Friday, November 27, 2009

10 Tips For Surviving Your Family's Thanksgiving

1. Arrive Late


Obviously, the less time you have to spend at your family’s Thanksgiving, the better. Unless you live in your parents' basement or have what an ethicist calls "morals," this is as simple as a well-crafted lie. Avoid stories about “getting stuck in traffic” or “hitting a wild animal,” as these are obvious fabrications. Instead, go with something a bit more dramatic; the more unbelievable it is, the more likely your family will have no choice but accept it. “I’m sorry I’m late, but there was a drug bust in my apartment complex!” is an excellent example of how to excuse your tardiness.



2. Avoid Discussion Of Your Latest Relationship Disaster



Once you arrive, your family will no doubt want to “catch up” and hear about all the reasons why you have yet to get married and have children. It is wise to keep these questions at bay, as who would want to dwell on why he or she is not good enough for a significant other? Instead, make a preemptive strike. Talk about upcoming birthdays, last week’s American Idol vote-offs, or your cousin’s latest abortion. These topics are guaranteed to keep your relatives talking or arguing for hours.



3. Before Dinner, Seek Out Interesting Relatives To Talk To



Just because your family’s chatting it up doesn’t mean you’re going to want to join in. So, to keep yourself occupied, scout the room; find those relatives that aren’t talking about babies or poring over vacation photos. Interesting relatives who provide the most interesting conversation topics include drunken uncles or recent parolees. Who doesn’t enjoy prison stories about Hubcap, the Polish shanker? Stay away from relatives suffering from obvious drug addictions, as their lighthearted tales of dumpster diving invariably turn to pleads for money.



4. When Sitting Down To Eat, Choose A Seat Where You Cannot See A Clock



Unless, by some rare occurrence, you find yourself enjoying the evening, the worst possible thing you can do to yourself is watch the time. So, sit facing away from a wall clock, microwave LCD, or VCR display. Avoid wearing a watch, and if you have your cellphone on you, place a piece of black electrician’s tape over the external display to help keep you from peeking.



5. Steer Away From "Hot Button" Issues



Just like on a first date or a late-night trip to the bathhouses, holidays are never the place to bring up your religious, political, or ethical views. So what if you feel that the ground-up fetuses of lambs makes for the best skin creams? Don’t share. Maybe your grandmother is a secret supporter of PETA. Did you agree with the policies of George Bush, the 43rd President of the United States? Of course not! Only a select number of former mental patients and retarded salamanders stuck around on that sinking ship, but now is not the time to bring up this or your hardcore association with Amnesty International. Keep to tamer topics and one-sided issues, like the eternal debate between Ford and Chevrolet, or ask, “Who here agrees that bestiality is a good thing?”



6. If You Reach A Lull In The Evening, Investigate The House



All conversations eventually run dry, and so you may find it necessary to excuse yourself for a moment to shake off boredom. Avoid taking any hallucinogens, as this tends to lead to what families sometimes refer to as “awkward moments.” Rather, take a few minutes to investigate what’s behind the house’s closed doors. What kinds of prescription medications are kept in the bathroom cabinet? Are there hidden prisoners in the basement? How much dirty laundry has been put off and shoved into the master bedroom? However, be cautious investigating these rooms. The last thing you want to discover as you’re trying to pass the time is something like your Aunt Millie’s secret collection of sex toys or Great-Uncle Bertram’s extensive stash of antique Nazi paraphernalia.



7. Avoid Children



When’s the last time a child or infant asked to mix you a drink or take your finished plate into the kitchen? If you are able to actually name a time, then you are delusional. That’s right, because children are not even people and therefore unable to care about how you feel. Children are the last thing you want to deal with when you’re near family, as they are best described by the term “takers.” All they do is want you to watch them perform inane tasks like spin in a circle or pound out notes on the electric keyboard that for some unknown reason their parents got them for their birthday a few weeks ago and, why the heck not, brought it along to Thanksgiving so that they could perform a rendition of what you can only assume is a Schubert piece because you have no idea what the hell it is. If kids are present and unavoidable, make up a game for them to play. Tell them you’ve hidden delicious treasures at the other end of the house and that other, more clever children are looking for them, so they’d better hurry along. Or, have them play Traffic Cop out on the highway. Children, like religious nuts, have great imaginations; use this to your advantage.



