From The Desk Of Curly

Celebrity Awkwardness

2012-02-14T19:04:00.001-08:00

So Steve Yzerman was recently at a home Michigan Tech hockeygame, where he was either scouting or had gotten really lost and had to get outfrom the cold. From what I understand, this created quite a fuss, which isn’tthat surprising since he’s a Michiganlegend, plus in the U.P. celebrity sightings are rare, aside from possiblyrunning into Deve at Dawn at the gas station or something. Anyway, this got me tothinking about meeting famous people, and how I would be absolutely terrible atit.

Let’s say that I was at the Michigan Tech hockey game and Iwas able to meet Steve Yzerman to get an autograph. (Assuming he gaveautographs, of course.) First, it’d be weird because I wouldn’t actually want anautograph. I just don’t see the point in them. (“Hey, this guy signed his nameon a piece of paper just so I’d leave him alone! Awesome!”) Second, I wouldn't have anything to say to him, since I'm bad at small talk and don't know enough about hockey to talk serious shop. So basically I’d wait in line to meet Steve, andwhen it was my turn, I'd just politely nod and walk away.

(No disrespect intended to Steve here, by the way. I remember him playing onone leg in the 2002 playoffs. It was nothing short of inspiring.)

Now, if you think that’s bad, consider this: If I ever did havesomething to say to a celebrity, things would be even worse. For example, a fewyears back I watched George Straitin concert. It was fantastic, but if I’d hypothetically been granted abackstage meet and greet, it would have been a disaster. My full awkwardnesswould have showed itself, and I’d probably have said something like, “I wasjust watching you from a distance for a couple of hours and it was one of thehighlights of my life! I hope that’s not weird! Is it weird? It can’t be weird!Everybody else was watching you, too! But I enjoyed it more than them! Which isn’tweird, is it? Also when you sang Amarillo by Morning, I almost cried.” Thatmakes a non-autograph and a quick nod seem pretty darn good, doesn’t it?

Since I’d be horrible at meeting celebrities, one of mygoals in life is to someday have the opportunity to meet one and then ignorethem completely. Hopefully it’d be some egotistical celebrity who cravesattention. I’d walk by and not give them a second look, as if to say, “I’d stopand say hello to you, Mr. The Situation, but I have a lot of anything but thatto get done today.”

How fun would that be?

Now, in an effort to invoke audience participation, whichwill most likely fail miserably but is still worth a shot, what celebrity wouldyou most like to ignore? Hint: Carrot Top.

It Could Happen...

2012-02-09T20:17:00.000-08:00

The place: A long rectangular room with no overheadlighting, paid for solely with taxpayer money. The only illumination is the flashing of hundreds of computerscreens. Slouching before every monitor is an analyst, intently studying thedata scrolling by. Some have cups of coffee on their desks, others small meals,still others soda or snacks. The clacking of keyboards continually washes over theroom.

Analyst 1: Hey, I’ve got something!

Analyst 2: {Wheels over to Analyst 1’s desk} What is it?

Analyst 1: This blog. FromTheDeskOfCurly.blogspot.com.

Analyst 2: What about it?

Analyst 1: It hasn’t been updated in almost two weeks.

Analyst 2: So?

Analyst 1: You don’t understand. It’s updated every week like clockwork,even if the content is sub-par, which it usually is.

Analyst 2: So whoever runs it is an attention hound?

Analyst 1: On yeah. The worst kind. It’s all about quantity,not quality.

Analyst 2: And this guy’s late with an update. What do youmake of it?

Analyst 1: I dunno. But it could be something.

Analyst 2: Maybe he just got busy or something.

Analyst 1: No. He makes sure he updates each week. It’sobviously a priority with him. Look here, a few weeks ago he posted a poemabout having writer’s block. Who does that? I mean, if you don’t have somethingto say, then don’t say anything. He obviously continually posts to make himselffeel important.

Analyst 2: All right, you’ve convinced me. He should haveposted by now. Something is definitely up.

Analyst 1: The question is, what?

Analyst 2: You thinking something sinister?

Analyst 1: Oh yeah. This is the kind of guy that’s writing ablog one day and then decides to take over the world the next.

Analyst 2: Still, he writes bad poetry. Do you really thinkhe wants to take over the world?

Analyst 1: Do you wanna take the risk and ignore it?

Analyst 2: {Thinks it over} No.

Analyst 1: I thought so. I think we better see if we canfind him.

Analyst 2: Well, his name is Curly. Think it’s a ThreeStooges reference?

Analyst 1: Too obvious. It’s probably a red herring meant tothrow us off.

Analyst 2: {wheeling back to his desk} I’m gonna startlooking into this over here.

Analyst 1: Good.

Analyst 2: {After looking at the blog for a while} Wow, hemakes lots of jokes about giant slugs. Sheesh, learn to quit while you’reahead, buddy.

Analyst 1: No kidding.

Analyst 2: Hey, wait a minute! There’s a new post!

Analyst 1: I see it! I see it!

Analyst 2: Whoa. This is just about two guys talking backand forth in a room for what seems like hours. It doesn’t even make sense. Is thissupposed to be funny? I don’t get it. All right, I’m changing my mind. If thisguy has the time to write this then he’s obviously not thinking about takingover the world. Or if he is, he won’t have the slightest clue how to do it.

Analyst 1: You’re right. He’ll post just about anything,won’t he?

Analyst 2: Yup. All right, forget this. I’m going to lunch. You coming?

Analyst 1: Yeah. Let’s get out of here.

The Lines Are Open

2012-01-30T18:33:00.000-08:00

Host: Wow, now that’s why you call a blowout of a footballgame. I didn’t even know that scoreboards could go that high. Unfortunately,we’ve done all of the analysis we can here in the studio and there’s still timeleft, which means that we’re going to open up the phones for fan reaction. Thisis gonna be good, I can just tell already. All right, we have Horace on theline with us now. Horace, what hopefully rational discussion points do you havefor us today?

Horace: Let me tell you this: I’ve been a fan forseventy-seven goldurn years and I’ve seen a lot of bad things, including fourWorld Wars, three Great Depressions, jogging, and that dang remake of TrueGrit.

Host: Four world wars?

Horace: Something like that. I can’t keep ‘em all straight!

Host: Wonderful. Remind me to have a talk with my callscreener later. So, Horace, do you have an actual point, or am I asking for toomuch?

Horace: Yeah, I just seen the worst thing of all. Ourquarterback is about as useful as a nearsighted goat on crutches! If you askme, we need to play Smith!

Host: Smith?

Horace: Yeah, Smith! At least he can see a receiver whenhe’s open instead of running around with his eyes closed like the scared littlebed-wetter we got back there now! Yesiree, we need to get Smith in there assoon as possible!

Host: Um, there is no quarterback named Smith on the team.

Horace: The heck there ain’t! Ol’ Bullet Smith himself! Hecan throw a football through a brick wall and then be fast enough to catch itwhen it comes out on the other side!

Host: Did you just say Bullet Smith?

Horace: I did! What of it?

Host: He retired twenty years ago.

Horace: Retired? What are you spouting off about, sonny?

Host: He retired. Many, many years ago.

Horace: Well, even if he did retire, they should bring himback!

Host: He’s got to be pushing sixty years old.

Horace: Better than what we got now! Call him up, I say!

Host: I’ll make a detailed note of that. All right Horace, thanksfor the enlightening call. Looks like Steve’s up next. Steve, what do you havefor us?

Steve: Thanks for taking my call.

Host: Thank my producer. He keeps making me take them.

Steve: Anyway, they need to play Wilsonmore! I don’t understand why they don’t! He’s the only running back we havewith any talent whatsoever! Nobody else on that roster could break a tacklewith a sledgehammer! WHY IS IT THAT NOBODY ELSE SEES THIS!!

Host: Thanks for yelling. I was getting sick of my hearing,anyway.

Steve: Oh, sorry.

Host: And also, for the record, Wilsonis our starting running back. They put him in two weeks ago.

Steve: Really? That was Wilsonout there today?

Host: Yes. Perhaps you were yelling too much to make note ofit.

Steve: Well then they should bench him! He’s terrible!

Host: Great insight Steve. Boy, do I love my job. It makesme so happy that I didn’t follow through on my childhood dream of becoming agarbage man. Up next is Bill, who I’m sure is going to have some wonderfulinsights.

Bill: Listen, there’s something that happened during today’sgame that nobody is talking about, and I want to bring up.

Host: Wonderful. Lay it on me.

Bill: At the end of the half when they were punting to us,we should have fair caught the ball and then done a free kick.

Host: Excuse me?

Bill: It’s a rule. If you fair catch a punt, you have the opportunity to perform a free kick from that spot for a field goal. Instead, wetried to return the punt and time expired. If we’d have done the free kick, wecould’ve gotten three points, which may have been the momentum we needed goinginto the locker room to turn it around.

Host: You do realize that the score at that point was, as Irecall, 35 to 0? And you think a free kick field goal would have changed themomentum?

Bill: It might have! You gotta know the rules, and our coachobviously doesn’t! I swear, I could do better down there!

Host: I’m sure you could. On a side note, I’m quite certain that mycall screener hates me. All right, who’s next? Mike, please have somethingthat makes some semblance of sense.

Mike: This makes a lot of sense. We have to get rid ofeverybody.

Host: Everybody?

Mike: Everybody. The offensive line, the defensive line,the secondary, the receivers, the coaches, everybody! Right now. Cut ‘em all.

Host: And how would be replace them?

Mike: What?

Host: If we cut everybody, there would be nobody left. Whowould be replace them with?

Mike: Uh.

Host: Glad you thought this through.

Mike: It doesn’t matter! We gotta send a message that wearen’t going to put up with this. They’re all bums! Cut ‘em all! Cut cut cutcut cut cut cut!

Host: Repeating yourself doesn’t make your argumentstronger, but thanks for the call. It was slightly better than if we listenedto dead air. All right, thankfully, it’s time for a commercial break.Unfortunately, we still have three hours left, and the phone lines are lightingup, so we’ll be right back. My heart is just beating in anticipation. Good goshdo I love football fans who want everybody else to know just how smart theyare.

That Person

2012-01-23T16:06:00.000-08:00

A while back I was standing in line at the grocery storewhen the lady in front of me decided to pay by check. My first thought wasthis: Who still pays by check? Anyway, she extracted her checkbook and a penand began to write at a slow, methodical pace that could easily be confused bythose less attuned to the situation as the complete absence of all motion.

Meanwhile, I twiddled my thumbs.

I thought about scratching my itchy nose but didn’t, becauseI didn’t want it to be mistaken for picking.

I tapped my foot.

I thought about what I was going to do that night.

I thought about what I was going to do that week.

I thought about the last year of my life, and the highs andlows thereof.

I thought about how fun it would be to be named Conway Twitty.

I thought about the last five years of my life, and what I’daccomplished, and what I’d hoped to but hadn’t.

I thought about the world I lived in, and all of its incrediblecomplexities that one could never hope to understand unless given an incrediblylong time to do nothing but ponder.

I’d just about figured out the meaning of life when the ladyfinished writing the check. I looked up and rubbed my eyes as she handed thecheck to the cashier. Not surprisingly, the check wasn’t accepted by the cashregister, probably because the check slot hadn’t been used in several years andwas filled with cobwebs.

With the cashier’s urging, the lady then proceeded to writeout a second check, which took about as long as the first, and which was againrejected by the cash register, much to the surprise of the cashier, the lady,and absolutely nobody else. At this point the lady dug into her purse, pulledout a credit card, and said, “I guess I’ll use this.”

The gnashing of my teeth lasted for quite some time afterthat, as my brain futilely tried to conceive why the lady hadn’t just use her creditcard right away. In addition, I couldn’t help but wonder why was I always stuck behind “thatperson”? Get with the times!

This incident has been on my mind lately, and I’ve come torealize that it was unfair to get angry with the check writing lady. Nobody setsout to be “that person”. It just happens somewhere along the way. One dayyou’re doing just fine, and then you’re suddenly struggling to keep up with thechanging times and are constantly inconveniencing others with your lack ofadaptability.

Now, simply by using this logic, I’ve realized that there willmost likely come a point in time where I’ll have become “that person”.

Or has it happened already? #CueOminousPipeOrganMusic

You see, I like to pay by cash, at least when it’s a minorpurchase. I think that it’s fiscally responsible. In my opinion, always swipinga credit card can easily lead to runaway spending. By paying cash, you onlyhave a finite amount on hand at all times, and when you run out, you have tomake a conscious decision to get more, either by visiting an ATM or stealing a child’slunch money.

Sidebar: All government spending should be paid forexclusively with cash, with each sponsoring senator or representativepersonally counting it out in denominations of no greater than twenty dollarbills, taking directly from the treasury. Said government officials would notbe able to perform any other duties, such as attending swank parties, takingbribes, or lying under oath, while they were still in the process of distributingsaid cash. #DebtCrisisSolved #Brilliant!

Anyway, now I’ve begun to wonder if by always paying withcash, am I inconveniencing others? Do those in line behind me roll their eyes whenI force the cashier to count out thirty-seven cents in exact change because Ididn’t swipe my card? Do they make eye contact with one-another and give littleshakes of their heads, wondering why anybody would be so stuck in the stoneages as to still be using cash?

After dwelling on this for a while, I’ve come to theconclusion that I just don’t care, which means that I very well could be “thatperson”. This is because one of the hallmarks of being “that person” is thatyou don’t care if you’re “that person”. In fact, I view it as my right to paywith cash, and if anybody cares, they can just find another checkout line.

So from now on, I’m going to try not to get so annoyed whenI encounter “that person”. I mean, I don’t want to be a hypocrite. In fact,perhaps I’ll even encourage them. “Go ahead and write out a check!” I’ll cheerloudly if I ever find myself behind the check-writing lady again. “Do it yourway, even if it takes forever! Never compromise!” Then when it’s finally myturn, several millennia later, I’ll break a twenty and make the cashier countout exact change, even though I’ll have a credit card tucked away in my wallet.It’ll be liberating. It’ll make me feel wonderful to not be influenced bycontemporary conventions and norms. And it’ll be terrible for you if you’restuck behind me.

An Ode To Having Nothing To Say

2012-01-17T19:42:00.000-08:00

I would like to sit down and write
Something clever and smart
Something that sizzles and has some bite
Yet I can’t make myself start

So instead of something thought-provoking
I’m writing in simple rhyme
And even in that I’m pretty much choking
Dang, what rhymes with “rhyme”?

I guess this is just a classic case
Of writing with writer’s block
You’d think I’d give up and just save face
But I’m too proud to stop

I hope you weren’t expecting much more
My brain’s all lost in a fog
But hey! What are you complaining for?
This is just a stupid blog

Man Versus Shopping

2012-01-09T15:56:00.000-08:00

The sky is slate gray. The air is cool. I look out the carwindow and squint at the long, low building facing me. I feel like a ClintEastwood character just before a shootout. I half-expect a tumbleweed to rollby. The dramatic background music reaches its pulse-pounding crescendo. I takea deep breath and turn off the radio. It’s time.

I step out of the car, but I hesitate, my stomach churning. I can still turn back. Maybe I should put it off a little longer. I look atmy watch and calculate that I’m already a half-year late. This has to happennow. I set my jaw, like Clint would, and begin to walk across the parking lot.With each step I take, a sharp metallic ring rises up from my feet, slow andrhythmic.

chink…chink…chink...

I look down and kick the annoying loose soda bottlecover away. Soon, I’m across the parking lot and through the automatic sliding doors.

The fluorescent lights are blinding. The floor is polishedto a shine. There is clothing as far as the eye can see. My head swims at thesheer artificialness of it all, and I dearly wish that I was still in bed,huddled under a mound of covers, where I wouldn’t have to be so brave.

Kohl’s is a scary place.

I look down at my jeans, which I purchased many years ago.They’re the last pair I own that I can wear in public without risking anindecent exposure charge, and they’re borderline. The small holes in them that appearedmonths ago are growing larger and can no longer be ignored. The legs arehopelessly shredded at the ends. The entire pair may dissolve at any moment.This gives me the motivation that I need, and I slog onward into the depths ofthe store, ignoring my unsettled stomach. It’s man versus shopping, not a battlethat I wanted, but one that’s been pushed upon me.

I pass several Marc Anthony displays. He looks incredibly pompous,like he expects everybody to bow down before him right then and there. I want topunch the smiling cutout in the teeth, but I figure there are security cameras.

I find the jeans section. It’s huge. Luckily, I’m prepared.I know exactly what I need. I quickly find the Levi’s, along with the rightsize and style. I smile. My smugness, however, is short lived. Apparently,these jeans are no longer made in normal colors. I can’t even begin to describethe various options, besides to say they’re some horrible mixture of streaked,striped, faded, and torn, obviously designed for “hip” people who are twentyyears old and under and also apparently blind.

Minutes later I’m back sitting in my car, muttering, consumed with frustration. If Marc Anthony were to walk by, I wouldprobably hit him with my car. Still, I can’t give up. Clint wouldn’t give up. PerhapsKohl’s only has a limited selection. Using my phone, I locate a nearby J.C.Penny.

Twenty minutes later, I’m looking at J.C. Penney’s selectionof Levi’s jeans in my size and style. They’re all also horrible colors, and itbecomes crystal clear that this isn’t a matter of sparse stocking at Kohl’s.This is all there is. I begin to panic, a completely un-Eastwoodesque move, andpick a pair that’s the least unappealing, which is saying very little. I enterthe changing room, my mind still trying to catch up with my body’s clearlyderanged actions, where I then discover that the jeans don’t even come close tofitting anyway. This is perplexing. I definitely haven’t done a reverse BiggestLoser since I bought my currently dissolving jeans, so the only logicalconclusion is that Levi’s has completely changed their sizing, for the sole purposeof driving me crazy.

Time is becoming a critical factor. My current jeans can’thold out much longer.

tick…tick…tick.

Panic mixes with anger. THIS SHOULDN’T BE SO HARD! I leavethe dressing room and replace the jeans. My facial features twitch, and my headsnaps back and forth as I desperately search for a miracle that I have noconfidence in finding.

Then, when all hope seems lost, in my peripheral vision Isee what appears to be an oasis of normalcy. Can it be? Jeans, in the style I need that are also normalcolors? I run over, rubbing my eyes. IT IS!! Sure, they’re aninferior brand, but they’re men’s jeans with normal colors that aren’t made tofit like hot dog casings! HALLELUJAH!! I must buy twenty pair!!

I glide to the checkout, my composure fully regained, squintingagainst the fluorescent glare in a very Eastwoodesque manner. I even manage to ignoresmug Marc Anthony. In the battle of man versus shopping, man has prevailed.Victory is mine.

On the way home, I realize that I need dress pants.

It's Alive!!!!

2012-01-03T18:29:00.000-08:00

Perhaps it’s because I’m not what you’d call a worrier.Perhaps it’s because I’m just lazy. Perhaps it’s because it isn’t my appliance.Whatever the reason, I just don’t find it at all disconcerting that mymicrowave is either self-aware or possessed.

Let me explain. The microwave in question was one of theappliances provided for me in my apartment, and it’s recently begun to act verystrange. It all started a few months ago when it began to randomly turn itselfon. I’d walk into the kitchen and find it humming away happily, the lightinside glowing brightly. Hoping that this was somehow an advanced feature, likeyou’d find if there was such a thing as an iMicrowave, I’d look into it to seeif a mug of hot chocolate had spontaneously generated for me, but that wasnever the case, which was always disappointing. Actually, it was just the inside fan and the light that were not. It wasn't actually generating any heat. Still, after this happened a few times,I had to face the facts that I had a rogue microwave on my hands.

Now, while it was kind of neat to have an appliance that turneditself on whenever it felt the need, it was still something that I wanted toavoid, for safety and energy reasons, so I solved the problem by keeping itunplugged except when I wanted to use it.

It’s important to note that I didn’t call maintenance. Nordid I do any research to try and determine if this was a common problem withthis brand of microwave that could easily be solved. I just wasn’t thatconcerned. I actually thought it was pretty cool.

The microwave, obviously miffed at my lack of worry, then recently upped the ante. Now, when I plug it in, it automaticallystarts itself up right away, before I even have a chance to push a button, and asfar as I can tell, it will continue to run as long as I keep it plugged in. Theonly thing that stops it, besides unplugging it, is if I open the door.

I handled this new wrinkle by yawning and altering my strategy.Now I just have whatever I need nuked ready to go when I plug in the microwave.After it automatically starts up, I quickly type in the duration that I want itto cook for, even though the microwave is already semi-running, and hit “Start”,causing the timer to begin its countdown. I then wait for it to hit 0:00. Atthat point, the microwave beeps and stops heating, but still continues to run. This is my notice to openthe door and remove my food, after which I unplug the microwave until I need itnext.

No big problem. An easy workaround.

Still, I wonder if I’m being too nonchalant about this? ShouldI be more worried? I guess the reason for my lack of concern is that besidesblowing up, I’m not sure what else the microwave could do would make things anyworse, unless, of course, it gets really mad and eats me the next time I plugit in, which would be kind of awesome anyway, so I’m willing to risk it.

I guess I just find the whole thing quite amusing, and if Ifixed the problem, I’d no longer get the chuckle out of having a microwave thatobviously has other aspirations beyond doing the will of its owner. It’s kindof like Skynet becoming self-aware, except it’s not yet sending evil minionsconstructed of CGI after me. Heck, maybe it does want to take over theworld, and who am I to stand in its way?

Anyway, when it comes down to it, as long as it still cooksmy food, I don’t really care.

Plus, it’d be fun if Arnold Schwarzenegger got sent back intime to protect me.

Social Circles

2011-12-28T20:02:00.000-08:00

Left unhindered in a social situation, a person willgravitate 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, thesocializing began. After a quick cup of coffee and some random small talk, Ispied several of my young nieces and nephews sitting at a table with theirtreats, 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. Ipulled up a chair and began to engage them in a conversation both fascinatingand 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 hadbroken down into three distinct groups. The ladies were all sitting together,talking quietly. The men were all sitting together, talking quietly. I wassitting at a table surrounded by children who were either in diapers or hadjust 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 wouldhave been talking about mortgages or sump pumps or complaining that their wivestalk too much and never let them watch the game.

