My 2014 Christmas Letter

Dear friends, family, and random people of the internet,

I’ve yet in my life to write a Christmas letter recapping the events of the year, and so I’ve decided that it’s about time I gave it a whirl. (In addition, I also hope to gift somebody a fruitcake, watch the movie “A Christmas Story,” and participate in an Ugly Sweater party. Yes, my plan is to become a walking Christmas cliché.)

Knowing very little about writing Christmas letters, I’ve turned to the internet for help, specifically an article that boasts “seven tips for sparkling Christmas letters,” because who wants to be the author of a Christmas letter if it’s anything but sparkling? Not me!!

And so, without further ado, I now present to you My 2014 Christmas Letter, inspired by seven random tips from the internet:

Tip 1: Start off on a positive note, not a whimper about the passage of time.

Hooorrrayyy!!!!! I made it through 2014 without getting Ebola! Also, not once did I get mauled by a bear, dumped overboard from a moving freighter, or forget my car while going through a carwash!!!! I’m not sure I could even ask for anything more!!

Tip 2: Write in your own voice. You'll bring a breath of fresh air--and a happy echo of your own personality--to your letter.

Avast matey! In addition to what was already said, this year I also killed the white whale, avoided walking the plank, and got a new peg leg! Unfortunately, I also got scurvy, but I still pulled through! Note to self: Eat more oranges in 2015! Arrrrrrrrrr!

Wait, that’s not my voice… hold on for a minute, and let me see if I can find it…

Well, pilgrims, it’s sure been one of the rootinist, tootinist years ever! In fact, I plum can’t remember one that’s ever been better! Heck, I don’t think I was even caught in a single stampede!

Dang it! Hang on… one more try…

Christmas? CHRISTMAS?! Bah! Humbug!

Never mind. I’d better move on to the next tip…

Tip 3: Keep your audience in mind.

Uh-oh. I have no idea who my audience is, or what they’d want to hear from me. Self-absorbed pontifications that go on seemingly forever? Childish booger jokes? Meandering anecdotes with no point? Who knows? So, I guess I’ll just skip ahead to…

Tip 4: Resist the urge to embellish.

I need to be honest with you: While it was a pretty good year, based solely on the fact that I’m still alive, I actually accomplished little that I’m particularly proud of. I mean, I guess I grew facial hair, but that’s about it. Oh, and I almost always remembered pants when leaving the house. But really, there’s not much more.

Tip 5: Be selective about photos. One or two great shots that illustrate your text are much better than an over-the-top photo barrage.

I went on one trip in 2014. Here’s a picture of a deserted airport runway that I got to walk on during a hike in Oregon. It was pretty cool:

Also, since it’s been a while since I’ve done this, here’s a picture of a slug I once took, even though it has nothing to do with 2014.

Tip 6: Make it personnel. Be sure that the recipient can feel your warm--and personal—regard.

Before I forget, I’d like to express my warmest and most personal regards to each and every one of you who has taken the time to read this letter.

Tip 7: Shorter is Sweeter:

Well, it seems to me that this is plenty long enough. So, see ya later!

Oh, and Merry Christmas!

A Brief History Of My Vision Correction

If I were ever to write an autobiography, one of the main threads holding it all together would be the evolution of the various methods of vision correction I’ve employed over the years. Granted, this means that it would undoubtedly be a terrible book, but they say you should write what you know, so what other choice would I have? (I mean, besides the entire chapter dedicated to napping, and perhaps another on cheese?)

However, since I’ll probably never get around to writing my life’s story, I’ve decided to give you a condensed version of the history of my vision correction right now. Think of it as an early Christmas present. Or the literary equivalent of a mail bomb. Your choice.

Let’s begin way back in my elementary school days, which is when my eyes first began to fail. Being the ever-astute and observant child I was, I had absolutely no idea that this was happening, as I was far too busy bumping into things to have time to notice. Eventually, however, my parents realized that I’d begun to continually employ the poor man’s glasses, which is to say I was always squinting at stuff. Being the loving individuals they are, and also not wanting me going around looking like I was perpetually constipated, they brought me to the eye doctor, and soon after I was the owner of a new pair of glasses.

What a revolutionary development! I could see again! I’d just kind of assumed that a perpetual fog had descended over the world during the third grade, but now everything was clear and sharp and focused! Heck, I was even bumping into far fewer things! Hooray!

The road ahead, however, wouldn’t be all sunshine and unicorns, because soon after, the inherent destructive power present in all boys began to take its toll, resulting in the bending, scratching, and downright mangling of more than one pair of glasses. To put it another way, I’m pretty sure that if rotary phones had speed dial, the eye doctor’s office would have been number one on the list. (I’m quite certain that my parents single-handedly paid for an entire new wing on the man’s house.)

The worst was when I played my sport of choice: basketball. You see, the way it was done in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan employed neither talent nor grace. Instead, we just fouled each other until it was time for supper, and needless to say, this blunt style of play led directly to the destruction of multiple pairs of glasses.

And so, we now arrive at the era of the Sports Goggles of Doom. I have written extensively on this topic before, so I won’t get into the details here. All I’ll say is that while they were wonderfully effective in terms of not getting broken, they also had the sleekness and elegance generally associated with a dump truck rolling down a hill, and were probably heavier.

Eventually, spurred on by an almost manic desire to get rid of the Sports Goggles of Doom, I decided to try out contacts, which, as it turns out, are much better options than glasses, assuming, of course, that one is able to figure out how to get them in and out, which was something that took me far longer than I’d care to admit to master. Eventually, however, I figured it out, and I was suddenly able to play sports without having to worry about causing my parents to go broke! Plus, I no longer had to deal with glasses that fogged up every time I got onto the warm school bus after standing out in the cold, which invariably left me stumbling down the aisle and hoping that the seat I’d eventually choose didn’t already have somebody sitting in it.

While still a huge upgrade from glasses, contacts still presented a few problems:

• If I ever napped with them in, my eyes would dry out and turn red, and upon waking it'd feel pretty much the same as if I’d jammed rocks into them as a means of vision correction.
• Sometimes, one would slip off and roll up way behind my eye. Actually, on second though, that was always kind of cool.
• To put them in, I always needed to have a mirror handy, and if one wasn’t available, I’d just randomly stab at my eyes until I started to cry and then give up.

Over the years, I’ve exclusively used 30 day contacts, which in theory means they should last a month before needing to be replaced, but which in reality means that after 10 days of wear and tear they start to feel a bit uncomfortable, and after 30 you may as well be pouring hot sauce directly into your eyes.

Recently, however, I’ve discovered daily contacts, which, as you can probably guess, you only use once. This is almost as revolutionary as when I first got glasses. Contacts feel great the first time you put them in, as they’re fresh and new, and now I get to feel that each time I wear them! Plus, it’s a wonderful thing to take them out in the evening and throw them away without having to clean and store them. “Ha ha!!” I’ll yell, as I drop them into the garbage. “I’ve just saved thirty seconds of my life, which I’ll more than likely waste on social media!!!”

So, needless to say, I’m pretty happy. However, I still sometimes find myself wondering, are daily contacts the final solution? Or should I consider something else, something, shall we say, a bit more dramatic?

Yes, I’m thinking about Lasik, mainly because everybody I know who’s had it says it was the best thing they’ve ever done. However, none of them have ever won the lottery or become kings or queens of small island nations, so it’s hard to say what they're comparing it against.

Still, even if it’s the miracle that everybody claims it is, I have to admit that I'm kind of a chicken when it comes to having elective surgery done on my peepers, and the main reason I’m writing this now is to build up my motivation to grow a spine and do it. I mean, how much damage can a laser do to your eyes anyway? Wait, don’t answer that.

And so here I sit, lost in indecision, which means that maybe I should turn it over to you, my wonderful audience. What do you think? Should I let ‘em zap my eyes and see how it all turns out? I mean, no matter what, it has to be better than the Sports Goggles of Doom, right?

Right?

O Christmas Tree

As a child, one of the best times of the year was when the Christmas tree went up, as it was an undeniable sign of the impending mass distribution of free loot by some crazy old man who lived at the North Pole and ran one heck of a non-profit organization.

As an adult, however, I’ve never really felt the same way about Christmas trees. I have absolutely nothing against them, mind you, it’s just that they're no longer a requirement for my continued enjoyment of the holidays. (At this stage of my life, my enjoyment requirements are mostly fudge and peppermint based.)

