A Letter to My Six-Year-Old Self

Devon,

It’s me. Well, you. From the future.

I know you must have your suspicions. After all, you’re six. You question everything. So allow me to verify my identity by telling you something only you would know: your favorite food. Or should I say, foods?

That’s right. Lasagna and brownies. I know about ‘em both. I also know about that pocket comb you stole from your friend Matt’s house and your secret crush on Krista. I know everything about you, Devon. I’m you. Just a few years older.

How much older? Brace yourself… twenty years.

I know, hard to imagine. Me, you, us, twenty-six-years old. It’s not as old as it sounds, though. Sure, I could be your dad at this point, but, well, man, maybe it is as old as it sounds. Shoot!

Any way, let me get to the point. I’m writing to you for a couple of specific reasons. First, I’d like to tell you a little about the future (without disclosing too much) to calm a few of your apprehensions. I’d also like to help you avoid a couple of potentially embarrassing moments. Nothing terrible, but yeah, it would be cool to avoid some of that stuff.

So, here are 10 things you should know about the future. Listen up!

1. You get a girlfriend. It takes a little while. Maybe a little while longer than some of your friends. But the wait is worth it. (You also get to kiss that girl, which is just as amazing as you think it will be.)

2. You go back to school after you finish school. It sounds insane now, but it’ll make more sense later.

3. Mom and Dad paying the bills and making food and stuff is SO much cooler than you can possibly imagine. Don’t take it for granted.

4. You have most of your hair at twenty-six. A bit more everywhere else, and maybe even one or two gray hairs in your beard, but almost all the head hair is still there.

5. You forget your lunch in third grade and cry about it a little. Try not to do this.

6. In high school, you think it will be cool to wear your clothes a few sizes too big. This is not as cool as you think it is.

7. The corduroy pants you like so much in middle school ARE as cool as you think they are. Despite what other people might say.

8. At twenty-six, Mom and Dad are still the coolest, smartest people you know (along with one other very special lady who shall remain nameless).

9. As it turns out, you really don’t use that much math in the real world.

10. You will always have anxiety and doubts about the future. That’s okay. Continue to be positive and kind and things will generally work out in your favor.

The rest you’ll figure out as you go. Good luck, Devon.

Sincerely,
You

My Childhood Bus Driver Was a Superhero

The first time I missed the school bus I was maybe six or seven. I remember looking through the crack of the front door, seeing the paralyzing image of the bus barreling down the road in the wrong direction. Had I decided to act, maybe run out the front door waving my hands and yelling, like a six or seven year old can, I could have surely flagged it down. But instead I stood there, motionless, unable to move, unable to do anything but watch as the bus crept onward in the wrong direction. I felt helpless, ashamed that I couldn’t have done more. After all, it wasn’t just me that missed the bus because of my cowardice; it was my twin brother, too.

I don’t entirely know why this was such a big deal, but it was. I suppose it had to do with the unfamiliarity of the situation, and the panicky, suffocating feeling it induced. We were kids of routine. We woke up, showered, had breakfast, played in the street while waiting for the bus, and then got on the bus. We didn’t miss the bus. That’s not the type of kids we were. What were we to do now? Inconvenience our Mom for an hour or so and have her gladly take us? Ha! What a ridiculous and rational thought.

With the bus no longer visible I walked outside (atta boy, Devon!), my mind clouded, still in disbelief as to what just happened. This was it. This was where the world stopped spinning and tomorrow never came because that’s how things work at six or seven. Game over, Devon. You blew it. But then something happened.

I like to think it was a sound. The distant rumble of an old, powerful engine. Or maybe it was an image. That familiar flash of yellow streaking through the trees. Or maybe it was some combination of both. I can’t be certain how it happened, exactly, or what I heard or saw, but I can tell you this: the bus was coming back.

Tim, our bus driver, having never before seen us miss the bus, went out of his way that morning to swing by our house one more time. He didn’t have to do that. He already surely waited longer at our stop than most other bus drivers would have. He had other kids to pick up still. He had done his job. Even so, he decided to come back, feeling as though something wasn’t right. Feeling genuinely concerned, it would seem. And because of that, my brother and I were able to hop on the bus that morning, all of our worries and feelings of apprehension completely put to rest. The world would continue to spin. At least for another day.

