Random Thoughts on a Plane

I’m sitting on a plane right now absentmindedly watching Garden State, which incidentally is a fantastic movie with an epic soundtrack. But my mind wanders. I just left Chicago where I was attending the NRA tradeshow. No, not the National Rifle Association. I wouldn’t be able to take a single step at THAT NRA show without the silent alarm sounding, alerting the gun-toting powermongers that a hippie kid had invaded their building. This was the National Restaurant Association show, where we replace the heat-packers with pound-packers. No guns or weapons of any kind. Just love handles and grease. On the whole it was a great show and a nice opportunity to get some face time with current customers and future clients alike.

I love free association.

What is the deal with Twilight? You know…the book about vampires and werewolves that fall in love with each other and with humans. Does the author not understand that vampires and werewolves freaking HATE each other? In my world vampires and werewolves tear human beings’ throats out. They don’t fall in love with them. Furthermore, everyone with the remotest understanding of vampire lore knows that a werewolf is no challenge to a vampire. An entire clan of werewolves can be annihilated by a single vampire. Will I see the movies? Of course. If I can sit through Pride and Prejudice many times over then I can handle a ridiculous film about loved-up vampires. I will not, however, read the books. I have standards.

Why are Americans so indulgent? At this NRA show we would cut our 4 oz cookies into fourths and fill entire baskets. Attendees could walk by and sample a variety of delicious cookies. But every once in a while I would have someone ask to take a complete wrapped cookie “to save for later.” Totally fine. No problem. However, on numerous occasions someone would step into my booth and fully empty our clip racks of cookies. Dozens of them. Without asking or caring. That would be like me going to the Coke booth that gave out tiny cups of Coke and asking them to fill my ghetto-ass 64 oz mug with Pepsi. Memo to the Clampets of the world. Don’t hide behind nice clothes and hygiene. Throw on your greasy Dickies, tattered jeans, and soiled wife-beaters. Untuck your mullets from your hats and take off those shoes that just HAVE to be cramping your funky filthy bare feet. Take out the partial dentures and break out your backwoods possum-eating vocabulary. “Awwww shoooot, I done seen a humdinger of a cookie over yonder, y’all mind if I snag ‘er?” You are fooling no one. I see through your double negatives and future perfect tense. You are hicks. Take the bloody cookies. Yer kin gotsta be hungered. Embrace your redneck heritage…don’t hide it.

Are European men aware that they look gay? Is that honestly high fashion? I saw no less than a dozen Italian/French/Dutch dudes that looked like variations of Austin Powers. Seriouly…a cravatte?! One such Dutchman approached the booth and asked for a “serviette.” I misunderstood and replied “I’m sorry sir, we’re all out of Soviets.” I really thought he was trying to be funny. Homeboy, conjure up some pride and call them NAPKINS. Testosterone is ashamed of you.

Why is there such an intense separation of classes among Italian restaurants in SLC? On one end of the spectrum we have The Olive Garden. The vast majority of Americans have no idea how terrible this restaurant is. There are no comparisons I can make. Calling it The Arctic Circle of Italian is far too kind. A more appropriate comparison would be to the half-eaten sandwich found in the dumpster outside of the Magna Mervyns. Which I would much rather eat than anything on menu at the Olive Garden. On the low end there is also Francescos and Fazzolis. There is one singular mid-range joint…The Maccaroni Grill. Beyond that the jump is ridiculous. Tuscany, Baci, etc. Fair food at retarded prices. What is the problem with getting GOOD Italian food in Utah without donating a kidney to afford it? Is our market that bad for a good Italian joint? I’ve stopped hoping for actual local faire. At this point I’d settle for a good chain, alla Maggianos. I’d sell my soul to have a Maggianos in Salt Lake.

The DI will always smell funny. No amount of disinfectant or facility remodels will fix that. I’m not sure if it is the merchandise or the bodies of the workers. Not sure that I care. All I know is that it smells like piles of old people’s dead skin cells in there. And yes, I went to a DI lately. I wanted a fox-fur stole.

