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.

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.

“…and then once we got there I had to deal with my mother-in-law. She has never been anything but kind to me and I enjoy her company immensely. Who’s with me…?”

“A few weeks later, my wife drags me to this big-budget Hollywood tear-jerker. I swear, this thing was so cliche. I had already seen the story, like, 100 times before! Let me tell you…over the centuries, humankind has parsed the basic plotlines it will tolerate as entertainment down to no more than five. Therefore, once you’ve seen a handful of movies, every narrative you encounter thereafter should seem vaguely familiar to you. And any production that receives the backing necessary to make it to the big screen, involves one or two decent actors, and has passable set design and editing…well, it automatically deserves some amount of respect, doesn’t it?”

“So, by the end of this movie, my wife was crying yet I was unaffected. Her reaction, which was like that of many females in the theater, made perfect sense to me. You see, there are evolutionary factors at work that make her more emotionally-responsive and therefore more suited to be the main nurturing-figure in a family unit. Thus I respected her reaction and did my best to comfort her. You know what I’m-talkin’-about!”

“Have you ever noticed how cars work really well most of the time? And how making minor repairs to one is not that difficult?”

“So how many people of people of African-American descent do I have here tonight? Man, I bet your life is all like: go to work, do a job, earn an income, go home, possibly interact with friends or family, then engage in some sort of personal recreation. What I am trying to say is: deep down, I feel we are all quite similar, as people. Amiright…?”

“And what’s the deal with this airline food? The airlines have established a way of efficiently providing 500 people with hot meals that they would otherwise miss, were the plane they were riding through the stratosphere at 550 mph not populated with flight attendants and a kitchenette. That is pretty amazing if you ask me.”

I honestly had trouble paying attention because, before the feature, they showed a trailer for what was clearly a motion picture of a higher-caliber. I am speaking, of course, of a little upcoming sliver of cinematic gold called Beverly Hills Chihuahua. How could they expect us to sit through some flawlessy-animated, heartfelt story after they show us a concept as brilliant as funny-looking dogs dressed up in silly outfits, dancing and singing like people?!?

I’ve got a really good feeling about this one, guys.

• Ray jumps, kills boater off Florida Keys
• ‘Crocodile Hunter’ Steve Irwin killed by stingray
• Sting Ray Seriously Injures Florida Man

I’d been on earth 26 years without hearing of a single instance of ray-related mayhem, then, in the last year-and-a-half, there are three. What is going on?

Steph and I were discussing the situation a few days ago and, at almost the same time, we name-dropped a little piece of juvenile literature known as The Black Pearl. Perhaps you remember it? We both had to read it for middle school English. In one of those tender moments that only brings a couple closer, we confessed to each other that we both had a gut-wrenching fear of manta rays, and that it was all because of this book.

Neither of us could even recall anything about the novel’s (human) characters or plot. All we had was that the cover looked like this:

Sorry, this is such a low-quality image, but it’s the only reproduction I could find. Evidently they’ve changed the “standard” cover to this:

I doubt if any of today’s adolescents are going to remember this super-lame image 16 years laters. Of course, I could see how — ya know, theoretically — the old cover might have caused a certain cross-section of the 11-year-old population with very active imaginations to wake up screaming at 4 am every night. The publisher probably gave in to pressure from frustrated parents, who were tired of repeating to their worried children that “giant rays are not out there attacking people who dare to enter the water.”

And not a moment too soon, ’cause what in the world would they tell them now?

I think I’m going to call this mix Phases of the Tune. Or possibly Moon Rocks.

“As you may know, Vinnie has made paying your gambling debts easier than ever. All you had to do was put the money in an envelope and drop it by any of our many, easy-to-locate bookies, during normal business hours. It’s easy.

“The only other thing you had to remember was to drop off your money within the specified amount of time Vinnie gave you and with the proper amount of interest included. It seems you’ve failed to do that though, so now I’m going to use some intimidation.

With intimidation, I can get Vinnie the money he’s owed more easily than ever. Let’s take a look at some of intimidation’s innovative features.

