Tripping on Tryptophan

Science points out that there’s as much tryptophan in chicken and ground beef as there is in turkey, but we never blame the cheeseburger for feeling sleepy. Then again, on Thanksgiving, many people tend to pack away way more food, so the comparison is not as accurate. If there’s 350 milligrams of tryptophan in a typical 4-ounce serving of turkey, and sleep aids typical have 500 to 1000 milligrams, science says the turkey’s not enough to induce sleepiness. But then, I’m laughing at the idea that I’m only eating 4 ounces of turkey.

I just wanted to say that. On the one hand, there’s all sort of reasons why we can’t say that turkey actually makes us sleepy. On the other hand, there’s all sorts of avenues for getting away with saying it. I mean, due to the job I have, I know more about the brain than the average person. I don’t know even a hundredth of what an expert knows, nor do I even know enough to educate someone. But I know enough to win arguments against people who know nothing.

And in the “know nothing” group are both: people who think turkey makes you sleepy, and people who only know that it really doesn’t. I can beat them both in an argument, if I want to. Being right, or the truth, or facts have nothing to do with it.

I mean, facts are facts. There’s no arguing over facts. And opinions are personal. There’s no logic to telling someone her opinion is “wring.”

To the “turkey makes you sleepy” people, I can haul out the whole “not enough tryptophan, its actually the overeating, etc” argument. I can point them to Snopes or a dozen other websites.

And to the “no it doesn’t” folks, I can say “why not?” Chances are, they don’t know the by-the-milligram amounts of tryptophan in turkey, or in sleep aids. I can tell them “you can’t get sleepy without serotonin, and you can’t get serotonin without tryptophan, and there is a LOT of tryptophan in this meal we’re eating…”

So what’s the point? Why do we haul out these facts and arguments, what is it about sitting around a table with a bunch of people we’re not allowed to dislike that makes us so petty? And by us, I mean me. What’s the deal?

I dunno. I’m not seeing my therapists this week. I’ll get back to you. Until then, do like me: let them say whatever they want to say. Let them be right. Being right doesn’t feel as good as turkey tastes, in my opinion. And if you let things go, you’ll sleep better, no matter what time of day it is.

Brain Paste

We had a party on Friday night, for my birthday. Due to alcohol and a week of fatigue, I slept hard. Real hard. I snored with my mouth wide open, and my wife was so tired too, she slept right through it. Which means she didn’t wake me up or adjust me like she usually does, so I snored all the harder and longer. It was a hard long snoring.

The result: super dry mouth, which caused a bad case of Uvilitis. That’s a word that’s so weird, that even Google doesn’t like it. “Did you mean uveitis?” No I did not.

Wikipedia is cool with it though. Anyway. Since I have in-laws in town, there’s turmeric everywhere, and I recalled that turmeric is natural anti-inflammatory. So we tried adding some to honey to make a paste. And then I started thinking about all the brain research I’ve been doing, and decided to add cocoa, to make it palatable and for the anti-oxidants. And then oil, as I need something to make it pastier. And then chili powder. So here’s the result:

• 1 tsp cocoa powder (flavanoids!)
• 1 tsp raw honey (anti-everything)
• 2 tsp olive oil (fat fuses flavors)
• 1 tsp turmeric (anti-inflammatory)
• ¼ tsp chili powder (boosts metabolism)

Mix into a paste. Add to your chai tea or milk or whatever. Or spread on toast. Or a bran muffin.

None of this is scientific, of course, strictly speaking. But dang it’s good. It’s like one of those trendy chocolate bars the fancy-dancy shoppes sell ya. It’s like Nutella for cheapskates. It’s like there’s a party in your mouth, and only the hipsters are invited.

Oh, and I should say: measure the turmeric last or use an entirely different teaspoon. Turmeric has a tendency to get into things if you’re not careful. I like turmeric but sometimes I’m not in the mood for it to get into my tea. Sometimes.

