Irish Salsa

My Post-Rapture-Pre-Mayan-End-of-the-World Bucket List

2012-01-10T01:49:00.003-05:00

May 21st came and went and indiscriminately left behind Christian and non-Christian alike. And while I don't believe the Rapture to be a future eschatological reality (I believe that Jesus will return; however, I do not believe He will remove the Christians from earth for a period of tribulation, etc.), it hasn't stopped me from developing my Pre-Mayan-End-of-the-World Bucket list. Since this is after the Rapture was supposed to have occured, I feel a little late in the game coming up with this. But, it's before the end of the Mayan calendar of events (December 21st), so at least I'm exhibiting nearly a year's worth of foresight.

Thus, my Post-Rapture-Pre-Mayan-End-of-the-World Bucket List:
1. I want to live in Hawaii. My personality loathes structure and pressure and time constraints. I have Island Life in my bones.
2. I want to visit Australia (I think my wife lives there). I want to successfully hold a platypus (I know they're poisonous.)
3. I'd like to have an exotic pet. Probably not the platypus, but something in the cat or bear family. Maybe if wolverines weren't so temperamental. Instead, I'll settle for a lion/tiger/snow leopard cub or a panda/koala cub.
4. I'd like to go on tour. Not that my music is worthwhile at all. I just think it'd be fun to live in my car and travel the US and make enough money singing the songs I've written from my life experiences.
5. I'd like to win the lottery. I have a deal with God (I'm making this public for accountability's sake) that if I win the lottery (big stuff, not scratch and sniff or whatever they're called) I'll give half the money to Truett (my seminary). Now that is net, because half of it would go to taxes, so then the other half would go to Truett, and while I suppose that would be me playing the humble servant, I still want a cut off the top. So it's post-tax lottery winnings, half of that will go to Truett. And I'll even add a new piece to the deal right now: If I am raptured, I will endow whatever remains in my coffers to Truett since they'll need it.
6. I really do want to skydive. I'm incapacitatingly scared of open heights, but there may be no greater rush.
7. I want to try out for the Orlando Magic.
8. I want to learn Italian.
9. I want to see the Northern Lights.
10. I want a mermaid. (The good kind).
11. If space tourism really happens, I want to do that. Screw Vertigo.
12. I want to befriend someone famous, not for my edification, but so he/she can have a normal friend.
13. I am okay with that person being Scarlett Johansson.
14. Or Olivia Wilde.
15. Or Zooey Deschanel (the person, not the dog)
16. I want to teach the dog, Zooey Deschanel, to be social.
17. I'd like to step foot on Antarctica. Hopefully not falling through in the process.
18. I want to travel-blog. As in, I travel the world, and then I incite envy in all of your hearts by writing about it in juicy detail.
19. I also want to movie/tv show-blog. As in, I spend my day watching pointless crap in the hope of redeeming it through my reviews.
20. I'd like to be elected to something. Anything.
21. I want to write a novel. Fictional, since that's what a novel is, but I want it to basically be an autobiography. So an autobiographical novel. I don't want to embellish it either. Just type up my life for the comedic drama it is and hope you enjoy it as I have or think you should have.
22. I want my family to find happiness. Not the surface level crap either. Deep, passionate, invigorating, convincing, contagious happiness.
23. I would like to perform with any/all of the following:
a. Zooey Deschanel (the person) (you know why)
b. Neil Diamond (he was my favorite, growing up)
c. Eminem (b/c he taught me to rap)
d. Ke$ha (b/c she taught me how to dance)
e. Pitbull (b/c he taught me about amazing stage presence)
f. Jenny & Tyler (b/c they're my friends)
g. Coldplay (b/c of their audience sizes)
h. Dianna Agron (so I could propose to her on the spot)
i. Kari Jobe (so I could propose to her after Dianna Agron shoots me down)
j. Jars of Clay (b/c their's was the first song I learned how to play and sing)
k. David Crowder Band (b/c his was what inspired the first song I ever wrote)
l. Jon Foreman (b/c he inspires me)
m. Joy Williams (b/c I'm a sucker for chicks with high voices)
n. Leeland (b/c they taught me Christian music doesn't have to suck [Sound of Melodies!])
o. the Glee Cast (just for the fun of it)
24. I'd like my novel to be made into a movie with Owen Wilson as my rambunctious, goof-up, younger brother. Even if Jacob isn't really a goof-up. And then Ryan Gosling as my less attractive best friend who inspires me to greater acts of charity and loyalty by his best-friendedness (I'll let my friends fight amongst themselves over who he is). My older brother would be Denzel Washington. Not sure why. I would star as myself. Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Jonah Hill, Adam Levine, and Jason Schwartzman will comprise my closest guy friends. My sister will be played by the older sister on Family Ties. Whatever her name was. Or maybe that one girl on The Facts of Life. Steve Martin would be my dad. Meryl Streep, my mom. A virtuous Mila Kunis and Dianna Agron will be the love interests I have to choose between. We don't know yet who I'll choose. Nico Stai will be the soundtrack. Morgan Freeman, the narrator.
25. I think it'd be neat to sell one painting. Not a charity thing either. Well, I mean it can be for a charitable cause--I just don't want to be the charitable cause.
26. I want to learn to read without getting sleepy.
27. I'd like to teach a graduate level theology/biblical studies class.
28. I want to pastor a congregation. Not in the preachy way, though I'd be doing that. But in the live life alongside each other kind of way.
29. I want to see someone come to know Christ. Not in the free-pass-to-heaven way. In the, they-really-get-it way. That life is about loving each other and loving God through that. That it's not about us at all. Or what we get out of grace. But that Grace finds us and keeps us and accepts us wherever and whatever we are.
30. I want my friends, and myself, to lose focus of our insecurities. To see past them to the accepting beauty of a God who desires us.
31. I want a six-pack. Not for vain reasons or insecurities. Mainly to see if my body is physically capable of it.
32. Speaking of physical incapabilities, I want to eat the Big 96er like John Candy on The Great Outdoors.
33. I want my parents to know my kids.
34. I want to sous chef at a big restaurant for a night.
35. While I'm at it, I want to be a Japanese cook for a night, too. Bad, Chicken.
36. I would like to hit a homerun in Yankee Stadium.
37. I'd like to throw out the first pitch to Game 7 of the World Series.
38. I'd like to be inducted into a Hall of Fame. I don't care of what.
39. I want to whitewater raft a river with hippos. Because they're dangerous, not because they're cute.
40. I'd like to ride a bull for as long as I could. Without cowboy boots.
41. I want to have a twin. Not sure that's really possible. He (or she) would be significantly younger than me now.
42. I want to name a kid Caeden. Cayden. Caden. Caydin. Caedin. I don't care how it's spelled.
43. I also want a Brent Andrew Newberry, Jr. so that there can be a III and IV, mainly in the hopes of seeing a Brent Andrew Newberry, V because everyone stops at the IV. I'm not sure the reasoning behind that, but I imagine the fourth wants his kid to have an identity of his own. Hopefully, my fulfilling this bucket list will make his name worth keeping to the V.

For the Mayans,

Brent Andrew Newberry, I.
January, 2012.

Social Reversion

2011-06-21T16:26:00.012-04:00

Facebook and Twitter have made us terrible people. We find our narcissism and codependency enabled by a social network of pseudo-friends. We are bad friends and worse people. We care about what we have to say or like or post; we're annoyed by others who do the same themselves. We want to seem brilliant or cool or funny or likeable or attractive or popular or hip or relevant or [insert adjectival insecurity here], and yet when we are in person with real, live, breathing human beings of people, we shut down, or worse, we stay the same.

We don't know how to be friends anymore. We don't know how to listen, to share the conversation, to ask questions and to genuinely give a care in the world about anyone else's life. We ramble, interrupt, talk over people, or just check out until it is our turn in the story. It's rude, it's childish, and it's glaringly self-absorbed. It's as if we haven't left preschool, our need to be impressive and accepted manifested in what we share about ourselves virtually. What even five years ago was never meant for public consumption is now the very basis by which we find our emotional security. We are living out an adult game of Show & Tell, only each of us is telling and showing over top of the other, more loudly and provocatively with each passing post.

I know we all do it. We are excited to tell about our lives. We're story-tellers. And that's great. Really. But every story needs an audience, and in this life we call our adventure, it just so happens that the rules follow that we take turns, that we listen when others are speaking, and we answer when someone is talking to us. We don't revert to infancy, when everything revolved around us.

We've experienced the evolution of social networking, from Friendster to MySpace (my own personal space) to Facebook with "friends" and Twitter with "followers." Is it possible to be any more self-aggrandizing? We have now equated ourselves to MLK Jr. and Gandhi and Jesus Christ; we have followers. For what? To hear us spout about sports or politics or random musings of our day? I have a twitter handle. But what does that say about us as a civilization when we have belittled friendship to an annual cyber birthday wish or reduced status-quo-shattering movements to pithy statements each of us are mandated to publish in 140 characters or less? We invite people to events, and now the people who get left off the invitation list are those most likely smart enough to have given up Facebook for its unfortunate ironies: in trying to connect us to the world via "friends" we have become more detached within our real friendships. In clamoring for more "friends" and "followings" we have stretched ourselves a million miles wide but only an inch deep. Don't call me, just text me. We're averse to intimacy.

Some of it is convenience. Some of it is fun. And I imagine Acquaintance-ster didn't sound like a runaway hit. But where friendship used to be defined by those who pack up your apartment with grunts and sweat and pizza, who came to your rescue when you were stranded, who took road trips with you just for the adventure of it, it's now been reduced to a running tally of classmates and coworkers numbering in the hundreds or thousands, many of whom are indistinguishable by name alone. Our social networking has single-handedly sucked the life out of a word, irreverently mocking the sanctity of something beautiful. For a society that prides itself on its technological advancement and cultural superiority, it's somewhat ironic then that its crowning achievement is a faux-society composed of our collective primal selves to such degree not seen since our ancestors were hunter/gatherers.

I remember watching lots of different kinds of movies growing up. Cartoons or Commando or the Goonies or Pete's Dragon or The Care Bears. And all of those are nostalgic for me. But when I saw Save the Last Dance in high school or whenever it came out, I remember getting goosebumps at the part with the gang members. Not because I was scared of the Crips, or because I secretly knew I could make it as a member. It was because of the bond, the loyalty of their friendship. It was moving at a moment in the movie that wasn't necessarily intended to be so. But it's funny now; I find that moment just as jarring today as then. I don't need universal acceptance or respect or likeability. I need friendship. Real and unrelenting, loyal and redemptive. I need people who want to hear my stories, sure, but who need me to hear theirs. I need people who rally around me in trouble or joy, who "get" the things I "get," who challenge and make me a better person. I don't need 1200 friends to follow me to my own personal space on a website. I need real friends with whom to travel this adventure. This life that's as much their story as mine.

I'm not giving up Facebook or Twitter, and I'm aware the irony of such sentiment originating from the format most solely responsible for our lapse into infantile narcissism--a blog, but I do want to be more conscious of my own approach to life, and the virtual reality that is social networking. I don't pretend to have it all mastered, and perhaps this is my hope for accountability, publicly chastising the very forum within which this is being shared. I don't know the best way to fix our culture, if it's even possible, or if it's even worth the effort. I'm sure there'll be money in Facebook Rehabs and a Facebook patch and Facebookette gum and Facebook Anonymous chat rooms. Or maybe we could become less self-absorbed and more self-aware, taking note of our tendencies and making good on our struggles to change and grow and really live. I suppose we'll have to do it one person at a time. So for me, and for you, my friend, stop talking about yourself for a bit. Ask your friends questions about their lives. Give a damn. Give them the chance to Show & Tell.

Vehicular Little Man Slaughter

2011-05-24T01:06:00.012-04:00

It is a typical weekday evening: me hungry, needing food, wandering out to the local grocery store, buying more than I can eat in a month because I'm shopping on an empty stomach. I load everything into my car, losing track of everyone and everything around me, save the car door next to mine that has me recoiling in fear and anger over the reckless manner in which it thrusts itself open. Decompressing, I hop in the car, and looking over my right shoulder, I flip it in reverse. As I start to back up, I hear panicked yelling, and I turn to my left to see the family with the lousy car-door etiquette frantically waving their arms at the same frequency as their screams. I slam on the brakes, and equal parts terrified and offended, out from behind my car walks a midget.

A dwarf. A little person. Whatever the proper noun is these days, I almost back over a human being whom I did not see in my rearview mirror because he wasn't tall enough. I almost commit vehicular little man-slaughter.

I try to beg for forgiveness. Adding ironic insult to near-injury, he can't see my profuse apologizing through the 25% tint of my driver's side window. I momentarily consider rolling down the window to have a face to face apology, but the logistics elude me. And what would I say? "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there." Is there a more humiliating way to address his near-death experience? Not only did his family have to wave me off the kill, but now I'm going to rehash the entire sequence by highlighting that the one thing he's most insecure about is actually what would've been most responsible for killing him?

It's difficult enough that he can't drive to the store or push his own cart or help the nonagenarian in her motorized cart grab the jelly off the middle shelf, but now he has to consider his life a game of Frogger just in walking through the parking lot? All because I was consumed by my first world hunger pangs and attention to car-detailing? My life is a conglomeration of me-moments. I live for myself, about myself, to myself all too often. I've got blinders on, and I don't see the world or people around me enough. The things I love are the things I feel the world should love; the things I'm focused on are surely the things with which the rest of the world is absorbed. I fail to take simple moments of un-self-awareness, to see what other people are doing or thinking or saying. I want to live life to the fullest, and that shouldn't look like a mosaic of self-portraits. It needs to involve others--lots of others. Love your neighbor as yourself. If I was doing that the world would be a super-loved gig.

I suppose nearly running over a man lends itself to introspection and gratitude. I've experienced both. But I'm hopeful, beyond the relief of such a potentially life-altering moment for both of us, that it might yet be life-altering for me. I want to be a difference-maker in the lives of others, and not merely by running them over.

Around the Political World in 80 Words or More

2010-11-02T10:33:00.002-04:00

Hadn't posted political predictions in awhile. After spending my free time studying politics instead of graduate school work, I'm prepared to offer this:

HOUSE
the GOP will net +71 seats. Yes, that's right.

SENATE
the GOP will net +9 seats. That's a 50-50 split.
Essentially they win in
PA (D) Open
IL (D) Open
CO (D) Bennet, incumbent
KY (R) Open
IN (D) Open
ND (D) Open
LA (R) Vitter, incumbent
SC (R) Burr, incumbent
FL (R) Open
OH (R) Open
NH (R) Open
MO (R) Open
AK (R) Murkowski, incumbent
AR (D) Lincoln, incumbent
WI (D) Feingold, incumbent
NV (D) Reid, incumbent
WA (D) Murray, incumbent

Notable Democratic Senate wins:
DE (D) Open and should have been a GOP pickup with Rep Mike Castle who was defeated in primary by O'Donnell
CT (D) Open and also should have been closer for the GOP had they not run the CEO of a wrestling company as their candidate
NY 1 (D) Gillibrand, incumbent
NY2 (D) Shumer, incumbent
WV (D) Open, was close until the GOP flubbed it by calling for "hicks" to play the part of West Virginians in their ad call. If this seat goes to the GOP, it is a terrible sign for the Democrats and assures a GOP majority in the Senate despite my prediction for a split chamber.
CA (D) Boxer, incumbent, survived the scare of her career. The only way she loses is if Fiorina garners a sympathy vote for her hospital stay last week related to her previous case of breast cancer.

And the GOVERNORSHIPS:
Significant gains here for the GOP as well. Since most of you don't care about this, I'll just state who I think will win:
NY: DEM
CT: GOP
MN: DEM
RI: IND
PA: GOP
MD: DEM
WI: GOP
VT: GOP, but with a plurality, thus taking the vote to the legislature who will vote for the DEM
NM: GOP
TN: GOP
ME: GOP
NH: DEM
MA: GOP, it looks like Patrick (D) should pull it out, but if the mood of the country is anything similar to 2009 when Scott Brown won his Senate race, than this could really flip. The trouble for the Republican is a third party ticket siphoning votes.
IA: GOP
MI: GOP
AK: GOP
AR: DEM
OR: GOP, going on a limb here.
SC: GOP
GA: GOP
FL: GOP
AL: GOP
OH: GOP
IL: GOP
SD: GOP
NE: GOP
KS: GOP
OK: GOP
TX: GOP
WY: GOP
ID: GOP
UT: GOP
CO: DEM
AZ: GOP
NV: GOP
CA: DEM
HI: DEM, really tempted to pick this as a dark horse choice for an upset for the GOP. Being the last state to vote, with results trickling in, it could affect both the GOV and HOUSE race in the state.

I'm essentially predicting +9 for GOP in races for Governor which would place the final tally at 33 GOP, 16 DEM, 1 IND

And there you have it. I was tempted to list my HOUSE predictions by district, but who cares besides me? I think Barney Frank will survive, but by less than 10%. That's my only specific prediction. Oh, and HI-1 will remain in GOP with barely-incumbent Djou get a chance to serve out a full term.

Counting to a Trillion

2010-07-29T11:17:00.010-04:00

I've been thinking about the US National Debt for awhile. It seems that the number "trillion" is thrown around so much, it's either so large it's inconceivable to most Americans or we're just so used to the Tiger Woods', ARod's and LeBron's that millions are petty cash and billions are the new million. That would make trillion the new billion. Except that's preposterous. Have you ever tried to count to a million? How about a billion? I don't think you'd live long enough to count to a trillion. But seriously.

Look at this.
We have 60 seconds in a minute and 60 minutes in an hour: 3,600 seconds an hour.
24 hours a day: 86,400 seconds a day.
365 and 1/3 days a year: 31,564,512 seconds a year.
Let's say the average person lives to be 80. It's a nice round number that I'd like all my loved ones to surpass, but nonetheless: 2,525,160,960 seconds in a lifetime.

WE ONLY LIVE 2 BILLION SECONDS! To put that in perspective. If you wanted to count to a TRILLION, you'd have to count 396 numbers a second, for EVERY second of your life, to reach 1 trillion. I mean, I can count "1234567" before the next second ticks. That's it. I could maybe get to 10 each second. But 396?! Per second? For the rest of my life? Now that's just counting to a trillion.

As of 10:37 and 8 seconds Central Standard Time, the US National Debt stood at: $13,253,598,236,404. That's 13 TRILLION! So that means that based on my elementary math skills, it's roughly 13.2 times 396 to figure out how many numbers you'd have to count per second to make it all the way to 13 trillion. That would be 5,248 digits. You would have to count 5200 digits a second (thats, 12345678910,11,12,13,14...5,248 in your head) EVERY SINGLE SECOND OF YOUR LIFE to reach the number 13.253598236404 trillion.

Or to look at it differently, if you were to get paid for every second you lived, some poor schmuck (I guess China at this point) would have to write you a check for $5,248 EVERY SECOND in order to total 13 TRILLION DOLLARS by the time you died. I'm lucky to make 5 grand in 2 months! But EVERY SECOND?

Or what if you only get paid for how many seconds you actually work in a lifetime.
Average day we work: 8 hrs or 28,800 secs.
Work week: 40 hrs or 144,000 secs.
Work year: 50 weeks (leaving out 2 weeks vacation, unpaid) or 7,200,000 secs.
Avg working lifetime: Age 25-65 or 40 years or 288,000,000 secs.
Total earnings per "working" second: $46,019
That's enough to cover a family of four for a year. 40 g's a second is about the only way to become the world's first trillionaire.

Need more perspective? Alex Rodriguez signed a $275 million contract in 2007. For 10 years. That's $27.5 million a year. If a game is roughly 4 hours in duration, and a season is 162 games a year (not including injuries or the postseason), then that is 38,880 seconds of playing time (or "working" time) over the course of one season. That means ARod is paid around $707 per second he is playing (I know his contract is not structured based on seconds played but on other criteria, most of which, if not all of, are guaranteed). To reach the total of the US National Debt, he'd have to get paid 65 TIMES what he is making currently! If we're making $40,000 a year, we're paid approximately $.00625 per second. That's less than half a penny per second! ARod is making 113,120 times as much as us per second, and yet his salary is 65 times less than the rate of the national debt. Just for fun: we'd need to get paid 7,363,040 TIMES what we are currently making per "working" second of our lives.

I don't know if I'll ever take the time to count to a million. Certainly not a billion. And the fact that it's physically impossible for me to count to a trillion is incredibly sobering. Our national debt is gargantuan, and it isn't going anywhere but up. I don't know the way to solve it--tax cuts or higher taxes, spending cuts, freezes or increases. But I can tell you this: the debt has gone up $106,063,860 in the few minutes I've been writing this. That's 1/3 of ARod's contract in just a few minutes. Or in terms of life-seconds, it will take 3.35 years for you to live another 106,000,000 seconds.

If counting sheep doesn't work for our insomniacs, try imagining them as dollars in the national debt. That oughta knock you out. Nothing like counting to a trillion.

Or 13.

Grocery Positioning Service

2010-07-28T15:30:00.006-04:00

Seriously, would someone please incorporate a GPS into the shopping experience! They can even use my suggested name: Grocery Positioning Service. All you have to do is type in the item you're looking for and it tells you the aisle to find it on. If this isn't helpful enough, you can press the "locate me" button and get literal "step by step" directions. It would even tell you the shortest and fastest routes depending on geriatric shopping cart congestion. Another lovely option would be the "check out the checkouts" feature, which would give you the estimated wait time at the checkout line like you're at Disney World. Heck, maybe they could implement Fast Passes. You could pay more and go through an express lane that isn't just limited by number of grocery items.

Today I went up and down 10 aisles, from the Asian aisle (seriously, it's called that) to the Mexican aisle (again, seriously) to the soup, then the canned veggies, then the mac & cheese and finally giving up at the coffee aisle. All for a tiny 3 oz jar of pimentos. After the scavenger hunt was over, I asked for help, and the lady pointed me to the aisle I presumed all along. Except there was only one brand, they weren't pulled to the front of the shelf, and they were playing hide-and-seek with the liquefied sun-dried peppers and canned pickled pickles (they had some weird juice in their bottled can). I don't like grocery shopping in the day because of the nonagenarians, but it's only magnified when my last resort is asking an employee for help and she's as lost as I. That's a good example of why humans are being phased out.

Now I know this might not seem like a wise business investment to provide to shoppers, but I'm telling you, I'd rent one depending on how much shopping I had to do. If I'm going to be spending $200 on groceries, what's another $5 anyway for a little sanity boost. If we provide motorized carts for the old people, why not offer GPS devices to the busy people? Now it shouldn't be mandatory; I'm not going to need it when I'm zipping in on my usual ice cream run. But if my shopping excursion involves a shopping cart, I want the option for a rent-able tracking device.

Tag and bag it.

Choose Your Own Adventure (the Gordon Ramsay Edition)

2010-06-24T09:27:00.002-04:00

The following is loosely based off a true story. Well it was my dream last night. Up until the ending. That's where you come in. Choose your own adventure. Are you Tarantino, the Coen Brothers, Bruckheimer, Shamylan, Apatow, Speilberg, Abrams?

I'm in an Army cafeteria and Chef Ramsay shoots a guy in the shoulder for arguing with him. Later we are competing on Hell's Kitchen and standing around, and Chef pokes fun at my mustache. So I poke fun at his shooting another man in the shoulder. He gets upset, and kicks me off Hell's Kitchen. Next thing I know, I'm the new head coach of the New Jersey Nets (sorry, Avery Johnson). Then I lie down to go to sleep on a friend's tiled living room floor with a fan at my head. Gordon Ramsay shows up at the door.

