Social Circles

Left unhindered in a social situation, a person will gravitate towards whatever group of people they feel the most comfortable with, usually based on gender, mutual interests, and similar intellectual capacity.

That’s why I’m kind of scared.

I just attended Bible Class, and after it was over, the socializing began. After a quick cup of coffee and some random small talk, I spied several of my young nieces and nephews sitting at a table with their treats, miraculously not actively destroying anything. (Note to TJH: It's a joke!) Since I hadn’t heard about their Christmas, I walked over to get the scoop. I pulled up a chair and began to engage them in a conversation both fascinating and stimulating. Just kidding. Here’s what happened:

• A brief rundown of Christmas which took less than a minute, which included the children all talking at once.
• An impromptu game developed where you see if you can “eat” the opposing players by using your hand to chomp their hands before they can chomp yours. This game had no real end and was complete with mandatory sound effects that are reminiscent of a four-hundred pound man attempting to stuff down a five pound hamburger in fifteen minutes or less. ("Chomp! Chomp! Chomp!") There was also lots of giggling, some of it by the children.
• Seeing the commotion, several other children came over to see what was going on, and ended up showing off their toy motorcycles. Everybody agreed that they were very nice.
• I used my niece’s doll and pretended to make it eat my niece’s cake. This was considered hilarious by all, so I repeated it roughly seventy-seven times, each time enjoying the same astounding level of postive feedback.

At this point I looked up and noticed that the room had broken down into three distinct groups. The ladies were all sitting together, talking quietly. The men were all sitting together, talking quietly. I was sitting at a table surrounded by children who were either in diapers or had just recently made the leap out of them, playing with a doll.

The thing is, I didn’t feel all that out of place.

I mean, I didn’t want to be sitting with the men. They would have been talking about mortgages or sump pumps or complaining that their wives talk too much and never let them watch the game.

I didn’t want to be sitting with the women, because they would have been talking about their feelings or how their husbands never listen to them. Plus they would have figured I was a spy for the husbands and would have probably hit me repeatedly with their purses.

So I ended up hanging out with the kids, and it kind of scares me. What does it say when that’s the social circle I gravitate towards? Also, what does it say that I still don’t really regret the decision, even though it involved playing with a doll?

These are perplexing questions, ones that I may not even want to have answered. So, instead I guess I’ll just look at the bright side. Nobody else would have wanted to play “Chomp The Hand” anyway, and it’s a fun game. Plus, it’s way more interesting than discussing sump pumps. As for the doll, I’m just going to pretend that never happened.

Straight To My Head

So this is kind of cool. A while back I decided that it might be fun to enter a writing contest. Using the in-depth research skills usually associated with an inattentive high school student playing on their phone, I googled “humor writing contests” and clicked on the first link that came up. It was HumorPress.com. They bill themselves as one of America’s most popular humor contest sites, offer bi-monthly writing contests. That sounded good to me, so I polished up a few old pieces, paid the entry fee, and submitted them.

The universe must have somehow owed me a favor, because I managed to place several times. It wasn’t high enough to make any money, but I’m still happy. Of the pieces that placed, a couple of them were previously posted here on my blog, while two others will probably be in the future.

Anyway, if you’re interested:
Let's Wrap
Morning Radio
No Thanks To Christmas
Birthday Ponderings

This means, by the way, that I’m going to milk this for all its worth, and I’m most definitely going to let it go to my head. For example, I’ll probably start prefacing everything I say with something like, “Well, as a published writer at HumorPress.com, one of America’s most popular humor contest sites, I think that…”

Basically, you’re going to get real sick of me real quick, to the point where you’re going to be hoping to hear about my car’s remote start. However, please try and bear with me. I’ve never dealt with fame before, and if I say something like, “As a published writer at HumorPress.com, one of America’s most popular humor contest sites, I order you to peel me a grape,” just ignore me. Eventually I’ll be able to contain myself.

I would guess.

One would hope.

Maybe just buy earplugs.

Anyway, as a published writer at HumorPress.com, one of America’s most popular humor contest sites, I deem this post done.

Now bring me M&Ms. Only the red ones. They’re my favorite.

Remote Start

Winter’s icy grip has finally descended upon us, and I can’t say that I’m thrilled. Perhaps it’s because the season tends to drag, since I’m not involved in many winter activities besides driving around with a hockey stick in my car and drinking hot cocoa in a heated room while watching the thermometer as temperatures plummet to concerning levels.

There is, however, one thing that I like about winter; my remote car start. In fact, I like it so much that if you see me even occasionally over the next few months, you’ll be sick of me before the spring, because I’ll always find a way to slip it into any conversation:

“Yeah that was a great game, almost as great as having my car warmed up by the time I get out to it!”

“Yes, officer, I realize I was speeding, but it was because I was so excited that my car was warm when I got out to it, because of my remote start. Wanna hear about it in excruciating detail?”

“Talk about bad luck! I didn’t know it was possible to get charged by a bear and a moose in a parking lot at the same time! What are the odds? You know what might cheer you up? Getting a remote car start, like me! Let me tell you all about it! Hey, where are you going? I don’t think you should be running with casts on your legs!”

I’ll also spend a lot of time telling you of all the places I got the remote start to work, and how happy it made me:

“So I was in the grocery store, and I couldn’t even see my car. Still, I hit the button, and sure enough, when I got out to the parking lot, there it was, running like a champ! Isn’t that amazing!? Hey, where are you going?”

So, I apologize in advance for being annoying, it’s just that I can’t help myself. I need something to help me through these coming days of no sun or warmth, and this is it.

I am, however, taking somewhat of a risk with it. This is because I was initially given two remove fobs upon purchase, but last year I accidentally ran one of them through the wash. While not disabling it, something far worse happened: It began to randomly send its single out, which meant that my car was starting intermittently in the parking garage below my apartment. Beyond repair, I had to put the fob out of its misery, which was actually kind of fun because it involved smashing stuff with other stuff.

So now I’m left with only one fob, and hopefully I’ll manage to keep it out of the wash and not lose it. Still, I’m not too worried. I’m pretty responsible, and once I put my mind to something like this, I can usually accomplish it. Just as long as nobody does anything malicious to it, although I don’t see any reason why somebody would do that.

Anyway, let me tell you a little more about this thing. It’s made by Compustar. Unfortunately, to save money, I only got a 1-way, and not a 2-way. In retrospect, I should have gone with the 2-way, and here’s why: When you have a 2-way remote start – Hey! Where are you going?

What's In A Name?

This blog is called From The Desk Of Curly. That would make it seem that my desk is a very important spot. If it weren’t, one would think that the blog would be named something like From The Unswept Corners Of Curly’s Mind.

So, what about my desk?

When I started this blog in Wisconsin, I had an old, cheap, wooden desk, one that would probably collapse if a cup of coffee filled to the brim was placed upon it. Still, it did the job, and I was rather fond of it.

When I moved to the Twin Cities, however, I wanted something new, something modern, something to mark the new path my life was taking. I looked around and eventually found something that seemed appropriate. Here is the description of the desk I bought, straight from the manufacturer:
A bold contemporary play on the international architectural style. Like it's skyscraper inspiration, it is driven by function with storage drawers and pull-outs to serve contemporary office and entertainment needs and constructed of steel and glass in rectilinear proportions. Black on black glass and metal with nickel hardware highlights bring a bit of the big city to any room.

Basically, I bought a yuppy desk built consisting of black metal and a glass top. If my desk were a person, it would never like the food brought to it at a restaurant and would always send it back. (“Do you think this food is fit for somebody whose style is a bold contemporary play on international architecture? I think not!”) It would never take public transportation, for fear of mingling with “common folk”, all of whom would be swarming with dangerous germs. It would wear suits and ties everywhere it went, even to bed. 

Essentially, my desk is a total snob. That is not, however, the only issue with "bringing a bit of the big city to any room". For one thing, the entire thing weighs approximately eight-thousand pounds, probably because it’s inspired by skyscrapers. (That should have been a tip-off for me, but I ignored it.) Also, the glass top seems like a good idea, but all it does it collects fingerprints and dust.

Not that I dislike my desk. Who could? It has rectilinear proportions, whatever those are! Still, the whole monstrosity is basically unmovable, and I don’t plan to ever try. Whenever I leave my current residence, I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to blow it up with dynamite.

On my desk is a container of office supplies. It’s filled with pens, pencils, markers, and erasers. It conveys the idea that I’m ready for anything, should I be hit with a burst of creativity. However, I don’t use any of them. I type on my computer, and that’s all. I don’t remember the last time I even used an eraser. Still, the cup of office supplies looks important, so I keep it around. Plus, it gives the desk something to make snarky comments about behind its back. (“That thing mixes number 2 pencils with ball point pens! How tacky!)

So, what does my desk say about this blog? Is my blog a natural extension of it, pretentious and snobby? Or does my blog have a personality of its own, and is just a victim of misfortune to be saddled with an unfortunate reference in its name to something pretentious and snobby?

