The Music Our Parents Fell in Love to

“It's fascinating and stupid to watch adults destroy things on purpose.” --Chuck Klosterman

The following is a copy of a status update I posted on Facebook a couple months ago:

“(Nick Olig) declared 'Damn, it feels good to be a gangster' as he destroyed his tape deck 'Office Space ' style but now the CD player his friend generously installed in his Honda Accord isn't working and he realizes that God is punishing him for declaring himself a gangster (which he's obviously not) by forcing him to listen to the likes of REO Speedwagon and Styx.”

That's the truth. Only, instead of using a baseball bat to smash an antiquated and faltering piece of machinery like Michael Bolton did, I was swinging a sledgehammer. The CD player that my friend Max had installed functioned exceptionally, without a hitch, for about 10 minutes, until the machine refused to eject the CD, a copy of the Raconteurs' “Consolers of the Lonely.” I enjoy a good 70% of this album, but still, the thought of listening to it on an interminable loop was unbearable. And so later on I pried this disc out of the CD player with the aid of tweezers. The advice that my friend Matt gave me afterwards—as a perturbed vessel of common sense—was this: Electronics and tweezers don't mix. This axiom should be obvious to anyone who isn't a dipshit, and I knew it beforehand, but I had developed such a neurotic grudge against the electronics in question that I had become like a darkly obsessed protagonist from an Edgar Allan Poe story. The unrelenting drum beat from “Consolers of the Lonely” was the heart that pulsated loudly beneath the floorboards of my mind.

Removing the CD was a resolute and precise procedure that mirrored several failed attempts playing the board game Operation. The CD was not easy to extract. The alignment inside the CD player must have been jarred askew by the repeated yanks I exerted on the disc. And so after “Consolers of the Lonely” was tugged free, no more CDs would fit into the narrow slit of the Alpine. The dreadful ordeal was like offering a spoonful of mushed carrots to a fussy infant—or worse, actually: it was like offering that same spoonful to a fussy infant with its jaw wired shut.

And so my efforts to modernize and upgrade technologically backfired. Regression was the ultimate result when I felt like a destructive gangster because I had watched a great satirical comedy over a dozen times in college and therefore felt inspired to bash in my tape deck with a sledgehammer. Indeed, it was a fascinating and stupid gesture. I felt a begrudged and ambivalent fondness for the tape deck (even though it would only function two-thirds of the time) and yet I destroyed it because it caused me a black eye as an owner of dowdy and outdated things. Even so, I think I was justified in the undertone of contempt I felt for my tape deck. If your aim is to avoid the radio at all cost because you're finicky about music (like me), the tape deck ranks two slots below the CD player and the Ipod. I own a CD player, but not an I-pod, and the CD player is not fit for trips in a car. It seemed like an easy decision, to extend that hand one rung higher on the latter of technological advancement.

But the whole thing backfired, as I've told you, and now I've moved one slot below the tape deck to the radio. Not only on a scale of technological advancement, but also on a scale of complacency with music—the latter of which is far more important—the radio is inferior to the tape deck. I am now 275% more likely to crash my car into a jungle gym or a hot dog stand because I'm constantly fussing with the radio dial in a state of perpetual discontent. With only the radio to listen to on journeys across town to the library or Taco Bell, my last words are increasingly likely to be, “Def Leppard AGAIN?! Are you fucking kidding me?”


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Read the rest, along with 39 other comedic essays, by ordering a copy of "There Will be Blog."

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Writers Love and Hate Words Too Much

I’m in the words business. When someone tells me I can earn $25 for a 1,000-word column, my eyes light up and I scream, “Two and a half cents per word? Holy Fuck, where do I sign up?” With so much cash at stake, writers can’t help but scrutinize their words. Some words disturb our nerves, others flicker with delight, and a select five words are so damn interesting that some guy decided to write a humor column about them. That guy’s name is me.

