LONGWALKABOUT

Summer starts with lofty goals.  I’m going to do educational things with my kids.  I’m going to replace half the windows in my house.  I’m going to make our summer look like a sitcom, where everyone is always laughing and having a good time, and everyone learns a valuable life lesson approximately every thirty minutes.  I’m going to write a lot.  I’m going to be in such good shape that I’ll be able to become an Instagram model.  I’m going to take an army and sixty elephants across the Alps and invade Italy.  But what happens?  At the end of the summer you feel like three weeks have passed and you haven’t accomplished half of what you set out to do.  The past two years I have started the summer season with a simple five item attainable bucket list.  Well.  That became depressing. At best, I would accomplish three of the items on the list.  They were simple items too.  Things like, Keep The Car Clean All Summer.  Was I successful?  The french fry I found under the seat says no.  So, instead of making over the Alps with my elephants, I end up in exile on the proverbial island of Ephesus, wondering what went wrong.  This year I didn’t make a list.  I started, but left it unpublished.  That way I couldn’t look back and be disappointed.  But today, a week from Labor Day, with the weather already reminding me that the Devil’s Season is only months away, I found myself evaluating my summer and being depressed by lack of progress in certain areas.  Well,,,,, being depressed sucks.  So I have chosen to accentuate the positive. There were plenty of good things to celebrate about the best season.

• We took a beach trip to my favorite place on earth, St. John.  While there, I saw a shark, a spotted eagle ray, and took my family on a marathon swim across a bay which could have ended badly but didn’t.  High Five.
• I gave the fireplace room in our house a complete makeover.  This sounds mundane, but during the cold months I rarely leave this room so it is actually very important.  Thumbs Up.
• I put in overhead lighting in the office upstairs.  This is a plus because now my boys won’t be afraid to go into the room when it’s dark.  Double high five.
• My wife and I performed a tango routine at the anniversary party of the dance studio we go to.  I don’t like to brag,,,,, but we nailed it.  Fist pump.
• I finally installed the invisible fence for the dog in our backyard.  Then I subsequently set the perimeter setting so wide that he was afraid to go near his food dish inside the house.  Oops.  But hey, he could stand to lose a few.
• My oldest took a computer coding class.
• We kayaked at the lake a few times.
• We went to the family reunion.
• We did the solar eclipse thing with the kids.  Lets just say they weren’t impressed.

The more I think about the positives, the longer the list could get.  I still haven’t been to an outdoor movie with the family, or made it to Fort McHenry, or replaced a single window, and the kids played entirely too many video games.  But overall it was a successful summer. Looking forward, there is still enough warm weather left to accomplish a few more outdoor things.  As is always true, there is no time like the present.  I’m off to liberate some elephants from the Philadelphia Zoo.  I plan on marching over the Poconos and invading northern New Jersey.

My twelve readers will be happy or somewhat dismayed to learn that I am back.

For a period of five years when I was younger, I made it my mission to take an annual trip to West Virginia to go whitewater rafting. Each year I would round up as many of my friends as I could to accompany me. We did the New River in springtime and if the trip happened to come in the fall, we did the world class Upper Gauley River.

One year I was only able to get one friend to go with me. It was October and the weather was great for tent camping. Our plan was to spend the night at one of the nearby state parks and then take a trip down the Upper Gauley and its five class V rapids.

Due to what I’m sure was poor planning on my part, our trip unknowingly fell on Bridge Day weekend. Bridge Day is the one day a year when people who may be described as “adventurous” by some, or “crazy” by others, or “people who probably work in the HVAC field and have nothing left to lose” by me, are allowed to BASE jump, rappel, and bungee jump from the 876 foot high New River Gorge Bridge. It’s a big deal. The first one was held in 1980 and attracted around forty thousand people. Now, the nearly forty year-old festival brings in about one hundred thousand people. When my friend and I arrived in the area, we discovered that half of those hundred thousand people were camping, and the other half were making sure that every hotel we passed had a no vacancy sign lit up. For two hours we tried in vain to find somewhere to stay. Eventually we ended up at a gas station somewhere in the city of Beckley. Tired and out of options, we decided to ask the gas station attendant if there was a reasonably priced, reasonably clean motel in the area. He gave us the name of a place nearby.