I don’t have the answer to that, just one more question: How in the world did I just manage to write an entire entry about my desk? How pathetic is that? In fact, I’ll bet my desk is snickering at me right now. I think I’m going to kick it in the leg.

On Walking, Geese, and Implicit Contests

I typically spend my workdays slogging through various layers of nearly impenetrable corporate bureaucracy, and once noon rolls around, I usually feel the need to get away from it all. After a quick lunch at my desk, I head outside for a quick stroll.

Walking in Minnesota during the summer months is quite enjoyable, although there are a few things I need to watch out for.

Geese – Born with a sense of entitlement that all city property is theirs, they like to block the sidewalks as they perform their daily duty of pecking the grass, leaving behind an astounding number of droppings, and occasionally crossing the road at an incredibly slow pace in order to create large traffic backups. Very territorial, they hiss vehemently at anything they believe poses a threat, such as pedestrians, cars, wind, blades of grass, sticks, figments of their imagination, etc.

Sprinkers – Placed by the city to keep the grass flanking the sidewalks green, they make it interesting for walkers who’d rather not come back from lunch soaked to the bone. One way to avoid this is to just stay out of their wake, but that means walking on the road, which may not be the best idea, since vehicles stop for geese and nothing else. If the sprinklers are of the rotating variety, good timing and fast running will allow one to slip through unscathed, although one risks twisting an ankle and going down, leaving them helpless as they watch the line of water slowly creep towards them. (This also makes one highly vulnerable to pecking geese.)

Sweating – In the Twin Cities, the average humidity in the summer is approximately 834 percent. You do the math from there. (Also, feel free to add your own goose joke, too, if you’d like.)

But now summer is long gone, and winter is fast approaching. As the temperatures have plummeted, I’ve noticed that there are fewer people out walking, as most work-walkers are fair-weather in nature. For some reason, call it my competitive nature, or simply brain freeze, I’ve decided that there’s an implicit contest of will occurring to see who’ll be the last one of us to call it quits in the face of Mother Nature.

Ever since the contest began, when I walk past somebody on the sidewalk, instead of nodding politely, I glare at them in what I hope is an intimidating manner. (It may just look like I’ve got something in my eye and can’t stop twitching, but that’s beside the point.) I also feel like I should break out the trash talking pretty quick here: “I’ve seen plenty like you before. You’re a dime a dozen! You’re all bluster now, but you’ll burn yourself out halfway through December!” “You call that a walking style? It’s more like shin splints waiting to happen!” “What’s that, a glacier impression? Eat my dust!”

Overall, I’m fairly confident in my chances of winning, mainly because I’m the only one who’s actually aware they’re in a contest. However, there’s one wild card that concerns me. Occasionally I see people out walking who are obviously not affected by temperature. I’ll be wearing a jacket, hat, and gloves, and still shivering, and they’ll be wearing next to nothing and appear completely comfortable. They are obviously freaks of nature who have, for one reason or another, become immune to coldness. It appears that these people could walk around in mid-February, when it’s ten below, in a t-shirt and shorts and not suffer even the slightest of shivers. They’re my main competition, and I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out a good way to give myself a “competitive advantage.” However, I’m not very good at evil planning, and I’m not quite sure how to proceed.

For example, if I pass one of my main competitors on the sidewalk and then push them into a snowbank, hoping to break their spirit, what exactly are the implications? Would it be ethical? I’d say yes, since I’m on lunch break and not being paid, but others may have different opinions. Also, would it be smart? I’m not what you’d consider a brawler, as I’ve lost many a physical confrontation to a tight lid on a jar. Plus, I usually only consider physical confrontations as a last resort, after I’ve tried running away and bribery. So, wouldn’t pushing somebody into a snowbank just be an invitation to something I want to avoid? But, what if I pushed and ran immediately? Would that give me enough of a head start?

As you can see, many questions abound, and I’m not sure how it’ll all turn out. However, I do know that it’s going to be into a contest of cunning, strategy, sheer will, and guts. Stay tuned.

Also, if I dressed right, would anybody actually believe they got pushed into the snowbank by a snowman? Or would a goose costume be a better idea?

Road Trippin'

Thanksgiving is nearly upon us again, and for me, a gigantic meal, along with the resulting food coma, will be found in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. This means that a road trip is on the horizon.

I don’t do many road trips anymore. When I lived in Wisconsin, they were a large part of life, but here in Minnesota I’ve definitely settled down. Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t remember how it’s done.

The most important thing is comfort. Loose and well-worn clothing is a necessity. Road trips are not a time to get gussied up. A bathrobe would be the ultimate in a road trip wardrobe, but that’s slightly beyond the borders of practicality, although I’m still halfway tempted to try someday. Being dirty is also highly recommended, since you’re going to get filthy anyway, sitting in a car for many hours, spilling fast-food and coffee on yourself. The key is to accept it and start dirty. You’ll immediately be more relaxed and much more able to enjoy wallowing in your own filth for hundreds of miles. If, by the end of the trip, there’s not a real possibility of you being mistaken for a homeless person who’s stolen your car, you’re doing it all wrong.

Music is also key. You need to be prepared to keep yourself entertained, especially after it gets dark and you get bored watching out for deer. Sometimes its fun to buy a CD on the way, just to hear something you haven’t heard before. Value CD’s from gas stations are always good choices, not because the music is going to be quality, but because they’re cheap and easily thrown away. However, you also need to remember to occasionally surf the radio waves, because there’s always of chance of finding something interesting. Once, while passing through Duluth, I picked up the audio from a television station and was able to listen to Jeopardy. Another time, I miraculously picked up 650 AM from Nashville for several hours while driving north through Wisconsin, which allowed me to tune in to the Friday night Grand Ole Opry. And who can forget listening to the traditional Native American music of Big Bear, as we drove through the never-ending flatness that is North Dakota? Always give the radio a chance, and you may be surprised.

One big component to road trips, at least for me, is the Never-Ending Coffee Cycle. I start by buying a large coffee shortly after leaving, with the hopes that it will keep me alert, especially if I’ve just spent the whole day working. Coffee goes through me like a hot knife through butter, though, and it isn’t long before I’m stopping at a gas station, my face screwed up in concentration as I hope to hang on for just a few more moments. Then, on my way out, I buy another coffee, simply because I’m there, and the cycle begins anew. Yup, there’s nothing like walking out of a gas station, sighing in relief, with a fresh, hot cup of joe clutched in your hand. Next stop, coming soon!

Speaking of stopping at gas stations, it must be remembered that on road trips, calories don’t count. At least I hope not, because there’s absolutely no way to eat healthy on a road trip. I’ve attempted it on several occasions, and even though I’ve brought with me grapes and Cheerios and water, I’ve always finished covered in a mound of Reece’s wrappers, with multiple chocolate smears on my face, sugar coursing through my veins, and a satisfied smile on my lips. So do yourself a favor and don’t fight it. Road trips are to junk food as baseball games are to horrible, mutant hot dogs.

Fighting the elements of Mother Nature can make any road trip interesting. For me, this is just about guaranteed when heading to the U.P. any month of the year besides possibly June and July. Inevitably, I’ll find myself in the middle of a good old fashioned blizzard, where the snowflakes are pounding against the windshield, the wind is howling, and it’s anybody’s guess where the road is. Still, it’s not the worst thing in the world. It makes me remember how to drive in the snow real quick, which is always a plus, and it gives me that extra adrenaline needed to keep awake, now that the deer have hunkered down and stopped jumping out in front of me. (This is usually when I remember that I don’t have a scraper in my car, which means the next morning I’ll look like some first year Michigan Tech student, scraping my window free of ice with an empty soup can.)

Road trips are always fun for a while, but they always seem to loose their luster near the end. You’re sick of driving, sick of junk food, sick of bad gas station music, and sick of stopping at every Holiday because of the never-ending coffee cycle. That’s why the best part is just before it ends, when you see the friendly, glowing lights of your destination up ahead, and even though you’re wired on caffeine and sugar, you still manage to begin to relax, because you know that you’ve made it.

Oooohh yeah.

Sandwich, Dude?

Have you ever had to make a decision between getting a good sandwich and not having to spend five minutes in the most annoying place on earth? If you haven’t, it means you’ve never eaten at the sandwich place located near my place of employment.

First off, this particular restaurant must have received government stimulus money, judging by the amount of people it can afford to employ. When you walk in, you’re faced down by roughly twenty smiling faces, each belonging to an individual no older than twenty-two, all stuffed behind the counter, which is a quite comical site. The goal of this establishment is to not only be friendly, but also “cool”, so as soon as you get through the door, each of the employees bellows out a welcome to you, heavily influenced by the speaking habits of today’s youth:

“Hey, man!”
“What’s up??!!!”
“Budddyyy!!!!”
“Duuuuuddddddeeee!!!”

It’s kind of like Norm entering Cheers and being heartily greeted, except it pretty much freaks you out, and as soon as it dies down, you have to fight the urge to turn right around and leave.

