Scuffed Boots

Boss! Boss, you have to have a little madness, Boss!      

                                            —Zorba, The Greek

Before I log my side of the story, by no means am I advocating that this is how one should live. I’m simply insisting that it’s okay if you don’t have a job or even want a job. There’s so much pressure in our lives to graduate college, find a job, work, make money, build a family, retire, move to Florida, and eat discount steak every Thursday. Why rush?

My thoughts/advice/whatever are based on introspection, careful self-analysis and self-critique. I’m asking you to be unafraid to take a risk or #YOLO before taking that position at Edelman or Draft or Dad’s real estate firm.

So you know that I’m not a complete hack, I’m currently a happily employed a writer for an NYC start-up, Brooklyn freelancer, and teller of jokes. To get here, I took a road too often ignored and discouraged.

***

“It’s okay to say, ‘I don’t know.’”

Last year, I graduated—not that you couldn’t have guessed. Most my friends and classmates had jobs—or at least a plan—to occupy their future. I didn’t.

When it came time for the job search, I had it figured out—to the discontent of most.

My plan was to “figure it out.”

***

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

At 22, how are you supposed to gauge what you want to do in life? My past aspirations have included: Red Power Ranger, digger (not of graves or gardens but just holes), Green Power Ranger, Curious George, pirate, pilot, professional Hangman player, and blacksmith.

I’d only known school, internships, and whatever came along with school and internships: deadlines, tequila, and obfuscation. Sure, my degree (English and Communication Studies) prepared me for a career in writing, or maybe marketing, or analyzing 18th Century British poetry—finding “worth” in Wordsworth.

None of this seemed worthwhile.

***

“Sir, are there any good Civil War monuments around here?”

“No. Ya damn Yankees burned ‘em all down.”

In April, nearing graduation, I inherited a van. Like anyone with a 2000 Ford Windstar and a dream, I knew my options resided in chauffeur or road-tripper.

With plenty in savings and parental disapproval, I ventured, alone, east towards West Virginia then south to Nashville and Georgia, then up the east coast. Rather than elaborate on my adventures, I’ll let the above quote speak for my southern stories. I experienced culture-shock in my own backyard.

After two months and fourteen states into my journey, the van stopped and died. Stranded, alone, in middle-of-nowhere, Michigan, my trip ended abruptly. It was time to return home and find a job.

I hadn’t figured it out yet.

***

“Make good choices, Honey.”

I cleared my bank account in August.

Purchasing a one-way ticket to Dublin with an open-ended return and carrying enough cash to last, well, until homelessness, I became a backpacker, which may be slang for raging alcoholic who fancies high-class museums and art.

I traversed the continent, hopping from Ireland to the U.K. and dozens of cities throughout Europe. Culturing myself my day and recklessly raging by night, I lived entirely in the moment, journaling each adventure.

In Berlin, after extensive travelling, I befriended an Aussie who’d been backpacking for the past year. His advice, “At some point, you have to stop travelling and start living.”

I didn’t understand what he meant.

Two days later, during a hazy night, I found myself with fifty cents to my name and spending the night in a photo booth—probably the first homeless man owning an iPad. I booked my flight home the next day.

I now understood what the Aussie meant.

***

“Where have all the cowboys gone?”

Returning home, wreaking of Jaeger and despair, I realized it was time to start living. I needed those experiences to shape me. I needed to sequester myself abroad in order to discover goals, ambition. I needed an impact, a punch in the gut, weakness to put life into perspective—any perspective because I’d had none.

The following weeks were spent endlessly searching, contacting, and finagling with job prospects—whether it were via LinkedIn, cold emails, or phone calls. I was finally eager. Through the discouraging “No’s,” I tailored by job search from I’ll-take-anything-NOW to I’m-going-to-be-selective-even-though-I’ve-earned-no-right-to-be. I found success—likely because they could tell I was interested in the company rather than the job itself.

In mid-November, I found work as a writer and immediately moved to New York, keeping an option to relocate to Berlin in the coming months. I’d figured out something.

But questions still linger. Who am I? Who are you? I no longer ask people what they do but rather what they want to be. 

Shticks for Shtories

Tom lives my three rules: never wear button-fly jeans, never forget you’re wearing button-fly jeans, and have a story. Sthicks for Shtories follows the impetuous endeavors of a high-spirited child in search for something, anything—just a story to tell.

While the novel functions more as a collection of anecdotes, functioning to provide humorous insights into the life of a young adult, transitioning from high-school collector of mustaches to a college student struggling with blindingly pale skin.

The first story in Shticks for Shtories begins at his grandfather’s funeral—a sixty year-old who battled with heart disease, dementia, and a case of impetuousness. Through the pain of dealing with such a scenario, Tom approaches a darkly comic mode—one moment we’re at the funeral and the next we’re witnessing his entire family getting kicked out of the funeral home because of the uncontrollable laughter.

Most of the anecdotes end in this uncontrollable laughter.

