ITT Technical Institute — Punch In The Face

I had such great expectations for me.  I really did.  Me was a great guy. Full of spunk and verve, and a bod to match.  Maybe not so much the bod part . . . but you get the point.  But then I see those guys in the ITT Technical Institute commercials, and I realize that I’ve gone wrong somewhere.  These guys get a 9-month certificate in computer diagonostics, and they’re living the dream.  You’ve seen the commercials.  These guys are winning stuffed animals at carnivals. They’re riding 4-wheelers through the woods and flying remote controlled airplanes with their sons.  Most impressively, their wives make grand and sweeping statements about them that can’t possibly be true:

ITT TECH GRADUATE’S WIFE:  “After attending ITT Tech, Gerald has become the kindest, most compassionate and — at the same time — most driven and successful man that ever walked the planet.”

Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about the life oasis that is ITT Tech?  I’d love to win a prize at a carnival.  Dirt biking in the woods looks like a blast.  I could fly a remote airplane, I think . . .

Oh, what’s the point?  Why should I even dare to dream an impossible dream?  Some people got it, and some don’t.  I guess me . . . just . . . . don’t . . . got . . . it.  Wait a minute, I just connected my Wii to the television.  Maybe I do have the elusive “it” factor.  Somebody get me an ITT Tech application.  I’ll be living the dream in no time.

David Carradine’s Death — Punch In The Face

A few thoughts upon hearing about David Carradine’s death.  For the uninitiated, Carradine starred in the 70’s television series Kung Fu and more recently as “Bill” in Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Billmovie series.  Carradine’s body was found hanging from the closet of a hotel room in a luxury hotel in Bangkok with a yellow rope tied around his neck and a black rope around his (ahem) genitals:

• Didn’t that already happen, like, 5 years ago? I could’ve sworn Carradine died from autoerotic asphyxiation in a hotel in Thailand in 2004. Are the news reports certain this just happened?  Is it possible the media is recycling the tragic deaths of low-profile actors?
• Even if his death did just happen this past week, everyone who heard the news had the same first reaction:  “The scary, creepy guy from Kung Fu was found dead by autoerotic asphyxiation in a Bangkok luxury hotel? [thoughtful pause]  That sounds about right.” 
• Everyone’s second reaction:  “So that’s why they call it Bangkok.” 
• Apparently, Carradine was 72 years old. 72?  That’s it?  He looked like he was 72 in ’72.  This guy always looked old enough to be Yoda’s uncle. 
• Finally, what is it about quality entertainers and autoerotic asphyxiation?  First, it was INXS’ Michael Hutchense.   Then, it was the guy who played Mikey from the Life Cereal commercials.  Now, its David Carradine.  (Okay, the kid from the Life Cereal commercial did not have an autoerotic asphyxiation issue.  But he was a quality entertainer, wasn’t he?)  What is the possible connection between Hutchense, an Australian heartthrob rock star, and Carradine, a reclusive sometimes Hollywood star of the martial arts genre?  Let’s see:  INXS’ most popular album was “Kick” and Carradine starred in movies that featured a lot of kicking . . .  Wait — I got the connection!  When they both tried getting their kicks, they ended up kicking the bucket. 

Men’s Health Magazine & Lance Armstrong — Punch In The Face

Got my Men’s Health Magazine in the mail the other day.  That’s right — I got a subscription.  I love Men’s Health because it has the same three articles every month:  “Belly Off in 19 Days!”; “How to Manage Your Boss”; and “What She Really Wants From You”.  “What She Really Wants . . .”  contains alleged “quotes” from the beautiful women of America:

“I love it when Derek and I watch football all day on Sunday — even the post-game interviews and the endless stream of highlight shows.  My favorite part of the day is when he ignores all of my questions and screams into his Bluetooth at his old college roommate/ bookie.”  — Sarah G., Seattle, WA

Sarah G. from Seattle.  I’m pretty sure “Sarah G. from Seattle, WA” is really “Richie V., Emmaus, PA” — this semester’s intern at Men’s Health.  At any rate, I like having several Men’s Health’s around the house in case — just in case — I ever get a life.  Then, that urban Style Guide and the article on how to win a bar fight will (finally) both come in handy. 

