Dating After 30 is the Worst Thing That Can Happen to Someone, Except for Teabagging a Garbage Disposal, or Drowning in a Vat of LSD, or Having Some Weird Shit Like That Happen.

Dating after age 30 is the worst thing ever. Marriage almost makes sense.

People get married because they just want to quit while they're ahead, because they'll lose it all in the long run if they don't cash out when their chips are up. I get that.

I also understand why people subject themselves to online dating. Don't get me wrong, on-line dating was pretty great... when I was in my 20's, because of the 20-something "Yeah? Fuck it, why not" approach to love. I could, and did, win first dates from basically anyone I wanted. Second dates, though -- now that shit's tricky. Whatever, 'cause when I got shot down in flames I could just go, "Well, that sucked," dust myself off, and go find another date. The quicker the turn around, the better. "Skip like a stone," we used to say -- I have some funny stories about that, but that's for another time. Hell, I once went on two dates on the same night, despite being told not too by every sitcom, ever. I went on a disaster of a date, went home, met another girl on OKC, and I was back in game withing two hours. While I didn't snag a girlfriend on either date, that's how I met Ruchela, and she's one of my favorite people.

I also know that people are going to accuse me of looking at the past with rose-colored glasses, because let's face it folks, courtship has never made any kinda sense:

"Dating after 30 can't be any different though! It's just like falling off of a bike -- you do it once, you can do it again," said your internal monologue just now -- but no, fuck you. Your internal monologue is wrong. In spite of being a 4 on the Pennywise-Gosling Scale, I could still snag dates from the mad-fly honeys,which I did not deserve. Ever since I turned 30 though, all my rendezvous go something like this:

FIG 1. Darwin's Law of Biology

I still feel compelled to go out and meet new people, which as shown in Figure 1, is just the polite way of saying that my balls ache -- but they ache in the good "Hey, it's springtime!" way, and not in the "Ahhh! Epididymitis!" way, so we cool. I kinda wish I could bring Camus, or Sartre (but definitely Camus, 'cause he'd be more fun) to modern day so they could experience online and/or 30+ dating. They'd only need to follow the Two Rules of Online and/or 30+ Dating:

1. Look good.
2. Don't look bad.

Since these are also the Rules of Normal Dating, verbatim, there wouldn't be any culture shock, for Camus, or for anyone else going to a 30+ Meetup. It doesn't go full-on absurdist/existentialist/stereotypical French until you start talking to someone you do like, because the only thing you have in common is loneliness -- and now that you've met, you don't even have that.

The problem with dating after 30 though, is that unless you're Connery-level awesome, the people you'll be dating are also over 30. I for one, was only ever Connery-level awesome for a single, brief moment back in 2005, but that's a story for another time. Right around the time that people turn 30, their wavefunctions collapse, and they become the person that were going to be. There isn't anymore learning or exploring; people have a preconceived idea of what they want; there are expectations. Whatever this is, it isn't love, because love is a flighty, fleeting thing, making no promises and no demands.

I don't know what to call it; the best I can do is to be vague or to assign some arbitrary-but-unclaimed arrangement of sounds, like "floob" or "heebaleeb" to what I'm feeling, because that's how languages work, and that's kind screwy if you think deeply about it. While there's no shortage of love songs, there are no floob songs. Floob compels no one to sing. Dates, courtship, relationships after 30+ aren't as passionate, and that's what scares me. I'm scared of drudging through life without the realistic probability of anymore St. Elmo's Fire moments; y'know, the ~2% of our life that's actually worth remembering. The sort of moments that are exploited daily by advertisers to coax us into buying detergent or breath mints or other things that we were probably going to buy anyway.

While it is admittedly unrealistic to expect the frenzy of young love to persist indefinitely, the presence of anything else just draws my attention to its absence. Meeting other people makes me feel lonely. What am I to do? What could I do? There's no easy way out of this, other than to ascend to some insurmountable level of coolness. I have to cultivate desire in others in order to satiate my meta-desire for desire. While it is unlikely that I can ever consistently operate at Connery-level coolness, I know that I can do it for brief moments, because I've done it before. I don't need to be great all of the time, just at the right time. Everything in life comes down to timing. While this plan seems entirely absurd, it is absurd not to be absurd. In the past my heart screamed -- it nearly drove me mad (though that's a story for another time) -- but now that I'm older and wiser, it seems like it didn't drive me crazy enough. 

