Hard Rock, Phone Calls and the Semi-Epiphany of the Stubborn Man

I’m that guy – We’ve all seen the commercials and embraced or disputed the stereotype. Men refuse to stop and ask for directions, would rather drive around stubbornly for hours than admit they’re lost, anything is preferable to the ignominy of their shuffling up to the service station counter, and so on and so forth.

So as much as I’m not one for blanket statements, I have to admit that I am in fact that guy. Strangely, the fact that I can impress my wife with my automotive wherewithal or unequaled parallel parking proficiency means I cannot admit when I don’t know the direction in which I should steer my impeccably maintained and operated vehicle. Fortunately, when I recently came to this realization she wasn’t with me to give me the chastising I surely deserved. (Won’t go into details but let’s just say when you see the same girl’s soccer team both enter and exit the same Pizza Hut you’ve been going around the neighborhood for quite a while..)

So now that I appear to be over this testosterone-fueled manifestation of foolish pride, I’ve decided I can afford a GPS system for my car. (global positioning system for the acronym challenged out there) There are a wide variety of GPS navigation systems at MoreGPSSystems.com, another one of Cymax Solutions’ online stores and, so far it would seem, the best place to acquaint myself with gps tracking technology. I admittedly had thought of acquiring one before the aforementioned run-around, but assumed that GPS technology would carry a price tag too hefty for me. I was pleasantly surprised to see moregpssystems.com offers a number of discount Garmin GPS systems.

What’s more, during the course of my online perusal, I learned of handheld GPS technology and might recommend one of these handheld gps units to my aunt as a birthday gift for my uncle. He has a tendency to “get back to nature” with a little too much zeal if you get my drift. I’m sure she’d agree the value of her piece of mind knowing a portable gps is in his hands is one you couldn’t put a price on.

While on the subject of driving, I prefer a manual transmission and the more thorough driving experience it provides. I drive a 5-speed and always will. Accordingly, I don’t have the free hand to safely take a phone call when I’m on the road and I’m considering purchasing a headset so I can in fact take the “what’s taking you so long, are you lost?” call. (see above)

Cymax and their HeadsetSelect.com store stock a considerable array of wireless headsets, jawbone headsets and increasingly popular Bluetooth headsets that feature crystal-clear voice clarity. Further, while sifting through their wealth of products, I began to consider upgrading my stereo headphones – the value and use of which have increased significantly since I moved into an apartment building and my neighbours don’t share my love of Audioslave at a sufficiently gratifying volume.

Headsetselect.com features Bose headphones, Sony headphones, Koss headphones and Sennheiser headphones, all renowned for exceptional sound quality. Now that I think of it, my mp3 player headphones are looking a little worse for wear as well, and I could pick up a nice pair of ipod headphones or earphones here as well. A couple of wireless stereo headphones might be nice as well, especially considering the cord of my current pair always seem to get tangled up in my left arm when I’m playing 16^th to 32^nd note patterns on the high-hat of my practice kit.

Get where I’m going with minimal fuss, take calls and still operate my superior vehicle with maximum efficiency, and arrive home earlier with more time to enjoy good loud music. Very appealing the more I think about it!

Cool School: Are You Ready for Your Zack Attack?

“Goodnight Mom, goodnight Dad,” I yelled from the top of the stairs. My little Pomeranian Jessie came bounding up the stairs with me. In unison, we yawned and crawled into my comfy, warm bed. I scratched Jessie’s little ears and snuggled in next to her.

Tonight is my last night at home. Tomorrow, I begin the college years.

Suddenly, I awoke to an alarm ringing violently in my ear. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. I looked at the clock. My flight to California left at noon, and it was almost 10! “Phew,” I said. “It’s alright ‘cause I’m saved by the bell!”

My new university was everything I had hoped it would be. I have a quirky roommate, an understanding, though suspiciously old Resident Advisor and the dreamiest hunk ever lives just down the hall. I didn’t catch his name, but I think its Zack or Mack or something like that.

In my first class, I spot the boy. He’s a bit of a smart-ass, a bit of a prankster, and I think I’m in love. That shaggy blond hair, that curious attempt at facial hair, that cell phone the size of a shoe box . . . If only there was a restaurant that I could meet him at.

The professor dismisses us and we walk slowly back to our dorm room, me a good ten feet behind him. Suddenly, he turns around and stares at me as if we’ve known each other our whole lives. I feel anxious and excited all at once.

“Do you want to come to my room?” he asks me. “I’m Zack.”

