Bleeding Red, White, and Blue (Well, Mostly Red...)

Alright, people. Prepare for the insufferable. From this point forward, most of these blog posts will talk of nothing but China. Whether it's anticipation of the trip, an account of my nonstop 16.5 hour flight from NYC to South Korea, or my adventures with the Chinese Nuggets, my blogs will inevitably take on a certain...slant... I mean, I could talk about China, or I could give you a scene-for-scene recount of the Seinfeld episodes I watch on any given day. That's about all that's going on in my life until our Buffalo Wild Wings opens. For those of you that have had enough already, I highly recommend Stumble Upon as an alternative way to waste your time. Self-depricating ramblings aside, I have less than 2 weeks before I arrive in the People's Republic of China. I suggest the Republic prepare itself accordingly. As my departure date creeps closer, I get asked more and more-what will I miss most about being home? My family, my friends. The answer seems a little obvious to me. Of course, there are also quite a few non-human aspects of American life I will miss. My car? French fries? Drinking water that isn't full or carcinogens and poison? Sure. But there is something much more important to me. My rights. For the past few days, I've been doing a little research about what my life will be like in China. Will I be living in a dirt floor hut, washing my face with handfuls of river water? No. Apparently, Asia has taken a turn from rice paddies and funny triangle shaped hats. Now, I hear tales of smog filled skies and billions of industrious, well-mannered people whose heads I see over for miles in the bicycle clogged streets. I've sought advice from my parents, international businessmen, and even a close friend who visited China before. And of course, I get tons of unsolicited but helpful advice from pretty much everyone else. People have brought various aspects of my personality to my attention in an attempt to keep me from being thrown in Chinese jail. "Derek," they say, "you can't be sarcastic over there. No making fun of people. No satire. Don't wear your 'Communist Party' t-shirt. Don't complain. Actually, we would really just advise you to not say anything to anyone, for any reason, ever." As it turns out, I seem to be a pretty incendiary figure. And then it hit me. A huge part of my life, and my personality, is the ability to communicate freely using my First Amendment rights. I have Facebook, Twitter, Blogger, Skype, an average of about 7,500 texts a month, and I still talk to people face to face. I even talk in my sleep; just ask my former roommate. So what's a blabbermouth windbag like me to do in a country where even Google is illegal? Some people have tried to give me the impression that if I utter the word "America," I will be taken to windowless room and shot in the face at point blank range. Other people tell me that I don't have to change my habits at all, just skirt the Great Firewall like all the rest of the ex-pats. Honestly, I can't say I subscribe to either philosophy. But I do know that I will miss being in a land where I can say literally anything that I want. Because I do just that. For example, I think Sarah Palin is a complete idiot. All of the stupid ideas that come from her dumb Alaskan mouth make my liberal soul quiver with disgust. And I'm well within my rights to say all that and much, much more if I felt the need. That's why I love America. The constant free exchange of ideas we often take for granted force progression and change. And sometimes, they do nothing at all. We can be smart or stupid with our rights. The important thing is that we use them. As an American, I have access to an astounding amount of information. I can access my FBI file. I can write letters to my Congressperson. I can attend city hall meetings. And I can also watch YouTube videos about a fat girl that can't sing, or pandas sneezing. I can hold up signs and shout whatever I want. I can chain myself to old trees. Every time I go to DC, I see the tent with the crazy nuclear protester, right behind the White House. You've seen it. It's been there forever. And I can't help but smile. I honestly can't think of a single thing I care about so much that I would live in a tent until I got my way, but I have that right. With all this awesome free expression comes equality of opportunity. My favorite example of this is Basil Marceaux, candidate for Governor of the State of Tennessee. Find him on YouTube, and you will be reminded that literally anyone can run for political office. (Don't worry; he didn't win. We aren't THAT stupid..) Yes, I may be a nerd. My love for America and her idiosyncrasies may be a little beyond the comprehension of sane people. Despite decades of mind boggling stupidity from BOTH sides of the party line, I still have faith in the government. But more than that, I have faith in the ingenuity and spirit of the American people. (the National Anthem should begin to play in your head at this point) We built a nation based on ideas that had never been tried. We made it through Depressions, Great and small. We've watched 44 (almost 45!!) Superbowls together. Some people think America is on the decline. I say no way. We aren't going anywhere. We'd make too much of a fuss about being #2 to anyone. I will miss my freedoms while I live abroad. I'd say the Chinese would not be huge fans of this post, for instance. And I doubt I could slander government officials like I did to poor Mrs. Palin. So I plan to get out all my rants while I'm here. I'll say whatever I want, as much as I want, because I can. And that's what we Americans are all about.

Growing Somewhere

It's high time I grew up. Or at least wrote about it... Because I'm getting old. Very old. My knees and back are terrible, I have the agility and coordination of a man quadruple my age, and the last time I played Brain Age, I think my mental age was like 67. The physical aspects of my early onset aging would probably improve if I didn't drink upwards of a gallon of sweet, sweet Coke per day. If you call a life without Coke a life at all, that is.. But the aspect of my age that concerns me far more is my maturity. And yes, I do mean the lack thereof. Day after day, I get further reaffirmation of just how alarmingly immature I really am. Take this weekend for instance. I went up to Virginia to see my incredibly awesome friends. When I presented my parents with my plans, the conversation went something like this (at least in my memory): 

Me: I wanna go to SVU to see my friends this weekend. Real bad.

