"There's no such thing as free enterprise anymore!"

My grandparents are in town this weekend:

Upon observance, the whole of my Grandpa's typical day amounts to, from what I can tell, a morning coffee session at the kitchen table (done in conjuction with a dismissive perusing of the morning paper, and therefore followed by a woeful reflection on the liberal and decadent state of modern America), followed by a crusading, daylong rampage on any and all unsuspecting crossword puzzles in sight. Any break from this schedule is for time spent staring out at the mountains with sage-like authority, dozing off in an upright position, or eating homemade cooking. Jackpot.

Bare in mind, this was presented to me in light of recent introspective queries in which I've found my self to be without any conceivable life goals or ambitions...

.... And then it occurred to me (with stoic realization) that apparently what I really want to be when I grow up is an old man.


It just makes sense. My favorite cereal is Honey Bunches of Oats, my favorite pattern is plaid, I sleep more more than I'm awake, and 90% of my comments are based more on the anticipated reaction than their actuall content. I'd rather look at the Grand Canyon than walk through it, exercizing makes me weez, and if I was smart enough I'd conquer a whole slew of crossword puzzles in my day (and cheat when no one is looking).


So basically, I have about 50 years until I'm truly in my element...give it some time. Unfortunately, in all honesty, this can probably account for only half of my awkard disposition. The other fifty percent remains lost in the cosmic void of things unknown. However, I count this as progress nonetheless in my ongoing psychoanalytical venture through my neurosis.

Matchbox 20 was right.

Today I offer you the latest token of city life to take root in good ol' State College, joining a class of forerunners including displaced hipsters, and nostalgic indie-rock Strokes fans.....behold, a little gem I like to call H1N1.


...that's right. We got the swine flu- fresh outa Queens, by way of Mexico, three cases have turned up at my middle school alma mater.


More notable however, is that it happened on the same day the World Health Organization declared a global pandemic...(which is pretty much the exact opposite of telling people "there's no need to panic"). Now personally, the severity of this outbreak is not what concerns me. I'm already well reconcilled with understanding that the world is coming to an end-- old news. What gets my goat is that by declaring a pandemic, the W.H.O., in the event that I were to catch the swine flu, has officially stripped me of the possibility of feeling special...because now apparently we're all going to get it...cheers. No longer could I then say, "Yeah dude, I totally survived that crazy swine flu epidemic everyone was freaking out about,"and feel like I especially cheated death, because now the response will be either, "Oh word, me too," or, "hey I'm dead."

...and the livin's easy.

Getting serious for a moment: Tonight, I'm sittin at work, well into my tenth hour of the first of five double shifts I have this week, when a dear lady who I've come to recognize as a regular, hands me a bag of cookies....and not even a single batch, mind you, but two different kinds of cookies. Not only did she consider that if by chance I didn't like chocolate chip, toffee would certainly do instead, but she also showed consideration for the fact that everyone enjoys variety, even within a random act of kindness.... Holy crap. Yes, I cried a little.

Now before I go on, I suppose I should provide some context as to the weight this situation holds for a simpleton like my self. Over the last academic school year, due to a college budget and an opportunity cost analysis that repeatedly left me picking sleep over time that could otherwise have been spent cooking, I slowly weened myself off of every food category on the pyramid save for sugar and caffeine. Over time this limited diet left me with two physiological conditions: a nervous system fully dependent on caffeine in order to function, and blood sugar levels teetering on the brink of diabetic collapse. Ultimately, I fell into a process of using coffee to stay awake and sugar as a way of tricking my body into thinking it actually had calories to burn for the day. The end result, and what I'm getting at, is that although since coming home I've got back on the wagon of normal food consumption (coffee however, still remains an important part of my life), surprising me with a large parcel of cookies, as what took place tonight, is tantamount to watching a recovering alcoholic do a keg stand. woot!

Soon after my experiental moment of grace, however, I was left with having to process what exactly took place and what I was supposed to take away from it. A few nights ago that same woman came through the garage without her pass, which she had forgot at home. Technically, I was supposed to charge her but I didn't. She was very appreciative, and so I've understood what took place tonight to be a disproportianate response of thanks for my helping her out. And therein lies my problem: on the one hand we have an example of kindness being met with kindness, "reap what you so", respect karma, ect. On the other hand we have an example of, and I quote Michael Doud, "No JC, you didn't do your job and you got paid in cookies for it. You bucked the system, halfassed a job that already takes almost no skillset, and came out on top. Kudos. Penn State's out five bucks while you get paid you hourly wage (my tuition dollars at work) on top of a mound of cookies." Two competing theories, both with valid points, and yet a greater example as to why I struggle to interpret the times.

