The Book of Even More Awesome (16 page)

Now you just need to harness your powers.

AWESOME!

Okay, you know how good it feels when you peel your socks off at the end of the day? You know how your crinkly leg hairs all get a chance to relax,
stretch out
, and breathe a sigh of relief?

Well, taking out your ponytail is like that times a million.

All your hair unbends and finally points in the other direction. Shivers swirl down your spine as you curl your neck and shake your head out. Yes, all the pressure melts away and it feels like an
instant scalp massage
. Plus, if you tied your shaggy mane up when
it was wet,
then it's even better because somehow everything got twisted even tighter up in there. You can't wait to let it down and start scratching at that postponytail itchy scalp.

Taking your ponytail out is the
getting comfy
equivalent of putting on your PJs, taking your bra off at the end of the day, or twisting and turning all your sheets and blankets in the middle of the night till you get 'em
jusssssssssst
right.

AWESOME!

One day my friend Gillian told us about the first time
her mom
used a computer.

It was a long time ago, back, back, way back, and the story goes that the whole family was unpacking their
chunky new PC
in the middle of the living room. Styrofoam was cracked apart, boxes were torn up, and then they all slowly shuffled toward the gray
Box of the Future,
waiting for its information powers and
knowledge showers
to rain down upon them.

Now, most of the family had used a computer before so someone suggested mom get her
e-groove
on first. A lamp was turned on, a shiny wooden chair brought from the kitchen, and mom sat down while the machine slowly booted up. Then, while everybody was waiting, she carefully unwrapped the mouse from its plastic bag and calmly put it on the floor by her foot.

And as everybody watched, Gillian's mom slowly mimed typing and started pushing her foot on the mouse like
a sewing machine pedal
.

It was a hilariously cute moment.

Because we were all there once too.

Sure, maybe you didn't think stepping on the mouse made the computer go, but you probably were an awkward pile of
keyboard konfusion
as you got up to speed. Maybe you typed with two fingers or you took a tutorial to master double-clicking or signed up for DOS classes down at the city center.

But come on, no matter what, no matter when, you know it's undeniably true:
You once sucked at computers too.

But then you got a bit better,
then a bit better
, then a bit better, and now you're pretty good. You started double-clicking instead of triple-clicking, changed your resolution from super zoomed-in to super zoomed-out, and started typing without looking at the keys.

You turned into eYou
, a barely recognizable quick-clicking Year 3000 cyborg version of yourself.

Of course, way down deep in your core you're still the same person who touched a computer for the first time and learned everything from scratch.

You still remember the excitement you felt as you learned all those tips and tricks. And that's what makes it exciting as you keep learning tips and tricks. Yes, whether it's a new keyboard shortcut or learning
how to whistle
, whether it's stopping on skates or playing “Stairway to Heaven” you still feel
the joy of learning
buzzing through your body every day.

You weren't sure if you could do it, but then you tried it, and then you could. You started CTRL+TAB'ing through your browser and CTRL+SHIFT+T'ing when your butterfingers accidentally closed a tab. You started Spacebaring down websites and SHIFT+Spacebaring back up. You CTRL-Z'd all your problems away, baby.

Learning a new keyboard shortcut feels great.

That's because learning anything new feels

AWESOME!

Because at that moment you go from a greasy slack-jawed
popcorn-kernel-n-sweatpants-covered
couch potato to a fast-talking screenwriter with sharp eyes, a whizzing mind, and a backup second career.

AWESOME!

We always brought quarters.

When I was younger someone's mom would always steer a
bumpy vanful
of us to the local mall where we'd spend all Saturday watching movies, loitering in arcades, and flipping through crinkly video game magazines at 7-Eleven.

When we'd had our fill of action movies,
orange Slurpees
, and Street Fighter finishing moves, it was always time to
fish for quarters
and feed them into pay phones until someone's mom, dad, or big sister swung by to pick us up.

For years we were at the mercy of those drives to and from the mall.

Sometimes they came,
sometimes they didn't
, sometimes we'd grab a cab, sometimes we'd walk for miles through the rain, kicking cigarette butts and tossing snowballs at stop signs.

Our world changed when we started getting our driver's licenses.

Chad was first, then Mike, then the other Mike, then me, then Scott. Soon we were taking lessons,
practicing with our parents
, and heading out in creaky cars, grabbing burgers, renting videos, and flipping through video game magazines at 7-Eleven.

Yes, we were a gangly pack of
sweaty sixteen-year-olds
, speeding on highways, smoking in parking lots, and going on chicken wing crawls around town. They were dreamy days full of long laughs, wild thoughts, and big ideas. And I'll be honest when I tell you I miss them.

Of course, cramming into tight cabs with five other bony asses meant there were good seats and bad seats. Don't get me wrong: cruising through empty streets,
dark downtowns
, and flashing orange lights was always a fun time. But I'm just saying there were good seats and bad seats, that's all.

By far and away the best seat was
Shotgun,
also known as the passenger seat. To land this
Seat of Power
, adjusting radio stations, cranking air-conditioning, directing drivers, you simply had to yell out “Shotgun!,” first, on the way to the car, within sight of the car. You got shotgun as many times as you could get it, as long as you called it, first, on the way to the car, within sight of the car.

