Category: Life

Reluctantly, I take the cramped seat in between the old man and the rail. I wouldn’t normally do this as I actually prefer to stand.

You see, my newest fascination is the childish game of “look ma, no hands” while riding the subway. You let go of any handrails, get your balance under your feet, relax your knees and then you ride that train like it is a wild animal, relying completely on balance and strength to keep you from being thrown to the ground as it stops and starts along the route. When it lurches forward, I lean in to brace myself for the buck. When the train crashes and grinds to a halt, I lower my honches and pull back on the invisible reins. Whoa nelly.

Of course, in my head I envision myself as a cross between Teenwolf (Speaking of Teenwolf, rent it sometime with a friend who has a lot of body hair and you will be forced to see that movie in a totally new light!) and Kevin Bacon’s character from Tremors. I get my smooth, surf-inspired style from Teenwolf of course. The Kevin Bacon thing is thrown in there because he rode on the back of a giant worm in that movie if I remember it right.

But today I’m not standing. I’m sitting. And I’m sitting next to an old man.

Oh great. Now he’s asking me a question. I don’t know anything. I’m still new here.

“Does this train go to Canal?” he asks.

My first silent thoughts aren’t exactly polite. Aren’t you like 100 years old or something? Don’t you know your way around here yet?

“I don’t know,” I say to get out of the exchange and go back to minding my own beeswax. (My regular beeswax minder was off for the day.)

“Oh, I just wasn’t sure if this train went there or not, you know…”

Just then I remembered that I read the book Tuesdays With Morrie and I began to feel guilty because if there was a point to that book it was that all old people have an incredible amount of wisdom in them and it is up to each and every one of us to draw that out and honor it. And if we happen to later profit on that wisdom with a million dollar book deal than so be it.

Bingo, I think to myself. If I play this right, this old guy could be my million dollar book deal.

And with that completely self-serving thought, I finally convinced myself to take the five seconds to turn around and look at the large subway map to find out for this old man if our train went to Canal Street. Which it did.

Now just to flesh this story out to 200 pages…

Cashier: “Welcome to Arby’s, may I take your order?”
Me: “Yeah… I’ll have the number three combo meal.”
Cashier: “What kind of fries?”
Me: “Homestyle.”
Cashier: “And what kind of soft drink?”
Me: “Pepsi.”
Cashier: “And would you like to upsize your order for only 49 cents more?”

Me (pausing for dramatic effect): “…Upsize? You want me to upsize? Let me get this straight: For 49 cents, Arby’s will moderately increase the size of my fries and drink, but leave the actual sandwich at its original size. And you call that an “upsize.”

Me (continuing): “Look, why would I want 10% more fries, 80% more cola, and no change whatsoever to the size of my original sandwich? Who finds this ridiculously disproportionate meal satisfying? Instead of calling it an “upsize”, you should ask if I want to “disproportionize” my meal… because really, that’s the end result.”

(Customers in adjacent lines began to turn their heads and exchange nods of agreement.)

Me (further emboldened by their reaction): And of all the items in my combo meal, the sandwich is the one thing I’d be most interested in having upsized to begin with. And yet it’s completely neglected in the upsizing process! Let’s be real here. The sandwich is the focal point of the meal. How can you offer to upsize my meal, and not include the most integral part?

(The cashier cocks his head to one side, as the logic of my rant is undeniable.)

Me: “And what’s the point of upsizing my soft drink at all? It comes with free refills anyway! All you’re really doing is increasing the size of my cup. If free refills are available, the only thing I’m interested in having upsized is the size of my bladder.”

Me (glancing at cashier’s nametag): “Brian, please know that this tirade is not directed at you. I’m just here to help. Don’t get me wrong; the upsize is a beautiful idea. But it has to be a true upsize. The sandwich, the fries, and the drink must all be increased in size proportionately. At burger places, I could understand the logistical difficulty in doing this. But this is Arby’s! All of your sandwiches are just meat and bun anyway. Are you telling me you can’t stock two or three sizes of buns for varying degrees of upsizing?”

