Everything You Never Wanted to Know about Mustaches

"A good mustache makes a man for many reasons." -John Oates

Since the time I was able to grow it, I've always been a fan of sporting facial hair--the beard, in particular--but when a new job had a policy of "nothing more than a mustache," I figured, what the hell, why not? So, as many men are growing hair on their upper lip for "Movember," I've been having more of a "Mo-year," which got me thinking: What is it that makes the mustache so darn appealing? After hours of research, I came to the realization that the answer to that question is far too complex for a single blog post, though I did find out several interesting tidbits concerning the mustache. For your pleasure, I give you, "Everything You Never Wanted to Know about Mustaches."

• The earliest known depiction of a mustache is from an Iranian portrait dating back to 300 BC

• In the UK it is spelled "moustache"
• In many Arab countries, the mustache is associated with power
• The mustache can be broken into six sub-categories: Natural, Hungarian, Dali, English, Imperial, and Freestyle
• These sub-categories can be further broken down into types: Chevron, Fu Manchu, Pancho Villa, Handlebar, Horseshoe, Pencil, Toothbrush, and Walrus
• The longest mustache on record in that of Ram Singh Chauhan, measuring 14 feet (4.29 m) on   March 4, 2010

• Pittsburgh is home to the American Mustache Institute (AMI), which advocates for greater acceptance of mustaches in the workplace and throughout modern culture
• Four U.S. Presidents have worn just mustaches: Chester A. Arthur, Grover Cleveland, Theodore Roosevelt, and William Howard Taft. Could Obama make it five?

• The 1972 Oakland Athletics were encouraged to grow mustaches by their eccentric owner, Charlie Finley. When they played the Cincinnati Reds in the World Series, the championship was referred to as "the hairs vs. the squares." The hairs won in seven games.

• It's a cold-hard fact: Men simply look better with mustaches

Man Against Machine: Thoughts on the Return of Garth Brooks

 

         

           I’m going to do something today that I haven’t done for a long while—I’m going to purchase a compact disc. I used to buy music all the time, in various forms—CD’s, cassettes, records, even 8-tracks (thanks to the 1983 Cadillac Coup de Ville I owned as a teenager)—but with the ability to obtain free music via the library and the Internet, paying for it just seems like a waste of money these days. So, what makes today different? Why have I decided to throw away my hard-earned money on a round piece of plastic that holds about a dozen songs?

            It seems that every decade a recording artist emerges that redefines the way we think about popular music. Elvis started it all in the 1950’s; then, of course, we had The Beatles in the 60’s; Led Zeppelin in the 70’s (or was it the Bee Gees—I guess that’s the one decade that could be debated); and Michael Jackson in the 80’s. The 1990’s may have seen the emergence of grunge-rock and the ever-growing popularity of hip-hop and rap music, but it was one man from a much unexpected genre that would take the music world by storm. That genre was country, and that man—a chubby, balding guitar player from Oklahoma—was Garth Brooks.

            Before Garth Brooks, country music was something folks from the country listened to. Because of Garth Brooks, country music has become an important part of our popular culture. In this day and age, country albums often top the Billboard 200, but before Garth Brooks, that had never been done before. By fusing country and western with rock and roll, along with electrifying audiences with high-energy live performances, Garth singlehandedly turned the country music world upside down. He wasn’t afraid to tackle topics that had previously been taboo in the genre—domestic abuse, racial divide, adultery and even homosexuality—while still remaining true to tradition, with sentimental ballads and hard-drinking anthems. And nobody was a better salesman. Though many country acts have had more hit singles—George Strait, Tim McGraw, and Toby Keith, to name a few—nobody has come close to selling more albums. Five of Garth’s albums have sold over ten million copies, while his Double Live album has surpassed the twenty million mark. Yes, that’s right—twenty million hard copies. Even his crossover Chris Gaines experiment sold two million copies, which was considered a disappointment. (How many other artists could call two million copies a “disappointment?”) With over 134 million total albums sold, only The Beatles and Elvis have sold more. Pretty good company, if you ask me. So, what does a musical phenom do when he’s at the top of his game; when he’s sold more records than Michael Jackson; when he’s redefined an entire genre of music? What did Garth Brooks do? He quit—no more touring, no more albums—and as fast as he exploded on to the music scene, he was gone.

