OK, So, Now What?

Guess I’m done with my bachelor’s degree. A couple follow up calls to make sure the transcripts get to U, and that’s it. So now what?

I remember walking home from school in fourth grade and asking Billy Anders if he was going to go to college, and he said yes, he was. Me too, I said. That was fourteen years ago. Now I’m done. So now what? What do I do now that I’ve accomplished a task that’s consistently been looming in my subconscious for eight years?

Easy. I realize that a bachelor’s degree in English isn’t all that impressive and go study for the GRE.

Long Live Pills

I love pills. Pills are a gift from the gods. Long live pills.

Pills help me sleep, pills help me calm down, pills help me stay happy, and pills help my heartburn go away.

I take pills to dislodge my mucus, pills to help my digestion work better, pills to raise my HDL cholesterol, and pills to ease the pain of headaches.

I enjoy taking pills that fortify my digestive tract, pills that contain vitamins and minerals, pills to help my eyesight improve, and pills that boost my immune system.

I love my pills that help my hair grow more full and thick, pills that make my fingernails more sturdy and healthy, pills that help the cartilage in my ears form in a manner congruent to the shape of my head, pills that increase my ability to memorize new fractions and vocabulary words for the GRE, and pills that open up my third eye to the secrets of the 5th and 6th dimensions.

I can’t live without my pills that make green look blue, wrong look right, and meat smell like a rolling meadow of wildflowers and blueberries. I must have my pills that make all my food taste like minty chocolaty goodness and turn every word I read into a smiling, singing song that jumps up and gives my heart a warm, hearty hug.

I love my pills. I need my pills. I live to praise and serve them. Don’t you?

Consider the Egg

Eggs. Aren’t they weird? I mean, when you really think about it?

Practically on a daily basis, we are all eating chicken ovums surrounded by layers of membranes, cracked free from their outer casing. Strange when you stop to think about it.

And yet they are so delicious, so good for you, and so versatile as a means of cooking. Since embarking on my mission of counting my calories and shrinking my slightly-less-rotund tum, I have eaten a lot of eggs. Egg whites, actually. An interesting thing about eggs is that the most yummy bit, the vitellus (yolk), is full of cholesterol. 70% of your daily intake, which is a lot. So I just eat the albumen (white). Less delicious, but a lot better for my cholesterol, which has dropped significantly since I gave up meat and started eating only egg albumens.

So, the next time you’re cooking up a meal or thinking of a snack, consider the egg. High in protein and taste, these little oval ovums won’t let you down.

Happy Tofurky Day

Two nice young ladies from PETA were at the corner of Broadway and Park this week, handing out free Tofurkys to all that passed by. I grabbed two, and with them will recognize my first Thanksgiving as a pesco-ovo-vegetarian.

"Why are you a vegetarian?" many people ask me when they discover me passing on the bacon or munching on a Boca burger. "For health reasons, or . . . otherwise?" It's the "otherwise" they hope I won't bring up. No one wants to hear a rant from one of those tree-hugging, polyester-wearing hippie freaks that hold secret meetings in dark rooms, munching on tofu burritos and deciding which pork proccessing plant to set fire to next. If I wanted to get a good reaction of them, I would say "to avoid the condemnation of the Almighty." But I usually just pat my slightly less round tummy and say "so I won't die."

We've been meatless since July, and have no regrets. Since eliminating almost all sugar and counting my calories carefully as well, I have lost 13 pounds in a month. So it is indeed worth it. The only hard part is that meat tastes really, really, deliciously good. But it's that or unclogged arteries, and I'll take the latter.

[MY PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE OF CHOICE] for President

Editor's note: This article has been run through The Best of Times’s new non-partisan censorship machine.

I sure am excited about the upcoming presidential election. That is because I am confident that [my presidential candidate of choice] is going to win the election.

I like [my presidential candidate of choice] because he stands for [this particular item of political action] and is tired of the [certain type of political action] people like [a different politician] stand for. He wants to [engage in a certain political practice] as well, which I am all about because [a particular political situation] is in dire need of [a certain type of treatment] in order for [a certain part of the American public] to experience [a specific benefit].

I am sure that all members of the GG subscribership agree with me in thinking that [my presidential candidate of choice] possesses the [positive attribute], [specific type of personality], and [particular brand of character] necessary to excel as president of the United States. Join me in rocking the vote next week, and we will all come out as winners (except for [the presidential candidate I in no way support], of course)!

It's Time to Admit That Superman Isn't That Cool

I think the time has come for all honest, free thinking individuals everywhere to admit to themselves and each other that the comic book character Superman isn’t actually all that cool.

Sure, he’s had his own comic book legacy, feature films, TV shows, cartoons, lunch boxes and underpants permeating the public subconscious for over 70 years. He’s one of the most recognizable fictional characters of all time and he’s made a lot of people a lot of millions of dollars.

But did any of us stop to take into account the ridiculousness of his suit, the flatness of his character, and the ease at which he conquers the problems of the world?