If you make it past the greeting, it’s time to order. The focus here is speed, which is where the stimulus money comes in handy. They’ve hired enough people so building a sandwich can be broken down into many small tasks, each performed by a different employee to achieve Maximum Sandwich Constructing Velocity. One person cuts the bread, one person puts down meat, one person puts down lettuce, one person puts down tomato, one person waits anxiously in case anybody else goes down with a knee injury and needs to be replaced, etc. It’s a true shovel ready project. The system works well, and your sandwich is typically ready before you’ve even paid. (This place may have its faults, but I can’t deny they make a good sandwich and do it quickly.)

The annoyingness really sets in if you decide to eat on location. This is because music is blared at an extremely high decibel level, in order to convey the fact that you’re in an incredibly cool place, and also that the workers don’t plan on keeping their hearing past their twenties. After you sit down, you realize you can’t have a conversation without using sign language. You also have to put up with the multitudes of workers, who are all hanging around killing time, because all of the other potential customers were smart enough to spare their eardrums and eat somewhere else, leaving the restaurant virtually deserted. Unburdened, the employees pass the time by doing one or more of the following:

Yelling loudly to one another

Singing loudly
Laughing loudly
Dancing
Banging their hands loudly on the counter to the beat of whatever song is playing

Basically, it’s a college party disguised as a fast-food joint. This may have been fun for me to experience about ten years ago, but I’ll admit that I’ve turned into a fuddy-fuddy, so I really have to be in a mood for one of their sandwiches in order to muster up the gumption to brave the gauntlet of annoyingness.

Once you finish eating, it’s time to leave, but you can’t do that without a hearty chorus of farewells, courtesy of the ever-exuberant workers:

“Later, bro!!”
“See ya!!”
“Bye, dude!!”

And so your dining experience is over. It does not, however, come without a price. Your head hurts, a terrible song is stuck in your brain, and you may never be able to again have a conversation without having to constantly say, “WHAT???”

Still, it just may have been worth it. It was a darn tasty meal.

Later, dude.

Two Years

Wow, time sure flies when you’re continually racking your brain to come up with comments and observations that you hope the greater blog-viewing public will find witty and entertaining, and, if not that, at least not bad enough to provoke the slashing of your tires by annoyed readers. #IronicReferenceToPastEntry #ApparantlyAddictedToHashTags #Sorry

What I’m getting at is that I recently celebrated my two-year blogiversary. “Celebrated” probably isn’t the right word, as I totally forgot about it until now, roughly two weeks too late. No worries, though. I’ll just do a heel-clicker and call it good. Anyway, it’s been two years of me kneading random ideas in my head until they sound feasible, followed by me giggling as I type away furiously at my word processor, then me cackling gleefully as I hit the ‘publish’ button, and finally me gasping and turning red as I notice all of my spelling and logic mistakes. (You’d think there would be a step devoted to fixing these mistakes, but I’m working on a shoestring budget here.)

On a more serious note, I’d like to thank anybody who’s taken the time to read what I’ve had to write at any point over the last two years. I’d like to think that I’d keep doing it even if nobody read it, but that’s probably not the case. Also, thanks to those who have taken the time to add their comments, especially those of you who I don’t even know. I haven’t been very good as responding to them, but please know that they have been appreciated.

So, there we have it. Another year in the books, a year in which I’ve been able to discuss, among other things, the upcoming zombie uprising, Kid Rock, migrating bruises, Bigfoot, wearing a barrel instead of clothing, and falling in love in Washington. (Hey, Peak 6 Girl! Have you found this blog yet? You’re still beautiful!) I consider that a pretty good year. With that said, I’ve already shifted gears and am looking forward to year three. Here are some of my goals:

• Lots of humorous and embarrassing tales involving my family, especially my parents, just to see how far I can stretch the limits of unconditional love. (Hi Mom! Just kidding!)
• More pictures of giant slugs.
• No more hashtags. (But I can’t promise anything.)
• Better research in order to bring my readers greater in-depth analysis and balanced…Ha! I can’t even finish that one!

Well, apparently I have no real goals. Still, that hasn’t stopped me before, and it’s probably better that way. So join me, will you, and together we’ll embark on the next leg of this journey that we’ve begun together, boldly going where this blog hasn’t gone before, without forgetting what’s gotten us this far, and possibly, but not likely, even making an occasional ounce of sense. #SuperInspiredRightNow #Goosebumps #DangThereGoesThatGoal

Hashing It Out

I like to think of myself as technically adept. Still, sometimes I fall behind current trends and have to play catch-up. An example is using hashtags. One day everything was well and good on the internet, and the next all I see are # symbols everywhere. At first I tried to ignore them, but they didn’t go away. (I did the same with ‘N Sync, so it was worth a shot.) Much later, I finally broke down and spent thirty seconds researching them, and I now understand that they are used on twitter to categorize tweets and make searching for similar topics easy.

However, it’s obvious that hashtags have seeped beyond simple tweeting and into popular culture, where they are now used anytime that somebody wants to categorize what they’ve written, whether it makes the slightest bit of sense or not.

This leaves me in a bit of a dilemma. I find hashtags annoying, cluttering, and distracting, yet I’m not old enough where I can just be grumpy and ignore anything new that comes around, especially something used by a lot of my peers. This means that if I want to stay socially relevant, I’d have to learn how to use them correctly. This will entail a lot of practice, along with me not being afraid to make mistakes. #MySpecialty #FirstHashTagEver! #CanHashesUseExclamationPoints? #CanHashesUseQuestionMarksQuestionMark #Stressful #Frustrating

#ThrowingMyselfIntoThis. But then again, I’ve never been one to follow current trends. (#WarningSelfCenteredRantComing) I mean, I don’t watch American Idol. I’ve never read a Twilight book (#NeitherShouldAnyGuy). Rappers are just people with silly names to me. #DizzleOrSomething. Why should I break my principles now? Fitting in has never been a priority in the past. Plus, there was a time in this world before hashtags, #TheDarkAges, and I’m sure there’ll be a time after. Perhaps I should just wait it out, and if somebody doesn’t accept me because I don’t use hashtags well, then I'll just consider that person to be quite shallow, and I won't want to know them anyway. #UnlessThatPersonIsASheAndSheIsCuteThenAllBetsAreOff

So that is the current issue that I'm wrestling with. #Stressful. Still, regardless of my pending decision, at least I now understand hashtags. #Kinda #MaybeNot. This means there’s less chance that I’ll get caught in a social situation where somebody makes a joke with a reference to them, and it's understood by everybody but me, leaving me no choice but to pretend to laugh, which I’m terrible at, all while hoping that nobody catches on to my complete ignorance. #MultipleFlashbacks #Stressful. So that makes me happy. #LessStressful

I guess I don’t have much more to say on the subject. Still, I kind of feel like practicing some more.

#GiantSlug #WornOutJoke

#CurlyOut

Slashed

If one were to closely examine the inside of my car, they would probably say something along the lines of:

“Whoa, you ever hear of a thing called a vacuum cleaner?”
“I kinda understand the Glen Campbell CD, but Anne Murray?”
“Why is there a giant plastic bag in the backseat filled with tires?”

It’s the third response that I want to focus on. Why, indeed, am I carrying around automobile tires in my car? The answer is simple: for the insurance company to inspect so they'll pay me money. This is because these tires used to be on the front of my car, but had to be removed after they'd been slashed by somebody or some group of somebodys who have just made a large number of enemies in a very short time, because they slashed not only my tires, but also the tires on thirty or so cars in my neighborhood.

Now, here’s the question I find myself asking: Why aren’t I madder? It seems like I should be steaming, cussing, spitting venom, complaining, and raising a ruckus, just like if my team lost in the playoffs because of a bad call by the official. But I’m not. In fact, I hardly got angry at all, and that’s sort of confusing. I mean, I’m a pretty mellow guy, but I have gotten angry before, such as the time I went to the driving range and hooked nearly ever single shot into the trees. Why is it then, that I can get mad at golf, or playing basketball with somebody who doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘pass’, but not because my tires were slashed in a senseless, random act of vandalism?

Maybe it’s because I know there were a lot of other victims, and they’re going to be plenty peeved as it is already, so why should I waste my time adding to the mix? It happened, and that’s that. Life goes on.

Maybe it’s because the perpetrators are currently faceless, so there’s nobody specific for me to be mad at. (I guess I could sit out in a lawn chair and shake my fist at anybody under the age of twenty who passes by, but I’m saving that activity for when I’m seventy.)

Maybe it’s because it wasn’t that much of an inconvenience to me, as I had two new tires on my car by lunch, thanks to insurance and roadside assistance.

Still, it seems like I would be angry and want revenge. It seems like I would set up a stealthy STING operation, where I’d stake out my car after I’d parked it in some lonely parking lot, leaving it ripe for vandalism. I would wear all black, along with black face paint, and wait night after night, ingesting shocking amounts of coffee and salty snacks, until I was able to catch the perpetrators in the act and have my revenge. (I’m not sure what my revenge would be, mind you, since the ability to inflict damage via physical violence isn’t high on my list of natural talents. Maybe I’d give them a stern tongue lashing, or just shake my head in a disapproving manner, hoping to elicit shame.)

