The Quest for the Golden Fleeced North Face Jacket

The Quest For The Golden Fleeced North Face Jacket

So you’re back for more, eh? A glutton for punishment if ever I’ve seen one. I don’t know if that’s something to be proud of, but it’s certainly something. No, no, don’t be ashamed. I’m just kidding. Hold your head high and be proud, cause nobody else is going to do it for you.
That’s not a bad thing, it’s just the truth. Accept it now or it’s gonna bite your ankles like a rabid miniature dachshund later.

Oof.. Terrifying!

Last week I dipped you in a vat of honey, tied you down on the side of a freeway, and left your speckled remains for the buzzards and ants. We’ll file that under tough love for now. Somehow, despite the odds you’ve managed to hobble your way back for some more.
Good for you. What doesn’t kill you, sometimes leaves you horribly maimed and wishing you were dead, but stronger. Kind of.
I’m not sure what category this particular brand of crazy will leave you, but it’ll definitely leave you. Like a lover in the night or a father who’s just stepping out for a pack of smokes.
But this is something different, right? You tell yourself we have a special connection. Things are going well, you’re slipping into something a bit more comfy and I’m building a fire using an old Yellow Pages from 1998 as kindling. It’s romantic and you start dropping hints about your kinky fetishes involving honey, ants, freeways, ya know… just to see if I’m into that kind of thing.
Yeah, so right then. Things are great and then, BOOM.
Smokebomb.
Grapple hook.

Dad? Where ya goin?

I’m out like a fat man’s belly in an undersized tank top. Fashion tip for the week, and one I’ve learned the hard way, the line between form fitting and too small is thinner than a razors edge.
Alright, true to form, we’ve made it two hundred words deep and you’re scratching your head wondering when I’m gonna drop the topic bomb. Cause admit it, you want to know where this is going. At minimum, you want to believe it’s going somewhere. I don’t blame you.
Here, let me set the mood. I’m ten thousand feet in the air, skimming along the western sea board like a sea-falcon. In less than an hour I’ll be landing in Los Angeles. I’m not a big fan of flying. It’s just something you do cause you have to, like heroin.
Work is flying me out here, and there are very few things I won’t do when somebody else is footing the bill. What can I say, I value free.
Free tacos, children, hugs, drugs, rugs… wait, where am I? I got stuck in a rhyming tunnel. The worst kind of zombie infested terrain imaginable.
Anyways here’s what I want to talk to you about this week. It’s a freeze tag follow through on last weeks topic..
Wait, what? You haven’t read last weeks post?
Now, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you, but seriously.. What the hell is wrong with you? Get over there and read Love, Life, and Beaver Pelts and get back here STAT.
Yes, there’s gonna be a quiz later. No, it’s not open book. Maybe, I’ll tutor you…. But it’s going to be on my terms. Which involves barrels of imported whipped cream, riding crops, and faux leather pants.
You’re guaranteed an A, but at what cost? Your dignity for starters. Just kidding. If you’re reading this it’s assumed you checked your dignity at the door.
But that’s good, cause it means your open to new experiences. And it’s hard to mold your Plato like mind betwixt my caramel glazed fingers unless… ya know, that’s something your into.

You sure you didn’t mean Play Doh brain?
Uh… Yes. No?

 
Quit fighting this and just let it happen.
*insert totally-not-random-segue here*

I’m not on the plane anymore. That might seem like a random segue, but it’s not. I promise. It’ll all come together in a roundabout, blow your mind, can’t believe he tied up all the loose strings, sort of way. I didn’t want to get on the plane in the first place. But I did, and its not because someone was gonna slide cash into my back pocket in exchange for services rendered, though that is a perk to be considered.

