New hundreds

They just updated the hundred-dollar bill. It’s got this holographic strip on the front, Ben Franklin’s profile is a little bigger, and on the back there is a giant 100 printed at the end. I hadn’t heard that the hundred was getting a makeover, but I never hear about these things. When new currency is rolled out, it’s like it’s done all at once, there’s never any forewarning.

One day it’s old hundreds, and the next day I’m at work and someone pays in cash, and I see the new hundred, I immediately recognize it as something different, but I don’t question it, I’m not like calling out to my boss, “Hey boss, is this a new hundred? Is this a real thing?” no, he’d be like, “Rob, please don’t waste any more of my time than you have to, OK?”

I just think it’s crazy because, what’s stopping someone else from making their own new hundreds? You know, besides federal laws and stuff. I’m just saying, if you’re going to make counterfeit bills, wouldn’t it make more sense to make up an entirely new design and then hope that people like me simply won’t question anything?

And then the next day, I see more new hundreds, every time one of my coworkers gets a new bill, they’re like, “Oh my God, a new hundred. Did you see this?” and in my head I’m thinking, do you really have to announce that? Who are you talking to? But then I remember my reaction the first time I saw one, I think it was identical, I held it up for whoever happened to be standing next to me and I was like, “Ooh, look at this.”

How much longer is paper currency going to be a thing? Don’t get me wrong, nothing in life feels better than having a gigantic wad of rolled up cash bulging out of your front pocket, but I can’t really foresee where it’s all going to go. I’m talking, each upgrade in bills has featured some cool new technology. When I was a little kid, it was those cotton strips only visible when held up to the light. Then watermarks, gold foil, now holograms.

Why the need to keep changing the money every few years? I’m guessing that it’s all an effort to stop counterfeiting. Which, since the US dollar is basically the global currency, it’s got to be like the Holy Grail for every nefarious criminal operation. As sophisticated technology becomes more and more accessible to everyone else, you’ve got to think that eventually the Treasury is going to throw its hand up in the air and admit defeat.

And what are they changing, really? It’s all minor, cosmetic details. I say, if you’re going to change the money, we should like really change it, get all of those old Presidents and whatever Ben Franklin and Alexander Hamilton were and replace them with some fresh faces. Obviously the Republicans are going to want to put Reagan on everything. They’re still pissed off that FDR got the dime.

But what about maybe some novelty currency? I remember when the second Fantastic Four movie came out, some marketing company got in trouble for making a bunch of quarters with the Silver Surfer on the back. You can check them out on Ebay, I think they regularly fetch pretty high bids. But why does it have to be mostly Founding Fathers? Maybe we could put Bryan Cranston on something, you know, to commemorate the last time that our country was united over anything, in this case, everybody loved Breaking Bad. And then we could put Walt Jr. on the nickel, Hank would definitely make a great limited edition fifty-cent piece.

Nah, let’s just wait, fifty years from now, it’s definitely going to be Obama. Who do you think is going to lose their spot? If I had to guess, I’d say Andrew Jackson. That guy is always looked to as a badass, but more and more, history is showing us that he was super racist and a little too bloodthirsty.

Finally, every time they introduce new money, it always starts its way with the hundred, then trickles down to the fifty, the twenty, the ten, the five, and then nothing. Come on, don’t you think it’s about time we had a new one dollar bill? It’s the odd man out here. You never see old fives or tens anymore, but every single dollar bill looks like it’s out of a time machine. Maybe the cost isn’t worth the trouble, but I say, let’s just do it, let’s make a new one-dollar bill. And let’s put Obama on that one also.

A good pair of wool socks

I went hiking with a few guys from work last winter. It would have been a great day, but I couldn’t keep my toes warm, and so try as I did to just enjoy myself, the weather, the outdoors, being with my friends, I couldn’t shake the feeling that way down, at the lowest point of my physical being, there was this little area that not only refused to be warm, but it denied comfort to the rest of my body.

