I want that
This is my first new, live post since being chosen by Chuck Westbrook as his new featured blogger. The notion of finally being featured by anyone besides the FBI (don’t get me started) is pretty damn cool. So welcome to all of you.
Also, on a not totally unrelated topic, this featureship (I know it’s not a word) has inspired me to finally pursue a totally worthless goal. I’m on a mission to get 10,000 TWITTER FOLLOWERS! Please spread the word. Your help is greatly needed!
JT
——————-
This past Saturday, I was third in a line of cars that slowed to the point of near stopping to allow something to make its way across the road. It was a chicken.
I looked at my wife once we were past. “I really, really want to go back there and ask that chicken why she did it,” I said.
Now, if you listen to most people, they’ll tell you that the chicken crossed the road to get to the other side. I like to think that there’s a higher purpose there: The chicken had to buy stamps, the chicken left her purse at a friend’s house, the chicken works for a rooster pimp who had just sent her out on a cross-road job. But I’m just going to say this now and let it stand as what it is: I have never, to this day, been beaten in any intellectual game by a chicken. Not chess, not backgammon, not Trivial Pursuit. And it’s not like I’m good at any of those games, either.
So I’m forced to conclude that there may not be much going on under the hood with chickens. They cross the road to get to the other side. And because the better-equipped human on the road in his ton of steel isn’t always considerate enough to yield, the truth is that they really shouldn’t be going anywhere without a crossing guard because they don’t even look both ways.
You almost have to appreciate the Zen: Cross the road because it’s there. My son operates under a similar Zen philosophy. Why does he want Tech Deck Dude for Christmas? Because it’s there.
Literally because it has been placed in front of his eyes.
I usually start working around 6am every morning. Around 7am, my son Austin wakes up, lies on the couch, and watches SpongeBob SquarePants. I resist the urge to do the same. I work for another hour before breakfast, with my office door open so that I can hear the cartoons.
And every 15 minutes, I hear a commercial come on. And I hear Austin say, “I want that.”
Until you’re a parent, it doesn’t dawn on you just how sinister advertising and marketing really are. Kids have no mental governance. They stick straws up their nose and draw on the baseboards. It’s like dealing with the mentally challenged. And most of us, as parents, will stick these half-wits in front of a box that tells them to want things. It’s incredibly irresponsible. Not because they’re watching TV, but because it costs us a lot of money.
A commercial for Air Hogs comes on. I hear, “I want that.”
Now, I’m actually kind of a spiritual person despite my jackassy exterior. I believe in universal abundance and the Law of Attraction. So I don’t want to tell him that he can’t have it or that it costs too much. So I say, “Um, okay.” Acknowledging his want while slyly avoiding committing to buying it for him.
Then an ad for Mickey’s Club House: “I want that.”
“Um, okay.”
A pause, then a small codicil: “It’s available in the game aisle.”
I read somewhere that kids represent a huge force in decisions about where families go out to eat dinner. That’s why you see colorful kids’ meals, toys, and awkward teenagers walking around with long balloons and a savant-like skill at tying them into shapes. Applebee’s gives the kids helium balloons. They spend a cent on latex and suddenly we’re eating half of our meals out there because Austin wants a balloon. Suddenly McDonald’s PlayPlace makes sense. And Happy Meals. And Joe Camel. Kids don’t want to smoke a brand for women who have come a long way, baby. They want a brand supported by a cool camel.
Yesterday morning, as I was working and he was watching, I personally received a summons.
“Dad, do you want that?”
I looked up from the vital task of Twittering. “What?”
“You need to come out and look.”
So I got up. Walked to my office door.
On the TV was the bearded face of Billy Mays, who I still haven’t forgiven for selling me Oxy Clean. That shit DOES NOT DO WHAT HE PROMISED. I know because as soon as I received mine, I took a rag and soiled it with ketchup. I then mixed up the Oxy Clean as directed and sprayed it on the rag. NOTHING FUCKING HAPPENED. That’s right, nothing. It was as if I had sprayed it with a mild detergent after being conned by a douchebag with a beard. Look, I’m not retarded. I know that commercials exaggerate. But they’re not allowed to outright LIE, and that asshole showed stains vanishing after a light rinse.
This time, the camera cut from Billy’s face to a teflon contraption containing four burgers, each one in a shallow well much like an egg poacher. Then I see a pile of what look like White Castle burgers.