            Flash forward thirteen years, to today—the day Garth Brooks releases his first studio album since 2001. I woke up excited this morning—excited over a record-album (I haven’t felt this way since Guns N’ Roses released Chinese Democracy in 2008, and for very similar reasons). As a child of the 90’s—one who grew up in a rural setting, nonetheless—Garth Brooks was my Elvis Presley, my Beatles, my Michael Jackson. I don’t even remember caring much about music before I heard “Friends in Low Places,” and “The Thunder Rolls.” My bedroom was a legitimate Garth Brooks shrine. I knew every song by heart. But then I grew up, and Garth disappeared, not only from my own life, but from just about everyone else’s too. Every once in awhile he would play a show, or release a single, but the unstoppable force that we had all been mesmerized by, was gone. But deep down, I believe that all of his fans knew that he would someday return; that his “retirement” wouldn’t last forever. After all, how does an artist just stop making art? But the question remains: after thirteen years, can a musician simply come back in stride? Will his fans welcome him with open arms? Can he fulfill over a decade’s worth of expectations? But most importantly, will his music still be great? Because, after all, it’s always been about the music. Or—like Guns N’ Roses in 2008—can he only disappoint? We’re about to find out.

Okay. I just went down to the store and bought the album. First thing first: I’ve seen Garth on TV lately and he doesn’t look anything like the man on the cover, unless he lost thirty pounds for the photo shoot and then immediately gained it back. But then again, it was never Garth’s good looks that brought in the adoring fans—it always came down to the music. And, after a first listen, I have to say, Man Against Machine does not disappoint. Unfortunately, unlike most of his previous albums, this one might be missing a mega-hit single, but on the other hand, unlike most of his previous albums, there are no duds. If anything, it’s a refreshing throwback to the kind of country music that made me a fan of the genre in the first place (unlike most of that binge-drinking garbage-pop that masquerades as “country” on the airwaves today. Oh my God! Am I getting old?). It might not be Garth’s best album, and it probably won’t sell 20 million copies, but it’s far from the worse thing he’s ever put out, and more than anything, after thirteen years, it’s just great to hear that unmistakable voice once again. Welcome back!

            

The Petersen Rock Garden

The sky is grey and the wind makes a cold day feel colder. It’s Halloween, which might be the creepiest day of the year, and we’re exploring what might be the creepiest tourist attraction in Central Oregon. Katelin and I are the only ones on the property. The only humans, that is. Dozens of large peacocks roam the area, lazily climbing the miniature stone structures. The air is saturated with the sounds of dogs barking and chickens yelping. A black cat crosses our path. A black cat on Halloween. “What do you think they feed all of these animals?” Katelin asks me.

            “You mean, who do they feed to all of these animals?” I answer.

            “Probably tourists,” she says.

            “And unfortunately, we’re the only ones here today,” I say. Of course, we’re both only joking, but deep down, we’re thinking the same thing: This is exactly how horror movies begin.

            On Route 97, between the towns of Redmond and Bend, there are large homemade signs for “Petersen Rock Garden”—signs that left me absolutely intrigued every time I drove past them. What could that possibly be? I always asked myself. I know what a rock garden is—my parents had a small one when I was growing up—but what could be so special about Petersen’s that they felt the need to advertise to strangers? I had to find out.

            We followed the signs—a right, a left, another right—three miles off the main highway, until we found ourselves in what many would refer to as “the middle of nowhere.” The gate was open, but there didn’t appear to be a single soul on the grounds. I parked the car in a large lot that was empty except for a small, unattended fire, which was sending dark smoke into the air. We got out of the vehicle, I put the “suggested donation” into the drop box, and we slowly walked around a small city, crossing bridges suspended between miniature houses, churches, towers, palaces, and statues. Moats and ponds were scattered around the structures, all of them dry and empty, which gave the area an added sense of eeriness. A sign caught my attention. It said “ENJOY YOURSELF—IT IS LATER THAN YOU THINK.” What the hell is this place? The phrase repeatedly ran through my mind. And, who could have been crazy enough to build it?

