Keep Strummin’ – Tuning Your Guitar

Now that you’ve got your guitar, the next thing on the agenda is to tune it. To illustrate why this is important, strum down on the strings with your thumb and note the horrible noise that’s produced. Pretty awful, huh? Next, check your strumming hand to see if you’re holding anything that might have contributed to the ruckus, such as a Red Bull can or a salami sandwich. If so, drop said item and try again. Ugh! Still pretty awful! So, that’s why you need to tune your guitar.

Unfortunately, tuning can be an annoying little chore, so before we get into any details, the first thing you should do is look around and see if there are any experienced guitarists nearby who might be able to do it for you, such as Ricky Skaggs. If so, then you’re in luck! Now you just have to convince them to do it! If you happen to be a girl, it can sometimes help to bat your eyes and/or a do a cute little hair-flip to grease the skids. Guys, conversely, are going to have a tougher time in general with this, although don’t let that stop you from trying, especially the hair-flip part. You never know!

If it turns out that you’re unlucky enough to have to do it yourself, you’re going to need a tuner to assist you, which will be either a physical device that you clip to your guitar or an app downloaded onto your phone. (Side note: Some people can tune their guitars by ear, but they’re all freaks of nature who’d never read this essay anyway, so we’re just going to pretend that’s not a real thing.)

The short overview of how your tuner works is that it’s calibrated to detect the notes your guitar strings play and then tell you just how off-pitch each is from what it’s supposed to be. If your string is playing too high, you have to loosen it, and if it’s too low, you have to tighten it. Simple, right?

Ha ha! Just kidding! Of course it’s not simple!

The first confusing thing is that the notes you’re supposed to tune the strings to—which are denoted by letter names—are all random and make no sense. Starting with the thickest string and working down, they need to be: EADGBE. I mean, what? Why is E in there twice? What makes it better than C, which has been totally ignored? Or F? Have those notes offended the others and are now in exile or something? How rude! Then, to make matters worse, the first and second E don’t even sound the same! What’s up with that? Why can two notes have the same name but also sound different? 

The short answer to this nonsense is that a guitar can play a lot more notes than the six you tune the strings to, and the Founding Guitar Fathers could only afford the first seven letters of the alphabet (A-G) when they were purchasing the rights to use them. It wasn't long, then, before they'd used up all seven, and so they had no choice but to loop back around and start over again at the beginning. It’s really a shame, too, because it’d be way easier if they kept everything separate, resulting in such notes as J and Z and LMNOP. Also, sometimes you’ll see notes with weird little symbols after them, like the pound sign. (Example: C#) Ignore them for now, as their only function is to confuse you and make you want to quit. (The Founding Guitar Fathers were an exclusive club, and they wanted to keep the number of their members low.)

Unfortunately, your tuner can only tell you the letter name of the note you’re playing, and not if it’s the correct variation you’re trying to tune to. So, you might be tuned to Fat String E when you really should be tuned to Skinny String E! AARRRGHH! It’s at this point where you might need to turn to the internet for help, namely one of the millions of tuning videos you can find on the video sharing site of your choice. Pick one at random, because they’re all the same, and after watching eight minutes of commercials, jump to the end, where the smug person in the video will proudly play each tuned string nice and slowly. If you need to, you can now use this as a reference for when you begin trying to tune your own instrument.

(Note: I did say that all tuning videos are the same, and for the most part that’s true. However, the one exception I know of is a guy who teaches you to tune a mandolin, in which case he keeps talking about his G-String in the most serious manner, over and over again: “Okay, take hold of your G-String!” It’s one of the most unintentionally hilarious things ever, and sometimes when I’ve had a bad day, I’ll just watch that video several times to help lift my spirits.)

Okay, so now you know what tuning your strings means, but you still need to know how to do it. We’ll start with the big, thick E string. (Not your G-String.) Squinting intently, follow it up the neck of the guitar to where it ends. If it disappears just past the big, scary hole, you’ve gone in the wrong direction and need to do a three-point turn and head back the opposite way. Eventually, you’ll see that its terminus is a metal post that the string is wrapped around, holding it in place. Also note that at the end of the post is a handy little knob you can twist. This knob is the key to everything. If you twist it one way, the string tightens, and if you twist it the other, it will loosen. However, keep in mind that the end of the string, not to mention possibly the ends of its neighbors, might be poking out of the wrapping like a thorn bush, ready to puncture your flesh at the slightest misstep. This is why I recommend you have plenty of bandages and antiseptic on hand any time you attempt the tuning process.

Now, here’s where things get extra-tricky. If you start looking at other tutorials, they’ll all say that there’s a method to determine what direction you need to twist to either tighten or loosen a string, one that depends on such complicated factors as what side of the guitar you’re currently working on, whether you’re north or south of the Equator, and whether or not you’re in Daylight Savings Time. However, that’s all nonsense. What I’ve discovered over the years is that the direction you need to turn the knob is completely random and can change daily, sometimes even hourly. When a knob does this, it’s called “reversing polarity,” and why it happens is a great mystery that’s best not dwelt upon. So, what you’re going to need to do is twist the knob in a random direction, clockwise or counterclockwise, and see what happens. You’ll either feel the string tighten, loosen, or it will break with a frighteningly loud snapping sound that will cause you to have a minor heart attack and/or poke one of your eyes out.

In the case of the string breaking, you’ll have to refer to another essay I intend to write, “Restringing Your Guitar in 36 Hours or Less.” However, if the string makes it through intact, you’ll now know what direction to turn the knob to tighten or loosen it, which then leaves you with the task of combining your tuner with the online video and the knob to sync it all up. However, you have to be fast about it, because there’s always the potential for the knob to reverse polarity halfway through the process, which has happened to me on more than one occasion.

When you’ve finally finished tuning all six strings, you’re going to need a break. You’ll most likely be bleeding from several puncture wounds, your nerves will be shot from the fear of strings breaking, and it will be several hours later. However, before you flop down on the couch, run your thumb down the strings and note that it now makes a completely unremarkable, yet totally inoffensive sound. Hooray!  Your guitar is tuned and sounds completely tolerable! (At least until it falls back out of tune sometime in the next few days.)

All right, that’s all for today! Join me next time when we discuss attempting to play a few basic chords! (Note that I said “attempting,” as I don’t want to get your hopes up.)

Until next time,

Keep Strummin’!

Keep Strummin' - Obtaining Your Axe

Okay, so you’ve made the big commitment to learn to play the guitar! Now what?

Obviously, your first priority is to take a series of classy portraits of yourself for use on the cover of your inevitable debut album. In addition, you might want to pen the introduction of your autobiography, which you will inevitably have to write, as it’ll be super-cool if it came from the time before your meteoric rise to stardom.

Once you get those important tasks taken care of, it’s time to move on to the next step: Getting yourself a guitar to play. Unfortunately, this can be a particularly confusing and stressful endeavor, due to the sheer number of options out there, and so I’ve taken the liberty of coming up with a potential hack. Listen close, as this may save you a LOT of time: What I want you to do is search your entire house, including all of those dark little closets that play host to massive spider parties, and see if you can find … a guitar. If so, congratulations, you already have one!!! Hooray!! What a lucky break! Now you can just skip the rest of this essay and take some well-earned time off.

Still here? Bummer! That means you don’t own a guitar and you now have to go out and find one.

The obvious play here is to go down to your local music shop, since there should be people there to help you narrow your options and assist you in making a wise choice that not only suits your needs but also fits your budget. However, I wouldn’t recommend this, since music shops all have an air of … how do I put it? … competence to them. The few times I’ve entered one, I’ve always felt like an absolute poser with no right to be there, like every single person inside has Jimmy Hendrix-like abilities and is already judging me. In fact, in my mind, this is how I fully expect things to play out each time I decide to frequent such an establishment:

Proprietor: {Mildly suspicious} “Oh, hello. Why are you here?”

Me: “I play the guitar. I’m here to examine your wares.”

Proprietor: {After doubling over in a fit of hysterics that lasts for far too long} “Oh, that’s a good one! You play the guitar!! Can you imagine? Still, you almost had me going there for a second!” {Wipes a few tears away} “Okay, now really, why are you here? Are you lost or something?”

However, if you don’t have crippling music-shop-anxiety, feel free to give it a shot and let me know how it goes!

Another option would be to go to a few local yard sales and see if you can pick one up cheap there. People are giving up learning to play left and right, and if they haven’t already destroyed their instrument in a fit of rage, there’s always a chance they might be selling it. The advantage of going this route, as opposed to looking at various online marketplaces, is that you get to see the instrument in-person and squint at it knowledgeably before deciding if you should buy it. Of course, you’ll have no idea what you’re doing, much like when you open the hood of your car to try and diagnose that funny wheezing noise, but you can still do a few basic checks, such as making sure it’s still in one piece, it doesn’t have any fire damage, and there are no rats’ nests inside of the sound hole. Beyond that, though, I recommend you don’t even touch it, much less try to play it. The last thing you want is to be chastised by some smug know-it-all who has the nerve to tell you that you’re not supposed to be holding it like an upright bass.

This leads me to my preferred method of obtaining a guitar: Intending to do intensive research online but then getting frustrated and picking one on a whim off of Amazon. Yes, I always go into purchasing a guitar with good intentions of doing my research, including a critical analysis of different brands and styles. However, I’ll then remember that about 7 million companies make guitars of various shapes and sizes, including some that you’d never expect, such as Yamaha. This sobering fact always makes my motivation crumble, leaving me looking for an easy way out. I’ll then go to Amazon, search for guitars, and sort the results by price. Next, I’ll scroll to those within my specific price range, look at a few, and finally pick one pretty much at random, just as long as there are no user reviews stating that these particular models have been known to spontaneously combust.