I can feel increasing amounts of my brain cells committing suicide the more I write here.

When you work till midnight in a 4x6 booth at a parking garage for a campus in summer session, you grow accustomed to spending time in solitude. Slowly, and in a way that slips beneath the radar of self-awareness, your legs fold pretszel-shaped atop the office chair, your arms open wide in a bear hug stance, and your index fingers and thumbs pinch the air Rafiki style. Iron and Wine soothes the airwaves, incense burns from an unknown source, and levitation becomes a goal to work towards, not a dream. Such has been my case in recent weeks, and although I typically welcome the quiet and stimulating ambiance of my work quarters, there are times I am forced to admit that the seclusion takes a toll on my psyche. I realized this in retrospect tonight, after having successfully thwarted the terroristic efforts of one deviant housefly, attempting to upend the tranquility I so highly cherish as having cultivated within said booth through my steadfast commitment to mediocre work. Ten minutes into a strategic operation to smite the winged vexation from the air, I was finally victorious after landing a devestating blow via duel combo visitor's map/notepad. Instantly commemorating the moment with a hearty fist pump, a swagger-heavy Irish jigg, and a resounding "woot!", I was then interrupted with an "eh hmm...?" from the perplexed old lady who had pulled up amidst my bout of rapture. Turning around to face the window, I was met with a "you shouldn't smoke pot at work" eyebrow raise, and the realization that I really need to find an outlet for my testosterone.

I've decided a good way this could be done is by making my currently banal circumstances more challenging. The reigning idea so far is tying the fingers on my right hand together to make it harder to push the button that lifts the gate. I can almost feel the adrenaline rush already.

"I thought this would make the gate go up." "No sir that's jut a piece of paper."

Hows is it that cobble-stone streets in Rome have survived dating back centuries, yet the average road in State College (and lo, throughout the country) can only last from one summer to the next before needing to undergo some kind of mad construction project? I suspect a widespread and well coordinated conspiracy is at work, facilitated by the efforts of the united road workers of America. I wish I could have been at the meeting when some einstein conceived of the indefinite amount of profit available if, thenceforth, asphalt were only to be held together by elmers glue. A momentous occasion no doubt, forging then and there a thorn per every person's side who choses to drive between the months of May through August. It's a sad moment when you realize that you're paying taxes to huff car exhaust in 80 degree weather, stuck in traffic whilst the car in front of you's sound system overpowers yours with a smattering of taste-forsaken, nasel-tuned, pop-alternative (alternative to everything that sounds short of making want to die) gravel rock.

I bring this up today, while at work, because construction has an entire half of the road directly behind me blocked off. True, I am not suffering the pains of sitting in traffic or negotiating unforeseen detours, but what I am experiencing is a violation of the pleasant sanctuary I have established here in the exit booth kiosk. What was once a haven for psuedo-intellectual and contemplative thought is now a mere shelter from the thundering clamours of jack-hammers and dump trucks. How am I supposed to work if I can't effectively fall asleep every 15 minutes for a power-nap? What's more, every person exitting the garage who likewise has suffered an inconvenience due to said construction, feels the need to air their greivance with me. As if, as the only (part-time I should add) Penn State employee readily available for conversation, I naturally, and by default, am responsible for whatever problem is taking place within sight. "Yes ma'am it's true. I hired all those men across the street just to piss you off today. I'm one of those higher-up administrative types who made it big at the age of 18 and now likes to kick it down here at the garages with the lay-workers. Thank you for coming."

Cool is just a relative term.

As a standing testament to my enduring ignorance, I had believed the greater part of my life's awkward moments had passed away in tandem with my adolescent years. I discovered this was not the case today during my midyear visit to the dentist. The reason being... when I turned 12 years old my parents failed to transfer me from the pediatrician's dentist office to the adult's office, a privilege not withheld from every other kid my age looking for peer approval --yes, while all the other kids caught the train to Hogwarts, I was left jumping off my trampoline with a broom between my legs. Granted, today's events could have been preempted had I actively protested the situation at any time during the past six years. However, each time, distracted by the ensuing ego-trip from slaying five-year-olds in Mario-cart at the kids corner and then the hefty amassment of scratch-n-sniff stickers and "teeth-rex" dinosaur action figurines awarded me for flossing my teeth properly (and with superior two-handed dexterity...with demonstration), I failed over the years to voice my concern with cogent appeal.


