided to swing a left and stop by the mall for a last-ditch attempt at some summer duds. This made me nervous because I didn't want my newly-purchased yogurt to spoil in the 95-degree car. The plan I formed was to run in a side exit, quickly scope out a few of the nearest stores, then hightail it out of there.

 What could go wrong?

I set my shorts radar on high and proceeded at a break-neck pace through three or four clothing stores. I looked like one of those grannies with one-pound hand weights power walking past your house at dawn. I would stride in, down some aisles, and back out of the store without stopping. All I could think was "Yogurt. I've got yogurt. There's yogurt." Nothing on the racks was catching my eye, so I didn't even need to slow down. This version of Speed Window Shopping was actually saving me from dealing with the aforementioned  bane of my existence  saleswomen. By the time they took a breath to start their spiel, I was just a memory.

My streak of good luck ended when I reached American Eagle. From thirty feet away, I could see the staff members pacing just inside the window. Sharks waiting for fresh meat. That was almost enough to send me running for the hills. Or, more accurately, my rapidly-warming yogurt. I could practically feel its expiration date moving closer and closer to yesterday.

 But my desire for new shorts superceded my desire to be left alone. So I took a breath and stepped through the threshold. I literally counted "3....2....1...." in my head. Before I hit 2, the blondie closest to me has swarmed in and stopped me cold in my tracks.

"Hey! Just so you know, we're having a big sale on our summer line. All the shorts are buy-one-get-one-half-off. And the tank tops over there are up to 40% off."

Okay, let's call you Stephanie. First of all, Steph, I didn't hear most of the words you just said. I haven't got much time. All I heard was "yogurtyogurtyogurt  summer line  yogurtyogurt  40% off." Secondly, the fact that your  pointless drivel  sales pitch - for once - was entirely relevant to my shopping needs and I still resent you is a testament to how much I want to be left alone right now. Lastly, are you having a big sale on your summer line? It's 90 degrees outside. I was hoping to find some deals on parkas.

I politely smiled, thanked her, and moved forward on my quest for shorts. I thought of the pint of dairy riding shotgun and quickened the pace. I rifled through their selection, picking five or six different sizes of five or six different styles. Who the hell knows? I had now enjoyed two whole minutes of blissful me time, but now here comes Steve. (That was probably his name.)

"Hey there! Can I help you find a size? Do you need any help with anything?"

In an attempt to banish him away, I chose the ever-popular response: "No, thanks. Just lookin'." What would make you think I needed help with sizes? I'm only trying on one of every item in stock. Now shoo.

Now, unfortunately, American Eagle is one of the many stores that employs Keepers of the Dressing Room to guard what I can only assume are stalls filled with diamonds and bars of gold. I figured I'd ask Stephanie for a key since we were already BFFs. Unfortunately, my beeline to Steph was cut off by Employee #3. We'll call him Arthur.

"Hey! Just wanted to let you know that shorts are buy-one-get-one-half-off and all these tank tops here are like 30 and 40% off. We're having a huge sale on our-"

Summer line, I know. Thanks, Artie. I'm on board.

"Just let me know if you need any help or a different size," Steph told me as she permitted me temporary access to one of her coveted dressing rooms, "And don't forget! The shorts are buy-one-get-one-half-off!"

Shut up! They ARE?!

Cut to me ten minutes later, bringing 53 pairs of shorts back to the rack. The 54th pair I tried on actually fit (praise Allah) so now I really need to get out of this place. As I'm shoving all these hangers back on random racks, a blonde figure materializes in my peripheral vision. STEPHANIE!

"How did we make out? Did we do alright in there?"

We? Were you in there with me? Cause if "me" really was a "we", you already be in the know. For the love of God, go FOLD SOMETHING.

I practically ran to the checkout counter. I passed Steve on the way, who asked if I was finding everything I was looking for. (No, I was looking to be left alone.) Arthur checked me out and offered me a store credit card. (No. I'll never come back again.) Then Steffy - I swear to God - reminded me about the buy-one-get-one-half-off sale one more time. (I know I only got one pair of shorts, but I don't have time to find its companion. Damn you, woman. Think of the YOGURT.)

Predictions for the Future

I have this obsession - okay, "recurring thought" would be more accurate - about time travel. Usually it's just me wishing I could go back in time to various decades or specific points in history. That said - I would never want to travel to the future. I think the unknown, while frustrating sometimes, is what makes life interesting. Plus, I think my mind would be too blown if I had an opportunity to see what's comin'. It'd be like opening all the Christmas presents early. And the presents are a jetpack hovercraft and a hologram image of an elderly Lady Gaga.

But just because I would never want to be let in on the secrets of the future doesn't mean I can't make a few innocent hypotheses. Some of these are just for fun; most are probably pretty accurate. Which are which? Your call.

1) Last names will overtake first names. Our children’s classmates will sound like characters from The Great Gatsby. Names like Templeton Jefferson and Williams Johnson will be all the rage until eventually, that trend will run its course and we'll come back full circle. That's when Jennifer and John finally make their grand reappearance.

2) Texting will make phone calls nearly obsolete. 911 dispatchers will be the only ones with any need to physically speak words over telephone lines. Communication in general will break down. In person, everyone will have completely forgotten or never developed the ability to express themselves. The average research paper in college will look like the lyrics of a Ke$ha single, expertly annotated with emoticons.

3) Everything will get smaller, with the exception of cell phones. iPods and ear buds will be one in the same. Computers will be the width of a sheet of paper. But cell phones will have to compete with the high demand for HD media and internet, so they’ll probably evolve back into bricks a la Zack Morris.

4) The percentage of the population between fitness fanatics and lazy obese people will dwindle to almost nothing. Either you’ve got a gym membership or you’re on a first-name basis with your local McDonald’s drive thru personnel. (Hopefully health makes a comeback but who are we kidding? To our international neighbors, U.S. will probably be synonymous with deep fried Oreos.)

