So Thirsty. So Very Thirsty.

(It has been three straight weeks that the cafeteria at the office building where I work in mid-town Manhattan has been out of Diet Pepsi. As someone who consumes a great deal of this beverage, this condition has rapidly become untenable for me.)

EXPEDITION DIARY

DAY 1: After a thorough accounting of the provisions in our stores, it has come to my attention that the last resupply mission from Base did not seem to include Diet Pepsi. This is extremely vexing.

DAY 2: It has been just 48 hours, but the lack of Diet Pepsi is already having an effect on the crew. The general lack of vim is clear. Even to the untrained eye.

DAY 3: Instructed First Officer Billings to send message to Base via the Marconi. I eagerly await their reply.

DAY 4: Still no reply from Base. The crew's pep has visibly begun to flag.

DAY 5: Instructed Billings to send numerous urgent messages to Base. We receive no answer but static.

DAY 6: Have begun hearing strange sounds in the night. Inhuman sounds. I shall double the watch.

DAY 7: Desperation can do things to a man. Terrible things.

DAY 8: In the quiet moments I find that I cannot quite recall the taste of Diet Pepsi. I must keep this to myself. Mustn't panic the men. Must keep up a brave face.

DAY 9: Morale among the crew is low. Billings tried to fabricate some Diet Pepsi from some carbonated water, caramel color, aspartame, phosphoric acid, potassium benzoate, caffeine, citric acid and some natural flavorings that he managed to find. It ended in tears, of course. Bitter bitter tears.

DAY 10: Deprivation. Such wanton deprivation.

DAY 11: We are so alone on this remote, deserted island. Cut off from everything and everyone. The rest of the world is but a half remembered dream. So alone. So utterly, utterly alone. The silence, it is deafening.

DAY 12: Someday I can envision a Manhattan where goods can be easily transported over roads and bridges. Where commerce can thrive. This place could be overflowing with invigorating and delicious diet beverages. Someday. Someday.

DAY 13: There is no logic in this place.

DAY 14: Billings has suggested maybe bringing Diet Pepsi from home. "Home." I don't even know what the word means anymore.

DAY 15: All is madness.

We live. Yet surely, without our beverage of choice, this cannot be called "living."

DAY 16: Some of the more desperate men have taken to drinking diet Dr Pepper for succor. I will not bend. I cannot bend. I am not an animal.

DAY 17: The diet Dr Pepper tastes just like regular Dr Pepper, which tastes just like shame. Desperation makes monsters of men.

DAY 18: I don't know how much longer we can endure. I can feel my soul breaking, about to shatter. If this is to be my last entry, please tell my family that my last thoughts were of them. Except that Diet-Coke-swilling reprobate cousin of mine. (He knows who he is.) He is already dead to me.

DAY 19: This must be exactly how Shackelton felt.

DAY 20: Billings suggested we drink the plentiful, plentiful Diet Coke. I will miss him. He was delicious.

DAY 21: The horror. The horror.




Till next we meet ...

Flush Life

Gentlemen:

I can't believe this post has become necessary.

But sadly ... it has.

We need to brush up a little on a few matters of men's room etiquette because ... well, you know how things can get in there.

As you know, or as you should have been taught as a youngster ... there is a time and a place for everything.

One of the items on that "everything" list?

The making of sounds.

The place?

The Men's Room.

The time?

Well, that's what I'd like to talk to you about ...

Now I don't mean the disgusting sounds our bodies naturally make in that room. These sounds, while often regrettable and always revolting, are largely unavoidable. And as such, the Men's Room is really the only socially acceptable place for you to make those sounds in the presence of others.

For instance, it's generally permissible to pass gas at the urinal.

But DON'T stare fixedly into the eyes of the guy next to you and moan with pleasure while you do it.
Trust me on this. Adult teeth do not grow back.

WHEN YOU SHOULD MAKE NOISE

Okay, here are a couple basic rules of thumb ...

Here's the situation: You're in a stall and you hear someone come into the restroom.

