Snack Attack – Off the Cuff, IN Michiana Magazine, Sept. 2010

24 Aug

We need Bob Barker back. That crazy old coot knew how to end a television show with style. Take it from him on The Price is Right, all it takes is people jumping up and down, screaming about their new Salad Shooter and a sly signoff about animal reproductive organs. Bingo. You had me at pet neutering, Bob. You had me at pet neutering.

            With his tagline, Bob did great things for the pet population. So let’s get him on a much more important overpopulation problem: Stopping all the junk food brands from making obscure-flavored babies. Snacking options are out of control. Even God thinks it’s excessive to have both Screamin’ Dill Pickle Pringles and Screamin’ Dill Pickle Cheddar-Infused Pringles… and he invented the screamin’ dill pickle. And for crying out loud, we’re drowning in Mountain Dew flavors!

Call me old-fashioned, but when I was a kid things were simple. We had cola and un-cola, and those that tried to buck the trend were dealt with accordingly. (I’m looking at you, Crystal Pepsi.) Potato chips were regular, sour cream and onion and bar-b-que. (Some were ruffled, but if you grabbed those you were considered a little sketchy.) That was the extent of your choices. Then one day in the late 1980s the world turned upside down. The proverbial ball of snacks (with a nougat center) began rolling downhill, picking up speed for decades to come. All because Doritos introduced Cool Ranch flavor.

Don’t get me wrong, I can eat a mess of Cool Ranch Doritos. It’s like legal crack. But the debut became a turning point. Soon all the snacking giants began diversifying their flavors. Before long, something as simplistically awesome as Pringles Cheez-Ums went from an artery-clogging cornerstone to just another face in a crowded grocery aisle. Now shopping has become a trembling nightmare of decisions. Will it be the baked garlic-sea salt pretzel wafers or the sweet and tangy Asian-BBQ-style buttered potato crisps? The tension is mounting. Will I decide before the grocery shelves buckle and bury me in an avalanche of salty goodness? For God’s sake, where are the Cheez-Ums?! I think that lady clutching the Pecan Sandies is sobbing.

And it doesn’t stop there. Remember when McDonald’s didn’t get any more exotic than the bimonthly return of the McRib? Remember when the most difficult decision at Subway was white or wheat. Nowadays Mickey D’s is knee-deep in fancy-pants, iced-coffee drinks that are about as healthy as drinking a pitcher of hot fudge. And try picking a sandwich at Subway without holding up the line. Forget ham on wheat, that’s nothing but a yeasty trifle without tomatillo-mango-ketchup salsa or artisan breads with names better suited to the lyrics of an Enrique Iglesias ballad. “My Focaccia amor, por supuesto! Bailamos herb-encrusted Ciabatta!”

Maybe I’m just mad because the onslaught of variations in the snack food aisle was likely behind the demise of my all time favorite food: Planter’s Cheez Balls. Oh what times we used to have when I was a kid. I’d take a can of them to my room and eat in crunchy, cheesy wonderment until the roof of my mouth hurt. We’d listen to music and laugh at our inside jokes. It was a special bond. Then one day they were gone. Planters discontinued my soul mates. They decided nuts were their bread and butter, I guess. And with that, they stole my youth from me. Mr. Peanut himself might as well have smashed my Nintendo with his cane.

I guess I just like my comfort foods to be comforting. On Sunday afternoon in front of the television, just give me something crunchy to dip in something creamy and be done with it. I don’t need an explosion of flavors distracting me from the game.

“Throw the ball! He’s in the end zone, you son of a… saaaay is that rosemary I taste?”

Besides, I’d rather discover new flavors myself. You see, I’m somewhat of a savant when it comes to snacking. Have you ever dipped French fries in a chocolate milkshake?

You’re welcome.

Published in: IN Michiana Magazine, September 2010

Rest in peace, my beloveds

What Would Jesus Do (If He Were Driving)?

20 Aug

I probably should have honked for Jesus. I don’t have a problem with him. The Son of God is a real stand-up guy. I just don’t normally honk unless a road emergency warrants it. That’s what my Driver’s Ed. instructor taught me during my six hours of supervised driving. He said, “Matt, don’t you sound that horn unless a road emergency warrants it.” Of course he also said, “Woo, turn this up! Skynard rules!” But he never said what to do about Jesus. Namely, whether I should honk for him or not when a man waving a sign encourages that sort of thing.