5) Kids will read about civil injustice in History class. They'll start with slavery, breeze through suffrage, and land nicely on legal rights for gay couples. And the kids will say “Really? People couldn’t just marry whomever they loved? That’s silly.”

6) The first campaign for Queen of America will be under way. Oprah Winfrey will win in a landslide victory.

7) Movies will be shown in 9 dimensions. Tickets will have risen slowly and steadily to $25 a ticket. Popcorn will be a week's worth of wages and a month's worth of calories. A small soda will have tripled in price and quadrupled in size. We will still be happily buying these products with no contention.

8) There will be some new invention on the market, making DVDs and Blu-Rays defunct. I will continue my stubborn refusal to restart my movie collection.

9) Gas prices will be so astronomically high that cars will become a status symbol, only affordable for the richest members of society's upper echelon. And by that, I mean Jonathan Papelbon, still living like royalty off his 2012 closer deal with the Philadelphia Phillies. The rest of us will be subjected to public transportation or our own legs while scientists continue to ignore the long-standing existence of cheaper, locally-based, environmentally-friendly fuel sources.

10) Dubstep electronic dance music will invade the music world entirely. Billboard's Top 100 will consist simply of a series of beeps, bass thumping, and cowbells.

11) Bookstores will go the way of video stores. I sincerely hope this one never comes true.

Off Balance

Okay, time to talk about something that's been bothering me.

I could talk for days about turn signals, but that's petty. So instead I'll focus on a legitimate issue that always finds its way back to the forefront of my mind: the imbalance of money and resources in the world. The middle class is shrinking, and the polarity of Richie Riches and Homeless Joes is growing larger and more distant. How can someone own six mansions in one part of the world and somewhere else, a person can't afford shoes or clean water? It's mind boggling to me.

The thing is... if Jim and Tim were both getting enough resources to live comfortably but Jim just had slightly more, that would be fine. You'd wish equality among everyone, but understand that variability is inevitable. But in today's world, the Jims of the world are getting excessive, inordinate, unjustified amounts of money. And the Tims are living in abject poverty or dying needlessly of malnutrition.

Here's my gross generalization of the day: People who work more tend to get paid less. I have to clarify that this is not the case in all careers or lifestyles, but it is a trend that's becoming glaringly apparent to me. Por ejemplo:

Jonathan Papelbon

I've become a huge Phillies fan over the last few years, and I've always been a fan of Philly sports in general. So when we first recruited Jonathan Papelbon as our new star closer, I was eager as ever to accept a new player to our team. Then I heard how much he's getting paid and - hard as I try - I can't get on board with this. The man got a FIFTY MILLION DOLLAR deal for four years as our CLOSER. Now you can riddle me with all the baseball psychology you want, but as far as I'm concerned, a good pitcher should be able to pitch any time he's needed. This whole concept is BS. Bringing a guy in to pitch every once in a while for ten minutes? Then letting him hang out in the dugout the rest of the time on a bench made of dollar bills as the ballgirl fetches him his solid gold jacket? Screw that. You play BASEBALL for a living. SOMETIMES. Only when it's the bottom of the ninth and you haven't played for a while and we have to hang on to a win and your arm's feeling okay. Ugh....no.

Jerry Seinfeld

There are few bigger Seinfeld fans than me. If you don't count the legions of fans that attend conventions and name their children Elaine and Kramer. And unlike Jonny Paps, I do recognize the great deal of hard work and dedication Jerry Seinfeld put into creating, producing, writing and starring in this awesome TV show. However, his net worth is still a prime example of how RICH these people actually are. Between stand-up comedy, nine years of churning out a #1 sitcom, and the royalties from another decade of syndicated episodes, the man is worth $800 million. Eight HUNDRED...... MILLION dollars. He owns a garage full of Porsches and mansions out the wazoo. Just to put his wealth in perspective: He was offered $110 million to make one last season of Seinfeld and turned it down. "No, thanks. I'm good."
Julia Roberts

She's just one example of an army of high-earning actors and actresses making their way through Hollywood right now. Yes, she's one of "America's Sweethearts". Yes, she's pretty and good at pretending to be someone different in front of cameras. But let's, again, put all this in perspective. Imagine for a moment that someone filmed you sitting in a chair reciting some lines. Then they went and edited these together to make a six-minute clip. Then they handed you $3 million and sent you on your way. That genuinely happened to Julia Roberts. She was in a chick flick for six minutes of total screen time, which involved a couple of casual conversations to a stranger on an airplane, and was awarded for her "genius" with a $3 million dollar check. Geez, I wish I was paid $500,000 a minute.

David Beckham

I can almost justify this man's net worth based on his looks alone. The man is beautiful, this much we know. However, he's famous for being able to play football  soccer really well. That's excellent. Kudos on your powerful feet. However, I can not get past the idea that you are worth $210 million essentially for your flawless genes, athleticism and ability to look pretty while holding a razor or Burger King's smoothie. Oh, the humanity. 



Jersey Shore cast

If you've been sitting there arguing with me, playing Devil's Advocate and supporting the "hard working" people of the entertainment industry, your time is up. There is officially no more to debate. While the good people of America are struggling through these hard economic times in the attempt to find a respectable way to make use of their collegiate degrees and experience, there is a gang of guidos beatin' up the beat and blowin' up grenades in Seaside Heights. The cast of Jersey Shore got famous for doing nothing but being combative alcoholics with excess hair gel, fake body parts and borderline melanoma. And YET... the majority of these idiots are making $150,000 an episode. WHAT?!

Meanwhile, people are deprived of basic human needs like money, clean water, food, shelter and medicine. That's the worst of it, but even when you consider the imbalance within the same economic class, it's silly. Teachers work really hard every day and get paid $40,000 a year maybe. Snooki trips and falls off the boardwalk and makes a third of that. See what I'm sayin?

Orient Yourselves

When I was a junior in college, I decided to interview to be a part of the summer orientation program for the incoming freshmen. That might have been the single greatest decision I've ever made in my life. I'm known for citing those two years as the peak of my happiness because it's hard to imagine my life will ever be in such a carefree, excessively joyful place again.

