It’s time for another round of:
Awkward Situations Which Really Shouldn’t Be All That Awkward, But Still Are
{Pause for applause as theme music fades in}
Here’s the situation:
You are at your place of employment and have already interacted with a fellow co-worker. Maybe this co-worker sits in a cubicle next to you. Perhaps you’ve just shared light water-cooler talk. Or maybe you’ve worked together and solved a complex problem using spreadsheets and whiteboards and acronyms. Whatever the case, you’ve already gone far beyond your initial greetings for the day.
Later on, you are out and about, walking the hallways. You could be heading to the restroom, the break room, the cafeteria, or attempting to sneak out to your car for a quick nap. Then you see that same co-worker, walking towards you.
What do you do?
You’ve already greeted and talked to this person, so saying ‘Hello’ seems incredibly awkward, not to mention way too formal.
However, ignoring them completely seems rude and snooty.
Do you go with the chin-up head nod, followed by a casual “How’s it going?” or a “What’s up?” That still seems awkward. You’ve probably already asked your co-worker that! Plus, what are you, twenty-one?
Or do you go with the reserved, chin-down head nod, with no verbal greeting? This may seem like a better option, but isn’t that almost as bad as ignoring them completely? It’s almost as if you’re too busy to take the time of day to greet them in a friendly manner.
This should not be an awkward situation, but it is!
Keep in mind that your co-worker is feeling the same thing too, but they’re not sure if you are. That leaves you both in a state of complete uneasiness, as neither wants to do something that makes them look stupid or feel more awkward, but also nobody wants to accidentally insult the other.
There is no good way to handle this situation.
In a best case scenario, there is an escape route between you and your co-worker, and you can swerve away to an adjacent hallway and avoid the confrontation completely. A broom closet also works, but it’s kind of uncomfortable stuffing yourself in, especially if you have to navigate a swarm of mop handles and half-filled buckets of cleaning solution.
Perhaps there is somebody else you can stop and talk to, just until your co-worker passes. This gets awkward, however, if you’ve never talked to this other person in your life.
You can always pretend your shoe is untied and busy yourself fiddling with it, all to let your co-worker pass without forcing any sort of awkward discourse between you. But this gets weird if your co-worker has the same idea, and you both wind up kneeling and fiddling with your shoelaces at the same time.
Finally, and this is a worst case scenario, you could spill the coffee that you hopefully are carrying all over yourself. This creates a whole other set of issues, but at least you’ll be too busy screeching as the hot liquid eats away at your flesh to have to make a decision as to how to greet the co-worker that you’ve already greeted.
Feel free to contribute any other possible solutions that are inevitably better than what have been provided here.
This concludes today’s round of:
Awkward Situations Which Really Shouldn’t Be All That Awkward, But Still Are
{Pause for applause as theme music fades out}
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
The Benefit Of Stupidity
At first I was annoyed at myself for not leaving for a U.P. Christmas last Thursday night. I figured a leisurely drive on Friday morning would be much more enjoyable than fighting traffic after work the night before.
It seemed like a sound strategy until the 5 inches of snow came Thursday night.
Getting out of Minnesota was slow, and somewhat dangerous. The roads were snow-covered and slippery. I saw numerous cars in the ditch, along with an eighteen wheeler tipped on its side off of Interstate 35.
Once I hit Wisconsin, though, the roads were bare and travel became easy, allowing me to release the death grip I had on the steering wheel. Still, I was not proud of the fact that I had neglected the weather forecast completely when making my plans. It was kind of a rookie move.
However, there was a fringe benefit to my stupidity.
As I was driving through Bessemer, I saw that there was the rare mix of ice on the trees and sun shining through the perpetual cloud cover. A chance like this couldn’t be passed up. I pulled off of the highway and started to explore the side roads to the south. Eventually I found several worthwhile pictures:
This probably goes to show something but I’m not really sure what it would be. Maybe it’s just that sometimes you get lucky.
It seemed like a sound strategy until the 5 inches of snow came Thursday night.
Getting out of Minnesota was slow, and somewhat dangerous. The roads were snow-covered and slippery. I saw numerous cars in the ditch, along with an eighteen wheeler tipped on its side off of Interstate 35.
Once I hit Wisconsin, though, the roads were bare and travel became easy, allowing me to release the death grip I had on the steering wheel. Still, I was not proud of the fact that I had neglected the weather forecast completely when making my plans. It was kind of a rookie move.
However, there was a fringe benefit to my stupidity.
As I was driving through Bessemer, I saw that there was the rare mix of ice on the trees and sun shining through the perpetual cloud cover. A chance like this couldn’t be passed up. I pulled off of the highway and started to explore the side roads to the south. Eventually I found several worthwhile pictures:
This probably goes to show something but I’m not really sure what it would be. Maybe it’s just that sometimes you get lucky.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
The Christmas Drive
One of my favorite times of the holiday season is when I drive up to the U.P. just before Christmas. This usually occurs on Christmas Eve morning. It may seem strange, as it consists of nothing but me sitting in my car for many hours on end, with no family, friends, or Christmas cookies in sight.
But I enjoy it immensely.
It’s not the scenery. Having a nice snowfall blanketing the landscape helps, but it’s not essential by any means. I could be driving through the desert and it would still be the same.
What I like is that its is a soft spot between real life, and the responsibilities thereof, and the flurry of Christmas activities that kick off on Christmas Eve and don’t end until the day after Christmas.
Not that I don’t like the Christmas activities. They’re wonderful, and I wouldn’t miss them for anything. But once they begin, everything goes by so fast that in no time at all it’s the day after Christmas, and I’m staring down the bleak reality that is the coming long, cold January.
So, for me, if there’s a time for relaxation, anticipation, and personal reflection, it’s during the drive home.
As soon as I start up my car, real life has temporarily disappeared. No more work, no more pressure, no more stress. The ride itself is the definition of freedom. I look ahead to the fun that is to be had, placing myself into a sort of cozy zone of Christmas anticipation, all without the distractions of everyday life.
It’s the only time that I’ll listen to Christmas music and really enjoy it. Prior to that, it seems a little too commercial, or perhaps a bit too premature. But on the ride up, anything else would seem strange and out of place, and it would ruin the mood.
I also listen to some old time radio Christmas broadcasts, such as Miracle on 34th street or a Christmas Carol, from way back in the 40’s or 50’s. At any other time it would seem strange and tacky, but not on the ride up.
It wouldn’t seem like driving through Ashland, Wisconsin, or any of the other towns along the way, would be all that enjoyable, especially if the roads are slippery or the falling snow is limiting visibility. But with a steaming cup of coffee, a Garth Brooks Christmas album, and plenty of time to focus on what truly matters in life, you can’t do a whole lot better.
Hopefully you have time for something similar.
Merry Christmas!
But I enjoy it immensely.
It’s not the scenery. Having a nice snowfall blanketing the landscape helps, but it’s not essential by any means. I could be driving through the desert and it would still be the same.
What I like is that its is a soft spot between real life, and the responsibilities thereof, and the flurry of Christmas activities that kick off on Christmas Eve and don’t end until the day after Christmas.
Not that I don’t like the Christmas activities. They’re wonderful, and I wouldn’t miss them for anything. But once they begin, everything goes by so fast that in no time at all it’s the day after Christmas, and I’m staring down the bleak reality that is the coming long, cold January.
So, for me, if there’s a time for relaxation, anticipation, and personal reflection, it’s during the drive home.
As soon as I start up my car, real life has temporarily disappeared. No more work, no more pressure, no more stress. The ride itself is the definition of freedom. I look ahead to the fun that is to be had, placing myself into a sort of cozy zone of Christmas anticipation, all without the distractions of everyday life.
It’s the only time that I’ll listen to Christmas music and really enjoy it. Prior to that, it seems a little too commercial, or perhaps a bit too premature. But on the ride up, anything else would seem strange and out of place, and it would ruin the mood.
I also listen to some old time radio Christmas broadcasts, such as Miracle on 34th street or a Christmas Carol, from way back in the 40’s or 50’s. At any other time it would seem strange and tacky, but not on the ride up.
It wouldn’t seem like driving through Ashland, Wisconsin, or any of the other towns along the way, would be all that enjoyable, especially if the roads are slippery or the falling snow is limiting visibility. But with a steaming cup of coffee, a Garth Brooks Christmas album, and plenty of time to focus on what truly matters in life, you can’t do a whole lot better.
Hopefully you have time for something similar.
Merry Christmas!
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Kung Pao Buckaroo Holiday
I posted this video last year, but I'm doing it again for several reasons:
1) It's funny and well worth listening to once or twice a year.
2) Where is it written that I can't lapse into reruns, just like TV shows do in the summer?
3) If you haven't watched it, it's new to you.
4) It's easier than writing something original.
5) This isn't a reason. I just like numbered lists and wanted to keep it going.
1) It's funny and well worth listening to once or twice a year.
2) Where is it written that I can't lapse into reruns, just like TV shows do in the summer?
3) If you haven't watched it, it's new to you.
4) It's easier than writing something original.
5) This isn't a reason. I just like numbered lists and wanted to keep it going.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
The Wheels On The Bus
We had a company wide meeting today at work, but it took place at a different building than where I'm located. The company provided transport in the form of what were essentially school busses. I hadn’t ridden on one in many, many years, but as soon as I stepped on, everything from my childhood came back.
Cool kids in the back. They get to chew tobacco, spit on the floor, and make trouble, under the assumption that the bus driver never looks in the mirror or has vision that is only effective up to ten feet.
The seats are made of a horrible material that sticks to you on hot summer days.
Sitting in the back has its downside: it’s so bumpy that if you were old enough to have fillings, they’d all get dislodged.
The windows fog up in the winter. You can then write or draw hilarious things on them. If you’re clever, you write it backwards so people can read it from the outside. This never gets old.
The bus always has a strange smell. Maybe because many children have no concept of personal hygiene.
It seems like you’re traveling in a gigantic loaf of bread with wheels. Except a loaf of bread can probably corner better.
If you’re lucky enough to sit by yourself, you turn sideways, with your back up against the window and your feet splayed out on the seat. You’re living the high life now!
Hands inside of the bus at all times!!!!!
It was pretty funky. I felt like I should've had a backpack full of textbooks and a sack lunch with me.
The best part? The cool kids didn’t give me a wedgie!!!!
Heck, I wish I’d brought an action figure.
Cool kids in the back. They get to chew tobacco, spit on the floor, and make trouble, under the assumption that the bus driver never looks in the mirror or has vision that is only effective up to ten feet.
The seats are made of a horrible material that sticks to you on hot summer days.
Sitting in the back has its downside: it’s so bumpy that if you were old enough to have fillings, they’d all get dislodged.
The windows fog up in the winter. You can then write or draw hilarious things on them. If you’re clever, you write it backwards so people can read it from the outside. This never gets old.
The bus always has a strange smell. Maybe because many children have no concept of personal hygiene.
It seems like you’re traveling in a gigantic loaf of bread with wheels. Except a loaf of bread can probably corner better.
If you’re lucky enough to sit by yourself, you turn sideways, with your back up against the window and your feet splayed out on the seat. You’re living the high life now!
Hands inside of the bus at all times!!!!!
It was pretty funky. I felt like I should've had a backpack full of textbooks and a sack lunch with me.
The best part? The cool kids didn’t give me a wedgie!!!!
Heck, I wish I’d brought an action figure.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Christmas Lists
The Christmas List.
A child’s most important literary work of the year. A list of materialistic requests to be fulfilled, with no strings attached, unless you had somehow landed on the naughty list. A magical connection with the jolly fat guy living way up at the North Pole, not to mention a direct line of communication with the parental units' wallets.
You don’t get much better than that.
My Christmas lists were always complex. I didn’t leave much to chance. For example, I usually employed a “star” system to denote my levels of want for each particular item. The more I wanted something, the more stars I’d draw in next to it. I didn’t trust that my parents would be able to figure it out on their own, despite the fact that I spent most of my waking hours from October through late December reminding them constantly what I wanted, and what I wanted the most.
A big part of my lists came from the Sears and J.C. Penney catalogs:
It was required seasonal reading. They’d come in the mail and soon after I’d have the toy sections of both memorized. Back then there was no such thing as shopping online. Either you got it from K-Mart in Houghton or the catalog. By the time December came, the catalogs would be literally falling apart, as they would’ve been leafed through about eight-thousand times by my siblings and me.
If you wanted something from the catalog, you specified it on your Christmas list along with the exact product number and the catalog it was in. This was critical, because you didn’t want to accidentally get a Barbie corvette instead of a G.I. Joe aircraft carrier due to an accounting error.
Over the years my Christmas lists have dwindled away to where they are now me scratching my head and then telling my parents that I could use next year’s Dilbert calendar, and possibly lasagna.
But that’s the way it works. Getting becomes less important, while other things become more important.
Still, I haven’t made a good Christmas list in a while. So here goes:
I'm serious about Snake-Eyes! Come on Santa!
A child’s most important literary work of the year. A list of materialistic requests to be fulfilled, with no strings attached, unless you had somehow landed on the naughty list. A magical connection with the jolly fat guy living way up at the North Pole, not to mention a direct line of communication with the parental units' wallets.
You don’t get much better than that.
My Christmas lists were always complex. I didn’t leave much to chance. For example, I usually employed a “star” system to denote my levels of want for each particular item. The more I wanted something, the more stars I’d draw in next to it. I didn’t trust that my parents would be able to figure it out on their own, despite the fact that I spent most of my waking hours from October through late December reminding them constantly what I wanted, and what I wanted the most.
A big part of my lists came from the Sears and J.C. Penney catalogs:
It was required seasonal reading. They’d come in the mail and soon after I’d have the toy sections of both memorized. Back then there was no such thing as shopping online. Either you got it from K-Mart in Houghton or the catalog. By the time December came, the catalogs would be literally falling apart, as they would’ve been leafed through about eight-thousand times by my siblings and me.
If you wanted something from the catalog, you specified it on your Christmas list along with the exact product number and the catalog it was in. This was critical, because you didn’t want to accidentally get a Barbie corvette instead of a G.I. Joe aircraft carrier due to an accounting error.
Ooooh, aircraft carrier
Over the years my Christmas lists have dwindled away to where they are now me scratching my head and then telling my parents that I could use next year’s Dilbert calendar, and possibly lasagna.
But that’s the way it works. Getting becomes less important, while other things become more important.
Still, I haven’t made a good Christmas list in a while. So here goes:
My Christmas List:
Christmas Day Sauna: **
A Mountain Dew in my stocking: *
Nephews and nieces tearing into presents simultaneously, genetically unable to wait nicely for one another, so that within seconds it appears that it's snowing wrapping paper shreds from the ceiling: ****
Christmas Eve party: ***
Being home: ****
Snake-Eyes v2 1985 Action Figure: **********
Best toy ever. I think about 4 total were ever made worldwide, so that every little boy dreamt of having one but never got one.
I'm serious about Snake-Eyes! Come on Santa!
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
An All Or Nothing Christmas
I have a dilemma.
I either have to choose all or nothing. All would be fun, but way too much work, especially from a male perspective. Doing nothing makes sense from a rational point of view.
What’s on the line here? Only my Christmas spirit.
Let's begin with some background information.
At my old apartment in Wisconsin, creating a comfortable, “homey” if you will, atmosphere was not a high priority for me. By this I mean if I offered a homeless person the opportunity to spend the night at my place, that homeless person would have declined on the grounds that the streets would have had more comfortable furniture.
With this in mind, it’s easy to see that Christmas decorating was also not a priority. (Neither were chairs and lamps.) I did have one decoration that I was, and still am, proud of: a two foot tall plastic Christmas tree decorated entirely with homemade ornaments produced by my nieces. The source of the ornaments alone make it, and I’m not exaggerating here, the best Christmas tree in the history of the universe, and perhaps several other parallel universes. Still, a two foot tall Christmas tree, as glorious as it may be, does not really give a room the feel of Christmas.
