Catch-22

Life before graduation is a strange thing.  For most of us, we spend that time at the whims of someone else's pocketbook.  We are mocked by an abundance of time at tension with a dearth of finances.  Time is money, and child labor laws are immutable.  Except, of course, at Wal-Mart.

But time marches on, and even man-children grow up.

 

Like this gentleman

We graduate college and, at the tender young age of 22, most of us enter the work force and achieve stable employment (my deepest apologies to liberal arts majors).  For most of us, that $40K a year is more money than we know what to do with (or, if you're an eikaiwa employee, 17 yen and a strand of yarn).  But with that sudden gainful employment comes the indentured servitude of the first-year employee.  So earnest are we to prove our quality that we jump at overtime and spend our weekends at the office.  Bank accounts burgeon (or at least develop a baby bump) with new-found stability.  Life is good.

But time is the stuff life is made of, and we have traded ours away for coin.  We come to discover that, in the pursuit of the finances necessary to enjoy our time, there is no time left to enjoy them.  This is our Catch-22.

As even a cursory glance at the top of this page will tell you, I'm a gamer.  An evening spent virtually inert in front of a TV screen scavenging the post-apocalyptic wasteland for ammunition or shoryukening the piss out of someone is my idea of an evening well-spent.  Sadly, though, the demands of work, married life, and the myriad of obligations in between have gradually pushed gaming from the thing I did before, during, and after the times I was drunk to something that I have to sneak in wherever I can.

Much like getting drunk now, actually.

Gaming is a sadly time-intensive, attention-demanding hobby.  To be a gamer is to commit time.  It is a hobby sadly incompatible with much of what goes on post-matriculation.

The answer?  Find a hobby that you integrates seamlessly with that which life demands of you.  Cyclists bike to work.  Writers turn to journalism or book authoring.  Hedonists fuck during their morning shower.  NASA astronauts drink on the job.  And, in the true American spirit, I solved my problem the way all Americans solve their problems: by eating.

Behold: the humble beginnings of what will no doubt be a truly monumental shame spiral. 

Not pictured: agonizing, flaming diarrhea

And, admittedly, it's not much of a collection compared to a lot of true chiliheads out there, but realize that this is what I'm working with, with regards to storage capacity:

 

Also, the lady of the house likes to cook or something

Hobby and necessity, friends again!  As they say, "man cannot survive on bread alone.  Bread and volcanic ass-fire in a bottle, yes, but not just bread."

Japan is not a very hospitable environment for the aspiring chili-head.  Despite Godzilla being singularly inspired by the discovery of wasabi, Japanese, by-and-large are quite sensitive to the sting of mistress capsaicin's whip, making the novice scoville hunter's job doubly difficult.

I was scraping by on Tabasco, to be sure, sucking up whatever came along.  I'd hit my french fries, pizza, and scrambled eggs with a couple shots of the good stuff.  But for anyone interested in developing a true leather tongue, there gets a point where you're dropping a quarter to a half-bottle a day just to get the same endorphin fix of the first taste.  I needed something stronger to push me through this gateway.

                                                                                             

The streets were dry.  No one was selling.  Even the restaurants were cutting their stuff with water to turn a little extra profit.  The slums of the condiment aisles looked like 23rd and Locust after a sting operation, save for a couple of rough-looking old dudes pimping out Dijon mustard, two for 400 yen.

Salvation came through a not-entirely-unexpected source: Kaldi Coffee Farm.  For the uninitiated, this is the hook-up.  These guys run everything in and out of the 'Pan.  You want Doritos?  These guys will hook you up with all kinds of flavors.  Tim-Tams, Dad's Root Beer, Brer Rabbit Molasses... they've got you covered.  Yeah, it'll cost you, but if you need the strong stuff, they're holding.

Since committing to this lifestyle, every trip to my 'hood's mini-mall consists of a compulsory visit to my supplier.  Shuffling in the store, head down, looking for the latest flavor.  Something that makes my face tingle and numbs the tongue.  The comfortable sting of pain as I reward the dopamine receptors in my brain and get a fresh fix of chemically-induced endorphins.  Something to help me cope with the loss of my friends Ryu and Ken.

But beyond the thrill of the search lies in the even greater thrill of experimentation.  Habanero Tabasco goes great on burritos.  Mama Africa's makes a great marinade and gives teeth to meat dishes' customary savoriness.  Thai Kick adds complexity to the fried chicken lover's palate.  Blair's Salsa de la Muerte goes with everything.  Flavors and combinations yet undiscovered, dormant in the aether, anxiously waiting to be summoned into existence by one intrepid enough to dare their senses.

And with each, a different brand of nuclear poop soon to follow.

That part's not as much fun.

It's very easy to feel a very palpable loss at the sudden outflow of time and opportunities that accompany a full-time job.  But instead of lamenting the loss of quality time spent in digital escapism (Lord knows I still am), still more experiences remain to be had in the analog universe!  Employ your assets!  They say money can't make you happy.  I say, anyone who says that just doesn't know how to spend it.  For most of us, graduation marks the beginning of a 45-year-long forced march.  But if you don't occasionally stop to eat the mushrooms, who knows what you might miss?

When it seems like the conflicts of work and pleasure seat themselves in the pit of your being, heavy in your bowels, your passion burning inside of you, twisting, churning, bubbling and molten, agonizing for release.  Do you remain stationary, quailing at the thought of suddenly and explosively upsetting the delicate balance within and making a mess of things, or to follow your gut instinct and make a mad dash to release the harsh pressure welling up inside you?

It's a Catch-22.