One of my friends here in Portland has a really nice backyard, and when the beer fund runs low, and the weather gets good, we tend to throw bonfires, because they are cheaper than going out to the bars, and there’s something truly entertaining about watching a fire dance and glow and do its thing. But don’t let the term ‘bonfire’ mislead you; at our bonfires, there are no giant wooden burning-man statues and naked hippies running around with bottles of THC infused organic beer. No, it’s just a few good people hanging out with some PBR tall boys around a small bucket full of sand, with a fire on top. Lately, the weather has been fantastic in Portland, so we’ve had quite a few bonfires. And every time that I attend one, I fail to even remotely understand the nuances and physics of how to properly light, tend to, and thereby maintain a successful fire. This has led me to the revelation that I’d make a really lousy caveman. And this makes for an apt topic for “this week’s irrational Fear:” My fear for my life in a post-apocalyptic universe.
Seriously, don’t close your eyes, because you can’t read with your eyes closed, but try to imagine the following: you wake up in the morning, and you hear no traffic. You roll over in bed to see what time it is, and your usually bright green digital alarm clock isn’t even on. You next reach around for your trusty cell phone with its built in satellite clock, but the damn thing is low on battery power, and keeps flashing: “no service.” (And no, analog mode doesn’t work either!) So you look out the window, and your familiar city or residential street is far too quiet – it’s like the beginning scene in Vanilla Sky, where Tom “Scientology rules” Cruise is running down an eerily vacant Times Square in Manhattan, with nobody around – it’s the end of the world as you know it, and you don’t feel fine.
You gotta ask yourself: “What would I do if I suddenly had to survive in a world without the Internet, telephones, television, electricity and energy based transportation?” Personally, I’d be one dead duck. I’d be the worst caveman that the world has ever seen: a) I can’t even build a campfire that lasts longer than 1 minute; I have to have my friends do it for me. But, I can convert wav files into mp3s on my laptop, so that’s a skill, right? b) I don’t even know how to grow a vegetable. I tried to grow weed once, which earned its nickname because of its incredible tenacity to grow in even the poorest of conditions, and I failed. The only success I’ve had with ‘making food’ is mastering how to make Easy Mac N’ Cheese in a 10-watt microwave in my freshman dorm room at college. c) I don’t know how to tie a sharp stone to a stick and then throw it with enough aim and force to kill a fish, bird, reptile, or wild boar. I was a vegetarian for five years because I liked to think that animals have a right to live with us in a world with soy alternatives. d) I certainly have no idea how to approach a mule, tame it, and get it to work for me. And, even if I could, I don’t think I would; it would remind me too much of Eeyeore from “Winnie the Pooh,” with its cute droopy eyes that would melt my pathetically soft heart. As a matter of fact, I think that I think far too much to be a caveman. I’d probably end up giving up on trying to find food, and end up carving out a stupid column like this one in my cave while I waited for the grim reaper to come and take me away.
Anyway, as I researched this week’s topic, I discovered that I have many ‘totally freaky friends’ in Portland who know how to do things like create proper, three-hour lasting fires, grow plants that can later be eaten for their nutritious properties (and not just be smoked), and one of these crazy people out here even knows how to ‘make bread from scratch.’ Another one of my friends knows how to make clothes from scratch! I don’t even know the ingredients for clothes: “uh, cotton, is that like a flower, or a root, or what? Does leather come from a bush or a tree? And silk, I mean, who figured that one out; a worm’s cocoon?” Silk clothes should have a tag: “made and discovered in China.”
But I’m a planner, and so I go to sleep knowing that if I ever wake up to a world without modern conveniences, I just need to keep in mind that I have these so-called ‘crazy friends,’ and I must be quick enough on my feet to be the first person to run over to their various homes, and then bribe or kidnap them and convince them to toil the land, weave some clothes, light some fires, and, you know, labor away their lives working to help sustain my life, because sharing means caring, people.
So my ego is a little bruised as of late – I mean, if I am a piss-poor caveman, incapable of doing anything rudimentary and necessary to sustaining my own life, then what can I offer to the people of a future, pre-Industrial-Revolution-like society, as a bribe for their legitimate hard work and skills? I can play guitar and sing, but I can’t build instruments. I can write some introspective prattle, but I don’t know how to make paper or pens, and I certainly don’t know where to find lead, and how to mine it, in order to make a pencil. I just have to hope that in the event of an apocalypse, I come across a stock hold of Easy Mac, butter, milk, and a portable 10-watt microwave. Or I should learn to brew beer.
