Hatin' on Halloween

     As a child, October 31st was one of my favorite days of the year. I loved dressing up and hitting the streets in search of candy and adventure. I'd scurry home from school, and rush out with a pillowcase and high hopes of getting enough Halloween loot to potentially rot out all of my teeth that very night. And that's what Halloween is, a holiday for children. I've grown to hate it, however, as an adult. Costume parties, horror movies (a guaranteed Saw sequel released, whether anyone wants it or not), and themed sitcom episodes - I care for none of these.

Kiss it, Halloween.

     Costume parties especially get under my skin. Women, who the rest of the year are respectable, admirable members of society, debase themselves by dressing like Atlantic City hookers under the guise of Halloween fun. Normally, I have no problem with ladies opting to show cleavage, ass cheek, or the lower third of their pudenda. I just hate seeing it from women who wouldn't do that the rest of the year, but on this particular day decide to entice every red-blooded male by dressing as a "sexy nurse", a "sexy devil", or the (god help me) perennial favorite, "sexy kitten." All I can say is, "Sweetheart...you look like a fucking whore. Mission accomplished."

Gives a new meaning to the term, "Beefeater."

     Don't even get me started on grown men dressing up. Their costumes are usually "suspicion-confirmers" for me. The guy done up as a girl? I knew he was a closet transvestite! The dude wearing a Star Wars costume? He's a geek all year, he just tries to hide it the other 364 days. The gentleman dressed as a giant penis? I always knew he was a dickhead! Grow up, men. I can absolutely guarantee painting your entire body blue and attaching pointy ears and a tail a la Avatar is not going to get you laid.

Dude, you're not even trying...

     Truth be told, most of my hatred for costumes and the like probably comes from being too lazy to bother picking one out a clever one for myself. In past years, you might have found me at the mall, on my way to a party, rooting through the remaining costume scraps left at 7pm on 10/31. I'd end up getting some ill-fitting piece of shit for $19.99, and would look like a bozo (unfortunately, it would be nothing like a clown costume). Some might say this reveals bitterness and jealousy on my part regarding everyone else enjoying this holiday. Some might say that my retirement from Halloween parties coincided suspiciously with me not being invited to any Halloween parties this year. To those who might say such things, I might say (since this is my blog, after all), "Nope, sorry, you're wrong...and you look like a douchebag."

Cereal Offenders

     I'm fascinated by advertising, in particular, television commercials. Actually, "fascinated" probably isn't entirely accurate. That would suggest that when my favorite programs cut to commercial, I scoot forward to the edge of my seat in rapt attention, meticulously noting all the not-so-subtle nuances Madison Avenue throws our way in attempts to get us to buy boner pills and cheese graters for our feet. No, this is not the case, I'm merely amused by the tactics they employ, and the strange generalizations posited by these ads.

Pondering a new way to market edible underwear to Mormons...

     Breakfast cereals are especially prone to these types of strange associations. Certainly, I understand the need to market these "glucose disguised as grain" products toward children. They see a colorful cartoon mascot, and badger their parents to buy crate-loads of the crap. Brilliant. What intrigues me more is how the cereals for adults, the ones without the "Corn Burglar" and "Ibex Lex" adorning the boxes pigeonhole themselves into images directed toward specific groups. For example, Wheaties and Special K. These two cereals are practically identical, as far as I can tell. They're both compressed brown flakes of a wheat-like substance, yet their approach to marketing couldn't be directed in two more different directions.

Hell, add your own caption for this.

      Wheaties, of course, is aimed at men. With a powerful simple orange background, and the world's greatest athletes on the box cover, Wheaties practically scream at the potential buyer that they'll grow more hair on your dick, increase testicle density, and give you the pep you need to kick the shit out of that guy trying to hit on your lady. Special K, on the other hand, has a lily white background with that iconic red K that looks suspiciously like the curves of a girl with a slamming body. The information on the sides tells all the ladies that by simply eating these bland little chips, they're sure to drop at least 20 lbs, and snag a rich husband.

      Also, I just thought of another wheat flake marketed at a specific group - Total. That stuff is strictly for seniors...I believe you have to produce ID proving you're over 65, an AARP membership card, and at least one pair of soiled Depends in order to purchase Total.

