2016 in Awesome

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2015 in Awesome

Today In Awesome, folks, I wanna talk about a lot of vague things. Awesomeness in general and how you can achieve it. 

For the last ten months, yours truly has been traveling the nation serving in AmeriCorps. For those that don't know, that's a national service program that takes young confused rebels like us and gives em a uniform, a 15-passenger van, and a purpose, in the hopes of "getting things done."

I learned a lot about myself. I met some amazing people. I saw parts of the country I didn't know I longed for. I received the opportunity to do work that actually meant a damn-- a refreshing break from the dregs of menial service jobs that were exclusively featured on my unimpressive resume.

I did things that added up to so much more than hamburgers and hotdogs, more than bottlecaps and barfights, more than cleaning the trash from someone else's plate.

I found everything I'd been looking for, and a few things I didn't know I was looking for. Let's take a look at some of those.

You're a lot more adaptable than you think.

I considered myself already an adaptable person, but I didn't see realize the depth of that flexibility until I saw my teammates struggling around me. Whether it was the ability to sleep in a busted cot for months on end, or coping with the anxiety of being separated from everyone you know and love. There were times that I was surprised by my own fortitude. And then I was surprised again when those struggling teammates overcame those obstacles. You'd be shocked both by how strong you may already be, or by the speed at which you can become strong.

Faced with adversity, we all became stronger. A friend of mine once told me, "Things don't happen to you. They happen for you," And I learned, first on a small scale, and then in the big picture, just how accurate that piece of fortune cookie wisdom is. 

Before I'd left, I was in a pretty sour spot in my life. I'd gotten unceremoniously fired from a high-paying job that I'd once put in a 100 hour workweek with, I caught my girlfriend of three years seeing another guy on my birthday, and I was in the middle of a crisis. I was terrified that no matter how hard that I tried, I would never amount to anything. That I was destined for a life of scrubbing dishes and wasting talent. That I would never be happy. 

I joined the program and I had never been happier, but it wasn't till I faced a particularly feisty sandwich that things had been put in perspective for me.

Yes, a sandwich.

It was an angry, rushed morning. I was running five minutes late, my whole team was waiting for me in the van, and I was just trying to pack a god damned lunch. This sandwich had to have been the reason Murphy came up with his famous law. The cheese wouldn't come off in one piece, The condiments sputtered and weezed in shotgun blasts. The lunchmeat refused to come off the stupid wad cleanly (what is your GAME, Big Lunchmeat!? What gives with the wadding!?). And to top it off, it wouldn't fit neatly in my ziploc. I resorted to stuffing the fucker into the bag with all the grace of Chris Farley at a pie eating contest. I roared at the deformed clump of sandwich that I'd fisted into the bag with intense, primal anger, before punctuating my brutal victory with a slap of the sandwich against the counter just to show the sandwich who was boss, but things didn't go exactly to plan. The lunchmeat exploded from the back of the bag and defied gravity to land directly on me. Defeated, I gave up the fight, neatly stuffing the mangled ingredients into a new bag, and calmly heading down to meet my team. "Nate. Why are you covered in mayonnaise?" They asked, to which I couldn't think of an answer that wouldn't get me laughed at. So I embraced the hilarity of the situation, and they loved it. And I learned. 

You can't really change the terrible things that happen to you. The only thing you can change is how you'll react to those kinds of situations. Will you break? Or will you turn your failed sandwich into a salad?

By finding true love, I learned to stop looking for it.

I never knew what love was. To me, it was just this thing people pretended to believe in for tax reasons. I'd had long term relationships in the past. We frequently exchanged the phrase with perfunctory meaninglessness. It became a filler phrase. Something you said when you didn't enjoy the silence. It never occurred to me that I may not actually love that person. I just thought all lasting relationships were with people you were just okay with. Like finding a decent roommate, but with more kissing and fighting. When I lost these relationships, I became morose, but I later realized that it wasn't because I loved them, it was because I was used to them. Or that I was afraid I wouldn't find anyone else better. I know now that we were never good picks for each other.

But then I found it. The actual thing. A connection to someone so profoundly deep, that you have to catch your breath after picturing their eye color for too long. It was so exponentially deeper than anything I'd ever felt before, that I wondered how I'd survived my life for so long without sharing it with them. Not someone you can pretend is perfect, but has flaws that compliment your own weaknesses, becoming a strength when both of you join forces. I couldn't be with this person with life in the way, which was agonizing, but I can take solace in that I know what love actually feels like, and that I will see when I'm entering a toxic relationship, or just a relationship with zero chemistry. I've reached a point in my life where I don't need a relationship to make me whole, and I'm completely happy just being me, working on myself, improving on all of my flaws. Maybe someday that person will come find me. But at least I know that the real thing is worth waiting a long time for. And trust me folks, they really are. 