All right! Assuming you follow these steps, you’ll soon have gotten yourself a guitar! Congratulations! At that point it’ll almost be time to start completely humiliating yourself! However, you won’t be there yet. So, join me next time as we’ll discuss tuning your new guitar, which is a necessary step to make your initial attempts to play sound slightly less terrible.

Until next time,

Keep Strummin’!

Keep Strummin’ - Introduction

So you want to learn to play guitar, do you?

Maybe you’ve noticed the lulls in the conversation during your summer camping trips that you think would sound good filled with a high-decibel rendition of “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” Or perhaps you finally want to fill that guitar-sized empty spot in the corner of your living room, so that when somebody drops by and sees it, they might say, “Do you play?” at which point you could then shrug and reply, “Oh, I dabble.” Or, assuming you’re a single man under the age of 30, maybe you’re hoping that as soon as you learn to strum a single chord, every girl within a fifty-mile radius will fall hopelessly in love with you and come knocking on your door, prepared to fling themselves at you with reckless abandon.

Regardless of your motivations, though, I can say definitively that you’ve come to the right place.

Or, at least that you’ve come to a place.

I mean, a place that’s won’t charge you any money or anything.

Anyway, unless I get bored and eventually give up on this project, what’s going to follow this introduction is a series of straight-to-the-point essays that will help get you up to speed on playing the guitar. These will be written by a “regular Joe” for a “regular Joe,” which means I won’t be getting into all of the technical jargon and music theory that makes most internet tutorials on the subject much too dense and virtually unusable. I do this out of respect for your time and sanity, not to mention the fact that I’ve yet to figure any of it out yet myself. (Circle of fifths, am I right?) Plus, if I’m being honest, you don’t really need any of that stuff anyway, unless, of course, you’re one of those people; you know, those snobby guitarists who like to show off by playing things such as (rolls eyes) melodies.

But ... before we go any further, here’s a little bit about myself:

I play the guitar at a level somewhere above that of a beginner and below that of an expert.

Okay, now that we’ve established my rock-solid credentials, I’d like to next share a few, overarching thoughts about learning to play the guitar that you should keep in mind as you set out on your journey:

1) Be Ready To Be Terrible

I know it might sound harsh, but it’s best not to sugarcoat it. In fact, a recent survey has revealed that 17.4% of all beginning guitarists give up in less than a month. Or, wait, is that the percent of New Year’s resolutions that last through February? Anyway, the point is that it takes a certain kind of person to be able to push through the beginner phase, where you’re going to be terrible. Now, don’t panic, that’s totally normal. It happens to everybody. Heck, it even happened to Jerry Reed! (Source: My assumptions)

In short, learning to play has a way of throwing your ego onto the ground, stepping on it, and grinding it into dust. It’s just the natural order of things. You might not believe it now, but you will after you attempt to play a few chords and each time the result sounds like you’ve just thrown a cat down a flight of steps.

2) Don’t Compare Yourself to Others

Don’t do it. Just don’t. You see, no matter where you go or who you play with, there is always going to be somebody better than you, probably one of those annoying “melody” people, and after listening to this person perform, you’re going to want to set your guitar, and possibly a few other things, on fire. The only real way to deal with it is to decide early on that you’re only going to compare yourself to … wait for it … yourself. Yes, as long as you’re doing better than you were a few months ago, then all is well and you can move forward with your head held high! (Side note: It’s when you’re continually getting worse month after month that you might need to have a hard conversation with yourself, which is something I’ll cover in the “Quitting With Dignity” essay, assuming I remember to write it.)

3) Find a Proper Practice Place

Having a good spot to learn to play is paramount. For example, a courthouse jury room would be a bad choice, as would a doctor’s office or my living room. In short, you want to be outside of the hearing range of any high-strung individuals with potential anger issues, as you never want to have to use your instrument as a means of self-defense should someone finally snap as you work through “Sweet Home Alabama” for the sixtieth time. Also, if your practice area is not located on a ground floor, make sure the windows all have locks. You see, one of the greatest temptations when you’re learning to play is to throw your instrument out of one of these said windows, so you can hear the satisfying sound of it breaking into a thousand pieces on the sidewalk below. Now, while this can be a fun little exercise, it can also be quite fiscally irresponsible, especially if it becomes a regular habit.

4.) Always Make Sure Your Lists End at 3

All right, that’s it for today! Next time we’ll get into how you should go about obtaining your first guitar! (Note that I didn’t say “buying,” as theft is most definitely on the table.)

Until next time,

Keep Strummin’!

A Good Friend

Fun Fact: I’ve got a good friend whom I’ve never spoken to and whose name is completely unknown to me.

Now, after reading the above statement, I’m going to guess at your initial response, based entirely on your gender:

Guy: “Lucky.”

Girl: “What??”

Yeah, guys often tend to value efficiency and simplicity in matters such as these, opting to instead save their brains for other things, such as determining the mathematical chances of their favorite team making the playoffs or trying to figure out how to talk to girls.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make here is that simplicity is generally good for guys, which goes a long way in explaining my good friend whom I’ve never spoken to and whose name is completely unknown to me.

Let me elaborate:

Not far from my house is a paved, thee-mile loop, perfect for jogging, walking, and evading the local authorities. I’ve taken to using it quite often, which means that over time I’ve had to develop a specialized technique for encountering others going in the opposite direction. The point of this is to minimize the chances of social interaction, since—at least in my experience—social interaction inevitably leads to social awkwardness.

Now, after reading that last statement, I’m going to guess at your initial response, based entirely on if you know me personally or not:

You Know Me Personally: “I can see that.”

You Don’t Know Me Personally: “What??”

Yeah, sometimes I tend to overthink things, but it’s all in an attempt to keep things simple in the big picture. Anyway, my technique works as follows:

When I encounter somebody on the trail, I initially hope they’re so engrossed in some activity—such as looking at their phone, wondering why they brought their 800-pound, high-velocity dog along with them, or evading the local authorities—that they won’t even notice me pass. If, however, they’re paying attention to their surroundings, I glance in their direction for the briefest of moments, just to be polite. With any luck, we won’t make eye contact, leaving me to conclude that this person is either too snobby to waste time on me or too busy calculating playoff probabilities in their brain. Either way, I can then happily avert my gaze and keep on trucking, satisfied that I tried to be polite. If, however, we end up making eye contact, I will reluctantly nod. (A downward head nod, mind you, not an upward one, as those should be reserved for spouses, other loved ones, and Cy Young Award winners.) Bear in mind, now, that eye contact and a nod is an absolute worst-case scenario, as it can lead to return nods and perhaps even {shudder} waves. (There’s no coming back from a wave. After you exchange one of those, you’re obligated to repeat the process every time you encounter that person until the end of time. In fact, if you ever find yourself in such a predicament, moving to a different state may be the only way to extricate yourself.*)

This brings us to my friend, whom I met on the trail years ago and still see quite often. When we first crossed paths, I did the ol’ polite glance over in his direction, but he was having absolutely nothing to do with it. His eyes were fixated intently on the ground right in front of his shoes, making it obvious that he wanted no part in meeting new people. However, what made this different from other encounters I’d had was that I sensed there was nothing rude or snobby about it. Instead, it was just coldly-efficient and businesslike. I then felt something wash over me, like he was reaching out to me telepathically with the following message: “Look, I’m here, you’re here, and it’s going to keep on happening, so let’s not make a big deal out of it, okay?”

And so, right off the bat, I liked the guy. I mean, who wouldn’t? From the get-go he’d put us in a position where we’d never have to speak to each other—or even attempt eye contact— no matter how many times we met! That in itself deserved maximum respect!

Since then I’ve bumped into him many times, and it's always been the same thing: Head down, eyes to the ground, no attempt to even acknowledge my existence. He’s amazingly consistent, to the point where I’m pretty sure I could walk past him wearing a giant chicken costume and he still wouldn’t bat an eye. Regardless, due to his blunt simplicity and consistency, at some point I decided we were good friends, and as a good friend I’ve found that I enjoy not sending him Christmas cards, not asking him about his personal life, and, in general, not knowing a single thing about him besides having a vague recollection of his facial features. That, in my opinion, is the basis for a solid, long-lasting relationship. In fact, I’d like to think that if we were to randomly meet in a grocery store, we’d both smoothly turn in opposite directions and inherently know to shop in alternating aisles until one of us was able to make a successful escape.

And you just can’t put a price on a friendship like that.

* I miss you, Wisconsin!

The Good Stuff

I’d been trying to ration what I had left, spread it out a little, even though it was an admittedly-foolish strategy. You can’t beat physics, and if you keep consuming without replenishing, eventually you’re going to be left with nothing; it’s just basic math. Plus, eventually it’s not even worth using anymore. Watered down, spread thin, it just doesn’t give the same kick. You’re better off not even teasing yourself with it, and I was now at that point. I was barely even using it once a day.

The problem was that my supplier was hundreds of miles away, and this was the stuff I never had sent to me via the mail. I always brought it back personally, in a bag in the passenger seat of my car. That way I never had to worry about some government stooge accidentally shipping it to the wrong state.

Of course, I could always get some locally. It wouldn’t even be that hard. Take a quick drive into town, find the right people, fork over a little cash, and the deal would be done. However, the local stuff was of inferior quality, and at this point I wasn’t even sure I’d consider it as a last resort. I’d probably rather take a long road trip, regardless of the howling wind and the sheets of snow sweeping across the horizon.

Then I remembered the old cabinet.

Hoping I wasn’t fooling myself—making up memories in exchange for short term hope—I stepped into the small room, swung open the door, and begun to scan the contents of the dusty shelves.