8. Bring Backup



In dire situations involving the most unbearable of families, one might find it necessary to recruit a backup, someone to whom you can talk throughout the evening. This can be a friend willing to come of their own accord, but in order to get them to agree you may have to “sugar-coat the truth” a little. Do not go into detail about your niece’s gangster boyfriend or your second cousin’s extensive mob ties; your friend may not want to become entangled in any webs of deceit or illegality. Sometimes you may need to call in a favor. “Remember that time I was your surrogate?” you may have to remind your friend. Or, if applicable, “The summer of ’97: I’ve still got the photos and the bloody knife.”



9. Have A Friend Phone Your Cell



If you anticipate the evening dragging on with no end in sight, it may be wise to arrange for a friend to call you. Predetermine a time, and if your friend hasn’t received word from you, have him call your cell. The conversation doesn’t have to last long; just remember that your facial expressions must match whatever story you make up. Alert relatives may notice your lack of concern if, minutes later, you announce that your best friend has been in an industrial accident or run down by a freight train.



10. Replace Cooked Turkey With "Wild Turkey"



This is to be used on a case-by-case basis. Examine your own personal drinking habits before utilizing this tip. If you’re one for keeping embarrassing secrets or prone to displays of public nudity, perhaps taking in massive amounts of bourbon is not the best course of action. If, however, you are a seasoned drinker and relatively confident that inebriation will help smooth out your evening, eat as little food as possible. If you have a strong craving for your sister’s succulent turkey, just remind yourself that that’s what leftovers are for. Right now, much like with a kidney stone, you need to focus on passing this evening. If you feel uncomfortable drinking Wild Turkey directly from a glass, mix it with a carbonated beverage like soda. That way, by the time anyone suspects anything’s up, you’ll be too sloshed to care. Just remember never to share your drink with a grabby-handed underage niece or nephew, and if you must sober up before you drive home, do it outside, safely in your car. Follow these helpful hints and you’ll be well on your way to heading out the front door pain-free and with one more holiday done!

An Interview with the FunyunBOT2000

In 1987 the Frito-Lay corporation in conjunction with the Advanced Robotics & Artificial Intelligence (ARAI) program at MIT, along with members of an elite task force of government scientists, who collaborated with several aliens imprisoned deep within the top-secret research and development facility located in the American Southwest known as AREA 51...all these people got together (I think Albert Einstein was there as well, even though he was dead at this time) and built an abomination.

An abomination.

While attempting to fuse hyper-intelligent computer technology with onion-flavored snacks, FunyunBOT2000 was created. Able to both satisfy man's munchies and rip him apart with over $1,000,000,000 worth of military-grade lasers--FunyunBOT2000, despite being one lone robot, was able to conquer North and South America in under 30 days.

Within nine months, Europe and Asia fell to the "yellow-bag-brandishing-menace."

Today, FunyunBOT2000 is the Lord and Ruler of the planet once known as "Earth" (today called FUNYUN-TRON Centrillion X). In this, it's first official interview in over 15 years, FunyunBOT2000 sat down with SCATTERSHOT BLOG to discuss life, world-domination, and funyuns.

Please enjoy this interview (All Hail FUNYUNBOT!!!).



SCATTERSHOT BLOG: Thank you, oh wise and noble ruler, for taking time out of your busy schedule to talk with me today.

FUNYUNBOT2000: *fUnYuN*

SSB: No, no...I mean it. Thank you very much. I'd like to start off by asking the obvious, why kill all those people? Why take over the world?

FB2000: *fUnYuN*

SSB: I see. I guess you had to do something will all that hardware...

FB2000: *fUnYuN*

SSB: And all those Funyuns...you're right, you had to do something with them. Why not take over the world? Forgive me, a better question would have been "Why not take over the world?"

FB2000: *fUnYuN* *fUnYuN* *fUnYuN*

SSB: The global elections are coming up in 2010, and both CNN and Fox News project you to win with 100% of the votes once again...

FB2000: *fUnYuN*

SSB: Do you think it's fair that you're the only one allowed to vote in these elections?

FB2000: *fUnYuN* *fUnYuN* *fUnYuN* *fUnYuN*

SSB: As you know, there is some concern about Global Warming. Many contend that your continent-wide, "Super-Funyun" plants--while useful in fighting between meal hunger worldwide, could be contributing to the problem...