Then I woke up.

Does he:

A. Apologize for kicking me off Hell's Kitchen.

B. Insult me.

C. Vanish.

Fabrics of Society

2010-06-17T12:42:00.004-04:00

Is fabric softener like conditioner for your clothes?

O's favorite P

2010-06-14T11:31:00.004-04:00

Do you think Obama's favorite president is himself?

Once You Go Black

2010-03-13T17:01:00.003-05:00

I have a feeling there's nothing in the world that's at once as disgusting and fulfilling as using biore strips.

I suppose that's why someone thought this was a good idea:

Pooper Scooper

2010-03-13T12:41:00.005-05:00

I think one of the most humbling things in life is picking up your dog's feces. Even with a bag between you and it, you still feel texture, shape, weight, and warmth. All while you're bent over with your face in it.

Oh, the things we do for love.

Tripping the Deck Therapeutic

2010-03-09T19:47:00.010-05:00

So I have some more dog-related thoughts. I apologize for anyone looking for conservative-biased political jabber or a Zooey Deschanel fansite. This will be neither.

1. Zooey Deschanel is so hyper. I mean, sometimes I'm ok with her running figure-eights around my furniture, but other times I just want

her to chill out. I haven't had much success breaking this 6 month old pony, but I've found two things work (and neither one involves violence). When I sit at my desk she cuddles up underneath it on my feet. Apparently it's an instinctual thing that goes back to wolves and caves. The other thing that works is opening the balcony door. For some reason my pup loves people-watching. I guess I can't blame her with my neighbors. She's very ADD at times, and this only reaffirms it in my mind. She sits for hours outside sometimes just chilling. I think it's quite therapeutic.

2. Zooey always runs at the puddles in the parking lot. While this is invariably an indictment on my parenting skills concerning watering the poor pup, I took something else away from it. As much as it makes sense in her mind to drink the water, being dehydrated and all from our walks, I don't want her to drink it because it's probably not super healthy for her. So she pokes along thinking I'm a jerk for keeping her from these oases, when in reality it's for her good. Kind of like I am with God. I don't get why I can't do this or have that or be there, but He has an idea of what's better. Certainly more of an idea than I have. So when I can't figure out why certain things play out the way they do or don't play out the way I want, maybe I'll be slower to frustration and quicker to enjoy the ride.

3. I love Zooey Deschanel. And I like playing with her. But my favorite is just petting her and loving on her. She'd rather squeak a chew toy or gnaw off a finger. I can get really annoyed with her for simply being a puppy, always being hyper, and never just sitting at my feet. And yet again this made me think of God. First because

of His patience. But oh, how much I love the busy-work of Christianity, the church gatherings and bible studies and mission trips.

I also love the materialism of life, the stuff that keeps me busy and distracted and away from peace. I strive in so many areas of life, be they religious or worldly. And in themselves they aren't bad, but apart from God, they're pointless. God doesn't call us to strive, but to rest. To find His burden light. And instead of sitting at His feet, and just enjoying who He is, I wrestle and wiggle and nibble my way free. Instead of knowing His love, and being found content in it, I find myself in a freedom advertised as independence, but full of mischief and loneliness. I want my heart to crave His goodness. To taste His beauty. And I want the fun of the world to seem even a little less so, so that I can just enjoy sitting at his feet.

Her Inner-Wolf

2010-02-24T14:25:00.005-05:00

Zooey's inner-wolf
is coming out.

It's official: she loves snow.

Election 2010

2010-01-29T14:27:00.006-05:00

Not saying this will happen, but for anyone remotely interested in politics, this should be seen as unprecedented.

Democrats, under President Obama, are in danger of losing:

-President Obama's old senate seat in Illinois

-Vice President Biden's old senate seat in Delaware

-Secretary of State Hillary Clinton's old senate seat in New York

-Majority Leader Harry Reid's senate seat in Nevada

-Secretary of the Interior, Ken Salazar's old senate seat in Colorado

-Former Republican who turned Democrat to help Obama's agenda, Arlen Specter's senate seat in Pennsylvania

-Oh yeah. I almost forgot. They already lost healthcare champion, Ted Kennedy's old senate seat

I guess voters are still hungry for "change."

iRemote 1.0

2010-01-28T15:19:00.007-05:00

I want to write about this because when it happens, I want to be able to go back and say, "that was my idea." So...

I want my iPhone to become a universal remote. You know you keep your iPhone with you wherever you go; I even have the Bible on it. With about 25 different languages too. That doesn't make me super pious, maybe super lazy, but it just shows how impressive this little gadget is. And since universal remotes have been around for ages in technology time, it shouldn't be impossible to create an app that solves this problem. I don't want a remote for the tv, and the ps3, and the dvd player, and the vcr, and the cable box, and the sound system--wait, VCR?! Maybe the phonograph too? Anyway. One gadget should do it, and with a real universal remote, there's still TWO gadgets, my iPhone and the real universal remote. So with iRemote, I should trademark the name, you could turn on the tv, turn on the sound system, turn on the cable box or the ps3, and watch whatever you want!

It's a gold mine. I can see the new AT&T commercial now.

Luke Wilson: "Wanna change the channel while you're on the phone, but Verizon won't let you? Try AT&T. It'll let you browse the web or change the channel all while you're talking on the phone. And you won't need TWO phones."

Yeah, maybe it's just fool's gold.

16 Weeks

2010-01-27T22:30:00.006-05:00

I feel like one of the girls who puts pictures of her baby all over the internet. Having a cute puppy (cuter than almost all babies) has helped me understand that urge. (Though I'll never enjoy or condone the half-naked pictures of pregnant women and their bellies.)

So I have two insights tonight.

a. Apparently dogs love tuna as much as or more than any animal in the cat family. Please don't ask me why I had tuna for dinner, but nonetheless, Zooey Deschanel climbed into the trash can to eat the can of tuna.

b. Don't turn your back when the dishwasher is open.

Zooey Deschanel

2010-01-25T12:04:00.001-05:00

World, meet Zooey Deschanel.

The GQ President

2009-11-30T09:48:00.004-05:00

This can't help the "narcissism" talk. The president is photographed with a GQ magazine. Oh yeah. That's his face on it...

A Less Self-Absorbed Day

2009-11-11T18:41:00.004-05:00

To all my military friends, thank you. I take so much for granted, and I live my busy life so easily and carelessly. You guys don't. Or didn't. And you won't. So thank you.

Really.

Know that today, at least, I'm aware of your sacrifice for country and from family, and on one of the few days I remember it, I hope you can get away from it. At least for a day. But that's not how it works, I realize.

Your steadfastness enables me to live selfishly, forgetting the dangers you don't--you can't. I shouldn't be thankful for that, for being able to block out the sacrifices you make, but there's a part of me that thinks you want it that way. Or at least you understand it comes with the territory.

I should pray for your safety more; I actually know you. You aren't nameless statistics. You aren't simply round numbers thrown around by politicians and news-types. You're my friends. Or your parents are. Or your spouse or your siblings. You're connected to someone who cares about this country and my freedoms enough that you or they would put all on the line to protect them. To protect me.

I should relish my freedom more. At all, really. I take my freedom for granted; this freedom from tyranny, sure, but also to live recklessly and selfishly and as unproductively as I want. Instead of living more responsibly, instead of earning your sacrifice, I expect it. That's certainly unfair, but again, it doesn't surprise you. And it certainly doesn't deter you.

I should try to be like you more. You're selfless. You're loyal. You're determined. Through the challenges of the job, you can't quit. You don't have that option. So instead of wilting under pressure, you have no choice but to come out stronger. Better. I have opportunities to quit, to hit delete and start over. I can run from one career to the next, from one relationship to the next, from one trivial channel to the next. My life can be a merry-go-round of poor choices and poorer consequences, but you. You only get the option of going where you're told, when you're told, regardless of why or for what. You might agree, or you might not, but either way your life's most likely on the line. So what do you do? You don't run away. You persevere. Yes, you're selfless. You knew what you signed up for, sure. But that doesn't make it easier now.

While you're celebrated, no doubt genuinely by most or as political spectacle by a few, please know that today, for at least the rest of it, your fight's not in vain. Indeed your life is not. And whether you embrace or disdain the visions of our leaders both past and present, your service has put my personal challenges in perspective.

And after today--your day--when you go back to complaining about 120 degree heat or frigid winters away from home, about car bombs and snipers and brothers killed in action, I'll probably go back to complaining about my Greek test. Or my flat tire. Or the latest baseball score.

And it's not because I don't care, but because it's all I know. And I think, maybe, if I can dare, you'd probably have it no other way.

Lost

2009-06-25T20:16:00.002-04:00

I haven't had much motivation to write lately; it comes in spurts. But today was just too great a day. Let me explain.

I’ve been ready to buy a new car (Mazda CX-7) for a while now, but since there isn’t a Mazda dealership on the island, I have to go to Orlando or Melbourne or Daytona. So it’s one of those events you have to plan for.

Well two weeks ago I was ready to go, and I took my car to the car wash for a little bath before I traded it in later that evening. I pull out of the tunnel and up to the vacuum area, and all the workers start congregating around my passenger side door. I get out, and sure enough, my mirror is dangling by an electric cable.

So much for the new car.

So Monday rolls around of this week, and me and my posse are geared up to make the new purchase in the evening. So with new mirror attached, I back out of my parking spot. Only my car is barely moving. I stop, put it in park, and hop out, knowing what this means.

Flat tire.

So much for the new car.

Today is the day. I’m only working a half day so I can spend the afternoon, and hopefully not the evening, buying my new ride. It starts innocently enough. I wake up, late as usual, skip breakfast, and hobble down the stairs to my car. I open the door and notice dirt all over the inside. If I hadn’t just cleaned my car two weeks ago, this might’ve gone unnoticed, but alas, I had, and I did, and it got better. I get in and see that my steering column is busted open, the insides all hanging out, and my ignition resting peacefully on the floorboard. Whoever tried to steal my car didn’t do a very good job. I can’t even get my car stolen right.

I started thinking maybe this is a sign I don’t need the new car. Maybe the Mazda CX-7 is like 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42?!! Those of you who watch “Lost” know exactly what I’m talking about. My friends have promised me they aren’t a part of the Dharma Initiative.

After all, without my car or a ride, I am kind of stranded on an island.

What year is it anyway?

Four and a Half Seconds of Fame

2009-05-11T09:23:00.003-04:00

English Butchery 102

2009-04-13T00:00:00.008-04:00

My brother wrote a very interesting article that he admits might be politically incorrect. Because he first started this, I am honoring his beginning by titling this English Butchery 102. The class name is original, but not the idea. So to expand on his thoughts, here are a few more things people say incorrectly that inadvertently diminish their point:

a. "I gave 110%"...If we're suddenly capable of giving more than 100%, why not make it something higher than an extra 10? Like say, 99%? "I gave 199%" sounds much more devoted than 110%. Or better still, why stop at 199? Why not 200% or 300%? Maybe start scoring our efforts like baseball players' batting averages. "I gave .345; that's a point better than Ted Williams' career batting avg..."

b. "And it goes without saying..." We all use this one too, but what the world for? If "it" goes without saying, either don't say "it," or don't say that it "goes without saying." Talk about undercutting your point. Geesh.

c. "Indubitably"...First, no one uses this word. So that's the first red flag when you use it in conversation. I don't think it's been used since the late 1800s, so unless you fought in the Civil War, you have no business thinking this is appropriate conversational English. Second, it's a risky word to try to use. If you don't get it out correctly the first time you try to say it, then you look like a pompous imbecile. No one enjoys an arrogant moron. If you have to stop and remember how to pronounce the word while you're trying to drop it in conversation, you lose speaking privileges. And respect. Although, if you're trying to conversation-drop "indubitably," you probably haven't garnered much respect to begin with, hence your attempt to use it in a sentence.

d. "Bloviate"...This is actually just because of Bill O'Reilly. Speaking of pompous, imbecilic pots calling kettles black. The only people who use this word are the very people who bloviate. A nice self-fulfilling prophecy. Using the word means you're a bloviator. Or does it mean you're a hypocrite?

Well that's enough for now. Take notes, share with your friends, and for the love of respect, think about what you say.

Class dismissed.

Girlfriend Voices

2009-04-09T21:26:00.001-04:00

Funny sketch from SNL. We all have seen this up close.

Women Drivers

2009-03-15T17:46:00.001-04:00

Parking Lot Disaster @ Yahoo! Video

Shane and Shane "Everything is Different"

2009-03-10T09:44:00.003-04:00

I got to see Shane and Shane again the other night. Can't remember how many times that makes it. Everytime I think about going, I tell myself it's no big deal if I miss it because I've seen them so many times before. But every time I leave, I'm so refreshed and wonder why I ever doubt going in the first place. It's always a sweet time of worship.

All that to say, here's a video they recorded a month ago. A new song they just wrote, and that made it kinda exciting. That and it was good. I can't believe they just write stuff so easily. Grrr.

Enjoy!

Barack, Paper, Scissors

2009-01-26T08:42:00.002-05:00

I've been downloading lots of applications for my phone, and so it's gotten me into a "game" mood. Saw this on youtube and had to share. Very, very well done.

Check it out.

Ryan SEEcrest

2009-01-14T23:24:00.002-05:00

I'm not a big American Idol fan, but I watched the first night. I haven't laughed this hard in a long time. Thankfully, this moment can now live on forever.

Rub It In, Seacrest

Jim Carrey Top 10

2008-12-19T12:43:00.001-05:00

#1 made me laugh.

Twelve Days of Christmas

2008-12-11T19:20:00.001-05:00

Closing in on Christmas, this should bring you cheer.

Sweet Dreams

2008-12-04T14:47:00.003-05:00

The poor lady next to me on the plane coughed 61 times during our flight. How do I know this? Because it kept me awake, and instead of counting sheep, I counted her coughs. It was a tough situation for her, really. It's miserable not coughing when you feel the urge, and I could tell she was holding it in. Although I don't know how much was left to hack up, as every cough sounded like little pieces of her lungs were coming up.

Poor lady. I guess I know what to expect when I start to feel sick in the next few days.

Orlando Skies

2008-12-04T11:22:00.004-05:00

The Gate Attendant just said, "Here in Orlando, we don't pre-board families with children, as that does make up most the flight."

Super.

Smoking or Non?

2008-11-29T09:22:00.006-05:00

I'm staying in a hotel in Connecticut, and it got me thinking about hotels. The not-so-expensive kind. Like this one. No internet, no wall outlets by the bed, a phone that isn't plugged in, a refrigerator that isn't plugged in, etc. The type of lodging that offers you smoking or non. And conveniently, though I asked for the non-smoking abode, I was awakened to the treat of my neighbors' cigarette smoke in the morning.

Well all this got me thinking about the hygienic history of this room.

For instance.

The floors. Have you ever seen a housekeeper vacuuming the rooms? I haven't really noticed, but after seeing the stuff on the tiled bathroom floor, I can only imagine what awaits us within the fine shags of 15-year old carpet.

Toilet paper. It's been a technique of hotels for years now, to recycle already-opened rolls of toilet paper, simply folding the end in some fancy origami design to reassure us it's safe. But I'm starting to think less of this. I know it saves them money and us trees, but it also promotes nasty germ transfers. Why? Because inevitably someone before you used that toilet paper for a purpose. And had to get it off the roll somehow. And also contaminate the room with bowel-dropping aromas. Yet that same toilet paper roll managed to convince the housekeeper that it was ready and able to help another guest. Gross. If they want a cheap, sanitary solution, they should order much smaller rolls. If someone runs out they can unwrap a new one. That will solve the problem of wasting the hotel's money, the world's trees, and our lives.

I used the mini-shampoo they gave me. I squirted the yellow blob onto my hand, and in an effort to get some more, I squeezed again. Only this time it slurped back into the bottle. I don't know what I just put on my head, but it was a cross between a liquid and solid state of matter. With a mind of its own.

I also question how clean community towels can get. Particularly wash rags. If a bath towel (the kind you dry yourself with) can still have a stray hair or two from previous owners, how sterile can the dirtiest rag of all-time really become? Everyone uses it in the same ways, for the same purposes. Maybe they're washed on account of their nastiness. I'm sure hotels use a scientific formula to decipher how many washes with how much bleach is needed to cleanse the rag of its bacterial menaces.

Why did I stay here? Well, it was quite the deliberation...

When I pulled up to the "Inn" it was very much like the one-story motels that are playgrounds for serial killers. The ones where you pull right up to your front door--AC unit in the window. The cashier/owner/tenant in the loft above the lobby spoke marginal English with a thick Indian scent/accent. I took my key, so I could determine if the room would suffice. Figuring not, I would then simply return to the desk and say "I'm leaving," in however many languages I could create, using hand gestures and charades when necessary. But that didn't happen.

Obviously I stayed the night, and it's because at the motel room next door was parked a brand new Mercedes SUV. I figured, "If anyone's gonna get hit tonight, it'll be them."

So now I'm off to visit two state capitol buildings. I realized last night I could've gotten pictures at 5 of 8 capitol buildings. Providence, RI (I will today); Hartford, CT (also today); Boston, MA; Concord, NH; and Albany, NY. I wish I would've thought of that yesterday. Maine, Vermont and Maryland will have to wait for another time. Quite a fun trip. I fly out tonight at 8.30pm.

Vermont and Beyond

2008-11-28T18:57:00.002-05:00

Well I'm in a Cracker Barrel in Albany, NY, right now, taking a break from a rather busy day.

I don't even know where to start, so I'll just explain my route, and go from there.

Yesterday I landed in Providence and shot up to Kennebunkport, ME. It got dark before 4pm--I had my car lights on at 3:30 in the afternoon! Crazy. That's been the one downside.

This morning I went to the beach and saw an amazing scene. Rocky beaches. I touched the water. It wasn't arctic or anything, but I ruled out a quick swim. I drove past Fmr President George H.W. Bush's house. They weren't there because Mrs. Bush is in the hospital. Maine really wasn't that cold at first, but after those 2 minutes, I opted for the gloves and snow hat. I was anticipating the cold would be the most peacefully miserable I'd ever been in my life. It wasn't quite that cold, but it certainly was peaceful.

From there I shot over to Manchester and Concord, New Hampshire. Beautiful there too! I was driving with trees all around me one second, and then there would be a clearing and you could see the mountains or a lake or a river. It was breathtaking. At one point I pulled off and took pictures. I can't upload them now, but I will. It was risky on several fronts. I parked the rental on a steep hill, the ground was very soft and covered in leaves--leaving you in the dark as to what was water and what was solid ground, and being in the woods where wild beasts (see: black bears) live.

I passed through NH into Vermont and experience the oddest thing. There was no snow in NH except for ice on the rocks or snow on the tips of the tallest mountains. But as soon as I crossed into Vermont, literally only minutes, there was snow everywhere! Everywhere! It was fun, except for the ice, but it was only on the shoulders. Oh, and I almost slammed into a deer that most certainly looked like a ram. I don't think they live in Vermont though, so I guess it was a deer. I wish it was a moose. If I was in the Stratus, I don't think my breaks would've stopped me in time.

Now I'm in NY. And honestly, it's too dark to care much about scenery, though even at night, the lights have lit up the buildings that appear to outline some river I should probably know. Gas is most expensive here, but at least the roads aren't winding over the mountains and through the woods and around prancing rams.

I'll be passing through Massachusetts again on my way to Hartford, Connecticut, where I'll be staying tonight. Then tomorrow I'll explore there and Providence, RI again, until my plane leaves at 8pm.

Last thought. Massachusetts and Rhode Island roads are awful. On two fronts. They are bumpy and rundown, even though they're busy areas (this is most likely the cause), but they're also incredibly curvy. Nauseatingly. This leads me to believe that most of the houses have been around much longer than the interstate, because the freeway winds around them at every possible turn. I bet we probably looped a couple neighborhoods just in trying to travel north.

Ok, time to eat.

Super Obama

2008-11-13T17:48:00.002-05:00

My first post-election post of a political nature. And it goes like this...

There's a new computer game online.

Super Obama World.

It's a take off of Super Mario Brothers, except that you're Obama and you battle pigs in lipstick and Sarah Palin on a snowmobile.

You can play it here.

This is how I'm getting over the election results.

Mr. Veteran, Sir,

2008-11-11T20:55:00.007-05:00

I went to Normandy last year. It was only a few days before another D-Day anniversary. I remember the awe as I walked onto American soil in the heart of France. Reminiscent of Arlington National Cemetery, white crosses flank the right and left and north and south. It creates a sense of smallness; you're enveloped by so many crosses, too numerous to count. But you're also surrounded by so many lives lived well; lives given on your behalf.

I didn't get that very well. Not in Arlington, and not in France. I thought of distant heroes who won a great war, but I didn't wander too far into the gritty details. I read the history throughout the indoor museum, but only from the historical perspective. Not from the human side.

I walked the crosses, counting the souls that left this earth on the very same day they landed ashore. I counted the number of Jews who fought--and died--for other Jews to be freed. I compared divisions and companies and battalions. But for every single cross, every single gravesite, a life laid in the ground. A story much like my own, laid dormant, obedient to Fate's demand.

Saving Private Ryan was on tv Sunday. I needed it. Within the grotesque depravity of war, the human story prevails beautifully. And I needed that reminder. I needed to see again that some guy like me had a future and a hope and dream to be something big. Someone with a purpose. Aspirations and imaginations that ran wild.

And then it was over.

He didn't get to live out his dreams and grow old with his wife. He didn't get to raise a son or buy a house.

It was over in a flash.

Soldiers give themselves for us. It's cliche and underappreciated now. But it wasn't then. Those men are heroes, not just because they did save the world, but because they gave all they had.

Themselves.

Some made it. Many didn't. But every last one of them is a hero. Then, and now.

What if my life went that way? I never see it ending like that, so unhappily ever after. Cut short before I figuratively conquer the world. But if it happened just that way, and I don't live out the imaginations I envision, I can only hope my life will have been found so honorable.

Here's to you, Mr. Veteran, Sir.

And thank you.

Maybe He Should Give Back that Guy's Leg

2008-10-16T18:23:00.001-04:00

What I thought was an SNL skit is apparently real; note the last scene:

London Calling

2008-10-13T17:33:00.004-04:00

Joanna's staying in Brent, London. I guess it's a suburb? Anyway, she found this sign.

I bathe. Really, I do.

circa 1995

2008-08-25T16:40:00.002-04:00

Gives me goosebumps.

The bittersweet kind.

To Eat or Not to Eat

2008-03-07T10:51:00.004-05:00

Since it's been a help to the many folks I've talked to, I'm adding two new links to help people find restaurant and hotel inspections.

For all Florida restaurants (and hotels I think), click here. I added this because the previous post only listed restaurants in the Orlando and east coast of Florida. This should cover them all.

For all Mississippi restaurants, click here.

Have fun.

Spy Dreams 2.0 Redux

2008-03-03T10:39:00.007-05:00

I woke up this morning a little tired, but otherwise fine. I went to the bathroom to get ready and noticed a scrape on my nose. And brushing my teeth I noticed blood like I'd bitten my bottom lip. I don't remember dreaming much last night, maybe a trip to Europe or something. I rarely do remember my dreams. But it must've been intense. So intense that my dream left me bruised and bloodied. A bloody nose and lip? What in the world happened in there?

