Shrink Gangs

I played around with a Jungian personality test online this morning and got an unsurprising result. In college I took Myers- Briggs tests like this twice and got the same "ENFP" summation of my personality. It's funny how people love to classify and categorize. I mean, it almost seems silly to think that one would even try to group anything as random as the average human being.

But, I've learned to come to terms with the banal, Maxim/Cosmo side of human nature that just looooves lists and categories. So, in keeping with the current theme of human categorization, I'll call the psychoanalytical versions of these groupings "shrink gangs."

Here we are...

Jung Test Results

Extroverted (E) 63.41% Introverted (I) 36.59%Intuitive (N) 65% Sensing (S) 35%Feeling (F) 58.33% Thinking (T) 41.67%Perceiving (P) 70.27% Judging (J) 29.73% Your type is: ENFP

Accuracy: - 5 high 4 3 2 1 low

ENFP - "Journalist". Uncanny sense of the motivations of others. Life is an exciting drama. 8.1% of total population.

Take the test for what you will. I know there are plenty of people out there who believe psychology is definitely less real than Falcor. Perhaps the tests are not quite as legitimate a process as say, guessing interpreting human events on the basis of star alignment. But at least the test collects and considers real data in making its assessment.

ENFPs are extremely empathetic, socially dynamic people. And if I may be so bold as to make an inference (using myself as an example), I'd suspect most of us are a bit cuckoo as well. Being the extremely social creature I am, I'm always looking for ways to network and connect with others. So...

How would YOU like to be a part of the ENFP team? You and your fellow ENFPs will be a part of a world-wide family of folks who love nothing more than to repeatedly whack themselves in the forehead with plastic toy hammers, then ask observers why they appear uncomfortable. Can you hack it? Let's see. Are you the type who...

• LOVES the company of others, but can easily get so irritated with them you want to strangle them with your own underwear?

• easily reads people's emotions, but can't hide your own to save your life (meaning you SUCK at lying...and consequently, poker)?

• gets bored easily...but is creative enough to think up a fun activity, like painting your own skeleton onto your naked body?

• can make friends with anyone, to include automatons and ultra-conservatives?

• is uncomfortable with negative vibes, unless they're constructive, meaning you're the one putting them out?

• is possibly suffering from sensory addiction? Yeah? Would you put hot sauce on a banana, or kick your own ass just to change things up?

• can tell, almost without fail, which characters will die in the movie... or which people you meet are inwardly hating you and which ones are mentally raping you?

• love to be surprised with new-ish, against-the-grain ideas and concepts (the actually not-so-new "backwards" movie; getting sex out of the way, then going out on the first date; the urban sombrero, etc.)?

If you answered "yes" to more than one of these questions, stop by your nearest psychoanalysing Website and take a Meyers-Briggs test for your free ENFP membership TODAY! Of course, if you're not an ENFP you suck, but there are plenty of other shrink gangs you can join including the scaredy-cat INFPs, anal retentive ISTJs or Mr./Ms. bossy-pants ENTJs.

So go examine your head today! And find out which one of the butt-load of shrink gangs out there YOU belong to.

Sir Francis Food Lion, Duke of Dumbtat

The danger of telling your children they CAN'T get that fad-ish haircut...or have those $200 shoes (that don't feature velcro strapping or kangaroo logo)...or you won't buy them an authentic NFL team Starter jacket...or let them get their ears (or possibly nose) pierced is...

(see picture)

...that they'll be too immature to understand that you're trying to teach them the value of money and not spoil them with petty, needless shit...then in a fit of "I'll fix their wagon" teen exuberance, they'll go get a large tattoo of an ancient, magical creature etched prominently onto their right arm. Hope - for your child's sake - it's not a liger.

They just may end up being known as Food Lion. Or better yet...Food Dog.

Moi

I give "thanks" to everyone who wished me well during my week of foggy sickness. In an effort to painlessly ease myself back into a post, I figured I'd do something fluffy and fun...like a list. So here you go...an anecdotal list of fun info about moi.

10 Things About me...

1) I was Baby Fat-Ass: According to my mother, I weighed about 10 lbs when I introduced myself to the world. I have a post-Balco, Barry Bonds-esque head (not always obvious to people because I have a broad upper-body). Needless to say, it was a Cesarean delivery.

2) When I lived in South Carolina for a year as a kid, I... took barbed wire to the leg running from a cow, was almost eaten alive by fire ants, and saw an entire town (Lynchburg) desperately utilize the firefighting "bucket brigade" technique in an attempt to save a building.

3) I couldn't sleep for about a week after I watched "A Nightmare on Elm Street" with some teenage cousins. I was eight at the time. My parents were never the "Poor baby! Of course you can sleep here with us" types. So, I stared for hours at a dark room full of kiddie things which had all taken on threatening, nightmare-ish forms. I've never been quite so freaked out again in my life.