No, I got on the plane cause as adults we do things we don’t want too because its the responsible/mature thing to do.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m of the belief that maturity is a prison, and responsibility is the warden who gives you sassy eyes when he thinks nobody is looking.
Sometimes sassy eyes are good. Sometimes sassy eyes are bad.
Here’s an example.
Walking your pet Iguana (which is not a euphemism, you wily rabbit) (coincidentally wily rabbit is a euphemism )through central park and you catch the gaze of some dude or dudette rocking a pair of see-through Lululemons on their run. They have headphones in. Raging to “Eye of the Tiger” most likely. The occasional shadow punch is thrown and an imaginary Russian goes down in a heap of sweaty muscles and rhino-steroids.
You see them coming from down the path and you’re heart starts jiving like an awkward white boy at his first middle school dance. It’s jamming out a rhythm you can’t identify, but you barely notice cause your hands are a lake of sweat and when little Iggy (your Iguana, again… not a euphemism) gets a bit squirrelly and bolts at super lizard speed, he rips the leash your holding limply between pointer finger and thumb clean away.
Nobodies ever seen a lizard move so fast, and now you’re all like, “Oh Shit, can’t let him get into the Hudson or he’ll wind up in the sewer, throwing back shots of radioactive waste with the local homeless folk. Then he’ll grow a thousand fold in the span of thirty three minutes, and then New York’s gonna have a Godzilla problem on their hands. So then we’ll have to outsource some jobs to the Japanese, because besides Jeff Goldblum, they’re the only ones that know what to do about a giant lizard running roid-rage crazy through their city.
All of this is to say, if you don’t catch Iggy, good hard working Americans are going to lose their job. Which completely ignores the enormous Iguana shits being dropped in New Jersey.
That last part is completely unrelated to your radioactive pet, by the way. You can’t be blamed for the sorry state of affairs in New Jersey. They choose to live there. They are beyond help. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Someday Delaware is gonna get their shit together and organize a state-wide intervention on behalf of their devil neighbor, but until that time, you just gotta live and let live… and perhaps set up a quarantine around New Jersey to ensure none of them escape.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to get all political on you, but it had to be said. If reality television is any indication, Jersey sucks.
Forget all that and focus, you’re still in Central Park, you’ve caught up to Iggy who’s stopped to pee on a fire hydrant, because I’ve never owned a lizard and I don’t know how they behave and so in my mind they act like dogs that eat crickets with detachable tails and kung-fu grips.
The love of your life sees how you literally just saved New York city from certain destruction, and not surprisingly their impressed.
Like—Whoa, are you sweating from all that exercise or are you just happy to see me—level of impressed.
And then it happens.
BAM
It’s a go for sassy eyes.

Oh, baby. Come hither.

They bat their baby blues, or geriatric greens, or homeless hazels with a “I want to lick your forehead” type look. You melt like putty, but you keep it cool and you return the favor.

Next thing you know you’re dating, that leads to love, which leads to marriage, some kissing in trees, and babies in carriages, a little “not until the kids have fallen asleep sexy time”, followed by some “oh my god these kids never go to sleep and I’m horny” resentments, which ends with a bit of harmless office spooning, and then BAM! More sexy eyes.

But this time it’s from Bill in accounting.
Your life has taken a turn you couldn’t have seen coming back in high school, unless you’re a really good guesser or some shit.
Seriously? You saw this coming? Huh. Kudos. Well in that case I have bad news. There’s no good method of getting this conversation back on topic.
Ha, you didn’t see that coming! Wait? For real? Again? Who are you? Are you in communion with the devil? Do you live in New Jersey? Nevermind. Don’t answer that. Some things are better left a mystery.
We’re gonna have to perform some emergency surgery and perhaps we can salvage a finger or something, but I’m making no promises.
Here we go, U-turn.
Life is a never ending cascade of seemingly inconsequential events sitting bumper to bumper in mid-day traffic. And it doesn’t matter who you are, what you do, or who you do it too, in the daily commute of life, you are the guy sitting in the Miata with the top down.
That’s great and all, cause let’s be honest, Miata’s rock! But you’re pinned in on all sides by semis, which means you can see the equivalent of jack shit.
If it rains, you’re screwed, cause the go-go-gadget roof is broken and you didn’t bring an umbrella on account of the drought we’re currently experiencing, not to mention nobody drives with an umbrella. It’s impractical.

Or is it?