I'm sure I saved the world. Probably better than Obama would. Definitely better than Obama would.

A. Because I roll like Jack Bauer. (Though these days, all Jack's doing is resting up for a hellacious season 7 in 2009. Yes, you read that correctly. We don't get 24 until 2009. Whatever.)

and

B. Because Obama won't save the world. (sorry, it's true.)

If Europe was in my dream, or dreams, it's still standing. And safer now than ever before. (I could do the same for America, but President Bush is doing a wonderful job already. That allows me to save places like Europe or Russia without feeling unpatriotic in my sleep. Anyway...) Vladimir Putin (the Former Russian President and KGB big shot) can't even handle me in my sleep. Don't even get me started about real life scenarios. Suffice it to say that if I'm saving the world in my sleep, then just wait till I'm out of my REM cycle.

I know, it sounds like they may have landed a few good shots on me to scrape up my nose and bloody my lip. Thanks, Subconscious. But you should've seen what they looked like.

All this heroic talk is making me want to stop a nuclear holocaust next.

Maybe I better go take a nap.

A Political Break, a Sanitary Fortune

2008-02-26T15:20:00.008-05:00

Since this political season is still young, I wanted to take a break for all the readers who aren't into politics. So, I found something for Floridians to spend time on. Sorry, I haven't found this feature for other geographic locations yet, but leave a comment if you do!

The link is for any food critics who are ever squeamish about their dinner destination. Poor hygienics by the wait staff? Unsanitary cooking conditions? Unsavory eating conditions?

Then click here to find the latest food safety inspections for all restaurants in your area.

It might just be a life saver.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious Tuesday

2008-02-05T11:27:00.001-05:00

It's National Primary Day for all intents and purposes, or what many have labeled Super Tuesday in elections past. After a logjam of states decided to join the big day, it left many pundits calling it Super Duper Tuesday or Tsunami Tuesday. I just call it Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious Tuesday. It has a nicer flow and more professional feel.

Anyway, today is the day for Gov. Romney. As part of the "Stop McCain Train," I'm hoping conservatives across the country rise up for principle. And as for the polling data that shows both Democrats beating Mitt in November, well just keep in mind no one knew who he was when he started this thing and now he has a shot to win the nomination. And it's only February. The polls are based on name recognition. When people learn about what Mitt stands for and how he governed and ran companies, when they see him speak and hear his values, it'll be hard to stop him from catching on like Sen Obama.

Back to tonight, if the Northeast states are closer than the polls currently read (most showing 20+ point leads for McCain), then it's going to be a big night for Romney. But even par at that point will be ok. If Mitt can pull out a majority of delegates in even a handful of Southern states, it will be a good night for him. But I have a hunch the Southern states are where Gov. Huckabee will prove to be a disaster for conservatives. His staying in the race is only serving to split the conservative vote in order to allow McCain the nomination. He's selfish and patently suck up. If Huck really thinks McCain will choose him to be VP, he's only kidding himself. So it's hard to fathom why he's staying in unless his vehemence for Mitt Romney's religion and wealth is just that strongly vindictive. Not very Christian if you ask me. Maybe it's a man-crush.

Finally, if McCain does come out on top, and looks to cruise to the nomination, I will support him. Unlike many libertarians and conservatives, I would not sit out the race for two reasons.
1) The Supreme Court. With Justice Stevens at 88 years old, it's hard to see him staying in his seat until 2013 when the next President would take over. Not too many nonagenarians stay actively involved in their careers.
2) Universal Healthcare. With all signs pointing at further Democrat gains in the Senate and possibly House, Universal Healthcare could actually be achievable. And I don't think it's constitutional. Responsibility will further shrink from our Nation's conscience and leap towards an eventual Socialist death.

For these two reasons, we must support the Republican Nominee. No matter who it is. McCain fans, that means Romney, and Romney fans, that means McCain. The only scenario for which Irish Salsa reserves the right not to vote for the Republican nominee is in the event of a McCain/Huckabee ticket. If this bothers you, please read my previous posts, Mike-like v. Christ-like or Mi Mea Culpa.

Now go, Mitt! And Happy Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious Tuesday from Irish Salsa!

UPDATE (February 6th, 2008): Last night CNN cut to the weather report about tornadoes across the South. Before I knew the seriousness of the situation, I told Joanna, "Even Earth is upset that Huckabee's winning." It was a great laugh. Now I feel bad because people died.

Mike-like v. Christ-like

2008-02-05T08:46:00.001-05:00

As everyone knows I don't support Gov Mike Huckabee. His attempts to differentiate himself from Gov Mitt Romney alone, and not any other candidate, are brazen assaults on Romney's religion. This from a man of "faith." My article serves to convince those who haven't yet given up on him, to do so immediately. To find another vote, even if it's McCain. If this man runs a campaign like this, how will he govern?

Two examples:
1) In predominantly "evangelical" Christian Iowa, where many voters had reasonable hesitations to voting for a Mormon, Huckabee exploited his own faith as well as the voters' fears of Romney's to his own advantage. He produced an ad that touted his stances on issues while the screen showed in all bold, "Christian Leader." First being a Christian doesn't automatically qualify you to the most powerful position in the world. And second, the ad was a blatant attempt to codify Romney's religion as a cult in the minds of the voters and solidify his standing as a true Christian.

2) In an interview with a NY newspaper, Huckabee was asked if Mormonism was a cult. He dodged the question artfully, replying he wasn't running for President of a seminary but of America. A few moments later, however, he turned to the reporter as coyly asked, " Aren't Mormons the ones who believe Jesus and the Devil are brothers?" This calculated reply was meant to arouse the greatest revulsion among Christians towards Mitt Romney because of his religion's beliefs. Instead it awakened a backlash among most of the country. Except for Christian voters. If any group of people should understand freedom of religion and if any group of people should staunchly oppose any assault on their beliefs, it should be Christians. Instead they rallied to Huckabee's support giving him a victory in Iowa. This former preacher used his charm and folksy way to fool thousands of Christians. Because he spoke our language, we walked lock step over the cliff of religious intolerance. The very thing we hate most about secularism in America today, the assault on our beliefs, was exactly what motivated voters to his side and propelled his campaign to victory in Iowa.

My Mom and I agreed this week that Huckabee's motives and actions are increasingly unChrist-like. They're Mike-like. He is self-motivated and self-righteous. His campaign style, as attested to by Arkansas Republican Legislators, is vindictive and personal. Begrudging and entitled. Words that don't seem to describe Jesus, but rather other Biblical characters, namely the Pharisees. Which is another thing that drew me away from the Arkansas Governor. Where he comes across with humor and charm and religiosity, it is countered with bitterness and resentment and retribution.

For me, there is nothing more putrid than self-righteous holiness. Exploiting Christians or their beliefs for political gain is unconscionable. It is not Christ-like. Christians should play a role in politics, but Paul never instructed us to petition the government to make laws banning behaviors that don't line up with our beliefs. He called us to be different. To live "in the world but not of it" does not mean politically changing it. It means living a life led by the Spirit, a life that God uses in the lives of unbelievers. In places like Corinth or Ephesus or even Rome, God didn't call for Christians to fight a political fight. He called us to the spiritual one. That saw evil all around no matter what laws are in place. That said our fight "is not against flesh and blood but against the rulers and principalities of this world." It's a spiritual battle that won't be won by politics. And it shouldn't be. Christ is the Hope of the world; He's not a conservative wing of any party. He is all powerful; He doesn't need laws passed to work in the lives of men. He is love; He's not bickering or fighting or revenge. He is holy, and by Him we are. Not because we stand for certain morals or call for new amendments or fight the latest secular movement. Because His grace is sufficient, we can trust He is strong enough to help. Strong enough to fight. Strong enough to win.

Don't hear me saying as Christians we should roll over and let the world fall to chaos. To the contrary, our role is significant in that we have the Hope of Nations. That's why I said we need and must play a part. But we cannot exploit our beliefs for political profit. "For what does a man profit if he gains the whole world, but forfeits his soul?" Jesus saw the Pharisees in such a light. Consumed with rituals and rules and obligations to laws never written on mankind's hearts. They cared about power and controlling people's behaviors with undoubtedly good, yet eventually evil intentions. This control and dominance enabled their ritualistic lives to shine holier than everyone else's, a self-made glorification.

Mocking another person's religion is insensitive and derived from fear. Generally. I don't mean insensitive in a Political Correctness sort of way. I mean in the Way of Christ. Can you see Jesus insulting Nicodemus for being a Pharisee? No. He was patient with him. How did Philip act with the Ethiopian Eunuch? I'm sure some people can twist examples from the Bible to show that we should be intolerant of other faiths. But is that how we want to live? Do we want to spend our time defending intolerant tactics instead of living a radically different life of love? Christ had compassion for the lost and hurting and searching. He performed miracles to feed to heal them. While we can't perform physical miracles, our lives of love and hope and reconciliation can be even more miraculous.

We can disagree and find beliefs offensive and false. We can call them any label we want, from "un-Christian" to "cults." But where does that get us? Does it bring those "cult members" to Christ, or does it serve to push us further apart so we aren't confronted with those beliefs anymore? If we truly believe that Christ is the Way, why are we scared to learn and know and proclaim that? Why are we scared to embrace it and encourage others to? We label and scare other believers away from the lost so we aren't tempted to join them. But that's not right. It sounds Pharisaical to me. I personally don't care if you do or don't think Mormonism is a cult. But even in politics, running on the mantle of being "Christ-like," Gov. Huckabee has been anything but. Insulting and exploiting someone else's religion is in essence exploiting your own, and it is insensitive, or a better word, indifferent to the person's eternal worth. On a bigger picture than politics, Romney and other Mormons could be hardened to ever seeing the Real Jesus because His followers failed by attacking instead of loving. They mocked and insulted and tarnished a man and his beliefs, and they did it all in the name of Christianity for purely political self-made glorification. Is God more pleased because Huckabee used his "faith" to brand another man as hell-bound? Is God more pleased that Huckabee exploited the fears of Christians to further his political fortunes? Is He glorified more by inciting people to hold another man's beliefs against him? That tactic works for the person attacking, in this case Mike Huckabee, but the souls of the attacked and ridiculed harden and stay lost. And that's not even taking into account the people all over the world who are watching and wondering how ours is a religion of hope and love.

Christians have no problem labeling Islam as another religion. Or Hinduism as another religion. Or Atheism, in a way, as its own religion. But Mormonism for all its inerrancies, is called a cult? Why insult the souls we should be rescuing? Did Christ insult the woman at the well who was searching for love? No, because He is love. And He let love win her over. He let Hope and Joy and Peace win her over.

My hope for Gov. Romney is that one day he can find it in himself to forgive Mike Huckabee. For the politically motivated stabs at his soul; for his calloused, vindictive approach to the Presidency; for his campaign of retribution, resentment and bitterness glossed over by spouts of religiosity and self-righteousness. And when Mitt does, he'll have proven himself more Christ-like than his opponent.

Mi Mea Culpa

2008-01-29T08:55:00.001-05:00

Governor Romney,

The editorial board here at Irish Salsa would like to offer its sincerest apologies for endorsing the wrong candidate. After our letter to your campaign, we see you have won Michigan and fought against needless pandering to the left (see Sen. McCain on Taxes, Immigration, Global Warming). While we still believe it to be an incredibly hard battle ahead if you secure the nomination, it's one we would gladly stand beside you and for you and with you till the end. Sen. McCain's hostility, downright hatred for you personally, has turned us off to him even if he were the nominee in the General Election against Sens. Obama or Clinton. We're not guaranteeing we wouldn't vote for him, but right now, we'd be a no-shows at the voting booth. And so we are rescinding our endorsement of him for the GOP Nomination.

He has lied about you, copied President Bush's campaign strategy by calling you a "flip-flopper," forgetting that he did just that in his vote against the tax cuts before he voted for them. He has attacked your wealth; wealth which you earned through the kind of leadership our country is longing for with the current economic news. But worse than everything else, his personal animosity towards you has led him to the transparent motive of scarring you badly enough, that even if you win the GOP Nomination, you'd never recover for the General Election. For that, he deserves to lose. What President Reagan called the 11th Commandment, "Thou shalt not speak ill of any fellow Republican," has codified the reality that Sen McCain's words are nowhere near representative of his actions. He is not a Reagan conservative nor a man of character. He is a deceitful panderer to his own self-interest, not much unlike a different former President. His positions with liberals are not out of a conviction of principles but rather a contrivance of political expediency for such a time as this.

And never mind that Gov. Huckabee and Mayor Giuliani seem to dislike you as well. This can be explained because you haven't "paid your dues." What an embarrassment to the Republican Party this has become. Gov. Huckabee truly has no shot at winning, but it is clear his disdain for your religion is keeping him in this race solely to siphon votes from you. If Sen. McCain wins and he chooses Gov. Huckabee as a running mate, we will NOT vote.

Maybe write-in our own names.

We have realized that in electing Sen McCain as President, we would see the same results as we've seen in the Senate. Winning the White House is important, but maybe what's needed is another Barry Goldwater, not a Democrat-lite. Further eroding the principles of conservatism in the name of winning the White House is as defeatist as leaving Iraq prematurely. Conservatism, much like freedom (as the two are similar), is an ideal bigger than party or people. It transcends polls and the media. It's worth fighting and sometimes losing for. In order to further it more. And that has led us to the un-endorsement of Sen. McCain and the strong belief that not voting for him if he is the nominee may be better in the long run for our country.

So it's with this new-found disgust and even greater hope that we are proud to endorse Governor Mitt Romney for the Republican Nomination.

Preliminary Primary

2008-01-18T11:21:00.001-05:00

Since all you can find on the news these days is Election 2008 stuff, I thought it'd be fun for everyone to get in on the action. Iowans, New Hampshirites and Michiganders have all voted. Now it's our turn. A little Preliminary Primary of sorts. Since this blog hasn't really caught on in those states yet, we don't have to worry about a polluted poll.

So cast your ballots. Click your mice.

And vote.

(It's on the right hand side, Dad.)

When Pigs Can Fly

2008-01-09T16:28:00.002-05:00

I just saw this article and couldn't help jotting down some thoughts for the welfare of the world. The article highlights a monumental scientific discovery: a pig cloned to glow florescent green, passed the trait on to its offspring. They hope this will lead to the advancement of harvesting pig organs for humans awaiting donors.
A second article as mentioned by the one above, tells of South Korean scientists cloning florescent RED cats.

I don't even know what to say. There's also video on youtube.

To me, more astonishing than the trait being passed on, we CLONED A PIG FLORESCENT GREEN. Not with extra hairy ears or premature balding or bad eyesight. None of that child's play. FLORESCENT GREEN. Is anyone else in the world concerned with this besides me? Scientists thought the best way, the most effective and efficient way to study a sow's Punnett Square was to make it glow like shoe laces under a black light? No one thought that might blur ethical lines? We can't wear fur, but we can make the mink's tail GLOW. There's no cruelty in that. I guess it's better than giving a lab rat cancer, but at least you're studying how to fight cancer. I find it a stretch to pick "Nuclear Green" as a trait to pass on to little piglets in attempting to find cures for liver cancer. Why not just try to grow two livers in the pig?

And now we have a new demonic cat species. Their eyes aren't creepy enough, we had to go and make the rest of the cat glow in the dark? Apparently this is under UV lighting, but aren't we always concerned about UV rays from the sun? So now are we going to have stray orbs wandering our streets? Forget spaying and neutering. Stop scientists from cloning Kitty Neutron over there. And what's this going to do to the Chinese food industry?

And if researchers noticed this trait in the pigs was passed on, does that make it a dominant trait? Not that it'd be hard to spot a phosphorescent pig. Are we going to be eating green pork from now on? How will we know when it's gone bad? More importantly, if we're cloning sheep and cows, glowing red cats, and now the Green Little Pigs, what's next? A wolf in sheep's clothing? A dinosaur? A centaur? I remember in 2002, and I'll find the article, Reuters noted that Japan outlawed interbreeding unnatural species so as to discourage the creation of say, a centaur. But it was a year in prison and $500,000 fine. Hardly the deterrent. What a way to upstage the first cloned man; clone a horse-man.

I know we're nowhere near that point yet, or so I thought merely an hour ago. Our country is waging war over stem cell research with conviction and courage, trying to find the ethical line. I fear while we argue over the meaning of "is" and "life," others have long since moved beyond caring. So much so, that cloning a phosphorescent cat or a pig florescent green is no more news than the discovery that it can pass that gene on. I don't know if people are trying to clonen humans yet or why there's an obsession to try. Our world is fixated on it, for no other reason than perhaps the timeless struggle with our own mortality. But in the end, we aren't gods. We can't create ourselves--not even copies of ourselves. We are finite. We are limited. We'll eventually die.

And we'll never be able to stop that. Even if the chic fountain of youth for this generation of scientists is harvesting organs from swine.

We're too complex, too deep, too real. We have a soul that can't be created or destroyed or transferred to the newest replica of ourselves. We don't even understand how all of the brain works. How can we try to clone something like that? I don't think it's like cutting and pasting. Copying or sketching from an art book. It's complexities we don't even understand yet. We should stick to liposuction and face lifts, Donna Karan, Chanel and celebrity obsessions as our means of recreating ourselves. Our quest for eternity and higher self-esteem won't be satisfied then either. But at least we truly won't be altering the fabric of civilization. It's a much deeper problem that pigs and cats and sheep and cows don't know. Our depth is explained by the existence of our soul. And it must be nurtured by the loving One who created it. And He's not Zun Xiang or any other scientist busy at work to disprove Him. We'll never be able to completely disprove His existence or the reality of our souls. And we'll never be able to completely, safely, successfully clone a human being.

But I don't expect Congressmen and Prime Ministers, scientists or special interest groups to get that. At least I'll believe it when I see it.

Or when pigs can fly.

2007 in Review

2007-12-30T09:03:00.002-05:00

Just a recap of 2007 AD.

Places I've been this year:
Florida.
Mississippi.
Georgia.
Washington.
Oregon.
Kentucky.
South Carolina.
North Carolina.
New York.
Arkansas.
England.
France.
Italy.

Favorite purchase of 2007:
MacBook

Least favorite purchase:
The 2 corn dogs from Sonic that came back up...

Best Book:
The Brethren by John Grisham

Worst Book:
The Brethren by John Grisham

Books I've Read this year:
The Brethren by John Grisham

Nobel Peace Prize Nomination

2007-11-29T14:32:00.002-05:00

At the risk of breaking federal privacy laws, I want to nominate a young teenager from Merritt Island for the Nobel Peace Prize. I don't know how you nominate someone for this distinguished, or as of late, dubious, award. But I'm seriously looking into it.

Why?

Because he did something that could change the world.

Yes. The WORLD.

At Publix, as in nearly every supermarket, there are Express Lanes. Their purpose is to keep our busy lives hectic, to keep us from slamming on the brakes behind nonagenarians trying to count change at the register with their feeble hands, or army-sized families buying enough food to survive nuclear holocaust. 10 items or less. 15 items or less. In some rare instances, 20 items or less. It's always been a considerate and brilliant concept.

With one flaw: discipline.

Supermarkets have always lacked the discipline to enforce the "10 items or less" requirements. They enforce their prices and laws about shoplifting, but not the Express Line signs. More recommendations than requisites, the signs are rendered meaningless as cashiers swipe 25 cans of Jolly Green Giant products all belonging to the same mother with baby in hand. No doubt that's where it started. "Well it's only 25 items, that's close to 20," the compassionate cashier would rationalize. Then the old man who can barely hold a loaf of bread long enough to place it on the conveyor belt. She can't turn him away after all that effort. It took him 20 minutes to put 11 items up there. And what of the person in the motorized cart who can't even stand? What kind of sick world would we live in if the cashier asked her to put everything back in the front of her cart, flip the motorized cart in reverse, and get in Checkout Line 6 just to go through it all again because the sign said "10 items or less?"

But at some point, in some distant land to be sure, the dark soul of some Tool abused the mercy of the teenage cashier. Taking advantage of her passive nature, he brought his 12 pack and cigarettes, tv dinners and ice cream, chips, salsa, queso and 20 other things and piled it on the conveyor belt. And from there, the innocence of the Express Line was lost.

Forever.

Now all of us leer and cuss people in our heads. We have a pack of gum and peanut butter, and they have 3 weeks' worth of groceries. We start counting everyone's items around us. "The lady behind me has a head of lettuce and a 12 pack of corn dogs. That's 13 items." The cynicism consumes our whole shopping experience. We sprint to check-out lines trying to cut off the elderly or handicapped because they're slower. We won't hold a place in line for the lady who forgot to grab a carton of milk. "Tough break, Mother of Twins. Should've made a list." We grow frustrated with coupons, check writers, and Space Invaders--the people who have never heard of personal space, especially when in line behind you. Grocery shopping is now awful. And gruesome. And in some places, bloody.

It's War.

All because of the Toolbag who couldn't, or dare I say WOULDN'T, count his groceries and play by the rules.

That was, until, Travis came along. I was in line, frustrated as ever, over a guy who no doubt had well over 20 items. In a "10 Items or Fewer" line. You can't DOUBLE the total and expect to get away with it. That's like drinking the entire carton of your roommate's milk. A sip here or there, but chugging the whole thing is pretty blatant. But it's not like this is unprecedented either though. Who counts items? Who turns people away for excess in the Express?

Travis.

That's who.

Proving that the youth of America do indeed have a grasp on Mathematics, or at least basic arithmetic and moxy, Travis told this middle-aged man, "I'm sorry sir. You're going to have to get in another line." The man, stunned by the taser-like demand, regrouped and responded with "What? I'm sorry? Why?" Travis, calm under fire, coolly replied, "Because you have more than 10 items, sir. This is an Express Lane." The man tried the whole "Well, I already have all my stuff here" bit, but Travis had none of it. And while it most likely made me wait longer in line for the crotchety man to move all his groceries back into his cart, it was worth it.

Well worth it.

For this man's ego check. For sensibility's sake. For civilization.

And that's why I nominate Travis, the Merritt Island Publix Cashier, for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Because he just might save the world.

Gaggle of Scavengers

2007-09-17T00:59:00.001-04:00

There’s no more ominous sign than looking out your window to the sight of a flock of buzzards on your front lawn. Good morning, Gaggle of Scavengers. In the grass, on the road, perched on neighbors’ roofs. I counted 29. I started to wonder if I was dying. Aggravating those fears, I looked up in the sky, the one place I’d forgotten to check, and another 50 or more were circling above. And those were even harder to count. They don’t fly in a “V” or circle in the same direction—that many would have started a tornado.

I’m still alive. I think. Is this a dream, maybe? I’m waiting for a man with a sickle to show up at the door. Maybe a large bell tolling while I answer it. I think I’ll take that hint.

I know they aren’t hunters, like the predatory pterodactyl. But I work in an RV camper. What if they’re on my roof? 30 avian beasts on my roof would collapse the ceiling for sure. Then knocked unconscious, they’d see flesh wounds and rip me apart. I’m glad they eat dead things. Not unconscious things like a boa would do. Otherwise that’s just vicious.

Nosy Merritt Islandian: “So I heard Brent died. What happened? Did the bottle finally take him?”
Gossipy Merritt Islandian: “Oh, yeah. He’s dead. But he got picked apart by Vultures. They don’t normally hunt, but they happened to injure him and finished him off. And he was wearing black flip-flops with brown shorts.”

