The Existentialism of Party Mix.

Potato chips?  Mundane.  Pretzels?  Pedestrian.  Cheese doodles?  Lame.  While not the sole ingredients, when in combination, the previous snack foods represent the almighty backbone, an evolutionary taste bud leap from the myopic to the sublime.  Including the above, Party Mix, in its varied forms, boasts corn chips, bagel chips, tortilla chips, Cheez-Its, rice balls, straight-up Doritos, variations on themes that would make Dave Brubeck blush. Pulitzer-worthy manufacturers include Keystone, Utz, Sunshine, Frito-Lay.  Get some.

But why write a Party Mix blog post?  This comestible isn’t for everyone, at best a marginalized sect. And to be sure, Party Mix connotes extraversion, wild-eyed gastronomic fuel.  Again, why write this?  Scratching the surface, introverts enjoy Party Mix with a treasured flick.  Period.

Recommendations:

• For the calorie conscious: Sunshine’s Party Mix offers the best calories to calories from fat ratio, key to healthful ingestion.
• For unabashed cheese hooligans: Frito Lay’s Cheese Snack Mix, a sodium-rich bacchanalia, is sure to please.
• For sport enthusiasts: Utz’s Pub Mix, a cylindrically packaged bar bounty staple, represents superior flavor.

Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard said it best, “Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.”  Food, in general, raises anxiety.  Am I eating too much, or too little?  Will I like what I’ve ordered?  Am I even balancing the five food groups?   While plebeian, Party Mix represents Kierkegaard’s capricious grasp, each handful rewarded with a singularly tasty fingerprint, a sensory symphony.

Almost done.

What about chocolate, you ask. While the scientific benefits of Party Mix remain sadly unknown, chocolate trumps, especially dark chocolate.

Enjoy.

Hearing My Dad’s Voice Again.

Twenty-seven years have passed since I last heard Dad’s voice.  Although I playback pieces from him in my head, these soundbites never suffice, never satisfy my need to have him know who I’ve become.  But interestingly, now, as a parent, I hear from Dad nearly every day.  He’s come back to me at a time when I need him most.

It’s not just what I say that brings Dad back, but how I say it, that complex interaction of inflection, pitch and rhythm working in concert.  I was startled the first few times I heard from him, a foggy but comforting echo making its way to the surface.  Now I can’t wait to hear from him, nearly desperate, so much so that I just talk to see if he’ll emerge.

Jack and I, foot of the stairwell.  It’s bedtime.

“Ok my man, time for bed.  Go upstairs, get your pajamas on and pick-out two books.  I’ll be up soon.”  Dad, the Command Sergeant Major was often instructive, giving us orders, informing us of his expectations.

Dad rocking the Jeep, 1983.

Like Dad, my approach to parenting is mainly no-nonsense, the Law Office of Non-Negotiation.  I realize sometimes this approach is over the top, and I’ve been called tough, but my heart doesn’t take a backseat to my interest in order.  I love my kids like a Dung Beetle loves its poop ball–yes, that much love.

Dung Beetles at play.

Apart from his stern side, Dad could be funny as hell.  His sense of humor required no encouragement, and I am no different.  He constantly engineered some kind of ruse, like his Pygmy Habitat Campaign where the denizens, viewable only to Dad, lived on a tiny island hamlet just off Indian Head Road.  We were fascinated as kids, the car ride to Winding River Park electrifying as we were guaranteed a peek at this mysterious island–no guarantee on spotting a pygmy, though.

I’ve got all kinds of ruses going, too, like Let Me Hear If Your Brain Is Working, an excuse just to make absurd electrical noises, faux synapses, while delivering an enormous, unabashed hug.  But my hoaxes sometimes backfire (imagine that).  The most recent is evidenced here.

“Yes.  You have to brush your teeth.  If you don’t they’ll fall out like Chiclets and you’ll have to eat Slurpees the rest of your life.”

“Yeah! Yeah!“  Jack is overjoyed.  I am not.

I never would have guessed becoming a parent would bring Dad back, but it has.  And it’s memories like this that keep him with me…

Imagine an 11 year-old boy playing soccer, a sanctioned game between two full teams, families and friends in attendance.  A good crowd.  Not hard to imagine, really too commonplace to give it another thought.  Now imagine the boy’s reaction when Dad roars-up sideline in a National Guard Jeep, jamming full camo fatigues.  The engine cools in park while an inescapable dust cloud rushes across the soccer field. Dad arrived and everyone knew it.  Too cool, I thought.  I played the rest of the game like a Right Full Back possessed. After the game we ripped into the surrounding pine barrens, the Jeep’s whip antennae buckling under our speed.  The ride is still fresh in my mind.

