"If you don't have anything funny to say, don't say anything at all." - Me, a couple of seconds ago.
Yup, it's been quite a dry spell for this blog. I keep waiting to get hit with inspiration for a hilarious post, but the only thing that's been hitting me recently is the urge to take a chair nap and drink gallons of coffee. I'm not sure why this is happening. Maybe I'm training for winter.
Regardless, I refuse to pump out subpar material just because I feel like I should always be posting something, so please bear with me as I travel through this barren desert of writer's block, searching desperately for an oasis of creative inspiration, while hoping not to be drawn in by mirages of what look to be great topics to write about but which really aren't.
Together we'll get through this, but in the meanwhile, if you need me, I'll probably be in my chair, drinking coffee.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Update
I know, I know, I've been neglecting this blog. However, in my defense, I have been spending a lot of time growing facial hair.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Logic And Sports Injuries
In general, guys can be pretty good at long term thinking,
but there are some areas where that just isn’t an option, such as dealing with
sports injuries.
You see, guys hate getting injured while playing sports, as to them it’s the same thing as walking around with a big sign that says: “I’m a wimp! Feel free to punch me in the face!”
Now, I realize this doesn’t make much sense, as injuries are a part of life, but guys and logic sometimes just don’t mix.
Usually, upon incurring an injury, a guy’s first instinct is to ignore it and “play through,” with the worst case scenario being to pause for a moment to “tape it up,” even if that means reattaching their head to their body. Now, as you might expect through the use of common sense, this short-sighted thinking usually makes things worse, and sometimes turns minor injuries into major ones. (There’s that whole logic thing again.) However, just because I’m aware of how preposterous a guy’s line of thinking is here, don’t assume for a moment that I’m immune to it.
For example, during a recent pickup softball game, it came to my attention that my batting ability had degraded over the years to the point where a little old lady swinging a broom would have had a better chance of getting a hit. So, not surprisingly, when I finally did manage to hit a dribbler to the left side, I hurled myself out of the batter’s box with reckless abandon, determined to get a hit, although I must admit that I did briefly entertain the thought of sprinting all the way to my car so I could drive away and not have to endure the shame of lowering myself to the level of trying to beat out an infield single.
Anyway, since I’m no longer in my early twenties, and instead at an age where hurling oneself around with reckless abandon is generally a poor idea, a delicate portion of my body, best defined as the upper inner thigh, decided that it was time to go, and I quote: “POP!!”
At this point, I should have been done for the night, but like any rockhead guy, I immediately decided to “play through,” so as to not let down my team, which had been playing together for almost an entire forty-five minutes and had developed an incredibly deep bond amongst its players, by which I mean I’m pretty sure we all knew each others’ first names.
Reduced to essentially playing on one leg, I immediately became a defensive liability with a range of about one step in any given direction, and I was no better on offense, where my maximum running speed on the base paths was now comparable to that of a turtle on crutches. (In a later at bat, I somehow managed to drive one over the center fielder’s head, and even though it went all the way to the wall, I still almost got thrown out at first.)
Now, I’d like to say that the story ends here, but sadly it doesn’t, as the next night was sand volleyball night, and I don’t miss sand volleyball night for anything, as it’s easily the best sport ever invented, and missing it would be the same thing as walking around with a big sign that says, “I’m a wimp! Feel free to punch me in the face!”
However, it was only a day later and I couldn’t really jump, which, as it turns out, is a major component of the sport. Still, undeterred by facts and logic, I did what any rockhead guy would do, which was ignore all of the warning signs and play anyway.
In my defense, I wasn’t completely reckless in the matter. No, I made sure to take the time to wrap my injured leg for support, like they do in the pros. Not that it helped me to be able to walk or jump, mind you, it just made me feel like I’d taken steps to address the situation. Plus, I got to play with tape, which is always a fun thing.
Anyway, and this is tough to admit, by doing this I’d basically turned into one of those weekend warrior middle-aged guys whose body is crumbling down all around them, and who wear various braces and headbands and mouth guards, and who I always want to shake my head at and say, “Dude, give it up. Go balance your checkbook or something before you end up killing yourself.”
But it was sand volleyball night. Did I have any other choice?
