The Human Pearl

Confession: I am a nose picker. I don’t think this is a revolutionary declaration and probably doesn’t even warrant the “Confession” beginning that I used because I think a high percentage of the population are nose pickers. In fact, I’m convinced that people who just plain refuse to stick their own fingers in their own noses make up a very small percentage of the population. (1.6% according to the latest U.S. census survey)

Despite the high level of picking that occurs there is still a negative stigma attached to this very natural process. And to me, this begs the question, when did picking ones nose become socially unacceptable? It is not my intention here to be gross or juvenile. And I’m definitely not striving for shock value since, despite the negative stigma attached to picking, the subject is too juvenile, while at the same time not gross enough to solicit any real shock. It’s just that I have been thinking a lot about social norms and cultural relativity, and this subject is one of many that address the greater issue. I guess I could have written about a number of things; shaking hands, bowing, chewing with mouths closed, burping, flatulence, shoe and shirt requirements, clapping, forms of chivalry, functionless clothing, and other seemingly innocuous acts of social propriety.

To me this subject lacks inappropriate connotation because of my personal feelings about the item being picked. When analyzed scientifically, the booger is not as unpleasant as pop culture would have you believe. I have reasoned that the booger is not unlike the pearl. My comparison is not in the realm of aesthetic beauty or monetary value, but in origin. Though I am not a marine biologist, it is my understanding that a pearl is made when an oyster gets an unwelcome grain of sand inside its shell. The grain causes discomfort and to cope with said discomfort the oyster spins mucus around the grain. Once hardened, the final product is a pearl. In like manner, the human will get a foreign object in its nose (i.e. sand, dust, saw-dust, etc.) and to cope with the discomfort the human nose will coat the object with mucus. This conclusion has helped me look at my boogers in a whole new light. I don’t think I’ll soon be making a necklace of them. But still, it’s not impossible that my family will someday fall on hard times and I’ll need an anniversary gift.

Aside from the social implications, there is still some danger in picking ones nose. And it is this danger that has occupied an inordinate amount of my thoughts. The other night, while driving home, I started to wonder to myself about the possibility of picking a vein large enough to cause massive hemorrhaging from the nose. And if I struck the large vein, would I have the wherewithal, amidst all the bleeding, to get myself to a hospital?
This led me to think about what would happen if I died at the hospital. So I started making mental plans about what to do in such an event. Get my wallet so I have Id. But the address on my license is incorrect. This could lead to an unpleasant exchange.
“Miss, I regret to inform you that your husband has died.”
“Died?! How? What happened?!!”
“He bled to death due to a nose picking accident.”
“NOOOOO! THAT BASTARD! HE TOLD ME HE QUIT! THAT LYING BASTARD!”
“I’m sorry Mrs. Quinn.”
“Who?”
“Is your husband not Ben Quinn?”
“No.”
“Sorry to alarm you.”

It could take days before my family was finally tracked down and told of my untimely demise.

I rethink my mental plans. Grab my cell phone. Once I die they’ll go through my pockets, find my wallet, learn my identity, send a cop to the wrong house, find my phone, start calling everybody in my contact list alphabetically. Hopefully Adam will tell them who my wife is so they don’t bother calling all the people I don’t care about between A and K. Good. Don’t forget the phone.

My wife has little patience for the deeper questions in life. If I asked her if she thought death by nose pick was possible, she’d roll her eyes far enough to see her own brain. I know this because every once in a while, while driving along in silence, I make the mistake of vocalizing some of my deeper questions.
“If you were paid 100 dollars an hour to work out, would you limit yourself to working out one or two hours a day, or would you work out to the point of becoming freakishly ripped with all your veins popping out all over and your breasts turning to man pecks, just so you could be rich?”
“Who’s going to pay me 100 dollars an hour to work out?”
“No one, I know. But for arguments sake, what would you do?”
“Where are they getting the money, and how does my working out benefit them?”
“Forget who or where the money is coming from! Just answer the question!”
“No. It’s stupid. It would never happen.”
At this point my daughter would chime in and remind my wife that we do not say, “stupid”, and the conversation would be over. I would then recede back into my own mind where there is greater opportunity for profound and meaningful conversation between the hemispheres of my brain.