The Death of Penmanship.

Have you looked at your handwriting lately?  It stinks!  Why?  Penmanship has become the vestigial tail of communication, and for the most part that’s ok.  We don’t really need penmanship the way we used to.  We’ve come to adopt the mindless physician signature, a whorl of unintelligible ink.  The proliferation of email and texts, spewed by computers, tablets and smartphones, has led not only to the death of penmanship, but the death of paper, too.  Goodbye penmanship and paper, keyboards and voice recognition software hath slain you.

Why am I all amped-up about penmanship’s death knell?  Well, one of my clients recently remarked that they couldn’t understand my handwriting.  Granted, it was a Monday, the weekend having afforded me an exemption from writing manually, but she was right–my penmanship was piss poor, a lawless thicket of hieroglyphs.  A former grade school recipient of multiple Best Penmanship awards, my handwriting now looks as if I’m writing from inside a Category 5 Hurricane.  You know you’re in trouble when you squint at your own scribble, wondering, what the hell is this?!

But what about a special occasion where fancy penmanship is highly desired, say….  a little kid’s name on a birthday cake?  Have you seen how crappy those things come out?!  Monogrammed cakes no longer reflect the recipient’s name, rather, they blind us with a full-blown circulatory system, a garish crisscrossing of frayed nerve endings.  Well, you ask, what about Calligraphy?  Surely there must be a need for pompous lettering somewhere, yes?  Spare me.  Download a cool font from dafont.com, open a Word doc, make a damn stencil and you’re in business.

Truth be told, I do dabble in Calligraphy.  Anyone who’s ever received a card or gift from me will recognize my personal font.  It’s a bloated tangle rooted in the venerable Copperplate Gothic Bold.

Everyone needs one.

While I poke fun at this demise, the greatest death is our loss of novelistic history, books like The Devil in the White City and The Johnstown Flood.  Currently, historians are able to pore over our time-yellowed personal letters, manuscripts, diaries, log books, official missives, all in service of synthesizing our written history.  What will future Larson’s and McCullough’s draw from when writing novelistic history?  String together 140 character tweets?  A series of Facebook posts chronicling that natty Spring Break trip?  Future resources look bleak, save for the medium you’re reading now, a rich source from the everyday journalist: the blog.

Seriously, how’s your penmanship?

Damaging Linkedin Profile Pics.

Like any good Career Counselor I’m intimately familiar with Linkedin, that social media darling of the professional world.  The networking possibilities alone make Kevin Bacon’s six degrees of separation look like a slice of bread wishing it were a loaf.  I mean it–the possibility of you getting access to potential hiring authorities is nearly overwhelming.  Get on this site if you’re not already.  And it’s free.

With all this exposure you’d think people’s profile pics would drip with professionalism, offer a stunning glimpse of pure employment awesomeness.  Nope.   As we all know, some people cannot get out of their own way.  While not actual, the following profile pics are not far from what I’ve seen on Linkedin.  For real.

Lycanthrope Larry

Skilled disemboweler who thrives under full moon conditions; seeking bloody advancement.

Location: Greater London Area/East Proctor

Education: B.A. in Rick Baker Studies

Emily All-Better

“Club soda, not seals” is what I always say!  Hire me and you’ll get everything I’ve got… except my trust fund, that is!  ♥♥♥!

Location: The Hamptons, NY

Education: BA Yale, Study Abroad in Paris

Bath Salt Billy

Reputation for bizarre fits of rage and keen eyesight; proven ability to clear a room; results-oriented people person.

Location: Northern NJ

Education:  Your Mom’s House

The Ultimate Warrior

Lunatic seeks fashion industry internship for academic credit.  I MEAN IT.  I NEED A CREDIT-BEARING INTERNSHIP!!!!

Location: Parts Unknown

Education: B.S. in Steroidal Abuse

Ollie Optimistic

Aspiring foreign affairs correspondent seeking placement in North Korea; Enola Gay descendant.

Location: Washington, D.C.

Education:  Black Ops Academy

Sure, I’m having fun with the above profiles but some of the real-life pics really do make me shudder.  I just don’t get it.  Why would you upload a picture of yourself that requires red-eye reduction?!  Recruiters ain’t interested in hirin’ no demon.  And then there’s the job seeker who posed in the driveway, dented aluminum garage door as the backdrop, decked out in a cocktail dress that can only be referred to as a cotton slurpee.  I could go on but I just threw-up in my mouth a little.