 

Messing With Genres

I wish I could remember how I came upon Bitter:Sweet. Maybe I should search older blog archives, because I might have written about this before. “Dear Diary: I have no intention of ever reading any of this again, so you’re not a diary, or even a journal, you’re a blog.” I think that’s how it goes. They call ‘zines about the person who makes them “Perzines.” Does that mean there’s “Perblogs?” Of course. So if this is one, or www.bukkhead.com is one, and if you read this or that and remember reading how I came across Bitter:Sweet, let me know.

Because via Bitter:Sweet I have discovered a whole “genre” of music that I’ve been listening to for a while now. I say “genre” in denigrating quotes like that because I’m not sure what genre it is or even if it’s all one genre. Mostly this is stuff that came in via Pandora, on my Bitter:Sweet station. Now that I think about it, I also have a Wax Tailor station, and a Skeewiff station, and those yield excellent tunes as well, with much overlap. And now that I think about it, I have some guitar-based stations, like flamenco and surf, and there’s overlap there as well, sort of. So maybe that was it.

Anyway, as I was listening to some serious groove last night, or trip hop, or accelerated lounge, or caustic ambient, or spy fusion, or whatever the hell it is, it occurred to me that maybe this is all just drum and bass. So I looked up drum and bass and was told that Pendulum is a drum and bass artist/group/whatever, so I made a station based on that.

And it turns out that what I was listening to before is NOT drum and bass, BUT, there WERE some overlaps, like when the Glitch Mob came on. I am inclined to think that was Pandora’s not adhering to Pendulum’s “genre” but their own taxonomy.

I’m keeping the station, and I may try to find a way to mix some of the stuff from that into the Bitter:Sweet stuff. Like The Yoshida Brothers, who came on this Pendulum station and rocked my socks off (I have a few of their albums already, but not the song that came on last night).

Genres are tricky. I would like to think the same is true with writing. I would like to think that art describes genre, and not the other way around. I would like to think my writing is proof of that.

 I have two other blogs to write on today, so I guess we’ll see.

Birthday BBQ and Rye: 42, Starting Off Good.

Sorry this is late. Late? Yeah, I try to post these by 2:00 PM at the latest. I know, no one cares. But I read somewhere that you get more followers if you post at a consistent time. I also read that its okay to not write every day. Well, I already skipped Monday and Tuesday so I’m going to suck it up and pound this post out if it kills me.

Work has been super busy today, as there’s lots going on. A new version of the game, Achievements, testing, write-ups, all manner of this, that, and the other. Thank god tomorrow is beer day.

Last night, though, was my birthday, and the wife took me to Bitterroot, which is what I want to talk about. Call this a review, if you like.

5/5 stars. Excellent BBQ. Excellent prices. Excellent ryes. Excellent service. Not hard to find, not too crowded on a Wednesday night, and the location is such that as terrible as parking is in Ballard, at least for this place parking was only mostly terrible.

What I REALLY want to talk about was the rye flight I had. I don’t remember what the first one was, but if I had not known it was a rye, I might have guessed it was just whiskey. It was very powerful. I would drink it again, though, as it was still better than your average rotgut.

The second one, though, was amazing. George Dickel its called, and I will be buying a bottle to share. So smooth. So sweet. None of that pressure-in-the-forehead you get from a slam of alcohol in your nose. Just so damn good.

The third one was nearly as good as the Dickel. Lock Stock and Barrel, super complicated, nuanced, but neither playful nor provocative. If Templeton is my best gal, and Dickel’s the sweet neighbor girl, then LS&B’s the sophisticated older lady down the block who’s still a knock-out.

So, in one night, I imbibed my second and third favorite ryes of all time. Templeton’s still my number one, of course. It’s as much loyalty as it is just how damn good that rye treats a body. Yum.

So, if you’re in Ballard, go to Bitterroot, get pretty much anything on the menu, order a rye flight, and tip your server well.

What We Didn’t Do on our Not-a-Vacation

In order to pursue the betterment of person kind and to assure our place in the annals of history, the wife and I went to Denver for a few days. This is why there was no blog post on Monday and Tuesday. If you’re an avid reader of “...Other” then I do apologize for the lapse. Hopefully you found other entertainment. Your sock drawer, for example-- surely it is now well arranged?