The program was mandatory (much to the chagrin of high school graduates everywhere), so every incoming freshman had to sign up to attend one of nine 2-day cycles. Twenty college students were hired as "facilitators", paired up into ten guy-girl partnerships. So for each cycle, the freshmen were designated to one of our ten groups (with roughly 20 per group). The experience was much different depending on who you were. If you were an apprehensive 18-year-old newbie, those two days were the epitome of overwhelming.

As facilitators, however, we were livin' the dream. We were showered with monogrammed merchandise, free food and housing, and endless laughter to boot. Oh, and almost $3000. Ballin'.


20 Tiggers Meet 200 Eeyores

Part of our job description was to be excessively -  borderline annoyingly - excited at all times. Despite getting little to no sleep, we were expected to be Energizer Bunnies. Which generally wasn't a problem because energy stems from happiness and as I've already described, I was elated to be there.

However, this level of enthusiasm could sometimes cause some friction. Particularly when sleepy-eyed, confused teenagers arrived on campus and a crowd of college students were there to  overstimulate  welcome them with boundless energy akin to the Sham-Wow guy.

One time, I was beckoning some newcomers over to the check-in table with quasi-cheerleader moves and an iPod blasting "Come On Over" by Christina Augilera. One of the bewildered guys comes sauntering up to us, looks us right in the eye and goes, "It is too early for YOU." Point taken, my friend. Duly noted.

Let's Play!

There were plenty of sessions these kids were required to attend, but to keep them entertained, build group morale, and create opportunities for new friendships, we'd play games with them. Almost immediately on Day 1, we'd have 'em under a tree on a quad somewhere playing the Name Game. Ever went to summer camp or been forced to introduce yourself in a campy way to a new group of people? You're probably familiar with this icebreaker.

Essentially, you circle up and each person creates a creative little ditty about their name (adjective + name + verb). Mine was always "Jumping Jill" and I'd jump. Super lame, I know. I super did not care. So you'd have to declare your silly name and action, then repeat all of those before you. Naturally, I went first so as to avoid an embarrassing attempt at recalling others' names and, two years in a row, forced my partner to go last.

Despite putting them on the spot, games like this went over well with most of the Fresh Tots (one of the nicer nicknames we dubbed the kids). Mainly because they were too new and nervous to question anything. Your average Freshie would giggle nervously, make a vague chopping motion with one hand, and murmur, "I'm.... Karate Kelly....hee hee." Precious. Then there were people like "Klepto Katie" who pretended to pocket something. (My turn to laugh nervously.) And "Psycho Sam" which forced us to jot down the Counseling Services and Public Safety speed dials just in case.

Then there was the campus favorite: Huggy Bear. At first glance, this was a silly, harmless game of competitive hugging. An hour later, there'd be a broken ankle and some seriously hurt feelings. To briefly explain, any number of people could play. One person was the caller. He/she would yell out a number and everyone had to quickly create a group hug involving that number of people. If you were left out or couldn't find a group fast enough, you were out. Still doesn't sound too intense? Here's the breakdown of a typical round of Huggy Bear:


Caller: FIVE!
(Five people quickly come together in a group hug. A new best friendship has immediately formed as they laugh victoriously and celebrate their advancement to the next round.)
Caller: SEVEN!
(The five new besties need two more to join their LoveFest or they're all out. They are stressed for a few seconds, but two floaters appear out like mirages of the fog and cling onto the five-some with a collective sigh of relief. They've all survived another round! This near-death experience has solidified them as seven BFFs. Unbreakable. Together 'til the end!)
Caller: SIX!
("Sorry, Lauren." This once-inseparable group has taken all of one second to determine their weakest link and kick her off the island. Lauren's out. They have to accept their new destiny as a group of six moving forward.)
Caller: TWO!
(Aaaaand that's how the cookie crumbles. "What the !*$%, MATT?!" "I thought we were in this TOGETHER, STEPHANIE!" "Go HUG yourself, Patty!")

Rule Breakers

Somewhere amongst the morning icebreakers, we had to read our kids The Rules. As you might imagine, a group of recent high school graduates do not enjoy being sat down like first graders and warned against misbehaving. I get that. Except at this stage of the game, the rules were less like "Don't run with scissors" and more along the lines of "If you brought a flask, hide it."

And if these rules weren't broken at least once every cycle, they could absolutely be rendered unnecessary. But as it is, some of these kids hadn't gotten the memo that they were no longer the Big Man on Campus. They had reached the bottom of a new pecking order and didn't always adjust very well.

For starters, lots of kids complained about walking from place to place. On a college campus. As if we had purposely made lots of new buildings and scattered them around like Lego pieces to get these kids' heart rates up. Get used to the cardio, chillins. Then there were the delinquents. These were the ones who would skip all the sessions, wander around, then come back with a Slurpie and expect a warm welcome. We dropped your fall schedule. Naturally. (One kid in my group actually went AWOL and forced my partner and I to make a quick escape to a hidden parking lot via Batmobile. Okay, '03 Volvo.) The worst offenders reeked up their hallways with pot smoke and/or booze and angry parents had to come drag them out by the scruff of their necks. Should've hid the flask, dude.

Monotony at Its Finest

Most of the time, we facilitators were having the time of our lives. But that didn't mean the daily grind didn't eventually drive us crazy. Each of the nine cycles were identical, and we had as many as three back-to-back. Tedious is an understatement.

Most notably were the Academic Sessions. The kids ("Don't call us kids!") were broken up by major. Having never had to focus academically on anything, they were a bit lost. So we were forced to sit and watch the same professors - born around the Jurassic period - ramble through the same two-hour spiel at a glacial pace. This usually included a riveting PowerPoint, lots of awesome notes and plenty of spell-binding academic guidance. No, I'm kidding.... it was awful. The only benefit to enduring these mind-numbing sessions was the time it provided to master our impressions. We'd watch the professors so we could imitate them later to the rest of the staff. Most famous were Mr. Limited Vocab, who found ways to insert the self-assuring term "Right?" into every sentence he spoke, and Dr. Crescendo, who had no control over the volume of her voice. "Youuuu MUST withdraw from a class BY the coRECT date or yOU will recieve A DOUBLE-u on your tranSCRipt."