A mile later we pulled in to the _____ __ ___ ____ Motel. I will withhold the name and savage them anonymously on Yelp later. It was one of those places where you get your key and park right in front of your room. You know, like the place in Psycho. We entered the room and immediately discovered that some people’s definitions of reasonably clean were way different than ours. There was a double bed, a dresser, on top of which sat an ancient TV, and a bathroom that was cleaner than a gas station bathroom, but still dirty enough to make you consider going outside to pee in the woods. To get from the front door to the bathroom, you had to turn sideways and shimmy between the bed and the dresser. The bedspread was dark enough and the lighting dim enough to hide all sorts of stains. Reminiscing on this, I also remember sleeping in a barn one night when I was in high school. That barn was probably cleaner, and much less likely to have been a murder scene. All of this was pretty funny to us at the time. Not wanting to touch the bed, we spread our sleeping bags on top of the bedspread and spent the next three hours wondering if the guys sitting in their car two doors down were eventually going to break in to our room, rough us up, steal the TV, and maybe clean the bathroom. Eventually we fell asleep. Just two guys in sleeping bags on a Korean War era double bed, dreaming about bed bugs.

The rafting was epic. It always is. Luckily, adrenaline makes up for energy lost to a bad night’s sleep. This is the part of the post where I recommend whitewater rafting in West Virginia. Bridge Day is a sight to behold. If you want to do Bridge Day right, sign up for a trip on the Lower New River that ends beneath the bridge. That way you can watch all the HVAC technicians leap out into thin air and what could be, but probably won’t be, certain death.

“It has been said that you should never try to meet your heroes, lest they be found to have feet of clay.” Madison Magazine, volume 31, part 2 (1989).

I’ve heard this before, and I have to say, I disagree.  If you meet your heroes, and are truly disappointed, the problem is more likely with you than it is with them.  The pedestal that you put them on was simply too high.  You built them up into a superhuman whose shoes they could never fill.  By all means, meet your heroes, but go into the encounter with no expectations. That way you’ll most likely be pleasantly surprised.

In the early 2000’s my wife and I, and my friend and his girlfriend, went to see Jekyll and Hyde on broadway in New York.  At the time the lead role was being played by Sebastian Bach, formerly of the band Skid Row.  He was the main reason that I had wanted to see this particular play.  If you are my age and aren’t familiar with Skid Row your youth was not what it should have been.  How could you be a teenager without hearing 18 And Life or Slave To The Grind or, most importantly, Youth Gone Wild?  I’m sorry you missed it.  You can still jam to Youth Gone Wild now but when you’re rapidly approaching forty something, songs about being “another misfit kid” in “another burned out town” just don’t carry as much weight as they did when you were fifteen.  Anyway.  We went to the play and it was awesome.  Sebastian’s larger than life vocals were a perfect fit for the composition and subject matter.  During the closing applause my friend and I caused enough ruckus that the elderly woman behind us had to lean in next to her husband and explain to him, “He’s a rock and roll star, dear.”  The theater patrons emptied out onto 45th street and most of them went their separate ways.  We chose to stick around with a group of about thirty other people to wait and see if we could meet the cast.  One by one they came out.  Autographs were signed and hands were shaken.  Finally Sebastian came out.  And,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,  He was the nicest guy you could ever meet.  He signed every autograph and posed for every picture.  I told him that I had taken my wife to see him at the Birch Hill Night Club in New Jersey and that it was her first concert.  He asked if we had seen the play.  My buddy emphatically told him, “Sebastian you never turned your back on rock n’ roll.”  To which he excitedly replied, “That’s right brother.”  He then got into a limo and, in true rock n’ roll fashion, popped out of the sunroof as it drove away.

I’ve met other well known people whose work I enjoy.  They haven’t all been personable.  Take Tom Ridge, former head of the Department of Homeland Security, for example.  Most of them, though, have been really nice. Especially former Phillies first baseman, John Kruk.  He was great.  That same buddy that I went to the play with and I met him at a Philadelphia Eagles game.  He was shorter than I expected and slightly inebriated.  John is from a small town in West Virginia called Keyser.  I told him that I was also from West Virginia.  He signed my ticket stub and told me that his brother still lived there and wished me “Good luck down there in West Virginia.”  I hadn’t lived there since I was eight, but I really appreciated the sentiment.

Legend has it that once upon a time, the great Jimmy Stewart was staying at a hotel, and when the bellhop brought his bags he said,  “Mr. Stewart, this may not mean much to you, but I really enjoy your movies.”  Jimmy turned to him and said, “No, you’re wrong.  It means everything to me.”

