Go go gadgets

Electronics used to be a simple thing. You needed a new TV or a new phone, you simply strapped on your Keds, zipped over to a big-box retailer, and came home and plugged it in. Easy stuff. Merchandise was reasonably priced, and installation was a two-step process that took about as long as a Justin Bieber pop hit, only by the end of it you didn’t feel like stuffing you ears with wads of pig lard.

Nowadays, it takes longer just to research the right brand than it does to pursue an advanced astrophysics degree. At some point, even the simplest appliances became the stuff of nerdy sub-culture; if you haven’t kept up with the latest technological innovations, you run the risk of populating your home with a mélange of incompatible devices that, collectively, are about as useful as an ox cart in a bowling alley. Everything needs to be synchronized, and free of bugs or pesky glitches. Considering the interconnectedness of our digital apparatuses, achieving cooperation between them carries roughly the same odds as buying a winning lottery ticket while being struck by lightning. Twice.

Blissfully unaware of how complex the market had become, I’ve passed the last few years happily with my junky ol’ TV, an old-fashioned cathode ray tube with roughly the mass and circumference of one of Saturn’s moons. Movies comprise most of what I watch on that old beast, and I’ve never been a fan of the way they look in high definition; when you go to the cinema, you’re looking at an image created by light passing through a piece of celluloid, and the resulting picture has a certain softness, and warmth, that I find attractive. Old TVs do a passable job of replicating that. New LCD and plasma units, by contrast, sterilize an image to the point where I expect the screen to start reeking of Lemon Pledge. Plus, if I had a burning desire to see Pauly Shore with any more clarity, I’d just go to his mother’s basement and visit him in person.

But at some point, having one of those clunky boxes in your living room makes it look like a historic re-creation of old-timey living you sometimes see in history musems; all that’s needed to complete the scene is a dusty gramophone and a butter churn next to a mannequin wearing bib overalls. Then there are the technological limitations. Newer TVs are capable of displaying a laptop’s screen through the magic of a simple HDMI connection, which comes in handy for an Internet-dependent cheapskate (read: me) who watches most of their television online. As easy as it is to resist the allure of gadgets – phones in particular have become obnoxious distractions – the prospect of firing up YouTube on a television tantalizes my inner geek, which sounds dirty, but isn’t. Every time I watch a streaming video of a drunk rodeo cowbow mooning a limo filled with prom-bound teenagers, I think, “Now how can I see this man’s butt cheeks on a much larger screen, and in higher fidelity?”

Well, simple. You spend hours of your free time researching prices and screen sizes, measuring various parts of your living space – and then finally snapping, streaking naked through the office with a pair of boxer shorts over your head and screaming out Al Pacino’s soliloquy from “Scent of a Woman.” And if you really want to go crazy, ask people for their opinions; the conflicting advice will create a paradox that tears apart the space-time continuum. “Don’t go with Magnavox, the contrast is terrible!” “Sony? Hey, if you like your colors dull and muddy, go for it!” Seriously, something as basic as a TV should be more... basic. When I bought my old CRT unit, I paid 20 bucks for it and had it delivered by a shirtless asthmatic driving a rusted pickup with Yosemite Sam mudflaps. The whole thing took an hour.

All this amounts to what’s known as a “first-world problem,” which has become a hot buzz phrase with the kiddies. The meaning is straightforward: In a world with no shortage of third-world problems, such as starvation and malnutrition, a first-world problem is a comparatively petty grievance uttered by privileged people in wealthy countries. In other words, I’m being a whiny schmuck. A mere hundred years ago, a guy like me would ride to work in a horse-drawn carriage, pass evenings playing solitaire by the light of a dwindling candle, and then die of scurvy in a straw bed dotted with rat droppings. We take it for granted, but something as simple as an electric lightbulb is a miracle. The crappiest television, colorless and blurry, would have brought Napoleon to his knees.

The ultimate question then becomes: Do I really need a new TV? Will the tech boost really improve my life, or should I be happy with what I have? Over the past decade or so, the overwhelming preponderance of gadgets has made it harder than ever to keep up with the Joneses, highlighting the quandary of whether we should give a rat’s patootie about the Joneses in the first place. While they’re drowning in a screen-lit ocean of malfunctioning gadgets, I’ve resorted to shocking yet satisfying measures, like soaking in sunlight and breathing oxygen.

That makes me a throwback, I know. But that comes with advantages: I’m a throwback with a tan.

Kiss the cook

It took me about an hour to pan-fry a chicken breast on my first ever attempt, which is pretty pathetic when you think about it. Considering how quickly meat cooks when tended to by someone who actually knows what they’re doing, devoting an hour to that simple task is like a Christmas enthusiast carving out a week to decorate the tree. The job gets done, but obviously, someone forgot to read the instruction manual.

Late bloomers are forever playing catch-up with the world. Much as it pains me to admit it, I’m now at an age where supermarket cashiers refer to me as “sir,” and I’m pretty sure I can’t sit down anymore without emitting the long, slow grunt you hear from movie cowboys tweezing buckshot out of their buttocks. Considering that, it stands to reason I’d know how to prepare chicken by now. And I figured it out, but only after a slow process of trial and error, marred by cursing and the kind of smoke one associates with the rubble of a cannon-blasted Civil War fort.

Cooking, man. It’s a pain in the neck.

Cooks and chefs inspire both my admiration and my jealousy. To take pleasure in the act of cooking is a gift that should never be taken for granted – as bizarre as it seems to schlubs like me, who view it as akin to enjoying a donkey kick to the you-know-whats. The people who dislike it do so for their own personal reasons, and in my case, it’s impatience. I don’t want to spend half an hour preparing something, and then ten measly minutes eating it. That ratio of wait time to gratification is okay for amusement park rides, but lemme tell you, eating chicken is no roller coaster. Unless you undercook it, in which case the pang in your gut is about the same.

