When did this country lose it’s collective balls?  When did we become such wimpy, little, girly men… or even worse, jabronis?  With more PG-13 action movies than we can physically count and the FCC willing to censor even Matlock, we’ve lost our voice.  Honestly, it’s surprising I’m allowed to write this blog while including words like titmouse and Hancock.  In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if men clad in reflective HazMat suits busted in to my apartment and torched my computer with industrial flame-throwers, Equilbium style.  Maybe some of you didn’t notice our current vulnerable state.  It’s okay.  A certain corporation wants it that way.  A corporation that has gotten away with this for far too long.  For this reason, I’m calling you out, Walt Disney.  Starting today, I’m waging war on Mickey Mouse and all his little goofy friends… especially Goofy.  You’re to blame for this mess.

Please, let me explain my hatred of one of America’s premier enterprises.  Simply put, Walt Disney is destroying our action stars.  One by one, they’re tricking our muscle-bound, dim-witted, gun-toting heroes into thinking light-hearted family movies that attempt to dish out life altering messages are good career moves.  Violence solves nothing, they say.  The most important part about parenting is just being there, they claim.   Bullshit.  Violence solves everything.  Clearly Disney has never seen the aforementioned movie, Equilbirium.  Please, explain to me how Christian Bale is suppose to take down a tyrannical government, armed with shotguns and samurai swords, if he’s going to his kid’s soccer games?  And it’d be pretty hard to save The Matrix and defeat Agent Smith if Neo spent all his time going to PTA meetings.  But maybe that’s just me.  What do I know?  I’m just a kid in his early twenties who still claims to be a college student.  It’s not like I watch movies.

We’re slowly losing our action stars to this fascist corporation and we’re all just sitting idly by while it happens.  What happened to you The Rock?  Since accepting a role in Disney’s: The Game Plan, you’ve become a shell of your former self.  Now, I turn on my television to see you donning a tutu and wings pretending to be a tooth fairy.  When you initially left the wrestling business to smash in tail-lights with a 4×4 as Johnny Knoxville stood awkwardly by, I supported you.  When you turned a non-Mortal Kombat video game in to a movie and it shockingly flopped, I stood by you.  Hell, even when you tried to revive a Mummy franchise not worth saving, I pleaded your case.  But now?  Now, you’re dead to me.  You should be smashing steel chairs over Triple H’s skull and calling people “steaming piles of monkey crap.”  Instead, you’re a cross-dressing, mythical being who places money under children’s pillows for their discarded teeth.  How you go from being on top of the sports entertainment world to six wine coolers and a mustache away from being caught in a southern California kitchen by Chris Hansen is beyond me.  Good career move.

And don’t think you’ve escaped my tirade Vin Diesel.  The Pacifier?  Babies?  Baby bottles strapped to you like grenades?  Vin Diesel should be punching hard surfaces and stiffly delivering confusing one liners, not changing diapers in a hilarious manner. (Note to readers: I have not seen, nor have plans to see the Pacifier, but let’s be honest, I’d bet my life on the inclusion of a diaper changing montage to the movie.)  Good career move.

I don’t even want to think of what is to come.  Luckily for you, I did:

-        This summer, Bruce Willis is… The Soccer Mom.

-        Ballet teacher by day, engaged parent by night, Jason Statham is… Desperate For Money… errr, I mean… The Dance Instructor.

-        Coming to theatres this fall, Sylvester Stallone is… Stay At Home Dad.

These truly are sad times.  If you’re a parent out there, do America a favor and boycott these movies.  For once, don’t think about your kids.  Think about the future of this once great nation.  Think of what we could be again.  And whatever you do, don’t let that damn mouse win.

I have an addiction.  Anthony Kiedis, I can now relate to Scar Tissue.  Nikki Sixx, you were right, the sun does set fast these days. (I’m assuming for the sake of this article, both of you read the site while touring).  Seriously, I’m an abandoned apartment filled with empty wrappers away from hitting rock bottom.  I’m cold all the time.  My increasing tolerances force me to constantly seek bigger scores.  I’m not sleeping.  I don’t feel good.  Deep breaths cause sharp upper back pains.  My will power is gone.  I’m scared and alone. Oh God, what have I become?

What could a kid in his early twenties possibly have an addiction to? Marijuana? Come on, I’m not a high school student, much less a cool one.  Cocaine? I wish I was a rockstar.  Black tar heroin? Nah, too many needles.  Horse tranquilizers? Not even close.  Human growth hormones? Who am I? Mark McGwire?  Stem cells? No…wait, what? Where did that come from?  You’re reaching now.  So, what then is the bane of my existence?  It’s simple, really.  I’m addicted to Arby’s.  I can’t stop.  I don’t want to stop.  Is that the first sign of an addiction?  Why am I sweating so much?  This can’t be normal.