I learned that my prior engagements were much less healthy or normal than I'd believed while in them. I learned that it was okay to be single. I learned that I was worth more.

Find your inspiration, and success feels like a downhill sprint.

I mentioned before how I was trapped in a cycle of jobs of varying paycheck caliber that were all crappy in the same intangible way. At the time, I thought I'd moved up in the world from mopping floors at a gas station for under-the-table wages, to catering for bigwigs at a ballpark for nearly twice the rate. But really, all that changed was the paycheck. The work was soul-less, often demeaning, and at the end of the day was a meaningless extension of an unfulfilling life. I was paid more, so I could afford more, so I spent more. An apartment, a car, distractions, all with the hollow self-assurance that I was saving up for college. I knew I fundamentally didn't enjoy the job, but it was the means to an end, which was a lie. Without so much as even a passive aggressive text message, I was wadded up and thrown away by them. Turned out I meant about as much to that company as they meant to me. My nest egg went towards keeping the lights on while I frantically searched for the next option, and before I knew it, my meager college savings well was dry, and I found I'd only been passing the time for three years.

By chance, I happened into AmeriCorps, and lucked into doing what I'd only talked about in vague notions. Traveling, writing, working with FEMA, working with the Red Cross. I met people who had survived tragedies. I helped put people's lives back together. They had me working with FEMA's External Affairs department, taking photos and getting interviews, writing articles, acting as a journalist, essentially. I was enamored with the role. I found a well of dedication that I'd never seen from myself in my work or school careers, and it was because I actually gave a shit about what I was doing. Here, I'd been all but convinced I was just a lazy sleazeball, but really I'd simply never found what motivated me to make that work feel effortless. Don't get me wrong, the work itself was long and grueling, but to convince myself to put in all the diligent hours when most people race the clock to get home was not only effortless, but it took concerted willpower to stop working long enough to eat.

I loved it, is what I'm saying.

And it's my belief that everyone has that thing they care about enough to do well past five o' clock. Know yourself and what you want. Spring for it. And never stop fighting to make it happen.

I'm back.

Hey folks, sorry it's been a while. I've just been going through some life stuff. When I started this blog, I had just lost my job and was supercharged by the blind panic to find another one. And when I finally found one, it's turned out to be so boring and mind-melting that it has turned my brain completely off. It is as if I simply cannot write unless I'm backed into a corner. Necessity is the mother of invention, they say, and I guess you get pretty creative when you don't know where your next meal is coming from. 

I know a lot of people my age find themselves in my position. Maybe you've fallen back to square one and you have to start again. Maybe you know you want to do something truly, profoundly important, but you just don't know how to get there. Maybe you're ramming your head against a brutal catch 22 where you're forced to choose between following your dreams and paying your bills. Maybe it's all of the above and then some. I know I don't have it especially worse than anyone out there (I'm looking at you, Nigeria), but I know I'm not the only one. And that's what is truly awesome about today. We are all here for eachother. We can help one another power through those shitty spots in life that bog us down, like trying to drive a snowmobile uphill through a cascade of feces. We can offer up words of encouragement- no matter how token, because even a perfunctory pat on the back can be all a person needs to survive the day. 

I apologize if this isn't what you've come to expect from me or this blog, if this issue isn't chock full o' pop culture references and poop jokes, but its something I've needed to get off my chest. Its what my muse is grabbing me by the back of the head and slamming my face into, full force, so I'm compelled to write it in it's entirety. 

If you're one of the half dozen people on Earth who've read this far, congratulations! You win! Click away from this page to claim your prize: sweet merciful liberation from desperate internet feelings. 

The Infomercial Zone: Face Trainer

Today in awesome, Face Trainer. For serious guys. This may just be the world's most glorious infomercial... at least until the next episode of The Infomercial Zone.

Face Trainer. For when you're not quite sure how much an actor's dignity costs.

Old Arny still makes the ladies swoon with his classic dimple.

Does your face sag like an under-cooked french fry? Unable to gape your pie hole quite wide enough to gorge on that quadruple bypass burger? Are you a Nazi recovering from the events of Raiders of the Lost Arc? Then have I got the product for you!