Most other superheroes have one or two special powers. They can walk turn invisible or walk through walls. Other superheroes (the coolest ones, in my opinion) have no superpowers at all – simply smarts and resources, like Batman and Iron Man. But Superman’s super powers? He’s faster than anyone, stronger than anyone, can fly, can blow freezing air, can melt anything with his eyes, and can see through anything.

Oh, and he can’t die.

Don’t sing me a song about lead and kryptonite, his supposed “weaknesses.” They’ve posed no real threat to him. In reality, Superman is a Superflat, Superbloated, Superboring character that needs to retire, Superfast.

Stuff that in your stockings, Mr. Kent.

The Strange Vocabulary of the Rising Generation

I just don’t know what to do about the young kids these days. I can hardly keep up with them, what with their You Tubes, Pokémons, Nintendo machines, and I don’t know what all. And their language! Sometimes I can hardly discern what they’re trying to say to one another, and that’s if their talking at all instead playing those god-awful computer games or huddled over their fancy little phone units.

I’ve decided that the only way I might connect with the rising generation is by reach out to them. So my brother and I compiled this list of “hip” words we remember from our personal days as young teens. We’ve even divided them into categories for easy usage. My plan is to give these lists to some of these youngsters so they can understand how we used to speak, and perhaps even use them at the school carnival or swing choir practice themselves. That’s sure to make them the bee’s knees of their peer group, if not the toast of the town!

EXCLAMATIONS
oish! • booyah! • snap! • badical! • radical • dudical! • gnarly! • excellent! • bodacious! • boss! • tight! • for real! • sweet! • righteous! • aws (pronounced oss)! • solid! • hot! • smooth! • rockin! • jivin! • jammin! • swingin! • slammin!

CONSTERNATIONS
flip! • fetch! • fudge! • fuzz! • freak! • frick! • buggin! • whacked! • that sucks! • that blows! • that stinks! • that reeks! • that bites! • that eats! • bogus! • as if! • exsqueeze me? • spank you! • your mom!

RETALIATIONS
don't go there! • oh no, you di'nt! • sike! • not! • whatever! • not even! • says you! • pu-lease! • kiss off! • grow a brain! • have a cow! • fine then!

There now, wasn’t that a gas? So go ahead, if you’re young or old! Use my list and have a swell go of it! “Peace!”

National Breast Cancer Awareness Month

You may notice that the "The Best of Times" is pink this month. That is because I am doing my part in honoring National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

As a member of the male gender, it might seem a little strange to hear me speak of this disease. But in truth, it is hard to find anyone that hasn't been affected, directly, or indirectly, by breast cancer. (It also a little known fact that, because the breast is composed of identical tissues in males and females, breast cancer also occurs in males. But incidences of breast cancer in men are approximately 100 times less common than in women.)

In 2005, breast cancer caused 502,000 deaths worldwide, which was 7% of cancer deaths, and almost 1% of all deaths. While it will impossible to prevent every death until a cure is found, there are still things we can do to bring that number down. Women are much more likely to survive incidences of breast cancer if it is detected early. Every woman, from teenager to senior, should conduct a breast self-exam once a month. An easy-to-follow, printable guide on how to do so can be found at www.komen.org/bse.

Also, do your part to make those around you more aware of breast cancer this month. Douse your website in pink, where a ribbon, or print on pink paper. A great step to prevention, detection, and a cure, is simple awareness.

Stuffing My Inner Child Silly

I can’t stop pumping quarters into the mini NFL football helmet machine at the grocery store.

I feel like I’m ten years old again. This is probably because when I was ten years old I couldn’t stop pumping quarters into the mini NFL football helmet machine at the grocery store.

I loved my little helmets. I gave them positions and statistics. I created a system wherein they made plays, had contests, scored touchdowns and tallied up points. I recruited my family members to be a part of my Fantasy Football Helmets League.

The new helmets are a vast improvement. Many of the team’s logos have been updated. And they come printed right on the helmet, not on a sticker I would have to put on myself in the old days. The facemasks are more intricate and realistic. And they cost 50 cents, not 25.

Props to me for feeding my inner child, I suppose. Or perhaps another reason for my loved ones to be worried that I’m not spending enough time in reality.

Whatever the case, let me know if any of you other collectors out there don’t have the Kansas City Chiefs. I have an extra and I’ll trade you one.

The Fulfillment of Destiny

Tom Petty. What a fellow.

I know little of his personal life. I don’t know if he’s easy to get along with, is good at telling jokes, or if he likes playing mini golf with his grandkids.

But he sure does put on a swell rock and roll show.

Like any fan, I like to imagine him as a nice sort of guy. I’d like to think if I ran into him at a café and said hi, he’d smile and say hi back, and maybe let me catch a picture with him while we discussed the club sandwich on the menu. But I can’t be positive that’s how he would be.