When I moved to my new apartment in Minnesota, I made it a priority to furnish my living room with something beyond apple crates. (No, I really didn’t have apple crates in Wisconsin. They’re too expensive.)
I accomplished this, and now December has rolled around. I recently pulled out my tree and my other decoration, a Charlie Brown figurine, complete with his own droopy tree. I set them out, but I quickly realized that it didn’t feel right. I was moving up in this world! I had a bookshelf now! I needed more than the same decorations! So I spent five bucks on a string of lights which I now have bordering my window/sliding door. I thought this would be enough for a respectable bachelor pad, but I was wrong. It looks pathetic, like the lights are some sort of outcast Christmas decorations that no other Christmas decorations would dare be seen in public with.
So I’ve realized it has to be all or nothing. Either I have to take down all of my decorations (allow 30 seconds for this) or I have to go all out and create an indoor winter wonderland complete with lights, full-sized trees, mistletoe (oh yeah!), wreaths, and plenty of sugary, Christmas-themed candy.
But I really don’t want to go all out! It’s foolishness! (Somewhere, my Dad is beaming.) It’s so much work for such a little time, plus I don’t want a whole wing of my apartment devoted to storing Christmas decorations. It just doesn’t seem worth it.
Still, it would be nice to bask in the Christmas spirit.
So that is my dilemma. As I write this, I’m looking over at my lonely string of lights, doing their best to be festive, but which instead are looking like nerds nobody wants to associate with. I feel like I should give them friends or put them out of their misery.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Decisions, decisions.
Either way, I think that plenty of sugary, Christmas-themed candy is in order. You gotta have some Christmas spirit, right?
I either have to choose all or nothing. All would be fun, but way too much work, especially from a male perspective. Doing nothing makes sense from a rational point of view.
What’s on the line here? Only my Christmas spirit.
Let's begin with some background information.
At my old apartment in Wisconsin, creating a comfortable, “homey” if you will, atmosphere was not a high priority for me. By this I mean if I offered a homeless person the opportunity to spend the night at my place, that homeless person would have declined on the grounds that the streets would have had more comfortable furniture.
With this in mind, it’s easy to see that Christmas decorating was also not a priority. (Neither were chairs and lamps.) I did have one decoration that I was, and still am, proud of: a two foot tall plastic Christmas tree decorated entirely with homemade ornaments produced by my nieces. The source of the ornaments alone make it, and I’m not exaggerating here, the best Christmas tree in the history of the universe, and perhaps several other parallel universes. Still, a two foot tall Christmas tree, as glorious as it may be, does not really give a room the feel of Christmas.
When I moved to my new apartment in Minnesota, I made it a priority to furnish my living room with something beyond apple crates. (No, I really didn’t have apple crates in Wisconsin. They’re too expensive.)
I accomplished this, and now December has rolled around. I recently pulled out my tree and my other decoration, a Charlie Brown figurine, complete with his own droopy tree. I set them out, but I quickly realized that it didn’t feel right. I was moving up in this world! I had a bookshelf now! I needed more than the same decorations! So I spent five bucks on a string of lights which I now have bordering my window/sliding door. I thought this would be enough for a respectable bachelor pad, but I was wrong. It looks pathetic, like the lights are some sort of outcast Christmas decorations that no other Christmas decorations would dare be seen in public with.
So I’ve realized it has to be all or nothing. Either I have to take down all of my decorations (allow 30 seconds for this) or I have to go all out and create an indoor winter wonderland complete with lights, full-sized trees, mistletoe (oh yeah!), wreaths, and plenty of sugary, Christmas-themed candy.
But I really don’t want to go all out! It’s foolishness! (Somewhere, my Dad is beaming.) It’s so much work for such a little time, plus I don’t want a whole wing of my apartment devoted to storing Christmas decorations. It just doesn’t seem worth it.
Still, it would be nice to bask in the Christmas spirit.
So that is my dilemma. As I write this, I’m looking over at my lonely string of lights, doing their best to be festive, but which instead are looking like nerds nobody wants to associate with. I feel like I should give them friends or put them out of their misery.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Decisions, decisions.
Either way, I think that plenty of sugary, Christmas-themed candy is in order. You gotta have some Christmas spirit, right?
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Ungraceful Travel
“The essence is to travel gracefully rather than to arrive.” - Enos Mills
I’ll try to put this delicately: that quote can go ahead and shove it.
This is what happens after an nine hour and change drive from the Twin Cities to my parents’ house in the U.P. I get a little cranky. Travel gracefully? Humbug! Just get me there!
In the summer this should be a seven hour drive. However, holiday travelers and snow lengthened it out dramatically.
The first step was getting out of the cities. To be honest, this could have been much worse, as I managed to get on the road by 2:30 in the afternoon, and traffic was relatively light. It thinned out as I began to make my way north on 35. However, that was when all of the seventeen year old males wearing their hats sideways got cocky and began to speed up and slide into the ditch. Traffic would slow down to a crawl, and eventually I would see a seventeen year old male, standing on the side of the freeway and looking at his beached cars in a very confused manner, as if either trying to figure out just how it happened, as he was only driving eighty miles an hour on slushy roads, or what he were going to tell his parents when they got the bill for the tow.
I’d heard that Duluth was going to get hammered with snow, which wasn’t that much of a shocker, since it is Duluth, and I decided to take 70 into Wisconsin. At this point the highway was snow covered and slushy, but so was the freeway. Avoiding Duluth turned out to be a good plan until I got stuck behind a plow and another truck which were going 35 miles an hour. This lasted for approximately infinity minutes. (I truly believe I was stuck in some sort of time warp between Grantsburg and Spooner, where once I’d just about gotten to Spooner, our whole mini-convoy was instantaneously transported back to Grantsburg, where we had to do it all over again.)
Several years later, I made it to Spooner, sporting a full beard, and headed northeast on 63 towards Ashland. I was soon caught behind another convoy of cars driving agonizingly slow, but soon they all finally chickened out and turned off. Now it was just me and the highway and the slush that kept sucking my car all over the road in whatever direction it felt like. Fun! But with my veins pumping what at that point must have been eighty percent coffee, I pressed on.
By the time I hit U.S. 2, I’d mastered driving the slushy roads and was making decent time. This meant, of course, that I would get stuck behind a three mile chain of jittery drivers going 30 miles an hour into Ashland. Several decades later, I stopped at Holiday to refuel and gnash my teeth
From there, traffic thinned dramatically and the roads got a little better. I settled in and happily listened to Jim Gaffigan, feeling like I’d made it through the worst.
Of course, I’d forgotten that I was traveling to the U.P., where there obviously would be heavy snow and wind. Hooray!
Somewhere after Bruce Crossing things got bad. Poor visibility, slippery, snow-covered roads, and deer running all over the place, as if they had bets with other deer to see who could cause the most accidents. I meandered all over the road, pulled by the snow, hitting rumble strips left and right, my fingers digging into the steering wheel. I passed several cars that were going thirty, as I figured if I was going into the ditch, I wanted to get it out of the way sooner rather than later.
At some point it became a grudge match between Mother Nature and me. I wasn’t going to give up, given my stubborn heritage, and neither was she. I got angry at being on the road for so long and decided I would show her a thing or two about perseverance. I put Kid Rock into my CD player and cranked it up, my veins now about 95 percent coffee. I pressed on, a glint of insanity playing in my eyes.
Twin Lakes. The Mosquito Inn. Painesdale. South Range, where a deer was running down the middle of the road, slipping and sliding all over the place. Then Houghton! I let out an audible ‘Woo-hoo!’
I chugged up Quincy Hill, Kid Rock shrieking in my ears. I plowed through the drifted snow across the road by the airport, where I knew it would be, because it’s always there.
Finally I hit Calumet. I laughed loudly but passed on giving Mother Nature the double bird.
Then the Wolverine Market. I blew past the Last Place On Earth, wondering if I would eventually need to be pried out of my seat with heavy equipment. Allouez. Ahmeek. Snow was everywhere. The Wood’n Spoon!
Then I was home. Nine plus hours later.
I made a mental checklist: new tires and go to the bathroom, as I’d ingested an estimated fourteen gallons of coffee.
But I’ve arrived and its time to reap my rewards. More coffee. Turkey. Stuffing. Family. Pumpkin Pie. It’ll be fun, just as long as my fingers relax at some point and I’m able to put down this steering wheel.
I’ll try to put this delicately: that quote can go ahead and shove it.
This is what happens after an nine hour and change drive from the Twin Cities to my parents’ house in the U.P. I get a little cranky. Travel gracefully? Humbug! Just get me there!
In the summer this should be a seven hour drive. However, holiday travelers and snow lengthened it out dramatically.
The first step was getting out of the cities. To be honest, this could have been much worse, as I managed to get on the road by 2:30 in the afternoon, and traffic was relatively light. It thinned out as I began to make my way north on 35. However, that was when all of the seventeen year old males wearing their hats sideways got cocky and began to speed up and slide into the ditch. Traffic would slow down to a crawl, and eventually I would see a seventeen year old male, standing on the side of the freeway and looking at his beached cars in a very confused manner, as if either trying to figure out just how it happened, as he was only driving eighty miles an hour on slushy roads, or what he were going to tell his parents when they got the bill for the tow.
I’d heard that Duluth was going to get hammered with snow, which wasn’t that much of a shocker, since it is Duluth, and I decided to take 70 into Wisconsin. At this point the highway was snow covered and slushy, but so was the freeway. Avoiding Duluth turned out to be a good plan until I got stuck behind a plow and another truck which were going 35 miles an hour. This lasted for approximately infinity minutes. (I truly believe I was stuck in some sort of time warp between Grantsburg and Spooner, where once I’d just about gotten to Spooner, our whole mini-convoy was instantaneously transported back to Grantsburg, where we had to do it all over again.)
Several years later, I made it to Spooner, sporting a full beard, and headed northeast on 63 towards Ashland. I was soon caught behind another convoy of cars driving agonizingly slow, but soon they all finally chickened out and turned off. Now it was just me and the highway and the slush that kept sucking my car all over the road in whatever direction it felt like. Fun! But with my veins pumping what at that point must have been eighty percent coffee, I pressed on.
By the time I hit U.S. 2, I’d mastered driving the slushy roads and was making decent time. This meant, of course, that I would get stuck behind a three mile chain of jittery drivers going 30 miles an hour into Ashland. Several decades later, I stopped at Holiday to refuel and gnash my teeth
From there, traffic thinned dramatically and the roads got a little better. I settled in and happily listened to Jim Gaffigan, feeling like I’d made it through the worst.
Of course, I’d forgotten that I was traveling to the U.P., where there obviously would be heavy snow and wind. Hooray!
Somewhere after Bruce Crossing things got bad. Poor visibility, slippery, snow-covered roads, and deer running all over the place, as if they had bets with other deer to see who could cause the most accidents. I meandered all over the road, pulled by the snow, hitting rumble strips left and right, my fingers digging into the steering wheel. I passed several cars that were going thirty, as I figured if I was going into the ditch, I wanted to get it out of the way sooner rather than later.
At some point it became a grudge match between Mother Nature and me. I wasn’t going to give up, given my stubborn heritage, and neither was she. I got angry at being on the road for so long and decided I would show her a thing or two about perseverance. I put Kid Rock into my CD player and cranked it up, my veins now about 95 percent coffee. I pressed on, a glint of insanity playing in my eyes.
Twin Lakes. The Mosquito Inn. Painesdale. South Range, where a deer was running down the middle of the road, slipping and sliding all over the place. Then Houghton! I let out an audible ‘Woo-hoo!’
I chugged up Quincy Hill, Kid Rock shrieking in my ears. I plowed through the drifted snow across the road by the airport, where I knew it would be, because it’s always there.
Finally I hit Calumet. I laughed loudly but passed on giving Mother Nature the double bird.
Then the Wolverine Market. I blew past the Last Place On Earth, wondering if I would eventually need to be pried out of my seat with heavy equipment. Allouez. Ahmeek. Snow was everywhere. The Wood’n Spoon!
Then I was home. Nine plus hours later.
I made a mental checklist: new tires and go to the bathroom, as I’d ingested an estimated fourteen gallons of coffee.
But I’ve arrived and its time to reap my rewards. More coffee. Turkey. Stuffing. Family. Pumpkin Pie. It’ll be fun, just as long as my fingers relax at some point and I’m able to put down this steering wheel.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Red Light Sing-Along
I’ve realized there is a major disadvantage to living in the suburbs of the Twin Cities.
Let’s say you’re out and about in your automobile, and you find yourself stuck at one of the estimated 187 million stoplights in Plymouth. No big deal, unless there’s an eighty-seven year old man driving up behind you who’s so out of touch with reality that the only time he knows when to stop is when he collides into something else, after which he’ll always blame the other party, even if that other party turns out to be a stop sign or a convenience store.
But say that isn’t the case, and everything is going just fine. No worries, right?
But then it happens: a good song comes on the radio.
First, your feet begin to tap along with the beat, which is always adventurous if you’re tapping with your braking foot. Second, you get the head bob going, which from a distance makes it look like you’re choking on a jawbreaker. Third, you haul off and start to sing along.
Singing along to the radio takes all of your mental concentration, especially if you’re reaching the high part of ‘My Maria.’ Therefore, you don’t pay much attention to anything else going on around you. You put your heart and soul into it, sometimes using your cup of coffee as a microphone, until the song finally ends. Luckily, the light is still red, and it will be for several more hours. However, you look around and see that everybody in adjacent cars is staring at you like you’re an escapee from a mental institution.
Now what? You can’t drive away, because you’re stuck in gridlock. You could roll down your window and yell, “Hey, that was ‘Friends in Low Places’! What was I supposed to do?”, but you’re still going to look stupid. Basically, you’re out of luck. You’ve now proven to the world that you’re a first class dork.
Usually, this is where I reveal that this exact thing has happened to me. Luckily, I can honestly say that it hasn’t. This is because I’m always aware of what I described above, and I do everything to make sure it doesn’t happen. So, whenever a good song comes on the radio, I sit rigid in my seat and stare ahead blankly, while every fiber of my being screams at me to start singing along.
To sum it up, my urge to not be humiliated is winning out against my urge to belt out songs in my car, which I find annoying. I mean, you’re not supposed to care what people think about you, but I obviously do. How insecure can I be?
If only I was in some rural area, where I was free to sing in my car as much as I wanted. Sigh.
But there’s really no use fighting it. I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to change, as I'm dead set on my decision, and I guess I’ll just have to find other outlets for my need to sing.
I guess there’s always the shower.
Let’s say you’re out and about in your automobile, and you find yourself stuck at one of the estimated 187 million stoplights in Plymouth. No big deal, unless there’s an eighty-seven year old man driving up behind you who’s so out of touch with reality that the only time he knows when to stop is when he collides into something else, after which he’ll always blame the other party, even if that other party turns out to be a stop sign or a convenience store.
But say that isn’t the case, and everything is going just fine. No worries, right?
But then it happens: a good song comes on the radio.
First, your feet begin to tap along with the beat, which is always adventurous if you’re tapping with your braking foot. Second, you get the head bob going, which from a distance makes it look like you’re choking on a jawbreaker. Third, you haul off and start to sing along.
Singing along to the radio takes all of your mental concentration, especially if you’re reaching the high part of ‘My Maria.’ Therefore, you don’t pay much attention to anything else going on around you. You put your heart and soul into it, sometimes using your cup of coffee as a microphone, until the song finally ends. Luckily, the light is still red, and it will be for several more hours. However, you look around and see that everybody in adjacent cars is staring at you like you’re an escapee from a mental institution.