Luckily, I somehow made it through without injuring myself even further, and ever since then, I’ve managed to heal up nicely to the point where I’m almost back to 100 percent.
Still, I’ve learned a very important lesson from the whole ordeal: No more mad dashes from home plate during softball!
Either that or get a little old lady with a broom to pinch-hit for me.
You see, guys hate getting injured while playing sports, as to them it’s the same thing as walking around with a big sign that says: “I’m a wimp! Feel free to punch me in the face!”
Now, I realize this doesn’t make much sense, as injuries are a part of life, but guys and logic sometimes just don’t mix.
Usually, upon incurring an injury, a guy’s first instinct is to ignore it and “play through,” with the worst case scenario being to pause for a moment to “tape it up,” even if that means reattaching their head to their body. Now, as you might expect through the use of common sense, this short-sighted thinking usually makes things worse, and sometimes turns minor injuries into major ones. (There’s that whole logic thing again.) However, just because I’m aware of how preposterous a guy’s line of thinking is here, don’t assume for a moment that I’m immune to it.
For example, during a recent pickup softball game, it came to my attention that my batting ability had degraded over the years to the point where a little old lady swinging a broom would have had a better chance of getting a hit. So, not surprisingly, when I finally did manage to hit a dribbler to the left side, I hurled myself out of the batter’s box with reckless abandon, determined to get a hit, although I must admit that I did briefly entertain the thought of sprinting all the way to my car so I could drive away and not have to endure the shame of lowering myself to the level of trying to beat out an infield single.
Anyway, since I’m no longer in my early twenties, and instead at an age where hurling oneself around with reckless abandon is generally a poor idea, a delicate portion of my body, best defined as the upper inner thigh, decided that it was time to go, and I quote: “POP!!”
At this point, I should have been done for the night, but like any rockhead guy, I immediately decided to “play through,” so as to not let down my team, which had been playing together for almost an entire forty-five minutes and had developed an incredibly deep bond amongst its players, by which I mean I’m pretty sure we all knew each others’ first names.
Reduced to essentially playing on one leg, I immediately became a defensive liability with a range of about one step in any given direction, and I was no better on offense, where my maximum running speed on the base paths was now comparable to that of a turtle on crutches. (In a later at bat, I somehow managed to drive one over the center fielder’s head, and even though it went all the way to the wall, I still almost got thrown out at first.)
Now, I’d like to say that the story ends here, but sadly it doesn’t, as the next night was sand volleyball night, and I don’t miss sand volleyball night for anything, as it’s easily the best sport ever invented, and missing it would be the same thing as walking around with a big sign that says, “I’m a wimp! Feel free to punch me in the face!”
However, it was only a day later and I couldn’t really jump, which, as it turns out, is a major component of the sport. Still, undeterred by facts and logic, I did what any rockhead guy would do, which was ignore all of the warning signs and play anyway.
In my defense, I wasn’t completely reckless in the matter. No, I made sure to take the time to wrap my injured leg for support, like they do in the pros. Not that it helped me to be able to walk or jump, mind you, it just made me feel like I’d taken steps to address the situation. Plus, I got to play with tape, which is always a fun thing.
Anyway, and this is tough to admit, by doing this I’d basically turned into one of those weekend warrior middle-aged guys whose body is crumbling down all around them, and who wear various braces and headbands and mouth guards, and who I always want to shake my head at and say, “Dude, give it up. Go balance your checkbook or something before you end up killing yourself.”
But it was sand volleyball night. Did I have any other choice?
Luckily, I somehow made it through without injuring myself even further, and ever since then, I’ve managed to heal up nicely to the point where I’m almost back to 100 percent.
Still, I’ve learned a very important lesson from the whole ordeal: No more mad dashes from home plate during softball!
Either that or get a little old lady with a broom to pinch-hit for me.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
The Chair
If I had a bucket list, and on said list was an item titled: “Sit on a cloud,” I’d now
be able to cross it off.
Yup, I got a new chair. It’s soft. It reclines. It swivels. It perfectly cradles my every ounce. Basically, it’s become the most important thing in my life, narrowly edging out coffee.