            The crazy man’s name was Rasmus Petersen, a Danish immigrant who settled in the region in 1906. In 1935, he began to build structures from the many different kinds of rock that had been strewn about the area from volcanic activity that occurred thousands of years ago. For the next seventeen years, until his death in 1952, Rasmus continued to arrange a variety of different rocks: obsidian, agate, malachite, and thunder eggs, among others. Because of its oddity, the site quickly became a popular roadside attraction.

            At the peak of its popularity, the garden saw about 150,000 visitors a year, but today, Katelin and I are the only ones here. But then, as we’re just about to leave, a van pulls into the lot and stops. Nobody gets out. A woman sits in the driver’s seat, talking into a cell phone. Is she looking at us?

            “What do you think she’s doing?” Katelin asks after a few minutes.

            “Calling her redneck relatives,” I answer, “to let them know a couple of “victims” are here all by themselves.”

            “Do you think the gate will be locked when we try to leave?”

            “Most likely,” I say with a smile.

            We pull out of the lot and down the drive, where we find the gate wide open. We continue on to Bend, where we enjoy a wonderful weekend getaway—eating and drinking and racing bicycles. But I know that years from now, when I think back upon our short vacation, it’ll be the Petersen Rock Garden that I’ll remember the most. So, the next time you’re driving down the road and notice an intriguing sign that has always left you curious—take the time, stop, explore. What’s the worst that could happen? You could get murdered by rednecks and fed to a flock of peacocks, but that seems like the kind of thing that would only happen in a horror movie.

            

What Would He be Doing?

The pitches aren’t tricky—no surprises—always straight, always across the plate. Fastballs, of varying height, but by Major League standards, slow—70 miles per hour. I swing. I miss. I swing. I miss. I swing again. I get a piece—a foul tip. This is harder than I thought it would be.

It’s a rainy afternoon and I’m at the local batting cages, swinging an aluminum bat at orange rubber balls. The slow pitch cage—35 M.P.H.—was cake, and the 45 M.P.H. didn’t seem so hard either, but now the rubber balls are zipping by me like lightning, and I’m thinking to myself: How do those guys on television make it look so damn easy?

When I watch the World Series—watch grown men play a children’s game—I like to play a game of my own, a game called “What would he be doing?” As in, what would he be doing if he wasn’t a Major League Baseball player? Though this game can be played while watching most sports, it works best for baseball, because unlike other sports, where the participants clearly look like professional athletes, many baseball players look more like everyday, ordinary guys—guys you see walking down the street—guys like you, or me, or your Uncle Bob, or that guy that picks up your garbage every other Tuesday. Here’s a quick example of the game, World Series edition:

What would Billy Butler be doing?

Plumber, or Truck Driver

What would Tim Lincecum be doing? 

Pot farmer in the Pacific Northwest (Not to say that he isn't already doing this in the off-season)

What would Eric Hosmer be doing?  Inmate

What would Hunter Pence be doing? 

Alligator Wrangler (Not to say that he isn't already doing this in the off-season)

What would Brandon Finnegan be doing? Country Music Singer (Under the stage name “Tex Brandon”)

What would Pablo Sandoval be doing? Amusement Park Mascot

So, playing this game got me thinking: If these guys can play baseball for a living, maybe anybody can. And that’s why I’m at the batting cages, whiffing at pitches that any good little leaguer would be crushing. But then again, I haven’t swung a bat since I was a little leaguer myself, so perhaps I’m just a bit rusty. I put another token in the slot and wait for the red light to turn green. The buzzer sounds. I swing. I get a piece. I swing again. Another piece. Pitch after pitch, I make contact—mostly ground balls that would most likely be foul—but contact nonetheless. Finally, on my last pitch, I crush it—a high line drive. It’s going, it’s going, it’s gone! (Actually, it hits the net above the pitching machine fifty feet away, but I’d like to think it would have sailed about 400 feet otherwise.) Maybe, just maybe, I was right—maybe anybody can be a ballplayer. Maybe if I try really hard—if I invest more time and more money in the batting cages—maybe I could be a ballplayer. Maybe I could make it to the big leagues. Maybe some guy at home will see me on television. Maybe this guy will be playing “What would he be doing?” Maybe he’ll say, “If Jon Penfold wasn’t a Major League Baseball player, he would be sitting on his couch, watching the World Series, writing a weekly blog.” 