Nothing.

Ignoring the initial wave of despair, I swept some odds and ends over to one side, exposing a back corner, and suddenly my heart skipped a beat. There it was. A brown paper bag, just like I used to bring my lunch to school in.  With fumbling hands, I pulled it out of the shadows. It had a pretty good heft to it, and that was a good sign. The crinkling of the brown paper was loud in the room as I reached in, and a moment later I extracted a brick of the stuff. To say it was a beautiful sight was an understatement, as expressed by the wide smile that blossomed on my face.

Once the initial rush of excitement had passed, I realized I needed to keep track of my stash more closely, so as to avoid this ever happening again. I needed to chart my usage, measure my supply, and replenish early. Never again would I have to rely on finding an overlooked bag in a dark corner of an old cabinet.

I had to fight hard to keep from using it right then and there, and as the hours passed, my anticipation mounted. Finally, I could take it no more. I grabbed one of the bricks and admired it in my hand for a long moment, then stepped into the shower.

Yes, my mom’s homemade soap really was the good stuff.

The Gauntlet of Terror

I feel sweat beading up on my forehead as I slowly peek out from behind my hiding spot, surveying the maze of danger lain out before me. My heart is pounding loudly in my chest, and I find myself continually having to wipe the cold sweat from my hands onto my jeans. Not exactly the way I pictured this day going.

Although everything looks clear now, I know I can’t allow myself to be lulled into a false sense of security. They’re most certainly out there, skittering around looking for victims, able to appear from seemingly out of nowhere in an instant, always ready to pounce.

I take a deep breath. Staying where I am is just as bad as moving around out in the open, and so I have to go for it. I have to at least give myself a chance! Selfishly, I hope they’re busy with others, allowing me the opportunity to slip through their perimeter and gain my freedom. I shake my head at the darkness that’s crept into my thoughts.

I wipe my hands dry again and slide out from behind cover. With my eyes darting about relentlessly, I move ahead ten yards or so before ducking behind another obstruction. Slow and steady, I say to myself. Calm and controlled. You can do this.

I slowly peak out again, and as I do, I see one of them on patrol, winding its way through the chaos, its eyes searching for another victim. I gasp audibly and duck back down, wondering how something so small can be so scary. I also wonder how it can’t hear my heart banging in my chest, for to me it sounds as loud as thunder. I squeeze my eyes shut, as if pretending it's not there will somehow make it go away.

A long minute passes, and miraculously I’m not discovered. Knowing I have to keep moving, I make sure my cargo is still secure and then peak out again. The coast is clear. For now.

The next few minutes are tense, with every nearby sound causing me to shudder in fear. My movements are sporadic and harried as I make my way towards the exit, using every bit of cover I can find along the way. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I can see it looming ahead, gleaming brightly in the late afternoon sun: the door to the outside world!

However, just as I step out into the open, ready to make a final run, I suddenly see one of them heading my way. I freeze in terror, knowing I’ve been spotted, and also that trying to hide would be useless. Now what? Is this it? Is this how it ends? I look around helplessly, but there’s nowhere to go, no escape to be had.

Then, just when I think I’m done for, my pursuer turns off abruptly, shifting its attention to a party of two off to my right. Those poor people! However, knowing there’s nothing I can do to help them, I decide to make a break for it, and a moment later my arms are pumping as I sprint for the door. I dodge various obstacles, weaving left and right, and soon a feeling of elation is welling up inside of me. Maybe, just maybe, I can make it!!

Then, just as I reach the self-checkout aisle, I hear a cute little voice in front of me, materializing from out of thin air: “Hello! Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?”

AAAAAUUUUUGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

The Coffee Incident

 So I’m in a bit of a pickle.

Have you ever done something so ridiculously stupid that you instantly wanted it to be purged forever from the annals of both written and oral history? However, at the same time, was this stupid thing also so amusing that you realized it could actually help to make this crazy world a better place, were it to be shared with the masses?

Yeah, so that’s where I’m at right now, and I can tell you it’s not an easy decision to make.

However, since I don’t want to bore while I think through this conundrum, let me tell you a completely unrelated story about this guy I know. Aside from being devilishly handsome and incredibly witty, he’s just your normal, everyday kind of guy. Anyway, not that long ago he dropped by his local Holiday gas station during his lunch break in order to pick up some fresh coffee and to air himself out a bit. (Working from home has its perks, but there are times when you start to wonder just how many days it’s been since you’ve last seen the sun.) 

Now, this guy has been firmly in the 20-ounce-coffee camp for most of his life. However, lately he’d been dabbling a bit with 24-ouncers, which cost only ten cents more. Yeah, I know: living life on the edge, right? Anyway, deciding to stick with his recent trend, our hero grabbed a 24-once cup and placed it into the machine that grinds the beans right then and there. (Hey, when you’re at Holiday, you tend to pamper yourself.) After punching a few buttons and getting things all cranked up, he then did his usual, which was to stand in front of the conveniently-located doughnut display and see just how well his willpower would hold up. Amazingly, he was able to resist the numerous temptations, but when he turned back to his freshly-brewed coffee, he realized his happiness was destined to be short-lived. You see, although he’d placed a 24-ounce cup into the machine, he’d accidentally picked 20 ounces from the digital menu. So, he was now left with a cup filled with four ounces less than its maximum capacity.

Obviously, the easiest solution would have been to top it off with some of the pre-brewed java from another machine, but frankly, that thought never crossed his mind. Instead, he immediately began to wonder if he should just eat the ten cents and pay for the full 24 ounces. (Obviously, he wasn’t going to discuss the situation with the cashier and try to explain what had happened. That would be asinine!) However, he just didn’t feel right about getting overcharged, even if it was only by ten cents. His stubbornness—one of his greatest strengths and also a debilitating weakness—was beginning to rear its at-times-ugly head.

Finally, deciding that he simply wasn’t going to pay for four ounces he wouldn’t be able to consume, he determined that it’d be a trivial matter to just grab a 20-ounce cup and transfer the contents into it. Easy-peasy, right? Granted, the result would be an additional cup in the local landfill, but in his mind it was a worthwhile tradeoff. So, feeling just a bit conspicuous at having to engage in such an atypical exercise, he grabbed a cup and began to dump his 20 ounces of coffee into it.

Except it wasn’t a 20-ounce cup.

Yup, you guessed it: Our hero had accidentally grabbed a 16-ounce cup, and by the time he realized his mistake, he was left with two cups, each containing different volumes of liquid gold. It was at this point that he began to get flustered. I mean, seriously?? Who messes up cup size twice?? Mathematically speaking, it was quite a momentous achievement, but to him it was a sign that he should have just taken a day of PTO and stayed in bed.

Now, if he’d have been smart, our hero would have simply conceded defeat, dumped the 16 ounces back into the 24-ounce cup, paid for the extra four ounces, and called it a day. However, he was now getting annoyed—both at himself and the universe for making a mockery of what should have been such a simple task. So, fueled by his stubbornness, he grabbed a third cup, this time making certain it was 20 ounces. He’d come this far, darn it, and there was no way he wasn’t going to walk out without paying for and consuming exactly the 20 ounces of coffee he'd accidently brewed!!!

It was at this point that another customer entered the store and walked over to get his own fill of caffeine. Looking back over his shoulder—with three different sized cups filled with varying amounts of coffee—our hero had no idea what to say; he figured he must look like some sort of mad scientist, vigorously transferring liquids from one container to another, seemingly at random. Hoping to diffuse the situation with humor—his trademark go-to move—he racked his brain and said, and I’m quoting here, “Um . . . don’t mind me.”

Ugh.

“Don’t mind me?”

Ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh, UGH!!

At that point, fleeing was the only viable option left. Luckily, our hero had just finished filling up his 20-ounce cup with the contents of the two others. Throwing the empty containers away so they could spend the rest of their miserable existences clogging up some unlucky landfill, he quickly made his way over to the cashier, happy to be wearing a winter hat so his suddenly-crimson ears couldn’t be seen.

Now, I’m quite certain that some of you are now wondering when our protagonist is going to accidentally drop his 20-ounce cup onto the floor, finishing the story with a dramatic flourish. However, I’m happy to report that didn’t happen. Instead, he managed to escape without incurring further damages to his pride, to the point where the emotional scars he sustained aren’t so bad that he can’t go back out into public on occasion. So, that’s good news.

Still, I sometimes wonder about the other guy—the one who walked up and witnessed the tail end of the incident at the peak of its escalation. I wonder what his thoughts were on the whole thing? Maybe, if we're lucky, he has his own blog and we can eventually get his own unique perspective on the matter.

Oh, and by the way, I’ve decided that I’m not going to tell you my embarrassing story. A man has to have a little self-respect!

Fall Forward

Fall has always been my favorite season. I like the crispness in the air, the ridiculous amount of football at my disposal, the gloriousness of the changing colors, the satisfying crunch of the leaves beneath my feet, and – most importantly – the total absence of the summer cloud of mosquitoes that are constantly trying to gang up on me and carry me away to who-knows-where.

Unfortunately, fall has traditionally not been without its problems for me. You see, after factoring in the time I spend working, the earliness at which it gets dark, and the fact that I live in the suburbs – which isn’t exactly a playground for nature – the enjoyable portion of the fall season – at least in my world – usually lasts for about 3 total days. I’ll be making plans for all of the places I should visit and explore and suddenly it will be November and the Lions will be out of playoff contention yet again.