Now what? You can’t drive away, because you’re stuck in gridlock. You could roll down your window and yell, “Hey, that was ‘Friends in Low Places’! What was I supposed to do?”, but you’re still going to look stupid. Basically, you’re out of luck. You’ve now proven to the world that you’re a first class dork.
Usually, this is where I reveal that this exact thing has happened to me. Luckily, I can honestly say that it hasn’t. This is because I’m always aware of what I described above, and I do everything to make sure it doesn’t happen. So, whenever a good song comes on the radio, I sit rigid in my seat and stare ahead blankly, while every fiber of my being screams at me to start singing along.
To sum it up, my urge to not be humiliated is winning out against my urge to belt out songs in my car, which I find annoying. I mean, you’re not supposed to care what people think about you, but I obviously do. How insecure can I be?
If only I was in some rural area, where I was free to sing in my car as much as I wanted. Sigh.
But there’s really no use fighting it. I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to change, as I'm dead set on my decision, and I guess I’ll just have to find other outlets for my need to sing.
I guess there’s always the shower.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
The Dangers Of Arm Flapping
Has this ever happened to you?
You’re in some sort of social environment, minding your own business. However, this changes when an attractive member of the opposite sex starts heading your way. You frown a little, because you’re naturally suspicious, and you wonder just what the catch is. Then, however, the attractive member of the opposite sex flashes a big, knee-melting smile and subsequently begins to wave enthusiastically.
Whoa. This must be your lucky day. The stars and planets are obviously all aligned for the first time in centuries.
You mentally crack your knuckles in preparation. It’s Go Time! You smile and begin to casually wave back, feeling kind of warm and fuzzy inside. Your wave is initially cool and sophisticated, as that’s the image of yourself you're trying to project, but as you get more excited, it degrades into random arm flapping.
This is when it all comes crashing down around you and the catch is revealed. The attractive member of the opposite sex blows right past you, still waving. You turn around and see that this person is waving to somebody else who was standing directly behind you the whole time.
D’oh!
You quickly turn red and curse under our breath for making a fool of yourself. You hope that nobody was watching, and, if they were, that they weren’t capturing the whole episode on video with their cell phone. When you’re finally done with this mental cursing, some time later, you catch some movement out of the corner of your eye, so you twist your head to see what’s going on. It’s then revealed that you’re still waving/arm-flapping, like a total moron. You reach up with your other hand and pull down your runaway-waving arm. With that complete, you look around for some giant hole to fall into forever.
I’ll admit this has happened to me a couple of times. However, I’ve learned from my mistakes, and I’m now callous and suspicious of anybody waving to me, even if it’s my mother. You know the saying. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Or something like that.
What’s my point? Heck, I don’t know. I just hate it when that happens.
You’re in some sort of social environment, minding your own business. However, this changes when an attractive member of the opposite sex starts heading your way. You frown a little, because you’re naturally suspicious, and you wonder just what the catch is. Then, however, the attractive member of the opposite sex flashes a big, knee-melting smile and subsequently begins to wave enthusiastically.
Whoa. This must be your lucky day. The stars and planets are obviously all aligned for the first time in centuries.
You mentally crack your knuckles in preparation. It’s Go Time! You smile and begin to casually wave back, feeling kind of warm and fuzzy inside. Your wave is initially cool and sophisticated, as that’s the image of yourself you're trying to project, but as you get more excited, it degrades into random arm flapping.
This is when it all comes crashing down around you and the catch is revealed. The attractive member of the opposite sex blows right past you, still waving. You turn around and see that this person is waving to somebody else who was standing directly behind you the whole time.
D’oh!
You quickly turn red and curse under our breath for making a fool of yourself. You hope that nobody was watching, and, if they were, that they weren’t capturing the whole episode on video with their cell phone. When you’re finally done with this mental cursing, some time later, you catch some movement out of the corner of your eye, so you twist your head to see what’s going on. It’s then revealed that you’re still waving/arm-flapping, like a total moron. You reach up with your other hand and pull down your runaway-waving arm. With that complete, you look around for some giant hole to fall into forever.
I’ll admit this has happened to me a couple of times. However, I’ve learned from my mistakes, and I’m now callous and suspicious of anybody waving to me, even if it’s my mother. You know the saying. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Or something like that.
What’s my point? Heck, I don’t know. I just hate it when that happens.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
You Win, Kid Rock
You have to realize how hard this is for me to admit, but I think I like Kid Rock.
If you had told me this when I was in college, I would have been appalled at myself. That was back when ‘Cowboy’ was big, which I believe, to this day, is a terrible, horrible song. (When Jason Aldean covered it at a Brooks & Dunn concert in St. Paul, I had to put my head between my knees and pretend I was somewhere else.)
But Kid Rock seems to be gravitating away from his earlier hip-hop/rap mess and morphing into something that seems actually legitimate.
Case in point: ‘Born Free’. When I heard this song, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Then I read that he shot the video in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and I had to watch it.
Well, that sealed the deal. Darn you Kid Rock! You’ve won this round, but consider yourself on the strictest of probation. Until then, I think I’ll watch the video again.
If you had told me this when I was in college, I would have been appalled at myself. That was back when ‘Cowboy’ was big, which I believe, to this day, is a terrible, horrible song. (When Jason Aldean covered it at a Brooks & Dunn concert in St. Paul, I had to put my head between my knees and pretend I was somewhere else.)
But Kid Rock seems to be gravitating away from his earlier hip-hop/rap mess and morphing into something that seems actually legitimate.
Case in point: ‘Born Free’. When I heard this song, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Then I read that he shot the video in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and I had to watch it.
Well, that sealed the deal. Darn you Kid Rock! You’ve won this round, but consider yourself on the strictest of probation. Until then, I think I’ll watch the video again.
Friday, November 5, 2010
The Benefit Of Don Williams
They say that time changes everything. While I believe that’s mostly true, I do think there are still a few things you can hang your hat on.
I was reminded of this as I watched the Don Williams concert on Thursday. I’d seen him one time before, about eight years ago. It was my very first concert, actually. This time around everything was still as I remembered. Don didn’t go pop. He didn’t go punk rock. He just strolled in, took a seat, and without a dash of flash or glitz, sang his songs as smoothly as the first time I’d seen him. He had the same hat, and once again he hardly chatted at all between songs. (He’d just say something like “Mercy” if the crowd was particularly loud, although he’d draw out the word with his southern drawl so that it lasted for about 10 seconds, which was great. I think it would take about 3 hours to have a simple conversation with him about the weather. “Weeeeeeeeeeellllllllllll, if you look at them clouds over yoooooonder……..”)
For me, however, nearly everything has changed since that first concert. Back then I was either 21 or 22, with a full head of hair, working on co-op in Minneapolis. It was my first time living away from home, not to mention my first time working a real, soul-sucking cubicle job. I didn’t have a clue. I was totally flying by the seat of my pants with no idea as to what I was doing or what I was getting myself into.
Flash forward to now. I’ve been steadily employed for seven years, most of them in Wisconsin. I have a 401K. Heck, I’m even eligible for a pension with my former company. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still flying by the seat of my pants, but in a little more of a controlled way.
The point is this: everything’s changed in a short time. Once you get out of college, life becomes a blur and the years pass faster than you’d ever imagine possible. Change is constant, to the point where it makes you dizzy. Sometimes it gets pretty overwhelming, and that’s when you need to be able to fall back on something you can count on to help steady your proverbial ship. For example, seeing Don Williams without worrying if he’s dyed his beard pink or if he’s going to be covering Hannah Montana songs.
So, thanks Don, for being a pillar of consistency. It’s good to have something you can count on, unlike a full head of hair. Come back soon!
I was reminded of this as I watched the Don Williams concert on Thursday. I’d seen him one time before, about eight years ago. It was my very first concert, actually. This time around everything was still as I remembered. Don didn’t go pop. He didn’t go punk rock. He just strolled in, took a seat, and without a dash of flash or glitz, sang his songs as smoothly as the first time I’d seen him. He had the same hat, and once again he hardly chatted at all between songs. (He’d just say something like “Mercy” if the crowd was particularly loud, although he’d draw out the word with his southern drawl so that it lasted for about 10 seconds, which was great. I think it would take about 3 hours to have a simple conversation with him about the weather. “Weeeeeeeeeeellllllllllll, if you look at them clouds over yoooooonder……..”)
For me, however, nearly everything has changed since that first concert. Back then I was either 21 or 22, with a full head of hair, working on co-op in Minneapolis. It was my first time living away from home, not to mention my first time working a real, soul-sucking cubicle job. I didn’t have a clue. I was totally flying by the seat of my pants with no idea as to what I was doing or what I was getting myself into.
Flash forward to now. I’ve been steadily employed for seven years, most of them in Wisconsin. I have a 401K. Heck, I’m even eligible for a pension with my former company. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still flying by the seat of my pants, but in a little more of a controlled way.
The point is this: everything’s changed in a short time. Once you get out of college, life becomes a blur and the years pass faster than you’d ever imagine possible. Change is constant, to the point where it makes you dizzy. Sometimes it gets pretty overwhelming, and that’s when you need to be able to fall back on something you can count on to help steady your proverbial ship. For example, seeing Don Williams without worrying if he’s dyed his beard pink or if he’s going to be covering Hannah Montana songs.
So, thanks Don, for being a pillar of consistency. It’s good to have something you can count on, unlike a full head of hair. Come back soon!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
My Michigan Mini-Football: An Appreciation
I wasn’t sure we’d find it after it got lost in the farmer’s field in North Dakota.
I thought it was gone forever when we kicked it over the barbed wire fence in Montana.
I was sure I’d never see it again when we punted it into the river in Duluth.
I was absolutely positive it reached the end of the line when it disappeared in Minnesota several years ago.
But now it’s back home, a little worse for wear, but nothing you wouldn’t expect if you’d been through what it has.
I’m talking about my Michigan mini-football. I bought it at K-Mart in the Copper Country Mall. That, in itself, should tell you something about how long I’ve had it, as that K-Mart has been closed for a very long time. (Sidebar: one of my biggest regrets in life is never dining at the Eatery in the back of K-Mart. Sigh.)
This football is perfect for traveling with. It’s small, it almost always spirals, and you can throw it a mile. It’s just what you need to break up a long day of driving. You stop the car just about anywhere and run a few routes. Parking lots, desolate roads, roadside parks, it all works.
As mentioned above, I’ve almost lost it several times, but it keeps coming back, like a good bad-penny. Take my trip out west several years ago:
• In North Dakota we had to search a farmer’s field at the intersection of two dirt roads in the middle of nowhere, all because of an errant punt. I kept waiting for the farmer to come out, shotgun ready, yelling at us to get out his field. Luckily, it didn’t happen, and we eventually found the football.
• The next day, we kicked it up into a tree at a park in North Dakota. We finally got it down after throwing rocks at it for what seemed like hours. (It was way up there!) A minute later, it got punted into a dry river bed that wasn’t as dry as I thought. Still, it was worth it to get the ball back.
• Soon after, we were at a rest stop in Montana and it got punted over a barbed wire fence. We had to poke a long stick through the fence and slowly roll it back.
• At the end of the trip, when we were back in Duluth, it got kicked into a river. Luckily, we were able to fish it back out.
• (Yes, I know. We are terrible at punting. However, it’s too fun to give up, even if it keeps getting us into trouble.)
Soon after the trip out west, it got left in Minnesota, where I thought it was lost for good. (Why would any native Minnesotans go out of their way to make sure no harm came to a Michigan football?) However, it just reappeared there recently, which was like an early Christmas present for me. However, there was one problem: it had a leak, as one of the seams had split.
I had two options. I could either retire it, or I could do all I could to get it back into working order. I chose the second option, and used massive amounts of Gorilla Glue to re-seal the seam.
I’ll admit it’s not pretty, but it’s functional. I’m not sure how long it’ll last, but its legacy is already sealed as being the best football I’ll ever own. Any more use I get out of it is just gravy.
I’m betting it won’t spiral as well anymore, what with the eight pounds of Gorilla Glue throwing it out of balance. Still, I don’t care. And when it finally reaches the point where it is no longer usable, I plan to find a place of honor to retire it. Heck, I may even have to get a mantle.
I thought it was gone forever when we kicked it over the barbed wire fence in Montana.
I was sure I’d never see it again when we punted it into the river in Duluth.
I was absolutely positive it reached the end of the line when it disappeared in Minnesota several years ago.
But now it’s back home, a little worse for wear, but nothing you wouldn’t expect if you’d been through what it has.
I’m talking about my Michigan mini-football. I bought it at K-Mart in the Copper Country Mall. That, in itself, should tell you something about how long I’ve had it, as that K-Mart has been closed for a very long time. (Sidebar: one of my biggest regrets in life is never dining at the Eatery in the back of K-Mart. Sigh.)
This football is perfect for traveling with. It’s small, it almost always spirals, and you can throw it a mile. It’s just what you need to break up a long day of driving. You stop the car just about anywhere and run a few routes. Parking lots, desolate roads, roadside parks, it all works.
As mentioned above, I’ve almost lost it several times, but it keeps coming back, like a good bad-penny. Take my trip out west several years ago:
• In North Dakota we had to search a farmer’s field at the intersection of two dirt roads in the middle of nowhere, all because of an errant punt. I kept waiting for the farmer to come out, shotgun ready, yelling at us to get out his field. Luckily, it didn’t happen, and we eventually found the football.
Minutes before losing the football in the field
• The next day, we kicked it up into a tree at a park in North Dakota. We finally got it down after throwing rocks at it for what seemed like hours. (It was way up there!) A minute later, it got punted into a dry river bed that wasn’t as dry as I thought. Still, it was worth it to get the ball back.
Looking up at the football in the tree
After retrieving it from the mud
• Soon after, we were at a rest stop in Montana and it got punted over a barbed wire fence. We had to poke a long stick through the fence and slowly roll it back.
• At the end of the trip, when we were back in Duluth, it got kicked into a river. Luckily, we were able to fish it back out.
• (Yes, I know. We are terrible at punting. However, it’s too fun to give up, even if it keeps getting us into trouble.)
Soon after the trip out west, it got left in Minnesota, where I thought it was lost for good. (Why would any native Minnesotans go out of their way to make sure no harm came to a Michigan football?) However, it just reappeared there recently, which was like an early Christmas present for me. However, there was one problem: it had a leak, as one of the seams had split.
I had two options. I could either retire it, or I could do all I could to get it back into working order. I chose the second option, and used massive amounts of Gorilla Glue to re-seal the seam.
Gorilla Glued
I’m betting it won’t spiral as well anymore, what with the eight pounds of Gorilla Glue throwing it out of balance. Still, I don’t care. And when it finally reaches the point where it is no longer usable, I plan to find a place of honor to retire it. Heck, I may even have to get a mantle.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Left Behind (Cue Ominous Music)
I like to think of myself as being technologically inclined. However, I also like to think of myself as being stunningly handsome, so feel free to draw your own conclusions.
The point is, I’m pretty much up to date with the changing world of technology. For example, I text. I pay bills online. I don’t remember the last time I mailed a physical letter. I can figure out Red Box. Heck, I’m a software engineer. You get the picture.
But here’s the scary part: it won’t last forever. As you age, eventually you aren’t able to keep up with the constant stream of technological advances. This is because the older you get, the more stubborn and resistant to change you become, which soon leaves you riding a horse in a horseless carriage kind of world.
In fact, I can already see it happening to me. Take video games. When I was twelve I was, and I am not exaggerating here, the best video game player in the entire world. I had ridiculous joystick control, and I was incredibly cool under pressure. I could get Barry Sanders 4092 rushing yards in Tecmo Super Bowl, which was as high as the game would count, before the season was even half over. Today, however, I’m afraid of playing video games. The controllers have roughly eighty-seven buttons and sixteen control sticks. The games themselves are so complex that the manuals are as long as a Steven King thriller. I would have no idea where to start, and so I simply don’t. I hate to say it, but I’ve been passed by.
