I don’t resort to just posting videos from YouTube very often, but I was made aware of this old TV commercial for Tab in a loosely-related story on NPR, and, well, it is too good/horrible not to call attention to.

Wasn’t this from what Mad Men would have us believe was a golden era of advertising? I mean, they’ve got the sexism down, but the concept, the copy-writing, the jingle-composition and performance, the acting, the cinematography…all of these are laughably bad, no?

It was somewhere between my stint in 2nd grade and my stint in 5th. The rest of my TrapperKeeper memories, however, are extremely vivid: They came on the scene during the middle of a school year. They began to catch my eye more and more often. Eventually, I began to beg my parents to buy me one. They refused to do so, as I was already set up with a large three-ring binder and a spiral notebook for the year (the mere fact that they thought that some binder and some notebook and a brand-named Mead TrapperKeeper were the same thing is, of course, laughable). Being Keeper-less, I developed strong feelings of jealousy towards my classmates and feelings of inadequacy as a scholar. When the back-to-school-shopping for the next year commenced, I again begged for a TrapperKeeper and, this time, was allowed to get one! I opted for the cover with a red automobile that was probably based on, but was not exactly, a Lamborghini Testarossa, with some palm trees in the background and possibly some neon lines scribed over the front of the scene. I’m pretty sure that owning something with that image on it is the reason that I am the full-grown, virile American male I am today. (Just as the Sparkly Lisa Frank Unicorn counterpart could very well be responsible for many of today’s virtuous, God-fearing women.) Being on time for a trend for once, I came to school with a TrapperKeeper during what was the Year of the TrapperKeeper. We all spent a ridiculous amount of time on our TrapperKeepers. Who had what design? Who had what pocket folder? Whose cheap plastic notepad clip or push-rod binder rings had already broken? Kids came up with what I guess they’d now call TrapperKeeper “hacks.” These included hole-punching and adding an extra folder. And storing pencils by weaving them through the weird flexible mesh storage flap. And giving their sportscar or unicorn sunglasses and a mustache with a ballpoint pen. Was it worth sacrificing the integrity of the TrapperKeeper for such pimpery? Such decisions! God, what a time to be alive!

Then came the inevitable crack-down. They were such attention-diverters that they made a rule that ’Keepers had to be stowed in our lift-top desks, or at the very least, on the metal cross-brace under our chairs when teaching was occurring. We could handle them just long enough to remove a worksheet or piece of paper at the beginning of the lesson.

I suppose the whole reason I am thinking about TrapperKeepers is, this semester, I went back to school!

Sort of.

Ok, what I’ve really done is finally taken advantage of the tuition waiver I get as a university employee and enrolled in one undergraduate-level class, outside of my normal work hours, as a non-degree student. Still: back to school!

As I was getting ready for the first day of class, and trying to determine what to retrieve from my bag for note-taking, appearing prepared and studious, etc. all I could imagine producing was a brand-named Mead TrapperKeeper. The reasons for this are many and varied:

1. The Mead TrapperKeeper is the last specific school supply I remember using. (I must have gotten by by scribbling things on pre-used notebooks and the backs of matchbooks for the last six years of my academic career.)

2. I have completely forgotten what the lecture environment is like and what it requires of the pupil. (The last time I was in a proper classroom was in 2001, when I took the last of my general-ed requirements for picture-making school).

3. Given that it’s been a while since I’ve been one, I have no idea what today’s student is packing. (I hear something called a “lapped-top” is big right now.)

The class I’m taking is Introduction to Permaculture. Permaculture is an ecologically-minded design-discipline. It is aimed, among other things, at getting humans to reduce the amount of non-renewable and manufactured materials we use. So, even though my friend Megan informs me that TrapperKeepers are still/once-again alive and kicking, I’m doing my best to resist the cheap, plastic temptation.

• 1920×1200 (works at 1920×1200, 1680×1050, 1440×900, and 1280×800)
• 1920×1080 (works at 1920×1080, 1600×900, and 1280×720)
• 1600×1200 (works at 1600×1200 and 1024×768)
• 320×480 (works on the iPhone and iPod Touch)

• 1920×1200 (works at 1920×1200, 1680×1050, 1440×900, and 1280×800)
• 1920×1080 (works at 1920×1080, 1600×900, and 1280×720)
• 1600×1200 (works at 1600×1200 and 1024×768)
• 320×480 (works on the iPhone and iPod Touch)