I was doing fine without you Arby’s.  Sure, I wasn’t as close to Taco Bell as I was in high school and it was hard to keep a long distance relationship with Burger King, but I was calling every week and visiting every month.  McDonald’s may not have been as pretty or cool as the other fast food establishments, but their Dollar Menu was always there to console me in my darkest hours.  And then you showed up Arby’s.  Like a spurned ex-lover, you picked up right where you left off.  You just couldn’t leave me alone.  I thought I had moved on, told myself I was done with your high prices, but you sweet talked your way back into my life.  Come on inside, Mix and Match is now only $6!  Try our new $5 sub combos! I just couldn’t resist.  I was dumb, naïve and desperate.

I mean, it started harmlessly enough.

I guess I don’t have time to cook dinner before basketball.  I could stop at Arby’s. Shoot, I forgot to pack a lunch.  Well, Arby’s is basically on the way to work. Soon, it became an untamable beast.  I suppose I only bought a small Arby’s combo meal for lunch, I could go back for a large combo at dinner. That’s when things started spiraling out of control.  I’ve now gone to Arby’s four times in the last four days.  Seriously.  No, I don’t think you’re following… I’m serious.  I’d like to say I could stop at anytime, give it up cold turkey, but I don’t think I can. I’m having roast beef cravings again.  Is this what it’s like being a vampire?  Is Wesley Snipes poor and delusional enough to start hunting me? (These are the things I wonder about at night instead of sleeping.)  How does a normal man resist the urge of thinly sliced roast beef slathered with tangy Arby’s sauce?  Oh God, it’s happening again!  The cravings!  The sun… it’s going down.  There…there has to be a vaccine… some sort of antidote.  This can’t go on forever… can it?  Is there no hope for a broken man?  It must wait until tomorrow… because I’m… I’m thinking Arby’s.

As head-writer and designer for one of millions of blogs out there, I feel that it is my civic duty to help the American public succeed where the FDA has clearly failed.  Granted, I’m not exactly sure what “civic duty” actually means and the only qualification I’d have for joining the FDA is the Intro to Chemistry class I took 5 years ago, but nevertheless I’m still going to help you out anyways.  I am appointing myself, FDA web-commissioner.

My first act as acting FDA web-commissioner is to issue an immediate ban on all pure marshmallow products on the market.  I’m looking at you, Easter themed peeps.  Don’t think you can hide, Circus Peanuts.  There’s no need for you, bag of multi-colored mini marshmallows.  You are really really creepy baby peep costume.  Does any sane person really like you, Moon Pie?  For too long you’ve been consuming valuable super market shelf space.  You provide no real nutritional value.  Your taste rivals that of sugar coated Styrofoam cups (we’ve all experimented, right?).  And your elastic properties are rarely found in consumable products.  All you are is fluffed sugar.  The game’s over.  In a nation full of overweight and diabetic people, we just don’t need you anymore.

Effective immediately, I’d like to, no, I implore this nation to discard its marshmallow products.  Now, before the liberals rush to expel this propaganda from the web for fear of the marshmallow’s absorbent properties clogging landfills nation-wide, I have a removal plan for our sugary foes.  It’s really quite simple.  Ship all the leftover snacks to Taiwan so we can manufacture knock-off Tempur-Pedic pillows.  Finally, we get some value out of these things.   Instead of causing Type 2 Diabetes, Circus Peanuts could help promote proper neck alignment while sleeping.  It’s a win-win.  Unless, of course, you’re the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters.  But you were kind of screwed from the beginning.

Finally, for all you Rice Krispie Treat fanatics out there, marshmallows will still be available on a permit basis.  After filing the correct paperwork and submitting a copy of your birth certificate to local and state officials, you will be allotted your marshmallow ration for the entire year.  Please, make it count.

Like most other males in their early to mid twenties, I claim to work out far more often than I actually do.  Really, I wish I could say my lethargic personality was solely to blame, but my lack of gym time is because of something far more terrifying.  I’m talking, of course, about gym exposure.  What exactly is gym exposure?  Well, let me explain.  With New Years resolution fulfillment goals in full stride, most Americans are hitting the gym to drop those extra pounds en route to curbing our overwhelming national obesity issues.  However, resisting these lofty expectations, one problem is rearing its ugly head again.  A problem we thought went away with the inventions of the towel and undergarment.  And as a result, young men everywhere are cowering in fear, afraid to venture in to public locker rooms across the country.

Gym exposure, more commonly known by it’s street name Middle-Aged Man Crotch, has become a recent epidemic.  This ever increasing problem has plagued the fitness society for years but has seen a recent up-swing as the “baby boomers” reach their early fifties.  A time in a man’s life when buying expensive material goods and generally not caring have become prevalent activities.   A time when towels and body hair maintenance have become strictly optional.  To explain my point, picture yourself in my shoes as I provide you a day in the life of male locker room user.  At a Bally’s.  On a Tuesday.  In Wisconsin.

As a young adult using these public facilities, it is sometimes hard to imagine what waits for you on the other side of the glass door ahead.  Approaching the locker room, there is no way to prepare for the onslaught ahead.  Like an underdog boxer entering the ring, you plan to take the blows, play your best defense and hope to come out on top…  always fearing the worst. Walking into the locker room, it’s presence like no other.  As if an angry, prehistoric mammal was let out of its denim cage for the afternoon.  Sure, covering up with a small, white piece of cloth is an option.  But how would you get an accurate body weight measurement with a towel wrapped around your mid-section?  Surely the damp cloth adds fifteen to twenty pounds.  And who needs to completely dry off in the shower when you can place that towel between your legs and ride it like a naked cowboy would his bleached horse?