Let’s take a page from one of the most professional professionals out there, an elite among elites.  I’m talking about Ron Burgundy.  His advice?  Stay classy.

Casualties of the Morning Routine.

Look at this… thing.

Culinary casualty.

This is what happens when you absently force your lunch bag into an overbooked briefcase.  Pliable contents, including my cheese-ass cheese sandwich, must submit themselves, enslaved contortionists of the gastronomic world.  I’ll still eat this friggin’ ’round-the-corner sandwich, though.  I’m not scared.  But how did this happen?  Blame it on that collision between shifting bodies and time, aka, the morning routine.

Getting the kids out of the house and myself to work is a full-contact sport, a Mixed Martial Arts showdown.  My sandwich, submitted in the 1st round, wrapped-up by a can of normally inert V8, is but one of this morning’s losses.  My ego is the second casualty.

Around 7:40am, 5 minutes before scheduled departure, I become mentally castrated by Optimus Prime.  This ages 5+ Intermediate Level 2 Transformer is a real son-of-a-b*tch.  Believe me, I normally stay away from this cataclysm of engineering, but this morning Jack innocently asks that I transform him from robot to truck.  Let’s just say I force some plastic into place.  In the end most of Optimus’ limbs exhibit that white glow associated with bent plastic.  Sorry Autobots.

I wash my hands of the event, literally, by squirting 2 helpings of Eucalyptus Mint soap.  My wife, hovering, admonishes my excess.

“You only need one squirt!“

Coolly, “Good to hear.”

Eventually I arrive at work, where coffee and classical music refuel my soul.  Funny thing is, I can’t wait to get back home and re-immerse myself in the chaos.  There’s something addictive about the family melee, the plate tectonics of people that reminds me I’m alive.  Ok, so it’s not that philosophical.  If I could just transform that damn Autobot!

Latchkey Kids: When We Nearly Killed the Dog.

Latchkey kids earn enough parental trust to receive an incredible amount of freedom.  Trust and freedom are often a deadly combination when paired with two lunatic boys.  My brother and I were two such miscreants.  One rainy late October afternoon, returning home famished, we desired one thing: cookies.

Our brief search of the cupboards uncovers nothing; nary a cookie in the house.  Now frothing at the mouth, we’re driven to whip-up a batch of raw chocolate chip cookie dough.  Brilliant, we thought.  Contents of the Superdome-sized stainless steel bowl subtly undulate, a saccharine siren calling to be baked, calling for the oven.  While we observed most latchkey kid “rules of the house,” we’re extremely mindful not to employ the oven. Dutifully, we resist and chow down on the gluey dough like zombies relishing fresh flesh.

Now.  How much raw chocolate chip cookie dough can you eat?  Even if you’re Cool Hand Luke, a few spoonfuls later, the sugar coma and crushing guilt ends your gluttonous feast–precisely our fate.  So, we’re left with a mountain of cookie dough, clear evidence of waste in a home where waste is not tolerated.  What do we do!?  We feed our Miniature Schnauzer nearly 2 dozen unbaked cookies.

Thanks a lot, guys.

“Give it to Wolfgang, he’ll eat it.”  My older brother, Andrew, the problem-solver.

In full crisis mode, I readily concede, “Ok!“  Typical younger brother response.

Wolfgang dives face first into the bowl and makes quick work, deftly concealing our problem.  We carelessly watch cartoons until, maybe 20 minutes later–roughly the amount of time it takes to bake cookies–Wolfgang lumbers into the room, his stomach gingerly floating a colossal chocolate chip cookie.  Rib cage now visible, every footfall releases a throaty hiss of pain.

“Holy sh*t!  Look at Wolfie’s stomach!”  He’s so bloated we can barely look at him.

“Mom’s gonna a kill us!”  We’re really in for it now.

“Well… walk him around or something!“  My brother’s methods for problem-solving often revolve around “moving things” or simply “staying active,” like the time he recommended I go for a bike ride to “cool-out” the cold-sore on my lip, a ruse to conceal the fact that we had to return an overdue VHS tape.

Despite my efforts Wolfgang is unable to move, because, well, he’s infirmed by that enormous cookie.  His labored breathing makes us think he’s on his way out.  Mom will soon be home.  Our anxiety skyrockets with each passing minute.

The electric garage door opener.  Our trial is about to begin.