I didn’t want to be sitting with the women, because theywould have been talking about their feelings or how their husbands never listento them. Plus they would have figured I was a spy for the husbands and would have probablyhit 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 itinvolved playing with a doll?

These are perplexing questions, ones that I may not evenwant to have answered. So, instead I guess I’ll just look at the bright side. Nobodyelse 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

2011-12-21T19:37:00.000-08:00

So this is kind of cool. A while back I decided that itmight be fun to enter a writing contest. Using the in-depth research skillsusually associated with an inattentive high school student playing on theirphone, I googled “humor writing contests” and clicked on the first link thatcame up. It was HumorPress.com. They bill themselves as one of America’smost popular humor contest sites, offer bi-monthly writing contests. Thatsounded good to me, so I polished up a few old pieces, paid the entry fee, andsubmitted them.

The universe must have somehow owed me a favor, because Imanaged to place several times. It wasn’t high enough to make any money, but I’mstill happy. Of the pieces that placed, a couple of them were previously postedhere 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 allits worth, and I’m most definitely going to let it go to my head. For example, I’llprobably start prefacing everything I say with something like, “Well, as apublished writer at HumorPress.com, one of America’smost popular humor contest sites, I think that…”

Basically, you’re going to getreal sick of me real quick, to the point where you’re going to be hoping tohear about my car’s remote start. However, please try and bear with me. I’venever dealt with fame before, and if I say something like, “As a published writerat HumorPress.com, one of America’s most popular humor contest sites, I orderyou to peel me a grape,” just ignore me. Eventually I’ll be able to containmyself.

I would guess.

One would hope.

Maybe just buy earplugs.

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

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

Let's Wrap

2011-12-16T15:52:00.000-08:00

Lately I’ve been thinking about the holiday season, and howit comes with the keeping of many traditions, such as the tradition of EatingCookies Shaped Like Snowmen Until Your Pants No Longer Fit, along with theclassic tradition of Attempting To Find A Parking Spot At The Mall Because YouWere Once Again Too Lazy To Shop Before Christmas Eve.

There’s also the tradition of Trying To Properly WrapPresents But Failing Horribly At It. I’ve kept this tradition as far back as Ican remember. Simply put, I cannot wrap a present to save my life. When I’vefinished wrapping anything, it always looks like it was the victim of a directartillery strike. The tape is randomly scattered about, rarely even holdinganything in place. The wrapping paper is rumpled, torn, and uneven, many timesleaving gaping views of the present itself. I never even attempt such flairs asribbon or bows, as I’d most likely end up strangling myself.

I believe that my lack of present wrapping ability is partof my genetic makeup and cannot be corrected, even with complex rehabilitation.I’ve had people show me how it’s done, and it always makes total sense when Iwatch it, but when it’s my turn, everything goes terribly awry. I also believethat I’m not the only person afflicted with this problem. My guess is thatthere are many others out there like me, the vast majority of them male. (Ialso figure that most of these individuals cannot fold a shirt properly andhave serious issues fixing their beds.) So, in order to help others like meout, here are a handful of methods I’ve come up with to confront my wrappingweakness:

The Duct Tape Method – This consists of placing the gift ina paper bag and layering it with several rolls of duct tape. The purpose is tomake it nearly unopenable, which is always snicker-inducing, plus it allows forthe bypassing of wrapping paper altogether. This is the favorite method of mybrother. I’m not sure if he’s afflicted with the same wrapping deficiency asme, or if he’s just evil, but it’s his trademark. Sometimes he’ll wrap thepresent in a bag and duct tape it, and then place that entire thing in anotherbag and repeat the procedure, sometimes up to several times. He’ll then cacklethe entire forty-five minutes that it takes to tear it open. However, it is atradition, and it never gets old. For him, I mean.

The Make It Worse Method – This is when you embrace yourdeficiency and, instead of trying to do a good job, which you’ll undoubtedlyfail at, you set out to wrap the gift as badly as possible. This usuallyinvolves a large amount of wrapping paper, some tape, and a blindfold. Whenyou’re finished, the original size and shape of the item isn’t even remotelyreflected in the final product. When done correctly, anything from a digitalmusic player to a snowblower could be concealed within. The payoff comes whensomebody sees your wrap job. They automatically assume that it’s your idea of ahilarious joke and laugh at your craftsmanship, while never suspecting that ifyou’d truly tried, the finished product would’ve only been marginally better.

The Acceptance Method – This is when you simply accept thefact that you’re hopeless at wrapping. You still make the attempt, which leavesyou with what I call artillery strike presents, which you should push towardsthe back of the tree to keep from being an eyesore. On Christmas morning, wheneach recipient finally gets to theirs, they’ll treat you like a child who’sdrawn them a picture they can’t discern exactly what of. They’ll say somethinglike, “Wow, what a...uh...interesting wrap job!” and you’ll die a littleinside. I’ll admit it’s not a perfect solution, but it is the easiest.

Even if you use one of these methods, it still isn’t a lotof fun being terrible at wrapping gifts. This is why you should always keep inmind the old saying that it’s the thought that counts. Remember, a perfectlywrapped present or an artillery strike present should be viewed the same in theeye of the receiver. Still, if you want to hedge your bets, make sure you givesomething a little extra. Nothing helps your thought count more than a fewtwenties tucked away under all that duct tape.

Remote Start

2011-12-10T09:40:00.001-08:00

Winter’s icy grip has finally descended upon us, and I can’tsay that I’m thrilled. Perhaps it’s because the season tends to drag, since I’m not involved in many winter activities besides drivingaround with a hockey stick in my car and drinking hot cocoa in a heated roomwhile 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 evenoccasionally 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 mycar warmed up by the time I get out to it!”

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

“Talk about bad luck! I didn’t know it was possible to getcharged by a bear and a moose in a parking lot at the same time! What are theodds? 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 youshould be running with casts on your legs!”

I’ll also spend a lot of time telling you of all theplaces 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 mycar. Still, I hit the button, and sure enough, when I got out to the parkinglot, there it was, running like a champ! Isn’t that amazing!? Hey, where are yougoing?”

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

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

So now I’m left with only one fob, and hopefully I’ll manageto keep it out of the wash and not lose it. Still, I’m not tooworried. 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 toit, although I don’t see any reason why somebody would do that.

Anyway, let me tell you a little more about this thing. It’smade by Compustar. Unfortunately, to save money, I only got a 1-way, and not a2-way. In retrospect, I should have gone with the 2-way, and here’s why: Whenyou have a 2-way remote start – Hey! Where are you going?

What's In A Name?

2011-12-03T13:13:00.001-08:00

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

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 ofcoffee filled to the brim was placed upon it. Still, it did the job, and I wasrather fond of it.

When I moved to the Twin Cities, however, I wanted somethingnew, something modern, something to mark the new path my life was taking. I lookedaround and eventually found something that seemed appropriate. Here is thedescription of the desk I bought, straight from the manufacturer:
A bold contemporary play on the internationalarchitectural style. Like it's skyscraper inspiration, it is driven by functionwith storage drawers and pull-outs to serve contemporary office andentertainment needs and constructed of steel and glass in rectilinearproportions. Black on black glass and metal with nickel hardware highlightsbring a bit of the big city to any room.

Basically, I bought a yuppy desk built consisting of blackmetal and a glass top. If my desk were a person, it would never like the foodbrought to it at a restaurant and would always send it back. (“Do you thinkthis food is fit for somebody whose style is a bold contemporary play oninternational architecture? I think not!”) It would never take publictransportation, for fear of mingling with “common folk”, all of whom would beswarming 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 becauseit’s inspired by skyscrapers. (That should have been a tip-off for me, but Iignored it.) Also, the glass top seems like a good idea, but all it does it collectsfingerprints and dust.

Not that I dislike my desk. Who could? It has rectilinearproportions, whatever those are! Still, the whole monstrosity is basicallyunmovable, 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 filledwith pens, pencils, markers, and erasers. It conveys the idea that I’m readyfor anything, should I be hit with a burst of creativity. However, I don’t useany of them. I type on my computer, and that’s all. I don’t remember the lasttime 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 commentsabout behind its back. (“That thing mixes number 2 pencils with ball pointpens! How tacky!)

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

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

On Walking, Geese, and Implicit Contests

2011-11-26T21:10:00.001-08:00

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

Walking in Minnesotaduring the summer months is quite enjoyable, although there are a few things I needto watch out for.

Geese – Born with a sense of entitlement that all cityproperty is theirs, they like to block the sidewalks as they perform theirdaily duty of pecking the grass, leaving behind an astounding number ofdroppings, and occasionally crossing the road at an incredibly slow pace inorder to create large traffic backups. Very territorial, they hiss vehementlyat 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 flankingthe sidewalks green, they make it interesting for walkers who’d rather not comeback from lunch soaked to the bone. One way to avoid this is to just stay outof their wake, but that means walking on the road, which may not be the bestidea, since vehicles stop for geese and nothing else. If the sprinklers are ofthe rotating variety, good timing and fast running will allow one to slipthrough unscathed, although one risks twisting an ankle and going down, leavingthem helpless as they watch the line of water slowly creep towards them. (This alsomakes one highly vulnerable to pecking geese.)

Sweating – In the Twin Cities, the average humidity in thesummer is approximately 834 percent. You do the math from there. (Also, feelfree 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 peopleout 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 thatthere’s an implicit contest of will occurring to see who’ll be the last one ofus to call it quits in the face of Mother Nature.

Ever since the contest began, when I walk past somebody on thesidewalk, instead of nodding politely, I glare at them in what I hope is anintimidating manner. (It may just look like I’ve got something in my eye andcan’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 adime a dozen! You’re all bluster now, but you’ll burn yourself out halfway throughDecember!” “You call that a walking style? It’s more like shin splints waitingto 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 outwalking who are obviously not affected by temperature. I’ll be wearing ajacket, hat, and gloves, and still shivering, and they’ll be wearing next to nothingand appear completely comfortable. They are obviously freaks of nature who have,for one reason or another, become immune to coldness. It appears that these peoplecould walk around in mid-February, when it’s ten below, in a t-shirt and shortsand not suffer even the slightest of shivers. They’re my main competition, andI’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’mnot quite sure how to proceed.

For example, if I pass one of my main competitors on thesidewalk and then push them into a snowbank, hoping to break their spirit, whatexactly are the implications? Would it be ethical? I’d say yes, since I’m onlunch 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 physicalconfrontation to a tight lid on a jar. Plus, I usually only consider physicalconfrontations 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 Iwant to avoid? But, what if I pushed and ran immediately? Would that give meenough of a head start?

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

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

Road Trippin'

2011-11-19T11:52:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving is nearly upon us again, and for me, a giganticmeal, along with the resulting food coma, will be found in Michigan’sUpper Peninsula. This means that a road trip is on thehorizon.

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

The most important thing is comfort. Loose and well-wornclothing is a necessity. Road trips are not a time to get gussied up. Abathrobe would be the ultimate in a road trip wardrobe, but that’s slightlybeyond the borders of practicality, although I’m still halfway tempted to trysomeday. Being dirty is also highly recommended, since you’re going to get filthyanyway, 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 andmuch 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 mistakenfor 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 yourselfentertained, especially after it gets dark and you get bored watching out fordeer. Sometimes its fun to buy a CD on the way, just to hear something youhaven’t heard before. Value CD’s from gas stations are always good choices, notbecause the music is going to be quality, but because they’re cheap and easilythrown away. However, you also need to remember to occasionally surf the radiowaves, because there’s always of chance of finding something interesting. Once,while passing through Duluth, Ipicked up the audio from a television station and was able to listen to Jeopardy.Another time, I miraculously picked up 650 AM from Nashvillefor several hours while driving north through Wisconsin,which allowed me to tune in to the Friday night Grand Ole Opry. And who canforget listening to the traditional Native American music of Big Bear, as wedrove through the never-ending flatness that is North Dakota? Always give the radio a chance, and you maybe surprised.

One big component to road trips, at least for me, is theNever-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 thewhole 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 screwedup in concentration as I hope to hang on for just a few more moments. Then, onmy way out, I buy another coffee, simply because I’m there, and the cyclebegins anew. Yup, there’s nothing like walking out of a gas station, sighing inrelief, with a fresh, hot cup of joe clutched in your hand. Next stop, comingsoon!

Speaking of stopping at gas stations, it must be rememberedthat on road trips, calories don’t count. At least I hope not, because there’sabsolutely no way to eat healthy on a road trip. I’ve attempted it on severaloccasions, 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 multiplechocolate smears on my face, sugar coursing through my veins, and a satisfiedsmile on my lips. So do yourself a favor and don’t fight it. Road trips are tojunk food as baseball games are to horrible, mutant hot dogs.

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

Road trips are always fun for a while, but they always seemto 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 Holidaybecause of the never-ending coffee cycle. That’s why the best part is just beforeit 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 beginto relax, because you know that you’ve made it.

Oooohh yeah.

Sandwich, Dude?

2011-11-11T18:51:00.001-08:00

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

First off, this particular restaurant must have receivedgovernment 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 belongingto 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 befriendly, but also “cool”, so as soon as you get through the door, each of theemployees bellows out a welcome to you, heavily influenced by the speakinghabits of today’s youth:

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

It’s kind of like Norm entering Cheers and being heartilygreeted, except it pretty much freaks you out, and as soon as it dies down, youhave 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 manysmall tasks, each performed by a different employee to achieve Maximum SandwichConstructing Velocity. One person cuts the bread, one person puts down meat,one person puts down lettuce, one person puts down tomato, one person waitsanxiously in case anybody else goes down with a knee injury and needs to bereplaced, 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 mayhave 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 onlocation. 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 alsothat the workers don’t plan on keeping their hearing past their twenties. Afteryou sit down, you realize you can’t have a conversation without using sign language. You also have to put up with themultitudes of workers, who are all hanging around killing time, because all ofthe other potential customers were smart enough to spare their eardrums and eatsomewhere 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 ofwhatever song is playing

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

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

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

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

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

Later, dude.

No Thanks To Christmas

2011-11-07T16:26:00.000-08:00

It was no surprise to me when I heardChristmas music playing in Target on November fifth, since the retail Christmasseason seems to begin earlier each year. My initial impulse was to scream outto anybody that would listen that it is NOT, in fact, beginning to look a lotlike Christmas, judging by the absence of snow and the lack of the word‘December’ on the calendars. I passed on this idea, however, because you can’tstop commercialism, plus bizarre public ranting should be saved for Wal-Mart.

This got me to thinking about Thanksgiving and how it’s beencompletely trampled by the ever-extending shadow of commercialized Christmas.Think about it, what’s the most identifiable part of Thanksgiving? Black Friday,which is typically associated with Christmas shopping!

It’s not like Thanksgiving doesn’t have anything to offer,either. You get two days off, and the entire idea is to sit around, gorgeyourself, and watch football. That’s about as American as it gets, yet it’sstill being constantly overshadowed by Christmas. It’s as if Thanksgiving is apushover with low self-esteem, just trying to make everybody happy.

Christmas: Hey, Thanksgiving, you got a minute?

Thanksgiving: Wow! You wanna talk to me?

Christmas: Yeah! We’re best buddies, remember?

Thanksgiving: We are? Then why don’t you ever invite me toany of your parties?

Christmas: What do you mean? I always invite you!

Thanksgiving: Really?

Christmas: Of course! The invitations must keep getting lostin the mail or something.

Thanksgiving: Wow! Sorry I doubted you! I’ll have to talkto the post office about that! Now, what’s on your mind?

Christmas: It’s simple. I’ve been thinking that I haven’tyet maximized my true potential as a holiday.

Thanksgiving: That’s terrible! Is there anything I can do?

Christmas: As a matter of fact, there is. I want to use yourFriday and turn it into the biggest shopping day of the year. It would reallygo a long way to giving me some additional exposure.

Thanksgiving: I don’t know. Shouldn’t that be a day forfamilies to spend quality time together and be thankful for what they have,instead of trying to accumulate more material possessions?

Christmas: That’s what Thursday is for! Plus, familytogetherness won’t bring in any cash! You gotta look at the bottom line! We’re businesseshere!

Thanksgiving: But it seems like that would be imposing onthe spirit of who I am!

Christmas: Spirit of who you are? Really? C’mon, buddy, justdo me a solid, huh? Maybe then I’llintroduce you to some other holidays at one of those parties. You’d like to getto meet, oh I don’t know, Valentine’s Day, wouldn’t you?

Thanksgiving: Valentine’s Day?! You’d do that for me?

Christmas: For sure!

Thanksgiving: Then I’ll do it!

Christmas: Thanks, pal! Oh, one more thing, advertising forme is gonna start as soon as Halloween’s done.

Thanksgiving: What?! Won’t people forget about me completely?

Christmas: Valentine's Daaaaaay……

Thanksgiving: Well…..can kids at least still make handturkeys in school for art projects?

Christmas: I don’t know. That’s a big sacrifice on my part.They could be making snowmen out of marshmallows or something.

Thanksgiving: I guess I see where you’re coming from. Well,how about you just promise that you’ll think about it?

Christmas: All right. I’ll think about it, but no guarantees.

Thanksgiving: Gee whiz, that’s great news! Thursday's all yours! Now, when’s thenext party?

Christmas: I’ll get back to you on that.

What is comes down to is Thanksgiving needs to grow a spineand stand up for itself, not to mention adopt a new, slick marketing campaign,since you can only fight commercialism with more commercialism. It could startwith Thanksgiving carols. Here are a few titles I just made up that have thepotential to become future classics:

(Judging By The Massive Amount Of Food Being Cooked) It’sBeginning To Look A Lot Like Thanksgiving

Thomas The Red-Beaked Turkey

Have Yourself A Caloric-Filled Little Thanksgiving

Not bad, huh? Throw in a couple of TV specials, I’m thinkingalong the lines of a crime-fighting Turkeywho saves Thanksgiving from the Evil Dr. Kringle, and we’re in business!

Once this movement starts getting some momentum, it’ll bepretty easy to measure its progress. All you’d need to do is check Targetanytime during November. If you hear It’s For Sure The Most Wonderful Time OfThe Year (Way Better Than Christmas!), then Thanksgiving has most definitely gottenits swagger back.

Two Years

2011-11-01T18:10:00.000-07:00

Wow, time sure flies when you’re continually racking yourbrain to come up with comments and observations that you hope the greaterblog-viewing public will find witty and entertaining, and, if not that, atleast 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 mytwo-year blogiversary. “Celebrated” probably isn’t the right word, as I totallyforgot about it until now, roughly two weeks too late. No worries, though. I’lljust do a heel-clicker and call it good. Anyway, it’s been two years of me kneadingrandom ideas in my head until they sound feasible, followed by me giggling as Itype away furiously at my word processor, then me cackling gleefully as I hitthe ‘publish’ button, and finally me gasping and turning red as I notice all ofmy spelling and logic mistakes. (You’d think there would be a step devoted tofixing these mistakes, but I’m working on a shoestring budget here.)

On a more serious note, I’d like to thank anybody who’staken the time to read what I’ve had to write at any point over the last twoyears. I’d like to think that I’d keep doing it even if nobody read it, but that’sprobably not the case. Also, thanks to those who have taken the time to addtheir comments, especially those of you who I don’t even know. I haven’t beenvery 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 inwhich I’ve been able to discuss, among other things, the upcoming zombieuprising, Kid Rock, migrating bruises, Bigfoot, wearing a barrel instead ofclothing, and falling in love in Washington. (Hey, Peak 6 Girl! Have you foundthis 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 yearthree. 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 ofunconditional 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 greaterin-depth analysis and balanced…Ha! I can’t even finish that one!

Well, apparently I have no real goals. Still, that hasn’tstopped 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’vebegun together, boldly going where this blog hasn’t gone before, withoutforgetting what’s gotten us this far, and possibly, but not likely, even makingan occasional ounce of sense. #SuperInspiredRightNow #Goosebumps #DangThereGoesThatGoal

Hashing It Out

2011-10-29T10:18:00.000-07:00

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

However, it’s obvious that hashtags have seeped beyond simpletweeting and into popular culture, where they are now used anytime thatsomebody wants to categorize what they’ve written, whether it makes the slightest bit of sense ornot.

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

#ThrowingMyselfIntoThis. But then again, I’ve never been oneto follow current trends. (#WarningSelfCenteredRantComing) I mean, I don’twatch American Idol. I’ve never read a Twilight book (#NeitherShouldAnyGuy).Rappers are just people with silly names to me. #DizzleOrSomething. Why shouldI 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’llbe a time after. Perhaps I should just wait it out, and if somebody doesn’t acceptme because I don’t use hashtags well, then I'll just consider that person to be quiteshallow, 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 socialsituation where somebody makes a joke with a reference to them, and it'sunderstood by everybody but me, leaving me no choice but to pretend to laugh, whichI’m terrible at, all while hoping that nobody catches on to my completeignorance. #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

2011-10-22T18:19:00.000-07:00

If one were to closely examine the inside of my car, theywould 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 filledwith 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: forthe insurance company to inspect so they'll pay me money. This is because these tires usedto be on the front of my car, but had to be removed after they'd been slashedby somebody or some group of somebodys who have just made a large number ofenemies in a very short time, because they slashed not only my tires, but also thetires 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, andraising a ruckus, just like if my team lost in the playoffs because of a bad callby the official. But I’m not. In fact, I hardly got angry at all, and that’s sortof confusing. I mean, I’m a pretty mellow guy, but I have gotten angrybefore, such as the time I went to the driving range and hooked nearly eversingle shot into the trees. Why is it then, that I can get mad at golf, orplaying 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 ofvandalism?

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 mytime 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 alawn 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 inconvenienceto me, as I had two new tires on my car by lunch, thanks to insurance androadside assistance.

Still, it seems like I would be angry and want revenge. Itseems like I would set up a stealthy STING operation, where I’d stakeout my car after I’d parked it in some lonely parking lot, leaving it ripe forvandalism. I would wear all black, along with black face paint, and wait nightafter night, ingesting shocking amounts of coffee and salty snacks, until I wasable to catch the perpetrators in the act and have my revenge. (I’m not sure whatmy revenge would be, mind you, since the ability to inflict damage via physicalviolence isn’t high on my list of natural talents. Maybe I’d give them a sterntongue lashing, or just shake my head in a disapproving manner, hoping toelicit shame.)

