Our Thursday

Tag: thanksgiving

  • Broke Game

    Broke Game

    Being broke is like jail with no free meals.  It’s a physical and mental torture.  And, like most painful events, it is an opportunity for tremendous personal growth.  We all handle it our own way.  Here are some of my tips for playing the Broke Game.

    PHYSICAL

    The twangs of true hunger mess with your head.  You can’t survive without a plan.  Make your plan quickly, before you lose brainpower.  Budget.  Make strict guidelines for what you are and are not willing to do to yourself.  After this, you are no longer allowed to be picky.

    • Eggs, pasta, rice — you can live very cheaply for a long time.  Only eat when you have to.  To clarify — Those first stabbing pains in your stomach are a total bluff.  The hunger is trying to intimidate you.  You have hours.  The pain takes a break, eventually, so don’t tap first.  I have survived for 4 days/nights on 1 bag of brown rice, 2 eggs, peanut butter, and a half sleeve of stale saltines.
    • Apples are cheap, hunger-assuaging ways to up your blood sugar.  USAID and other leading charity organizations believe peanuts are the key to eradicating hunger in Africa — forever.  Do some research.  Your palate has rich taste.  Knowledge is free.
    • You are not going to be eating much meat.  You are not going to be eating much anything.  Adjust.
    • There is going to be a very serious bitter taste in your mouth at some point.  It may sound poetic — but it is very real.  The lack of flavored foods in your diet, as well as the lack of sugar or carbonation, will leave a nice ashtray coat along your tongue.  This will decay your mood, among other things.  Get sweet mints if they are ever offered.  Check your medicine cabinet for any left over cough drops.
    • At some point, you may consider eating dog food.  You have either been this hungry before, or you haven’t.  I will be upfront with you here.  The afterburn is what’s going to get you.  Burp up murder.

    MENTAL

    The hardest part is not complaining.  What I do here is totally surrender.  Yes, I’m broke.  No, I can’t do anything about it.  Yes, I will survive – that’s the plan.  Okay.  What now?

    • First, I think about who to ask for cash.  I let my stomach curdle about that for a while.  Everyone else is hard up, too.  I rub my temples and remind myself, “I’m 26 years old.”
    • I stare at all my DVDs, books, and record albums.  Each one cost several days worth of food security.  I find myself mentally murdering the past version of my self that bought two copies of JG Ballard’s ‘Crash’.  Perhaps I can boil one down into a nice paste.  I stare at the clothes in the back of the closet — What’d those cost?  Go on, let in the self-loathing.  It is okay to think like this — for a little.  It’s not you, it’s the shame and worry talking.  Lurking in your stomach, growling — hunger stalking.
    • I continue to assign new values to the things I own — but now, to the things I love.  That bukowski book, which was leant to me, is now worth 3,000 matt value units.  The speakers are 14,000.  Under my bed, a bottle of vitamins one month from expiration might be a lifesaver.  I don’t have any expensive toys, but I am suddenly a rich man.
    • The word ‘cherish’ has supernatural significance in the 21st century.  At some point in your Broke Game, the fridge will not look as empty.  Is that a box of old pasta back there?  What’s that worth now?  Cliff bar from last July in an old backpack… Manna from heaven.  There’s a reason why Jesus, Buddah, and Mohammed found epiphanies isolated in the desert.  Tempting Devil, get behind me, and take your $199 iPhone and stick it up your ass. 
    • When the ‘cherish’ effect starts to happen, you are probably on your way back out of the darkness.  Make a thank-you list credits reel.  This will occupy all the time in the world, if you have any left.

    One day, hopefully, you’ll have some money again. You’ll almost want to turn it away at first — because if you have it, you spend it.  But don’t deny your luck.  Don’t worry.  You’ll be broke again.

    Thanks for playing.

    Happy Thanksgiving.

    Thanks for my grandmother, Toronto Dominion, loud speakers, good friends, my own kitchen, new pens, warm clothes, peanut butter, bukowski poems, running water, socks with holes, a brown dog, being broke, a job, a soft chair to sit in, my parents, my bed, and Canadian Thanksgiving.

  • Giving Thanks (‘Cause Baby, I’m a Giver)

    Giving Thanks (‘Cause Baby, I’m a Giver)

    Don’t forget to dangle the grandkids near an open oven this Thanksgiving! (Preheat to 350.)

    Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. (Especially since 1990, when I learned at the age of 7 that my birthday was not officially recognized as a holiday by the Santa Monica-Malibu Unified School District.) Growing up in a “half-and-half” household, Hanukkah was too long, and my parents typically gave my brother and I books on Christmas while our friends got video games, paintball guns and other fun things that weren’t books. Flash forward twenty years– Hanukkah’s still too long (always involving a minimum of five work nights), and Christmas, while a jovial affair, is all but a typical weekend for me: rounding up my Jew buddies for bong rips, gorging on Chinese food, and wandering to our local movie theater. Also, my mom still gives me books, despite my desperate pleas for “practical gifts.” (Also, I still don’t know how to read. Shh.)

    Sure, the first Thanksgiving probably involved a few casual rapes, an obnoxious cacophony of Bahstonian accents, and more smallpox than stuffing, but on an ideological level, how can you go wrong with an occasion which rewards a little introspection with 3,000-calorie meals, football, and parades?

    Seeing as nowadays, we tend to spend the whole year lamenting the monumental misfortunes of our middle class American existence (like gluten allergies, DVRs forgetting to record the first two minutes of Parks and Recreation, and not having enough Twitter followers <<follow Mike White on Twitter!>>), it’s spiritually vital we step back and devote at least one day (or at least a few minutes of said day) to gratitude. So, here goes:

    More so than anything in this life, I’m thankful for my unconditionally loving, understanding, non-judgmental family. Yes, they’d probably waterboard me if they found out how much I smoked (or that I smoke at all), but without family, we’re nothing. (Unless you’re either of Lindsay Lohan’s parents, in which case without family, you’re hungry.)

    I always have been and will continue to be blessed by these beautiful, compassionate, honest people. My ageless mom, who’s implored me to positively impact others without losing sight of myself, not-very-subtly hinted I should date all my attractive Jewish female friends, and provided more free psychoanalysis than one can shake a stick at (more often than not, I don’t even have to ask!). My quirky dad, who somewhat resembles a George Clooney-Dustin Hoffman lovechild who can whip my ass without trying on a pool table, all while providing genuine encouragement to challenge myself creatively. My talented little brother, who shares in my passions for photography, pot and exploring strange new places. (When he moved to New York this summer to participate in a photojournalism program, we rented a car and drove out from Los Angeles; one of the best weeks of my life, even if it was in constant fear.) My stepmom, who, above all else, makes my dad happy. (These days, I’ll take all the affirmation I can get that marriage can in fact work. Culinary prowess doesn’t hurt.)

    I’m thankful both my parents are finally learning to text. For now.

    I’m thankful for this perpetually growing ensemble of friends I’ve found myself engulfed by. Especially my two new roommates this past year: one who filled our apartment and my stomach with sublimely delicious baked goods, assisted me endlessly in fostering a puppy, and reminded me of my affinity for getting ripped and watching cartoons from my childhood. Then there’s my current roommate, the uncanny combination of the little sister I never had and the second (well, third) mom I desperately need. You’re my rock, Clarke.

    I’m especially thankful for the new people in my life this year, even the gingers. (Bonjour, girl!)

    I’m thankful for my health, or whatever’s left of it. My own well-being is without a doubt the single entity I take for granted most often. Despite a magnificent disregard for using my better judgment, the last year has resulted in no broken bones, no burning sensations, and despite my relentless dedication to not exercising, I haven’t ballooned into one of those people described in pharmaceutical commercials as “unfit for sexual activity.”

    I’m thankful for my job. And not just any job, but a job that allows me to pursue my desires, hone my talents, and get home before the sun goes down. (Mind you, I’m only doing only one of these currently, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.) I’m insanely fortunate to get to “work” with such a unique cast of witty, interesting, like-minded individuals. I spend a solid hour of each workday laughing my ass off, which most certainly beats working. Furthermore, we recently got an espresso machine that enables me to put as many shots into one cup of coffee as my bloodstream can tolerate. Also, not having to look for a job. And our holiday party’s gonna be on a boat. (Time to find that nautical-themed pashmina afghan.)

    I’m thankful for all the people who’ve helped me cope with a debilitating sense of loneliness this year. (Especially those who’ve given themselves to me in sexual congress. Like I probably told you that fateful night, you’re doing God’s work.)