By far and away the worst seat was
Hump
, also known as the middle seat in the back. To land this
Seat of Pain
, squeezed between pocket keys and pointy pelvises, straddling the floor bump, with only a thin lap belt holding you in, you simply had to yell out nothing, last, on the way to the car, within sight of the car. Generally there was some jockeying at that back door too, with overly polite grins and friendly hand gestures ushering you in, before you realized you were crawling headfirst into the alligator's mouth. Sometimes the score was ultimately settled through locked doors,
frantic racing around the car
, and dirty hip checks.

Since landing that middle seat was so painful my friends and I started yelling out “Anti-hump!” right after someone called shotgun. We agreed this move granted
Hump Immunity
, preventing the person who called it from getting saddled in that terrible seat, with its impossible-to-buckle-inwithout-touching-someone's-ass seat belt.

When you got shotgun before a long drive you were loving it lots. You weren't responsible for eyes on the road and gas in the tank. You weren't wedged into the sardine tin of sharp elbows and bony legs. No, you were
King of the Car
, Special Guest DJ, Emperor of Cold Air, and the most comfortable person on those long hauls to downtown concerts, distant cottages, or 7-Elevens way across town.

AWESOME!

Say goodbye to elastics,
say goodbye to nicknames
, say goodbye to closed-mouth-with-dimples smiles for family pictures.

When you finally get your braces off it's like being released from a
torture device
that has held you captive for years. Suddenly you can lick your front teeth, floss in less than an hour, and eat corn on the cob and
candy apples
for dinner.

Welcome back, baby.

AWESOME!

Sorry, you need my email address?

Sure, no problem, clothing store mailing list,
open-house real estate agent
, or random membership-required website.

Hit me up at [email protected].

AWESOME!

Peel back that
mildewy curtain
and let's get down to business.

Freshly soaped and squeaky clean, your
wet n' steamy self
towels dry and rolls on some Stink-B-Gone deodorant. But just before you pop from the hot steam room to the
goosebumpy hallway
, it's time to stop for a moment and be a fingerpainting Picasso.

Yes, for a minute let the blurry morning haze and the upcoming stresses of school or work melt away as you start streaking your fingers up and down the steamy glass.

Crowds slowly gather at this
stormy seashore
and look over your shoulder as you calmly and quickly paint pretty pictures on your cliffside easel. Soon clouds part and the
sun glimmers
off the distant ocean waves as strangers stop walking their dogs, kids peek over from the ball diamond, and old folks hold hands and smile as you whip up masterpiece after masterpiece. Images pop up as they ooh and aah—it's a happy face, a heart, a house with smoke coming out the chimney, or a love letter waiting for the next person to have a shower.

Sure, in a few minutes the mirror fades to clear and your paintings drift away. But for an instant you're a
naked artist
, brushing up against greatness, fame, and a cluttery bathroom counter.

AWESOME!

I was the Basil King.

A few summers ago I lived with a girlfriend in a cramped old apartment in the suburbs. The place didn't have an elevator or air-conditioning so we'd come home after some
sweaty staircase cardio
and strip off our shirts, flip on the fans, and eat popsicles on the balcony as sweat streamed down our shiny foreheads.

Dinner was always a quick affair with points awarded to whoever braved the
steaming hotbox
to whip up a meal without cranking the oven, turning on the stove, or moving very much.

Since we were spending most evenings sitting outside we decided to dress the balcony up a little bit. We upgraded our sticky plastic chairs to slippery nylon ones. We grabbed some
plastic tumblers
from the dollar store. And, most important, we bought a tiny pot of basil and set it down in the corner.

It was the first garden I ever had.

And soon I loved that pot of basil like a son.

See, bouncing around college dorms and basement apartments for years meant no time, no money, no gardens for me. The pot of basil was a new day, a new dawn, and a new life to look after. When we first sat it on the corner of that balcony, I looked down at it like it was a helpless newborn swaddled in rags in the delivery room.

“I will raise you like my own,” I promised the tiny basil pot that day. “I will give you sunlight, I will give you water, I will give you love.”

“I will eat your limbs,” my girlfriend helpfully added, rubbing her belly and licking her lips like a
grizzly bear
gazing up at a sticky beehive in a tall pine tree.

But I meant my words and every day I'd poke around the plant, softly feeling the plastic sheen of new leaves, picking off tiny spiderwebs, and pouring clean water into its dirty home. Soon the basil rewarded me with
bright fragrant leaves
reaching up and out of its pot, trying desperately to give me a big hug for my love.

It wasn't long before everything we made included basil.

We threw it on pizzas, tossed it in pastas, and made enough pesto to open a flea market stand. I loved that plant like no other and it gave me a bountiful balcony harvest. We'd even freeze it in bunches and hand it out like loot bags to visiting friends. “Thanks for coming over,” we'd say, stuffing a fat baggie into their hands and winking. “Here's a little something for the ride home.”

It really is a beautiful moment eating anything from your own garden. In our modern world of pizza pockets,
meat wands
, and canned everything, there's something real and something honest about raising your own plants. Forget pesticides, forget bug sprays, forget frozen fish sticks from the other side of the planet. This here's the real deal: planted out back, picked out back, and dropped straight into your dinner.