I can’t tell you what we were doing in Mile High City, but I will say this: the Seahawks are 10 and 1, while the Broncos are 9 and 1 so far… and they won’t be playing each other unless they both go to the Superbowl. That’s all I’m saying. I mean, those facts have nothing to do with why we were there, but, well… that’s all I’m saying.

While we were there, in addition to not writing blog posts, I struggled to even get my daily NaNoWriMo words done. I managed by smashing a keyboard for a few hours on the two plane rides. I was using a little iPad mini and Zagg bluetooth keyboard. Monday morning I just typed into an email and sent it to myself. Tuesday evening I wrote 16 100-word paragraphs. It was grueling.

In between I noticed something that I’ve been doing for a while-- talking out loud to myself. Little innocuous things, like “should I get this shirt or this one?” Not deep philosophical questions, to say the least.

But then I saw this article about our inner voices. Its mostly about inner voices, but it starts off with a little description of Virginia Woolf talking out loud to herself. And of course, I started thinking (without saying it out loud because I’m in a small office with a coworker) “Hey, she’s a writer, and I’m a writer, so… like maybe writing a lot makes people talk out loud to themselves more!”

That’s not what the article’s about and there’s no evidence of this anyway. But I want to think it. I want to think that in the last month, since my daily word output has sky-rocketed, my brain must be changing. For the better, I hope.

Or not. This might just be the latest foster parent in my brain’s visitation schedule. From March to about June this year I was playing a lot of WoW. Then from June to September I was reading a novel almost every day. And now it’s a writing jag. Maybe in December I’ll be into collecting Lego minifigures.

This is Jam

I am very very very far behind on my NaNoWriMo words. So instead of writing a blog post I will post something I've been working on to catch up.

Blog posts, dry toast, hipster d-bags coast to coast bragging about flagging their intellectual victuals roasted over the slow broasted flames of inebriated inflection, reflecting on the directions social media's going, lowing like cattle and rattling neck-bearded sabers at cable-television wagers.

Dangerous conclusions, colluding over slow-roasted macchiatos, the new dime bags, tagging their posts with allusions to the cages we’re all defined by, and data-mining every meme for the unseemly we deem appropriate when we scheme to skim some of the cream off this fat-ass latte dream.

Magazines flogging molly and clogging up hallways with picture-postcard advertisements advising us to retire outside the confinements of dignity, dinner at Denny’s on Wednesdays something to calendar in last year’s technology, colanders holding more water than the biology we requiem sitting in front of TV screen, little black and white man boys slaving over a hot grid iron and their sweat ejecting desperation for identity in masculinity, our prostates full to bursting, urging us to cursing as we thirst for another nacho cheese potato chip and our IVs drip with Schlitz and Lebatz.

Facts forgotten, moments fomented on memories of epistles penned three fingers at a time, rhyme nor reason in season as we hunt and peck through the dreck of explaining the chain of events that lead us from these five-hundred word rants through chanting, panting in post-connubial bliss (we insist) because writing is better than plucking.

A euphemism, a eulogy for euthanasia, mercy killing words too fierce for flinging, singing neither electric physiology nor spirit-tested psychology but soul fettered ignominy, frets bursting fingertip capillaries so that capsicum laced coffees can be chased through places equally spaced to accommodate the greatest rate of return on waiting for that delicious libation.

No apologies. None.

Too Much Writing, Not Enough Writing

Add this to the moan n’ groan department. I can’t keep up with all my (self-imposed) writing assignments. Not to mention everything else I have to do.

Woe is me, I know. At least I get to eat (well, not today, I’m on a juice cleanse. Apparently that means I drink things with lots of cayenne pepper in them. Got it at Costco, on a whim, but I might be shooting myself in the foot because that Costco Mac n Cheese we had last weekend blocked me up good. Sorry for being graphic, but hey, you’re not even supposed to be reading this, you’re supposed to be reading those other darn blogs and earn me some darn AdSense money, darn it).