Your heroes are just people, like you.  Meet them.  More often than not, it will be a good experience.  Unless your hero is Michael Jordan.  I hear he’s a real piece of work.

People can describe me in many ways.  Such as.  ‘That really nice girl’s husband.’  ‘Introvert.’ ‘The guy who occasionally runs the sound board at church.’  ‘The guy who needs a haircut.’  And, this Monday, in a stunning development, ‘the father of the two most well behaved children at the Mexican restaurant.’  I would like to thank our server for that compliment.  Also, I would like to apologize to him again for spilling my water all over the place.  Two words that have never been used to describe me, ‘City Person.‘

Over the last two days of my kid’s spring break we took the family to New York.  We visited two museums, Times Square, Central Park, multiple restaurants, and (according to my phone) walked around 11 miles.  At the end of our whirlwind tour, who was left standing and ready for more?  This guy.  Everyone else had tapped out.  They were ready to go home.  My eldest son was first.  Admittedly he is not a city person either.  I think he may have been done immediately after we saw the African mammals exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, which was the highlight of his trip.  And the first thing we did.  Then came my youngest.  He is up for anything most of the time.  Anything except for the naked statues in the European sculpture hall at the Met.  We explained to him that the nude statues were “no big deal.”  To which he responded, “It’s a big deal to my eyes!”  By the time we were done viewing the impressionist paintings (which he was actually stoked about) he was done.  We made our way  back to the hotel and to a restaurant just north of Times Square, where the waiters and waitresses sing.  It was at that restaurant when I realized I had won.  My endurance had taken the day.  I looked across the table at my wife and was astonished to come to the conclusion that she too was ready to call it a day.  So, while the waitress sang a tune from Annie, I signed the check and relished the fact that it wasn’t me who was checking the time and train schedules, wondering when we could leave.  Not this time.  I was ready to take the walk over to the Empire State Building.  Or maybe to show the kids Grand Central Terminal.  Or perhaps to join the Hare Krishnas for a rousing number in Penn Station.

My wife loves New York.  Several times a year she will visit with her best friend, spending the day seeing the sights and visiting hipster food spots.  She doesn’t even care if it’s summertime, when New York City smells like a giant urinal in search of an even gianter urinal cake.  For me to outlast her on a trip to the city is a big deal.  I feel like I have won some sort of championship belt.  I should probably be giving an awards acceptance speech.  “First and foremost I would like to thank the makers of Google Maps for helping me navigate the subway system. Secondly, a big thanks goes out to the guy who gave up his seat so we could all sit together on the NJ Transit train.  Last but not least, I would be remiss not to mention the genuine New York City subway rat that showed up during a lull in conversation, to the delight of all.  Until next time, God bless, and goodnight.”

 

 

I love live music.  I especially love shows in small clubs that are standing room only.  It’s hot and rowdy.  If the band is good, the crowd feeds off of them and they feed off of the crowd.  IF the band is GOOD.  But what if they’re horrible?  Well.  Then you’re just standing in a crowd of people being sonically abused.  This happens more often than not with the opening acts.  The headliner.  The band you actually came to see, is almost always worth the price of admission. Unfortunately, they make you sit through two to three bands that no one has heard of to get to what you came to hear.  Sure, you could skip the openers, but then you’d have to stand at the back of the crowd when your favorite band comes on stage.  If you want to be close enough to the stage to be in danger of getting sprayed with your favorite rock star’s sweat, then you’re gonna have to get there early and endure the opening acts.

I am one of  those people who gets there early.  When I was younger, I kind of liked being there for the whole experience.  Being in line for the door.  Being there when the first band went on stage.  Enjoying the build of anticipation for the band on the marquee.  I went to see Bowling For Soup at the TLA in Philadelphia last night, and I am noticing a change in myself.  I stood in line for the door.  I got a spot about four or five people deep from the stage.  I was there when the first band went on.  Instead of feeling anticipation, other things were running through my head.  Other things like.  “Will I be able to keep this amount of personal space around me the entire night.  I really hope so.  I don’t have any desire to be up against any of these people.”  “Ewww.  I hope that puddle I’m standing in is someone’s spilled drink and not something else.”  “Think I’ll check the score of the baseball game.”  “My left heel hurts something fierce.”  “I have not understood one word of what the lead singer of this band has screamed for the last 30 minutes.”  “I wish I was watching the baseball game.”  Then Bowling For Soup came on.  And they were great.  Really great.