Not surprisingly, never once in my life have I erected a full-sized Christmas tree in my home. It’s just always seemed a little silly to me that we bring a piece of nature (or perhaps a prefabricated piece of nature) into the warm, cozy domiciles that we’ve built for the express purpose of avoiding nature. I mean, by that logic, why stop with just a tree? Why not import enough nature so things get interesting? (“Good morning Christmas tree! Good morning moss-ridden log! Good morning flesh-shredding patch of thorny brambles! Good morning Mr. Bear. Would you like some coffee? Wait – Mr. Bear?”)

Look, I’ll freely admit there’s also a Bah-Humbug factor in play here, but my point still stands.

However, I’m not entirely hopeless, and in the words of one Mr. Red Green: “I’m a man, but I can change, if I have to…I guess.” And so, in an attempt to alleviate both the implicit and explicit social pressures I’ve been feeling over my lack of Christmas decorations, I now have a prefabricated piece of nature (I.E. an uglificial tree) proudly standing in my living room.

Please, hold your applause until the end.

Now, keep in mind that this was an emotionally draining process. Not only did I have to reverse years of my own deeply-rooted personal tradition – which in itself can sap the will out of any man –  but I also had to figure out how to assemble it without getting one or both eyes poked out by rogue branches. Needless to say, by the time I was finished I barely had the energy to keep from collapsing onto the floor and staying there until mid-January.

That brings me to my next point: After I’d expended nearly every ounce of my life force erecting the tree, it then dawned on me that I still had to trim it.

I couldn’t have expressed it better myself.

Currently, I have a total of five ornaments. They are:

• A hand-crafted ninja.
• Darth Vader wearing a Santa hat.
• A skillet containing bacon and eggs.
• A minion wearing a Santa hat.
• A stuffed Chewbacca that roars in a hilarious manner upon being squeezed. (It actually isn’t an ornament at all, and is being pressed into service only because it amuses me so.)

Now, while we can all admit that this is by far the most fantastic core grouping of ornaments a person could ever ask for, it’s obvious they can’t decorate an entire tree on their own. So I’m going to need more. However, I’ve decided that I’m not going to sacrifice quality for quantity, and by that I mean I’m not going to rush out and purchase a boatload of random ornaments just to fill out the tree. Oh no, each and every piece of potential décor will have to be deemed acceptable via a painstakingly-detailed review process consisting of making sure it satisfies at least one of the following conditions:

• If it’s store-bought, it must be at least as amazing as the bacon-and-eggs ornament. (Which is a pretty tall order.)
• If it’s hand-made, it must have been done so with love. Also, it can't have lots of pointy pieces, as I've had my fill of those putting up the tree in the first place.

Now, I realize that due to this rigid stance, my tree may not actually get fully trimmed this year. However, I refuse to compromise, and if December 25^th rolls around and I have the most pathetic looking prefabricated piece of nature ever in my living room, it’ll be just fine with me. After all, I’m a man, and I can change, if I have to, but I’ll be darned if I’m caught dead with a tree with substandard ornaments in my living room.

You may now applaud.

Thoughts From An Introvert

On many occasions in the past I’ve referred to myself as a “reserved Finlander,” which has not only been my way of honoring my ancestry, but also to explain why my blood composition is, at this point, roughly 50 percent coffee, and also why I do my best to never draw undue attention upon myself.

In general, Finns are known for their caution, reserve, and silence. (In fact, calling myself a “reserved” Finlander is probably redundant.) This Finn stereotype is very well-known, to the point where you can find quite a few good jokes about it on the internet:

You know you’ve been in Finland too long when “No comment” becomes a conversation strategy.

Two Finns, the best of friends, were taking a sauna. The first Finn asks the second how he is. An hour later, during which time neither Finn has spoken, the second replies: "Are we here to babble or to take a sauna?"

And my personnel favorite…

Did you hear about the Finnish husband who loved his wife so much that he almost told her?

Like the subjects of these jokes, I too am cautious, reserved, and silent, and until recently I’d never really thought that much about it beyond the fact that is was simply my heritage showing through. However, I've now only realized that this places me – along with the stereotypical Finn – into the category of a Grade A introvert.

I’d never really pondered the topic of introverts vs. extraverts before, but when I finally did, I soon found this: “Introverted people make their own energy and, rather than taking it from others, give it on social contact. This means that they naturally find most interaction exhausting and need time to recharge.”

As I read this my eyes got wide, and I started to point frantically at the screen and hoot in an unintelligible manner. It explained a lot of things, especially my not wanting to talk to, or make eye contact with, anybody ever, along with my nearly-overwhelming desire to never leave the house unless it’s actively on fire.

But that wasn’t all. It explained a whole lot more, including, but not limited to, the following:

1.) Sometimes on a Saturday, it’ll be around 8:00 pm and I’ll realize that I haven’t talked out loud since sometime on Friday. At this point, realizing that it’s been a near-perfect day, I’ll execute an enthusiastic fist pump and yell, “Yes!!” (Except since I haven’t talked all day, it will sound more like, “Ythhhhh!”)

2.) Not that I don’t like people, mind you. Sure, I may ignore them for the most part, especially those I’m not great friends with, but it’s just that introverts are terrible at small talk, and sometimes it’s easier to say nothing at all than it is to try to come up with something that doesn’t sound completely ridiculous. (“Um… so… are those shoes comfortable?”)

3.) While I don’t go out of my way to insert myself into large crowds, I don’t really mind them, just as long as nobody is paying attention to me. However, if I were ever to be at a baseball game and the cameras panning the crowd suddenly projected my face up onto the big screen, I’m pretty sure my immediate reaction would be to go into the fetal position and whimper for several hours. (Much like what happens when I’m up to bat while playing softball and I notice that the entire other team is looking directly at me from their defensive positions.)

4.) If it were up to me, spotlights would be banned.

5.) While at a large social gathering, I generally find myself annoyed by whoever had taken up the mantle of Life Of The Party. From a dark corner I’ll be thinking, “Who does he think he is, being entertaining and generally making this an enjoyable experience for everybody involved??!!”

6.) During said large social gathering, as I hide in a dark corner and get more and more annoyed, I tend to take on the characteristics of a statue, although usually a bit less animated. However, the smaller the crowd is at a given social gathering, the more interactive I get, to the point where if it's ever made up of only a handful of people, I actually become quite rambunctious. (Side note: “rambunctious” is now one of my favorite words.)

7.) Also, when I’m by myself I’m basically the most fun person on the face of the earth, although you’re just going to have to trust me on that one.

8.) In my opinion, if a social gathering has to consist of more than 4-6 people, the ideal place for it to occur would be in a building consisting of multiple small rooms, all of which hold only 4-6 people and preferably also have coffee brewing.

9.) I have no problems going on solo road trips. They’re quiet, incredibly relaxing, and there’s never any external demands on my schedule. Also, nobody will ever know if I eat an entire family-sized bag of peanut butter cups.

10.) A good day at work for me is one where nobody bugs me, and also where I don’t have to speak up during a meeting that has more than five attendees.

11.) Being on the receiving end of any amount of focused attention is bad, even if that attention is for something positive. For example, if I ever received a rousing round of applause for something, I’d most likely have no recourse but to create a distraction, possibly through the use of smoke bombs, and then run away.

12.) After I die, a best case scenario would be that I’d be buried in a nondescript location without any sort of tombstone. However, if that weren't possible, my second choice is to be buried somewhere that anybody wanting to visit me would have to first hike twenty miles over a snowcapped mountain peak, then ford several raging rivers, and finally climb over a barbed wire fence just to find my grave, at which point they’d see the following inscribed on my tombstone: “Mind Your Own Business.” (Which is also what I want the entirety of my obituary to read.)

**********

Overall, after some thought, I've decided that I don't really mind being an introvert. In fact, I like that I don’t ever have to be the center of attention, and also that it doesn’t take much for me to keep myself amused for extended periods of time. (“Hey, a book! My weekend is planned! And also possibly March!”) It keeps things pretty simple, and I’m a big believer in simple.

In closing, I'd like to offer my sincerest apologies to anybody I’ve ever ignored for what seemed to be no good reason at all. You probably thought that I was just being a jerk, but most likely I’d already expended too much energy on being social and was “charging my batteries.”

Now, with that being said, go away and leave me alone. I’m exhausted.

How true.

The Time I Booed Garth Brooks

It’s not often that one is given the chance to heartily boo a country music icon, so when the chance came up, I quickly joined in with the rest of the crowd, adding to the soaring crescendo of displeasure that filled the expanses of the arena.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, so let’s jump back a bit to about two hours prior, or roughly 8:27 pm. The location was the Target Center in Minneapolis, and along with thousands of others, I was waiting for Garth Brooks to appear.