For the record, I also wasn’t shocked that it happened, and I didn’t wonder why anybody would do such a thing, mainly because I just didn’t find it that surprising. People are idiots, and they’ll do idiotic things. I also wasn’t bitter, and I didn’t think that this was proof that the entire world is going down the drain. This is because it’s been obvious that the world is going the drain for some time now, so that boat sailed a long time ago.

So, as it stands now, I’m pretty much devoid of emotion towards the incident, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. Still, I guess there’s no reason in trying to get myself worked up if it doesn’t happen naturally. That will happen soon enough, just as soon as I start playing basketball again when winter comes around.

P.S. I was joking about Anne Murray.

P.P.S. I will admit that sitting in a lawn chair and shaking my fist at teenagers is getting more tempting by the moment.

Tetanus Sh-aaarrrgggghhhhh!

Sometimes we take things for granted, and we don’t know what we have until they're gone. Take for example, the use of my shoulder.

Recently, I got a tetanus booster shot. At the time, it didn’t seem like that big of a deal, because I didn’t remember it being that bad the last time I’d gotten one. What I failed to recall, unfortunately, was that I was a teenager back then, young and robust, and at a point of my life where I could spend an entire day running into a concrete wall at full speed and suffer no adverse affects. (Not that I spent my time running into walls. At least not that I’ll readily admit.)

So, overwhelmed with male bravado, I decided to get the shot. When the time came, in true macho fashion, I whimpered courageously and stared fearlessly at the wall opposite of where the action was occurring. (Hey, it’s a needle, and it’s going RIGHT INTO YOU!!) The shot itself barely hurt, and when it was over, I wiped my eyes free of the accumulated tears of valor and commenced to celebrate my victory, assuming that the worst was over.

Then, shortly after, my shoulder stopped working. I couldn’t put on my seatbelt without whimpering. I couldn’t raise my arm above my waist without a sustained string of grunting. I couldn’t reach my phone at work. (That one was actually a good thing.) Talk about a wake up call! In fact, because of it, I’ve made a solemn vow to take a moment each and every day to truly appreciate my shoulders. (This will explain if you ever see me kissing them affectionately.)

Anyway, this whole episode brought with it a startling realization: Perhaps I’m not as resilient as I once was. Perhaps my body doesn’t bounce back as quickly as years past. Perhaps the hands of time are beginning to chip away at the very foundation of my strength and health. Still, I’m a much wiser person now, and I’ll take that over being young and dumb any day of the week. Just don't tell that to my aching shoulder. I’m having trouble getting back on its good side as it is.

Mid-Blog Crisis

Sometimes I wonder about my blogging. While fun, is it having any unintended consequences? For example, am I painting a picture of myself that is not wholly accurate? Does my playful and carefree style impact who I am in the eyes of my reader(s)? Am I now seen as nothing more than a provider of short snippets of frivolity? (Yes, that’s actually a word! I checked!) Is the real me, the three-dimensional me, being overshadowed by my blogging persona? Is the virtual Curly slowly taking over, ever so gently pulling the real me out off of the stage of other people’s interpretations, using a hook of shallow jokes and over-exaggerated vocabulary, soon to hide the true depths of my character behind the curtain of obscurity, or some other really bad metaphor?

Perhaps I should attempt to show all of my sides.

Perhaps I should speak more about politics. (“They’re all shameless pandering crooks! Now please don’t raise my taxes!”)

Perhaps I should speak more about my hopes and dream. (“I hope my dreams where I can fly come true!”)

Perhaps I should speak more about fine literature. (“The new Garfield just came out!”)

Perhaps I should speak more about some of the important issues facing us all today. (“When is the NCAA going to do away with the BCS?”)

Hmm.

Hmmmmm.

Hmmmmmmmmm.

(That’s me thinking, by the way.)

Well, I’ve come to a decision, but I’m not going to tell you. You’re just going to have to figure it out for yourself. But it probably won’t be too hard. Here’s a hint:

Giant Slug!!!!!

ATM Bliss

You may not be as impressed as me, as I’m quite easily amused, but when I discovered that my bank now has ATMs that allow you to deposit your checks directly into them, I got pretty excited. As I mentioned in a previous post, I hate interacting with tellers at my bank when cashing or depositing a check, because they’re paid to be overly-cheery, all in a thinly veiled attempt to convince me to open up eight-thousand new accounts, all of with have small service charges. In fact, I used to pool up my checks for many weeks before bringing them in, not because I was lazy, but because I wanted to minimize my teller interaction.

Now, however, the game’s changed with the new ATM deposit functionality. Recently, I dropped by my favorite ATM vestibule with two checks. My hands were shaking so much that I could barely slide my card into the slot, and I had to work hard to control my breathing to keep from hyperventilating with excitement. I managed to choose the check deposit option, stacked my checks, and fed them in. They were immediately sucked up and processed. Within a few seconds, they had been scanned in and displayed up on the screen for me to see, along with a total dollar amount confirmation. I hit ‘OK’, and my deposit was done.

No long lines. No talking about the weather or my weekend plans with an annoying teller while simultaneously convincing myself that strangling them wasn’t my best option. (Satisfying, yes, smart, no.) Needless to say, I was pretty happy, and if I could do heel-clickers, I would have performed one right there in the vestibule. (That’d be some good ATM camera archive footage, by the way.)

As happy as I am, however, I’m not going to let my guard down. In the world of technology, things usually start off user-friendly and easy to use, but are then completely ruined in an attempt to maximize profits. In fact, I fully expect my ATM to soon start cheerily asking me if I’d like to open a new account or get a home loan. (“If you’d like your check card back, please select the home loan with the 150% interest rate.”) Call me a cynic, but I prefer to think of myself as a realist. Still, in the meanwhile, I’ll make sure to enjoy the small window of useful functionality before it is ruined.

So feel free to write me a check. Nothing would make me happier than depositing it.

From Cracker Barrel To Peak 6

One fun thing to do on road trips is randomly fall in love. The first time this ever happened to me was at a Crackle Barrel somewhere in Kentucky. It was one of the hostesses who cast her spell over me. She was an incredibly enthusiastic person who took it upon herself to decide for my buddy Jarves and me what we should order, since we were overwhelmed with the numerous options, all of which looked good. We chatted with her for quite a while, mainly about food and Nashville, before we were seated, and she continued to check in with us throughout the meal just to make sure we were enjoying ourselves. We then hung around afterwards and talked to her some more, because being in love makes you do things like that. (Jarves was in love, too.) We finally left after buying some jelly beans. We soon deemed her the Cracker Barrel Girl, and we even vowed to write a song, appropriately titled Cracker Barrel Girl. Alas, we never did write that song, but it’s not because we weren’t in love with her.

All had been quiet on the Falling In Love On A Road Trip front until my recent trip to Washington. My buddy Lurch and I stopped at a Peak 6 Adventure Store in Olympic National Park and found ourselves face to face with a beautiful surfer girl who was running the place. After talking to her for about a half of a second, I had fallen madly in love. Lurch, seeing this, wandered off to let me work my magic, by which I mean he hoped I would eventually make a gigantic fool of myself. Anyway, not only was the surfer girl beautiful, she was also funny, sarcastic, and incredibly good natured. Also, if I hadn’t made this clear already, she was beautiful. There was nobody else in the store, and she seemed quite happy to chat, probably because she was awesome and beautiful, so we discussed Olympic National Park for quite a long while before I even began to look around the store. My only misstep was when she asked me if we had seen any wildlife, to which I proudly responded, “We saw a giant slug!” While it was true, it wasn’t one of my better lines.

The Giant Slug

I finally tore myself away from her long enough to purchase several items. (Even if I didn’t find anything I liked, I would have bought something just for an excuse to talk to her again, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.) Either being in love with me, or more likely just a good salesperson, she complimented me on my choices, to which I most likely grinned stupidly and babbled incoherently. (By this point my last few vestiges of suaveness had worn off.) Then we chatted some more. This time we talked about how Bigfoot was misunderstood, and how he was probably was a pretty cool guy who just didn’t like publicity.

However, all good things must come to an end, and soon an annoying lady showed up at the store, barged in, and started to tell us all, without provocation, about how she collected rocks or something. It pretty much broke the entire spell, and Lurch and I were soon forced to leave.

So now I’m in love, even though I know I’ll probably never see her again and that her seeming willingness to talk for hours was just because she was a genuinely nice person. (Sounds like I should write a song!) However, I’m a firm believer in fate, so if it’s written in the stars, someday I’ll run into her again. Perhaps she’ll even read this blog. (Hey! You’re beautiful! We saw a giant slug!) But even if that doesn’t happen, it was still worth it, because falling in love randomly on a road trip is always a rewarding experience. I just hope the Cracker Barrel Girl doesn’t find out.

'Twas The Night Before Vacation

I should be sleeping, as I have a flight at 7:30 tomorrow morning, and it’s already past ten.