I can be positive, however, of how inexpressively delicious his music is in person. Surrounded by drunken, shirtless Washingtonians, I experienced the grandeur of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers firsthand, smiling and clapping with glee like a schoolboy that just won a lifetime supply of frozen cookie dough. I have made my journey to Mecca, and can now die fulfilled and without regret.

Unless he goes on another tour within the next few years. In that case, I’ll probably have to hit one of those shows first.

Conquered I have, Conquer I Will

I, J.Clark Gardner, have achieved the unthinkable. I have embarked on the impossible and prevailed. I have done what every man and woman dreams of, but few have had the courage and fortitude to bring to pass.

I have dominated the beast that is the Rubik’s Cube.

In 1974, a Hungarian sculptor and architect named Ernő Rubik invented a six-sided mechanical puzzle he called the "Magic Cube," completely unaware of the mental and emotional calamity it would bring upon humankind. Renamed the “Rubik’s Cube” and distributed by Ideal Toys in 1980, the puzzle became a worldwide craze, flooding the hearts of men and women with frustration, anguish, and defeat at every turn. Today, an estimated 300,000,000 official and imitation cubes now occupy the dusty attics and forgotten junk drawers of the world.

Many of these cubes—nay, the vast majority of them—remain unsolved. But not mine. Under the tutelage of a wise coworker and with the aid of a modern technology referred to as “You Tube,” I gained the skills necessary to conquer the Rubik’s Cube. And conquer it I do, nearly every day, while watching television detective shows or conversing with my wife.

And I will be sure to do it in front of you, too, so you can be either completely jealous or completely confused at my determination to achieve this feat.

Apply and Let Dry

Clang! Another drawer handle falls to the floor.

It doesn’t seem likely that Billy Mays actually uses all the products he shouts about on those mini infomercials. And yet he comes across as so sincere. Oxi-Clean, the Awesome Aug, the Hercules Hook…he touts their innovation, reliability, and effectiveness so well, you’d think he’d have a garage full of these ground-breaking tools and solutions that he makes use of regularly.

Clang! Except for that blasted Mighty Putty.

After over an hour of sawdust, bent screws, and broken drill bits, I realized I needed help installing the drawer and cabinet handles in the kitchen. And then I remembered Mighty Putty. Billy Mays used it to install a shelf that held over a hundred pounds, build a chain that lifted cinderblocks, and connect a pulley that pulled a semi truck. Surely it would secure handles to cabinetry. Just cut it, knead it, apply, and let dry.

Clang! Or not.

I bet I could remove the sticky residue it leaves with Easy Off Bam!, though.

Why I Don't Have a Dog

Arfie? Arfie! There you are boy! How are you, huh little fella? Ooh, what do you have there? Arfie, is that my…? Arfie, no! NO! Put that down, Arfie! NO. NO. Quiet! NO.

NO.
NO, Arfie. That’s not a good boy. That is NOT a good boy. No. That’s right, put it down. There’s a good—no! No, Arfie. Arfie? Quiet, Arfie. Quiet. Good boy.

There now. Wait, what’s that? Arfie! Look what you did! NO, Arfie! NO. That’s naughty! Now I have to clean that up! Bad dog, Arfie! Bad! Quiet! Quiet, Arfie! No! Quiet! NO. NO. Arfie? Arfie? That’s right.

Now where’s that rag? Arfie! NO! Bad dog! Give it back, Arfie! Give it back! NO! NO! NO! Quiet! NO!

Arfie, NO! Quiet! Bad! NO! NO! Quiet! No! Get down from there! Get off! NO!

NO! Bad! NO! Arfie! Arfie? There you go. Quiet! NO! That’s right. Good boy.

You’re such a good boy, Arfie.

*With no intended offense to any beloved dogs, nor their humans. Just fun.

J.Clark-Con 2008

I’m in my hotel suite right now, toasting to what I believe has been the most successful J.Clark-Con yet. Thousands of adoring fans came from all around the globe to get a snapshot with me, have me sign a “Second to One” Comic Anthology, or participate in the question and answer panel about my vast experience in the film, book, and television industries.

Of course, I wasn’t the only attraction. Almost the entire cast of my first film, “Raising the Boy,” managed to make it for a DVD signings and a stage presentation. Also, the voice actors and the animation supervisors for the “Bowen in Space” trilogy based on my best-selling novels gave a fun and informative workshop about the making of the films and the success it brought to their careers.

Probably the biggest event was the announcement of a “Learning to Fly” reunion special that will air this fall. Unfortunately, because of the bad blood between the cast members that caused Roland to leave the show midway the third season, only some of the actors from the were able to make it for the announcement and signings that followed. TV cameras, were, however, able to catch the touching reunion of the actors that played Clyde and Daphne, their first since the show ended. We are still hopeful that Roland will come around, but nothing has been solidified.

Thanks to all of you fans that made it. And if you didn’t, don’t worry. Footage of the question and answer panels and some of the behind-the-scenes discussion will be available in the special edition boxed set entitled “J.Clark: The Definitive Story,” which will be in stores early next year.