Well, I can see they’re fighting over what’s either a small mammal or large amphibian, maybe a frog. But 29 buzzards plus 50 reinforcements overhead? WHAT IS DYING?! Do Buzzards even eat amphibians? Maybe they’re omnivores and that Old Oak Tree has finally photosynthesized its last CO2 molecule.

I’ve had a bad cough for the past week. But I just thought it was an upper respiratory infection (Thanks for ingraining that rampant medical diagnosis into my vocabulary, Nurse Molly.). Maybe I have the Black Lung, Pop.

A kid just rode by on his bike (bet he’s wishing he didn’t skip today). I pictured one of those Disney cartoons where a lonely armadillo is walking by himself in the desert or something and dozens of buzzards line up on opposite sides of the road along his way to taunt him. All creepy and smart-alec-like.

I guess sicking vultures on absent kids is one way to stifle truancy.

One thing’s for sure. I’m not leaving work anytime soon.

Weight Watchers

2007-09-12T15:16:00.002-04:00

So much goes into watching one's weight. Cardboard cookies, freezer-burnt rice clumps, and broth-flavored tofu can really take it out of you. Quite literally, in the case of some low-cal alternatives to existing God-made products like sugar; see sugar alchohols. And the tedious counting of calories and checking of labels is only good for those of us who thrive on checking and rechecking as it is; see my OCD. Then there's exercise, which most of us count walking to the kitchen to grab the Ben & Jerry's from the fridge as part of our 20 minute daily assignment. Then we walk to the car for work, and back from the car to the house at the end of the day. To the bathroom, and back to the desk. Getting out of bed in the morning, brushing our teeth, calling our mom on the cell. All of this exerts energy and burns calories. And it probably totals close to 20 minutes. But that's not enough. We have to remember how many miles we've walked, how many sweat beads have formed, how much blood we've shed, how many tears have fallen.

And lastly, but not the least exhausting, we actually watch our weight. We weigh ourselves. On scales.

Incessantly.

In the morning, before we shower.

After we shower.

As if we could possibly have lost a whole pound in the 10 minutes we were grooming ourselves. We're not lathering up in saunas or jacuzzis. Then we go and eat a big meal and check again. "Why'd I add that last dehydrated blueberry?"

Publix, the supermarket of ageful people in Florida, has a life-sized scale at the entrance. It's big enough to fit the back-end of an elephant. It might be a tight squeeze, but it'd fit. I guess they didn't want to discriminate. But that raises an interesting dilemna for that one person who actually is still too big to even fit on this scale. What are his thoughts when he sees the giant scale? "One day, I'm going to lose enought weight to get on that thing..."

I'm a jerk.

All Publix(es?)(Publii?) stores have these scales too. But none are remotely close in their estimation of your weight. In Kilos or Pounds. Right now, if you asked my weight, I could confidently answer: 150-175 lbs. Depending on city and state. Maybe the elevation plays a factor. At least between here and Mt. Kilamanjaro's Publix.

So of course you pick the same Publix every time you shop, their way of bringing you back as a "regular." Instead of lowering prices which hurts their bottom line, they recalibrate their scales and lower your bottom line. It's ingenious, really. But I don't understand why there's such a wide discrepancy between stores. Maybe the Publix with the highest volume of sales for the quarter has to have the most accurate readings, something that can measure the difference between a mol of NaCl and mol of HCl. And those stores who suffer with meeting sales goals get to shed the unwanted pounds off their customers.

Needless to say, I too, go to the same Publix every time I shop. I found the Publix in the weight class I like. I like being a Bantamweight. Much less embarrassing than Featherweight.

Or Heavyweight, for that matter.

A Dose of Battery Powered Irony

2007-08-24T12:42:00.001-04:00

My DVD player is 6 & 1/2 years old. I think that dates back to the Mesozoic Era. Or at least the Bronze Age. It's held up wonderfully, and coupled with my comfort with the remote, I haven't sought out or even desired a more modern upgrade. Not purchasing a DVD Recorder falls under this rationale--although its partly due to having no cable, or NBC, and Jericho being available online that leaves me with very little to record.

Well, I bought a new clock the other day. Antique looking. Really cheap. Matches my new desk. Takes a single AA battery. I hunted the apartment and couldn't find one AA battery. I found one AAA battery, but that does me no good. That does NO ONE any good. What uses a AAA battery anymore? Or EVER? Well I go to my DVD remote to unload a battery for an antique clock test-run. The DVD remote batteries said "Best if installed by Jan 2001"!!! What?! I have the original Duracell 2001 batteries in my DVD remote? And it still works?! I think the Energizer Bunny died in the tough winter of '03. I've gone through Barry Bonds breaking Mark McGwire's record and Hank Aaron's, September 11th, the Friends' Series Finale, my Graduation, moving into an apartment for the first time, moving to Florida, 5 church jobs (three were summer gigs), both of President Bush's inaugurations, the death of two Presidents (Reagan and Ford), 2 wars, a Cardinals World Series, a Red Sox travesty of a championship, mini-dynasties by the Spurs and Patriots, and the growth of my DVD collection from 0 to 150+ DVDs and 30+ various series' seasons. Minimally, 700 hours of DVD watching on my TV. 29 straight days worth. 1 month of non-stop DVD action. (And that's not including this 24-hour period.)

And still going strong.

So I put one battery into the clock--it only takes one. This means it's a simple enough artifact that it needs just a lone battery, yet that places all the weight solely on one battery. Life-span's much shorter I'd imagine. Well the clock worked, the second hand moved a few seconds, and then I pulled the plug. I put the battery back in the DVD remote.

I hit "play" to start up Season 6 of Frasier, but it didn't start. I thought maybe the DVD player was teasing me. So I hit it manually on the player. It played. I tried the remote again. Nothing.

It was over.

The streak ended with a fizzle. A few measly seconds in a faux-antique clock and it drained its last juices. Kind of like a pair of ancient oxen plowing the bullrush fields of Mesopotamia. Both old, but sharing the load. Until one ventures off to try its hand at Oxen Racing. The ox uses all it has left for the race, and upon return to work alongside its lifelong partner, Secretariat dies. Leaving the lonely, non-racing ox to shoulder all the weight. So then it dies too. Maybe the batteries were oxen in a previous life.

I mean, it had to happen someday, just like oxen don't live forever either. But the AA batteries from Jan 2001 had quite the life. Like winning the lottery and then retiring, or maybe more like being born a Hilton, the batteries only worked occasionally. When the need arose. Not incessantly like the second hand of a faux-antique clock. They lived long. They lived well. They landed the best job known to batteries (except AAA batteries that don't serve a purpose at all but are still produced and reserve all their power for some faint day when America runs out of oil or something.). And now they're gone. From battery acid to battery acid.

I'll remember these giants of the game. They surpassed records never dreamed of, and will probably never be supplanted. For they don't make batteries like they used to.

"Original DVD Remote AA Batteries of Jan 2001"
Jan 2001-Aug 2007.
Helped One Lazy Man Reach for His Daydreams.
RIP.

Eating Towards Infinity

2007-08-16T08:29:00.000-04:00

Joanna and I went to eat for our anniversary last night. We wanted all you can eat crab legs, so we found them. It wasn't a bargain, but it was worth it to me at the time. She just got a pound and a half. I, on the other hand, ordered the Glutton's Platter. The All-You-Can-Eat-then-Roll-to-the-Bathroom-for-a-Break-and-Come-Back-for-Round-2 Platter. Estimates coming in from last night placed the amount of crab eaten (in poundage) at minimally 3 lbs. Just me.

Ugh.

While her totals are sealed in the vault for my safety, I mean safe-keeping, here's the thing we realized. It's conceivable that this gladiatorial match between the Eater (me) and Eatee (the crabs) could be eternal. Like a circle. Or Pi. Endless. Theoretically, it could last until the death of the EATER, or the extinction of the entire species of EATEES. Either I die, or they go extinct. Because crab is one of the few foods when the effort you put into eating it negates any caloric intake. You burn just as many calories, and probably more, than if you DIDN'T eat. Basically, you're working out while you eat. Like eating a Twinkie on a treadmill. Or Doritos (gross) in the pool. With crab legs, you need the nourishment you're eating just to eat it! You replenish your body as you need to be replenished! I think celery and sunflower seeds are the only other foods where this is possible. And maybe eating a pineapple through its rine.

All the cracking, the bloodshed, the meat sweats, it all works in your favor to leave room for more. Look at Tom Hanks in Cast Away. He ate crab! And had -5% body fat too. Just look at him. It's a diet that works in your favor and tastes good! Alaska should run commercials: "Snow Crab. The Breakfast of Cast Aways. And Everlasting Skinny People." Eating crab legs is a perpetual feast; fatigue being the only defense the crustaceans have left in their deaths.

And that's what happened to this seasoned vet. Perfectly cooked, I was cracking without a cracker. Pulling out whole legs in one piece. But somewhere along Pound 3, out of nowhere, I was on the ropes. And not half a crab later, I was done.

Go back to Alaska, Snow Crabs!

I need to hibernate.

Slow: Exotic Animal Crossing

2007-08-01T11:05:00.000-04:00

I asked over on Facebook, what is the most exotic animal crossing you've ever encountered? Deer? Moose? Armadillo?

Try a Peacock. Actually, try two of them.

It wasn't as if I was in the middle of the...wait, where do Peacocks even live? Where is their "wild?" Not a rainforest, although with as much rain as we've had here, that could be debatable. Not the desert or frozen tundra. I've only known them to wander the man-made temperate zone of the local city zoo.

Anyhow, they strutted their stuff across the neighborhood road, clueless, or careless to the rest of us. The day before I waited for ducks to cross the road. A mother and two ugly ducklings.

I wonder what today has in store.

Pterodactyls?

Hail Mary, Full of What?

2007-07-09T11:11:00.000-04:00

~According to this report, the NAACP will be ceremonially "burying" the "n-word." It credits youth for combatting the use of "racist and sexist slurs."

They should probably thank all the black rappers and athletes for their hard work while they're at it.

~This story notes the completion of the largest public restroom: 1,000 toilets. Some of the urinals are in the shape of crocodiles and "busts of the Virgin Mary."

I don't know about you, but something about peeing on Mary or even into a crocodile's mouth makes me a tad nervous.

~Speaking of tad, the discovery of a nine-legged frog is prompting discussions of what might have caused the mutation. Scientists believe it is not a man-made problem, but rather a parasite that causes cells to "rearrange" and grow extra limbs.

That's enough to make me wash my hands twice before dinner. Once for each appendage I want.

~The last news item reports that a gorilla baby was admitted to the intensive care unit of a hospital in Germany suffering from hypothermia.

It sort of gives new meaning to the idea of "universal health care."

How to Keep Off a Budha Belly

2007-06-27T08:29:00.000-04:00

Every day I run across interesting articles online, so today I thought it would be a nice gesture to highlight them for you. Besides, I have all these smart alec things pent up inside me, so really this is a purely selfish and therapeutic gesture.

~The first article is about US Weekly Magazine not publishing any more stories about Paris Hilton. I know, it seems too good to be true. But it's real. They joke that they aren't even mentioning the city of Paris.

I'm torn: less Paris=more Tom Cruise.

~On the topic of Tom Cruise, this second article reveals that Tom Cruise's newest film shoot won't be happening, at least where he wants it to. His newest venture is about the unsuccessful assassination attempt on Hitler, and he and his production team wanted access to German military sites for a more authentic film. Well Germany banned them based on his religion, citing it as "a dangerous sect." Understandably his company is protesting their decision.

Those Germans--always causing trouble. First WWI, then WWII, now banning Tom Cruise from their country. Such bad aliens.

~I ran across this article the other day. Apparently a couple in New Zealand want to name their child "4real." Yes, the number 4 followed by the word "real." New Zealand won't let them, saying only letters are allowed. And no names that are potentially offensive; they then give some examples: Satan and Adolf Hitler. The parents claim there is no name that conveys the reality that they are really having a child any better than "4real."

That's funny. I think "Oops" would work.

~The last story is really two articles: here and then part two is here. Last year in India, this 4-year old boy, Budhia, attempted a 43 mile marathon. He only made it to mile 40. After the news spread, the government investigated to see if it qualified as abuse. They eventually declared it as "torture," and banned him from any further marathons until he was older.

This month, a year older, Budhia, now 5 years old, attempted to walk a 60 mile marathon. He was stopped by police under government order that it violated the decision from last year.

Budhia's starting to make me feel like I and every other 4+ year old American really is fat and lazy.

For Posterity

2007-06-21T10:02:00.000-04:00

Some videos whose legacy I hope outlives Bill Clinton's.

And then they called her out!
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This is why I work INDOORS.
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I think sometimes, we can get a little too excited...
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This is a re-run. But I love it. It's a mother and her son. Hilarious.
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Early Retirement 2007: Europe

2007-06-12T10:23:00.000-04:00

When in Rome...

Do as tourists.

Well, I'm back from Europe, and it was amazing. Irish Salsa does Europe. Early Retirement for 2007 is officially over. It was much shorter than last year's, and about as expensive. But so much better. After Paris we shuffled over to Florence, Italy. One of my new favorite places on the planet. I could live there. No lie. It was so neat. And laid-back. I mean it was touristy and busy in that sense, but the culture was so laid-back. I think I must have Italian in me. And on the topic of other ethnicities I have a hunch I am secretly composed of, I think I'm part Asian too. I could live off of rice. And I don't mean that in a mean way towards Asians. I just love fried rice!

Maybe I'll start a sister website... ItalianFriedRice.com

Rome, Italy
Back to retirement. It was amazing. And I went to Rome! I loved it! The history always sucks me in. For two days I was re-living, re-treading old Roman steps. Monuments reduced to rubble and memories now paved under roads of asphalt and street lights. 2,000 year-old conversations still hung in the wind around places I walked, their owners once dancing the streets that are now ancient history. Rocks that were just rocks before Christ, are monuments to Time and History and Mystery now. A ruined city. A buried treasure.

I stood and watched the excavation of parts of The Forum. I could've stayed for hours. You could feel the city rumbling to life. The newest hints of light, the newest glimmer of hope. Like the Colosseum, neglected for centuries until it was rediscovered in the middle ages, what else is still hidden in the depths of Time? The Colosseum was by far my favorite. I wanted to stay all day. I hoped that if I sat long enough, concentrated hard enough, listened close enough, maybe I could still hear the faint bustling of the anxious crowd on its way to their seats. The distant clanging of gladiator swords. The thunderous cheers for their favorites. I found myself lost in entertainment, one last hoorah for the ancient arena.

I bought a map of the city as it was in its glory days, no doubt some archeologists' recreation. After I bought it, I realized it did me little good, because other than The Colosseum, I had no idea what or where anything was. But it's ok. I'll act like I do. And I'll trust that I walked those streets and climbed those hills and roamed those buildings now housed as only ruins.

Normandy, France
Paris was nice. Not my favorite, but it wasn't miserable. It was much busier than Florence, as any major city would be. But I think I liked Italy better because the language was so much easier. So much more like Spanish. French was very foreign. And the French weren't particularly friendly to foreigners. Except around Normandy. They love Americans; I even saw an American flag. And I loved Normandy; walking around trying to find old bullets or shrapnel or anything that whispered "June 6, 1944." I found nothing but abandoned bunkers and 60 year-old craters. And an endless playground for my boyhood fantasies.

Dover, England
I was even in England for a day or two. Dover, England. It's across the English Channel from France, and it had a huge castle. Right on the white cliffs of Dover. It had secret tunnels underground that were used during different wars. The castle and cliffs were mazes twisted with miles of tunnels. I wandered within the body of the cliffs, wanting to embrace the exhiliration of ending its lonliness. I never strayed too far from the tour-guide, but I never doubted I could handle the chambers' enticing echoes to go play. To explore. To find Adventure.

Secret tunnels. Abandoned bunkers. Ancient ruins. I found myself deep in the recesses of History's mind, indulging mysteries and memories so easily forgotten. But not by me.

Because it's History. And it's so good for the soul.

Early Retirement 2007: EUROPE

2007-05-29T17:19:00.002-04:00

LIVE FROM PARIS:

Just an update: I'm in Paris right now!!

And the keyboard is SO very weird; so I'm going to go before I make a bunch of typos. But if you were curious, the punctuation keys are all backwards and the "a," "q," "w," and "m" keys are all located in places that cause you to stop and think and waste valuable dinner time either concentrating about not screwing up or hitting the "Suppr" button which I can only imagine means "delete" or "backspace" or "quit screwing up!" in french.

So until later "aurevoire."

Or something that means "adios" in french.

Love Bug, No Punch Back

2007-05-21T15:09:00.000-04:00

I've done alot of traveling for work lately, several trips to Miami and West Palm Beach. Crazy traffic conjestion. But crazier still was the newest weather phenomenon. On par with other natural disasters like blizzards, tsunamis, tornados and hurricanes, love bug swarms are taking the world by storm. Or at least I-95.

Someone once told me love bugs were a man-made experiment gone awry. That's enough to discourage cloning. These creatures are approaching the threshold of sustainable life within a species. They almost number infinity. If you sat and started counting how many exist, they would reproduce so quickly, exponentially, that tracking even their estimated number in existence would prove more difficult than tracking the estimated number of digits in pi. I think discovering the age of the universe and maybe even its location of origin would prove a simpler task.

I hear they're attracted to carbon monoxide. Maybe so. Another great job, scientists. Create something that reproduces faster than hair gel catches on fire, and then attract it to something we produce the most of. Maybe next year's federal dollars could go to finding a way to make cockroaches amphibious.

But that does explain why driving to Miami felt like a hail storm. Not quite as powerful as hail, but more clout than a rain drop. Split splat pitter pat, love bugs all around. The white truck looked like it grew a 5 o' clock shadow on the three hour drive. And the windshield looked liked someone tried to paint over a mirror. It was whiter than Tom Sawyer's picket fence. The whole truck was the Love Bugs' Battle of Antietam.

The Weather Channel should really come up with some sort of Love Bug Advisory. If they can warn of red tide and track El Nino, they can certainly track the black cloud enveloping all of Central Florida. "Now we're taking a look at the Doppler Radar. The green is rain. Yellow, severe thunderstorms. The red, hail. The black color on your screen is our newest feature. Love Bug Swarms. Partly cloudy today. 40 % chance of afternoon Love Bug Showers." Swarms of Love Bugs. Wasn't that the 11th plague?

Is there Love Bug Season? I don't remember winter being so dangerous. Do they migrate? Or do almost all die but a King and Queen Love Bug and once summer hits, they start living like their name says? And what a life. Insects whose sole purpose is to reproduce. To float around having sex, oblivious to their surroundings and any impending sense of doom. Sealing their fate and proving their love by smashing into whatever trouble their passion got them into. All in the name of love.

Or making it.

But what a way to go.

Happy Gilmore v. Bob Barker II

2007-05-18T14:54:00.000-04:00

Adam Sandler stops by the Price is Right.

This next one was just funny.

Ladies, no lusting...

Gentlemen, Crack Those Knuckles!

2007-05-09T09:54:00.000-04:00

I stumbled across an article this morning that while relieving many anxieties, will also leave me groveling at someone's feet for quite a long little while.

Apparently. Yes, apparently, cracking your knuckles does NOT cause arthritis. Or even encourage it. It's basically hereditary and lifestyle related. Popping your knuckles stretches out the synovial fluid, or lubrication, and air bubbles form and pop. I read this when I was in 7th grade, many moons ago, and started cracking. I've been a closet addict ever since. Yet somewhere along the way I lost faith in its health benefits and reasoned that there's no way on Earth air bubbles popping sound anything like bones cracking. It has to be the latter making the noise. When you blow bubbles from a bubbles bottle, they don't snap like fireworks when they pop.

Alas, I stand corrected. I guess popping joint bubbles is much the same as popping bubble gum bubbles. Loud, obnoxious, and so much fun. And except for the inevitable "I told you so's" I'll receive till I'm deaf, I'm very pleased by this discovery. I mean, it just feels so good. The popping. Well, and the liberty of popping and knowing I'm not snapping bones or eroding cartilage or chipping away at my youth. I'm no longer accelerating bed-riddenhood.

Now if they could just tell me that Ice Cream is good for your heart...

Lenten Season is Over

2007-05-01T09:43:00.000-04:00

I'm a little late in this update, but nonetheless, I wanted you to know how it went.

Lent has ended. My fasting from sweets is now officially over. It really wasn't too hard. I only craved ice cream one time, at Busch Gardens when I was tired, hungry and weak. It was a good reminder of when we usually make dumb decisions though. After we're violently thrust through loops and hoops and pretzel twists like a Doberman's chew toy. It's always hard for me to exercise good judgement in those moments.

A couple of thoughts on fasting from sweets for Lent:

a. Don't do it if your birthday falls within the time frame of Lent. My birthday was March 4th. My birthday cake literally sat on the counter for a month. And yes, I know that's gross.

b. Don't do it if your mom is coming through and wants to take you to The Melting Pot, the land flowing with fondue and money. She wouldn't take me because she didn't want to tempt me. She's great.

c. You miss out on Dairy Queen's Blizzard of the Month. Now I have to be honest. After all, lying is bad. I don't typically get the Blizzard of the Month. I get a peanut butter, banana, and cocoa fudge blizzard 93% of the time I go. But when you drive past Dairy Queen everyday, and they are advertising a Kit Kat Blizzard of the Month everyday, it starts to lurch into your subconscience. Absorbs your every thought. You start getting the DT's. Sweating. Shaking. The withdrawl symptoms are exhausting.

d. You get to try ABSOLUTELY ZERO new "Limited Edition" flavors of Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream. I walked down the Ice Cream aisle in Walmart the other day. I think there were at least 3 or 4 new flavors. Grr.

e. If you need a sugar rush, or even just a boost, you have to use fruit. That's not any way to live. I want to know that at any point, bored or dozing, I can down a couple of Pixie Sticks as Pick-me-ups and twitch through the rest of my day. Instead, I found my tough days tougher; trudging through, I actually had to eat more, to boost my metabolism. Weird. And good, I guess.
f. Stands for no frappachinos.

g. No Dunkin' Donuts. I did crave those. The chocolate glazed kind. Not the white donuts with chocolate icing on top. The chocolate donuts with white glaze. Yeah, I'm craving one now. Thanks.

h. No wedding cake or fondue fountains at your friends' weddings. That was tricky too. Easter Eve and all I could think was "If Coach would've waited ONE MORE FREAKING DAY to get married, I could SWIM in that fondue fountain." I guess the world doesn't revolve around me.

i. No Andes mints from olive garden. That's almost worth making an exception to the fast. At least that's what your friends want when they're all chocolatey-minty fresh and you're all garlicy stale.

j. Lastly, a positive note on fasting from sweets. It's nice to exercise discipline. I lost 10 pounds. Partly the no sweets--I guess I was downing quite a bit of junk food--but also the discipline crept over into portion control and not eating late. It really wasn't that bad. For a couple of days after Easter, when I still hadn't eaten junk, I contemplated trying it for the rest of the year or until next Fat Tuesday.

Until thoughts of sugar plums danced in my head.