In the locker room, few rules seem to apply. Casually talking with friends, nude, in most locations? Inappropriate.  While in the locker room? Expected.  As if to say, “I’ve given up caring, and it appears you have too.  Let’s converse.” Spewing an anecdote about married life can’t wait for a clothed delivery.  It must be told now.

How appropriate, the seventy-eight year old creeper who can barely bend his joints, got a locker right next to yours.  Even though the room is sparingly filled, and four pieces of clothing shouldn’t take this long to put on, the man takes near record time getting dressed. Starting from the top down.  How convenient.   Like a balding, albino gorilla, he  proceeds to put lotion in places not meant for children or pregnant women to view.   You continue to stare into the dirty locker housing your workout materials and pray for God to take away your peripheral vision.  No such luck.

A slightly older man now approaches the set of lockers behind you.  Trapping you between the two old men, a bench and that wall to your right.  You see the new man glance at the naked pile of a body to your left with a familiar glint in his eye.  Oh… oh, no. He recognizes him.  Fearing entrapment, you close your locker and hop on to the bench separating the men in one motion, pushing off the worn board to get out of this hostile situation.  A sigh of relief comes over you as you lunge towards the ground, your legs cushioning the fall as your reflexes bounce you back up off the scummy tile.  Your head rises with some resistance, ready for the journey to the weights. Finally, you realize what has happened.  In all the confusion, you have leaped right into the mid-section of an oncoming naked man on his way back from the sauna.  There is no God.

Please, don’t mistake this tale as a young adult’s non-acceptance of the male body, but rather that of someone who just doesn’t want to see old dudes naked.

Dear seven people that will read this over the next four months,

I am not dead. I’ll pause a moment so you can shake your head and sigh…  Okay, done shaking?  Actually, I’ve been extremely productive these past few months and as a result have neglected the site like it was my red headed step child asking for Christmas presents.  Please, save the hostility.  I can picture most of you now, “But Adam, does watching Hulu and eating Doritos really count as productivity?” And my answer is: Of course, what a stupid question.  The second season of Paradise Hotel isn’t going to watch itself while lying in a cooler ranch flavored crumb pile.  Sorry for that visual.

Recently, Headtrip has undergone some server changes.  In the process of switching hosts, the databases which contained two years worth of posts were never backed up and ultimately lost.  But hey, who’s counting?  Well, besides me while crying myself to sleep to the thought of 24 months worth of writing lost somewhere in cyber space. What does this mean for the site? Basically, I’m starting all over again.  A fresh slate like the original Headtrip I helped start back in 2002… except with a worse social life… which I didn’t think was possible.  Really, you should probably just think of my life as those 30 second Adidas commercials, Impossible Is Nothing. Except instead of flashy shots of Ali knocking out Frazier and Kevin Garnett hitting game winning shots set to heart pumping music, it’s more like me blankly staring at a computer screen for half a minute as silence fills the background.  Same difference, right?

Over the past few months, not too much has changed for me.  I still spend my days wasting away in a carpeted box somewhere in eastern Wisconsin.  Actually, for past readers of the site, I’ve since moved on from the Windowless Factory in Wisconsin to bigger and better places.  Now I spend my days in a Mostly Windowless Office Connected to a Factory in Wisconsin. Clearly, a huge promotion.  By the end of this decade I plan to be working in a Somewhat Windowed Office in Wisconsin.  Hey, a boy can dream, can’t he?  I got a joke for you. What’s the difference between an office cubicle and a padded mental institution room with a computer? The answer… the Hello Kitty calendar I’m allowed to hang up on casual Friday.  Let’s  just say that if little 8 year old Adam could see me now… he’d probably take a baseball bat to my head.  Actually, he’d probably chop me in the knee and THEN hit me in the head once I fell down.  I’m a lot taller now.

In an effort to expel my creative and, um, other frustrations, I’ve taken to writing again.  What can I say?  It’s easier than working out.  Plus, I’m lazy. Honestly, I have no idea what I will write about this time.  I figure, I haven’t known what to say for 23 years, so I’m about due for some sort of thought process.

With the clean slate I’ve been given, I’ve attempted to conjure up some unique and fresh ways to re-launch the site.  Initially, I figured I’d say my kid was stranded in a weather balloon that flew away from me and use all the free publicity to plug the site.  However, I soon realized that the act of sexual intercourse was involved in the pro-creation process and that only  “meteorologists” can own weather balloons.  Darn the man and his rules keeping me down! Plus, the Heene’s screwed things up for the rest of us, so now I’d just look like a copycat.  Story of my life.

Ultimately, I settled on writing an unnecessarily long first post that really provided no substantial content and left most readers more confused than anything.  In fact, I think it’s working all ready.  Potato salad.  So sit back, relax, and wait four more months for me to post again.

Sincerely,

Adam