Halfway through the novel, Tom’s sitting in a Wendy’s eating a classic triple with two extra patties? Why, you may ask? He inquired as to how many patties a customer can order. Following the Wendy’s debacle, the next story examines his yearlong attempt at vegetarianism—the transformation from a meat-and-potato family, where au gratin was “classy,” to a man eating dragon fruit.

While the autobiography seemingly functions as entertainment without purpose, the final stories challenge his previous assertions. In the second to last anecdote, he mentions suffering from depression in an almost nonsensical rant.

“You laugh, enjoying the story for what it is. You ignore the sometimes self-hatred, paranoia and anxiety. Tragedy is getting lost in the woods. Comedy is getting mauled by a bear and dying…But, to clarify, this is only sometimes. Sometimes. I need a refill of Xanax.”

The story concludes in the same dark mode in which it began. Tom is at the season finale of American Idol, a popular reality television show. He notices that nothing is real at all, describing it as scripted as an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. “What happened to spontaneity? What happened to unpredictable outcomes?” At this moment, he confesses his slight disdain for the scripted world—a world in which impetuousness is frowned upon and predictability ideal.

In all honesty, I’ve spent more time with the “subculture” than I’d care to admit, and I think it’s about time I teach you all how to properly interact with these pompous assholes. This column acts as an avenue through which you can impress that sexy hipster girl in the floral dress, engage with an androgynous, American Apparel wearing fox, or even communicate with an overly conceited twat, while still maintaining your own falsely pretentious aura.

Quick disclaimer: All lines must be said with a mixture of apathy and arrogance.

10. Regarding film: Like music, focus on the independent and unknown. For mainstream films, you want to critique viciously. Your new opinion of Winnie the Pooh: “I really found it difficult to believe Tigger’s blind optimism and faith in the surrounding world. He exaggerated well-beyond any convincing respect.”

9. Regarding your career: You no longer barista at the local Tim Horton’s. Now, you’re an aspiring artist. Remember to compliment your work with arrogance. “My work’s experimental with rustic tinges best encapsulated by an aura of sepia. I have a show next week in B-Side if you’re interested.”

8. Regarding transportation: No driving. You bike. Also, you don’t need to know anything about bikes. Required words: “Carbon,” an animal name, random number/letter combinations, and “a mother fucking basket.” “I ride a simple Air 9 Carbon, Fox F29RL, Crest wheels, full X.0 and carbon cockpit, 22.14lbs, with a mother fucking basket.” In simpler terms, “My bike is purple.”

7. Regarding fashion: The new jeans from Urban and the flashy American Apparel t-shirt can now only be described as, “Oh, this? I’ve had it forever.” But glasses, glasses are always new.

6. Regarding food: Be honest. It’s typical if you’re a vegan or vegetarian. You earn ironic points if you love meat.

5. Regarding music: Rather than saying, “The new Ke$ha album was so catchy and dance friendly,” try this: “The new Ke$ha album was okay, but nowhere near the level of her first. It’s like she refused to stay true to what made her music truly unique in the first place. Now, she’s merely conforming to her newly-propagated fan-base, schmoozing for affection. It’s disgusting.”

4. Regarding music…again: To hipster’s you’re only allowed to name drop three bands: The Smiths, The Pixies, and Pavement. “I’m really into The Smiths. Morrissey’s self-bastardizing lyrics unravel a peculiar ventricle in the pit of my heart.”

3.5. Still regarding music: But if you must delve into your true musical tastes, DON’T; instead, makeup bands. Hipsters conveniently name their bands using this formula: Animal + Random Word (Frightened Rabbit, Pepper Rabbit…Peter Rabbit). “Oh, other bands I enjoy? I have a thing for the lo-fi, garage sound like Static Sloth, Shrimp Po’ Boys, and Asparagus.”

3. Regarding your art: The easiest way to convince a hipster you’re artistic is through poetry. The easiest way to do this is to simply eliminate as many verbs as you can while speaking. “Bleak. Pale bark with enamel, decayed—motionless, eager, imbuing.” The more incomprehensible, the better.

2. Regarding the opposite sex: Male, female, kitten: you fuck any and all things. Men, you like your girls with a hint of masculinity, and, women, you prefer effeminate dudes. A true hipster looks no more male than it does female. “I like my men/women (you’re also bisexual) a smidge awkward but unabashed by archetypal norms that society brands on sexes.”

Oprah Unveils Line of Oprah Clones

All O: The Oprah Magazine subscribers should expect the arrival of an Oprah Clone

Contact: Gary Daggler                                          FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Tel.: N/A

Cell: N/A

Email: [email protected]

Only a year after the series finale of The Oprah Winfrey Show, Oprah plans to release a line of Oprah clones to all O: The Oprah Magazine subscribers.

  “Here’s a little more Oprah for you, you, and even you!” said the excited former talk-show host and female icon. “Everybody gets a little more Oprah. I’m never going away, bitches!”

  On Monday, the Oprah team will unveil all thirty-two clones for a brief viewing to the general public before shipping the clones across the globe. Of the thirty-two subscribers, eight refused a clone for reasons ranging from shyness to spousal jealousy.