April Fool's Eve Miracle

2007-03-31T13:47:00.000-04:00

In my last post, I mentioned I would be boycotting the Final Four this year, and that I would only unboycott the NCAA tournament if it meant rooting AGAINST UCLA. In my haste and hatred, I did not consider the consequences of such an action. A wise lesson I suppose. Rooting against UCLA in their next game would involve me rooting FOR the Florida Gators. And well, *insert hearty chuckle* that's just not gonna happen.

So there's only one real solution to my problem.

Pray for an April Fool's Eve Miracle.

And "What is that?" you ask.

Praying that they BOTH LOSE the game tonight.

Jayhawk Schmayhawk

2007-03-26T13:46:00.000-04:00

Don't talk to me. I'm depressed. And yes, I know the gravity of that statement. Not disphoric. Depressed. I'm not eating. Then I'm over-eating. I'm sleeping like crazy. Crying like crazy. Cursing in my mind like crazy.

I hate college basketball.

Kansas thought it would be a great idea to shred my heart again this year. Brilliant season ending with another exit from the tournament. And no ring to show for it.

I'd almost rather lose in the first round for the third year in a row. Almost.

What a PITIFUL game. They played awful. Deserved to lose. And they deserve to lose my support.

But they won't.

But that's because I'm great, not them.

Why do I pick losers? Kansas. The Orlando Magic. The Kansas City Chiefs. Republicans. Rocky.

I'm boycotting the Final Four this year. Unless UCLA's in it.

Then I'll root against them. Like I'll be doing for THE REST OF MY LIFE.

Little Hair Shop of Horrors

2007-03-20T10:26:00.000-04:00

I got my hair cut yesterday. It's always an interesting progression for me to get there though. My hair gets long and I start to like it long, and then I don't know if my neck gets tired of holding it all up or what, but the desire to shave it becomes intense. My better angel always convinces me not to, so I compromise with a simple haircut. Maybe I wait so long for a cut because I'm more financially sound than when I try to keep it continuously short. Or maybe it's because the haircut itself can be traumatic...

Like the time I had the Female Drill Sergeant. Her veins bulging from her biceps with every slice of my head with the clippers. The testosterone oozing off of her breath every time she shoved my head the direction it needed to be for her to slice my head with the clippers. The cancerous voice deeper than James Earl Jones. And all the emotions and tact of a sailor. Or Grizzly Bear. She asked my plans for the night. I said maybe that 9/11 movie, but maybe not because who's gonna feel good after that? Your night's shot because you're so depressed. She barks back my marching orders. "[expletive] that. That's history. That [expletive] happened. It sounds to me like YOU just don't wanna to see it. You need to be your own man, grow a pair and man up. Tell them you don't wanna see it. Or that what you really wanna do is get wasted and go out on the town." No. That's what you want to do. And I'm convinced you've already grown yours.

After rinsing out my ears and her mouth with soap, I mumbled, "Yeah. I guess you're right." Knowing full well she was. Lest she BREAKS ME IN HALF. Yes, Drill Ser-geant! Whatever you say, Drill Ser-geant!

I dont think she was ever a man though. In a past life? Now, maybe.

How about The Hair Shop of Clinton. All cuts: $5. At least when I was in school. With inflation, it might be like $5.25 now.

This place, this vortex in time, this hole in civilization, could easily be its own sitcom. I'm not lying. I won't do it justice here, and I try to do things justice here.

One time I had the man there. Strong, redneck, country man. Cutting hair. With a comb and scissors too small for his fingers. Quite dainty, actually. But it just didn't match. Piercing southern drawl, a rigid bellowing conversationalist. And a hair stylist. With his dainty scissoring technique down pat. He'd speak of 40 acre lots and smoking, chewing tobacco, guns, hunting and maybe even gathering. But he was gentle with the touch. It's as if the coarse exterior was the proof he had sublimated his inner metrosexuality. A Closet Redneck Metrosexual.

Or maybe he was just as good at oragami.

I had the woman once. Well there were two women and the Closet Redneck Metrosexual. The woman I ALWAYS got (and by ALWAYS I mean the two other times I went), was as big as the Closet Redneck Metrosexual and the other woman put together. She could've had them for mid-morning snack. Very big-boned woman. Very obese. Very hungry. One time I came in and she was eating in the corner. I stood and waited UNTIL SHE FINISHED before I was even greeted. Head down. Eyes focused. The hunger pangs were in control.

She was a treat of a woman though, and that's not a fat joke. It's a personality crack. She spoke very little, which suits me perfectly, actually. I mean, all the talking. Come on. It feels good to get your hair cut--unless it's by Closet Redneck Metrosexual Man--and all this jabber, this chatter, this interaction just ruins the moment. Just let me sit there and veg out. Zone out. Close my eyes and trust you not to jab me in the neck or snip my ears off. Nervous small talk for a tip makes me want to tip less. That's right. I will pay you to NOT TALK TO ME. I'm not a fan of hair stylist gossip, especially in the heart of Mississippi. I don't care about your kids. And you don't need to know where I work. I do my job just fine. Now do yours.

Anyway, so she has no personality, which suits my fancy. Except I don't want rude. Quiet is great. Gentle is nice. Rude sucks. Don't spin me without warning. Don't knock my head over when my eyes are closed. Don't RUB YOUR BELLY on me while I'm sleeping! It's really not a lot to ask. Honest. If you're morbidly obese, maybe cutting hair isn't a realistic option for you. Maybe it's time for a change of profession. If you can't reach my hair without lapping your gut into MY lap, then that's a sign of two things to me and hopefully you.
A. Immediately quit your job.
B. Immediately quit EATING! Take a WALK! Try and float a lap. Do jumping jacks! No. Scratch that. Don't do jumping jacks.

She was so large. She really spun me with her belly. And I'm not lying. I don't like to lie. Sometimes. But I'm not lying. She'd cut my hair on the right side, and then she'd do this Jabba the Hut move and all of a sudden I'm spinning around to the left. It was nauseating on several fronts. That I was a being spun around, one. That I felt like Princess Leia, two. That the entity forcing such violent centripital motion was years worth of meals stored away for a hibernation yet to be decided upon. Three.

And she had no personality. No apology for her technique. And certainly no warning. She was perpetually grumpy. And rude.

Maybe she was hungry.

I can't complain too much. I did go there three times. But I was a college student. A poor college student. It was pay $5 at the Hair Shop of Clinton or walk around with a mullet. And if you weren't careful going in, coming out you might just have one anyway. It's almost enough to make you want to be a Democrat, and that's a strong statement coming from me. Some kind of entitlement for haircuts, some stipend, some grant for college students. I don't care how we solve this problem. I'll be bi-partisan about it. A tax write-off for haircuts, if we're being Republican about it. Let's solve this National Dilemna before it eats at the fabric of our society.

Before SHE eats the fabric of our society.

Mere Reincarnation

2007-03-08T12:22:00.000-05:00

I mean no ill-will by this post. I just don't get reincarnation. I'm sure people don't get me believing in the Hope I have in Christ, either. But reincarnation REALLY doesn't make alot of sense to me.

So you die. And live again. As something else. What or who decides what that will be? Karma? So if I live well, I get to be a Platypus or something equally fun? Live poorly and I'm a Dung Beetle or TsiTsi Fly? What's the moral compass that determines living well and poorly? Sure, Ghandi is probably whatever he wants to be according to this faith, and Hitler is probably a Herpe, but away from the extremes and into the gray areas of morality, how high is the bar of ethics? And who determines what's right and wrong? What those ethics actually are? With no absolute moral values, is it up to the individual to decide? And if so, wouldn't that make Hitler ok if HE thought so? If HE thought for whatever twisted reason that what HE was doing was for the greater good, then HE would have high morals still. Right? It's all relative?

I don't get it. Is it qualitative or quantitative? Is it more important to do a few really important and great things, or lots of little semi-good things? And again, aside from the extremes, what really is great vs semi-good? We know murder is probably not great, and finding a cure for cancer is pretty nice. But lying? Some don't think it's wrong. Some do. The same with gossip or cheating or cursing. Who decides? I'd say it's the difference between becoming a Mosquito and an Elk. You better know what you're doing.

What happens when the Earth is no longer suitable for life? What do we come back as then? Nothing? Where do we GO then? Is that when we finally die? I can see the incentive for protecting the planet. Do we come back as Rocks? Do we start over? Re-evolve into new creatures that we can take turns being? And if you evolve into a cool animal, does that mean you lived well previously? And if you can come back as a new species or newly evolved animal, why not come back as one that isn't around anymore? I mean, if you're in control, why not come back as a Velociraptor? And if it's how you live that determines what you come back as, then what does that mean about extinction? That people quit doing whatever it was that made them become Pterydactyls? If they figured that out, why don't they figure out how to quit becoming Anthrax and Spiders and Herpes.

What about life on Mars? Reincarnation can't be limited to Earth. If you believe it existed at one point on Mars, where is it now? Are they all grains of red sand forever blown by the winds of lonliness? Will they only re-evolve into new life on Mars if they live well as a grain of sand? Maybe it gives us a clue to the death of the planet. Everyone's resigned to this fate as a molecule of lonely red dirt because they all lived so poorly. Their pennance is to forever look alike and not move unless rolled over by NASA's Mars Rovers. Or maybe we are what Mars was. Maybe we were the life on Mars in our former lives.

Or at least Tom Cruise was.

Or maybe it's all chance. You die and are buried. You come back as dust and maggots? Gross. Sorry. Can you only become where you last were? Die in a field, become a red fern? Dying in Antarctica would really limit your chances of up-selling beyond a frozen Guppy. I'm moving somewhere exotic and diverse. There's a few more options in the after-life around Hawaii or the Galapagos than say the Yukon. Or Siberia.

It seems like it requires a lot of faith to believe in reincarnation. You get something wrong about your faith--flip off one too many people, eat one too many desserts, cuss one too many times--without a guideline, you're hovering around cow manure for the four-day life span of a fly. But then what? Sure we get from here to there. We murder someone and we're doomed in the next life as a Nutria Rat. From the Human species to species Tapewormia. But how do you get from there to somewhere less...crappy? A Dung Beetle for instance. How do they get from Dung Beetle to caterpillar? Living well requires WHAT of a Dung Beetle? Eating lots of crap really well? Not stealing from other Dung Beetles' piles of dung? Not cheating on your Dung Beetle life partner? Raising your Dung Beetlets to respect their elder chief Dung Beetles?

What about a Tapeworm? It's very existence is detrimental to life. Living well as a Tapeworm involves ruining people's lives. So what is the criteria for a Tapeworm to quit being a Tapeworm? If it lives well within its purpose, it's causing harm to the world. So it's only looking out for itself. That doesn't get you promoted to TsiTsi Fly-hood. If it lives for the good of the world then it's not living well as a Tapeworm. There is NOTHING you can do as a Tapeworm to help the world. No action you perform gives you the hope of a different life later on in the circle of life, unless you detach yourself from the innerlinings of the stomach and come out without incident. So basically, whoever sucked bad enough to be reincarnated as a Tapeworm is in a manner of speaking, stuck there for eternity. It's the same theology of hell, I suppose. So you perpetually reincarnate as what you already are, only varying in the degrees of your Tapewormness, i.e. size, stature, street cred, etc. Saddam Hussein is probably someone's Tapeworm right now.

But see that frustrates me. He tormented people as a human on Earth, why does he get that pleasure AGAIN?

Or is reincarnation only inner-species? You're no longer bottom of the Dung Pile, you reincarnate as Grand Master Dung Beetle? Tapeworms become bigger and badder? Mosquitos come back resistant to DDT? I mean, how many people do you know that came from the stench of dung piles to successful businessman in one fell life cycle?

So maybe it's gradual. First Tapeworm. Then TsiTsi Fly. Then Dung Beetle. Then caterpillar. Butterfly. Some other winged soul. Maybe Salamander. Maybe Garter Snake. Anaconda. Small Mammal. Dog. Billy Goat. Pony. Secretariat. Baboon. Janitor.

That's a lot of work. A lot of effort. A lot of striving. It's a lot of fear and misguided hope, if it's even hope at all. If you believe it's up to chance, then you're only hope is to find somewhere sunny. But all of this. For what? To find joy in maybe being a Dog instead of a Cat? Of being a Flying Squirrel instead of Road Kill? Of being a millionaire instead of a janitor? It's funny what people put their faith in. What they live their lives for.

I don't mean to mock reincarnation in that some people believe it's real. But I don't get it. To live this life in fear of the next, to find that you are the pinnacle of your faith, of what you believe, of what you strive for, and that it can only go downhill from what you are now. I choose not to believe in such a fraudulent hope. Such a pointless purpose.

I choose Christ.

Because He's real.

Because He's my purpose.

Because He is Hope.

Traffic Purgatory

2007-03-02T09:27:00.000-05:00

I drove to Miami on Tuesday. On the way down, my side of the interstate was backed up in a traffic jam. Because of a wreck on the other side of the freeway. Cuss. I HATE traffic. Turns out their side of the road was backed up for 4 MILES.

FOUR MILES!

Of sitting. And waiting. TO MOVE.

Behind them, another 4 miles later, traffic is backed up AGAIN. Another wreck. For TWO MILES. In other words, once these poor chaps get out of their 2 mile long wait, they have four miles of liberty before they're gridlocked again. In a FOUR MILE LONG WAIT. Unreal. It was so bad they were closing the interstate and redirecting off the exits for detours.

I prayed a sigh of relief that I was on this side. But it was a nervous sigh. One that praised, "Thank you, God, that it's over THERE." But at the same time pleaded, "Please let it be fixed by the time I come back through here. Please?" I might have even crossed my fingers a little as if God barters in the crossed fingers business.

He doesn't.

It wasn't fixed. I waded TWO HOURS through those 10 seemingly God-forsaken miles. Two wrecks. Two hours. 10 miles. That's 5 miles an hour on average. Of sitting. Of wasting my life. Of GROWING OLD. And that's not counting the four miles of freedom between the two Pits of Hades. But for simplicity's sake, it's 5 miles an hour. My horse and wagon could've made it to RENO faster. You can WALK 5 miles an hour. You know it's pretty bad when you're asking a hitch-hiker for a lift.

Ah I HATE traffic.

Needles, spiders, and traffic. And Verizon. I'm scared of needles and spiders, thus the hatred. I've explained my feelings on Verizon at great length here. But traffic is a different hatred. It boils your blood. Stands your hair on end, turns it gray, and then causes it to fall out. Makes you create NEW cuss words because the regular ones don't make you feel any better. The only thing that seems like it would help would be to break the law.

And that's why concealed weapons are illegal.

As is having an open container in your car.

Road rage.

I don't have it. Road rage that is. Well I don't have a concealed weapon or open container either, save my cap gun and daytime bottle of Robitussin. It really is Robitussin, Officer. I promise. I have a cough. See...

But I just wonder what it is about traffic that makes me want to die. The potential to be going infinitely faster than 0 mph, is a good start. The nauseating stop-and-go. The headache-inducing, brain-cell-killing, ozone-piercing exhaust. Oh, that's enough to make you vote for Al Gore.

Almost.

And doesn't it always happen that as soon as you ENTER the traffic jam, the radio chopper flies overhead to inform you that you just entered the traffic jam? "Wreck on I-95 Northbound. Steer clear of this area. Heavy congestion. Gonna be backed up till after lunch tomorrow. Maybe FEMA can bring them some food while they're stranded. I'm looking at a Grand Am that's probably sorry his momma gave birth to him right now. He's bringing up the rear of this 4 mile wait. He should've tuned in to our traffic report. Well back to you, Bubba the Love Sponge..."

I cuss you, Chopper Dave.

My Dad used to do this thing, which he still might, where he would scream curse words at the top of his lungs and pound on whatever was closest, like a steering wheel for instance. I hated that like I hate Verizon until I found myself locked in Traffic Purgatory, stuck in Limbo. It took all I had to keep from cursing at the top of my lungs, from pounding on the steering wheel, and from firing two rounds at Chopper Dave with my cap gun. This all while I'd be chugging my daytime Robitussin.

It wouldn't have been pretty.

But it sure would've felt good.

It Must Be A Full Moon

2007-02-21T12:02:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine said I should give up 24 for Lent.

She's crazy.

Seriously.

Maybe I'll give her up for Lent.

Fat Tuesday

2007-02-20T15:45:00.000-05:00

It's Fat Tuesday, and that means Mardi Gras time. Woohoo [read sarcastically]. But for those unaware of Fat Tuesday's significance, it marks the last day befor Lent. So people binge on the thing they're giving up starting the next day, Ash Wednesday. Or at least that's their excuse to throw the biggest party of the year. Every year I try to fast during Lent, not because I long for the days before Luther's 99 theses, and not because I need another shot at a New Year's resolution, but because I think it's a good idea. To fast from something I grasp too often, and feast on something more meaningful. Over past Lenten (is that a word?) seasons, I've fasted from:

-Kissing. Me AND my girlfriend partook of Lent that year.
-Sarcasm. I was so dull no one talked to me for 40 days. I think I lost friends that season.
-Lying. It's harder than you think.

This year, I'm thinking desserts. Sweets. Junk food. Unless it's fruit, but that's not junk food. I thought about giving up cussing, since I don't really cuss all that often. Imagine me on Fat Tuesday if that were the case: bleeping expletive bleeping bleeps. I'd have to get it all out of my system. 40 days is longer than you realize. I thought about giving up myspace and facebook and blogging, but that wouldn't be fair to you guys. I thought about fasting from making fun of people, but that wouldn't be fair to me. I was dull when I lost sarcasm. What would I be left with if I gave that up?

The thing for me though, when I actually give up these things I need to, I am generally bitter about it. Frustrated. Resentful. And prone to re-indulge myself once Easter hits. So I want to have a better attitude this go-round. If I give up junk food, I want to eat healthy. I don't want to just fast from something; I want to feast on better things. And I don't mean that literally, in this case. Feasting on fruit literally, would still negate the fasting from junk foods. But figuratively, I want to replace that which I'm giving up. Like the kissing. Replace it with quality conversation, and intense hand-holding. Right. And the lying. Tell the truth. The sarcasm. Say nice things about people and situations. That one was the hardest. Except for the lying and kissing. I wouldn't say the sarcastic remark I was thinking, but I'd note audibly that there was one in my head for that moment. Same difference. Just not as many laughs.

All this to say, you should think about giving something up until Easter. And when you do, be happy about it. It really is a good thing.

Just don't give up kissing.

Now I've got some junk food to go gorge myself with. After all, it is called Fat Tuesday. And it's almost over.

Verizon's Inferno

2007-02-16T16:42:00.000-05:00

I called Verizon today. I was working. I called their residential line, not the wireless/cell phone part of the company. I don’t mean to be sacrilegious or heretical, but if Hell is more than just fire, I think it will be filled with traffic jams, second-hand smoke (from cigarettes, not just the burning lake of fire) and an everlasting telephone conversation with Verizon. It’s the 10th circle of Hell Dante never could have envisioned.

They put you through this automated gauntlet of options. And it’s not even a human being. It’s not someone who can sympathize with your anguish or discern you’ve reached your boiling point. Just a voice that incessantly pursues its agenda: to never connect you to a live human being. I don’t even think it’s better than Pakistanis and India Indians trying to understand your problems through the language barrier. At least they have a pulse. Can sense tone. No matter the language, anger is pretty clearly interpretable. Americans complain about outsourcing. Yes, it’s a problem. But at least the social justice aspect is met in hiring someone in India to answer your Hewlett Packard questions. Verizon has outsourced to a soulless, lifeless, flash drive with a stolen voice identity of some shill that thought recording the vocabulary of a small genius for a few extra bucks would constitute a shrewd business move. Monopolies are shrewd business moves too. Doesn’t mean they’re great for society. This lady, who so effortlessly sold her voice to the devil, has in those same few breaths tarnished a nation’s pride, weakened its morale, sabotaged its moral stature, and inhibited its manifold destiny.

It’s not that The Voice is rude, quite the opposite. The Voice is polite and tries to be helpful in her way. Some things she says:

"Would you like to hear this in English?"
"Para espanol marke dos."
"What is the nature of your problem?...I’m sorry to hear that."
(After saying your phone isn’t working) "I know this isn’t likely, but are you calling from that number?...I didn’t think so."
"Let’s run through some options."

If you interrupt she stops mid-sentence and moves on to the next question in her spreadsheet. Not offended. She doesn’t pick up your sarcasm. Or rage. You also can’t charm her into going the extra mile for you. She’s a computer. Just a voice. And once you finally come up with a problem that doesn’t register within her expansive vocabulary, she connects you politely to an agent.

I complained to the agent—the living, breathing, eternal soul of a darling—that it takes SO MUCH time and effort, it’s only fun the first time, and that I’d rather wait in silence or listen to elevator music than interact with an invisible, imaginary person you can’t even flirt with if they HAD a cute voice. So she gave me a secret password. Because I charmed her into it, I suppose. (A perfect example of why Verizon made this ungodly business move in the first place.) If you say the word “agent” at ANY point during The Voice’s spiel, she is forced to connect you with an agent.

But boy, she really doesn’t like that.

I called back just to try it out. I mean, I guess I still needed to “talk to an agent.” I toyed with her. Went through myriad options. Repeated phrases, spouted numbers, spun in circles, jumped through hoops, slapped my mom and shot my dog. She was doing phone line tests from her cozy little hard drive, and just as she was getting warmed up, mid-sentence, I blurted out “AGENT.”

Almost in spite. For what she puts me through EVERY SINGLE TIME I CALL VERIZON.

Almost for rescue. Like a secret agent man would save the day.

Then there was silence. For about 5 seconds. I thought she hung up on me. Disoriented, and no doubt feeling played, she said something about finding my answers on the internet and “I will now try to connect you to an agent.”

Try?

Passive-aggressive little Voice, aren’t you?

She comes on in a much more business like tone, no more friendly, soothing, helpful overtures. “Your call is important to us. Your time is valuable. We will be with you shortly.” Or translated from cyborg to real life, that’s “Go sit in the corner. We’ll talk to you when we’re good and ready.” I waited 5 minutes. At least. On a silent phone. Like she was punishing me. You get an automatic connection to an agent as soon as you’ve trudged through her plethora of spreadsheet obstacles, but opt out of those options with the secret password “agent,” and there’s Hell to pay for it.

Or at least what I’m imagining Hell to be like.

For Kicks and Giggles

2007-02-12T14:00:00.000-05:00

Funny stuff.

In case you were curious. That is a boy and his mother.

And yes. I'm a jerk.

A Fly-by Shatting

2007-02-01T15:57:00.000-05:00

I parked under a tree the other day.

Birds are such racists.

And cowards.

Using Fly-by Shattings.

Welcome to Hip

2007-01-25T17:52:00.000-05:00

As a trend-setter (What? I move. People follow. I like David Crowder and Shane Barnard before anyone's heard of them. They blow up. I watch 24, the world follows. No, JACK BAUER follows. I made ELVIS famous.) I sometimes sit back and wonder "What is the world thinking?" The Olsen twins for instance. Why did they take over the world? Why is "The Surreal Life" still on tv? Is Starbucks coffee really that much better? Worth that much more? It all tastes like piping hot bitterness to me.

Other times I wonder what will be next. I like to predict the next big thing. The new "in." I wish I would've predicted that Starbucks would take over the world, for instance. I'd be a genius. Instead I'm predicting a Republican-controlled Congress in the mid-term elections. So my guesses aren't always square on the money. But I don't let that keep me down...

I was thinking today about the health benefits of Sunflower Seeds. I have no factual evidence to back these claims up, but I'll propose them as confidently as if I did.