4) I left my heart in Herchweiler. While waiting on a long list for base housing while my family was stationed in Germany, we lived in a little village/municipality named Herchweiler. I got into all kinds of shenanigans there to include: Stupidly grabbing an electric cow retaining wire adjacent to our flat out of curiosity. Splitting my eyebrow open (requiring stitches) after chasing my sister around a village bus stop at about 6 a.m. Launching arrows into our neighbors' front yard. And regularly stopping by a pub after school (5th grade) to sit at the bar and happily sip the free Coca-Colas that Frau what's-her-face kindly gave a bunch of us kids. (Good luck to you kids stopping by in the post-Bush era.) It was indeed, a glorious age.

5) I can sing Christmas carols in Deutsch (German). German was required to be taught in DoDDS (Department of Defense Dependents Schools) there. Being the confused person I am, I went on to take Spanish in high school (after moving to California) and French in college. Now, besides "Stille Nacht" (Silent Night) and a few other yuletide favorites, I can't remember shit.

6) I was shy, then not, then shy again... Actually, the order was reversed. I was probably the most annoying child alive, because at an early age my parents led me to believe I was a Wile-E-Coyote super genius. I read encyclopedias...for fun. Being able to beat my parents in "Jeopardy!" didn't do much for me socially once I moved to California though. So I endured a shy, dork phase in which I actually avoided a few girls who had crushes on me, because I felt so awkward and nervous, I didn't know what to say or do (sigh). Around 11th grade something "clicked", and I was well on my way to not even being able to spell "modehstee." But, what I now lack in humility, I make up for in spades with pure, unbridled awesomeness.

7) I fell asleep at the wheel in Belgium on the way to Holland (to see a girl I was dating) and almost killed myself and another motorist. I hadn't had a single sip to drink; I was just super tired. I woke up - after dozing off while traveling on icy winter roads at around 85 mph - to realize the Autobahn (freeway) had somehow merged into a cross street with a stoplight. That light was red and a motorist who was less sleepy than I had stopped there, about 150 yards ahead. I moronically slammed the breaks and skidded forever until my car went off the road into the shoulder railing; somehow only breaking my front-left parking light.

8) I have or have had celebrity crushes on: Linda Carter, Diana Ross, Vanity, Susana Hoffs from "The Bangles", Janet Jackson, Kelly LeBrock, Ally Sheedy, Elisabeth Shue, Paula Abdul, Nia Long, Kim Basinger, Cameron Diaz, Zhang Ziyi, Mya, Salma Hayek, Claire Forlani, Rhianna, Persia White, Cate Blanchett, Norah Jones, Thandie Newton, Christina Ricci, Gabrielle Union, Kirstin Davis, Scarlett Johansson...

9) In addition to some ink on my upper-back and left arm, I have an English coat-of-arms styled griffin on my right arm. Admittedly, it was something I ran out and did on my 18th birthday as a means of claiming my new-found adult independence after a soul-crushing, conservative upbringing. Little did I know, the inking would literally brand me for life with several popular nicknames including the "Lowenbrau Man" and the "Food Lion."

10) I'm terrified of heights. I don't know where it started, but I have serious issues with altitude. If I look down from anything more than a three-story building, vertigo sets in and I get all freaked out. The funny thing is I LOVE to fly. Well, at least until it's time to land. I'll never skydive. You couldn't drag me near a cliff. Despite what cartoons have taught us, falling great distances does not end with your body scrunching into an out-of-tune meat accordion or lying in an indention that perfectly outlines your body.

In which I am uninspired (sick)

Sorry it has been such a stretch between posts. I typically stay away from the computer on weekends, and I just haven't felt that good since Sunday. Have you ever had one of those weekends where everything that transpires seems fun, but by the time you hit Monday you feel broken-down and lifeless? This past weekend has done that to me, and it's left me completely uninspired...and sick.

Ray Bradbury once wrote that a person wanting to become a good writer should write EVERY day - no exceptions. I wonder if he felt that way after Tequila Tuesdays or Fountain Fridays or Sangria Sundays. Lame excuse, I know. I suppose bender fatigue never hurt Hemingway's production. But, it sure doesn't look like it did much for his stability either.

I think my lack of sleep and stratospheric BAC level over the course of the weekend gave my immune system the go-ahead to take a vacation. Then, some nasty, villainous germ waltzed into the Ole' temple control room and now sits there...cackling and twirling its mustache. My throat itches. I can't stop sneezing. I feel like (Jaundice-inflicted) Adrien Brody looked at the end of "The Pianist."

So I have no desire to attempt wit. I feel no compunction over not entertaining. I just wanted anybody who cared to know that I'm not dead yet; there will be a proper update as soon as my mojo gets cold or hungry enough to come home; and you should never sleep beneath an open window on a chilly night. You'll end up sick, unfunny...uninspired.

Wrinklesteaks

If you happen to be a vegan or are easily disturbed by the thought of your food having parents, please navigate back and enjoy one of my other entries.

As I sat on the beach with my family - watching and waiting for large waves to knock select kids off their feet - we gorged ourselves on a fabulous spread. All manner of farm beast sacrificed its life, likely while hoping that we, the world's flesh-chewing citizenry, might one day die of ruptured colons.