Even if this scenario fills you with blind, white-knuckle panic that said person might be your boss, a serial killer, a fire-pissing Hell-Spawn from the Demon Pit or a co-worker who might accidentally open your stall door ... it is your responsibility to make some goddamn noise.

I don't mean you need to make with the plop-plop-wiz-wiz on command. Or that you need to announce yourself like a town crier, hollering the old classic: "Somebody's in here!"

But you really do need to let that person know, in some subtle way, that they should maybe not try to fling open the door to that stall.

Just clear your throat, shuffle your feet, fumble with the toilet paper roll, jingle your belt buckle, or my personal go-to ... give a nice, innocuous courtesy flush.

You can keep it subtle and still get the point across.

But do not ... and I can't stress this enough ... do NOT cower silently, unmoving, unblinking and unbreathing, like you're hiding Anne Frank from the Nazis.

This helps exactly no one.

Seriously. Who do you think is out there?

"Dad?"

Because falling utterly silent is pretty much the creepiest thing you can do.

This tells me you want that person to think there's nobody in that stall.

Which tells me you want them to yank that door open.

Which then tells me you want them to see you sitting there with your tender nethers all splayed akimbo.

Which ultimately tells me you're totally hoping they're into that.

But come on. Even if that's actually is your deal ... your creepy, creepy, probably diagnosable deal ... the odds of it being former Senator Larry Craig or 80s pop icon George Michael on the other side of the door are fairly slim.

"Wake me up before you ... you know ... "go-go" ..."

And don't overdo it. Just be subtle. Don't make it weird. Don't whistle a tune, do a little tap dance number, or -- (and this is a 100% real example that I have personally encountered) -- sing opera.

(Seriously, man. If you find yourself itching to perform an aria while a rope of effluent snakes its way out of your underself ... I'm not even sure Science has a word for what's wrong with you. Just knock it off.)

WHEN YOU SHOULD NOT MAKE NOISE

Don't talk to me.

It's not that I'm surly and unfriendly. (I mean, I often am, but that's not the point.) If I'm at a urinal, I'm not there to chat. About work, about the game, about the family ... about anything.

I have filthy business to conduct and I don't care to be distracted.

This is the chief reason that talk shows have couches instead of a bank of urinals. True story.

Rule of thumb: If my genitals are in my hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

If your genitals are in your hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

Basically, if anybody's genitals are in anybody's hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

Even if you desperately want to compliment me on my genitals or my hands.
Don't. Just don't.

And if I'm in a stall, it's super not appropriate to speak to me. Once that door closes, it is a sacred space. Inviolable. Where solemn, private business is conducted between a man and his shameful voidings.

Respect that.

Now, if we're at the sink ... that's a different story. It is perfectly permissible to hold a short conversation whilst washing up.

But keep it brief. This isn't the proper venue for a staff meeting.

I mean, Jesus ... people shit in this room.



Till next we meet ...



(Note: The preceding applies only to Men's Rooms. I cannot speak to the vagaries of decorum as they pertain to Ladies' Rooms. These are mystical and unknowable places.)

(Once you add couches and conversation areas to the pooping room, well, all rules of human interaction go right out the window.)

Just Turn That Frown* Upside Down!

_______________
*And by "Frown" we of course mean "horrible, horrible, electro-stabby murder-death."

Life is all in how you look at things. It's true.

Perspective can be everything, even in bad situations! You just have to learn to look on the bright side!

Now, on one hand, you could look at this poor fellow and think: "Jeez, being lightninged to death in your middle parts sure looks like it smarts!"

But did you ever stop to think that maybe he's actually enjoying this?! Perhaps his spine is really snapping backward in the ecstasy of glorious sexual release!

This move is listed in the Kama Sutra as "the Lightning Rod." Probably.

Hmmm.

You don't seem convinced.

Okay, how about this, Mr. PessimistPants! Things could always be worse! This has got to be preferable to hurtling down, batch first, onto a bunch of barbed punji stakes, right?!

"Ow."