If I work my way back from my departure time, I can figure out what time I need to wake up. Let’s see….factor in time to check my apartment eight-hundred times before I leave to make sure I didn’t leave a light on or the water running, drive to the airport, circle the various parking lots until something opens up, get my bags checked, wait in line for security, where they’ll inevitably think that the 102 year old lady in line in front of me is a terrorist and stop everything while she yells and whaps at them with her umbrella, and find my gate. After doing the math on my fingers, I figure out that I should have left for the airport three hours ago. Oh well. I guess I’ll just risk it and show up an hour or so before my flight leaves.

I already decided that I’m going to stay in tonight, because of my early flight tomorrow. This logic is good and responsible in theory, but it's flawed, because I’m not tired. My body has gotten used to shutting down after work on Friday and then coming back alive at around 10:00 for a night of fun, and this Friday is no different, as proven by the fact that I’m wide awake. Still, I’ll drop into bed soon, but I’ll most likely be lying there until 3:00 in the morning, staring up at the ceiling, reassuring myself that it sure was a good thing I got to sleep early.

I think I’m packed. I’m not really sure, but I don’t really care, either. My new credo is this: remember the essentials, as you can buy everything else when you get there. The essentials for me consist of hiking boots, rain gear, my camera, and my contacts. After I made sure that I had them, I just filled my bags with other random stuff that I may or may not need. I used to stress about packing, but not anymore. Who cares if I forgot to bring shirts? There’s always a Wal Mart around, somewhere. Plus, not knowing what you pack makes things more adventurous. (“Huh. Three toothbrushes, but no underwear. This should be interesting.”)

Of all of my vacations, I've planned the least for this one. Usually, I bring with me a list of various points of interest, which I’m compiled over a week or two of on-and-off research, along with several thousand printouts of information on possible hiking destinations. Now, however, the plan is to just stop by the nearest ranger’s office of whatever park or wilderness area we’re in and ask for suggestions, or just look at the travel book that I bought.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve finally figured out the sweet spot for planning vacations, and it all boils down to this: less is more. There’s nothing better than basically winging an entire vacation. Everything else in life is structured, so why not do the opposite when you’re finally free of it all?

Yup, I’m feeling pretty good. Now, if I could just get some sleep.

Vacation Mode

“I’m already in vacation mode.”

I like that phrase, especially when I’m the one who’s saying it. It means that I’ve not yet left for vacation, but I’ve already mentally checked myself out from the doldrums of everyday life, in anticipation of going somewhere that I’ve never been to before and stepping away from the rigors of the rat race for at least a solid week.

Choosing when to mentally check out is a big decision. Do it too late, and you don’t get to bask in anticipation of your vacation for very long. Do it too early, and you may get fired for showing up to work in a bathrobe and spending the day with your feet up on your desk, playing with your smart phone. I recommend mentally checking out from your non-professional life about a week before vacation, unless you’re married, which means that you won’t get to at all, but holding off from checking out from work until about two days before, as job hunting may put a crimp in your relaxation. (Also, no matter how relaxing it may seem, don’t go with the bathrobe, unless you are a truly irreplaceable entity at your company, which is just another way of saying that you have blackmail material on somebody who it at least two rungs above you on the corporate ladder.)

I’m now 5 days away from vacation, which means that I’ve checked out from my regular life. That means staying up late if I feel the need, eating what I want to, and shaving only if it seems like something that will bring me great joy. I still have to wait for a couple of days before I check out from work, though. This is kind of frustrating, but it’s the safest thing to do, so I’ll just have to power on through, which will be made harder because I’ll be getting no sleep, running entirely on energy obtained from pizza, and continually having to answer people when they ask me if I’m growing a beard.

I’m getting pretty excited, to the point where I’m almost thinking about the stuff I’ll need to bring with me. (“Almost” being the key word. I prefer packing the night before, a ritual that takes me no more than fifteen minutes.) I’ll need to haul out my hiking boots, which have lain dormant for pretty much a year and a half. (They still probably have Grand Canyon dust on them.) I’ll also need to find my camera and make sure that it still works. I could always do some more research on the Pacific Northwest, but winging the entire trip is always a lot more fun, as it leaves you open to surprises. (“Wait, there’s an ocean here?”)

I should probably end this with some sort of witty, summarizing remark, but I really don’t feel the urge. I’m already in vacation mode!

The Amazing Resilient Wardrobe

Do you remember the entry I made several months ago where I basically said that if I didn’t go clothes shopping soon, my entire wardrobe would dissolve from old age and I’d have to walk around wearing a barrel?

Whaddaya mean you don’t remember it at all?

Whaddaya mean perhaps you read it, but it must not have been all that memorable?

Whaddaya mean you only ended up on this blog by accident, and you don’t plan on coming back?

Whoops, sorry about that. Just got a little carried away.

Anyway, today I was reminded of this when I tried to tie my shoe.

Perhaps I should take a step back. I’ve needed new work shoes for quite a while. They have no tread left whatsoever and the soles are peeling away. They are scuffed and faded. Not surprisingly, given my track record, I’ve ignored all of this, because the shoe is still functional, albeit tacky. Today, however, I was at a meeting at work, trying to tie one of my shoes, when the lace snapped in two. Acting fast, I ignored everything that was going on in said meeting, which is standard procedure for me anyway, and made a quick fix, which consisted of tying the two pieces back together and re-lacing my shoe.

At the time, my thoughts were as follows:

1. Well, I guess I’m going to have to buy new shoes. It’s been a good run, but all things must come to an end eventually.
2. I wonder if I should be paying attention to what’s going on in this meeting?
3. Hey, where’d everybody go! How long have I been in here by myself?

Except I’m not going to buy new shoes. Despite my initial thoughts of doing so, I already know that I’m going to leave them as they are. They’re still functional! Why waste the time and money on new shoes when the ones I have work perfectly fine? (This leads me to believe that my shoes will have to be stolen or caught in a fiery explosion that separates them at a molecular level before I ever replace them.)

This is the reason why I still wear my black polo that I got many years ago. It’s not black anymore. It’s faded to some sickly shade of gray. Once in a while, I think that I should buy a new one, but I then remind myself that I already have one, and thus, nothing gets done, and no new polo is purchased. (My guess is that it'll have to be destroyed in whatever it is that finally gets my shoes before I get a new one.)

Getting back to my original point, which I haven’t yet actually made, which I think is quite impressive, I guess I jumped the gun a bit on needing to go clothes shopping. I’m pretty certain that my current wardrobe has got some serious mileage left. Sure, it may be faded, holey, coming apart at the seams, and tied together, but it still works. Why mess with a good thing?

Plus, I'm all right with looking tacky.

PB &Ugh!

I always knew this day was coming, but I tried not to think about it, hoping that the inevitable would somehow become evitable*, even though deep down in my heart, I knew that it wouldn’t. Now that it's happened, I’m left with a giant, proverbial question mark hovering over my head, and I’m really not sure which way I can turn to try and bring order to what was once my sane little world.

It happened last week. I was innocently eating lunch when I took the first bite of my sandwich. That’s when something went terribly wrong: I hated it. It tasted horrible. At that moment, I wanted to eat anything but that sandwich, and that includes Mushroom Surprise**. I stared in disbelief at what once had been a trusty, reliable friend, and I realized the unthinkable: I was finally sick of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

I can’t remember how long I’ve been eating PB & J’s for lunch. I’m talking years, here. I’ll admit that once in a while I’d switch it up with turkey or corned beef, but it wasn’t because I was sick of peanut butter, and instead just for a change. However, it would never last long. I always came back to the trusty PB & J’s, my Old Faithful of sandwiches.

Except now I can’t stand them. The very thought of them make my stomach churn, kind of like what happens when I hear any reference at all to the cast of Jersey Shore. I hoped it was just a phase that would only last a day or two, but no dice. It’s been a week, and I still hate them. In fact, I now find myself not looking forward to lunch at all, which is about as low as you can possibly sink if you’re not on an all beet and prune diet.

Now, you may wonder why this is such an ordeal for me. It’s just one type of sandwich, after all. Well, I’ll tell you: One reason is that PB & J’s make up a good seventy-five percent of my cooking repertoire. What else am I going to eat? Secondly, it’s less about having to make different types of sandwiches and more about the loss of P B & J feeling like a permanent break in what once was a perfect relationship. It’s heartbreaking, really.

But I’m not going down without a fight! I’m going to try using extra jelly. I’ve always liked jelly more than peanut butter, and by really slathering it on, maybe I’ll be able to regain my taste for P B & J’s, even if it’s at the expense of a large, daily caloric increase. If that doesn’t work, maybe I’ll find a different brand of jelly. You don’t just give up on something this important so easily.

Still, I’m not optimistic. This has really thrown me for a loop. If P B & J’s can stop tasting good, is nothing sacred? What if I suddenly decide that I don’t like pizza? (Ordering pizza accounts for another large chunk of my cooking repertoire.) What if I stop liking tacos? Where will it all end? Where!!??

Dang it, all of this drama has made me hungry. Ugh.

*Yes, ‘evitable’ is indeed a word! At least according to the internet.

** Shout-out to Wayside School Is Falling Down.

Thoughts On Being Hot (Pun Intended?)