“Before starting intimidation it’s a good idea to drink a few martinis in a seedy bar, as I’ve done tonight. Martinis will give you the edge you need to use intimidation to it’s fullest potential. In fact, drinking martinis and then using intimidation works great not only for collecting money, but also for hijacking, racketeering, even extortion.

“I’m going to use a specific piece of hardware for intimidation tonight, called “a crowbar.” A crowbar integrates seamlessly with intimidation, allowing me to break things like your ribs, arms, and ankles and send the message that if you don’t cough it up soon you’ll receive further bodily harm. Here, I’ll show you how.

“There. That sensation was your kneecap shattering into a hundred pieces. Vinnie has always insisted on using things like a crowbar. They really work. Now, as you’re down on the ground writhing in pain, I’ll be punching you in the nose. Punching you in the nose is a great thing to try out when you’re using intimidation. It’s a time when all these gold rings that working for Vinnie has allowed me to buy really come in handy. Punching you in the nose might break it, or it might just bleed a lot. Either way, it’s going to hurt. That’s what’s so great about punching you in the nose.

“As you can see, you’ve gotten a stunning amount of blood on the windbreaker I’m wearing. (The windbreaker is the preferred jacket for many rank-and-file members of organized crime syndicates.) Just for that, I’m going to kick you in the stomach a few times with these alligator shoes.

“Now I’m simply going to tell you I’ll be back to collect Vinnie’s money soon. Some mobsters out there give you very limited amounts of time to do this. We don’t. Vinnie is providing you with a stunning, easy-to-remember two-day window in which to find the dough.

“So that’s how I’m going to get Vinnie his money back, in a nutshell. Remember, you can always check that back alley behind the social club downtown for more information on any of Vinnie’s preferred methods for collecting money, or any of the other great services Vinnie has to offer. Thanks.”

Probably because Steph and I’s friend and neighbor Thurston got the game Rock Band for his Xbox for Christmas, and Steph and I have been over there at least once a week playing the crap out of it. He, his wife Bliss, Steph, and I have switched around on all the instruments many times, and discussed the finer points of all of the different songs at great length. We’ve all not only created virtual game-versions of ourselves that look like us, but we’ve started going on pretend world tours, where, not to toot my own simulated horn, but the fake crowds just keep getting bigger and bigger. We’ve had such fictional success lately that we now get to treat ourselves to regular faux shopping sprees with our phony money, buying ourselves crazy farcical clothing and getting our imaginary hair styled in outrageous manners.

Perhaps this is why I have rock stars on the brain.

Or maybe it’s because Thurston has recently taken it upon himself to introduce me to a certain type of band that came into being shortly after Black Sabbath reached acclaim, and that is still around today. I didn’t acquaint myself with most of these particular groups in junior high or high school — which is the most popular time for this to happen — and now I guess I’m making up for lost time. If I had to describe the music these bands make in one word, it would be “metal.” The great majority of the records Thurston has given me feature songs about wizards, famous ancient battles, space travel, and Norse mythology. In each case, the outlandishness is taken a step further with the cover artwork, choice of font, and photos of a fully-costumed band, in the liner layout, whole-heartedly supporting the music’s theme(s). Not all of these groups qualify as “rock stars,” but this kind of almost delusional cookyness is a definite cornerstone of rock stardom.

With the exception of Bruce Springsteen (who I think made strides to appear even more blue-collar and normal than he was) and maybe Billy Joel (who’s never seemed to do anything but show up in a suit and play the piano), performing in arenas that hold 10s of thousands of people/becoming a celebrity that everyone wants to interview, and fabricating a mind-boggling bizarre new persona for yourself, seem to go hand-in-hand. Think about all the famous singers or musicians who, once they made enough dough, started buying things like broadswords or residences where the scariest, most unsolvable murders in history have occurred. I guess when I say I’ve found myself thinking about “rock stars” a lot lately I mean I’m thinking about the truly special ones who’ve gone totally weird for the sake weird and are always wearing make-up and Victorian gowns (even though they are dudes) and spending ludicrous amounts of money making trippy and/or disturbing and/or incomprehensible music videos (or even better, full-length feature films).

