There's something about gratitude that really stuck out to me this Thanksgiving. I guess that's to be expected from (arguably) the best year of one's life. That's right, folks. This time last year I was hopelessly unemployed, mildly heartbroken and holding onto my sanity like the Hang In There Cat. But just like that, life took a turn for the best. I'd like to take some time to reflect on the things I've been most thankful for in the last 365 days. (Reader's Note: I said "things" intentionally. Due to my fear of being too sappy and/or accidentally forgetting to thank somebody, this list will not address specific humans.)
Door Number 3
My Savior
So there I was, salting a drumstick with my tears while sitting at the same dining room table I'd been eating at since the day I was born. Despite my mom's attempt to put my dismal life into perspective with her patented, "at least you're alive," speil, I saw little reason to be thankful on Thanksgiving of 2010. All I had to show for two years of advertising portfolio school was 60K in student loans, a failed relationship, an inbox full of rejection e-mails, an outbox full of unrequited inquiries and a Facebook newsfeed informing me that I was the only copywriter from my quarter who remained unemployed. (It didn't literally say that, but I did the math.) My job hunt got so bad, I found myself eagerly waiting by the phone to schedule my FOURTH Books A Million interview. I shit you not, it takes FOUR F**KING interviews to restock Twilight novels and place porno mags out of the reach of infants and midgets. A week later I received two employment related phone calls. The first was BAM telling me my criminal background check was a success. (Again, I'm being 100% serious. They are 110% serious.) The second was an advertising agency (who will remain unnamed), offering to fly me out for an interview! FINALLY! But the four-leaf-clover wasn't plucked from my butt just yet. While packing my bags for an undisclosed(to you) city, I received a SECOND invitation from a "boutique" agency called Door Number 3. Which brings me to my next acknowledgment...
The City of Austin, Texas
Two of my four vehicles.
You guessed it. Or, maybe you didn't. Either way, I went with the little guy in the "Everything's Bigger" State. However, a salary wasn't my only reason for relocating to a land where the "weird" and the jackalope play. I've adored this city ever since I attended the 2008 SXSW Film Festival. As a matter of fact, Austin was the ONLY city south of Atlanta on my, "I guess I could live here," list. Reason being, THE HEAT! But aside from this summer's record-breaking temperatures, which also set a new standard for my testicular condensation, I have loved discovering this city. From the food trailers and coffee shops I frequent enough to become "a regular," to the homeless man who frequently cheers me on when I pass him on my way to work, I really feel like this city has embraced me. A VERY warm embrace. Speaking of foot-powered transportation...
Bike Tyson
Clear the way when you hear the bell ringing.
What's big, black and sounds kind of effeminate? Mike Tyson, which is why Bike Tyson was the only suitable name for my XL 2011 Specialized Crosstrail Sport with a golden Incredibell attached to the handlebar. Does it sound like I'm describing a car (excluding the bell part)? That's because IT IS my car. After totaling my family's hand-me-down automobile back in Myrtle Beach and discovering the total amount of my outstanding student loans(two more reasons why I hated life back then), I quickly realized car ownership was not in my cards. Luckily, there were THREE bike shops within a square mile of my new digs. One month of bus riding was all it took to put my ass in gear to get some wheels (two, to be exact). As it turns out, the saying, "it's like riding a bike," is a bunch of BS. For me, riding a bike is like cursive handwriting. It took me weeks to regain the skills I first acquired in elementary school. Despite the daily taint stains, the complete lack of sex appeal and one nasty spill that nearly turned me into Christoper Reeves, I have relearned to love this cost-effective means of transportation. It's also the driving force behind my next reason to be appreciative.