People That Aren't People But Are Still Real

In my life there are people that aren’t real, but are still real. They have been created through a series of chance circumstances in my psyche and the psyches of others. And they become real. And I talk about them as if they are real. Is that weird?

A great example is Phil. You may have read some of Phil’s stories, columns or emails. He is a fictional character originally created by my brother Joel, but in later years taken over by me. His primary occupation used to be a email newsletter he called the “Periodical Newsletter of Fellow Fellows,” or PLoFF. He then proceeded to write a fantasy novel, articles for the GG, and is now the GG movie critic with his column “Movie Reviews from the Phil Philes.” He has his own personality, life story, quirks, and problems. He is very confident, naïve, impulsive, and oblivious to social norms and cues. He is also terrible at grammar and spelling. When I refer to Phil, I refer to him in the third person, because in my mind he is a completely different person than Joel or me.

More examples are my stuffed cats Martin and Morton. Martin was given to me for Christmas in 8th grade is a part of the Great Gardner Kitty Kitty Kitten Invasion of 1996. Despite being growing, tough teenagers, Joel and I created very involved characters for our cats (his is named Caroo). They are both slightly dim (Martin more than Caroo), conceited, impatient with humans, and also terrible at grammar as well as counting. Martin got so worn out that I had to get an identical one named Morton many years later. You would think Morton would take on the same personality as Martin, but he is different for some reason. He is more patient, smart, and reserved that Martin or Caroo.

Again, is that weird?

Last Night's Disturbing Dreams

You ever wake up restless and fitful because of a night of strange and disturbing dreams? I did today. And I don’t know why the dream muses picked last night to play ping-pong with my brain, either. I got to bed at a semi-decent hour and didn’t eat any Navajo Tacos in the middle of the night or anything. Strange.

I first dreamed it was No Pants Day at work. I’m not kidding. Apparently, some of the more liberal universities in our country actually hold No Pants Day, and have no intent to judge or condemn those that participate. I just don’t want to be haunted by pantsless images of my coworkers in my sleep.

I then dreamed I was a reluctant participant of a softball tournament at work, and I was assigned to play third base and right field at the same time. To my deep frustration and anguish, all of the hits sailed over my head and I allowed countless runs.

Then a fashion magazine was holding an open house at my office, and I was walking around aimless and bitter because of my poor performance at the tournament. I did, for a precious moment, enjoy looking at the editor’s collection of used video games and CD’s for sale while my boss took my picture.

At least we were all wearing pants by then.

Editor’s note: the following day J.Clark had a dream that one of the teenagers he teaches at church was trying to kill him.

Laps, Their Tops, and You

Have you ever seen someone actually put a laptop on his or her lap? Very uncommon. It’s a bit of a misleading name, really. Laptops are mostly utilized on coffee tables, balanced on the knee of a crossed leg, or infiltrating enemy lines onto the top of an actual desk, which I’m sure infuriates the desktop computers. The thing that surely infuriates them more is the use of docking stations, which invite laptops to use the monitor, printer, and other peripherals desktops used to have a monopoly on. Not good for the desktop computers. Not good at all.

Issues like this are probably why people have tried to assign the term “notebook” to laptops, even though they are neither books and have little to do with notes. This is mostly likely underground guerilla work from the disgruntled desktop computers, determined to defend their already shrinking territory on the tops of desks. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was instigated by the same people that are trying to call desktop computers “towers,” an altogether more commanding and respectable term than the weak and somewhat ambiguous “desktop.”

Strange how these things often pass by our minds unnoticed, isn’t it?

The Eagle of Shame

I didn’t win too many awards as a child. A couple of little league basketball participation trophies, a little ribbon for winning the spelling bee in third grade, and that was about it. Except for, of course, the eagle.

When I was young my grandfather met the oldest living Eagle Scout in the world. Apparently, he was in the business of molding and painting ceramic eagles by hand. My grandfather thought these would make great gifts for some of his grandsons when they earned their eagle scouts, so he had the gentleman make one for my brother, with his name engraved on the bottom and everything.

I never really liked Boy Scouts, and wasn’t very good at it. All the tying knots, making bird feeders, and watching mammals seemed silly and pointless to me. So I would just sneak to the trading post and buy Laffy Taffys and pop rocks with Eric Armstrong while everyone else worked on their merit badges at camp.

Consequently, I never earned my Eagle Scout. Neither did my brother. The age of 18 came and went for each of us, and the ceramic eagle just sat on a shelf in Gramps’s den. Some years later, he sent it to us, with Joel’s name still engraved on the bottom, and a new message scrawled on the under it: “And Clark didn’t too.”

We displayed it proudly in our bedroom. A symbol of our failure. A constant reminder of humility. If we ever got too complacent in our successes or too confident in our abilities, we would look up at its piercing eyes and hear its silent, tormenting cry: “KAW! KAW! YOU FAILED!”