I’ll never forget it. But Tim, I’m sure he doesn’t remember. Because, to him, there was nothing to remember. Just another day blurred amongst the many, where he simply went out and did his job. And that’s the thing about Tim—about other people, too—that I greatly admire: how he went about his job every single day, caring, doing his best.

Tim was amazing at his job because he showed up everyday, and did it to the best of his ability. He cared about the work he was doing, and about the kids he was driving. It was easy to see. Was driving a bus full of kids his dream job? Maybe. Maybe not. But you couldn’t tell if it wasn’t, and that’s what made Tim the bus driver he was.

It’s hard to do. And maybe a littler harder when your job isn’t your “dream job”. Maybe what you’re really passionate about is what you do when you get home. And that’s great. I’m all for that. I do that. But sometimes that means the work you’re supposed to be doing at your “day job” takes a backseat. Just show up, clock in, clock out, do as little as you have to to get by, leave, and get paid. It’s the easy thing to do. I’ve been guilty of it before. I don’t like when I do it, but it’s an honest truth.

But there’s something to be said about someone who genuinely cares about the work they are doing each and every day, and the people they are doing it for—regardless of profession. It makes a difference. It makes a difference in the product you’re making or serving, and the experience of the people who are ultimately affected by it.

There’s this guy who works at the Walgreens I frequent. I don’t know his name, but every time I see him working the counter he’s exuding positivity, welcoming customers, engaging in conversations—caring; doing his best. And every time I leave after having seen him I feel better about my day. That’s the type of pride and character a person is supposed to have in their job. Something Tim had.

I haven’t seen Tim in over a decade now, but the positive impact he had on my life remains the same. He eased the transition of going to two new schools, and meeting new kids, that much easier. Seeing Tim behind the wheel every day during those years was comforting, because at the end of the day, I knew he’d always do his best to do what was best for me. But then again, that’s just what superheroes do.

9 Things You Don’t Want to Hear From the Person Cutting Your Hair

1. So we agreed that you WERE okay with the big chunk off the top?

2. It’s not what we talked about, but I think you’re still going to like it.

3. Eh, I think we’ll go ahead and go with my idea instead.

4. Did you know this is my first haircut? I didn’t go to school for it or anything, either. In fact, I don’t even work here. My sister does. But she’s sick for the day and asked me to fill in. Cool, right?

5. I’m sooo mad at him. Can you believe he did that? Drove his car into a light pole. Yeah, he’s totally fine. Walked away without a scratch. But the car—HA!—it’s totaled. It’s not even a good story. Like he was running away from the cops or anything. He was just texting. How unoriginal is that? It is kinda sweet that he was texting me, but he’s still got a long way to go before he’s out of the dog house. Maybe he can take me to that new Mexican place on the corner of Jefferson and Greene? Have you been there yet? My friend Debbie says the tamales are TO DIE FOR. Like she literally said she’d probably die for them. At least take a bullet to the leg. That’s how good they are. They also have dollar taco and beer night on Tuesday. What a deal, right? I mean, seven dollars and you’re out the door with a taco and six beers. Hard to beat. Oh, look at me. I’m rambling and cutting again. HA! I ended up taking quite a bit off. That’s what we talked about, right? Or did you just sit down? Don’t worry, it’ll grow back.

6. Alright sweetie, that’ll be $75 (for a male haircut that took ten minutes).

7. Thanks for giving me a chance, man. The last guy I cut ended up pretty disappointed and actually cried a little on the way out.

8. You know what the worst part about cutting hair is? Making conversation with the clients. Oh—no offense, though.

9. Whoops.

There’s Nothing Quite Like a Family Canoe Trip

I stood there, knee-deep in the middle of the river, as I watched our canoe float around the bend and into the distance, my buddy swimming after it. Not able to do much else, I untwisted the cap and finished the rest of my beer.

We had met at my parents’ house earlier that morning—my Mom, Dad, buddy, fiancee, and I. It was my Mom’s birthday. She wanted to go floating. So we packed up the cars and drove a couple of hours south to the Buffalo River. A river I had floated plenty growing up, but one I hadn’t been to in a few years.