But no more! This year I’ve decided to be smart about it. Not only am I planning on taking some strategic PTO, but I’ve also made the executive decision to start the fall season early! Yes, you heard that right! As of a few days ago, I officially deemed it to now be fall! (In case you’re wondering, you do this by dramatically stretching out your arms and saying in a deep voice, “I OFFICIALLY DEEM IT TO NOW BE FALL!”) I then celebrated by breaking out one of my fall flannels, which felt incredibly good to put on. Sure, it might have still been 75 degrees outside, and I may have sweat right through it, but darn it, I was still doing fall things!! (And don’t ask about what happened when I put on one of my warm and cozy national park hoodies.)

Since then, I’ve gone on a fall color tour, where I drove around through the countryside, squinting my eyes and imagining how the trees would look if they weren’t still green. It was nothing short of magical. Also, when I walk around outside now, I make crunching noises with my mouth to simulate the sound of shoes on freshly fallen leaves. Not only does this put me in the fall mood, but it’s also quite effective at getting others nearby to give me a wide berth, which is excellent for my anti-social tendencies. (Fun fact: I’m also going to experiment with chewing on Doritoes while I walk, to see if they make a better leaf-crunching sound. I mean, fall should be delicious, too, right?)

In addition, I’m thinking about hitting up a haunted house soon, which means I’m going to have to find some random abandoned structure in the middle of nowhere and check it out at midnight, all while hoping somebody was murdered there years before whose spirit now restlessly lurks on the premises, taking delight in scaring the daylights out of anybody foolish enough to show their face. (If you want to join me in this endeavor, let me know! It’ll be fun! Probably!)

Beyond that, I have a few more ideas bouncing around in my head, but I still have to flesh them out a bit before moving forward. (Like, how easy would it be to steal a tractor so I could put on my own hay rides? And how ridiculous would it look if I potentially ended up in a low speed chase with law enforcement on the freeway while driving it? And what, exactly, is the standard prison time for grand theft tractor?) Anyway, I'll keep you all posted on these, and in the meanwhile, I'm going to do my best to keep enjoying this early fall season to its full extent! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to trying to whip up my own pumpkin spice coffee, which has really been a head-scratcher. I’ve got my coffee, my pumpkin pie filling, and my pepper, but I really don’t know what to do next. Something with a blender, I’d imagine.

Kurt Minutes (I.E. Cosmic Hiccups)

One interesting thing that I’ve noticed about growing older is that you become acutely aware of the existence of various unexplainable phenomena, things that only reveal themselves to you after years of assorted life experiences and careful observation. A good example of this is the existence of the gremlins that keep stealing my car keys and leaving them in random places where I’ll never think to look for them, such as in my dishwasher or on the roof.

Another of these natural phenomena – one in which intrigues me greatly – exists on a much grander scale, involving the very concept of space and time itself. In addition, it’s something that I’ve become quite familiar with over the duration of my professional career. In fact, it’s even been deemed “Kurt Minutes” at my current place of employment, undoubtedly because I was the person who first brought it to everybody’s attention. To briefly summarize, Kurt Minutes is when, mysteriously defying all of the laws of physics, the very fabric of time itself – yes I said time! – is somehow bent, warped, and twisted to the point where it begins to temporarily operate on a completely foreign scale, one that’s uncharted by all forms of conventional measurement.

For example, I may contact a coworker and ask if they have five minutes to go over something with me. They’ll agree, and – cognizant that time is indeed money – I’ll succinctly and clearly articulate my point and gather the necessary feedback within the allotted 300 seconds. However, if Kurt Minutes has somehow gone into effect, these 300 seconds will have mysteriously morphed into some other elapsion of time, perhaps thirty minutes, perhaps even forty-five!! Eventually, the universe will snap back to its normal state of being, and my coworker – having obviously been affected by the very rules of nature bending before their eyes – will come out of it listless, groggy, and barely articulate, to the point where they’ll only be able to say such nonsensical things as “Do you even know what a minute is?” or “Next time I'll bring a pillow!” or “You did it again! I really should kick you in the head!”

Interestingly enough, I long ago determined that I have either developed – or have always been inherently blessed with – an immunity to the aftereffects of Kurt Minutes. This means that while I can experience it like anybody else, I never feel tired or drained once time snaps back to its proper state of being. It’s truly quite fascinating, and I suppose that in the interest of science, I should probably donate a sample of my DNA to whatever university or large research conglomerate is currently studying this phenomenon, as it might prove crucial in helping to synthesize some sort of vaccine.

On a semi-amusing note, Kurt Minutes has now become sort of an inside joke with everybody I work with. Now, while I personally find this cavalier attitude to be a bit strange, I suppose it’s just a natural reaction to them being faced with something completely out of their realm of comprehension. In fact, this carefree outlook has gotten to the point where if I ask somebody for a few minutes of their time, they’ll quite often smirk and reply, “Kurt Minutes or real minutes?” This always makes for a good chuckle, and I admire their wit and candor in the face of the unknown.

Now, you may be wondering why the continual threat of Kurt Minutes hasn’t completely freaked out all of my coworkers to the point of them seeking out new forms of employment. It’s a great question, and my answer to you is as elegant as it is simple: You see, although you may not realize it, Kurt Minutes is most likely a universal phenomenon, and so it probably isn’t something that only occurs to my coworkers and I at our shared place of employment. In fact, I’m quite certain they’ve all seen it manifest itself many times outside of their daily jobs, which means that quitting would do absolutely nothing to spare them from its effects. (And, before you ask, I have considered inquiring about it with a select few of them. However, I’ve never followed through, mainly because I make it a strict policy to never question any of them about their home lives, just in case one of them turns out to be, for example, a serial killer.)

What does support my theory, however, is the fact that Kurt Minutes has occasionally happened to me outside of work, manifesting itself in a very similar way: I’ll explain something to a friend, but the short five minutes I'll take to do so is then somehow twisted and bent into a full hour or more, leaving my friend in a rather frazzled and disheveled state, to the point where it almost seems they’re regretting the various life decisions they’ve made that have led them up to that very moment! Yes, that’s how disorientating and powerful Kurt Minutes can be!!!

Now, at the risk of sounding braggadocious, I have to say that I’m completely unafraid of the fact that time and space occasionally goes through these – for lack of better words – cosmic hiccups. This is mainly because in all of my time experiencing Kurt Minutes, it’s never gotten any worse, nor has it become any more prevalent. In short, it seems to be mired in a stable sort of instability, and I’ve long ago grown used to dealing with it. Plus, my immunity to its aftereffects – whether developed or inherent – makes putting up with it quite easy, as aside from the loss of time, I never come out of it any worse for wear.

Not everybody, however, shares in my immunity, and I realize that’s quite unfortunate. However, it’s still very manageable, and if this is the first you’re hearing about Kurt Minutes, I urge you not to worry about it. It’s just something we all have to live with. Plus, to be blunt, there are much more important things we should all be focusing our energies on; for example, trying to figure out how to catch those darn gremlins that move around our car keys. Those little buggers are sneaky!!

You Play The Mando-what??

Not that long ago, I decided to take the plunge and buy a mandolin. Besides having an itchy online-shopping trigger finger, my main reason for doing so was because I’d long since peaked at the “Excruciatingly Boring” stage of guitar playing, and instead of wanting to put in the blood, sweat, and tears needed to actually get any better, I was hoping I might somehow be a virtuoso at a different instrument. (Hey, don’t judge! It’s the American dream of laziness! Heck, if the mandolin doesn’t work out, I just might purchase a trombone and see what happens!)

Now, some of you might be asking, “Just what in the heck is a mandolin?” Well, that’s a very good question, and my answer is that it’s a small, stringed instrument in the lute family that’s usually associated with bluegrass music and which looks like something you’d give to a child because a guitar is too big for them. (“There, there, Timmy, why don’t you try this one out? It’s just your size!!”) And if that isn’t a good enough description for you, I recommend you do an image search, at which point you’ll probably say, “Oh yeah, I’ve seen people play those things before, standing way in the back of the band! Who makes them, anyway? Fisher-Price?”

Dispute its diminutive stature, however, don’t sleep on the mandolin. It may be small, but Ricky “Highway 40 Blues” Skaggs plays one, along with Marty “A Bunch of Good Songs You Never Remember Off the Top of Your Head” Stuart. Heck, even Waylon “I’m Cooler Than You No Matter Who You Are” Jennings was known to pull one out on occasion, most notably on an episode of the “Dukes of Hazzard.” (It’s a great scene, by the way. Besides the mandolin magically appearing and disappearing on his person throughout the song, he’s standing by himself on the stage, yet somehow being backed by an entire band. My current theory is that they're up on the roof. Check it out!)

Now, what makes the mandolin interesting is that it has, and I’m quoting Wikipedia here, “four courses of doubled metal strings tuned in unison, thus giving it a total of eight strings.” In other words, it’s sort of like a four-stringed instrument, except each string is really two strings tuned exactly the same and set super-close to one-another. So, in order to sound a note, you have to mash down on two strings at once. This, in turn, will quickly bludgeon your fingers into a painful mush, which is the exact state they’ll remain in for the first several decades of you playing the instrument. After that, however, you’ll probably develop helpful calluses to make things easier, just in time for the arthritis to set in.

Another interesting thing about the mandolin is that since it’s so short, the strings produce a higher pitch than a guitar, which results in it being much easier to be terrible at than it’s six-stringed cousin. In short, when you screw up on the mandolin, everybody hears it, including possibly most of the next county. (This holds true even if you’re playing with 14 acoustic guitars, a drum set, and that one annoying guy who thinks he’s all that on the electric guitar.)