Names for Things

I name things, quite frequently. Stuff I use regularly. Mostly cars and electronic devices. My first car was named Smashy, because that’s what the back bumper looked like after I got rear ended my third day driving it. Lindsay’s car is named Shrinky. (It’s a Suzuki Esteem. Psychologists help people gain self-esteem. Psychologists are also called shrinks. A bit of a stretch, but a very cute name.)

I have also named all my iPods. The firstborn was Kilroy (Kilroy seems to be my default for just about everything – I named a robot in a radio drama I once made Kilroy, and it is also my rap misnomer). He went missing, but in my heart of hearts, I still have an idle hope that we might find him. Following suit, I named my second iPod Kilretta, because she was a feminine electric blue. After she was smashed to bits in the prime of her life by a speeding line of 18-wheelers I adopted Kilbot, who still remains with me even though he is now mute. My current iPod is named Bowen.

My first computer was named Kompyuter, with an exclamation point at the end. There is an involved and uninteresting story why that I won’t go into. I called my second computer Wardin, and my third and current computer remains nameless. I also have a laptop named Slappy. This is because I name my computers posthumously, so I can clearly label the back up discs of information I’ve taken from them before they go to the place where good computers are eternally blessed.

Don’t act like it’s weird. You know you name stuff too.

You Say Fixation, I Say Project

I am always working on some sort of project. I think it runs in my family. Mom is always sewing pajamas for the grandkids or mending costumes for a neighbor. Dad is constantly gulping down the facts from his latest book in the dead of the night in his study. My sister Laurel has the Gardner Gazettes family newsletter, my other sister Care has quilts, and so on. Projects everywhere.

I’ve found that my projects rotate. For some reason I can only work on them one at a time. And I get obsessed. I want to put in as much time as possible. On my latest road trip, I took a laptop with me and typed away a short story while everyone slept around me. When I started my job at Melaleuca, I would take pages of my screenplay with me to the gym and edit them while I bobbed up and down on the treadmill.

My usual projects—or fixations, the term changes depending on how much I let them get in the way of other responsibilities I attend to—currently rotate among screenwriting, cartooning, making music, writing fiction, and ghostwriting for Philip J. Harpman (who has been working on a new and exciting project off and on for the last year or two). A rotation can last anywhere between a few weeks to several months. My latest was my comic strip, “Learning to Fly,” which I recently submitted for syndication. The last few weeks I’ve been working on a couple of short stories starring Murphy “Wheels” Tomlison, a paraplegic private detective, and his hippie homeopathic nurse assistant Nikki.

I thrive on my creative projects. I love being able to create art rather than mindlessly soak in the treacherous tripe that is sloshed across checkout counter magazines and television screens. I hope you all have projects you can turn to as well. If you don’t, or have always thought about doing something but have been afraid to, now is the time. Unless a DVD boxed set of “Charles in Charge” sounds more interesting. Your choice.

"So help me, Bobbie!"

I have a new favorite game—“Jabberjot: The Wacky Word Game.” Players are given 90 seconds to write a short story using randomly selected pictures of characters, settings, and props, as well as three words and a theme. In the feverish fervor required to churn out a story incorporating all of the elements, hilarity often ensues. Here are some of my favorite stories that have come out of playing the game with friends and family:

“C’mon, eat it! So help, me Bobbie! I swear, if you break one more Christmas ornament, you’ll be eating moss all summer!”

Bobbie fingered the pink, fuzzy dice in his pocket. “They’re my only friends,” he thought. “If I can just hold on to these, I know things are going to change!” --Joel Gardner

* * *

The crowd jumped up and down as the terminally ill opera singer sang the last driving note of the “Ode to Fishing” opera.

Wanda underlined his name in the program. “I will always remember this night,” she sobbed. --J.Clark Gardner

* * *

Andrew got his lederhosen stuck when he was driving to work. He was trying to get the diseased salmon out from under the brake pedal.

This underlines the importance of cleaning out your care before it’s too late. With a clean car, you can jump for joy when you reach your destination. --Lindsay Gardner

* * *

It was summer, and Cleaver decided it was time to connect with the neighborhood boys. So he brought a red ornament and one set of fuzzy dice to the pinewood derby.

The other boys were enthralled by his fascinating items, so they let him join in on the fun. Cleaver sent his pinewood down the ramp and then . . . his car was defeated. He accidentally said a swear word, and once again had to spend a lovely summer in his bear cave. --Katie Gardner

“Jabberjot: The Wacky Word Game” is available at fairplaygames.com for $20.95.

The Screen of Shame

I trip up the stairs to the call center. A quick scan confirms my suspicion. I weave through a few corridors to the IT department. More of the same. Back downstairs, I look through the purchasing room and finance department. Same. Same. Same.

I sink in my chair, knowing now that my inkling was correct. I stand alone. I am marked. Cursed, even. Cast out and forlorn. I am the only one. I am the only one in the entire building without a flat panel LCD monitor.