The Smoothest Pickup Line in the History of Recorded History

I was in a Buffalo Wild Wings in Columbus, OH, with Jen and John. Jen and I both had a couple of drinks in us, and this was good; the pain-numbing and muscle relaxing properties of alcohol would prove fortuitous that self-same night -- but that’s another story.

The conversation at the moment revolved around the nature of creepers and neckbeards, who constantly vexed Jen. Clearly, she needed the services of a Neckbeard Slayer, but such requests fell on deaf ears. See, in order to maintain the favor of Broseidon, God of the Brocean, James the Neckbeard Slayer was in a contest to see who could get the most phone numbers, so he could not answer Jen’s questions. However, since I self-identify as a creepy guy, my special insight allowed me to mansplain their behaviors.

“You’re overthinking things,” I told her. “Just go watch the monkeys at the zoo. They’ll teach you everything you’ll ever need to know about male behavior.”

“No, monkeys are way smarter because they don’t go around thinking that pickup lines can work,” said Jen.

“I once convinced a girl drive 40 miles [64.4 km] to my apartment -- alone -- after chatting online with her, one time, for 20 minutes -- because I know the smoothest pickup line of all time.”

“What?” said Jen and John.

*             *             *

“You have to meet this girl, she’s perfect for you,” said Ruchela, first thing. She didn’t even stop to say “Hi.”

“Well, what’s she like?” I ask.

Ruchela then recited a list of favorable properties, except for goth, because goths are the Shiny Pokémon of women.

“She works at the game shop. You should ask her out,” said Ruchela.

“How?” I asked.

“...you drive to the game shop, start talking to her, and then ask her out.”

“I can’t do that,” I said. “That makes me the creepy, bald, over-thirty guy who goes to the game shop just to hit on the one girl at the game shop. That’s everything I not want to be.” I told her, because while I have no control over the first three, I do have control over the fourth.

“So how will you meet?” said Ruchela, with concern.

“We need to find another way.”

A few days later, when I was writing my thesis, I got a message out of the blue, because this was in the final, dying days of AOL Instant Messenger. It was words to the effect of:

“This Rachel girl that I only kind of know keeps bothering me at work about how I should send you a message, so I am.”

Since I’m way super-creepy, I’m quite used to standoffs. I eventually learned that her name was Tiffany, and I gradually steered the conversation into being about movies, because that’s one subject where I shine.

*             *             *

“…so, after talking about movies with her online -- for twenty minutes -- she drove forty minutes -- from Delphi to my apartment in West Lafayette -- because ‘she had to meet me.’ Because, while we were talking about movies, I stumbled upon the smoothest pick up line of all time.”

“Which is?” asked John.

“Now, you just need one more little piece of background information -- see, I never saw The Lion King.”

“WHAT--?!” shouted Jen, as she grabbed my shoulders, staring at me as though I had just drove a steamroller over 34,000 puppies and kittens.  “-- HOW?!”

“Well, I never had anyone to watch it with,” I told her.

Jen’s horrified expression was akin to the broken-hearted lament of viewing the carnage left in the steamroller’s wake.

“But at least you got to watch it, so that line was like a one-time thing,” said Jen “Like, if you tried that again, then she’d know because you wouldn't be surprised when…”

I interrupted Jen to point out that Tiffany brought her well-worn VHS copy, and by the time she realized that I would need to have a VCR, but she was already in Lafayette by the time she realized this. Fortuitously, I made sure I brought my old VCR with me to Purdue, simply because I didn’t have a DVD copy of I Come in Peace. However, she didn’t check the inside of the big white case that the Disney movies of that era came in, and she really brought 101 Dalmatians. I’ve only seen bits and pieces of that, and it is some weak tea, right there. So I never got to see The Lion King. The rest of our relationship went predictably, but that’s another story.

Jen was full-on delusional; tipsy at this point, trying to impose meaning onto the tragedy that she perceived my life to be, much like pretending that the crushed puppies were in doggie heaven would somehow make things okay.  

“O! If you are ever in Seattle, you need to come over and then we can watch it together!” said Jen.

“I’d like that,” I said.