Still not convinced? Jeez, your glass is really half empty, isn't it! What's it going to take before you see a bright side here?

Okay, how about this ...

He's being abducted by aliens!

There! How's that for cool and exciting!

What an awesome story to tell your friends should you ever recover memories of the event!

And best of all ... there's absolutely no danger to be found!

I mean, nobody has ever been probed to death!

"Oh no! My tender probe-ables!"

You know ... apart from all those cows with the missing anuses.




And H.R. Giger, probably.




Oh, never mind.



Till next we meet ...

How To Summer

How To Summer: In Three Easy Steps.

A public service announcement.

(AKA: From Fat Aragorn to Emmet Otter in ten easy minutes.)

Step 1:

Step 2:

Step 3:

It is now Summer.

Please enjoy responsibly.



Till next we meet ...

Yo Buddy ... My World-Famous Architectural Landmarks Are Up Here.

Never once in the history of me has there been a time when I could be described as "trendy".

Which is not to say I don't have a youthful outlook on things. I've always had an intense sense of curiosity and a capacity to become interested and engaged on just about any topic.

But I have also always been slightly out of sync with the bow wave of pop culture. "Trendy" just isn't in my DNA.

So, despite the ever-growing heap of old birthday cards ... despite the fact that the salt has now thoroughly beaten the pepper (by many laps) in the race to claim my beard ... and despite the fact that I'm hopelessly unaware of whatever Internet, music, fashion, tech or reality TV fad is currently burning through pop culture like a rampaging pandemic ... I've never really felt particularly old.


Until now.


A few nights ago, as I was leaving the office, I met a young couple on the street that made me feel like Methuselah's great-goddamn-grandfather.

"DIAL ME ON THE ROTARY MARCONI! WE'LL LISTEN TO JOLSON ON THE VICTROLA! POSTUM! POSTUM!!!"

Well, perhaps met is a bit of an overstatement.

Encountered? No, that's not right ...

I've got it ...

Was stared blankly at by.

Yeah, that's more like it.



They were a young couple. Early twenties. Mid-western by the accent. Clearly in New York for the first time. And clearly completely lost.

Now, there are two primary reasons why I don't normally offer aid to wayward tourists in NYC.

Firstly, because I'm god-effing-awful with directions. Seriously ... after working in this city for almost 15 years, I routinely get lost in New York. A city where the streets are numbered sequentially. It's like I have a reverse GPS chip in my head that causes me to always make the wrong navigational decision.

So I try to avoid giving directions because I don't want to be responsible for sending some poor unsuspecting innocent into the waiting arms of shiftless ne'er-do-wells or murderous street hooligans. (Which New York totally has, by the way. Around any given corner the opening scene from Gangs of New York is about to break out, complete with airborne viscera and fancy Dr. Seussian top hats. That's just Science.)

And the second reason I never give directions is ... well ... I'm kind of an asshole who doesn't want to be bothered.

Yeah, I know what the title of this blog is. What do you want? I'm a work in progress.

"Howzabout you take a left at Suck It Street and Fuck Off Avenue."

Anyhow, for whatever reason, I was in an uncharacteristically good mood. And as I left the office, I happened upon some folks who seemed to need a hand.

"It's the Empire State Building ..."

"I know ..."

"It's back the other way ..."

"No, that's Seventh ..."

"Google says it's over that way ..."

"Well, Apple says it's this way ..."

"The Empire State Building ..."

"I know ..."

But the striking thing about their "conversation" is that it took place entirely without them ever breaking eye contact with the phones they were so fixedly hunched over. They never once raised their heads to look at their surroundings, to make eye contact with one another, or even to make sure they weren't about to be pasted all over 6th Avenue by an errant cab.

They were communicating without actually interacting.

But I pushed on. I was in such a good mood that by GOD I was gonna break my rule about direction-giving help these kids out! Hell or high water!

Why? Because my office is at 42nd Street and 6th Avenue -- across the street from Bryant Park, a hundred yards from the NY Public Library, and about a block from Times Square -- pretty much smack in the middle of mid-town. Meaning, no matter how shitty my sense of direction, this was something I could help them with.