Parentals: Yeah.. How are you gonna pay for that? You spent all of your money on Taco Bell and clothes. It's even on your stupid blog.

M: Well, you have money.

P: That we do. Like the money we're using to send you to China. And put gas in your car that you suck at driving. And buy a house. And put 4 children through college. That money. 

M: .....Yes. That money. I would really appreciate it. I just need like $40.

P: $40?!?! Do you know how much you eat?!?! You'd need AT LEAST $100 for food alone! (fat joke)

About an hour of intense, hurricane strength begging followed-without any shred of dignity. We eventually had a stalemate, as the Dixons are excellent arguers. I'm pretty sure our coat of arms shows a bunch of medieval dudes shouting at one another and refusing to admit fault to anything, ever. Heritage aside, I gradually saw the error of my ways. Oh yeah, I did squander my money on fake chicken tacos smothered in Heaven only knows what... I will not be able to drive 400 miles without filling up my car, which costs money. And I will have to eat at some point. And my parents, reasonable people that they are, knew I really wanted to see some friends. So the trip happened. I made a scheme, right then, to be as frugal as I possibly could. Ha! I'll show them!! I'll starve myself and give them their money back! I'd present my parents with a big wad of the cash that I didn't spend. They'd hold me in such high esteem. "Look at our son, not spending money. Maybe we should rotate the food storage, because the apocalypse is obviously imminent." My plan failed, miserably. I came home with about $3. I couldn't even be frugal out of spite!! Perhaps the scariest thing about all of this is what I had planned to do about a year ago. I was saving all my money to go to school in Boston. I had just enough for rent and the security deposit. I planned to stick with my valet job for one more year to make up the rest. I was gone, and I was never coming back. Had I stayed at home, this disaster of a life decision would have gone through. Retrospectively, I think I would have lasted about 24 minutes in Beantown. Or anywhere on my own, for that matter. I'd break down when I realized I couldn't have a Chelsea Lately marathon every night, because I'd have to wake up and do some thankless job to pay rent. Smoked salmon is no longer a culinary option, even for bagels. Heck, even bagels are probably too expensive. And I can't get season tickets to the Celtics and still expect to have electricity. Then there would be the questions, with no one around to answer them. What? I have to pay taxes?! The interest is HOW much?! My next question would have doubtlessly involved directions to the Massachusetts Welfare Department and a few good homeless shelters. I was not ready. I'm still not. And I have a hunch I'm not alone, for people in my age bracket at least. I may be immature, but the haunting truth is that I'm probably better off than a lot of people. Has anyone ever watched The Jersey Shore? Yeah. I think I have them beat. But surely there is a fine line between functionality and failure in the real world. It separates the people who pay their bills on time from the people who use them as joint paper. The people with stainless steel kitchens from the people who have to open up soup cans by pounding them with butcher knives. The people who wear suits every day from the people who fish their filthy Ed Hardy t-shirts from a pile of clothes on the floor. It's a thin line indeed, and it's scary. When I'm 25, no one will care what Daddy did. I won't be on the Family Share Plan anymore. I can't take weekend trips with no money. And 25 is soon. We'll all age no matter what, and it's getting time to pull it together. Maybe I'll learn a thing or two from the millions of starving Chinese people. I'm sure they'll point out how I bring dishonor upon my family like all the time. Probably every day. Despite John Mayer's protest to the contrary, there is such a thing as the real world. And unless some stacks of ca$h fall out of a flying pig and land in the living room, it's not gonna be easy. Truth be told, some people never grow up. They're the people you see driving their 1989 Mercury Topazes with bumper stickers like "My Other car is a Broom" or "Horn Broken, Watch For Finger." They mix their vodka with Kool Aid and steal the neighbor's cable. Winners. Or the lucky ones end up like Snooki, with all due respect to Miss Polizzi. And we all know she'll either die from some drugs or become culturally irrelevant, whichever happens first. But I'll give my readers the benefit of the doubt and assume they aren't stupid. I mean, there are quite a few 3 syllable words in here. Hopefully we'll grow up soon. Because no matter how we try to turn back the clock, we're all growing somewhere.