What I’ve been wondering about, specifically, is what a normal day at home, when they’re not touring or being photographed or filmed or attending the music video awards, is like for these people?

At some point, I have to imagine, Marilyn Manson has been chilling by himself in his foreboding chateau, in his fishnets and thigh-high leather boots, on his living room chair made of skulls, and he’s really just wanted a plain old peanut butter sandwich on white bread. (You know it’s happened. Even he was a kid at once.) What if he’s out of peanut butter? But he really wants this sandwich? I suppose he has a personal assistant who gets these kind of things for him, so he doesn’t have to leave the house and he can stay home in the pain and darkness. If so, let’s say that person is sick this day. Now, Marilyn Manson’s either got to live without a peanut butter sandwich — something he really wants, that is easily attainable by basically every schmuck in America — or he can put on his top hat and black trench coat and get in his replica of the car from The Addams Family and go to the grocery store where he will push a shiny metal cart around and wait in line behind soccer moms purchasing frozen pizzas and supersized bags of Doritos, and Nascar fans hauling around cases of Bud. And that activity, no matter how you look at it, is just not something that occurs in a twisted gothic dreamworld.

Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie probably had to go to the dentist at some point, right?

Surely Alice Cooper has had to have a Roto-Rooter guy over his house to look at his plumbing before.

When these people who’ve worked so hard to cultivate an image that’s avant-garde and perverse, have to do mundane, everyday stuff, do they drop the act for a while?

If not, I guess it’s:

Interior designer: “So, Mr. & Mrs. Dio, do you see a carpet pattern you’re happy with?”

Ronnie James (in a Lord of the Rings-style outfit, getting up from the couch and assuming front man stance): “The winds of Loro are howling in ni-iiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!”

Interior designer: (Packing up things and leaving.)

Of course, if they do — if they put on jeans and go to the occasional ball game — isn’t that an admission on their part that the eyeliner and feather boa business is kind of silly? That when they don it, they’re nothing more than grown-ups who still play make-believe?

Which scenario best expresses what we expect of our rock stars?

I know I’ve got my answer.

For now though, I just use my bike to commute to work. I got a 9-speed, bright blue Schwinn cyclocross bike. “Cyclocross” models, I now understand, are very posh and pricey. The only reason I purchased one is the bike store had it refurbished and it was on sale for half-off. Even then, it was more than I imagined a bike would cost, so I guess I should have known.

So, yeah, this bike is really nice. Like really nice. I actually feel guilty for owning it. You will develop an acute sense of how little I deserve this thing as you continue reading.

The last time I paid any attention to bicycles, I was in middle school. At that period, the 10-speed mountain bike was enjoying its rise to popularity and I was a boy possessed. Walmart had a model called the “Stone Mountain” by Huffy and I would make a “b.”-line for sporting goods each time we visited, and wile away the hours while the rest of my family was shopping, coveting it. The frame was a gray, stone-washed finish and the water bottle, bike bag, and brake and shifter cables were all neon green. It was, in my mind, at that time (which, keep in mind, was the early 90s), the absolute coolest means of transportation that would ever exist. Over multiple visits, it became clear to me that, being a pre-teen, I needed this pre-teen Huffy. My one-speed, brake by pedaling backwards, foam-pad with a fabric cover around the little bar between the handlebars type Huffy was a child’s Huffy…. When did these other bike companies come into existence, by the way? Last I remember there was just Huffy, and Huffys, it was widely-known, were awesome. These days you go into a bike store, ask to see the Huffys, and the employees shake their heads in disbelief. It’s all “Cannondales” and “Treks” and “Novaras” now. What’s up with that?

Ok, in case you can’t tell, there have been some changes since I was in the saddle regularly.