Nothing tested our patience more than these academic torture chambers, but I'd have to give a close second to the incessant questions. The freshmen were like a firing squad, taking turns pelting us with their latest inquiries. Now I'm completely genuine when I say I loved being there to help them. I used to be a confused and curious freshmen too, so I went out of my way a lot of the time to help them feel at ease. However, I'm only human. I can only handle the same question a few hundred times before I have to take a breath and count to 10. Especially if the question was ridiculously stupid to begin with. 

"Excuse me, can you tell me where the Student Union is?" We're currently standing in it. Imagine the self-control necessary to swallow a sarcastic answer and patiently find them a map of the building. As much as I enjoy being a mentor, it would have been equally satisfying to say, "Sure, absolutely. Just take three steps to the left, then double back to where you were standing and it'll be right there. Can't miss it."

Some Things Are Just For Us

We really were there to be supportive mentors to the incoming freshmen. Honest. But when you're given full reign over a college campus with your best friends, there are going to be times when inside jokes and staff perks trump other less-awesome responsibilities. Meals were a time to unwind and relay funny stories. So we often passed on the opportunity to sit amongst the Freshlings so we could all eat together at conjoined tables that stretched the length of the room. Wearing exactly the same outfit day in and day out (polo, khakis, monogrammed backpack) created one giant maroon monster. We couldn't help it; the camaraderie was awesome. And it continued right into the evening. On the first night of every cycle, the basement of the dorm hall was transformed into a "dance club". In other words, the lights were turned off, the same six songs were blasted from someone's laptop, and everyone lost ten pounds. I say that because the cumulative heat of 100 gyrating teenagers pre-shower was enough to make that room a sauna. As well as "an incubus of viral plague". (If you're counting, that's two Miranda Priestly quotes in one post. And what an absurdly long post it was, too. Congratulations if you made it all the way through. You deserve a medal.)

I Don't Understand What You Just Said

Everyone has the right to be who they are. Differences make life interesting. It takes all kinds to make the world go 'round. So on and so forth.

We've all heard 'em. And they're true, of course. To each his own! But personally, these little kitschy fortune cookie pearls of wisdom don't always cut it. Sometimes, I still find it difficult to see things from other perspectives. I just straight up do not understand where they're coming from.

"I've been rollin' on dubs in my 2013 Lexus GT 5000 X... gettin' new rims right after I get it back from the shop. I'm gettin' new interiors and that V-8 engine souped up."

I'm sorry?! Now, first of all, my lack of understanding about cars stems from a complete lack of interest. Couldn't care less. So the above statement is probably 85-90% nonsense.... I just want you to know that I know. With that said, I don't know where the rom-com cliches all came from. Usually something involving the girl-next-door being stood up on prom night and crying into the tulle of her dress. Then the sexy first-string quarterback drives up in some kind of two-door hot rod and breaks the social mold by sweeping Plain Jane off her feet and to the prom as his date. Okay, so that wasn't a cliche so much as something I made up just now. But it is a cliche that guys are somehow more attractive if they own some shiny sports convertible. And if cliches are born from truth, then it must just be me that's out of the loop. I'm so unimpressed by it all. I wouldn't think twice about getting into your '97 Honda Civic and helping you smack the dashboard a few times to get the radio working.

"Pick me up four more packs of Marlboros."

I know that smoking is a physiological addiction. I've known this since middle school when they played a VHS tape about a guy with a robot voice-box and one lung. But I just don't understand it. Habits are hard to break and I, like everyone else, have experienced a few stubborn ones. But if someone came up to me years ago and went, "Honey, don't suck your thumb. It'll give you cancer"? Well, shit. Consider me cured. Cold turkey. And I know a habit like that isn't the same kind of addiction, but what's so yummy about sucking black tar into your chest out of a flaming carcinogenic stick?

“Can’t decide who’s got a better sound: Nine Inch Nails or Korn.” 

I can help you out, brotha; the answer is neither. I'm a fan of most types of music. I always feel like a good song is a good song, with the exception of two genres. I've been swayed by the likes of Carrie Underwood and Taylor Swift to get on board with the Top 40 country pop, but no thank you to the hardcore Nashville tractor-lovin' rocking-chairs-on-the-porch anthems. Not a fan. More significantly, though - and here's where Korn with a "K" comes in -  the genre that's been crossed off my list forever is anything loud and abrasive enough to make one's head bang and ears bleed. I don't know why anyone even bothers defending it because it's not even music. No melody, no vocal talent.... just black eyeliner, dreads, screaming, and mosh pit concussions.

"Poor guy, he's six over par."

This is not to say that I don't understand the rules of golf. The basics of the game are pretty straightforward if you ignore the lingo and/or pick up a club at random with no regard for the distance or difficulty of your next shot. Golf has gotten more popular over the last several years and while I myself don't have a Tiger Woods bumper sticker on my car (I would've removed that by now anyway), I respect that others love it. I can get behind the idea of a relaxing Sunday afternoon on the green with your buddies, but on TELEVISION?! I draw the line. The whispering announcer, the hushed crowd, the argyle sweater vests and polos.... come on. Miss Congeniality in on TBS again. There's a rerun of Family Matters on Nick at Nite. Anything is less sleep-inducing than this.

“Johnny Depp is hot."
 
I don't get it. There's Ryan Gosling, Zac Efron, David Beckham, Channing Tatum...... and then there's this guy. I think he's a great actor and I'm sure a stand-up guy, but he's not my cup of tea. If he kept his hair cut and his face clean-shaven and his Crocodile Dundee hats in the attic and his bracelets in a jewelry box somewhere, then absolutely. But I think it's really saying something if I think he's most attractive when playing a sarcastic, swash-buckling pirate. Speaking of which, what's a swash and how does one buckle it?