While you might think that not playing video games isn’t a big deal, it really is. It’s an early indicator of things to come. Soon, as more and more new technology is developed, I will begin to understand less and less of it. Then, at some point, I will become the equivalent of the old man who complains because nobody uses rotary phones anymore, with the only difference being I will be complaining about newer technology.
I can hear myself already: “I’m not using that new-fangled matter transformer gizmo to go to the grocery store! It’s nothing but foolishness! A man could get his arm lopped off if he doesn’t get his whole body inside the transfer capsule thingie! I heard somebody once transported himself to Denver, but his arm wound up in San Antonio! Try to get your insurance to cover that! Plus, you have to be a nuclear physicist just to figure out what buttons to press and what levers to pull! Heaven forbid you press the green one before the red one, or you set the dial to “deep-fried” instead of “lightly toasted”! If you’re not careful, you could wind up on the top of Mount Everest! No sir, I think I’ll walk!”
And the same thing will happen to every one of you. So, when you watch the video below, feel free to laugh, but just remember, it’s your future too!
The point is, I’m pretty much up to date with the changing world of technology. For example, I text. I pay bills online. I don’t remember the last time I mailed a physical letter. I can figure out Red Box. Heck, I’m a software engineer. You get the picture.
But here’s the scary part: it won’t last forever. As you age, eventually you aren’t able to keep up with the constant stream of technological advances. This is because the older you get, the more stubborn and resistant to change you become, which soon leaves you riding a horse in a horseless carriage kind of world.
In fact, I can already see it happening to me. Take video games. When I was twelve I was, and I am not exaggerating here, the best video game player in the entire world. I had ridiculous joystick control, and I was incredibly cool under pressure. I could get Barry Sanders 4092 rushing yards in Tecmo Super Bowl, which was as high as the game would count, before the season was even half over. Today, however, I’m afraid of playing video games. The controllers have roughly eighty-seven buttons and sixteen control sticks. The games themselves are so complex that the manuals are as long as a Steven King thriller. I would have no idea where to start, and so I simply don’t. I hate to say it, but I’ve been passed by.
While you might think that not playing video games isn’t a big deal, it really is. It’s an early indicator of things to come. Soon, as more and more new technology is developed, I will begin to understand less and less of it. Then, at some point, I will become the equivalent of the old man who complains because nobody uses rotary phones anymore, with the only difference being I will be complaining about newer technology.
I can hear myself already: “I’m not using that new-fangled matter transformer gizmo to go to the grocery store! It’s nothing but foolishness! A man could get his arm lopped off if he doesn’t get his whole body inside the transfer capsule thingie! I heard somebody once transported himself to Denver, but his arm wound up in San Antonio! Try to get your insurance to cover that! Plus, you have to be a nuclear physicist just to figure out what buttons to press and what levers to pull! Heaven forbid you press the green one before the red one, or you set the dial to “deep-fried” instead of “lightly toasted”! If you’re not careful, you could wind up on the top of Mount Everest! No sir, I think I’ll walk!”
And the same thing will happen to every one of you. So, when you watch the video below, feel free to laugh, but just remember, it’s your future too!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Happy Blogiversary
Well, it’s been an entire year since I started blogging, and what a year it’s been! Looking back, one thing stands out above all the rest: just how little substance is actually included in my 90 posts.
Not that I consider that to be a bad thing, mind you. Frivolous is my style, and hopefully it’s made you smile on occasion. In today’s crazy doom-and-gloom world, that’s all I’m aiming for. (Currently, that is. I plan to get rich on this sometime in the future, although the details are still quite sketchy.)
However, now that I’ve made it a year, I’m not going to cut back and rest on my laurels, even though I’m not quite sure what ‘laurels’ are. Instead, I want to make the next year of this blog even better. My plan is to sell out all of my ideals for a glossy, Hollywood-blockbuster style blog that makes up for its lack of heart with its excessive use of special effects.
Just kidding! But I still want a better blog, and to do that, I need your help. This is because I’m not quite sure what “better” really means in terms of this blog.
So, what would YOU like to see? What would make this blog better? Let me know. It could be anything. Here are some examples I’ve thoughtfully come up with:
• Less use of words that aren’t really words, such as “Blogiversary”.
• Try to incorporate time travel.
• Lower fat, lower cholesterol, please!
• Lasers
• Dinosaurs are always good.
• You know the part where you write? Stop it!
If you’re wondering, yes, this is a shameless stunt just to see how many people I can get to comment on this. However, I feel no shame in doing so. It’s my anniversary. I can do what I want.
Not that I consider that to be a bad thing, mind you. Frivolous is my style, and hopefully it’s made you smile on occasion. In today’s crazy doom-and-gloom world, that’s all I’m aiming for. (Currently, that is. I plan to get rich on this sometime in the future, although the details are still quite sketchy.)
However, now that I’ve made it a year, I’m not going to cut back and rest on my laurels, even though I’m not quite sure what ‘laurels’ are. Instead, I want to make the next year of this blog even better. My plan is to sell out all of my ideals for a glossy, Hollywood-blockbuster style blog that makes up for its lack of heart with its excessive use of special effects.
Just kidding! But I still want a better blog, and to do that, I need your help. This is because I’m not quite sure what “better” really means in terms of this blog.
So, what would YOU like to see? What would make this blog better? Let me know. It could be anything. Here are some examples I’ve thoughtfully come up with:
• Less use of words that aren’t really words, such as “Blogiversary”.
• Try to incorporate time travel.
• Lower fat, lower cholesterol, please!
• Lasers
• Dinosaurs are always good.
• You know the part where you write? Stop it!
If you’re wondering, yes, this is a shameless stunt just to see how many people I can get to comment on this. However, I feel no shame in doing so. It’s my anniversary. I can do what I want.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Who's Making That Racket?
I bought a new tennis racket today because my old one was warped and bent out of shape.
I’d like to say that my damaged racket was the reason for my serves and returns having the same precision and raw power of a two-year old throwing rocks into a lake. However, it’s the other way around. My tennis racket got bent because of my serves and returns having the same precision and raw power of a two-year old throwing rocks into a lake.
I’ll explain: I’ve developed the bad habit of throwing my racket in frustration after screwing up. Sometimes I’ll throw it down to the ground, where I then have to fight the urge to jump up and down on it several few times for good measure. Sometimes I’ll lob it high into the air and watch in satisfaction as it comes down and makes a loud clattering noise. Sometimes I’ll sidearm it across the court where it will skitter along for a while, making me happy to watch until I realize I have to go and retrieve it.
At least I screw up in interesting ways. Sometimes I’ll dramatically hit the ball into the net. (Not necessarily the net on my court, mind you.) Sometimes I’ll send it careening way off to the left or right, not even coming close to the spot I’m aiming for, and possibly endangering others. (I wouldn’t be all that surprised if one of my errant shots someday took out some old lady walking her dog on the sidewalk). Sometimes I’ll blast it way over the court. Sometimes I’ll somehow manage to hit it behind me. Sometimes I just whiff and miss it completely.
No matter how I screw up, though, I still handle it in the same way: First, I frown in complete disbelief. This is to try and make anybody watching believe that what has just happened was a complete fluke, something totally beneath my stature as a tennis player, and something likely to never happen again. (Even if I did the exact same thing the previous point.) Second, to show my true passion for the game, I’ll throw my racket.
When you combine my throwing-the-racket habit along with the number of times I’ve screwed up, it’s no surprise that my old racket quickly became scratched, bent, and virtually unusable.
So now I have a new racket. However, I’ve already decided I’m not going to throw it. Instead, I’m going to conquer my anger. I realize that this is going to be tough, but I have a number of ideas I can use to help:
1) I can keep my old racket close at hand, and when I screw up I can just throw that instead.
2) I can start swearing when I screw up, which will hopefully distract me from throwing my racket.
3) I can never play tennis again.
I’m not sure what option I’m going to go with. I kind of like them all.
One thing is certain, though: I’m sure I’ll have plenty of chances to determine which one works best.
I’d like to say that my damaged racket was the reason for my serves and returns having the same precision and raw power of a two-year old throwing rocks into a lake. However, it’s the other way around. My tennis racket got bent because of my serves and returns having the same precision and raw power of a two-year old throwing rocks into a lake.
I’ll explain: I’ve developed the bad habit of throwing my racket in frustration after screwing up. Sometimes I’ll throw it down to the ground, where I then have to fight the urge to jump up and down on it several few times for good measure. Sometimes I’ll lob it high into the air and watch in satisfaction as it comes down and makes a loud clattering noise. Sometimes I’ll sidearm it across the court where it will skitter along for a while, making me happy to watch until I realize I have to go and retrieve it.
At least I screw up in interesting ways. Sometimes I’ll dramatically hit the ball into the net. (Not necessarily the net on my court, mind you.) Sometimes I’ll send it careening way off to the left or right, not even coming close to the spot I’m aiming for, and possibly endangering others. (I wouldn’t be all that surprised if one of my errant shots someday took out some old lady walking her dog on the sidewalk). Sometimes I’ll blast it way over the court. Sometimes I’ll somehow manage to hit it behind me. Sometimes I just whiff and miss it completely.
No matter how I screw up, though, I still handle it in the same way: First, I frown in complete disbelief. This is to try and make anybody watching believe that what has just happened was a complete fluke, something totally beneath my stature as a tennis player, and something likely to never happen again. (Even if I did the exact same thing the previous point.) Second, to show my true passion for the game, I’ll throw my racket.
When you combine my throwing-the-racket habit along with the number of times I’ve screwed up, it’s no surprise that my old racket quickly became scratched, bent, and virtually unusable.
So now I have a new racket. However, I’ve already decided I’m not going to throw it. Instead, I’m going to conquer my anger. I realize that this is going to be tough, but I have a number of ideas I can use to help:
1) I can keep my old racket close at hand, and when I screw up I can just throw that instead.
2) I can start swearing when I screw up, which will hopefully distract me from throwing my racket.
3) I can never play tennis again.
I’m not sure what option I’m going to go with. I kind of like them all.
One thing is certain, though: I’m sure I’ll have plenty of chances to determine which one works best.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Welcome To Hazzard County
I watched the second half of an episode of the Dukes of Hazzard the other day. It was great, by which I mean it was essentially a 30 minute chase scene that was so ridiculous it bordered on sheer genius.
Now, I’ll readily admit that I couldn’t sit down and watch multiple episodes of that show without rolling my eyes at the cheesiness of the whole thing, but in half-hour chunks it’s priceless.
There was a loose plot about a mob syndicate or some nonsense like that, but the plot really didn’t matter. The only point of it was to create opportunities for chase scenes.
This show isn’t about character development, that’s for sure. Here are several things that happened in the last thirty minutes:
The General Lee jumped a creek. Daisy wooed some bad guys, who became so week-kneed that they couldn’t defend themselves when Cooter ran out of the bushes and bonked them on the head with a two-by-four. Uncle Jesse cackled like an insane scientist and cruised around randomly in his beater truck. Rosco crashed his police cruiser into another police cruiser, causing his door to fall off. He also made a bunch of unintelligible noises that sounded something like, “gue, gue, gue.” There was a fantastic chase involving the Dukes, the bad guys, and Boss and Rosco, which went around and around in circles through town, and which made absolutely no sense, but was still utterly fantastic. Also, the bad guys got caught in a net at the end.
How could this all be made better? Easy! It was all accompanied by classic Duke Boys chase music, made up mostly of frenetic banjo, fiddle, and steel guitar.
Seriously, they don’t make shows like that anymore. Here’s a clip I found of the circle chase.
Now, I’ll readily admit that I couldn’t sit down and watch multiple episodes of that show without rolling my eyes at the cheesiness of the whole thing, but in half-hour chunks it’s priceless.
There was a loose plot about a mob syndicate or some nonsense like that, but the plot really didn’t matter. The only point of it was to create opportunities for chase scenes.
This show isn’t about character development, that’s for sure. Here are several things that happened in the last thirty minutes:
The General Lee jumped a creek. Daisy wooed some bad guys, who became so week-kneed that they couldn’t defend themselves when Cooter ran out of the bushes and bonked them on the head with a two-by-four. Uncle Jesse cackled like an insane scientist and cruised around randomly in his beater truck. Rosco crashed his police cruiser into another police cruiser, causing his door to fall off. He also made a bunch of unintelligible noises that sounded something like, “gue, gue, gue.” There was a fantastic chase involving the Dukes, the bad guys, and Boss and Rosco, which went around and around in circles through town, and which made absolutely no sense, but was still utterly fantastic. Also, the bad guys got caught in a net at the end.
How could this all be made better? Easy! It was all accompanied by classic Duke Boys chase music, made up mostly of frenetic banjo, fiddle, and steel guitar.
Seriously, they don’t make shows like that anymore. Here’s a clip I found of the circle chase.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The Lowe's/Michaels Ratio
So I went into Michaels the other day to buy illustration board. Why? Because I felt the need to illustrate, of course, and what better place to do that than on a board?
Anyway, those of you who have been to Michaels before knows that it’s not what you’d consider a male-tailored store. For example, there are no pictures of things blowing up, nor are there any big screen TVs playing Sportscenter nonstop. Also, handy spittoons are not left out in the aisles for the convenience of chew tobacco users. In addition, there are entire rows of floral arrangements there which can make a guy shudder and dive for cover from up to two aisles over.
Still, I braved it and did my shopping, although when I left I felt a severe need to do something macho, such as hauling off with a satisfying belch.
As I walked to my car afterwards, I looked across the parking lot and saw Lowe's, and I began to think that perhaps I should be spending more time in there. (As of right now, my Lowe’s Visit Counter is stuck at 0.) It just seemed to be the manly thing to do. I mean, there has to be a reason for me to buy a pounder or a, whadyacallit, squeezer, right? Maybe I could get several pieces of drywall for future use. Or what about a drill press? I could fit it in my kitchen.
Now, why would I need these items? Who knows? Maybe I could embark on a do-it yourself project of some sort, possibly involving rafters or joists. (Then I would be able to make the hilarious joke of telling people, “Joist a minute, I’m busy.”)
A moment later, though, I shrugged the urge off. As Popeye says, “I yam what I yam,” and that’s the motto I’m going to stick to. This means that I’ll go to Lowe’s only when I have a real need to go, and no sooner.
So that's my plan, even if it means my Michaels to Lowe’s ratio is not what you’d expect for a typical guy. But why be typical, anyway? Typical is boring. I prefer quirky.
My point is this: don’t worry about what you think others will think, and just follow your heart. (Or any other phrase that is equally as inspiring.) Plus, if I bought a pounder or a squeezer, I’d probably poke my eye out anyways.
Anyway, those of you who have been to Michaels before knows that it’s not what you’d consider a male-tailored store. For example, there are no pictures of things blowing up, nor are there any big screen TVs playing Sportscenter nonstop. Also, handy spittoons are not left out in the aisles for the convenience of chew tobacco users. In addition, there are entire rows of floral arrangements there which can make a guy shudder and dive for cover from up to two aisles over.
Still, I braved it and did my shopping, although when I left I felt a severe need to do something macho, such as hauling off with a satisfying belch.
As I walked to my car afterwards, I looked across the parking lot and saw Lowe's, and I began to think that perhaps I should be spending more time in there. (As of right now, my Lowe’s Visit Counter is stuck at 0.) It just seemed to be the manly thing to do. I mean, there has to be a reason for me to buy a pounder or a, whadyacallit, squeezer, right? Maybe I could get several pieces of drywall for future use. Or what about a drill press? I could fit it in my kitchen.
Now, why would I need these items? Who knows? Maybe I could embark on a do-it yourself project of some sort, possibly involving rafters or joists. (Then I would be able to make the hilarious joke of telling people, “Joist a minute, I’m busy.”)