With all of the potential good Men’s Health can offer (if I ever get in a bar fight, I now know that I should try to turn away from the punch — thanks Men’s Health!), sometimes it can go a little far — and I think they just did.  The Men’s Health cover boy for last month is Lance Armstrong, and the heading states “Crush Stress and Strip Away Fat with Lance Armstrong’s Exclusive Success Formula.”  No offense to Men’s Health and Richie the Intern, but I don’t need to read about Lance’s Exclusive Success Formula for crushing stress — I think I got it down:

1)  Demonstrate a consistent pattern of abandoning all relationship-based responsibilities when things “just aren’t working out”; and

2)  Exercise 11 hours a day. 

Yup — that’s all you gotta do, fellas.  And believe me — following those 2 steps DOES “crush stress.”  I tried them both one Saturday when my wife took the kids to the in-laws.  Well . . . I didn’t really exercise for 11 hours that day, but I did run a mile on the treadmill in the basement in a 1-piece spandex suit, so I’m pretty sure I got a big enough flavor of good ole’ Lancie’s Exclusive Stress-Crush Formula.  And let me tell you . . . I crushed stress that day.  The problem is, it’s really hard to follow Lancie’s formula with — ya know — real responsibilities and — ya know — a job.  Maybe Men’s Health could write a stress-crushing formula for men with a — what’s that word?  Oh yes — a conscience.

Under Armour Gear — Punch In The Face

I’m trying to get back in shape.  I saw those adrenaline- pumping Under Amrour commercials and thought — yeah, that’s what I need.  Running through tires with a bunch of ‘Roid Rage Hulks and lifting cinder blocks like I’m Mahky Mahk in ’92:  WE MUST PROTECT THIS HOUUUUUSSSSSSSE.  So I went out and gots me an Under Armour shirt.  HeatGear.  Black.  Sounds cool — iscool.  Got home.  Put it on.  Well, “put it on” is a simplification — it was more like “paint it on.”  Getting this thing on IS the workout.  Once I fit this tighty over my shoulders, I had already fully exhausted my lats, pecs, bi’s, tri’s . . .  

I finally got the shirt on.  As I strode around the house, I could feel the benefit of this incredible gear.  I felt huge.  Bulging, really.   For a moment, I felt like Ray Lewis doing push-ups in prison.  Like Terrell Owens doing sit-ups in his driveway.  Like Jose Canseco swinging a baseball bat in 1989.  Like . . . well, I guess I’ve made my point.  Then, I got a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror.  I stopped and turned to get a full view of me in all my hugeness . . . and . . . I looked like Kermit the Frog dressed as a turtle-necked poet.  No . . . that’s too kind.  I can’t dis my frog Kermie like that.  To be more accurate, I looked a balding, pregnant 14-year old boy.  Like Sinead O’Connor’s portly little brother.  An absolute freak of nature.  All I could think was:  I can’t believe they forgot to sell me the optional 6-pack ab inserts.  I knew I forgot to buy something at the store.