Still, the mandolin is cool, and for good reason. First off, since it’s so small, it’s incredibly portable, and you can easily just toss it into your car if you’re heading off to a jam. (Just ask any upright bass player how handy that would be!) Sometimes, admittedly, it does get lost between the seats along with your phone, but the tradeoff for its portability still makes it worth it. Second, Steve Earle wrote “Copperhead Road” on a mandolin, so that automatically makes it a cool instrument. Heck, now that I think of it, I really don’t need to present any more arguments as to its inherent coolness; the Steve Earle fact alone pretty much seals the deal.

Moving along, the reason I decided to write this essay isn’t so I could talk up the fact that I have – and can awkwardly strum – a mandolin. Instead, it’s so you can become more aware of the instrument and start to recognize it while watching and listening to music. In my humble opinion, it’s quite underappreciated in the grand scale of things, and I think it deserves a little more respect.

Anyway, that concludes today’s lesson on the mandolin. However, join me next week when we’ll continue with our series “Instruments I’m Horrible At Playing.” I’ll be doing a deep dive into that time in sixth-grade when I had to try and learn to play the {shudder} recorder, cumulating in my first ever solo performance, a truly memorable rendition of “Friends Are Neat.” You won’t want to miss it!

Duck Tales

Every once in a while I remember that social constructs demand a person of my age to act both mature and responsible while navigating the various twists and turns of life. Now, while I truly believe this to be mostly nonsense and tomfoolery, I can never escape the nagging doubt that if everybody were to just act how they wanted to all the time – and not how society expected them to – the world would quickly fall into chaos. (See: The government)

So, it was with this in mind that I decided to do something society would be proud of and check up on my outdoor air conditioning unit, which had just spent the long winter buried in the unforgiving snow. "Best to scope things out now and make sure everything is in working order," I maturely said to myself, "before the hot weather sets in. After all, it is the responsible thing to do."

Now, I’ll fully admit that the extent of my "check-up" was always going to be fairly limited, mainly because my best answer to the question, "How does an A/C unit work, anyway?" has always been, "I dunno, magic?" In fact, the entire operation was going to be completely binary: Either the A/C unit would still be sitting there, in which case I’d consider the check-up to be a rousing success, or it would have disappeared completely, which would not only have been baffling, but also quite amusing. I mean, who’d steal an A/C unit over the course of the winter, anyway?

Armed with a concrete plan of action, I stepped out the back door with a look of determination showing on my mature and responsible face. In fact, I’m pretty sure I even had my sleeves rolled up, just so the A/C unit – should it still be there – would know right off the bat that I meant business. Happily enough, I found my quarry squatting contentedly where I’d left it months before, apparently no worse for wear. A smug look of accomplishment spread across my mature and responsible face. "Well, mark that one off the ol’ TODO list! One up, one down! Heck, maybe I should go and check to make sure I still have an attic!"

It was then that a monster usually associated with the worst of nightmares exploded from out of nowhere and charged me, its razor sharp fangs glinting as it prepared to tear the flesh from my bones. As my eyes widened and my jaw dropped, I had but one thought: "Oh s–"

Wait! Wait! Hold it! Upon re-reading the last paragraph, I realize that I’m embellishing a bit here, purely for dramatic effect. However, since the bond between a writer and a reader is a sacred thing, I feel that I have no option but to be completely honest in my recollections. So, let me try that again:

It was at this point that a startled duck that had built its nest several feet from the A/C unit exploded into flight from out of the weeds. Not expecting anything of the sort, I was taken a bit off-guard, judging by both how high I jumped and screamed. Over the next several moments my life flashed before my eyes, all while various colorful words tumbled out of my mouth at an extraordinary rate. However, once my heart had returned to beating at a semi-normal rate, I collected myself enough to take a peek at the nest. Sure enough, in contained seven or eight eggs, and I was instantly overwhelmed with a feeling of guilt. Hoping that I hadn’t driven the mother away forever, I scurried back inside, wondering what I’d do should she never return. This led me to briefly want to write a heartfelt country music song in the vein of Cats in the Cradle, but I quickly brushed the notion aside. This was serious!! Those eggs might soon be depending on me!!!

I didn’t dare go anywhere near the nest for the rest of the day, and I instead spent my time alternating between stressing out and researching how to be a surrogate duck parent online. The next morning, hopeful that I hadn’t created a broken home, I quietly slid the patio door open and crept back outside, making sure to keep my distance while also making no noise whatsoever. I was like a ghost, a shadow in the night, my presence unknown to the entire world!!!!

Slipping through the early morning stillness, my every move discrete and calculating, I was soon able to determine that the mother had thankfully returned! However, just as I was breathing a sigh of relief, she somehow detected me and exploded from the nest yet again!! With my ears burning red, I fled back inside, my mind racing. The mother obviously had senses that far exceeded that of a normal duck! I was going to need a lot of camouflage, and that meant finding an Army surplus store, fast!!

It was then that I was reminded of the popular saying, “Work smarter, not harder.” Realizing that I was dealing with a duck of superior intellect, I came to the conclusion that trying to directly monitor the situation at ground level – regardless of how much camouflage or subterfuge I used – was never going to work. So, I began to search for an alternate solution, and soon I hit upon it.

Not long after, I was upstairs looking out the window located just behind the desk where I worked. Sure enough, if I leaned out far enough, my waist on the sill and my hands holding tightly onto the frame, I could just barely make out the nest below. Success! I now had an easy way to observe the situation as it unfolded, all while not disrupting the delicate balance of nature! (Providing, of course, that I didn't fall out of the stupid window.) Plus, I now had something to distract me while I worked, which is something that can never be understated!

This all happened about a day or so ago, and ever since then I’ve been keeping tabs on the situation from my bird’s eye view. Happily, I can report that so far the eggs have seemed safe and sound. However, I’ve yet to see the mother again, which is mildly concerning. Still, I’m hopeful that she’s just been off doing whatever it is that mother ducks do, and I’ll not be forced to take over the parenting duties. Heck, maybe she even found that Army surplus store and has been hiding there all along!

Have A Nice Trip!

My first mistake was trying to be healthy, and my last was trying not to be awkward in front of others. In between were several months of relative calm, followed by a few intense moments of sheer panic, during which time my pumping adrenaline served only to make matters much, much worse.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Like all good stories, we have to start at the beginning.

It was mid-February, and I had been noticing a substantial increase in my abdominal circumference, not to mention a substantial decrease in the number of garments I owned that didn’t cut off my circulation. Now, while certainly a disappointing turn of events, this was by no means something new; no, this was standard winter stuff, and so I already had a strategy in place to address it.

Flipping open my laptop, I was soon signed up for a half-marathon that was to take place in May. You see, committing to a public race had always been a pretty foolproof way for me to kick the winter doldrums and get active again. After all, the last thing I needed was to waddle through 13.1 miles of sheer agony while worrying about such things as severe thigh chafing.

Feeling satisfied with myself, I closed my laptop knowing that I’d taken a first step in the right direction, and from that point on I was forced to get out and run several times a week, regardless of the weather. While it wasn’t necessarily a health-and-fitness silver bullet, I was soon trending in the right direction, by which I mean I could now run more than two miles straight without having to collapse into the bushes to catch my breath.

Fast-forward to late April, where I found my training plan telling me to run 10 miles. Unfortunately, my schedule was tight that day, and so I decided to simply use the 3.2 mile loop near my house. While I’m not a huge fan of running the same loop multiple times over, it was the most efficient method for the time I had available; I’d just run the 0.3 miles for my house to the trail, do the loop 3 times, and I’d basically be at 10! Also, I’d be able to take advantage of the loop by planting a water bottle in the bushes, allowing me to hydrate every 3.2 miles. Deciding on the “Go Big or Go Home” philosophy, I grabbed a liter-sized, flimsy plastic bottle, filled it with water, and got ready to go.

As soon as I stepped outside, I realized I had an issue to contend with: running from my house to the loop with the bulky water bottle. Now, any rational person would have just walked the 0.3 miles to the loop and started there, but I am far from a rational person. Instead, I am intensely stubborn – usually for no good reason whatsoever – and since I’d already made up my mind to run from my house to the loop, that’s what I was going to do!! So, tucking the water bottle under my arm like a football, I was on my way.

Immediately, I began to feel like an idiot. The water in the bottle was sloshing back and forth loudly, and I quickly began to wonder what any passerby would think if they saw me. (“Where’s he going? The Sahara?”) I was now jogging on the sidewalk, and looking ahead, I saw a man walking towards me, probably about a quarter-mile away. Irrationally, I began to try and figure out a way around running past him. Maybe he was almost home from a walk and would soon turn off into one of the nearby houses! Or maybe a vicious dog would materialize out of the blue and begin to chase him in the opposite direction! Or maybe my best option would be to stop and casually pretend to water some random flowers until he’d passed!

It was at this point that my brain gave up completely on monitoring my immediate surroundings, which was why I never noticed that the square of sidewalk in front of me was set much higher than the one I was currently on, leaving a protruding ledge directly in my path. As a result, my toe ran squarely into it, and I suddenly found myself stumbling forward.

In retrospect, I should have accepted defeat immediately and just gotten it over with, using whatever balance I had left to launch myself on an angle into the nearby grass, where I could have enjoyed a relatively comfortable – albeit still embarrassing – landing on a soft surface. However, my brain instead went on red alert and issued the following command: “PINWHEEL YOUR ARMS AROUND FRANTICALLY IN A HIGHLY NOTICEABLE MANNER!!!!!! MAYBE YOU CAN REGAIN YOUR BALANCE!!!! GO GO GO GO GO!!!!!!”

And so I began to pinwheel my arms.

Frantically.

Jettisoning all non-essential equipment, the bottle of water went flying, and somehow I was able to stay on my feet for a few long, loping steps, desperately trying to pull out of my nosedive. During this time I was bent over at the waist, all while my arms were looping around in giant spirals that screamed, “Hey, everybody! Look over here!! I’m about to comically fall over!!!” Very flattering stuff.