There’s only so long you can avoid it. Years ago, when I first moved into my own place, I thought I had the problem licked: I’d just eat cereal all the time. In full know-it-all whippersnapper mode, I rationalized this decision by sticking to the cereals that were supposedly “healthy,” like Special K and Raisin Bran. Those cereals are perfectly fine if they’re confined to a single meal, but when you consistently pass these off as dinner, there’s only so long before your mouth starts watering at the sight of chipmunks and small birds. Bodies crave the kinds of nutrients only found in real food, not the fare that comes in boxes decorated with pink dinosaurs riding unicycles.

With a newfound commitment to a little concept called “health,” I knew it was time to start expanding my options. It’s a classic bachelor move to start eating lots of take-out, but it’s difficult to find take-out options that don’t ultimately end in a pair of defibrillator paddles and a backless hospital gown. It also gets ridiculously expensive. A recent visit to a local sandwich shop resulted in soup, some stringy roast beef, and almost 10 fewer dollars in my wallet – money I could have spent doing something worthwhile, like catching a movie, or getting a henna tattoo of a Magic 8 Ball on my head. There are only so many five-dollar footlongs a dude can pound down before he realizes, “Hey! I’d better cook something!”

Plagued by that pesky impatience, it was difficult to find meals that could be prepared quickly; subjected to any drawn-out, time-gobbling meal prep, I’d feel like I was wasting away in a doctor’s office, waiting for a friend while blankly staring at a Highlights magazine. I settled on chicken because it’s relatively hassle-free – compared to, say, carving a marble statue, or building an internal combustion engine from scratch. Simplicity notwithstanding, there were still early attempts that left uncooked swatches of meat in the middle of each bite, increasing both my risk of bacterial poisoning, and palpitations brought on by rage. The last time I got that angry at a dead animal was when a skunk croaked in front of my driveway.

It’s hard deciding whether a propensity for cooking, or the lack thereof, is a product of nature or nurture. Are people just genetically programmed to feel a certain way about it? My mother taught me some rudimentary cooking skills when I was a wee tot, but I was generally unresponsive; mostly, when I think back to those long-ago kitchen sessions, it’s the cookie-baking that stands out in my memory: Mom with her giant bowls of dough, and me watching rapturously with the fevered attention of a dog begging for table scraps. I came away with love handles and a crippling sugar addiction, but no real culinary mastery beyond macaroni and cheese. Sometimes people ask me if I’m related to the famous chef, Emeril Lagasse. No, I tell them, I most assuredly am not.

Hindsight being 20/20, I wish I had paid more attention, because as uninspired as I felt pouring over recipes, it would have come in handy later in life, when the nose-studded sandwich maker at my local sub shop was the guy who basically kept me alive. That chefs actually make their livings preparing food for others inspires my respect, because it speaks to a skill and passion I can’t even fathom. Slowly, I’m making progress, but I’ve miles to go before I reach the promised land.

The next step? Beef tacos. Cows, you’ve been warned.

Dogs with flippers, and other oddities

Chances are you’ve never heard of Mr. Moon.

Which is a shame, because Mr. Moon is a golden god – in the realm of sports mascots, anyway, which is a group as eclectic as the contestants in a Miss America pageant. The difference is that, being a generally higher-I.Q. bunch, the mascots would likely be able to cobble together more coherent proposals for world peace.

The Asheville Tourists, a single-A  baseball team in North Carolina, are lucky enough to call Mr. Moon their own. His head looks more or less the way you would expect it to – it’s a giant moon, of course – with a vaguely creepy sexual predator-type smile, and a blue cap cocked jauntily askew somewhere atop the Sea of Tranquility. That a team called the Tourists boasts a giant moon-headed freak for a mascot doesn’t make a whole lot of sense; the moon has never been a tourist, and if it ever becomes one, then humanity’s days are probably numbered. In that event, you can be assured of three things: Families will embrace each other sorrowfully on their front lawns as they gather to watch the collision; kooky religious groups will drink lots of Kool-Aid while wearing funny hats; and those who would otherwise avoid LSD will ingest it by the pound. I’d join this last group, only because I’ve never had a conversation with a blue-and-yellow garden gnome riding a talking hippopotamus.

This naturally begs the question: Why a moon? Luckily, the answer doesn’t matter. Whatever connection there might be between tourists and moons is irrelevant, because a mascot’s randomness is often the very thing that makes it a giddy pleasure.

Take Wally, for example. If you’ve ever caught a Red Sox game at Fenway, you’ve likely seen this endearing little creature. In Wally’s case, the connection to his team is a little more clear – Fenway Park is known for an outfield wall called the Green Monster, and Wally is, well, a green monster. But when the braintrust over in Soxville sat down to sketch out what Wally would look like, all they had to go by was that nebulous description. Wally could’ve looked like anything. He could have been green with an elephant snout and antennae; he could have been green and looked like a young Larry King. As it turns out, he conjures images of an illicit lovechild between Oscar the Grouch and Pat Sajak. See what I mean? Random.