Now, Garth is definitely Top Three in my book (along with Merle and Strait) so needless to say I was excited. However, I was also bored, as I was sick of watching the advertisements for GhostTunes that had been playing on the big screen for about two presidential administrations as we waited for Mr. Brooks, who I was beginning to think had forgotten about the concert and was sleeping on his couch in Oklahoma, to make an appearance.

For those unaware, GhostTunes is the new digital music service that Garth has launched, and he’s definitely pushing it at his concerts. Now, I don’t know much about the service itself, but all I can say is that its logo is a little ghost with headphones who’s quite familiar looking, to the point where as I watched the stream of never-ending advertisements, I kept waiting for Pac-Man to show up and chomp it.

Everybody else waiting with me must have been sick of GhostTunes adds too, and the crowd, apparently thinking that it was still the 90’s, decided to try and get The Wave going. During the first few attempts, it died rather quickly, as one grumpy section of fans refused to participate. I watched them enviously, wishing that I could be a part of their stubbornness. (I’m very good at non-participation.) The rest of the crowd, however, kept trying, and eventually even the crotchety individuals of Section Grumpy were driven by implicit social pressure to throw up their hands, and thus The Wave made several successful circles around the arena. This was amusing for a minute or so, but soon everybody got tired of it and continued to wait in a non metachronally-rhythmic fashion until the lights finally went dim.

Garth hadn’t forgotten about us!

After a 60 second countdown on the big screen, he came out onstage amidst a tidal wave of hissing steam, seizure inducing lights, and blaring music, singing the title song to his new album “Man Against Machine.” Nobody in the crowd knew the words, and so the general response was one of mild confusion, along with a lot of blinking due to the massive amounts of flashing lights. I half expected a holographic ghost to go floating by.

But this didn’t last long, as the lightshow ended and Garth quickly dove into his catalog of classic hits, starting with “Rodeo,” followed by “Two Of A Kind.” Most of the crowd quickly joined in the singing, but I held back, as it takes me quite a while to work up to engaging in something so boisterous and flamboyant as singing at a concert.

An unexpected moment came during “The Beaches of Cheyenne,” where I noticed there were two fiddles going, which made me quite happy, since fiddles just make everything better. (Why do you think “fiddlesticks” is such a great word?)

Eventually, we got to one of the highlights of the evening, which was “The River,” during which time hundreds of glowing cell phones were held aloft, giving the arena an almost magical feel, and everybody (including me!) happily sang along. By this point we’d all been totally sucked in, as evidenced by the fact that we were soon cheering wildly and singing along to a song about grisly murder. (“Papa Loved Mama.”)

Next, Garth mentioned how he was about 110 years old, but that he’d learned to pace himself, at which point he then jumped into the frenetic “Ain’t Going Down ('Til The Sun Comes Up)” where he ran around like a maniac and climbed the spherical cage that the drummer was playing in. During this time I’m quite certain that he suffered several cardiac events, along with possibly a mild stroke, but man was it entertaining!

The concert rolled on, and soon we were again cheering wildly and singing along to another tune about grisly murder. (“The Thunder Rolls”)

Then came something else from his new album, a song titled “People Loving People,” which was the cue for about half the arena to head for the bathroom. The rest of us stayed behind, and at Garth’s instructions, we clapped and sang along to the lyrics that were showing on the big screen. (I’m not sure if they were for him or us.) Or at least we tried to clap and sing along. I’m terrible at clapping in rhythm, and after screwing up several times, I gave up and decided to instead focus my energy entirely on screwing up the lyrics, which I accomplished even though at several points during the song they were, and I quote: “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

Once everybody returned from the bathroom, Trisha Yearwood joined the party and we all cheered wildly and sung along to a song about cheating on your partner. (“In Another’s Eyes.”) When it was over, Garth stepped back and let her sing “X’s and O’s,” during which time the big screen showed clips of bloopers from her cooking show. I’m not kidding. I still don’t get it.

To be totally honest, I expected to be bored by Trisha’s part of the show, but the woman can sing, and I found myself thoroughly enjoying her five song set. I also spent part of this time people-watching, which I found to be thoroughly entertaining because the vast majority of the crowd was by this point dancing in a manner that can only be described as incredibly awkward. (“Sway left… sway right… what am I supposed to do with my hands?!!”)

After Trisha left the stage, Garth returned and soon after came another highlight, “Calling Baton Rouge,” a great song with chaotic energy. I didn’t even mind the fact that there wasn’t anybody playing the banjo. (Banjos are almost as cool as fiddles.)

Next up, “Friends in Low Places,” which is where the booing came in, although initially the place erupted into hearty cheers that lasted throughout the first two verses and chorus. After that came the break before the third verse, which is where Garth typically engages the audience for a while, just to make them have to wait for what’s going to be arguably the highlight of the entire show. During this time, he casually mentioned that during this tour they weren’t going to play the third verse, which is what elicited the loud cascade of good-natured booing. Sticking to his script, Garth reiterated the point, which meant that we got to boo him again, which was an incredible amount of fun. Finally, he gave up teasing us and launched into verse 3, and we all cheered wildly and sung along, despite the fact that the song wasn’t about grisly murder.

After a requisite performance of “The Dance,” the band and Garth left the stage, which then led to the first encore, which was “The Fever” and featured an incredible fiddle part. During this time, a long treadmill (honestly) was activated on the front of the stage, which allowed Garth to moonwalk if he went against the grain, and sent him flying if he went with it. At one point the fiddle player jumped on, zoomed across, and nearly took out the moon-walking Garth, who was on the other side. All in all, it was great fun, even though it seemed like the entire concept had been designed by a six-year-old boy whose only goal in life was to see people crash into each other.

After the song, the treadmill was shut down and the band again left the stage. We all cheered, and eventually Garth came back out by himself for the second encore. With just his guitar, he sang pieces of several lesser-known numbers before doing a bit of another new one, “Mom.” Then the rest of the band came out and I got to listen to my second favorite song of all time, “Much Too Young.” (Anybody who knows me should know what my favorite is...) The finale then came in the form of a rousing rendition of “Standing Outside The Fire,” which was a great way to end the show, at which point I couldn’t hear anymore, due to prolonged exposure to an arena full of people yelling directly into my ears.

Overall, it was an excellent experience, and I highly recommend it to anybody, although ever since then the stupid GhostTunes mascot has been constantly floating through my thoughts, to the point where I’m pretty sure I’ve been mildly brainwashed by the pre-show advertisements. Hmm….maybe if I listen to a song about grisly murder, I can flush it all out.

 

 

 

 

Update: Part 2

"If you don't have anything funny to say, don't say anything at all." - Me, a couple of seconds ago.

Yup, it's been quite a dry spell for this blog. I keep waiting to get hit with inspiration for a hilarious post, but the only thing that's been hitting me recently is the urge to take a chair nap and drink gallons of coffee. I'm not sure why this is happening. Maybe I'm training for winter.

Regardless, I refuse to pump out subpar material just because I feel like I should always be posting something, so please bear with me as I travel through this barren desert of writer's block, searching desperately for an oasis of creative inspiration, while hoping not to be drawn in by mirages of what look to be great topics to write about but which really aren't.

Together we'll get through this, but in the meanwhile, if you need me, I'll probably be in my chair, drinking coffee.

Update

I know, I know, I've been neglecting this blog. However, in my defense, I have been spending a lot of time growing facial hair.

Logic And Sports Injuries

In general, guys can be pretty good at long term thinking, but there are some areas where that just isn’t an option, such as dealing with sports injuries.

You see, guys hate getting injured while playing sports, as to them it’s the same thing as walking around with a big sign that says: “I’m a wimp! Feel free to punch me in the face!”

Now, I realize this doesn’t make much sense, as injuries are a part of life, but guys and logic sometimes just don’t mix.

Usually, upon incurring an injury, a guy’s first instinct is to ignore it and “play through,” with the worst case scenario being to pause for a moment to “tape it up,” even if that means reattaching their head to their body. Now, as you might expect through the use of common sense, this short-sighted thinking usually makes things worse, and sometimes turns minor injuries into major ones. (There’s that whole logic thing again.) However, just because I’m aware of how preposterous a guy’s line of thinking is here, don’t assume for a moment that I’m immune to it.