Turd: My least favorite word is “turd.” Despite the cheap rhyme, the word “turd” lends me the first two sentences of this paragraph, I have a queasy reaction to this synonym for excrement. Hearing this word spoken or reading it in print is the visceral equivalent of splashing around in a pool of rusty nails. One of my favorite authors dropped “turd” in a short story, and I was so jolted that I set the book down and tore open a pack of moist towelettes. A writer that uses the word “turd” in his prose has the effect of a bride saying the word “douchebag” in her wedding vows. The future Mrs. Norbert Oogelsteen will no doubt have to fight the urge to do this. (Give me a high-five for self-deprecation. YEAH!)

It’s not that I have qualms with obscenities. When used properly, swear words boost the gusto and intensity of language. The phrase “taking a s***” has no adverse effect on me, although I much prefer “dump” in place of “s***”. “Turd” is a different story, however, and I could never love a woman who has uttered this hideous word more than 50 times in her life.

It pains me to realize that I couldn’t express my distaste for the word “turd” without seeing it in print almost a dozen times. Up until now, I’ve refrained from using “turd” in a column, not even when describing an incident in which a mental patient dug her hand into a dirty toilet. Someone asked me what sort of illness this mental patient suffered from, and my guess was “Doodoofondle-itis,” which, for me, is more preferable than its joke alternative, “Turd-gropengitis.”

Can you believe the spell check rejected both “Doodoofondle-itis” AND “Turd-gropengitis”?

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The Plight of the Mustachioed

I'm not afraid to reinvent myself. Let me give you an example. Back in kindergarten, while gathered in a circle with my classmates, I grew weary of the teacher's reading of The Boxcar Children Feast on a Giant Rat, suddenly declared, “This scene is getting old,” and stormed out of the building. And as I strutted toward a nearby liquor store, I willfully sprouted hair in new places in order to convince the cashier I was of legal age.

How many teenagers do you know who went through a gold-plated peg leg phase, only to follow that up with a fluorescent Fanny-Packs-for-earmuffs phase? My guess is not many.

My most recent dive into reinvention occurred on New Year's Eve when I fashioned my facial hair into a mustache. It was originally intended as a one-night novelty—a joyous fling with silliness. But once the hungover morning came, I looked in the mirror and felt no urge to shave it off. Similarly, I felt no urge to wash off the words, “Thanks for the memories—Mistress Tassels,” that had been written on my bare chest in sparkling lipstick.

My mustache and I became fast friends and developed an endearing kinship. We had countless late night conversations, and for the first time in my life, I breathlessly wondered if I had actually found my soul mate. I began writing that autobiography I had wanted to write ever since toddler-hood, and the working title was: Shit Yeah, I Got a Mustache: The Nick Olig Story.

Sadly, not everybody was so receptive of my mustache, particularly women in my age group. Plenty of dudes saluted my push-broom, but I'd rather be a ladies' man than a man's man. If anyone is going to supersede my mustache as my soul mate (and that is indeed an ambitious if ), it's going to be a woman rather than a man.

The backlash grated on me, and I began to question whether the hair on my upper lip was worth fighting for. And so, after tearfully serenading my mustache with Beck's ballad “Lost Cause,” I shaved it off. When the deed was done, I succumbed to the terrible allure of isolation and gorged on six gallons of caramel twist ice cream in one sitting. It would be nearly a week before I wore a pair of pants that was not of the sweatpants variety.

I haven't ruled out the possibility of a mustache revival, but before that, I've got to do my part to dispel the mustache stigma. There is a common misconception that only three types of men wear mustaches: pedophiles, porn stars, and police officers—the three P's of mustache stereotypes. Well, folks, I've got news for you: I am none of the above, and one by one, I'm going to prove it.

First off, let's consider pedophiles. Now, not to sound overly preachy, but I have moral convictions against child molestation. It just doesn't seem right. To reemphasize a blatant point, pedophilia just isn't my cup of tea. And by the way, not all pedophiles have mustaches. Simon Cowell, for instance.