I was excited as the strange (and all-too-rare) hybrid of memoir and how-to manual is my exact favorite thing to read. Hammer. Nail. Wood. turned out to be neither of these. Rather, it was a collection of disjointed, experimentally-written anecdotes, some of which were totally incomprehensible and many of which were only loosely based on the process of building. It was insufferable and disappointing and for a day or two I could not put it down. I have yet to read the entire book and I probably never will, but I will always own a copy of it — and this is especially because of pages 8–9:

“Life is a constant struggle between those who never do anything because they want it to be perfect, and they are such perfectionists that they realize the futility of their quest…and those who rush ahead in blind fury and do everything, simply everything, and it is not perfect, it is never perfect. It is only the agonized mind that makes a thing close to perfection because the agonized mind holds these two opposing views at the same time. It will never get done. It will always get done. Never. Always.”

I’ve often felt that, to accomplish anything of significance, I’ve had to simultaneously deny myself two (vastly different) things that I desperately want. This can feel kind of terrible when things are in progress, yet nine times out of 10, it’s been worth it in the end.

I’ve sometimes wondered if it was that way for other people. Whoever this Thomas Glynn dude is (I haven’t been able to find any further information on him), I know he knows what’s up.

I kid. Thursday, April 22nd came and went with scarcely a hint that there was any unusual significance there. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve had two solid years of simultaneous home-ownership, financial woes, and hair loss now? Whatever the reason, I long ago understood, and became ok with, the fact that I am a grown-up. Therefore: I might as well be 30.

There was but one occurrence that made me ponder this new stage in my life. This is most certainly going to plunge us into the realm of “too much information” but we are going there because I am now an old man and you will listen to me talk about my body in all its disgusting detail! Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

(Deep breath) here we go: you know those flappy, semi-wartish-type things that predominantly 50-plus folks get, mostly on their eyelids? The Monday after my birthday, I discovered that I’d grown one of those…in an extremely private place. Specifically, in a relatively-easily-accessible and forward-facing sector of an extremely private place, that would be virtually impossible for me not to glance at every single time I went to the bathroom.

My initial reaction, upon determining what was going on, was surprise. I had no idea those sprang up down there as you started to age, but then again, how widely-available would knowledge of such an intrinsically gross nature be? Then there was a brief period of acknowledgment that, wow, turning 30 really did mean that I was getting old. Then it was time to determine what to do about it. Haven’t we all wanted, at one time or another, to hone in on an elderly person’s eyelids and just de-tab them, with a pair of nail clippers, once and for all? Taking into account where this particular tab was, how long would you assume that I weighed that option? If your guess was over 1.5 seconds you are not, and have never been, male. In contrast, I chose a solution that was uber-male: I chose to believe that my disfigurement was temporary and that it would quickly go away on its own.

Four days later everything looked exactly the same and I had had it. I had to bring in a third-party and, being married, the third party to call on was obvious. Bringing in someone who you are presumably monogamous with to examine strange growths on the body part in question is a delicate matter. You must trust that person to trust you. And you must trust that the person trusts your trust in them. And you must have a powerful flashlight. LEDs are the way to go.

Here, devoid of any color commentary, is the conversation Steph and I had when I broke down and had her take a look:

Me: (Ahem) Ok…so…check this out! I promise that nothing out of the ordinary has been going on! I just turned 30 and bam! I am old enough to have a disgusting flappy-mole here!

Steph: Um…that is a weird color for one of those to be. I do not think that is what that is.

Me: Sure it is! Sometimes they are weird colors.

Steph : Hold on. (Coming back with the flashlight.) Your weird colored-mole is hiding some legs from you. Yep, that’s a tick. Hold on. (Coming back with tweezers.) There, it’s gone.

So yeah, it was a tick. I’ve had ticks before, just never ones that looked as much like a common-skin-growth as him and never there, so he caught me off-guard. And to his credit, he was causing no pain or irritation, and he couldn’t have picked a better time to climb aboard. Of course, he came off really easy, so I’m not sure if he was even properly attached…. Honestly, I’m kind of confused about what to think about it all.

Anyway, in conclusion:

1.) If you spend a lot of time outdoors, just assume anything on your body that you can’t identify is a tick.

2.) I am thankful that “burning them off with a lighter” is no longer the preferred method of tick-extraction.

3.) One of the less-frequently-mentioned upsides to being married: free awkward anatomical examinations.

And finally:

Maybe sometimes our troubles really aren’t just that we’re getting old.