I do, I do, I do! A curly-haired boy with clown pants interrupts us, but Zack blows him off.

He opens the door, and I can’t believe his dorm room. It’s the size of my parent’s house and the furniture is unbelievable! A brand new computer desk, a cool new futon and a loft-style bed, plus there was a beefy guy in a tank top walking around.

“Wow!” I said. “Your dorm room is amazing! Mine’s much smaller and not as cool.” I felt sad and was sure that my lame apartment would be a major turn off to Zack.

“I got it all at moredormfurniture.com,” said Zack undressing me with his eyes. “They even delivered it for free.”

His strapping roommate went to wrestling practice, and we were all alone. I knew this was my big chance. I ignored the poster of a cheerleader on his wall, even though she looked suspiciously like a girl I’d seen him with earlier. I threw caution to the wind and went for it. Our lips were millimeters apart and . . .

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

“What? Huh? Jessie?” I had no idea what was happening or where I was. I heard my parents talking down the hall, and recognized, with utmost sadness, the boring décor of my bedroom.

“It was only a dream, Jessie,” I said with a sigh.

One thing’s for sure. I’m going to moredormfurniture.com before I leave today. I’ve got to have the coolest room at school. You never know who I might meet. Wink.

Bunk Bed Envy

Andre and I; we laughed, we dined, we philosophized, we cried. We drank fruit juice and compared combat strategies for Street Fighter. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and exchanged crusts (my brown for his white), but at the core of our often deep and always meaningful conversations was the ever present divider which had plagued most of our relationship. You see, Andre had a bunk bed and I did not.

At first it was hard to overlook. I found myself very distrustful of his generally cheery disposition and wide smiling eyes. I felt ashamed of my own pallid complexion and overall dismal demeanor. I didn’t like the way he carelessly ordered expensive, sugary Tahiti Treat with his gelatinous Protein Delight in the lunch room, while I, sickly with anxiety and incurable seriousness, ordered a moderately priced, virtually sugar free V-8.

Oh to have a bunk bed! I would longingly dream; to know what it felt like to be so utterly carefree. To know that there was no reason to hide when it was ‘time to go to bed’. Nothing to dread because you weren’t really going to bed with a bunk bed; oh no, you were going to your own personal sleep playground. Bunk beds are like kid therapy. I knew that if I only had a bunk bed, I would jump higher; I would run faster; I would tan better; I would become the kid I always wanted to be.

There were a few times that Andre and I allowed this deeply seeded severance to surface and discussed our unfortunate division,

“I think my cousin is sleeping over this weekend,” Andre mentioned casually, “I will probably let him have the top bunk – oh…sorry Alvin…I wasn’t thinking about your…situation.”

“It’s O.K. Andre,” I shakily replied, sloughing off how hurt I really was, “I understand.”

“You know, you should really get your mom and dad to go to cymax.com to buy you a bunk bed. Can’t they see what that boring, soul-sucking four poster bed is doing to you? You’re miserable, you’re sick! I can’t take it anymore!” Andre was screaming; he was smoldering with equal measures of guilt and fury, “You know what man? I have to lay down…I need to think things through. What kind of a world do we live in where one kid gets a bunk bed and the other doesn’t…how are we supposed to live, to coexist when there are still divisions like this in life? I thought this was the 21^st century!” With his last exclamation, he slammed his small fist down onto the old lunch room table and his Tahiti Treat toppled and spilled to the floor. Blood red fruit juice sped through the cracks between the gritty lunch room tiles, until finally it lulled to an ominous stop.

Andre got up, faked a stomach ache and was sent home for the rest of the day. When the end of the day finally rolled around for me, I too made my way back home. As I kicked through the falling leaves of October and heard their dehydrated crunch under my L.A. Gears, I thought of Andre, lying on his bunk bed, contemplating my sad bunk bed-less life almost as glumly as I so often do. He was a good friend, that Andre.

When I finally got home, I was overwhelmed with the sense of something strange and new. The air was thick with a feeling altogether different from the one I was used to. It was sweet and clean, sugared with a mood not unlike that of the Hamburglar Jail at McDonalds…wondrous and magical. No one was in the hall when I walked in, nor was anyone in the living room or the kitchen. The basement was empty and so was the sunroom. Finally I walked up our aged, creaking steps towards my bedroom. The door was closed, which was unusual, and I could hear the muffled voices of my parents from within. I also heard the familiar tone of Andre saying something about remarkably simple assembly. I threw open the door and my mother, my father and Andre all whipped their heads towards me, wide eyed with surprise.

But I was the one who was truly shocked.

The three of them were in the process of building me a brand new bunk bed from morebunkbeds.com! It was glorious! Absolutely glorious! A clean, metal ladder glistened with the glow of fun and excitement while the fantastically designed safety bumper on the top bunk sang to me, the songs of carefree youth and happiness. I was experiencing feelings I had never known before. I felt my joints relax and a cherry warmth flow to my cheeks.

“How did you…how did you manage…I….I?” I stuttered; words and thoughts trampled other words and thoughts and I could barely muster my appreciation.

“All we did was go to morebunkbeds.com! It was incredibly easy. The customer service was impeccable, the website was a breeze to navigate and with zero shipping costs and speedy delivery, all we had to do was ready our credit cards!” My mother explained simply, waving a screwdriver in her hand as she spoke, accentuating the finer points.

Andre stepped towards me, a tear in his eye, “Now we never again have to suffer the burden of bunk bed envy. We are free to live the lives we were meant to, without the hindrance of this superficial segregation.”

Together, we mounted the bunk bed, each of us flooded with joy and emotion; and from then on, things were different. I was a changed kid. For the better I think, and Andre and I never suffered another moment of awkward bunk bed envy.

Cymaxpiece Theater Presents: The Real Story of Valentine’s Day

On February 13, 269 AD, a handsome young man named Valen sat under an apple tree playing his flute. Blessed with the dashing, chiseled good looks of a 21 Jump Street-era Johnny Depp and graced with the one day world renowned charm of George Clooney, young Valen was your classic heartbreaker in a time when poor dental and physical hygiene prevented such people from existing. An admirer of nature and all things lovely, Valen was no stranger to propositions from fathers begging him, offering him gifts and treasures, just to marry their daughters. He was offered goats and farmland and bushels of straw and once a very strange contraption called a 1981 De Lorean DMC-12 by an eccentric scientist with wild hair, but Valen did not accept any of these gifts as he didn’t want to marry any of these ladies. Fine though they all were, he had his deep brown eyes set on Tyne, a fair maiden in the next village.

Though it was accepted and even encouraged for neighboring villagers to marry one another to avoid possible inbreeding, Valen’s father did not want his son to become attached to anyone, for he was, without Valen’s knowledge, arranging for him to marry Sintra, the prosperous mayor’s daughter.

But oh, how Valen pined for Tyne! He watched her as she went to the shared river to fetch water, and spied as she fed hay to the horses. He felt stirrings in his loins he had never experienced before. He must go see her!

After dark, when the townsfolk were sleeping, Valen mounted his horse and galloped fervently toward Tyne’s village, all at slumber. He rode toward her cottage and threw hay at the window. When this failed to awaken her, Valen took out his wood instrument and began to play the most beautiful Kenny G-influenced fluting. Tyne appeared at her window and looked down, entranced by the melodic ecstasy that was Valen’s sweet rhythm. There she saw him, the boy from the neighboring village who caused a stirring in her loins she too had never known before.

She quickly ran outside and found him, down on one knee with flowers he had plucked from the field. He presented them to her and then and there, without uttering a word, Valen and Tyne knew they were destined to be together and would announce it to their families in the morning.

As the sun rose, on February 14^th, Valen approached his father to tell him the good news. But his father had plans of his own. Waiting outside was Sintra, wearing a white dress. Crushed, Valen tried to explain his love for Tyne, but it was too late. Valen was to marry Sintra.

Tyne had told her family about her impending nuptials, and they were thrilled. They dressed her in the finest silk and walked her over to Valen’s village. Much to their horror, Valen was already standing at the altar with Sintra, though his miserable face told Tyne all the dismal details she needed to know.

With that, Tyne marched up to Sintra, and scratched her like a rabid mountain lion. She clawed at her hair and laughed gleefully as bloodied chunks fell from Sintra’s head. Pieces of fabric flew and teeth clattered to the floor like marbles from the hands of a child. With her nose smeared to the left side of her face, and her swollen flesh forcing her bruised eyes closed, Sintra gracefully bowed down, and the proper wedding took place.

From February 14^th 269 AD on, Valen and Tyne were thought of as one. And Valen remained forever afraid of his wife. Especially on their wedding night.