Some of them are good, I’ll admit. On multi-speed bikes, gears actually seem to change now. Smoothly and quickly, at that. I remember, after my parents finally bought me that Stone Mountain for Christmas, having to monkey with ol’ Stoney’s stiff, finicky thumb-shifters, actually trying to produce that horrible crunching noise, because at least that meant a change of some sort was occurring. There was no discernable difference in pedaling, from one shifter position to the the other. I was quite excited to find this is not the case anymore, and told the bike salesmen as much. (More shaking of their heads in disbelief.) And these newfangled gear shifters! My new bike has road-bike-style handlebars, which I’ve always identified as being scary as crap to use, as the levers are located down on the frame, requiring you to take your eyes off the road and to remove a hand from the handlebars to shift. They’ve solved this problem with these combination brake-lever/shifter mechanisms. I was skeptical at first, but they function quite well. The other problem with road bikes: those skinny tires that wobble on anything but the smoothest asphalt. The cyclocross has “hybrid” tires that are wider and knobbier and handle even gravel with ease.

Some new developments in biking though, I must say, I don’t get. The pedals that came with my bike are the clip-in type, that, in combination with special shoes, lock your feet to the pedals so they will only come off via a very specific, unintuitive movement of your foot. I understand, from some vaguely cultish salespeople and fellow customers who approached me when they saw me checking these shoes out, that once you get used to them you realize you’re getting a “fuller leg workout” and you just “fall in love with them.” Not the only “falling” that’s involved, I’m sure. You must topple over at least occasionally while using these. And the special shoes start at $70 a pair. I bought a $10 pair of plain platforms and put them on my bike, instead. Also, whatever happened to just being able to slap one of those big red, T-shaped bike pumps with a wooden handle on your tires and inflate them? The first time I took the valve caps off my bike, I had no idea what was going on. There’s some kind of space-needle in there! “Prestas,” they informed me with much disbelief-related head-shaking.

So yeah, I’m not exactly Lance de France. To my credit though, this was not an impulse buy. I have been riding an old Giant mountain bike around for the past year. (My dad and sister bought it for me at a used bike auction in Chapel Hill a few years ago. They got it for $1. Pretty amazing, considering you can’t take much of anything home for a dollar anymore, and this is a fully intact bike in fine mechanical condition. The deals are out there, if you’re willing to look!) This Giant was probably made around the same time my Stone Mountain was though, and, aside from quick-releases on the wheels, it’s lacking in any of biking’s nicer amenities. The rough gear-shifting and the body that is made of steel tubing that must be filled with cement for stability, just weren’t cutting it here in the foothills. It’s so bulky and heavy that I have trouble getting it up and down the stairs of our apartment building, much less powering it up an incline.

After biking to work, church, and a few other locations a handful of times, I convinced myself that if I had something better I’d ride more…. We’ll see how this works out.

I think an additional factor that will keep me motivated, is that biking is getting quite popular — at least it is in Raleigh. You can hardly glance out your window right now without seeing a cyclist or two go by. And it’s not just weekend warriors in $400 skin-tight designer bikewear who, one imagines, go home and fire up their Ford Expeditions when they need to run to the grocery store. It’s also hipsters in $400 skin-tight jeans who, instead of firing up their 10-year-old Nissan Sentras that their parents gave them, are getting on their bikes when they need to run to the grocery store. I feel this area is becoming more bike-oriented.

Which is not to say riding in Raleigh isn’t without peril. This is the south, and there are certain cross-sections of humanity here — mostly those capable of feeling physical lust toward lifted mud-caked pick-up trucks with deer-hunting decals on them — that think it is funny to harass people on bicycles. And even if these obstacles did not exist, pedaling along while a stream of 800-lb. behemoths lurch past, inches away from you, is still pretty awkward.

Riding on the street has been the biggest adjustment for me. When I was little, we hopped on the Huffs, took off, and, as soon as we got to a street with actual cars on it, we headed for the sidewalk. Technically, that wasn’t where we were supposed to be, but pedestrians never minded. They’d smile at us and stop to let us by. We were safe and warm up there, insulated from danger. It was a good life. But I can’t really do that anymore. I’m a growed-ass man.

There is one thing that has stayed the same about cycling, though. When you’re zipping along, propelling yourself with your own two legs, the wind in your face, it’s just as exhilarating as it was back in the day. I’ll give it that.

Now if you’ll excuse me, grandpa has to go lie down.