Say what you will about the self-righteous internet critics who stifle your restaurant search with their literary voice, Yelp is the most emotionally rewarding writer's circle I have ever been a part of. I'm well aware that most people probably find my judgmental novellas to be needless wastes of space, but those negative assessments are entirely negated every time I find a compliment in my inbox. But extracurricular writing isn't the only vice Yelp enables. It also encourages my culinary cartography. Sadly I've tried more restaurants in my eleven car-less months in Austin than I did in two fully-mobile years in Atlanta. If it weren't for the fostering Yelp community, I'd probably spend my weekends eating home-assembled turkey sandwiches while "starting my first novel starts." Not to mention, this blog would probably be nonexistent. What do Yelp and this blog have in common?
You People
Visual approximation of fan base, not taken to scale.
What do I mean, "you people?" I'm referring to anyone who takes or has taken the time to read one of my rants. Whether it be by accident, intentional support or an irresistible hate, I greatly appreciate every tally you create on my Yelp or blog analytics. A bigger man would write in spite of his audience. I write to delight my audience. So thanks, you people. If it weren't for you, this downtime would have been spent on Hulu or another handy form of streaming video.
There's something about turkey that makes people lazy. To prove my point, I'm going to forego my usual verbose post and leave you with something I co-made back in my Circus days. Shout out to Feathers, who I'd refer to by his real name if I were certain he wants to claim these festive videos. BEHOLD, the Thanksgiving classic you can resist.
The Adventure of Feathers & Gobbles
EPISODE I: On A Hand
EPISODE II: Gobbles Gives Up
EPISODE III: Sneaky Feathers
EPISODE IV: Fowl Play
EPISODE V: Gobbles Is A Goner
EPISODE VI: T-Day
FIN.
Happy Thanksgiving to all (of you who made it through the videos), and to all an early night.
There’s something about pain that’s like nuclear fallout. The initial devastation may disappear within a year, but the lingering effects can remain for decades. Fortunately, I've led a pretty pain-free life (knock on wood). I've never broken a bone (knock on wood), suffered the loss of someone I love (knock on wood) or caught my significant other straddling another dude (knock on wood), or woman (rub magic lamp). Although I just established that I have no reason to complain, I'm going recall a particularly memorable encounter with pain.
They're all gonna laugh at you!
Tears for Years
By: Mark Killian
Once upon a time, my stomach was as round as Peter Griffin's. That time was elementary school, and although I was only eight years old, my appreciation for the opposite sex was accelerated by the Playboy centerfold puzzles I had been assembling since the age of five. (That's a story for another post.) My advanced knowledge of the female anatomy made me leap frog the "cooties" phase and move right on to crushes. I couldn't say the same for my classmates.
One day while climbing the play dome during recess, I decided to strike up a controversial conversation with a fellow classmate. I, being the revolutionary thinker that I was (am?), made the bold assertion that girls do not, in fact, have cooties. I referenced my crush at the time to strengthen my argument. (Her name has been omitted form this story for fear of legal and emotional ramifications.)
No sooner did I mention her, my "friend" dropped through the center of the jungle gym and dashed towards the lady of my desires. His departure was far too fast and unexpected for me to chase after him. Instead, I continued to sit at the top of the steel dome and watch the scene unfold. Although my heart was ambushed by fear, a shred of optimism survived.
"What if she likes me back?" I naively thought.
That little flicker of hope flatlined once I saw her cringe in disgust from 100 yards away. I watched in horror as my classmates sequentially reared back with laughter like fans doing the wave at a hockey game. I could feel my face radiating with embarrassment by the time the torturous game of Telephone returned to my perch.