And so explains how I found myself today, a man since weathered by age and maturity, not so easily esteemed by self-promotion and false tokens of praise, yet sunk with the reality of having to go to the kid's floor.


I walked into the waiting area with my head held high yet my posture slouched by 1/3 of my height for want of discretion. Instantly drawing the gaze of every parent in sight, I tried to act nonchalant, shuffling across the floor to the check-in desk. My path was obstructed more than once by fleeing toddlers-- one of which assumed my shins were just another barrier to be collided with on his way to freedom. Now limping over to the check-in desk, I noticed the woman receiving me with warm eyes. "Joshua Cunningham checking in" I said. "Okay well we'll be with him in a moment, he can have a seat with you until then." I began to inform her that there was, in fact, no mini-me hiding below the counter level, but stopped. I knew she didn't care and I knew it didn't matter anyway, and so sauntered over to the only available chair next to a girl of about age four.


She was intently scanning a sports illustrated.... "Who are you trying to play?" I intruded, "there's no way you can read that." Miffed at my interruption, she exhaled an impatient sigh, turned her head, and then looked me up and down with a condescending, eye-brow-raising glare. "Yeah? and there's no way you're twelve years old." Lost for a scathing enough come-back, I conceded the conversation to Miss Thang and sat waiting to be called.


"Joshua Cunningham" a voice cooed forth. It was like silver lining across a downcast sky. This nurse was obviously accustomed to soothing the most frantically fearful of children and her calming effects were not lost on me. Just hearing my name I already felt like I had done something right. With due complacency, I followed her into the large room where a small minion army's worth of kids are rounded up and who's teeth are then cleaned, each day. "First we're going to need you to brush your teeth and then floss so we can make sure you do it right, okay?" Seriously lady?, I thought, pretending for a moment that my age alone doesn't exempt me from any such demonstration, my track record should. I mean, every time I come here I walk away with an action figure. Why would today be any different? "I'll be back in a minute to get you. " Fine, I thought, But I'm getting me a toy.


I was brushing a hole through my gums when the nurse came back. "Oh look at those dimples. They're just the cutest..... Oh I'm probably embarrassing you I know. My husband has dimples though so I'm allowed to fawn." I just smiled because I was foaming at the mouth with toothpaste. "Oh and let me tell you, your teeth are looking good kiddo. How about now flossing a bit... Oh, yep. You've got it. Perfect technique." At this point I knew the teeth-rex was mine. I looked down at a kid with light-up shoes and glasses frantically trying to catch up. Sorry kid. There's no competition here today. "Okay Josh," the nurse said, having checked out the other kids, "You're definitely the best I've seen in a while." I smiled, satisfied that I had bested my formidable opponents. "But you probably don't want to pick something out of the kids' prize b..""What?! yes I do," (she chooses now to treat me like I'm not a child?) "I mean," regaining my composure, "I could use something to twiddle in my hands while I wait for the Doc to come finish my check up. After all, I'm not going to be playing video games with the youngins. heh." "Whatever you want dear," she said, attending back to her duties. Three handfuls of stickers with monkeys brushing their teeth, a dinosaur shaped like a molar, and two stuffed cargo-short pockets later, I was standing up against the wall in the "play-zone"waiting area waiting for the Dentist to send me home.

"You're really tall, what're you doing here?" I looked down at a kid, maybe four years old, wearing a flat-brim fitted hat and a tupac t-shirt. I starred quizzically, "yeah well you have about eight years until you grow into your ears." "Yo dude do you wanna go?" He broadened his shoulders like a Biggie Smalls impersonator. I paused, "Do YOU wanna be stepped on?" He had started rolling up his sleeves when a nurse came and took him away for x-rays. "Hey cool sticker by the way," I called over. "What sticker moron?" He laughed at me like I was blind. "Oh shoot, that's right I guess not everyone gets one," I opened my pockets to show my vast assortment and then slowly put one on, it read "teeth-riffic job", as he looked back with jealous disgust, pulled away by the nurse. Victory.