Wait ‘till You’re My Age: Thoughts on Getting Older, with Quotes

            

Wait 'till you're my age...

           

            I remember being a freshman in high school, a lightweight on the wrestling team, and hearing a senior teammate complain about aches and pains and whatnot. “What’s your problem?” I asked one day.

            “Wait ‘till you’re my age,” he quickly responded, “then you’ll understand.”

            Boy, did he seem old to me back then.

            A few years went by and I became a senior, and an alumnus stopped by practice while home from college. He was much heavier than any of us remembered, and severely out of shape. “What happened to you?” I asked.

            “Wait ‘till you’re my age…”

            I didn’t wait. I refused. I went off to college myself and joined the rugby club, where the older members complained. “Wait ‘till you’re my age…” they all said.

            And then I was their age, and it was men in their mid twenties repeating that line I had already heard so many times throughout my life. And then men in their late twenties. And then their early thirties. “Wait ‘till you’re my age…”

            This week I celebrate another year on Earth, and can you believe it, I’m still waiting. I’m still waiting for that day when I can tell someone younger than me: “Wait ‘till you’re my age…” Truth be told, age is what you make of it. There are teenagers who act as if life has already passed them by, and then there are senior citizens who treat life like it’s just begun. It’s all in the way you perceive your own life—how "old" do you feel?

            I know there are naysayers out there who will disagree, who believe that aging is more than one's own perception, that aging has more to do with the physical toll it takes on the human body. Well, I personally know men well into their forties that are in better shape than most men in their twenties. Hell, I know women in their fifties who are in better shape than most men in their twenties. Sure, as you get older, your muscles might get a little tighter, which means that you have to stretch a little more. And your metabolism might slow down, which means you have to eat a little healthier. But that doesn’t mean you have to feel older, that just means you have to live smarter. Some scientists believe that someone of my generation will live to be 200 years old. If that happens, then everything we believe about aging will drastically change. Forty will no longer be the “new thirty;” forty suddenly becomes the “new twenty.” This means, if I’m turning 32 this week, it’s about time to celebrate like I’m finally old enough to get my driver’s license! (And old enough to drink, of course.) And if you think that sounds crazy, that I’m merely being over-optimistic about getting older, then, well, just wait ‘till you’re my age…

            On that note, I’d like to end with some quotes on aging, because, after all, if somebody said something about something at some point, then, you know, it must be true:

“A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.” –John Barrymore

“The great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve been.”

–Madeleine L’Engle

“I will never be an old man. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am.” –Francis Bacon

“You don’t stop laughing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop laughing.”

–George Bernard Shaw

“Men do not stop playing because they grow old; they grow old because they stop playing.”

–Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.

“Aging is not lost youth but a new stage of opportunity and strength.” –Betty Freidan

“The aging process has you firmly in its grasp if you never get the urge to throw a snowball.”

–Doug Larson

 “The older I get, the more I realize, the less I know.” –Jon Penfold

Horseshoes

Good news and bad news. Bad news first--I didn't have the time or energy to write a new blog post this week. The good news--I've been writing for a long time, so I have plenty of stories filed away in the archives, most that have never been read by anyone before. This one is from the summer of 2008, when I rode my bicycle across the United States, from my then-home in New York, to my current-home in Oregon. From the archives, this is "Horseshoes." I hope you enjoy.

         

           It’s my first experience with “dry” heat and I can’t get over the fact that I’m not sweating—105 degrees outside but not a drop of perspiration. My whole life I’ve been accustomed to the drenched armpits, soggy crotch, and dripping hair; a mop-top after it’s been soaked in a bucket. There are no sweaty palms, damp socks, or droplets bubbling up, flowing down my arms and legs in long, thin streams. There is only heat; a sun-baking, skin-burning, hair-bleaching, lip-chapping, eye-drying heat, pounding down on myself and the world around me. And I like it.

