Pantless is a confusing term. Because if you’re wearing underpants, you aren’t technically without pants, are you? The equation for true pantslessness is

(legs + nether regions) − (overpants + underpants) = pantless

I not currently pantless. I am, however, currently overpantless. Why? You might ask. You might as well ask why I wish I could soar through the sky on the wings of eagles. Because it’s glorious, that’s why. It provides so much freedom to frolic about the apartment, to feel the soft cool breeze of the air conditioner on the calves, to be utterly free from the tubular fabric prisons of polite society.

It’s often my custom to divest myself of overpants as quickly as possible upon returning from the day’s wage earning. It’s almost like a small thank-you to my legs: “Your efforts in carrying me back and forth between my cubicle and the bathroom and occasionally the kitchen are much appreciated, old friends. Now, take your rest and be free.”

My wife doesn’t understand this intricate reward-based social ecosystem that I have established with my legs. She’s of the opinion that just because the windows are open and our neighbors are 50 feet away with windows at the exact same height as ours and they’re also standing there staring intently at my liberated lower half–that this means I should put on some overpants. I reply that you have to give the people what they want. Yea even, what they need. Who knows what sort of violence and chaos could ensue if people are denied a glimpse of my gams? I’d prefer not to find out.

The one exception I’ll make is when we have company because the company of other humans is generally considered to be effective in warding off insanity. Which I’m fairly interested in doing. And of course, I wear over-pants at all times when not in my apartment since I enjoy not being arrested. It’s not that I’m anti-overpants–I love a good-looking fashionable pant or two. But there’s just something about the feeling of an exposed ankle, the gentle rustle of leg hair in the breeze, that reminds me that life ain’t so bad.


Margarine Insect

“Butterfly” is very well known as a noun. They’re what a caterpillar turns into after eating a butt-ton of leaves and passing out. They’re the moth’s annoying cousin who everyone’s always saying is more attractive and who gets used in logos and stuff, and all the moth gets is a stupid storytelling show. But I’m much more acquainted with “butterfly” as a verb. To butterfly. How does one butterfly? No not swimming, Ryan LIE-chte. One butterflies by being me and by constantly losing focus on what I’m doing and starting to do something else. It’s kind of like when


Sorry, I just remembered that I forgot to reschedule a dentist appointment. Sadly (or fortunately), I didn’t coin this term about myself. Some friends of mine christened me a butterflier while we were playing golf once. And I do mean once, because I don’t love playing golf. But anyway, we were on the green of the 7th hole playing golf–as one does on a golf course–when suddenly I spied a piece of paper on the edge of the green. Apparently I still had shots to take before I was finished with the hole. Apparently there were other golfers directly behind us who were waiting to play the hole until we were finished. More importantly though, there was a piece of paper on the green that was heretofore unexamined by me. Could it be a treasure map? A ransom note? A wistful love letter to a sweetheart from a GI stationed in Guam during the Second World War?

Turns out it was a to-do list. BUT, it was a to-do list whose third item, after 1. Put gas in van and 2. Replace light bulbs in garage was 3. Find source of ants. Find source of ants? Like, find the source of all ants? Find the point of origin from which all ants have issued forth since the dawn of time? I posed this question to my friends, but just like Socrates was unappreciated in his day, they were more interested in me finishing the hole and not getting us yelled at than in finding the genesis of all ants. “Kevin, we really need you to stop being a butterfly and finish the hole.” I guess I should have just been thankful they didn’t make me drink hemlock.

But they’re absolutely correct about me. Given an interesting enough prompt, I will shift my attention to anything no matter what I might be doing currently. “Oh you mean multitasking,” you might say. But no, butterflying is much different from multitasking: multitasking is having four TVs and watching four shows at once; butterflying is having four TVs and watching one show for five seconds, pausing it, watching the second show for five seconds, pausing it, and so on and so forth until you’ve pissed off everyone else in the room. For instance, I’m walking down the street conversing with a friend when I see a store selling mochi, a Japanese sweet made from pounded rice and sweet bean paste and then BAM–all the world is mochi. Mochi is the only thing in the universe that matters; maybe even the only thing in the universe that exists. It’s really hard to know which unless the mochi were to weigh in.