I’ve known for a while that I needed a new chair. There was an empty space in my living room that even a life-sized cutout of John Wayne couldn’t fill, and a chair seemed like it would be the perfect thing. I just never got around to it, what with all of my time being consumed with the rigors of everyday life. Finally, however, I got down to business and bought one, and, as a result, I’ll never do anything productive again in my life, as I’ll be using all of my spare time to take chair naps.
Chair naps are amazing. They make couch naps feel like trying to sleep in a dumpster filled with angry raccoons. It’s hard to explain why they’re so much better. It’s something beyond measure, something intangible, but once you’ve experienced a good chair nap, you’ll never go back to the couch. (You may even feel the urge to occasionally spit on your couch in derision.)
As you can probably see, I’m completely enamored by my new piece of furniture. In fact, I now nap even when I’m not even remotely tired. Every time I walk by the chair, I’m inexorably pulled in its direction, as if it’s whispering soothingly to me, “Come to me and rest your eyes. Don’t worry, it’ll only be for a few minutes!!” I’ll then wake up three hours later, dazed, confused, but very happy. Put it this way: I have a hard time foreseeing any future when I’m not late for work less than fifty percent of the time.
Luckily, winter will be here soon, and then I won’t feel so bad about spending all of my time there. My plan is to while away those bitter months napping, reading, and drinking coffee, sometimes all at once. I have a feeling I may even sleep through Christmas.
Let it snow!!!
Yup, I got a new chair. It’s soft. It reclines. It swivels. It perfectly cradles my every ounce. Basically, it’s become the most important thing in my life, narrowly edging out coffee.
I’ve known for a while that I needed a new chair. There was an empty space in my living room that even a life-sized cutout of John Wayne couldn’t fill, and a chair seemed like it would be the perfect thing. I just never got around to it, what with all of my time being consumed with the rigors of everyday life. Finally, however, I got down to business and bought one, and, as a result, I’ll never do anything productive again in my life, as I’ll be using all of my spare time to take chair naps.
Chair naps are amazing. They make couch naps feel like trying to sleep in a dumpster filled with angry raccoons. It’s hard to explain why they’re so much better. It’s something beyond measure, something intangible, but once you’ve experienced a good chair nap, you’ll never go back to the couch. (You may even feel the urge to occasionally spit on your couch in derision.)
As you can probably see, I’m completely enamored by my new piece of furniture. In fact, I now nap even when I’m not even remotely tired. Every time I walk by the chair, I’m inexorably pulled in its direction, as if it’s whispering soothingly to me, “Come to me and rest your eyes. Don’t worry, it’ll only be for a few minutes!!” I’ll then wake up three hours later, dazed, confused, but very happy. Put it this way: I have a hard time foreseeing any future when I’m not late for work less than fifty percent of the time.
Luckily, winter will be here soon, and then I won’t feel so bad about spending all of my time there. My plan is to while away those bitter months napping, reading, and drinking coffee, sometimes all at once. I have a feeling I may even sleep through Christmas.
Let it snow!!!
Monday, July 14, 2014
On Camping
Camping is one of those things that, upon closer inspection,
doesn’t make a lot of sense, mainly because it’s a leisure activity that
involves giving up modern conveniences in order to make yourself miserable for
several days, which, when you think about it, is sort of like looking into the
sun for entertainment purposes.
Now, I’ll admit that it would make perfect sense if people went camping for the sole reason of making it so they fully appreciated their modern conveniences upon returning home. (“That was terrible! I’m sure glad to be somewhere there’s a shower and a place to sleep not covered in eighteen layers of mosquitoes!”) However, what you’ll hear when you ask around is that people go camping in order to commune with nature, which sounds like a wonderful idea until nature starts communing back in the form of clouds of bugs with the ability to lift livestock off of the ground and curious skunks with hair-triggers.
So, unless their homes have been flooded or relocated to another state by a tornado, why do people go camping?
The answer’s easy: the low standards.
You see, when you go camping, conventional social standards are immediately flushed down the proverbial toilet, leaving you free to live like their forefathers, assuming they were gigantic slobs with eating habits that would make any dentist blush.