I snapped my fingers and pointed at Jen, to act as a break command in her thought process, to point out how she had fallen into an insidious trap. Instead, she just held my hands, and continued to talk.

“No, we can make a whole night of it! I’ll work it all out with my boyfriend, and we can bake cookies and --”

“HE JUST TOLD YOU THAT IT WAS A LINE!” shouted John, incredulous at how Disney implanted a security exploit in to women’s minds that can instantaneously shut down reason, feminism, and short-term memory.

“That’s not important!” shouted Jen, before returning to describing her overly-detailed and seemingly premeditated plan.

*             *             *

I admit to having tried out this line a few other times since this, just to confirm that it always works. However, I refuse to use it anymore, for fear that it will work again. I don’t want to see The Lion King with anyone else. I liked the people we were at that moment, and although I’m the only one who remembers that moment, I don’t want to betray the moment.

The sad fact is that most of my life isn’t worth remembering. Take today for example. Once I’m done writing this, I’m going to go grocery shopping, I’ll work out, and read for a bit. That’s it. It’s only the strange moments that are worth remembering, because such moments are profound and fleeting. It was over the course of a single moment that I went from being marked for death into becoming one of Becky’s favorite people -- and I can’t recall why that was, and that is also sad. I think it might have been when we tried to explain the Goatapult to her, but that’s another story, one that I’ll have to ask her about.

The moral of the story is that Disney makes you crazy.

I’d also like to point out that I’ve also never seen All Dogs Go to Heaven, and I remain skeptical about it -- because, what about Cujo?

The Ultimate Trip

Now that I’m older, I find that I don’t go to amusement parks anymore -- nor do I really want too -- and it’s not for the reasons that a well-adjusted person might give. Long queues, high ticket prices -- I wish that’s what was turning me away, but it’s not. I don’t go to amusement parks anymore simply because they have ceased to be amusing. This started in the mid-to-late 1990’s, when I came of age. But it wasn't that I saw things with new eyes -- no, this is when the lawyers came out in droves, and insisted the facades of safety be replaced with actual safety. I don’t go to amusement parks because now I know that I’ll make it out alive, and that robs it of its charm.

I grew up in Northwestern PA, right on the line separating suburbia from rural spaces. My parents worked in the restaurant industry, and much like the rest of Northwestern PA, we were on the low side of the middle class, back when that was still a thing. So, when my parents had days off and wanted to play, we went to Conneaut Lake Park, which was a rustic and peaceful little amusement park not far from our home.

 “Rustic and peaceful” was just how you said “they didn't give a shit about anything” when in mixed company. The origin, story, and fate of Conneaut Lake Park can and should be made into an original series for HBO or Showtime. It’s a long and intriguing tale chronicling the death of the American Dream. Case and point, Conneaut Lake Park’s biggest claim to fame came in 2009, when it was prominently featured in The Road. No, seriously -- the amusement park I went to as a kid didn’t look like that -- it was that. As in, I recognized the building that they guy was standing in front of when he was hit by the arrow. That was the Beach Club (formerly, The American Pie), the bar I worked at back in college. It was run by a good friend of mine -- who, for legal reasons, I can only call “Bugsy.” Long story short, it was a sitcom, and it ended predictably.

Of course, by “ended predictably,” I mean that we were both fired. Ironically, it was because of nepotism, and not any of the many, horrible things that should’ve gotten us fired, but went entirely unnoticed. Like all things Conneaut Lake Park, the Beach Club was completely destroyed in a suspicious fire. Only memories remained.

Those are stories for another time, because you don’t want to hear those stories. No, you want to hear the good stories -- and that’s so weird to me, because the stories that people love the most are the ones which seem the most mundane to me. Sometimes I spend days writing well-researched, well-planned treatises on philosophy, which no one will ever read -- people just want to hear about the time I got into a fistfight with a hummingbird when I was fifteen. Whatever.

By the time I was a kid, the park was already a fixture of my life. See, up until the mid-90’s there was no admission. None. It was free. The rides weren’t free; for that you had to get individual tickets, or a day pass (the “All Day Ride-a-Rama”), but admission was free. So if you wanted to walk around, eat some French fries, play skee-ball, loiter with juvenile delinquents, or take your wee-tiny toddler on a single carousel ride -- you could -- and it was nice.