A moment later, though, I shrugged the urge off. As Popeye says, “I yam what I yam,” and that’s the motto I’m going to stick to. This means that I’ll go to Lowe’s only when I have a real need to go, and no sooner.
So that's my plan, even if it means my Michaels to Lowe’s ratio is not what you’d expect for a typical guy. But why be typical, anyway? Typical is boring. I prefer quirky.
My point is this: don’t worry about what you think others will think, and just follow your heart. (Or any other phrase that is equally as inspiring.) Plus, if I bought a pounder or a squeezer, I’d probably poke my eye out anyways.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Keeping Perspective
Friday was a typical day at work. I did everything you’d expect from somebody trapped in a scene from Office Space.
I attended several meetings and nodded in agreement as buzzwords and acronyms were tossed about seemingly for the sake of making those speaking them sound important. I may have even contributed a few of my own, although I’m not proud of it.
I sat in my cube and typed away on my keyboard furiously.
I updated my white board to keep track of my current tasks, all while doing my best not to become addicted to the smell of dry-erase markers.
I engaged in small-talk with co-workers about nothing in particular, but which could, in a pinch, be considered a “team-building activity.”
I talked confidently on the phone about matters that really weren’t that important, but which seemed to be at the time.
I filled in my time sheet by guessing at the number of hours I had worked on each of the three million project categories I am allowed to charge time to.
I left the office happy to be through another week, but still thinking about what the next week would bring.
As I was about to pull into my apartment complex, I saw that a school bus was dropping children off there. They piled out and immediately began to engage in activities that children are noted for. For example, they began to throw pine cones at one another.
I smiled.
I mean, I want to throw pine cones, too! Heck, I’d like to get involved in anything within the Throwing Stuff At Other Stuff category of kid amusement. Also, I wouldn’t mind poking at mud with a stick for a while. And I wouldn’t be against running around at full speed just because it seems like the thing to do. Shrieking at the top of my lungs? I’m in!
Oh well. That’s obviously not going to happen. I’m stuck in khaki and button-down shirt land. Poking at mud is prohibited.
However, at least seeing the pine cones flying through the air helped to remind me that everything doesn’t always have to be taken so seriously all of the time.
So maybe I’ll go collect some pine cones after all, and store them in the glove compartment of my car. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll come in handy someday.
The way I see it, it’s not about winning the war against maturing, it’s about prolonging the battle for as long as possible. Sometimes it's just easy to lose track of that.
I attended several meetings and nodded in agreement as buzzwords and acronyms were tossed about seemingly for the sake of making those speaking them sound important. I may have even contributed a few of my own, although I’m not proud of it.
I sat in my cube and typed away on my keyboard furiously.
I updated my white board to keep track of my current tasks, all while doing my best not to become addicted to the smell of dry-erase markers.
I engaged in small-talk with co-workers about nothing in particular, but which could, in a pinch, be considered a “team-building activity.”
I talked confidently on the phone about matters that really weren’t that important, but which seemed to be at the time.
I filled in my time sheet by guessing at the number of hours I had worked on each of the three million project categories I am allowed to charge time to.
I left the office happy to be through another week, but still thinking about what the next week would bring.
As I was about to pull into my apartment complex, I saw that a school bus was dropping children off there. They piled out and immediately began to engage in activities that children are noted for. For example, they began to throw pine cones at one another.
I smiled.
I mean, I want to throw pine cones, too! Heck, I’d like to get involved in anything within the Throwing Stuff At Other Stuff category of kid amusement. Also, I wouldn’t mind poking at mud with a stick for a while. And I wouldn’t be against running around at full speed just because it seems like the thing to do. Shrieking at the top of my lungs? I’m in!
Oh well. That’s obviously not going to happen. I’m stuck in khaki and button-down shirt land. Poking at mud is prohibited.
However, at least seeing the pine cones flying through the air helped to remind me that everything doesn’t always have to be taken so seriously all of the time.
So maybe I’ll go collect some pine cones after all, and store them in the glove compartment of my car. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll come in handy someday.
The way I see it, it’s not about winning the war against maturing, it’s about prolonging the battle for as long as possible. Sometimes it's just easy to lose track of that.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
They Say The Darndest Things
Seriously, I get lazy one time, and I get nailed.
Here's the deal. I didn't shave before church this Sunday, which left me with about two days worth of growth. A little fuzzy, but no big deal, right?
However, it wasn't long before my nephew, who was sitting one pew up, leaned over and informed me, "When you get home you have to take a bath and shave your whiskers."
The whiskers I can see. But a bath? I thought I had that covered.
Maybe I just need to invest in a better deodorant.
Here's the deal. I didn't shave before church this Sunday, which left me with about two days worth of growth. A little fuzzy, but no big deal, right?
However, it wasn't long before my nephew, who was sitting one pew up, leaned over and informed me, "When you get home you have to take a bath and shave your whiskers."
The whiskers I can see. But a bath? I thought I had that covered.
Maybe I just need to invest in a better deodorant.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Musical Overreaction
So I bought a CD recently. For you youngsters out there, CDs are something that, along with an obsolete piece of technology called a CD player, can play music. Unlike today’s digital age of music, however, CDs are physical items that must be bought in a store, and not illegally downloaded off of the internet. The advantage to this “old school” way of enjoying music is that that CDs will scratch as soon as you take them out of their packaging, rendering them unplayable and leaving you free to spend your time doing something more constructive.
Anyway, as I was checking out, the cashier asked me, “Would you like a gift receipt for the CD?” I politely declined and went on my merry way.
However, the more I thought about it afterwards, the more I got annoyed.
I mean, since I was asked about a gift receipt, it was obvious the cashier did not believe I was buying the CD for myself. Now why would that be? Am I too old to enjoy music? Did the cashier think I spend my time sitting around listening to national public radio and discussing old man things such as sump pumps, as opposed to listening to music? Isn’t that kind of presumptuous?
Put it this way: If I had bought something like windshield wipers would I have been asked for a gift receipt? I think not!
I’ll also bet if a 20 year old with jeans sagging down to their ankles bought the same CD the cashier would not have been asked if they wanted a gift receipt. (I know that’s a bad example. A 20 year old would have illegally downloaded the music off of the internet.)
So, basically, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am a victim of ageism, and I’m not happy about it. I mean, what’s next? I can’t buy shorts unless they’re the kind I can pull halfway up my chest and which clash horribly with my knee socks and loafers?
All I can say is that I’m not going to let this rest. I’m not yet some old, forgetful man who thinks all music is horrible and refuses to listen to it, and I resent the fact that an assumption was made that I am! I’ll show them all! I’ll write my congressperson! I’ll find some random café and complain to everybody inside about it for hours on end, whether they want to hear it or not! I’ll never rest until I right this wrong! I’ll never – wait a minute….What am I even complaining about? Huh. I forget.
Oh well. It must not have been important. Now if I could just find my car keys so I can get to the early bird special.
Anyway, as I was checking out, the cashier asked me, “Would you like a gift receipt for the CD?” I politely declined and went on my merry way.
However, the more I thought about it afterwards, the more I got annoyed.
I mean, since I was asked about a gift receipt, it was obvious the cashier did not believe I was buying the CD for myself. Now why would that be? Am I too old to enjoy music? Did the cashier think I spend my time sitting around listening to national public radio and discussing old man things such as sump pumps, as opposed to listening to music? Isn’t that kind of presumptuous?
Put it this way: If I had bought something like windshield wipers would I have been asked for a gift receipt? I think not!
I’ll also bet if a 20 year old with jeans sagging down to their ankles bought the same CD the cashier would not have been asked if they wanted a gift receipt. (I know that’s a bad example. A 20 year old would have illegally downloaded the music off of the internet.)
So, basically, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am a victim of ageism, and I’m not happy about it. I mean, what’s next? I can’t buy shorts unless they’re the kind I can pull halfway up my chest and which clash horribly with my knee socks and loafers?
All I can say is that I’m not going to let this rest. I’m not yet some old, forgetful man who thinks all music is horrible and refuses to listen to it, and I resent the fact that an assumption was made that I am! I’ll show them all! I’ll write my congressperson! I’ll find some random café and complain to everybody inside about it for hours on end, whether they want to hear it or not! I’ll never rest until I right this wrong! I’ll never – wait a minute….What am I even complaining about? Huh. I forget.
Oh well. It must not have been important. Now if I could just find my car keys so I can get to the early bird special.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Next Big Thing
I’m finally getting the hang of group road trips again.
Living in Wisconsin, I did all of my traveling solo. I got used to it and rather enjoyed it, as I was free to do anything I chose, such as drink coffee the entire duration and, as a direct result, have to stop at every single gas station along the way to use the restroom, not to mention various strategically placed trees.
Living in Minnesota, however, I find myself now making road trips to the Upper Peninsula with others. At first I struggled to adjust to this, as I was used to doing things my own way. For example, I was told I wasn’t allowed to drive in only my boxers. My reaction: Are you kidding me? There goes traveling in comfort!
However, I’m catching on. In fact, during my last trip I invented a game that can be played by any number of people, and which is way better than the Alphabet game. (Note: if somebody else already invented this game, they can pound sand. I was the one who blogged about it!) I call it Front Seat Forecast. It’s quite simple. As you are catching up to a vehicle on the freeway, each player guesses the type of person they think is driving said automobile. If anybody is feeling lucky, they can also venture as guess at the passenger. The more descriptive you get, the more fun it is. Here are some examples:
Fifty year old man with handlebar moustache wearing a Minnesota Twins cap
Little old lady with white hair peering over the steering wheel who can see only to the front of her car
Preppy college aged-male wearing a cardigan and texting
Bob Barker
The best part of the game is when you pass the vehicle and all of the players stare at it in anticipation. Upon seeing the driver there are yells of celebration, dismay, and laughter. Plus, you also get to see the driver of the other vehicles react as they try to figure out why everybody in your car is staring intently at them. It’s hilarious!
I haven’t come up with a scoring system, but it wouldn’t be hard. (1 point for guessing the driver, 3 for guessing the driver and passenger, -5 for annoying a police officer and so they pull you over, etc.)
Genius, huh? I thought so. I just hope it catches on. Then it will become commonplace for you to get passed on the freeway and see the passengers start swearing when they see you.
That’s what you get for not being a 74 year old man with a pipe and a straw hat.
Living in Wisconsin, I did all of my traveling solo. I got used to it and rather enjoyed it, as I was free to do anything I chose, such as drink coffee the entire duration and, as a direct result, have to stop at every single gas station along the way to use the restroom, not to mention various strategically placed trees.
Living in Minnesota, however, I find myself now making road trips to the Upper Peninsula with others. At first I struggled to adjust to this, as I was used to doing things my own way. For example, I was told I wasn’t allowed to drive in only my boxers. My reaction: Are you kidding me? There goes traveling in comfort!
However, I’m catching on. In fact, during my last trip I invented a game that can be played by any number of people, and which is way better than the Alphabet game. (Note: if somebody else already invented this game, they can pound sand. I was the one who blogged about it!) I call it Front Seat Forecast. It’s quite simple. As you are catching up to a vehicle on the freeway, each player guesses the type of person they think is driving said automobile. If anybody is feeling lucky, they can also venture as guess at the passenger. The more descriptive you get, the more fun it is. Here are some examples:
Fifty year old man with handlebar moustache wearing a Minnesota Twins cap
Little old lady with white hair peering over the steering wheel who can see only to the front of her car
Preppy college aged-male wearing a cardigan and texting
Bob Barker
The best part of the game is when you pass the vehicle and all of the players stare at it in anticipation. Upon seeing the driver there are yells of celebration, dismay, and laughter. Plus, you also get to see the driver of the other vehicles react as they try to figure out why everybody in your car is staring intently at them. It’s hilarious!
I haven’t come up with a scoring system, but it wouldn’t be hard. (1 point for guessing the driver, 3 for guessing the driver and passenger, -5 for annoying a police officer and so they pull you over, etc.)
Genius, huh? I thought so. I just hope it catches on. Then it will become commonplace for you to get passed on the freeway and see the passengers start swearing when they see you.
That’s what you get for not being a 74 year old man with a pipe and a straw hat.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
A Stunning Revelation
At long last, it’s finally happened. I always knew it would, but I’m still finding it hard to comprehend. Still, it’s here, and it’s real, and my life has been forever changed because of it. So, without further ado, which means, according to Microsoft Word, ‘upheaval’, or ‘ruckus’, here is my announcement: I now have an arch-enemy.
Yes, you read me right. I’ve found my Lex Luthor. I’ve discovered my Joker. I’ve stumbled upon my Dr. Octopus. For those of you not familiar with arch-enemies, and it must be quite sad to be you, they are that one person whose entire goal in life is to thwart your every move.
Kinda cool, huh? Still, I have to admit it’s also kind of unnerving. I mean, it's a lot of pressure. Now, since I know you're anxious to know, just who is this person who has become my arch enemy? I will not keep you in suspense any longer: she is a cashier at my local grocery store.
I’m guessing you aren’t picking up on the diabolical vibe quite yet, so let me elaborate. She has been a cashier for 18 years, according to her name tag, which means several things:
She is in no hurry whatsoever.
She believes she knows everything about customer service and goes out of her way to prove it.
She most likely is burdened by severe arthritis.
Put this all together and it makes every trip through the checkout line a seemingly never-ending adventure where she attempts to thwart my attempts to actually purchase anything, which deserves its own big-budget, special-effects laden feature film. (Starring Betty White as the cashier, and one of the Twilight male actors as me.)
Still not convinced, despite my stunning rhetoric? Well, here are the weapons she brings to the table in her quest to keep me from ever leaving the grocery store:
Obnoxious Chatting – She’ll talk to any customer about anything, and when I say this I’m betting embarrassing rashes would not be off the table, even if they don’t want to discuss it. Things get really bad when the customer is also a Non-Stop Chatter. In that case they’ll stand there discussing gardens or Lifetime movies for hours on end, all while no actual items are ever rung up.
Inability To Multi Task – While she’s chatting, she physically cannot do anything else, such as, for example, her job. She will pick up an item and get ready to scan it. However, just then, a thought will pop into her head and will have to be immediately verbalized. This shifts her one priority from scanning to speaking. The item will just hang there in her hand, tantalizingly close to the scanner, as she begins a long-winded soliloquy which could take upwards of thirty minutes to complete. But this doesn’t bother her. She’s been there for eighteen years! What’s another thirty minutes!? It’s not like she’s going anywhere!
Customer Service – She also is there for the customer. This means she’ll go out of her way to bring her entire line to a standstill, just to possibly help somebody save enough money to purchase half of a Tic-Tac. For example, when she finally finishes ringing up a customer, she’ll say, “Are any of these items on special?” Since it is a rhetorical question, she then proceeds to review everything she just scanned, at the speed of a snail in a full body cast, mind you, just in case one of them is on sale and she can save the customer, who is at this point molding and attracting flies, fifteen cents.
Now, I’ll bet you’re asking, “Why don’t you just choose a different line?” Excuse me while I laugh in contempt and shake my head. Obviously, you don’t know arch-enemies. Arch-enemies are always there to antagonize you, and they can defy logic and the laws of physics in order to do so. For example, I’m fully confident that no matter what line I choose, she will still be there waiting for me, even if I saw her working a checkout at the other end of the store moments before, or if she was on vacation in a foreign country. I’m also pretty sure if I went to another grocery store she would be employed there, patiently waiting for me with an evil smile plastered on her diabolical face. It’s just the way things work with arch-enemies.
So what can I do about it? How can I rise above the challenge that has been posed to me, like all true heroes do? I’ve thought about this long and hard and have come to one gut-wrenching solution. It won’t be easy. It will take fortitude. It will take all of my mental and physical toughness, not to mention the heart of a lion and the will of a true champion. However, I am up for the challenge.
So here’s my plan: I will stop grocery shopping altogether and live exclusively off of delivery pizza.