My torso was fine. The hat on my head kept everything on top nice and toasty. But my toes sent dramatic distress signals ringing throughout the entire system, “Help! We’re freezing! It’s so cold down here! You’ve got to do something about it! You’ve got to help us out! No time to focus on anything else but right down here! Cold! Cold! Cold!”

And finally I couldn’t take it, I had to stop for a second, I told the group, “Guys, I need a minute, my toes are freezing, I’ve got to warm them up,” and, naturally, everyone stopped, but they kind of looked around at each other, like seriously? This guy’s going to sit here and, what, start undressing because his toes are cold?

And I could tell what they were thinking, so I needed to find a way to get the attention off of me, I asked my friend Doug, “Doug, your feet aren’t freezing? I don’t know what I’m doing wrong here. My boots are waterproof, not that it’s raining, but still, it’s just that, I have two pairs of socks.”

My other friend Pete fielded the question, “Two pairs of socks? You’ve got them both on at the same time?” I nodded. “That’s your problem right there, your feet can’t breathe. We’re doing all of this walking, your feet start to overheat, they sweat, and that sweat starts to get cold. It’s a temperature drop spiraling out of control, and those waterproof boots probably aren’t helping, no ventilation, it’s like a greenhouse in there, but one that’s not at all strong enough to withstand the outside temperature.”

That was a lot that he just said, and I really badly wanted to counter with something, anything, because, first of all, I was asking Doug, and yeah, I did pick Doug kind of randomly, but Pete could have at least let Doug fumble around a little bit, a, “Yeah … I don’t know …” before butting in like a know-it-all. If Doug didn’t have an immediate answer, at least I wouldn’t have looked like I’m the only one not knowing what he was doing. But now, Pete, calling me out on the double socks.

That was only the beginning, “And what do you have there, cotton socks? Wool?” Was this a trick question? “Cotton,” I answered, and I should have said something else, I should have thrown him a curveball, like synthetic, but I didn’t, and Pete would’ve probably been able to tell anyway, this guy apparently knows everything there is to know about socks, he was shaking his head, “No, nope, nope, you gotta have wool socks. The cotton, all it does is absorb the sweat. That’s not going to happen with wool.”

Then he kind of turned around to address the group, like he was giving a lecture, a sock symposium, “I’m telling you guys, all I have is one pair of good wool socks, and I’m fine, my toes are really warm.” And everyone else just nodded in agreement, meanwhile I was sitting on some log, undoing the knots in my boots. “Easy Rob,” Pete was still on a roll here, “I know your toes must be really cold but don’t take your boots off. It’s much colder outside, even though it doesn’t feel like it. And even if you do manage to warm up your feet with your hands, it’s going to be even worse when you have to put them back inside those damp cotton athletic socks you have there.”

Couldn’t he just drop it? Did he really have to throw in the word “athletic” socks? Hiking is athletic. You need a little bit of athleticism, right, to hike? “Actually,” Pete continued, “I think I have an extra pair of wool socks in my bag,” and that was all I needed, I took off my boots, yes, it was a lot colder out in the air, I couldn’t believe it. But I started massaging my bare feet, I don’t know if it felt good, because my feet were so cold, it was like they were transferring that chill to my hands. Were my hands going to be cold now?

“Ooh, sorry buddy, I must have left them at home. Well, let’s get going, we’ve got a lot more trail to cover.” And everybody started walking ahead, I had to put the wet socks back on, they had accumulated a slight layer of frost after having been laid out beside me. It was miserable. I don’t know why Pete couldn’t have sent out an email the night before, “Hey guys! Since I know everything there is to know about socks, I figured I’d pass along some friendly advice: get a good pair of wool socks!” would that have been too much? A text message? Something?