Of all the major sports, none top baseball when it comes to boasting a wealth of ludicrous characters. Look no further than our own Portland Sea Dogs, a team with brochures and merchandise besmattered with the lovable Slugger, a weird looking fish-dog that could have ruled the seas in any Greek myth. In its most common usage, “sea dog” is a slang term for seaman, and was presumably coined so that middle schoolers could avoid a term that causes uncontrollable giggling during sex-ed flashbacks. In a stroke of artistic reinterpretation pulled from the dreams of hopeless psychiatric patients, the Sea Dogs brass simply took a gray-colored dog and slapped fins on it – thereby birthing a creature that would have given Darwin fits of apoplexy. In statue form, Slugger towers over visitors to Hadlock Field like an angry mutant chasing a terrified throng of black-and-white Japanese people.

This weirdness is a selling point. Every time the Sea Dogs play a home game, the stretches of time between innings – when pitchers warm up their arms, and the sound of palms on buttocks echo throughout the land – are filled with bizarre Slugger antics. In the most common one, a lucky boy or girl from the audience, usually no older than five, is chosen to engage the oddball animal in a  footrace around the diamond; first one back to home plate wins. Invariably, Slugger trips over the third-base bag marking the final stretch, highlighting the evolutionary disadvantages of being a bipedal aquatic mutt. It’s a surreal moment, watching a fish-dog lose a footrace to an uncoordinated toddler. But that’s what makes it so oddly entertaining. For all his offbeat strangeness, Slugger adds a dimension that would otherwise leave us wanting, somehow. He takes the serious business of baseball and makes it silly and self-depracating.

That’s what the best mascots do. Heck, that’s what the worst mascots do. And there are some stinkers out there. Xavier University in Cincinnati is represented by a curious beanbag of a creation called the Blue Blob, which looks like a dinosaur turd wrapped in a frayed Snuggie. Southern Illinois University is home to Saluki, an ancient Egyptian hunting dog, which seems as out-of-place as a Maine black bear in Thailand; and Delta State University in Cleveland features the Fighting Okra. Okra, for the uninitiated, is a flowering plant used in various delicacies. It’s delicious. It’s also a stupid mascot.

But I bet he makes people smile, which is the point. Sports are meant to be a diversion from the seriousness of real life, and these wacky mutant weirdos are a natural extension of that. Part of the fun of building a sports franchise, I would imagine, would be inventing the next great google-eyed misfit. It’s enough to make a guy break out his sketch pad and start working out designs.

Mr. Moon? Meet Mr. Sun.

Grateful bed

Making a bed isn’t the most unpleasant chore in the world. That distinction would probably fall to an odious activity involving a sponge, my hands and knees, and an uncomfortably close proximity to the toilet bowl; it’s always a firm reminder that, no matter how we dress ourselves or assume airs of dignity, we’re still stupendously gross.

So if it came down to a choice of how I wanted to spend my afternoon – making the bed or cleaning the bathroom – bed-making wins every time. Unlike a bathroom’s stark assertion of reality, a bed (if done right) is a pillowy, sweet-smelling fantasyland, helping us forget that, a few thousand years ago, the closest you’d come to a Sealy mattress was a bale of hay that smelled like goats.

Advances in bed technology notwithstanding, society is still overdue for a robot that’ll put sheets on the stupid thing – because of all the chores that exist, from dusting the bookcase to polishing that bronze replica of William Shatner’s original toupee, making a bed from scratch takes way more time than it ought to. A guy working alone to make a queen-sized bed is like someone who’s color blind trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube. It can be done, but only with perseverance, and maybe a handle of bourbon for the headaches.

Now when I say “making the bed,” I’m talking about just after a wash, when you have to re-layer it from the ground up with various sheets and comforters and whatnot. Everyday bed-making, the kind you do in the morning when you get up, is no big deal – especially if you’re a person like me who’s decided to just not do it. If I lived at the zoo, and my bed was in the middle of that faux jungle where the tigers live, then yeah, for the public’s sake, I’d probably make my bed (all the while wondering why the hell I live at the zoo). But my bedroom doesn’t typically draw that kind of an audience, and so I decided long ago that I would merely leave the sheets as-is in the morning. That’s one of those moves you make when you’re a bachelor and want to save some time. It’s the same reasoning that explains why I walk around with the kind of three-day beard growth that makes me look like a Sherpa guiding mountain climbers to base camp.

When you do a wash, though, you’re faced with the inevitable. Carrying a fresh load back to the bedroom embodies such a stark dichotomy of emotion: On the one hand, there is perhaps no smell more heavenly, no bundle more pleasantly warm and inviting, than a pile of freshly-washed bedsheets. On the other hand, knowledge of the impending fiasco transforms the walk back from the dryer into a kind of death march, laden with concerns over how to get the corners just right, and how sheet-wrinkles are the great unspoken scourge of humankind. If only we could sequester that glorious odor from the chore it foreshadows. One of these days I’ll open a business where people can just come in and smell dryer-fresh sheets for five bucks a sniff, then be on their merry ways.

Again, this is mainly a problem if you’re flying solo. The lucky ones are the couples who do chores together; they can dress a bed in about five minutes flat, while cartoon bluebirds perched atop the bedposts sing selections from various Disney movies. It’s a simple thing when there are two. One person grabs one end, one grabs the other, and the next thing you know the deed is done and they’re sacked out on the couch watching “Storage Wars.”

Meanwhile, I’m crouched over my mattress like a feral wolverine, trying desperately to keep the corners of my fitted sheet from popping up. The problem with fitted sheets in particular is that you can never differentiate between the long and the short sides; in a perfect world, the corners of the sheet would be color-coded, with giant arrows pointing the way, and large text that reads, “This part goes under the upper-left-hand corner of the mattress, dufus.” As much as it might sting to be called a dufus by my bedsheets, it would be worth it to avoid what’s currently inevitable: Tucking the wrong corner under the wrong part of the mattress, and then watching it pop back up and curl in on itself about halfway through the ordeal. It’s enough to make a guy go back to goaty hay bales.