We spent the first half of our float playing canoe/kayak-hot-potato. When we shoved off it was my fiancee, myself, and our dog in one canoe, my parents and their dog in another, and my buddy in the lone kayak. At the time of our incident, though, my Mom was in the kayak, my fiancee was in the other canoe with my Dad and parents’ dog, and my buddy, my dog, and I were in the canoe I began in. It was all rather intricate, and could probably be outlined nicely in a science-y way by somebody at MIT. But, unfortunately, you’re left with me.

It looked harmless. Just another set of small rapids. Maybe a little quicker than the last, but nothing serious. Nothing to think too much about. We’d just do what we always did and we’d be fine: aim for the V, paddle as though we were well informed, and let Mother Nature do the rest. Except, on this particular occasion, Mother Nature had decided to place a medium sized tree in the middle of the river.

By the time we realized what was happening it was too late. With about fifteen to twenty feet between us and the tree, at the complete and utter mercy of the current, my buddy laughed and said, “Oh shit.” Some fifteen to twenty feet later we toppled over.

Under water, I flailed my arms, trying desperately to figure out which way was up. As the current pulled me along, a rock on the bottom of the river raked my hamstring, tearing my swimsuit in the process. I didn’t care, though. All I wanted at that moment was to break the surface of the water. The image of the fallen tree—a strainer, one of the most dangerous things on a river—consumed my thoughts. Sure, it wasn’t very deep and the water wasn’t super strong, but it was enough to be dangerous.

Moments later I felt a strong resistance. I couldn’t quite place it. Was it the tree? A limb, perhaps? Or something else? As I rose to break the surface of the water, I saw my buddy, holding on to the fallen tree with one hand, pulling me in with the other.

I grabbed hold of the tree, steadying myself, and looked to my other side to see my dog, Denver, standing on the same tree, just feet away. She looked calm. As if she had been there for a while. Almost as if she had been there before, on a previous holiday, perhaps, where she ate too much caviar and read the latest issue of Time. I felt my heart warm with pride.

That feeling soon passed, though, as I looked down the river to see our canoe, and everything we had in it, floating joyously down the river. With time against us, we quickly came up with a plan: my buddy would take off down the river in pursuit of the canoe, and I would stay behind with Denver and escort her to safety. It made the most sense. I was the stronger stay-behind-on-the-tree guy.

From our perch on the fallen tree, Denver and I watched as my buddy ran across a shallow part of the river, only to dive back in headfirst at the next convenient location. Returning my attention to Denver, I grabbed her by the life jacket (fearful of her first river experience, my fiancee and I had purchased it the night before) and let the current take the two of us down stream. We floated harmlessly to an area of the river where I could stand without much effort. From there, Denver swam to shore with ease, and I stood up to realize my footwear had been lost in the crash.

Perfect.

With my mobility greatly hampered, I watched my buddy continue around the bend as a distant spectator. It was only a matter of moments now before he caught up with the canoe. Who knew what would be lost in the crash, but at least we’d have our river transportation.

As he disappeared out of sight, my attention was drawn to a rather surprising image. My beer. Still in the koozie hanging around my neck. I couldn’t help but chuckle—my swimsuit had been ripped, my sandals taken by the river, my hat, too, and yet, the beer remained. Untouched. Feeling as though it was the right thing to do—perhaps the only thing to do—I untwisted the cap and drank the rest of it.

This story would go on to have a happy ending. Thanks to my buddy’s efforts, but mostly thanks to a nice gentleman around the bend who had grabbed almost all of our stuff, not to mention a heroic effort from my Mom, we didn’t lose a single item in the crash. Before we could thank him, however, he took off and disappeared in to the wilderness, where he would almost surely help a family of squirrels build a 2,000 ft home, free of charge.

While the fall might have been the most noteworthy, or story worthy, thing to happen on our float, the trip was much more than just that. I’d like to talk about that stuff now. The stuff that really made our trip.

-June Bug antics. June Bug is my parents’ dog. While they drove a car to our end point, establishing our own shuttle system, June spent the majority of her time trying to sneak in to a strangers running car. Something she succeeded at more than once.