If you don't remember this ad campaign, you MAY NOT eat Total.

     I experience the reverse reaction that these Mad Men are hoping for when they typecast cereals. Instead of feeling warm and comforted knowing there's always going to be a brand of crunchy breakfast goodness made just for me, I actually become a bit anxious. If there's a cereal made just for my demographic, what kind of repercussions might there be if I were to cross party lines and dabble in somebody else's bowl? Like, what happens if instead of a hearty, manly bowl of Wheaties (which I so clearly need for my active, outdoor lifestyle), I opt for a serving of Special K? Am I instantly going to worry about how my butt looks? Will I start menstruating by the next lunar cycle? God forbid someone catches me unaware and slips me some Total. My prostate might blow up to the size of a tangerine, and I'll begin paying for small items in exact change.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Stop giving the elderly patients Wheaties!"

     All these thoughts and worries are a bit heavy for a time of day when I already have enough trouble simply trying to get out of bed and wrangling my morning wood to a socially acceptable position. That's why I always skip breakfast. For that matter, I skip dinner as well. With all the Hungry Man Dinners and Lean Cuisine out there, it's enough to make me sick, worrying if I'm going to turn into some sort of she-male if I pick the wrong meal. I'll stick to nice, androgynous lunches of turkey and cheese sandwiches. At least you know where you stand with those.

The Return

     Well, after a brief hiatus, the blog is back! I've had a few weeks to recover from my time on the road, and woke up this morning with an intense desire to regale readers with more of my biting wit and enlightening insights. Hopefully, there will be more fanfare and general rejoicing about this than there was upon my return to New Jersey.
   

"He's home! He's home!"

      By my own admission, I do have an overactive imagination. I fantasized of returning to NJ to a reception fit for an astronaut coming back from the first manned trip to Mars, or perhaps a triumphant medieval king returning in glorious victory after years of fighting off the barbarian hordes. A few days after my arrival, the town would throw a parade in my honor, led by my high school marching band, and with me perched atop the crown jewel of the marching celebrants, a giant Chevy Cavalier made out of dyed green gladioluses (gladioli?). Alas, instead of returning to my home state to find the trees adorned with yellow ribbons, my only welcome was a $230 ticket I received for littering when I flicked a cigarette butt out the window just after crossing the Ben Franklin Bridge. I admit, it was a callous and douchey thing to do, but the penalty seems steep. At those prices, you'd think I'd dumped an old sofa on the A.C. Expressway instead one measly cigarette butt. Oh well, I digress...

The cause of the most expensive ticket I've ever gotten...

     As Shakespeare once said, "the blog's the thing," which I have found to be true after talking to readers. A typical example of what I've heard from people who've followed it is such:

"Gee, Frank, I really enjoyed the blog. Your humorous style of prose, and excellent grammar and vocabulary are quite appealing; clearly your powerful mind is the perfect complement to your rugged good looks. I do have a question for you, though. After traveling 10,000+ miles through 27 states, I thought there would be, well...more. You've teased at other adventures and sure-to-be hilarious anecdotes. Other than taking you out for the evening and plying you with drinks, how can I hear these intriguing tales?"

     Well, there's good news for the many who asked the preceding question. I'm currently working on a full narrative of the trip, a book titled, Frank, American Style: The Incredible Journey of Two Young Men and How They Found Themselves, Redemption, Awe, Grief, Wonder, The Hidden City of Gold, Sorrow, Love, Joy, Happiness, Indigestion, The Meaning of Life, Each Other, Bison Burgers, and A Really Nice Comfortable Pair of Socks For Under $1. (Title length pending). This will be a complete and comprehensive (buzzword alert!) volume including all the as-yet-unheard adventures you're surely salivating for.

Mmmm...more blog...

     Of course, writing this is going to take some time, so in the meanwhile, I plan on blogging much like I did on the trip, but on more mundane and day-to-day topics. Check back soon, and often, for I already have a few knocking about in my cerebrum, and almost ready to be penned, such as: "Words You Don't Hear So Much Anymore," and "Notes on the Sub-Dioecious Pine." They sound like literary home-runs already!