And of course, with my severely limited skills in this department, the uppermost sheets are just a smoldering train wreck. Uneven, lumpy; there are oatmeal cookies that have smoother surfaces than my bed on laundry day.

It’s because of hapless dopes like me that they need to invent a bed-making robot, and believe me, I’m the first to complain about the overabundance of gadgets and thingamabobs. Most are unnecessary, like smartphones with apps that show you the proper way to shave superhero insignias onto your dog’s buttocks. But every once in a while, these tech manufacturers get it right. We’ve seen it with those weird-looking automatic vacuuming contraptions, and beds seem like the next logical frontier.

Anything to facilitate a decent-looking setup. My bed may be hidden from the world for now, but it seems wise to plan for the contingency that I do somehow end up in the tiger cage.

Hey, it could happen.

Spaced out

Whenever I hear someone complaining about NASA’s budget, I feel like clobbering them with one of those Marvin the Martian dolls you win at state fairs. And then I don’t, because that would be dumb.

Still, that folks find the space agency overfunded and irrelevant is an irksome fact, particularly if you’re the kind of person that sees a photo of Saturn and starts drooling like a bacon-starved Doberman. Space enthusiasts tend to be a nerdy bunch, and I’m not about to claim exemption from this club; even our relatively small solar system, a mere speck of dust in the galaxy, fills us with a kind of wonder not unfamiliar to small children and drug addicts – perhaps the only two social groups that can stare at a pink nebula for hours without once thinking about work or frilly underthings.

That wonder, by itself, isn’t reason enough to keep the space agency in a decent cash flow. But as it turns out, it doesn’t need to be.

Remember the moon landing? Of course you do. That’s like asking if you remember your first kiss, or the first time you realized Glenn Beck was clinically insane. (I’m not above dated cheap shots.) Even if you weren’t alive in ‘69, you’ve seen that grainy, black-and-white footage of Neil Armstrong taking his first tentative steps. It had an impact beyond just giving Americans license to stick out their tongues and say “neener-neener” to those vodka-swilling commies in the Soviet.

The legacy of the Apollo program was that it inspired young people to pursue careers in science and engineering, which was no small feat considering the myriad distractions of the time, like growing out one’s hair so as to resemble a sasquatch with radiation poisoning. Because we live in a world increasingly populated by technology, having a workforce versed in these fields is almost an economic necessity. Which is a troubling reality, because as it stands now, the science that captivates most young people these days is the science of generating hits on YouTube; while you and I benefit by getting to watch videos of drunken teenagers lighting their farts on fire, few of these geniuses would be able to tell you that the flammable gas in question is methane. (And if these clods knew their geometry, they could get a decent angle going on the lighter.)

I don’t have to tell you about the woefully crappy state of the American educational system. We’re reminded of it all the time. We rank this in math, and that in science, and we stink at reading, and the whole sorry mess sucks cow manure through a straw. We get it. And while there are a lot of systemic flaws that are to blame, and a comprehensive overhaul is obviously overdue, we could at least start by inspiring children to become literate in the fundamental laws of nature and the universe. At its best, that’s what NASA does.

Can I geek out for a minute? Like, massively geek out? I’ve been fascinated, in the last couple of years, by astronomy and physics. Let’s skip over what this implies about my social life – point is, I can’t seem to get enough of this stuff. One of the most mind-blowing things I’ve learned is that a lot of the heavier elements, including the ones that make up our bodies, are actually created on the insides of dying stars. As a star runs out of fuel, it starts losing its battle with gravity; and as gravity crushes it, that pressure starts to “cook” elements like silicon, zinc, carbon, and a bunch of other stuff you find in your morning multivitamin. Then the dying star starts producing iron, and that’s the final nail in the coffin – turns out stars don’t like iron very much. The iron causes the star to explode, spewing all of these newly created elements into the cosmos, and seeding it with raw materials for the next generation of stars, planets, and smarmy game show hosts. Think about that the next time you cook eggs in an iron frying pan.

 Knowledge like that changes the way you see certain things. And it’s information that’s verified, and sometimes discovered outright, by the work of NASA scientists – who, in the course of their research, will often stumble upon the development of new technologies, including laser light therapy procedures that ease the painful side effects of cancer treatments. The cost for all this? According to the Office of Management and Budget, about four-tenths of a penny per tax dollar. Annually, Americans spend thousands of times that amount on Cheetos and rentals of old Police Academy movies.

You know what? Double it. Make it a penny per tax dollar. I’m sure the suggestion would send fiscal conservatives into paroxysms of foamy rage, but hopefully the cooler heads among them – the ones with business backgrounds, perhaps – would be familiar with a concept called return on investment. See, we get something for that money. And I’m not talking about the thrill of seeing a human being step foot on Mars, although that would undoubtedly rank as the coolest event in human history since the invention of the Game Boy.

What we get, my terrestrial friends, is a legion of young adults with a renewed interest in fields that will determine whether the U.S. stays globally competitive. We get a wealth of side technologies that make our lives easier, and in some cases, saves them. But more importantly – at least to us nerdy types – we gain an ever-deeper understanding of the laws governing the cosmos, and the origins of the universe itself. Most of us, to varying degrees, feel that gnawing need to know. Maybe that’s because, on some deep intrinsic level, we see a star or a gas cloud and sense that we’re made of the same stuff; it’s a connection all living things must feel, if they could only tune out the interference. We are the universe. It’s literally in each of us.