-Skipping rocks. No matter how old I get, skipping rocks is one of the first things I do after arriving at the river. I love everything about it. The search for the best rock. The sight of the rock dancing on the surface of the water. The unloading of the car I’m missing out on because I’m skipping rocks and not hauling a heavy cooler across the river bank.

-Pretty scenery. I love the mountains, but the river isn’t too far behind. The sand bars, the trees, the cliffs (The Buffalo River is fantastic for this), the stillness of the undisturbed water—it’s both peaceful and beautiful. And here’s the best part: on the river, you get to experience that over and over again. With each curvature of the river, and bend that you go around, you enjoy a new stretch of river. Sure, it’s most likely similar to what you were just on, but it’s unknown, unexperienced as of yet. Like unwrapping a present.

-Swinging/jumping off things. Because it’s not a proper float trip without at least one rope swing or rock jump. On this particular occasion, we were lucky enough to have one of each.

-Dad using an excessive amount of sunscreen. My Dad is an always prepared, well organized, do it by the book kind of guy. Need a stamp? He’s got it. On a road trip? He’s locked in at two over. Stranded in a remote part of the world and have no cell phone reception? He’s got a map of the place, and an inflatable house with water and food and a nice little back yard pool. And, if you’re on the river, he’ll have plenty of sunscreen for you, and also on his body.

-Bald eagle. We saw the same bald eagle at two different times on the river. Up close, you realize how impressive the creature is. Seeing it soar down the river, the Ozark hills and mountains as the backdrop, was a sight to see.

-Seeing my dog play in the river for the first time. This was Denver’s first river experience. Having never been on a river before, let alone swam in water, I—we (my fiancee and I)—were a bit nervous as to how she would respond. Concerns, however, that were quickly put at ease. From the moment we arrived, she was in the water, splashing, swimming, playing fetch, generally having the time of her life.

-My fiancee forgetting a change of clothing, AND her swimsuit. As a result, she spent the majority of the float in her underwear, and I spent the trip home without a shirt.

-Seeing my Mom in a kayak and canoe, in her element, happy, being active and physically fit. My Mom is the ultimate adventurer—constantly running, doing yoga, hiking, traveling, taking part in mud runs and adventure races. She’s an inspiration to anybody who wants to live an active, adventurous, healthy lifestyle. Seeing her out on the river again reminded me of this, and how cool it is.

Getting Older With Childhood Friends

Like a lot of people, I moved back to my hometown after college. Money was simply coming in faster than I could keep up with. I even had to open up a number of offshore accounts just to get some of it off my hands. So it only made sense to bunk up with my parents for a bit. Any way, it’s been a few years since then and I’m still here, in my hometown. (Living on my own now because money has slowed to a manageable rate!)

I didn’t necessarily plan it that way, but that’s how it has played out. Facts are facts. And while it’s not all great, there are a few pretty cool things about spending some adult years in a place where I grew up. Among them being the ability to reconnect with childhood friends (and meeting an incredible, kind-hearted, talented, funny, smart, smarter than you, and by you I mean me, pretty little lady who would become your fiance; and by your I mean my).

Some people may think that sounds terrible. Seeing people from your past. From your younger days when you may have been a different person, may have done some regrettable things, may have stolen your buddies super cool pocket comb which you still feel pretty guilty about. And sure, there are those people who, if you see, make you hide in the Chick-fil-A play-place for an hour and a half, because apparently that’s how long it takes to eat a chicken salad. But, if you’re lucky, there are a handful of childhood friends who really were your good friends. And who you really do enjoy seeing.

For example, I play in a soccer league once a week—have for most of the time I’ve been back in my hometown—with a good majority of the team being guys I grew up with. It’s something I always look forward to. Some of that’s because it feels good to run around playing a sport I enjoy playing, and being competitive, and thinking differently than I do most of the week. But it’s also because it’s fun spending time with a bunch of buddies—joking, telling stories, talking about life.

These are people I played hide n’ seek with. People I played backyard soccer and baseball and football with. People I chased after girls with (or at least talked about girls with; girls are intimidating, man). People I looked up to and emulated. People I learned about life with, if only just a little bit. Now those same people are getting married, buying houses, and having kids. And I’m seeing it first hand. Which is pretty crazy, considering some of these people I wouldn’t have trusted to keep my pet rock alive (if I had a pet rock, cause I definitely didn’t, and its name wasn’t Tim). But now they’re great parents and productive members of the community.

