Today is a special day, as with it I bid farewell to that clumsy stage in life known as the early thirties, finally transitioning to the relative stability of my mid-early thirties. Don't get me wrong; 31 felt pretty good, but 32 is better by default because it's one year closer to 35. In case you weren't aware, 35 is the age when a man reaches the apex of his maturity, arriving at a trisection of awesome milestones:

1. Able to become President (excluding foreigners and women).
2. A tenuous and temporary balance is achieved between maximum facial hair growth potential, minimal chance of balding, and still manageable ear hair.
3. Middle age officially begins.

I could see why some of my younger readers would question the awesomeness of the third item. After all, there is a very prominent stigma attached to middle age, which essentially adds the subtext of "old son of a bitch in training" to it. It's true to an extent; the aches and pains and blind corporate servitude of middle age can certainly be faulted for the regret-turned-bitterness that attaches itself to so many later in life. That, however, happens further down the road.

The awesomeness of middle age is not to be found within those oppressive working years, but is something inherent to the experience of becoming a full-fledged adult. You may think you're totally an adult when you turn 18, and then for real when you graduate college or get a big boy job, and again once you start a family. Wrong, wrong, and fucking spare me -- if Justin Beiber can get someone pregnant, that's officially off the table forever as a yardstick of adulthood.

Over time and with experience you learn that being an adult is nothing but a mindset. It's an attitude cultivated over your last 30 some-odd years of functional living. You've spent all this time growing as a person in a myriad of ways, yet are really only capable of judging yourself by other people's standards. This massively conflicting notion screws most of us up enough to last well through our twenties. It's not surprising considering most of us spend the first 8 years of our life being told how special we are, and then the following decade finding out that in actuality, only certain kinds of special are considered acceptable.

This is where the freeing effect of adulthood comes in. After all these years trying to fit in, wondering if others are judging you for the lamest of reasons, and even wishing you could be someone else, you'll notice these feelings being replaced with a new one -- an overarching sensation of not giving a shit whatsoever. It's more of a realization than it is a form of apathy. It's a new way of looking at things wherein you recognize the inevitable march of time and want to spend as much of it as possible doing the things you enjoy with people you don't secretly want to strangle. You start seeing younger generations for what they really are; overwhelmingly insecure people doing the best they can to figure shit out along the way (that and people whose music will never be as cool as yours). Love, humor, and purpose all develop new, richer meanings. In essence, you've removed the lens you viewed the world with throughout your youth and can finally start to see things for what they really are... which is approximately a 1000:1 ratio of things that don't matter to things that do.

Feel free to label this as simply another blog post from an aging nobody hoping to validate his senescence with dollar beer epiphany-fueled bullshit. It won't faze me I swear. I'm at a place in my life where I'm mature enough to take it, much in the same way your mom takes it from anyone drunk enough to overlook that thing on her face.

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Saturday night at around midnight, I lazily slumped across two seats on the westbound train home. My legs were heavy and tired in comparison to the twitchy, overcaffeinated impulses shooting through my brain. Six hours of standing at a charity event followed by another hour on my feet waiting for the train (thanks Occupy Portland) might not have been so bad if it weren't for the ill-fitting shoes I had been wearing. The only upside was how damn good I apparently looked in them.

From halfway up the train car someone called out to me "Nice shoes man". He was a younger guy, probably still in high school, with a group of his friends. I could tell he wasn't just fucking with me because, for starters, I am the supreme overlord of sarcasm and able to spot even its most unrefined forms. He was also pretty sharply-dressed, a complement to my own attire for the evening.

Before I had a chance to respond, the kid looked me up and down. "Damn, dude's wearing a tux -- nice tux!" I told him thanks and went back to avoiding eye contact. Not that he said it in a creepy way or anything. I did, after all, look as the kids say nowadays, "balls deep in swag":

James Bond's outfit, James Cagney's crappy camera phone

As the train approached its next stop a few minutes later, a young woman in front of me began to shake her passed out companion. "Reuben, wake up. Time to go." She does this a couple more times with increasing intensity as the train slows to a stop. "Reuben, come on, get up!!" The doors open and Reuben slowly rouses. She stops the door from closing with her hand. "Reuben -- COME ON!!" He makes it to the door of the train before she stops it from closing a second time. She points back to his seat, "Reuben, grab your shirt!" Reuben stares at her blankly, obviously too drunk to process such complicated instructions. She stops the door from closing a third time, rushing back into the train to grab his shirt.