“You know what would look so cute with this top? Spandex.”  

 I don't know when it became okay to wear sheer tights as pants, but I can't wait for that trend to see its way out. The whole point of tights to begin with was to wear them under dresses to be more demure and lady-like. Then some community of people - probably one that frequents Wal Mart - thought they'd save themselves the trouble and ditch the bottoms altogether. Here's my Day-of-the-Week underwear! Yay, it's Saturday!

“You suck. Bieber sucks. Everyone sucks but me.” 

Ever since teenagers got a hold of the Internet, the world has been completely swallowed up by rampant negativity. Doesn't matter what I'm looking at. It can be a YouTube clip of Elmo tap dancing, and I can rest assured, when I stroll down there will be 250-300 comments to the tune of "You call that dancing? F*** you, muppet. Oh and I hate gays." Just the most ridiculous, irrelevant, ignorant comments being spewed out by insecure pre-teens hiding behind the anonymity of their computers. What did Elmo ever do to you?

"I have to find those blue pumps. They'd go so well with my blue bedazzled sweatpants, blue halter-top, blue sunglasses and blue lipstick."

I get confused when I see people out in public resembling Violet Bouregarde as a blueberry or a pawn from the game CandyLand. They must think that looks awesome. For me, monochromatic outfits are not the way to go. Like Stacy and Clinton say, "It doesn't have to match; it has to goooo." So all I'm saying is maybe spice up that look with a little pop of color and a neutral. Just an idea. Oh, and throw away the blue lipstick and anything bedazzled. 

Cookies, Cakes and Bread... Oh My!

My first job was in a bakery. But not a real bakery. More like the hub of a farmer's market. But not a real farmer's market.

It was this sketchy underground operation masquerading as a family-friendly food warehouse in the middle of white suburbia. There were all kinds of stands - meats, breads, cheeses, flowers, you name it. And while this place did produce delicious products, there was a whole other level of illegality going on. Firstly, and most mildly, every employee there was being paid under the table. The IRS must've turned a blind eye, but I wasn't complaining. Every Saturday, there'd be a wad of twenties taped to the fridge with my name on it. Secondly, there was absolutely drug trafficking going on. Some of the stand owners would take breaks throughout the day to go settle deals and smoke up in the basement. For the full effect, I want you to picture this basement. The place hadn't been cleaned ever. Not ever. It smelled of stale pee, leaky pipes, roaches, and new strains of bacteria that hadn't yet been studied. I was sure I'd contract smallpox just from exposing myself to that air.

But despite its obvious shadiness, it was the perfect place for my first job. (I even got used to coming home smelling like a foot. Apparently, that's what it smells like when every food in existence coalesces into one funky mix.) So now's the part where I describe the job and why they should never have hired us.

Part I: I Need My Baked Goods

This may have been a tiny "bakery" but it had every kind of confection you could want. Mature middle-aged adults suddenly went into a frenzy when our treats came into view. They would turn into Augustus Gloop scooping handfuls of chocolate from Wonka's river. Unable to stop themselves. They'd start at the cakes and pies, then hit up the candies and muffins, and finish out buying enough rolls and bread to feed Uganda for a month. This sounds harmless enough; who wouldn't want to share the joy of baked goods with these fine American consumers? Well, I wouldnt. Not after five hours of requests like these:

"Hello? Oh, hi. Yes. I would love to get sixteen of these rolls, twenty-five of these, twelve - no, thirteen of these, my husband loves these - and nine of those. Then I want three of these loaves sliced. And if you could slice them really thin, that would be great. And if you could triple bag each of those loaves? Thanks. Okay, then I want a pound and a half of the lemon squares and three pounds - no, four - of the chocolate pretzels. You know what? Make it five. Five pounds, yeah. My son Jimmy loves his pretzels. Oh, and when you box them, alternate dark chocolate with the milk chocolate. Ya' know... milk, dark, milk, dark, milk. Jimmy hates when they're all touching. When you're finished with that, I want that cookie, that cookie, that cookie, that cookie aaaaaaand...... that cookie. No, not that one... the sprinkles look weird. I wanted the one two cookies over. Yes. And then I want one of those cakes with the chocolate. Ya know the one I mean? With the chocolate? I'm gonna need you to cut that into ninths, then box it, bag it, box it again. Thanks... I'll meet you at the register."

Exhausted having read that? Well, I'm dumber having written it and angrier having lived it. I want to point out a few things here that made this one-sided conversation even  more infuriating  better. First of all, almost all of the items she requested were not by name. Instead, she'd make a vague pointing gesture in the direction of everything we sell. It was then up to me to tap into her thoughts and guess correctly. Secondly, I shouldn't be able to recite the branches of your family tree by the time I ring you out. The fact that your daughter is a Gemini and your husband is allergic to kiwi is irrelevant. Lastly, forget the petty details. I'm going to put the cake - chocolate, was it? - directly into a box with everything else you bought 'cause you just ordered for a half hour straight and the market's closing now.

Quickly, I learned how adamant people can be about their baked goods. But the woman I just described was nothing compared to the Saturday stampede. The market would close for the week every Saturday at 5:30, so in a sort-of last ditch effort of "everything must go", every item would go on sale. It became a source of impending doom for every employee on duty. We'd bite our nails as we watched the hands of the clock wind down. Then, like clockwork, 3:30 would arrive and a swarm of township residents with donuts for pupils would descend upon the market like locusts. People would stop by after a long stressful work week and take their frustration out on the high school kids with the muffins. If only we'd told them our products were fraudulent and frozen, that we didn't even own an oven, maybe they would've stayed home.