For the record, I also wasn’t shocked that it happened, andI didn’t wonder why anybody would do such a thing, mainly because I just didn’tfind it that surprising. People are idiots, and they’ll do idiotic things. Ialso wasn’t bitter, and I didn’t think that this was proof that the entireworld is going down the drain. This is because it’s been obvious that the worldis 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 towardsthe incident, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. Still, I guess there’s noreason in trying to get myself worked up if it doesn’t happen naturally. Thatwill 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 chairand shaking my fist at teenagers is getting more tempting by the moment.

Ego Checks

2011-10-17T18:00:00.000-07:00

Life has a way of keeping your ego in check. By this, I meanthat no matter what you’ve accomplished, or how high you rank on someparticular ladder of success, there will still be times when you manage to makea complete and utter fool of yourself, which should act as an ego check and/orbalance to keep you from turning into a complete, self-absorbed jerk. (Note theuse of the word “should”. Some people, unfortunately, are immune to all egochecks.)

One of the ego checks that is prevalent with me is buyingsomething and then forgetting to take it with me. For instance, just recently Iordered a sandwich at Subway, paid for it, received my change, and proceeded totry to walk out of the store empty-handed. I didn’t realize my mistake untilthe cashier politely said, “Sir, your sandwich.” (Even though I wasn’t facingher, I could just picture her rolling her eyes.) I turned around and tried tocome up with a truly witty comment to ease the tension and deflect myembarrassment, but my mind went blank. This left me with no option but toshuffle over, red-faced and silent, grab my sandwich without makingeye-contact, and shuffle away, keenly aware that everybody standing in line wasjudging me. (“Man, he kept it together so well ordering the vegetables, but hejust couldn’t finish!”)

I don’t know what’s worse, being reminded by the cashierthat you forget the item you specifically came in to buy, or actuallyleaving without it.

Once, I forgot a large container of laundry detergent at thecheckout at Target. I realized my mistake as soon as I got out to my car, but Iwas too embarrassed to go back in and claim it. I figured all of the employees wereat that very moment having an emergency meeting where they were pointing atsecurity footage of me and laughing themselves silly. They had probably alreadycirculated my photo and posted it over their internal network for every Targetworker worldwide to see. Thus, if I were to go back into the store, or to anyother Target store for that matter, the workers would immediately recognize me,turn away, and try desperately to appear professional while attempting tostifle their chuckles. (“Isn’t that the guy who…PHHBBBTTTTT!” “Yeah, that’shim! PHHHBBBBTTT!” “Don’t look at him! He sees us! PHHHBBTT!” “I can’t help it!PHHHHBBT!”)

That brings me to my next thought: Despite my aboveparanoia, every time that I’ve tried to walk out without my purchase, thecashiers have actually been very polite in reminding me of my mistake. Thismakes me wonder, just how do they have the self-control to do that? I know I’dhave a hard time in their position trying not to succumb to sarcasm:

“Sir, I’m assuming that you’ve decided that you reallydidn’t need the dozen pizzas, along with the Oreos? For the record, I thinkthat’s probably a good idea. Wow, I didn’t even know they made Triple-Stuff!”

“Ma’am, I agree that you should leave these pants behind. Thereis no way those colors would work for you.”

“Sir, not only did you forget your medicinal supplements,but you also forgot your baby. Luckily, I see that you managed to remember yourgarden hose. It’s good to see that you can prioritize.”

Personally, I’ve decided to accept the fact that there’snothing I can do about ego checks, and that there will undoubtedly be times in thefuture when I’ll colossally embarrass myself. However, I console myself bymaintaining that keeping my ego in line is a good thing, and a natural part oflife. Still, I’ve decided that the next time it happens, I’m going to try and handleit a bit more gracefully than in the past. So, as I’m wandering off withouttaking my purchase, and the cashier politely notifies me of this, I’m going toturn around, wink, and say, with a cool, half-smile, “No, that’s for you.”

Hopefully I won’t be buying underwear.

Blast From The Past

2011-10-10T17:06:00.000-07:00

Reliving your past is not always the wisest thing to do, asit may keep you from making positive strides towards a brighter future.However, in the case of playing kickball, I just had to make the exception.

Background story: I have no doubt, and I say this without ahint of ego, having made my decision based on the non-biased recollections ofmy age-ravaged, fame-hungry mind, that when I was in third grade I washands-down the best kickball player ever. My powerful right leg was feared upand down the hallways of my elementary school, and when the snow wasn’t flying,I was booting homeruns at a clip that would make Babe Ruth himself hang hishead in shame.

My fame, however, so intoxicating, was also fleeting. Soon,my classmates and I moved on to more sophisticated games, ones that would helpour continued development into refined young adults, games such as, to pickonly one, Red Rover. (Kidding! Kidding! I mean Duck-Duck Goose.) And so, justlike that, kickball became a thing of the past.

That is, until last weekend, when I suddenly found myself playing itagain.

Needless to say, I was delighted at the opportunity torevisit my glory days. Immediately, the swagger I’d perfected in third gradereturned. My steps, so long aimless and without confidence, suddenly hadpurpose again, and I put on my ‘Aw-Shucks’ face, which was designed to make melook modest, even though behind that humble facade I was thinking that I was betterthan anybody else there, maybe all of them put together.

You may be thinking that this is a Mighty Casey story, butit isn’t. I played okay. After a couple of mediocre at bats, I found my groove,and I even managed a couple of home runs. (“Homers”, for those of you up onthe lingo.) I didn’t dominate like I’d hoped to, but I didn’t embarrass myselfeither. It was a completely run-of-the mill performance, but at my age, it was asuccessful day, especially considering that I didn’t get injured.

In addition, I did have, at least in my opinion, the most memorableat bat. It was my last time at the plate. I was feeling pretty cocky, becauseof my prior two home runs. The pitch came in perfect, bouncing ever soslightly. Like a gazelle, or some other animal that looks elegant playingkickball, I glided forward, aligned my mighty right foot, and unleashed whathad to be the perfect swing, consisting of equal parts raw power and razor-sharpcoordination.

I immediately started off into my home-run trot, making surethat my ‘Aw-Shucks’ face conveyed to everybody that I didn’t consider what I’d justdone a big deal. However, there was one slight problem: I couldn’t see theball, and nobody in the field was running. This was slightly disconcerting, butnot enough to worry me. I figured one of three things had happened:

1)      Ihad kicked the ball so hard that it had literally exploded into severalthousand pieces.
2)      Ihad kicked a line drive with so much velocity that it had already cleared thehorizon, never to be seen again.
3)      I’dgotten some serious air under my powerful blast and had launched the ball clearinto orbit, and it was already hidden above the clouds.

“RUN! RUN!”

Those were my teammates, yelling at me. I looked back, puzzled,and saw what had happened: The ball, still intact, was roughly one foot infront of home-plat, spinning in furious, tight circles, like a top onperforming-enhancing substances.

I got a single. It was pretty much a bunt. Still, it wasawesome, because there’s no way anybody else could have done it, even if theyhad attempted it for hours. I reached first with a smile on my face andshrugged. So it wasn’t a home run. Who cares? I was still playing kickball, andI had my swagger back. That was more than enough.

Tetanus Sh-aaarrrgggghhhhh!

2011-09-28T15:39:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we take things for granted, and we don’t know whatwe 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’tseem like that big of a deal, because I didn’t remember it being that bad thelast time I’d gotten one. What I failed to recall, unfortunately, was that Iwas a teenager back then, young and robust, and at a point of my life where Icould spend an entire day running into a concrete wall at full speed and sufferno adverse affects. (Not that I spent my time running into walls. At least notthat 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 staredfearlessly at the wall opposite of where the action was occurring. (Hey, it’s aneedle, and it’s going RIGHT INTO YOU!!) The shot itself barely hurt, and whenit was over, I wiped my eyes free of the accumulated tears of valor and commencedto celebrate my victory, assuming that the worst was over.

Then, shortly after, my shoulder stopped working. I couldn’tput on my seatbelt without whimpering. I couldn’t raise my arm above my waistwithout 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’vemade a solemn vow to take a moment each and every day to truly appreciate myshoulders. (This will explain if you ever see me kissing them affectionately.)

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

Mid-Blog Crisis

2011-09-22T17:15:00.000-07:00

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

Perhaps I should attempt to show all of my sides.

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

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

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

Perhaps I should speak more about some of the importantissues 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 tellyou. You’re just going to have to figure it out for yourself. But it probablywon’t be too hard. Here’s a hint:

Giant Slug!!!!!

ATM Bliss

2011-09-18T14:09:00.000-07:00

You may not be as impressed as me, as I’m quite easilyamused, but when I discovered that my bank now has ATMs that allow you todeposit your checks directly into them, I got pretty excited. As I mentionedin a previous post, I hate interacting with tellers at my bank when cashing ordepositing a check, because they’re paid to be overly-cheery, all in a thinlyveiled attempt to convince me to open up eight-thousand new accounts, all ofwith have small service charges. In fact, I used to pool up my checks for manyweeks before bringing them in, not because I was lazy, but because I wanted tominimize 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 wereshaking so much that I could barely slide my card into the slot, and I had to workhard to control my breathing to keep from hyperventilating with excitement. I managedto choose the check deposit option, stacked my checks, and fed them in. They were immediately sucked up and processed. Within a few seconds, theyhad been scanned in and displayed up on the screen for me to see, along with atotal dollar amount confirmation. I hit ‘OK’, and my deposit was done.

No long lines. No talking about the weather or my weekendplans with an annoying teller while simultaneously convincing myself thatstrangling them wasn’t my best option. (Satisfying, yes, smart, no.) Needlessto say, I was pretty happy, and if I could do heel-clickers, I would haveperformed one right there in the vestibule. (That’d be some good ATM cameraarchive footage, by the way.)

As happy as I am, however, I’m not going to let my guarddown. In the world of technology, things usually start off user-friendly and easyto use, but are then completely ruined in an attempt to maximize profits. Infact, I fully expect my ATM to soon start cheerily asking me if I’d like toopen 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, butI prefer to think of myself as a realist. Still, in the meanwhile, I’ll make sureto enjoy the small window of useful functionality before it is ruined.

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

Unwritten Rules

2011-09-10T19:32:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of unwritten rules in sports. Here are several examples.

In baseball, if you get beaned by the pitcher, you have no choice but to charge the mound, where you then posture in what you hope is a macho manner, all just to stall for time in the hopes that your teammates will rush out and hold you back before the pitcher has the chance to beat the snot out of you.

In basketball, at least in the pros, you are not allowed to simply make a basket and get right back to playing defense. Instead, you must celebrate as if you just single-handedly ended the Second World War, while the man you should be guarding gets an easy layup down at the other end.

In hockey, you must grow a beard during the playoffs, even if your “beard” looks like somebody pasted three cat whiskers to the end of your chin.

Now that you get the gist, I am here to propose a new unwritten rule for runners. Actually, it is more of an unwritten rule for anybody who encounters a runner. This idea came to me recently as I was running a loop around a lake at a nearby park. It was a very hot day, and I hadn’t been running enough recently. This led to me huffing and puffing my way around, all while pondering if passing out in the middle of the trail was a legitimate option. Anyway, as I lumbered around, I encountered a man going the opposite direction on inline skates. I was going struggling uphill at the time, which meant that he was going down. He had his hands behind him as he glided by effortlessly, appearing quite happy. There was not a bead of sweat on him, and it looked like he had never burned a single calorie in his entire existence, and had instead simply glided downhill through life. I did my best to ignore him. However, he soon came around again, and once more he was going downhill while I was going up. He looked twice as smug, as if he was thinking, “I’m sure glad I’m not the fool who decided to run in this heat! I shall have to smoke a cigar and chuckle about this afterwards! Ha ha!” When I encountered him the third time, once again while I was going uphill, he was looking even smugger, which hardly seemed possible, and I was tempted to lunge at him and push him into the bushes, even though my motor skills had degraded to the point where that was not even remotely possible.

This leads me to my proposed unwritten rule: If you encounter a runner while performing something less strenuous than running, you must pretend to be in as much physical discomfort as that runner appears to be in, just to make them feel better, and also to keep him from lunging at you and pushing you into the bushes.

I think that’s fair, don’t you? It doesn’t take much on the part of the non-runner, and it keeps the runner from going into a fit of jealous rage. A win-win situation, in my book. Plus, nobody has to try to grow a beard.

From Cracker Barrel To Peak 6

2011-09-05T16:46:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-26T20:30:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-22T17:47:00.000-07:00

“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

2011-08-10T20:37:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-07-27T17:09:00.000-07:00

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?)

2011-07-19T17:57:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-14T20:20:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-06T17:44:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-29T17:14:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-06-15T15:52:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-08T14:21:00.000-07:00

“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

2011-06-01T17:54:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-23T20:31:00.000-07:00

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.

I Signed Up For What?

2011-05-11T19:16:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-29T15:37:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-04-20T17:22:00.000-07:00

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”

Inspiration Through Coughing

2011-04-13T17:48:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been inspired by the wrapper of a cough drop? Me neither. But that doesn’t mean they’re not trying.

Let me explain.

A short while ago I developed a cough. (For those of you craving details, it was more than a simple scratchy throat, but not so bad that it blew you off of your chair if you weren’t paying attention.) So I bought a package of cough drops to allow me to make it through a day at work without sounding like I was attempting to expel a bowling ball from my lungs.

Later on, I examined the wrapper of one of the cough drops, where I saw that there were little sayings printed all over it. Upon closer inspection, I realized that they were motivational phrases, such as the following:

“Don’t give up on yourself”
“Don’t wait to get started”
“Get through it”
“Don’t waste a precious minute”
“Take charge and mean it”
“Power through”

This led me to immediately wonder what the cough drop manufacturer’s game plan was. Perhaps they envisioned a scenario such as the following:

Begin scene.

It’s a dark, gloomy room that smells like NyQuil. All of the curtains are drawn. On a nearby couch, surrounded by stacks of used tissues, appears at first to be a giant mound of blankets. However, it soon becomes apparent that there is a person somewhere within, as evidenced by the mound’s rattling cough.

Soon, the head of a person appears from under the blankets. Their eyes are half-open and unfocused, and their hair is frizzy and unwashed. They are wearing pajamas, although the shirt is on backwards, and they move with the same approximate speed and quickness as a glacier. In short, they look terrible.

The person reaches out to the end table and unwraps a cough drop with fumbling hands. With great effort, they pop it into their mouth. They then collapse, completely exhausted by the tremendous effort. However, the wrapper remains clutched in their hand, and their eyes stray down to it, where they then read the following phrase:

“You’ve survived tougher.”

After a moment’s hesitation, their eyes widen a little, as they realize that they have, indeed, survived tougher. They are then suddenly hit with an unexpected jolt of energy. Suddenly craving more motivational phrases, they keep on reading.

“Don’t wait to get started.”

They don’t know exactly what they are supposed to be starting, but it sure beats lying on the couch like roadkill! They keep on reading, faster now, a maniacal grin slowly forming on their face.

“Let’s hear your battle cry.”

They violently throw the blankets off and lurch up to their feet, howling like a dog whose tail has just been stepped on. They beat on their chest King-Kong style for a moment before charging out of the house, now sufficiently motivated and ready to take on the world.

“And it’s all because of the cough drop wrapper!!” they yell, their arms outstretched in sheer jubilation. “What a wonderful idea! I shall tell all of my friends and help to increase the sales of cough drops dramatically!!”

End scene.

Sorry, but I just don’t see this happening. (In my version, I see the sick person making it outside but then having to throw up in the bushes next to the flower bed instead of promoting cough drops to the world.) Yet, somehow, somewhere, somebody in a big office was pitched this, and they said “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” and thus, motivational cough drop wrappers were born.

Maybe I’m a born pessimist, but I’m skeptical that these sayings will help to sell a single extra cough drop. I mean, I just can’t imagine anybody ever thinking the following: “I don’t really need cough drops, but I do kind of want to see what’s written on the wrapper.”

To be fair, perhaps I’m missing the point of this all. Perhaps there’s more to marketing than coming up with a silly idea because you’re desperate and have nothing else to offer and then selling it to some corporate bigwig who only agrees to it so they can leave the meeting and get in a quick round of golf. Perhaps this campaign will have long term ramifications in terms of adjusting consumer spending habits, resulting in an explosion of growth in the cough drop industry.

Heck, I’m even promoting the cough drop industry myself simply by making fun of it. Maybe I’m playing right into their hands.

No matter how it all shakes out, though, I must say that I’ve learned an important lesson, and it is as follows: You have to take charge and mean it, without wasting a precious minute, and power through all obstacles, because not giving up on yourself is even more important then not waiting to get started.

Now let’s hear your battle cry.

Radio Exclusive

2011-04-06T17:14:00.000-07:00

Technology is all about instant gratification. In this modern world, you pretty much have access to anything, antime, anywhere. Gone are the days of waiting for the newspaper in order to get yesterday’s baseball scores, or having only one chance to watch a television show until it appears months later in reruns.

Music has been similarly affected. I used to own what seemed like millions of CDs. Some of them were good from start to finish, but too many had only a few good songs, and the rest was filler. This made it annoying to listen to them, because you’d have to either listen to the entire album, while cringing at the bad stuff, or just pop it in, listen to the two good songs, and then pop it out five minutes later.

Now, however, I can pick and choose what I want to buy, down to the individual song, and it all goes on an iPod, where I can pick and choose which songs I want to listen to, whenever I want to, with all of the filler already excluded. It’s all at my fingertips. No more clutter. Instant gratification.

But there’s a small exception to this, and it’s a wonderful exception.

You see, there’s a small window of time from when a debut single for an album comes out to when it’s available for purchase on the internet. In that timeframe, the only real place to hear it is on the radio, and, for that short while, you have no control over when you’ll be able to listen to it.

At times this seems annoying, but isn’t that how you want it to be? Put it this way: When is a song the most fresh and exciting? When it first comes out, of course. Add onto that the fact that you don’t have instant access to it, and it makes it incredibly enjoyable when it does come on the radio.

(Plus, you may not even be able to listen the entire song. You could switch over from another station and just catch the very end, which is probably worse than not hearing it at all. Better luck next time!)

This only applies to the first single off of an album, making it a rare event. By the time the second single has been released the album is normally already for sale, and, if you like the artist, you’ve already purchased it and heard the “new” song. So, you really only get this chance for a radio-exclusive song once an album.

Take the song ‘Old Alabama’, by Brad Paisley. It’s actually the second single off of an upcoming album, but the album still hasn’t been released. I really dig the song, and what’s fun about it is that it’s not on my iPod, so the only time I get to hear it is on the radio in my car. So, for the time being, it’s quite elusive, and that makes it that much more enjoyable when I do actually hear it. Up goes the volume. The window may roll down. I may even have to help out with the vocals a little.

Soon I’ll have the ability to purchase the song, which I’ll do with several greedy clicks of the mouse. Then, a short time later, it have been lost amidst the sea of music on my iPod. Sure, it’ll still be fun to hear, but not nearly as much so as hearing it on the radio when that was the only place where it was available.

It kind of makes me want to go for a drive.

Parking Lot Etiquette

2011-04-02T15:55:00.000-07:00

I need your opinion. It’s pretty important, because it’ll determine whether I’m a highly unstable lunatic or just the victim of somebody who knows nothing about parking their car.

It goes like this: At work there’s a parking lot. In this parking lot there are multiple rows of parking spaces. Each row consists of two levels of parking, like just about every other parking lot in existence. Now, I have my typical parking spot in a certain row. I pull through the first parking spot up into the second, which is closest to the building. This leaves my car facing out of the row, which keeps me from having to back out when I leave in the afternoon.

With me so far?

The problem is that sometimes there's a guy who gets there before me. You’re probably thinking that he takes my spot, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes the spot directly behind my spot, which means that he doesn’t pull all the way through, like I do. That leaves my spot open, but I’m now left with two annoying ways of getting in and out: I can either back in, so I can pull directly out in the afternoon, or I can pull in, leaving me facing his vehicle and making it so that I have to back out in the afternoon. (If I beat him to my spot, I don’t have to do any backing up.)

This may not seem like a big issue to you, but it drives me absolutely bonkers. Why would somebody not pull all the way through and take my spot? Why stop in the first spot? Not only does it screw up my plans, but it also virtually guarantees that he also has to back up when he leaves!!!!! AAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

The worst is when this guy pulls into the parking lot just ahead of me, because I can see it all happen right before my eyes. I’m pretty certain that a vein starts to pulsate in my head and my face turns completely red. I probably white-knuckle the steering wheel and grind my teeth so hard that puffs of enamel fill the air. I then watch helplessly as the guy defies all logic and stops in the first parking spot. I’m pretty certain he then walks into the building, whistling happily, totally oblivious to what has just occurred.

Now, you may be wondering why this is a big deal. Surely I could use the parking spot right next to my usual one with there being no tangible difference to me. The answer is that I could, and I usually do, but it’s the principle of the whole matter that gets to me.

So, am I crazy? Am I blowing something inconsequential totally out of proportion? Should I be worrying that I may be unstable? Or is this a pretty universal response and the blame all lies with the other party?

And, most importantly, is it weird that I’m thinking of getting revenge by getting there first and stealing his crappy spot?

The Upcoming Zombie Uprising (Seriously)

2011-03-27T19:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when you’re driving home on Saturday night (or Sunday morning, as the case may be), after a good session of socializing, it can feel a little melancholy, as you realize that the upcoming week of stress and maturity is almost upon you.

However, I’ve found that a good remedy for this is to listen to unintentionally hilarious radio. My suggestion is Coast to Coast AM, where they deal with such hard-hitting topics as alien abductions, the fourth, fifth, and sixth dimensions, and, my new personal favorite, the upcoming zombie uprising.

Yup, apparently the rise of the undead is imminent. I just heard it this weekend, which was news to me. (I missed the beginning, so I don’t know when this will be. Hopefully not until after the Stanley Cup Playoffs.) But, not to worry, Coast to Coast AM had it covered from all angles. One topic they discussed was, and I’m smirking as I write this, The International Response To The Upcoming Zombie Uprising. Yes, they were actually mixing politics with zombies! It was fantastic! For example, they basically said that superpower countries would bomb the crap out of countries that annoy them, using the excuse that they were taking out zombies! Isn’t it great!?