Eventually, my momentum got the better of me, and suddenly I found myself horizontal with the sidewalk. For a long moment I simply hung there in mid-air, contemplating the many mistakes I’d made to get into this situation. Then, choosing against using my face as my primary stopping mechanism, I shot my arms out and used the palms of my hands to skid to an uneven stop on the sidewalk.

Have a nice trip. See you next fall.

Immediately, I was back up on my feet, pretending that nothing had happened. (“What are you looking at? My legs have always bent this way!!”) Casually, I picked up the water bottle from the grass, which was somehow still intact. Then, without even inspecting the damage I’d incurred, I went back to jogging, my ears burning red and the bottle again tucked under my arm. When I passed the man I’d seen earlier, I made sure not to make any eye contact, and he was nice enough to keep whatever mirth he was feeling to himself, although I’m quite certain at some point later on he laughed himself silly.

It wasn’t until I’d arrived at the 3.2 mile loop that I actually took stock of the situation. Luckily, it wasn’t bad. Besides a couple of skinned palms, there was no real damage except that to my pride, and I was even able to complete the 10 miles without further incident.

Now, after hearing all of this, you may find yourself asking: Why on earth would you tell such an embarrassing story? Why not just pretend it never happened, along with potentially forgoing all public interaction for several weeks, or at least until your ears finally stopped glowing red?

Well, I believe there’s an important lesson to be learned here. You see, I think we all-too-often care more than we should about how we’re perceived by others, and doing so can lead from something as innocuous as feeling awkward about carrying a bulky water bottle as you run to you suddenly hanging horizontal in mid-air, trying to pick out a landing spot that will hurt the least. Personally, it’s been an eye-opener for me, to the point where I’ve since made a resolution that I firmly intend to keep, one that I believe will lead to me enjoying a much more fulfilling life: No more trying to be healthy!!! It leads to nothing but trouble!

Now, if you excuse me, I have a pizza on the way. Ain’t nobody gonna fall down eating that!

Splat! Part 5

When I stepped into the orthopedics clinic, it was sort of a big deal. The last time I’d been there, I’d arrived unglamorously in a wheelchair (“Vroom! Vroom!”), and now I was proudly walking up to the receptionist like a champ, albeit a bit stiffly and sorely. Still, I felt a little like I was back in college, waiting for a big exam to be handed back so I could see my grade. Would I pass my MRI? Or would I flunk out of Healing 101 and learn that my knee was a proverbial ticking timebomb?

After doing the requisite amount of people-watching in the waiting room, I was shuttled into a small examination room and immediately abandoned. As I amused myself by looking blankly at the wall, I kept imagining an automated voice saying, “Your expected wait time is anywhere from 1 to 8 billion minutes.” Eventually, I realized that the walls of the room were quite thin, and I could hear everything that was being said out in the hallway. Shifting my waiting strategy, I began to listen for any interesting tidbits that might pertain to me, perhaps even give me a hint as to if I was going to be receiving good or bad news:

Possible Bad News: “I’ll be there in a minute. I just gotta duck in here and tell this poor sucker we’re going to have to amputate.”

Possible Bad News: “Boy, I sure hope this guy has one heck of an insurance plan!”

Possible Good News: “I love my job! Not only do I get to tell this gentleman he’s going to be healthier than ever, I also get to provide him with the secret formula for hair regrowth!”

Eventually, my doctor came into the room. After some cursory introductions, he sat down at a computer and pulled up what he said were my MRI results. To a layperson such as myself, this appeared to be a 3-D model of something that vaguely resembled a cabbage, which could easily be rotated and viewed on the screen at just about any conceivable angle. Not that I had any proof that it was actually my knee, mind you. I mean, it’s not like your parts are labeled or anything. It could have just as easily been a 3-D representation of a koala’s hamstring and I’d have had no clue. (Assuming, of course, that koalas have hamstrings.)

“Now take a look here,” the doctor said, and I leaned in close to the screen and squinted knowledgably, much like I do at work when somebody is explaining something and I don’t have the foggiest idea as to what’s going on. “You see this here,” he said, pointing to a random spot on the koala hamstring.

“Yup,” I said confidently.

“You see how it’s white?”

“I sure do!” True to his word, the random spot on the screen was indeed white! Now we were getting somewhere!

“Yeah, that shouldn’t be that color at all. That’s where your kneecap bounced off.”

So, as it turns out, at some point during that fateful night I actually dislocated my knee! Luckily, the freewheeling party responsible for this jailbreak, my crazy, ol’ kneecap, had been smart enough to relocate itself back soon after seeing there was nothing fun for it to do in its new premises. Now, while a dislocation wasn’t ideal, I was happy to learn that nothing had been torn. Plus, the dislocation helped to explain a lot, such as why walking around hadn’t been much of an option for several days, and I began to feel better about all of the self-imposed drama I’d heaped on myself. Two sprains and a dislocation!! Now that was something to talk about:

Annoying Guy Trying to Show Off: “I had a pretty bad hamstring pull once. It hurt like heck, but I still managed to finish the game."

Me: “Ankle sprain, knee sprain, kneecap dislocation, which affected both my right and left legs! I couldn't even walk! Read ‘em and weep, buddy!”

Sure, it wouldn’t hold much water with the Torn ACL or Ruptured Achilles clubs, but there would still be occasions where it’d prove useful.

Anyway, after asking a few useless questions, just to make the doctor think I was somewhat intelligent, I was told that everything would hopefully heal on its own. Until then, I’d be provided with a knee brace to help and stabilize things. With that said, the doctor disappeared out into the mist, on his way to rotate cabbages with his next patient.

The brace I was given was the equivalent of getting Coke-bottle glasses for your vision, to the point where it easily could have been mistaken from some sort of medieval torture device. It was large, cumbersome, and had random straps sticking out all over the place. I’m pretty sure I visibly flinched when I saw it for the first time, and my mind quickly went into overdrive: “Put him in the knee brace,” I could hear some ancient king sneering. “NOOOOOOOO!!!!” the prisoner would yell. “Anything but the knee brace!”

But it worked. Once I managed to pull it on, fasten all 47 straps, and get used to my left leg now weighing 30 pounds more than my right, I realized it really did help to support my knee, and that I could now walk more confidently than before! Elated at this discovery, I power-strode out of the clinic, knowing it was just a matter of time before things would all heal up and everything would be back to normal. Sure, the brace would make it so I wouldn’t be wearing leggings anytime soon, but that was just something I’d have to live with.

And that, finally, might be the end of the story.

Splat! Part 4

As I walked into the hospital for my MRI, my stress levels were hitting new heights. I was going to be jammed into a machine that would invasively scan my knee and discover that it now had the same basic structural integrity as a bowl of chocolate pudding! Never mind that I was moving around pretty well and feeling better each and every day. My brain had no room for cold, hard facts such as that, especially when there was stressing out to do!

Once I was situated in the waiting room, I had to fill out a form that asked all kinds of scary metal-related questions, such as if I had any pins, rods, or screws floating around in my body from surgery, if I had any artificial joints, or even if I listened to heavy metal music on the radio. I quickly got the vibe that MRI machines and metal don’t mix, to the point where said machine might explode dramatically if I left even a single stray coin in my pants. This was pretty stressful and distracting, to the point where as I filled out the form, I couldn’t even remember if I had a pacemaker or not. (My answer: “Mayyyybbbeeeeee???”)

Eventually, after I’d signed my life away, I was called from the waiting room and made to deposit all my valuables into a locker. I assumed this was because it would then be much easier for them to wipe my identity from the face of the earth if the procedure were to go awry and the machine reduced me into a steaming pile of goo. I was then brought over to the MRI machine itself, which is basically a gigantic tube that the technician jams you into, laughing maniacally the entire time. Just kidding, they don’t laugh at all. Instead, they simply ask you to lie down, then pile a bunch of weights onto you, making sure there’s no chance of you ever escaping. When you’re fully immobile, they then suck you into the machine and quickly sprint behind a wall roughly 10 feet thick, for the purpose of protecting themselves from the mysterious rays the giant tube is about to bombard your body with.

Lucky for me, since they were scanning just my knee, I didn’t have to go all the way into the Tube of Horrors and deal with claustrophobia. Instead, I was only sucked in to about my waist. They had also given me headphones, so I could listen to music while the machine growled, grunted, and basically sounded as if somebody was running a load of rocks through a dryer. One of the questions on the form I had filled out was what kind of music I wanted to listen to, and I had confidently answered “country.” As I was strapped in, however, I realized that I may have made a terrible mistake. Maybe it would be a bunch of modern weenie-pop country, which I hate! Maybe I’d spend a half hour listening to Thomas Rhett and Sam Hunt, at which point turning into a steaming pile of goo might be a reasonable alternative.

As it turns out, the process went pretty well. The machine was definitely loud, basically drowning out the music from my headphones. Still, I did manage to pick out some Chris Stapleton and Darius Rucker, so it was by no means torture. (There was one Luke Bryan song that came on, and it was touch and go there for a while, but I managed to persevere.) As the machine grunted and groaned, I imagined the mysterious MRI rays shooting deep into my knee, to the point where I honestly could have sworn I felt it tingling and getting hot, which then made me picture a Hot Pocket being left too long in the microwave and exploding. (Sorry for the imagery, but that’s honestly what was on my mind!)

After about 25 minutes on clunking and banging, the machine finally went silent and I was unceremoniously spit out. The technician ambled casually out of his bunker and removed the hundreds of pounds of weights covering my body, leaving me free to go. I was disappointed to learn I wouldn’t be able to see any of the results that day, and instead would have to wait until my follow-up appointment at the orthopedics clinic in about a week, which would be more than enough time to raise my stress levels to even greater heights. But that’s another story.