I cannot get over how teenagers can text as skillfully as they do. The dexterity and speed with which these kids can type on a cell phone is inhuman. It reminds me of Rain Man counting toothpicks; this is the stuff of idiot savants. I have a friend named Blake that I would pit against anyone…ON A COMPUTER. He texts markedly faster than I type. And I’m above 70 wpm. I have youth in our neighborhood that text without looking. I have one question though. How long before our young people sacrifice the English language to the gods of Textopia. Studies show, surprisingly, that high school students’ essay scores are NOT suffering from textspeak. But I highly doubt that will maintain. It is just a matter of time before kids start turning in papers stating things like “idk wut da prob is, wtf. iirc u bbl.” Printed from a cell phone.

Utah truly is “the wild west.” I spent some time with Derek and Heather at their new home in Gurnee Illinois, just outside of Chicago. It didn’t seem real…almost like I had jumped into one of Bert’s sidewalk chalk drawings in Mary Poppins. Their neighborhood was charming. It was quaint. It was gorgeous. There wasn’t a single yard that was not meticulously maintained. The neighborhood had its own park, beautifully kept. This is in addition to the 30 acres of hardwood forest within the neighborhood. Oh, and did I mention the three small lakes with all sorts of creatures living on and around them? Grayson’s school is the size of Fashion Place Mall and it is home to 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grades only! When the bell rings and school ends, kids don’t run out like crazed Samoans to Chuck-a-Rama on a Sunday after church. They wait until their buses arrive and are escorted by the faculty to their buses. Abbey’s school is roughly the size of my high school and is for kindergarten and preschool only. How is such utopian bliss accomplished? Through regulation. You cannot mow your lawn and haphazardly throw your clippings into the trash or green waste can. You have to bag it. In a special bag. And then mark the special bag with a special sticker. The place is buttoned down tightly. Not everyone will agree that it is a better system. In fact it sounds much like socialism in some respects. Which would I prefer? Considering the abortion of a yard maintained by two of my neighbors, I’ll take socialism. I’d move to Gurnee in a heartbeat. $9K per year in property tax? Erm, no thanks. I’ll take Utah and my Sanford-n-Sons neighbors. Yay capitalism.

Dress Shirt Shopping

I need shirts. There are three main reasons behind the need.

First, all my shirts are plaid. Let's face it, plaid was hawt when I was a teenager. Everyone wanted to go grunge because it was the style! Plaid long-sleeved shirt, corduroy shorts, gray wool socks, Teva sandals, Stussy hat, and Grateful Dead necklace. I was the A bomb of bombs baby. Unfortunately this is 2008 and Eddie Vedder doesn't even wear plaid anymore. Kurt Cobain is probably rolling, kicking, and screaming in his grave trying to tear his plaid shirt off with his bony skelli-fingers.

Second, I work for a cookie company. Despite the fact that I work with rail thin people, I gained twenty pounds in 5 months without even noticing. I.V. Crisco drips couldn't cause this kind of weight gain. Memo to Barry Bonds... ditch the 'roids (STE, not HEMOHR) my friend and buy one of my white chocolate macadamia cookies. 4 ounces and 430 calories of liquid sugar bliss that will add pounds to your frame quicker and heavier than a sumo wrestler down a waterslide. Cookietree brownies are chocolate death. And I die daily.

Finally, I just don't spend money on clothes. With all of the rockin' DLC released weekly for Rock Band, who can afford clothes? I rotate three pair of jeans and three marginally acceptable shirts on a weekly basis. And I'm in sales, where impressions are everything. Chunky Chris Cornell wannabes aren't typically taken seriously.

I had a trip scheduled to meet some clients in the Omaha/Lincoln areas and decided to get serious. It was time to splurge. It was time for Kohls. Because when you think designer shirts, you naturally think...KOHLS, right? My taste in clothing is consistent if not boring. I like greens, greys, and khakis. Any blues or reds are always subdued.

Do you remember the third Indiana Jones movie? It's the one where Dr. Jones is required to choose THE Holy Grail from among hundreds of false grails. Before he makes his choice, the bad guy chooses. He goes after the most elaborate gem-encrusted goblet in the cave. Something you'd imagine Liberace drinking appletinis from. After drinking from the billion dollar goblet, he transforms from human to Iron Maiden's "Eddie" in a a matter of seconds, then drops dead. To which the knight templar guardian casually says "he chose....poorly." Indie, on the other hand, chooses the least likely grail for a king. A simple wooden chalice fit for a carpenter. He chose wisely.