For example, one of the first things to go is the concept of daily showers, which is replaced with the concept of wallowing in your own filth, although I’ll have to admit that several advantages, such as:
Another standard that disappears is shaving, which is why at any given campsite most of the male population – when they’re not pretending to know how to start a fire – spend most of their time scratching absently at their jaws. Annoying itching aside, as a guy I can say that not having to shave in the morning is a complete luxury, especially for those of us who can’t wear their stubble in the real world without looking like they just got hit in the face with a dirt clod. Thank goodness anything goes when you're camping, even if it makes you look terrible!!
As you might expect, since it goes hand-in-smelly-hand with not bathing, the concept of changing clothes is also nonexistent during camping. In fact, it becomes fully acceptable to wear the same pair of pants for multiple days in a row, even if you shred them terribly during a sprint through a thicket of thorns to escape what you thought was a bear but was instead a very loud squirrel. This is a truly liberating concept, and it also frees you up a lot of time to scratch absently at your jaw, although upon the end of a camping trip, I recommend that you just burn your clothing instead of trying to salvage it.
Another big reason for camping is that food standards drop to the point where it appears that two of your main objectives in life are to contract diabetes and thicken your blood to the consistency of Burger King shakes. Simply put, “eating healthy” is not a term associated with camping, and your food must consist exclusively of either greasy meat or simple carbs. Sometimes, however, despite the rules, people will try to sneak in something else, and these rogue actions must be strictly punished: i.e. salads or other green items must be confiscated and thrown directly into the fire, although fruit is sometimes allowed, assuming that it’s eaten with something from the Little Debbie family.
Another fun part of camping is the last few meals, when most of your food is gone and you’re left cobbling together random ingredients to see what you come up with. While this may seem to be a bit disgusting, one of the mystical things about camping is that food always tastes good, no matter what it is, assuming, of course, that it’s not a contraband vegetable. For example, during my last trip, we had peanut butter and jelly saltine cracker sandwiches for breakfast on the last day, and they were delicious!
In summary: Camping means no bathing, no shaving, no clothes-changing, and lots and lots of junk food, and when it’s put like that, who really cares about a several-hundred measly mosquito bites and the faint odor of skunk that'll follow you around forever, especially when you do finally get around to taking that shower?
Now, I’ll admit that it would make perfect sense if people went camping for the sole reason of making it so they fully appreciated their modern conveniences upon returning home. (“That was terrible! I’m sure glad to be somewhere there’s a shower and a place to sleep not covered in eighteen layers of mosquitoes!”) However, what you’ll hear when you ask around is that people go camping in order to commune with nature, which sounds like a wonderful idea until nature starts communing back in the form of clouds of bugs with the ability to lift livestock off of the ground and curious skunks with hair-triggers.
So, unless their homes have been flooded or relocated to another state by a tornado, why do people go camping?
The answer’s easy: the low standards.
You see, when you go camping, conventional social standards are immediately flushed down the proverbial toilet, leaving you free to live like their forefathers, assuming they were gigantic slobs with eating habits that would make any dentist blush.
For example, one of the first things to go is the concept of daily showers, which is replaced with the concept of wallowing in your own filth, although I’ll have to admit that several advantages, such as:
- The smell will kill the attacking mosquitoes before they can even get close.
- You have more free time to get attacked by bears.
Another standard that disappears is shaving, which is why at any given campsite most of the male population – when they’re not pretending to know how to start a fire – spend most of their time scratching absently at their jaws. Annoying itching aside, as a guy I can say that not having to shave in the morning is a complete luxury, especially for those of us who can’t wear their stubble in the real world without looking like they just got hit in the face with a dirt clod. Thank goodness anything goes when you're camping, even if it makes you look terrible!!
As you might expect, since it goes hand-in-smelly-hand with not bathing, the concept of changing clothes is also nonexistent during camping. In fact, it becomes fully acceptable to wear the same pair of pants for multiple days in a row, even if you shred them terribly during a sprint through a thicket of thorns to escape what you thought was a bear but was instead a very loud squirrel. This is a truly liberating concept, and it also frees you up a lot of time to scratch absently at your jaw, although upon the end of a camping trip, I recommend that you just burn your clothing instead of trying to salvage it.