The “Soul Punch” — Punch In the Face

I’ve had it.  No more soul punches.  I’m marking this day down.  I’ve given the last fist pound of my life.   For the (fortunate yet) uninitiated, the “soul punch” or the “fist pound” is the latest hand-to-hand colloquial greeting people (friends?) give to each other when saying hello, goodbye, or whenever there is an awkward pause during a discussion between two adult males.  Speaking of discussions between two adult males, when did we men lose the ability to talk to each other without awkward pauses and barbaric gestures (read:  soul punches) filling the time?  Think about it fellas.  When was the last time you were this uncomfortable talking to another person?  You remember.  You were 16, and you had to get it together to convince someone to go to the Junior Prom with you.  Your heart was beating out of your chest as you asked her to go out on your first date to the Ponderosa Steakhouse.  That’s right.  Because nothing says classy like an all-you-can-eat buffet where kids under 12 eat free.  That  was uncomfortable.  But this is worse, because — now — its a different kind of discomfort.  Back then, you didn’t know what to say to your prospective date.  Now, I know everything I want to say to the other guy, but I don’t want to scare him off.  I want to ask him the same thing Kramer asked George before the K-man headed off to California to shop his treatment for The Keys:  Do you yearn?  I also want to ask the other guy random thoughts from adulthood, like:  Do you recognize the guy in the mirror?  And Do you also think that if — if — you just had the right directioning as a kid, you’d be a professional athlete right now?  Instead, worn down by the weight of adulthood and domesticity, we just sit there staring at each other . . . and, eventually, one of us reaches out to give the other a soul punch/ fist pound to mark the end of our uncomfortable encounter.  

What’s so bad about the soul punch/ fist pound?  First, I’m pretty sure it was invented by a germ-a-phobe (or a small group of germ-a-phobes) in Southern California (read:  Howie Mandell) who started using the soul punch as a relatively germ-free alternative to the handshake.  Also, a hairy knuckle to hairy knuckle connection is — let’s face it — a little creepy and not very satisfying.  But there is an even greater reason to join me in boycotting the soul punch.  Because — even if it was originally intended to replace the handshake, it has devolved into a repalcement for the more elegant and more comical high-five.   And that’s where the soul punch went wrong.  You can’t replace an icon.  The high-five is the perfect hand-to-hand connection between mammals on all levels.  Don’t believe me?  Try a little experiment on your own.  When something goes well tomorrow, you’ll have two choices:  the soul punch or the high-five.  Take turns trying one or the other.  I guarantee the high-five is more fulfilling, more gratifying, and more of a true “Yes!!!” feeling than the soul punch.  See, to perform the soul punch properly it has to be very slow and deliberate with both participants slo-mo’ing the entire thing as if, once their hands connect, they’ll become charter members of the SuperFriends and will — at that moment — acquire the ability to turn into useful crime-stopping animals (my apologies for the obscure SuperFriends reference).  The high-five, on the other hand, is all spontaneity, sass, verve and . . . life.  When a high five is right, it is right.  Think about the best high five you’ve ever connected on.  You remember:  it felt like lightning bolts were jumping off your connected fingertips toward Heaven . . . and when those lighting bolts reached Heaven . . . the clouds parted . . . and Jesus himself appered in the form of Queen’s Freddie Mercury . . . singing “We Are The Champions.”  THAT’S what a great high-five feels like.  Plus, the high-five has so permeated the very fabric of our culture that we get to witness great high-five flubs every day: on the Price Is Right, at the local Arena Football Game, and during heated political campaigns.  That’s right:  all across America people are wiffing on their high-fives, creating hybrid two-hand to one-hand connections, and falsely interpreting a high-five offer as a one-handed hug.  And that’s what makes the high-five great.  Because it consistently proves that spontaneous human interaction is both compelling and hilarious.  So — come on, boycott the soul punch and keep it real with the high five.  And to ensure you give the high five its proper due, make it a “two-handed to two-handed” high-five with your high-five buddy.  That’s what we call a “double-double” . . . and it makes the Howie Mandell soul punch look like a cabbage patch doll picnic.

Friendless and 35 — Punch In The Face

I just got tickets to the big game.  You know — the game where everyone who’s anyone will be this weekend.  It’s gonna be huge, and I’ll be right in the mix.  And I don’t just have one ticket.  Me gots four of ’em.   That’s right.  Let the positioning begin, fellas.  Will it be my pals from my Thursday poker night?  Or maybe the guys from the Monday night flag football league.  I can’t forget my Saturday morning running club buddies — they love going to the big game.  There’s only a few problems:  I can’t play cards (can’t even shuffle cards), I’m pretty sure a flag football league would be the 7th layer of H-E-double hockey sticks for me, and the running club doesn’t exist.  Check that — the running club exists, and I always picture myself jet-setting around the country with a bunch of others runners kicking A-double $ in Masters’ competitions, but my bed’s too cozy to get out of bed to join them.  So what I’m saying is . . .