Considering dress shirts wasn't terribly dissimilar from searching for the proper holy grail. I was hoping to see a beam of light gracefully illuminating my Excalibur. Instead I wandered around like one of those old retarded people you see on the news that forgot to take his meds and winds up working in a Sheboigan WalMart. Finally, however, I felt a faint pull. My soul was being guided. I closed my eyes and gave in fully to the pull, submitting to this obvious divine intervention. Finally I had arrived. I breathed deeply, swallowed hard, and opened my eyes to behold the gayest pink dress shirt ever woven.

Was I channeling Don Johnson? Was the divine pull actually Barry Manilow playing with a Tyler voodoo doll? I have never owned a pink shirt. I've seen men wear them. But usually it's the crazy jewish Apprentice contestant with a matching bow tie. Occasionally you'll see one of those "metro sexuals" pimping a pink shirt. What's the deal with that term anyhow? Why don't we say "gay dudes that haven't taken the plunge yet?" All I knew is this had to be a mistake. So I exercised the demons, browsed the tools and electronics to man-up, and went back to the shirt section. No matter what I did or where I went. No matter what kind of pact I made with demons or pleas I made to God, I was repeatedly drawn back to the pink blouse. So I called dad. There's no way that guy owns a pink shirt. Naturally I got voice mail. I figured I'd try my boss next. No answer. I was alone. Terribly, terribly alone. But hey, I'm a spiritual guy. When God leads you to a pink shirt, you buy the freaking shirt and wear it with manly pride. Gay pride. Metro pride. Oh the humiliation! The young attractive girl at the register giving me the sparklie eye and half-smirk didn't help either.

For those of you that haven't had the delight of visiting the midwest, let me lay it out for you. There is no tact. Anywhere. Very little intelligence and common ignorance. A typical conversation would be, "So where ya from?" "Utah." "How many wives ya got?" No attempt at humor and no malice. Just cold, hard, redneck ignorance. I went to a Ruby Tuesday's by myself for dinner the night I got into town and I was asked for a smoking preference. "A what?" "Would you like to sit where you can smoke or not?" These people can't be serious. Smoking sections died about the same time as, well, Liberace himself. I vaguely remember a local Village Inn that had a smoking section. The cigarette vending machine was right next to the brand new Pong arcade game.

Pink shirts aren't common in middle America.

My first appointment was with Omaha Public Schools and their director of child nutrition. A kindly looking gentleman, white haired and long in the tooth. We shook hands. The first words from his mouth were "Did your wife buy you that shirt for Christmas?" "No, believe it or not, I actually bought this shirt myself. On purpose." "Well, if you were wearing that shirt and a red tie you'd be totally gay." How classic is that? I've never met these people in my life, but the comfort level was such that he would A) assume that I WASN'T gay in the first place, and B) had a sense of humor. Despite all this, the meeting went quite well and ended with him demonstrating his Tai Chi moves he's been learning at the local Y. No tact. No prejudices. Just honest, corn-fed midwesterness.

So I own a pink shirt. And I look bloody good in it. It's a good color for an overweight Swede. It matches my skin pigmentation beautifully and makes my blue eyes pop pretty hard. Kind of like a swollen albino. But a confident one.

And now I wait for the opportune time to unveil the rainbow suspenders. Maybe I'll schedule a trip to Iowa.

El Destructo

Kids have unique personalities. I, for instance, was ridiculously afraid to talk to strangers. At 10 years old, if I went into a 7-11 to buy a $.10 candy and the clerk didn't give me change from my dollar, I would have walked away without saying a word. I would have preferred to be out the $.90 than have to create any form of confrontation with the clerk. That's changed a bit in my older age, but I am still definitely a "white" personality. I avoid conflict, often at my own expense, and depend on peace. It is a necessity that all things are functioning and happy. I can't get into an argument and let it remain unresolved. I have to have closure and know that the universe is once again working as intended. I should have been an educator or a social worker. But nooo, I had to choose sales. A world of never-ending confrontation. That largely goes unresolved.

It makes me wonder what other people were like as children. Did Ted Kaczynski tinker with broken radio parts? Did Michael Jordan play with balls? Did Bill Clinton chase skirt? I'm hoping not. Because I don't wish my youngest son to grow up a human demolition ball.