Most of my time was spent in Kiddieland. The gateway leading into Kiddieland wasn’t that majestic, but when you are three feet tall and know precisely dick about the world and life itself, it was perceived as this thirty foot monstrosity. Although this would send Ruchela into panic attacks, gazing into the hollow eye sockets of clowns was just what I did. Like most Kiddielands, it was only fun because you didn’t know what awesome was. Every other ride in the park was explicitly labeled as a “thrill ride,” except these. As such, most of the rides were just things that spun in circles at ground level. They had a rickety two-hill rollercoaster from the 1950’s though, and I rode the hell out of that.

Years later, when I was studying at Oxford*, I started dating one on my colleagues. I found myself in a story-telling mood during the three-week unicorns-and-rainbows period that kicks off every relationship, as I told my stories about the Park. She countered with her own lurid stories. The more and more we talked, the more detail we added, the more we came to realize we were talking about the same place. Her grandma in Ohio would take her there when they flew in to visit.

“What if were there together?” I asked. “Like, what if we rode the coaster together, as kids? Then the strangers from those happy days were brought together again by fate or chance to become lovers? Yeah, it’s a longshot, but there still is a chance that we’ve met before.”  The aftermath of that last bit of dialogue, was sickeningly cute -- like a magical volcano which endlessly spews kittens.  This however, was the first, last, and only one of these stories.

I remember the day well -- well, at least moments -- flashes of it. It was July 12, 1988 -- my seventh birthday. My parents decided to treat me with a trip to Conneaut Lake Park.

Once we got our ride tickets, I remember strolling down the midway, and my parents asked if I was amped up about heading to Kiddieland; if I would ride the rickety coaster first, or the carousel, or the cars that go in a fixed circle, or the tiny boats that went in a fixed circle, ad nauseum.

I told them that I would do nothing of the sort.  I was seven, and such things were beneath me now, for I was a brash man-of-action who wanted to experience all that life had to offer -- which meant riding every thrill ride in the park. I’d been toying with the idea for some time; everything else seemed so strange, so new. Now, finally, I had the 42 inches I needed to bring these plans to fruition.

Their most prominent ride was the Blue Streak, but that’s not the one people fondly recall with thousand-yard stares -- that was… The Ultimate Trip.

The Ultimate Trip was stored inside a grey building at the end of the midway; in the abandoned fun house from the 1920’s. While that sounds exactly like the beginning to a slasher movie, that didn't phase me at all -- mostly because I'd never seen a slasher movie before. I just turned seven. The line was out the door, but what was it? You had to go inside to see. When you finally got inside, there was just another line, standing in a long corridor. Every surface of the wall was covered in a rainbow mosaic of chewed gum. Even the ceiling, somehow, was covered in gum, placed there by the legions of beer-buzzed, jean-jacketed, heavy metal enthusiasts, and their Dallas-haired girlfriends. Rather than clean the gum off the walls, they encouraged the behavior, making it part of the attraction, until it formed stalactites. I know it was real, for my gum adorned those walls as well.

“Yeah,” said a guy desperately trying to be Sebastian Bach, as he looked down at me and nodded in approval, as he chewed more gum to stick to the walls. His heart was warmed by watching seven year-old me disrespect other people’s property, simply because it wasn't ours -- as I stood next to my mom -- who gave the me gum --for that sole reason.

When I finally entered the inner sanctum, I was disappointed by the Ultimate Trip. It was just an indoors version of the Scrambler, something I had learned all about some four hours earlier. I took my seat, next to my mom, and then the Ultimate Trip began.

The room was built to exactly meet safe operating parameters of a Scrambler. The cars at maximum extension from the center spindle, were less than a foot away from the walls. As such, you were constantly careening into the walls, only to be snatched back a few RCH away from impact. Like all thrill rides (read: everything not in Kiddieland) the Ultimate Trip was clearly labeled at the gate as “ride at your own risk.” They had no liability insurance, anywhere. They simply weren't liable for what happened. Anytime you climbed on that thing, you had to acknowledge that you might not make it out -- but that’s another story.