            I am traveling through the barren desert of western Colorado. Looking back towards the east I can barely make out the Rocky Mountains; now just jagged bumps, a saw blade's edge on the horizon line. The road runs straight, rising and falling over rolling hills, and there is nowhere to hide from the sun. The ground is burnt umber and the big yellow star hangs so high that even the largest hill doesn’t cast so much as a sliver of shade. Trees are scarce, their branches twisted and bare, contorted in such a way that I probably couldn’t identify them if I had a resource book in front of me. And besides that there is next to nothing—no people, no buildings, no animals that I can see, no clouds, no water; only the occasional eighteen wheeler flying by at a cool 75 miles per hour.

            It’s mid-afternoon and my water supply is running low. I’ve tried my best to conserve, but in this environment my mouth always seems to be dry, my body always yearning for liquid. I’m down to a half bottle and decide that I will stop at the next building I see. And there it is! How about that? A small restaurant/bar in the godforsaken middle of nowhere. Strange, I think of something and poof, it’s there, right in front of me. Could it be luck, the power of the mind, or just sheer coincidence? Either way, I am a happy man.

            I lean my bicycle outside the building, next to the door. I don‘t bother locking it, because after all, there is nobody around to steal it. I walk inside and the room is as dark as a cave. I remove my sunglasses but it still takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The place appears to be empty but then I hear somebody’s voice. “Howdy,” it says, but I look around and don’t see a soul. Am I hearing things? Is there a ghost in the room? Or am I just going crazy from the sun? Then the same voice, “Sure is a hot one today.”

            I walk over to the bar and standing behind it there is a small child, his body rolling with fat, his eyes barely level with the counter top. “What can I get for you?” he asks.

            “I’ll take a Pepsi.”

            “One Pepsi, coming up.” He grabs a glass, fills it with ice, opens a sliding cooler and removes a can of soda. He cracks the top, pours it to the brim and sets the filled glass and half empty can on the bar top in front of me. “You hungry?” he asks. “Kitchen’s open. Can cook you something up.”

            “No thanks, the soda will do just fine.” I am confused. I quickly scan the room to see if there are any adults hiding in the shadows. Not a soul in site. Now I begin to think that this kid is an adult himself. I’ve seen these people on TV before, on Discover, or The Learning Channel or something. Some rare genetic disorder causes their bodies to remain the same size even as they grow older, like that kid from the show Webster. But how am I to know? That isn’t something that you just go ahead and ask somebody. I just need to be careful not to insult him in any way.

            “Have you ever heard of a restaurant named McDonalds?” All right, now he’s just fucking with me.

            “Yeah,” I say with a chuckle, “I think I’ve been to McDonalds before.”

            “They’ve got a sandwich there, it’s called a Big Mac. Ever had one before?”

            I have just officially entered the Twilight Zone. “Yeah, I’ve had a Big Mac once or twice in my day.”

            “Two all-beef patties, cheese, lettuce, onion, pickles, on a sesame seed bun.”

            “Yep, that’s the one.”

            “They call it a special sauce,” he says as he gives me a wink of the eye, “but that’s just regular old thousand island dressing. Ain’t foolin’ this guy. If you want I can make you one of those. Ain’t no trouble, the kitchen’s open, the fryer’s on.”

            “No thanks,” I say, “the soda’s just fine.”

            “You sure, ’cuz like I said, ain’t no trouble.”

            Suddenly, out of nowhere a woman enters from a back room. “God damn it Earl, what did I tell you about being behind the bar. You’re lucky your father ain’t here to see this.”

            “But mom…”

            “Don’t you ‘but mom’ me. I ain’t gonna tell you again. You are not allowed behind this bar.”

            Well that mystery is solved. “I’m sorry about that,” the woman says. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

            “No thanks.”

            “You sure? You hungry? I can cook something up for you. Ain’t no trouble.”

            “The soda will be just fine.”

            “I already asked him momma.” I look over and the kid is sitting on the stool right beside me. “He says he don’t want nothing else.”