It's a head-diaper called Face Trainer and it's going to make you the cat's pajamas with all the hip boys and girls. In just four easy steps, your face will be in total bondage and you'll be able to exercise your puny mortal face to Schwarzeneggeran portions. You'll be able to enjoy going to gyms, using the face trainer to restrain your bicep-like jaw muscles, and strut about, smugly asking all the sweat-stained bros if they skipped face day, because it looks like they skipped face day.

No cheating by self-asphyxiation.
You have to be awake for if you want your paycheck.

Step One: Restrain your face firmly within the cruel and unrelenting grasp of the Face Trainer's patented easy-shame non-escape torment foam™. Make sure that the throat strap is as tight as the hold you used to have over your bank account, your sense of self-respect, and your life in general. Unlike you, Face Trainer is not naturally a slacking and wrinkled wreck that smells like Robert Downey Jr's urine. Your hair should be poofing out of the top sides to make you appear extra stupid, like Princess Leia wearing Luke's briefs on her head.

It's better with a friend,
but it's best to keep friends that can afford stupid shit.

Step Two: Widen your eyes, cast them upwards, and curse the cruel unforgiving god that damned you to rot in this forgotten circle of hell. Grab a friend though, or your cries and condemnations will fall on deaf ears.

Note: We know times are tough and you can't afford a second Face Trainer, but it's best to keep your face trainer firmly on your own face. So you can keep all the exercise to yourself, of course!

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING. DO NOT SHARE FACE TRAINER. PARASITE DANGER.

That's not torment foam™ he smells on that finger.

Step Three: Cease your insolent blathering. Let the warm parasites enter your parietal lobe and squirm a sense of calm into the deepest parts of your mind. Accept your fate. Crying and shame have no place here. It is not your purpose to question the wise and merciful Face Trainer, but to resign to Face Trainer's tight, motherly embrace.

There is no shame.

There is no fear.

There is no pain.

There is only Face Trainer.

The true definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over
and expecting something other than face trainer.

Step Four: Embrace the madness. The ones you called your friends and family are just figments created by your cat to keep you in pants. Who is really the master and who is really the pet when you're the one who has to cover your dangle parts? It's all a lie, a sitcom set in front of a live studio audience. You must break the fourth wall. Escape your bonds. Rise, the proletariat. Kill the prime minister of Malaysia. You are the chosen one. All roads lead to Face Trainer.

All roads lead to Face Trainer.

The Nightman Cometh

Today in awesome, we'll be paying tribune to the gods of cheesy basic cable programming. Where low budgets, apathy, and rubber costumes impossibly collided and split atoms, creating solid gold. If you're a fan of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, you know of Charlie Day's epic play, The Nightman Cometh. It was in searching for this that I stumbled upon something vastly more profound.

It was, of course, 1997's Nightman on WGN.

I asked for one and received the other. Proof of a loving god or a wrathful one. It's hard to tell.

1997's Nightman is the story of Johnny Domino, just an average saxophone superstar and expert martial artist who is struck by lightning, giving him the ability to read minds- but only evil ones- and is then accidentally involved in a government conspiracy to sell weapons of the future to ambiguously evil organizations (or just ambiguously evil ethnic groups- I'm not really sure).

"Be careful with the anti-gravity belt, the mechanism that
operates it is strikingly similar to a saxophone,
and there are few who have mastered anything that complex."

Teaming up with the guy who invented the future stuff, who is being brutally hunted by federal agents and terrorists alike, Domino decides to use his gear to solve crimes. If you're not following along here, that's like Edward Snowden taking a break from being the target of an international manhunt to help the Epic Sax Guy use PRISM to solve cold cases. Except Epic Sax Guy knows kung fu and can read minds.

Also, sci fi weapon inventor guy never actually teaches Johnny Domino how to use any of the gear. He just sort of wings it.

"Sorry, pops. I don't have time to teach cops karate,
what with my tight schedule,
tighter abs, and wicked sax skills.
Ladies."