As soon as the ride started, the ride operator/DJ shut off the overhead fluorescent lights, replacing them with blacklights and intermittent strobe lights. The walls were covered in blacklight posters and highlighter art, and the corners of the room were laden with oddities, like a stuffed gorilla breaking out of handcuffs. They left you in there for 10-15 minutes at a time, while playing at least three songs, mostly Pink Floyd, David Bowie, or Prince.

“Prince? Why Prince?” said your internal monologue, just a second ago.

Why indeed! The confusion only added another layer to your disorientation.

My buddy Kyle used to run thing once upon a time. Holy shit, that dude’s got stories. Other rides, not so much though. You can see the same rides at pretty much any park -- after all, they’re just another consumer product. There’s nothing special about them. There was only one Ultimate Trip. It was special, it was unique, and that made it an adventure. If I can’t get an experience like that, why go to a park at all?

AORchaeological Discoveries: Saraya

Back in '87 a couple of kids from Jersey formed a band, Alsace-Lorraine, and headed west to find fame and fortune. They failed. However, much like that which is called "the Way" is not the true Way, that which is called failure is not true failure. That which is called "failure" is really just a setback; true failure is giving up.

These people were no failures. Returning to Jersey later, they continued to write new songs, perform locally, and recruit new talent via networking, which included some cross-pollination from Danger Danger. Emerging as Saraya, they went on to produce two albums, Both of which are totally worth your time. I didn't discover their music until later in life, and that should not have been. I won't let them drown in the sands of time.

First off -- we need to clear the air and get the elephant out of the room now -- Sandi Saraya is disturbingly attractive. She's an 80's rocker chick, a trope of human that went extinct when the last known example was killed by Jason Voorhees in the first minutes of Part VIII. We shouldn't have allowed that to happen, either. The governments of the world should have set up breeding programs, like they do with condors and panda bears, to keep 80's rocker chicks alive. The world becomes a less interesting place whenever it loses its diversity.

Compounding this is that Sandi Saraya is "80's-cute," a oddly-specific flavor of attractive. This is bothersome, because she was probably the only person we left out of the Great 80's-Cute Conversation of 2005, which means that we'll have to have it all over again to account for this new finding, and I'll need to take a vacation day for that.

See, one night, back in grad school, my buddy Brian was feeling depressed, because he was in graduate school, and that's kinda what you do there.

"We should go to Uptown," I suggested, because it was Oxford, and that's just what you do in Oxford.
"I don't want to go out," he said. "There's nothing I want out there."
"What do you want then?" I asked.
Brian sighed.
"I want to find someone who's 80's-cute, but they don't make those people anymore," he said.

"80's-cute is kind of a broad term," I said. "What specifically are you looking for? Who is the exemplar of 80's-cute?" I asked.

This lead to a nine-hour, sometimes-screaming debate which spanned the entirety of time, space, and popular culture. No data point (save Sandi Saraya) was left unconsidered. The great irony of all this was that by the time we were able to pin down what he was looking for, we couldn't go out, because it was 7 AM the next morning. There's probably a moral to this story, and that's weird, because it seems like there shouldn't be. The exemplar of 80's-cute turned out to be Kim Wilde, of all people. I know you might disagree with this -- but we've probably already discussed this in lurid detail.

Sandi Saraya was unique among scalding-hot the scalding hot women fronting bands, as she was used primarily as a musician, and not purely as sex object. I could spend a lot of time trying to explain myself, but it's a lot easier if you just experience what I'm getting at. Although Ruchela is going to stab me for sure for using this particular example, watch this:

Aight, now watch this:

Notice how the second video was missing something? The something that made it so great to begin with? Music is a consumer product, bundled with a gimmick to get it to sell. Often the cart is put before the horse, and the gimmick is given priority over the music -- form over function. When this is the case, the music just becomes a necessary evil for a paycheck. When people make music just to make money, it's different than when they make music to make music. You can feel it when the musicians are doing that. It shows, and it's all very Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, but it's there.

When art becomes work, it ceases to be a passion, then what is it? When life become work, and is lacks passion, then what is it?

I'm not saying that Saraya was a troupe of pure artists, or that the music wasn't a product, or that there was no gimmick -- I'm saying that it's apparent that they were deliriously happy to play their songs, record their videos, sell, their albums, and live their lives.

This is why I like it.

Costco.com Will Screw You Over at Every Opportunity.