I quickly began descending the dome in hopes of avoiding the shame I'd face once my "friend" returned. Unfortunately, I couldn't outrun the tears lubricating the bars below. One slippery step sent my husky body plummeting towards the Earth. My fall was broken by a rusty bar that caught me right between the legs. After a painful pause, I began rotating like the second hand of a clock, slamming my forehead against the same rod that was responsible for my tumble. The impact ripped me from the rail and sent me into a double backflip before swan diving into the sandbox below. "She said you're TOO FAT," my "friend" screamed as I struggled to breathe. Once my lungs re-inflated, I noticed a heart-shaped blood splatter in the area where my head had landed. My "friend" (un)intentionally trampled the crimson spot while helping me to my feet. As I stood up I met eyes with the only person on the playground who wasn't basking in my misery, my teacher. "What happened!?" she screamed as my "friend" "chivalrously" dragged me to her. "I don't know, Ms. (Confidential)," he responded. "He just fell." The teacher took me by the hand and led me to the classroom. My "friend" followed suit, continuing to feed on my dismay. When we reached the building my teacher made me go into the bathroom and assess my "situation." My "pee-pee" was unscathed, or so I thought. Several days later I pulled down my Batman undies to find a bruise as dark as the Dark Knight eclipsing my under-developed scrotum, but I'm derailing. Let's get back on track. I returned from the restroom to find my teacher readying a bandage for my forehead while my "friend" embarked on the Oregon Trail. After attending to my flesh wound, the teacher went outside to wrangle the rest of my classmates. I figured my horrific fall would garner some pity points and put an end to the antagonizing, but I grossly underestimated the cruelty of children. "Mark likes (Mystery Girl)!" the class chanted in unison down the hall.
The first student to enter the room was my crushed crush. Even with her head buried in her hands, I could tell she'd been bawling from the tear streaks running down her forearms. "Mark likes (Mystery Girl)!" my "friend" joined in from across the room. "STOP IT!" my teacher screamed at a volume that's guaranteed to quiet a classroom. The entire class went silent for the first time since recess (aside from my crush's incessant whimpering), and remained that way until the bell rang. The following morning I found comfort in the fact that I'm usually the first kid in class. "Usually," being the keyword. On this particular AM I found the classroom door suspiciously closed. I opened it anyways, assuming it was some kind of fluke. "Hold on, Mark," my teacher called out from her desk. "You can come in in a second." As I put my not-so-tiny body into reverse, I caught a glimpse of my crush and two opposite-gendered adults sitting in front of my teacher's desk. I could tell by their shared facial features that an impromptu parent-teacher conference was underway. Shortly after my awkward exit, the door swung open and two irritated parents emerged. The father stopped to glare at me like Clint Eastwood before they made their way down the hall. "You can come in now, Mark," the teacher informed me. I grabbed my book bag and headed towards my seat. Which, coincidentally enough, was right next to my cold-hearted crush. "Actually, Mark, your seat has been changed. You'll be sitting over there now." She said, pointing to the opposite side of the room. I took the eviction notice to heart and walked to my new desk like Charlie Brown. Once there, I crossed my arms and wept into the sleeves of my Pittsburgh Steelers jacket until it was time for the morning announcements. "Quiet down, class," my teacher began. "There's something I need to say before we start our lesson for the day. One of your fellow students was really upset by your teasing yesterday." Finally!? "I think we all owe her a big apology." HER!? "We're sorry (Mystery Girl)!" repeated the lemmings. The teacher carried on as if the situation was under control, but every little brother knows that a forced apology is only valid while an adult is in the room. Once recess rolled around, my peers were ROFLing all over the playground. Although the physical pain from my Humpty Dumpty fall had subsided in a matter of days, the emotional effects of that catastrophe continue to linger. Fast forward to fifth-grade Valentine's Day. I found myself stuck in a bigger version of the same-old class (crush included). When the time came to exchange candy and cards, everyone received a treat from (Mystery Lady) BUT ME! And to make matters worse, she came from the kind of wealth that afforded full-sized candy bars for the entire class. The entire class EXCEPT ME! Fast forward to Junior Prom, when I nearly suffered a stroke while asking my date to the dance even though I was told by several reliable sources that she was guaranteed to say yes. And fast forward to now, when I continue to fear romantic rejection like girls in need of attention fear clowns. By my calculations, the fallout from that dreadful day should be undetectable by my mid-forties.
I'm the ghost. The one on the left, NOT the Klansman on the right.