Four extra-large sodas

And I was like, “Just try to stay out of my way, OK?” which, yeah, it sounded a lot cooler in my head, I was going for the whole, “I got this,” or at a more basic level, “Don’t worry, don’t have any doubts in me,” but it came out the way it came out, arrogant, dismissive. It was too late for an apology, it would have killed the momentum, totally destroyed whatever we’d already set up for ourselves, the mood, the false determination.

A week earlier, my friend Rich had showed me this video online of two guys ordering four extra-large sodas at a drive-thru, and right as the cashier handed them their drinks, the driver threw the oversized containers back through the window. All you heard was the scream, she must have gotten soaked, followed by the crazy laughter of the two guys in the car as it sped away.

I remember laughing so hard at that video, the insane kind of funny that, looking back now, I’d never laugh, I’d never let myself. It’s too mean. I’d feel automatically too bad for that woman, she probably hates her job, or maybe she doesn’t hate her job, maybe it’s just me, I hate my job and I assume everybody else hates their job also. Maybe she’s happy. But she’s working the window at the drive through, she gets out the XL cups, fills them all up.

And then what does her boss say? The manager hears the spill, he looks up and the window-girl is doused in soda, there’s a mess everywhere. Did the computer get wet? What about the register? Did the soda make it to the cash? It’s everywhere. She feels bad, like even though everyone says they believe her, she’s worried some of them might suspect she’s making it all up. Because seriously, who would do something like this? And why?

But back when I was seventeen, when I finally had a car, independence, those were things I wasn’t focusing on, the who, the why. My whole world was all of the sudden open and new, I got such a crazy thrill out of anything I hadn’t been exposed to before. And this act summed up everything that I wanted in life at that moment, the ability to look around at the most mundane of situations and still be thrown for a total loop, like nothing applies anymore, everything you thought you knew, forget it.

I think Rich might have suggested we try it out also, or maybe he didn’t directly suggest it, but he said something like, “We would never do something like that,” just something to say, but I took it as this personal challenge, I was like, “Well, I would do that,” not even thinking about how this was already escalating dangerously. “No way, you would never do that,” so now here I was, Rich had thrust all responsibility my way, now this was my joke, my prank, my wild act to either carry out or chicken out of.

So we went to Taco Bell. My euphoria had definitely dwindled down into something else, an anxiety, my heart was still racing but I could tell that there was a part of me I wasn’t willing to yet consciously acknowledge that told me this was a stupid idea. And again, I wasn’t emotionally mature enough to be thinking about anybody else besides myself. I was purely concerned with what if we get in trouble, what if my parents have to get involved?

And Rich, he was pretty nervous too, but it was a carefree worry, like settling in to watch a really scary movie. Sure, he’d be along for whatever ride this turned out to be, but at the end of the day, he could always shrug and be like, I don’t know why Rob threw those sodas. I had nothing to do with it.

I pulled up to the drive-thru, I ordered four extra large Baja Blast Mountain Dews, and as we turned the corner to the window, we both kind of giggled a little bit. It was happening. The sodas had been ordered. Maybe this would be easier than the mental struggle I was setting up for myself here. Maybe all I had to do was throw and drive, and then I could laugh and laugh and laugh.

But we pulled up, and it’s this big dude, he’s passing me the sodas, telling me how much they cost. I didn’t even look at Rich, I just took out a ten, gave it to the guy, took the change, and left. Rich started laughing, I guess I deserved it, I guess he had to make fun of me, I mean, I was the one behind the wheel.

And looking back, I have that whole justification, the putting myself in the other person’s shoes, the realization that people shouldn’t go around throwing sodas at each other. But I still cringe, I still get pissed, like why wasn’t I thinking? Why did I sit there and let Rich make fun of me for the rest of the night? Why didn’t he offer me even a dollar for one of those sodas? Man, I haven’t seen my old friend Rich in forever. I wonder what he’s up to right now.