There was also a brief discussion of our own security in this country. One of the very serious sounding commentators mentioned that it wouldn’t be that hard to build a tall fence along the border, which would allow for easy head shots of zombies, but then he added, in a very ominous voice, “but what about those who are already inside?”

From what I could gather, all of their knowledge on zombies came from zombie movies. They spend quite some time discussing one movie in particular, I don’t remember which one, and began to break it down in a very in-depth manner, including what we could learn from it, as if it had been a real-life documentary. I kept waiting for one of the announcers to start laughing and then reveal that it was all a big joke, but it never happened. They just kept talking very seriously.

By the time I got home, I kind of wanted to drive around for a while longer just to see what would come next. However, I was tired, so I reluctantly turned it off. Still, there’s always next week!

I will conclude with the following, which you can take any way you’d like: According to the Coast to Coast AM Wiki, the show attracts an estimated 4.5 million listeners every night, making it the most listened to late night show in North America.

Huh. Maybe I should really start thinking about zombies a little more seriously.

Twitter Me This (or Twittering My Thumbs)

2011-03-23T17:54:00.000-07:00

I don’t tweet, and I probably never will. In fact, I don’t quite “get” the popularity of Twitter. I mean, do I really need to know everything about your day, such as where you ate, how long you worked, what movie you watched, and how much weight you bench pressed? (“85 pounds! I’m getting my swagger back!”)

Despite my above statement, however, I’m not totally ignorant to the entertainment that Twitter can bring. Where else can you witness Charlie Sheen self-destruct in real-time? Where else can you read the grammatical trainwrecks that professional athletes pass off as sentences? (Actual example: “aight ima see wuts up”) Where else can you…uh….uh….I guess that’s it.

So, as far as I can see, Twitter is good for making fun of people who make fools of themselves with their not-at-all-well-planned-out tweets.

However, for a normal, everyday person, it just doesn’t seem like tweeting about your life would bring much to the table. For example, I fully realize that if I ever tweeted it’d be horrendously boring. In fact, here's what I think a typical day of tweeting for me would look like:

Up and ready to go! Gonna be a good day! 6:25 AM

Crap! Fell back asleep! Gotta run! 7:15 AM

At work. Probly shoulda showered. 7:45 AM

Working hard, or hardly working? :) 9:03 AM

Almost lunch time! Woot woot! 11:15 AM

mmmmmmm peanut butter jelly time... 12:02 PM

Boss says I should stop tweeting, especially in meetings. Oops! 1:17 PM

2:30 wall, dead ahead! Shoulda got some 5-hour energy! 2:29 PM

Must….stay…..awake….3:34 PM

Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!! 4:15PM

Home! Time to work out! 5:47 PM

Just woke up from a two hour nap. Ahhh.. 7:52 PM

Frozen pizza is my friend. 8:32 PM

aight ima see wuts up 8:37 PM

Lethal Weapon is on!!!!!!! Woo hoo! 8:43 PM

Time to get my sleep on! 10:37 PM

Stupid insomnia…. 2:23 AM

Wait a minute. I like this! Hmmmm.......

Furious Fowl

2011-03-15T15:27:00.000-07:00

So it turns out that using a slingshot to launch various types of birds with special abilities at green pigs that snort a lot and sometimes wear helmets is incredibly fun.

Yes, I’ve become hopelessly addicted to the game Angry Birds, along with a large percentage of the world’s population. It’s simple, yet fun, all without becoming boring. More importantly, you get to knock down stuff by throwing other stuff at it, which all males find hugely entertaining due to basic genetic programming.

I won’t go into the details of the game, as its something best discovered on your own. I will say, however, that if you ever decide to give it a chance you’ll most likely not be able to put it down. There have been several nights where I’ve found myself lying awake in bed much later than normal, feverishly tapping and swiping on my phone, all while whispering, “Just one more level, just one more level, just one more level….” (This had led to some sleep-deprived mornings at work where I stumble around aimlessly, seeing nothing but flying birds and snorting pigs everywhere that I look.)

The funny thing is that I normally miss out on fads, most of the time intentionally. For example, I’ve never listened to a song by Lady Gaga in my life, mainly because she seems annoying. I’ve also never seen a minute of Lost, nor have I ever watched American Idol. I’m also quite certain that I’ve never read a book endorsed by Oprah. (If so, I’d probably feel a little sick inside.)

But I am fully on board the Angry Birds bandwagon, even though it's wasting the vast majority of my free time. My plan is to wholeheartedly immerse myself into it so I either make it through the entire game or burn myself out trying. Only after that will I be able to resume my normal daily activities, such as eating, shaving, and wearing clothes that have been washed sometime in the last month.

But until then, I’m nothing more than an unthinking, pathetic drone, following the whims of popular culture. However, when the evil green pigs steal the plucky birds’ eggs, somebody has to step up and help the birds extract justice, and I'm just that person!

Plus, did I mention that throwing stuff at other stuff is cool?

THA-THUMP!!!!!!

2011-03-07T19:06:00.000-08:00

There’s nothing like hitting a pothole. One minute you’re calmly driving your car, by which I mean fiddling with the radio, talking on your phone, and drinking scalding hot coffee, all while steering with your knee and occasionally remembering to look up, and then suddenly, THA-THUMP!!!!!!

This is followed by a string of bad words and a glance in the rearview mirror to see just how much of your car was left behind in the crater you just ran over. After the bad words finally come to a stop, you then hope that you weren’t talking to your mother on the phone. Finally, you feel something dripping on you, and you look up to see coffee staining the entire roof and slowly draining down on you from the visor.

This is what driving in Minnesota these days is like. Potholes are pretty much the norm, much worse than anywhere else I’ve resided. Side streets are the worst, and it’s gotten to the point that, after hitting them several dozen times, I’ve committed many of these potholes to memory, allowing me to expertly swerve around them while I drink coffee and steer with my knee.

Minnesota has lost millions of dollars in state funding. This lack of money, along with the tumultuous winter, have combined to help bring about the runaway pothole bonanza. (I actually researched this fact, although it consisted entirely of me pulling up an article that I’d read a while back at work when I should have been, you know, working. I will, however, take credit for the phrase “runaway pothole bonanza”.)

There is one spot on Highway 6, as you’re nearing the intersection with 12, where it’s particularly bad. In fact, there aren’t any potholes there, per se, as much as the road is just sinking and rising so much that it pretty much resembles a sine wave. I’ve accidentally almost gotten air there several times, which would be cool if I was driving a ’69 Charger in Hazzard County, but which instead just elicits seasickness and a string of bad words. (Sorry, Mom!)

Usually I try to finish up a blog entry with some sort of snappy joke that ties everything together. However, this time I’m just going to go with a bunch of pictures of huge potholes I found on the internet:

When Cheerfulness Goes Bad

2011-02-28T17:49:00.000-08:00

One thing I’m not a fan of is forced banter. For example, I don’t see any use in the dentist asking you if you’ve planned any vacations a moment before he sticks a giant needle into your mouth. First, there’s no way you can answer, because there is a giant needle in your mouth. Second, what is the dentist trying to accomplish, anyway? Being your friend? Sorry, but when you’re sticking a giant needle into somebody’s mouth, that’s how they’re going to remember you, not by your friendly chatter.

Not that you should expect anything more out of a dentist, anyway, which is why you don’t leave them tips. (“Here’s an extra five for actually using enough Novocain this time! Awesome job!”)

With this in mind, it should come as no surprise that going to the bank is a horrible experience for me that I try to avoid as much as possible. Luckily, with such wonderful inventions as direct deposit and ATMs, I rarely have to step foot inside my bank of choice. (Think stagecoaches and the Pony Express.) However, when I do, it’s always an exercise in trying to retrain myself from strangling the teller, since they are under direct orders to engage all customers in frivolous, yet awkward, conversation.

Take my last encounter. The teller I wound up with had roughly two pounds of makeup on, and I wouldn’t have been surprised at all if she’d used a trowel during its application. In addition, her eyebrows were entirely drawn in, and let me tell you that eyebrows composed of only two dimensions are amusing, and I had to work hard to restrain myself from giggling. (I know that this has nothing to do with my chosen topic, but I don’t care. It needed to be said.)

Anyway, after taking my information, the teller cheerfully asked, “So, Isaac, do you have any weekend plans?”

For those of you who don't know, my name is not Isaac, which means that she couldn’t even read my account information correctly. Still, I managed to restrain myself and wound up in a lame conversation with her about the weekend, as she continued to work on my deposit, which must have had to pass through roughly eight-thousand satellites uplinks based solely on the time that it took to process.

When this was finally finished and I’d brushed away all of the cobwebs that had formed on me, she frowned and asked, “Do you know that you only have a free checking account with us?” This is another game they play; acting concerned and friendly, but really just trying to push more services onto you.

I wanted to say, “Yes, I am aware of this, because I was there when I came in and opened it,” but I instead took the polite route and somehow managed to circumvent the conversation before she could rope me into getting a fixed-rate mortgage or something.

Meanwhile, the next nearest teller, who was going for the Johnny Depp/John Mayer poofy hair look, was asking the elderly lady in his line, “So Mildred, do you have any plans for today?” (Her name may or may not have been Mildred.)

“I’m going shopping,” the old lady said.

“Is that why you need all of this money?”

Johnny/John then burst out into a forced laugh so loud and annoying that made me want to knock a few of his fillings loose. (Keep in mind that I’m usually not a man inclined towards violence, which should tell you something.) Also, I secretly hoped the lady would let loose with a drop-kick, but alas, it was not to be.

This is why I propose there should be a “No Small Talk” line in the banks. In this line, the tellers would not be allowed to make any small talk, and their only goal would be to turn over customers as fast as possible. In a perfect scenario, the customer would state their business, the teller would grunt once, and no more would be said as the teller proceeded to work as fast as possible on performing the transaction. Awkward but blissful silence would be the name of the game. In fact, I think that if the teller in the No Small Talk line accidentally tried to be friendly, the customer would be allowed to do something to them, such as slap them in the face or give them a wedgie. (Huh. Maybe I'm more violent than I thought.)

I would use that line all of the time. In fact, I would even consider paying a fee for the privilege to use that line.

But enough about me.

So how was your weekend? Do you have any special plans? Any vacations on the horizon? What about this weather? Don’t you wish it was warmer?........

500 Words To Glory

2011-02-23T15:37:00.000-08:00

I recently received word of a writing contest being held by some local artsy-fartsy organization. Entries had to be 500 words or less and appropriate for all ages. There were three categories: short story, poetry, and prose. More importantly, there was no entry fee.

As evidenced by this blog, I like to write, and the contest sounded intriguing. At the time of me receiving this information, the hour was very late, but I still decided to write something on impulse, just for fun. Thus, I jumped into bed, placed my laptop on my stomach, and cranked out a short story. (I can’t write poetry and I’m not sure what writing ‘prose’ means, which is why I went with a short story.)

Afterwards, I looked up more information on the contest. That was when I saw that there was a deal breaker. (Monopoly Deal pun intended, even though it doesn’t really make sense in this context.) The problem was that the winner had to read their entry at a future meeting of the artsy-fartsy group, and that’s something I could never agree to. This is because I’d probably have to wear a tie and stand around in boring circles of people, discussing highfalutin literary topics, such as symbolism or allegory or why it was that every case that Frank and Joe Hardy ever tackled just so happened to be related to whatever case their father, Fenton Hardy, was also currently working on.

(Note: Don’t mistake me for being arrogant and under the assumption that I would win. It just wasn’t worth the risk, no matter how minimal.)

So I was left with my homeless short story and two options: I could keep it stored on my computer and hope that someday it would be discovered posthumously, causing the frenzy usually reserved for when a lost recording is found by some deceased rock star, or I could just face reality and chuck it up on this blog for the heck of it.

I decided to face reality, and I will now present to you my short story. A few things about it first:

1)It has no title.

2)It was supposed to be appropriate for all ages, which meant that I couldn’t use the topic I really wanted to use; alien invasions. (Unless the point of the alien invasion was to deliver teddy bears to everybody.)

3)500 words isn’t a whole lot to work with, and it kept me from using lots of extra adjectives that would have added a lot, such as ‘mushy’, ‘horrendous’, or ‘ridonkulous’.

4)In retrospect, the short story reads like a scene out of Full House. For that, I have no excuse.

So, without further ado, here is my short story: (Warning: Abrupt tone shift ahead. Brace yourself for whiplash.)

********************

“Grandpa, why don’t you ever play?”

The old man looked down at the boy sitting on the porch swing besides him.

“Play what?”

The boy shrugged. “I dunno. Anything. Like tag or kickball.”

The old man leaned back and raised his eyebrows. “It’s for a very good reason.”

The boy frowned. “What reason?”

The old man glanced down at the boy, who was dressed in grass-stained jeans and a shirt that was sporting a new tear under the right arm. “It’s pretty complicated,” he said.

“C’mon, Gramps!” said the boy. “Tell me!”

The old man was quiet for a long moment as he looked out across the front yard and watched as several cars drove by. Then he said, “I guess you’re old enough to know this now.”

The boy nodded happily. “Tell me!”

“All right.” The old man leaned forward and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You see, there’s only so much fun that can be had in the world at any given time.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really.”

“You’re making that up!”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Then why don’t they teach us this in school?”

“What grade are you in?”

“I’m going into 1st.”

The old man nodded. “They won’t teach you that until 3rd grade.”

“Oh.” The boy frowned. “But what does that have to do with you not playing?”

“It’s simple,” replied the old man with a wink. “I don’t want to use up any of the supply of fun. Fun is for little boys and girls during summer vacation, not for old men who’ve already had more than their fair share.”

“But who keeps track of all of the fun? And why is there only so much to use?”

“Sorry,” the old man replied, “but you have to wait until high school to learn that.”

The boy nodded sadly. “Oh.”

“But you know what this means, right?”

“No.”

“It means you need to make sure you’re getting your fair share of the fun now, since you’re a kid.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

The boy was quiet for a minute. He looked out across the yard, his face wrinkled up in thought. Then he looked up to the old man and said, “I have an idea!”

The old man looked amused. “What’s that?”

“Let’s share my fun, just for today.”

“Share the fun?”

“Sure, I don’t need it all! I can go to bed a little earlier.”

The old man looked perplexed for a moment. Then he chuckled and asked, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The old man put his hands on his knees and then slowly stood up. “I guess we can give it a shot.”

The boy laughed. “Great!”

“So what’ll it be?”

“I have a ball and a glove. Let’s play catch!”

The old man smiled. “Sounds good. But just for a little while. I don’t want to use up all of your fun.”

“It’ll be worth it,” said the boy, and he turned and ran into the house to ask his mother where his glove was.

The Literature vs Cinema Brouhaha: Taking Sides (Kinda)

2011-02-16T15:37:00.000-08:00

Don’t you get annoyed by those snooty, uppity people who always claim that, between a book and a movie, the book is always way better?

You know the person. You’ll mention to them that you like the movie ‘Shooter', and they’ll immediately ask if you’ve read the book it was based on. When you tell them no, they’ll frown at you and shake their head sadly, as if you’re nothing more then a genetic accident who is so far beyond having the ability to form an intelligent thought that there’s no point in extending the conversation beyond what is considered polite and proper. Then, with an all-knowing-and-extremely-condescending look in their eyes, they’ll say, “The movie was good, but the book was better.”

We get it. You can read. It makes you sophisticated and intelligent. We’re so happy for you!

Okay, now that we’re all on the same page, it’s time for a shocking plot twist: I’m one of those snooty, uppity people!

Well, most of the time. I will admit that there have been times when I've liked the movie better. Take, for example, The Lord Of The Rings, where the books are filled with millions of characters with ridiculous names that can’t be spelled or pronounced, like Isildur. This leads to you constantly thumbing back to figure out if the person you’re currently reading about is just being introduced or if that happened fifteen pages back, although it doesn’t really matter because they inevitably will end up having no discernable impact on the plot whatsoever.

So I guess I’m not quite one of those people, and, in the interest of full disclosure, I should say that my philosophy is as follows: given the choice, I’ll always read the book first.

I got to thinking about this when I happened upon a display at Barnes & Nobles where they were selling True Grit. This has just been released as a movie (again) so the book is now being pushed to try and capitalize on the renewed popularity. I’ve been planning to watch the movie eventually, but as soon as I saw the book, I knew that I had to read it first.

This is my thought process behind my choice to start with the book and end with the movie:

1) Reading the book is much more of a time investment, so I’d rather be experiencing everything for the first time when I’m reading it.
2) When you watch the movie afterwards, even though you know basically what’s going to happen, you still get to enjoy the visuals, special effects, and music.
3) I’m kind of snooty and uppity.

Now, there is another category to consider here: When both the book and the movie are horrible and nobody should be exposed to either, unless it is being used as a form of torture to extract information from terrorists. One recently popular book series that has been turned into a string of movies immediately comes to mind. However, since I don’t want to be blacklisted by the entire female population of the earth, I’m going to stop here before I get into too much trouble.

Fitting In, Minnesota Style

2011-02-10T17:22:00.000-08:00

I’m pretty certain that I now fall into the category of “poser”.

This is because I recently bought a hockey stick. Now, anybody who knows me is most likely consumed in a raging fit of mirth right now, considering that my hockey skills begin and end with me watching the Red Wings in the playoffs. Up until recently, the only reason for me to buy a hockey stick would have been to fend off vampire bats, although the small chance of that actually happening had kept me from doing so.

However, now I play boot hockey, because that’s what we do in Minnesota. The logic behind this is that when its -10 degrees, what else is there to do but run around outside waving a hockey stick and risking having your sweat freeze, which can then transform you into a living ice statue?

(No, I don’t play real hockey. I’ve never gotten past the “run into the boards” method of stopping while on skates.)

When getting my stick, my goal (har!) was to buy the cheapest one possible. I went down to a sporting goods store and started poking around, doing my best to look like I had a clue as to what I was looking at. Unfortunately, I couldn’t buy the cheapest stick, because it was branded with the name Sidney Crosby. As a Detroit Red Wings fan, there is no way I can be caught with anything that has his name on it. (Another stipulation is that I must always refer to him as Sidney “Crysby”.) So I ended up spending ten dollars more on another stick.

But it was worth it. I like my new hockey stick. It makes me feel like I’m fitting in, and I’m always anxious to show it off. I keep in the backseat of my car, as it is then highly visible, which allows people to know that I do, indeed, play hockey, as is required of every person who resides in Minnesota. In fact, lately I’ve felt like offering rides to everybody, even if I don’t know them or if they’re going somewhere a little out of the way, such as Florida. This is because it enables me to say things such as, “No room in the back. That’s where I keep my HOCKEY STICK!” or “If you casually turn your head to the back, you’ll see my awesome HOCKEY STICK!”

As for playing hockey, let’s just say that I get exercise. However, now I’m always prepared. At the drop of the hat, I’m ready to “forecheck”, go “top-shelf”, “pinch in on D”, or “fall over awkwardly and possibly sprain an ankle.”

Plus, if I ever get attacked by vampire vats, I’m good to go.

It's Gourmet To Me

2011-02-02T17:13:00.000-08:00

Lately I’ve been having regular Cheerios every morning for breakfast, in an attempt to eat somewhat healthy. (Unfortunately, long gone are the wonderful days of Fruity Pebbles.) At first, this went fine. It’s not like Cheerios taste out of this world or anything, but that’s the price you pay for a healthy heart, or whatever else General Mills is advertising that their products do nowadays. However, after a week or two, my exuberance towards Cheerios took a severe nosedive, because you can only eat them every day for so long before they start to taste like sawdust.

Flash forward to today. I stopped by the grocery store because I was out of sawdust - I mean Cheerios. I wandered into the cereal aisle, looking for those familiar, big, bright yellow boxes, not at all excited to be doing so. I quickly spotted them, and was about to pick one out, when something else caught my eye, something tantalizing and exciting, something that brought hope to an otherwise dreary moment; a big, bright green box.

Apple Cinnamon Cheerios.

It was like in the movies when the choir sings in the background and light streams down from above as a great treasure is found. I’ve never been more excited about cereal in my entire life, including all of the times when I was a kid and I got the crappy toy inside the box to go along with my breakfast. I eagerly grabbed the biggest green box from the shelf, and by then I’d already decided that's what I was having for supper.

The red lights seemed to last twice as long on my way home. I anxiously tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, my stomach growling loudly. How long had it been since I’d had cinnamon? Too long, that’s for sure! I’m almost embarrassed by how giddy I was to have cereal for supper. Finally, I burst through my front door, and seconds later I took my first bite.

It was as good as I'd hoped for. Two bowls later, I was a happy, happy man.

Now, I understand that Apple Cinnamon Cheerios aren’t as healthy as regular Cheerios, but I also don’t care. I also know exactly what’s going to happen: I’m going to eat Apple Cinnamon Cheerios every day, sometimes multiple times per day, until I get so sick of them that I won’t ever want to see them again. The best part is that even though I realize this, I’m not going to do anything about it, like eating it sparingly so that I don’t burn out on it. Nope, I’m going to go on an apple cinnamon binge, enjoying every moment of it until it blows up in my face and I’m wishing for a nice bowl of sawdust of breakfast.

That’s what I call a plan.

Plus, there’s always Yogurt Burst Cheerios to fall back on.

Wearing A Barrel: Stylish?

2011-01-26T15:27:00.000-08:00

It’s coming.

Ominous clouds are gathering on the horizon, choking out the sun, and turning the world a sickly shade of grey. A cold breeze is snapping through the trees, whistling eerily through narrow alleyways, and causing wind chimes to play a haunting tune in a foreboding key. Streets and sidewalks are empty. All that can be heard at the playgrounds is the creak of the swings, pushed not by children, but by the wind.

A storm is rolling in. It will soon be here.

Yup, it’s almost time to go clothes shopping again, an event that will surely make my life metaphorically cold and wet. I shudder just to think about it. I’d almost rather have my entire current wardrobe disintegrate with age and then turn to wearing a barrel than buying new clothes.

I believe the last piece of clothing I purchased was a shirt at a Blackhawk concert. Before that, I believe it was a shirt at a Brooks & Dunn concert. I kid you not. However, I’m getting a little long in the tooth to wear concert t-shirts without looking like I’m going through some sort of mid-life crisis.