Kids and teens, facing an ailing educational system, deserve to know that. In the long run, we can fix what’s broken in a series of small steps. In the short run, we need something more dramatic.

Like, say, a giant leap.

Working out the Bugs

All right. So I have to drag a friend into this with me.

As always, names will be changed to protect the not-so-innocent. Let’s call her “Mania,” after the Greek goddess that, in myth, helped rule the underworld and personified insanity. Usually I choose an appellation far more benign, but in this case, Mania’s transgression is so grievous, so heinous and villainous and other words that end in -ous, that I had to give her the nastiest moniker possible without outright cursing.

The crime? Talking smack about Bugs Bunny.

The brazenness! The unmitigated gall! Obviously, Mania is out of her gourde.

Now, if you follow my babblings closely – you glutton for weirdness, you – you’ll notice that I’m something of a man-child. In most outward appearances, I seem to be a man. I shave, I pay bills, and I grunt my approval when I bite into a particularly delicious slice of pie. Those are pretty much the prerequisites for admittance into the club, aside from a willingness to scratch one’s self at inappropriate times, like when you’re a groomsman standing at the altar and your buddy’s making his vows. I still owe the wedding photographer a nice steak dinner for that one.

But beneath the veneer of adulthood there lurks the heart of an adolescent. A childish, childish adolescent. This is what happens when you have a hard time letting go of certain things, like Spaghetti O’s and the Ninja Turtles. Although, to be fair, both of those things are extremely awesome.

I consider myself something of a Looney Tunes aficionado, which is like being a wine aficionado, only it results in way fewer second dates. Bugs was always the man, the Michael Jordan of cartoon rabbits. He was, admittedly, kind of a schmuck, but if you’re a cartoon character or a U.S. Senator, schmuckiness is actually an asset. What you want, in any well-constructed seven-minute cartoon, is a troublemaker, someone who can get the ball rolling without a whole lot of preamble. This isn’t King Lear in three acts; this is a pie in the face, a wabbit hunt, and then some kind of comical explosion, all in the time it takes to make a blueberry waffle. That requires an instigator. And, for the creators, probably a lot of beer.

Bugs is the perfect catalyst, because everything he does is for his own amusement. Again, that plays to the whole putz factor, but there’s something admirable about it, too; it gives him a laissez-faire comportment that I think most of us wish we had, to an extent. Not that we actively want to be jerks, necessarily – we can’t all be Tom Cruise. (Oh, snap! Dated reference!) But there’s something attractive about passive confidence, the ability to be an unimpassioned observer to someone else’s farcical follies. It’s possible I’ve given this way too much thought.

Who else, in the Looney Tunes universe, has that Bond-like smirk and swagger? Certainly not Porky Pig. If Mania wanted to rip into a cartoon character, she should have chosen this timid, pantsless priss. Porky’s claim to fame, of course, is the endearing stutter, which I’ll admit is kind of cute. But you don’t base an entire body of work on a single personality quirk, unless you’re Ray Romano, in which case you make your living being slightly dopey. The trouble with Porky is that he’s just too nice. I didn’t tune into The Bugs Bunny & Tweety Show on Saturday mornings to watch a stuttering pig being polite. Maybe that would fly in Canada, oinker, but this is ‘merica. We require a little rudeness from our cartoons.

Years ago, in college, a friend of mine gave me grief for preferring Bugs over characters like Wile E. Coyote and Daffy Duck, who apparently have more street cred, like they’re underground rappers or something. The argument was that Bugs is a figurehead, a mascot of sorts, and is therefore bland and lame. But I can prove he’s not; because if Bugs were real, and caught wind of this silly college boy’s disparaging remarks, he’d burrow a tunnel to Maine (taking an ever-important left turn at Albuquerque), light a firecracker under that wabbit-hater’s butt, and watch as he’s launched into the stratosphere, yelping like a ticklish yodeler. Then he’d munch on a carrot and have Anti-Bugs Boy’s girlfriend fan him with palm fronds. If that isn’t hard scientific proof of Bugs’ greatness, then may an Acme anvil squash me into a human accordion.

Clearly I need to find more important things to get bent out of shape about.

As trivial as this disagreement is, though, I’m caught up in a powerful compulsion to convince Mania of the wabbit’s worthiness. This means one of two things: Either I’m overly defensive of my childhood interests, or I’m dangerously close to going off the rails and doing cartwheels down Main Street while wearing a fairy costume and whistling “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” Those of you playing our home game can start making bets.

Mania, I implore you to re-think your position – consider this your open letter. The rest of you have been witness to a light-hearted dispute, whose resolution is hopefully near. So let’s break it up, people; nothing more to see here.

That’s all, folks.

Way down south

It was at a Waffle House in North Carolina when I realized the South is a foreign country.

Now, lest the Dixies among you feel like chucking boiled peanuts at my head, I should note that I don’t say this disparagingly. It was actually an endearing dose of Southern hospitality that threw the region’s relative strangeness into stark relief; most service industries in the North are dripping with the kind of weary cynicism that could kill a litter of kittens on impact. Beyond the Mason-Dixon line, not so much.

A friend of mine who lives in Asheville insisted I make a stop at the iconic breakfast eatery, since it’s a deeply-embedded Southern institution, like peach pie and racism. Our server, Scott, had an accent dripping in drawl, such that I envision his abode awash in the smell of pig farts.

“Welcome to the Waaaaafle Hooouuuuuse,” said Scott, placing our menus before us. “Tell all your friends: Best foooood, best serrrrrver!”