For example, during a recent pickup softball game, it came to my attention that my batting ability had degraded over the years to the point where a little old lady swinging a broom would have had a better chance of getting a hit. So, not surprisingly, when I finally did manage to hit a dribbler to the left side, I hurled myself out of the batter’s box with reckless abandon, determined to get a hit, although I must admit that I did briefly entertain the thought of sprinting all the way to my car so I could drive away and not have to endure the shame of lowering myself to the level of trying to beat out an infield single.

Anyway, since I’m no longer in my early twenties, and instead at an age where hurling oneself around with reckless abandon is generally a poor idea, a delicate portion of my body, best defined as the upper inner thigh, decided that it was time to go, and I quote: “POP!!”

At this point, I should have been done for the night, but like any rockhead guy, I immediately decided to “play through,” so as to not let down my team, which had been playing together for almost an entire forty-five minutes and had developed an incredibly deep bond amongst its players, by which I mean I’m pretty sure we all knew each others’ first names.

Reduced to essentially playing on one leg, I immediately became a defensive liability with a range of about one step in any given direction, and I was no better on offense, where my maximum running speed on the base paths was now comparable to that of a turtle on crutches. (In a later at bat, I somehow managed to drive one over the center fielder’s head, and even though it went all the way to the wall, I still almost got thrown out at first.)

Now, I’d like to say that the story ends here, but sadly it doesn’t, as the next night was sand volleyball night, and I don’t miss sand volleyball night for anything, as it’s easily the best sport ever invented, and missing it would be the same thing as walking around with a big sign that says, “I’m a wimp! Feel free to punch me in the face!”

However, it was only a day later and I couldn’t really jump, which, as it turns out, is a major component of the sport. Still, undeterred by facts and logic, I did what any rockhead guy would do, which was ignore all of the warning signs and play anyway.

In my defense, I wasn’t completely reckless in the matter. No, I made sure to take the time to wrap my injured leg for support, like they do in the pros. Not that it helped me to be able to walk or jump, mind you, it just made me feel like I’d taken steps to address the situation. Plus, I got to play with tape, which is always a fun thing.

Anyway, and this is tough to admit, by doing this I’d basically turned into one of those weekend warrior middle-aged guys whose body is crumbling down all around them, and who wear various braces and headbands and mouth guards, and who I always want to shake my head at and say, “Dude, give it up. Go balance your checkbook or something before you end up killing yourself.”

But it was sand volleyball night. Did I have any other choice?

Luckily, I somehow made it through without injuring myself even further, and ever since then, I’ve managed to heal up nicely to the point where I’m almost back to 100 percent.

Still, I’ve learned a very important lesson from the whole ordeal: No more mad dashes from home plate during softball!

Either that or get a little old lady with a broom to pinch-hit for me.

The Chair

If I had a bucket list, and on said list was an item titled: “Sit on a cloud,” I’d now be able to cross it off.

Yup, I got a new chair. It’s soft. It reclines. It swivels. It perfectly cradles my every ounce. Basically, it’s become the most important thing in my life, narrowly edging out coffee.

I’ve known for a while that I needed a new chair. There was an empty space in my living room that even a life-sized cutout of John Wayne couldn’t fill, and a chair seemed like it would be the perfect thing. I just never got around to it, what with all of my time being consumed with the rigors of everyday life. Finally, however, I got down to business and bought one, and, as a result, I’ll never do anything productive again in my life, as I’ll be using all of my spare time to take chair naps.

Chair naps are amazing. They make couch naps feel like trying to sleep in a dumpster filled with angry raccoons. It’s hard to explain why they’re so much better. It’s something beyond measure, something intangible, but once you’ve experienced a good chair nap, you’ll never go back to the couch. (You may even feel the urge to occasionally spit on your couch in derision.)

As you can probably see, I’m completely enamored by my new piece of furniture. In fact, I now nap even when I’m not even remotely tired. Every time I walk by the chair, I’m inexorably pulled in its direction, as if it’s whispering soothingly to me, “Come to me and rest your eyes. Don’t worry, it’ll only be for a few minutes!!” I’ll then wake up three hours later, dazed, confused, but very happy. Put it this way: I have a hard time foreseeing any future when I’m not late for work less than fifty percent of the time.

Luckily, winter will be here soon, and then I won’t feel so bad about spending all of my time there. My plan is to while away those bitter months napping, reading, and drinking coffee, sometimes all at once. I have a feeling I may even sleep through Christmas.

Let it snow!!!

On Camping

Camping is one of those things that, upon closer inspection, doesn’t make a lot of sense, mainly because it’s a leisure activity that involves giving up modern conveniences in order to make yourself miserable for several days, which, when you think about it, is sort of like looking into the sun for entertainment purposes.

Now, I’ll admit that it would make perfect sense if people went camping for the sole reason of making it so they fully appreciated their modern conveniences upon returning home. (“That was terrible! I’m sure glad to be somewhere there’s a shower and a place to sleep not covered in eighteen layers of mosquitoes!”) However, what you’ll hear when you ask around is that people go camping in order to commune with nature, which sounds like a wonderful idea until nature starts communing back in the form of clouds of bugs with the ability to lift livestock off of the ground and curious skunks with hair-triggers.

So, unless their homes have been flooded or relocated to another state by a tornado, why do people go camping?

The answer’s easy: the low standards.

You see, when you go camping, conventional social standards are immediately flushed down the proverbial toilet, leaving you free to live like their forefathers, assuming they were gigantic slobs with eating habits that would make any dentist blush.

For example, one of the first things to go is the concept of daily showers, which is replaced with the concept of wallowing in your own filth, although I’ll have to admit that several advantages, such as:

• The smell will kill the attacking mosquitoes before they can even get close.
• You have more free time to get attacked by bears.

Not that hygiene is completely non-existent. Toothbrushes and deodorant are typically still used, and I once even saw somebody dunk their head in a cooler of melted ice, although I’m not sure if it was an attempt at cleanliness or a glaring indicator of insanity.

Another standard that disappears is shaving, which is why at any given campsite most of the male population – when they’re not pretending to know how to start a fire – spend most of their time scratching absently at their jaws. Annoying itching aside, as a guy I can say that not having to shave in the morning is a complete luxury, especially for those of us who can’t wear their stubble in the real world without looking like they just got hit in the face with a dirt clod. Thank goodness anything goes when you're camping, even if it makes you look terrible!!

As you might expect, since it goes hand-in-smelly-hand with not bathing, the concept of changing clothes is also nonexistent during camping. In fact, it becomes fully acceptable to wear the same pair of pants for multiple days in a row, even if you shred them terribly during a sprint through a thicket of thorns to escape what you thought was a bear but was instead a very loud squirrel. This is a truly liberating concept, and it also frees you up a lot of time to scratch absently at your jaw, although upon the end of a camping trip, I recommend that you just burn your clothing instead of trying to salvage it.

Another big reason for camping is that food standards drop to the point where it appears that two of your main objectives in life are to contract diabetes and thicken your blood to the consistency of Burger King shakes. Simply put, “eating healthy” is not a term associated with camping, and your food must consist exclusively of either greasy meat or simple carbs. Sometimes, however, despite the rules, people will try to sneak in something else, and these rogue actions must be strictly punished: i.e. salads or other green items must be confiscated and thrown directly into the fire, although fruit is sometimes allowed, assuming that it’s eaten with something from the Little Debbie family.

Another fun part of camping is the last few meals, when most of your food is gone and you’re left cobbling together random ingredients to see what you come up with. While this may seem to be a bit disgusting, one of the mystical things about camping is that food always tastes good, no matter what it is, assuming, of course, that it’s not a contraband vegetable. For example, during my last trip, we had peanut butter and jelly saltine cracker sandwiches for breakfast on the last day, and they were delicious!

In summary: Camping means no bathing, no shaving, no clothes-changing, and lots and lots of junk food, and when it’s put like that, who really cares about a several-hundred measly mosquito bites and the faint odor of skunk that'll follow you around forever, especially when you do finally get around to taking that shower?

Umbrella

I'm now the owner of a new umbrella, and since I’ve never had one before, I’m not quite sure what to make of it.

For starters, I didn’t buy it. It was given to me by one of my employer’s clients. Also, it’s bright red, to the point where if I ever used it, it’d look like I was getting dive-bombed by one of the Angry Birds. (Or a giant, flattened tomato.)

Now, as a guy, I’ve never felt a need to use an umbrella. This started way back during my childhood, where I would refuse to carry one to the bus stop on rainy days. This was because boys back then needed to be tough, since in those days you didn’t get trophies for everything, such as taking last place, or not putting your pants on backwards for the fifth day in a row, and by carrying an umbrella I would have been guaranteed to be beaten up as soon as I stepped onto the bus, mainly by my friends, since one of the official duties of being a friend is to make sure your other friends don’t go soft on you.