That’s also not to say living in one’s hometown is better than not living in one’s hometown. There’s something to be said about meeting new people, with different insights and perspectives and upbringings; exploring unknown landscapes, giving you a glimpse into the world outside of your bubble—however big or small that may be. Perhaps even finding a place that feels more like home than any other place you’ve been before. I think it sounds incredibly exciting, and I’ve always been intrigued by the adventure it would offer. The two are just different.

Is living in my hometown what I expected at this stage in my life? Probably not. I’m not sure what I did expect—maybe to have a little place in the south of France, and another in the Swiss Alps, and another in the mountains of Colorado, and maybe a place in Milan too, probably another one in South America somewhere as well, like Peru or Chile, and who could forget Australia! (However, I’d probably be too busy romping around the world, living for week’s at a time in a remote part of Africa learning about the origin of life, or skiing the best mountains the world has to offer, or riding a motorcycle across Europe, or entertaining high profile guests to some tasty dinners in my New York and Tokyo high rise apartments, to spend too much time at any given place, so maybe I’d just Airbnb?), but it’s where I find myself now. And, as luck would have it, it’s turned in to a unique opportunity. One I’m glad to have had, and to be having now. However long it may last.

A Letter From a Dying Member of the American Community

Things used to be different. They used to be great. I used to be great; spending days bumbling through neighborhoods and cities, past pedestrians and buildings with a certain dignity and respect. I was admired then. I meant something THEN. I even remember spending afternoons and long weekends on the dazzling Route-66. How I can see her shimmer in the summer light now. Man, we had fun. Those days, however, those memories—well, they’re just that. Memories. Distant memories.

It’s a different world now. It’s not the world I knew growing up. Definitely not the world my parents knew. It’s busier now. Less personable. People eat alone in their cars, not having the time, or desire, it seems, to do anything else. And when they do have time, they spend it on these weird hand held devices that look like a contact book without any pages. Always scrolling and tapping away. I guess it’s no surprise they don’t have use for an old fogey like me.

Who am I? Isn’t it obvious? I’m Stick Shift (manual transmission, if you like). One lonely old stick shift, left to sit with its thoughts in the middle of Who-Knows, Michigan. Fun fact: it’s cold here this time of year. It’s always cold.

While I’m just one, potentially deranged, stick shift, I think I speak for my brothers and sisters when I say: go fly a kite, automatic transmissions. Seriously, just take the day, or the rest of your life, and go fly a kite. Preferably next to a dangerously steep and slippery hill. I mean, thanks to you guys, a good majority of us, including myself, have been forgotten like last week’s newspaper. Or worse, like that can of old Catnip that’s been sitting next to me for the past five years.

When automatics first started appearing on the road I thought it was cute. Sure, it was a pretty terrible concept for a car, but they added a certain something. Something that I have yet to figure out, but something nonetheless. Then, slowly, automatics began to take over. Stick shifts everywhere were being passed over at dealerships, without so much as a test drive, for this new, weird, grotesque smelling, automatic.

I assured myself it was just a fad. Give people some time to figure out how tremendously terrible the car was—is—and things would go back to normal. But they didn’t… They didn’t. Things got worse. Like a bad virus, automatics continued to dot the landscape. And then the unthinkable happened. They began replacing stick shifts.

I remember the first time I saw it. Billy, a 1992 Honda Civic. Oh sweet Billy. My neighbor, and best friend of seven years. We spent many evenings talking about the finer things in life, sharing our dreams, fears, hopes. Many gallons of oil were had together, and then… one day… Billy was gone. And in his place? A shiny, filthy, automatic.

Billy of course wasn’t the only one. The rest of my neighborhood was soon replaced, myself included. I tried to care when it happened, but seeing Billy go like that, I didn’t have anything left inside of me to give. It didn’t help that my owner savagely sent me to a pick-n-pull, where strangers came and went, taking every thing I had, literally leaving me with nothing left inside. But I meant that emotionally, too.