Deep into this conversation I feel an itch and have to pick. “Wait a minute,” I tell myself. “Grab your wallet. Check. Get your phone. Check. Think of the nearest hospital. Check. Now dig away. But use caution, because

Slip 'em a Mickey

I’m not what you would call a “pickle” guy. Sure, I like pickles as much as the next person. I’ll enjoy them with a sandwich, or on a sandwich, or even right from the jar if I’m hungry for a salty snack and there’s a lack of better choices. But I would never use “pickle” in a list of favorites, let alone to describe my tastes. Also, I can’t recall a single conversation, from my 30 years, when someone said to me, “I love pickles” or “I think the pickle is the best damn thing in the world. I think I’ll marry pickle and conceive human-pickle babies.”
No, I have never heard that.

But somehow, by some ethereal sorcery, when everyday people cross the threshold of the Disneyland barrier, they not only want pickles, but they want them so bad they’re willing to pay exorbitant sums of money to obtain one.
“Is that a pickle?” Joe Tourist will ask. “I want a pickle. Nay, I need a pickle! I must have pickle!! How much is pickle? Thirty-six dollars? That’s totally reasonable. Give me one.”

However, the spell Walt has over every person who dares enter his world holds no sway over me. For me, Walt’s domain (which I call Mordor) lost it’s magic in the summer of 1990 when I got kicked out (on my birthday) for nothing more than a few trumped up charges of assault and battery. I was taken behind the scenes to Disneyland “security” and it was there that I was first exposed to the dark underbelly of what was universally touted as “The Happiest Place on Earth.” Dwarves were smoking, ducks and dogs were gambling, and fairy-tale princesses were prostituting themselves for nothing more than a meal. During my short stay, before my official ejection from the park, I focused my senses and became an astute observer. It was there that I saw, firsthand, the puppet strings and learned the Wizard of Oz was just a man behind a curtain.

I saw the canisters, filled with various smells, (vanilla, buttered popcorn, etc.), which were systematically sprayed over the crowd as they walk past the corresponding food shops. I saw the cages where the Disney characters are kept at night. I witnessed an official Disney song recording session in progress where seemingly innocent Disney songs like “It’s a small world” and “A Pirates Life” are laced with subliminal messages that encourage over-spending, over-eating, the purchasing of ridiculous souvenirs, and promote teen promiscuity, binge drinking, communism, Celine Dion, and white supremacy.

Despite the blatancy of it all, no one is the wiser. The world has collectively been slipped a giant Mickey and it won’t wake up. It’s like the town of Stepford, but instead of robotic wives they’ve given us little robotic minorities who chant about laughter and cheer whilst brainwashing us into mindless disciples.

The most alarming thing I discovered was found in the journal of Walt Disney himself. How I stumbled upon said journal is unimportant. From the journal I learned that the capitalistic abuses of Disney Inc. and it’s subsidiaries are for one purpose and one purpose only. To secure Walt’s empire preliminary to the second coming. Not the Second Coming of Jesus, (I would have used CAPITALS to specify that one) but the second coming of Walt Disney himself.

A few excerpts from his prophetic timeline read as follows;
2012: The United States of America becomes The United States of Disney when Disney Inc. pays off the national deficit.
2013: World War 3 breaks out when the entire band of Franz Ferdinand is assassinated at the Mtv Music Awards hosted in Sarajevo.
2021: The United States of Disney emerges victories and declares world domination.
2022: A secret society named The Illuminati of Mickey thaws Walt Disney from his cryogenic status to full vitality thus facilitating his “second coming.”
2022: Walt Disney assumes his position as Supreme Ruler of the World and governs from the highest tower of the Disneyland Castle.

Yeah, I was surprised too. And, despite the fact that going back with my family in tow is only aiding the fulfillment of Walt’s dark prophecy, I went back anyway because I’m a sucker for large crowds and long lines.