I look up at the giant CRV machine before me, feeling both resentment and pity for its grubby screen, unexplained patches of velcro attached to its sides, and the way its pixels fuzz in and blur out in vertical lines at certain intervals in the day. This morning, four boxes containing shining, new 28-inch Dell flat panel monitors arrived in our department, and my coworkers chattered with glee as they replaced their old flat panel monitors with new flat panel monitors. There were now enough to give three employees two flat panel monitors, for optimum viewing and organization on their computers.

I remain alone with my tube-powered giant, like the child that got last week’s beanie weenies for hot lunch because the cafeteria had enough pizza for everyone but him. I look forward with a somber face and determined eyes, knowing that one day, if I am worthy, I will be rewarded for my patience and fortitude.

80 Gigs of Life-Changing Goodness

My iPod has changed my life. Quite the heavy claim, I know, but it’s true. Why else would I have already gone through four in as many years? Why else would I offer a moment of silence every time I pass that certain stretch of I-80 East where my third iPod, Kilretta, fell from the top of my car to an untimely death, my soul screaming in torment as I watched passing 18 wheelers crush her to pieces? Why else would I have recruited a coworker’s psychic friend to achieve astral projection to try and locate my first iPod, Kilroy, when he came up missing?

I’ll tell you how my iPods have changed my life. They have given me more control over what goes into my ears and eyes. When in my car, I listen only to music that I have chosen for me. No used car commercials. No morning DJ’s poring over what the famous people are eating for breakfast these days. No glimpses into the gaping jaws of hell caused by inadvertently hearing six seconds of a country music song while flipping through the stations. No correspondents broadcasting live from a Big Mouth Wireless, pretending they are impressed with the specials on Bluetooth peripherals you can hear about if you “swing on by” to pick up a free KUPI bumper sticker. Instead, I experience my music. My media. Tom Petty and The Cars. Alison Krauss and Cocteau Twins. Episodes of Monk and Jane Austen audio books.

If you ever hear someone like me gushing about their iPod, please don’t judge them. Congratulate them. Be happy for them. And look into getting one yourself. We could all do with a life-changing device now and then.

Rebellion Through the Ages

Dusk falls. I drift to sleep. I dream about whatever 14 year old boys dream about until I am shaken awake.

“Clark, wake up. Come on. Just one game.”

My brother Joel is home from late shift at the Subway in the Midvalley strip mall. He has brought home sandwiches, and wants to play Mario Kart.

Even though it is late, and even though I have already eaten, I agree. The times are good. One game turns into two. Mushroom Cup turns into Star Cup. We play and laugh and eat, feeling the sort of reckless pleasure you felt when you were six and stayed up to watch MASH with your mom past your bedtime. What the heck. We were young. We had energy. We didn’t care.

Fast forward to the present. It’s late and I’m in bed. Lindsay sleeps peacefully next to me.

I’m tired, but fighting sleep, my face bathed in the pale light emanating from my iPod.

My stomach digests a recently-enjoyed granola bar as I smile at the well-executed jokes on Mystery Science Theater 3000. I’m no longer so young, I no longer have so much energy, and my body handles extracurricular snacks far less effectively. But I still stay up and be rebellious.

Who I think I’m rebelling against, I don’t know. But I sure am showing them.

The Three Stages of Lost

When my wife Lindsay can’t find something, it is immediately “lost.” She may have had her keys moments ago, but if she kind find them right now, they’re lost. It interesting to me that she uses the word so liberally, because to me, the term “lost” means something much more severe. “Lost” items are gone. Your hopes for finding them are shattered. Feelings of grief and mourning must immediately ensue. I don’t like things to be “lost,” (which is unfortunate because my keys, wallet, gadgets and important documents have a tendency to scurry away and hide from me,) so my subconscious mind has come up with a way of dealing with these slippery treasures. I’ve come up with different stages a missing item goes through before it becomes officially “lost.”

STAGE ONE: “I just don’t know where it is.”
Before my iPod or phone is ever lost, I “just don’t know where it is.” I haven’t really looked for it or given it too much thought. Sometimes I will purposely not look for a misplaced gift card or notebook, because I don’t want it to actually become “lost.” I “just won’t know where it is” for a week or two.

STAGE TWO: “Missing”
If I have casually looked for a prodigal pair of headphones or phone charger, it is “missing.” All the regular places have been checked – couch cushions, pants pockets, coats, etc. “Missing” items still have potential to be found, but the status is more serious than “just not knowing where it is.”

STAGE THREE: “Lost”
If I have made a concentrated effort to find my absent novel, jacket, or box of digital video tapes and come up empty, it is officially “lost.” Hopes of ever seeing it again are crushed to powder. Bereavement and sorrow set in. I may root through the same box or take apart the same shelf in a fit of denial, but I know it is “lost.” Then comes anger, bargaining, and finally, sweet acceptance.

I’m just going to check under my bed one last time.