Another big reason for camping is that food standards drop to the point where it appears that two of your main objectives in life are to contract diabetes and thicken your blood to the consistency of Burger King shakes. Simply put, “eating healthy” is not a term associated with camping, and your food must consist exclusively of either greasy meat or simple carbs. Sometimes, however, despite the rules, people will try to sneak in something else, and these rogue actions must be strictly punished: i.e. salads or other green items must be confiscated and thrown directly into the fire, although fruit is sometimes allowed, assuming that it’s eaten with something from the Little Debbie family.
Another fun part of camping is the last few meals, when most of your food is gone and you’re left cobbling together random ingredients to see what you come up with. While this may seem to be a bit disgusting, one of the mystical things about camping is that food always tastes good, no matter what it is, assuming, of course, that it’s not a contraband vegetable. For example, during my last trip, we had peanut butter and jelly saltine cracker sandwiches for breakfast on the last day, and they were delicious!
In summary: Camping means no bathing, no shaving, no clothes-changing, and lots and lots of junk food, and when it’s put like that, who really cares about a several-hundred measly mosquito bites and the faint odor of skunk that'll follow you around forever, especially when you do finally get around to taking that shower?
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Umbrella
I'm now the owner of a new umbrella, and since I’ve never
had one before, I’m not quite sure what to make of it.
For starters, I didn’t buy it. It was given to me by one of my employer’s clients. Also, it’s bright red, to the point where if I ever used it, it’d look like I was getting dive-bombed by one of the Angry Birds. (Or a giant, flattened tomato.)
Now, as a guy, I’ve never felt a need to use an umbrella. This started way back during my childhood, where I would refuse to carry one to the bus stop on rainy days. This was because boys back then needed to be tough, since in those days you didn’t get trophies for everything, such as taking last place, or not putting your pants on backwards for the fifth day in a row, and by carrying an umbrella I would have been guaranteed to be beaten up as soon as I stepped onto the bus, mainly by my friends, since one of the official duties of being a friend is to make sure your other friends don’t go soft on you.
And so, in order to not be beaten up, I just elected to be sick a lot, which, I might add, was totally worth it.
But now I’m grown up and living inMinnesota
Anyway, an umbrella might come in handy, but unfortunately, there's still a bit of the little boy in me who doesn’t want to be a wimp and get beaten up. That part of me wants to do the opposite of using an umbrella during a storm, which would be to strip down to my underwear, stand outside, and yell, “Is that all you’ve got???!!!! Bring it on!!!”
In short, I’m not sure if I’m going to use it or not. However, I can say that I’m already glad that I have it, for two reasons: One, when it’s not opened, I can pretend it’s a sword and use it to defeat invisible bad guys, which is a lot of fun, and two, I can entertain myself for hours on end by pressing the button and opening it, then folding it back up and repeating. (“Umbrella opens up! Umbrella closes! Umbrella opens up! Umbrella closes!”)
Well, I’m not going to figure this out by sitting in front of a keyboard. I’d better get down to some serious thinking. Unless, of course, some invisible burglars have snuck in, in which case I’ve been working on a few new moves that I'm just dying to try.
For starters, I didn’t buy it. It was given to me by one of my employer’s clients. Also, it’s bright red, to the point where if I ever used it, it’d look like I was getting dive-bombed by one of the Angry Birds. (Or a giant, flattened tomato.)
Now, as a guy, I’ve never felt a need to use an umbrella. This started way back during my childhood, where I would refuse to carry one to the bus stop on rainy days. This was because boys back then needed to be tough, since in those days you didn’t get trophies for everything, such as taking last place, or not putting your pants on backwards for the fifth day in a row, and by carrying an umbrella I would have been guaranteed to be beaten up as soon as I stepped onto the bus, mainly by my friends, since one of the official duties of being a friend is to make sure your other friends don’t go soft on you.
And so, in order to not be beaten up, I just elected to be sick a lot, which, I might add, was totally worth it.
But now I’m grown up and living in
Anyway, an umbrella might come in handy, but unfortunately, there's still a bit of the little boy in me who doesn’t want to be a wimp and get beaten up. That part of me wants to do the opposite of using an umbrella during a storm, which would be to strip down to my underwear, stand outside, and yell, “Is that all you’ve got???!!!! Bring it on!!!”