It may be just a sign of me getting older.  But I prefer to think of it as a sign of me getting wiser. Why should we as a populous be subjected to awful music just to get to the music that we really like?  I see no good reason.  I also see one obvious solution.  Put my wife in charge of picking opening bands for everyone.  I bet you thought I was going to say, put me in charge. Nope.  As someone who admittedly loves the Britney Spears song Criminal, I am painfully aware of my limitations when it comes to critiquing music.  My wife on the other hand, would cut through opening acts with the glorious bluntness of Simon Cowell, but with no British accent to make the doses of reality sound better.  I would hope to be able to sit next to her and be her Randy Jackson while she judged them.

Wife:  “I hope you have a fall back career because I’ve heard more melodious sounds from the zombies on The Walking Dead.  And this is coming from someone who can’t stand The Walking Dead.”

Me:  “Yo dog, she’s right, music may not be your thing.  And, she really does hate The Walking Dead.  I mean, if I’m watching it when she comes in the room, I’m subjected to a five minute rant about how it has no redeeming qualities.  Thanks for auditioning.”

Problem solved.  The world would be a better place.

And my left heel is still hurting something fierce.

 

Spring officially starts today in many countries in the northern hemisphere.  I’m looking at a low of 17 degrees on Wednesday night.  That doesn’t seem very springy.  In fact, I don’t start feeling like going outside until roughly June 8.  Give or take a few days and degrees.  This made me wonder, just who gets to decide when spring starts?

Today is the vernal equinox.  That means the sun passes directly over the equator.  At some point in history somebody decided that we might as well go ahead and call the vernal equinox, “THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING.”  Who made this decision?  Well, it appears that the early pagans had something to do with it.  Those nutty pagans.  They were really into astronomy.  I guess that no one else had a problem with this decision throughout history.  Everyone was too busy shivering to argue about it.  Until meteorologists came along.  Meteorologists just had to be special.  So, they decided that they would have their own spring start date.  For them, the first day of spring is the day after the coldest 90 days of the year.  I bet you didn’t know that, huh. You didn’t know that because nobody pays attention to meteorologists.  How can we trust them with determining the start of a whole season if we can’t trust them with snowfall totals? Some other groups of people also decided not to play along with the pagans.  For instance, the Swedish meteorologists consider the first day of spring to be when they have had one week of temperatures above zero degrees.  In Ireland, February 1 is considered the start of spring.  I think they’re just being belligerent.

No matter what specific date marks the start of spring for you, most everyone around the world views it as an event to be celebrated.  The Poles make a doll that represents winter, andddddddddd, then they drown it in a river.  In Switzerland they take a snowman, annnnnddddddd, they burn it at the stake.  In Puerto Rico, people put on flip flops and roast a pig.  (They do this pretty much every Monday, though, so I’m not sure they’re actually celebrating anything.)  In Bosnia they have a scrambled egg festival.  I have to cut in right there and tell you that this is my personal favorite spring festival.  In the Netherlands they have a huge flower parade.  The Japanese visit the graves of their ancestors and have family get togethers.  The Water Festival in Thailand, Holi in India, The Cooper’s Hill Cheese Roll in England.  There are many others.  What seems pretty clear to me, is that winter is loathed around the world.  It so happens that this year the first day of spring coincides with World Storytelling Day.  Here at longwalkabout.com I’m celebrating both.

My eldest son has reached the age where a good number of his friends have cell phones.  So from time to time he comes home and asks, “Dad why can’t I have a phone?”  I grab him by the shoulders, look him straight in the eyes, and with my best Father Knows Best voice I say, “Son, because your parents are cheap.”  He responds with pleas for me to be serious.  To which I respond in an even more somber voice, “Son, I’m being deadly serious.”