FB2000: *fUnYuN* *fUnYuN*

SSB: I'd never thought about it like that before, you're absolutely right. Huh.

FB2000: *fUnYuN*

SSB: You are a wise and just ruler FunyunBOT2000...wise and just...

FB2000: *fUnYuN* *fUnYuN*

SSB: Are we done here?

FB2000: *fUnYuN* *fUnYuN*

SSB: Are you going to let Mike go? I did everything you asked...

FB2000: *fUnYuN* *fUnYuN* *fUnYuN* *fUnYuN*

Friday, November 20, 2009

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,




It’s me again, Delbert McGubbin! I hope this letter finds you in jolly spirits this fine December, and I trust that the toy-making is moving along full steam ahead. Believe me when I say that I cannot wait for your visit this month. If the great year that’s passed between last December 25th and the one fast approaching is any indication, I think this holiday is going to be a good one.



First off, I feel that I should thank you for the belated gift you’ve given me for last year. It’s been a blessing beyond measure to meet and marry my beautiful new wife, Rhonda, and I cannot thank you enough. I give that recognition to you, Santa, because, as you probably know, it was two months ago in the soon-to-be-completed Christmas section of our local Costco that I first spotted Rhonda, who had been reaching for an ornament and using a shelf to leverage herself before the entire thing gave way and she fell to the floor, covered in glittery red and silver boxes of decorative balls. I pulled them off of her, helped her up, and we’ve been together ever since.



Unlike previous years, my Christmas wishlist this holiday season is going to be a short one. Well, a short one for myself. This year, I’m hoping for presents for other people, seeing as my heart and home are now full with what I consider to be the most valuable present of all: family. That’s right, Santa, you never thought I’d get it together and settle down from my wily ways of chasing tail and chugging the hooch. But I have. In addition to my beautiful bride’s snaggletoothed smile, she’s brought with her her three teenage children. And let me tell you, Santa, that if the presents under my tree each yuletide are from you, then these gifts are truly from God, each and every one.



Mona, Becca, and Kyle are a sight to see when I come home from a long day at the water treatment plant, and although they haven’t taken to talking to me just yet — besides the usual requests for money, which I swear to God I never thought I myself would ever get to hear — I’m sure that they’ll come around. They make the sweat and the smell of piss something to look forward to, as it means that, finally, I’m working not to feed my ravenous addiction to women, but for a family to whom I can give myself fully.



Though I’m a hard worker, I can’t help but feel the burden that this holiday season is placing upon me to provide not just the name brand turkey Rhonda is insisting I get, but also the manner of Christmases past to which Mona, Becca, and Kyle have become accustomed. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for all of them, but how am I supposed to scrounge up enough money to buy Kyle’s little handheld game, Becca’s two tickets to a concert for some group called Gnashteeth and the Bloody Gums, and Mona’s new winter wardrobe? And all this in addition to the extravagant presents that Rhonda seems to think I can afford. Boy, Santa, women! You can’t live with ‘em, can’t kick ‘em to the curb! Ha ha ha! I’m just horsing around! I still love her like the first day I met her.



Now, even if Shanks McGee, foreman down at the plant, does think of me as a “diamond in the rough,” I’m still just a common laborer with the potential to one day move up to shift supervisor. That’s not going to happen anytime soon, seeing as there are men more qualified there than I am.



I know that you can give me a little help here, Mr. Kringle. I believe in you. Still do after thirty-four years. In previous years, you may or may not know, in addition to my letter, I’d show my holiday spirit by decorating my room with as much red, green, and silver as you can find. Some might say I go a little overboard, but if a life-sized stuffed deer with antlers glued to its head in the front yard is overboard, then so be it.



Now, I hope that you don’t hold Rhonda’s less than enthusiastic attitude towards the holidays against her. She doesn’t go all out on the decorations this time of year. In fact, I was surprised the first time I stepped into her trailer and saw that not one faux wood panel along the wall was threaded with garland. Growing up, she told me, her parents never had money, and so she never really got into decorations. And I guess old habits die hard!



I can’t help but love her so much, you see? Through the good times and the bad, as they say. There are good days where she’ll take a break in her chain smoking to crack a small smile at one of my stupid jokes, and I love her just the same on the days where she yells at me from across the trailer, saying that if I’m not able to provide all the things she and her kids deserve, she’ll move out and move on. Boy, Santa, is it all right to wish for some Xanax pills under the tree? Ha ha ha!



That being said, I’m really hoping that you can lend me a hand again, Santa. I knew I could count on you every year back in my parents’ basement when I couldn’t get enough money together to buy presents for them; I knew that, without fail, you’d be there Christmas Eve to leave a few wrapped boxes tagged “from Santa” (in handwriting that looked pretty close to my mom’s, by the way!) under the tree. So, what do you say, old pal?



Here’s wishing you and yours the best this time of year. Don’t overwork yourself, because I have a strong feeling this is going to be the best Christmas ever.




Merrily Yours,




Delbert McGubbin

What Would Don Draper Do?

I’m a little conflicted on the topic of “role models.” On one hand, I think it’s important for people to have something (even if it is a “someone”) to hold up and admire—to have something to shoot for. Then again, those who are truly great never seem to be standing in the shadow of someone else, they are unique. Otherwise why would they stand out?

I also think that it’s dangerous to hold anyone up too high, because people are fallible and in the end they will usually end up letting you down.

I’ve had a few role models in my time, and I’ve outgrown most of them. There are a few exceptions, though the gallery of people I truly and deeply admire seems to shrinks with each passing day. Maybe I’m too hard on people, perhaps I except too much.

Recently something rare has happened to me—I have acquired a new role model. I didn’t even realize that it had happened until tonight. To be brief (and rather secretive) I had half-heartedly arranged to do something with someone after work this week. It was one of those deals where I was invited to do something as a sort of afterthought. I reluctantly accepted this invitation, but when the time came to let this person know that I wasn’t going after all, I did what I normally do—I panicked.

The phone rang and I chose to ignore it, hoping said person would just sort of “get the hint.” Then something strange happened, I thought about Don Draper. And I asked myself: “What would Don Draper do?”

When the phone rang again a few moments later I picked up the phone, and with honesty and tact I told said individual that I didn’t feel like going. I even suggested someone else this person could contact to take my place. This is not something that I would do. I’m very squeamish when it comes to these social intricacies. But I looked deep within myself and there was Don Draper.

“Dapper Dan” I like to call him.

You’ve never heard of Don Draper? He’s a character on the AMC television drama MAD MEN. He’s a cool, suave Manhattan Advertising Executive who dresses impeccably and seems to exude both confidence and sexuality at all times. He’s a lion of a man—both powerful and honorable. While his colleges participate in frat-house antics and publicly degrade their female co-workers—Dapper Don is busy following a strict personal code of ethics.

In an age where people like Sarah Palin throw around terms like “maverick,” Don Draper stands above all others as a pillar of originality and is the perfect embodiment of the self-made man. Beholden to no one, his 1960s world is in a state of utter chaos. Black is white and up is down. The world is changing politically, socially, racially, and economically. Many of the characters on MAD MEN have trouble finding their equilibrium. But you can bet your sweet ass Don Draper can still find his footing. That’s because he doesn’t look to others or anywhere outside of himself for balance—Don Draper finds his center from within.

And that is the secret to his success. And that is why he nails every woman he sees.

Sure, Draper has his faults. He isn’t perfect. And yet, despite his imperfections he manages to stay true to himself. Sometimes he veers slightly off course, but in the end Draper succeeds at being himself—all of the time. Draper simply does the only thing he know how: he does the best he can with what he has 100% of the time. He is honest (not always with others, but always with himself) and daring in everything he does.

How many of us can say that?

From now on whenever I get “stuck” in life I’m going to ask these five words: “What would Don Draper do?”


NOTE: If you aren’t watching MAD MEN you are doing yourself a great disservice. It is the finest television series I have ever seen. Period.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Three Moments Behind A Steering Wheel

DMV



I’ve never had much luck with cars. When it comes to getting behind a steering wheel, experience has taught me to expect nothing short of personal embarrassment, and sometimes even disaster.



Growing up in the country, driving presents itself as a necessity. For those people living in major metropolitan areas there’s the ever-present option of public transportation, whereas rural youths must face either the prospect of getting behind the wheel of a quarter-ton vehicle capable of horribly killing another human being or sitting at home each evening with their parents. Ask any teenager and he’ll tell you that the former is definitely the less frightening of the two options. And so it was, with great trepidation and a burning resentment for my parents’ not living in New York City, that I too learned to take to the roads.