Well, it happened and I didn’t honk. I wouldn’t feel so bad except I made eye contact with the guy. But how could I not? It was a busy road with nothing but cars to the left of me, and to my right it was: random building, random building, random building, guy with Jesus sign, random building. He kind of stood out. My eyes were immediately drawn to his yellow, three foot wide poster board. On it, scrawled hastily with black Sharpie, were the words: “HONK FOR JESUS!”

As I stared at the sign, (Disregarding another important rule my instructor taught me: Don’t stare at the side of the road whilst driving 45mph.) my first thought wasn’t whether or not I should lay on the horn for The Almighty. It was, ‘What’s up with the shoddy handwriting?’ We’re talking a really crummy-looking sign here. As someone with horrible handwriting, I would normally have some sympathy. But this wasn’t a ‘I have bad handwriting, but love Jesus’ kind of thing. This sucker was slapped together, which makes me think it went more like this:

“Hurry up, dude! We’re late for that side of the road Jesus honking thing!”

“Okay man, okay. But I have to make the sign first!”

“Jesus Christ, you’ve had all day! Let’s go!

Poor handwriting or not, I suppose I should have honked. It’s just that don’t like being forced to bellow my opinion to the entire world. Sure Jesus is a cool dude, but there’s got to be a way to stay in old J.C.’s good graces and adhere to safe driving practices. If the man had a sign that said, “HONK FOR BANANA CREAM PIE!” I probably would have kept on driving too. And I really like banana cream pie.

I do appreciate his dedication though. It takes some real cojones to stand out there in 90 degree heat trying to get strangers to freak out their fellow drivers with a little roadside revival. Heck, I feel bad for those guys on the corner in the Little Caesar’s Pizza costumes waving the “$5 Hot ‘n’ Ready” signs. At least they’re getting minimum wage. All this guy gets is a little solidarity. Well, I guess he’s hoping for eternal life too. But still, it was hotter than hell out there.

The Unexplained Disappearance of John Q. Bears Fan

5 Aug

Okay, everyone quiet down. Seriously, shut your yaps, I have to ask you all something that’s very important. Would the owner of the XXL #83 Chicago Bears visitors jersey that’s been abandoned at Ziker’s Cleaners please stand up. Anyone? In the name of Mike Ditka’s impending Cialis commercial, speak up! A man’s life may be at stake.

For the last eight months I’ve been going to the same Ziker’s Cleaners at least twice a month. Every time, there it is. Number 83. Hanging on the “I” rack, waiting to be claimed. All alone, like the husky kid in 8th grade who went to see the New Kids on the Block concert well after they weren’t cool anymore. You know, when they came back as N.K.O.T.B. and tried to rap. Sure he got the tickets a year before, back when they wore porkpie hats without tops and had glorious rat tails. But when all that remained were beards and busted rhymes, he still went to the show.

Yep, that lonely.

But, I digress.

Maybe I should call the cops. No, not about the New Kids, about the owner of that jersey. Why is it hanging there every time I walk in? What happened to the man who used to cover his rapidly distending belly in navy, orange and white? I believe there are only two possible scenarios.

#1 – He’s a freak who really likes the Bears and dry cleans his beloved #83 jersey weekly so he can look dapper on all-you-can-eat boneless wings night.

#2 – (The more likely scenario) He’s missing… and dead. Or raped, missing and dead. Either way, it’s Bummer Town with a capital “Rape.”

Maybe I’m overreacting, but I’ve really had a tough time with this. I nearly broke down today when I picked up my wife’s suits. As I walked in and the electronic bell warbled its tired, depleted-battery song, the sight of that companionless jersey hit me like a freight train full of hobos. Tears welled as I opened my mouth to ask about The Great Ziker’s Mystery. But I couldn’t do it. I chickened out. What if there is some sort of cleaner-to-customer confidentiality pact? I would look quite the fool.

Where have you gone, Number 83?