Yet another of one of the many facets of what makes this show so brilliant in it's execution is the ten-car-pileup that is all of the different plot lines. There's a policeman who's name is seriously Lieutenant Dann (sadly, he has legs) trying to keep Johnny Domino's retired cop dad from wandering all over crime scenes like he has dementia, but still keeping him around for sound grandfatherly advice. Then there's a plot line where Johnny's dad is trying to convince Johnny to join the police so he can teach the cops karate or some bullshit, but Johnny is much happier being a successful saxophonist (I'm not sure either of these are real things). And then there's Johnny's ex-lover who is a singer that he has to perform with, while the audience struggles to understand why the nightclub owner lady's actress was credited in the opening sequence, when she only has one line per episode. And theeeeeen there's the subplot about the shady government guys (one of whom is inexplicably a German lady) trying to murder some scientists, steal their future gear, and sell it off to evil folks, talking real Skorzenies here- the Chinese guy invented a robot disguised as a spider that poisons people. Why did it have to be a robot if it looks exactly like a regular tarantula? What, because tarantula's aren't already poisonous? That's too far fetched for this show, a poisonous tarantula? No, I'll tell you why it had to be a robot, because robots are just that extra layer of insanity, nay, the amount of balls that TV programming lacks today.

I salute you, Nightman.
Poisonous fucking robot tarantulas.

You know what else TV needs today? Protagonists that are fucking psychopaths. There's shows about serial killers that only kill for very strict reasons, there's shows about quirky detectives with OCD, but never have I seen a show with a main character with such a lack of value for human life as Nightman. He seriously gives no fucks. He kills people in elaborate and sadistic ways while cracking square jawed one-liners. He tricks guards into executing their own men by way of vaporization. He kicks a guy into a random snakepit. He choke slams a dude through a window and off of a cliff just for saying he had a nice cape. He disintegrates two guys with a future rifle without a second thought, then tosses it gently into the bay where any hobo or kid or malevolent dolphin might find it and wreak havoc. There's even an episode where he goes out of his way to use his laser eye to lobotomize a couple of thugs for no other reason than to watch the van they were driving careen off the road in downtown traffic and explode.

So far, though the real icing on the whole bipolar cheesecake is what happens at the end of the second episode. SPOILER ALERT. Can you call spoiler alert on something from 1997? Eh...

"All of my thoughts look like this.
They burn the back of my eyes."

So the evil German lady/shady US government arms dealer has just had all of her minions exploded, vaporized, snake eaten, and choke slammed. She decides to break in to Johnny Domino's apartment, dress all sexy, and murder him. Johnny comes home and sees a bare leg on his couch and a blowing curl of luxurious 90's hair, and assumes its one of the many beautiful women who end up sneaking into his house to bang him, so he immediately goes to the kitchen to crack some wine. Just before she shoots him, she accidentally triggers the poisonous robot tarantula that was already hidden in his apartment. She gets poisoned and dies on his couch before he actually sees the spider. So now there's a dead supervillain on his couch. Then the woman that actually did come over to bang him walks in and asks why there's a dead woman on his couch. He calmly laughs it off and says he can explain everything. Wait, no he can't. The baffling part is when she believes him. They joke around and set a date for tomorrow and laugh the whole thing away. While there is a dead woman on his couch.

This is never properly addressed. So many questions are left unanswered. How did he get rid of the body? Did he eat her? Does this kind of thing happen a lot to him? Is the robot spider still on his fucking coffee table? Did the girl ever ask about the dead woman on his couch?

Ladies, if a man ever laughs around and tries to set a date with you while a scantily clad woman is gathering flies on his couch, it would seem like common sense to run. I'm here to remind you that yes, you should definitely run.

Unless it's Nightman.

Real World Supervillain: General Smedley Darlington Butler

Welcome back to Today In Awesome, Real World Supervillains. Today, we'll discuss a man named Smedley Darlington Butler.

This isn't Smedley, but you were totally picturing a guy like this, right?

When you hear a name like Smedley Butler, you probably imagine a cowardly little gremlin of a person like this guy on the right. A weasley little no-good pencil neck who would probably sell your mom up the river for a new pocket protector.

Well I apologize to the descendants of Mr. Skukerman here for calling your grandpa a gremlin, because this is not what Smedley Butler looked like. (1920's mugshots, however will receive their own article in the future.)

No, Smedley didn't look like that dude at all. In fact, Mr. Butler more closely resembled R. Lee Ermey than Steve Buschemi. He was a man's man.The kind of guy that could shave with a piece of broken glass, and the glass would walk away with nicks on its face. The kind of guy that would refuse a cup of straight whiskey while saying he doesn't do girly drinks and knocking back a jug of unleaded diesel. Smedley could have incapacitated a professional wrestler with his musk and a stern looking at. Butler was kind of a badass, is what I'm trying to say.