Sure, there are still stick shifts out there. A lucky few, enjoying the open road, the concrete beneath their wheels. It seems as though they’ve been able to put off the inevitable, if only for a short while longer. Their day will surely soon come. Their world as they know it will be ripped out from under them like a novice magician ripping a table cloth out from underneath restaurant goers. I hope to all get out I’m wrong, but I can’t help but feel I’m right.

So for now, and the foreseeable future, I’ll be here. In the middle of Who-Knows, Michigan, next to an old can of Catnip, watching things unfold—hoping for the best, expecting the worst, and longing deeply for England.

Traveling: Not as Glamorous as it Looks

My brother and I recently spent two weeks in Thailand, splitting our time between three different locations—Bangkok, Chiang Mai, and Phi Phi. Seeing another part of the world, completely different from my own, was an experience I’d often thought about (like thinking about what you’re going to eat for lunch when you haven’t had breakfast, and oh yeah, the person next to you is eating pizza), but of course one that I couldn’t foresee. Why? Mostly because I left out one key traveling component: the not-so-glamorous stuff.

Now, I’ve been lucky enough to do a decent bit of traveling (mostly domestically, and by some standards I’m sure I’m completely inexperienced in the matter), but it took me to go halfway around the world to realize: it’s not as glamorous as it looks. Sure, I’ve thought that before. Especially on the back end of driving twenty-four hours straight or when pooping in the woods only to realize I didn’t poop in the woods at all but instead pooped in my pants. But I never thought about really fleshing the idea out and putting it all on paper. So we’ll give Thailand some credit for pushing things along.

I know. “Not as glamorous as it looks.” It sounds like a snobby thing to say, especially about something that is a privilege to be able to do. But it’s not negative, it’s just something that isn’t always portrayed in pictures, or writing, or social media to the extent of its relativity. We see a picture of a person in this exotic location, or hear about an amazing city someone went to, but we don’t see the thirty hours of travel time it took them to get there, or the difficulties in navigating the city because they couldn’t speak the language. We see and hear about the end result, the climactic moments. Which are of course a large reason why we travel, but it’s by no means the whole story. Here are a few more examples of what I mean:

–You’re in an airport. Local time it’s nine o’clock. But to you it’s four in the morning, and you haven’t slept in thirty hours and now you have a three hour layover before jumping on a twelve hour flight. You find your gate, take up a couple of seats, and attempt to get some sleep in a crowded, noisy airport using your lumpy backpack as a pillow (if you’re lucky). This is your trip to the exotic location. Or home.

–You’re in the Indian Ocean. You see long boats in the water, and towering cliffs in the distance. It’s what you came to see, and everything you hoped it would be. BUT, you have to pee. Unfortunately, the bathroom costs money to use and you’re tight on that. No big deal. You’ll just pee in the ocean. Or so you thought. However, the waves are just big enough and consistent enough to interrupt your peeing flow. As a result you spend the next couple of hours feeling like you need to pee but not being able to. (This feels kind of like being in the ocean, waterless, and needing something to drink. But about urine.)

–It’s two in the morning local time. You’ve just arrived to a new, foreign city where you’ll be spending a couple of days. Stoke is pretty high. Now all you need to do is find a cab and drive the forty five minutes that remain to your hotel/hostel and you can finally sleep and explore the city fresh in the morning. Except the cab driver doesn’t speak a word of your native language, and also doesn’t read in his. Find another cab driver, you say? You’re already twenty minutes in to the drive and he’s taken four lefts and six rights and you just drove by a few buildings that look like some not-so-honorable things happen there. Good luck.

–Riding a long boat with all your luggage to catch a ferry. Pretty cool, except it’s raining and you’re wearing salmon shorts.

–Renting a car. But having to rent another one because a lady who was illegally parked pulled out in front of you and ripped part of your fender off, only to have that newly rented one have its tire blown out because of an obscure railroad tie that cannon-balled towards you like you said something about its mother. Now you’re limping into an unknown town for the evening where you’ll spend the night, because it has a population of 17 and nobody works after five. (Sounds like they’ve got it figured out!)

All of that can happen in a matter of days, too. I should know. Most of it happened to me. And while it’s happening it’s frustrating, and scary, and exhausting, but give it some time (some things need more time, and perhaps more alcoholic beverages, than others) and those lowlights become some of the things you remember most, and feel most satisfied about.