And this is all well and good, unless the friend I was having a conversation with was my wife or if I happened to be operating an automobile and accidentally spotted some mochi. Those are the circumstances where being a butterfly really bites you in the butt–erfly. Because apparently it’s a sign of, like,  maturity or responsibility to be able to maintain focus on more than one thing for a sustained period of time. I guess I’ll just have to try har

Shows and Tell

My Labor Day plans consisted of one main activity: watching the Netflix Original Series Stranger Things. The fantastic thing about this, besides how enjoyable the series was, is that when I told my coworkers about it, they all agreed that this was a worthy endeavor–that a productive weekend required no additional action. Let me break down how fantastic that is. I told my peers that my big weekend plans were to watch eight hours of television, and they said, “We respect and admire your motivation and hard work.” Yes! Finally, I’m getting recognition for my specific talents and abilities.

Keeping culturally current with the shows of the day is pretty well regarded as a worthwhile investment of time. To the point that when I later mentioned offhandedly to my coworkers that I hadn’t yet seen any of Breaking Bad, they each gave me a reflexive look of horror and disgust–the same look you’d give to someone who was attempting to swallow a $100 bill, oh and also their face is melting off. The look that you are no doubt making yourself right now. Or now as I write that I also haven’t seen any Game of Thrones or Lost or The Wire or Dr. Who or Twenty-Four or Boy Meets World. That should’ve gotten just about everybody, I think.

So clearly, I haven’t done a great job keeping culturally relevant with my TV shows. I just didn’t realize the social implications, I guess. It’s like hour-long TV dramas are the new intellectual salons, where people of good taste can meet to discuss the latest ideas. It’s probably a good thing that Netflix didn’t exist during the time of the French Revolution, or people would have spent so much time talking about their Narcos theories that they wouldn’t have had any time to get around to French Revolting.

And after having watched all of Stranger Things and talking about it with people at work, I get it–it is super, super fun. And so, in the spirit of the TV Salon, I’d like to share some of the conclusions that I and my esteemed colleagues arrived at in our analysis. The discourse which proceeds hence is comprised of spoilers.

  1. I have never watched a show with so much yelling. Yelling people’s names, repeatedly even though that person is definitely not answering back. Yelling at someone to tell them they’re a liar or to assure them that you’re not a liar or that they have to believe you, they just have to. Yelling because a monster man is jumping out at you or chasing you or is supposed to be doing one of those things but isn’t and you’re just so gosh darn frustrated.
  2. The amount of parental neglect depicted was spot on. Those parents must have been doing some Daniel Day-Louis stuff to get it down so accurately.
  3. Little kids cursing is hilarious.
  4. No school assembly for Barb, huh? Well she left her car at the train station, so there’s certainly no reason for the police or her parents to keep that search up; let’s get back to Nancy’s search for popularity.
  5. The amount of restraint shown for 80s nostalgia was laudable. There were just enough nods without getting to the point of ever hearing the line, “My son Jonathan is ignoring me and  listening to his SONY WALKMAN, so I’ll have to contact Will using this LITE BRITE.”
  6. I desperately hope that they don’t pick up the second season right where they left off with the first one. I feel like the temptation will be too great to just have another weird occurrence beset the town of Hawkins because of the Department of Energy Laboratory. Because by the third season, it’s just going to be, “I wonder what sort of crazy hijinks Hawkin’s Lab is getting up to this time! That Matthew Modine, he just doesn’t know when to quit!”

I’m not sure if I’m ready to sink 52 hours in order to catch up on Breaking Bad, but if I do find myself with a spare full-time work week’s worth of hours, you know I’ll be saloning it up. About three years too late.