And what about the pron star stereotype attributed to the modern-day mustachioed? I will admit there are less enviable jobs than male porn star, such as bingo caller for a vast auditorium of deaf and blind people who never bothered to learn sign language, or assistant poop-shoveler at a zoo that feeds its animals McDonald's food. But don't let this admission fool you into thinking I covet a career in the adult entertainment business. I want to make this crystal clear: I am NOT a porn star. I lack the sexual brazenness and (ahem) body type that the porn star profession demands. But those aren't the only reasons I refuse to pursue a career in porn. I have a hunch the promiscuous nymphomaniacs that get into porn frown upon cuddling once the deed is done. And man, that really cramps my style.

I was going to provide an example of a cleanly shaved male porn star, but the last time I Google-searched “Cleanly shaved male porn star” inside the Starbucks where I'm writing this, I was at once maligned as a pervert by hysterical workers and customers alike and banned for an entire year.

Finally, let's consider the police officer prejudgment. Police officers are probably the most reputable of the three stereotypes, but once again, it just isn't me. Comedy writers and cops share little common ground. This is not to say that our two vocations cannot coexist peacefully. It's just that we're not likely to bond over a bowl of weed and some Mr. Show DVDs, or, conversely, share a pleasant time at the shooting range with various members of NWA set up as targets. Plus, let's be realistic. Would you feel safe with a scrawny, neurotic twenty-something upholding justice in your community? Unless you are a chronic criminal lowlife, the answer is most likely no.

Oh, and do you remember racist cop Mark Furman from the OJ trial? No mustache. You have the right to remain silent, mustache critics.

Our culture is obsessed with celebrities. Tabloid magazines and TV shows are more rampant than bookmarks, and celebrity stalking has given us vital information such as Jennifer Aniston's most frequented sexual position in the month of July 2005. (According to Star Magazine, it is a position of unparalleled difficulty and pleasure, and if you haven't appeared on the cover of Cosmo at least twice within the past year, enacting it will cause severe spinal damage.)

Now, plenty of celebrities have mustaches, but nine times out of ten, when someone made a celeb-related wisecrack about my 'stache, Tom Selleck's name was mentioned. Tom Selleck hasn't starred in his own show since Magnum, P.I., and that was over 20 years ago. And the last hit movie I recall him starring in was Three Men and a Baby. Open up your frickin' eyes, people, other celebrities have mustaches, and oftentimes, their careers are hotter than Tom Selleck's. It's my aim to instill in my audience a broader range of celeb-inspired mustache jabs. What follows is an exhaustive list of soup-strainer-sporting celebrities not named Tom Selleck.

Okay, let's see here. So many mustachioed celebrities to cram into one concise list. Hmmm. Um...OH, I got one! The guy who played the porno director in Boogie Nights! Burt Something-or-other. Wait, now that I think of it, Burt's character just perpetuates that slanderous mustache/ pornography association, and to cite him as an example would defeat the core purpose of this column. So forget about Burt. He's dead to us.

All right, other mustachioed celebrities... hmmmmm... EUREKA! What about that older gentleman who guest-starred on “Friends” several years ago? He dated one of the unfunny cast members, and he used to be on that detective program that was so popular in the '80s. It took place in Hawaii and...wait, that was Tom Selleck, wasn't it? Well, disregard that name, too. Damn. I'm just digging a hole for myself here...

Ah-ha! The Pringles Logo Man! He's got a mustache, everyone knows his face, and most importantly, he is NOT Tom Selleck. And anyone who doubts the cachet of the Pringles Logo Man should get a load of a story printed in Star Magazine. This indisputable source of news reports that the Pringles Logo Man and Mrs. Buttersworth were recently busted for lewd conduct inside a photo booth on Rodeo Drive.

I hope this column has proved enlightening for you narrow-minded mustache critics, and that, in some small way, I have eased the hefty load of discrimination that sullies the innate beauty of this planet we call home. Thank you.