Switches are for Switching

I was looking for a part time job my freshman year in college, and running the computer lab seemed like a pretty good prospect. All the guy did was sit at a desk and roam the internet. If someone had a problem with their computer, he would just jiggle the mouse and tell them to restart it.

I paced around the guy’s desk as I talked to him about the job. Often when I am engaged in conversation or thinking about something my appendages go on autopilot. The lab clattered with the typing of keys and the clicking of mice as the 60-plus students inside worked busily on papers an projects. As the guy checked something on his computer, my eyes—and hands—wandered to a large switch behind his desk. It looked like a light switch, only larger and illuminated in red.

Ah, a switch, my subconscious mind thought. Switches are for switching. I will switch this switch and see what happens.

The lab exploded with gasps and groans as every computer in the room turned off and then on again. Every computer except that of the guy running the lab. I flushed and hurried toward the door, knowing that if I was discovered I would be lynched by an angry mob of student’s whose hard work had been forever expunge by my negligence.

“Where are you going?” the guy asked, bewildered and yet unaware of the J.Clark-induced blackout. “Don’t you want to talk about the job?”

“There’s a thing, and uh, I’ve got to go somewhere, so uh, bye!” I stammered. I dashed out the lab and across the campus and all the way home, positive that a posse of bloodthirsty college kids was on my trail, wielding keyboards and mice.

Switches are for switching indeed. If only I could switch off my wandering hands.

“YOU JUST WANT YOUR WUM-WUM-WUM!”

Context is a funny thing. Take it out of a conversation, and something you say can suddenly become nonsensical, hilarious, incriminating, or creepy. I have a collection of such quotes, taken from real life experiences. Please enjoy this selection:

“I woke up with a pregnant craving last night.” –J.Clark Gardner

“I’m thinking about robbing a 7-11.” –Ken Krackenburg

“Right in the chapel!” –Emily Millet

“Did you want to see if any seats were still open at the House of Sin?” -Peter Menskink

“A Chaldean kid threw an apple at her mowhawk or something.” –Young David Love

“No, no one’s going to ask you to pose naked.” –Anon

“Well, that’s dangerous.” “What’s dangerous?” “A Nissan full of balloons.” –Two guys

“Did you want to make an ascent into the loft?” –Nathan Higham

“I mean I just don’t think I could ever drink turtle blood.” –J.Clark Gardner

“You just want your wum-wum-wum!” –Mike Holyoak

Study these quotes. Ponder them. Construct situations wherein they would make sense, and role-play them. It’s fun. And start keeping your own collection of strange quotes. They may develop into a valuable novel or screenplay someday.

641 Miles to Tom Petty

This August, my wife and I are going to drive 641 miles and across three states to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers live in concert. Well, I’m going to the concert. She’s not a fan of Tom Petty, so she’ll probably be reading by the pool or treasure hunting at old book stores.

Does such a journey sound strange to you? Does it sound obsessive or pathetic? I’m not sure what people will make of such an action. All I know is—and I say this to Lindsay all the time—when you’re me, and you like something, you’ve got to embrace it. And embrace it I will, at the Gorge Amphitheatre in George, Washington on August 15^th.

I enjoy Tom Petty’s music more than any other group or artist. The effortless melodies, exceptional musicianship, and reflective lyrics have created the perfect soundtrack to my life. I even named my comic strip, Learning to Fly, after one of his songs.

With all the mindless, corrosive, and rotten drivel that is churned out under the label of entertainment these days, you’ve got to hold fast to an artist like Tom Petty. For over 30 years he has paid no mind to the greed and fads of the music industry and contributed priceless material to the art form. And I’ve got to experience at least a taste of it in person during my—and his—lifetime.

Big Glugs

My wife and I affectionately call servings of soda “glugs.” I’m not sure how it came about, but it’s the perfect word for them. I’m certain that if the folks at 7-11 called them Big Glugs instead of Big Gulps there would be more 7-11 stores that Wal-Marts.

Glugs are quite possibly the strongest point of dissonance between Lindsay and me. I am currently engaged in an effort I call “Bringing Back the Bump” (shedding the weight I gained since our wedding), and Lindsay is convinced that the diet glugs I drink are hindering my progress. The only thing I am convinced of is that I like the way the taste, the fizzy bubbles, the different flavors, and the way it feels in my mouth.

For a while I decided I was “off glugs,” meaning I didn’t drink them anymore. But there was a hole in my heart in the shape of a 20 oz bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper and I re-embraced their bubbly friendship after a few days. Then I decided I was “over glugs,” meaning I’m no longer in love with them, but still hang out with them a lot.

The more I think about it, the more I realize it’s a pretty messed up deal. It’s like I tell my friends: I’m not addicted to glugs. I just like them a lot and need to drink them all the time.