In case you’re considering visiting The Black Magic Kingdom on your next vacation, let me tell you what you should expect to spend.
Entrance Fee: $66 ($56 for kids 3 – 9)
Pickle: $36
Churro: $72
Burger: $85
20 oz. drink: $98
T-shirt: $153
Yamaka w/ plastic discs stapled to it (a.k.a. Mickey Ears): $379
Giant Turkey Leg: $586
Glow-in-the-dark crap for post sunset: $1,105 (when I say "crap" I mean stuff. It's not an actual glow-in-the-dark terd. You get those at San Diego Zoo.)
Tiara: $2163
The look on your child’s face when they realize the full magic of Disneyland, try to beat you because of it,

and then collapse from heat stroke:

Priceless.

I wasn’t willing to pay full price for my turkey leg, but I was willing to tear it from the hands of a screaming 6-year-old and hide in the bushes while I ate it.

Love & Money

If money could procreate what would it give birth to?
Assume I lit some candles in my room, scattered paper hearts over the bed and floor, and put on some Barry White to help set the mood. I then left two 20’s on the bed, and took my kids and wife out for the evening to give the 20’s some privacy. Now I’m just wondering; if the two $20 bills did conceive, what would they get pregnant with? Would they give birth to 1’s that would mature into 20’s, or would they just give birth to smaller, miniature 20’s that would grow to normal size 20’s over time? Maybe these are not the only two possible scenarios. Maybe they could get pregnant with any denomination of bill: 5’s, 10’s, 50’s, or even 100’s? Or is this all a moot point since 20’s are marked with the face of Andrew Jackson therefore making them male by default and unable to procreate?
Just wondering.

Free Time

I recently got back from a trip to the Midwest where my brother and I attended a multi day business conference. For lack of funds we drove instead of flew which means we had 1200 miles of sparsely populated desolation to consider through the window at 75 miles per hour. One of the states we drove through was South Dakota and while Tom drove I sat back, quietly singing along to the iPod set to shuffle, and was reminded of western movies that featured the same settings I was witnessing fly by. Movies like Dances with Wolves made me think of the Native Americans that used to live here back before they were “Native Americans” and before they were “Injuns” and were still “Indians.” The vast openness of the rolling hills that rolled as far as a woman’s eye could roll with no signs of civilization but the road in front of us made me wonder about the singularity of purpose of one who may have lived here before Anglos came and made everything complicated. I imagined your average Indian male waking between two buffalo hides, crawling out of his tepee where he meets his friend Shrieking Turtle. He stretches, does a 360-degree look around himself, and plainly inquires, “Well, what the hell are we going to do today?”

Of course, I understand they knew no different, but I’m left to wonder if after sharpening their ten thousandth obsidian arrowhead if they ever looked heavenward and asked, is there anything else? It almost seems that if they weren’t killing an animal or doing a rain dance then their lives were just about the passing of time. I think that is why "hunting and gathering" was so prevalent among the men. It was the only thing to do, and it got them out of the tepee a few days a week. They didn't have to go. I saw the movies. Buffalo used to walk right through their camps. Plus, thanksgiving teaches us that they grew corn and fish in their gardens. They had food sources close to home and when the women realized hunting and gathering was just an excuse for a guy’s weekend away they put a stop to it. And hence, the beginning of horse stealing and squaw-napping. It was all arranged with neighboring tribes to unload domineering wives. They just threw the horses into the mix to make it look indiscriminate.

I don’t want to use the word depressed, but I get a little depressed when I think of their lack of possibilities despite the simplicity they enjoyed.
“Let’s go steal something.”
“What?”
“Women and horses. What the crap else is there? I mean we’re freakin’ Indians. I’m wearing a loincloth here. Our lives aren’t exactly filled with options.”
“Why don’t we see a movie?”
“A what?”
“I don’t know. I’m just being crazy.”

Anyway, I just really enjoy this iPod. I think I’ll get up and rain dance.

Where To?

Have you ever been in a big city and watched a homeless person walk down the street and wondered to yourself, "Where's he going?"