And so, in order to not be beaten up, I just elected to be sick a lot, which, I might add, was totally worth it.

But now I’m grown up and living in Minnesota, where we’ve just passed spring and have entered into the monsoon season, which is defined by the fact that it’s only pouring rain when it isn’t drizzling or misting. (At this point, investing in a canoe seems like a smart idea, just so I’ll have a way to get to the grocery store.)

Anyway, an umbrella might come in handy, but unfortunately, there's still a bit of the little boy in me who doesn’t want to be a wimp and get beaten up. That part of me wants to do the opposite of using an umbrella during a storm, which would be to strip down to my underwear, stand outside, and yell, “Is that all you’ve got???!!!! Bring it on!!!”

In short, I’m not sure if I’m going to use it or not. However, I can say that I’m already glad that I have it, for two reasons: One, when it’s not opened, I can pretend it’s a sword and use it to defeat invisible bad guys, which is a lot of fun, and two, I can entertain myself for hours on end by pressing the button and opening it, then folding it back up and repeating. (“Umbrella opens up! Umbrella closes! Umbrella opens up! Umbrella closes!”)

Well, I’m not going to figure this out by sitting in front of a keyboard. I’d better get down to some serious thinking. Unless, of course, some invisible burglars have snuck in, in which case I’ve been working on a few new moves that I'm just dying to try.

Father's Day

As I’ve mentioned before, I am essentially a reserved Finlander at heart, and by this I mean that an extreme show of emotion for me would be the slight narrowing of my eyes when I’m angry, or the allowance of the smallest snicker when somebody walks into a pole while texting.

Now, while I’m generally happy with this genetic disposition, it does put me in a bind on certain occasions, such as Father’s day, where emotions are typically required that go beyond being slightly annoyed by everybody around me.

I mean, let’s face it: guys don’t do feelings well, especially when they’re reserved Finlanders at heart, and when you come upon a day where a son is supposed to show his appreciation to his father, the options become severely limited. For me, it usually means a phone call that lasts for about three minutes, during which time the most heartfelt phrase used is, “I’ll talk to you later.” (It’s heartfelt because it implies future communication, which is a form of commitment, and thus, Guy Kryptonite.)

In a good communication-less father/son relationship, the act of assuming is paramount, despite what they always say happens when you assume. (“A sumo wrestler might squash you.”) In particular, the following assumptions are critical:

• Despite never hearing verbal confirmation, the father assumes that the son appreciates him.
• Despite never giving his father verbal confirmation, the son assumes that the father knows he’s appreciated.

Personally, I can’t think of a more beautiful system! Words never even have to be exchanged, and, as a bonus, the Hallmark Corporation doesn’t get to dip into anybody’s pocket! All is right with the world!

However, being a son who likes to do more than is required, I have also implemented a system where I try to express my gratitude through the act of not doing things that could potentially lead a parental unit into thinking they failed in their job of child-rearing, such as:

• Not moving back in with them.
• Not getting arrested. (As far as they know.)
• Not going on a reality television singing show.
• Not being the guy who wanders around with a sandwich board that says the world will end tomorrow.
• Not becoming a politician.

I don’t know about you, but I really think that’s going the extra mile. Bonus points for me!

Now, you may be thinking, but here’s your chance! You have a blog with upwards of three regular readers where you could finally express your true feelings! Through the wonderful median of the internet, you could finally say what’s really on your mind! There’s never been a better opportunity! Take advantage of it!

And to that I say, are you crazy? Sharing feelings? It gives me shivers to even think about. Personally, I’d much rather go with the assumption route. It’s so much more elegant.

A Good Reason

One of the main differences between being an adult and being a kid, besides the influx of nose hair and lower back problems, is that as an adult you need a good reason for everything.

This came to mind one day when I saw a kid pedal past my house on his bike twice in a relatively short time frame, at which point I determined that he was going around in circles, which he continued to do for well over an hour.

 

Now, if you were to ask him why he was doing it, he’d probably just shrug his shoulders and say something like, “I dunno,” at which point you’d send him on his way, figuring it was better than him setting off firecrackers in the front seat of somebody’s car.

 

However, if I were to jump on a bike and ride circles around my neighborhood and say “I dunno” when asked why I was doing it, the response would probably be, “That’s weird. I’m calling the cops.”

 

You see? Adults need a good reason for everything, and even worse, they have to plan and schedule it all out in advance: “I’m working until five, then I’ll have road-rage until six, followed by a terribly unhealthy dinner and complaining about work and my commute, after which I’ll try to fix the washing machine that keeps trying to eat me whenever I walk by. Boy, I sure wish I could squeeze in some time to drive my bike around in circles, but I’d better not, because I haven’t yet filed the proper paperwork with the county. I guess I’ll just go to bed instead.”

 

Even worse, our fun must also be pre-planned and jammed into our schedules well in advance: “I can fit you in for racquetball in three weeks, from 7:30 to 8:30, assuming nothing else comes up. After that, it doesn’t look like I have any room for fun until November. Of 2017. Beyond that, my plan is to keel over from a massive stress-induced coronary, so you’ll have to look me up in the afterlife. Check with my secretary, first, though. I might be busy.”

 

However, if you’re a kid and you decide you want to spend a Saturday poking at a dead raccoon with a stick for eight hours straight, it’s completely acceptable, and even possibly encouraged: “I don’t care what you do, as long as you don’t fill up everybody’s mailboxes with pudding again.”

 

So what’s my point? That every adult should shirk their responsibilities and just do whatever they want, regardless of the possibilities? That we should live in a chaotic world of pudding-filled mailboxes and dead-raccoon-poking?

 

Heck no. Nobody wants that, even if it is chocolate pudding. All I’m saying is that we slightly relax our obsession with making people have a good reason for everything. For example, I believe that the following should be considered perfectly acceptable explanations for an adult to have done something:

 

“It was either this or finish my taxes.”

“I got sick of cleaning the fireplace.”

“I wanted to see how big of an explosion it would make.”

“I saw it once in a movie and I wanted to see if it’d work in real life.”

“Don’t worry. It’s chocolate pudding.”

 

And now, even though I don’t have a good reason, I’m going to finish with a poem that has nothing to do with anything else:

 

Roses are red

Oranges are orange

Dang, I just remembered

That nothing rhymes with "orange"

Self-Checkout

I guess this gets filed under the “live and learn” category of life.

You see, I used to be adamantly against self-checkout at the grocery store. The reasons for my stubbornness were threefold:

1.) Doing the work of the store’s employees sets a dangerous precedent.

Sure, checking yourself out is convenient and fast, but how long until that concept is stretched even further? At what point will we customers be forced to stock the shelves, unload the trucks, and perform the dreaded “cleanup in aisle five,” all while the employees lounge around in hammocks and eat grapes that we’ve peeled and brought to them on silver platters? The whole thing is a slippery slope, and I, for one, am looking at the "big picture," by which I mean I don’t eventually want to be made to pick the apples from the fields before buying them. I mean, what do I look like, a pioneer?

2.) Doing the work of somebody else robs them of important life lessons.

If everybody were to check themselves out, how would the store employees ever learn that most people are complete jerks, or at least unbelievably inconsiderate? They’d never have to put up with the individual trying to use coupons that expired in 1982 for a product that hasn’t existed in decades, or the creepy guy batting his eyebrows and using creepy pick-up lines (“Your eyes are as blue as window cleaner!”), or the businessman with a stick concealed somewhere in their anatomy who believes they are so vital to their line of work that they have to talk – and by this I mean bellow - on their phone via bluetooth the entire time? (“Let’s close the Johnson account now! I know there’s no Johnson account! I just wanted to say that, because it makes me sound important!”)

3.) Only having a twofold excuse would be pretty lame.

Threefold just sounds so much better.

**********

Pretty solid reasoning, right? However, a recent experience has changed my tune. In fact, you could even call me a self-checkout convert.

It happened one day when each and every manned checkout line was absolutely stacked, to the point where it looked like I was in the DMV, except there was bread. Weighing my principles against my urge to wait in line for eight hours, I decided to go the self-checkout route. I bumbled around a bit, but I still managed to get it done in a fairly timely fashion, at which point the light bulb went on: That wasn’t half-bad! In fact, there were some advantages to it that I’d never previously considered:

1.) No cashier to make awkward conversation with.