Getting through moments of adversity is part of the traveling gig. Something will go wrong, or differently than you had envisioned. It always does. And in that moment you’ll feel uncomfortable, and scared, and vulnerable, and unsure of yourself, probably longing for a nice hot bath in your own home and a good thumb sucking, too. But when that does happen, when you do find yourself feeling this way, you’ll discover you’re more than capable of doing what needs to be done. Maybe more capable than you knew you were.

To paraphrase from an article I wrote a while back, we need stuff to go wrong. Without it, our memories become clouded with indiscernible moments—a kind of Utopian fog—and it becomes easier to take for granted when things do go well. I think the same can be said about traveling. Without the not-so-glamorous, without those mishaps and lowlights, maybe we don’t appreciate the day on the beach or the night out with new friends in an amazing, foreign city. Maybe it becomes all too easy and monotonous and we get bored. Or maybe that’s just me trying to spin a positive light on not being able to pee in the ocean, I don’t know.

Is traveling as glamorous as it looks in pictures or in words on paper? No. But traveling is what it is because of all that it is. The people we meet, the things we see, and the feelings it evokes—both good, bad, and somewhere in between.

How to Have a Good Time in an Airport

Airports can be fun. With the proper know-how, that is. Without it, however, and they can be kind of like riding in the back of an old school bus while driving down stairs. So, in order to ensure optimal fun is had, and not the stairs, I’ve gone ahead and created something of a How-to guide. Simply follow the steps below and you’ll be sure to have one heck of a time!

(Disclaimer: product has not yet been tested. The result of your actions are not to be linked back to me in any way. Unless those results are positive, and exactly what I said they would be. Then by all means, credit must be give. But if you wind up in a jail in, say, Barranquilla, it’s not on me.)

1. Have a carry on that is, to the best of your knowledge, a foot and a half taller than the accepted limit.

2. When going through the metal detector make sure you keep at least one or two small items in your pockets. Like paper clips or coins or a steel Jack-In-The-Box. It’ll allow you the unique opportunity of being patted down by security or tackled by the linebacker-ish looking fellow next to security.

3. Wear elaborate footwear that requires some real work to get on and off. You know, something that says, “As a matter of fact, I did spend twenty minutes lacing these bad boys up, so what?”

4. Find yourself in a position that requires the use of a lot of toilet paper (use your imagination). Now, a fact about airport toilet paper: it’s thin. For perspective, on a scale of one to ten, one being a brick and ten being, I don’t know, floss, it’s probably an eight. A lot of adventures can be had with toilet paper that thin.

5. While waiting at your gate to board the plane, listen to an audiobook without headphones. Something like Why Yarn is Superior to Sand. Trust me on this one.

6. If you’re an American flying to Tokyo from, say, Chicago, go ahead and NOT print out your boarding pass for the connecting flight to Bangkok. You’ll have fun talking about this in Japanese with your new security friends.

Is the Grass Really Greener on The Other Side?

The grass is greener on the other side. People say it all the time. They also say ‘the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.’ It depends on who is saying it, really, and what kind of spot they are in. Which I get, but it’s all got me a little confused. What side is greener? I want clarity. I need clarity. So I’ve set up a little interview. Well, an interview of sorts. The party of interest only agreed to do it on the terms of me not being physically present, and me also recording myself jumping up and down on one foot while eating an entire pineapple. Strange, I know, but I’ve been wanting to get this guy’s thoughts for some time now, so it was an easy decision. Let’s get weird. Now, thanks to my compliance of the terms and a certain shameless act, I’ve got an audio recording of  The Other Side talking about what the grass is like over there. So here it is, raw, and unedited.

I can’t believe he did it. I can’t believe he actually sent me that video. When I told Devon I’d only agree to do this if he’d send me a video of himself jumping up and down on one leg eating a pineapple, I thought there’s no way. No self respecting human would do such a thing. Especially at the request of something like me (I can say that about myself). I mean, I would have done it anyway. It’s not like my schedule is super busy. In fact, Devon is the first human person to try to talk to meeverso I kind of feel bad for making him do it. But then again, I don’t feel that bad. It’s just too funny. My friends are gonna love it. Anyway, enough about that, let’s go ahead and jump right in to the meat of the matter, shall we?