-I think they can't be fattening. They're way too small. Strawberry seeds aren't fattening. Sunflower seeds aren't THAT much bigger.

-It's also SO MUCH WORK to eat them. Unless you EAT the shells. But even then your body's gonna be working to digest those, so either way you're working up a sweat if not an appetite. It's like crab legs or corn on the cob. The calories you burn working for the food makes them low-fat. Probably negative fat.

-In all that effort, your mouth gets tired. Like chewing gum, your mouth and mind--not your stomach--feel like you've eaten a hearty meal. Really you've only eaten birdseed.

-And in all that effort, your mouth gets STRONGER! Heads up, Channing Tatum. You're not the only one with a jaw as sturdy as an ox anymore. I'm sure that's how oxen get their strong jaws. Sunflower seeds. Chew, chew, spit. Repeat. Voila.

-I've seen potato chips made with sunflower seed oil. I have no clue what that means. But it sounds healthy. More than transfat and vegetable oil. Tally another mark under "healthy" for the sunflower seed. Note: I've never tried these. Just seen the bags.

-Birds eat them. Birds aren't fat. Except turkeys. And they aren't eating sunflower seeds. There aren't turkeys roaming the plains of Kansas. Maybe that's the key to winged flight. Light, hearty, low-fat meals of protein.

On the downside...

-All that work only temporarily fools your mind into not being hungry. My stomach has kicked in loud and clear, reminding me that all I've eaten today is trail mix minus the m&m's.

-My mouth is STILL tired. I want to sip my next meal through a straw. I don't recommend spending a whole day chewing. We're not horses.

Or billy-goats.

-On the mouth topic and not being animals, a beak really would make this easier. Or a gullet so I could just shovel them down shells and all. But that would negate some of the perks. Like calorie-burning and mind-tricks and oxen-sturdy jaws.

-They're cheap. This is only a downside because all healthy food is expensive. So they might not be healthy after all. I mean, except for skim milk, which should be illegal (it's just water with white dye in it!), anything that doesn't clog your arteries or risk causing an immediate stroke or heart attack costs you your 2nd kidney. Or 1st spleen.

Overall consensus: Eat sunflower. It's the new "in." It's trendy, it's healthy, and it's even affordable.

Welcome to hip.

Konichiwa

2007-01-22T18:34:00.000-05:00

So we went to Taiho, Japanese cuisine at its highest price. My meal with WATER was $32 and change. Lucrative business. If I come into some big cash one day, I could see buying a Japanese Steakhouse. Name it something cool. Konichiwa. However you spell it. Or maybe “32 and change” in Japanese. That way it’s right there in the name of the restaurant exactly how much I’ll be ripping you for.

The only thing is finding the manpower. And not just any Joe Buck. You’ve got to have the Japanese cook. I’ve been twice, not here, but just around, where the cooks weren’t authentic. I guess it’s as stringent as Hooters and Flight Attendants. Japanese restaurants know it when they see it. You don’t see black men as Hooters girls—I hope, anyway. You don’t see fat flight attendants, and you don’t see white guys cooking at Japanese restaurants. It’s just not authentic. And I just realized you NEVER see women cooks either. I guess the girls that wanted to be Japanese cooks are now Hooters girls. Good for them.

Back to those two inauthentic cooks I had. One was Mexican. The other called himself an “Indian Redneck,” and proceeded to debut his country music tour right there at Ju-Jitsu’s. I’m not trying to discriminate against non-Japanese cooks, but who thought a cowboy Indian singing Willie Nelson while chopping dinner was a good idea? Who did HE know? That’d be like Yo-Yo Ma replacing Alex Trebeck on Jeopardy. Something about it just doesn’t quite say “Welcome to Japan. Yes, I know what I’m doing.”

But see that’s what I want. A cultural experience. The Japanese cook, preferably without a knack for Hank Williams Jr. The waitress that never smiles. The chopsticks with or without the rubberbands to make them work. The hostess that doesn’t even speak English. Lindsay The Ranew made the reservation for us last Friday. I showed up first and mentioned we had reservations. The hostess asked the name, I said “Lindsay or Ranew” and she studied the virtually empty reservation book for a moment. She then looked up as excitedly as if she’d solved that morning’s sudoku, pointed at the name she'd scribbled down, and said, “Ah, yes. Wyndsey.”

Nothing helps break stereotypes like reaffirming them.

I think I’d have an option though. For the customers’ sakes, and the cooks’. Well and all of us really. For those that don’t want the complete “Japanese Immersion,” for a dollar or two less, you now pay $30 and change, and can have the Un-entertaining, less death-defying, stare-into-space option. As in, “We know you’ve been to Japanese restaurants before, so if you just want your food without the commotion, no ‘choo-choo’ or volcano or ‘bad chicken’ comments or tossing-the-scalding-hot-shrimp-at-some-unsuspecting-Joe-Buck’s-face routine, then you can order the ‘Sukiyaki Steak Express’ or ‘Quicken Hibachi Chicken.’” No more Japanese versions of Show and Tell. It's an option I would most often select. And as the owner, I'd want to charge less for this feature because you’re not getting a full production of spinning eggs and fireballs, but it seems like the demand would be so great that it would require the higher price. And if more people are choosing the quicker option, more people are able to come in and out, and thus the turnover is better. It’s the brilliant business move, hands down.

I went with my friend one time, just me and her and a 12 person table. Well me and her and the empty 12 person table and the cook. Who STILL performed his show. A mite awkward. And a lot of effort. We’re trying to have conversation, and he’s trying to make us laugh or clap or cry or some emotion we’re apparently not showing enough of. Like McDonald’s with a full theater production of how they defrosted your processed Blueberry Chicken McMuffin and then deep-fried it in French fry grease and smothered it in a percent lifetime value of sodium and then lit it on fire for entertainment’s sake. You don’t need all that. No narratives. No presentations. No worries. Just you, your friend, and your little piece of heaven in a heart attack. Or stroke. Thoughtless, effortless, mind-numbingly simple meals.

For $32 and change.

Spy Dreams

2007-01-16T18:01:00.003-05:00

Sorry for the gap between writings. I've been busy. Being Un-retired. Yes, Early Retirement is over for this season. I got a job.

A story for your entertainment...
(Based on a "true" story)

When I woke up this morning I was more mad than I've been in a LONG time. It wasn't true. It didn't really happen. I had one of the most realistic and fantastic dreams in my YOUNG life. Realistic like standing in front of a toilet and peeing the bed because you thought you were really in front of the toilet. THAT real. As fantastic as superhero comics are, as adventurous as little boys' daydreams. THAT is how fantastic this was.

For some reason I was in a school. It had a big opening in the front. Like a cafeteria. Tables for lunch. But it was early evening. And a ton of kids were sitting on the tops of the tables watching tvs. Some 50 yards away was the nearest teacher, except she was also a receptionist. I walked through the front doors past the children; I imagine they're 3rd and 4th graders. They looked away from the cartoon for a quick glance, realized I'm not that exciting, and returned to laughing and staring at the tvs. Some laughed at me. A few were curious. Still others gave the "whatchoo doin hur" look. But most paid me no attention.

Except the receptionist/teacher.

She stopped me in my untucked, yellow polo shirt and board shorts. "Excuse me, sir. I know you're with the Secret Service. I can tell by your outfit that you're supposed to blend in with the kids. But you'll want to go that way. Ms. Adrian Fletcher will be speaking in the auditorium." I instinctively lifted my left pointer and middle fingers to my left ear and mumbled something into the inside of my right wrist. I nodded. And walked away.

The rest of the dream is pointless. Kind of anti-climactic, really. But the point remains. I was a spy. Or at least to the receptionist/teacher lady. Well not really a "spy" per se. A Secret Service Agent. Well I mean, being the President would have been the BEST dream ever. But Bodyguard to the President still looks good on the resume. Admirable. Noble. Loyal. A few rungs down the ladder, but still. Basically, I was the man. Never mind that the only reason the old lady/teacher/receptionist lady knew I was a Secret Service Agent was because I was dressed like a 3rd grader, or that the person needing protection from the Secret Service was the President's brother's daughter and her family. Not quite the President's personal bodyguard, I realize. But the fantasy remains: for a brief moment, albeit in my Subconscious, I was as hard as Jack Bauer.

Thanks, Sub-conscience. Nothing rewards my diehard devotion to or relentless pursuit of Jack Bauer and all things heroic like starring in my sleep as the mistaken, 3rd-grade-look-alike-bodyguard of some guy's GRANDNIECES.

It's not even a word.

A Triple Crown of Sorts

2007-01-06T16:03:00.000-05:00

I feel like my last few posts, while funny, have perhaps come across as whiny or impatient. So here's some happy news. Or thoughts. Or hopes. Or dreams. And they're all sports-related.

The Cardinals won the World Series. Rock on. I'm several months late, I know. But this doesn't diminish my excitement.

The Chiefs made the playoffs. Unbelievable, really. Everything that they needed to happen, did, and so they got in. I hate the Broncos. So to see them blow the playoffs like that, and then to have the Chiefs make it. Tis Sweet. I'm ready for them to go all the way now.

The Magic are doing well this year. They're fun to watch. It's great getting to see them on TV for a change. SO great, really. Even better in person. I've gone several times already. And it feels like home when I go. More than any place I've been in awhile. Weird, I know. But it's sentimental. Or something. The smells. Like the one-two punch of beer and urine in the bathroom after the game. Or the smell of nachos and hotdogs. The sounds. Like that of the Magic announcer 15 years later, with his booming voice only slightly less forceful. The sounds of sneakers squeaking and balls bouncing. The action. The annoying people in front of you that won't sit down. Or the drunk people behind you that yell incessant vulgarities. The cheering. I can cheer. Like a fan. A die hard fan. Not some distant psycho living in Mississippi rooting for a no-name team in Cenral Florida. There was a fat man at the games when I was little that would grab this huge Magic banner or flag and run around the whole arena during timeouts at the ends of games when it was really close and the crowd needed to be loud. I saw him the other night. The only die-harder fan than me. The fat man. And judging by his size and the Magic's poor recent history, he's slimmed down quite a bit. And so we keep cheering. Me and the fat man. For years it's probably been the two of us. He, here. Me, there. In Mississippi. But this year is brighter. I'm home. And with our powers combined, the Magic are poised to have a season they haven't experienced since 1995 or 96. My last Magic games. This year they started as the best team in the league; then they chilled a bit. They're getting their groove back. They'll be tough this year and will be for years to come. Dwight Howard's predicting a championship this year. Looks like it's not just me and the fat man anymore...

That would make it a Triple Crown for me. The teams I love never win. I mean the Yankees. But the Cardinals before they had McGwire, back when they had Ozzie. That was my team. The Chiefs before they had Joe Montana and Marcus Allen, back when they had Steve DeBerg. They were my team. And the Magic. Oh, the Magic. They toy with my heart more than January Jones or Scarlett Johannson. 1995. The NBA Finals. I still wake up in cold sweats.

This sports year has already been historic for me with the Cardinals win. But how much more so when Kansas City and Orlando win their championships.

I mean if Boston can win a World Series, I can win a Triple Crown.

Holey Jeans!

2007-01-02T14:41:00.000-05:00

Just a quick anecdote.

I ripped my jeans today. Not an intentional ravaging of my clothes to fit in either. I reached into the back seat and heard a rip. Nervously, I rearranged to see where the rift occurred. At first I was relieved, as my two friends were with me; the tear was not in the most contoured part of the pants-the posterior. Whew. But then I grew irritated; it was my dress jeans. My one GOOD pair of jeans. The kind you wear with a coat. And they ripped in the knee. How fat do you have to be to rip your jeans IN THE KNEE? Too fat, I see now. They tried to reassure me that it's the cool thing now. Jeans with rips and tears, holes, patches and weirdly colored seams. But not good jeans. Not expensive jeans. Not dress jeans. I already have two pair that do that. One accidentally, much the same as these new fashion jeans, and the other I gave in and bought distressed. Or ransacked. Whatever they call it nowadays.

Three ragged pairs of jeans is too many. At least for me. It's one too many.

Twas the Night of Christmas

2006-12-27T11:50:00.000-05:00

Twas the night of Christmas,
and all through the state,
every creature was driving,
as slow as a mouse.

I drove to my sister's on Christmas Day. Bad traffic. Infuriatingly bad. Motorized carts would have been less frustrating. Well, maybe not. Why did I just think about that? That made my blood pressure rise just thinking of it. We had three lanes of traffic, that's TWO lanes for slow, old, bad drivers. But they thought a nice Christmas present would be to spread out perfectly across all three lanes to prevent anyone from going over 50 mph. On the FREEWAY. for MILES. So many cars. So many slow cars. So many mini-vans. It was a Christmas Caravan of Caravans. I wish that on only a select few deserving wretches. Getting stuck behind a Christmas Caravan of Caravans, I mean. I was on the phone with my friend Carrie; she got off the phone to "straighten her hair?!" Isn't it already straight? Obviously she could hear my pulse over the phone. She said I sounded frustrated. I said I wasn't, and proceeded to list off what WOULD make me frustrated. Not a good way to stay un-frustrated. First, I lied about not being frustrated; then, I thought on things that made me more frustrated and even more likely to die of a stroke while driving.

This grumbling made me thankful though. Thankful to all the people who suffered through the construction of the 4th, 5th and 6th lanes of I-75 where it meets I-4. Their years of sacrifice and frustration "paved" the way for me to "bypass" my own frustration. Passing Caravan after Caravan from the far right lane (!?!), I cruised the rest of the way to my sister's at 85 and 90 mph. No cops. I guess they knew about the Christmas Caravan of Caravans.

Another thought I had...
I love how the world shut down for a few hours on Christmas day. By that I mean text messaging. People were shut out of text messaging for a few hours on Christmas because SO MANY people were doing it. That amazes me about our world. That so many people were actually text messaging, and that many people's lives were messed over because the systems couldn't handle it. Our impersonal, impatient lives were inconvenienced and frustrated because we had to make phone calls instead. My dad called the day before because he thought the "wires would be busy." I scoffed. Until I couldn't reply to all the "Merry Christmas" texts on Christmas Day. But he was still wrong. The lines weren't busy. For calls. I couldn't figure out why or how that many people were text messaging during the same few hours until I looked at my inbox. I had youth from the church text messaging their entire phonebooks the same mass text message. "I hope you all have a Merry Christmas! And I love you and I'm so thankful for you! This next year is gonna be great!"

What's our world come to? Bulk snail mail to automated political phone calls to mass emails to mass text messages. And this is what shuts down the world.

Dear Nona, You're Hazardous to My Health

2006-12-21T14:57:00.000-05:00

I hear the older you get, the more impatient you become. I don't know if it's that, or if it's simply the older I get, the more I'm exposed to increasingly infuriating circumstances. Aside from traffic and annoying people and unsmart people, which could very well be one in the same, Publix is my new most likely place to develop an aneurysm. At least on Thursday afternoons.

I went grocery shopping today, on an empty stomach no less. Always ill-advised for what you'll buy with your stomach and not your brain or wallet. But add to the list a decrease in mental stamina. This fatigue wears on you like you're a pitbull's new chew toy. At least when you're grocery shopping with 90 year olds.

I've never seen so many motorized vehicles indoors before. The Department of Motor Vehicles is going to be getting some letters from me; they really need to require licenses for these things. At least some guidelines. No kids. No blind people. No almost blind people who can't hear or turn their heads 45 degrees either direction. I had SEVERAL near-death experiences today. I might have even peed my pants once. These old people are ruthless. Or clueless. Equally hazardous. Who commits vehicular manslaughter inSIDE Publix? About 4 people today almost did. How are there THAT many motorized carts anyway? Is there a motorized cart dealership around the corner I haven't seen yet? I know I almost ran over two handicapped people in one day because I'm not used to so many motorized carts moseying around town. I see it's a more rampant problem than first assumed.

I walked down aisles and each side would be road-blocked. Opposite sides of the aisle they park. They criss-crossed each other. They'd sit there oblivious to normal social rules of etiquette, existence, decency, LOGIC. Partly because at 90 years old their sight is going, they'd just stare at the shelves. Or maybe they were on their way to picking up the items from the shelves, but they're just SO SLOW that you can't see them moving. Or maybe the nonagenarians are oblivious to the rest of humanity because they have no clue from any of their failing senses that mankind still exists.

I tried to make a turn out of one aisle into the main area by the meats, and I was stuck for a minute and a half. That's valuable grocery time. Wasted on what? Not decisions or poor cashiers and baggers. Not parking or getting a new, cleaner, less-sticky buggy. Not coupons or even drying off from the vegetable sprinklers. Wasted on waiting. I wasted away a little bit today. And might have had an aneurysm in the process. I know my blood pressure spiked. I was tachycardic. All while I just sat there. No flashers. No blinkers. No brakes. Just people, old and focused, parked until they've gotten what they set out to find. You can't say excuse me. They don't hear you. You can't make eye contact, a polite smile or callous scowl. They don't see you. You can't go around. They've managed, with 90 years' experience under their belts, to blockade you better than JFK in the Cuban Missile Crisis. Yet somehow, if you attempt to move their cart, they know. It's the only sense still working effectively for them. Their 6th sense of cart mechanics and whereabouts. Blind and deaf, with brittle bones and an acute sense of where their motorized cart is at all times. Unreal.

I had to wait to get hamburger because the entire hamburger section was occupied. Twice I turned around and faced the Honey Nut Oats and Bran display. Deep breaths. Counting to a trillion. Digging my fingernails into my own flesh. All the usual ways to compose yourself. All because a man and his wife EACH had a motorized cart. HOW ON EARTH IS THAT LEGAL? Besides the traffic mess it creates indoors, the congestion and backup, the logistics of maneuvering within such a confined space, the havoc it wreaks on your life. HOW IS THAT LEGAL for two people to need motorized carts at the same time? Compassion dictates they are each entitled to one. But NOT AT THE SAME TIME. NOT TOGETHER. How did they GET HERE??! Who's driving the motorized vehicle in the life and death game of chicken on Highway 520?

Apparently we all are. Lucky for them. They're clueless.

The sad thing, or maybe the most frustrating thing about today, is that I was more likely to have had a heart attack in the store than any ONE of them. I was less rattled when my tired exploded just off the interstate a few days ago than I was today (Big thanks by the way, to the woman with the tow truck who helped me figure out my weird jack. And not a big thanks to the man in the other tow truck with the two green front teeth who just watched me change my tire in the rain and puddles.). Today I felt like cattle herded off to the slaughter. The mental pain. The anguish. The claustrophobia. The slowness. The imminence. The hopelessness. The impulse to scream bloody murder or attempt it on any of these nonagenarians who kept ME from MY goal: Efficiency. I was marching, my purpose rendered meaningless, in whatever direction they wanted me to go. I was dominated by 90 year old women. I was emasculated. In essence, I was neutered.

A Grocery Shopping Eunuch.

Of Miscellany

2006-12-07T20:56:00.000-05:00

So it was brought to my attention that I haven't blogged since last Friday. I'm fully aware of this, so does that mean it really wasn't brought to my attention? More so, it was brought up. I think that's better. More accurate. Less figurative. Well no, it's still figurative. Or is that idiomatic? Semantic?

Well anyway, about this lull in activity, I suppose I'm recuperating. Or perhaps against the backdrop of my Full Season Sit Through of 24, very little seems noteworthy. A very typical week pales when contrasted to such unrelenting rigor like watching a whole season in one sitting, or even better actually living it out. You know, being a spy. Except I can't confirm or deny any involvement in covert activity. So I'm left to talk of Christmas program choir practices and song-writing. I'm not talking about choir practice, and my songs aren't done yet. (Oh, but when they are, I'll put them online with the others.) No, this week I didn't execute my boss. And no, it's not because I don't have one. It's just a mediocre week with little to talk about, and nothing to show for it to prove it.

So apologetically, this feels forced.

But alas, the show must go on.

I was in Barnes & Noble. Read some of one of those toilet trivia books. The kind that are good if you live alone, but completely unsanitary if not. Well I read about parrots. And it got me thinking. You know how people wonder what kind of animal you'd be? I always say a platypus or if a plant, then a sunflower. Attention seekers, you know? Well, I now think I'd be a parrot. According to this toilet trivia book, the quintessential reference on all things avian, parrots are as social as 5 year olds. And if left unsocialized for inhumane periods of time, they will go mad. Crazy. Develop tics. Pull out feathers. And there's no hope of bringing them back to sanity. Crazy, huh? After my last job doing research in neuropsychology, I not only sympathize with parrots, I think I was a few weeks from joining them.

I want a pet parrot now. Or toucan.

Another interesting discovery: with the creation of the Happy Meal, McDonald's became the world's largest toy distributer.

Sorry, Santa. You just got super-sized.

24 Season 3: Live. It's Over.

2006-12-01T09:52:00.000-05:00

My Debrief:
It's 0950 and I'm done. The mission's accomplished. The Full Season Sit Through has been completed. The world is safe for another day.

Sleep Status: I made it. Dozed for 7 minutes. That's well short of the amount of time Jack was unconscious.

The "Facilities" Status: Two reports plus one prior to lockdown.

Food/Water Status: Velveeta Shells and cheese at 0825 this morning. And the Breyer's from last night. (sidenote: I saw Jack with some coffee. Wish I liked coffee.)

SPOILER ALERT: Skip this paragraph if you don't like plots ruined...
Psychological Status: I'm proud to have served along side you, Jack. I feel like crying too. Playing Russian Roulette, pulling the trigger on your partner, shooting up heroin, executing your boss, and chopping off said partner's hand would make any man cry. Even us.

Thanks to everyone for you support. Your blog posts and myspace and facebook comments and messages and phone calls and text messages were all greatly appreciated. And needed. I'd have given up without it. I did this for you and me and the country. We made history tonight. And saved the world.

Good game, guys. Good game.

Season 4, we're coming for you.

Do. Dee. Do. Dee. Do. Dee.

24 Season 3: Live. 5 Down.

2006-12-01T06:22:00.000-05:00

Final disc.

Sleep Status:
In and out of sleepiness. It just depends on the thrill factor of the moment. Still sleep deprived. And still sleep sober.

The "Facilities" Status:
No new incidents to report.

Food/Water Status:
Starting to get hungry again. Still in starvation mode. Only food in past 24 hours is the Breyer's.

Psychological Status:
Finally here. One more disc to go. And the last few episodes have been riveting enough to keep me awake. I'm banking on a clutch performance in these last "4" hours. The last disc is always pretty solid.

Don't disappoint.

24 Season 3: Live. 4 Down.

2006-12-01T03:32:00.000-05:00

Another one bites the dust. Starting disc 5. Cinco. Funf.

Sleep Status:
Close call earlier. I almost took Jack up on that Free Nap Voucher from earlier in the day. Not yet though...

The "Facilities" Status:
A-ok.

Food/Water Status:
Still good. Looking into the feasibility of an Easy Mac smorgasboard.

Psychological Status:
I still have sensation in my faculties.

I'm not a fan of this season. Maybe because I'm overloading in one sitting. It's not as captivating as seasons past, but that too could be because I've been at this as long as the characters themselves. More exhausted than excited. If they'd just use me in the field, maybe adrenaline would be more likely to carry the day...

24 Season 3: Live. 3 Down.

2006-12-01T01:00:00.000-05:00

Halfway there.