Now that’s how you defeat an arch-enemy! Take that Cashier Lady!
Unless, of course, she gets a job at Dominos.
Yes, you read me right. I’ve found my Lex Luthor. I’ve discovered my Joker. I’ve stumbled upon my Dr. Octopus. For those of you not familiar with arch-enemies, and it must be quite sad to be you, they are that one person whose entire goal in life is to thwart your every move.
Kinda cool, huh? Still, I have to admit it’s also kind of unnerving. I mean, it's a lot of pressure. Now, since I know you're anxious to know, just who is this person who has become my arch enemy? I will not keep you in suspense any longer: she is a cashier at my local grocery store.
I’m guessing you aren’t picking up on the diabolical vibe quite yet, so let me elaborate. She has been a cashier for 18 years, according to her name tag, which means several things:
She is in no hurry whatsoever.
She believes she knows everything about customer service and goes out of her way to prove it.
She most likely is burdened by severe arthritis.
Put this all together and it makes every trip through the checkout line a seemingly never-ending adventure where she attempts to thwart my attempts to actually purchase anything, which deserves its own big-budget, special-effects laden feature film. (Starring Betty White as the cashier, and one of the Twilight male actors as me.)
Still not convinced, despite my stunning rhetoric? Well, here are the weapons she brings to the table in her quest to keep me from ever leaving the grocery store:
Obnoxious Chatting – She’ll talk to any customer about anything, and when I say this I’m betting embarrassing rashes would not be off the table, even if they don’t want to discuss it. Things get really bad when the customer is also a Non-Stop Chatter. In that case they’ll stand there discussing gardens or Lifetime movies for hours on end, all while no actual items are ever rung up.
Inability To Multi Task – While she’s chatting, she physically cannot do anything else, such as, for example, her job. She will pick up an item and get ready to scan it. However, just then, a thought will pop into her head and will have to be immediately verbalized. This shifts her one priority from scanning to speaking. The item will just hang there in her hand, tantalizingly close to the scanner, as she begins a long-winded soliloquy which could take upwards of thirty minutes to complete. But this doesn’t bother her. She’s been there for eighteen years! What’s another thirty minutes!? It’s not like she’s going anywhere!
Customer Service – She also is there for the customer. This means she’ll go out of her way to bring her entire line to a standstill, just to possibly help somebody save enough money to purchase half of a Tic-Tac. For example, when she finally finishes ringing up a customer, she’ll say, “Are any of these items on special?” Since it is a rhetorical question, she then proceeds to review everything she just scanned, at the speed of a snail in a full body cast, mind you, just in case one of them is on sale and she can save the customer, who is at this point molding and attracting flies, fifteen cents.
Now, I’ll bet you’re asking, “Why don’t you just choose a different line?” Excuse me while I laugh in contempt and shake my head. Obviously, you don’t know arch-enemies. Arch-enemies are always there to antagonize you, and they can defy logic and the laws of physics in order to do so. For example, I’m fully confident that no matter what line I choose, she will still be there waiting for me, even if I saw her working a checkout at the other end of the store moments before, or if she was on vacation in a foreign country. I’m also pretty sure if I went to another grocery store she would be employed there, patiently waiting for me with an evil smile plastered on her diabolical face. It’s just the way things work with arch-enemies.
So what can I do about it? How can I rise above the challenge that has been posed to me, like all true heroes do? I’ve thought about this long and hard and have come to one gut-wrenching solution. It won’t be easy. It will take fortitude. It will take all of my mental and physical toughness, not to mention the heart of a lion and the will of a true champion. However, I am up for the challenge.
So here’s my plan: I will stop grocery shopping altogether and live exclusively off of delivery pizza.
Now that’s how you defeat an arch-enemy! Take that Cashier Lady!
Unless, of course, she gets a job at Dominos.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Coming Apart At The Seams (Crumbling At The Hip)
George Strait obviously has never played volleyball.
The reason I say this is because in his song Troubadour, he croons the following: “I still feel twenty-five, most of the time.”
I wish I could claim the same thing, but I simply can’t. You see, I’ve just hit that eye-opening phase of life when, for the first time, you can look at a bent-over, wrinkled old man obliviously wandering through heavy traffic looking for his teeth and truly understand that someday, you will become that guy, although with probably less hair.
When you hit this phase of your life your body starts to randomly break down for no reason except to infuriate you, and it definitely doesn’t make you feel twenty-five. (Sorry, George!) For example, I was recently playing volleyball when my hip decided it was time to become injured. Now, I can totally understand an injury when you do something to deserve it, like running full speed into a brick wall or something. However, I was simply minding my own business when it happened.
At first I ignored it, like any true guy would. I was still operating under the Under 25 Philosophy, which states you have to ‘walk it off’ since it will just go away in a matter of minutes anyway.
But it did not just go away. Instead, it found a nice, relaxing hammock, along with a good book, and settled in for the long haul. After about three weeks of still being injured I began to wonder if I should go to the doctor, which is another sign you will someday become the Wandering Old Man. Still, I didn’t want to submit myself to health care, since I could already foresee what would happen if I did:
Me: My hip hurts.
Doctor (frowing): Keep an eye on it. Come back if it doesn’t get better. You can trust me, as I have many certificates on the wall that nobody ever reads. Also, that’ll be five-hundred dollars.
Me: D’oh!
Doctor: Say, when’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?
Me: Gotta go!! (I would then try to escape, but my hip would give out, leaving me stranded on the floor, my arms still pumping wildly. The doctor would laugh manically, his eyes now replaced by flashing dollar signs, as he knows there’s was no way I can escape.)
Anyway, just as I was about to give in and get some medical attention, my hip finally got better. Now I feel pretty good. However, the knowledge of what happened still continually hangs over me, laughing evily. I mean, it takes me 3 weeks to heal from an injury I didn’t even do anything to incur? What will happen when I do something that actually justifies being injured? (Right now I’m guessing I will crumble into dust.)
Now, before I get a bunch of comments like ‘Age is just a state of mind’ or ‘You’re only as old as you feel’ or ‘Your blog sucks!’ let me say one thing: I understand this, and deep down in my heart, I am still about 23. It’s just that I’ve realized I’ve got to be a bit more careful from here on out. Nothing much. Just a little more stretching here, a little less going all out while playing sports just to try to impress members of the opposite sex there. No big deal. You just play with the cards your dealt, even though they’re wrinkled, torn, and smell faintly like BENGAY. I mean, why tempt fate? It’s a marathon, after all, not a sprint.
Plus, I wouldn’t want to miss out on someday being that guy wandering in the street looking for my teeth, now would I?
The reason I say this is because in his song Troubadour, he croons the following: “I still feel twenty-five, most of the time.”
I wish I could claim the same thing, but I simply can’t. You see, I’ve just hit that eye-opening phase of life when, for the first time, you can look at a bent-over, wrinkled old man obliviously wandering through heavy traffic looking for his teeth and truly understand that someday, you will become that guy, although with probably less hair.
When you hit this phase of your life your body starts to randomly break down for no reason except to infuriate you, and it definitely doesn’t make you feel twenty-five. (Sorry, George!) For example, I was recently playing volleyball when my hip decided it was time to become injured. Now, I can totally understand an injury when you do something to deserve it, like running full speed into a brick wall or something. However, I was simply minding my own business when it happened.
At first I ignored it, like any true guy would. I was still operating under the Under 25 Philosophy, which states you have to ‘walk it off’ since it will just go away in a matter of minutes anyway.
But it did not just go away. Instead, it found a nice, relaxing hammock, along with a good book, and settled in for the long haul. After about three weeks of still being injured I began to wonder if I should go to the doctor, which is another sign you will someday become the Wandering Old Man. Still, I didn’t want to submit myself to health care, since I could already foresee what would happen if I did:
Me: My hip hurts.
Doctor (frowing): Keep an eye on it. Come back if it doesn’t get better. You can trust me, as I have many certificates on the wall that nobody ever reads. Also, that’ll be five-hundred dollars.
Me: D’oh!
Doctor: Say, when’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?
Me: Gotta go!! (I would then try to escape, but my hip would give out, leaving me stranded on the floor, my arms still pumping wildly. The doctor would laugh manically, his eyes now replaced by flashing dollar signs, as he knows there’s was no way I can escape.)
Anyway, just as I was about to give in and get some medical attention, my hip finally got better. Now I feel pretty good. However, the knowledge of what happened still continually hangs over me, laughing evily. I mean, it takes me 3 weeks to heal from an injury I didn’t even do anything to incur? What will happen when I do something that actually justifies being injured? (Right now I’m guessing I will crumble into dust.)
Now, before I get a bunch of comments like ‘Age is just a state of mind’ or ‘You’re only as old as you feel’ or ‘Your blog sucks!’ let me say one thing: I understand this, and deep down in my heart, I am still about 23. It’s just that I’ve realized I’ve got to be a bit more careful from here on out. Nothing much. Just a little more stretching here, a little less going all out while playing sports just to try to impress members of the opposite sex there. No big deal. You just play with the cards your dealt, even though they’re wrinkled, torn, and smell faintly like BENGAY. I mean, why tempt fate? It’s a marathon, after all, not a sprint.
Plus, I wouldn’t want to miss out on someday being that guy wandering in the street looking for my teeth, now would I?
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Keyword Craziness
Sometimes you just have to shamelessly self-promote. Sure, you feel dirty after doing it, but in today’s cutthroat world must do whatever possible to stay relevant.
So, that is why this entry contains nothing but popular keywords that can be found using search engines, which will hopefully increase the traffic to this site and make it insanely popular.
Tacky? Yes.
Unprofessional? Undoubtedly.
Smart? Absolutely!
In fact, the only way this can’t work is if I spell everything wrong and the search engines never find them. Still, I’m prtty shure there’s onlee a small chans of that happening.
Cue the evil laugh!!!!
SpongeBob
David Hasselhoff
BP Oil Spill
Twilight
Dallas Cowboys
Obama
Obama sucks
Obama rules
Harry Potter
Lebron James toilet paper
Macaroni and cheese recipe
How to get girls to like you
How to get creepy boys to stop liking you
Grand Ole Opry
Star Wars: why are the prequels so crappy?
Hannah Montana
True meaning of life
Iran nuclear
Evil Dead Army Of Darkness Alternate Ending
Visual Studio 2010 VB.Net new features
New York Yankees
The Daily Show
Pawlenty for President
How old is the earth?
kyds
Red Green Show
Going green
Dukes of Hazzard
Minnesota Twins
American Idol
Car Talk
Bill Cosby jello
Jeff Parks
Kobe Bryant
Unsightly nose hair
2010 November elections
Life on Mars
John McCain maverick
Lady Gaga
Facebook privacy
Cokato
Doofenshmirtz Evil Incorporated
Arizona Immigration
Last Rodeo Tour
New York City Mosque
Creationism vs. evolution
30 Rock
Can you drink Lake Superior water?
SQL correlated subqueries
Traprock valley
Mel Gibson yelling
Rush Limbaugh yelling
Jonas Brothers
Android phone
D’oh
Glenn Beck
IPhone 4
Dusty Vagabond
M*A*S*H
Air-On services webpage
Justin Bieber
Keith Olbermann yelling
Mario Brothers
So, that is why this entry contains nothing but popular keywords that can be found using search engines, which will hopefully increase the traffic to this site and make it insanely popular.
Tacky? Yes.
Unprofessional? Undoubtedly.
Smart? Absolutely!
In fact, the only way this can’t work is if I spell everything wrong and the search engines never find them. Still, I’m prtty shure there’s onlee a small chans of that happening.
Cue the evil laugh!!!!
SpongeBob
David Hasselhoff
BP Oil Spill
Twilight
Dallas Cowboys
Obama
Obama sucks
Obama rules
Harry Potter
Lebron James toilet paper
Macaroni and cheese recipe
How to get girls to like you
How to get creepy boys to stop liking you
Grand Ole Opry
Star Wars: why are the prequels so crappy?
Hannah Montana
True meaning of life
Iran nuclear
Evil Dead Army Of Darkness Alternate Ending
Visual Studio 2010 VB.Net new features
New York Yankees
The Daily Show
Pawlenty for President
How old is the earth?
kyds
Red Green Show
Going green
Dukes of Hazzard
Minnesota Twins
American Idol
Car Talk
Bill Cosby jello
Jeff Parks
Kobe Bryant
Unsightly nose hair
2010 November elections
Life on Mars
John McCain maverick
Lady Gaga
Facebook privacy
Cokato
Doofenshmirtz Evil Incorporated
Arizona Immigration
Last Rodeo Tour
New York City Mosque
Creationism vs. evolution
30 Rock
Can you drink Lake Superior water?
SQL correlated subqueries
Traprock valley
Mel Gibson yelling
Rush Limbaugh yelling
Jonas Brothers
Android phone
D’oh
Glenn Beck
IPhone 4
Dusty Vagabond
M*A*S*H
Air-On services webpage
Justin Bieber
Keith Olbermann yelling
Mario Brothers
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Running On Empty
Last week I stopped at a gas station, as it had become readily apparent to me that the day could not be considered successful if coffee and Junior Mints weren’t purchased and consumed. As I was walking across the parking lot, a middle-aged woman, who had parked her car at one of the gas pumps, flagged me down. Naturally, since I now live in the big city, I was suspicious of treachery and foul play. Still, being a rather nice, yet somewhat naïve man, I walked over to her anyway, while all the while trying to recall some fairly cool moves from one of the action-adventure movies I've watched in case it turned out they would be needed.
It turns out they weren’t. This lady was completely confused. She had a rental car, and it very well could have been the first automobile she had ever driven. She had a foreign accent that I couldn’t place, although I can say it wasn’t British or Australian, not that it helps in any sort of significant manner. Anyway, she needed major amounts of assistance.
First, she couldn’t figure out how to pop open the door to exposes the gas cap. Being a natural automobile guru who knows everything about them, except how to fix them or how they work, I managed to point her to the lever inside the car which would give her access to the gas cap.
Case closed, good deed done, right? Nope.
Next I had to take off the gas cap for her. Seriously. Then she didn’t know how to do pay-at-the-pump. She literally gave me her credit card and let me swipe it for her and press the appropriate buttons. (I decided she didn’t need a car wash, as I didn’t want to cause her head to explode.)
Finally, we got the point where she began fueling the car on her own, and she released me from my duties. She thanked me profusely and I walked into the gas station, still not believing what had just happened. I was half expecting the car to come barreling through the wall at any moment, where she would then get out and try to purchase a candy bar, which would be hard to accomplish since she would have run over the cashier. I was still shaking my head when I walked back out, and I saw her drive away. Surprisingly, the gas pump nozzle was not still attached to the car, and everything else looked okay. I took a sip of my coffee and went about my business, still slightly bemused.
So, somewhere out there in this world is an incredibly nice lady who I’m still kind of worried about. Who was she? Where was she going? Does she know what stop signs are? But I guess there’s really nothing I can do about it but wish her the best. Except for, of course, hoping she doesn’t begin to run low on gas again.
It turns out they weren’t. This lady was completely confused. She had a rental car, and it very well could have been the first automobile she had ever driven. She had a foreign accent that I couldn’t place, although I can say it wasn’t British or Australian, not that it helps in any sort of significant manner. Anyway, she needed major amounts of assistance.
First, she couldn’t figure out how to pop open the door to exposes the gas cap. Being a natural automobile guru who knows everything about them, except how to fix them or how they work, I managed to point her to the lever inside the car which would give her access to the gas cap.
Case closed, good deed done, right? Nope.
Next I had to take off the gas cap for her. Seriously. Then she didn’t know how to do pay-at-the-pump. She literally gave me her credit card and let me swipe it for her and press the appropriate buttons. (I decided she didn’t need a car wash, as I didn’t want to cause her head to explode.)