’Til I’ve got something interesting to say here, please check out: http://www.farmerbobcomics.com/

Now that we’ve got that out of the way: I eat at Chick-Fil-A all the time. I love it. I especially love their trademark condiment/slice of heaven, “Polynesian Sauce.” Every single thing they serve there can be slathered with Polynesian Sauce and it will only taste better — the fries, the wraps, the salads, the paper liner on the tray.

And they know they’ve got a good thing going on there. You know they know. They must. What I’d like to know is: why are they stingy, old misers when it comes to giving it out?

While the ketchup, the mustard, and the mayonnaise are widely available, next to the napkins and the straws, you have to ask your cashier for Polynesian Sauce. They keep it in some mysterious nook under the counter, as if it’s produced by specially-trained artisans who are crouching behind the deep fat fryers carefully combining rare ingredients before lovingly placing their creation into those little packets and hermetically-sealing them one-by-one, and who knows how much longer these masters will be around, practicing their craft? And therefore this sauce must be hidden from the world and then rationed out shrewdly. Yes, when a customer asks for “some Polynesian sauce” — with a look on his face not unlike the look a jonesing crack addict gives his dealer — we must hand him but one packet!

That’s right! If you’re lucky they hand you two, but that’s still ludicrous! Crack dealer, Chick-Fil-A cashier, we both know the deal with Polynesian Sauce: 1) it is delicious and 2) my order entitles me to an unlimited quantity of it, free of charge. I ordered the number one and I would like to proceed to my table and drizzle everything with a drippy, gooey, 1/2″ thick layer of tangy gel that will saturate the bun of my sandwich so thoroughly that I will barely be able to pick it up without it sliding out of my hands which, incidentally, I will need 50 napkins to keep clean during the course of the meal.

I suppose I am only complaining because I will no longer just straight-up ask for more sauce.

This is because, as that description I just gave probably conveys, when someone is a fanatic about a particular type of sauce and they get a hold of a large amount of it, it turns their dining process into a borderline-disgusting spectacle. I can’t be that guy anymore. I mean, I most certainly still am that guy, but I don’t want the Chick-Fil-A person to know.

Also, the process of getting more P-sauce just never seemed to go smoothly. After I’d receive my meal and make an initial request for sauce, harried cashiers would often toss a packet on the counter in front of me, and then immediately scamper off to tend to the fries or whatever, meaning I’d have to flag down another employee to get some more. Then there are some Chick-Fil-As (usually the ones in or around college campuses, where the clientele will come in droves, devouring any food item they can get their hands on and making a huge mess in the process) that just refuse to give out more than one packet of sauce. Or, there were times when the person behind the register would ask me how many additional packets I wanted and I would say “three” and they would look at me, utterly shocked, and announce “Three!?!” so loud that everyone around could hear. The very last time I simply requested more sauce I had an inexplicable feeling that there was going to be a full-blown “incident.” Perhaps something like:

Cashier: “More Polynesian Sauce? Sure. How many packets? Three!?! Um…alright. [Under her breath:] What is he gonna do with that much sauce? [Talking to me again:] Oh, I don’t have that many up here. Hold on, I’ll have to ask my manager to get some from the back.” [Yelling over to her manager, who is busy at another register:] “Alice! Hey Alice! I need more Polynesian Sauce up here. I got a customer who wants four packets. It’s wiped my supply out.”

Manager: “Four!?! Who in the world uses four packets of sauce?”

Cashier (shrugging): “It’s what this guy wants.”

Manager: “Sigh. Well, sit tight a minute, I’ll have to go get the key to the sauce room from my office. [To the crowd behind me in line:] Sorry everyone, we’re going to have to cease transactions at both registers until we get this guy’s sauce needs straightened out.”

Crowd (somehow transformed into an angry mob with pitchforks and torches): “Kill the sauce-hog!”

So I’m done with it.

It’s enough to make me just quit cold-turkey (cold-chicken?) and stay away from that restaurant and its confounding condiment etiquette forever. There are reasons not to do that though. For one, even though she doesn’t like Polynesian Sauce, my wife’s affection for the food at Chick-Fil-A dwarfs my own. Also, seeing as how I am rarely at Chick-Fil-A without Steph, I’ve devised a way to get a little extra Poly-Juice, on the sneak. What I do is I frantically beg Steph to ask for sauce too. She doesn’t seem to understand why she has to do this, but she’ll usually humor me.

“Wait,” you are thinking “you just said Steph didn’t like Polynesian Sauce.”

My dear reader, Steph’s sauce is not for her at all, but also for me! I am certain to get at least two packets! See what I did there!?!

Just please don’t let them know what I am up to. These people clearly have some really weird hang-ups about this sauce.