Evan Kessler's Open Salon Blog

Just So You Know, Everywhere Else Kinda Sucks

Tue, 28 Dec 2010 14:12:10 -0500

Two months ago I booked a vacation to a distant swath of land well outside the borders of the United States. Soon after making my travel arrangements I noticed that my journey, scheduled for February 20 til March 10 of 2011, was in conflict with the expiration date on my passport. Luckily, this gave me more than a reasonable amount of time to renew the legal document that allows me, a U.S. Citizen, to traverse the globe to nations accepting of such persons within their humble borders and giving them the temporary go ahead to intermingle with their native populace. My application for renewal was mailed out in the middle of November and, like clockwork, my renewed passport arrived a few days ago in the mail.

Shiny Happy Passport

The few days prior had existed in anticipation of the moment I’d be cleared for landing at a foreign airport. So knowing full well what the US Postal Service envelope sticking out of my mailbox was, I proceeded to tear it open with near-wreckless abandon in an utter frenzy of excitement. There it was, a sturdy blue booklet emblazoned with the words “Passport” and “United States of America.” I proudly opened my authorization key to the rest of the world to examine its contents, but before I could even thumb through it I was savagely beaten over the head with an American flag.

The inside cover of my passport was adorned with “a lithograph of Moran Percy’s 1913 depiction of Francis Scott Key gesturing to the garrison flag flying above Fort McHenry on the morning of September 13, 1814″ (via No Caption Needed) and accompanied by a lyrical excerpt from our own national anthem:

“O say does that star spangled banner yet wave, O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave“

The patriotism didn’t relent from there. The opposite page contained quotes from the Gettysburg Address:

“…And That Government of the People, By the People, For the People Shall Not Perish From the Earth.”

Having seemingly affirmed the greatness of the United States in no more than two fell swoops, the citizenship-establishing document finally got down to the nitty-gritty displaying the pertinent information of the passport holder (in this case, me) only to add a reminder on the opposing page that the United States is not only great because of what happened on the first two pages, but also because it has bald eagles and the constitution– and if you should decide to leave and never come back, you’ll never again get to see another bald eagle reading the constitution near an amber wave of grain.

But hold on, we’re not out of the great American woods just yet; Whereas my old passport just seemed to have some innocuous, shaded pattern business going on in the background, each additional page on my new passport was replete with patriotic quotes and scenic wonders in between both shining seas. Cacti, Mount Rushmore, a New England Lighthouse, a Mississippi River Steamboat, the Rocky Mountains, the Liberty Bell, and yes the Statue of Liberty were all there as if to say, “we know you’re going somewhere else right now, but just so you know everywhere else kinda sucks.”

I’ll be sure to think about that when I’m scaling a hill along the far off coast of New Zealand, wishing I was leading a cattle drive North from Amarillo. I’ll hear the whistling wind blowing against the rocks and it’ll sound just like the voice of Dwight David Eisenhower saying, “Whatever America hopes to bring to pass in the world must first come to pass in the heart of America…and oh yeah, this place? Screw this place.”

I Held A Baby

Fri, 10 Dec 2010 13:12:58 -0500

A particularly wondrous thing about life is that no matter how old you are, you’re provided with an infinite amount of opportunities to contribute to the vast catalogue of first-time experiences. First kiss, first through-the-legs windmill jam, first trip to solitary confinement–these are all things in the canon of possible never-been-done-befores that people may happen upon during their time on this Earth.

Some things are more likely to occur than others, and even some of those more-likely-to-occur things manage to elude those who are not immune to adventure.

Take me for instance, I’m thirty-two years old and I’ve been to Bangkok, Thailand and Paris, France (amongst other places); I’ve been to summer camp and driven a Smart Car– but up until today I’d never held a baby.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, how does someone who has graced the planet for more than three decades get off scot-free in the holding infants department?

Simple. I made a conscious decision to not hold any children no matter how related-to-me they might be or how adorable they are.