I'm onto disc 4 now. I got sidetracked on what some may call an ill-advised 2 hour break. Good conversation. Needed. It was well worth it to me, but it still wasn't the best strategic move I've made during this Full Season Sit Through.

Sleep Status:
Getting a little drowsy. I need some action.

The "Facilities" Status:
Add another tally mark.

Food/Water Status:
I had some ice cream. Breyer's. I needed the sugar.

Psychological Status:
Mentally fatigued. A little bored.

"Ohhh, we're halfway there...Ohhh oh, livin' on a prayer...Take my hand and we'll make it I swear...Ohhh oh, livin' on a prayer..." -Bon Jovi

24 Season 3: Live. 2 Down.

2006-11-30T19:22:00.000-05:00

Starting 2100 hours (9pm) right now.

Sleep Status:
Cruising. Although, Jack did get knocked out for about 30-45 minutes. Good to know I have a Power Nap Voucher if I need it around 5 am...

The "Facilities" Status:
One tally mark on the wall.

Food/Water Status:
Still hungry. Not as much as earlier. Maybe I've gone into starvation mode. There's Ramen Noodles, tuna, and cream corn in the pantry if the hunger pangs start to blur my vision.

Psychological Status:
This is gonna take longer than I thought...

Round 3. Here I come.

24 Season 3: Live. 1 Down.

2006-11-30T16:02:00.000-05:00

5 to go...

First disc down. Not bad. Not hooked. But I don't really have a choice...

About to start 17oo (5pm) and it's only 1600 right now. Making good time.

Sleep Status:
No problem.

The "Facilities" Status:
I could use a leak.

Food/Water Status:
I'm hungry. The about two hours ago kind of hungry. This could get tricky...

Psychological Status:
Not as psyched.

Game Time

2006-11-30T12:46:00.000-05:00

All right boys and girls. Put the kids to bed. The seal is broken. Commence lockdown.

T-minus 3 minutes and counting...

Sleep Status:
Well rested. Woke up at 0730. Back to bed by 0930. Woke up again at 1100. Good to go.

The "Facilities" Status:
Taken care of 1 and 2 this morning. Check.

Food/Water Status:
No food. Limited water. Could be a tactical error. Stay tuned.

Psychological Status:
Psyched. All signs a go.

It's time.

Let's do this.

David Blane-like

2006-11-30T08:45:00.000-05:00

My History-making Undertaking

As I said on myspace, 1pm TODAY is go-time on the Full Season Sit Through. And like David Blane, the master magician or demon possessed regular guy, I will be updating you on my condition.

To all my supporters, thanks. Without you I'd just be, well lonely. I only wish I'd recruited financial support and sponsorships for this history-making undertaking. $1-$10 if I make it. Like a Walk-a-thon. I'd've paid off another 6 months of retirement.

To all the naysayers, the nitpicks, and the negative ne'er-say-wells, I know Jack probably pees during commercials. Maybe even grabs a frostie during commercials. And I know the DVDs don't have commercials. But that makes this no less daunting a mission. No less courageous an endeavor. No less legitimate a cause. I do this for me, for you, for the country. I do this for all the kids out there who pray every night to be a spy like me and Jack. We were born for this. It's our calling. Our mandate. It's who we are.

I leave you with a quote from Emilio Estevez as Billy the Kid in "Young Guns" (which coincidentally starred Keifer Sutherland, also known as Jack Bauer).

"Reap the whirlwind, Murphy. Reap it."

24 Season 3: Live

2006-11-28T11:23:00.000-05:00

Season 6 of the Tv show "24" is starting in January. I just finished Season 2. Season 5 is out on dvd this week, I think. Desperate times call for desperate measures. It's time to get caught up.

So I'm planning a "Full Season Sit Through." That's right. The whole season in ONE sitting. It's drastic, but necessary. If Jack Bauer has to do it, so do I. I'm planning on resting up, and locking myself in. Whatever "hour" Season 3 starts, I start. No calls to the outside world. No news. No internet. Just me and Jack Bauer saving the world or the President or whatever Season 3 is about. 24 hours straight for Jack; 24 hours straight for me.

Some have asked what about food? Will you have people bringing it in to you? What about the bathroom? I've thought about these things. I considered ordering pizza and having it delivered. I thought about eating whatever cold canned vegetables were in the pantry when hunger struck. I even contemplated hooking up an IV and pumping fluids in my body so I don't get dehydrated. But that's cheating. I'll eat when Jack Bauer eats. I'll sleep when Jack Bauer sleeps. I'll pee when Jack Bauer pees. I never see him eat on the show. 24 hours comes and goes and he neither eats nor sleeps nor pees. The only sleep comes when he passes out from torture. Or codes. I'll eat and sleep and pee when he does. Besides, if I'm not eating or drinking, why would I need to pee? My blood, sweat, and tears should handle my bodily fluids for this day.

Some of you think I won't make it. You think I might die first. With all the twists and turns, sleep deprivation, starvation, and dehydration, you feel my heart will give out. My head explode. Or I'll crack. Either give up, or burst into fits of uncontrollable emotion. Tears and rage. Psycho-babble and gibberish. Well I sit here to tell you I've mapped this out. I've trained for this. I've dreamt of this. I was born for this. This is who I am. I'm a spy. (I neither confirm nor deny any involvement with a covert agency.) Hear ye this: as surely as the people at CTU and the White House and Joint Chiefs last 24 straight hours under such intense, heart-stopping suspense, so too will I. You can chalk it up to previous experience (not an admission of covert activity) or count it as practice (not an admission of recent recruitment into a covert agency). I've never cracked under torture before, and I'm not going to crack now. I will do this. It will be a success.

And Season 4 beware.

I'm coming for you.

Thanksgiving Vacation

2006-11-27T22:14:00.001-05:00

Chapter 2: Nightmare over Elm Street

Apparently I've slept through take-off. Last thing I remember I felt very uncomfortable. Physically and mentally. I had walked down the aisle to my seat, the middle seat, next to the girl who was already asleep with her legs draped over MY armrest. Who DOES that? We had just boarded. I get it, girl. You want what you want when you want it. You can have my armrest, just don't LAP OVER into my seat. Reluctantly, and slowly I might add, she rearranged so that her feet were now propped against the window. Whatever. As long as you don't BUST THE WINDOW or invade my personal space, I don't care what makes you happy in your own seat. All I was thinking, "Please, Lord. Don't let anyone sit on the other side of me. That way I can move over and let Paris Hilton lounge on my armrest."

As quickly as I said "Amen," a 6'6" behemoth stepped on the plane. And hunched over, made his way closer and closer to my row. He made eye contact with row 37. Not good. Sure enough. His seat was the one my heart claimed with all its might. The one it longed for. Craved after. Prayed over. I named him Dr. Robitussin. What for his coughing-sniffling-sneezing-so-that-I-can't-rest-at-all medicine. He coughs into his shoulders, mostly the right one, the one next to me. And afterwards he sniffles twice. Like he does coke. Nice guy though. I just didn't want to talk to him. Not then. Not now. Not ever. I'm still grumpy my prayer wasn't answered like I wanted. I feel like Paris Hilton to my right. We're both pouting. We didn't want him.

But the lady in the row in front of us, she's very bizarre. I remember she was talking to herself, trying to make conversation with the two empty seats next to her. I could endure that vs. Dr. Robitussin and Paris Hilton I reasoned. I used to work with people with Schizophrenia. And they never invaded my personal space. Or coughed on me. "Lord, please don't let anyone sit next to her so I can go up there and sleep." Then I saw it. The smooth-talking 40-something sitting across the aisle from her. WITH the college freshman.

And I was out like a light.

That was my last recollection. And now I find myself sometime after passing out and blast-off, and this is what I've woken up to. THE TWILIGHT ZONE. Dr. Robitussin is still doing his coughing, sniffling, sneezing bit all over me, Paris Hilton has her feet WEDGED under MY legs, the self-conversationalist lady in front of me is sprawled out like a three year old in the fetal position across her ENTIRE ROW, and the smooth-talking 40-something and college freshman are asleep, awkwardly cuddling each other. I think a little throw-up just came up.

How long was I alseep? Where am I? Are you freaking kidding me?! I can't take this! I need air! I need to SCREAM!! Surely I can finish jostling open the window Paris Hilton put all her weight into. I think I'm passing out...

Thanksgiving Vacation

2006-11-26T21:58:00.000-05:00

Chapter 1: 4am

"Thanks again, bro." I shut the car door as Woodside pulls away. Grabbing my crap, I slowly walk into the airport. My steps are peaceful and deliberate. Prepared and unhurried. It's 10:00 at night, and my flight doesn't leave for another 8 hours.

I know, that's a tad early even taking security checks into account. But I really had no other option. Orlando's about an hour away, and between my 6.20am departure time and needing to be at the airport an hour early to check in, well that put me leaving Merritt Island at the 4:00 hour. In the MORNING. I wasn't about to wake up that early, and I certainly couldn't ask someone else to wake up that early to give me a lift if I wasn't even willing to wake up that early to give myself a lift. So 10:00 the night before it is.

I'm pretty bored. Just sitting around. I watched the Orlando Magic blow tonight. Their lead that is. Up 7 with 5 minutes left, they ended up losing by double digits. Memphis went on a 19-2 run or something. Gross. AND. I had to pay $5 for airport bottled water. Just to keep sitting in the bar-pub-sports grille place. When they were winning, I justified it as "I've got nothing better to do, and it's just $5." Once they lost, I rended my clothes and covered myself in sackcloth and ashes. There may have even been wailing.

I've gotten to talk to some friends though. That's passed time. I've read some. Played Tetris on my cell phone. Sat on the floor by the ONLY OUTLET in all of Orlando International Airport. I thought I'd sleep, but it's 3am and I haven't. I'm supposed to call someone and wake them up at 2am and 4am, but I figured 1 call at 3am is a neat compromise. Ha ha. She just answered. Short conversation. The phone was ringing, and I almost hung up, but she hit the phone thinking it was her alarm I guess. Because there was about 15 seconds of rustling and confusion. Then the groggy, crackled hello. HA HA. Fun times. Gotta love the "what-the-heck-just-happened-it's-the-middle-of-the-night-and-my-phone-just-went-nuts?!" phone calls.

So I just woke up to the sound of intense beeping. Apparently 4am is primetime for construction inside the Orlando International Airport. Real cool. I guess I got mine. I know I wasn't in the deepest sleep of my life, seeing that it only lasted 30 MINUTES and the chairs and armrests I contoured myself over weren't Swedish Tempur-pedics, but you have to see me there. Just cuddled in a mess right in front of your eyes. You saw me when I was awake. I go to sleep and that means you can start working? And why the incessant beeping? Do you have to constantly BACK UP whatever that tall tractor thing is? Ever heard of INSIDE voices? Your friends are standing right next to you. If I can hear you, IN MY SLEEP, I PROMISE they can hear you. Sorry, I guess I woke up on the wrong side of...that CHAIR. Are you kidding me? People are already lining up to check in their bags. For a 6:20 flight. It's 4 AM! We have another hour. To sit. To sleep. To be merry! Uhhh. Here we go...

Gross. I'm standing in line. Zombie-like. This smooth-talking 40 year old is hitting on a college fresman. Who is ugly. That was blunt. But seriously. She's ugly. Did I just say that? I'm standing right behind her, and she's on the ground (which I was jealous of, and contemplated joining in until...) with her shirt rising up her back. And her pants riding down her, um, rump. And sure enough this massive crack has TWO tats. Yes, TWO tattoos. One for each cheek. I think a little puke just came up. I'd say I wouldn't blame the man, for he knows not what I see. But her face isn't such a masterpiece of body art either. And from the looks of it, he doesn't seem to mind. Either he's non-judgemental or desperate. I'm increasingly leaning toward desperate. It's 4 IN THE MORNING. Everyone's judgemental at 4 am. And what is with ALL THIS CHATTER? Isn't it understood you don't talk to strangers? Especially at such an ungodly hour?! It's true. Nothing good happens after 4am.

Oy. It's 4am; he must be lonely.

To Be Continued...

Around the Political World in 80 Words (or More)...

2006-11-08T05:45:00.000-05:00

Vol. 1.5

Sip. Don't Slurp.

Where's my Pepto? I'm stumbling in the dark, squinting my way around the room, searching for my new bestfriend. I feel like Toodles from the movie "Hook" searching for his marbles. My brother's popping Champagne corks and I'm cracking Pepto caps. What a way to wake up. I went to bed early, feeling increasingly good--now I see I was delusional--about the prospects for the Senate remaining in GOP hands. With only two precints left, Virginia was still in GOP hands. Montana, I decided, we could lose, if Allen and Talent (Missouri, who also had a significant lead at bedtime) and Corker (Tennessee) all won.

Instead...

I need to take a swig.

Missouri blew out of the water, considering, and Talent has conceded.
+1 Dems

Tennessee did stay in the GOP column. Barely.
No net gain.

And Virginia is now being led by Webb with a recount pending.
+1 Dems

In other words I was way off. Which I'm ok with. I'm not ok with it in the sense that America, for possibly the first time in her history, just elected the Obstructionist Party into the majority in the House and quite possibly the Senate. A party that truly "did nothing," except for obstructing Republican measures, has found a way to dupe the American people. This happens a lot in the 6th year of presidencies. I just didn't see it going this badly.

Hold on. I need another swig.

I had high hopes that many of these seats would fall to the GOP, albeit in close races. But my worst fear is still being manifested. I obviously read too much into the GOP surge that didn't end up being much. And perhaps the surge that I really thought was materializing just needed a couple more days. Or maybe it staved off a complete wipeout. The GOP is down close to 30 seats in the House, and its now two-seat majority in the Senate is up in the air in Virginia and Montana. Basically every Senate seat fell the Dems way last night. I guess I see where that London newspaper was coming from when, after the President won reelection, its headline read "How could 59,054,087 people be so dumb?" I have more respect for people's votes and their right to do so free from harrassment, but I understand the sentiment.

Chug.

I'm truly saddened. I feel like the Denver Broncos in Superbowl 24. They were slaughtered 55-10 by the 49ers. I know life goes on. I'll go about my day doing whatever it is I do in retirement; oh wait, politics is what I do. And I got worked. Hard.

I'm mad. Not at the voters. A little at those who didn't vote. A lot at the Republicans for losing their way. But nothing is worse than having no cable tv, and HAVING to watch this shalacking via live video stream online with Chris Matthews, Tim Russert, and Keith Olbermann. Or on CBS with Katie Couric. Or ABC with George Stephanopoulos. Or this morning with Diane Sawyer and Charlie Gibson. Their glee could not be contained. And while it's great that they vote, it's not that they're cheering on every Democratic gain. That's for Algore's tv station to do. Let's get Karl Rove in there announcing with Sean Hannity on ABC, and let's get Bill O'Reilly at least on the other side of Chris Matthews. Put Rush Limbaugh right there with Katie. No, let's remove Katie. Next election. They got this one. Now switch it. The world would go into convulsions. Time would stop. I've learned that the liberal media is a reality, but I thought they'd hide it a little better than that, if for no other reason than to keep up the charade that they are unbiased. Maybe since they won, they realized it didn't matter anymore.

I just threw the bottle cap across the room.

But I'm realizing, or at least as I peed this morning I convinced myself, that most people don't care about the midterm elections. Some sure. But not most. When we had control of Congress during the Clinton debacle, I was more worried about the President. Although it didn't hurt having the majority when he committed his "high crimes and misdemeanors." So maybe I'll take solace in the fact that most people didn't see the monumental negligence of electing obstructionist, elitist, anti-military radicals into leadership positions. I know some who were elected were moderates, but those votes are now translated into electing unflinchingly liberal leaders into chairmanships. The first woman Speaker of the House will be the most liberal in our nation's history.

I need a straw.

The secret hopes of Conservatives was that this would strike to the heart of the Republican party. And apparently many more than I had hoped, stayed home to ensure this. Not so much to sabotage the party, more so to discipline the party. For betraying its principles. For indulging in pork barrel excesses. For passing more government instead of limiting government. For letting power corrupt. And apparently more voters than I ever dreamed, really felt that Republicans alone were to blame for Washington's corruption.

And now the Conservatives who stayed home got what they wanted. A wake up call to the party. But to the detriment of the country. Taxes will be repealed. Judges won't be filibustered; they'll be voted down. Including Supreme Court nominess. Government will get even bigger. Medicare. Social Security. Medicaid. Defense will go down. Anti-terrorism measures will be neutered. And not just the Republican ideas will be reversed. A whole rash of liberal measures, 12 years suppressed, will be spewing from every liberal oriface, glorified on every media outlet, and vetoed by the lame-duck President for the next two years. And the impeachment process will begin. If only to redeem the legacy of Mr. William Jefferson Clinton.

Most polls show 71 out of every 100 people think we'll be hit by another terrorist strike in the near future.

Make it 72.

I'm out of Pepto. I just can't catch a break.

Close Only Counts in Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

2006-10-29T21:49:00.000-05:00

I almost hit a handicapped person today. It was so close. Too close. Does that make me a bad person? I was pulling out of Publix, and he was on his motorized wheelchair, slouched over a bit and cruising down the sidewalk about to scoot through the crosswalk. Except that I DIDN'T see him. Until he was almost an after-thought. He was in the blindspot by your front windshield where it ends and the passenger window begins. That metal bar that ISN"T see-thru. I think this means I suck. Either as a person or as a driver or both. As if it evens us out, he didn't see me either...

UPDATE:
I almost hit ANOTHER handicapped person. No lie. As of 430pm I very nearly crushed TWO handicapped people like lovebugs in the grill of my car. I've seen one person who wheeled around town in his wheelchair in all 5 months I've been here, and today I very nearly creamed TWO. What do you suppose the sentence is for that? Vehicular manslaughter, TWICE in one day. Oh and by the way, Your Honor, they're handicapped. This most recent near incident happened as I'm pulling off the main highway into a little strip mall plaza area. Stupidity built this, as it placed a sidewalk directly intersecting the driveway into this business plaza. Not a crosswalk. A sidewalk. Very awkward. And might I add dangerous. As I'm pulling in, there is a family strolling along the sidewalk assuming they have the right of way, which no doubt they do, but that doesn't make them suddenly invincible. Well what do you know, the front of the group is none other than a little 10 year old girl pushing her disabled relative in her wheelchair. I'm slamming on breaks, half the butt of my car still sticking out in the middle of the highway, and they're galivanting across the BUSY driveway entrance to this plaza like they're guest starring in The Sound of Music. Well their eyes bug out as I roll mine. This really didn't just happen AGAIN! But mark the progress: at least we both saw each other this time...

On the Road Again...

2006-10-23T12:00:00.000-04:00

Vol. 1.3

3 1/2 Inches

So I just got back from Jackson. It made me think of the Dave Barnes song "Jackson." I went to Mississippi 3 times this summer. Choir Tour, Nathan's Wedding, and then Lake Forest Ranch. So this was number 4 since I moved. Anyway, the trip registered 1700 miles total. So, I had lots of alone time, which led me to some odd thoughts. Even odder is that I always have alone time, seeing that I'm retired, but for some reason my thoughts aren't as thought-provoking. ? I don't know what I'm trying to say. Except that tedious dotted white lines can lead your mind to wander.

First.

Rain is frustrating. I love playing in it, hate walking in it, loathe driving in it. Driving in the rain bothers me for two reasons. Well at least two: I have to slow down and I have to pay attention. You know, be a safe driver. I have to watch the lines, turn on my squeaky wipers, stress about my shaky brakes, wipe the fog off my windows. It's just a big ordeal.

A little background for those unfamiliar with my pimped out ride. It blows. Barely. I mean, air. I don't have AC so I go with the windows down--well the back two windows down. The passenger window is temperamental; it goes down in spurts, in intervals. It needs to rest awhile before completing its mission. I don't know if it's laying out a game plan before it gets going or what. My driver's side window goes down 3 1/2 inches. That's not very far for those of you who aren't too good with measurements. Try paying a toll with just 3 1/2 inches. It's tricky. And the toll people think you're just being a jerk and making them reach out of their little cubby hole. Boy they can give some looks for that. But it's not like you're in a position to explain yourself, you have to get going. Try ordering and getting your food in a drive thru with 3 1/2 inches. I know a small fry isn't very big, but it's a lot bigger when you can't get it through your window. And those kiddie Frosties are gigantic! 3 1/2 inches is like the size of a pencil, except you have to BREAK IT IN HALF first. Not a lot of air makes it through 3 1/2 inches. This summer I maintained my weight WITHOUT exercise. I simply drove. In my portable sauna. Sometimes people will pull up next to me to say something, and they'll naturally want me to roll my window down to hear them. It's interesting when I don't. Because I can't. But they don't know that. They just think I'm not even HALF interested in what they're saying. Not even a half a roll down. Just a crack. Who has a conversation without even a HALF a roll down?

A neat little factoid about one of my car's successes: the heater works. At least in the summer. I'm sure when winter rolls around the AC will take over and the heater will hibernate.

Anyway. So my car's defrost doesn't work effectively either. Something to do with the AC I'm sure. So when it rains...NOT FUN. My windshield starts fogging inside. I have to wipe it down. Soon all the windows start fogging. Even my MIRROR starts fogging. I have to roll the windows down to get fresh air inside. So now I'm soaking wet.

My brakes lock up sometimes; other times they kind of give out. I'll put my brakes on and there are three distinct possibilities: a. they'll work. b. they'll lock up. c. they'll give out. Not a particularly safe gamble. I have a 1 in 3 chance of safely arriving wherever I'm trying to. So, when it rains, it's a two-ton game of Russian Roulette. But I pray a lot.

Back to the story. I'm driving into Jackson, and it's pouring. One of the worst rains I've been in. I can think of a handful worse. But I think I had AC and defrost then. So this is on a totally different level. I wish I could explain this effectively. My windows are fogging, but it's not a wipeable fog. It's smeary. I wipe my windshield and it doesn't make the fog go away, it smears it on my windshield. It's condensation, so the water doesn't just evaporate. It just got here. It just moves around on the inside of my windshield. I could invent the double wipers--wipers for the outside; wipers for the inside. Except that NO ONE ELSE IN THE WORLD would need them. So, the humidity and wetness just wasn't working. I can literally BARELY see. Going 35 on the interstate. Hitting puddles that I had no clue were coming. Windows down, soaking wet, in Mississippi's first cold front of the Fall Season. It was like Jackson said, "Welcome back, Brent. You suck. You freegin', cheating son of..." I don't know, I just felt like Jackson was beating me up, and the only reason I could come up with for a city I lived in to try to kill me, was because I left it.

Well I finally get to Downtown. I have to go vote. So no umbrella, no jacket, just t-shirt and cargo shorts, and FLIP FLOPS. In COLD rain. I hike around Downtown Jackson until I find the courthouse so I can vote early. I go in, get my ballot, listen to the instructions, and drip all over the nice lady and the ballot. I trot back to my car, and on the way it's as if The City said, "What? You're still standing? Well take this." So the faucet in the sky turned on even stronger and the deluge ensued. So much rain that by the time I got to my car, literally 2 or more inches of rain were on the ground. That's ALMOST as much as my driver's side window goes down...

Second.

It was a great time seeing my mom, and CARRIE CUTRER! (back from Africa, that's why the caps) and my other friends. Last thought on my trip, at least right now: my storage unit.