This one teacher made us write out all of the questions

When I was a sophomore in high school, we had to take health as a class for part of the year. So for a few months, the otherwise sweat suit clad junior-varsity lacrosse coach would pick up his suit and tie from the dry cleaners and teach us about health. I don’t want to knock health as a subject, I’m sure with the right curriculum, there’s a lot of important material to be learned.

But I do want to knock this health teacher. What a joke. He’d walk in the door on the first day nearly blackout drunk on the power of being a classroom teacher. The health unit wouldn’t start until sometime around the middle of the year, yet he’d still give a huge introductory speech, like, “OK, if you need to go to the bathroom, please raise your hand, all right?” like, come on man, everybody knows how to go to the bathroom, it’s January already, we’ve been here for months.

“Don’t think this is going to be an easy class,” he’d give the most toothless warning ever. Of course this wasn’t going to be an easy class. It was going to be an annoying class. Why? Because this dude was the worst teacher I’ve ever had in my life. There was nothing easy about sitting in that desk every day, even if it was for only fifty minutes or so, trying to stomach this guy playing teacher.

You could tell just by the suit that he wore to class every day that he had no idea what he was doing, while at the same time taking it all way too seriously. Whereas most other teachers wore regular clothes, you know, regular jackets and regular ties, I clearly remember this guy wearing a double-breasted navy coat, complete with shiny gold buttons. It was like he walked into the Men’s Warehouse and said, “I want to like the way I’m going to look, and I want you guarantee it!”

But this is all incredibly petty of me. I’m thinking back on this guy, here I am, I’m making fun of his clothes, that’s not really nice of me. He’s just doing his job. I’m sure he would have rather been outside, teaching phys-ed, not stuck in here going over the same half-unit every year to a bunch of kids that he wouldn’t be around long enough to even get to know their names.

No, you know what? I just tried, I tried to be sympathetic, I got caught up in feeling bad because I made fun of his jacket, but I tried to see it from his point of view and, no, I can’t, I really couldn’t stand this guy. Do you know why?

It was because of the way he made us do homework. We had these stupid textbooks with a bunch of dumb homework questions printed at the end of every chapter. So guess what our homework was? Yup, it was those questions, perfect for the teacher who didn’t really feel like putting any effort whatsoever into planning out what we were supposed to do after school.

But it wasn’t that he just assigned us a bunch of busy work, it was that he demanded that we write out the entire question in addition to the answer. No other teacher in the school made us handwrite the questions. That’s just dumb. It’s stupid. It’s a complete lack of ability to put yourself in the position of your students. Or, even worse, it’s a total ability to put yourself in the position of your students, and seeing it from that angle, understanding what a total waste of time it is to write out some bullshit question, and then to assign it anyway, man, this guy was probably a total sociopath.

The answers to the questions were in the chapter somewhere. It wasn’t hard. It was a manual cut and paste. But to also make us write out the question? And then what did this guy do with our work when we passed it in? He gave everything a check mark and passed it right back. Gee, thanks so much for giving me back this piece of paper. Instead of you throwing them in the trash all at once, I guess you can kill ten minutes or so passing them all back and having us line up after class to toss them in one by one.

I don’t know why I was thinking of this today, and I know I should let stupid little nonsense like this go, but if I ever run into this guy in the future, I’m going to get in his face, I’m going to be like, “Hey man, what the hell was up with making us write out those questions? Huh? Are you stupid or are you just an asshole? Which one?”

She’s got a gun! No wait, sorry, it’s a t-shirt gun, we’re good.

I went to the Islanders game last night. Live hockey is great, but my favorite parts of the game are always the T-shirt Toss, the Chuck-a-Puck, anything that involves a little audience participation. The odds of winning something are really slim, but for some reason I alway have this feeling of certainty, like this time’s going to be different, this time I’m going to walk out of here with a prize.