At this point she's standing on the platform, trying to coax him off the train. Reuben is right in front of the door but refuses to exit for some reason that I'm sure makes perfect sense in his pickled mind. He's just leaning against the inside panel with this wry half smile on his face. The woman is screaming now, "REUBEN -- GET OFF THE TRAIN!!" The door tries closing for a fourth time, and it looks like she's going to let it go, so I reach out with my umbrella and stop the door from closing. More screaming, "REUBEN, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!"

This time, however, the door closes almost immediately and right in Reuben's face. The conductor comes over the intercom, "Can I help you folks back there?" Nobody responds, so he asks again. I feel somewhat responsible so I yell back "Can you open the door one more time for this guy? He's having a bit of trouble," to which the conductor obliges. This is pretty much Reuben's last chance.

The woman reaches through the open door to try and yank him out by his sleeve. He pulls away and smiles, his stupid contorted drunk face mocking her. She yells at him again as the door starts closing. She stops it again, but instead of pleading further with Reuben she looks in my direction. "CAN YOU PLEASE HELP ME?!"

Now, I was already way more involved in this than I wanted to be. I haven't had much luck with random interactions on public transportation in the past so I usually do what I can to avoid them. I also felt kind of sorry for Reuben, because hey, we've all been an insufferable drunken ass at one point in our lives. Some of us on a weekly basis.

But this had gone too far. The woman was crying and yelling at me to help. The conductor came back over the intercom shouting "WHAT'S GOING ON BACK THERE?" It was late. My feet hurt. I wanted to go home and it didn't look like that was going to happen until this drunken asshole made a move.

Then it happened. Reuben looked over and pointed that dumb smile right at me. It was probably just booze-induced lazy eye, but I swear that motherfucker winked at me too. That was officially enough. I stood up and said "Reuben, get the FUCK off the train!" and shoved his drunk ass out the door. Reuben crumpled into a pile on the platform as I yelled into the intercom "He's out the door, let's go." The woman looked up at me as she was crouching over him and said "Oh my God! That's not what I meant!!" I looked back at her and said "You're welcome" right as the doors closed.

As the train started moving I turned around to take my seat and noticed that the group of guys from earlier were all staring at me, a shocked look on many of their faces. It took me a second to recognize that they had just witnessed a 6'7" red-bearded dude in a full tuxedo possibly kill someone. I reasoned that they had no experience dealing with drunken idiots and that I had been too harsh on poor Reuben. I thought maybe I should explain to them that there are only two ways to deal with someone that housed; the nice way and aggressive way, and that there had been no time to employ the former tactic. At that moment the same guy who had complimented my shoes spoke up. "Hoooolyyyy shit, man. That was fucking awesome!" One of the other guys might have drawn a parallel between me and some sort of Chuck Norris/James Bond hybrid; I don't recall exactly, as things got a little excited in the ensuing flurry of high fives.

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(click image to enlarge)

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Earlier this year I had a ridiculous dream. Not like the one where I thought I had a shot with Gerard Butler, which is really more impossible than it is ridiculous. In this dream I was basically a taller, PG rated version of Jigsaw from the Saw movies, wherein I crafted an array of overly-complicated devices used to inflict mildly bothersome consequences upon the losers of my evil(ish) games.

Most of my dreams dissolve into vapor before I even make it out of the shower, but for some reason a small part of this one stayed with me throughout the day. A stupid, pretty lame part (a notion I later proved to be spot on), regarding a machine that allows its operator to slap the shit out of themselves. Stupid. Pointless. Completely stuck in my head.

So... I did what any really good-looking person with a lot of time on his hands would do and I built the thing out of scraps in my garage. Once out of my head and sitting on my workbench, I guess I wasn't quite as committed to the idea of slapping myself in the face, because the slap machine has been collecting dust ever since. Until now.

You may need to turn your volume up to get the full disappointing experience:

 

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This may come as a shock to some of you, but not everyone is actually the person they portray themselves as on the internet. I know, I know... take a moment to collect your jaw and/or anus from the floor.

