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?

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

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.

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.

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.