I’m one of those guys who doesn’t want to talk to the cashier, no matter how nice they are. That’s just my nature, right or wrong. (Probably wrong.) It just seems like every time they force conversation upon me, it ends up awkward:

Cashier: Five packages of Oreos? Are you having a party?
Me: No.

or…

Cashier: Did you find everything you were looking for?
Me: Your eyes are as blue as window cleaner.

2.) You get to make the machine beep

I’ll admit it: scanning stuff is kinda fun.

3.) Nobody will bruise your apples

This is what finally did it for me. As I gently placed my apples down on the scanner, I swear I heard a heavenly chorus break out from above.

On The Other Hand

Life is full of tough decisions, and I’m currently in the midst of making one that would probably cause all of my hair to fall out if it hadn’t already happened because of the Great Do-You-Want-Fries-With-That? decision of ’03.

On one hand, I’m sort of a mature responsible adult, and so it would make sense to upgrade. On the other hand (cue Randy Travis), loyalty is one of my strongest characteristics, and if I abandoned that now, I wouldn’t even know who I was anymore. Talk about pressure!

What I'm referring to, by the way, is my watch.

It’s a Timex Ironman, and over the decade or so that I’ve owned it – and there’s no way I can resist using the phrase – it’s taken a lickin’ and kept on tickin’.

You see, these watches are made for males in their late teens and early twenties, where the entire point of their existence is to constantly do stupid stuff, which results in their bodies, and thus their watches, absorbing a terrific amount of punishment. (“Bet you can’t run through that wall!” “Oh yeah? You’re on!”)

Now, I was no different during that stage of my life, and my watch has the scars to prove it: The Indiglo light has long since stopped working, one of the buttons has fallen off, along with a screw that helps hold on the plastic facing, and the display is scratched to the point where it’s sometimes hard to actually make out the time. (“It’s scratch o’clock. Apparently.”)

But despite its cosmetic degradation, it still runs great, and I don’t see it giving up the ghost anytime soon.

So on one hand, it feels like I should keep it as a tribute to the fact that it’s still running after all these years. Why punish something for doing its job?

But on the other hand, it’s a Timex Ironman! Does anybody even wear those things anymore? I mean, it has a digital readout! How tacky is that? I just feel that I’m at the stage of my life where I should have a nice analog watch that will help me perpetuate the notion that I’m somehow a productive member of society.

However, if I haven’t yet given up on my clock radio, why would I give up on my watch? I mean, what would it say about me if I got rid of it just to upgrade to something a little nicer and more sophisticated? Would it say, “Hey, that guy knew when it was time to move on,” or would it say, “That jerk! He'd probably upgrade his mother if it were at all possible!” (It’s not, Mom! Promise! Oh, and Happy Mother’s Day! Hopefully I remember to call!)

So, as you can see, the decision is going to be a tough one. However, I've racked my brain on the matter for several long hours, and I've come up with several possible compromises:

·        I get the new watch, and I put the old one on my mantel in the place of honor that’s currently being taken by the trinket banjo I got in Nashville.

·        I get the new watch, but I continue to wear the old one until it or me dies. (So I’d either be wearing one on each arm or doubling up. What are the chances that's currently in style?)

·        Out of respect for my old watch, I don’t get the new one, but I draw a nice analog watch on my wrist in permanent marker.

Are there any other good compromises I haven't yet thought of?

Anyway, I'm going to have to end it here. It is, after all, scratch-thirty, and everybody knows that means it's time for bed.

Excising "Like"

Recently, I bought a self-help book.

However, it’s not what you're thinking, assuming, of course, that you’re thinking it’s something along the lines of: Get Rock Hard Abs In Fifteen Minutes A Day While Sitting On The Couch Drinking Bottomless Chocolate Shakes And Eating Massive Quantities Of Buffalo Wings. (Unfortunately, that one was sold out.)

No, what I bought is titled: The Curmudgeon’s Guide To Getting Ahead. (Dos and Don’t of Right Behavior, Tough Thinking, Clear Writing, and Living a Good Life)

As far as I can tell, I bought it for two reasons:

• It has the word “curmudgeon” in it, which is one of my absolute favorite words, one that I simply can’t resist. (For example, if “The Bachelor” was renamed “The Curmudgeon,” I’d have to watch it.)
• It was being promoted by the author, Charles Murray, on the Jason Lewis Show, and it seemed like it might be an interesting read.

This book is directed at helping people who are just starting their careers out of college and have no idea what a corporate work environment is like. Now, those of you who know me will be quick to point out that “fresh out of college” is a term that hasn’t applied to me in several presidential administrations. However, in my defense, I haven’t really been paying much attention to my career as of ever, and in fact, a couple of times I’ve even misplaced it and had a heck of time just finding it again. So I figured it might be a useful read, or perhaps make a good shim if I ever have to level out a coffee table or something.

I haven’t gotten very far into it yet, but there is one section that I found very interesting. In it, the author says you should “excise the word like from your spoken English.” So you shouldn’t, like, use it for, like, no apparent reason in your, like, everyday speech, because your boss, who’s probably a curmudgeon, will think you’re, like, a moron.

And I agree. “Like” has been creeping into our collective vernacular for quite some time now. In fact, it’s gotten to the point where I just heard it being used in a (shudder) Luke Bryan country song, and it sounded absolutely terrible: (“She was like, oh my…”)

I mean, why wouldn’t you just use “and she said” instead of “she was like”?? What earthly reason is there to use “like” in that context? It's not even a shortcut, as it's the same amount of words as the grammatically superior alternative!! AARRRGHH!!!!!

(Another reason why I’m fond of the word “curmudgeon” is because I’m quickly turning into one.)

And so, based on a book and a terrible line in a song, I’ve decided to excise like from my spoken English.

It’s probably not going to be easy; I think I use it a lot without even realizing it. But still, it’s a good goal, and plus, I need something to do until that rock hard abs book gets off of back order.

Wish me, like, luck!

From Point A To Point B (or How To End Up Sharing A Roy Rogers Video)

Today, I’d like to discuss the phenomenon of how two seemingly unrelated points of a person’s life, let’s call them Point A and Point B, are actually tightly coupled, with the key to understanding the relationship being a series of in-between linking points.

Here’s an example:

Point A: My buddy Lurch shows up.
Point B: I share a Roy Rogers music video.

Now, you may ask, how could these two points possibly be related? Also, does Lurch know that you’re writing about him? And who in the world is Roy Rogers, anyway?

Well, continue reading, friend, and all will be revealed:

Let’s begin with Point A: My buddy Lurch was in town for the weekend, and I was charged with the task of trying to keep us entertained. Since we’re guys, and we hadn’t seen each other in months, we were able to spend the better part of three whole sentences getting caught up on each other’s lives:

“What’s new?”
“Nothing.
“Same here.”

After that, there was nothing left to talk about, so we fell back on several tried-and-true activities, including dart gun baseball, reading books while not acknowledging the other person’s existence, and Nintendo R.B.I. Baseball.

Eventually, however, even that lost some of its luster (especially since I’m terrible at dart gun baseball), and I had to come up with something else.

And so, that’s how we found ourselves at Goodwill, perusing the books in hopes of finding some good reading material. This turned out to be an excellent decision, as I scored several paperbacks, not to mention it ate up a lot of time looking through them all.

Once we’d exhausted the reading section, we then turned to the CDs, where I found many that appeared to be elaborate jokes. (“WWF The Music, Vol. 3”, for example, which is a collection of wrestler entrance music.) One album, however, caught my eye: a tribute album to the Eagles by various country artists, which includes Clint Black’s studio version of “Desperado.” I’d been looking for a studio version of that song for a long time, as the album isn’t available digitally, so I snapped it up.

And so, a few days later, that’s how I found myself wondering if there were any other Clint Black songs I should be listening to, which led to me perusing his back catalog on iTunes.

And so, that’s how I found myself being reacquainted with a duet he’d done with Roy Rogers that I’d long since forgotten about, titled “Hold on Partner.”

And so, that’s how I found myself remembering I’d once seen a video of that song, and also that it was purposely incredibly cheesy, which made it utterly fantastic.

And so, we finally arrive at Point B, which is me watching the video on YouTube and deciding to share it in a blog post:

See, it all makes perfect sense now! (Unless you’re still trying to figure out what dart gun baseball is.) Thanks Lurch! I couldn’t have done it without you!

What Was That Number Again?