I was called over by the dentist a few minutes later. "Well Josh, your teeth look just fine." "And so do his dimples!" a voice called from across the room. "Do you want me to walk you out?" "I think i can manage," I assured him and instinctively walked towards the door with "EXIT" labled above. Walking back into the lobby I caught another toddler skull to my shin.@%!#$ "Could anyone get this kid some glasses?" But no one one was listening.

I checked out, got in my car and left. And then realized that in my haste I scheduled yet another appointment for six months from now. I'll be 19.

Overheard in State College

Chaperoning Mom for Penn State sponsored, middle school science competition in town: Oh let me tell you, one time in college I went to a final exam drinking straight black coffee; it was so much coffee I've never had so much coffee. I was so jittery and such.

Middle school student: (with sheer amazement) how did you do on the exam?

Chaperoning Mom: Well I'm here today aren't I? But I'll tell you- er... well I've never done cocaine, but I mean, it was pretty scary nonetheless.


-Starbucks

You've done it again State College.

So my first order of business upon coming home from school was to get a hair cut. The initial "buzz cut" turned "bed head," which grew into a "flowbie," struggled into a "(not so) Jew-fro," and then toppled over into a thicketed "mop-top" should have been more than a sufficient enough hair style for a homeward bound, post-traumatic-stress college kid, like myself, looking to pass out for three straight summer months. But alas, life is never so simple.

It turns out that regardless of how tired it might be, (and unless otherwise acted upon by a chemical sedative or commensurate Chipotle Burrito binge) the human body will inevitably wake itself up within a 24 hour period. After the first three consecutive days of this happening, I turned off my hypnotic "call of the wild" nature soundtrack, unglued my eye-lids shut, took a shower, and realized that any act of living surpassing my current state required money. I thus needed a job, and in order to look presentable, was left with no other option but to cut the aforementioned coppice of hair triumphantly adorning the top of my head.

In State College, be advised that a seemingly trivial task such as getting a hair cut should, in fact, be coupled with a healthy dose of fear.

"Can you just take an inch off all around?" I ask the woman, finding my self in a chair at the downtown Supercutz. She assures me of the simplicity of my request and I take to fantasizing about what new opportunities await a freshly shorn stripling such as myself. Perhaps the newly granted aerodynamics of my cranial region would inspire me to pursue an athletic hobby like running (they say its good for the heart) and in doing so find that I'm actually a Chariots-of-fire-esque, cross-country phenom. Or maybe I'd walk out the doors and receive a new perspective on life, brought about by the new found clarity with which I now saw the world, free from those former visually stifling locks of hair. I'd decide to run for President, win, and subsequently bring about world peace. Sitting in that chair, in what amounted to three blissful minutes of revelatory ignorance, I saw the world as mine for the taking. I suspended my former cynicism toward life's innumerable dissapointments and considered the Oprah-worthy biography I could write about how one liberating hair-cut set me on the accomplished path I walk today.

Unfortunately for me, "an inch off all around" applies (at this culturally forsaken enterprise) only to select portions of the head, limited in a way that leaves the unsuspecting patron with some obscure variant on the classic mullet. Such are the methods taught at Pennsylvania's Beauty School for the Spread of Incestuous Hair Styles, and such is the way your dreams can shatter to the tune of Pink playing in the background.

I'm made aware of visual/stylistic/moral crime perpetrating itself upon my innocent head when I notice the entire back of my hair has failed to make contact with the saving grace of clippers. At first I thought I'd give her the benefit of the doubt, because the Euro-mullet is still an acceptable fashion statement in parts of East Berlin. "Wo ist ihr ständiger Wohnsitz?!?!!" I cried. Receiving only a terrified look of confusion, I knew then that I was simply a victim of the cultural renderings of central Pennsylvania.

Fortunately, by my coaching thenceforth, I emerged from the ordeal with an adequate and socially acceptable haircut. I was lucky. But as a word of encouragement for those less fortunate in a similar situation, even the most ridiculous "doo" can usually be remedied with a qualifying "indie-tastic" stamp of approval: "Well I obviously meant to shape my hair like a head of broccoli dude, jeez I didn't move to Williamsburg yesterday."



word.