In all honesty, though, occasionally it would be helpful for him to have his own phone.  I could go on an archeological dig and unearth an old Nokia 3310 to give him for his birthday.  “Happy Birthday Son!”  But I really doubt he would find it as hilarious as I would.  The dilemma is that phones are no longer just phones.  So, I am stuck with giving one of my old smartphones to a boy about to enter his teenage years.  To me that seems just about as smart as the teachers at Hogwarts giving all of those kids magic wands.  I really question the wisdom in that.  “Hey kids, no glass of wine until you are 21, but here’s a wand that you can use to cast a myriad of spells that could end all of your classmate’s lives.  Have at it.  Don’t be late for deadly witch basketball practice at three.”  We see how that ended up.  Lots of dead people and the destruction of half of their school.  Smartphones put a pandora’s box of information literally at your fingertips.  I’m not sure if you all know this, but the internet is full of nefarious stuff.  I’m not just talking about those millions of cat videos.  As if cats weren’t disturbing enough.  Not to mention the fact that he will be able to instantly communicate with his friends through text, picture, and video.  That seems like a recipe for trouble as well.  (As a side note.  I have decided that my least favorite feature on my phone,,,, is the actual phone.  I would prefer people not be able to get ahold of me.  It interrupts my constant scrolling of Twitter.)

What is a parent to do?  Well, I have decided that I am going to be craftier than a Russian hacker.  His phone is going to be loaded with more spyware than John Podesta’s ever was. Not only will I be able know where he goes on the internet, I will be able to know where he physically goes.  Then, every morning, I’ll give him the old, ‘I’m watching you’, signal.  To which he will probably roll his eyes.

He is a good kid.  It’s my job as a parent to help him stay that way.  If I have to give him a smartphone that has so many locks on it that it’s basically a Nokia, so be it.

 

I was at the grocery store the other day.  For the second time.  I had been there earlier in the day and couldn’t think of anything I needed.  Then, later in the day, I did think of something.  No!  I don’t need to write a list, thank you very much.  I just need to think of everything I need on my first trip.  I’ll get the hang of it.  Besides, if I hadn’t gone back, I might not have noticed the stack of Duraflame artificial fireplace logs and the remarkable marketing photo on the side of their boxes.

It was worth stopping and pondering.  My mind went in several different directions, all of them odd.  Thus, making this one of the best marketing photos ever,,,,,,,,,,,,,, in my opinion.

The product is a fireplace log.  But if you look at those people on the side of the box, they’re telling you it is so much more than that.  The expressions on their faces tell you that they are more than pleased with these logs.  These logs are the best purchase that have ever made. They are happier at this moment, sitting by the fireplace, than at any other moment in their lives.  This moment is better than their wedding day, better than the birth of their children, better than that promotion they got last week.  In fact, they may just skip work tomorrow and sit by the fireplace.  These logs are that good.

The picture also made me a little wary, though.  It crossed my mind that this is what cult members look like.  Had the scientists at the artificial log company included some kind of hallucinogen in the log-making process?  Something that gets released into the air when the product is burned?  Something that makes you receptive to the idea of buying more fireplace logs, and, I don’t know, joining Scientology?  Cause if you look at these two closely, they look a little high.

Then I read the text under the picture, and I realized, those crazy scientists are marketing this as an aphrodisiac.  That look on their faces is anticipation.  Tonight’s the night.  We’re gonna break out the bear skin rug, lay it right here in front of the fireplace, and be fruitful and multiply. This Valentines Day, we’ve all got an extra purchase to make, guys.  “Hi honey, happy Valentines Day.  I brought chocolates, roses, and fireplace logs.”  WINK WINK.

I haven’t stopped to notice the marketing on any product since the last time I bought tater tots. And that’s just because I love tater tots, not because the marketing was anything special.  It was actually just a picture of tater tots.  That’s really all you need to sell them.  So the fact that Duraflame stopped me in my tracks is a testament to there marketing genius.  Or to my odd thought process.  You decide.

My youngest son is picky.  Let me explain how picky.  When we were at Disneyworld when he was four, he made up a chant.  “I like pizza, I like macaronis, I like trees (broccoli), and I LIKE CHICKEN.”  Since that time, we have eliminated two items from that list without adding any new ones.

Last Thursday morning he woke up at four a.m. complaining of an earache.  I gave him some Tylenol, sent him back to bed, and then, two hours later when he woke up feeling okay, I made the mistake of sending him to school.  From what I gathered from witnesses on scene, he basically wreaked havoc for two hours.  I went to pick him up and offered my sincerest apologies.  Turns out he had an ear infection.  The doctor prescribed antibiotics.