And that’s not your fault, the drought part at least. I mean if you’re such a good guesser you could’ve figured it was gonna rain and grabbed a poncho or some shit. But there’s only so much rain dancing one man can do, and you’ve done plenty. Trust me, you can go ahead and drop the rain stick and take a breather.
Hm… to summarize.
Drought = not your fault.
Driving without an umbrella = maybe your fault, but definitely not mine.
Anyways, grab the Oh, Shit bar cause we’re getting off here. I’m pulling the Miata over to the side of the road. The engine is idling like an asthmatic Llama, and you’re probably wondering if I’m about to stab you in the throat and leave your body on the side of the road.
Fear not, there shall be no body dumping here tonight. But what if there was?
No, no, I know that sounds weird and creepy and I wouldn’t blame you if you edge away from the computer screen slowly. No sudden movements though cause I startle easily, even in cyber-space.
Let me make myself clear, cause we’re swimming through dirty bathwater and things are getting cloudy. I want to ask you a question, and I need you to think hard about the answer. If you try and give a superficial answer I will see through it and you shall receive an ear flick for your troubles. Trust me, it’s just not worth it. So here it goes.
How are you going to die?
Don’t give me that blank stare. No, I’m not insane. Of course I know what I’m asking.
I want you to think long and hard about how you’re going to die. Not, what is your preferred means of death? Because let’s be honest nobody gets the perfect death they wished for.
Everybody wants to die on a hilltop overlooking pastures of green while the final rays of sunlight drop below the horizon for the evening. They’ll be sitting with their back against an oak tree, maybe a willow… could even be an ash, I don’t know what your preference is, but there will be some sort of tree involved, guaranteed. Also, the love of your life will be there. They’ll be sitting in that tall green grass beside you, and there will be some sweaty hand holding. It’ll be beautiful and you’ll both draw your last breaths together because you can’t bare the thought of living even a single second without them.
End scene.
If that’s anywhere remotely close to your ideal death, then you need to rethink it right now cause it’s a cliche and if shit actually went down like that all our hills would be spattered with dead old people holding hands.
Yuck.
But here’s your homework for the week. Crunch the numbers. Do some brain storming. Create a word cloud association. Draw a picture. Doesn’t matter. Whatever works best for you.
Because here’s the reality of the situation. Most of us believe we are going to live on into old age and die at some time far in the distance. We see ourselves shuffling towards death who waits patiently off on the horizon, and we just keep dragging our feet and putting him off, hoping perhaps he’ll get bored and forget about us.
But Death doesn’t get bored. He’s a patient fuck.
More importantly, we aren’t walking towards some static personality off in the distance.
Death is walking right alongside you. But you don’t see him cause you’re so busy holding sweaty hands with Life like a couple goofy grinned love birds. Even when Life slaps you around a bit, you keep holding his hand because he tells you he loves you and he’ll never do it again.
Spoiler alert; Life doesn’t love you. No more than Death, atleast.
And one day, Life is going to break your heart. That ass is going to say, “It’s not you, it’s me.” And he’s gonna drop you like a pair of sweaty gym socks on the bathroom floor. That sucks, but luckily Death is there to console you. He takes your hand and he says, it’s alright. You can hang with me.
But Death is a clumsy ass Midas touching bastard and everything he fondles dies, most of the time a horribly painful and embarrassing death. Parallels can be drawn to my love making techniques, but I’m a poor drawer, so we won’t.
That’s not his fault though. He’s just picking up the pieces left on the floor by Life.
So, reframe your mindset and stop seeing Death as the enemy. I’m not suggesting you shotgun a bottle of Draino, by the way. What I’m saying is that you can’t fully appreciate what Life has to give you unless you can accept the fact that it’s a finite thing. It’s like a used plastic trash bag flitting on the breeze.
Here’s why this is a good thing.
Remember when you were a kid and you raided the pantry and devoured all the butterscotch froyo in one sitting? If your parents were anything like mine, hardened butterscotch froyo fanatics, they probably locked you in a closet until you repented for your sinful ways.
No, I’m just kidding. They didn’t do that. They just beat me and told me they’re doing it cause they love me, ya know… like any good parent would do.
Anyway, if you’re like me you probably ate yourself into a small food coma which may or may not have ended with you praying at the alter of the toilet bowel.
Life is that butterscotch froyo. Great in moderation, but if you get carried away that shit will straight fuck you up. Notice the two swear words I used to really strengthen the persuasiveness of my message?
Fuck yeah.
In the end, too much Life does us all in. We’re gluttons for its punishment and honestly there’s nothing you can do to avoid that. So stop juking and jiving, yes you look cool, but no it’s not necessary.
What you can do is enjoy every spoonful of that sloppy tasty goodness before it takes its revenge on your bowels. Because I hate to break it to you, but you’re forty eight percent more likely to die from colon cancer than you are to die in the arms of a loved one. And a billion times more likely to die in the arms of a loved one following some tragic turn of events like being trampled by a herd of clowns like in the Lion King when Mufasa bites it.