That means that I will eventually have to saddle up and brave a trip to some type of retail outlet that sells clothing. I usually can shop for clothing for about forty-five minutes at a time, twice a year, but that’s pushing it. This means that I have to be incredibly efficient when I go, or risk having a terrible wardrobe that will haunt me for months on end.

So far, I’ve gone with the terrible wardrobe option, and I don’t see how that’s going to change in the future. I guess that’s the price you pay for limiting yourself to one dressing room excursion per shopping outing.

They should make a clothing store that is empty except for one rack of jeans, one rack of solid-colored shirts, long and short-sleeved, and a selection of no more than two styles of generic hoodies. Then you would not be confused by a seemingly endless array of choices. There could be specials once a year where shorts, khakis, button-downs, and polos are sold. Heck, it could even have a drive-through, where you just order off of the menu like at a typical fast-food restaurant. (“I’ll take the Business Casual Combo please. You’d better super-size it. I hate to admit it, but I’m still carrying a little holiday weight.”)

I would go to that store.

But that’s just a pipe-dream, because I’m too lazy to be an entrepreneur and start one of them up, which means that I’m left with no option but to show up at Kohl’s one Saturday morning, hoping that a mad dash through the men’s section will net me something that is actually wearable.

Shudder. Anything besides clothes shopping sounds infinitely more fun than clothes shopping itself. Especially writing overly-dramatic introductions to blog postings.

“It was a dark and stormy night…..”

The Sandwich Ordering Blues

2011-01-20T17:03:00.000-08:00

So I’m wondering just what this all means. In particularly, I'm wondering what it says about me.

How’s that for a teaser intro? That’s called ‘hooking the reader.’ Actually, it may be called something else entirely. Honestly, I’m too lazy to look it up, and I just went with the first thing that came to my mind.

Anyway….

Today I stopped by Jimmy John’s, since cooking would not have fit in with my plans of collapsing after work and doing absolutely nothing but the requisite breathing.

Now, I get food at Jimmy John’s once a week, at most. One of my character flaws is that I get into ruts easily, and so it has become with Jimmy John’s, as I always order the exact same sandwich. (My excuse for this: After working all day, who wants to make even more decisions?)

Today I walked in and noticed that the cute-but-always-seemingly-angry-or-just-emotionally-detached girl was making sandwiches. I had no problem with this, as she makes good sandwiches, and I believe that everybody has the right to be annoyed with, or detached from, their job. Anyway, I was about to put in my usual order when she, totally out of character, suddenly blurted it out, complete with the holding of mayo and adding of onions, all in the form of a question.

Obviously, I had become predictable.

I wasn’t sure if she thought she was being nice or if she was just having fun. Regardless, I nodded sheepishly, suddenly feeling stupid. Then I made a crack about knowing that it would be six dollars, because that’s how I handle awkward situations, with un-funny attempts at humor.

A moment later, though, I realized that I was annoyed. More importantly, I realized that I could never eat at that particular Jimmy John’s again.

Here’s why.

I understand that I’m predictable. I’ll admit that I like knowing what’s coming. I don’t consider that to be a bad thing. However, I do have a problem when I’m basically accused of being predictable. It’s pretty much the same as saying I’m boring, and who wants to be known as Mr. Boring Guy? I mean, you never hear girls swooning over a guy and saying something like, “He wears the same shirt every Thursday! Oh my!”

As for never going back to that particular Jimmy John's, you’d think I'd have other options, but I really don’t.

If I went back and changed my order, I would essentially be admitting that I was boring, which would mean that I was desperately trying to change myself, just to gain the approval of others. Not an option.

If I went back and ordered the same thing, with the mindset of I should do whatever makes me happy, I would then be proving just how boring I am, and Same-Shirt-Every-Thursday-Man would gain just a slightly tighter grip over me. Also not an option.

So now I can’t go back, ever, ever, ever, not unless I wait for the entire staff to turnover, in which case I could start again with a clean slate.

There’s no room for debate. It’s just how it is.

Now, I realize that this whole thing is quite ridiculous. Still, I’ve already made up my mind, and I don’t think it’s going to be changing anytime soon, which is why I’m wondering what this all says about me.

Am I being petty? Should I eat whatever I want, whenever I want to, even if I’m branded as the guy who never changes his order? Long live Mr. Same-Shirt-Every-Thursday-Man!!??

Or am I justified in my anger? Should I not have to put up with insinuations of my level of boring-ness? Should I take my business elsewhere, and let pure economics take their toll, as that particular Jimmy John’s would then start to lose six dollars a week?

Or should I just quit whining about frivolous stuff and cook more?

It’s a lot to think about, and it’s going to take some time. All I know is that I won’t be thinking about it over Jimmy John’s. Those days are gone.

Gimme, Gimme!

2011-01-12T17:25:00.000-08:00

I remember as a kid going to the Copper Country Mall with my family. Each time, I assumed that I was going to get something out of the deal; namely, a toy, purchased by my parents. I also remember the first time that it didn't happen. I was crushed, going home empty-handed, as the world as I knew it had changed. It was now crueler and more hash. There may have even been a tear or two shed on my part.

High school can be so rough.

Ha! Just some misdirection age humor there! Not original, I know, but always effective.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is about windshield wipers. Really. Let me explain.

Sometime before Christmas I decided that I needed a good pair of boots for the Minnesota winter. It was a snowy Saturday, and I braved the slippery roads to drive a few dozen miles to a Fleet Farm. There were approximately eight million people milling about, all placing themselves in the most inconvenient of spots, in a conspiracy whose only purpose was to drive me insane, but I pushed through them to the footwear aisle, arriving there only slightly deranged. Unfortunately, I came away empty-handed. The only boots I wanted were not stocked in my size.

Conventional logic says that I would have just left after snapping my fingers and saying, “Oh, shucks!”

However, this is when I turned back into the kid at the Copper Country Mall who always needed a toy. There was no way I was leaving that store without purchasing something. Not after driving through the snow and slush just to get there.

So I bought windshield wipers. The problem is, of course, that I didn’t really need windshield wipers. The ones on my car were not great, and an upgrade was not the worst idea in the world, but they were still functional.

So, as you can probably guess, I never installed them. To this day they are still sitting in the backseat of my car. Sometimes I notice them out of the corner of my eye and wonder if it's sad or funny. Probably a bit of both.

I could always install them, just to try and save face, but it’s probably too late for that. Plus, my current wipers are doing okay, so the effort involved doesn’t seem to be worth the reward.

It’s getting to the point where I’m intrigued as to how long they can sit in my car before I actually use them. Six months? A year? Even longer?

As a mature adult, I feel like what I did was irresponsible, not to mention a terrible investment. However, the kid in me is smiling happily from ear to ear, because he got to take something home.

So who wins? Easy. The kid. No regrets!

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Blah

2011-01-06T15:19:00.000-08:00

“As slow as molasses in January.”

How applicable. I have no energy. I have no ambition. Typing this makes each of my individual fingers want to fall into their own little sleep comas. Holding my eyelids open is too much work, so I alternate them at five second intervals; right, then left, then right, then ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ……

Well, it’s not quite that bad, but if there ever was a time for lethargy and the urge to wear pajamas twenty-four/seven, it’s January and February. The holidays are over and it’s the busiest time of year at my work and everything is dark and gray and cold and covered in salt. Even worse, it’s still way too early to even begin looking forward to volleyball season. Ugh.

I kind of figured that the January/February cabin fever stage of life would pass once I’d moved out of Wisconsin. However, it’s still making its presence felt here in Minnesota, although I have to say it’s not as bad. At least here I have weekends with things to do. Still, the weeks can get long, and once I get home from work, motivation is at a premium. For example, I’ve been trying to watch The Pacific, a World War II miniseries, but it usually seems like a lot of work to hook my laptop up to my TV and put the DVD into the laptop, so I normally just decide to stare vacantly at the ceiling instead. (I have an interesting ceiling, though, so don’t worry.)

I hope this doesn’t sound too much like whining. If so, I apologize. I hate whining. However, it’s all I have to write about because my brain has decided it doesn’t want to be very creative. I think the cold and gray has temporarily short-circuited it.

Maybe I need a jump-start, a sort of jolt from a Life Defibulator. (patent pending)

Mountain Dew? Perhaps.
Snowbank after Sauna? Hmmmm….
Watch hockey games? Let’s not get crazy here.
Watch The Pacific? TV….so far away…..

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Greeting The Already-Been Greeted

2010-12-31T11:03:00.000-08:00

It’s time for another round of:
Awkward Situations Which Really Shouldn’t Be All That Awkward, But Still Are

{Pause for applause as theme music fades in}

Here’s the situation:

You are at your place of employment and have already interacted with a fellow co-worker. Maybe this co-worker sits in a cubicle next to you. Perhaps you’ve just shared light water-cooler talk. Or maybe you’ve worked together and solved a complex problem using spreadsheets and whiteboards and acronyms. Whatever the case, you’ve already gone far beyond your initial greetings for the day.

Later on, you are out and about, walking the hallways. You could be heading to the restroom, the break room, the cafeteria, or attempting to sneak out to your car for a quick nap. Then you see that same co-worker, walking towards you.

What do you do?

You’ve already greeted and talked to this person, so saying ‘Hello’ seems incredibly awkward, not to mention way too formal.

However, ignoring them completely seems rude and snooty.

Do you go with the chin-up head nod, followed by a casual “How’s it going?” or a “What’s up?” That still seems awkward. You’ve probably already asked your co-worker that! Plus, what are you, twenty-one?

Or do you go with the reserved, chin-down head nod, with no verbal greeting? This may seem like a better option, but isn’t that almost as bad as ignoring them completely? It’s almost as if you’re too busy to take the time of day to greet them in a friendly manner.

This should not be an awkward situation, but it is!

Keep in mind that your co-worker is feeling the same thing too, but they’re not sure if you are. That leaves you both in a state of complete uneasiness, as neither wants to do something that makes them look stupid or feel more awkward, but also nobody wants to accidentally insult the other.

There is no good way to handle this situation.

In a best case scenario, there is an escape route between you and your co-worker, and you can swerve away to an adjacent hallway and avoid the confrontation completely. A broom closet also works, but it’s kind of uncomfortable stuffing yourself in, especially if you have to navigate a swarm of mop handles and half-filled buckets of cleaning solution.

Perhaps there is somebody else you can stop and talk to, just until your co-worker passes. This gets awkward, however, if you’ve never talked to this other person in your life.

You can always pretend your shoe is untied and busy yourself fiddling with it, all to let your co-worker pass without forcing any sort of awkward discourse between you. But this gets weird if your co-worker has the same idea, and you both wind up kneeling and fiddling with your shoelaces at the same time.

Finally, and this is a worst case scenario, you could spill the coffee that you hopefully are carrying all over yourself. This creates a whole other set of issues, but at least you’ll be too busy screeching as the hot liquid eats away at your flesh to have to make a decision as to how to greet the co-worker that you’ve already greeted.

Feel free to contribute any other possible solutions that are inevitably better than what have been provided here.

This concludes today’s round of:
Awkward Situations Which Really Shouldn’t Be All That Awkward, But Still Are

{Pause for applause as theme music fades out}

The Benefit Of Stupidity

2010-12-27T15:46:00.000-08:00

At first I was annoyed at myself for not leaving for a U.P. Christmas last Thursday night. I figured a leisurely drive on Friday morning would be much more enjoyable than fighting traffic after work the night before.

It seemed like a sound strategy until the 5 inches of snow came Thursday night.

Getting out of Minnesota was slow, and somewhat dangerous. The roads were snow-covered and slippery. I saw numerous cars in the ditch, along with an eighteen wheeler tipped on its side off of Interstate 35.

Once I hit Wisconsin, though, the roads were bare and travel became easy, allowing me to release the death grip I had on the steering wheel. Still, I was not proud of the fact that I had neglected the weather forecast completely when making my plans. It was kind of a rookie move.

However, there was a fringe benefit to my stupidity.

As I was driving through Bessemer, I saw that there was the rare mix of ice on the trees and sun shining through the perpetual cloud cover. A chance like this couldn’t be passed up. I pulled off of the highway and started to explore the side roads to the south. Eventually I found several worthwhile pictures:

This probably goes to show something but I’m not really sure what it would be. Maybe it’s just that sometimes you get lucky.

The Christmas Drive

2010-12-23T12:57:00.001-08:00

One of my favorite times of the holiday season is when I drive up to the U.P. just before Christmas. This usually occurs on Christmas Eve morning. It may seem strange, as it consists of nothing but me sitting in my car for many hours on end, with no family, friends, or Christmas cookies in sight.

But I enjoy it immensely.

It’s not the scenery. Having a nice snowfall blanketing the landscape helps, but it’s not essential by any means. I could be driving through the desert and it would still be the same.

What I like is that its is a soft spot between real life, and the responsibilities thereof, and the flurry of Christmas activities that kick off on Christmas Eve and don’t end until the day after Christmas.

Not that I don’t like the Christmas activities. They’re wonderful, and I wouldn’t miss them for anything. But once they begin, everything goes by so fast that in no time at all it’s the day after Christmas, and I’m staring down the bleak reality that is the coming long, cold January.

So, for me, if there’s a time for relaxation, anticipation, and personal reflection, it’s during the drive home.

As soon as I start up my car, real life has temporarily disappeared. No more work, no more pressure, no more stress. The ride itself is the definition of freedom. I look ahead to the fun that is to be had, placing myself into a sort of cozy zone of Christmas anticipation, all without the distractions of everyday life.

It’s the only time that I’ll listen to Christmas music and really enjoy it. Prior to that, it seems a little too commercial, or perhaps a bit too premature. But on the ride up, anything else would seem strange and out of place, and it would ruin the mood.

I also listen to some old time radio Christmas broadcasts, such as Miracle on 34th street or a Christmas Carol, from way back in the 40’s or 50’s. At any other time it would seem strange and tacky, but not on the ride up.

It wouldn’t seem like driving through Ashland, Wisconsin, or any of the other towns along the way, would be all that enjoyable, especially if the roads are slippery or the falling snow is limiting visibility. But with a steaming cup of coffee, a Garth Brooks Christmas album, and plenty of time to focus on what truly matters in life, you can’t do a whole lot better.

Hopefully you have time for something similar.

Merry Christmas!

Kung Pao Buckaroo Holiday

2010-12-19T20:00:00.000-08:00

I posted this video last year, but I'm doing it again for several reasons:

1) It's funny and well worth listening to once or twice a year.
2) Where is it written that I can't lapse into reruns, just like TV shows do in the summer?
3) If you haven't watched it, it's new to you.
4) It's easier than writing something original.
5) This isn't a reason. I just like numbered lists and wanted to keep it going.

The Wheels On The Bus

2010-12-16T15:42:00.000-08:00

We had a company wide meeting today at work, but it took place at a different building than where I'm located. The company provided transport in the form of what were essentially school busses. I hadn’t ridden on one in many, many years, but as soon as I stepped on, everything from my childhood came back.

Cool kids in the back. They get to chew tobacco, spit on the floor, and make trouble, under the assumption that the bus driver never looks in the mirror or has vision that is only effective up to ten feet.

The seats are made of a horrible material that sticks to you on hot summer days.

Sitting in the back has its downside: it’s so bumpy that if you were old enough to have fillings, they’d all get dislodged.

The windows fog up in the winter. You can then write or draw hilarious things on them. If you’re clever, you write it backwards so people can read it from the outside. This never gets old.

The bus always has a strange smell. Maybe because many children have no concept of personal hygiene.

It seems like you’re traveling in a gigantic loaf of bread with wheels. Except a loaf of bread can probably corner better.

If you’re lucky enough to sit by yourself, you turn sideways, with your back up against the window and your feet splayed out on the seat. You’re living the high life now!

Hands inside of the bus at all times!!!!!

It was pretty funky. I felt like I should've had a backpack full of textbooks and a sack lunch with me.

The best part? The cool kids didn’t give me a wedgie!!!!

Heck, I wish I’d brought an action figure.

Christmas Lists

2010-12-06T19:36:00.000-08:00

The Christmas List.

A child’s most important literary work of the year. A list of materialistic requests to be fulfilled, with no strings attached, unless you had somehow landed on the naughty list. A magical connection with the jolly fat guy living way up at the North Pole, not to mention a direct line of communication with the parental units' wallets.

You don’t get much better than that.

My Christmas lists were always complex. I didn’t leave much to chance. For example, I usually employed a “star” system to denote my levels of want for each particular item. The more I wanted something, the more stars I’d draw in next to it. I didn’t trust that my parents would be able to figure it out on their own, despite the fact that I spent most of my waking hours from October through late December reminding them constantly what I wanted, and what I wanted the most.

A big part of my lists came from the Sears and J.C. Penney catalogs:

It was required seasonal reading. They’d come in the mail and soon after I’d have the toy sections of both memorized. Back then there was no such thing as shopping online. Either you got it from K-Mart in Houghton or the catalog. By the time December came, the catalogs would be literally falling apart, as they would’ve been leafed through about eight-thousand times by my siblings and me.

If you wanted something from the catalog, you specified it on your Christmas list along with the exact product number and the catalog it was in. This was critical, because you didn’t want to accidentally get a Barbie corvette instead of a G.I. Joe aircraft carrier due to an accounting error.

Ooooh, aircraft carrier

Over the years my Christmas lists have dwindled away to where they are now me scratching my head and then telling my parents that I could use next year’s Dilbert calendar, and possibly lasagna.

But that’s the way it works. Getting becomes less important, while other things become more important.

Still, I haven’t made a good Christmas list in a while. So here goes:

My Christmas List:

Christmas Day Sauna: **

A Mountain Dew in my stocking: *

Nephews and nieces tearing into presents simultaneously, genetically unable to wait nicely for one another, so that within seconds it appears that it's snowing wrapping paper shreds from the ceiling: ****

Christmas Eve party: ***

Being home: ****

Snake-Eyes v2 1985 Action Figure: **********

Best toy ever. I think about 4 total were ever made worldwide, so that every little boy dreamt of having one but never got one.

I'm serious about Snake-Eyes! Come on Santa!

An All Or Nothing Christmas

2010-12-01T15:35:00.000-08:00

I have a dilemma.

I either have to choose all or nothing. All would be fun, but way too much work, especially from a male perspective. Doing nothing makes sense from a rational point of view.

What’s on the line here? Only my Christmas spirit.

Let's begin with some background information.

At my old apartment in Wisconsin, creating a comfortable, “homey” if you will, atmosphere was not a high priority for me. By this I mean if I offered a homeless person the opportunity to spend the night at my place, that homeless person would have declined on the grounds that the streets would have had more comfortable furniture.

With this in mind, it’s easy to see that Christmas decorating was also not a priority. (Neither were chairs and lamps.) I did have one decoration that I was, and still am, proud of: a two foot tall plastic Christmas tree decorated entirely with homemade ornaments produced by my nieces. The source of the ornaments alone make it, and I’m not exaggerating here, the best Christmas tree in the history of the universe, and perhaps several other parallel universes. Still, a two foot tall Christmas tree, as glorious as it may be, does not really give a room the feel of Christmas.

When I moved to my new apartment in Minnesota, I made it a priority to furnish my living room with something beyond apple crates. (No, I really didn’t have apple crates in Wisconsin. They’re too expensive.)

I accomplished this, and now December has rolled around. I recently pulled out my tree and my other decoration, a Charlie Brown figurine, complete with his own droopy tree. I set them out, but I quickly realized that it didn’t feel right. I was moving up in this world! I had a bookshelf now! I needed more than the same decorations! So I spent five bucks on a string of lights which I now have bordering my window/sliding door. I thought this would be enough for a respectable bachelor pad, but I was wrong. It looks pathetic, like the lights are some sort of outcast Christmas decorations that no other Christmas decorations would dare be seen in public with.

So I’ve realized it has to be all or nothing. Either I have to take down all of my decorations (allow 30 seconds for this) or I have to go all out and create an indoor winter wonderland complete with lights, full-sized trees, mistletoe (oh yeah!), wreaths, and plenty of sugary, Christmas-themed candy.

But I really don’t want to go all out! It’s foolishness! (Somewhere, my Dad is beaming.) It’s so much work for such a little time, plus I don’t want a whole wing of my apartment devoted to storing Christmas decorations. It just doesn’t seem worth it.

Still, it would be nice to bask in the Christmas spirit.

So that is my dilemma. As I write this, I’m looking over at my lonely string of lights, doing their best to be festive, but which instead are looking like nerds nobody wants to associate with. I feel like I should give them friends or put them out of their misery.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Decisions, decisions.

Either way, I think that plenty of sugary, Christmas-themed candy is in order. You gotta have some Christmas spirit, right?

Superior Splendor

2010-11-27T09:05:00.000-08:00

Wind. Snow. Ice. Cold. Excellent.

Ungraceful Travel

2010-11-25T08:12:00.000-08:00

“The essence is to travel gracefully rather than to arrive.” - Enos Mills

I’ll try to put this delicately: that quote can go ahead and shove it.

This is what happens after an nine hour and change drive from the Twin Cities to my parents’ house in the U.P. I get a little cranky. Travel gracefully? Humbug! Just get me there!

In the summer this should be a seven hour drive. However, holiday travelers and snow lengthened it out dramatically.

The first step was getting out of the cities. To be honest, this could have been much worse, as I managed to get on the road by 2:30 in the afternoon, and traffic was relatively light. It thinned out as I began to make my way north on 35. However, that was when all of the seventeen year old males wearing their hats sideways got cocky and began to speed up and slide into the ditch. Traffic would slow down to a crawl, and eventually I would see a seventeen year old male, standing on the side of the freeway and looking at his beached cars in a very confused manner, as if either trying to figure out just how it happened, as he was only driving eighty miles an hour on slushy roads, or what he were going to tell his parents when they got the bill for the tow.

I’d heard that Duluth was going to get hammered with snow, which wasn’t that much of a shocker, since it is Duluth, and I decided to take 70 into Wisconsin. At this point the highway was snow covered and slushy, but so was the freeway. Avoiding Duluth turned out to be a good plan until I got stuck behind a plow and another truck which were going 35 miles an hour. This lasted for approximately infinity minutes. (I truly believe I was stuck in some sort of time warp between Grantsburg and Spooner, where once I’d just about gotten to Spooner, our whole mini-convoy was instantaneously transported back to Grantsburg, where we had to do it all over again.)