The Ever-Changing Market of Trading Cards

I wonder how much my 1989-1990 set of NBA Hoops basketball cards is worth these days. It’s bound to be a fortune. I worked so hard to collect all 336, including the #13, the All-Star Coaches, which had an error on it, making it harder to find. There were good rookies that year—David Robinson, Dana Barros, and Shawn Kemp. I’ve got them all. I got the one of the no-name guy with Michael Jordan wearing a #12 jersey in the foreground—a real find. I’ve got all the checklists and made sure not to actually check anything on them. I’ve even got elusive card #336 itself—Danny Ferry, pictured in a sweatshirt and jeans because he didn’t play that year due to injury.

They’re tucked neatly away ProWings shoebox in my closet, just waiting. Waiting as year after year, moment after moment, their value increases like money in a trust fund. Ever so slowly, the glossy cardboard is gradually, microscopically, turning to gold.

Last time I checked, a year or so ago, the set was worth approximately $5.00. When I collected them 16 years ago, it was worth approximately $5.00. Taking inflation into account, I’ve lost money on the deal. So far.

I’ll keep waiting.

The Wrong WHAT?

I recently invited my coworkers to take a dozen or so boxes of Macaroni and Cheese Lindsay and I had in our food storage. Completely free for the taking. But very few people were interested in them. I literally couldn’t give them away. Upon asking why, I was met with a dumbfounding answer. They weren’t the right brand.

“Excuse me?” I ranted. “Not the right brand? You mean to tell me you have discerned a difference between the Western Family and Kraft varieties of Macaroni and Cheese? And you’re not only willing to pay the ridiculous mark-up for it, but actually refuse a free box of the ‘generic’ version?”

I’m sorry folks, but when you’re stooping down that far, to actually partake of a pseudo-meal of powdered dairy substitute product and uncooked pasta, you have surrendered your right to be particular. You have crossed the threshold. You are no longer a chooser, but a shameless beggar. We’re not talking about which spice blend to include in stuffed quail or which method to use in preparing foi gras. We’re talking about cheap, sleazy, high-calorie and low-self-decency commercial slop. If you really can taste a difference in the Flavorite or Tru-Valu or Kroger brands, please don’t embarrass yourself by saying so, and please, please don’t insult mankind’s propriety by solemnly refusing anything but the “best.”

Dirty Soap

There is a lot to be said for a soap that smells good. There is a great deal more to be said for soap that don’t.

If the children’s shows, motherly exhortations, and hygiene courses I’ve been familiar with are all correct, we can be safe in assuming that the point of washing your hands is to make them clean. Rid of dirt, germs, and those other icky grimy things we don’t like to think about.

But what if the soap you use smells worse than your hands did before you used it? What if the subtle whiffs of that afternoon’s lunch of northwester coleslaw are a better alternative to the stark, powdery, elementary-school-nurse “flower fresh” aroma of the soap in the office restroom? Then you have a problem.

I had that problem last weekend. Feeling bloated and slightly shameful after a filling meal, I needed to wash my hands of all its reminders. But the soap was worse. Far worse. I clambered for a hand sanitizer in the car, but the only one I could find was the one I knew smelled like hot dog juice--not joking. Finally arriving at my mother’s house, I squirted on a judicious amount of her almond-scented liquid soap, which mixed with the faux flowers to form a sickeningly stomach-turning concoction. My hands were worse than clean. They were dirty clean.

I once used a soap that smelled so nauseating, I literally locked myself in a bathroom stall and franticly rubbed my hands on my armpits to try and neutralize the stinging scent. Tragic. My underarms smelled more “clean” than the soap.

Folks, you don’t want to be where I have been. Carry a tested bottle of hand sanitizer with you at all times.

Drive-Thru Shame

I have a problem. I can’t for the life of me place an order at a fast food window.

I write for a living, so I like to think I know how to convey my ideas from my mind to those of others. But the minute I pull up to a fast food window, I become a bumbling, incomprehensible fool.

It often goes something like this: Over the crackling radio, the attendant says “Thank you for choswa wwawawo waazaorder?” and I answer “yes.” There is a pause, because I am (a) too embarrassed to be there, (b) too overwhelmed at the array of disgustingly delicious choices, and (c) trying too hard to cover up my shame by being funny in front of my wife to realize that this wasn’t meant to be a yes or no question. So we (the attendant and I) spend the next thirty seconds interrupting each other and saying “No, go ahead,” after which I spend a few painful moments asking questions about the products without actually saying their names (which for some reason feels even more embarrassing than being there in the first place). The charade is usually concluded by repeated requests for extra packets of sauces, etc, which are most often ignored.

By the end of it, my wife and I are either thoroughly frustrated or laughing hysterically, having driven the attendant one step closer to tearing his or her hair out and quitting without not even stopping to return their visor, polo shirt, or “Ask me About our Mega-Meat Meal Deal” button. This is probably why are given two fish fillet wraps with extra mustard and a rancid Caesar side salad instead of the spicy chicken sandwich and children’s meal without pickles and a Diet Coke (no ice) that we ordered.

I suppose that’s what my arteries and I get for going there in the first place.