The Single Man's Diet

Cheap and easy. This is the banner behind every single man's decision making process when it comes to cooking at home. We have no problem cooking a pot of macaroni and cheese and taking the whole pot to the couch to eat directly out of. This would be a good meal for us. No side items. No salad. Just the mac and cheese. Because when you are a man and having to cook for yourself, you think linearly. You make one thing. You eat one thing. Very rarely, very, very rarely will a man make two things. And it is only a myth that a man would make three.

For example - I came home one day from work, searched the kitchen over and found that I had no groceries. Well, all except for a pound of frozen ground chuck in the freezer. Good, now I don't have to go to the store. I had just found dinner. I thawed the meat, browned it, drained it, and then...ate it. By itself. A pound of ground beef. Straight.

Tonight (I kid you not), I ate beans. I opened up a can of baked beans, heated them on the stove and ate them straight from the pot. There was nothing else. No meat to eat with it. No bread to dip in it. Just the beans.

This is the single man's diet. We cook one thing (we usually don't even do that) and we eat it. We don't chop vegetables for salads. We don't have one pot of rice cooking and one pot of green beans cooking and a brisket in the oven simultaneously. We like to take it one dish at a time. One meal at a time.

That's not to say we can't combine items we might find around the kitchen. Macaroni and cheese and tuna? Great idea. Bread and cheese? You got yourself a sandwich. Chili and baked Lays? Healthy Frito pie. Biscuits and hotdogs? You've got yourself a biscuity hotdog.

The possibilities are endless. We will continue to eat and we will continue to survive. We are poor and we are single. And this is what we do.

A Letter

Dear Downstairs Neighbor,

You are probably wondering why I am writing you a letter at 4 in the morning. Let me remind you. Oh yeah, it is because your music is still vibrating through my ribs even after I walked down stairs and asked you to turn it down. It seems that you have enjoyed providing me with mid morning wake up calls. I especially liked the one last night when I woke up to the sound of glass breaking, only to look outside to see your girlfriend smashing out your windows in a drunken frenzy. My favorite part was when you got home and engaged in a primal shouting match for another 30 minutes.

You should know that I have been fantasizing for the past 20 minutes on what I would like to do to you and your noisy friends. I first thought of lobbing water balloons from the other side of the street, disrupting your outdoor latenight get-together. Then I thought of going downstairs and flipping the power breaker. That would stop the music at least. You know those holes in your windows from where your girlfriend smashed them? I have thought about tossing in stink bombs or live rats or things of that nature. I'm not beyond calling the police, too you know. You see, the thing is, I am struggaling not to hate you right now. That is a struggle that I am losing. I hate you. And I am dreaming of inflicting bodily harm on you.

I will tell you this - I love your raw unconsiderateness. You don't seem to remember that you have people living all around you, separated by paper-thin walls. That is admirable. You also know how to enjoy yourself. At 4 in the morning. Several nights a week. I have grown used to waking up to your late night shindigs. You just fail to remember that other people exist besides yourself. That is pure virtue.

So please cut back on the mid morning wake up calls. Otherwise, I might carry out some of my threats. I would burn your place down, but mine would go up in flames with it. So you are at least safe from that. But whatever else I can do to send you to your demise, I will certainly do if the noise continues.

Thanks for understanding.

Matt

O Day of Rest and Gladness (Happiness)

Yesterday was my birthday. And it was happy. It was happy simply because everyone I knew wished it to be so. They wished it and it came true. What a powerful word my friends have, that they would wish something upon me and it come to pass. Thankfully they didn't wish me an ear infection birthday or a diarrhea birthday or a poison ivy birthday. That would have been miserable.

I'll be honest, I don't understand the point behind the happy birthday wish. Well, ok, sure I do. You want the person who had the birthday to be happy. How sweetly simple. There's nothing to it. You want the person to be happy so you simply say to them "happy" and the expectation is for them to be so. That is why I think we should wish our hopes for happiness on the birthday person the day before their birthday. To say 'happy birthday' half-way into their day is to basically say, "well, whatever remains of this day, I hope that part is happy." If we said 'happy birthday' the day before the actual birthday, we would be wishing them the maximum 24 hours of happiness. None of this, part of the day happiness wish. And that would be the best gift of all - 24 hours of solid, unbreakable happiness.

Why do we only wish happiness on people once a year? Well, I guess that's not quite accurate. We do wish them a happy new year. We wish them happy Valentine's day. Happy Hanukkah and Thanksgiving. (Do people say 'happy Easter'?) And once a year, we strangely enough wish people to be "merry." Beyond a few exceptions, your birthday is a day where you will be guaranteed a wish of happiness. Something finally dawned on me after all these years of receiving happy birthdays - I have been selfishly hogging all the happiness on my special day. People should be able to share in the happiness of my birthday with me. It is much too greedy of me to horde it all. So throughout my special day I wished people a happy Matt's birthday. I just figured others should partake in the happiness. If the day is that special to grant me happiness, there should be enough happiness to go round. But of course, if I am consistent (and I am) then I should wish you a happy Matt's birthday the day before my actual birthday. So get ready people. Next year on November 15th, I am going to wish happiness upon you for a full 24 hours - the day we celebrate because on that day I came to exist, the day of rest and gladness, the day of my birth.