            “Well,” says the woman, “if you change your mind, just holler. ‘Cause like I said, ain’t no trouble.”

            “Thank you.”

            “You ever play horseshoes?” says the voice beside me.

            “Yeah, I play horseshoes.”

            “Got some pits outback, wanna play a game?”

            “Sure, I’ll play a game of horseshoes with you.”

            “All right,” says the child, “but I best warn you, I’m really good.”

            As we walk out the backdoor and towards the pits, the child carries on about how good he is at horseshoes, how he beat his father and his uncle. But what he doesn’t know is that I’m pretty good at horseshoes myself. In fact, I spent almost an entire summer after college, doing little more than throwing horseshoes everyday for hours on end. It is a rarity that I find somebody that can even challenge me. But what the hell, for all I know this kid could be some sort of prodigy, a Bobby Fisher or Tiger Woods of horseshoes.

            I immediately realize that’s not the case. His first throw is a good ten feet short of the pit, and his second shoe hit’s a tree about five feet to the right, ricocheting off the trunk and rolling back to only a few inches from the pin. “One to nothing,” he says with a smile. “Told you I was good.”

            Now I don’t take pride in crushing young children at adult games, so I toss left handed for the first few rounds, making him feel like he’s got a chance. But I quickly realize that it doesn’t matter, because he can’t even get his shoes close to the sand. So after about five minutes, the score is still 1-0. “You guys ever get any business out here in the desert?” I ask.

            “Oh yeah. On mother’s day we were packed. And on Easter we did pretty well too.”

            Is that all it takes, I think, to operate a business in the middle of nowhere, a few minor holidays and maybe a couple of regular drunks? Not a bad way to live really; simple, easy, stress-free. I switch to my right hand, my good hand, my throwing hand. I let the shoe go. It sails through the air, one complete flip, and wraps around the stake. Ringer! I look at the kid, “Three to one,” I say.

            As we walk to the other side to retrieve our shoes a man makes his way to the backdoor of the bar. “Hey, dad,” yells the child with enthusiasm. “I was winning one nothing, but he just threw a ringer, but I can feel a comeback.”

            “Well don’t get too cocky,” says the man as he disappears through the door.

            “That’s my dad. I just beat him yesterday.”

            Another round and another ringer. The score is 6-1. “You know there’s a special rule,” says the kid as we gather our shoes out of the sand. “Anybody under the age of ten gets to stand up to five feet closer if they want.”

            Now the little brat is making up his own rules. “Hell,” I say, “you can stand wherever you want. Doesn’t matter to me.”

            “No, but for real, it’s in the rule book.”

            “Oh yeah. You got that rule book handy?”

            “Ah…ah… I don’t know where it is right now, but I’m telling you, it’s in there. Plus my arm’s tired from beating my pa yesterday.”

            “So, first it’s a rule, and now your arm’s tired.”

            “But it is a rule.”

            “You can stand right in front of the pin for all I care.”

            The child edges up about five feet closer to the pit but it doesn’t make a difference; he still couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn. Every round I score a few points and every round he shuffles a few feet closer. The excuses start piling up: “I’m tired,” “I just ate,” “The sun is in my eyes,” “I think I got a sliver in my throwing hand.” Before long the score is 15-1, my Pepsi is gone, and it’s about time to get back on the road. I look over at the child and say, “You want to see a ringer?”

            He doesn’t say a word but gives me a look that speaks volumes—yeah right, let‘s see a ringer. I toss the shoe in the air and it falls perfectly around the pin. “That was luck,” he says.

            “You want to see another one?” Again I toss the shoe and a second later the sweet sound of metal on metal. Clink. Clank. Double ringer. “Twenty-one to one,” I say as I shake his small hand. “Nice game, kid. Keep practicing.”

            “You want to play again?”

            “No thanks. I gotta get going.”

            The kid follows me back into the building where his parents are standing behind the bar talking. I pay for my Pepsi and as I’m heading towards the front door the child yells out, “Come back again, will ya?”