While I've always challenged myself to embody the sarcastic, narcissistic, suburbanized giant among men revealed on these pages, I too have been known to skew perceptions across multiple social networks, most notably when it comes to my face. This face to be exact, the one you have all come to know and love and fear and accept friend requests from and well, let's be honest, oft times imagine what it would feel like pressing softly against your cheek:

Here's the thing though -- see that glorious beard, its auburn glory playing a follicular symphony across my expansive jawline? As irrefutably awe-inspiring of a beard as it might be, I only wear it about two months out of the year. Most of the time I actually look like this:

Don't act so surprised. Besides, this was taken after six on a Saturday. What am I, a farmer?

My "winter beard" as I like to call it only makes a seasonal appearance for a multitude of reasons, but I'll spare you the entirety of my facial hair manifesto and just hit you with the top three:

1. Much like Christmas or falling off the wagon, it's difficult to appreciate really awesome things if they happen every day.
2. Summer beard becomes sweaty and itchy beard faster than you might imagine.
3. My wife thinks it makes me look -- as she so delicately puts it -- like a "homeless junkie, whose jizz-encrusted mass of face pubes is so overwhelming that you almost don't notice he also has rabies".

This year, however, I've added a new element to the annual Jay turns Wolfman event. Borne from equals parts laziness and cheapassery, I decided that I also wouldn't cut my hair for the duration of winter beard season. I'm about two months in, and starting to think my wife was on to something with her homeless junkie theory:

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Being relevant > Being timely

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Given the infrequency with which these pages are shown any attention as of late, it may come as a surprise to learn that my writing career is actually a giant, multi-armed beast, and that this blog is but one of its many arms. That's right; my literary prowess is practically fucking sentient at this point. Aside from being the master of multiple social media platforms, I am also a well-paid, highly respected, published author. It matters not that I've only got one (in print) published credit to my name. That's all it takes.

Although... in all fairness, as far as I can tell nobody takes me seriously. Oh, and I wasn't exactly "well-paid" for my published work so much as I was "fucked in the ass by some Caribbean douchebag".

I should probably clarify a few things about that last part. This might end up being a rather lengthy story, but if you've got the time, you'll be handsomely rewarded with multiple instances of me being hosed by Wesley Snipes' character from Futuresport. Just trust me and keep reading.

In late 2008 I responded to a craigslist ad requesting aphrodisiac recipes for a men's cookbook. I had been submitting a crap-ton of writing proposals at the time, and happen to have a kick ass grilled oyster recipe, so I fired it off and then pretty much forgot about it immediately. Imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, I got an email notifying me that not only was my recipe accepted, but the publisher wanted several more and a couple of "how-to" articles from me as well. $ Cha-Ching $$

Before we sink any further into this tale, allow me to introduce you to the man behind the curtain. His name is Sheldon, and he runs a one-man publishing house in Trinidad and Tobago, the linchpin success of which was the magazine Caribbean Man Quarterly. Once upon a time he even had a website and everything, so I had little reason to doubt his legitimacy. Although entrusting one of the whitest guys on the planet to come up with a bunch of South American and Afro-Caribbean influenced recipes probably should have raised a red flag. That and his uber-professional headshot:

If your initial reaction to that picture is "Kinda looks like John Legend and the Predator had a lovechild," you're on the right track. Also, probably a little bit of a racist.

The project started in early 2009 and was targeted for completion at around the middle of the year. I submitted my work mid February, which included a total of 7 recipes (with pictures) and 3 how-to articles. Based on the payment scale he gave me at the beginning of the project, I was due approximately $1,100 for all of this. $ Cha-Fucking-Ching $$

Somewhere in the fall of 2009, the tide turned from a sea of hope to wave after wave of bullshit. There were contract problems, then distributor problems, then Sheldon hurt his back climbing a coconut tree or something. All the while, being his friend on Faceboook I could see the lavish book release parties he was throwing on the islands. Only 1 out of every 5 messages I sent him was responded to, each with more stupidity than the last, and always promising payment was coming "very soon".

The only bright spot during any of this was late last year, when I finally received a copy of the book. This was monumental considering I had begun to doubt whether or not it even existed at all. At first glance, the cover was kind of cheesy, but admittedly appropriate for its target audience:

Finally, I'd get to see my name in print! I hastily turned to the copyright page, scanned for my name, and there it was:

Excusemewhat? YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING WITH ME! Jay "Ferries"?! As if I didn't have to put up with enough of that shit in Junior High? Why not just put me in there as Jay "Way Into Anal" Ferris Bueller? Son of a whore!