I’m friendless. 

It’s a fact, and I say it without any self-pity.  Okay, maybe an ounce of self-pity.  But I honestly don’t take my friendless-ness personally.  Maybe I should take it personally, but I’m convinced that whether or not a Gen-X’er has friends comes down to a 4-factor test based on the following:  1) age; 2) marital status; 3) familial status; and 4) employment status.  Let me walk you through these factors to illustrate my point.        

Age

If you’re 35, you’re certainly not too old to meet new friends.  But definitely in a “friend valley” age-wise.  I’ve got none of the friends I had at 25 (okay — 2, but we’ll keep it at “none” for dramatic effect) and I won’t have my 50 year-old friends for several years.  I wish I could say the loss of my friends from 10 years ago was due to dramatic circumstances that ended in knock out, drag out arguments in the middle of a barren city street at 3:00 a.m.  But I can’t.  I pretty much lost all of my old friends because I don’t go to Dave Matthews Band concerts and I don’t know what a Fantasy Football League is or how it works.  Actually, I know what Fantasy Football is, and I play it all the time in my mind:  I imagine I’m running punts back against a defense of swimsuit models who are trying to tackle me with big pillows.  So, there you go — Fantasy Football.  What I don’t understand is:  how do they form leagues around these football fantasies?  Would I have to join a “team” of weirdo’s who share the same football fantasy as me?  Maybe this is why I don’t have any friends . . .   As for my 50 year-old friends, I just haven’t met them yet.  I’m looking forward to it, but I got about 10 years before I lower my friend standard to the point where I’ll call someone my friend because we meet for a round of golf every Saturday.

 Marital Status

Fellas, I’ll make this one short and sweet:  if you’re married, you may have a couple of “married friends”, but no real friends to speak of.  All you have is your wife’s friends.  And their husbands.  That’s it.  

Familial Status

This’ll be even shorter.  If you have kids, you don’t have friends — you just have other tired parents at 3 year-old birthday parties at the petting zoo.  That is if — if — you even have enough energy to nod at these other people while your feeding apples to the llamas.

Employment Status

Got a job?  You don’t have friends.  You have the “Krazy Krew” from work that teases you about the fact that you like to order the same thing from the Chinese take-out place each week.  And they try to convince you to call the local morning show to request some Bon Jovi each Friday — a lil’ Bad Medicine before the weekend. 

So, there you have it.  A simple equation: 35 +  Married + Kids +  a job = me and three empty seats at this weekend’s game.  If you see me at the big game, feel free to mock me.  Heck, beat me up in the parking lot.  There’s nothing I can do about it.  My posse of friends left 10 years ago.  I don’t really know my wife’s friend’s husbands.  The petting zoo parents are napping. And the Krazy Krew at work doesn’t really exist — I work at home, and the Krazy Krew is entirely comprised of the cat.  And my Curious George doll.  Now that I think about it . . .  I’ll get ready for the beating now.   Feel free to Punch Me In the Face.  It’ll be poetic justice.

Vacation — Punch In The Face

Two types of vacation:  the  “Go Somewhere” vacation and the “Do Nothing, Go Nowhere” vacation.  I’m not down with either type. That’s right, Sports Fans:  Vacation, A Punch In The Face.