Lodged in an undersized folding chair, I soaked up heavenly ultraviolet radiation and watched 11-year-olds choke on salt water while I munched on mustard-soaked Bratwurst. Like a wise, old instant coffee commercial for horny moms once said...you should celebrate these moments in your life. If it weren't for an overabundance of giggling children and typical beach distractions, the experience might have been pretty close to nirvana.

[...A mother cackles as her two, naked little boys run around wagging their naughty bits at everyone. A seagull relieves itself over a Nimitz-class middle-aged guy covered in fur (and by some miracle scores a near-miss). Seals incessantly bark in chorus...]

I tore into a half-bloody piece of Tri-tip steak; wistfully watching the water surrounding a floating platform covered in sunbathing seals. "C'mon shark, c'mon...Well, where the fuck are you?"

Meanwhile, my sister and parents had noticed that a nearby teen - no doubt motivated by a deep-seeded desire to see children break their necks - had dug a sand pit no less than five feet deep. I don't know how, but somewhere along the way, the picnic conversation deviated from...

"Ooo, ooo, please pass me a piece of Tri-tip...no, no, that one."

to...

"Yeah, that pit reminds me of when we would have to clean the chitlins and squeeze out all that boo."

Any outside shot I had at achieving oneness with that beach instantly vanished.

For those of you unfamiliar with the horror that is a pot of chitlins, I'll explain. If you are to believe my parents and relatives back in South Carolina, chitlins (correctly and more frighteningly spelled chitterlings), are apparently something you put in your mouth and swallow. They're essentially a throwback value meal from times when having a better tan than your average Dixie cup could possibly arouse lynch mob suspicion.

Back in those days, the most delectable, tender portions of poo-covered Wilbur were reserved for folks of both greater means and lesser pigmentation. Enter chitlins.

Unwanted by the then-overclass and therefore affordable, chitlins have somehow stuck around into the 21st century. But then again, so have "tripas" and "makchang gui" and other global variations of disgusting intestinal snack-age. That doesn't mean I've got to allow others to form their own opinions on them though.

I can hear a few of my vegetarian acquaintances cutting me off at this moment. "Umm. What about hot dogs and sausages? You've still got mustard on your shirt from a meal that consisted primarily of hog lips, teeth and assholes... And they're sometimes encased in intestines."


To which I respond. "Well, do hotdogs look like lips, teeth, assholes or intestines? The grossest organ they even remotely resemble is nowhere near the intestines."

Ignorance, faked or otherwise, really is bliss.

You need a healthy imagination to mentally assemble a chicken out of a fried drumstick. But there's do denying, particularly when the kitchen smells like a truck stop restroom, that a pot of chitlins is hot-boiled-poo-pipe.

My parents, quickly snapping to the realization that the North won, cutely attempted to disown their own backwoods histories...

"That was your father's family that ate that stuff."

"Nooo, no, I didn't eat that."

"You know you did."

"So did you."

"Nah-uh...Well, I remember coming to your house for the first time, and I saw fish heads looking up at me from a pot of boiling water."

[laughing] "We didn't throw anything away."

[ laughing] "Well, that's for certain!"

Here's a bit of background on dear mum n' pa: My dad's family is centered in an area around all-too-appropriately-named, Lynchburg, South Carolina. My mother hails from somewhat-less desolate Conway, South Carolina. (If you're reading this mom, don't start dancing a victory jig. My fondest memory of dear Conway involves a HUGE black snake crawling up to the the sliding glass door and watching us during an evening meal at Grandma's house.)

Don't get me wrong, everyone out there are your average American citizens beyond the accents and an honest-to-God pleasantness in disposition. Their personalities really seem to fall in line with the notion of "southern sweetness." But, as much as I love my family, if any relative of mine offered me a hot bowl of shit-ter-lings, I would tell them I recently had my stomach removed and no longer eat. I simply can't deal with the thought of the wringing of fecal frosting from a pig's digestive tract being an integral part of meal preparation.

I adore sushi. I've eaten and enjoyed cow tongue tacos. I believe that animals, for the most part, are delicious. But...

I...will...not...eat...hot-dookie-ham. I will not eat it, Sam I Am.

As explained by mom, the story goes that my Uncle Buddy, initially shared my disdain for the stinky stew. After having dinner with a military friend (who probably still keeps a sharp lookout for Confederate soldiers), he eventually realized he enjoyed the stuff. He lovingly began referring to the putrid dish as "wrinklesteaks."

Wrinklesteaks...
Wrinklesteaks...
Wrinklesteaks...

Tee-hee.

I swear whean I heard "wrinklesteak", I almost spit up chunks of spicy sausage on one of my sister's stepkids. It instantly gorilla'd its way into the VIP section of my vocabulary; flanked on the left by "shenanigans" and "dingleberry" on the right.

So, on that sunny day, I happily learned that even my parents find the idea of stinky pig intestines coursing through human entrails somewhat revolting. Well, at least in public. I also learned that for the love of God, if somebody asks you if you if you like wrinklesteak...you scream "NO!"

Nothing good can come of saying anything besides that.