The Book of Awesome (10 page)

Here’s how it all goes down.

Well-dressed fat cats sit around a dark, mahogany table in the boardroom of a
nondescript high-rise
deep in a dense metropolis on the coast of an exotic country. Anonymous and alone, they sip scotch, share pictures of new yachts, and
make plans to jack gas prices
for the long weekend.

Cuff links clinking on crystal glasses,
celebratory cigar smoke
filling the room, the gas execs laugh deep belly laughs, high ten each other, and then file into limos to take them back to the airport. And of course, just before they leave, everyone does a shot of
high-octane gasoline
to keep the memory fresh and the evil juices flowing.

At least that’s how I imagine it.

After all, gas prices seemingly rise whenever you need to fill up for the weekend. It’s a constant game and a constant battle.

But that’s why there’s something fun about watching those prices drip and drop ever so slowly throughout the week and then
pulling in to fill your tank just before they zoom sky-high again
.

Honestly, when you nail it just right you walk away laughing, patting the extra three dollars in your pocket and daydreaming of how you might spend it this time. Lottery ticket,
windshield washer fluid
, maybe some beef jerky for the ride home. Either way, you’ll be sitting pretty when you cruise by the station on a full tank tomorrow and notice the prices are hiked back up.

You came out to play the
Gas Game
this week.

And you won.

AWESOME!

Dad’s holding you steady as you pedal, pedal, pedal. Then you suddenly realize you’re still going, so you look over your shoulder and he’s way back there, waving and cheering you on.

You’re riding your bike for the first time.

AWESOME!

I went to college in a small town that got hit hard by weather extremes.

In the
fall
, the summer winds would quickly cool and sharpen, ripping into your cheeks on the way home from class, leaving them red and finely shredded like you’d just applied blush with sandpaper.

In the
winter
, the roads and sidewalks would be covered in piles of wet slush—little bombs of slippery ice-dirt and road salt that would explode onto your pants and shoes and leave nasty stains when they dried.

In the
spring,
the snow would melt away, leaving soggy grass everywhere. You would see that grass and think it was solid, but your foot would sink into it, cold little mud bubbles rising around your shoe from all directions and soaking right into your sock. It was like walking on a peat bog covered in smushed worms and last year’s dog poo.

It was not pretty. And so my roommates and I were left with just two options:

Well, we chose Option 2.

And we faced the consequences.

We got windburn and had sleet slip down the back of our T-shirts. We got
dirt soakers
and then permanently stretched our socks while peeling them off at the front door. We got dry legs, we got bone chill, and, brother, we got
rain hair
bad.

But eventually we got good at ignoring it all.

My roommate Dee was the master of ignoring the weather, the biggest proof being that
he wore sandals year-round
. Wind, snow, rain, it didn’t matter. “The toes need to breathe,” he’d say sternly, “breathe.” And he’d emphasize the point with a sturdy lip and a firm strapping of the Velcro. Then he’d slap on his heavy backpack, take a deep breath, give you a wink, and trudge out into a blizzard, navigating ice patches and slush piles like a pro.

Sure, there was the occasional
Bad Day
that came with being chronically unprepared for Mother Nature’s worst blows, generally involving a
dirty-puddle splashing
all over you from a passing truck or being unable to feel your toes until you put them on the radiator for twenty minutes. But you made it through.

And come on, there is something great about wearing sandals when you shouldn’t be wearing sandals. It’s liberation from shoe shackles,
freedom from the oppressing sock
, and a violent rebellion against those frostbite warnings on the weather channel.

People of the world, let’s face it: If we can come together to take down the shoe, then really, nothing can stop us.

AWESOME!

B.O. clouds dissipate and float away,
wailing babies quit wailing at the luggage bay
, your cell phone works, so you call friends up, say hey, and all your scrunched-up,
bunched-up
, hunched-up muscles just relax as you stretch them out now, feeling
A-OK
. You’re out of the window seat, out of the aisle, you’re back on two feet, so just walk away and smile.

AWESOME!

I’m the world’s worst Scrabble player.