“What are they selling? Burgers?”
“No, it’s… it’s the thing that makes the burgers.” The camera pans up to show Billy gesticulating like he’s having a seizure. Good. Then we see the teflon thing again, and Austin points and says, “See? THAT.”
“Oh.”
He’s got his thumb in his mouth, still half asleep on the couch in his pajamas. Easy like Sunday morning.
“It’s NOT a grill,” he says.
“Hmm.”
“And it’s ready in TWO MINUTES.”
“Wow. What’s that thing called?”
Without missing a beat, mumbling around his thumb: “Slider Station.”
You put anything in front of these kids and they get excited. People ask me what Austin wants for Christmas. I tell them to watch an episode of SpongeBob and buy literally anything non-girly that they see during the commercial breaks. Which, apparently, includes Billy Mays’ Slider Station.
I’ve decided, as my tenure in parenthood progresses, that it’s best to think of kids as having a funnel going directly into their brain. No filter. All the shit you toss into the top of the thing goes right in. If you see Tech Deck Dude, you want Tech Deck Dude. Good thing they’re not allowed to advertise hookers and heroin — or at least, not in America.
Why does he want it? Because it’s there. Just like that damn chicken.
Maybe I’m wrong about the chicken. Maybe she was off to play Mah Jong. Maybe she was late for a Hillary Clinton rally. Maybe she worked at an HR consultancy a few blocks over. I don’t know the area well enough; there may be one.
So really, I should have checked. I should have stopped and asked. But you get lazy, and the next thing you know, you’re buying Air Hogs for $34.99 and you already know you’re going to want to swat the fucking thing out of the sky the minute it starts buzzing. And you know the dogs are going to absolutely lose it.
Stupid chicken. Ugh.
Lame: The new cool
My last post about how I’m out, loud, and proud as a nerd brought my biggest response to date, which tells me two things. First, it tells me that all of you are also pathetic geeks or proud geeks (which, let’s face it, is pathetic). And second, it tells me that people enjoy it when I admit to being lame.
Why? Because it validates them in being lame, too. It lets people know that they’re not alone, that they are not the only person doing stupid shit. It allows people to unburden their souls and admit to watching Star Trek marathons or to having liked the Spice Girls. You start to realize: I’m not the only person who dances alone to Devo.
Look. Everyone does lame things, but everyone paradoxically tries to be cool and suppresses their lameness in order to project an aura of coolness. But because we’re all lame, what’s lame is really cool and what’s cool is really lame and it’s all just a big shell game.
Yeah.
Think about it for a second: Doing lame stuff makes you cool. Being willing to admit it makes you brave. And everyone loves the brave lame cool guy or gal. Tell people your lamenesses and they’ll scoff, but secretly they’ll be crapping their pants over how cool you are.
So.
The other day I’m at the bookstore, sitting in one of those big comfortable chairs and drinking a latte and reading. And the book I’m reading is Twilight. In case you’ve been living under a rock (I’m looking at you, Patrick Star), the Twilight series is Dawson’s Creek with vampires. The target market is 17-year-old girls. And I know this because as I was reading it, two 17-year-old girls walked by and laughed at me.
I turned to my wife, Robin.
“Is it totally lame for me to be reading this?” I asked her.
She didn’t look up from her magazine. “Almost four o’ clock,” she said.
I’m so cool that my wife doesn’t even pay attention to me. I’m that off-the-charts cool with my comfortable chair and teen fiction and knowledge of calculus that she can’t even relate. I’m so cool that I can’t be in a new environment for two days before my digestive system malfunctions and I get all uncomfortable and gassy. My mom says, “You’re like an old man.” Yeah, I’m that cool.
I’ve read the entire Harry Potter series several times through.
I’d rather stay in than go out, almost without exception.
I get really excited at the prospect of having a new computer.
And… okay, deep breath on the next one.
I watched Sex and the City from beginning to end. And I liked it. And my wife and I went to see the movie. And I liked it. I was literally the only man in the theater. But I have this theory that being willing to admit you like unmanly things actually makes you more manly. Makes chicks dig you more, because you’re sensitive.
So yeah, that’s right. I know that Carrie chose Mr. Big and that in the end, Miranda married Steve. You got a problem with that? Talk to my cool counselor. He’s four, and we have the exact same taste in everything, including SpongeBob SquarePants. And he didn’t introduce me to SpongeBob; I’ve been watching for seven years. Do the math.