Me: “Look, Brian, I know you’re not running this outfit. I need you to pass this up the chain of command: Arby’s can lead us to a better tomorrow… but it’ll take more than a talking oven mitt to get there. Arby’s has the opportunity to be the one fast food establishment with a legitimate upsize option. And let’s face it, that’s all any of us want in life… a true upsize of our combo meal.”

Me (clearing throat): “Ahem… So, to answer your question: No thanks. I am not interested in your so-called upsize.”

The restaurant was silent for a moment. Then, starting in the back, a customer began a slow clap that resonated throughout the establishment. One by one, the rest of the patrons joined in the applause. Even Brian and his fellow cashiers extended an ovation. I smiled in satisfaction and offered them a modest nod. As I turned around, the crowd parted in reverence so that I could make my way to the condiment station to load up on Arby’s and Horsey sauce unabated.

Author’s note: Most of this account took place in my imagination.

I snapped last night. It was almost 10 pm, and this was the third telephone call interrupting the Gonzaga game.

Me: “Look, I’m sorry. You’ve got the wrong number. I’m not your grandson. You need to stop calling this number. It’s late.”

Old lady (kind, but obviously senile): “Well, do you have his number? How do I get the right number?”

Me (resisting the urge to suggest she use the Internet): “I don’t know your grandson’s phone number. Call directory assistance. Just don’t call this number any more. Ok? Good luck.”

And I hung up at that point. This was probably about the seventh time in four days this lady has called me, introducing herself as “Grandma” and not believing me when I tell her that I’m not her grandson. We’ve gone through this exchange seven times. I was polite and courteous the first six calls, but last night was the breaking point.

Hopefully she’s moved onto the next name in the phone book. Still, I feel bad. Maybe I should try and help reunite her with her grandson, using my considerable resources of Internet access and functioning mental faculties. It would certainly look sharp on my good-deed resume. I might actually consider this when she calls back.

It’s New Years Eve, and Zillionaires across the country are mobilizing to celebrate the occasion. That’s me, fourth from the left. Not pictured: My bow and arrow.

As Zillionaires, I’m sure you all have a drink within easy reach right now. So let us raise our glasses, and toast the coming year, and hope for as much success and happiness as the law will allow.

And thanks to my buddy Hepworth for producing the graphic. As you can see, he specializes in superimposing characters from Greek mythology into wedding photos. If you have a similar need, shoot me an email.

Today is my birthday. December 29th. Like every other year, it will be a day spent without singing, fanfare or festivities.

Me: “Hey everyone! Today’s my birthday!”
Family member: “Nice try. We just celebrated your birthday, like, four days ago. Hello?”
Me: “No… that was Jesus’ birthday. You know, Christmas. I know it’s easy to get the two of us confused. My birthday is today!”
Family members (exchanging nervous glances): “Oh, right… well, those gifts we got you were actually meant for Christmas and your birthday. Happy Letdown Day!”

For the record, I am neither redheaded nor a stepchild. I’m just treated as such. By virtue of having a birthday four days after Christmas, each year I am annually shafted, stiffed, or forgotten altogether. People are so busy celebrating Jesus’ birthday, they tend to overlook mine. It’s understandable. He probably deserves more birthday fanfare than I do.

The problem is the scheduling. Believe me, it’s hard sharing the stage with Jesus this time of year. And I’m in the unenviable position of trying to go after Jesus. He knocks ’em dead every show. Nobody wants to take the stage after Him. There’s just no way for me to top His act, and most of the audience has already filed out anyway.

By December 29th, people are simply ready for the holidays to be over. Frankly, I understand the sentiment. I realize that my birthday is really more of an additional holiday pain-in-the-ass than a cause for celebration. After Christmas, nobody wants to shop for gifts. The malls are just as packed with people, but there is half the selection and zero goodwill towards men. They’ve already spent enough time with family. Nobody wants to wrap anything. And everyone is flat-out sick of being festive. Simply put, celebrating my birthday after Christmas gets the same level of enthusiasm from people as if I suggested we order a pizza immediately after Thanksgiving dinner.

Why couldn’t I have been born on February 29th, the day that leap year is observed? At least my birthday would be recognized every four years, instead of every decade or so as it is now. No such luck. Today is my birthday. And the holidays are over. Happy Letdown Day.