First, the Go Somewhere vacation.  Being from the Northeast, that typically means going somewhere in the Caribbean.  Ah, the Caribbean.  Nothing like the natural tension between  an essential tourism industry and intense poverty.  I can hear you now:  But C-ROC, the people in the Caribbean are so nice.  I’m sure that’s partially true, but let’s not confuse smiling with being nice.  I’d grit my face and smile too if making my living depended entirely on whether or not a couple of drunk co-ed’s from Kutztown State decide to have their hair braided.  But C-ROC, the weather and the beaches are so beautiful.  Yeah, I get it.  But every time I’m on a vacation in a tropical setting, I keep thinking:  What am I doing here?  I feel like there are only three types of people who really deserve a tropical vacation:  1)  soldiers just back from the war; 2) celebrities (hey, what else are they going to do other than pose for paparazzi photos while they frolic in the water?); and 3) migrant workers.  If you pick lettuce 15 hours a day, you need a week in an ocean view cabana.  Me?  I’m hunched over a computer in a temperature-controlled office three steps away from a Keurig coffee maker and a drawer full of Power Bars. That’s right K-cups and Triple Threat Bars — a vacation in my mind with each sip and bite.  Plus, I like being home — that’s why I live here.  I like Chili’s for Dinner, Dunkin’ Donuts for dessert, and Target for after-dinner entertainment — don’t knock shopping for black athletic socks until you tried it.  The Go Somewhere vacation isn’t for me.

That leaves me with the Go Nowhere, Do Nothing vacation.  I’d get to stay home.  It really doesn’t sound that bad — I can already taste the Chili’s Chicken Tenders and feel those thick black athletic socks snug around my calves.   But I’ve tried that, and even though it’s okay for a day, I just can’t take it.  Having time to actually do the things I enjoy reminds me of how much of my actual life I miss out on every day.  I don’t want to have those thoughts — thoughts of being able to spend more time with my family and friends, and exercising without guilt or panic.  In fact, these very thoughts are exactly the reason why I keep my nose to the grindstone.  As an old cowboy once told me, “No need to be ponderin’ the meanin’ o’ life . . . you’re here now, and, God willin’ you’ll be here tomorrow.  Now get back to the herd.”  (Okay, an old cowboy never really told me that . . . but I can imagine a Jack Palance-type guy with an Irish brogue telling me that and it’d really make an impression on me and my outlook on life.  After all, Palance could do one-arm push-up’s at the age of 87.  I could never ignore such a combination of wisdom and brute strength.)  So, following that fake advice, I’ll just keep my head down.  Buried in the sand.  Like an ostrich.  Hey, it’s cool and dark down here.  Not too shabby.

Granite Counter-tops — Punch In The Face

Granite counter-tops. The ultimate symbol of GEN X’s obsession with materialism and our need to look good even if we don’t feel good.  Hey, I got ’em, and they make me feel great.  That’s right:  they look good and they treat me even better.  They shine and wink at me when I walk by.  They tuck me into bed at night.  They tell me all sorts of crazy stories about the time they spent in Central America.  But, secretly, I hate them because I need them:

ME:  I can’t be a selfish, soulless loser.  I’ve got granite in my kitchen, dammit.   

GRANITE COUNTER-TOPS [gleaming in the sunlight]:  You got that straight, brotha. 

Don’t get me wrong — I’d love to be able to blame our collective  obsession with granite countertops, stainless steel appliances and wide-plank hardwood floors on Flip This House, Flip That House, Flip Their Houses, Flip Run’s House, etc.  But I can’t.  I can only blame the obsession on our over-inflated ego’s and collective sense of entitlement.  Need proof?  Watch any of the shows mentioned above (I’m not sure when Flip Run’s House actually airs . . . I think sometime after Making the Band and before Brett Michaels Picks A Skank — check your local listings for exact dates and times) or their progeny:  Moving Up, Property Virgins, House Hunters, House Hunters Int’l, etc., and you’ll invariably see the following scene:

NARRATOR:  Chelsea is a 31 year-old social worker and her boyfriend Brandon sells sunglasses at a kiosk in the mall.  They’ve been searching for the perfect home for them to share and their tastes are very specific:  Brandon needs a 1,500 square foot theater room. . .