At least I have a roof over my head (except today when I was walking to the bus stop in the rain. It wasn’t a down pour, but I’d decided to leave my coat at home because it’s too heavy for the weather we’ve been having lately, and I’m tired of sweating up and down all those darn stairs. I should take the elevator, but who has time to wait for elevators? And I need to burn the calories! Yes, I’m walking contradiction, sue me).

At least I have a loving, caring wife (except in the mornings when she’s on her feet and walking to the shower but somehow still has her head on the pillow. I don’t know how she does it. But I have learned my lesson—being bright and chirpy in the morning will get me a deep bite mark on my arm, which I’d better appreciate for the way it distracts me from being throttled by angry, sleepy hands. Just kidding. I love you honey. Why are YOU reading this stupid blog).

Still, whatever my privileges, I feel like it is my duty as a middle aged middle class white hetero married man with a Kia and two mortgages to complain, so I’m going to complain. Woe is me. Too much writing to do, way behind on NaNoWriMo. Struggling to find content for this blog AND the brain one AND the zombie one. Have to write a weekly blog for work. Have to write emails to people. And did I mention: laundry, dishes, cleaning the garage, cleaning the gutters, getting the house ready for an 18th-month-old, the new World of Warcraft expansion, Desktop Dungeons, Grand Theft Auto V, PvZ2, keeping up with Facebook, keeping up with Tumblr, keeping up with Reddit, and my notes! I have SOOOOO many daily notes to process.

I tell you what, it’s this job, it’s having a job, its going to a job every day and working. I shouldn’t complain, I know, I should be grateful. And I am. I love this job, I will gladly sacrifice any of those other things to keep this job. Especially cleaning the gutters. But I am being stretched thin, here.

All my own fault of course. But at least moaning about it got me five-hundred or so words to put on this darn blog.

Parum-Pa- Shut the Damn Hell Up.

On Tuesdays I go to a bar and hang out friends. (Did I tell you this before in another post? Sorry. If so, or if you know this already, skip to the next paragraph). We used to meet over coffee, but out favorite coffee place started closing early (“What, no caffeine after 7 PM? But this is SEATTLE!”) so we switched to a bar. Then that place changed owners so we switched to another bar. We still call it our weekly “coffee” meeting, though. It’s like AA but inverted.

Last night one of us brought up this Sci-Fi podcast he was listening to, about a store filled with scanners. As a person shops, a smart computer watches them, figures them out based on their patterns, and then starts reshaping the store, and products and packaging, to suit their needs and play into their desires.

I want this to be real. I want to go into a store and I want the computer to scan me, and realize that I have bought many car stereos over the years. And that it always seems to take me the same amount of time to buy each stereo. I want the computer to look at the radio stations I listen to, figure out the time differential between what was playing on the radio and the purchase, and realize that the radio breaks right around the time “The Little Drummer Boy” comes on.

And then, the store would be smart enough to bend sound waves around me such that when I am shopping between, say, September 30th and January 2nd, there’s no way I am able to hear that god damn song. As I shop, a cone of comfortable, blissful silence is always around me.

People who walk by me in the grocery store or at Target will drift in an out of this wonderland of quietness. Some of them will realize what is going on. Soon they will start following me. They’ll buy what I buy and eat the way I eat and wear the sort of clothes I wear. They’ll time their shopping to coincide with mine. 

Eventually I’ll become a Moses of Xmas shopping, leading my people away from the evil pharaohs of The Little Drummer Boy into 40 years of wandering. We’ll worship something golden, maybe a copy of People with Miley Cyrus on the cover, and then I’ll ascend into the hills (the upstairs café at Nordstroms) and come back with some commandments:

• Thou Shalt Not Decorate Stores for the Holidays before December 11th.
• Thou Shalt Not Force Me to Partake in a $5 Secret Santa Thing Because I Have Enough Wine Charms As It Is.
• Thou Shalt Not Jack Up Airline Ticket Prices to Gouge People Who Are Guilted into Visiting In-Laws.
• Thou Shalt Not Regift Fruitcake More Than Twice.