Finally, we got the point where she began fueling the car on her own, and she released me from my duties. She thanked me profusely and I walked into the gas station, still not believing what had just happened. I was half expecting the car to come barreling through the wall at any moment, where she would then get out and try to purchase a candy bar, which would be hard to accomplish since she would have run over the cashier. I was still shaking my head when I walked back out, and I saw her drive away. Surprisingly, the gas pump nozzle was not still attached to the car, and everything else looked okay. I took a sip of my coffee and went about my business, still slightly bemused.
So, somewhere out there in this world is an incredibly nice lady who I’m still kind of worried about. Who was she? Where was she going? Does she know what stop signs are? But I guess there’s really nothing I can do about it but wish her the best. Except for, of course, hoping she doesn’t begin to run low on gas again.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Life On The Edge Of Destruction
Call me a wild man.
Call me a crazy risk-taker.
Call me whatever you’d like, just don’t call me tame.
Yup, I’m what you’d consider a Walk-On-The-Edge-Of-Destruction-Darn-The-Consequences-Live-For-The-Moment-Life’s-Too-Short-To-Play-It-Safe-Rootin’-Tootin’-Heck-Raisin’-Spit-Danger-In-The-Eye-And-Laugh-At-It-Bad-To-The-Bone-Son-Of-A-Gun.
The reason I say this, besides the fact that I like using incredibly long, hyphenated words, is because lately I’ve been playing with the proverbial fire. You see, my apartment has a garbage chute. (Yes, a garbage chute! I’ll bet you can feel the danger already!!!!) The general procedure is you take your garbage and cram it down the chute, where it then falls. A moment later you hear the machinery somewhere below start grinding.
The danger exists because I normally throw out my garbage as I’m leaving the apartment. This means I have my keys with me. Typically, I carry them in one hand and the garbage in the other, since I will eventually be making my way to my car. However, it usually takes two hands to shove the garbage bag down the chute, since it is pretty narrow. Being the crazy man that I am, though, I don’t put my keys in my pocket before doing this, because it would waste approximately a half-second of my precious time, and crazy men like me don't waste time for things like that. So, to make a long, drawn out explanation even longer and more drawn out, this results in me wrestling with a garbage bag with both hands, even as my keys, still clenched in one hand, are now one slip away from falling down the garbage chute, where they would come to some sort of horrible end.
And yet, this doesn’t phase me. Why? Because that’s the kind of guy I am. If there’s an edge, I’m walking it. If there’s a fine line, I’ve already crossed it. If there’s a horrible metaphor which can help to describe a situation, I’ve already used it.
Now, you may ask the following question: Isn’t it just stupidity, and not living on the edge, that causes you to risk your keys in the manner you have just described above? Upon hearing this query I can’t help but toss my head back and laugh in a rebellious manner. Such a naïve question from somebody who obviously can’t differentiate between stupidity and living life to the fullest. I shake my head in great sadness for you, because you will never be able to fully experience this world with that kind of attitude. All I can say is this: Go ahead and enjoy your time standing outside of the fire.
Wait a minute. (Or perhaps, ‘hold the phone’, which is another phrase that could be used here.)
I just thought about this for a moment and I’ve come to a startling realization that may shock you, and, unfortunately, is not a happy one for me.
Call me delusional.
Call me the guy who is desperately trying to project an image onto themself, even though it doesn’t come close to fitting.
Call me whatever you’d like, but I won’t be listening. Instead, I’ll be rethinking my decision to buy a leather jacket and a Harley, which, now that I ponder it, is probably a good thing. Motorbikes are too loud anyway, plus they seem kind of dangerous. I mean, I could easily pull something if I didn't stretch properly before getting on it.
Call me a crazy risk-taker.
Call me whatever you’d like, just don’t call me tame.
Yup, I’m what you’d consider a Walk-On-The-Edge-Of-Destruction-Darn-The-Consequences-Live-For-The-Moment-Life’s-Too-Short-To-Play-It-Safe-Rootin’-Tootin’-Heck-Raisin’-Spit-Danger-In-The-Eye-And-Laugh-At-It-Bad-To-The-Bone-Son-Of-A-Gun.
The reason I say this, besides the fact that I like using incredibly long, hyphenated words, is because lately I’ve been playing with the proverbial fire. You see, my apartment has a garbage chute. (Yes, a garbage chute! I’ll bet you can feel the danger already!!!!) The general procedure is you take your garbage and cram it down the chute, where it then falls. A moment later you hear the machinery somewhere below start grinding.
The danger exists because I normally throw out my garbage as I’m leaving the apartment. This means I have my keys with me. Typically, I carry them in one hand and the garbage in the other, since I will eventually be making my way to my car. However, it usually takes two hands to shove the garbage bag down the chute, since it is pretty narrow. Being the crazy man that I am, though, I don’t put my keys in my pocket before doing this, because it would waste approximately a half-second of my precious time, and crazy men like me don't waste time for things like that. So, to make a long, drawn out explanation even longer and more drawn out, this results in me wrestling with a garbage bag with both hands, even as my keys, still clenched in one hand, are now one slip away from falling down the garbage chute, where they would come to some sort of horrible end.
And yet, this doesn’t phase me. Why? Because that’s the kind of guy I am. If there’s an edge, I’m walking it. If there’s a fine line, I’ve already crossed it. If there’s a horrible metaphor which can help to describe a situation, I’ve already used it.
Now, you may ask the following question: Isn’t it just stupidity, and not living on the edge, that causes you to risk your keys in the manner you have just described above? Upon hearing this query I can’t help but toss my head back and laugh in a rebellious manner. Such a naïve question from somebody who obviously can’t differentiate between stupidity and living life to the fullest. I shake my head in great sadness for you, because you will never be able to fully experience this world with that kind of attitude. All I can say is this: Go ahead and enjoy your time standing outside of the fire.
Wait a minute. (Or perhaps, ‘hold the phone’, which is another phrase that could be used here.)
I just thought about this for a moment and I’ve come to a startling realization that may shock you, and, unfortunately, is not a happy one for me.
Call me delusional.
Call me the guy who is desperately trying to project an image onto themself, even though it doesn’t come close to fitting.
Call me whatever you’d like, but I won’t be listening. Instead, I’ll be rethinking my decision to buy a leather jacket and a Harley, which, now that I ponder it, is probably a good thing. Motorbikes are too loud anyway, plus they seem kind of dangerous. I mean, I could easily pull something if I didn't stretch properly before getting on it.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Turn Back The Clock
Back when I lived in Wisconsin I used to be a morning person. On any given Saturday I would be up at about 7:00 a.m. Sometimes I would get my grocery shopping done, which would be a breeze because the aisles would be clear and the checkout lines non-existent. Sometimes I would walk the streets, enjoying the calm stillness that the world offers before everybody else gets up and ruins it by scurrying about randomly like caffeine-buzzed ants, engaging solely in the activity of making major annoyances out of themselves. Sometimes I would break out my trusty camera and try to find some spot where mankind hadn’t yet invaded, where I could simply enjoy nature and perhaps try to accurately capture a slice or two of it within the confines of a picture.
The point is that it was always peaceful, and it was the one time of the day when it didn’t seem like the world was leaving me behind and I had to rush like crazy just so I could keep up. I liked it. It seemed like a sign of maturity. It was my time to calmly reflect on all that was going on and create a game-plan for tackling what life was going to throw at me next.
Flash forward to now. The Twin Cities.
It is 11:30 a.m. I am still lying in bed. I have just awoken. I hear the birds chirping outside. I also heard the birds chirping when I went to bed, not that many hours before. To say I am disheveled would be a compliment, and also entirely inaccurate. I would be ecstatic to be merely disheveled. Instead, however, I am, to put it in technical terms, disheveled to the eighth or ninth power. This is quite impressive when you realize I’ve managed to get myself into this state without the help of any external devices besides staying up way to late.
I know I should get up and try to salvage the day, but my body is already doing it’s best to punish me for what I put it through by not allowing my any control over my appendages. I flop about like a fish for a while, although in a much less elegant manner, before I give up. I manage to creak my neck just enough to look at the clock. Looks like I won’t be making it up in before noon this Saturday, either.
There goes maturity. There goes the calm reflections and game-planning.
It is now noon-thirty. I am stumbling about, slowly regaining functionality. My mouth tastes like an ashtray, which is weird because I don’t smoke, but since it seems like a good simile I just can't pass up the opportunity to use it. I am unshaven, and my breath could fell a mature zebra at 10 yards. Within an hour I remember where the bathroom is, which is the big breakthrough I have been looking for.
By three I feel almost human. I’m showered and shaven. I am dressed, although I’m not quite sure if my shirt is on backwards or not. Still, it’s progress.
By five I’m back to my old self. I get my grocery shopping done, although I now have to deal with crowded aisles and checkout lines that wrap around the store several times. I try to exercise a little. I pay a few bills and run through a small portion of my to-do list. Now I’m getting momentum! However, just when it feels like I’m about to make some major headway, I realize that it’s Saturday night, which means it’s time to put all of that aside and head out and do it all over again.
Take that maturity! Take that calm reflections and game-planning! Oh how the mighty have fallen!
But who am I kidding? It’s great. Who needs maturity? Who needs to plan? Heck, I’ve already proven I can do that, and I can still do it when I’m eighty and I don’t feel the need to be standing on the front steps of the St. Paul Capital Building at 3:00 a.m. I mean, if that’s not sound logic to live by, what is?
So that’s my plan, and there is a moral to be learned here. However, I can’t put my finger on it, since I’m a little sleep-deprived. So, see you can figure it out by yourself. Also, please don’t call me before noon on Saturday morning. I won’t answer.
The point is that it was always peaceful, and it was the one time of the day when it didn’t seem like the world was leaving me behind and I had to rush like crazy just so I could keep up. I liked it. It seemed like a sign of maturity. It was my time to calmly reflect on all that was going on and create a game-plan for tackling what life was going to throw at me next.
Flash forward to now. The Twin Cities.
It is 11:30 a.m. I am still lying in bed. I have just awoken. I hear the birds chirping outside. I also heard the birds chirping when I went to bed, not that many hours before. To say I am disheveled would be a compliment, and also entirely inaccurate. I would be ecstatic to be merely disheveled. Instead, however, I am, to put it in technical terms, disheveled to the eighth or ninth power. This is quite impressive when you realize I’ve managed to get myself into this state without the help of any external devices besides staying up way to late.
I know I should get up and try to salvage the day, but my body is already doing it’s best to punish me for what I put it through by not allowing my any control over my appendages. I flop about like a fish for a while, although in a much less elegant manner, before I give up. I manage to creak my neck just enough to look at the clock. Looks like I won’t be making it up in before noon this Saturday, either.
There goes maturity. There goes the calm reflections and game-planning.
It is now noon-thirty. I am stumbling about, slowly regaining functionality. My mouth tastes like an ashtray, which is weird because I don’t smoke, but since it seems like a good simile I just can't pass up the opportunity to use it. I am unshaven, and my breath could fell a mature zebra at 10 yards. Within an hour I remember where the bathroom is, which is the big breakthrough I have been looking for.
By three I feel almost human. I’m showered and shaven. I am dressed, although I’m not quite sure if my shirt is on backwards or not. Still, it’s progress.
By five I’m back to my old self. I get my grocery shopping done, although I now have to deal with crowded aisles and checkout lines that wrap around the store several times. I try to exercise a little. I pay a few bills and run through a small portion of my to-do list. Now I’m getting momentum! However, just when it feels like I’m about to make some major headway, I realize that it’s Saturday night, which means it’s time to put all of that aside and head out and do it all over again.
Take that maturity! Take that calm reflections and game-planning! Oh how the mighty have fallen!
But who am I kidding? It’s great. Who needs maturity? Who needs to plan? Heck, I’ve already proven I can do that, and I can still do it when I’m eighty and I don’t feel the need to be standing on the front steps of the St. Paul Capital Building at 3:00 a.m. I mean, if that’s not sound logic to live by, what is?
So that’s my plan, and there is a moral to be learned here. However, I can’t put my finger on it, since I’m a little sleep-deprived. So, see you can figure it out by yourself. Also, please don’t call me before noon on Saturday morning. I won’t answer.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Red Light
There were a few things I wasn’t sure how I would adjust to once I moved to the Twin Cities, such as the vast numbers of people, the traffic, the weather, etc. However, after about a month of living here I can say with confidence that I’ve managed to adjust rather well.
Well, there is that one little thing. It’s no big deal, really, besides the fact that that it is most likely going to drive me completely insane within the next week or so. I am referring to, of course, the stoplights. They’re everywhere! It’s not just that, though. It’s the fact that they regularly last longer than a standard nine inning baseball game! So, when I'm sitting at one for what seems like hours it quickly wears on my last nerve, and I soon find myself wondering if walking wouldn’t be a less stressful option, not to mention faster.
In order to better illustrate my frustration, I now present to you a slightly over dramatized, complete with stilted language, version of the thoughts that run through my head when I have to stop at a red light on my way to work. You tell me how stretched thin my sanity is.
Red light! Dang it! Oh well, judging from the amount of cars in front of me, it’s been red for a while. Good. It’ll turn soon.
Hmmm, the song on the radio is pretty good, albeit slightly overproduced, like so much out of Nashville these days.
Whoa, the guy in the car next to me looks like Gargamel from the Smurfs!
I’ll bet most people nowadays wouldn’t even get a good Gargamel reference. Sad for them, I guess.
Time to close the ol’ window, now that somebody blaring rap has pulled up next to me.
All right stoplight, you can turn green any decade now!
Huh. I wonder if by using unnecessarily high-handed language in my blog I am unintentionally turning off potential readers because they see it as a symptom of a superiority complex?
Uh-oh. Did I forget my lunch? AAARRRGGGHHH! I cannot imagine anything worse happening right now! Why me? WHYYYYYY!!??
Oh wait, its right here. Phew! Good ol’ P B & J .....I’m glad you’re here... I’ll see you later...
Good grief! I may run out of gas if this light doesn’t change soon!
I wonder if my constant references to the 80’s are being found as witty and charming by the younger folks, or if I’m just viewed as being weird because of them? I don’t care, though! MacGyver must live on forever! Also, the A-Team.
Amarillo by morning.... up from San Antone... Everything that I’ve got... Is just what I’ve got onnnnnn.... Man, I should learn to play the fiddle. Or hire somebody to walk around behind me playing the fiddle.
Are you kidding me!? I think my best bet of moving is to hope for a freak tornado to form so it can pick up my car and toss me across the intersection!!!
Wait a minute... waitaminute! Am I losing my hair?... let me look in the rearview....Nope! Good as ever! Boy, was I worried there for a minute! What a relief!
Wow. That old lady in the walker in the walker on the sidewalk is moving faster than I am right now.
THAT’S IT!!!! If this doesn’t change in the next few moments I’m going to lose it! I’ll jump the curb and shoot across the intersection! I won’t even look for cars!! Who cares??!! Ha ha! It’ll be fun!!! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
{The light turns green}
Oh thank goodness! I think I almost went crazy there. Oh well, here we go again. Wow, this is so much better. Boy, I’ll bet my blood pressure is through the roof! Double wow, my hands are sweaty and I’m shaking uncontrollably! Good thing I’m done with that ordeal! Soon I’ll be tucked away in my cubicle and I won’t have to worry about stuff like this for a long…. Hey! Why is everybody stopping up there? Oh no!! It can't be! Another stoplight? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
Well, there is that one little thing. It’s no big deal, really, besides the fact that that it is most likely going to drive me completely insane within the next week or so. I am referring to, of course, the stoplights. They’re everywhere! It’s not just that, though. It’s the fact that they regularly last longer than a standard nine inning baseball game! So, when I'm sitting at one for what seems like hours it quickly wears on my last nerve, and I soon find myself wondering if walking wouldn’t be a less stressful option, not to mention faster.