Instead I left as the plastic-covered jersey swayed in the air conditioned breeze. I drove home, leaving the jersey in a never-ending limbo, and wondered what would become of old number 83. Would my children someday marvel at the dust-covered frock? Would this urban legend stand the test of time, lingering in dry-cleaner purgatory until Jesus returned to banish the sinners and their dirty laundry? Or would the owner of the jersey read this post and send me a strongly-worded letter about how busy he’s been, asking me to refrain from calling him out on the interwebs?

But seriously, he’s probably dead.

I’d be more upset, except that I’m easily distracted. Within seconds of walking out of Ziker’s my car stereo was busting a mean groove on “Whoomp There It Is”. I spent the drive home poppin’ and lockin’ like a mo’ fo’.

Epilogue: There’s a shiny nickel in it for the person who explains poppin’ and lockin’ to my mother. And “Whoomp There It Is”. And topless porkpie hats. On second thought, explain topless porkpie hats to me too.

"Step one: We can have lots of fun."

Tri, Tri Again…

31 Jul

Last summer, for the first time in my life, I decided to play the Olivia Newton John card and get all “physical” up in this joint. I challenged myself to run a triathlon. After 10 weeks of hardcore training, I did it.

*Insert music montage of my Winter of excess. Gorging on meaty, cheesy goodness and a sordid love affair with my Xbox*

*Cue early Summer conversation with a co-worker*

That one guy: “Hey Matt, you doing any triathlons this year?”

Matt: “Shit. I set a precedent.”

So here I am again. It’s the night before the big dance and I’m trained. I wouldn’t say well-trained. It’s more of a “Weeeeeell… I’m trained?” But I’m ready to go.

Pre-race checklist

Carb-tastic dinner of spaghetti? – Check!

Triathlon gear laid out? – Check!

Witnessed my wife eating an enormous piece of cheesecake? – Double Check!

Now it’s time for bed and I can’t sleep. Why, you ask? Because my next door neighbors in this lovely hotel have some sort of parrot-esque bird. And it’s having kittens. At least that’s what it sounds like. Constant. Birthing. Of Kittens. By a bird.

I shall try to force a stiff upper lip through this nonsense of epic proportions and get some shuteye. But if I drown tomorrow because I fell asleep mid-swim, don’t blame me. Blame the parrot-cats.

I can’t say my first triathlon was without incident. Click here for the story of me, a triathlon, a nude soapy guy and ugly babies.

"Kill me. Dear God, kill me."

I Do Not Like Them, Scam-I-Am – Off the Cuff, August 2010

27 Jul

I’m a simple man that enjoys simple pleasures. It doesn’t take much to get me wound up. Every time I open my email it’s like Christmas morning. As the page slowly loads the excitement builds until I see… 2 New Messages! Hooray! Who will they be from? Will I need to reply right away? And if I do, that likely means another message back to me. Yippee, 1 New Message!

But lately my Christmas mornings have been soured. Someone is taking a dump in my stocking and I don’t think it’s Santa. It’s some scam artist from across the sea. The gleeful squeal that comes with my new message announcement quickly becomes a guttural howl when my inbox reveals it’s someone by the name of Louis Ipang of the Aeon United Capital Bank in Kuala Lumpur telling me I have millions coming my way, but first they need a bank account number. Man that ticks me off. I was hoping it was an email from my uncle with those funny pictures he always sends me of cats wearing sweater vests or something.

I know what you’re thinking. Cats in sweater vests, that’s hilarious! But you may also be thinking, there’s nothing we can do about these spam email shenanigans (or spam-e-nanigans, if you like). But I disagree. It’s time we fought fire with fire. Stay with me on this… we’ll all start new careers as scam artists. C’mon, it’s the ultimate start-up business, requires very little schooling and if you’re really successful Leonardo Di Caprio will play you in a movie. Leo! So, it’s settled, hence forth we shall all be conmen and… conwomen? The lady cons? What’s the feminine of conmen?