Well before X-Mas, I purchased a no-frills Lenovo laptop from Costco.com. My sister and I pooled some money together to get a laptop for my mom, as the one she was using for her simple email and word processing needs hailed from 2005, and was not long for the world. It was an amazing deal, and I got exactly what I paid for.

For the sake of convenience, I had it shipped to the house. My sister was going to set the computer up for my mom, so she could enjoy it without having to get rid of the bloatware first. Right out of the box, the computer made a sickening whir, and the hard disk died shortly thereafter. Since my sister fixes laptops for a living, she could have fixed it -- but why should she have too? It was brand-new out of the box, and this wasn’t an “as-is” deal.

Frantically, I purchased another computer, on credit, from Newegg. Then, I bought another for myself,since my current laptop was nearing the end of a long, hard life. The Newegg computers arrived in time, and X-Mas was saved.

After X-Mas, I called Costco.com to return the computer. That’s when I talked to the first customer service rep. We’ll call her Sheila S., because that is actually her real name, and she is awful. I explained the situation with the computer, and how I wanted to generate an RMA and a shipping label. This should be quick and easy, and I know this because you have to constantly RMA things in academic labs.

“Why don’t you just take it back to the store?” asked Sheila, repeatedly. After ten minutes of explaining that I was over 100 miles from the nearest Costco, and would have to drive over mountains, through feet of snow, on black ice, in the worst winter storm in recent memory, she capitulated. My order was processed, and my label was generated. (However, this was a lie.)

Unrelated to this, my new laptop from Newegg was also broken, right out of the box. The speakers were pre-blown, for my inconvenience. I called the manufacturer, ASUS, and they confirmed that my speakers were blown, because they have poor quality control and they manufacture shoddy products. They then offered to repair the speakers.

“What else is wrong with it?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” said their tech-support guy.

“What else is broken on it? I mean, it seems fine, but how do I know other components won’t fail the minute I take it out of the box after repairs?”

“Well, once we fix it, then it should be fine,” said the tech support guy.

“What? Like when it was brand-new?”

“Yeah,” said the tech.

“Brand new means broken, remember? I want a refund. I want nothing to do with your company ever again,” I said, as I added ASUS computers to the ever-expanding list of things I’ve turned my back on.

I call Newegg for to setup another RMA. Their phonelines were overwhelmed, so rather than putting me on hold, their phone tree took my number, and called me back when they were ready. This way, I didn’t have to listen to annoying ads for half an hour. Instead, I played with kitties:

Newegg called me back and I explained my situation, and asked for a refund. I was issued an RMA --no questions asked -- and I received my return label in 10 minutes.

TEN. MINUTES.

Ten minutes after that, Newegg called me back -- just to check that the email went through. Needless to say, I had to tell him how I really felt:

“Yeah, so I didn’t expect this level of customer service, and I will write nice things about you on the internet.”

See, by this time, eight days had past, and I still hadn’t heard back from Costco. So, I wrote back to Sheila, to see what the delay was. The email bounced. No such person exists, spake the mailer-daemon.

So, I called again, and got a new customer service representative to handle my claim. We’ll call him Rob, because his name was Rob, and I want this story to come back and haunt him.

I again, explained my situation, and provided the requested information. Apparently, the serial number did not match the one in their system, so I read it to Rob. Rob promised that I would have my order by the end of the day.

Rob is a liar.

Rob emails me three days later, about a problem with the serial number, which is keeping the system from processing my order.

*     *     *

When I came of age, back in the early 90’s, the abandoned building foundation next to the Kwik-Fill gas station was usually haunted by the Corn Lady. Some days though, there was a white panel van, with two guys standing outside. They showed up maybe once a year. We’ll call them Cheech & Chong, because they kinda were. Cheech & Chong would try to sell me stereo equipment, but I’d never buy any because:

1. I had no fucking money -- at all -- because I was 13. 
2. I would have to lug it three miles back to my house -- because I had no car -- because I was 13. 
3. Even suburban 13 year-olds were wise to the speaker van scam. 

Fast forward 20 years, and it’s all the same only the names have changed -- and every day, they were wasting my time. Now, for purely legal reasons, I cannot directly state that Costco.com is a speaker van scam. However, one must note, that it in every way acts and functions like a speaker van scam. I was made a deal on defective electronics, and “problems with the serial number” artificially lag the return process to greater than 90 days, at which point sales become final -- having the net effect of skipping town.