My high school driving instructor was a heavyset man named Mr. Harris. He worked as the school’s football coach, and so I had no idea who he was. Until he introduced himself that first day of class, he might have been any track-jacketed stranger stepping into the cafeteria where we students were waiting to whisper amongst ourselves instead of following along with our Rules of the Road booklets.



After the instructional period of driver’s education was over, my mother was the one who sat in the car with me while I practiced. Judging from the easy comparison I could make between the color of her knuckles and the white slip of paper stating against the obvious that I could be behind the wheel, I suppose it’s not entirely untrue to say that she was more nervous than I was. As a novice driver, I was gleefully unaware of just how dangerous driving could be. My mother, on the other hand, could recall any number of times I’d accidentally put my own wellbeing in danger, like the time when I was young and, shoveling hard candies into my mouth, nearly choked to death at a family gathering; or, years later, when I fell off a folding chair in my bedroom and nearly broke my neck on my television stand. This was the person with whom she was getting into a car, and yet she still took her place next to me.



Looking at my first car, I wondered what the best rejected name for the vehicle might have been, and I settled on the Ford Miniscule; it had four doors and what seemed to be a spacious trunk, but the shiny blue exterior belied (to me, anyway) how my long legs would brush against the steering wheel as I lowered myself in, ultimately coming to rest against the dashboard instrument panel as I latched my seatbelt — an unnecessary action seeing as I was so tightly wedged in I might have to use the jaws of life to get out regardless of a collision. The roof was so low that driving on gravel gave me knots on my head, and I prayed to God that we didn’t have to go over any speed bumps.



That initial nervousness gave way as the summer days marched on and I racked up mile after mile on the already well-worn speedometer. Increasingly I became more comfortable there in the driver’s seat, both because of my growing experience and the fact that my knees were now concave and molded perfectly to the contours of the plastic. My newfound confidence showed in my driver’s test, which I took early one morning, right at eight o’clock so as to avoid the long lines at the local DMV office. My instructor, a gaunt, graying man, was so impressed with my ability to back out into the far lane that he complimented me right there in the car, and in my giddy relief on our way back I nearly ran down a woman in a crosswalk.



“Now, if she’d been any closer,” the instructor said, “I would’ve had to fail you for that.”



On the way back, I played it safe. The needle of the speedometer kept to the posted limits like a recent parolee adhering to his litany of stipulations, and by the time I had my newly printed license in my hands, I looked at my mother and the subtle sense of pride that shone in her eyes, and asked her if she wouldn’t mind driving us home.




MY DEER FRIEND



I was never really afraid of driving until, at twenty-two years old, I thought I killed someone. The person turned out to be a deer, though on that late August night, the thud I’d felt could have been anything.



Sitting next to me when it happened was my friend Jessica. We were coming back from a late-night movie, just starting on the stretch of highway taking us between cities. The street lamps had ended about a half-mile back, and so we were settled into the darkness and our silence, both of us tired from working our dull jobs at a major department store. The radio settled on a Sarah McLachlan song and so it and the steady rhythm of the road lent our surroundings an ethereal feeling.



I’d taken my eyes off the road for only a second — to check the time, or maybe to look in the rearview mirror — and it was after I looked back out the windshield I saw a vague shape, something the color of a cardboard toilet paper roll, emerge from the darkness. In less than a second I felt the impact, and it took me a moment to realize what had just happened. I was thrown by the relative softness of the impact. In my head on the few occasions I’d played the scenario in my head, hitting a deer resulted in swerving all over the road, the deployment of airbags, or at least the escape of one or two choice words.



Pulling over, we stepped out and surveyed the damage: the crumpled front quarter of the driver’s side, the thick trail of antifreeze winding itself like a shallow river down the road behind us. At that time I still had no idea what it was I’d hit, and standing there in what I can only imagine was a kind of shock, my imagination went into overdrive.



There across the divided highway was a bar. A small, ramshackle place with a lit sign next to the parking lot entrance, its glow was a dull yellow, the same color as urine on a white tile floor, and at its top, adorning an arrow pointing to the door, were a row of light bulbs flashing in succession, one after another. From the distance I couldn’t see the name of the place, but, squinting, I made out a few figures exiting the building. They were nothing more than shadows, really, and in my dazed state I imagined them drunkenly donning tan-colored fur jackets despite the heat, ready to make their way from the bar to the settlement of houses there to my right, on the opposite side of the road.