Splat! Part 3

It was Thursday morning, and I awoke in my trusty-but-now-hated chair to the prospect of working from home for an entire day. Since this seemed like an awfully daunting task, I decided to put it off for a while and instead make coffee. Of course, this was much easier said than done. (Believe me, I first tried saying, “coffee, make thyself and then delivery thyself to me!” but it didn’t work.) Getting out of my chair, crutching over to the kitchen, and making a pot turned out to be an endeavor in itself, but I then realized I had to somehow carry my full cup back to my chair with both of my arms occupied by crutch duty.

My solution was less than elegant. I won’t go into any details, but I will say that it employed two stools as portable islands and took so much time that when I finally arrived at my chair, the coffee had grown cold. Sigh.

Luckily, working from home on my laptop turned out to be not nearly as bad as I thought, mainly because I was able to accomplish useful things, which was the exact opposite of life at home on crutches. Still, it was just my job, so when quitting time rolled around, I was ready to call it a day. I’d been sitting in my chair for basically nine straight hours, and it was time for a break in the monotony!! I happily closed my laptop with a satisfying 'click.' I could now do anything I wanted!! Of course, since I could still barely move around, “anything” basically meant sitting around in the same chair with my legs elevated for another six or so hours before it would be time to fall asleep in that very same chair!! Hooray!!! I mean, sigh.

I also worked from home on Friday, and as I logged off that afternoon, I swore to myself I’d make it into the office on Monday, even if I had to have my chair – with me strapped into it wearing a crash helmet – airlifted there. Luckily, I was seeing a bit of progress in terms of my mobility, as my crutching around was getting somewhat easier. My ultimate goal was to be walking by Monday, but I realized that might be overly-ambitious.

The first day of the weekend went well – I learned how to use the vacuum cleaner while on crutches – and by Sunday morning I discovered I could now move around with just a single crutch! This happily meant that carrying massive amounts of comfort food from my kitchen to my chair had just gotten exponentially easier. I celebrated by venturing out into the real world to restock at a grocery store. Predictably, I stressed out about looking foolish while hobbling around in public, not to mention falling over and having an entire display of canned goods topple down on top of me. Luckily, everything went well, and that night I was even able to sleep in my bed upstairs! (For the record, I did have to fight back the urge to light my chair on fire, as a sort of both a spiritual cleansing and a symbolic gesture of moving forward.)

I went into work on Monday with my single crutch, where I discovered that my helpful co-workers had been busy. Surrounding my desk was a living room chair, a walker – complete with the much-dreaded tennis balls – and a lamp. I could now recreate my Work From La-Z Boy experience of the previous week! Oh, and our team mascot – a plastic skeleton named Mr. Chill ‘n’ Bones – was also sitting in the living room chair with his feet up, complete with a neck brace and bandages on his left knee and right ankle. How thoughtful and caring! Showing that I was a good sport, I threw the walker across the room and said a few choice words, such as “I”, “hate”, “you”, and “all,” and then settled into my office chair to get to work. As the day progressed, however, I began to feel bad for being annoyed at the prank, and eventually I began to appreciate the thought and humor put into it, to the point of switching on the lamp and stopping in my attempts to swipe at people with my crutch as they walked by.

On Tuesday I again came into the office on one crutch, but I soon discovered I could hobble around without it, which was a major victory. (I’ve never been more proud of walking without assistance to the restroom.) On Wednesday I didn’t even bring the crutch in, and on Thursday it felt like things were finally getting back to normal. While still far from being healed, it felt like real progress was being made! I hadn’t realized how much I enjoyed going to work and interacting with my co-workers, and it really helped to lift my spirits and return a sense of normalcy to my life. Of course, it was on that same Thursday when it was announced that we would all be working from home indefinitely because of stupid COVID-19. Sigh.

Oh, and I also had my MRI scheduled for Friday, which was really beginning to stress me out. But that’s another story.

Splat! Part 2

The next morning I opened my eyes, hoping against hope that I’d be on the receiving end of a miracle. For example, perhaps I’d be lying in a comfy bed in some other part of the world, healthy and ready to climb some nearby mountain. (Dream big, right?) Unfortunately, I found myself sitting in the same chair in the same living room, with my left knee and right ankle fighting each other for my attention:

Left Knee: “I hurt way more than you do! He should pay more attention to me!”

Right Ankle: “Nuh-uh! I hurt way more than you!”

Left Knee: “Oh, yeah?! You’re stupid!”

Me: “Groan.”

Knowing I had to figure out the extent of my predicament, I carefully began to take stock of my injuries by slowly lifting and flexing each of my legs. A few seconds later – after a flurry of complicated mathematical calculations and extrapolations – I determined that I’d probably be sitting in that chair for about four years, give or take a calendar season or two.

While not surprised by this turn of events – stupid birthday! – I was still disappointed, mainly because moving around freely would no longer be an option for quite a while, and – like an idiot – I’d never followed up on one of my brilliant ideas, which had been to move my refrigerator right next to my living room chair, in case of an emergency just like this or an extreme attack of laziness. On the bright side, I had been smart enough to log into work the previous night and take a day of PTO, picking an Absence Reason of “Lower Portion of Body no Longer Functional.” So, at least I was covered there.

With my entire day free, I quickly realized that I could devote all of my time to sitting in my chair and stressing out over worst-case scenarios. Now, I’m sort of a master at stressing out over things, and it didn’t take me long to conjure up all sorts of convoluted end-games, most of which involved me wearing a full-length body cast up until the day I retired. Realizing this wasn’t healthy, I soon came to the conclusion that I should probably go and have a doctor check things out, just so I’d know which worst-case-scenario I was dealing with (“Your knee will literally fall off in about a day or so. Oh, and you have bad breath.”)

Happy to have something to do besides sitting in my stupid chair – which I was quickly beginning to hate – I made a bunch of phone calls and got myself scheduled at a nearby orthopedics clinic, then arranged a ride to and from. Pleased with my efforts, I leaned back and tried to relax. A moment later, however, I realized that I’d have to find a way to get out of my chair, which I couldn’t envision happening without the help of a crane and a well-placed hole in my roof. So, after about five seconds of blissful relaxation, I was firmly back on board the Stress Train.

Several ulcers and a few hours later, my ride showed up. Calling upon a well of inner strength I didn’t even know I had, I was able to get up and out my chair and make it out into the waiting car. Still, it wasn’t pretty. The entire process was a symphony of grunts, groans, hops, and shuffles, complete with the help of a stool that I used as a sort of makeshift walker. Like I said, it wasn’t pretty, and I shudder to think of it now.

Once I arrived at the clinic, however, it was free sailing, as I was able to upgrade from my makeshift walker to a full-blown wheelchair. This was easily the best part of my day. In fact, it was so fun that I may have made engine noises with my mouth as I was wheeled into the building: “Vroom, vroom!” After getting myself checked in, I passed the time by trying to master the chair’s controls, all while trying not to accidentally run over anybody passing within several feet of me. This little game managed to amuse me until it was time to be seen by the on-call doctor, who broke the ice by saying, “So, you’re a mess, huh?” Telling myself that he was only stating a fact, I fought back the urge to reply, “Well, you don’t look so hot yourself, buddy!”

After some poking and prodding, I was sent to get a few X-rays, despite the fact that I was sure I hadn’t broken anything. Still, it wasn’t like I was going to be able to make a quick getaway or anything, and so I relented. Upon being wheeled into the X-ray room (“Vroom, vroom!!”), a group of technicians swarmed over me. Eventually, one of them said – and I’m paraphrasing here a bit – “So, you have a bad left knee and a bad right ankle, huh? And you can’t walk or bear any weight at all? Well, stand over here for a prolonged amount of time, so we can run off into another room and take some pictures at our leisure.”

Luckily, getting out of the wheelchair for the X-rays turned out to be much easier than getting out of my chair at home, since the X-ray room is build for people who can’t walk. There are handles and railings and poles everywhere that can be used to haul yourself up and move yourself around on, and I soon felt like a cross between a model at a photoshoot and a gymnast on the parallel bars. (“Now turn this way and stick out your ankle! Good! Now look back over your shoulder! Beautiful! Now spin this way and show me your knee! Perfect! Now get up and stop crying!”)

In the end, the official diagnosis was a sprained ankle and a sprained MCL, which was seriously welcome news, as avoiding tears and ruptures had been my best-case scenario. I was issued crutches and a walking boot and sent on my merry way, with orders to get an MRI on my knee to verify that no additional damage had been missed. (“The MRI reveals that your knee has fallen off, and also that you have bad breath.”) I was then to come back for a follow-up appointment.

After being driven home, I used my new crutches to grunt, shuffle, hop, and groan my way back into the house, at which point I collapsed into my chair, vowing to never move again, even if I had to have Dominos deliver right into my lap. Armed with some newly purchased supplies and ice packs, I was soon left alone to fend for myself. Looking at the clock, I saw that it was only mid-afternoon, which meant I had an awful lot of time to kill before I got to go to bed. Luckily, I had books to read, an iPad to rot my brains, and a ceiling to stare up at blankly for endless hours on end. Plus, tomorrow would be less boring, as I’d decided I was ready to rejoin the working force and WFL (Work From La-Z-Boy). That, however, is another story.