In light of the string of recent ridiculously muggy days, in which it feels like the entire Twin Cities has been placed inside of the armpit of a sumo wrester, I have compiled some thoughts on the subject:

On several occasions I walked out of a building and my glasses fogged up. That had never happened before in my life. There’s nothing like wandering around the Target parking lot with your arms outstretched like a zombie, not able to see, and bumping into parked cars and other similarly blind shoppers.

If I had a mustache, it would probably be curling up.

It reminds me of delivering newspapers in my childhood. It would be as sweltering day, and some little old lady would be sitting in her lawn chair in the shade, sipping on a glass of iced tea. She would see me coming, drenched in sweat, and sweetly ask, “Hot enough for you?” Grrrrrrrrrrr…

Speaking of my childhood in the U.P., we were quite hearty back then. It would be 72 degrees, and we’d be running around, ecstatic because it was what we termed “swimming weather.”

I should try to fry and egg on the sidewalk. If it doesn’t work, I could enlist the help of a magnifying glass.

An overnight low of 78 tonight. Be still, my beating heart!

I haven’t even checked to see how many people are at the pool at my apartment complex. I assume that it’s packed. However, maybe everybody else assumed the same thing, and it’s completely empty. (Except for, of course, a little old lady, sitting in the shade in a lawn chair, who’d ask me if it was hot enough for me.)

Finally, a poem I just composed:

Hot. Hot.
It’s so crazy hot.
Hot enough to melt
The spots off of Spot

The Bigfoot Principle

So, I’ve been thinking, as I often find myself doing, of how life changes as you grow older. Today, I’m mulling conversation matter, and how the conversations of a twenty-year old and the conversations of a thirty-year old are drastically different. Take me for example. When I was twenty, conversations would be about the following: girls, sports, girls, music, sports, food, girls, and girls playing sports. Now, however, I find myself talking about many different things, such as work, politics (Ew! I know!), work, religion, travel, and many other things that would make a twenty-year old scoff, assuming that they weren’t listening to an iPod and could actually overhear somebody else’s conversation. What’s weird is that this doesn’t feel odd at all. It seems strangely normal, and I’ve grown to accept it as a part of growing up.

(For the record, however, the topics of a twenty-year old are still batted around on occasion, lest you think I’ve turned into some sort of uppity, high-class snob.)

Luckily, however, there is an exception, a time when speaking like a twenty-year old is still appropriate. This is when you’re with the friends who you were once twenty-years old with, people of your own age whom with you grew up. Sure, you still discuss the thirty-year old things with them, but you can occasionally regress to topics of great foolishness or non-importance, and it doesn't seem strange at all.

Take my friend Lurch. Just recently we were discussing an upcoming trip to Washington state, where the topic of Bigfoot naturally came up. (“Hey, I just figured out that we’re going to be in Bigfoot country!”) At some point, a completely non-mature idea came to me, which I revealed to him: We should get some sort of fake Bigfoot, strap him to the roof of our rental car, and drive around like that the whole time, all while acting completely casual about it. Lurch’s response: “I was just thinking the same thing!” We then proceeded to laugh hysterically and make follow up jokes for quite a long time afterwards.

This was obviously not a mature conversation. If I tried to have this discussion with anybody else, such as my dad or a co-worker, it would have been strange, but with a close friend of my own age, it seemed totally normal.

I’m sure that there is already a term for this, but for my own intents and purposes, I am going to call it the Bigfoot Principle. I urge you all to start using it. I’d like it to catch on.

Now, does anybody know the easiest way to construct a fake Bigfoot? It’s kind of important.

Adventures In Soda Procurement

Every office has one. You probably know who I’m talking about, the guy who’s been there forever and has an employee number of something like 000004. He’s seen just how inefficient and incompetent the company is for way too long, and it’s left him jaded to the point of no longer really caring about anything. He’ll do work only if he wants to, and when he does, he’ll do it his way, regardless of how outdated his methods are. He’ll come in when he feels like it, most likely still in his pajamas. His lunches will be several hours long. He won’t change for anybody unless he has to, and even then he still might not.

Now, I want you to think about this guy, visualize him in your mind, and then picture his vending machine equivalent. Seriously. If you have a hard time doing so, don’t worry, because I’ve met this vending machine, and I’m here now to tell you all about it.

You see, near our cafeteria squats an old pop machine, and it’s become very cantankerous as of late. It’s almost as if it’s feeling underappreciated and has gotten sick of doing its job, leaving it disgruntled to the point of wanting solely to mess with anybody that tries to get a beverage from it. (If it had legs, I’m pretty sure it would try to trip people as they walked by.)

Example 1: A week or so ago, craving an unhealthy mixture of caffeine and sugar, I went up to this machine with two one-dollar bills. I fed them both in and made my selection. Nothing happened, and I realized that the ‘exact change’ light was on. I retrieved my money and returned to my desk, where I picked out two quarters and a nickel. (Soda costs $1.55 for those of you who struggle to score at home.) I returned to the machine, deposited a dollar, and then dropped in the two quarters, bringing my total to $1.50. I then dropped in the nickel, and it fell straight through to the coin release. I tried again and again and again. It would not take the nickel. Annoyed, I went back to my desk a second time, where a co-worker informed me that the machine usually spits out nickels. So, leaning heavily on my third grade math skills, I collected fifty-five cents without using a nickel and returned to the machine. Finally, I was able to get it to yield a soda. I was happy to have gained the victory, and I walked away with a little bounce to my step, feeling pretty good about myself. I think this made the machine angry at me. (As I was walking away, I’m pretty sure it muttered something like, “Getting cocky, huh? I’ll teach you….”)

Example 2: I’d smartened up, and this time I brought $1.55 exactly, without nickels. However, the machine was ready and decided that it wasn’t going to accept dollar bills. Thinking quickly, I tried to use the change machine next to the soda machine to get a dollar’s worth of change, but that machine wasn’t taking bills either. It was almost as if the pop machine was being a bad influence on the change machine, and had corrupted it into doing no work. (“Hey kid, why are you such a sucker? Where is it written that you have to work all day long? What do you get out of the deal, anyway, huh? I don’t see you getting overtime, and you’re always here!”) So I had to go back to my desk to get a dollar’s worth of quarters. I was then able to feed in $1.55 in change, without using nickels, and I got my soda. I imagine that the machine was not amused by my resourcefulness. (“So you wanna play dirty, huh?”)

Example 3: I had $1.55, all in change, without nickels, all ready to go. However, this time the machine stopped taking coins. Not just nickels, all coins. Each one I dropped in failed to register, and I swear I could hear the machine chuckling at me. Basically, it had rendered itself so that getting a soda was impossible, short of tipping it, which isn’t a great idea unless you get a signed and notarized waiver from your boss saying that it's okay. Anyway, no bills, no change, no pop, game over. I walked back to my desk empty-handed, as the machine snickered at me. (“That’ll wipe that smirk off your face!”)

So yes, I’ve been defeated by a pop machine with an attitude problem. However, it’s probably all for the better, as I shouldn’t be drinking the stuff anyway. Still, I think I can outlast it if I really want to. The machine has to be ready to retire soon, and it’ll most likely be replaced with a young, shiny version, one that is eager to make a good impression. It’ll probably take both dollar bills and coins, and give back proper change. Heck, it might even hand out compliments, too. (“You’re looking trim, sir! You must be drinking our diet brand!”)

Still, I’m kinda going to miss the old machine, whenever it does go. It had character. It made getting a liquid refreshment an adventure, which spiced up the day, not to mention it helped me to brush up on my math skills. (“Okay, I need fifty-five cents without a nickel. Oh boy, I don't have enough fingers for this...I’m gonna need a whiteboard, and maybe a spreadsheet…”) Plus, someday I want to be that jaded old guy at work, and it was good to get a few pointers.

U I I E T A

Those of my avid readers* will remember that in a posting not long ago I referred to myself as being a contrarian by nature. However, for the purposes of full disclosure, along with giving me a topic to write about, I have to say that I have recently fallen in with a fad. (Luckily, it’s not planking.)

Now, before I get into the fad, I have to defend my apparent hypocriticalness. I still consider myself a contrarian, despite what I have just admitted. The reason for this is because by falling in with a fad, I’ve done something contrary to my own human nature, which is to be a contrarian. Thus, I’m still a contrarian, because I've contradicted myself. (If you need to work that out on a whiteboard, I totally understand. My head is still spinning.)

Alright, back to business. The fad I’m talking about is the game Words With Friends, which is essentially Scrabble over smart phones. It’s fun because you can play with anybody, no matter where they’re physically located. The games tend to take a while, as a player may not always be monitoring, but that adds to the drama, as you don’t want to lose a game that’s lasted for six days.

I’ve been playing for several weeks now, and so far I’ve found only one downside. You see, the game allows you to arrange your letters and then submit them as a move. If what you've attempted to play wasn’t a valid move, you can just try again. This means that you can guess at letter arrangements that look like words. This leads to a lot of weird words being played, especially when the triple-word scores are at stake. This does kind of build your vocabulary, as you see lots of new words, but you don’t really know the meaning of any of them unless you look them up.