Thankfully, my recipes were unchanged for the most part, with my name spelled correctly on each of them. Here's the oyster recipe, which is sure to get you laid, although no promises it won't be by some asshat who only wants to fuck you in the wallet.

Let's take a quick look at the back cover. Adorned with Sheldon's trademark shampoo commercial headshot, we find another reason why this book was destined to be a complete and resounding failure:

Sweet dreadlocked Jesus, mon! $50?? Did they ink this bitch with the tears of a thousand island virgins? Were there some steep voodoo bribes so zombie Julia Child could make a contribution that I overlooked? Oh wait... upon further review, it becomes obvious that the exorbitant sticker price was required to offset the tens of thousands of dollars in high-end stock photography:

She either has crotch blindness, or is about to

bludgeon him with that stick she's grabbing.

This photo might have been sexy, but unfortunately, it was taken

a full month after Labor Day. What were they thinking?!

Be nice to this guy... he suffered a stroke while serving in the gay

military, and now has a hard time getting things into his mouth.

Let us all observe a moment of silence for Yipes, the Fruit Stripe

gum zebra, who gave his life to make this dress.

This will probably be one of the most unintentionally

racist things you see in your entire life.

Part of me wishes I could end this post with a "where to buy" link, giving you all the opportunity to support my writing endeavors. Too bad such a link doesn't exist, or that I would even see any of that money. Besides, as far as I know, none of my readers are limp-dicked millionaires capable of affording this literary abortion anyway. So in lieu of any monetary support, all I ask is that if you ever run into this guy, you kick him square in the conch:

Make sure your foot tells his nuts that "Jay Ferries says hi".

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In all fairness, at least two of these become pretty understandable if there's alcohol involved.

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While I've never claimed to have an excess of robust friendships, something that has emerged as a common theme amongst half my purported "friends" is that they only reach out to me when faced with a computer problem of some sort. When this kind of thing first started happening, I was admittedly flattered. I've always been a step or two ahead of the game when it comes to personal computing, but considered it as nothing more than indulging a general interest in being awesome at things that mattered, like Mario Kart or tomahawk throwing. So at first it felt pretty good; a tangible affirmation for all that time spent learning Visual Basic or building PC's for the hell of it.

Granted, getting one of these calls is not always an unwelcome occurrence. I've reached an accord with many people, such as my car guy and tree guy. We serve an unveiled purpose in one another's lives, filling those gaps in what the other considers to be rudimentary knowledge. A perfectly symbiotic, bullshit-free relationship. What hoses me are those who only pop up to seemingly mock my ability at assessing something for what it truly is. It always starts the same way: "Hi Jay, how've you been? Oh good! I'm fine too. Yeah, it's been a while, hasn't it? Hey, I was calling to see if you could help me out with this little computer problem I've been having..."

Please note that all fake friendships will be recorded for quality of life purposes.

After almost 10 years of this, I have come to the following painfully obvious conclusions:

• Anyone who does this is not really my friend
• Some people should not be allowed near computers -- ever
• It takes a special kind of fool to get infected with spyware monthly
• Most people will deny surfing porn with their dying breath
• I can see why Geek Squad is such a successful business model
• I am partially to blame for answering calls from these people in the first place
• The appropriate response is not to help, but instead fuck with those who do this to me

Keeping in line with the last of those conclusions, I've created a simple management plan for effectively dealing with this situation. I listen attentively for a few minutes, occasionally throwing out phrases such as "registry error" and "corrupt drive sector" just to freak them out a little. I then tell them to expect a follow up email from me in the next few minutes, outlining a solution. An email that reads:

Dear True Friend,

I was quite distraught when you recently phoned/emailed/texted me with your computer problem. Please be aware that this is of the utmost priority to me, and in no way an insulting waste of my time. While most people are content with friendships built around such social activities as drinking and playing video games, I much prefer ours, which rests on a solid foundation of me fixing your shit. Unfortunately, this is likely to be our final interaction under that dynamic, as I've found a website capable of acting as your thankless, uncompensated tech support better than I ever could:

www.google.com

They really do provide an amazing service; simply type in your question, click "Search," and you are magically connected to a veritable compendium of mankind's experience in resolving issues created by inept individuals like yourself. In the off chance you have broken new ground in the area of poor computing decisions and Google is of no help, I suggest posting your question for the old guys running the forums over at www.lemonparty.org.

Sincerely,

Leave me alone.

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