Several years later, I made it to Spooner, sporting a full beard, and headed northeast on 63 towards Ashland. I was soon caught behind another convoy of cars driving agonizingly slow, but soon they all finally chickened out and turned off. Now it was just me and the highway and the slush that kept sucking my car all over the road in whatever direction it felt like. Fun! But with my veins pumping what at that point must have been eighty percent coffee, I pressed on.

By the time I hit U.S. 2, I’d mastered driving the slushy roads and was making decent time. This meant, of course, that I would get stuck behind a three mile chain of jittery drivers going 30 miles an hour into Ashland. Several decades later, I stopped at Holiday to refuel and gnash my teeth

From there, traffic thinned dramatically and the roads got a little better. I settled in and happily listened to Jim Gaffigan, feeling like I’d made it through the worst.

Of course, I’d forgotten that I was traveling to the U.P., where there obviously would be heavy snow and wind. Hooray!

Somewhere after Bruce Crossing things got bad. Poor visibility, slippery, snow-covered roads, and deer running all over the place, as if they had bets with other deer to see who could cause the most accidents. I meandered all over the road, pulled by the snow, hitting rumble strips left and right, my fingers digging into the steering wheel. I passed several cars that were going thirty, as I figured if I was going into the ditch, I wanted to get it out of the way sooner rather than later.

At some point it became a grudge match between Mother Nature and me. I wasn’t going to give up, given my stubborn heritage, and neither was she. I got angry at being on the road for so long and decided I would show her a thing or two about perseverance. I put Kid Rock into my CD player and cranked it up, my veins now about 95 percent coffee. I pressed on, a glint of insanity playing in my eyes.

Twin Lakes. The Mosquito Inn. Painesdale. South Range, where a deer was running down the middle of the road, slipping and sliding all over the place. Then Houghton! I let out an audible ‘Woo-hoo!’

I chugged up Quincy Hill, Kid Rock shrieking in my ears. I plowed through the drifted snow across the road by the airport, where I knew it would be, because it’s always there.

Finally I hit Calumet. I laughed loudly but passed on giving Mother Nature the double bird.

Then the Wolverine Market. I blew past the Last Place On Earth, wondering if I would eventually need to be pried out of my seat with heavy equipment. Allouez. Ahmeek. Snow was everywhere. The Wood’n Spoon!

Then I was home. Nine plus hours later.

I made a mental checklist: new tires and go to the bathroom, as I’d ingested an estimated fourteen gallons of coffee.

But I’ve arrived and its time to reap my rewards. More coffee. Turkey. Stuffing. Family. Pumpkin Pie. It’ll be fun, just as long as my fingers relax at some point and I’m able to put down this steering wheel.

Red Light Sing-Along

2010-11-19T15:30:00.000-08:00

I’ve realized there is a major disadvantage to living in the suburbs of the Twin Cities.

Let’s say you’re out and about in your automobile, and you find yourself stuck at one of the estimated 187 million stoplights in Plymouth. No big deal, unless there’s an eighty-seven year old man driving up behind you who’s so out of touch with reality that the only time he knows when to stop is when he collides into something else, after which he’ll always blame the other party, even if that other party turns out to be a stop sign or a convenience store.

But say that isn’t the case, and everything is going just fine. No worries, right?

But then it happens: a good song comes on the radio.

First, your feet begin to tap along with the beat, which is always adventurous if you’re tapping with your braking foot. Second, you get the head bob going, which from a distance makes it look like you’re choking on a jawbreaker. Third, you haul off and start to sing along.

Singing along to the radio takes all of your mental concentration, especially if you’re reaching the high part of ‘My Maria.’ Therefore, you don’t pay much attention to anything else going on around you. You put your heart and soul into it, sometimes using your cup of coffee as a microphone, until the song finally ends. Luckily, the light is still red, and it will be for several more hours. However, you look around and see that everybody in adjacent cars is staring at you like you’re an escapee from a mental institution.

Now what? You can’t drive away, because you’re stuck in gridlock. You could roll down your window and yell, “Hey, that was ‘Friends in Low Places’! What was I supposed to do?”, but you’re still going to look stupid. Basically, you’re out of luck. You’ve now proven to the world that you’re a first class dork.

Usually, this is where I reveal that this exact thing has happened to me. Luckily, I can honestly say that it hasn’t. This is because I’m always aware of what I described above, and I do everything to make sure it doesn’t happen. So, whenever a good song comes on the radio, I sit rigid in my seat and stare ahead blankly, while every fiber of my being screams at me to start singing along.

To sum it up, my urge to not be humiliated is winning out against my urge to belt out songs in my car, which I find annoying. I mean, you’re not supposed to care what people think about you, but I obviously do. How insecure can I be?

If only I was in some rural area, where I was free to sing in my car as much as I wanted. Sigh.

But there’s really no use fighting it. I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to change, as I'm dead set on my decision, and I guess I’ll just have to find other outlets for my need to sing.

I guess there’s always the shower.

The Dangers Of Arm Flapping

2010-11-13T09:02:00.000-08:00

Has this ever happened to you?

You’re in some sort of social environment, minding your own business. However, this changes when an attractive member of the opposite sex starts heading your way. You frown a little, because you’re naturally suspicious, and you wonder just what the catch is. Then, however, the attractive member of the opposite sex flashes a big, knee-melting smile and subsequently begins to wave enthusiastically.

Whoa. This must be your lucky day. The stars and planets are obviously all aligned for the first time in centuries.

You mentally crack your knuckles in preparation. It’s Go Time! You smile and begin to casually wave back, feeling kind of warm and fuzzy inside. Your wave is initially cool and sophisticated, as that’s the image of yourself you're trying to project, but as you get more excited, it degrades into random arm flapping.

This is when it all comes crashing down around you and the catch is revealed. The attractive member of the opposite sex blows right past you, still waving. You turn around and see that this person is waving to somebody else who was standing directly behind you the whole time.

D’oh!

You quickly turn red and curse under our breath for making a fool of yourself. You hope that nobody was watching, and, if they were, that they weren’t capturing the whole episode on video with their cell phone. When you’re finally done with this mental cursing, some time later, you catch some movement out of the corner of your eye, so you twist your head to see what’s going on. It’s then revealed that you’re still waving/arm-flapping, like a total moron. You reach up with your other hand and pull down your runaway-waving arm. With that complete, you look around for some giant hole to fall into forever.

I’ll admit this has happened to me a couple of times. However, I’ve learned from my mistakes, and I’m now callous and suspicious of anybody waving to me, even if it’s my mother. You know the saying. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Or something like that.

What’s my point? Heck, I don’t know. I just hate it when that happens.

You Win, Kid Rock

2010-11-09T18:54:00.000-08:00

You have to realize how hard this is for me to admit, but I think I like Kid Rock.

If you had told me this when I was in college, I would have been appalled at myself. That was back when ‘Cowboy’ was big, which I believe, to this day, is a terrible, horrible song. (When Jason Aldean covered it at a Brooks & Dunn concert in St. Paul, I had to put my head between my knees and pretend I was somewhere else.)

But Kid Rock seems to be gravitating away from his earlier hip-hop/rap mess and morphing into something that seems actually legitimate.

Case in point: ‘Born Free’. When I heard this song, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Then I read that he shot the video in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and I had to watch it.

Well, that sealed the deal. Darn you Kid Rock! You’ve won this round, but consider yourself on the strictest of probation. Until then, I think I’ll watch the video again.

The Benefit Of Don Williams

2010-11-05T15:40:00.000-07:00

They say that time changes everything. While I believe that’s mostly true, I do think there are still a few things you can hang your hat on.

I was reminded of this as I watched the Don Williams concert on Thursday. I’d seen him one time before, about eight years ago. It was my very first concert, actually. This time around everything was still as I remembered. Don didn’t go pop. He didn’t go punk rock. He just strolled in, took a seat, and without a dash of flash or glitz, sang his songs as smoothly as the first time I’d seen him. He had the same hat, and once again he hardly chatted at all between songs. (He’d just say something like “Mercy” if the crowd was particularly loud, although he’d draw out the word with his southern drawl so that it lasted for about 10 seconds, which was great. I think it would take about 3 hours to have a simple conversation with him about the weather. “Weeeeeeeeeeellllllllllll, if you look at them clouds over yoooooonder……..”)

For me, however, nearly everything has changed since that first concert. Back then I was either 21 or 22, with a full head of hair, working on co-op in Minneapolis. It was my first time living away from home, not to mention my first time working a real, soul-sucking cubicle job. I didn’t have a clue. I was totally flying by the seat of my pants with no idea as to what I was doing or what I was getting myself into.

Flash forward to now. I’ve been steadily employed for seven years, most of them in Wisconsin. I have a 401K. Heck, I’m even eligible for a pension with my former company. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still flying by the seat of my pants, but in a little more of a controlled way.

The point is this: everything’s changed in a short time. Once you get out of college, life becomes a blur and the years pass faster than you’d ever imagine possible. Change is constant, to the point where it makes you dizzy. Sometimes it gets pretty overwhelming, and that’s when you need to be able to fall back on something you can count on to help steady your proverbial ship. For example, seeing Don Williams without worrying if he’s dyed his beard pink or if he’s going to be covering Hannah Montana songs.

So, thanks Don, for being a pillar of consistency. It’s good to have something you can count on, unlike a full head of hair. Come back soon!

My Michigan Mini-Football: An Appreciation

2010-10-31T16:52:00.000-07:00

I wasn’t sure we’d find it after it got lost in the farmer’s field in North Dakota.

I thought it was gone forever when we kicked it over the barbed wire fence in Montana.

I was sure I’d never see it again when we punted it into the river in Duluth.

I was absolutely positive it reached the end of the line when it disappeared in Minnesota several years ago.

But now it’s back home, a little worse for wear, but nothing you wouldn’t expect if you’d been through what it has.

I’m talking about my Michigan mini-football. I bought it at K-Mart in the Copper Country Mall. That, in itself, should tell you something about how long I’ve had it, as that K-Mart has been closed for a very long time. (Sidebar: one of my biggest regrets in life is never dining at the Eatery in the back of K-Mart. Sigh.)

This football is perfect for traveling with. It’s small, it almost always spirals, and you can throw it a mile. It’s just what you need to break up a long day of driving. You stop the car just about anywhere and run a few routes. Parking lots, desolate roads, roadside parks, it all works.

As mentioned above, I’ve almost lost it several times, but it keeps coming back, like a good bad-penny. Take my trip out west several years ago:

• In North Dakota we had to search a farmer’s field at the intersection of two dirt roads in the middle of nowhere, all because of an errant punt. I kept waiting for the farmer to come out, shotgun ready, yelling at us to get out his field. Luckily, it didn’t happen, and we eventually found the football.

Minutes before losing the football in the field

• The next day, we kicked it up into a tree at a park in North Dakota. We finally got it down after throwing rocks at it for what seemed like hours. (It was way up there!) A minute later, it got punted into a dry river bed that wasn’t as dry as I thought. Still, it was worth it to get the ball back.

Looking up at the football in the tree

After retrieving it from the mud

• Soon after, we were at a rest stop in Montana and it got punted over a barbed wire fence. We had to poke a long stick through the fence and slowly roll it back.
• At the end of the trip, when we were back in Duluth, it got kicked into a river. Luckily, we were able to fish it back out.
• (Yes, I know. We are terrible at punting. However, it’s too fun to give up, even if it keeps getting us into trouble.)

Soon after the trip out west, it got left in Minnesota, where I thought it was lost for good. (Why would any native Minnesotans go out of their way to make sure no harm came to a Michigan football?) However, it just reappeared there recently, which was like an early Christmas present for me. However, there was one problem: it had a leak, as one of the seams had split.

I had two options. I could either retire it, or I could do all I could to get it back into working order. I chose the second option, and used massive amounts of Gorilla Glue to re-seal the seam.

Gorilla Glued

I’ll admit it’s not pretty, but it’s functional. I’m not sure how long it’ll last, but its legacy is already sealed as being the best football I’ll ever own. Any more use I get out of it is just gravy.

I’m betting it won’t spiral as well anymore, what with the eight pounds of Gorilla Glue throwing it out of balance. Still, I don’t care. And when it finally reaches the point where it is no longer usable, I plan to find a place of honor to retire it. Heck, I may even have to get a mantle.

Left Behind (Cue Ominous Music)

2010-10-26T16:50:00.000-07:00

I like to think of myself as being technologically inclined. However, I also like to think of myself as being stunningly handsome, so feel free to draw your own conclusions.

The point is, I’m pretty much up to date with the changing world of technology. For example, I text. I pay bills online. I don’t remember the last time I mailed a physical letter. I can figure out Red Box. Heck, I’m a software engineer. You get the picture.

But here’s the scary part: it won’t last forever. As you age, eventually you aren’t able to keep up with the constant stream of technological advances. This is because the older you get, the more stubborn and resistant to change you become, which soon leaves you riding a horse in a horseless carriage kind of world.

In fact, I can already see it happening to me. Take video games. When I was twelve I was, and I am not exaggerating here, the best video game player in the entire world. I had ridiculous joystick control, and I was incredibly cool under pressure. I could get Barry Sanders 4092 rushing yards in Tecmo Super Bowl, which was as high as the game would count, before the season was even half over. Today, however, I’m afraid of playing video games. The controllers have roughly eighty-seven buttons and sixteen control sticks. The games themselves are so complex that the manuals are as long as a Steven King thriller. I would have no idea where to start, and so I simply don’t. I hate to say it, but I’ve been passed by.

While you might think that not playing video games isn’t a big deal, it really is. It’s an early indicator of things to come. Soon, as more and more new technology is developed, I will begin to understand less and less of it. Then, at some point, I will become the equivalent of the old man who complains because nobody uses rotary phones anymore, with the only difference being I will be complaining about newer technology.

I can hear myself already: “I’m not using that new-fangled matter transformer gizmo to go to the grocery store! It’s nothing but foolishness! A man could get his arm lopped off if he doesn’t get his whole body inside the transfer capsule thingie! I heard somebody once transported himself to Denver, but his arm wound up in San Antonio! Try to get your insurance to cover that! Plus, you have to be a nuclear physicist just to figure out what buttons to press and what levers to pull! Heaven forbid you press the green one before the red one, or you set the dial to “deep-fried” instead of “lightly toasted”! If you’re not careful, you could wind up on the top of Mount Everest! No sir, I think I’ll walk!”

And the same thing will happen to every one of you. So, when you watch the video below, feel free to laugh, but just remember, it’s your future too!

Happy Blogiversary

2010-10-21T14:26:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s been an entire year since I started blogging, and what a year it’s been! Looking back, one thing stands out above all the rest: just how little substance is actually included in my 90 posts.

Not that I consider that to be a bad thing, mind you. Frivolous is my style, and hopefully it’s made you smile on occasion. In today’s crazy doom-and-gloom world, that’s all I’m aiming for. (Currently, that is. I plan to get rich on this sometime in the future, although the details are still quite sketchy.)

However, now that I’ve made it a year, I’m not going to cut back and rest on my laurels, even though I’m not quite sure what ‘laurels’ are. Instead, I want to make the next year of this blog even better. My plan is to sell out all of my ideals for a glossy, Hollywood-blockbuster style blog that makes up for its lack of heart with its excessive use of special effects.

Just kidding! But I still want a better blog, and to do that, I need your help. This is because I’m not quite sure what “better” really means in terms of this blog.

So, what would YOU like to see? What would make this blog better? Let me know. It could be anything. Here are some examples I’ve thoughtfully come up with:

• Less use of words that aren’t really words, such as “Blogiversary”.
• Try to incorporate time travel.
• Lower fat, lower cholesterol, please!
• Lasers
• Dinosaurs are always good.
• You know the part where you write? Stop it!

If you’re wondering, yes, this is a shameless stunt just to see how many people I can get to comment on this. However, I feel no shame in doing so. It’s my anniversary. I can do what I want.

Who's Making That Racket?

2010-10-18T18:17:00.000-07:00

I bought a new tennis racket today because my old one was warped and bent out of shape.

I’d like to say that my damaged racket was the reason for my serves and returns having the same precision and raw power of a two-year old throwing rocks into a lake. However, it’s the other way around. My tennis racket got bent because of my serves and returns having the same precision and raw power of a two-year old throwing rocks into a lake.

I’ll explain: I’ve developed the bad habit of throwing my racket in frustration after screwing up. Sometimes I’ll throw it down to the ground, where I then have to fight the urge to jump up and down on it several few times for good measure. Sometimes I’ll lob it high into the air and watch in satisfaction as it comes down and makes a loud clattering noise. Sometimes I’ll sidearm it across the court where it will skitter along for a while, making me happy to watch until I realize I have to go and retrieve it.

At least I screw up in interesting ways. Sometimes I’ll dramatically hit the ball into the net. (Not necessarily the net on my court, mind you.) Sometimes I’ll send it careening way off to the left or right, not even coming close to the spot I’m aiming for, and possibly endangering others. (I wouldn’t be all that surprised if one of my errant shots someday took out some old lady walking her dog on the sidewalk). Sometimes I’ll blast it way over the court. Sometimes I’ll somehow manage to hit it behind me. Sometimes I just whiff and miss it completely.

No matter how I screw up, though, I still handle it in the same way: First, I frown in complete disbelief. This is to try and make anybody watching believe that what has just happened was a complete fluke, something totally beneath my stature as a tennis player, and something likely to never happen again. (Even if I did the exact same thing the previous point.) Second, to show my true passion for the game, I’ll throw my racket.

When you combine my throwing-the-racket habit along with the number of times I’ve screwed up, it’s no surprise that my old racket quickly became scratched, bent, and virtually unusable.

So now I have a new racket. However, I’ve already decided I’m not going to throw it. Instead, I’m going to conquer my anger. I realize that this is going to be tough, but I have a number of ideas I can use to help:

1) I can keep my old racket close at hand, and when I screw up I can just throw that instead.
2) I can start swearing when I screw up, which will hopefully distract me from throwing my racket.
3) I can never play tennis again.

I’m not sure what option I’m going to go with. I kind of like them all.

One thing is certain, though: I’m sure I’ll have plenty of chances to determine which one works best.

Welcome To Hazzard County

2010-10-13T19:38:00.000-07:00

I watched the second half of an episode of the Dukes of Hazzard the other day. It was great, by which I mean it was essentially a 30 minute chase scene that was so ridiculous it bordered on sheer genius.

Now, I’ll readily admit that I couldn’t sit down and watch multiple episodes of that show without rolling my eyes at the cheesiness of the whole thing, but in half-hour chunks it’s priceless.

There was a loose plot about a mob syndicate or some nonsense like that, but the plot really didn’t matter. The only point of it was to create opportunities for chase scenes.

This show isn’t about character development, that’s for sure. Here are several things that happened in the last thirty minutes:

The General Lee jumped a creek. Daisy wooed some bad guys, who became so week-kneed that they couldn’t defend themselves when Cooter ran out of the bushes and bonked them on the head with a two-by-four. Uncle Jesse cackled like an insane scientist and cruised around randomly in his beater truck. Rosco crashed his police cruiser into another police cruiser, causing his door to fall off. He also made a bunch of unintelligible noises that sounded something like, “gue, gue, gue.” There was a fantastic chase involving the Dukes, the bad guys, and Boss and Rosco, which went around and around in circles through town, and which made absolutely no sense, but was still utterly fantastic. Also, the bad guys got caught in a net at the end.

How could this all be made better? Easy! It was all accompanied by classic Duke Boys chase music, made up mostly of frenetic banjo, fiddle, and steel guitar.

Seriously, they don’t make shows like that anymore. Here’s a clip I found of the circle chase.

The Lowe's/Michaels Ratio

2010-10-07T17:15:00.000-07:00

So I went into Michaels the other day to buy illustration board. Why? Because I felt the need to illustrate, of course, and what better place to do that than on a board?

Anyway, those of you who have been to Michaels before knows that it’s not what you’d consider a male-tailored store. For example, there are no pictures of things blowing up, nor are there any big screen TVs playing Sportscenter nonstop. Also, handy spittoons are not left out in the aisles for the convenience of chew tobacco users. In addition, there are entire rows of floral arrangements there which can make a guy shudder and dive for cover from up to two aisles over.

Still, I braved it and did my shopping, although when I left I felt a severe need to do something macho, such as hauling off with a satisfying belch.

As I walked to my car afterwards, I looked across the parking lot and saw Lowe's, and I began to think that perhaps I should be spending more time in there. (As of right now, my Lowe’s Visit Counter is stuck at 0.) It just seemed to be the manly thing to do. I mean, there has to be a reason for me to buy a pounder or a, whadyacallit, squeezer, right? Maybe I could get several pieces of drywall for future use. Or what about a drill press? I could fit it in my kitchen.

Now, why would I need these items? Who knows? Maybe I could embark on a do-it yourself project of some sort, possibly involving rafters or joists. (Then I would be able to make the hilarious joke of telling people, “Joist a minute, I’m busy.”)

A moment later, though, I shrugged the urge off. As Popeye says, “I yam what I yam,” and that’s the motto I’m going to stick to. This means that I’ll go to Lowe’s only when I have a real need to go, and no sooner.

So that's my plan, even if it means my Michaels to Lowe’s ratio is not what you’d expect for a typical guy. But why be typical, anyway? Typical is boring. I prefer quirky.

My point is this: don’t worry about what you think others will think, and just follow your heart. (Or any other phrase that is equally as inspiring.) Plus, if I bought a pounder or a squeezer, I’d probably poke my eye out anyways.

Keeping Perspective

2010-10-02T13:20:00.000-07:00

Friday was a typical day at work. I did everything you’d expect from somebody trapped in a scene from Office Space.

I attended several meetings and nodded in agreement as buzzwords and acronyms were tossed about seemingly for the sake of making those speaking them sound important. I may have even contributed a few of my own, although I’m not proud of it.

I sat in my cube and typed away on my keyboard furiously.

I updated my white board to keep track of my current tasks, all while doing my best not to become addicted to the smell of dry-erase markers.