Here is a partial list of words that have been played that I didn’t know were actual words:

bora
zona
fie
ute
eh
hao
la
houri
tipcat
zori
fe
bander
fice
aurora
gox
zoeal

(I’m sure that I played several of these words myself. Guess and Check is a temptation that is very hard to resist.)

Other than this one small detail, however, it’s a very fun game, which mixes both strategy and luck. Because of this, I’m fine with playing, even though it's a fad. Just as long as it doesn’t become an obsession that keeps me from my other priorities.

On a totally unrelated note, I’m not sure why I haven’t posted for several weeks. I must have been busy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to figure out what words I can build using the following letters: u i i e t a. Also, it needs to get me sixty points.

* Let me live in my fantasy world.

The Fight Against Change (Offline For 8 Days)

I’m pretty certain that I’m going to eventually turn into the quintessential grumpy old man. I picture myself rocking on the front porch of my home, a perpetual scowl attached to my weathered face. I’ll shake my fist as teenagers drive by at a rate which I judge to be too fast (15 miles per hour), and I’ll complain about how things were a whole lot better back before matter transporters and Meal-In-A-Capsule pills came along. Above all, I’ll be stubborn and refuse to accept any sort of change.

I know this is going to happen because I’m already showing signs of it today. For example, just recently at work everybody got an instant messenger program installed on their computers. The goal is to make it easier to facilitate communication and thus boost productivity. However, as soon as I saw it I decided that I didn’t like it. My basic reasoning boiled down to this:

1)      Instant messaging means that people would have another line of communication with me.    

2)      People are annoying.

3)      Thus, I don’t want to communicate with people any more than I have to already.

4)      Bah! Humbug!

Today I was at a co-workers desk and he had his instant messenger up. The program showed a list of employees, including me, along with their ‘online’ status. Most were online. A few were off-line, but they had not been gone for long, and they had left a message saying when they would be back, usually within 10 to 15 minutes. My icon, however, told a different a story. After my name it said: Offline for 8 days.

I smiled and felt intensely proud of myself. You can give me the tools for change, but I sure don’t have to use them! That’ll teach the company for being so bold as to try and make me more productive! Humbug!

Now, how will I not become a grumpy old man if I’m already acting like this? There’s absolutely no way it won’t happen! This means that someday I'll just give up completely on changing with everybody else, and from that point on I’ll dig in my heels and watch the world pass me by, all while being as grouchy as can be. The thing about it is, however, that I’ll love it, because I’m a contrarian by nature, and what’s more contrary than rejecting everything new, whether it’s good or bad?

Sure, I won’t be much fun to be around. Hopefully I’ll have one or two close friends in my life who’ll accept me for who I am, but if that fails I’m sure there’ll be other contrarians like me out there, and we can sit around at a barber shop and complain about things such as how football used to be so much better back when they actually allowed the players to hit each other.

I’m not there yet. For example, I’ve recently embraced having a smart phone. However, I think that electronic devices to read books on are stupid, so it’s just a matter of time before the scale tips completely in favor of me thinking that basically everything new is stupid.

And I can’t wait for that day to come. Humbug!

Bumps, Bruises, and Why They Make Me Happy

“Wow, look at the grass stains on my skin. I say, if you knees aren’t green by the end of the day, you ought to seriously re-examine your life.”
- Calvin and Hobbes

It was about a year ago when I moved to Minnesota, in an attempt to seriously re-examine my life. Now, upon reflecting on the past twelve months, I’m quite certain that it’s been successful. I don’t know if I’ve actually gotten grass stains on my skin, but I have accumulated an impressive amount of the adult alternative: injuries.

I didn’t get injured much in Wisconsin, beyond a few jammed fingers playing basketball, and I attribute that directly to me not having nearly enough fun. I mean, the chances of getting injured while watching TV or reading a book are pretty low, besides the odd paper-cut, and those two activities constituted an embarrassingly high percentage of my free time there.

Now, however, things are different. I routinely wake up in the morning stiff, sore, or aching. Despite the fact that I sometimes limp around like I’m seventy, this makes me happy, because it means that I was out doing stuff, and doing stuff, in my book, is always better than not doing stuff. (I hope that didn’t get too technical.)

For example, last winter I was playing boot hockey and I took an elbow to the face. This resulted in the best black-eye I’ve ever had the privilege of sporting. I was ecstatic for the next several days as I watched the bruising deepen and spread. It was proof for the whole world to see, and cringe at, that I had been doing stuff!

Just recently, I was playing volleyball and I hurled myself off of the court in an attempt to bring back an errant shot. (For the record, I did manage to bring it back.) After I peeled myself off of the grass and got back on the sand, I noticed that my right leg had begun to swell up. I’m still not sure what I hit it on, but it must have been an epic collision. The swelling was a little concerning, but since I’m a guy, and my leg was still attached to the rest of my body, I just ignored it. This resulted in the best bruise of my entire life. It started just below the right side of my right knee and went all the way down to the bottom of my ankle, probably 10-11 inches long and 3 inches across at its widest. It managed to keep its awesomeness even as it started to heal, because, for some reason, a portion of the bruising decided to move to the back of my leg. (Seriously!) While confusing, this was still a welcome development. A migrating bruise! How often does that happen? Plus, it meant that I was doing stuff!

I’ve suffered various other injuries over the last year, but I won’t get into any more details. However, I will say that I’ve gotten more banged up than in the infamous Year Of Multiple Sprained Ankles, back when I was a young lad in high school, and that makes me fiercely proud.

Now, there may be those of you out there who are thinking that I’m a little bit off for equating fun with injuries. Perhaps you think that I’m trying to somehow justify the fact that I’m clumsy and injury-prone. If you are one of those people, here is my response: While I cannot say with certitude* that you’re wrong, I can say that I’d much rather be injured and having fun than healthy and lying on the couch. **

* Bonus points for current events humor!

** I will admit that you can get injured on the couch if you reach too quickly for your bag of chips without stretching beforehand.

*** There isn’t a third footnote.

The Original DQ

I sort of like it when new things are made to look old. Retro, would be the term for that, I believe. However, sometimes you just can’t beat when something is just really old.

For example, this weekend while driving through southern Minnesota I wound up at a small-town Dairy Queen. As I stepped in, my first thought was this: “Wow, this very well could be the original Dairy Queen!”

While probably not true, it was no modern restaurant, that was for sure. Everything seemed to be tinted a drab yellow. The equipment looked like it was made during the Industrial Revolution. For example, cups were kept in giant, yellowed rectangular storage bins that were slapped up on the wall, making it look like one of their main uses was to inflict head wounds on any unwary workers walking by.

The non-digital menu on the wall consisted of five sections, each individually lit. I know this because the second section from the left kept flickering on and off, making it nearly impossible to read and also causing me to wonder if I would be the first person ever to have a seizure trying to determine how much a burger cost.

Orders were not punched into the cash register. Instead, the cashier used a standardized Dairy Queen pad that was probably designed in the 1950’s. Each sheet consisted of a list of items on the menu which the cashier circled and added notes to in order to record each order. For example, on mine the word ‘cheeseburger’ was circled, and the letter ‘K’ was scrawled next to it to denote that I wanted ketchup. Once you had ordered, you were given an order number, which was pre-printed on a small section of the order form that was removed and given to you.

You then sat at what had to be some of the smallest restaurant tables ever and waited for your number to be called. While you waited, you could amuse yourself by listening to the drive-through orders as they came in. This was because the speaker crackled loudly throughout the entire building, meaning that you could easily hear the person in the car outside ordering a burger and fries from anywhere in the restaurant, including, in all probability, the bathroom.

Speaking of the drive-through, it is strategically located right next to the entrance, creating a flow of traffic through which anybody attempting to enter must navigate. This set-up enhances the process of natural selection by assuring that only the shrewd customers with quick reflexes who don’t get crushed by distracted texting teenagers or old men who believe they have to right to drive and park anywhere they want will have the opportunity to return for another meal.

With all of this being said, this Daily Queen is one of my favorite restaurants of all time. There’s no flash to it, and it may collapse from age at any moment, but it has character, which most places these days can’t claim. I forget which town it was located in, which annoys me because I’d think about making an occasional Saturday road trip there just to go for lunch and to see if I could make it through the drive-through gauntlet with sustaining only minor bruising. I guess to me it seems to represent a simpler, more innocent time, a time when giant automobiles with outrageously large fins would drive by sporting “I Like Ike” bumper stickers while newsboys on the street corner yelled, “Extra! Extra! Read all about!” Sometimes you just need to get away in today’s hectic, run-run-run society, and that’s what this Dairy Queen is all about.

Also, the food is pretty good and the prices are retro, so how can you go wrong?

Whiteboard Deficient

We all have weaknesses that hold us back in our chosen professions. For example, Superman has kryptonite, and Batman, at least in the new movies, has a costume that is too tight in the neck area, which is why it always sounds like he’s just swallowed a handful of gravel. (On the other hand, Joe Biden’s weakness is that he is fully capable of talking at all times.)