    I’m thankful for the fact that smoking hasn’t killed me, at least according to Dr. Murray. (Yes, I’m fully aware my doctor shares a surname with Michael Jackson’s infamous doctor. Thank God I’m a big boy and can take naps all by myself.) I’m quitting cold turkey by the end of the year (I’ll still eat it roasted though, zing!), but I’ll be the first to admit I love a good fag with my coffee in the morning (Zing again, how do I turn it off?!). I wish I knew how to quit you. (I’ll stop now.)

    I’m thankful I’m learning to “turn it off.” (Previous paragraph not withstanding.)

    I’m thankful my penis hasn’t quit on me in the last year, despite his workload being slashed dramatically.

    I’m thankful that Jack, the 80-pound pit bull/”lap dog” I fostered earlier this year, found his forever home last month. He was the perfect canine companion– and if I’d had a yard and more than 200 square feet of dog-appropriate play space in my old apartment, I’d still happily have him waking me up at 5 AM every day for a 2-mile walk. Also, pugs. (They’re the dog god’s deformed little angels.)

    I’m thankful I passed out at my desk the other night before I could finish creating a Match.com profile. I was high as fuck, and that shit’s expensive.

    I’m thankful it’s legal for me to fart in my car on the way to work. (Might shed some light as to why I’m single.)

    I’m thankful for girls with bangs, abnormally big eyes, and/or thick plastic glasses. (I’m looking at you, Silver Lake/Echo Park.)

    I’m thankful I wasn’t arrested this year. (I’m looking at you, respective law & drug enforcement agencies in California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, and Rhode Island.)

    I’m thankful that every time I think I’ve found bedbugs in my sheets, they turn out to be cookie crumbs.

    I’m thankful simply to have been born into a species physically and mentally capable of loving. Considering all the living things on Earth to be incarnated as, the odds are staggering. Think your life sucks? You could’ve been born a cockroach. Or a celery stalk. Or one of the Real Housewives of Detroit. You lucked out.

    I’m thankful for Bruce Springsteen. (Your timeless songs make me wish I’d grown up in Jersey, even if being to Jersey has made me thankful I didn’t.)

    I’m thankful my alma mater (Arizona) beat our rival (Arizona State) in our annual football game last weekend. Makes our upcoming nuclear winter that much shorter.

    Oh, and Muppets. We should all be thankful for Muppets.

     

  • “In Deformation, We trust”

    “In Deformation, We trust”

    To the congress that just reaffirmed the USA motto, I will be sure on this day of plentiful thanks, a day when there is so much thanks that it gets thrown into zip lock bags to be used later, that you and your cohorts receive none. In fact I will be wasting more government time next week when I show up to propose my own motto that has been the lifeblood of Americans and the human species alike…

    “In Deformation, We Trust.”

    More government waste will be avoided with this motto as it will eliminate bullying in all of our schools. Replacing the current motto with this one will remind that one girl with inverted boobs to be proud of her deformation. That one guy who has to pee with his pants all the way on the ground for some reason when at the urinal will now look up proudly at this new motto and put his hands on his hips and sway proudly as he pees. So your voice breaks wine glasses with it’s high pitch-ness, so what that one testicle is enormously out of proportion to the other, so what your front teeth are perpendicular to the rest, so what your freckles hide your normal skin, so what? With my new motto our already deformed nation will finally have a reason to open up and reveal the truth. Now walk forward America and join me in Washington to show the world exactly what we are and who we trust in.

    Deformed and elongated middle toes.

    I need this motto to feel good about the two by fours I have been walking around on for the last 28 years. My deformed middle two toes stick out way past my big toe making it virtually impossible to wear normal shoes. It was this deformation that gave me two ingrown toe nails after wearing soccer shoes that were not block foot ready. Did you know insurance wont cover ingrown toe nails because it is self inflicted? With my new motto, maybe the shoe lobbyists will finally get off their wasteful and unneeded pedestals and allow for the creation of square foot shoes.

    Evolved hitchhikers thumb

    I can’t even count the times that I have been hitch hiking and stuck my deformed thumb out to get picked up and no one would pick me up. “FREAK!” “BEHEMOTH!” “RIGHT ANGLE!” They would scream at me as I cried on the side of the road. So what I have to use my first knuckle to push on things? Who cares that the police have to remind me that they do not want knuckle creases on their finger prints? My deformity is my evolution and it is about time that our nation embraced this and what better way than changing the nations motto?

    So on this day of eternal thanks and celebration of temporary peace between murderous white people and native american indians, I want to give thanks, nay, give great celebration to my deformities and to all those of the readers of this deformed blog.

    Thank You and Merry Thanksgiving!