BRANDON:  I need some space where me and my boys can chill.

NARRATOR:  . . . and Chelsea requires a chef’s kitchen with glowing granite countertops, heated floors, oak cabinetry, and two chef’s ovens . . .

CHELSEA:  I’d really like to get into cooking someday.

NARRATOR:  . . . but, so far, they are very disappointed in the properties that are in their price range.  Let’s see how they react when they visit this modest 2-bedroom ranch in their price range.

[CHELSEA AND BRANDON ENTER THE KITCHEN, SEE WHITE APPLIANCES, FORMICA COUNTER-TOPS AND LINOULEUM FLOORING, AND IMMEDIATELY BEGIN TO VOMIT]

Well, we can’t blame Chels and Brandon for having high standards, can we?  After all, their collective income is just above the poverty level, so they deserve to live like a cross between Russell Simmons (before he split up with Kimora) and Martha Stewart, right?  Not quite.  Before jumping on the Chels and Brandon rationalization train, think about this: what did our parents do when they were faced with the same situation (i.e., buying a starter home within their budget)?  They bought it, moved in, got out the Fantastik spray, cleaned off the older counter-tops and — gasp — put their stuff down on it.  That’s right — they lived with it. So, when you’re applying for a $50,000 home equity line of credit to update your kitchen, ask the age-old question Gen X never seems to ask ourselves:  Do I really need it?

Answer that question for yourselves, kids.  And, as always, do as I say, not as I do — I gotta get back to wiping down my beautiful granite counter-tops.  In fact, as I look at my reflection in the granite right now, I can hear them saying something to me. 

ME [leaning over the granite, listening — searching — for the wise message]:  What?  What are you saying to me?

COUNTER-TOPS [To me, in a loving hush]:  You’re a winner.

A Punch In the Face: The Gen X’ers Guide to Being 35

Here is an MP3 of the instant classic “Punch In the Face”, an old school rap I wrote and recorded at Legacy Funk studios in New York.

01-punch-in-the-face2

“Punch In the Face” — or “PITF” –, chronicles my personal frustrations with growing up and — let’s face it — growing old(er). If a prophet (like, for example, the bum muttering to himself at the bus station) tapped me on the shoulder in 1995 and told me that, in the ’09, I’d be working myself way too hard, living in a house I can’t really afford, and having absolutely no time for exercise, art and creativity, I’d have laughed in his face and gone back to ironing my flannel shirt. But now, here I am: doing everything I can to afford granite countertops and 18″ rims — the items that, for me, act as a false security blanket when I question my personal success.

A few tidbits about the tune:

1)  The first voice you hear is my 12 year-old nephew asking me: “Unkie C-Roc, what’s it like to be grown up?”  The answer: it’s a Punch In The Face. The sooner you kids realize that, the better off we’ll all be.  In addition, PITF is about hope, unrequited love and the American way (well . . . no it isn’t, but I always wanted to write a song that was about all 3 of those things and, since I’ve at least written and recorded this song, I’d like to try to shoehorn its meaning into all three categories. Also, when you stop to think about it, aren’t all songs really about hope, unrequited love and the American way?).

2) Heating with propane IS a Punch In The Face . . . $$$$

3) Muamar Qadafi is also a Punch In The Face.  The Libyan Dictator is about to make a comeback — I can just feel it.

4) The song is best listened to bumpin’ in your car . . . so, by all means, download it/ burn it — and bump it proud.

5) Enjoy. And, even if you don’t enjoy, lavish me with false praise – my ego is so big, I won’t be able to tell the difference between legitimate praise and sarcasm.

One final note: Please, no “Boy, you have too much time on your hands” comments. Frankly, I don’t have much time at all. But, when the sweet lil’ Baby Jesus whispered this tune in my ear, I had to write it down, record it, and send it out to the masses – starting with you.

Take Care,

Chris (aka Unkie C-Roc; the JV All Star)