Because you could totally SEE the the Empire State Building from where we were standing.

"Excuse me," I offered with a smile. "Are you guys looking for the Empire State Building?"

If ever there was a perfect time for the cartoon sound effect of the record-needle-scratching-to-a-halt, this was it.

They snapped up from their phones in unison and fixed me with a matching pair of blank, confused stares.


And then they just blinked at me.


Silent, uncomprehending.


The way cows might stare at a passing train.





For what felt like a full minute.

Blink.




Blink.




"The Empire State Building?" I offered again, with slightly less confidence than before. "It's right over there."

They turned in unison and looked at it.


Giant, unmissable.


Then back at me.


Then at the building again.


Then back at me.

Blink.



Blink.



"The Empire State ... it's right ... over ... "

Blink.



Blink.

Blink.



Hollow. Uncomprehending.



"... right ... over ..."

And then, without a hint of acknowledgment, they snapped back to their phones and resumed their argument all over again.

"It's back the other way ..."

"No, that's Seventh ..."

"Google says it's over that way ..."

"Well, Apple says it's this way ..."

"The Empire State Building ..."

"I know ..."



And then it was my turn to stare uncomprehendingly.



Were we done?!

Was I dismissed?!

What the shit just happened!?




Hang on ... maybe it was worse than that ...


Jesus, maybe I didn't exist at all?!


Maybe I never did!!


Maybe I died and just didn't know it!!



Was I a ghost!?



OH SHIT!!



WAS I BRUCE WILLIS?!

Early testing trending toward: No.

And that's when it struck me ... there may be an entire generation, possibly two, that I simply do not have the tools or the language to communicate with. Sure, this particular pair of kids may have been an extreme example, but the chasm is real. It exists.

Not to get too serious, but as amusing as this encounter was, I honestly came away from it a little shaken.

It wasn't a question of me not being trendy enough. I've encountered many, many situations where I've had to deal with those hipper or more in-the-know than I. Hell, that's a constant state of being for me.

No, this was different. This was bigger. Deeper.

It seems to me there's been a profound and fundamental shift in the last 20 years in the process of human communication. And that shift, disturbingly, seems to be occurring at a primal ... maybe even at a biological level.

The introduction of smart phone communication has changed us as a species in ways I don't think we're even aware of yet. I fear we may only be seeing the very first ripples on that pond.


This goes far beyond any generation gap. This isn't like the introduction of the telephone, the television or even the early Internet. Those things were extensions of meaningful in-person, one-on-one interaction.

But this replaces that interaction entirely. And that can't be good.

Sure, it may not seem like a big deal that cursive writing is no longer being taught in grade school. Or that smart phones and tablets are replacing books and pencils in classrooms across the land. But as more and more glowing screens are being enthusiastically thrust in front of younger and younger eyes, I can't help fearing that the substitution of the digital and virtual for the tangible and human might already be having erosive effects.

"No one can be told what the Matrix is. It has to be texted. With emojis."

Does that make me a hypocrite? Yeah, probably. Sure, I dip a toe into the great, sprawling miasma of the on-line world. I tend this blog on occasion, tweet with some regularity, and basically spend all day at work thumbing through the wonders of the World Wide Web.

But because I was born in a time before computers, I was introduced to these electronic toys after I had already learned to engage with other humans in the old-fashioned meat-based world. I'd already been schooled in the traditional social techniques that the great primates have been using since shortly after we flapped up out of the primordial soup and onto the beach.

I fear for the millions born inside the Matrix. The millions who don't seem to have been given that tactile social grounding. They're coming of age in a time when making eye contact, reading body language and just knowing how to behave in a social setting just aren't being valued the way they used to be.


I'm not the old man yelling at the kids to get off his lawn. I'm the old man who's afraid the kids aren't even aware that they're standing on a lawn at all.

Or worse ... that they're unaware they're standing on a corner in mid-town Manhattan ... in the shadow of the very building they've come to take a selfie in front of so they can Instagram it to thousands of "friends" they've never actually met.




Till next we meet ...

"Who Ya Gonna Call?" A Para-Urologist, Maybe?

A while back, The Missus brought home one of those mysterious, vaguely medicinal-looking items that I assumed would go live in our second medicine cabinet.

That's the cabinet that's none of my business. It's the one that's crammed chock-a-block with dozens of enigmatic items which -- one assumes -- are all emblazoned with the text: "LADY-ON! APPLY DIRECTLY TO THE LADY PARTS!"



But it turns out, I'm dumb.

I know. Big surprise, right?

Apparently this mysterious new item was called a "neti pot."


Ah.

I see.



Okay, I didn't see, actually. Not even a little.

It's a what now?

She sat me down and patiently explained ... speaking slowly and using small words ... that a "neti pot" is basically a thing you use to blast hot, salty water up your nose.

If ... you know ... you're into that.

(Which, I guess enough people are, since "neti pots" are actually a thing.)

(However, because I'm not entirely convinced of their thingness, I'm going to keep putting quotation marks around "neti pot" until further proof presents itself. Just saying.)

No really, it's an actual thing.

Anyhow ... as I puzzled over the series of wildly convoluted and astronomically unlikely events that would need to occur before I would ever consider using such a product myself, I got to looking at the box.

And I found my attention drawn to a little cartoon doodle at the top of the package.

Clearly this image is meant to be an antrhopomorphic water droplet with a big, friendly nose and a ready smile.

Sure. That's reasonable. Lots of products have cartoon mascots. That's one of the oldest tricks in the advertising book. You want to put as friendly a face on your product as possible.

And your mascot had better be friendly if what you're selling is as weird and off-putting as a salt water nose bidet.

Sure. Made perfect sense.

Intellectually, I knew that's what I had to be looking at: Friendly Little Water Droplet Guy.

Yup.

"Hi! A wet nose means you're healthy! Also, it's going to feel like you're drowning in hot, watery snot! Hooray!"

But for some reason, my brain just refused to accept that.

When I looked at this image, all I could/can see is an overhead shot looking down over a guy's shoulder as he sadly contemplates his ghost penis.

WHO IS LOOKING BACK AT HIM!

"Hellllooooooooo!"

Right?



And that's why I will never put one of these in my nose.

Ever.

Also, I'm pretty sure Pac Man has been ruined for me, too.




Till next we meet ...

Ready ... Aim ... INSPIRE!

I work in midtown Manhattan. Have for nearly a decade and a half now.

The thing about spending time in this city, or any big city for that matter, is that if you wait long enough you'll periodically witness things that will leave you gasping in horror, blinking in disbelief or weeping with joy.

It's Science. Law of Averages or somesuch.

Now you're going to think I'm lying to you. Or exaggerating for comic effect. But all I can tell you is that what follows is absolutely true. I swear.

Miracles are real, people, and I am here to testify.

It was on a lovely spring day a few years ago when I bore witness to perhaps the most astonishing sight these eyes have yet beheld on this good Earth.

Are you feeling inspired yet? Well, you're gonna be. Because this story is inspirational as balls.

Having found a warm patch of sun and some prime leaning space outside a Greenwich Village drinkery, I'd just settled in to wait for a friend to join me. Between the spectacular weather and the prospect of the afternoon/evening of convivial tippling that lay ahead, I was feeling swell.

All was right with the world. Things just couldn't get better.


And then things got better.


A LOT better.


For just then, a surly young man came rolling sullenly down St. Mark's Place on a skateboard.

And he was about to bring me my miracle. He just didn't know it.

Now, it should be pointed out that he wasn't so much a "human being" as a "living collage, composed entirely of affectations." Lank, unwashed (yet carefully tousled) hair ... handlebar mustache ... chunky, six-foot wallet chain ... comically enormous headphones ... half-dozen facial piercings ... sleeve tats ... and, of course, the uber-slouchy, waaay-too-cool-for-any-of-this attitude.

He was the whole package.

In fact he was a pastiche of several packages. A curious hybrid, actually.

If you crammed a Hipster, a Goth and a Skate Punk all into a shower together and blasted them with a high-pressure hose, this kid is what you'd be picking out of the drain afterward.

Not that I have anything against any of those groups. It is unquestionably awesome when kindred spirits find one another. Joining the tribe that you feel most comfortable with is a beautiful thing. I've been a geek and an outsider my entire life and I certainly don't begrudge anyone their rightful peer group.

That said, I generally find poseurs dickishly irritating. Regardless of what colors they happen to be flying.

And this kid was posing.

Hard.

I'll be honest, I found him kind of amazing. How could a person be riding a skateboard and not be enjoying it? Answer: They couldn't. It's not possible. Because riding a skateboard is inherently awesome.

And yet somehow this young man had found a way to make the whole ordeal eye-rollingly mundane for himself. "Whatevs," he might have groan-sighed, had he been able to scrape together enough of a shit to bother. But he didn't, because he couldn't. He had no shits to give.

He was so totally over it. Over everything. Over everyone. The rest of us had exhausted and disgusted him so utterly that he barely had the energy to curl his lip to sneer at the stench of our lameness.

He was the physical embodiment of an exhausted sigh. A miracle of science, really. Worthy of study.

And just as he slouch-rolled past me, that's when my miracle happened.

Before that day I wasn't much of a believer in magic. But that changed in a blink.

For at that moment, as I watched him -- as though I'd willed it with the power of my mind -- his giant, over-sized pants suddenly lost their battle with gravity and relinquished their tenuous grip on his skinny, disaffected hips! They plunged earthward, and immediately balled up under the wheels of his skateboard ... stopping it dead and launching him out of his pants!



Hang on. Let me just repeat that in case you missed it:

Launching.

Him.

Out.

Of.

His.

Pants.



Entirely.

It was as though he'd been blasted out of some sort of wondrous Pants Cannon.

A magical, perfectly-timed Cirque de Soleil-caliber feat of impossible acrobatics conjured by The Universe itself solely for my benefit.

And in that moment I knew what it was to know true beauty. To gaze upon the face of God.

And I thanked The Universe. Thanked it from the bottom of my bitter, bitter little husk of a heart.

Told you. As balls.

Now, as you might imagine, it's extraordinarily difficult to salvage any dignity, much less keep up an attitude of extreme, sullen superiority once you've tumbled across the pavement like a pantless stone skipping across a pond in your sock-feet and boxers.

(Oh, didn't I mention? He also lost his shoes in the incident. Have I told you lately how much you rock, The Universe? Well, it's a lot.)

But that didn't stop him from trying. Unhurt but for his pride, he shuffled back to collect his pants, his shoes, his skateboard and the shattered remains of his phone. Trying desperately not to break character ... and failing utterly.

"Yeah, whatevs, Angular Momentum," he might have squeaked unconvincingly at The Universe, his lip quivering. "So not impressed."

His arms overloaded with the disparate pieces of his identity, he shuffled to the sidewalk.

And yes, he was also launched out of his dog. Probably.

Slowly he set to putting himself back together, piece by piece. A knight strapping his armor back on.

(You know ... if that knight had been blasted hilariously and spectacularly out of his pants. Come ON, The Universe! You seriously rock so goddamn HARD!)

But despite the fact that he was now fully dressed, he still seemed a little naked. Because the one thing he couldn't put back on was his pissy attitude. That had smashed to dust on the pavement. In an instant, his sense of smug superiority had been pulverized. Like the rest of us, he was now exactly the proper amount of cool for this particular school.

His belt now cinched tightly around his waist and his board tucked firmly under one arm -- neither was getting the chance to betray him again that day -- he stepped gingerly on down the street, resuming his journey on foot.


Yes, I saw a miracle that day.

I bore witness to a Pants Cannon fulfilling its divine purpose.

And it was glorious.

I heart you, New York. I heart you a lot.




Till next we meet ...