Looking Eastward/Homelessness

In a few days, I will be officially homeless. After a long day of moving, there is basically no furniture left in Parents House #1, as I've come to call it, for we hauled it all, box by box, to Parents House #2. (Movers? Ha!! We're Appalachians!!) My parents thought they'd play a nice game I decided to call "Where to Shove Derek Until He Leaves." There are 6 members of my family, and 5 bedrooms. The math is simple, but yet my parents are still unable to find a place for me to stay.. Door #1, the playroom- which is basically the Purgatory for the furniture that didn't achieve Rec Room or Family Room status, but features such amenities as the fussball table, which no single child deserves in his or her room. Plus it has one of those creepy split doors like in a nursery, and I don't wanna be crept upon by my family. Door #2, share a room with my brother. No. Door #3 the office- That's more like it. Even if the former occupants put up what appears to be jungle themed wallpaper, I can manage for a couple of weeks if it means I have some privacy. So even though my entire family will be staying with my aunt until the new house is ready, making us all officially homeless, I am the most homeless of all. But I don't have time for such American nonsense. As you very well know, I am going to China soon. Anyone who has spoken to me for more than 6 seconds since about November knows this. I am unfathomably stoked, people. My head is filled with visions of rickshaws, miles of silk I can turn into some ballin' pajamas or a few Hugh Hefner-esque robes, pearls that I can ceremoniously toss in the air like confetti since they're apparently like 4 cents. I will stuff my face with rice, noodles, and whatever else they eat, and on my return to America, my chopstick proficiency will put everyone to shame. And besides the chance to live abroad for 18 weeks and Anglicize the little Asian nuggets with my English skillz, I get to take advantage of the awesome Chinese currency exchange rate. Which, to my understanding is basically 7.4 trazillion yuan per dollar. This knowledge is even making it difficult to spend money now. $8 for a BK combo?!?! I could buy a Kia Rio for that in the Orient!! I can't wait to buy presents for everyone. And I can't wait for the customs people to see what I bring to the U.S. My plans? 1 suitcase of jade lions, 1 of pearls for the lovely ladies, 1 of tailored suits, and 1 of throwing stars, in case people get sassy with me/get all up in my grill. Yeah, suck it, TSA. That's what you get for running people through those naked pervert scanners and making me take off my shoes! My feet don't always smell good, ok?!? So with most of my yuan already mentally spent, my thoughts return to my living situation. After some contemplation, it doesn't bother me a bit where I live. I have no home. And I could care less. Having all my stuff doesn't make a home for me. People do. And even as I am tossed all over the world, I keep my friends and family in my memory, on my mind, and in my prayers. My roots aren't set in any specific location, nor will they ever be. My roots are set in "my" people. My friends from high school, from work, from Southern Virginia- I know there are people I can talk to whenever, wherever I am. My family watches out for me the best they can, even when I am on the other side of the world. As long as any vermin are small enough to be vanquished with Birkenstocks, I will put up with any living situation. Because surrounded by the love and good wishes of the people I care about, I know I will always be home.

A Class Act

Occasionally, I allow myself a couple of minutes of self-reflection. If I reflect too much, I usually end up blowing the dust off my fitness club card and vowing to read a classic novel by the end of the month or other such self improvement nonsense. So I try to avoid it when I can. But a few nights ago, a haunting question came to my mind- am I white trash? The quick answer seems to be no. I mean, I wear sweaters like all the time. I speak moderate Spanish, and I have a Kindle, people. That is a trifecta of classiness. But when I initially asked myself the question, I had just polished off a pack of Frosted Strawberry Pop Tarts and some string cheese. In bed. Again. This particular instance of reclined gorging was to celebrate the It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia mini-marathon that I was having at the time. The final episode I saw really got me thinking. Its title? "Mac and Charlie: White Trash." If that's not a wake up call, I don't know what is. The plot was thick with hilarity, shenanigans, and class warfare. But I'm not a television critic. If you want to watch it, be my guest. Otherwise, I could seriously care less. So at the culmination of this episode, I decided to take stock of my trash. First and foremost, there was the literal trash evidenced in the halo of food wrappers around my head. That needed to be dealt with pretty much immediately. Trash 1, Class 0. Once the debris was cleared, I began some serious thinking. My driving habits. Now, before all the cyber world, I will admit that I am an aggressive driver. Notice how I did not say bad. Aggressive. When the situation calls for it, that's just fine. But as much as I'd like to, I don't live New York or Boston or Philly or DC. I live in Kingsport, Tennessee. And the situation in Kingsport never, ever calls for the kind of lane weaving, neck craning, tailgating prowess that I have. In a town where Wal-Mart is the nexus of the social universe, it's just embarrassing. And rednecky. Oh yeah, and I drive an old pickup truck. Trash 3, Class 0. I go barefoot in the summer as much as possible. I shop at Wal-Mart. Basically every day. (Don't judge me; it's really close to my house.) I used to eat pie with my hands, because I thought it was OK to do. Sometimes I just want to shout "YEE HAW" for no reason. I vacation near Myrtle Beach. I watch The Jersey Shore every so often. I'm loud, Southern, and willing to make a fool of myself when pressured to do so. And the tide of garbage continues to rise. I'm not saying that I have a brood of illegitimate children crawling all over me while I write this blog. And you'll probably never see me drinking Natty Light out of a paper bag in a cutoff flannel shirt, but sometimes my gut just tells me to fry up a sandwich and take it to bed for a nice Law and Order marathon at 2 in the afternoon. I should know better. When the commercials are all title loans and class action lawsuits, it's time to turn off the TV. I don't want to dispose of all my fun quirks. A little grit has its place in everyone's personality, and I'm proud of my...uhm....down-to-Earth-ness... But I also realize that I must tame the trashy beast that clearly lurks inside my classy shell. My New Year's Resolution? Take out the trash.