  Three year, O subscriber, Jackie Longwood exclaims she fainted from the excitement over the clone. “I have the Oprah cassette and CD combo, every book from the book club, and, now, a personal Oprah! Move over Kurt [husband] because Oprah’s coming to bed.”

  O’s dream-team coordinator and writer of Oprah’s hit single, “Let out a Little O,” Julie proposed the idea during a weekly staff meeting. “By giving our fans a little more Oprah, we hope to send a message that all dreams come true with some Oprah,” said Julie. Hidden in the corner of Julie’s office sat a clone of her own. “We’re cooking duck for dinner.”

  Topping all previous donations made by the wealthy, female entrepreneur, each clone costs an estimated $1.7 million. eBay prices have exceeded the $3 million marker, and Craigslist has already fifteen documented fakes. One upset customer paid $533 for a cardboard cut-out that turned out to be a black Rosie O’Donnell.

   Prize winner, Sherry Landry, can’t wait for her Oprah to arrive. “The years I’ve spend on the couch watching Oprah have paid off. My husband always told me to go out with my friends instead of reading those silly books. Look out now, hubby, because Oprah’s coming to teach you about the power of passion.”

  Although the O team and audience members remain ecstatic, the clone apparently contains a few glitches—Oprah’s weight doesn’t fluctuate properly, clones speak in the first-person rather than the expected third, and a lucky few may end up with the sassy, menopausal Oprah equipped with mood swings and a loss of libido. But subscribers seem to agree that a little more “O” goes a long way.

###

Easily one of the most popular rappers at the moment, Lil Wayne embraces his stardom. In fact, a clause in his contract ensures that, when aired, each of his songs play triply. While Weezy's lyrics inspire teens to steal Snickers bars, what lessons can be learned from these often lewd and incomprehensible lyrics? 

5. “Start out hustlin’, end up ballin’.”

This perpetuates the notion of “work hard, play hard.” Wayne, like most rappers, is merely a classic example of playing hard. Here’s a guide to his success: Sell crack and then illicit narcotics (where the real money stems). Next, compulsively leave voicemails on a producer’s answering machine. Once you successfully obtain a restraining order, you must get arrested for selling drugs. Only after this point, you will finally be offered a recording contract. This, my friends, is the American dream. 

  4. “Every song’s like p****, so fuck it.”

Shakespeare once described his poetry as, “the tit of titillating and the afro of disiac” Mark Wahlberg tantalizingly serenaded us about the vibrations—feel, feel the vibrations, baby. Although not quite as eloquently put, Lil Wayne poses the same advice through classic, “trick daddy” mentality—“Don’t know what to do with it? Fuck it and see what happens.” This lesson will also likely triple the STI rate when Ke$ha releases her next single, “P****, So Fuck It."

  3. “Cut school, sell crack.”

Adults stress the importance of a “good education." But, let's be real, Weezy makes a good point. By cutting school, I, first, wouldn’t be starting adulthood in debt. I wouldn’t be labeled as a “recovering” alcoholic. Did I mention I wouldn’t start off in the negatives? One crack rock costs $50. Ten crack rocks equals a month’s rent. And one-thousand rocks could only make Whitney Houston silent. 

  2. “Stay away from the rattlesnakes.”

Although Wayne reiterates a bit of common knowledge, stay the fuck away. Rattlesnakes kill ten to twelve people every year in the United States—more deaths than from bears, bulls, sharks, and mountain lions combined! And don’t get me started on the time when snakes attacked that plane. Still, Weezy’s paralyzing fear of rattlesnakes spurred controversy from PETA when he was found piercing the snake’s rattle to his manaconda, citing “Putting wag in swag.”

  1. “Fuck bitches, get money. Fuck bitches, get money. Fuck bitches, get money.”

Sorry I stole your format, Borowitz.

Beware:     Be quiet upon entering the Lizard Kingdom because the African Crocodile just saw his reflection.

Beware:     Penguins march over thirty miles in negative forty degree “heat” just to engage in a lustful thirty-five seconds of sex. Please, don’t make that face.  

Beware:     Due to a rise in graffiti and decrease in zoological funds, the “Zoo” will be temporarily known as the “Poo.”

Beware:     Hippopotamuses are tired of hearing that they’re wanted for Christmas.

Beware:     In the Lion’s Den, the voice of Macaulay Culkin from Richie Rich has replaced that of James Earl Jones.

Beware:     That cute little cub from last year has since mauled two zookeepers.

Beware:     In order to truly enjoy the Lizard Kingdom, it is necessary to have some knowledge of nuances in the Tegu family.

Beware:     Women: If you are currently menstruating, we recommend you stay away from the Bonobo exhibit.

Beware:     Jeff Probst found the cohabitation of Panda Bears and Grizzly Bears to be “puzzling.”

Beware:     This is Diego’s Zoo not San Diego Zoo.

Beware:     As a warning for those taking the Marsupial Walk Excursion, Kangaroo Jack accurately portrays the behaviors of Kangaroos.

Beware:     If you touch an animal, it has the right to touch you in return.