I engaged in small-talk with co-workers about nothing in particular, but which could, in a pinch, be considered a “team-building activity.”

I talked confidently on the phone about matters that really weren’t that important, but which seemed to be at the time.

I filled in my time sheet by guessing at the number of hours I had worked on each of the three million project categories I am allowed to charge time to.

I left the office happy to be through another week, but still thinking about what the next week would bring.

As I was about to pull into my apartment complex, I saw that a school bus was dropping children off there. They piled out and immediately began to engage in activities that children are noted for. For example, they began to throw pine cones at one another.

I smiled.

I mean, I want to throw pine cones, too! Heck, I’d like to get involved in anything within the Throwing Stuff At Other Stuff category of kid amusement. Also, I wouldn’t mind poking at mud with a stick for a while. And I wouldn’t be against running around at full speed just because it seems like the thing to do. Shrieking at the top of my lungs? I’m in!

Oh well. That’s obviously not going to happen. I’m stuck in khaki and button-down shirt land. Poking at mud is prohibited.

However, at least seeing the pine cones flying through the air helped to remind me that everything doesn’t always have to be taken so seriously all of the time.

So maybe I’ll go collect some pine cones after all, and store them in the glove compartment of my car. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll come in handy someday.

The way I see it, it’s not about winning the war against maturing, it’s about prolonging the battle for as long as possible. Sometimes it's just easy to lose track of that.

They Say The Darndest Things

2010-09-26T20:07:00.000-07:00

Seriously, I get lazy one time, and I get nailed.

Here's the deal. I didn't shave before church this Sunday, which left me with about two days worth of growth. A little fuzzy, but no big deal, right?

However, it wasn't long before my nephew, who was sitting one pew up, leaned over and informed me, "When you get home you have to take a bath and shave your whiskers."

The whiskers I can see. But a bath? I thought I had that covered.

Maybe I just need to invest in a better deodorant.

Musical Overreaction

2010-09-21T18:45:00.000-07:00

So I bought a CD recently. For you youngsters out there, CDs are something that, along with an obsolete piece of technology called a CD player, can play music. Unlike today’s digital age of music, however, CDs are physical items that must be bought in a store, and not illegally downloaded off of the internet. The advantage to this “old school” way of enjoying music is that that CDs will scratch as soon as you take them out of their packaging, rendering them unplayable and leaving you free to spend your time doing something more constructive.

Anyway, as I was checking out, the cashier asked me, “Would you like a gift receipt for the CD?” I politely declined and went on my merry way.

However, the more I thought about it afterwards, the more I got annoyed.

I mean, since I was asked about a gift receipt, it was obvious the cashier did not believe I was buying the CD for myself. Now why would that be? Am I too old to enjoy music? Did the cashier think I spend my time sitting around listening to national public radio and discussing old man things such as sump pumps, as opposed to listening to music? Isn’t that kind of presumptuous?

Put it this way: If I had bought something like windshield wipers would I have been asked for a gift receipt? I think not!

I’ll also bet if a 20 year old with jeans sagging down to their ankles bought the same CD the cashier would not have been asked if they wanted a gift receipt. (I know that’s a bad example. A 20 year old would have illegally downloaded the music off of the internet.)

So, basically, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am a victim of ageism, and I’m not happy about it. I mean, what’s next? I can’t buy shorts unless they’re the kind I can pull halfway up my chest and which clash horribly with my knee socks and loafers?

All I can say is that I’m not going to let this rest. I’m not yet some old, forgetful man who thinks all music is horrible and refuses to listen to it, and I resent the fact that an assumption was made that I am! I’ll show them all! I’ll write my congressperson! I’ll find some random café and complain to everybody inside about it for hours on end, whether they want to hear it or not! I’ll never rest until I right this wrong! I’ll never – wait a minute….What am I even complaining about? Huh. I forget.

Oh well. It must not have been important. Now if I could just find my car keys so I can get to the early bird special.

That's Why He Writes Songs

2010-09-16T19:33:00.000-07:00

There's not much to say here. Just listen.

The Next Big Thing

2010-09-13T17:01:00.000-07:00

I’m finally getting the hang of group road trips again.

Living in Wisconsin, I did all of my traveling solo. I got used to it and rather enjoyed it, as I was free to do anything I chose, such as drink coffee the entire duration and, as a direct result, have to stop at every single gas station along the way to use the restroom, not to mention various strategically placed trees.

Living in Minnesota, however, I find myself now making road trips to the Upper Peninsula with others. At first I struggled to adjust to this, as I was used to doing things my own way. For example, I was told I wasn’t allowed to drive in only my boxers. My reaction: Are you kidding me? There goes traveling in comfort!

However, I’m catching on. In fact, during my last trip I invented a game that can be played by any number of people, and which is way better than the Alphabet game. (Note: if somebody else already invented this game, they can pound sand. I was the one who blogged about it!) I call it Front Seat Forecast. It’s quite simple. As you are catching up to a vehicle on the freeway, each player guesses the type of person they think is driving said automobile. If anybody is feeling lucky, they can also venture as guess at the passenger. The more descriptive you get, the more fun it is. Here are some examples:

Fifty year old man with handlebar moustache wearing a Minnesota Twins cap
Little old lady with white hair peering over the steering wheel who can see only to the front of her car
Preppy college aged-male wearing a cardigan and texting
Bob Barker

The best part of the game is when you pass the vehicle and all of the players stare at it in anticipation. Upon seeing the driver there are yells of celebration, dismay, and laughter. Plus, you also get to see the driver of the other vehicles react as they try to figure out why everybody in your car is staring intently at them. It’s hilarious!

I haven’t come up with a scoring system, but it wouldn’t be hard. (1 point for guessing the driver, 3 for guessing the driver and passenger, -5 for annoying a police officer and so they pull you over, etc.)

Genius, huh? I thought so. I just hope it catches on. Then it will become commonplace for you to get passed on the freeway and see the passengers start swearing when they see you.

That’s what you get for not being a 74 year old man with a pipe and a straw hat.

A Stunning Revelation

2010-09-01T17:33:00.000-07:00

At long last, it’s finally happened. I always knew it would, but I’m still finding it hard to comprehend. Still, it’s here, and it’s real, and my life has been forever changed because of it. So, without further ado, which means, according to Microsoft Word, ‘upheaval’, or ‘ruckus’, here is my announcement: I now have an arch-enemy.

Yes, you read me right. I’ve found my Lex Luthor. I’ve discovered my Joker. I’ve stumbled upon my Dr. Octopus. For those of you not familiar with arch-enemies, and it must be quite sad to be you, they are that one person whose entire goal in life is to thwart your every move.

Kinda cool, huh? Still, I have to admit it’s also kind of unnerving. I mean, it's a lot of pressure. Now, since I know you're anxious to know, just who is this person who has become my arch enemy? I will not keep you in suspense any longer: she is a cashier at my local grocery store.

I’m guessing you aren’t picking up on the diabolical vibe quite yet, so let me elaborate. She has been a cashier for 18 years, according to her name tag, which means several things:

She is in no hurry whatsoever.
She believes she knows everything about customer service and goes out of her way to prove it.
She most likely is burdened by severe arthritis.

Put this all together and it makes every trip through the checkout line a seemingly never-ending adventure where she attempts to thwart my attempts to actually purchase anything, which deserves its own big-budget, special-effects laden feature film. (Starring Betty White as the cashier, and one of the Twilight male actors as me.)

Still not convinced, despite my stunning rhetoric? Well, here are the weapons she brings to the table in her quest to keep me from ever leaving the grocery store:

Obnoxious Chatting – She’ll talk to any customer about anything, and when I say this I’m betting embarrassing rashes would not be off the table, even if they don’t want to discuss it. Things get really bad when the customer is also a Non-Stop Chatter. In that case they’ll stand there discussing gardens or Lifetime movies for hours on end, all while no actual items are ever rung up.

Inability To Multi Task – While she’s chatting, she physically cannot do anything else, such as, for example, her job. She will pick up an item and get ready to scan it. However, just then, a thought will pop into her head and will have to be immediately verbalized. This shifts her one priority from scanning to speaking. The item will just hang there in her hand, tantalizingly close to the scanner, as she begins a long-winded soliloquy which could take upwards of thirty minutes to complete. But this doesn’t bother her. She’s been there for eighteen years! What’s another thirty minutes!? It’s not like she’s going anywhere!

Customer Service – She also is there for the customer. This means she’ll go out of her way to bring her entire line to a standstill, just to possibly help somebody save enough money to purchase half of a Tic-Tac. For example, when she finally finishes ringing up a customer, she’ll say, “Are any of these items on special?” Since it is a rhetorical question, she then proceeds to review everything she just scanned, at the speed of a snail in a full body cast, mind you, just in case one of them is on sale and she can save the customer, who is at this point molding and attracting flies, fifteen cents.

Now, I’ll bet you’re asking, “Why don’t you just choose a different line?” Excuse me while I laugh in contempt and shake my head. Obviously, you don’t know arch-enemies. Arch-enemies are always there to antagonize you, and they can defy logic and the laws of physics in order to do so. For example, I’m fully confident that no matter what line I choose, she will still be there waiting for me, even if I saw her working a checkout at the other end of the store moments before, or if she was on vacation in a foreign country. I’m also pretty sure if I went to another grocery store she would be employed there, patiently waiting for me with an evil smile plastered on her diabolical face. It’s just the way things work with arch-enemies.

So what can I do about it? How can I rise above the challenge that has been posed to me, like all true heroes do? I’ve thought about this long and hard and have come to one gut-wrenching solution. It won’t be easy. It will take fortitude. It will take all of my mental and physical toughness, not to mention the heart of a lion and the will of a true champion. However, I am up for the challenge.

So here’s my plan: I will stop grocery shopping altogether and live exclusively off of delivery pizza.

Now that’s how you defeat an arch-enemy! Take that Cashier Lady!

Unless, of course, she gets a job at Dominos.

Coming Apart At The Seams (Crumbling At The Hip)

2010-08-27T14:58:00.000-07:00

George Strait obviously has never played volleyball.

The reason I say this is because in his song Troubadour, he croons the following: “I still feel twenty-five, most of the time.”

I wish I could claim the same thing, but I simply can’t. You see, I’ve just hit that eye-opening phase of life when, for the first time, you can look at a bent-over, wrinkled old man obliviously wandering through heavy traffic looking for his teeth and truly understand that someday, you will become that guy, although with probably less hair.

When you hit this phase of your life your body starts to randomly break down for no reason except to infuriate you, and it definitely doesn’t make you feel twenty-five. (Sorry, George!) For example, I was recently playing volleyball when my hip decided it was time to become injured. Now, I can totally understand an injury when you do something to deserve it, like running full speed into a brick wall or something. However, I was simply minding my own business when it happened.

At first I ignored it, like any true guy would. I was still operating under the Under 25 Philosophy, which states you have to ‘walk it off’ since it will just go away in a matter of minutes anyway.

But it did not just go away. Instead, it found a nice, relaxing hammock, along with a good book, and settled in for the long haul. After about three weeks of still being injured I began to wonder if I should go to the doctor, which is another sign you will someday become the Wandering Old Man. Still, I didn’t want to submit myself to health care, since I could already foresee what would happen if I did:

Me: My hip hurts.

Doctor (frowing): Keep an eye on it. Come back if it doesn’t get better. You can trust me, as I have many certificates on the wall that nobody ever reads. Also, that’ll be five-hundred dollars.

Me: D’oh!

Doctor: Say, when’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?

Me: Gotta go!! (I would then try to escape, but my hip would give out, leaving me stranded on the floor, my arms still pumping wildly. The doctor would laugh manically, his eyes now replaced by flashing dollar signs, as he knows there’s was no way I can escape.)

Anyway, just as I was about to give in and get some medical attention, my hip finally got better. Now I feel pretty good. However, the knowledge of what happened still continually hangs over me, laughing evily. I mean, it takes me 3 weeks to heal from an injury I didn’t even do anything to incur? What will happen when I do something that actually justifies being injured? (Right now I’m guessing I will crumble into dust.)

Now, before I get a bunch of comments like ‘Age is just a state of mind’ or ‘You’re only as old as you feel’ or ‘Your blog sucks!’ let me say one thing: I understand this, and deep down in my heart, I am still about 23. It’s just that I’ve realized I’ve got to be a bit more careful from here on out. Nothing much. Just a little more stretching here, a little less going all out while playing sports just to try to impress members of the opposite sex there. No big deal. You just play with the cards your dealt, even though they’re wrinkled, torn, and smell faintly like BENGAY. I mean, why tempt fate? It’s a marathon, after all, not a sprint.

Plus, I wouldn’t want to miss out on someday being that guy wandering in the street looking for my teeth, now would I?

Keyword Craziness

2010-08-21T14:59:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you just have to shamelessly self-promote. Sure, you feel dirty after doing it, but in today’s cutthroat world must do whatever possible to stay relevant.

So, that is why this entry contains nothing but popular keywords that can be found using search engines, which will hopefully increase the traffic to this site and make it insanely popular.

Tacky? Yes.
Unprofessional? Undoubtedly.
Smart? Absolutely!

In fact, the only way this can’t work is if I spell everything wrong and the search engines never find them. Still, I’m prtty shure there’s onlee a small chans of that happening.

Cue the evil laugh!!!!

SpongeBob
David Hasselhoff
BP Oil Spill
Twilight
Dallas Cowboys
Obama
Obama sucks
Obama rules
Harry Potter
Lebron James toilet paper
Macaroni and cheese recipe
How to get girls to like you
How to get creepy boys to stop liking you
Grand Ole Opry
Star Wars: why are the prequels so crappy?
Hannah Montana
True meaning of life
Iran nuclear
Evil Dead Army Of Darkness Alternate Ending
Visual Studio 2010 VB.Net new features
New York Yankees
The Daily Show
Pawlenty for President
How old is the earth?
kyds
Red Green Show
Going green
Dukes of Hazzard
Minnesota Twins
American Idol
Car Talk
Bill Cosby jello
Jeff Parks
Kobe Bryant
Unsightly nose hair
2010 November elections
Life on Mars
John McCain maverick
Lady Gaga
Facebook privacy
Cokato
Doofenshmirtz Evil Incorporated
Arizona Immigration
Last Rodeo Tour
New York City Mosque
Creationism vs. evolution
30 Rock
Can you drink Lake Superior water?
SQL correlated subqueries
Traprock valley
Mel Gibson yelling
Rush Limbaugh yelling
Jonas Brothers
Android phone
D’oh
Glenn Beck
IPhone 4
Dusty Vagabond
M*A*S*H
Air-On services webpage
Justin Bieber
Keith Olbermann yelling
Mario Brothers

Running On Empty

2010-08-18T17:09:00.000-07:00

Last week I stopped at a gas station, as it had become readily apparent to me that the day could not be considered successful if coffee and Junior Mints weren’t purchased and consumed. As I was walking across the parking lot, a middle-aged woman, who had parked her car at one of the gas pumps, flagged me down. Naturally, since I now live in the big city, I was suspicious of treachery and foul play. Still, being a rather nice, yet somewhat naïve man, I walked over to her anyway, while all the while trying to recall some fairly cool moves from one of the action-adventure movies I've watched in case it turned out they would be needed.

It turns out they weren’t. This lady was completely confused. She had a rental car, and it very well could have been the first automobile she had ever driven. She had a foreign accent that I couldn’t place, although I can say it wasn’t British or Australian, not that it helps in any sort of significant manner. Anyway, she needed major amounts of assistance.

First, she couldn’t figure out how to pop open the door to exposes the gas cap. Being a natural automobile guru who knows everything about them, except how to fix them or how they work, I managed to point her to the lever inside the car which would give her access to the gas cap.

Case closed, good deed done, right? Nope.

Next I had to take off the gas cap for her. Seriously. Then she didn’t know how to do pay-at-the-pump. She literally gave me her credit card and let me swipe it for her and press the appropriate buttons. (I decided she didn’t need a car wash, as I didn’t want to cause her head to explode.)

Finally, we got the point where she began fueling the car on her own, and she released me from my duties. She thanked me profusely and I walked into the gas station, still not believing what had just happened. I was half expecting the car to come barreling through the wall at any moment, where she would then get out and try to purchase a candy bar, which would be hard to accomplish since she would have run over the cashier. I was still shaking my head when I walked back out, and I saw her drive away. Surprisingly, the gas pump nozzle was not still attached to the car, and everything else looked okay. I took a sip of my coffee and went about my business, still slightly bemused.

So, somewhere out there in this world is an incredibly nice lady who I’m still kind of worried about. Who was she? Where was she going? Does she know what stop signs are? But I guess there’s really nothing I can do about it but wish her the best. Except for, of course, hoping she doesn’t begin to run low on gas again.

Life On The Edge Of Destruction

2010-08-07T14:21:00.000-07:00

Call me a wild man.

Call me a crazy risk-taker.

Call me whatever you’d like, just don’t call me tame.

Yup, I’m what you’d consider a Walk-On-The-Edge-Of-Destruction-Darn-The-Consequences-Live-For-The-Moment-Life’s-Too-Short-To-Play-It-Safe-Rootin’-Tootin’-Heck-Raisin’-Spit-Danger-In-The-Eye-And-Laugh-At-It-Bad-To-The-Bone-Son-Of-A-Gun.

The reason I say this, besides the fact that I like using incredibly long, hyphenated words, is because lately I’ve been playing with the proverbial fire. You see, my apartment has a garbage chute. (Yes, a garbage chute! I’ll bet you can feel the danger already!!!!) The general procedure is you take your garbage and cram it down the chute, where it then falls. A moment later you hear the machinery somewhere below start grinding.

The danger exists because I normally throw out my garbage as I’m leaving the apartment. This means I have my keys with me. Typically, I carry them in one hand and the garbage in the other, since I will eventually be making my way to my car. However, it usually takes two hands to shove the garbage bag down the chute, since it is pretty narrow. Being the crazy man that I am, though, I don’t put my keys in my pocket before doing this, because it would waste approximately a half-second of my precious time, and crazy men like me don't waste time for things like that. So, to make a long, drawn out explanation even longer and more drawn out, this results in me wrestling with a garbage bag with both hands, even as my keys, still clenched in one hand, are now one slip away from falling down the garbage chute, where they would come to some sort of horrible end.

And yet, this doesn’t phase me. Why? Because that’s the kind of guy I am. If there’s an edge, I’m walking it. If there’s a fine line, I’ve already crossed it. If there’s a horrible metaphor which can help to describe a situation, I’ve already used it.

Now, you may ask the following question: Isn’t it just stupidity, and not living on the edge, that causes you to risk your keys in the manner you have just described above? Upon hearing this query I can’t help but toss my head back and laugh in a rebellious manner. Such a naïve question from somebody who obviously can’t differentiate between stupidity and living life to the fullest. I shake my head in great sadness for you, because you will never be able to fully experience this world with that kind of attitude. All I can say is this: Go ahead and enjoy your time standing outside of the fire.

Wait a minute. (Or perhaps, ‘hold the phone’, which is another phrase that could be used here.)

I just thought about this for a moment and I’ve come to a startling realization that may shock you, and, unfortunately, is not a happy one for me.

Call me delusional.

Call me the guy who is desperately trying to project an image onto themself, even though it doesn’t come close to fitting.

Call me whatever you’d like, but I won’t be listening. Instead, I’ll be rethinking my decision to buy a leather jacket and a Harley, which, now that I ponder it, is probably a good thing. Motorbikes are too loud anyway, plus they seem kind of dangerous. I mean, I could easily pull something if I didn't stretch properly before getting on it.

Turn Back The Clock

2010-08-01T18:36:00.000-07:00

Back when I lived in Wisconsin I used to be a morning person. On any given Saturday I would be up at about 7:00 a.m. Sometimes I would get my grocery shopping done, which would be a breeze because the aisles would be clear and the checkout lines non-existent. Sometimes I would walk the streets, enjoying the calm stillness that the world offers before everybody else gets up and ruins it by scurrying about randomly like caffeine-buzzed ants, engaging solely in the activity of making major annoyances out of themselves. Sometimes I would break out my trusty camera and try to find some spot where mankind hadn’t yet invaded, where I could simply enjoy nature and perhaps try to accurately capture a slice or two of it within the confines of a picture.

The point is that it was always peaceful, and it was the one time of the day when it didn’t seem like the world was leaving me behind and I had to rush like crazy just so I could keep up. I liked it. It seemed like a sign of maturity. It was my time to calmly reflect on all that was going on and create a game-plan for tackling what life was going to throw at me next.

Flash forward to now. The Twin Cities.

It is 11:30 a.m. I am still lying in bed. I have just awoken. I hear the birds chirping outside. I also heard the birds chirping when I went to bed, not that many hours before. To say I am disheveled would be a compliment, and also entirely inaccurate. I would be ecstatic to be merely disheveled. Instead, however, I am, to put it in technical terms, disheveled to the eighth or ninth power. This is quite impressive when you realize I’ve managed to get myself into this state without the help of any external devices besides staying up way to late.

I know I should get up and try to salvage the day, but my body is already doing it’s best to punish me for what I put it through by not allowing my any control over my appendages. I flop about like a fish for a while, although in a much less elegant manner, before I give up. I manage to creak my neck just enough to look at the clock. Looks like I won’t be making it up in before noon this Saturday, either.

There goes maturity. There goes the calm reflections and game-planning.

It is now noon-thirty. I am stumbling about, slowly regaining functionality. My mouth tastes like an ashtray, which is weird because I don’t smoke, but since it seems like a good simile I just can't pass up the opportunity to use it. I am unshaven, and my breath could fell a mature zebra at 10 yards. Within an hour I remember where the bathroom is, which is the big breakthrough I have been looking for.

By three I feel almost human. I’m showered and shaven. I am dressed, although I’m not quite sure if my shirt is on backwards or not. Still, it’s progress.

By five I’m back to my old self. I get my grocery shopping done, although I now have to deal with crowded aisles and checkout lines that wrap around the store several times. I try to exercise a little. I pay a few bills and run through a small portion of my to-do list. Now I’m getting momentum! However, just when it feels like I’m about to make some major headway, I realize that it’s Saturday night, which means it’s time to put all of that aside and head out and do it all over again.