Every time it’s my turn I see other players lose interest as they get ready for a long wait. I feel bad, so I stare at my pieces, trying desperately to conjure up a word longer than three letters or else suffer their complaints that I’m “really clogging up the board.” A couple minutes will pass before somebody says, “Hey, you know what this game should have?
A time limit
, ha ha ha ha ha!!!” And everybody laughs and smiles at me, and I look up to grin and then stare back down at my letters quickly. I stare at those letters and stare hard. A few more minutes of silence will pass, and then I look up, grimace slowly, and offer one of my two classic lines:

A couple people nod and smile at my lame joke, someone idly turns on the TV and starts flipping channels, and another will generally grab a section of the newspaper and head to the can. I frantically rearrange my letters over and over again, silently praying
rebuke
,
jinxed
, or
fibula
will appear on my little wooden tray by accident.

My nerves fraying, my heart drum-thumping, I’ll eventually put down a lame four-letter word like
bill
or
lamp
in an act of desperation. “Eight points,” I’ll whisper to the score-keeper, while turning the board and nodding to the other players to move along.

See, part of my problem is that I draw letters like
j
,
z
, or
q
at the beginning of the game and they end up haunting me all the way through.
That big
q
is the worst of all.
It holds its powerful 10 points over my head, just daring me to draw one of the four
u
’s in the game so I can lay it down. I spell my letters out in arrangements like
q_ick
,
q_ote
, and
q_iet
, ready and waiting for a
u
at any time, but generally no dice, or at least no dice for a while. I got
qat
or I got nothing.

And so you see that’s why, in my books, there are very few better
Things to Happen to You in a Board Game
than picking a
q
and a
u
at the same time in Scrabble. I say it beats building two hotels on Boardwalk in Monopoly or drawing a perfect brontosaurus in Pictionary during an All Play.

If I get that
q
and
u
together in Scrabble, then it’s all me all the time, baby. Doors open, and I quite quietly and quickly quash all quibbling questions and quack queries from my competitors.

And you know how that makes me feel.

AWESOME!

What do you picture doing when you retire?

Lounging amongst big umbrellas on
sunny beaches
, taking the grandkids to the zoo, cropping a serious
vegetable garden
, or turning your woodcarving hobby into a lucrative craft fair business?

Well, whatever you choose, can I recommend that you also make time to just sit on your porch,
sip some lemonade
, and look up to smile and wave at people when they walk by?

Because other than cutting the little wedge of your neighbor’s lawn, lending out your snowblower, or collecting someone’s mail while they’re away, I tell you: Nothing says friendly neighbor more than a couple old folks sitting on their rockers and just flashing those gums and waving those palms when you walk on by.

AWESOME!

When I peel the top off a new jar of peanut butter I like to pretend
I’m a scientist
peering through the world’s most powerful telescope, catching Earth’s first glimpse of a new, strange and distant planet. “It’s got a smooth surface,” I exclaim to the lab of giddy professors standing breathlessly beside me. “Yes, it’s a
beautiful airless landscape
, untouched, undisturbed, and brown.”

Because seriously, that’s what a just-opened jar of peanut butter looks like to me. I almost feel bad thinking about what I’m about to do, because it’s just so perfect, smooth, and dense. But I put some bread in the toaster anyway, grab a spoon from the drawer, and then go right ahead and dig that spoon in there deep, catching a heavy glob of thick PB when I pull up,
a loud, wet, satisfying
schthlop plopping out of the jar.

It’s a great feeling.

After that, I’m an artist. I can leave a
big, gaping hole
right in the middle of the jar, I can do it up fancy and
twirl and swirl
the PB around a little, or I can painstakingly
carve a moat
around the outside, leaving a perfect, flat island in the center that becomes more and more unstable with every passing day.

The options are unlimited.

Really, I think getting the first dig in a jar of peanut butter is the kitchen equivalent of
stabbing a flag into the moon
and claiming it as your own. I mean, you mark that peanut butter.
You brand it.
You add your little stamp and you put it back in the pantry, ready and waiting for the next big schthlop.

AWESOME!

What’s funnier than hearing a stranger fart in public?

Well sure, it can happen in a bank lineup, hotel lobby, or subway car. It can happen in a restaurant, movie theater, or local bar. But the funniest of all has got to be the
Elevator Fart
. That’s the king of public farts, for two main reasons:

Hearing a stranger fart in public is great partly because of everybody’s reaction.
There are really four main types of fart reactions you see: