When I would go to the movies with my sister, Desiree, we were always fortunate enough to get free popcorn or, as she used to call it, trashcorn. Perhaps it was just a phase in our lives, or maybe the frugal college student mentality ran through our blood on an intrinsic level. Either way, the idea of "something for nothing" always seemed like the biggest success. Often, Desiree and I would marvel at the absurdity of concession prices. Dumbfounded by snickers, modern-day cinema seems to hold a sort of monopolization on the snack market once you step through the threshold of their doors. Even high demand in the cocoa industry makes way for culinary ingenuity and breakthroughs (here's looking at you Nutella and your delicious, hazelnutted foundation in WWII food rationing) and yet, D-Box rumbling seats and IMAX screens will drain your pockets for popcorn and the realization that 65 percent of the faces on screen have been modified with CGI components of Brad Pitt's features.
The troubling part in all of this is that I LOVE popcorn.
Most theaters, while they do charge three month's wages (if you're an engineer) for a bucket of popcorn the size of an oil drum, will be gracious enough to supply free refills. And, in most cases, it's a pay-to-play system: free only comes once you've paid. However, I thank God for my sister because the level of perceptual obscurity in which her mind operates is single-handedly one of the most inspiring and terrifying phenomenons in society. It's inspiring due to her genuine ideas and perspectives that run unparalleled to what is known; she's an innovator who is more capable of changing the rules by which we live than she is willing to sit idly by as a passenger of experience. It's terrifying because she is also a teacher, pitted in a role of responsibility where she is tasked with molding the minds of the youth of America. (I simply hope that she uses her powers for good, though in either scenario the children of today are going to change the world.)
At the movies, Desiree taught me that a turn of phrase and a bit of dumpster diving is the difference between a flavorful popcorn experience and popcorn that unwillingly tastes like $5.50. With enough diligence and a complete disregard of personal humility, grabbing an empty popcorn bucket out of the trash makes it possible to receive free refills. Even better, if you are charming enough and willing to expose your flaws, a muttered request of "can I get a new bucket, if at all possible; I'm somewhat OCD about my food" will render your popcorn germ-free.
Trashcorn. Every time, rinsing the movie theater filth from my body in the bathroom and wondering, at the end of it all, if I truly was clean or if "something for nothing" really meant choosing how I wished to dirty my hands. But, then again, I REALLY love popcorn.
Now, as a comedian, I find myself on the road more than I do at home. The back seat of my car is far less comfortable than my bed and talking with the ones that I love on the phone means I'm missing out on 90 percent of the conversation coming from body language. The rumble of asphalt creates an auditory paradox in which it consistently reminds me of where I am while serving as white noise to meditate upon where I have come from. But, in a way, this is how I chose to dirty my hands.
On the road, it's cheaper to pack food in a cooler than it is to stop to eat. I'm stubborn and frugal, a dangerous combination when it comes to fashion (as I have some of the same tattered shirts I wore in high school and shoes where the shoe-to-sock visibility ratio is about 1:9). I understand; I've made my bed, now I lie in it. (It's in a car.) I once survived 2 weeks on the road with little more than peanut butter, rice cakes, and off-brand fruit/vegetable juice. This is not a "feel sorry for me" moment, by the way. I'm actually proud of this fact. In my own weird way, the challenge reminds me that hope should never lie in what we have or might have, but rather in what we can and will be able to do. In retrospect, maybe it is all just my little way of taking a page from the trashcorn playbook and redefining the rules.
As of late, I have chosen to stop at Casinos instead of rest stops along the highways and byways of our nation. I have found that rest stops, while more frequent along the roads, are not very well kept and have water fountains that usually double as bidets. I have also found that by taking five minutes to sign up for a Casino's "player rewards" program, you are often given incredible perks without ever sitting down to gamble and free cups of coffee if you mosey around the floor. If anyone were to look in the glove compartment of my car, I'm fairly certain that it may look like I have a gambling problem. Over the past 3 months I have become a member at 18 casinos spanning 6000 miles and 10 states. However, over the past three months I have also received a free night's stay at a Casino resort, three free buffets, $150 in free play, two steak dinners, and four tanks of free gas. Additionally, as the weather becomes increasingly more frosty, I have been able to use my durable member's cards as makeshift ice scrappers.
In almost every sense of the phrase, my Casino adventure was a pursuit of something for nothing. Of course being a member of these casinos means that I am supposed to spend money, but what I've come to learn is that innovation never came from adhering to the expectations of others. Sometimes, being different means that we are the ones crawling on the floor, or climbing up a tree, or driving across the country - stopping for just a brief moment to grab a handful of dust on the side of the road and wondering how far the wind has swept it in order to end up right here, in this moment, in my hands - just to see the world a little differently. Expectation cannot create happiness, but perspective can define it. So, if I'm the one with dirty hands, then at least I know that it was my decision to end up this way...and that I'll be eating popcorn later.