So right about now, some of you are wondering what you’ve gotten yourselves into. I thought Johnny was cool, you’re thinking. But that’s your old paradigm. Lame is the new cool. Johnny is cool, but cool isn’t what it used to be.
And if you’re still bothered by my particular breed of new-cool, just keep in mind that most of you know me from forums and Twitter. Since you were there too, and since you’re reading a blog right now, how old-style-cool can you really be? Go to the local high school and ask the football quarterback how many blogs he reads. If he takes a break from having sex with cheerleaders long enough to answer, I’d be willing to bet the answer is less than one.
Admit your lameness and embrace it as your coolness. It’s liberating. The popular kids in high school had their moment, but they peaked and then went downhill. If you never peak, you can never decline, which is exactly why I like punk rock. Not supporting “what’s in” or even “what’s normal” makes you cool-recession-proof. It makes you forever awesome.
And the people who would scoff at your admissions of lameness? They probably already think you’re uncool. Chances are you’re at saturation with them, unable to appear any less cool.
It’s like Mitch Hedburg said about his idea to make EZ Cheez fluorescent: “If you’re willing to eat room-temperature cheese that comes out of a can, you’re probably not going to be mad that it glows in the dark.”
Embrace your lameness, my lame-cool non-IRL friends. It will set you free. Do it now, as part of my…
… wait for it…
SUPER NERD-OFF!
Post your lamenesses to the comments if you want to admit it and see if you can become super-cool. Then tell your friends, and pass them the link to this post. Encourage them to become cool, to try to out-cool you.
The coolest lame story wins a free signed copy of my book, to be decided in one week. Chuck, remind me because I’m so cool I’ll forget.
Note: We’re looking for lame-cool, not lame-creepy. Admitting to obsessing over Hello Kitty cartoons is pushing it.
Now go, nerds. Go!
Nerdvana
Now, I want to be careful to take personal responsibility in my life, and not to unduly blame something outside of me for any of the woes I’ve encountered. But with that said, I’m pretty sure that technology is entirely responsible for my past failures with women and my lack of a social life.
And to drive this point home, the other day it dawned on me that I no longer have any friends.
This was a shock, because “having friends” is something that everyone takes for granted. Which is really insidious, because taking-for-granted means you’d never think to ask yourself, “Do I have any friends?” in the same way most mothers wouldn’t think to remind their husbands, “Don’t give the baby any Kahlua.” You don’t get up in the morning and wonder if an invisible alien saucer is over your house, or if a hot dog has replaced your Achilles tendon.
And so you go through life assuming your tendons are not hot dogs, that the skies are free of saucer people, and that the baby is not drunk. And that you have at least some friends.
“I don’t have any friends,” I told my wife Robin one day over dinner.
“Yes you do,” she told me. “They just don’t exist.”
Oh.
Oh, that.
Literally speaking, this is untrue. My friends do exist, but they’re still not IRL friends. And if you were easily able to understand that last sentence, then congratulations… I welcome you to the world of the friendless. You. Lame. Nerd.
My last post was about how Christmas is gay (and the other day, I found myself donning now my gay apparel and it made me want to want to watch Judy Garland movies), and re-reading that post took me back to a conversation I had had with my gay buddy Nick. I’m not black. I’m not Hispanic. I’m not gay, and I’m not a woman. I’m not Jewish, Muslim, or part of a goat-sacrificing cult. I’m not old and I’m not young. I am smack dab in the middle of what passes for normal in this country, and that means I’ve lived an unassailed life. I told Nick that I could try all I wanted to understand what it’s like to have people insult and harass you based solely on your apparently incorrect choice of beard over boobs or vice versa, but that I would never be able to truly get it.
“What’s it like to be called a fag?” I asked. “Is it like if people called me a… a honkey?”
But even then I couldn’t stop giggling as I said it because honkey is a funny word. And slurs aren’t supposed to be funny — they’re supposed to be hurtful. So I knew I wasn’t getting it.
“Oh, Johnny,” said Nick. “You don’t think you’re a minority, but you are. Think about it. You’re a huge nerd.”
And because I am not actually very huge, I knew he intended “huge” to modify “nerd” and not “you.”