*    *    *

In the bad old days, before the FTC Do Not Call Registry came to be, telemarketers would call your house pretty much nonstop from 5-8 PM each night, because most people are home then, eating dinner. However, my dad did not want to switch long distance carriers, apply for credit cards, or make charitable donations when eating. He preferred to eat.

So, he developed a series of techniques, tricks, and tools to deal with unruly salesmen and customer service runaround. I watched and learned. My father passed away before he could see me graduate from graduate school -- but I achieved that feat twice only because of his methods, which allowed me to circumvent any and all red-tape and runaround that academic bureaucracy could ever throw at me. My father was not a process-oriented person, and he left no notes, for it was very ad hoc. So it isn’t a system per se, but maybe I’ll codify it someday and write a how-to. In the meantime, the following three-step process will get you started:

1. Obtain a copy of Dale Carnegie’s seminal classic, How to Win Friends and Influence People. It is very famous; so your local public library or quirky used book store will have one or more copies. 
2. Study all of the methods and approaches Carnegie lists. 
3. Do none of those things. 

Laugh, but this shit works. I’ve seen my dad get credit card companies to charge him the rates he wanted, and not versa-vice. Once, he called a phone company to tell them he was breaching his contract -- straight-up breaching his contract -- and that he would never pay them -- and they walked away. I know this because I asked him about every few months.

I have only kind and warm memories of my father -- because I was not a salesman.

*    *    *

After finishing by conversation with Rob, I sat at the kitchen table, trying to collect myself. Once I collected all of my anger, I called Costco returns for a third time, and explained everything again, speaking slowly, and clearly, with a one second pause after every three or four words.

It turned out to be one of those very special days in the life of a boy -- the day you become your father.

“Hello, this is --”

“What is your name?”

“[REDACTED].”

“What is your extension number?”

“[REDACTED], why?”

“So you cannot escape me,” I said. “I will speak. You will listen. When I have completed, you will speak. I will not be interrupted. I was sold a computer. The hard disk failed. Returning the computer to the store is impossible, as the nearest Costco is over 100 miles away, in a deadly snowstorm. I will receive a shipping label. I will receive it today. I have placed a request twice already. It has been in your system for over three weeks. Your competitors complete the same task in ten minutes. This is beyond incompetence, and it appears that your company is intentionally dragging the process out, to finalize the sale of defective merchandise. There is no way to tell how your company is any better, worse, or different from a speaker van scam. As such, this constitutes theft by deception. This is a crime. I will call the police.

In addition, I will write an article about this experience, and I will post it to the internet. I realize that your company will threaten me with legal action for doing so. However, this will not constitute the tort of defamation, because it is all true. Even if I am sued, I will still publish. I will gladly destroy my life, and all that I have earned and worked for, just to cause your company a small amount of harm.

The serial number is [REDACTED]. Do not say I have not provided you with the correct serial number. I have just done so, for the fourth time. The serial number in your system does not match this. Your system is wrong. You must correct your records. I have taken photos to prove that I am correct, to prove my case in future legal action. The incorrect serial numbers is no longer a valid excuse. My refund will be processed, today. My packing slip will be emailed to me, today. If this is done, I will still write negatively about you, but I will not call the police.”

“Sir, I’m sorry tha--”

“Do not apologize. Apologies waste my time. Too much of my time has been wasted. Time spent groveling is time not spent processing the label. I know your forms, template and manuals tell you to make groveling apologies -- but they are wrong.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, as she typed.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“Who is your manager? What is his extension?”

“[REDACTED], would you like to speak to him?”

“No, I’ve wasted enough of my time. Inform him that I have called, and inform him of the issue.”

“It looks like he has already been tagged on this issue,” she said.

“Tell him that I will receive my shipping label today. Tell him that I am holding him personally responsible. I will receive my label today, or I will call the police, and I will mention him -- not you -- by name.”

“I… will do that!” she said with a smile. It was over the phone, but I could tell she was smiling from her tonality.

Then I hung up.