You see, I’m absolutely petrified of both old people and small children. I have a fear that my proximity to either one of them will ultimately lead to their demise. Not that I harbor some sort of homicidal thirst, rather that my lack of reactive reflexes will prove a detriment for a reasonably helpless being should an emergency situation arise. I generally avoid taking other people’s pets out of doors for the same reason.

So how did this reversal of baby-holding fortune come about when my stance on such matters up until now had been so strict? Well, I guess you could say I was taken by surprise and had absolutely no choice in the matter. You see, my old roommate Sean recently had a son with his wonderful wife, and the two of them had come to town on business with baby in tow. Sean and I decided to meet up for a bite to eat and some conversation this afternoon. Upon his arrival on the Lower East Side with newborn son Sims hanging from a pouch around his neck, the three of us traversed the frigid city streets until happening upon a suitable cafe for our outing.

We sat down and ordered a warm alcoholic beverage to soothe our icy insides and a snack or two and got to talking about the state of things, but as our time dwindled down, my former roommate uttered something along the lines of “I gotta get a picture of you with Sims.” Only, the words I heard were, “you gotta take a picture of me with Sims,” meaning I was on camera duty.

Before I knew it, a not-yet three-month-old was being thrust toward me by Sean’s proud parental hands for me to take on the temporary role of “Uncle Evan.” Panic filled me for an instant before calm won out. I gingerly wrapped my hands to encompass the near entirety of the tot’s torso. This was an honor, but still three distinct fears bounced around my brain in the brief minute I held my friend’s son. First, I worried about the implications should I drop him; second, I thought my tight grip specifically designed to prevent me from dropping him could end up crushing his fragile ribs; and third, I was worried that the contents of the diaper soiled early in our first meeting might drip onto my person in a messy heap. Luckily, none of those fears came to pass. Actually, I was surprised how sturdy this two-month old body was despite its diminutive size. There’s something to be said for the intricate architecture of the human body. My momentary marvel over the makeup of this miniature morsel of being aside, there was great feeling of relief when he was received from my non-child rearing iron grasp.

Even with all of the mental drama, I’m proud to say that I spat in the face of one of my long-abided restrictions. I posed for a photo with an adorable and remarkable piece of life breathing in between my hands, embracing a new experience. One more down, plenty to go.

GOP to Extend Yachting, Prostitution Industry Bailouts

Wed, 1 Dec 2010 15:12:23 -0500

It was a momentous occasion in the Senate today as Republicans took a stand in the form of a strongly-worded letter to their helpless Democrat counterparts stating that no legislation shall pass until more of the nation's tax dollars were pledged to bail out the Yachting and Prostitution industries. While the general state of the economy had been trending downward since George W. Bush's first term in office, the Yachting and Prostitution industries began to flourish as the richest 1% of the nation suddenly and quite inexplicably had more disposable income to invest in expensive yachts and high-priced hookers with whom they could spend time getting orange on those yachts with– ultimately eschewing the incentive to spend such riches on technological innovation or increased employment for the mega-corporations they commanded.

Now as America slowly inches towards economic recovery, Republicans have taken a stand, fearing that the improvement and betterment of the nation as a whole through vital legislation will put a stop to the progress of both these stalwart industries. Let us not forget that sailing and prostitution are two of the oldest hallmarks of civilized society. Had it not been for a few errant yacht expeditions, this great nation never would've been founded. And had not a few prostitutes applied their trade so well, Ben Franklin may have never been exposed to countless inspirational muses.

Senator Mitch McConnell and company truly have their finger on the pulse on what our nation's forefathers intended when they envisioned a nation of the people, by the people, and for the people. You know what's for the people? High-priced hookers and boats. What's not for the people? Spending your money on stuff you don't want to- like infrastructure and making people smarter, healthier and less poor.

The Republican senators' stance was applauded by Tea Party Nation President, Judson Phillips, who added to it his belief that only people who own yachts and regularly solicit pricey prostitutes should be able to vote.