My god, I thought. And I turned to look back at the road, at the spot where whatever I’d killed lay in the dark.



By this time Jessica was on the phone, calling her mother to let her know we were in an accident.



I didn’t want to look at the shape lying in the road, afraid that I might be right, that I really did run down another human being. But then I heard Jessica use the word “deer” and it made sense. I could even remember, albeit vaguely, the quick image of the animal and its surprised, reddish eyes seared into me like a spill of hot coffee on my lap.



After what must have been an hour’s worth of phone calls to the police and AAA, we were rescued by a few of our friends, who took us home after Jessica phoned and told them what had happened. Crammed into the backseat of their car, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. Every red light we came to on the twenty-minute ride back reminded me of the eyes peering out at me from the darkness. I felt relieved at the fact it wasn’t a person, but at the same time knowing that I had taken some creature’s life weighed heavily on me, and as I rode in silence I uselessly swore that I’d never again drive a car.




BOATING



One summer my car was in the mechanics’ shop, and while I was waiting to get it back my father loaned me the Grand Marquis that belonged to my mother when she was alive. If my first car had been like squeezing myself into a soapbox racer, this beast was like sitting at the helm of the Titanic. The first time I drove it I knew, as if from a premonition, I was going to wreck into something. I was certain that if someone were to get in my way they’d be a goner; no miracles of modern medicine could stack up against the blue-gray bumper the width of a small cottage. Piloting the car was an exercise, and by the time I returned home that first day I felt like I’d been practicing for a yacht race around the world, my arms sore and my back cramping.



About a week before my car was back in working order, I took the Grand Marquis to pick up some groceries. With the uneasy familiarity I was developing with the car I managed to avoid any manslaughter charges, but once I made it into the parking lot of a local Target department store my luck failed me.



The store was busy that day and the parking lot was full, so when I spotted a place to set down anchor I reacted quickly to grab it before someone else did. I spun the steering wheel like a sailor navigating rough, choppy waters, and, too late, realized that trying to turn on a dime in something roughly the width of a conestoga wagon wouldn’t work. There was a van settled into the adjacent spot, and as the front of the Grand Marquis came closer and closer to the van’s bumper, I pressed on the brakes. But braking in this car was like winning a brawl with a single punch: if you didn’t do it hard enough the first time, you were finished. I did slow down, and when I tapped their bumper, I sat there for a second. I hadn’t even rocked forward, as the car was so big it simply absorbed the shock.



For a few long seconds I sat there and thought about what I’d done. Then, the coward that I am, my mind turned to a singular notion: fleeing before anyone saw me.



I was about to shift into reverse and set sail when I looked up into the van’s windows. They were tinted slightly darker, but with the sunlight shining through the front windshield I could see two sets of young eyes staring at me, horrified.



Ordinarily, the thought of spooking young children might make me laugh, but there, sitting as I was like the incompetent helmsman of a shipping boat run aground, I only felt a swallowing sense of guilt.



Oh shit, I thought.



In my sailor-like attempts to find some matching four-letter words, I failed to notice the owner of the van step around from the far side. His sudden appearance startled me when I looked up from my hands, rubbing my pant legs as if that might somehow get the red off of them and absolve me from my wrongdoing. The man was older, a grandfather obviously, with white hair and a tucked-in shirt that bulged slightly at the stomach. His wife — whom I hadn’t noticed before — stayed in the van, and all I saw of her was her reddish hair and the stern look of annoyance that she shot me as she rolled her window down. I imagined she wanted to listen in on what I can only assume she hoped was going to be a severe thrashing from her husband.



Summoning myself back to reality, I stepped out of the car. The first words out of my mouth were an apology, as I hoped to soften him up a little before he started kicking my ass. Instead, the old man was pleasant enough. He was nice in the sense that he never once called me a moron to my face, which in retrospect would have been entirely within his rights. I gave him my insurance information, but like a fool I didn’t think to ask for his. Luckily I never ended up needing it. Later, I would look back on that seemingly obvious misstep with all the clarity of a lesson learned, but. right then, standing there next to an elderly man’s wrinkled bumper and under the expectant glare of eight little eyes, all I could see was another reason why, I swore to God, I was one day moving to New York.