So, what’s the grass like? Well, to be honest, it’s green. Like super green. Like if a Colorado pine tree got together with um, I don’t know, like another really green thing and had little grass babies and those babies went on to grow up and have babies with a thing that was greener than that first thing I described, then that’s about the green you would see. So yeah, quite green.

Now, before anybody accuses me of trying to say their life would be better if they’d do this other thing or that thing, or would have chosen another career twenty years ago, or something like that, let me say this: that’s just the physical description of the grass over here. It’s not any kind of metaphor for life, it’s merely a fact. The grass is super green. Especially with all the rain we’ve been getting lately. I mean no offense by what I say, and I’m not trying to get super deep about life or tell you how to live the best one. I’m just relaying information. Pure and simple. Cool?

Okay then. Well, that’s basically that. I know, kind of short. Kind of… kind of, to the point, I guess you’d say. But it’s the answer I have. Plus, I’m not a personor really a thing that exists, for that matterso what more do you want from me?

The Seriousness of Co-ed Softball

To some, co-ed softball is fun. An opportunity to spend time with friends, maybe co-workers, and share a few laughs and cheer each other on. Which is funny. Some people obviously don’t know how serious co-ed softball is.

If you’re looking to play co-ed softball for the “fun of it,” or to “have a good time,” you’re doing it for the wrong reasons (might I suggest co-ed kitten petting? Or everybody gets a medal for smiling?). Co-ed softball isn’t fun. It’s about winning. It’s about being better than the people you are playing against, who are probably out there because they want to have fun. You’re supposed to want to crush dreams out there. Make somebody’s day a little bit worse because you’re beating them seventeen to zero and it’s only the third inning. If anybody tells you otherwise, they’re not somebody you want on your team. It’s as simple as that.

Still, I see it all the time. Teams not being as serious as they should. Laughing. Not watching the game. Conversing about things other than how they’re going to approach Tina, the stud third-baseman from the other team who has been killing them at the plate with two doubles and a triple, in her next plate appearance (can you believe that?). It’s all rather cringe-worthy. But, at the same time, I see them and know that’s an easy W later in the season. I’ll take it.

It’s not always black and white, though. Sometimes teams look like they are there to play. Have a couple of guys and gals who look relatively athletic, even. It makes me feel a little weird inside, almost unsure about myself, but then I look harder and see some clear signs to their lack of seriousness and feel better once again. What am I seeing, exactly? A few things.

For starters, the team doesn’t have a single softball specific bag. A couple of gym bags, but those don’t even have a compartment for spare batting gloves or a can of chewing tobacco. Which is embarrassing enough, but that’s not all. They also only have one bat. ONE BAT. For the entire team. They pass it around and share it like Deb shared her birthday cake at last week’s office party, insisting everybody got a piece before I had my fourth. At this point, it goes without saying they don’t have batting gloves. I mean, how can anybody on that team expect to hit a ball over the fence, let alone out of the infield, when they have to do it with their bare hands, like they live in 1872 or something. It’s sad, to be honest. But I guess the world needs a few gazelles for tigers like me.

With that said, I’ll take this time to address a question I get all the time: if you’re so serious, why don’t you play in the “competitive” division? Which is, in my opinion, a pretty silly question. But I’ll go ahead and answer it anyway. Simply put, I want the wins. I need the wins. I don’t care how that comes across, it’s a winners mentality. You’re not going to get anywhere in co-ed softball—or life, for that matter, because the two are pretty interchangeable—if you don’t have it. Sure, I could play in the “competitive” division and challenge myself, probably play in a few close games and maybe even come across some people who are better than me. Scratch that, nobody is better than me. But somebody might get lucky and beat me, and I can’t chance that. I want to win and no, I’m definitely not insecure or anything.

Simply put, co-ed softball isn’t a game—it’s war. Are some people going to say I’m being too intense, or I need to chill out and take a good hard look in the mirror about what’s going on inside? Probably. But then again, those people haven’t won the co-ed championship four years in a row and been threatened to be kicked out of the league for throwing dirt in the umpires face, have they? Didn’t think so. And being anybody other than that isn’t somebody I want to be.