Part II: Worst Employees Ever

Besides the owner, the staff of the bakery consisted of almost exclusively high school students. I don't know what our boss expected of us at that age. We would generally only get through the first ten customers of the day before getting ornery and copping a stifled attitude with everyone that stopped by. We would be laughing with our co-workers, doodling with markers, and playing basketball with bread loaves. So of course we started to view customers as nuisances; how dare they interrupt our hang-out time to request a scone? Here it is... now go away.

 

And when we weren't leeching professionalism out of the place with our juvenile methods of customer service, we were leeching money out of the place. It's not like we would go into the register and steal twenties. But we were literally kids being given full reign of a candy store. We spent hours "testing the products to make well-rounded, accurate recommendations to customers". In other words, we would stuff our faces. For free. We'd eat a few rolls, a few muffins, a cookie, a donut, split a fruit tart, then slice up a baguette and pair it with turkey from the deli next door. Then we'd stick a few ones in the register and leave fatter and happier than when we arrived. Seriously.... probably shouldn't have hired us.

I also have to confess a certain lack of honesty with the customers. For example, one time, I was using the slicer to cut a loaf of bread for someone. Now, there's a rhythm and a sequence that's required to bag a sliced loaf perfectly and for whatever reason, this one just fell apart. So instead of letting the customer know that the gorgeous Five-Grain she was planning on serving at her dinner party now looks like I backed over it with my car, I dropped the evidence into a non-transparent bag, tied it up tight and sent her on her way. She did end up coming back to yell and lecture me on the importance of integrity, but I ended up just smothering my guilt with another creme donut and a pumpkin muffin.

Remember to Forget

Everyone knows a college degree is a good thing. It earns you thousands more per year. It brings you to a new level of esteem and respect. It helps your resume sparkle so a potential boss can fish it out from the pool of general applicants. (Which, in an economy like today's, usually includes everyone you've ever met and everyone each of them has ever met. Not great chances.) Lastly, and more importantly, a college degree boosts your overall intelligence and provides you with the interdisciplinary, well-rounded education every hard-working citizen deserves.

Or so they would have you believe.

A few days ago, I decided to do some spring cleaning. Having perfected the art of denial years ago, I easily turned a blind eye to the clothes covering every inch of my bedroom floor. I went instead for the desk drawers. For whatever reason, I'd held onto an astonishing amount of paperwork since graduating college. I figured now was as good a time as any to get rid of this junk.

Two hours later, I was cross-legged on my carpet, staring in disbelief at the piles of paper surrounding me. It wasn't the amount of papers that overwhelmed me; it was what was written on them.

Biology labs, Art History notes, World History study guides. At one point in the not-so-distant past, I had actually understood this information and excelled every time I was tested on it. Looking at them now, I could have sworn they were written in Portuguese. I might as well have just stumbled upon the Dead Sea Scrolls or a series of hieroglyphics. Think I'm exaggerating? Take a look at an actual question on one of my Geology exams from junior year:

Sure, absolutely. As I have so clearly articulated in my diagram here, the volcanic continental arc is in a constant state of conversion as the oceanic plate subducts down from atop the Benioff - No, wait. WHAT?! If my hand drew this, which it appears to have done, I must've been possessed. Or more likely, just doing exactly what college taught me to do.

In order to succeed as a college student, I had to accept the challenge of faking understanding long enough to get an A. I would show up to class, take immaculate notes, then go home and stuff the information into my brain by any means necessary. Rote memorization and repetition were familiar processes. Pneumonic devices were my best friends. Then once I had it, I'd hold it hold it hold it until test day when I could spit it all back out, releasing it forever.

I get it. All things considered, there really is no other way to teach to a lecture hall of 300 students. What are the professors gonna do? Take each kid out and present a tailored lesson to them over brunch at Panera Bread? No, they're gonna read off PowerPoints, flash transparencies, then give a few Scantron tests and a final exam so the students can pass the class and the teachers can cover their ass.

It's amazing what your brain can retain for a few days at a time. I once correctly labeled every country in the world. EVERY country.... in the WORLD. Now I'd be lucky if I could find North America on a globe.

And yet, those four years were far from a waste. I still have the pride of knowing I worked hard to achieve success. Even if I've lost 90% of what I learned, the A's on my transcript are proof that at one point in time I wasn't a complete idiot.

Recent Revelations

So I thought I'd share some thoughts that have made their way through my head recently. None of which are important, relevant to anything or .... let's face it, worth sharing with anyone. Excited yet? Great, here we go.

1.) Self check outs suck.  They really should have never been invented. In theory, once you get past the fact that jobs are being outsourced to machines, it's a pretty nifty idea. Let's say you only have a carton of eggs and a Kiwi-Strawberry Snapple. First off, should've gone with Peach. Secondly, it does make sense to just scan those suckers yourself and be on your way. Unfortunately, these computers have all been programmed with the temperament of Veruca Salt. 

If you don't swipe the item perfectly, it won't scan. If you swipe it too quickly, it scans twice. And heaven forbid you're buying produce. I could plant an apple tree in the time it takes to look up a Granny Smith on one of these things. One time, I scanned a potato as a pear and got a nasty side glance from the woman behind me. (Like this was some crime wave - kids masquerading one fruit as another and embezzling the ten-cent difference.) Then I scanned a cucumber and it charged me 9 bucks. So as I'm standing there contemplating how to get my money back, the computer starts yelling at me for not putting the $9 cucumber on the belt fast enough. On cue, the woman behind me starts clearing her throat, as if I was standing there peeling my fruit before deciding to pay. I'm trying, woman, but I'm fairly certain that the Greek yogurt I'm scanning has a higher IQ than this God-forsaken machine.

2.) When I say I like driving, I mean sometimes. Only when there is no traffic whatsoever and I can glide effortlessly to my destination in less than 40 minutes. Any more than 40 and I start yelling at the other cars for being in my way.

3.) If I had three wishes, after fixing world hunger and poverty, I would genuinely wish to never have to blow dry my hair ever again.

4.) Comfort trumps almost anything for me, with the exception of convenience. I'd rather carry seven shopping bags per arm and endure one painful, circulation-pinching trip into the house than take three or four easy breezy trips to and from the car.

