Things That Scare Me: Alarm Clocks

In cynical celebration of our favorite death celebrating season, we’re going all out on fear based topics this month. Every day, Ben will present one thing that scares him, ranging from the anxious and annoying to the deadly and doomed. This is… Things That Scare Me.

Groundhog Day | YouTube

There’s one noise, one piercing sound, that I fear above all the rest. I fear it more than the sickening sound of that neighborly owl tearing into a fresh rodent, a meal that always seems to take place in my backyard. I fear it more than the booming sound of an unexpected explosion, prank fireworks or overloaded transformer boxes. I fear it more than the sound of a child crying, a helpless wail. I fear that sound more than any of that crap combined. That sound? My godforsaken, piece of shit alarm clock.

I understand that the objective function of an alarm clock is to wake someone up. I get it. It’s inherently startling. I COMPREHEND THE CONCEPT, GUYS. But every single time my asshole alarm decides to unleash the fury of a thousand decibels of unfiltered siren into my ear, I FREAK the fuck out. I can’t help it! My alarm, no matter what time I fall asleep, no matter what day of the week, no matter what time it’s set to go off, will always go all *WARNING YOU’RE IN A SINKING SUBMARINE* during my deepest, most peaceful moment of REM sleep. EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.

Well, okay, that used to be true at least. See, my fear of the alarm (or maybe just my fear of waking up in general. Jobs, am I right?) has created an embedded state of anxiety that occurs in the morning hours of bedrest. So now instead of getting blasted awake by a nuclear meltdown warning, I don’t spend a single second of my 4am-6am sleeping hours in my happy dream place. Nope, now I treat myself to the flopping, frantic turning that accompanies vast, insurmountable fear, inevitably leading to my constant checking of time, an every-fifteen-minute occurrence involving squinted, light-blinded eyes and frustrated sighs. IT’S A REALLY HEALTHY HABIT, YOU GUYS. NO PROBLEMS FROM THAT AT ALL. NOPE. MY WIFE DEFINITELY DOESN’T HATE ME.

I’m so scared of alarm clocks, that I’m now not even being woken up by alarm clocks, but rather by the anxiety of the alarm clock itself. THAT’S TRUE FEAR, YO. And before you get all judgmental (way, way too late, huh?), please know that I know that it’s pathetic. It’s not like spiders or getting buried underground, or any other massively felt fear. And it’s certainly not lethal by any stretch of the imagination. BUT IT IS LOUD AND IT SCARES ME. Or, I guess, it’s silent in the inertia of potential sound energy and still scares me? Or, I guess, it’s it all in my head and still scares me? I don’t know. Now I’m frustrated thinking about my frustration! Whatever. Fuck the flow of time and fuck mornings. Maybe I’m just scared of those.


Potato Of The Day Episode 78

zucchinibabyI’m feeling a little loose today, a little wild, a little crazy. I think I’m going to treat myself. I’m going OUT tonight, hitting the town square in the face with my polished loafers. Yeah that’s right, baby! I’m a modern day one man rat pack, a solo Sinatra in a suit. Gonna take me a big fat stack of cash, light it ablaze, and let that shit flutter in the wind. Yeah I’m feeling THAT kind of crazy. You know what they call that around here? Zucchini, baby! Zucchini!

It’s been a long week, but that’s to be expected. It’s the dog days after all. Your puppies should be howling! Take a load off. Take a day off! HELL, TAKE A FEW! I have. Potato Of The Day? Yeah, sure, if we’re talking MONday and THURSday, baby! I’m a zucchini in the summer! There’s no need to push the issue. You ever seen a zucchini push anything? Don’t answer that, baby! Some things are better left to the imagination. Not that kind of imagination you dirty dog, you. Then again, dogs gonna dog, baby! We did say it’s the dog days, didn’t we? Right? I’d check… but baby, I’m checked out!

August is looming, swelling up in the distance, ready to squash summer, but not our summer squash, here! Naw, zucchini is fine with whatever. Lazy summer days? Great! Back to school? Sure! It’s no matter to a zucchini, baby! We, you and I my faithful friend, we might be feeling that collapse of time, the deepening sand pit of looming doom. We know we have work to do, jobs to get back to, words to write, posts to post, readings to read. But we’re not rushing! No way, baby! You and me, and zucchini here, we’re gonna soak up every last second of July. You can bank on that.

So back to tonight, right baby? It’s going down. One way, another way, via highway, all the same, it’s my way. My last stretching toast to my summer me. Well, until the next summer, baby! All good things end, and all good things come back around. So join me in the sun, under the stars, in the street, at the bar. Join me, a zucchini in a zoot suit, fattened on lazy heat and the sweet, sweet release of summer. Join me as we say goodbye, tossing a nod back at that beautiful dame, July. Yeah baby, rhyme with me, too. Because why not?  Why not treat yourself, too? Why not zucchini?

Potato Of The Day Episode 5

therussetThis is it.  The one you’ve always been expecting.  It was inevitable.  When you close your eyes and picture a potato, you picture this.  We all do.  The potato world belongs to the Russet.

Today I walked into a grocery store, wound my way to the produce section, took this picture, and, to the confusion of the worker building pyramids of red bell peppers, turned right back around and left.  I managed not to purchase a potato during this trip.  But I will soon enough.  We all will.  The Russet demands we consume.

Stacked upon dozens and dozens of nameless clones, the Russet peers through your soul.  It knows your deepest desires – chips, fries, loaded baked potatoes.  From Idaho to Ireland, the Russet is an international entity, overshadowing all who would challenge its rule.  The Russet knows all.  The Russet sees all.  The Russet is always there waiting, outlasting any would be health craze or starch challenger.  The Russet crushes all opposition, forever trudging forward in its steady march of spud superiority.

There is no choice but to embrace the Russet.  No one human can rise above the potato empire.  We are all caught in the endless turning wheel of the Russet.  We will buy.  We will eat.  We will rinse and repeat.  This post was inevitable.  The Russet is inevitable.  Our consumption is already a foregone conclusion.

When the sands of time drop their last grain through the hourglass, when humanity has been washed in fires of wind and dust, the Russet will still be there.  Waiting.