She walked into their new love nest, expecting rose petals and wine, but was greeted with nothing more than a pile of hay and warm ale. “This will never do!” she shrieked and opened her laptop to find a new bed. A poster bed, a metal bed or a sleigh bed . . . what to choose? It was too difficult to google all of these, so the always intelligent Tyne visited Cymax.com and found thousands of selections of all three bed styles. When their new bed was delivered, Valen and Tyne stared at each other, their loins stirring again, only this time they knew why.

Bow-chicka-bow-wow.

Compelled to Shrink: A Lack of Roots and Residence in the BIG City

Growing up on an island, I’d never felt overly close-quartered or impinged in my accommodations until a job and a woman (the latter being slightly more influential and infinitely more rewarding) drew me out of my idyllic surroundings and into a seething metropolis full of “opportunities.” Much to my chagrin, every month I bleed nearly twice the number of dineros for a one-bed with a view of a taxi dispatch lot, and for which “cramped” is beyond an understatement, as I did for a spacious two-bed and den pad with a huge balcony and ocean views back home.

Inevitable? Yes. Grudgingly accepted? Yes, but with a considerable dose of new-found semi-misanthropy (Just joking…I think).

Demographic trends and the dynamics of supply and demand mean that, in the big city, space = money. Like many young people, I accordingly have little of either, and the king-size Captain’s bed and sectional sofa I’ve admittedly grown attached to over the years are likely doomed to the storage unit long term. In all honesty, I should probably get over the fondness and, ideally, pawn them off on one of my many friends from high school who went into the trades and now sport a family, a mortgage and a truck to pull their lake boat…sigh…

So, in the interest of my newfound urban identity, I’m looking to acquire some less expansive home furniture. Pieces that are more lightweight and more easily disassembled in anticipation of the day I upgrade to an equally miniscule apartment, but one with a preferable view of a four-lane artery and a convenient coin-op laundromat.

For starters, I’ve been considering a platform bed, maybe even a futon, and I’ve been perusing the considerable selection offered by Cymax Stores online at MorePlatformBeds.com. Haven’t made a decision yet, but I keep going back to look at three or four that match the look I want (I’m flexible) and my budget (painfully inflexible). The convenience of shopping from home really works for me too.

I’m also considering a chest as a more upright, less width-oriented clothes storage solution than the double dresser that currently takes up nearly my entire bedroom wall. I’ve seen a few at MoreDressers.com that intrigue me and are similarly priced right. If I could find both and maybe a bare bones nightstand at once that’d be ideal, and to that end I’ve been browsing the selection at MoreBedroomSets.com, a Cymax store just like the first two. I’m not the most décor conscious guy but a matching set might be a nice touch for my meager domicile. We’ll see.

Anyways, it’s nice to know that I can affordably and practically furnish my “cave”, as I half-endearingly, half-derogatorily refer to my current pad, with Cymax Solutions and their online stores.

Tips on Boogeymanagement

We at Cymax Stores are committed to tackling the real issues, and like 68% of all Americans today, my most worrisome issue is the Boogeyman. Boogeyman-related stress and illnesses cost American employers $8.5 trillion a year in health expenses and lost productivity.

The symptoms of a Boogeyman encounter include fatigue, irritability, bed-wetting, sudden whitening of the hair, and shivering in the foetal position while begging the horror to stop. Many Boogeyman sufferers are unable to sleep without the help of night-lights, nightly closet checks, the total tucking-in of all their blankets, and constant whining that the bedroom door needs to be open farther to let more light in.

Does this sound like anyone you know? Perhaps a co-worker, spouse, or family member has a chronic Boogeyman problem. Perhaps you have one yourself, and you’re reading this on a laptop from behind a fortress of couch cushions, which you think will save you when the scary monster comes again. Hint: It won’t.

In any case, there are practical solutions, and we at Cymax can help. Here are some tips and related products to help you deal with this nightly threat.

Tip 1. The Boogeyman cannot be captured on camera or by any home security equipment.

If the Boogeyman was susceptible to such banal trickery, he would have been captured, arrested, imprisoned, contracted to write a best-selling memoir, and made into a reality show TV star by now. So while our excellent range of home security and surveillance products won't help you catch the Boogeyman, it will help you catch those whippersnappers who always smoke their jimson weed out behind your wisteria bush. That alone might ease your mind.

Tip 2. The Boogeyman doesn’t like bright light.

Does this mean you should sleep with all your lights on? Not in these energy-conscious times. Trust us, if you think the Boogeyman is scary, then you haven’t experienced an enraged, shirtless Al Gore punching down your door, screaming about how you’ve “unleashed the hurricane,” and then tearing you asunder with his bare hands. But we at Cymax Stores do have a range of efficient and convenient LED lamps and flashlights for those nightly emergency floor-sweeps.