Any Northerner who’s plopped into a booth at an analogous eatery knows how starkly different this interaction is from the typical Yankee greeting: “Welcome to Joe’s Grease Pit. Whatya want?”
It was my first intimation that I had ventured into a vastly different land, one of cheeriness and aw-shucks affability. This isn’t news to some, and on some level, I guess I should have been expecting it; whether Southern friendliness is a cliché or not, it’s a trait they seem to have gladly adopted as their identity. I promptly ordered a dish involving grits, partly to do in Rome as the Romans do, and partly because it seemed wise to vary my food intake from the usual diet of Raisin Bran and Pabst Blue Ribbon.

On that first creamy bite, I knew the trip was a good move.

And really, any kind of trip is a good idea, if we can finagle it. This is the part where I spout off a bunch of trite bromides about expanding vistas and broadening horizons, which, while sickening, are absolutely true; sometimes the only way we gain a cohesive view of the world is by getting the heck out of Dodge and seeing it for ourselves. How else would I have discovered that North Carolina is home to a tiny town called Bat Cave? For a guy who grew up reading Batman comics, visiting an actual place called Bat Cave ranks up there as one of life’s more bizarrely cool experiences. It’s like a history buff visiting the birthplace of Jefferson, only Jefferson never roundhouse-kicked The Riddler in his solar plexus.

At this point, I had already visited Florida on several occasions, mostly to see family, who long ago decided there weren’t enough hurricanes and Disney characters in their lives. But as interesting as those experiences were, Florida doesn’t really qualify as the South. Crammed to its sandbars with cold-weather refugees, Florida is a Northern state that took a vacation to Georgia once and then just stayed there. It’s an odd mix of young Latinos and old white people from Connecticut, which doesn’t exactly constitute an accurate cross-section of Southern culture; it’s more like a reality show in which disparate groups are forced to live together in a tiny house so the home audience can make bets on which faction snaps the soonest.

The little town of Bat Cave, by contrast, was a mircocosm of all that I had hoped to see. Driving through it on our way back from a state park, a friend and I noticed a man sitting on the front porch of a lonely house by the side of the road, sandwiched someplace between East and West Nowhere. Flanked by a prominently-placed Conferedate flag (of course), the man was hunched over in his rocking chair, busily re-stringing a rustic-looking banjo. On his front lawn, placed by the side of the road, was a large sign proclaiming, “Meet Jim, the original North Carolina hillbilly! Have your picture taken!” Legend has it, said my friend, that Jim the Hillbilly spends all of his waking hours on that very porch, engaged in various Southern-type activities, which I took to mean pastimes involving shotguns and tobacco. Sure enough, as we made a second pass to get a glimpse of this living tourist attraction, Hillbilly Jim flashed a tooth-bereft smile at us, and filled his mouth with a wad of dip that could have patched a hole in the International Space Station. It was kind of awesome, unless you were his lone incisor, in which case it was the equivalent of getting your face pounded by a mafia thug with lardy beef hands.

We toil to fill our vacations with grand, sweeping crescendos, but it’s oftentimes those smaller happenings that make a trip worth it; glimpses of lives lived elsewhere, of micro moments in a macro world. Somehow, in the midst of a whirlwind week, I found what I was looking for in the seemingly insignificant (and admittedly gross) personage of Hillbilly Jim, in the charm of a restaurant server, and in a ridiculous amount of peach pie, which made me walk like a man who just sat the wrong way on a fence post.

A stranger in a foreign land, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever be there again, or what moments may await.

Tell you what, though: My first stop’ll be at a Waffle House.

Pat-down party

TSA stole my shaving cream.

Maybe that elicits chuckles from the more travel-tested veterans of the airways, and maybe I deserve it. I was, after all, foolishly trying to sneak a canister of Edge Pro Gel onto my flight, which violates the first rule of air travel: No fluids, no almost-fluids, and nothing that hangs out with fluids on the playground. Fluids are a bad influence. That’s why coffee beans are such shiftless punks.

It was something I tossed into my suitcase without thinking, and I’ll take credit for the mental lapse; the list if items you can take on a plane has been whittled down to pillowcases and those foam bats they give to anger management patients. That makes it difficult to condense your life into a collection of appropriate travel items, since even the most innocuous products can be used to cause a terrorist-related kerfuffle. You never know when an al Quaida operative will hijack a plane and start shaving everyone.

Oh, I’m sure that shaving cream components can be used to make some sort of bomb or something. That’s why I didn’t complain when the TSA dude came over and told me that I should either check my carry-on bag (for an additional 30 clams, of course), or just chuck the shaving cream and bring the bag on board. Since waiting around at a luggage carousel is an experience about as gratifying as picking the spinach from one’s teeth, I took the hit and tossed the Edge. But I noticed something interesting about the TSA screener guy: As he was giving me my options, he had an almost apologetic look on his face, and a resigned tone of voice, as if what he was really saying was, “Look, I know this is silly. I can see my reflection in your head, so it’s obvious you plan on using the shaving cream for its intended purpose. But this is my job. So just toss the cream and we can go on with our day. Plus, I’m jealous of your muscles.” I may have been imagining that last part.

It was a minor hiccup in an otherwise smooth security screening, but it still underscores the level of paranoia that permeates the process. In addition to prohibiting liquids, kitchen utensils, Pokemon dolls and life-sized busts of Richard Nixon, they also make you remove a great deal more clothing than I’m strictly comfortable with. The list is currently confined to belts and shoes, but both of these items are necessary components in the precarious smoke-and-mirror show that barely conceals my scrubbiness.

