One morning last week, as I groggily sought to deactivate my alarm clock, I was struck with an unsettling thought: what if this were all a Skinner box? You know the device. Rat in a small chamber with two levers. Press one handle, get a treat. Press the other, get zapped by electricity. In my case, though, I only had the one lever, and I seemed to be pushing it day after day, compelled by reasons unknown.
I wasn’t the only one having such thoughts, apparently, because this exact topic came up during conversation the same week. You ever notice how people collectively ponder an idea in a given period of time? It was one of those moments, captured in a three-word question–“Is this it?” Since I had effectively asked myself this question already, I was able to hold forth immediately. First of all, there are baser reasons for why we hit that alarm button, namely our love of food and shelter.
But there are nobler reasons as well, beyond the basic need to survive. Those of us who work in a more creative field can, well, create. Even if you don’t work in such a capacity, there are still problems to solve, new skills to learn, different people to meet. That’s the optimistic view, anyhow. These past few weeks have been just a streak of overcast mornings and freak lightning storms in the afternoon, stark reminders that our environment is proper fucked, none of which helps my mood. Crappy weather aside, the question still stands, and I’d like to think there’s more to the grind. I want to believe it. I have to believe it.
My recollection of frozen yogurt, back when TCBY was a fresh conceit, was how it sought to be a facsimile of ice cream from taste to ritual. I remember stepping through the doors, poring over the flavor labels and menu board, and waiting in rapt anticipation as the stuff was hand-scooped into a cup. That’s why I was dismayed to find how yogurt joints have transformed into entirely self-service affairs. From TCBY to Moonberries to Pinkberry to Yoforia to YoFruitty, the story is always the same. Grab a cup. Yank the handle. Ladle on the toppings. Weigh and pay.
Gone is a large part of the nostalgia, and in its place is work, coupled with store names that frankly make me want to punch myself in the chest in exhortation to man up. After dispensing as such and realizing these brands cannot be changed, however, I’ve taken to fixing what I can. I’m going to start with a few slightly inappropriately named mixtures.
The Ward – pistachio yogurt with diced walnuts and Snickers chunks
Neverland Ranch – chocolate yogurt topped with white chocolate chips and coconut shavings
Grorious Eater – red velvet yogurt with Rice Krispies and mochi
The Cran Rally – vanilla yogurt topped with white chocolate chips and dried cranberries
Chilly Graham Crusade – vanilla yogurt with graham cracker crust and peanut butter syrup
I think the lesson here is any place can be a dark place, and by sheer dint of will, you too can turn a TCBY into a Taco Bell.
In a complete repudiation of last Tuesday’s post, I took three compatriots to another food truck today, driven by a zest to try new things and forgive the past. Man, was I disappointed. I felt partially responsible for everybody else’s disappointment, too. While the main dishes weren’t terrible, the price-to-portion ratio was underwhelming, and the parmesan fries were horrific–imagine, if you would, a canister of Kraft’s finest powdered cheese being violated in the back of a McDonald’s.
So concludes the food truck saga, at least for a few weeks. You may recall I was also on a Kickstarter, uh, kick, right around the time this fascination with roach coaches began. This has dissipated as well, and to date I’ve pulled out of two projects without a second thought. The project I backed is promising, but news updates have been sporadic, making it easily forgettable.
There’s a reason why I’ve cooled on both fronts. The underlying thread is this idea of investing in the new and harvesting a letdown. You hope to find reward in the novelty, but more often than not, it’s back to the familiar, back to the grind. Part of you is still optimistic, though. That’s the exact sentiment I’m trying to capture in my Sisyphus line up top–that bittersweet mix of hope and resignation. According to legend, he was a clever, rotten sonuvabitch. Persistent, though, and it’s, like, game on, buddy! Look at that fucker go. Maybe next time will be different.