“Are you thinking about grammar?” he said. “You are, aren’t you?”
Hell.
It all came down upon me in a rush. I’ve blogged about grammar before. I’ve corrected people on grammar before. I’ve laughed about how a certain sentence’s structure was funny before. Can you believe they put quotes around “do not”? I’d say. And then I’d laugh, and nobody would understand why.
And the technology. Oh, the technology.
The non-IRL friends I was referring to are non- “In Real Life” friends, which means they’re Internet friends and, naturally, would understand that lame-ass way of saying it. And yes, I have Internet friends. A lot of them, actually, and I talk to them constantly. I used to burn my days on the Men’s Health forums, and then we pulled an online coup and started our own forum at Training Anarchy. I joined Twitter, started exploring the blogosphere, and met Chuck Westbrook. Then I met Havi and her yellow assistant. Then Mak0shark. DocHobbes. Jen Louden. Mad Asthmatic. Just this morning I emailed with Jenny the Bloggess and got some praise, and I’m all giddy about it because her writing is so funny that it quite literally makes me shit peachpits.
The vast majority of IRL friends I do have are far away, back in Toledo and Columbus. And let’s face it: they’re geeks too.
“Dude,” I’ll say to my friend Paul, “remember when you were a sysop on that old BBS with that guy back when you had that ‘fast’ modem and it was only 2400 baud and you had a 20 MB hard drive and we thought it was so awesome, and we were at that sysop’s BBS party watching Darkman and someone rang the doorbell of his apartment right when that guy stuck his finger in Darkman’s chest?”
“Ha,” he’ll laugh. “That was so prior to the advent of flash memory.”
I’ll remind him about the stunning ANSI graphics of Global War and Pimpwars, reminisce about the days of 5.25″ floppies and the debut of SVGA, and think fondly about how we used to write computer programs in BASIC that caused the Apple II’s in the school’s computer lab to flash “Water on disk.” And I actually wondered why I didn’t go on a second date until I was 19.
Today, all of my stories revolve around people who may in fact turn out to be 90 year-old Lithuanian midgets living in the basements of illegal zoos.
“I know this guy who gave both of his kids Mohawks,” I’ll tell Robin after a haircut discussion.
“Who?”
And then I have to admit: “TheGreatOne.”
And recently, I find myself talking in meme-speak. For those of you who have a life, a meme is a themed idea that replicates virally on the internet. Which is actually an explanation that is even less clear.
Example: Someone on a forum (it’s usually /b/) finds something interesting and creates an image. Like whoever decided to take a funny picture and make a motivational poster out of it:
And then someone else does it:
Then another:
And on and on. Possibly my favorite meme of all time is fail. And so all the time, I find myself witnessing a person floundering and say, “Fail.” Or someone will do something bizarre (typically, it’s me) and I’ll say, “LOL wut?” You start to ask for the “sauce” (source) of something you find. You refer to masturbation as “fapping.” You say, “I shit trains, now what?” You start to make reference to hazzing Cheezburger.
I find all this to be tragically funny, but usually people look at me as if I’m wearing a really, really funny hat. Like this one:
And like nine times out of ten, I’m not.
I have a wife now. And two kids. And a house, and two dogs — one of whom repeatedly bites me in the crotch. So family-wise, I ended up doing okay. And from time to time, even my wife will say, “Fail.”
But I still don’t really have many actual friends. You guys are it. Now, won’t that guilt you into sticking around and commenting on my blog a lot? No? Well, then, fuck you guys. I’m going to hang out with my Warcraft guild.
Christmas is gay
I was on a forum the other day when someone brought up the inconvenient hypothesis that saying, “That’s gay” might be offensive to gay people.
Typically, I’m a nonconfrontational offender. When I’m alone, I tend to think, “If someone is offended, that’s their problem.” It’s the same philosophy I use when eating meat. I love meat, but I have to pretend it wasn’t at one time frolicking in nature. I’ll let others kill for me, but if the apocalypse came tomorrow and I was suddenly required to kill my own food, I’d become a vegetarian. Same with offense. Once I can put a face together with someone being actually hurt, I often will pussy out and stop. Damn idiotic compassion. Knew I should stop following the Dalai Lama.
“There are worse things,” said my gay friend Nick when I asked his opinion, “but in a perfect world, I kind of wish that expression would just go away.”