There's something about costumes that give me the heebie-jeebies. I'm not talking about Scream masks and zombie makeup. I'm talking about the regrets and inadequacies that have plagued me since my youth. You see, as the offspring of two EXTREMELY economical individuals (a.k.a. cheap-asses), my childhood Halloween wardrobe consisted of two options: 1) Whatever my older brother was the previous year (like the ghost from above). 2) A baseball player. (And by "baseball player," I mean I wore the jersey of whatever little league team I was on at the time.) No matter how adamantly I pleaded to be the White Power Ranger (much different from the "WHITE POWER" ranger pictured above), my parents insisted I go door-to-door as a Texas Ranger (and NOT the Chuck Norris kind). Like a home schooled adolescent struggling to socialize as an adult, I continued to wrestle with Halloween costumes over the years.
What does that thing on my hand say? "BUN WARMER!" Get it!? The ladies didn't :(
My first attempt to re-accustom myself to these emotionally painful festivities resulted in even more embarrassment. (Word to the wise, tongue-in-cheek is no way to trick-or-treat.) Armed with limited time and finances, me and my two collegiate roommates scoured our shitty apartment in search of anything we could slut up like a stereotypical coed. (Their identities have been concealed, because unlike me, some people have shame.) Several minutes later, me and my two misguided amigos emerged from our mutual rooms as a Slutty Soccer Ref, a Slutty Dance Dance Revolution Mat and last but not least, A Slutty George Foreman Countertop Oven. As it turns out, only sexy girls have the ability to turn ANYTHING slutty. Our nihilistic humor may have been lost on everyone at the party, but I gained hours of enjoyment from watching the Slutty DDR Mat upskirt the tramps who drunkenly trampled him (physically and emotionally).
I VANT to stop sucking at Halloween costumes.
That traumatic failure left my Halloween spirit dormant until my first quarter of advertising portfolio school in Atlanta, Ga. The combination of an unfamiliar city and the abundance of fresh faces encouraged me to throw together another last-minute outfit and step outside of my comfort zone. Since humor (or at least my humor) had already failed me once, I decided to let pop culture dictate my attire. What was hot in the fall of 2008? VAMPIRES! What was not? Pale dudes who looked like they got punched in the face for wearing a suede blazer. I returned home with an empty cell phone and an emptier bottle of red wine (consumed only by me, unfortunately).
Never Nude = Forever Alone
A year later, I found myself in an all-too-familiar predicament. Once again I was single and desperately seeking a costume that might catch the eye of a slutty nun. Social commentary had failed me once before and pop culture proved to be worthless to me, so what would attempt number three be? I tried to think of something clever. Something simple. Something that showed the ladies what I was working with. Instead of eliciting laughter and lustful desires from the fairer sex, my Arrested Development reference resulted in looks of confusion and cornea damage from my blinding white thighs.
See what I mean?
After opting for a House marathon in lieu of Halloween celebrations in 2010, I was bound and determined to make 2011 the year of a successful costume. Once October rolled around, I had narrowed my All Hallows' Eve outfit down to three options. Option "A" was Patrick Bateman from the Huey Lewis & the News scene of American Psycho, but I decided against it when finding a clear rain coat proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated. Option "B" was my doppelganger (and potential biological father) Patrick Swayze, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't feather my hair like Johnny Castle. Which brings me to Option "C,"
Markster!
It was simple, it was kinda sexy and after being told a multitude of times that my demeanor matches this loveable serial killer's, I knew staying in character would be a piece of cake. The only hiccup was when the entire sole of BOTH of my borrowed hiking boots fell off and left me walking on solid plastic for the rest of the evening. I later found out that the shoes my coworker so "kindly" lent me were old enough for consensual sex. But despite my foot foul, the praise of fellow Dexter fans and my date gave me the vindication I've been seeking since my mom safety pinned a black towel to my back and called me, "Batman."