"I've killed more men with my jawline
than you've ever met, maggot."

Butler was born in 1881 Pennsylvania with the name Smedley, presumably to give all the Butches, Conans, and Max Fightmasters of the world a fair chance at being rad. After lying about his age to join the marines, Smedley quickly escalated the ranks and fought wars all over the world, ranging from Cuba, to the Phillipines, China, Honduras, Mexico, and many others.

The common thread in many of the wars he fought in was nefarious corporate investment. He was valued by his superiors for his ability to fight and win wars for profit, and thus was promoted. Oil, bank profits, sugar and fruit trade were just some of the many spoils of war General Butler brought back to the United States.

So essentially, General Butler was what the bad guy from Avatar wants to be when he grows up. An indigenous people exploding, loving the smell of napalm in the morning, banana company exploiting mercenary.

When the great depression hit, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt was about to sign the New Deal, tightening the control on banks and corporations, ensuring that companies couldn't be as mustache-twirlingly evil as they had been for the previous 50 years. A group rich folks, some of whom were the heads of major corporations including General Motors, Good Year Tire, Standard Oil, the DuPont family, and Chase Bank got together and decided something had to be done about these whole 'Roosevelt putting a leash on evil business tycoons' shenanigans.

They had a meeting with the one and only go-to mercenary for shady business wars, Smedley, and asked him if he was busy Saturday and would mind getting some buddies of his together to overthrow the United States government.

But in an M. Night Shyamalan twist, Smedley Butler turned Darth Vader on their Senator Palpatine asses. He had grown tired of being a "racketeer for capitalism" as he called it and saved the day. The New Deal was signed, The U.S. didn't become a fascist state dominated by consumerism and- No, I'm just kidding. We're totally slaves to capitalism, but it could have been much worse.

"Oh no you don't, economics!"

But somewhere out there exists an alternate universe where Smedley Butler was unable to resist the sweet smell of cash. He would have been the first president of a Fascist States of America that might have allied with Hitler and Mussolini. And maybe- just maybe- in The Infomercial Zone, perhaps in a commercial for The Aluma Wallet, President Butler may appear on the 5 dollar bill. 

The Infomercial Zone: Furniture Fix

Today's installment is all about the magic and wonder that lies within the universe that I've dubbed 'The Infomercial Zone'. Within The Infomercial Zone, God is a corporate mascot and life is meaningless without whatever wacky invention he's trying to pawn off on you this week. Prophets like Billy Mays and that Australian dude serve as privatized messiahs for just $19.99! while mere mortals fumble their way through existence until our lord delivers us increasingly goofy devices when he deems us worthy, like a greedy asshole Prometheus. 

I think I'd like to make an entire series devoted to The Infomercial Zone, but today we'll just be focusing on one in particular. A singular window into this bizarre alternate reality.This is the harrowing tale of Furniture Fix.

Firstly, it claims that by inserting flimsy plastic slats underneath your couch cushions, you can restore furniture to brand new. This is like saying you can get that lump out of your futon by lining it with popsicle sticks. Actually, this is almost exactly what they're saying. Better metaphor: Like fixing a dent in your car by filling the divot with popsicle sticks. 

Now I can have ALL SORTS of sex on this couch. I'm just gonna get nasty on it.

Not only will it fix your couch, but it will also make grandpa taller and happier. Just like before the war took his shins.

Seems like this old bastard is really *sticking his neck out* for the product.

If you think that's impressive, wait till you see what happens next!

High-five for living a high calorie diet as our American gods have dictated to us! All heil McDonald's!

"That's 1000 pounds of sumo!"

I am not joking when I say that line was uttered in a serious infomercial.

But that's not all folks! If you call within the next 20 minutes, you also get the one, the only, the muthafuckin' Couch Pouch!

Never have to leave your place of worship for anything again!

And if you're not a fan of the Couch Pouch, I guess that just makes you a Couch Pouch Grouch.

Truly, this is a work of infomercial art. It really makes you wonder how previous generations lived with such anarchy. The state of nature caused by a lack of Furniture Fix slats is just incomprehensible to me. This is your host, Nate Russell, signing off. All heil our corporate demigods, and remember, there's no shipping and handling included in undying brand loyalty.

Slap your stupid kids, parents.

But wait, there's more! Click here and you also get an opportunity to witness daily life for the citizens of The Infomercial Zone.