Et cetera. But this is just a dream. It’s the “fiction” in “science fiction,” isn’t it. I’ll just have to get used to getting a new car stereo once a year or so. I’m not saying I agree that there’s a war on Christmas, I’m just saying, if there is, I want to be in the battalion that attacks The Little Drummer Boy. I’m talking scorched earth.

 

I am Draggin’ Ass

This is what I do every day: alarm goes off at 4:30. I go into my office, down a 5-Hour Energy Drink, then go to the UniQlock website, and turn the screen off. In the dark, I sit and relax, focusing on good posture. When I’m ready, I plank for 60 seconds (the soothing UniQlock music plays at precisely 60 beats per minute, so it’s easy to keep time). Then I do a few more yoga-type poses (I don’t know what they’re called, but in one of them I breath as I bend over until I can put my palms on the floor without bending my knees).

Then I either get dressed and go for a run, or on non-run days, I do some light housework. After my wife gets up and showers, I shower, get dressed, get my things ready for the day, and eat breakfast while I read the paper.

But lately, I don’t know what’s going on. The 4:30 ritual still happens. But running has become a chore, as often as not I end up going back to bed (despite 7 hours of sleep) and during the day I cannot stay awake to save my life. I mean, I am assuming if I was being attacked by marauder with machetes I would have sufficient adrenaline to run away screaming. But if they attacked with fluffy pillows, I don’t know if I’d have the gumption.

Do I gots SAADs? I hope not. I don’t even believe in it! Maybe I got some narcolepsy-inducing carbs from the Costco salmon and mac-n-cheese we had for dinner this weekend. We usually don’t eat like that. Not that we eat in any kind of pristine manner, but still.

The upshot is that it has been SO hard to blog lately. I’m barely getting in the Zombie and Brain blog updates. And the writing/research is not of the best quality. And there was no “…Other” blog yesterday. Just too tired. Not to mention NaNoWriMo. I am behind. 1667 words is a lot to face when you’re rather put your face in one of those marauder's fluffy pillows.

And caffeine is out of the question because I just read about a study that showed how “morning people” will get crappy sleep if they have caffeine too late in the day. Like, later than noon. Damn it.

Ah well. I’ll post this, and go home for the day, and maybe one of those marauders will be on the bus. Finger’s crossed.

Man Up, Richie

Nobody asked me for my opinion, so here’s me offering my two cents to a machine that only takes quarters: I don’t care if Incognito did it or not, I don’t care what the context is, I don’t even care if Martin’s agent selectively edited things or even fabricated the whole thing. You’re out, Incognito. Man up and deal with it.

You’re a tough guy, right? Be tough, be a man. Let me quote some of the people talking about this right now, all of them NFL players: "You're a grown-ass man. You need to stand up for yourself." "Playing football is a man's job." “That's something you have to handle as a man!" “Fight, handle it." “Go down swinging.” Yeah, I took some of those out of context, so what, you gonna sic an MLA expert on me?

So you got kicked out, so what? People lose their jobs all the time for stupid reasons. Do you see their pictures on the covers of websites and magazines? So now you ain’t getting paid millions to feel up other men on a field in front thousands of screaming fans. Boo hoo.

Don’t like what I’m saying? Text me, I’ll give you my address, you can come tell me yourself. But let’s be for real here. For real for real. You won’t. Because I don’t matter. None of this matters. The only people this matters to are the news agencies making billions off what you did or didn’t do. Those of us who are reading these websites and making blog posts, you think we care about you, or Martin? We don’t even know you.

It’s a tough world, Incognito, it’s a bitter, harsh universe out there and it don’t give a damn about you or me or anyone else. Man up. Take your hit. Go get a job tossing couches into vans or something.

Oh, and if you did do it? Shut the fuck up.

It’s Not Complicated

The sister of a famous website’s founder has a new book out*, and I want to go on the record about it. I do not in the least begrudge her her success. Why would I begrudge her? Because the book is only doing well because she’s famous. I write books, and I am not famous, and my books are not successful. But seriously, I don’t for a second feel as if her success is undeserved in the slightest.

This is not irony or sarcasm or anything of the like. This maybe a touch of cynicism, or would be if I was trying to suggest her success is undeserved. I have not read this book. I might—I know people who are close to people who are… well, there’s a degrees of separation here, but few enough that this book will be in my social circle.