Take that maturity! Take that calm reflections and game-planning! Oh how the mighty have fallen!

But who am I kidding? It’s great. Who needs maturity? Who needs to plan? Heck, I’ve already proven I can do that, and I can still do it when I’m eighty and I don’t feel the need to be standing on the front steps of the St. Paul Capital Building at 3:00 a.m. I mean, if that’s not sound logic to live by, what is?

So that’s my plan, and there is a moral to be learned here. However, I can’t put my finger on it, since I’m a little sleep-deprived. So, see you can figure it out by yourself. Also, please don’t call me before noon on Saturday morning. I won’t answer.

Red Light

2010-07-21T17:56:00.000-07:00

There were a few things I wasn’t sure how I would adjust to once I moved to the Twin Cities, such as the vast numbers of people, the traffic, the weather, etc. However, after about a month of living here I can say with confidence that I’ve managed to adjust rather well.

Well, there is that one little thing. It’s no big deal, really, besides the fact that that it is most likely going to drive me completely insane within the next week or so. I am referring to, of course, the stoplights. They’re everywhere! It’s not just that, though. It’s the fact that they regularly last longer than a standard nine inning baseball game! So, when I'm sitting at one for what seems like hours it quickly wears on my last nerve, and I soon find myself wondering if walking wouldn’t be a less stressful option, not to mention faster.

In order to better illustrate my frustration, I now present to you a slightly over dramatized, complete with stilted language, version of the thoughts that run through my head when I have to stop at a red light on my way to work. You tell me how stretched thin my sanity is.

Red light! Dang it! Oh well, judging from the amount of cars in front of me, it’s been red for a while. Good. It’ll turn soon.

Hmmm, the song on the radio is pretty good, albeit slightly overproduced, like so much out of Nashville these days.

Whoa, the guy in the car next to me looks like Gargamel from the Smurfs!

I’ll bet most people nowadays wouldn’t even get a good Gargamel reference. Sad for them, I guess.

Time to close the ol’ window, now that somebody blaring rap has pulled up next to me.

All right stoplight, you can turn green any decade now!

Huh. I wonder if by using unnecessarily high-handed language in my blog I am unintentionally turning off potential readers because they see it as a symptom of a superiority complex?

Uh-oh. Did I forget my lunch? AAARRRGGGHHH! I cannot imagine anything worse happening right now! Why me? WHYYYYYY!!??

Oh wait, its right here. Phew! Good ol’ P B & J .....I’m glad you’re here... I’ll see you later...

Good grief! I may run out of gas if this light doesn’t change soon!

I wonder if my constant references to the 80’s are being found as witty and charming by the younger folks, or if I’m just viewed as being weird because of them? I don’t care, though! MacGyver must live on forever! Also, the A-Team.

Amarillo by morning.... up from San Antone... Everything that I’ve got... Is just what I’ve got onnnnnn.... Man, I should learn to play the fiddle. Or hire somebody to walk around behind me playing the fiddle.

Are you kidding me!? I think my best bet of moving is to hope for a freak tornado to form so it can pick up my car and toss me across the intersection!!!

Wait a minute... waitaminute! Am I losing my hair?... let me look in the rearview....Nope! Good as ever! Boy, was I worried there for a minute! What a relief!

Wow. That old lady in the walker in the walker on the sidewalk is moving faster than I am right now.

THAT’S IT!!!! If this doesn’t change in the next few moments I’m going to lose it! I’ll jump the curb and shoot across the intersection! I won’t even look for cars!! Who cares??!! Ha ha! It’ll be fun!!! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

{The light turns green}

Oh thank goodness! I think I almost went crazy there. Oh well, here we go again. Wow, this is so much better. Boy, I’ll bet my blood pressure is through the roof! Double wow, my hands are sweaty and I’m shaking uncontrollably! Good thing I’m done with that ordeal! Soon I’ll be tucked away in my cubicle and I won’t have to worry about stuff like this for a long…. Hey! Why is everybody stopping up there? Oh no!! It can't be! Another stoplight? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

Things I Cannot Say

2010-07-17T17:33:00.000-07:00

There are some things a person just can’t say. I’m not talking about anything inappropriate, mind you. I’m just saying that there are some words of phrases that a person can’t say without appearing completely out of character. For example, nobody but Spock can say, “That’s highly illogical.” It would just seem forced and out of place. (My first Star Trek reference! I don’t know if I’m happy or embarrassed.)

With that in mind, I’ve compiled a short list of things I wish I could say, because it would be fun, but I can’t, just because it wouldn’t seem right. They are as follows:

“Dern Tootin!”

“Blimey!” and “Rubbish!”

“Jumpin’ Gosh Almighty!!”

“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take…… our FREEDOM!!!!!”

“Your eyes are as blue as window cleaner.” (Redneck pick-up line)

“Woot, woot!” (I know that’s not said much anymore, but I never could say it when everybody else was.)

“Aarrgghh!” (My friend Jeff is the only person I know who actually says that word, and as far as I know, he’s the only one that can pull it off.)

“Saddle up!”

“Let’s touch base on this tomorrow, and then, depending on our bandwidth and what’s on everybody’s plates, we’ll make a final determination of how to allocate the work load, and it goes without mention that we will also make sure everything is documented properly.” – Wait a minute! That’s not something I wish I could say. It’s something I almost could say! Aarrgghh!

Any additions?

The Ultimate Farmer's Tan, And Other Topics

2010-07-14T15:51:00.000-07:00

I have a farmer’s tan.

Now, that in itself would not typically be newsworthy, but you have to understand one thing: it is a truly impressive farmer’s tan. In fact, it’s my best ever. The contrast between the tan and un-tanned portions of me is truly astounding, to the point where if I went shirtless it would, without a doubt, blind you, not to mention cause you to squeal in terror as you swerved off of the road in self-defense, assuming you were driving a car at the time, of course.

While I normally have a decent farmer’s tan, this is one I’m truly proud of, and I owe it all to moving to Minnesota. You see, I’ve gotten more sun in the last three weeks than I probably have in my entire tenure in Wisconsin, simply because of the multitude of opportunities I now have for outdoor activities.

(At first I felt like a vampire when I saw the sunlight. I would cover my eyes and growl ferociously, which is what a person naturally does when they expect to burst into flames. However, I’ve gotten used to it, which is good, because coffins are quite expensive and my black cape is not very comfortable.)

That is not the only thing that’s changed. Another example is that I don’t read anymore. I used to. A lot. Now, I haven’t read a book in quite some time, mainly because I’m too busy being outside. In fact, I still haven’t found a library in Minnesota yet, which wouldn’t be surprising if I was just getting lost, but it’s because I haven’t even yet tried.

I also used to follow the news, mainly because there wasn’t much else to do. It got to the point where I was actually following politics. I got to know all of the talk show hosts and their varying personalities, which can be boiled down to the following sample set: loud and obnoxious, loud and obnoxious, loud and obnoxious, insightful and balanced (but soon to be cancelled). I also figured out that pretty much all politicians are useless, mainly because they are, by definition, politicians. However, now, I’m falling behind on current events. For example, I have no idea the specifics of how one political party is undoubtedly taking something completely out of context just to try and smear the other, all in retaliation for the other party doing the same thing to them at some earlier point in time. Heck, I also haven’t even flipped over to MSNBC lately just to watch Keith Olbermann go into a barely-controlled rant, just to see if this was going to be the time where his head would actually explode.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Everything I’ve given up are things I can do when I’m an old geezer, wandering around aimlessly because I lost my car keys weeks ago and have no idea where I live. Now, it’s time to live for the moment. For example, playing volleyball, which I’ve been able to take up again after roughly a seven year sabbatical. I’ve even expanded my game this summer, so now I’m ambidextrous up at the net. (I can spike just as weakly with either hand!!)

So, to put it shortly, I may be regressing as a person, but I’m having a lot of fun doing it. Just don’t invite me to a pool party. You may burn your eyes out.

Rip Off The Knob And Beat On The Dash

2010-07-06T16:23:00.000-07:00

Living in the Twin Cities brings with it some negatives, such as the ridiculous summer heat, the ridiculous traffic, and the general ridiculousness that stems from the total amount of people there. However, there are also benefits to being in such a busting area, such as having a much better chance to see wacky people.

For example, I was just in a gas station and 'Country Roads' by John Denver was being played over the radio and throughout the store. I was singing along in my head and enjoying it, but not as much as the young man who wandered by. He was singing the chorus out loud, at a high volume level, and not at all well. Still, he did not care if anybody was listening, or what they were thinking, because he continued to wander and sing, apparently without a care in the world.

Now, while that was mildly entertaining, it luckily got better.

After I left the gas station, I was stopped at a red light that lasted for approximately a presidential administration. Long red lights are normally another annoying thing about the cities, but this time I happened to look in my rear view mirror and saw the same guy behind me in his own vehicle. This time he was really fired up by whatever music he was listening to. He was basically dancing fervently in his seat. His arms were all over the place: swinging back and forth, banging on the dashboard, clapping together, etc. He was also singing, and although I couldn’t hear him, I believe it must have been quite loudly.

I watched this for a good twenty seconds, until he paused to take a swig of an energy drink, which did not surprise me one bit. He started up again, and only stopped his routine later on in order to light up a cigarette. The light then turned green and he followed me for a few blocks, puffing contentedly, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had started to rock out again at any moment.

My point is that I'm adjusting the Twin Cities, and like the old saying goes, you just have to learn to take the good with the bad. And I guess it doesn’t hurt to get your groove on once in a while, too.

Shout-Out To An Inanimate Object

2010-07-01T20:07:00.000-07:00

There are very few things in this world you can count on, besides the often-heard ‘death and taxes’. Besides that there isn’t much, except for maybe the fact that the backup quarterback is always more popular until he plays or that nobody ever hears Don Williams and says, “That was some terrible music!”

But then there is my clock radio. I’ve had it since middle school, if I’m recollecting right. It has woken me up for probably more than half of my life, and it shows no signs of slowing down. (You could say that it appears that it’ll just keep on ticking. Har!) It’s rousted me out of bed for just about everything, including school, work, church, and morning hikes.

It is neither sleek nor aerodynamic, like so many products in today’s I-Pod era. Instead, it is like a car from the eighties: built entirely out of right angles. The radio doesn’t work very well on it anymore, but I only use it for an alarm clock, and that is where it excels.

It has been with me everywhere: From Fulton, Michigan to Stevens Point, Wisconsin, to Plymouth, Minnesota. It has been a constant, stalwart, quiet companion who does not talk back except for the annoying beeping it emits every morning when I need to wake up. Still, it’s only doing it for my own good, so I hold nothing against it.

My favorite story about my clock radio was the morning when it woke me up andI was still so groggy that I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to shut it off, even though I’d pressed the same button to turn it off for many years prior to that. After staring at it stupidly for what seemed like hours, my brain finally came up with a solution, and so I unplugged it, just so it would stop the incessant beeping. (Note: I didn’t say it was a good story. It is just the best one I have.)

I’m not sure why I’m writing about a clock radio. There is nothing inherently exciting about it, but maybe that’s part of its charm. It just goes out and gets the job done every time it's called upon without frills or need for recognition. It’s basically like getting the Cal Ripkin Jr. of electronics, and, now that I think about it, perhaps more things in this world should be like that.

What Do You Mean I Have A Blog?

2010-06-22T15:26:00.000-07:00

I've kind of forgotten that I have a blog. The move to the Twin Cities has ripped me out of my comfortable routine of nothingness and has left me with very little free time. Happily, for my three or so regular readers, I think things are settling down, so hopefully I can keep posting.

So, in the meanwhile, here is what I've learned in the last few weeks:

1) I've scratched Truck Driver off of my list of fallback careers. Driving a 10 foot U-Haul was enough. (That leaves rodeo clown, professional baseball announcer, and skydiving instructor, for those of you keeping track.)

2) The drive from MI to MN has definitely gotten longer than it was 8 years ago, when I last did it. I think WI has gone on an eating binge since then and has grown much fatter. (Too many cheese curds, would be my guess.)

3) The first day of work is always the same. People are all very nice to you, but you know that deep down they are scheming on how to dump their work off on you. Also, you wander around in a daze, not knowing anybody or anything, just hoping to make it through the day without making too much of a fool of yourself. ("That's not the lunchroom! That's the CEO's private store!")

4) My badge picture came out better that I had thought. Still, one eye is wide open, and the other is locked down in a fairly good squint. It makes for good contrast. (I think I was halfway through getting into my Clint Eastwood squint when the picture was taken.)

A Moment To Remember (But Not To Be Proud Of)

2010-06-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

Now that my time in Wisconsin is drawing to a close, I find myself looking back at some of the things that have occured during my stay here. One in particular was the dumbest thing I ever did while living in my apartment.

At the time I had a roommate, and one day he told me that the dryer in the basement jammed while he was putting in the quarters needed to operate it. I called the landlord and he later determined that a bent quarter was used, which jammed the mechanism, and he returned said offending quarter.

Life went on. However, somewhere down the line the same thing happened to me. This annoyed me, as I figured the dryer was getting old. I called the landlord and reported the problem. When I got home from work the next day there was a note under my door, and included was a bent quarter. The note included the following line: "This is the same quarter I took out the last time." (I'm surprised he didn't attach a "moron" at the end.)

That was when I realized that when he had returned the bent quarter the last time, I had, showing an incredible lack of foresight, put it back into my stash of laundry money. From there on I had been playing Laundry Roulette, and it had finally caught up with me.

If I had been my landlord, I would have kicked me out right then and there out of sheer principle. However, he was nice enough not to.

I truly believe that during his regular Landlord Meetings, he now brings this tale up to try and one-up other landlords when they are discussing who has the worst tenants.

Needless to say, in some landfill in Wisconsin there is a bent quarter buried somewhere within. I actually wish I had it back. I would probably frame it, since I am kind of proud of the whole thing.

Living In The Backwoods Of Small Town U.S.A. Made Me Who I Am

2010-06-10T17:05:00.000-07:00

Any casual fan of country music will have noticed the abundance of “I’m country so I’m better than everybody else” songs out there. Basically, these are songs which celebrate the hillbilly/backroads/backwoods/country/small town/rural lifestyle by repeating the same clichés we’ve all heard over and over and over and over and over and over again.

To prove how mindless this is, I will now write a few lines off of the top of my head which could be the basis for one of these songs:

You may think we’re a bunch of hicks
But we still love livin’ out in the sticks

Throw a banjo in there, a few lines about trucks, working hard, and having fun on Saturday, along with an annoying-yet-oh-so-loud electric guitar solo, and it’s a hit. (I’m shuddering here when I think of this.)

This is what Gretchen Wilson redneck mania seems to have morphed into lately, and it’s really starting to get annoying.

However, there is still music being made which doesn’t conform to the latest trend, and that is what gives me hope:

Zac Brown Band: Free – They released “Highway 20 Ride”, which was a sparse, thoughtful ballad, and it was a big hit. Still ballads aren’t generally radio friendly, and conventional wisdom suggests they needed to next release an up-tempo, mindless-celebration-of-the-country-life type of song, especially for the current summer months. However, they instead released, “Free”, which is another sparse ballad. Seriously, nobody releases two ballads in a row. It’s career suicide! Yet, they did, it’s doing well, and for that I’m happy.

Dierks Bentley: Up On The Ridge – He just released an entire album of acoustic/bluegrass songs. No electric guitar solos to be heard. Sure, the song "Up On The Ridge" is an “I’m Country” kind of song in its own right, but it’s still does it in an original sort of way.

My favorite song on there so far is "Fiddlin’ Around", because it has about eighty-seven fiddle solos in it:

Growing Pains

2010-06-05T20:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, getting mature can really be annoying.

Take, for example, a four-hour road trip. In the past I would spend the entire time listening to music and generally enjoying myself. It was a good system, I rather enjoyed it, and I saw no reason for it to change.

Except it did change, and for that I blame maturity.

Now, when I am in this exact same situation, I spend most of my time listening to talk radio, and I’ve come to realize that not only is politics incredibly boring, it is also incredibly frustrating and depressing. Still, I can’t help but pay attention to it. It’s a maturity thing, and it's starting to annoy me. For example, when the road trip is finished, I am no longer upbeat and happy from listening to various singers who wear cowboy hats tell about how their world is ending because they treated their woman wrong and so she left them, and how the only way they can deal with it is by consuming large amounts of alcohol. Instead, I am angry and frustrated because I’ve just heard various stories about how people I wouldn’t trust to handle running a rummage sale are currently running our government. Aaargh!

This leads me to my next point: John Wayne.

You see, I own a life-sized John Wayne cut-out. I received it as a gift from my friend Tom quite a few years back. At that time, I thought it was hilarious, and I amused myself by setting it up randomly in my apartment. It scared any visitors I had, and it also scared myself, on occasion. Once again, it was a good system, I rather enjoyed it, and I saw no reason for it to change.

Except now it just isn’t funny anymore. John himself hasn’t changed. He still stands there stoically, holding his rifle and looking grim, just like he’s either about to face down a dozen bandits or has severe constipation. Unfortunately, it’s me that’s changed. For some reason, what used to make me happy now seems somehow beneath me. Stupid maturity.

I guess this is just something I’ll have to learn to live with. I understand that maturing is good. I mean, if you don’t mature, then you end up as the weird 40 year old guy who still tries to act 20 by keeping up with and using the current slang, which results in them being known as the creepy 40 year old guy who sounds completely out of place by using the current slang.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m not against maturing, and I’ll go along with it, but it doesn’t mean I always have to like it.

Also, does anybody want a life-sized cut-out of John Wayne?

Go West Young Man (To The Land Of Pawlenty)

2010-06-01T16:43:00.000-07:00

I actually don’t have much to say about my coming relocation to Minnesota. To be honest, I just really wanted to use the phrase “Land of Pawlenty”, mainly because I’m proud I came up with it, and also because it is a quite cheesy/horrible phrase.

To set the record straight, I did google this, and I found that it has been used in the past, so I fully admit that I did not originate it. However, I'd never heard it until it popped into my mind, which means that even though I'm not the true originator, I was still able to independently arrive at it.

So, you may ask, what does this all mean, and why are you babbling about it when there has to be something more worthwhile you could be focusing your time and energy on? Heck, I don’t know. Like I said, I just really wanted to use the play on words. It's not like all of my posts have to be thought-provoking or incredibly deep, you know. I'm allowed to have a few fluff pieces now and again. I mean, George Strait recorded 'Don't Make Me Come Over There And Love You' and it didn't ruin him. So give me a break!

I believe that somewhere along the way I have lost my original point. Unless, of course, I never had one to begin with, and I'll fully admit that I'm still a bit fuzzy as to if I did. Still, I used up a lot of space, and that makes me happy.

Unleashing My Inner Rage

2010-05-22T06:30:00.000-07:00

I was recently talking to a co-worker and trying to write something down on a post-it note at the same time. As usual, the pen I was using decided that it really had no intention of functioning correctly. It would work for several moments, stop altogether for a while, and then start up again. This resulted in my finished note looking like nothing more than a jumble of random ink streaks.

Seeing this, I took the pen and flipped it across my desk, where it bounced and clattered in a satisfactory manner. Without breaking the conversation, I picked up a new pen and finished the note.

This prompted my co-worker to say, “Wow, I’ve never seen you get mad before.”

It was true. I was mad. I hate pens that don’t work.

It’s also true that I normally don’t get mad. But, for some reason, faulty pens bring out that side of me.

This got me to thinking about what other things make me drop my mild-mannered persona and turn me into as much of a snarling, uncontrollable lunatic as I possibly can be.

Here’s what I came up with:

1) Golfing. I’ve never really golfed in my life. However, I have been to the driving range several times. In each case the range itself was about eight miles wide. However, I was still able to slice the ball off of it at a pretty regular frequency. (Or perhaps “hook” is the right term, or maybe “shank”. “Completely screw up” fits also.) Anyway, as I repeatedly did this, I found myself getting incredibly angry, which never happens to me, and it was, quite frankly, scary. I can’t imagine what would happen if I played 9 holes of real golf, although I’m sure it would end with me repeatedly striking a golf cart with whatever club had just shank-hooked my ball into a thorn thicket that was not even in the remote vicinity of where I had been aiming.

2) People that whistle. I mean seriously, who wants to hear you whistle? To me, it’s just a sign of a person who is so self-involved that they want everybody that walks by them to notice them and think to themselves, “Hey, that person is whistling!”

3) Sportscasters who overuse the word ‘unbelievable’. For example, if a baseball player makes a nice leaping catch over the fence and steals a home run, they will shout enthusiastically, “That was unbelievable!” However, this happens several hundred times per season. What’s unbelievable about that? Have they not watched any of these other games? The same applies to when a football player makes a one-handed touchdown catch. Sure, it’s a nice play, but it happens frequently enough that the term ‘unbelievable’ does not really apply. It makes me think that when these sportscasters see something mundane, like a vending machine dispense a candy car, they must jump up and down and yell to anybody who is near, “Did you see that! It was unbelievable!” The point is, you need to save ‘unbelievable’ for something that is truly unbelievable, such as if the Lions ever win the Super Bowl.

There's more, but I’d better stop now. I’m getting angry just thinking about this.

Blogging Writer's Block

2010-05-17T19:40:00.000-07:00

Apparantly, I've run out of anything interesting to say lately, as evidenced by my lack of recent posts.

I suppose what I should do is keep a low profile until I'm inspired, and only then post something, so that the material will stay high-quality. (Relative to me, of course)

Or, I could push ahead and publish inferior material for the sole purpose of trying to seem relevant and to make myself feel important. I mean, how could that go wrong?

Wait a minute, that gives me an idea for a topic!

If My Ideas For Blogging Topics Were A:

1) Desert scene - There would be tumbleweeds lazily drifting by, and a bleached white cow skull baking in the sun.

2) Sporting Event - The stadium would be completely devoid of fans, and the only thing going on would be a single game of horseshoes between two 80 year old guys, one who can't hear and the other who mumbles.

3) Band - The drummer would be stuck in traffic, the lead guitarist would have two broken wrists, and the lead singer would have laryngitis.

4) Movie - It would be a horrible remake of some 80's TV show, and would lose the spirit of the original, while still not bringing anything new to the table.

5) Dang it! I can't think of another one! Oh well, that figures.