Black Friday Sale on Common Sense

Wed, 24 Nov 2010 09:11:50 -0500

Black Friday 2008 4am Outside Circuit City

Thanksgiving Day is a great opportunity to spend time with family and friends, watch football, and ultimately pig out on Turkey and various other accoutrements. But when the holiday ends all of that food we shoveled down our gullets does more than just make us sleepy or give us the need to unbutton our pants; it also gives us the much needed weight gain that will provide us with a strategic advantage for the next morning's consumer-driven gift free-for-all known as "Black Friday." It's much easier to elbow an aging housewife out of the way to get to the last XBox Kinect, when you've put on an extra 5-10 lbs of meat-weight.

Every year on the Friday following Thanksgiving, a newly-rotund pack of sale-crazy customers rise at the crack of dawn to jockey for position for the best deals on everything from HDTVs to inexplicably popular electronic hamsters. It's a fairly common occurrence to hear of injuries and even deaths when the threat of losing out on sale items trumps the appeal for common courtesy and/or human decency.

It's a wonder this vicious cycle keeps repeating itself when the near 30 day difference between Thanksgiving and Christmas gives the majority of shoppers ample time to calmly peruse the store shelves like the civilized beings that we are–not to mention the fact that they can just as easily shop from the comfort of their own homes. Unfortunately, the word "sale" often serves as a sinister greed trigger, a key to the gateway wherein lies the most depraved examples of human behavior. It's kill or be killed for the sake of a toy or gadget.

Similar to the audience reaction on an episode of "Oprah" where she gives away her favorite things, the use of the word 'sale' on this particular day elicits a Pavlovian response even Pavlov himself couldn't have possibly imagined. Yet, corporations keep encouraging the behavior making their sales earlier and more pronounced.

According to BlackFriday2010.com Best Buy will be opening their doors at 5am, but handing out special "doorbuster item tickets at 3a.m." Though it hasn't been scientifically proven, I feel pretty safe saying the more ungodly the opening hour, the more crazed and dedicated the people willing to get in line that hour will be. And the longer you make those people wait once they've gotten in line, the closer you get to igniting the powderkeg of consumer-driven immaturity.

So while many a periodical is dispensing their primer on "Black Friday Safety," ask yourself one common sense question– do you really want to worry about your own safety while shopping? Take that Friday to enjoy the fact that you're with your family and worry about what you're going to get them for the holidays later. There's always "Cyber Monday."

The Rugged-yet-Suave Scent of Victory (Superstition)

Wed, 15 Sep 2010 22:09:50 -0400

Victory. What does it smell like? Well, up until recently I might have defined it as the perfect fall Sunday; calm winds swirling in a grassy arena of combat; the hint of that dead leaves in the air as brut strength collides with brut strength above mud-filled trenches spilling blood, sweat, and tears all over the repeated exchange of an inflated, oblong pork hide.

Defeat? Well I guess I saw that as pretty much the same thing, only the stench of mud in your nose is a lot more apparent.

Turns out I didn't know as much about the scent of a winner as I thought, for just recently I sniffed true odor of champions. All this time it lay dormant in the home of some poor Sullivan County, New York sap– nary put to use and left to rot in storage box. But as is the case with all important artifacts, it was destined to be found and displayed in its true glory. The Hope Diamond, The Cougarhead Stapler –both stunning and priceless objets d'art in their own right– now find themselves matched in beauty and purpose only by the New York Giants Lombardi Trophy Aftershave bottle. Not only is the latter a stunning relic of triumph dating as far back as 1987, but it has also managed to maintain it's mythical powers by continuing to contain –within its walls– the liquid manifestation of the sacred scent of victory cologne historians might recognize as something called "Wild Country."

Now with this prized keepsake of past gridiron (and no doubt bedroom) conquests in my possession, I shall partake in the weekly ritual of the application of the victorious essence to my person in a superstitious endeavor to ensure a positive result on the field of battle for the Giants of the gritty game they call Football.

The scent of victory indeed.