I should clarify. I don’t mean one of those cool movie conmen that swing into town by limo, bilk all the rubes, then slip away with the burg’s best dame while everyone chases after with pitchforks and torches. I can’t back that up. Those guys have moxie out the wazoo and they can talk a woman out of her knickers in a New York minute. Me? One time I bumped into someone at the post office and accidentally said “poop-scuse me” instead of “excuse me.” I’m not sure what I was thinking about, but I’d say that proves I’m about as smooth as Edward James Olmos’ face.

We don’t need fancy duds or slick-talkin’ to be competent scammers. We can succeed as nameless schlubs on the internet. The world wide web was built on the backs of nameless schlubs (and nudie pictures). Besides, we can’t do much worse than these jokers who keep emailing me in broken English about my alleged lotto winnings in the Republic of (insert random disputed Republic, which obviously has wi-fi). Here’s an actual email I got this week:

‘Sender: Foreign Transfer Manager!

You’ve won 891,934.00 pounds. Send necessary information: name, age, country. Via email.’

            First off, why would the Foreign Transfer Manager have an exclamation point after his title? Is that supposed to grab my attention? “I don’t send my ‘necessary information’ to just any Foreign Transfer Manager, but this is the ‘Foreign Transfer Manager!’, I better get my Social Security card.” Secondly, it just says I won 891,934 pounds. They probably mean British Pounds, but without the British Pound symbol I can only assume I won an impossible weight gain to be attached to my person by an intricate pulley system. Is anyone falling for this garbage? If you want to scam me you have to earn it. Let’s see some official seals or watermarks or at least a title that includes the word embassy somewhere.

These guys are getting lazy, so it’s time for us newly-christened scammers to make our move. I know just the person to become our first chump too, Mr. Louis Ipang in Kuala Lumpur. I say we each send him 1,000 emails of cats wearing sweater vests. I’m guessing it gets less and less funny after you reach the 1,000,000th one. Sure we won’t make any money, but we can take pleasure in knowing his Christmas morning is going to suck.

Published: IN Michiana Magazine, August 2010

Requesting Permission to ‘Stache… Permission Granted

22 Jul

Beards are a wily breed. Some men can pull them off. Some men can’t. The important thing is that every man gives it a shot. But you can’t just cease shaving for only two weeks at age 20, realize you were gifted with only three growable hairs (like that strangely reddish one under your nose), and then quit for life, defeated. You have to experiment at least once a year. You never know how many of their beardy buddies will turn up. Heck, by age 28 you could have a patch over yonder (I’m pointing to my right cheek. That’s always fertile ground for a multi-colored mess.)

So, when is the prime time to go a-beardin’? Why the middle of summer, of course! That’s when my softball team embarks on a yearly tradition. The Porn-stache Night. Don’t know what a porn-stache is? It’s like a Fu Manchu, but it’s attached to the face.

Mr. Fu Manchu

It’s called a porn-stache because the style is synonymous with the look of 70s porn stars. (I didn’t make up the name, Mom. It’s been around for awhile.)

Captain Porn-stache

Every year our softball team picks a game to deem our “Porn-stache Night” and we all grow out our beards, then shave in the form of the porn-stache before the game. Of course, there are those that can’t physically grow a beard, much less a ‘stache. They have been known to make do with the few follicles they can muster, or buy a fake ‘stache at the local costume shop. Either way it’s quite enjoyable. By which I mean, pathetic.

You can always tell when the big ‘stache night is upon us, mainly because the wives are complaining. Today I was lectured for having a wonky line of division between my neck and my beard. I tried to tell her, “Sweetheart, it’s a means to an end. It’s not about the beard. Just as in life, it’s what’s underneath that counts. And what’s underneath is a big, glorious ‘stache-tastical work of art just waiting to burst free!” My God. I’ve never realized it before. Porn-stache Night is a metaphor for life.

As I sit here, I am under 20 hours away from the big event. It’s Porn-stache Eve and I can barely sleep! Will my ‘stache be joined by a pair of mutton chops when I shave for the big game? Only time will tell. The important thing is I shave the whole thing immediately after the game. For my own safety, that is. I just don’t like the way the dog’s been looking at me. I think he thinks I’m a hobo, just passing through.

This post is reminiscent of the very first column I wrote for IN Michiana Magazine. If you can’t get enough about beards, click here.

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