In order to better illustrate my frustration, I now present to you a slightly over dramatized, complete with stilted language, version of the thoughts that run through my head when I have to stop at a red light on my way to work. You tell me how stretched thin my sanity is.
Red light! Dang it! Oh well, judging from the amount of cars in front of me, it’s been red for a while. Good. It’ll turn soon.
Hmmm, the song on the radio is pretty good, albeit slightly overproduced, like so much out of Nashville these days.
Whoa, the guy in the car next to me looks like Gargamel from the Smurfs!
I’ll bet most people nowadays wouldn’t even get a good Gargamel reference. Sad for them, I guess.
Time to close the ol’ window, now that somebody blaring rap has pulled up next to me.
All right stoplight, you can turn green any decade now!
Huh. I wonder if by using unnecessarily high-handed language in my blog I am unintentionally turning off potential readers because they see it as a symptom of a superiority complex?
Uh-oh. Did I forget my lunch? AAARRRGGGHHH! I cannot imagine anything worse happening right now! Why me? WHYYYYYY!!??
Oh wait, its right here. Phew! Good ol’ P B & J .....I’m glad you’re here... I’ll see you later...
Good grief! I may run out of gas if this light doesn’t change soon!
I wonder if my constant references to the 80’s are being found as witty and charming by the younger folks, or if I’m just viewed as being weird because of them? I don’t care, though! MacGyver must live on forever! Also, the A-Team.
Amarillo by morning.... up from San Antone... Everything that I’ve got... Is just what I’ve got onnnnnn.... Man, I should learn to play the fiddle. Or hire somebody to walk around behind me playing the fiddle.
Are you kidding me!? I think my best bet of moving is to hope for a freak tornado to form so it can pick up my car and toss me across the intersection!!!
Wait a minute... waitaminute! Am I losing my hair?... let me look in the rearview....Nope! Good as ever! Boy, was I worried there for a minute! What a relief!
Wow. That old lady in the walker in the walker on the sidewalk is moving faster than I am right now.
THAT’S IT!!!! If this doesn’t change in the next few moments I’m going to lose it! I’ll jump the curb and shoot across the intersection! I won’t even look for cars!! Who cares??!! Ha ha! It’ll be fun!!! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
{The light turns green}
Oh thank goodness! I think I almost went crazy there. Oh well, here we go again. Wow, this is so much better. Boy, I’ll bet my blood pressure is through the roof! Double wow, my hands are sweaty and I’m shaking uncontrollably! Good thing I’m done with that ordeal! Soon I’ll be tucked away in my cubicle and I won’t have to worry about stuff like this for a long…. Hey! Why is everybody stopping up there? Oh no!! It can't be! Another stoplight? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Things I Cannot Say
There are some things a person just can’t say. I’m not talking about anything inappropriate, mind you. I’m just saying that there are some words of phrases that a person can’t say without appearing completely out of character. For example, nobody but Spock can say, “That’s highly illogical.” It would just seem forced and out of place. (My first Star Trek reference! I don’t know if I’m happy or embarrassed.)
With that in mind, I’ve compiled a short list of things I wish I could say, because it would be fun, but I can’t, just because it wouldn’t seem right. They are as follows:
“Dern Tootin!”
“Blimey!” and “Rubbish!”
“Jumpin’ Gosh Almighty!!”
“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take…… our FREEDOM!!!!!”
“Your eyes are as blue as window cleaner.” (Redneck pick-up line)
“Woot, woot!” (I know that’s not said much anymore, but I never could say it when everybody else was.)
“Aarrgghh!” (My friend Jeff is the only person I know who actually says that word, and as far as I know, he’s the only one that can pull it off.)
“Saddle up!”
“Let’s touch base on this tomorrow, and then, depending on our bandwidth and what’s on everybody’s plates, we’ll make a final determination of how to allocate the work load, and it goes without mention that we will also make sure everything is documented properly.” – Wait a minute! That’s not something I wish I could say. It’s something I almost could say! Aarrgghh!
Any additions?
With that in mind, I’ve compiled a short list of things I wish I could say, because it would be fun, but I can’t, just because it wouldn’t seem right. They are as follows:
“Dern Tootin!”
“Blimey!” and “Rubbish!”
“Jumpin’ Gosh Almighty!!”
“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take…… our FREEDOM!!!!!”
“Your eyes are as blue as window cleaner.” (Redneck pick-up line)
“Woot, woot!” (I know that’s not said much anymore, but I never could say it when everybody else was.)
“Aarrgghh!” (My friend Jeff is the only person I know who actually says that word, and as far as I know, he’s the only one that can pull it off.)
“Saddle up!”
“Let’s touch base on this tomorrow, and then, depending on our bandwidth and what’s on everybody’s plates, we’ll make a final determination of how to allocate the work load, and it goes without mention that we will also make sure everything is documented properly.” – Wait a minute! That’s not something I wish I could say. It’s something I almost could say! Aarrgghh!
Any additions?
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Ultimate Farmer's Tan, And Other Topics
I have a farmer’s tan.
Now, that in itself would not typically be newsworthy, but you have to understand one thing: it is a truly impressive farmer’s tan. In fact, it’s my best ever. The contrast between the tan and un-tanned portions of me is truly astounding, to the point where if I went shirtless it would, without a doubt, blind you, not to mention cause you to squeal in terror as you swerved off of the road in self-defense, assuming you were driving a car at the time, of course.
While I normally have a decent farmer’s tan, this is one I’m truly proud of, and I owe it all to moving to Minnesota. You see, I’ve gotten more sun in the last three weeks than I probably have in my entire tenure in Wisconsin, simply because of the multitude of opportunities I now have for outdoor activities.
(At first I felt like a vampire when I saw the sunlight. I would cover my eyes and growl ferociously, which is what a person naturally does when they expect to burst into flames. However, I’ve gotten used to it, which is good, because coffins are quite expensive and my black cape is not very comfortable.)
That is not the only thing that’s changed. Another example is that I don’t read anymore. I used to. A lot. Now, I haven’t read a book in quite some time, mainly because I’m too busy being outside. In fact, I still haven’t found a library in Minnesota yet, which wouldn’t be surprising if I was just getting lost, but it’s because I haven’t even yet tried.
I also used to follow the news, mainly because there wasn’t much else to do. It got to the point where I was actually following politics. I got to know all of the talk show hosts and their varying personalities, which can be boiled down to the following sample set: loud and obnoxious, loud and obnoxious, loud and obnoxious, insightful and balanced (but soon to be cancelled). I also figured out that pretty much all politicians are useless, mainly because they are, by definition, politicians. However, now, I’m falling behind on current events. For example, I have no idea the specifics of how one political party is undoubtedly taking something completely out of context just to try and smear the other, all in retaliation for the other party doing the same thing to them at some earlier point in time. Heck, I also haven’t even flipped over to MSNBC lately just to watch Keith Olbermann go into a barely-controlled rant, just to see if this was going to be the time where his head would actually explode.
Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Everything I’ve given up are things I can do when I’m an old geezer, wandering around aimlessly because I lost my car keys weeks ago and have no idea where I live. Now, it’s time to live for the moment. For example, playing volleyball, which I’ve been able to take up again after roughly a seven year sabbatical. I’ve even expanded my game this summer, so now I’m ambidextrous up at the net. (I can spike just as weakly with either hand!!)
So, to put it shortly, I may be regressing as a person, but I’m having a lot of fun doing it. Just don’t invite me to a pool party. You may burn your eyes out.
Now, that in itself would not typically be newsworthy, but you have to understand one thing: it is a truly impressive farmer’s tan. In fact, it’s my best ever. The contrast between the tan and un-tanned portions of me is truly astounding, to the point where if I went shirtless it would, without a doubt, blind you, not to mention cause you to squeal in terror as you swerved off of the road in self-defense, assuming you were driving a car at the time, of course.
While I normally have a decent farmer’s tan, this is one I’m truly proud of, and I owe it all to moving to Minnesota. You see, I’ve gotten more sun in the last three weeks than I probably have in my entire tenure in Wisconsin, simply because of the multitude of opportunities I now have for outdoor activities.
(At first I felt like a vampire when I saw the sunlight. I would cover my eyes and growl ferociously, which is what a person naturally does when they expect to burst into flames. However, I’ve gotten used to it, which is good, because coffins are quite expensive and my black cape is not very comfortable.)
That is not the only thing that’s changed. Another example is that I don’t read anymore. I used to. A lot. Now, I haven’t read a book in quite some time, mainly because I’m too busy being outside. In fact, I still haven’t found a library in Minnesota yet, which wouldn’t be surprising if I was just getting lost, but it’s because I haven’t even yet tried.
I also used to follow the news, mainly because there wasn’t much else to do. It got to the point where I was actually following politics. I got to know all of the talk show hosts and their varying personalities, which can be boiled down to the following sample set: loud and obnoxious, loud and obnoxious, loud and obnoxious, insightful and balanced (but soon to be cancelled). I also figured out that pretty much all politicians are useless, mainly because they are, by definition, politicians. However, now, I’m falling behind on current events. For example, I have no idea the specifics of how one political party is undoubtedly taking something completely out of context just to try and smear the other, all in retaliation for the other party doing the same thing to them at some earlier point in time. Heck, I also haven’t even flipped over to MSNBC lately just to watch Keith Olbermann go into a barely-controlled rant, just to see if this was going to be the time where his head would actually explode.
Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Everything I’ve given up are things I can do when I’m an old geezer, wandering around aimlessly because I lost my car keys weeks ago and have no idea where I live. Now, it’s time to live for the moment. For example, playing volleyball, which I’ve been able to take up again after roughly a seven year sabbatical. I’ve even expanded my game this summer, so now I’m ambidextrous up at the net. (I can spike just as weakly with either hand!!)
So, to put it shortly, I may be regressing as a person, but I’m having a lot of fun doing it. Just don’t invite me to a pool party. You may burn your eyes out.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Rip Off The Knob And Beat On The Dash
Living in the Twin Cities brings with it some negatives, such as the ridiculous summer heat, the ridiculous traffic, and the general ridiculousness that stems from the total amount of people there. However, there are also benefits to being in such a busting area, such as having a much better chance to see wacky people.
For example, I was just in a gas station and 'Country Roads' by John Denver was being played over the radio and throughout the store. I was singing along in my head and enjoying it, but not as much as the young man who wandered by. He was singing the chorus out loud, at a high volume level, and not at all well. Still, he did not care if anybody was listening, or what they were thinking, because he continued to wander and sing, apparently without a care in the world.
Now, while that was mildly entertaining, it luckily got better.
After I left the gas station, I was stopped at a red light that lasted for approximately a presidential administration. Long red lights are normally another annoying thing about the cities, but this time I happened to look in my rear view mirror and saw the same guy behind me in his own vehicle. This time he was really fired up by whatever music he was listening to. He was basically dancing fervently in his seat. His arms were all over the place: swinging back and forth, banging on the dashboard, clapping together, etc. He was also singing, and although I couldn’t hear him, I believe it must have been quite loudly.
I watched this for a good twenty seconds, until he paused to take a swig of an energy drink, which did not surprise me one bit. He started up again, and only stopped his routine later on in order to light up a cigarette. The light then turned green and he followed me for a few blocks, puffing contentedly, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had started to rock out again at any moment.
My point is that I'm adjusting the Twin Cities, and like the old saying goes, you just have to learn to take the good with the bad. And I guess it doesn’t hurt to get your groove on once in a while, too.
For example, I was just in a gas station and 'Country Roads' by John Denver was being played over the radio and throughout the store. I was singing along in my head and enjoying it, but not as much as the young man who wandered by. He was singing the chorus out loud, at a high volume level, and not at all well. Still, he did not care if anybody was listening, or what they were thinking, because he continued to wander and sing, apparently without a care in the world.
Now, while that was mildly entertaining, it luckily got better.
After I left the gas station, I was stopped at a red light that lasted for approximately a presidential administration. Long red lights are normally another annoying thing about the cities, but this time I happened to look in my rear view mirror and saw the same guy behind me in his own vehicle. This time he was really fired up by whatever music he was listening to. He was basically dancing fervently in his seat. His arms were all over the place: swinging back and forth, banging on the dashboard, clapping together, etc. He was also singing, and although I couldn’t hear him, I believe it must have been quite loudly.
I watched this for a good twenty seconds, until he paused to take a swig of an energy drink, which did not surprise me one bit. He started up again, and only stopped his routine later on in order to light up a cigarette. The light then turned green and he followed me for a few blocks, puffing contentedly, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had started to rock out again at any moment.
My point is that I'm adjusting the Twin Cities, and like the old saying goes, you just have to learn to take the good with the bad. And I guess it doesn’t hurt to get your groove on once in a while, too.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Shout-Out To An Inanimate Object
There are very few things in this world you can count on, besides the often-heard ‘death and taxes’. Besides that there isn’t much, except for maybe the fact that the backup quarterback is always more popular until he plays or that nobody ever hears Don Williams and says, “That was some terrible music!”
But then there is my clock radio. I’ve had it since middle school, if I’m recollecting right. It has woken me up for probably more than half of my life, and it shows no signs of slowing down. (You could say that it appears that it’ll just keep on ticking. Har!) It’s rousted me out of bed for just about everything, including school, work, church, and morning hikes.
It is neither sleek nor aerodynamic, like so many products in today’s I-Pod era. Instead, it is like a car from the eighties: built entirely out of right angles. The radio doesn’t work very well on it anymore, but I only use it for an alarm clock, and that is where it excels.
It has been with me everywhere: From Fulton, Michigan to Stevens Point, Wisconsin, to Plymouth, Minnesota. It has been a constant, stalwart, quiet companion who does not talk back except for the annoying beeping it emits every morning when I need to wake up. Still, it’s only doing it for my own good, so I hold nothing against it.
My favorite story about my clock radio was the morning when it woke me up andI was still so groggy that I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to shut it off, even though I’d pressed the same button to turn it off for many years prior to that. After staring at it stupidly for what seemed like hours, my brain finally came up with a solution, and so I unplugged it, just so it would stop the incessant beeping. (Note: I didn’t say it was a good story. It is just the best one I have.)
I’m not sure why I’m writing about a clock radio. There is nothing inherently exciting about it, but maybe that’s part of its charm. It just goes out and gets the job done every time it's called upon without frills or need for recognition. It’s basically like getting the Cal Ripkin Jr. of electronics, and, now that I think about it, perhaps more things in this world should be like that.
But then there is my clock radio. I’ve had it since middle school, if I’m recollecting right. It has woken me up for probably more than half of my life, and it shows no signs of slowing down. (You could say that it appears that it’ll just keep on ticking. Har!) It’s rousted me out of bed for just about everything, including school, work, church, and morning hikes.
It is neither sleek nor aerodynamic, like so many products in today’s I-Pod era. Instead, it is like a car from the eighties: built entirely out of right angles. The radio doesn’t work very well on it anymore, but I only use it for an alarm clock, and that is where it excels.
It has been with me everywhere: From Fulton, Michigan to Stevens Point, Wisconsin, to Plymouth, Minnesota. It has been a constant, stalwart, quiet companion who does not talk back except for the annoying beeping it emits every morning when I need to wake up. Still, it’s only doing it for my own good, so I hold nothing against it.
My favorite story about my clock radio was the morning when it woke me up andI was still so groggy that I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to shut it off, even though I’d pressed the same button to turn it off for many years prior to that. After staring at it stupidly for what seemed like hours, my brain finally came up with a solution, and so I unplugged it, just so it would stop the incessant beeping. (Note: I didn’t say it was a good story. It is just the best one I have.)
I’m not sure why I’m writing about a clock radio. There is nothing inherently exciting about it, but maybe that’s part of its charm. It just goes out and gets the job done every time it's called upon without frills or need for recognition. It’s basically like getting the Cal Ripkin Jr. of electronics, and, now that I think about it, perhaps more things in this world should be like that.
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