Get up, Dad. We gotta go home.
Breaks your heart cause you know Daddy aint getting up. I mean, look at his whiskers. They’re all bent and shit. Bent whiskers = dead Dad. Facts of life straight from Disney.
Truth.
Okay, so let’s brain storm some ideas cause I want you to actually get something out of this conversation, besides a migraine from reading word vomit.
Start with the question, How am I going to die?
Here’s some tough love for your Wednesday night… you’re probably not gonna make it to old age. The odds are against it, so wrap your noodle around that. Sure, it’s good to plan for retirement and be good to your body as if you were gonna make it to a hundred, but for most of us, it’s not in the cards.
What’s more likely? Well, getting hit by a car for starters. Or even better, how about hitting something with your car, like an elephant? I know we’d all like to think we’re Irresistible forces of nature, but there are a straight metric fuck-ton of Immovable objects out there. You keep playing it fast and loose like something fast and loose, and you’re gonna find yourself on the losing side of that equation.
Cause we all know the statistics, right? But Broman, you protest, I’m not a statistic. Those numbers aren’t meant for me.
Shut up and sack up, you’re precisely who those numbers are meant for.
Okay, so you have the reflexes of wombat and somehow you evade automotive related evisceration. What else is likely to sneak into your bedroom in the dead of night and slit your throat? That’s right. Vampires.
Err… I mean, cancer.
Vampires are third on my list, so keep that in mind as we move forward, but for now, focus on the cancer.
Now math befuddles my mind like abstract cubism, women who love me, and the internal combustion engine, so fair warning. But, if my calculation are correct, or atleast within spitting distance of correct, then based on my extensive research conducted while standing in the check out line at the grocery store and scanning the rack of tabloids, we all have cancer.
You hear it constantly. Cell phones give you brain cancer. Red Bull turns your innards into a mustard gas chamber and then gives you esophageal cancer. Petting puppies gives you hand cancer. Love gives you heart cancer.
Shit, if I didn’t know better I’d say Life is trying like a motherfucker to kill us all. Which is to say that too much Life will give you super mutated, resistant to penicillin, burns when you pee Soul Cancer.
Don’t be glum, we’re all in the same boat. We’re all getting shafted, so don’t be indignant. What’s the point, say you? Why are we here?
Really? You came here looking for existential answers about the ways of the universe and the meaning behind it all? You’re more desperate than I gave you credit for. I like desperate.
Okay, well let’s try and crack this nut.
Next week.
Woot, how’s that for a cliffhanger starring Sly Stallone, replete with bolt gun?
Here’s your assignment for this week; I want you to think about your life and what you hope to get out of it. Consider the possibility that the time line you have in mind for completing said tasks is shorter than you originally thought. If tomorrow you went in to see your friendly back alley family physician, Dr. Feelgood, and he broke the news that shit in your world is about to go tits up, his words not mine (you get what you pay for, thanks Obamacare), what would you do next?
If you’re gonna die tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, next decade, what would you do about it today? That’s the real caramel nougat question worth sucking on.
Cause all you got is right now. No negotiating for more. So, get your butt down to the comment section and tell me what you’re gonna do about it. Now.

Anthony