As I looked at the keypad in front of me like I had hundreds of times before without ever experiencing a problem, I began to wonder if I’d suddenly aged thirty years overnight. This was because the following was happening in my head:

Me: All right brain, what’s my PIN?
Brain: Excuse me?
Me: My PIN? What’s my PIN? I’m trying to get some cash here.
Brain: Why should I know what your PIN is? Sheesh, you woke me up for this?
Me: But you always know my PIN! Why wouldn’t you know now?
Brain: Maybe because you’ve gotten so annoying, what with all of the continual asking for things over the years without so much as a thanks, that I just got sick of it all and sort of lost it? Ever think of that, smart guy?
Me: Um, no.
Brain: Then maybe you should. Now leave me alone. “Ice Road Truckers” is on.

And so, I walked back to my car empty-handed, having forgotten my ATM PIN for the first time in my life.

This is not a fun experience for anybody, because it’s a reminder that eventually you’ll become one of those old, forgetful people who constantly finds themselves asking their brain for information that it refuses to yield, such as:

“Where are my glasses?”
“Where are my keys?”
“Where are my pants?”
“Why am I standing in a carwash in a state that until moments before I’d believed I’d never been to?”

So, as I drove away, I was understandably feeling pretty low. However, before I’d gotten too far, a string of numbers popped into my head! My PIN! That was it! I gleefully turned around and went back to the ATM. Feeling very relieved, I confidently put in my card and typed in the code, which was immediately rejected.

Me: Um, I thought this was my PIN.
Brain: Maybe I just decided to give you your locker combination from middle school.
Me: You’re a jerk.
Brain: Pretty much.

When I got home, yet another string of numbers popped into my head, which I was certain was my actual PIN this time. I wrote them down, and even though they looked a little strange, I still felt pretty confident about it.

Now, you probably don’t need me to tell you that when I tried it the next day, it also got rejected, which basically turned me into a sobbing wreck who could do nothing but stare at the ATM, wondering why life was so unfair.

With nothing left to lose, I decided to try one more time. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, reached out my hand, and allowed my fingers to be guided by what I hoped was The Force, or at least some watered-down derivation thereof.

Suddenly, the screen changed, and I was in.

HALLELLUJA!!! TAKE THAT, STUPID BRAIN!

Anyway, it was a good feeling, and I’m pretty sure that my PIN has been burned so deep into my memory by this experience that I’ll never forget it, no matter how ornery my brain becomes.

The other good news is that I’m pretty sure the reason I forgot it in the first place wasn’t because I’d turned into an old man, but because of simple disuse. Lately, I’ve been using cash less and less – despite anything I may have said in any of my previous postings – which means that my trips to the ATM have become further and further apart, which would easily explain why my PIN had dropped significantly in the priority queue of my memory.

And so, all’s well that ends well, especially when I get a blog entry out of it.

Except I think it’s probably time to change my PIN. The website says I should do so every six months for security purposes.

{Sigh.}

HAGD. Lunboks.

If you were to ask a random person on the street if they thought their family was normal, they'd most likely scoff at you for asking such a silly question. Then they'd probably wonder why you were being creepy and asking about their family, by which point you should probably be running away.

The point is, nobody has a normal family. This is good, however, because normal is also boring. Having an interesting – which is really just a code word for weird – family is much, much more entertaining.

One of the best things about family, especially siblings, is that over time you develop little idiosyncrasies amongst yourselves that would probably make you look insane to the outside world if the outside world wasn’t too busy being insane with their own families to notice.

Example: Our family is a big Calvin and Hobbes family. We’ve been reading it for years, and one cartoon in particular has permeated our communication methodology. In it, an alien lands in front of Calvin in a small spaceship, and Calvin promptly introduces himself by saying, “Greetings, my name is Calvin.” The alien then uses his powers/technology to take on Calvin’s appearance and says, “Gritings. Ma Nam is Kahlfin.” Calvin, seeing an opportunity in the mimicry, gives the alien his lunchbox and tells him to have a good day at school, then runs off to enjoy his newfound freedom. The alien says, “Lunboks,” and when Susie later appears on the scene, tells her to, “Hoffa Gud Tay Askool.”

My siblings and I found this cartoon hilarious, and at some point we began to put addendums onto our notes and emails to each other that were basically some variation of: “Hoffa Gud Tay. Lunboks.”

If this isn’t weird enough, “Hoffa Gud Tay” has since been shortened to HAGD. So now when I read an email from a sibling and see “HAGD. Lunboks,” I barely even notice it, where to anybody else it would seem that the sender is either a terrible speller, having a seizure, or perhaps both.

The best part is, I don’t see this weirdness ever going away, no matter how mature and responsible we all become. It’s just too fun to give up, and I sincerely believe that when we’re all in old age homes, we’ll be telling each other to hoff gud tays via whatever communication standard has since become prevalent.

How awesome is that?

Also, Bill Watterson is a genius.

Lunboks.

Missing: One Blog

You may be wondering about the reasons for my recent lack of updates.

Had I run out of even the most pedestrian of ideas to blog about?

Had my laziness finally overrun my need to garnish attention via self-involved internet postings?

Had the notorious GTIB (Good Taste In Blogging) society finally gotten to me?

Was my silence part of some sort of artistic stand I was taking?

The answer to all of those questions is: Nope! The real reason for my lack up updates – and you’re going to chuckle when you hear it – is much simpler: I’d misplaced my blog! Yup, I just lost the darn thing. You see, one day a few weeks ago I was going to write a truly hilarious post about spinach when I couldn’t find my blog anywhere! In a panic, I checked all of the usual spots: under the bed, in the cookie jar, on the roof of my car, but it was nowhere to be found!

I immediately sprung into action and distributed thousands of posters detailing my missing blog. However, a week went by with no leads. By this time, I was growing quite concerned. I couldn’t bear the thought of my blog out there by itself, cold and shivering, without anybody to read it a good-night story.

A few days later, I was a sniveling wreck. (I’m usually just sniveling.) I thought of going to the blog store and getting a new one, but that just didn’t seem right. A new blog couldn’t replace the one I’d spend four years building up, with each post getting more nonsensical than the last, to the point where all of the new content not only lacked any shred of literary value, but also displayed a complete lapse of the most basic of logical thinking.

But just when I’d about given up hope, there came a knocking at my front door. I’d long since spiraled into a state of despair, where I was throwing back Mountain Dews like there was no tomorrow, and I opened the door looking disheveled and smelling like I hadn’t bathed in weeks – which may or may not have been the case.

Oh how my heart soared when I saw that it was my blog! It’d come home! I hugged it and it licked my face. What a joyous occasion, what a wonderful reunion!

And so here we are, together again, one happy family! This means that the updates should start coming fast and furious, now. Unless, of course – hey! Where’d it go?!

Yoosta Be A Yooper

 

I yoosta be a Yooper, but that was a long time ago, and occasionally I find myself wondering, just how much Yooper is still left in me?

For example, I can’t recall the last time I used the phrase “you’se guys!” That in itself is a major cause for concern.

Luckily, a rather large snowstorm just rolled through the Twin Cities, and now I feel a little better. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

This morning I was at work, monitoring the weather radar online, along with probably everybody else in the company. The Great Storm was coming. According to the online chatter, we’d be lucky to make it out of this one alive. Two inches of snow? Four? Six? It didn’t matter!! There’s nowhere else to put the snow! We were going to be buried! Mass extinction was inevitable!

The radar showed a giant blob the size of Nebraska slowly making its way northeast, on the collision course with the Twin Cities. I found this to be rather interesting, and I decided that while the online chatter was probably overblown, the storm still wasn’t something to ignore. I quickly made the decision to leave work early, before the commute home bogged down too badly. (During storms in the Twin Cities, the two preferred methods of driving are Going Way Too Slow And Then Into The Ditch, along with Going Way Too Fast And Then Into The Ditch.)

And so, just as the snow was beginning to come down somewhat heavily, I was on my way. The drive home turned out to not be very bad at all, and I arrived safely, feeling smug and satisfied with my decision.

Shortly after, however, I began to feel the nagging doubts about how much Yooper I still had in me. I mean, I left work early because I was afraid of snow!!! No Yooper does that! And that wasn’t even the worst part! I’d been watching the weather radar! In the U.P., there’s no point in ever looking at the radar. The giant blob the size of Nebraska is always there, from October through May!!!

I glanced out the window and realized that it looked like a typical U.P. winter day. And here I was, running scared!

I decided to redeem myself as best I could.