Speaking of nightmare futures, I have a debilitating psychological condition that involves a more than ordinary obsession with Eastern Astrology. Notice the adjective EASTERN. You see, in case you hadn’t already taken note, that corny horoscope found in almost every American newspaper is a total crock. Lately, I’ve noticed that almost everyone who checks his or her horoscope on a regular basis is a Cancer, a Gemini, or an Aries. I’ve also noticed that the same stupid horoscopes get recycled on a semi-annual basis. But no one else born under any other star or sign seems to care about any of this, and so I am officially jealous of these non-horoscope-obsessed ‘freaks’ and their obstinacy, because I am a Cancer, and I always read my horoscope.
But Western Astrology is B.S. because it pretends to have the ability to forecast all six billion human’s lives, while only dividing said population into twelve ‘unique’ groups that share the same identical “daily future.” And that’s just not personal enough for a semi-skeptical-mystic-starved gullible idiot like myself. Eastern Astrology says that you are unique, and you therefore get your own extremely personal horoscopes based on the exact time, date, and location of your birth. That sounds like science to me! I witness far too many people who take their daily horoscopes too seriously. People will bounce into my café with a smile on their face, order a latte, and then upon reading their horoscope, look as though they were just told by a doctor that they will never walk again, because their horoscope has them utterly convinced that on the way to work that day, they’re going to get a flat tire, and proceed to be hit by a semi-truck, and then fail to meet the love of their life while rehabilitating in a hospital. And all that the horoscope said was something vague and stupidly ominous, like, “beware of a treacherous misfortune today, for even the great Mountain Yeti trips and falls from time to time.”
But what can I say, I once saw an astrologer who convinced me to quit my job and move – and the idea excited me so much that I did it. But do yourself a favor, and if you want to believe in astrology, the least you can do for yourself is to use the far more scientific approach that Eastern Astrology offers you, rather than the pyramid scheme that is Western Astrology. But the real favor you can do for yourself is to stop reading your horoscope, and just live your life. I mean, do you read the synopsis of your favorite television show before you watch that week’s episode? Of course not, the excitement and spontaneity of life is what makes life, um, spontaneous and exciting.
Insert clever segue here. What is the appropriate way to handle the following situation: You are in a public bathroom at a restaurant, and someone knocks on the door while you are doing your thing. Do you say something back, like, “I’m in here.” Or do you wait in silence, and allow the person to try the handle, see that it’s locked, and then wait for their turn? Or do you elaborate, and tell them that you are in there, and then itemize a timeline for your estimated departure? I’m just unclear on the proper etiquette, and while I’m glad that people still have the courtesy to knock, I don’t feel like talking to a stranger for the first time from the inside of a locked bathroom, especially when I’m already irrationally afraid that I could be locked in there for the rest of my life (see STBY #4).
I have a fantastic idea for how to make a ton of money, and I’m feeling altruistic these days, so I’m releasing it, free of charge, and whoever wants to can take the idea and make a fortune. In college, I happened to major in Film Studies. When you are done laughing out loud, please resume reading. Okay, so in film class, I would watch a lot of great films from the past, and recently, I’ve noticed that every money hungry Hollywood dilettante and their mothers are re-making classics and profiting off of our American sense of nostalgia. But there is a whole market of ‘sarcastic generation’ kids who do not have nostalgia for films like King Kong and The Time Machine. No, our generations’ fragile and sensitive souls crave something far more couch-potato-tastic than classic film remakes, and that is to watch remakes of our favorite television shows from the eighties and early nineties. Now, I’m not talking about adapting shows to the big screen, a la The Brady Bunch and Charlie’s Angels, or re-releasing TV series on DVD (great idea though!). What I’m talking about is literally re-casting and re-filming each and every episode of our favorite television shows, corny punch line for laugh track laden punch line. Who else yearns for Evie, the half alien, who is truly “Out of this World?”
And this idea isn’t just a selfish one, think about the children! How will future children understand how to be ‘cool in school’ if they don’t have access to the holy bible of adolescent advice that is “Saved By The Bell?” And how will these same kids learn to accept their own eerie inner-monologues as normal without Kevin Arnold and “The Wonder Years?” Personally, I wouldn’t ‘get it at all,’ if Clarissa hadn’t ‘explained it all’ to me when I was kid! I will not rest, relax, or believe in a future if I don’t get to see some new tattooed hack playing Tony Danza’s role as Tony Miccelli on “Who’s the Boss 2008”. Really, what could possibly be funnier and more entertaining than watching a show about a man who is a housekeeper who repeatedly says “O-A, A-O” in a lousy Italian-American accent? Well, I sincerely hope that reading this column was.