Eric has earned a number of nicknames at his young age and they get progressively more violent. His first nickname was "Rico" and sometimes "Coco." Talmage somehow invented the nickname "DayDay" which stuck for a while but has become a distant memory. Some of his nicknames come off the cuff and border on ridiculous, i.e. "Schmokaka." Of course Talmage, poor soul, has grown up as "Sausage" so Eric can't have MUCH to complain about. Recently Ashley has started calling him "Eric the Red" for he is as the vikings of olde. He pillages and plunders. He walks into a McDonalds playground and completely owns the place. His goal is, for example, the ball pit. If there are other children between him and his ball pit then those children are obstacles keeping him from his prize. They are expendable. Just like a viking feels entitled to his loot, Eric the Red feels entitled to his...erm...balls. And anything in his way shall fall.

He has also earned the nickname "El Destructo" from grandpa. Eric Derall = E.D. E.D. = El Destructo. I think this name fits best of all because he seems to feed off of destruction. Like when Dahmer would eat his victims to permanently absorb their life-force, Eric gains power and energy when he breaks things. Or at least disturbs them. For instance, if I were to build a house of cards on the kitchen table then call for Eric to come upstairs from the basement, there is a 95% statistical probability that he would unceremoniously destroy the card house as he walked by. If there is a stuffed-animal dog lying on the floor, Eric will kick it. If grandpa Pearson has neatly groomed his flower beds, El Destructo will kick dirt out of them into the sidewalk. He sees cleanliness and harmony and looks to add dirt and discord.

Naturally he does all of this in a cute way. He is a sweet kid. He just has far too much viking testosterone in that little body. I am going to share a few stories about Eric.

When Eric was a small toddler he had some problems with constipation. We would regularly include a laxative called "Miralax" to his bottles or juice and sometimes it would do the trick. Other times it wouldn't. In those particularly rough times we were forced to go to the dreaded enema. Now for those that are unfamiliar with an infant enema they have a clear plastic bulb filled with the slippery juice and the tube is protected by an orange plastic cover. It looks like an orange stick with a ball of water on the end of it. After administering this hateful thing to my child Sherri asked me to throw it in the trash. So naturally I left it on the floor. That following morning I was doing some work on the computer while Eric and Talmage were bumping around the house. Eric had his binkie like always. Just sucking away. After about a half hour of him bouncing around sucking on his binkie I looked up at his face. There was the orange butt-stick hanging out of his mouth while he sucked away at the plastic ball that was shaped almost EXACTLY like his binkie. Half of me laughed, part of me was horrified, and the rest of me was grateful that my child was being pacified, regardless of how. Butt-stick? Fine. Just don't cry.

El Destructo's nursery leaders love him. He really is a very fun kid and is HIGHLY entertaining. They shared a story with me last week on Sunday. Some time ago they were delivering a spiritual message about the birth of Christ. They held up a picture of the three wise men and asked, "Eric, do you know who these men are?" "Yes", he replied, "that's He-Man, Skeletor, and Power Ranger." Can you imagine the gifts those three would have brought? A furry loin-cloth from He-Man, red spandex from the Power Ranger, and from Skeletor a maniacal need to rule Eternia...?

El Destructo and Talmage typically play well together. Although anytime the play gets physical, Eric pretty much manhandles his older brother. For instance, yesterday they were playing light sabers. Talmage is huge into Star Wars right now, and if you recall the movies, The Jedi have a power called a "force push." The jedi simply raises his hand, palm facing out, and the enemies are blown back. So Talmage carefully instructed his brother, "ok Eric, when I hold out my hand you need to grab your neck and fall to the ground, ok?" "Ok." They thrust and parry a few times then Talmage brings up his hand. Eric summarily whacks Talmage's outstretched hand with his lightsaber. And I swear there's a little orange fire in his eyes when he does it. Talmage cries, recovers, instructs Eric that he was SUPPOSED to grab his throat and fall. "This time do it Eric, ok?" "Ok." Thrust, parry, thrust-thrust, parry, force push, WHACK! Fingers crushed by the hard plastic of Eric's light saber. And this time he's smirking. And those eyes burn hotter.

I can only imagine what kind of teenager and man Eric will be. If he can manage to route his energy and determination positively then I'm confident he will be an amazing and successful man. If not...lock your doors and tune in to America's Most Wanted.