In short, I’m not sure if I’m going to use it or not. However, I can say that I’m already glad that I have it, for two reasons: One, when it’s not opened, I can pretend it’s a sword and use it to defeat invisible bad guys, which is a lot of fun, and two, I can entertain myself for hours on end by pressing the button and opening it, then folding it back up and repeating. (“Umbrella opens up! Umbrella closes! Umbrella opens up! Umbrella closes!”)
Well, I’m not going to figure this out by sitting in front of a keyboard. I’d better get down to some serious thinking. Unless, of course, some invisible burglars have snuck in, in which case I’ve been working on a few new moves that I'm just dying to try.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Father's Day
As I’ve mentioned before, I am essentially a reserved Finlander
at heart, and by this I mean that an extreme show of emotion for me would be the
slight narrowing of my eyes when I’m angry, or the allowance of the smallest
snicker when somebody walks into a pole while texting.
Now, while I’m generally happy with this genetic disposition, it does put me in a bind on certain occasions, such as Father’s day, where emotions are typically required that go beyond being slightly annoyed by everybody around me.
I mean, let’s face it: guys don’t do feelings well, especially when they’re reserved Finlanders at heart, and when you come upon a day where a son is supposed to show his appreciation to his father, the options become severely limited. For me, it usually means a phone call that lasts for about three minutes, during which time the most heartfelt phrase used is, “I’ll talk to you later.” (It’s heartfelt because it implies future communication, which is a form of commitment, and thus, Guy Kryptonite.)
In a good communication-less father/son relationship, the act of assuming is paramount, despite what they always say happens when you assume. (“A sumo wrestler might squash you.”) In particular, the following assumptions are critical:
However, being a son who likes to do more than is required, I have also implemented a system where I try to express my gratitude through the act of not doing things that could potentially lead a parental unit into thinking they failed in their job of child-rearing, such as:
Now, you may be thinking, but here’s your chance! You have a blog with upwards of three regular readers where you could finally express your true feelings! Through the wonderful median of the internet, you could finally say what’s really on your mind! There’s never been a better opportunity! Take advantage of it!
And to that I say, are you crazy? Sharing feelings? It gives me shivers to even think about. Personally, I’d much rather go with the assumption route. It’s so much more elegant.
Now, while I’m generally happy with this genetic disposition, it does put me in a bind on certain occasions, such as Father’s day, where emotions are typically required that go beyond being slightly annoyed by everybody around me.
I mean, let’s face it: guys don’t do feelings well, especially when they’re reserved Finlanders at heart, and when you come upon a day where a son is supposed to show his appreciation to his father, the options become severely limited. For me, it usually means a phone call that lasts for about three minutes, during which time the most heartfelt phrase used is, “I’ll talk to you later.” (It’s heartfelt because it implies future communication, which is a form of commitment, and thus, Guy Kryptonite.)
In a good communication-less father/son relationship, the act of assuming is paramount, despite what they always say happens when you assume. (“A sumo wrestler might squash you.”) In particular, the following assumptions are critical:
- Despite never hearing verbal confirmation, the father assumes that the son appreciates him.
- Despite never giving his father verbal confirmation, the son assumes that the father knows he’s appreciated.
However, being a son who likes to do more than is required, I have also implemented a system where I try to express my gratitude through the act of not doing things that could potentially lead a parental unit into thinking they failed in their job of child-rearing, such as:
- Not moving back in with them.
- Not getting arrested. (As far as they know.)
- Not going on a reality television singing show.
- Not being the guy who wanders around with a sandwich board that says the world will end tomorrow.
- Not becoming a politician.
Now, you may be thinking, but here’s your chance! You have a blog with upwards of three regular readers where you could finally express your true feelings! Through the wonderful median of the internet, you could finally say what’s really on your mind! There’s never been a better opportunity! Take advantage of it!
And to that I say, are you crazy? Sharing feelings? It gives me shivers to even think about. Personally, I’d much rather go with the assumption route. It’s so much more elegant.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