An hour or so after dinner, while the rest of the Twin Cities was holed up indoors, I put on my boots, hat, and gloves, and stepped outside. (Actually, I put on more than that.) Whoa! Things had gotten worse! The snow was moving horizontally now, and the accumulation was pretty impressive. In fact, it was looking like a worse than average February U.P. day!

Perfect.

And so, striving for some form of redemption, I went for a walk in a snowstorm for no reason, and it was fantastic. It was cold and windy and snowy and blustery and miserable and just perfect. Nobody was out and about. I had the great outdoors to myself. I was pleased to see no other tracks where I was walking, which was where the sidewalk was supposed to be. It reminded me of trekking to the bus stop when I was a kid. I turned around and walked backwards to get out of the wind. I hadn’t executed that move in several decades. As the snow continued to whip around, I began to feel better about myself.

After a while, I turned around ta go back. Dere was snow down my neck, but I didn’t really care. A little snow never hurt nobody. I kept goin’, thinking that it’d been a long time since I had pasty for supper. A couple’a cars drove by, but I don’t think they saw me. I wondered if Mr. Norm was still on WCCY, and when the last time I had Baroni’s spaghetti was. It was pretty tough going there for a while, but I soon got useta it.

‘Bout tirty minutes later, I got back home. I took off my swampers, mittens, and chook, and put them by the register to dry. I wanted a cup’a coffee, but it was too late. That caffeine stuff keeps me awake, you know, and I do hafta work tomorrow.

Anyways, I think I proved a little somethin’ tonight. You’se guys, I think I still got a little Yooper left in me!

Get Rich Quick Scheme

So I figured out how to get rich! And better yet, since I’m desperate for any sort of attention, I’m going to share my idea with you!

As with most get-rich-quick stories, this one begins at Kwik Trip. (Source: Bureau of Imaginary Statistics) I was checking out, and my total came to $8.07. This didn’t seem like a worthy enough amount to break out a credit card for, so I paid with a ten-dollar bill.

Now here’s where things get interesting: The cashier proceeded to give me two dollars in change! Immediately, my mind started spinning, and before I’d left the building, I realized that I’d hit the mother lode. (If I was a cartoon character, my eyes would have turned into dollar signs.)



 

Here’s my line of thinking: People are lazy, and cashiers are people, so cashiers are thus lazy. (Source: Associative Property Of Laziness) Now, as more and more people begin to pay for goods with credit cards, cashiers will have to handle cash much less, and when they do, especially to make change, it will become more and more of an annoyance to them. Thus, over time, they will be more likely to take short cuts, such as giving somebody $2.00 back instead of $1.93, since they're too lazy to count out ninety-three cents in change.

So my plan now is to pay for everything with cash and force the cashiers to make change. This will be a huge annoyance to them, and over time they’ll begin to cut bigger and bigger corners in my favor just to save themselves some work. Think about it! I saved seven cents today, but that’s just the beginning! Cashiers are only going to get lazier! That number is bound to go up! Pretty soon I’ll pay for a $9.99 purchase with a ten and get back a full dollar! Or even a five! It’s foolproof! Hooray for the growing culture of laziness and entitlement in this great land!

Of course, in order for this to work I have to buy lots of stuff, perhaps stuff I don’t even use, such as deodorant. And I’m not really making money on the deal, just paying less. So, in retrospect, I guess it’s more of a go-broke-slower scheme than a get-rich-quick scheme.

But what the heck, I’ll do it anyway. It’s fun watching cashiers get annoyed when they have to count out change!

Memory Prioritization (or: Huh?)

In my last entry, I took a swipe at Toby Keith, insinuating that he often sacrifices quality for quantity in terms of his music. What I mean by this is that he cranks out an album a year like clockwork, but with only two or three good songs on each. The rest are - and how can I put this delicately? - basically steaming piles of ineptitude.

But this isn’t really about Toby Keith. It’s about how my brain uses a terrible prioritization algorithm when determining what I should remember. I’ll get to that soon.

Anyway, after making fun of Mr. Keith, I began to browse some of his older albums on iTunes, as his earlier work doesn’t suffer nearly as much as his current stuff. As I did, I came across the song “Jacky Don Tucker”. This was on one of his albums I owned a long time ago. I hadn’t heard it in probably over a decade – it wasn’t a single, so they never play it on the radio – but it didn’t stop the following from rushing into my head:

“Jacky Don Tucker was my daddy’s little brother, and at seventeen he jumped the fence…”

Whoa. I was remembering the lyrics.

“He joined a rock 'n' roll band, put a tattoo on his hand, my Granny said he never had a lick of sense…”

Yup. My brain had stored the lyrics away for safekeeping, just in case an important situation ever arose where I'd need them. ("If you can sing "Jacky Don Tucker" I'll give you a million dollars!")

“By the time he turned seven started stealin' watermelons, playin' house with the girl next door…”

Now, this wouldn’t be a big deal as long as I’m also able to remember important information. However, when somebody introduces themselves to me, their name floats off into the ether as soon as it rolls off their lips, and I'm left calling them “Ace” or “Sport." This can get awkward, especially if it’s Santa.

“Drinkin' muscadine wine by the time he was nine, sneakin' out and smokin' cigarettes under the porch”

Obviously, my brain has no idea how to prioritize. For some reason, it believes song lyrics are incredibly crucial pieces of information that need to be stored away in the heavily-guarded, Fort Knox portion of my memory. Other information, however, such as my zip code, the dates of birth of my immediate family, and why I became a Detroit Lions fan, have long-since been discarded, presumably to make room for more song lyrics.

I can only presume that this extends beyond music, and that it’s also only going to get worse. Assume for a moment that I have a finite amount of memory to work with, and that it’s already been maxed out. As I continue to learn, how will my brain prioritize what to throw away in order to make room for the new stuff? Will it be something useless, or something important? Could I one day be asked for my social security number and fail to remember it, all because my brain decided that the opening monologue from the Gunsmoke radio program was more important? (“Around Dodge City and in the territory on west, there's just one way to handle the killers and the spoilers, and that's with a U.S. Marshal and the smell of gunsmoke…”)

Could I one day forget where I live, just because my brain decided it needed to hold onto a few random facts about the NES game Super Techmo Bowl? (I.E. You could only rush for 4092 yards during the season with any given player before the game stopped counting.)  

The scary thing is, if this is already happening, where am I going to be 10 years from now? Imagine if I have kids! (“Hey there, Sport!”) Heck, what about 30 years from now? My best guess is that I’ll be the guy wandering around town singing obscure jingles from his childhood but who forgot to put on pants.

Maybe there are methods to train one’s brain to remember important information. However, that sounds like a lot of work, so I think I’ll just let things run their natural course. In a worse case scenario, I won’t be able to remember where I parked my car, even if I’m inside of it, but I’ll still be able to sing “Jacky Don Tucker” in its entirety.

“He was a melon stealin', cop-a-feelin', daredevil fool
 A do-it-anywayin', playin' hooky from school
 A water tower poet class of '73, he'd say by God you better know it if you're runnin' with me
'Cause I'm skinny dippin' finger flippin' son of a gun,
Play by the rules, you're gonna miss all the fun”

I guess that's not all bad.

In Like A Lamb

Apparently, my New Year’s resolution was to be terrible at blogging in a timely manner.

Blogging is an interesting business. You’re constantly in the need for new material, less you become the owner of a blog last updated two years ago, but at the same time, you don’t want to be constantly putting out sub-par material, just for the sake of having something new out there to your name. (Unless you’re Toby Keith, of course, but I’m not going to get into that, although maybe I should…)

For the most part, my blogging is largely reactive. I’ll just be hanging around, minding my own business, when something will happen that stimulates my brain and makes me want to write about it. (“Hey! That cashier just bruised my apples! I’ll have to blog about this, and soon!”)

If I ever sit down and try to force myself to come up with something, rarely are the results satisfactory.

Now, you’d think that January would be prime blogging season, wouldn’t you? It’s cold and dark and dreary, so what else is there to do? Plus, there are all kinds of topics to be written about, such as:

The polar vortex
New Year’s Resolutions
Giving up on New Year’s Resolutions almost immediately after making them
Boy are the Pistons terrible this year

However, these are all current events, which I usually shy away from. That’s what everybody’s been talking about non-stop for the last few weeks, so why would they want to read about it here?

So that leaves me with no choice but to wait for something to happen that I want to write about, and since it’s cold and dark and dreary in the Twin Cities, and nothing is happening besides hibernation and the occasional warming up of cars, my brain has basically shut down.

And so begins the new year. We’ll see how it goes…