But I haven’t read the book yet. But I have been in the world of words for a long time. I have logged my Gladwellian 10,000 hours. I have learned from professors, I have taught to students, and I can assure you—most people can write. So I have no doubt that this book was written by someone who can write.

Writing requires desire, writing well requires practice, and writing success requires luck. And on that last one, I do mean random luck. Of course, that luck could be either a publisher happened to read and like your manuscript out of the thousands she sees each year, and then when it was published it happened to catch the eye of a few people, one of who was influential enough to suggest it to more people… none of that will occur by hard work. I don’t care how much sweat you put into it—you will not be able to work harder than the people Oprah “discovers” are lucky.

Or in the case of the book I’m talking about, you lucky enough to be related to someone who was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time to ride a social phenomenon right up to the stratosphere.

I need to make this point: none of this is sour grapes. I call myself a writer not because I hope to get lucky, or because of my years and years of practice, but because of that desire. That desire exists in every single other person who writes. And to say one book is better than another is to say one person is better than another. I refuse to say such a thing. Shakespeare was not a better person than Stephenie Mayer. If you like one book more than another, that’s all good, but that’s you.

So why say any of this? Like I said, I want to go on the record. I won’t be the only one pointing out that the book’s only successful because of who she is, not what she wrote. And I want to remind everyone: this is a how it is FOR ALL BOOKS.

Just read it, or don’t. Provenance isn’t really that interesting.

*yes, I know the book is only one part of a larger entity, namely her own website and all it has to offer. My thesis stands: value doesn’t guarantee success.

This is where I work (for now).

While we were getting ramped up for a hard core day of brain busting, we had the following conversation (we being me one and one other dude).

We were talking about the Seattle Mayoral race, and he told me that McGinn had lost. I expressed neither regret nor glee, as I had not gotten around to voting anyway, as I am an apathetic loser who cares as much about local politics as he believes he can do anything about it. I know, I am the malaise in the great Tuna Fish Sandwich of American Indifference, which always comes with a Side of You Get What You Deserve fries and a large Evil Politicians soft drink. Refills free.

But nevermind that. This post is not about my terrible attitudes. Its about this conversation. I said that McGinn was a hippie ‘cause he used to ride his bike to all those press conferences when he was trying to get elected the first time. My fellow interlocutor asked why I had a problem with hippies. I said I didn’t, nor hipsters. Then we got onto the topic of what, exactly defines a hipster.

The subject of thrift stores came up.

This fellow told me how you could go to Goodwill Outlet Stores and buy stuff by the pound. 35 cents a pound for stuff that wouldn’t sell in the regular Goodwill stores. So, he said, you could go buy a bunch of shirts, then donate them back to Goodwill and itemize the donation on your taxes for a big write-off.

I said, why go through the hassle. Just give them the money, and let them keep what you would have taken. That’s like donating the shirts right there. Give Goodwill seven dollars for twenty pounds of shirts. If a shirt weighs, maybe, a third of a pound, that’s 60 shirts, itemized to be worth ten dollars each, equals 600 dollars. If ‘re paying 20% in taxes, that’s 120 dollars back in your pocket, and minus the seven that’s 113 dollars.

By the way, instead of driving to Goodwill, getting the shirts, driving home, itemizing them, driving back to donate, then driving home again, which puts wear on the infrastructures our taxes pay for, the above only requires two trips. Or, why not just donate directly to Goodwill online, via PayPal or something? Now the infrastructure receives no wear and tear.

So every American should do this. Goodwill makes 4 billion per year, and if every single one of the 313 million Americans donated seven bucks, that’s 2.2 billion right there. Now Goodwill has six billion, and the IRS owes us 188 billion. Which we then donate back to Goodwill the next year, and the IRS owes us even more.

Soon Goodwill has all the money and the government has nothing. Goodwill runs the country! Then we start donating to the Salvation Army using this same plan! And then they run the country, so we go back to Goodwill! Or Value Village! Or the DAV!

