Wilderness and Weirdos

Looking out upon the majestic vistas, Tom made an important realization. He had absolutely no freakin' idea where he parked his car.

I had a really nice day today. But before I get into it, I have to give you a little bit of backstory: Back at the beginning of Autumn... maybe even last Summer, I'm not entirely sure, I purchased a little book entitled, 60 Hikes Within 60 Miles of NYC. The reason I was planning on getting this book was to encourage my girlfriend and I to pursue more healthful activities for weekends, vacations, etcetera. "Healthful?" Okay, don't read too far into this one, it's not like we were having Crisco eating contests or shooting up heroin with dirty needles or anything. Don't be ridiculous. We always use clean needles. What do you think, we're crazy?

Anyway, I'm getting lost in one of my tangents. So anyway, the book gathered dust for several months as any free weekend or day off was either set aside for someone's birthday or wedding or growth removal or something... or it was rainy/snowy/unpleasant out. Until now.

We finally got around to using the book last week. We went on one of the hikes that take place within 60 miles of NYC. Yep, they do exist. And it was fun. We went out to Sunken Meadow Park, got lost in the woods, and found an old abandoned lunatic asylum (I couldn't make this up if I tried). Later on, (we went for the hike during the AM... which, is a mysterious time for me to be conscious, I tell you, it's incredible how much you can get accomplished in the day when you wake up before 2PM!) we dropped by Eisenhower Park to try out the batting cages (unfortunately closed until further notice) and so ended up watching a rugby match... which, incredibly, Scott Salvato was involved in. For those of you who know Scott Salvato, this is an interesting factoid.... and for those of you who didn't...well, I just wasted a couple of seconds of your life by making you read this. Muhahaha!

Now, Ally has the audacity to get employed, which severely limits the amount of time we get to spend together. Sheesh... bad enough I have to work, now she does, too?! Well, anyway, this has been simply an awesome week for weather and climate and high pressure systems and so forth, so I was determined to try out the book again, even if it meant going solo.

I drove out to Caumsett State Park over near Huntington. Absolutely gorgeous property. The looped trail took me out through forests and meadows, around a pond, and ultimately to the beach along the Long Island Sound. And the weather couldn't have been nicer. Just a genuinely nice time. And all was right with the world, until...

Of course there'd be an "until." Otherwise, do you think I'd bore you with this?

Instead, I'll bore you with this:

So I was walking up along the bluff overlooking the Sound, when I come upon this inocuous-looking gentleman leaning against the railing, holding his bike in front of him. I try to be courteous (FIRST MISTAKE... I'm a terrible New Yorker!) and say "Hello, How are ya?" Which, really, isn't an invitation for discourse. It's not even a question, it's just bland greeting. I couldn't care less how he was. If we was doing well, so be it... and if not... well, I'd rather not know about it. The guy's a perfect stranger... and his name isn't even "Balki..." (Okay, that was a really bad reference to the old TGIF lineup... I'll say no more) Well, anyway....

He responds, "Fine! How are you doing?" But, you know what? I think he really wanted to know. Anyone who's ever walked down a street in big city or something knows that tone of voice people have when they want to you to buy something from them... you know that voice? Well, this guy was looking at me all meaningfully... I knew he wasn't just out there to enjoy nature.

He had an agenda.

And I...

... was alone...

...in the woods...

...with this guy.

Now, of course, I could have done the sensible New Yorker thing, and suddenly turn on the ol' ice machine and ignore him.... deliberately not look at him, maybe walk away quickly... maybe even start twitching violently. That always works. But no, I think, maybe I can weather this one, and try to get out of it without any untoward unpleasantness.

"I'm doing great! How can anyone not be great on a day like this?" I exclaim to the creepy salesman. Maybe a good offense is what'll do the trick.

"Say, can I give you some free handouts?" He responds. Bah! He wasn't fazed at all. Now I can still go "ice man" on this guy... but I just made that jerky little comment about what a wonderful day it was, so I lamely reply, "Sure."

I walk over to his bike, hoping he's not going to ask me to squeal like a pig, and he takes out some pamphlets neatly folded in his fanny pack. This is getting creepier by the minute. Anyway, I'll fast-forward a little bit and give you the Readers' Digest version: He starts pulling out all this conspiracy theory stuff and some papers with websites and radio stations I should check out. All about "what really happened on 9-11" and how "The Illuminati is conspiring to organize us all into a single World Government." All the while, I'm sorta nodding my head, making gutteral noises occasionally to indicate to this freak that I was interested in his wacky facts.

I mean, what was I supposed to do? Engage him in thoughtful debate? You don't typically have effective debates with conspiracy theorists. Like all Conservatives and Liberals these days, Conspiracy Theorists "know what's really going on!" So how can you argue with "the truth"?

Now, of course, I'm not naiive. I, like most thinking people, accept that there is a strong likelihood that the government keeps secrets. If one day it's revealed that our government's been reverse-engineering alien spacecrafts for the military ever since Roswell, New Mexico... I won't be entirely shocked. Because, if you or I were the government during the Cold War, you'd keep a find like that secret, too. Why risk losing a possible edge to the other side?