BOOM. Same-day service -- just like I should have had. I’m glad this whole debacle happened to me, because I knew I could handle it, and act appropriately. Still I worry that there are others who could be intimidated into silence by the run-around of a corporate juggernaut. I implore people to purchase electronics elsewhere.

I am not endorsed in anyway by Newegg, but they are staffed by mensch. This was not the first time I was wildly pleased with their customer service. My mom’s computer from Newegg was fine, and she loves it.

Also, to demonstrate that I am not a paper tiger, I have sent a copy of this link to the Costco.com returns department. I will keep you posted.

Hello, I’m Ryan Coons.

Hello, I’m Ryan Coons.

Once upon a time, I ran another blog, called SuperFunAdventureTime. (The thought being, if it sounded like a breakfast cereal, people would go there.) I associate with number of funny and creative people, and I figured that by pooling our talent and leisure time, we could pump out awesomesauce entertainment at a constant rate.

However, it failed -- but not for a lack of trying.  For one, life happened, and each of us became bogged down with some linear combination of fatherhood and/or graduate school, which proved to be a timesink. The real nail in the coffin though, is that my vision was unsustainable -- there just isn't enough funny or awesome shit that happening to us to maintain any sort of regular publication schedule. Between the two, we wound up letting the blog fall by the wayside. I later abandoned blogging entirely, and began work on manuscripts for novels and a series of martial arts how-to books

Several years later, I moved across the country, to San Diego, only to lose my mind. After 11.5 years in academia, I find myself institutionalized, and unable to function outside of it. I sought professional help for this. Now, I’m not sure that I can be helped, as in I’m not sure that help even exists. All I can find are palliatives, which treat the symptoms and not the disease -- after all, if I could be helped, then I’d quit searching -- and then no one could sell me things.

I realize that I’m living under a new structure, and a new set of rules. I was gently lead to along a line of thinking which would get me to rethink the way I viewed the world -- and towards ways to help me cope with my new lifestyle, and about my new surroundings.

While I agree that I’m playing under a new set of rules, rules are only suggestions, which are only to be followed when it proves convenient to do so.

I don’t want to cope -- I want to conquer. Coping cannot cure; coping is the cause. If I have to live and abide by the rules and social conventions prevalent of outside of the academy, then happiness is impossible, because the supposed cure would just make me more depressed.

Yet, the fun learning/discovering/growing part of life is over it seems, and everyone has turned into the people they were going to be. I can’t relate to most people, because my goals aren't even remotely like those of normal people. Most people’s goals are along the lines of “finally get around to planting a garden,” while my goal list contains elements such as “get into a fistfight atop a moving locomotive.” I can’t connect with most people, because I find them boring. I don’t get out much now -- and for a while I thought that was something wrong -- but then I remembered that the things I enjoy all tend to be solitary activities. My new life offers me few people to confide in -- but I also find myself with less of a reason to confide.

                It’s a bleak feeling, but it’s not that I feel that I have nothing to life for -- it’s that I have nothing to live against.  I can stand being alone, but I can’t stand being boring. Without a venue for mischief and agonism, my life can only be endured, not enjoyed. Although I’d like to be the Champion of justice and the Purveyor of Truth -- for the time being, I am a man of low rank and large obligations, struggling to survive in a society which is set up to endorse and protect its monsters.

This seems depressing -- but really, it is the opposite. Since I have nothing, I have nothing to lose, nothing to take! Threats of legal actions are all jokes at this point. No, seriously -- my only real property is a smashed-up Toyota Yaris, a laptop computer, and a large number of used books.  What stops me from calling punks and bitches out, publicly, by name? Nothing. I am now free of legal or financial consequences, because weaknesses are also strengths. Likewise, there are no ethical or moral consequences to calling people out, because calling people publicly out is intrinsically noble and just, and is the correct and appropriate course of action in any and all cases.

Unlike my previous web venture, this will be a one-man show, and I’m not here to make you laugh (…though I’m sure I still will). I will not guarantee regular posting, because I care more about quality than quantity -- Prodesse Quam Conspici.

I’m here to write for writing’s sake. I want to refine my writing skill, so I must practice more. I want to develop and refine my own philosophical system, because I don’t feel as though any of the off-the-rack philosophies fit me quite right. I want to call people out, because I can. I’m tired of consuming; I want to produce.