The military is now dressed in flannel and 70’s jeans with flares. The military is totally hipster. Macklemore becomes Ambassador to Everywhere. Those people who stand outside grocery stores ringing bells every Christmas are being talked about in People and Us Weekly. Papparazzi start chasing them. New athletes emerge who are better at handling partially deflated basketballs and splintery baseball bats and dented golf clubs. Schools start teaching only from donated Stephen King novels and John Grisham novels.

Its an utter utopia. Its perfection. Its the kind of thing God can’t stand, so he sends in zombies. The end.

That’s what we talked about at work today.

Smokers Suck

We like to say that smokers have a disgusting habit, but I want to explore what that means. I don’t think my sense of smell is any better or worse than anyone else’s so I don’t think it’s just me assaulted on a daily basis by dozens of people smoking cigarettes between my bus stop and my office door. On a good day this is a five minute walk, and yet it is utterly ruined with the foul stink of people who do not care about the negative effects they’re having on literally hundreds of people.

Without resorting to a dictionary, we say something is disgusting if we don’t like it, don’t have respect for it, if it has the potential to ruin something else. We say we are disgusted when we encounter something that we’ve been forced to internalize and we’d like to have removed. It’s that “gust” sound, like there’s something in our guts and the act of throwing it up is preferable to keeping it in. Disgusting things are poisonous, sickening, and rob other experiences of whatever joy they might bring.

This is true for cigarette smoke and cigarette smokers. The only way to detect cigarette smoke without seeing it is to smell it, and therefor ingest it. Now it’s inside you, and certainly against your will. If it were only one whiff, that would be almost acceptable or at least tolerable, but the first one is just a promise of more. Not only is there something inside you that you want out, but there’s going to be more of it.

And I suppose there may be some smokers who sneak away to an isolated place, smoke their cigarettes and then field-strip the butts and deposit the ash and leavings in their proper place. I’m not talking about those smokers, I’m talking about the ones standing on the street, flicking ashes, then dropping the burning butts on the ground. And then if we, the non smokers enduring this repugnant display, are lucky, they’ll then grind the butt into the concrete with their shoe. 

So, while that first stinky sniff only promises more misery, the sight of a smoker is just a reminder that here is a human being who does not care about anyone, or probably anything, except getting his drug fix. Right there, out in the open. Have you ever watched someone shoot up heroin? Have you ever watched someone gleefully view pornography? No, because junkies and perverts have enough self-respect to hide their addictions from the rest of society.

But not smokers. And the irony is, watching someone shoot heroin does not put heroin in your own veins. If you see someone watching porn, you can look away. But once you’re within a 100 foot radius of a smoker, you’re forced to take in that disgusting air until you, not he, move on.

Smokers never moves on. Until they die of cancer. I don’t want to see that, either.

To The Disgusting Individual Who Was Eating Raw Hot Pockets at the Bus Stop

I never even saw you. I only saw evidence of your existence. But somehow, that makes it worse. If I saw you, I could have rationalized your activities. Student on the go, homeless person struggling to survive, performance artist channeling an ambivalence for Jim Gaffigan.

All I saw was the leavings of your nasty feast. The hot pocket sleeve four feet from the bus stop trash can. The empty hot pocket box on the lawn three feet from the trash can. The empty trash can, by the way. Don't give me any of this "it was the wind," crap. This is Seattle. We don't have wind.

And I don't want to hear excuses about raccoon. These were hot pocket wrappers, not food wrappers.

What kind of person would do that? Eat what you want, but the trash can was right there. Do you know how long it took me to bend over, pick up the hot pocket sleeve, and throw it away? Less time than it took me to write the words "do you know how long it took me." And that's with bending over! You could have thrown your trash away in literally half that time.

You are a bad person. You don't deserve to walk these streets. You know what? Maybe I could forgive you. Maybe I could let it go this one time. We've all had bad days. Maybe you were distracted by thoughts of, I don't know, Miley Cyrus or something.

But you were eating Lean Pockets. That's where I draw the line. Please, go back to what ever hell hole you were spawned in. Lean Pockets? What is even the point?