Dammit. He was being cool about it, but the handwriting was on the wall. At heart, it bothered him.
He then added that his cousin keeps telling him how gay he is. She’s not doing it on purpose, either.
“She just can’t figure it out,” Nick told me. “Bless her poor, stupid heart.”
You’re probably wondering why I’m sweating any of this, but what you don’t know is that the gay arrow is among the largest and most powerful in my quiver. American Idol is gay, High School Musical is gay, Dancing with the Stars is gay, and the new Ronald McDonald is gay squared. There is no synonym to the way I use “gay.” “Lame” doesn’t cut it. “Dumb” doesn’t cut it. There is a certain particular species of lame/dumb to all of those things that implies that not only do they suck, but that they do so in a Bettie Boop wig, tap-dancing around with their penises tucked back between their legs.
“What if I’m not meaning for it to imply homosexuality in any way?” I begged. “What if it’s just a homonym that is actually an entirely different word, like ‘road’ and ‘rode?’ ”
“But it’s g-a-y, right?” Nick asked.
“A homonym that’s spelled the same way, then. Or maybe it could be g-h-e-y.”
“Look,” he told me, “use it if you want, seriously. Like I said, it’s not a big deal to me. But it will offend some gays, yes.”
Great. That’s like one of my black friends saying, “Well… I guess you could somehow justify referring to that hairstyle as ‘niggery.’ “
I sighed. “Times really do change. It’s funny – it was only 35 years ago that Carly Simon was able to score a major hit with, ‘You’re So Gay.’ “
“I don’t think that’s right,” he said.
“Well, between thirty and forty years, anyway,” I said.
Honestly, I think it’s all kind of unfair. Homosexuals annexed that word without notice. Overnight, it went from referring to a state of happiness and joy to one of wanting to have sex with dudes. Like, Liberace was always so bubbly and happy. In days past, you could have said he was gay. But then all of that changed.
And all of this at the gayest time of year. Revelers are gay. Tidings are gay. Hell, it’s December 6th, so thirty or forty years back, this was all one big gay season. “How are you today, Ted?” a man would ask his neighbor. “Very gay, thank you!” the other would reply. “I’ve never been so gay, in fact! And you, Roger – you’re also looking mightily gay. How’s the family? Gay, I imagine?”
As for us, we put up our Christmas tree today. While we were doing it, I made a point to think about how gay it was. I figured Nick wouldn’t mind. The true holiday spirit is one of universal gayness. This is the time of year that we can all be gay together as a people. We decorated; we hung tinsel; we listened to old music. If we wanted, we could even have roasted nuts over the fire.
I’m working on making peace with all of it. And Nick? He’s happy I’m trying.
“You should be my ambassador to the gay community,” I told him in the spirit of the gay holiday. “You know, help me sell some of my books across the rainbow border.”
“The cover art may need to change if you want me to do that,” he said, having seen the dog I placed on the cover of May Contain Nuts. “As it stands, your title implies an expectation that the book does not meet.”
I thought that was a funny thing to say, so I laughed and reveled in my holiday spirit of infinite gayness toward all mankind. I guess I can live without saying “that’s gay,” though I will indeed miss it. Perhaps I can find something less offensive, more universal.
But really, when you think about it, the whole situation is pretty retarded.
The new Johnny Truant book is in, world rejoices
So today a package arrived, and it wasn’t the thirteen pounds of Guatemalan hashish I had ordered online. Instead, it turned out to be the proof copy of my new book, May Contain Nuts. It looked pretty awesome, so I’ll be putting it up for sale any day now.
In case you’ve forgotten what the hell this book is about, it’s a collection of the most awesomest “best of Johnny Truant being funny instead of all businessy” posts from my past. I’m eager to get out there and publicize. The local Borders has even agreed to allow me to be the embarrassing person that sits at the front of the store at a table, avoided by all. You know – the person everyone feels sorry for but refuses to make eye contact with. That sounds pretty badass.
I even asked a gay friend of mine to act as ambassador to the gay community. However, he suggested that the cover art should change in order to maximize sales in his circles, as the title implies unmet expectations.
I took some time to check it out. Took a pic for my loyal readers so that you can see me enjoying it:
.
.
Wouldn’t it make a great Christmas gift? I think so. And it’s not like I’m partial.
You should totally buy it now. Do it. Do it. Do it.
.
.