Star Whores

I live in a toilet. Seriously. This place is a dump. My entire place is caving in at the middle, making a nice slant-like decline in my room. I am afraid that it will collapse soon. Raccoons scurry about. Poison Ivy crawls up the back side of the house. The foundation is so bad that doors are getting harder to close. The bathtub is caked in brown mold. The electricity is unbelievably unpredictable. There is absolutely no insulation so if it is hot outside, it is an oven inside and if it is cold outside, it is a freezer inside. There are patches of wood on the floor that are so torn up and squeeky, I avoid stepping on them out of fear that I will fall through to the floor below. My mailbox is nailed to the dilapitated wood ouside, dangling precariously by a single nail. Because of the rotten foundation, there are actually holes in the house where the windows are bent downwards, letting in all kinds of fun uninvited insects (mosquitos and wasps mostly).

But don't get me wrong, I love it here. Well, love is a bit strong. Maybe strongly like. No, that's a bit too strong too. Let's just say that I like it here. Now, come to think of it, it is more like hate. Hate is the most appropriate term. I hate it here. Let's be honest, people, living in a toilet can have ramifications on your welfare. If you are not happy at home, you are not happy. If a man's home is in disarray, so is his heart, so I've heard. And I believe the rumors. That is why I am hoping to be out of here in December when my roommate gets married.

Oh wait, I almost forgot, Yeah, there is no real estate in Baton Rouge because of Katrina. Hmm, that poses a problem doesn't it? And it's not like people want to move into a new place with me because after all, I'm moving out in April. No one likes a roomie to split three months into a new lease. And so my options are this: move in with somebody and pay rent for a few months (which poses a whole new set of concerns) or stay here. Here, in the toilet.

Conundrum? Oh yes. Sort of like the title to this post.

Tanning and Masculinity

I'm not going to lie. I went tanning. I actually paid $7 to lie/lay (?) for 20 minutes in this glowing, body-length pod, subjecting my skin to the perils of burning and cancer. And I did it willingly. I was not compelled. I was not forced. I choose to.

My reason: I have developed these "sun spots" on my shoulders and back, a bacteria that naturally lives in your skin but can emerge to the surface in tropical climates. The pigment is not working or something and the only way to restore a unified color of skin is to burn the top layer altogether. Hence the tanning bed. There.

I walked into the lobby and there sat the receptionist, a college-aged, blonde who was carelessly smacking away on some gum. The room was fortunately empty, except the several displays of lotions and oils, all identified with such names like "Edge" and "Sexified." I was already emasculated. I approached the counter and she asked, "Have you tanned with us before?" She had her hands in position on the keyboard, ready to type in my information. "Uhh, no. This is my first time. And I only want to go once."

"But that is so expensive. You can get the $20 package that allows you to go five times."

"Yeah, I only want to go once."

"Fine. Fill out your information." I picked up the pen and took the clipboard, seriously considering making up an entire fake identity. I looked at the names on the list above me. Surprisingly, some of them were guys. One was named Rodney. I felt that that name sounded fake. I didn't want people coming in after me and reading the list and seeing my name. Now I know that sounds a bit arrogant of me, like the entire city of Baton Rouge is going to know my name. But what if someone comes in that does know me? And the one time in my life where it would have been justifiable to lie and to forge an identity, I didn't. I wrote down the truth. I think I even gave my address and phone number.

So I'm escorted to this little room with this space pod in it. There was a fan and a chair. That was it. "Since this is your first time, only go 10 minutes."

"How high does it go up to?"

"20."

But I wanted to get burned. Surely 20 minutes wasn't going to do it. She left, I closed and locked the door, and got...naked. Well, almost. I kept my boxers on. There are some areas of my life that I don't want to get burned. I set the dial for 20 and climbed in to the glowing, xerox-looking-glow, body pod. I drapped a towel over my face and laid/lied (?) there. Kelly Clarkson was playing over the internal speakers. And I was given the next 20 minutes to be alone inside of my head and reflect and evaluate on what I was honestly doing. It was truly miserable. They shouldn't give you that much time to be aware of the fact that you are actually tanning. Insecurities run wild.

After a while, the lights shut off and I climbed out, searching my body for signs of red only to find the usual pale hue that was there before. I dressed, left and waited for the burn to emerge. And it did. Remember that towel I put over my face? Well, that left a nice awkward, sideways burn stretched across the front of my neck. The rest of my body turned into a nice reddish-pink by that evening, all except for where my boxers were and...my shoulders. Yes, that's right. The one spot I wanted to get burned didn't. I couldn't figure it out. I think it is because of how those machines are shaped, it tends to only tan your front and back and neglect your sides and your shoulders.

So, yes, I am planning on going back. Only this time I am going to lay on my side and let the shoulders get in on some of the action. 7 more bucks down the drain. 20 more minutes alone to evaluate how pathetic I am. And all for the expense of my sunspots and masculinity.