5.) A handful of my favorite male singer/songwriters have recently found ways to make themselves as unattractive as possible. Jason Mraz started smoking even more weed, grew his hair out, and stopped washing it. Even worse is John Mayer! He took some time out of the spotlight to cook up a new kind of crazy. This year's model comes complete with jean jackets, suede boots, long ass ugly hair, and that DAMN hat. I've never seen a more ridiculous thing perched on top of anyone's head. Except maybe this.

6.) My favorite shoe in the whole world is the flip flop. According to people who care about feet, it beats high heels and Crocs for #1 on the list of "Don't Put These Things On Your Feet", but I'm a loyal fan. And once they've graced my feet for the first time in a season, that's it. If there's a freak blizzard in the middle of July, I refuse to go back to a closed-toe shoe.

7.) I may or may not be mildly allergic to cats. All I know is I can breathe quite a bit better ever since my cats died.


8.) Cake > Brownies. 
     Ice cream > Cake. 
     Ice cream cake > All three.

9.) They sprinkle crack cocaine in French Onion Sun Chips bags. This isn't a revelation as it is a strong suspicion. How else would such an addiction take hold after just one chip? Come to think of it.... peanut butter M&Ms might be part of this drug conspiracy, as well. 

10.)  Having not even the prospect of a wedding in sight, I still feel confident in saying I will be a thrifty ass bride when the day does come. To each her own, but I personally refuse to spend all the money I'll ever see in my lifetime in a matter of hours. For example, my dress? I will choose the prettiest ivory gown within arm's reach (with a nice low price tag) and call it a day.

Dating Roulette

The Internet has expanded our lives in countless ways. Most of them are undoubtedly positive: greater communication, larger & quicker access to information, so on and so forth. Then there's the world of dating. It only took a decade for "meeting up with a perfect stranger" to evolve from a death wish to a romantic outing.

Granted, things have definitely changed. Chat rooms and dating sites used to be reserved exclusively for creepers, stalkers, and anti-social hermits. Now people from all walks of life are giving the Internet a try in the hopes of finding that perfect someone. I've been dabbling in it for a year or so.... with minimal success.

The problem is that while more and more people are joining these networks, there are still a ridiculous number of crazies abound. I would equate it to taking a trip to a thrift store. You don't necessarily know what you're looking for.... or maybe you have an exact item in mind! Either way, you have to accept the fact that the perfect product will not be right there as you walk in, surrounded by a bejeweled glass case and perched atop a decorative throw pillow. No, that's not how this works. You're gonna elbow your way into a vaguely labeled aisle and search for hours through hundreds and hundreds of crappy, low-quality items. And you say "Why do I keep coming back here? There's so much junk to sift through." Well, my friend, because for every thirty grandma sweaters, you will always stumble upon one cute tank top or a eye-catching blazer. Intermittent positive reinforcement keeps you coming back.

The hilarious thing is how guys choose to portray themselves. I'll get random messages spanning the full spectrum of social ability and awareness of basic grammar. They generally range from long, drawn-out monologues professing their undying love to the ever-popular "hey what up". And of course, what I'm looking for is a nice balance of good looks and a Prince Charming personality. Unfortunately, in my experience, this is the conclusion I've reached:

Then there's their profiles. These guys only have a quick summary and a few pictures to represent who they are and attract the opposite gender. And the vast majority of the images they pick fall into one or more of these ridiculous categories:

Shirtless in the Mirror

We get it. We're all very impressed with your eight-pack and pelvic V. Are you really standing in front of your bathroom mirror, posing with your iPhone and shooting us your best Blue Steel look? If you need to overcompensate for a lackluster personality by flexing..... well, that sucks.

No Smile Whatsoever

Not even a hint of a smirk. Really? I'm looking for an easy-going guy to go gallivanting with me through a meadow and all that crap. I want a date, not an escaped convict. You might impress your bros with that tough guy look, but if you want to be wifed up anytime soon... say "cheese".

Covered in Girls

Of all the pictures ever taken of you, you chose to upload all the ones with a gaggle of girls. My immediate assumption is that you're either: a) a cocky player, b) still seeing someone and shopping around behind her back, or c) you have some sort of repellent quality that has kept all of the females you know in "the friend zone".

Picture of His Car

I want to make this perfectly clear. I don't care AT ALL about your car. I don't care even a little bit. No girl I know cares about any car. The more you obsess about it, the less I'm attracted to you. So if you're like most other guys, hanging a portrait of your re-upholstered baby over the mantle, at least keep it on the DL until we get a few dates under our belts and I'm obligated to accept your flaws.

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

I've been watching scary movies for years. Depending on the quality, each can be a very different experience. With most of the earlier films seemingly shot with your Dad's old camera and spliced together on iMovie, everything was too ridiculous to take seriously. My friends and I would laugh through the whole thing. The stupid plot, the middle school acting, the ketchup on the knife.... Might as well have been a comedy.

Then there were the good ones. My pulse would be jumping, blood pressure through the roof. Why do we do this to ourselves? I'm not sure. It's fun, but I can't articulate why. Especially when, by all accounts, I should still be in therapy after viewing Roald Dahl's The Witches as a kid. What possessed my parents to allow their 8-year-old to watch this horrifying freak show on VHS? I can only imagine what kind of illegal substances the MPAA executives were on when they gave this thing a PG rating. The conspiracy continues today with such whimsical summaries as: A young boy stumbles upon a witch convention and must stop them before it's too late. Thanks, IMDB, but you forgot to mention that part about the women pulling their faces off, turning children into mice and cooking them. PG my ass.

But, against all odds, I rose above that one. Definitely seen a few great horror classics since then, but none rival the experience of seeing Paranormal Activity for the first time in theaters. As a preface, I have to say I knew nothing about this little underground indie movie and had never seen anything like it, therefore assumed it was 100% real footage. So by the last scene, I had my knees curled up to my face, my white knuckles had an iron grip on my friend's sleeve, and I hadn't taken a breath in at least 60 seconds. When the movie ended, we sat for an extra five minutes just staring straight ahead and trembling. Now that's awesome.