Like I said in the first sentence way up at the top, my son is picky.  He hates the bubble gum taste of liquid antibiotics.  It was lunchtime when we got home.  I made him a grilled cheese.  (By the way, I make an awesome grilled cheese.  He might eat half of it. Picky!)  Then I made a horrible mistake.  Since he hated the taste of the medicine, I decided to make it taste better.  I poured a half cup of grape juice and added the medicine.  Turns out, he hated that EVEN more.  Now we were stuck with a dose in juice.  So as not to waste it, I engaged in a epic battle of wills for the better part of an hour,,,,, with a seven year old.  It was brutal.  There was yelling, crying, and coercing.  And that was just me.  Eventually he took it, but the battle nearly cost me my sanity.  I have never before felt like joining one of those Tibetan monasteries.  After that, it seemed like a preferable way to live.  Sitting there on the couch next to my son, who was now contentedly watching TV, my mind started to wander.

There I stood at the large ornamental doors of a mountaintop monastery.  I used the extra large door knocker.  The door was answered by a small monk of indeterminate age.

“Hi, my name is Marc, and I’m interested in joining your religion, support group, cult, or whatever it is you do here.”

“Do you seek enlightenment?”

“I mostly seek to not have to medicate a resistant seven year old again.  Ever.”

“We can offer you time for peace and meditation.”

“That sounds remarkably similar to the hour of TV I get to watch after the kids go to bed.”

“We have no TV here.”

“Oh, I’m not too worried about that.  As long as there are no seven year olds with ear infections.  Also, I hope you have a good cook.”

“There are no children here.  The last one of us to be sick was brother Balmohan, but that was twenty five years ago when he turned eighty.  He was able to cure himself with the power of his mind.  Our meditation keeps us remarkably healthy.  And yes, our cook is good.”

“Sounds great.  I’m in.  What’s the WIFI password?”

The car was in the middle of the grass median of a four lane highway.  It was upside down.  That was the first clue that something was wrong.  Some good citizen had called 911.  In those days, sometimes when you called 911, you got me.  Scary, right.  This guy didn’t just get me.  Our ambulance rolled up along with fire and rescue trucks and paramedics.  My partner and I jumped out, grabbed a few things and headed to the car.  I was the first one there.

It was the end of a 12 hour overnight shift.  This had been an unusually busy shift at our small rescue squad.  We had just gone paid, so every call we got meant another fat twenty dollars in my pocket.  Chaching.  Most nights I spent there were boring.  We watched TV and eventually fell asleep on the couches at the station.  That night though, we had already been on five calls.  Backing up the fire department at an alarm call, several other nonsense calls, and a motorcycle accident on the highway that they had to bring a helicopter in for.  (Standing in the middle of a closed down highway while a chopper lands on it is an experience)

Now I was standing in the median of that same highway staring at the open drivers side window of an upturned sedan.  This was the first time I had been the initial responder to a call like this.  Sticking out of the window was an arm.  Usually you can follow an arm to a person.  Fingers lead to hands lead to forearms lead to upper arms lead to shoulders and on to a torso.  My eyes scanned this arm from fingers to hand to forearm to some tendons and nerves that barely held it to the person in the car.  I dropped to my knees trying to avoid a surprisingly small amount of blood so I could get a better look.  There, hanging upside down in the seat was a fully conscious guy staring right back at me.  It was totally surreal.  I blurted out a couple of questions to try to judge his level of consciousness and if there were any other injuries.  The medics came up behind me and basically said, “No time for this, we gotta go.”  It happened so fast.  The belt was cut.  The guy was extricated from the car.  We were in the ambulance.  All the while, the guy was completely aware of what was going on.  I remember him having a conversation with the paramedic on the way to the hospital about the likelihood of his arm being saved.  His body was in shock, but his mind was functioning quite well.  We are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Ninety nine percent of my time as an EMT was mundane.  As an acquaintance of mine used to say, “Hours of boredom interrupted by moments of horror.”  But this experience was formative.  What did I learn from it?

• Life is unpredictable.
• If you get tired while you’re driving, it’s better to pull over for a nap than to wake up from a nap in the median.
• Got something you want to do?  Don’t wait.  I mean, what if this guy always wanted to enter an arm wrestling competition?
• Unless your health or loved ones are threatened, life is seriously ALL SMALL STUFF.  Laugh at it all the time.  Be happy.  Most problems are hilarious when you look back at them three months later anyway.  Might as well laugh at them while they’re happening.  It is a parade of absurdity.  And if you don’t agree, then tell me why Vin Diesel just confirmed that there will be a Fast and Furious 8, 9, and 10.  Absurd.