I can almost understand the hubbub over shoes – would-be terrorists have been caught trying to sneak bomb components in their Reeboks before, and they’re a natural place of concealment for shameful items, like membership cards to the Pauly Shore Fan Club. Belts, however, are another story. If anyone wanted to bring a knife or a gun on board an airplane, a belt would be about the worst means of conveyance possible; it would require the kind of high-tech utility belt favored by Harlem cops and Batman. The focus on belts takes attention away from far more likely hiding places, almost all of which are hilarious noise-making bodily orifices.

It’s tough knowing how to feel about these screenings. When they were first implemented after the 9/11 attacks, everyone started quoting Benjamin Franklin, the founding father whose head most closely resembles a sock puppet. “They that can give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety,” said Franklin, right before electrocuting himself with his kite. It’s an elegant turn of phrase, and has the ring of truth; but whether that truth is as relevant today as it was in the 1700s is debatable – especially considering that, in Franklin’s day, the very idea of passenger airlplanes would have been a preposterous fantasy. Americans are quick to credit the founders as having an infallible, clairvoyant wisdom, but they were prone to err as is any other human being. The safety purchased by the screenings is only as temporary as the airline industry itself; and for all this talk of rights, a curious few defend the right to visit Aunt Ester in Soux Falls without meeting a violent death. That doesn’t mean it makes sense to ban shaving cream and oggle belts, necessarily, but they’re precautions that should be judged on their own merits, not uniformly disparaged as an affront to liberty.

Here’s a hot tip, though, for any travelers: Don’t wear loose pants.

That was a lesson I learned the hard way. Because I have the fashion sense of a third-world refugee, I still wear pants that were a snugger fit in my heavier days. So when the screener people in Charlotte told me to remove my belt and raise my hands in the air, I naturally felt that bad things would ensue. It’s one thing to tell people you wear sky-blue underwear; it’s quite another to show them.

Luckily, the guy on pat-down duty showed me some much-needed mercy. As my cargo shorts slowly started their shameful journey south, the gentleman stopped them, and said to me, smiling, “You can hold these up, you know.” An act of ocular self-preservation on his part, I’m sure, but a gesture I nevertheless appreciated.

It’s a credit to good fortune that they don’t confiscate our belts outright. With loose pants and no shaving cream, I’d have spent my whole vacation as a stubbly, pantsless malcontent, scratching my beard with one hand and blocking the view with the other – a victim of airline security, doomed to ponder the price of freedom.

Cereal killer

In the entire supermarket, there is no aisle more wondrous, more whimsical and magical, than the cereal aisle.

That fantastical corridor, brimming with smiling chocolate vampires and mischievous rabbits, has actually resuscitated some of my crabbier moods. When I die, there would be a thousand worse fates than to have my ashes sprinkled somewhere between a box of Fruity Pebbles and those wheat squares stuffed with fake fruit goo.

From time to time, I’ve been known to rail against the evils of processed foods, which generally possess all the chemical integrity of a beaker filled with anthrax. Cereal’s really no different, when you break it down. Even the healthier brands, the ones supposedly made with bran and wheat and the sweat of angels, are loaded with the kinds of additives that ancient Egyptians used to mummify their pharaohs. And thank goodness for that, because if you’ve ever had a spoonful of the “natural” fare that’s made without high-fructose corn syrup, then you know what it’s like to eat a cardboard box wrapped in an old pair of sweatpants.

So sure, I feel a bit hypocritical. But that’s only because I’m a hypocrite.

In all of my newfound efforts to adopt a more natural diet, exceptions are routinely made for Raisin Bran and Rice Krispies, Cheerios and Cocoa Puffs. At their best, they contain a sprinkling of healthful ingredients, buried under an avalanche of synthetic muck that makes Mother Nature weep into her cabbage patch; stuff like lecithin, which could be the name of an evil wizard in a series of fantasy novels, and tripotassium phosphate, which sounds like it could power a jet engine. At their worst, they could eat a hole through a cinderblock on a hot day.

And yet there I am, week after week, standing in that glorious aisle and grinning like a dunce at cartoon bears and elves. There’s something about a pantry stocked with silly cereals that allows one to retain a sense of childhood amidst the worries and responsibilities of adulthood; it’s hard to be concerned about the electric bill when you’re mowing down on little puffs shaped like rocketships, or guiding Tucan Sam through a maze on the back of a box of Fruit Loops.

Even the crummy cereals are redemptive in their way. When I was a kid, the video game giant Nintendo got into the cereal business (an odd pivot to be sure), and introduced a variety in which half the box was filled with pieces that looked vaguely like Super Mario Bros. characters, and the other half with the Legend of Zelda. As far as actual food went, it was pretty bad. Basically a low-rent Lucky Charms, a medium-sized bowl of it would coat your mouth in a film of wax so formidable, it would ensure that your teeth and tongue could survive a nuclear bomb explosion. Since it was mostly sugar, anything greater than the suggested serving amount could blur one’s vision, which I’m pretty sure doesn’t happen when you start your day with a glass of orange juice and half a grapefruit. I can’t even count the number of times I cheated death by pouring a bowl of that uninspired science experiment.

But I’d keep begging for it. Because as terrible as it was, it tickled my imagination. Cereal 1, oatmeal 0. That’s the magic of it, I think: Each variety is a unique concoction, a creative and original work of art. Sure, the creators are men and women in labcoats, trying to find just the right blend of petri dish detritus to get us addicted to nutritionless junk; sure, the artists are painting with preservatives that could fossilize a badger. Take a look, though, at other processed foods. You don’t get overtaken by whimsy staring at a Lean Cuisine. You don’t stand in front of a freezer filled with pre-made pizzas and feel like you’ve just stepped onto a ride at Universal Studios. If you do, then it may be time to review your whiskey intake.