Tip 3. The Boogeyman only emerges from closets and beneath beds.

Other modes of transportation such as windows, vents and drains are not popular with the Boogeyman, lucky for us – the closet and the bed space are trouble enough. If you check them one at a time, it’s all too easy for the Boogeyman to switch around and elude you, making you check again and again. This is a problem that vexes even world-famous boogeymanologists.

The only way to be sure of the Boogeyman’s absence is to check both closet and bed at the same time. Get a spouse or friend to help you. If you're unable to do this, then you are urged to fill your closet with bricks, and use an armoire from Cymax for all your storage instead. You will never again be troubled by a closet-Boogeyman, and as a bonus, you may also be magically transported to Narnia (see your warranty details).

Tip 4. The more distance you put between yourself and the floor, the less chance you have of being Boogeymanned.

The Boogeyman has to travel across the floor like every other dark, lurching abomination except the winged nightgaunt and the giant hornet. The best way for you to keep away from the floor is by purchasing a bunk bed from Cymax Stores. The idea, of course, is that you’ll take the top bunk, and you’ll leave the bottom bunk to be occupied by an anti-Boogeyman decoy made out of a pile of clothes and a wig. You can also give the bottom bunk to any annoying relation who claims not to believe in the Boogeyman. Because they’ll learn. They’ll learn.

Some bunk beds offer added protection, so it’s worth shopping around a little. This bunk bed is more like an anti-monster bunker, and will serve as a prime defense against the horrors of nightgaunts, umber hulks, howling cryptoids and Ann Coulters. Other bed alternatives exist for those who disdain monster-fighting and would rather make a quick getaway instead.

We hope that this guide has been informative to you. If these tips and your credit card are both judiciously applied, the next time the Boogeyman darkens your doorstep, he’ll have no choice but to boogie on back to where he came from (probably Iowa).

Happy New Year . . . In Bed

I love Chinese food. I spent a few years living abroad and wanted desperately to be able to pick up a phone and order delicious, deep fried chicken balls (with more ball than chicken), egg rolls (with more rolls than egg) and create a fried rice river in between, covering the entire plate and half the counter with cherry sauce. And I really and truly think that fortune cookies are sweet little tulips from heaven. Not to mention, all your fortunes are to take place in bed. Mmm. That’s what I call a good Friday night.

I was sad to discover while in China, that this isn’t real Chinese food. “Where are your deep fried shrimp and ginger beef?” I demanded to a stoic-faced lady in Beijing. She stared me down and threw stuff in a boiling pot for me to eat. Boiled! Hell no. I want fried. Deep fried. Deeeeeeeeeeep fried. I begrudgingly ate it and, though I didn’t show as much to old Stone Face, I liked it. But I didn’t love it like I love Canadian Chinese food.

One could look back into Canadian history and discover the reasons behind our savory, unique cuisine. But I don’t want to. I want to open the circular tin dish and have visions of dancing dragons in my head. I want to crack open my fortune cookie and read that my life will never be without wonton soup. I want to down my pork-fried vegetables, rub my belly, and thank Confucious for thy bounty.

My favorite Chinese restaurant is just around the block from where I live. I can get a dinner for one plus a small wonton soup and eat it for four days. It costs me $15 and nine seconds of my time to pick it up. The family who runs the restaurant is all smiles when you walk in, but turn on each other when it comes down to business. I made the mistake of asking for hot sauce and witnessed what could be classified as acute domestic abuse. The boy behind the counter, the owners’ son, looks mournfully at his congealed Shanghai noodles and paused computer game knowing, as he does every other night of the week, the fun times end when dinner time begins.

But not for me.

Chinese New Year is here. 2008 is the Year of the Rat. Rats are compatible with those born year of the Monkey. I am a monkey. It’s going be a good year for eating. I can taste it already. Maybe I’ll buy many dinners for one and a large wonton soup, and invite over some friends. We will unscrew the legs off an easy-to-assemble table from Cymax; perhaps a table from American Drew Dining Room Furniture, Stanley Dining Room Furniture, Standard Furniture Co., Pulaski Dining Room Furniture, GAR Tables or Hillsdale. We will gleefully pass the Chicken Chow Mein and the Lo Mein and not know which is which. We will laugh at our (mis)fortune cookies and lick the soy sauce off our fingers. We will drink Tsingtao and toast to being as rat-like as we can for the next 365 days.

In bed.