            I turn around and say, “Yeah, if I’m ever traveling through these parts again, I promise I’ll stop by, play another games of shoes.”

            I walk outside, and am about to hop on my bike when I realize that I forgot to fill up my water bottles. I gather them in my arms and make my way back through the front door. The child is yapping at his parents with a voice filled with pure enthusiasm. “…and then he asked me if I wanted to see a ringer. And then he went and threw one. Just like that. Then you know what, he did it again. It was unbelievable. He must be the best horseshoe player I’ve ever seen in my life. You know he might be the best horseshoe player in the…” He notices me walking towards the bar. “Hey, you’re back.”

            “Just hoping that I could fill up my water bottles.”

            “Definitely,” says the child. “Over here, you can use the sink.”

            I fill up my bottles and return to my bike. I ride off into the sunset and can’t help but smile. And that’s the story of how I became a horseshoe-throwing legend, the greatest in all of western Colorado.

         

Ten Reasons Why October is the Best Month of the Year

Though each month of the year has reason to celebrate, some are simply superior to others. December often gets a lot of attention—for obvious reasons—while July and August are frequently praised for their warm summer weather. Still, there is one month that stands above the rest—October. Why? Here are ten reasons:

10. The beginning of “film” season. Every calendar year starts with the annual winter dumping ground—where Hollywood releases all the garbage that wasn’t good enough for the year before—and then slowly fades into a months’ long onslaught of brainless blockbusters. And though I can’t wait to see X-Men: Transformers vs. Avengers in the Battle for the Planet of the Apes of the Guardians of the Galaxy in IMAX REAL3D, it’s the fall movie season that builds excitement for fans of intelligent filmmaking. Just look at this short list of movies previously released in October: Gravity, Fight Club, The Social Network, Captain Phillips, Michael Clayton, Margin Call, Argo, Seven Psychopaths, All is Lost, 12 Years a Slave, Gone Girl, Saw 3D…okay, maybe not that last one.

9. The most comfortable weather of the year. Nobody talks about the weather in October. Do you know why nobody talks about the weather in October? Because it’s comfortable. You just spent the last three months hearing people complain about how hot it is outside, and you’ll spend the next six months listening to people complain about how cold, rainy , and snowy it is. Enjoy October. You deserve it.

8. The kids are back in school. In some parts of the country, kids go back to school in August. In other parts, September. Now it’s October, which means no matter where you live, the kids are locked up Monday through Friday, out of sight, out of mind. Sorry teachers.

7. Awareness Month. Unless you can’t see the color pink, you’re probably aware that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. But did you also know that it’s also “Awareness Month” for the following: Celiac Sprue, Health Literacy, Liver, Healthy Lung, Dental Hygiene, Down Syndrome, Infertility, Domestic Violence, Lupus, Spina Bifida, Rett Syndrome, Sudden Infant Death, Medical Ultrasound, Blindness, and Mental Illness? Can you think of a specific challenge to raise money for each?

6. Columbus Day. It’s the twenty-first century and we know for a fact that Christopher Columbus did NOT discover the United States. It is also widely believed among scholars that the explorer was a murderer, rapist, and a pedophile. Still, our government gives all of its employees a paid day off to celebrate the man. But would you expect anything less from our government? U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!

5. Oktoberfest! Holidays are oftentimes celebrated by drinking large quantities of beer. This holiday is a celebration of drinking large quantities of beer. If the government is going to give a day off of work for anything…

4. I was born is October! I know what you’re thinking: how does your birthday make October better for anyone else? Well, if I was never born, then you wouldn’t be reading this awesome top ten list.

3. Foliage. There are few things in nature more beautiful.

2. Halloween.  Though it is perfectly legal for adults to dress in silly costumes and get drunk any night of the year, Halloween in the one night where nobody will call the cops on you. No guarantees though.

1. The World Series, and other sports. There is not a more exciting time in sports than October baseball. I think last week’s one game playoff between Kansas City and Oakland proved that. And if you don’t like baseball, October is the only month of the year where all four professional sports are playing at the same time—football, basketball, hockey, and baseball! And if you don’t like sports, then, well, there are plenty of great films playing at your local movie theater…