So many varieties, each with the tantalizing promise of a gleeful dopamine blast. In an ongoing effort to trick myself into thinking I’m eating a food more nutritious than cake, I tend to gravitate toward the cereals with nuts and dried fruits; it probably takes a box and a half to ingest the same vitamins and minerals found in a single wedge of orange, but doing the math would destroy my fragile fantasy. Better to think I’m doing good by my vital organs, instead of armoring them under a scrim of toxic waste.

Every once in a while, though, the mental gymnast in me finds an excuse to indulge in the super-sweet, ridiculous sludge that honors the memory of that now-defunct Nintendo cereal. And really, as indulgences go, a sweet cereal isn’t that bad. There are worse things I could be doing to my body, like dousing it in lighter fluid and doing long-jumps over a campfire.

I talk the talk, but I don’t walk the walk. I’m the first to shake my head judgmentally at the prevalence of boxed meals and synthetic foodstuffs; I’m also the first to grab a box splattered with primary colors and sporting a frog wearing a baseball cap. Maybe it’s an addiction. I wouldn’t rule it out.

I mean, have you ever had Cinnamon Toast Crunch? It’s the stuff dreams are made of.

Battle royale

We really shouldn’t care.

There’s a faction that thinks we should. In the past few weeks they’ve taken to the airwaves, print and the Internet with the breathless excitement of a small child racing to tell his parents about the frog he caught in a mason jar. The difference is that a kid catching a frog, quaint and ultimately inconsequential as it is, has the benefit of being somewhat interesting. Especially if you’re the frog, which you’re probably not, since frogs can’t read.

But a baby? Well, those are born every day.

In all due respect to William and Kate, I don’t mean to suggest that the birth of a human being is a trivial event. Heck, I was born once. I suspect most of us were. I rather like that I was born, since in the intervening years I’ve had the opportunity to ride a camel, go to Disney World, and master “Yankee Doodle Dandy” on a plastic kazoo, none of which would have been possible if my parents hadn’t split a six-pack one cold December evening and thrown caution to the wind. Things haven’t all been roses – I’ve had the unfortunate experience of seeing Justin Bieber pee into a mop bucket (thanks, YouTube!) – but all things considered, my birth was one of the most important events of my life, second only to the time I broke a personal record by stuffing half a bag of marshmallows into my mouth. College, am I right? Good times.

So yes, the birth of the royal baby (which I refuse to capitalize) is a happy event, in the sense that it’s always a happy event when a baby is born healthy, and without that freakish sixth finger that makes it difficult to find a practical set of gloves. It’s nice to think of the young couple contentedly doting on the rosy-cheeked little tyke, especially since, while they do it, I’m thousands of miles away, safely buffered from the scent of the royal poop.

Just don’t ask me to don a party hat and celebrate. We are, after all, talking about one of thousands of babies who are born every day, none of whom are likely to enjoy the international attention received by the brand-new Brit. At this point, the only child likely to garner such media coverage is whichever one emerges from the womb scratching a tiny goatee and postulating solutions to the world’s energy crisis. And, unlike the heir to the throne, Goatee Boy will have done something to deserve it.

“But wait!” you say. “The royal family is a treasure, and this birth is a monumental event!”

 To which I respond: “Bollocks!”

Before I rip into the British for worshipping a family that’s done nothing to earn its wealth, I should note that we do the exact same thing in this country – and I’m not talking about the baby fever of the past few weeks. In the United States, we obsess over reality “stars” that essentially contribute bupkis to society, save for crappy TV shows that serve as nothing more than placeholders for Sham-Wow commercials. These celebrities – a term I use loosely – make oodles of money for the sole act of inviting cameras into their homes, shamelessly stimulating our voyeuristic impulses and acting all the while like their newfound fame is a birthright. They’re the winners of a warped karmic lottery, but by the viewing public’s own consent, see themselves not as lucky, but entitled; benefactors of their own perceived awesomeness. They think they’re royalty, and who can blame them? We do nothing to convince them otherwise.

In all fairness to the royal family, there’s a pretty wide gulf between them and Honey Boo Boo. They host charitable events, hold meetings with foreign dignitaries, and draw tourists to the British isles, which is a considerably larger contribution to their country’s economy than simply hawking laundry detergent and nose-wrinkling body spray. Although I’d love to see Prince William in a Snuggie commercial, sipping wine and twirling his feet around in a pair of Cookie Monster slippers.

But is all that worth the expense? I’ve been doing a little digging. I hesitate to use as strong a word as “research,” since that implies things like effort, and giving a hoot. But by snooping around, I turned up a recent article by Olga Khazan, global editor for The Atlantic, which estimates the cost of subsidizing the royal family at about $51 million annually – before factoring in things such as security detail, and the cost of preparing for royal visits. That swells the price tag to something in the vicinity of $307 million, according to Khazan. It’s a hefty price to pay for British citizens, and all for the privilege of watching the Queen wave to a crowd from a parade float shaped like an anthropomorphic teapot.

At least we don’t pay a tax to watch Honey Boo Boo. Imagine if we did. I picture legions of anti-tax patriots, clad in frilly petticoats, chucking televisions into Boston Harbor.

I get that it’s a tradition, this royal nonsense. But so was witch-burning, slavery, and dropping acid at Phish concerts, none of which did a damn bit of good for anyone. (Well, aside from making Phish tolerable.) The royal family isn’t an inherently evil or immoral institution, but it is outdated. Shame it can’t be dissolved with the ease of an antacid tablet.

I wish young Prince George a healthy and happy life. Beyond that, I simply can’t muster the strength to care.