It was so weird. I was home at my mom's house, and it was home in its way. I lived there, but I don't really have stuff there anymore. She's there, so that coupled with it being somewhere I'd lived makes it home. Merritt Island is home insomuch that I live here right now. But it wasn't until I walked up to my storage unit and took the lock off that I realized it. I remember locking it up back in May and thinking to myself, "I wonder when the next time I'll be here will be? (you don't always use good grammar in your wonderings...) I wonder what will be going on with me then." Anyway, it was as if I never left. It felt like a movie when you have a flashback. It was weird. Weirder still was how sad and happy I felt opening up the door to all my stuff. Stuff I'd sworn off as needless crap, left me sentimental. Found me at home. I just felt so at ease right there. It was home. Very weird. So, I rolled out one of my chairs, plopped down and propped up for a bit. Like it was my front porch or something. It felt good. Just to sit and think. To reminisce and to dream. To remember and to long for stability again. I love being in a new place with gracious friends. But I really want to be home. Stupid trip made me homesick for a day or two.

A utility man kept walking around the Storage Supercenter and passed by me a couple of times. Finally he said, "It ain't gonna go nowhere sittin' like that."

I don't think he got it.

ADHD Remedy of the Week

2006-10-20T12:22:00.000-04:00

Vol. 1.3
Mom Spanked the Gay Out of Me

I'm a little off on my updates, being out of town and stuff. Retirement is a time to travel after all. But let's get right to it.

Four ideas for you to cure your boredom, depression, distractibility, or fidgetiousness:

First. Watch Heroes.
Second. Watch Jericho.
Third. Watch Prison Break.
Fourth. Surf Irish Salsa.

Heroes is unreal. Seriously. Get caught up. It's super. I love that there are bad guys with superpowers too. The dude that put the lady detective's gun to her head with just his mind? Rock on.

Jericho, I'm still catching up, but wow. Denver. Philly. Chicago. Atlanta. Where else?

Prison Break is back baby. Literally and figuratively. It starts back Monday at 8pm Eastern. But maybe more importantly, it's back to it's greatness. Warning: Don't read the rest of this paragraph if you plan on watching from the beginning...Prison Break is back after a slump the last few episodes since Abruzzi died. Not cool. I was ready to write it off. I think my patience will be rewarded. It's now the Fox River 6.

And now for a little Irish Salsa...

The first vid is from a friend of mine. We're in a rap/video battle (we write rap and look for crazy videos) that I think I'm winning, but no doubt this round went to him.

HA. HA. HA. Can I watch it again please?

Next vid is some guys shooting full beer cans at objects with a potato launcher. Not sure why I like it. It's just neat.

Next. Ever lost money to a vending machine? It's a true test of character isn't it? Well here's another test of character. This video lays out a way for you to make back some of the money you lost. I don't recommend you doing it, but if you can't help yourself, try to keep to only as many times as you've been messed over...

Finally, this last one has sparked a lot of discussion on youtube.com over whether it's real or a spoof. You decide.

Someone commented on Youtube.com that they saw the ep live. They added this, "Notice the man handling the snake is actually controlling it with the "clamp". Notice the lights on the ambulance never go on. If you don't believe it...after the commercial break, Kimmel interviewed members of the show Grey's Anatomy from the hospital bed SET of Grey's Anatomy. Then...after another commercial break we see the snake talking...it was a close-up and some guy was doing the voice and controlling the opening and closing of it's mouth."

I didn't see it live, and maybe this person is right. Or maybe since these episodes are taped anyway, Kimmel went back and made fun of himself and the incident after he was released from the hospital, by going to the Grey's Anatomy set and making a fake snake spoof. Or maybe we'll never know.

Alright I'm out. Hope the week finds you a little less stressed and your distractibility finds itself at home.

Myspace Rehab

2006-10-16T15:55:00.000-04:00

So I've been battling internet connections and network administrators. It's becoming increasingly more tricky to "borrow" the wireless internet from who I once thought was an "unsuspecting" neighbor. Now they're on to me, and the connection I once had, is no more. Now I'm "borrowing" from a different source, a VERY NICE PERSON (if you're reading this) but I'm lucky to get a wavering signal, between 1 bar and NO bars of coverage. That's not great. I went to the library at one point because I was tired of waiting on the temperamental connection. The network administrator who stopped lending me internet must be a Democrat. I do read lots of Conservative-leaning websites. He/she must be a racist too. I AM A MINORITY (in case the new network administrator is still reading this), and I hate being discriminated against. That always blows.

The library was very enlightening though...

First, it was like I had reverted 10 years into my past and was back in that place where I liked to learn new things. Ok maybe 15 or more years ago. Nonetheless, it was very fun. I was about to pick up an encyclopedia about Russian Forefathers or something when they called my name to get on the computer. It was really neat though.

Second, people are ferocious. Strip people down to their nature, their cravings, and woah, you better step back. Or "best step back!" depending on which library. People hate to wait. HATE it. Not too surprising really. What with all our commercials and Easy Mac. But this isn't the Grocery Line Impatience, it's a "Where's My Morphine?! Get Out of My Way Lest I Eat You" Impatience. Not my favorite brand, I must say. People came in on lunch breaks trying to sneak on computers, trying to cut in line for computers, even re-entering lines to ensure they can get BACK on the computers. It was threatening and intriguing all in the same moment. Like staring at the charging bear. You're enamored, yet paralyzed with fear. One man was on the computer next to mine when I sat down. His time expired, and he proceeded to take 5 more minutes to sign off of things. I started to get nervous for his safety; the hovering BBW's glare did not convey amusement. He then walked right over to the counter and re-enlisted for another hour. He's a very sick man.

People would walk in expecting a computer. Frustrated at a 10 minute wait, people started becoming instinctive. Some looked lost, like their puppy ran away. But most, and by most I mean the 10 or 15 people who came in during my 50 minute session, would pace. Hover. Fidget. Prowl. They'd huddle at the table closest the computers and within eyeshot and earshot of the "Media Assistant" calling out names like the numbers in a bakery line. They'd make contrived, manipulative, small talk about their "lunch break" being almost over, or about "how long" people had been on the computers. Like a lion hunting a gazelle, they appeared fully capable and equally eager to make their move.

My question is who is so important, or so addicted, that they can't wait to check their email or myspace until AFTER work? The library closes at 9PM! Oh, the MADHOUSE it must be during rush hour. I bet they'll put in a new streetlight with a turn arrow just for the hyenas. And how many are repeat visitors? Twice-a-days. On lunch break, AND after work. Some of the people were known by name. As in they come so much the "Media Assistant" knows who they are. That's not great. They need help. Or rehab. Myspace Rehab. 120 million clients; it would be a lucrative business, except that no one thinks they have a problem. Guys, the first step to fixing the problem, is admitting there is one.

It's interesting science really. Allow me to be serious for one paragraph. In alcoholism, there is the alcohol and the addictive conditioned behavior associated with it. And there is often an enabler, a person who never leaves. Like the woman who is beaten but won't leave her husband. It's interesting. The internet is fast becoming the object, the surfing and checking and rechecking of emails and myspace accounts is the addictive behavior commonly associated with the internet, and the enabler is a cyber-social, pseudo-reality. People far away, distant and impersonal. And they won't leave. They're always there. Enabling. It's textbook. And for another day, it's not surprising so many are addicted. It's easily accessible, aside from authoritarian network administrators, and who wouldn't want friends who won't "cut them out?"

Anyway, Pavlov's Drooling Dogs rendered my first trip to a library in 3 or 4 years as surprising, to say the least. And my library innocence was taken from me rather abruptly. But like Rosa Parks, I stuck to my guns and didn't give up my seat. I finished my business amidst the howls and pants of the onlookers.

You know, I wouldn't be surprised if "Security Officer, Merritt Island Library," is listed on Careerbuilder.com in the near future. Hey, I could come out of retirement for it. No, I wouldn't (or maybe would) be caught dead trying to herd those sick beasts.

Wet 'n Wild: Speedos and Foot Herpes

2006-10-04T22:56:00.000-04:00

Quite the day yesterday. I have family in town. My dad and one bro, and my sis and her kids and a zillion other relatives. We went to Wet 'n Wild and had a good time. And well, I just want to run through my day and the parts that are significantly seared into my memory.

a. For all who were wondering what the limit is, I've found it. I have exceeded the maximum allowable limit for "Speedo Exposure." I have met my lifetime max, and anymore sightings could possibly cause my head to explode. Or at least blindness accompanied by temporary paralysis. When did form fitting swim suits ever become acceptable for men? Michelangelo's "David" leaves more to the imagination than some of the male swimsuits I've seen.

b. While on the subject, I was in the wave pool, I happened to look toward the shallow end. The bright white light was none other than a naked butt. Yes, a naked butt. It was a child, but there's no disclaimer that says shirt and shoes and bottoms required EXCEPT for children who are 4-6 years old. That's how old this kid was I imagine. No clue really, it was all quite bright and naked, but quite unright and awkward for sure. Must've been a cultural barrier. Stupid French.

c. When getting out of that same wave pool, I walked over to the chair to start drying off to head home. I'm doing the usual: drying the hair to the arms to the chest to the back to the shorts to the legs to the feet...so I look up and an old man, easily in his 70s is staring at me with a crooked grin. I still feel violated. Shivers. Yeck. I'm just praying he's almost blind and thought I was a hot chick. No, that still feels gross.

d. I saw some neat body art. From a family of belly piercings to the age limit and weight limit for back tats. But the grossest body part, granted it wasn't "body art," was in the Lazy River. I'm on our little inner tube and we're stuck in traffic. I hate traffic. I can't even get away from it in a Lazy River. So I'm stuck in this logjam of beached walruses on innertubes, and I'm semi-content. Just relaxing until I realize I'm spinning with little control. I'm being spun by the mass of tubes. There's no room to paddle, and my feet are dangling over the side in mid air. So are everyone else's. And therein lies the trauma. I find I'm spinning uncontrollably closer to a neighbor's feet. My face. His feet. I'm not a feet guy. Not many are, and virtually no one likes them in their face. But this is the torment I befell. So I'm getting closer and closer and realize that the feet aren't just regular feet, but the feet of a dirty englishman. A college aged dirty englishman's feet. With peeling skin on the bottom. And foot fungus on the toes. Orange and brown funk. And to top it off, the top side of the foot had what one could only assume was a renegade form of Foot Herpes. Fever blisters. Cold sores. On the feet. In my face. I think I must've blacked out. No, I WISH I would've blacked out. Ignorance is bliss. I wouldn't have known if I contracted the foot herp or not. Anyway, I dodged and ducked, dipped, dived and dodged my way from The Herpe. Like dodging a ball. Or a wrench. Or an STD. How does one exactly get Foot Herpes? The STD, I can use my imagination. Oral Herpes as well. But FOOT HERPES? I DON'T WANT to use my imagination. The Herpe probably contracted his Foot Herpes as some unsuspecting dirty englishman in a dirty lazy river with another dirty englishman's fever blister-infested feet. Neat. Good thing I'm Mexican. And Irish. And...English. Great. Maybe I'll try to legally change my ethnicity this week. That might head off the Foot Herpe.

Final thought. We ate at Emeril's restaurant Tchoup Chop. Party of 8. $600. What? I'm retired. I should eat well while I can. I store it away like a chipmunk. Or a camel. Or a boa. I ate it all-save the man-sized broccoli on my plate. I'm storing up for winter when I'll be trying the next phase of retirement: hibernation.

I'll leave you with this Asian wine from the wine menu: (warning: PG-13)

Phuket.

See you Friday with the ADHD Remedy of the Week.

Remember That One Time...

2006-09-27T11:53:00.000-04:00

Vol. 1.1

Every so often I think of things that were funny, so I thought, maybe you'd like them too.

So remember that one time...

It was May 2002. I got my eyes dialated. Well I got them checked. This was before I had contacts; it was my visit to the Eye Doctor to get contacts. I remember thinking people wouldn't be able to recognize me, and I probably wouldn't either. I mean, when I would go to look at myself in the mirror it was with my glasses on, and if I ever did take them off to see what I looked like, then I couldn't see. That's pretty blind. I'm 20/100. That means what I can read 20 feet away, you could read 100 feet away. While you can drive past a billboard, I'd have to be ON it. I'll pull off the interstate, park the car, and climb up the scary ladder. If I want to read a billboard. 20/100 vision.

Anyway back to the story. Ms. Assistant Lady to Hannibal Lecter puts this goop in my eyes. It's all yellow and gross. And she says, "It's yellow, so dont get freaked out." And sure enough, I was seeing everything yellow for a bit. So she puts this machine looking thing up to my face and makes me stick my head in it. I was a little nervous. She turns it on and there's this blue looking glow stick that she expects me to allow easy access to my eye. She says, "Just relax and open wide. That yellow stuff in your eyes is to numb them." Wrong thing to say, lady. If you tell me that you have to numb my eyes in order to poke them with a glow stick, then its only gonna freak me out more. Obviously this glow stick does hurt if they have to numb my eyes. You numb a mouth to get teeth pulled. Apparently you numb eyeballs to jab them with blue glowsticks.

So after I caught my breath, and we both held open my eyes, she proceeds to zap my eye with this blue laser stick thing. I felt like I was being branded. Well pardon. I didnt "feel" anything, but figuratively, I felt like I was being branded. There's a movie called "A Fire in the Sky," and this guy is abducted by aliens (Oh, I'm going somewhere.). They pin him down and do all these torturous experiments on him out of curiousity. Well at one point, they hold open his eyelids and lower this 8 inch needle into his eye; meanwhile, he cant do a thing about it because like 30 of these alien boys are holding him down. It's a true story. So that ran through my mind as I saw the blue glowstick get closer...and closer...and closer...Then I would blink. It was torture.

So after I realized that I really couldn't feel it, the second eye was a piece of cake. Or beef. That was when I decided I wouldnt hit her in the jaw. I started thinking, "Maybe I can't handle contacts." But then I thought, "Wait a sec. It's probably a lot better than the glowstick scandal, because you dont have to numb your own eyes in order to put your contacts in. So it's all good."

Then the Doc comes in and the lights are all off for the most part and he does that "you look in the corner while I shine this 200 watt flashlight up your eye" thing. Well naturally, though very little about this whole experience actually was, my eyes started watering. It was like he stuck a light bulb inside my eye. I thought I was "seeing the light," and I was off to heaven. Yeah, it was bright. I can't imagine how bright it would've been if that nice lady wouldn't have "numbed" my eyes.

Finally, something funny that did happen amidst the terror. The Doc asked me to open wide during "the shining," and I opened my mouth really wide. I felt so dumb. I was at an Eye Doctor's and I opened my MOUTH when he asked me to open wide. "Open wide." And he just sits there with his Maglite trying to see through my squinted, numb, watery eyes. And my mouth is wide open. And it dawns on both of us. He says, "Your eyes. Open your eyes." I think I'd had my braces on way too long. One too many trips to the Orthodontist. One too many times having braces. I knew I should've worn my retainer the first time around. Or maybe I was just over-stimulated. I mean, yellow goop to numb my eyes, blue glowsticks to brand my eyes, blinding flashlights up my eyes. Now open wide?!! Surely there's NOTHING MORE YOU COULD POSSIBLY THINK TO DO TO MY EYES!! Like a defense mechanism. Open your mouth and hope they try there first before completely blinding you and finishing you off. Maybe you'd like to pull some teeth now? A cleaning? A filling? A root canal? My eyes are taking 15.

Needless to say, I'm terrified of four things: Spiders. Needles. Midget Clowns. And yes now, the Eye Doctor's...namely, the blue glowstick that brands your eyeballs like cattle hide.

Early Retirement '06

2006-09-20T10:34:00.001-04:00

In case you were curious, as many are these days, early retirement is good. Boring at times. But well worth it. I definitely appreciate all the hype about it. Although I bet it'd be even more fun if I'd saved for longer than just the past 2 1/2 years. You know, if I'd've actually retired with something, or after I'd accomplished something monumental vs. just for the fun of it because that's another thing you do when you're in Florida. Kind of like going to Disney. Or the beach. Or sweating. Or running from alligators. Retirement is what you do in Florida. I mean, I totally understand why Florida is Retirement Central: Old people get cold easily and Florida doesn't. And that is also the reason traffic is blood-curdling and shuffle board is pandemic.

Alongside my second-guesses on retiring with something more than my paltry "retirement" account, i.e. my savings account, I think my next retirement I'll bring someone with me. It'd just be more reasonable. Instead of sitting around mindlessly by myself, I could do that with company. Instead of reading a book on the beach alone, I could ignore someone in the process. Instead of eating well all by myself, I could bring someone along to watch how it's done. I need a good second in command. Someone to follow orders, someone to do the gruntwork, someone to tell me what I want to hear, someone I can take under my wing and teach how to be a great first in command one day. Teach them how to be a servant. A good leader must be a servant. So, they could drive. Cook. Clean. Do laundry. Run errands. Pay. Rent movies. Network on my behalf. Sustain friendships for me. Write emails. Return phone calls. Maintain this blog.

I just think a second person is a much better move all around than just the solo act. I mean who really likes just Paul McCartney? At least get Ringo. Everyone needs a Ringo. Batman had Robin. Dr. Phil had Oprah. Zach Morris had A.C. Slater AND Screech. There's so many Dynamic Duos out there. The Ambiguously Gay Duo, Simon and Garfunkel, Sigfried and Roy, The Brokeback Mountain guys, you know what. Maybe not. Maybe an opposite sex Paul and Ringo. Like super couples Ben and Jen (Affleck and Lopez) or Brad and Jen (Pitt and Aniston) or Nick and Jessica (Lachey and Simpson)...Or maybe my idea isn't without flaws. But at least it's a workable idea. Opposite sex duos that aren't dysfunctional. Like Bill and Hillary Clinton. Or Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown. Or Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Or maybe I need a casting director. And a casting call. And a 3-step application/interview/tryout process.

I guess I'll start recruiting for my next retirement while I'm on this one. Top candidates will possess the following skills, attributes, looks, accents:

-Cute. It'll help us not get jumped as much while we're bumming on the beach. Besides, cute is looks plus personality.
-Funny. As in somehow close to as funny as me. Wit and sarcasm are preferred.
-Hyper. That could be annoying in an old person traffic jam. Fun otherwise.
-A super cook. And not gross french things. Normal things. Like Mac&cheese. Or mashed potatoes. Or, especially OR, STEAK. Lobster.
-Music lover. And good singer. Musical abilities a must. And an awesome sounding voice.
-In shape. I mean retirement is gluttonous and lazy enough, being fat from the get go is a no go.
-Good driver. Road rage tendencies are heightened here in The Land of 25mph Coupe de Villes.
-Smart. A hyper dumb person is not fun. At all.
-Ice cream lover. And not any ice cream flavor either. Sensible taste. Vanilla. Boo. Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream with Peanut Butter Cookie Dough. Bravo. We miss you, stupid Ben & Jerry's.
-Great movie picking judgement.
-Willingness to get a job once the next retirement comes to a close. Money only lasts for so many movies and Dairy Queen Blizzards.
-Compassionate. Love people. Love helping people. Love engaging people. Love making fun of people.
-Outgoing. Quiet or shy? Apply elsewhere. Try the Real World.
-Virtuous. A Lover of Christ. I'm tolerant of other religions, or non-religions, and it would be fun to learn about different religions or non-religions by living alongside someone through a retirement, but if this retirement turned into a "long-term retirement," if you know what I mean, well I'd want us to be compatible long-term.

So I think that's it. If you meet those requirements, or if you feel that for other reasons not listed above you feel qualified, let me know. Apply here or on my myspace or on my facebook. Call me. Email me. A new Early Retirement season will begin NEXT JUNE. "Early Retirement 2007: Endeavors in Maui." Plenty of time to start planning and saving! Other possible locations: Pacific Northwest. Colorado. Australia. Washington D.C. Maine. Vermont. Wiggins. But for now, while the applications start pouring in, I'm going to work on my newest "Early Retirement 2006: Ventures Across Florida" proposal: The beach. All day. Every day. All week.

My Walmart Run

2006-09-17T22:15:00.001-04:00

In an effort to generate constant readership, and revitalize my legitimacy as the Best Freaking Blog Ever, I'm posting more.

I went to Walmart tonight. A few observations I wanted to share.

1. I saw a lady and her husband shopping. No big deal except she had a clipboard. I've heard of long grocery lists, but a clipboard? How many people are you shopping for? And how precise does your checkmark have to be? I noticed she was also wearing a Publix Supermarket Polo Shirt. No doubt an employee of that fine Grocery chain. Maybe she was using her clipboard to figure out how much cheaper Walmart's prices were even after her Publix employee discount.

2. I saw a BBW tonight as well. If you aren't hip to online dating profiles, suffice to say she was fairly obese. And diverse. You know how our culture is prone to exposing female mid-drifts? Yep. Got a special treat tonight. But not so much her exposed mid-drift, as her exposed back fat rolls. Here's hoping that doesn't catch on as quickly. On a positive note, she didn't have the lower back tatoo--well not that I could tell...you catch my back-fat-roll drift.

3. (Still at Walmart) I walked up to the "express" line, quietly with my handful of staples: mac& cheese, ramen noodles, and corn. Too quietly, regrettably. In front of me was a man in his mid-50s, probably a father of two girls. How do I know? Because as I stood quietly, innocuously I might add, this father, unaware of our three foot proximity, let loose like he'd been holding it in for hours. Like he'd been around women all day and now he was finally free. And the best word to describe this surprise: squirty. It made me think of the old drink "Squirt." It sounded messy. And imperative. Imminent. Urgent. Well I took a step back and then turned around and started looking at the shelf with the air fresheners and gum and tv guides. Never had a dashboard air freshener seemed so close, yet so far away. A couple of thoughts were rapidly cycling through my mind at this point:

-Who DOES that?!
-Surely he didn't know I was there...But everyone ELSE was still there!
-I've waited here too long to switch lines, but that better not SMELL like it sounded...

Well the only reason I didn't audibly crack up out loud was because I didn't want to breathe in anymore than I had to. So then a lady comes up after me in line. (The line where time stood still, mind you.) And she proceeds to get as close to me as is socially unacceptable. I hate the invasion of my personal space. Heebie Jeebies. And she is invading my space to force my hand. To get me to move up further in line. The politics of shopping lines. I hate 'em. For some reason, we feel like we're getting out faster if we crowd up at the register. Nevermind that there's still 33 people in line, I'm only 10 feet away from the cashier! I can see the red laser! I can hear the incessant beeping. I can watch up close and fervently, the cashier struggling to ring up frozen items. And bulky items. And produce items. There's a lot of pressure on those ladies. And it's not just the language barrier. Ringing up items is a concentrated effort. Oh, the politics of shopping lines.

Well so My New Girlfriend behind me, or up on top of me by now, crowds me, successfully moving me closer to Squirt, who by this time is leaning hard to one side, all his weight on his left foot giving him the maximum leverage for the ultimate clenching. Maybe Squirm is a better name, he's so fidgety. Hands inverted on his hips. Eyes darting all around him. Sweat beads forming on his brow. And I was manhandled to within nose-shot of THIS. I should've traded places with her. Since she wanted to move up in line so badly. Crowded HER personal space. Forced HER to inhale his exhaust. That'd put an end to her little political shopping line aspirations. But I couldn't think straight. Maybe it was the fumes.

Well that's it. I'm off on a date with some Chinese food. That's right, China Star. It's me, you and a little Egg Foo Yung...