It’s not impossible, it’s not like winning the lottery. I went to a different game like a week ago, and my brother almost caught a t-shirt. I say almost because he and this other guy both caught opposite ends of the shirt at the same time, and my brother, is a display of being the bigger person, he looked at the guy and said, “I don’t care, you want it?” and the other guy responded with a really big yank, he walked back to his seat with the t-shirt and gave his buddy a huge high-five.

Every time there’s an intermission, I’m thinking, come on, where are the Ice Girls? How come they don’t have the t-shirt guns? I’ve always wondered who came up with the idea for the t-shirt gun. It’s like a plastic bazooka, they roll up the t-shirts and stuff them in the barrel, and bam, those things are in the air. How fast do those projectiles fly? Like, could I withstand a t-shirt gunshot at point blank range?

Anyway, the Ice Girls didn’t wind up skating out with their guns until the first intermission. “Who wants a t-shirt?” the announcer screamed over the loudspeakers, and I didn’t respond out loud, because it was obvious, I was standing on top of my seat, waving my hands in the air, trying to get one an Ice Girl’s attention, to shoot over this way.

One of them came close, like it was definitely shot in my general direction, but it was maybe five feet too high for me to reach. I could see the screen-printed logo as the shirt sailed overhead, for a moment, it was like time stopped, like it was hovering just impossibly right over my head, so close, yet totally beyond my possession.

They only fired like two rounds each, the other Ice Girl closest to our section, she kept firing blanks, the t-shirts barely making it over the boards, like here you go front row spectators, in addition to having the best seats in the house, enjoy all of the free t-shirts. Which, I’m sorry, that’s totally antithetical to the very idea of the free t-shirt. It’s not for the people sitting up close, it’s a slightly out-of-touch reward for the average sportsgoer, the few times in life when the masses are supposed to look to something and say, I have a better chance than the people up front of catching that prize.

The first intermission came and went, I stood there on my chair with no t-shirt until the people behind me started yelling at me to sit down. During the second period, all I could think about was the Chuck-a-Puck. For ten bucks, you buy a bag of five orange foam hockey pucks. As soon as the second period ends, the Ice Girls bring out this bulls eye and place it over center ice. You get thirty seconds to throw your pucks to the rink, the closest puck wins a cash prize.

I’ve done the Chuck-a-Puck before, and I was ready. You can’t just throw them, you have to kind of spin them, like a Frisbee, but not exactly like a Frisbee, only kind of, and you have to think about which way it’s going to bounce. It was difficult to keep track of where my pucks were landing, I mean, everybody else in attendance was launching theirs in the same direction as mine, but I was positive that four out of five of my pucks landed right in the center.

And then the Ice Girl skated over, she didn’t even really measure any of the pucks, she just grabbed one at random, and it’s wasn’t mine. Come on, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job or anything, but maybe just eyeball it a little, you know, spend maybe five seconds of consideration, hmm, which one of these is closest? Because it definitely wasn’t the one you picked.

While I was still smarting from my Chuck-a-Puck defeat, they announced the winners for the 50-50 raffle. I swear to God, I was one number off. Man, that would have been so awesome to have gone home with twelve hundred bucks. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, which really caused a lot of pain, because what was thinking about it going to do?

On the way out of the Coliseum, I tried to match my parking ticket stub with some sporting goods store coupon contest, but I lost. I bought a Coke on the way out, and I looked under the cap, I had won a free Coke. I was so pumped, but I can’t find the cap anywhere, and my brother drove me back, so it’s definitely not on me, it has to still be in the car, I hope it doesn’t get thrown out. When I was taking my dog out for a walk when I got home, I saw a bunch of crumpled up lotto tickets by the trashcan on the corner, and I know they were probably all confirmed losers, but I had this idea that whoever checked the numbers might have missed something, like maybe he misread the winning numbers, and I’d find it, and it would be like extraordinary good luck. But I went home and checked, and they were all losers, and one of them had this slimy stuff on the corner, and I couldn’t help but think it was something really gross, and why did I bring it into my house?