For many movies, suspension of disbelief is necessary to really enjoy them. But I think this practice is only effective to a point. When a killer is breaking down the front door and the main character runs past the back door to escape upstairs, you can't help but call her an idiot and throw popcorn at her face. (Under the bed? Groundbreaking! He'll never find you there!) I can't watch one more group of friends decide to "split up and look around". And if you're a blonde teenager in a nightie and you just heard someone scream in the next room, by all means... go investigate and call out loudly to make your presence known. No, you're right... that probably was your quarterback boyfriend who made that noise. ("Bobby? Bobby, is that you?")

I'm not gonna' lie, though. After years of horror flicks, there is a degree of residual fear that follows me around in dark rooms and empty houses. I don't sleep with a night light and I don't leave all the TVs on when I'm home alone to simulate a busy household. But there are a handful of childhood fears that have stood the test of time and maturation. Most nights, I can dismiss them as irrational, but every once in a while they rear their ugly head:

Rules to Live By in Scary Situations

•  If you're home alone and you run upstairs, you'll be safe. If you hit the ground running, you will always be just out of arm’s reach if a scary guy is hiding and decides to strike just as you reach the staircase.

• If you’re covered entirely by a blanket from the neck down, nothing bad can happen to you. It makes an impenetrable force field.

• If your feet dangle off the end of the bed, that’s the cue for whatever is under your bed to grab your feet. Keep your feet safely atop the mattress if you want to avoid a confrontation with those little buggers.

•  If you get into your locked car, there is a definite possibility that there’s someone hiding in the backseat. Check.

• When possible, do not sleep with your back to the bedroom door. You're 10x more vulnerable to an attack. And if someone were to come in, they could easily kill you ... thanks to the extra 2 seconds it would take to roll over and defend yourself.

A Night On The Town

What a crazy night! Went shopping on Sunset, then grabbed some dinner with Jennifer Aniston at Madeo. The paparazzi were insane! We practically had to run them over just to get out onto the Boulevard. Then we went back to the Chateau Marmont to get ready and ended up bumping into Chelsea Handler and Jenny McCarthy. So we shared a taxi downtown to dance the night away at the Supper Club. I got eight phone numbers, eleven free drinks, and the girls and I have reservations at the V.I.P. lounge tomorrow night.

Ennnnd.... scene. In reality, last night, I ate chicken parm with friends and fell asleep under a dinosaur comforter watching Season Five of Grey's Anatomy. As you have maybe deduced by this series of events, I'm not exactly a party animal. You won't find me out on the town bar hopping 'til the sun comes up. I actually am a total night owl, but I'd rather eat midnight snacks and host a movie marathon than throw on heels and hit the clubs.

Of course, adventures have their place too. And getting out of the house sometimes is a must. But I have to say, any future I may have had as a club promoter ended on one particular night last year:

It was a dark and stormy night. Actually, the air was rather clear and warm, but I digress. I was attending a bachelorette party in Atlantic City. I had never been to this strange, mystical land of casinos and fancy hotels, and I had definitely never been to a real nightclub before. But at this point, I'm excited to be with my girls and totally up for a good time. So we all get ready in the hotel, cab it over to Caesar's and walk right over up to the club like we own the place.

I hand the girl at the door a $10 and she gives me a look. Now, a look like this would only have been inappropriate if I had just insulted her leopard print mini-dress or grabbed her boob without warning. So after we stand there together for a few more seconds, she switches from "bitchy" to "patronizingly sweet". She holds out a hand and goes, "So sorry, honey, the cover charge is actually $20." Of course it is. Anyone would find that to be an appropriate amount. Whatever. I hand over my life savings and we're in.

Right off the bat, I'm aware of two things: a pit of blackness has just swallowed me whole and loud techno beats are bouncing off the walls. I wouldn't describe myself as a grandma in many contexts, but this is one of them. I might as well be Bea Arthur walking in there thinking, "How do these kids do it?" Between the vibrating bass and the blaring speakers, my ears physically hurt. I am 100% sure I will never hear the same ever again.

The girls and I force our way through the crowd and onto the dance floor. We're trying to stay together, but it's like driving a caravan of ten cars through rush hour traffic. By the third traffic light, you've already lost half your group. Not to mention, with as many people as there were, each of us has roughly one square foot to ourselves. And even that space isn't sacred; anyone can invade it by walking right up and grinding against you.

So after about five minutes, my focus switches from dancing to self defense. I'm constantly swiveling, keeping creepers in my periph at all times. Most of these crazies are just roaming by themselves, on the prowl for girls drunk or easy enough to respond to their weird mating rituals.

So imagine my surprise when, after playing one-on-one defense with these weirdos for hours, a cute guy comes up and actually introduces himself. My initial reaction was to blink at him. I felt like I was living in the Stone Age surrounded by primitive cavemen and a 21st-century gentleman just appeared out of nowhere to compliment my bearskin dress. I was rendered speechless and completely awkward. He made several noble attempts at a conversation, but I just mumbled like a spaz until he gave up and left.

Before you judge my social ineptitude, let me paint this picture in more detail. Creatures of the night are attempting to creep up on me from behind. Synth-tastic bass-heavy remixes of Jay Z and J Lo are not only causing permanent hearing loss, but are making me vibrate like a bobblehead. The only things visible in the darkness are multi-colored lasers flying around and piercing my retinas. So now I'm deaf and blind. And if that weren't enough, machines are stationed around the ceiling to blow cold, heavy smoke at random intervals. So even if the lasers are positioned perfectly so I can see my friends around me and we're close enough in proximity to scream over the thumping bass, we are still being interrupted for 10 to 15 seconds at a time by cold, unwelcome blasts of air.

Still wondering why I spent last night having a chicken parm picnic on my friend's living room floor?