Digressing again... sorry. What I don't necessarily agree with is that chemtrails are some sort of secret experiment, or some ultra-secret society is trying to assimilate us denizens of Earth into one Global Government. Even, when you really think about it, isn't such a bad thing. What's the big deal about a One World Government? Right? I mean, all those sci-fi movies show a "President of Earth" and some such. It'll be all good. Otherwise, Hollywood would be lying to us.

But what really confirmed that this guy was a wackadoo... (hey, maybe there IS an Illuminati...) was when he started in on all that numerology nonsense. He went into this whole thing about how when you assign each number of the alphabet a certain number, certain words and names equal...

BUM BUM BUM!

666!

So it is true! And a moronically simple code is all that is required to break their fiendish plot. And, well, the Pope is involved. Sorry to say.

I mean, comon'! "When the letters that spell 'Kissinger' are assigned numbers according to this code, the numbers equal... 666!" Also, apparently do the words, "Georg Bushh" "Jon Pawl Tooo" and "Miss Pac Man."

My faith in number codes crumbled when the secret message was "Be Sure to Drink More Ovaltine."

Anyway, conspiracy wacko notwithstanding, it was a fun time. Maybe we could go for a hike sometime. Let me know! Unless you happen to be some random conspiracy kook, who wants to give me a hard time about this blog entry... in that case, let's just move along, shall we?

Feedback Question of the Day:
"If you could see any currently disbanded rock band (due to death or whatever) put on a concert in their prime, what would it be?"

Maybe I Should Get a Salad

"I'm supposed to have how many chins!?" Tom reevaluates his life at 4AM in an airport in Fort Lauderdale...

What can I say? It's time for some changes. It's grown increasingly obvious, I've gotten a bit... well, big. I'm not proud of it. In fact, it's downright annoying. Lamentably, I have no one to blame but myself. Some people turn to booze... some to cigarettes. Me? I got Domino's on speed-dial. Geeze.

At 26, one begins to grow concerned if you've already been in the best shape of your life. I know, "26?! Are you for real, Tom?" But... you begin to worry. Maybe I'm just weird, but 30 years from now, I don't want to look back on old photographs from 2005 and wish I had that waistline back when I was 26. No... I think there might be some room for improvement. Just a smidge. I think.

Now, before anyone gets nervous, I'm not planning on making this my "Oh my God, I just ate 4 skittles and I'm SO FAT and Chad will never ask me to the prom" sort of blog. Like my physical fitness, this'll be a work-in-progress. I may give updates every so often... like on the day my belly stops jiggling when I breathe. Or when I manage to walk up the stairs without going into cardiac arrest. Or when I win the big truckers arm wrestling tournament and win back the respect of my son and his snooty grandfather, Robert Loggia.

Yeah, that would be effin' sweet.

It's About Time!

Hey folks,
Once more, I come to you, blogging furiously through the nigh-unwadeable web, determined to drop my brain nuggets on you, the unwary, innocent internet surfer. Well, that actually cannot be true, because you have to come here to read this. So this is more of a "Welcome Back," O Curious One.

Why a new blog? Why "Effin' Sweet"? Why bother? Good questions, all. And the short answer to all three: "Because." Naw, that didn't work with my third grade students, so it sure as heck wouldn't work with you guys.

No, I really wanted to start over on a new blog as a way of starting over. I was getting the feeling that my old blog was becoming a sort of virtual spittoon for daily gripes and whinings. And I don't want people to think of me as a whiner. Not this guy. No thanks.

"Effin' Sweet"?! What's that all about? Well, first off, as many of you know, I'm a bit prudish when it comes to using the "F" Or, for that matter, the "S," "A," "D," and "M" for that matter. ("M"? It means "masticate".... look it up!) Of course, I wasn't so afraid to use the big-bad "C," which was fairly historic, I think it's safe to say. But that of course backs up why I wanted to start fresh. But I digress. "Effin' Sweet" is taken from Dave Chappelle in his classic comedy special, "Killin' Them Softly." He's talking about how anti-black racism can sometimes work out in your favor. To quote him more or less: "Now, it doesn't happen too often, but when it does... It's f*cking SWEET." He delivers this line so well... a blog paraphrase can barely do it justice. If you haven't seen it, go out and rent it. Or ask to either watch it with me, or borrow it from me, since I own it on DVD.

So, I thought "Effin' Sweet" would make a cool new name for my blog. Much better than "As My Brain Decays," which, in hindsight, sounds sort of depressing... don't you think?

Why bother? I dunno. To touch upon a theme I brought up once or twice back on That Other Blog (TOB), I always was enamored with having my own website... even a pre-fab blog set up by a some umbrella service. True, I'd love to make little videos and cartoons, and top-ten lists, and hilarious reviews, and links to other wacky websites, and all that jazz... and funk... and so forth. But alas, I don't have 40 hours of daily free time or any useful knowledge of programming whatsoever... so I'll just make do with this.

And that's... okay.