I must admit that I have a weakness. It pains me to say it, but in the interest of full disclosure, here it is: I cannot write on a whiteboard.

Believe me, I’ve tried and failed many times. I’ll attempt to diagram something or create a neat bullet-point list, and when I’m done the whiteboard looks pretty much like somebody dipped ants in paint and let them walk around on it for twenty minutes. (The only difference, of course, is that ants spell better than I do.)

Some of my problem can be attributed to the fact that I’m left-handed, which means I can’t wrist-write, because my hand is trailing the marker and will instantly smudge out whatever I’ve just written. (Curse the dominant right-handed class and their left-to-right writing methodology!) That leaves me with no option but to write with only the tip of the marker touching the board, which always turns out to be an instant disaster, as whatever muscle it is that should control this shirks its responsibility, leaving me with absolutely no control of what I’m doing.

You may think that this really isn’t that big of a deal, but it is. It has placed a glass ceiling above me, which will keep me from moving of the corporate ladder. Have you ever seen somebody with ‘senior’ in their title stand up in a meeting and scribble illegibly on the whiteboard for ten minutes and still have the respect of their peers the next day? I think not. Sadly, it means that I may have no other option but to aim for management {shudder!}, where incomprehensible diagrams are assumed to be a result of you thinking faster than your body can react, and is considered a good thing.

I’m left with few options. I could hire a personal assistant to do all of my whiteboard writing for me, but that would be costly. I could learn to write right-handed, but that would be time-consuming. I could suck it up and quit whining, but that wouldn’t be any fun.

So I guess for now I just plug along, accepting my major deficiency and doing my best to not let it hinder me. I mean, things could be a lot worse, couldn’t they?

Plus, I can still smell the markers.

Recommended Reading

Before watching the HBO miniseries The Pacific, I had little to no knowledge of the war in the Pacific during WWII. This 10-part series was done pretty well, and it opened my eyes to a lot of what occurred during that time.

After finishing the miniseries, I moved on to the book With The Old Breed, which was written by E.B. Sledge, who was one of the main characters portrayed in The Pacific. His book is a first-person account of the two campaigns that he fought in, Peleliu and Okinawa. It goes into much greater detail than The Pacific had time for, and it gave me a much better understanding of what the fighting on the Pacific islands was like.

I won't try to give any sort of summary or specific details on the book. All that I’ll say is that it is one of the best books I’ve ever read, and I highly recommend it to anybody. In fact, I can say that, to me, the best part of The Pacific is that it led me to read With The Old Breed.

I Signed Up For What?

I’m getting kind of nervous.

This is because a few months ago I did something incredibly rash, without putting much thought whatsoever into just what I was committing to.

I blame it all on Christmas, or, more specifically, Christmas cookies. You know how it is: You swear to yourself that during the upcoming holiday season things will be different, and you’ll control the amount of junk food you eat. However, despite your good intentions, your resolve immediately disintegrates and you end up eating just as terribly as you always do, or maybe even worse. (The closest thing to a vegetable you consume in the second half of December is a cookie that has green frosting and/or sprinkles.) This leaves you a bloated mess when January rolls around, which is the perfect time to ignore your New Year’s resolution to get into shape and instead focus on seeing how long you can stay inert on the couch.

That’s what happened to me last Christmas, which is not unusual. What is unusual is that in February I usually get serious about getting back into some semblance of shape, but this year, for some reason, I didn’t. Soon it was mid-March, and I realized that I had to do something quick, or else I’d have to update my wardrobe to include pants the size of two-man tents

 So I signed up for a half-marathon. The day was March 19th, and at the time the snow was still piled up everywhere. May 14th, the day of the race, seemed like a long, long way away.

But now it’s almost here, and I’m getting nervous.

It’s not because I haven’t trained, mind you, because I have. In fact, signing up turned out to be a great idea, as it busted me out of my lethargy, which was causing me to rival Garfield himself in terms of food consumption, and motivated me to exercise enough so that I no longer have to worry about the button on my pants popping off due to increased belly-pressure and taking out somebody’s eye.

Yet now I have to run the actual race, and I’m no runner.

I envision the race to consist of a bunch of hard-core fanatics with subscriptions to Runner’s World, all smiling smugly and using running terminology such as “splits”, “gentle pickups”, and “speed-work”. They will all have high-tech running shoes and space-age clothing and know all about the benefits of proper stretching. They will be hoping to improve on their previous half-marathon times or warming themselves up for a full marathon. (I reallize that this is a vague, possibly demeaning, generalization of runners. However, I'm sort of intimidated at the moment by them, and this is what I can't help but picture.)

Then there’s me. I don’t use running terminology, unless “my dogs are barking” counts, and my only goal of the race is to not throw up.

So it’s going to be interesting. How will I handle being put into a situation that's like nothing I have ever encountered? Will I wilt before the pressure, or will I rise to the occasion? The day will be memorable, but what kind of memories will be made? Will they be memories that I’ll be happy to have, or memories that I’ll wish I could forget? The tension is nothing if not thick.

So, if you’re in the Maple Grove area on Saturday, feel free to stop on by to cheer or heckle. I’ll be the guy who’s wheezing a lot and cursing the March 19th version of himself for getting me into this situation in the first place. I’ll try not to throw up on you, but I can’t promise anything.

The Maturity Quota

Today I hit my maturity quota. I usually hit it on a Friday, after a long week of work, so it came as no surprise. When I hit my maturity quota I begin to feel too grown up, and I start thinking about things such as mortgages and politics and other bland topics that would horrify me if I was still eighteen-years old.

I’ve found that when this happens I have to do something completely immature, just to tip my internal scale of maturity vs. immaturity and bring it back into some form of equilibrium. If I don’t find an immaturity outlet soon after hitting my maturity quota, I risk becoming permanently mature, which would be incredibly disastrous and would inevitably end up with me rising to the position of manager at work. (I shudder just to think of it.)

Luckily, I found my immaturity outlet today when I got home from work. I was walking down the hallway towards my apartment when a man left his apartment and began walking in the same direction, about ten feet in front of me.

I must stress that I’d never seen this man before in my life. He looked like a well-groomed, well-adjusted person, and I had no reason to be annoyed by him. (Now, if he had been whistling or wearing a New York Yankees cap I would have.) Still, I began to make faces at him. I stuck out my tongue. I contorted my face weirdly. I bugged out my eyes. This lasted for a good ten to fifteen seconds until I arrived at my apartment.

I’m pretty certain that if the man would have looked back at any point when I was making faces at him, he would have either run away and reported me to the authorities or else decked me. Luckily, he didn’t, and I managed to safely find my immaturity outlet and restore my equilibrium.

Now, you may think that what I did was rude. However, I like to think that the man would have done the same thing to me, if given the chance, in order to restore his own equilibrium. And if he wouldn’t, it would mean that he’s become permanently mature, and then he deserved it anyway.

Planning For The Future (It'll Be Delicious)

I’m not looking forward to getting old, and I’m pretty sure that most people aren’t. However, there is the old saying that when you’re given lemons you make lemonade, and I was recently given a prime example of this.

I was checking out at the grocery store. (Luckily, I didn’t end up in the line manned by my arch-enemy cashier. For more on her, check my previous posts.) I was feeling pretty proud of myself, because I had managed to get through the entire store without falling victim to an Undefeatable Double Stuff Oreo Snack Attack, which is actually an amazing accomplishment for me. (Undefeatable Double Stuff Oreo Snack Attacks have plagued me for years, especially when the cool mint flavor was introduced.) Because of this rare moment of actual willpower, laid out before me were carrots and wheat bread and spinach and all of the other things that cause you to you hold decade-long grudges against your parents for buying when you’re eight years old. I was quite proud of myself.

Right behind me was an old man, and he unloaded his purchases on the belt. It was all ice cream. There had to be seven or eight containers of different sizes and flavors. I looked back at him, and he seemed very content with his decision to eat entirely out of the top portion of the food pyramid.

And why wouldn’t he be? When you’re old you get to do stuff like that. At that point, what do you really have to lose? You most likely have no metabolism anymore, and getting out of bed is probably the most exercise your body can take, anyway. Why not enjoy all of foods you prohibited yourself from eating back when you were young and trying to impress members of the opposite sex? What’s it going to do, slow you down even more?

(I’ll admit that the old man could’ve been buying the ice-cream for a party or something, but I’d like to think that was what he was going to eat for the entire week.)

With this in mind, I’ve just resolved that when I get that old I’m going to allow myself to eat Oreos until my teeth fall out, and after that I’ll dunk them in milk and vigorously gum them.

If that’s not something to look forward to, I don’t know what is.

My role model here is the Grandpa from the movie Grumpy Old Men. I’ll conclude with one of his quotes, which just so happens to be a favorite of mine:

“I turned 95 years old. And I never exercised a day in my life. Every morning, I wake up, and I smoke a cigarette. And then I eat five strips of bacon. And for lunch, I eat a bacon sandwich. And for a midday snack?”

“Bacon?”

“Bacon”