Perennially chipper, Mom busts in and throws out a cheerful, “Hi guys!”

“hi …ma.”  Her spider senses tingle.  Obviously something is up.

Instinctively she calls for Wolfgang, using his nickname. “Tufferton.  Tufferton!”

“um mom.”

“LORD!  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO THE DOG?!?!”

A brief explanation is all that’s required and we’re off to the vet, who, while startled by Wolfgang’s condition, suggests, “Give him time.”

Wolfgang eventually passes what can only be considered a Titanic movement, a dark-hued PVC pipe.  While graphic, we’re overjoyed that he’s back in business.  Lesson learned: even when following the rules, danger is omnipresent.

Please note: Wolfgang, named after Mozart, lived a long, happy life. His unconditional acceptance, his spirit, are sorely missed.

Any latchkey kids out there?

Working the Boards: Seaside Heights, NJ.

If you visited Seaside Heights, NJ during the early 90s, it’s likely that I yelled at you. Not that we were at odds, I was just doing my job, harassing you into playing games like the Ring Toss, Shoot Out The Star and Frog Bog.  My employer said my job title was “Agent” but I knew better.  I was paid handsomely to be a Boardwalk Jerk.

Looking back, this is the only job I’ve ever had where I was always right.  I summarily disqualified people for leaning too far over the amusement’s ledge…

Having successfully forded the Frog Bog, I shoot him down, “Sorry, pal.”

“But I was behind the line! I had both feet on the ground!”  His daughter starts to cry, her dreams of Daddy winning that plush doggie now fade into the salty air, alongside the hot oil scent of Kupper’s fresh-cut fries.

Casually, not even looking at him, “That’s not the ground.  That’s the boardwalk, and I don’t like your tone.  Next up!  Give-it-a-shot. Give-it-a-try. One-on-one-time-wins-it!“

I was a mad barker and this was a crooked business, especially  Shoot Out the Star.  We used a giant star–illegal in fact–considering the inadequate number of rounds.  Contestants always blew it by shooting at the star–no one EVER won with that approach.

Loser!

Smart players shot around the star, popping it back through the target in one piece.  There were enough rounds for this strategy, but the machine gun’s accuracy was laughable, compounding an already difficult game. Here’s the key: shoot one round at a time by gently swiping the trigger–pop. pop. pop.  I eventually mastered this technique, to the point where I was barred from playing in Seaside, so I descended upon Pt. Pleasant Boardwalk, an unknown, but dangerous player.  I clearly remember The Nerd’s blasting from Jenkinson’s, and me, an assassin, enveloped in a calliope of carnival sounds, surgically removing a doomed star.  The barker running the stand peppered me with questions, trying to throw off my game…

“Hey, where’d you learn to shoot like that, Tex?”  He nudges my arm.

“I’m from Seaside.”  On target and unperturbed, I make music with my machine gun, like Luke bulls-eying womp rats in his T-16.

“Oh.”  He’s concerned.

Cleanly, eventually, the star falls.  “I’ll take that garish teddy bear there, pal.”

But payback is a bitch, like the time I had to work Shoot Out the Star while nursing a MONSTER hangover.  Head pounding, guns blazing, body seizing-up.  I was told a chocolate shake from Kohr’s ice cream, directly across from my stand, would do the trick.  That shake did make life more bearable, as did the constant parade of questionably dressed beach-goers.  That said, witnessing the often inexcusable human parade was by far the best part of working the boards.  During breaks I’d stop at the Saw Mill for a Lumberjack Burger–8oz. of Angus topped with pork roll and melted cheddar–and dive into some serious people watching.

The Saw Mill prior to renovation/expansion.

As most of us know, Seaside is not known for its well-clad clientele.  If you’re not familiar, think Wal-Mart shoppers, except they’re outdoors, giving them an opportunity to wear a whole lot of not enough.  Cringe.

A close second to people watching, the gorgeous sundowns brought beauty to an otherwise foul environment. Working the south end Ring Toss offered a reasonable view of unfettered boardwalk and beach, where impossibly warm light from the west demanded your attention.  The north end Ring Toss, Midway Steak House to its left, boasted full view of the beach and Atlantic ocean. Here, the sunsets washed overhead, opposite the incoming waves, a brilliant amalgam of red, orange and white.

Prior to Sandy, I took for granted the majority of what Seaside Heights’ has to offer.  Although I look forward to visiting this summer, I know it will be sobering.  Whatever shape she’s in, she’ll always give us those sunsets.

Restore the Shore.