Splat! Part 1

I recently celebrated a rather momentous-but-troubling birthday, and – in the spirit of meeting all of life’s challenges head on – I decided that my best option was to simply ignore that it had happened in the first place. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Well, as it turns out, just because it’s out of mind doesn’t necessarily mean your body still isn’t paying attention, especially when it comes to situations of a chronological nature. Let me explain. Several weeks later I was playing wallyball, which – for those unaware – is basically a game of volleyball that takes place in a racquetball court. This is one of my favorite sports, mainly because it’s very easy for players to lose their bearings while trying to track the ball and run full speed into a wall. Now, while I realize that it’s absurdly childish to be amused by this, I honestly don’t care. I mean, it’s hilarious!! Plus, it’s not like all of my juvenile behavior was building up a bunch of bad karma or anything!

Or was it?

It had been a fun night, and we were playing what would probably be our last game of the evening. However, instead of winding down I found myself getting more and more intense, probably in an attempt to prove that I’d never really celebrated that momentous-but-troubling birthday. Suddenly, the ball was hanging up near the net, and I jumped like I had a million times before, trying to make a play. This was when my body – which has always had a terrible sense of timing – chose that very moment to give up on performing anything of an athletic nature ever again, and I suddenly came crashing down to the ground for absolutely no reason at all.

It sort of looked like this

Now, I’m normally pretty good at falling down – probably due to a lifetime’s worth of practice – but this time it was different, as I somehow managed to sequentially land weirdly on both of my legs. (My theory is that I was too busy flailing about wildly and/or screeching like a child to devote enough brain power to sticking the landing.) About a second later I found myself sitting on the ground, feeling warning signals emanating from both my left knee and right ankle. Immediately I knew my male pride was on the line. I couldn’t be injured! And, if I somehow was, I was going to need to walk it off, not to mention make some sort of dry, humorous comment about needing to just “tape it up.” So, calling upon every ounce of stubbornness and courage I had in my body, I made a Herculean effort and heroically managed to move myself about an inch.

Uh-oh.

By this time people were gathering around, wondering why I’d decided to fall over for no good reason at all. I brushed off their concern, saying it was no big deal, but I think I lost a lot of credibility when I then tried to scoot over to the door on my butt. Thankfully, after a few minutes of rest I was able to stand up and walk off under my own power, which led to a thunderous round of applause from the crowd that exists in my head for just such an occasion. (Looking back, I wish I’d have given a thumbs up as I stepped out into the hallway.)

Calling upon the power of deductive reasoning, I guessed that my right ankle was sprained, mainly because it no longer resembled a right ankle, and I assumed the same was true with my left knee. While not a great turn of events, it seemed manageable, as I was still moving around with relative ease. In fact, I was able to get cleaned up, walk out to my car, and drive home without much trouble, all while being able to make a few dry, humorous comments. (“It’s no big deal. I was getting sick of my feet pointing in the same direction, anyway.”) However, by the time I’d parked my car in the garage, my lower-body motor skills had begun to erode dramatically, to the point where going up the stairs to my bedroom seemed on par with climbing Mount Everest. So, I decided to sleep in the chair in the living room (chair nap!), all while cursing my momentous-but-troubling birthday. Closing my eyes, I hoped that everything would miraculously turn out better in the morning, but, unfortunately, I was going to be sorely (har!) disappointed. That, however, is a story for another day…

The Facial Hair Blues

Recently, I’ve found myself in a predicament where I scare myself every time I look in the mirror. Granted, there comes a time in everybody’s life where examining their reflection is just a bad idea in general – and I certainly reached that point years ago – but surprisingly, my current problem is unrelated to the ravages of age.

It all started about five or six years ago, when I suddenly decided that my head was without a doubt the most boring thing in the entire world, and in dire need of some additional decoration. At that point I was totally clean-shaven, including my head, since my scalp was permanently on strike from growing anything that could be considered a meaningful amount of hair. This left only my nose and glasses as potential points of interest to casual viewers, but still, that was really pushing it. To put it bluntly, my head consisted of acres and acres of boring white skin, punctuated on occasion by something equally as dreary, such as a dull green eye or a slightly misshapen ear.

As a result, I decided to grow a little facial hair, even though I had previously sworn off doing so, since it seems like that’s what all bald guys did in order to make up for their follicle-based deficiencies elsewhere. However, I justified it to myself by saying that since I spent so much time shaving my head, growing facial hair would give me some of that time back, as it would reduce the amount of upkeep needed around my mouth and chin. Genius, right?

Happily enough, Operation Facial Hair turned out be a rather rousing success, to the point where I was perfectly content with it for many years – and by that I mean up until last December. Then, one day, I suddenly decided I didn’t like it anymore. I can’t say why this was. I just looked in the mirror, frowned, and said, “Boy, that's gotta go,” and so, not long after, I was back to vaguely resembling a giant thumb.

However, as it turns out, seeing yourself without facial hair after many years of sporting it can be a very scary thing, as it seems like you’ve suddenly turned into a totally different person. Unfortunately, this was doubly-scary for me, since I don't like meeting new people. I mean, maybe the man staring back at me in the mirror was a vegetarian who despised bacon! Or, even worse, maybe he liked to talk about politics in public!

Despite being scared, I told myself to give it the ol’ “college try,” and so I did, for over an entire month. But it only sort of helped. While I did get used to seeing the new man in the mirror, things were just off. Plus, there had been a couple of times when I’d caught myself wandering into the produce section at the grocery store, which was no good. At that rate, it might not be long before I was trying to discuss foreign policy with the cashier. So, I recently decided it was time to re-implement Operation Facial Hair.

Now, you’d think this would be the end of it. It had all been an interesting experiment that had failed, and now I was going back to the status quo. Unfortunately, that’s not what happened. Instead, as my facial hair slowly returned, it too quickly began to look out of place. Yup, you guessed it, I’d grown used to being boring and clean-shaven! Aarrgh!

And so, that explains my current dilemma: I don’t like how I look clean-shaven, but I also no longer like how I look with facial hair. Both options scare me greatly, and I really don't know what to do. I guess my only hope is that eventually I’ll grow used to having facial hair again, but at this point I can’t count on it. Instead, I should probably come up with a Plan B, which may or may not include throwing out all of the mirrors in my house. Still, that’s pretty short-sighted, as there are plenty of mirrors out there in the world for me to stumble upon. On the other hand, my Finnish heritage mandates that I walk around while looking at my feet, so I don’t accidentally make eye contact with a stranger and run the risk of having to make – gulp! – small talk, so maybe I can actually manage to never look in a mirror again!

And, if not, I guess I’ll have to move on to Plan C, although I have no idea where one would buy a toupee.

Fat Budge, Skinny Budge

Several years ago, feeling suave and sophisticated, I decided to publish a book on Amazon.com. At the time not only were all of the cool kids doing it, but it just sounded like fun. I mean, I'd be a (self) published author! How cool would that be?! Unfortunately, my plan quickly ran into a snag when I realized that in order to publish a book, I'd have to first write one. Distraught by this revelation, I frantically scanned the hard drive of my computer, hoping to find some manuscript that I'd at some point written but had long since forgotten, but to no avail. Left with little choice, I was forced to call upon the can-do, never-say-die attitude that's made this country great and do it the old-fashioned way, by which I mean cheat.

Not wanting to invest the time and effort into writing a book from scratch, I took a bunch of old essays and blog entries, cleaned them up a little, and compiled them into a collection. Problem solved! I had a book! (A cheater book, yes, but still a book!) Happy with my ingenuity, I then published Who Says You Shouldn't Smile Today? which quickly went on to sell upwards of eight total copies! Success!

This project was supposed to be my one and only foray into the self-publishing world, mainly because it'd been a total pain in the you-know-what. You see, even though most of the writing had already been done, self-publishing Who Says You Shouldn't Smile Today? was way more work than I ever expected it to be. Besides putting the book together, I also had to edit it, obtain a cover for it, re-edit it, write the promotional blurb for Amazon.com, re-re-edit it, and – worst of all – compile it into a viable e-reader format, all of which took a staggering amount of time. So, once I'd finally finished, I had no intention of ever repeating that horrible process.

However, deep down inside I was never really 100% satisfied with my efforts. Sure, I was technically the author of a book, but it was really more of a bolted-together, Frankenstein's Monster of random essays than it was a work with any sort of cohesive narrative. This always bugged me, and every now and again I'd toy with the idea of writing a real book from scratch, despite the fact that it would mean even more work. However, since I could never come up with an interesting enough topic to write about, it wasn't something I strongly considered.

Until that fateful day when I suddenly had an idea.

At first I tried to ignore it, mainly because acting upon it would mean I'd have to devote a lot of long nights and weekends to writing, which would cut deeply into my treasured free time. However, I subconsciously knew it was what I really wanted. I mean, if I went through with it, I'd no longer have to consider myself a cheater author! (Also, it's not like I was doing anything useful with my nights and weekends, anyway.)

And so, sometime last summer, I allowed myself to put together a rudimentary outline. At the time I pretended I wasn't yet fully committed to the project, but I now realize that I was only fooling myself. The decision had been made, and it was going to happen whether I liked it or not.

With the outline complete, I got down to some serious writing. It was agonizingly slow work – mainly because I spent most of my time distracting myself with random videos on the internet – but eventually the chapters began to come together, and late last year I finally found myself with a finished first draft of an honest-to-goodness book!

Now, I'll spare you the rest of the details, as I'm sure you've already figured out that the point of this blog post is to advertise my new book, which I've just published on Amazon.com. It's called Fat Budge, Skinny Budge, and it's about health and fitness. So, if it sounds in any way interesting to you, click on the image below and check it out.

As for me, I'm so sick of writing and editing that I never, ever, want to self-publish a book again. Still, that's what I said last time, so I guess I should really keep an open mind. I mean, if this thing does really well and happens to sell nine or ten copies, you never know what might happen next!!