I’m sitting here watching re-runs of Glee, sipping on finger-quote sweet tea. Welcome to Tuesday night.
You see, I made an attempt at sweet tea last night. For those of you who are living vicariously through my blog, I hope you are getting at least a couple of servings of vicarious vegetables a day because I’ve never claimed to be a good cook. On the contrary, you might struggle to find a worse cook. Though I can’t say I suck at it because I generally avoid trying it. It's like saying I suck at having a colonoscopy - I might be good at it, but we'll never know.
When I moved into the house, I had the genius idea to buy cheap food that would keep a long time in order to make my cabinets appear full and to have stuff in the house in case someone came over who could cook. Included in that purchase, were 100 tea bags and 5 pounds of sugar. Last night I put them to not so good use.
While I cooked the frozen chicken tenders [Note: This time I got fancy and put them on a salad.], I decided to make tea. I read the tea bag box which had directions for making one quart of unsweet tea. Turns out, I needed a gallon of sweet tea. It was at this point I started the process. With a call to Mom. She got me started, but I made the critical error of sounding semi-confident on the phone and asking specific questions. Therefore, as soon as I hung up, I had more questions and had abandoned enough of my independence for one day.
So I pulled up Google. 3 queries later, I all but threw in the towel. I was 15 seconds away from trying to calculate fluid ounces to non-fluid ounces so that I could use a Gatorade bottle to measure the sugar when I finally found something with a measurement on it. Sure, it was a piece of Tupperware that was previously home to leftovers from Mom. And yes, my dear mother, I do intend to keep that until you specifically ask for it back.
When it was all said and done, I had made drinkable tea. Honestly, it’s not great, and I have no idea how to improve the process next time, but I count it as a victory nonetheless.
So, to my future wife [Because I know you’re reading this… Well, know is a strong word.], don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll mow the yard and change the air filters, but if dinner is left up to me, we’re having Hot Pockets. I love you.
Now if I could figure out how to get my freezer to stop auto-defrosting my ice cubes, I could really pull the wool over the south’s eyes, fill up my Mason jar glasses with some sweet iced tea, and make them think I was from around here. The Mason jar glasses were courtesy of my grandmother... A meal really is a team effort around here.
Finally, I know Glee isn’t real, and some of you may not consider it cool [which is ironic, considering the glee club itself isn’t cool at McKinley High], but Quinn Fabray, if you’re reading this and have ever wanted to go to dinner with an auditor who has a low-traffic blog, I’d be more than happy to oblige. I promise at as many real dates as you want prior to Hot Pockets.
12.12.2010
B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets
Disciples of Tebow have Jorts. Girls who wish to appear as though they’re wearing pants without actually wearing pants have Jeggings. Consider this post the introduction of the concept of Jet Pants… or Jets. They’re the sweatpants that look like blue jeans.
Sure, those of us who have entered Corporate America know the excitement that comes with the rare opportunity to wear jeans to work. But what if you could appear as though you were wearing jeans, when, in actuality, you were wearing sweatpants?
Honestly, I don’t see that much difference in the comfort of jeans as opposed to the comfort of khakis (what a ridiculous word, when spelled out) or slacks (am I the first person under the age of 60 to use that term?). The one obvious benefit is that you don’t have to use a napkin when you wear jeans.
Take a minute and think outside the inseam: do we really live in a world where you can’t wipe your hands on your pants and feel like you’re legs are surrounded by a cuddly polar bear? Hannah Montana could make this happen – it’d be the best of both worlds. Of course, she’d have to stop taking rides on the reefer rocket first.
In reality, I don’t want Miley as the spokesperson for Jet Pants. I want Mike Vitar. Who’s Mike Vitar, you ask? Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez. Benny “the Jet” Rodriguez. Think about how much faster Benny could have run away from the Beast if he had been wearing Jets instead of jeans. I guarantee Jet Pants would have made enough of a difference in his range of motion that the Beast would have never gotten close enough to nip at Benny’s haunches, and, as a direct result, Benny would have never yelled the first curse word I remember hearing. [I believe that to be a reasonable claim. I would have been 8 when watching this movie. Frankly, I don’t remember much before age 8 anyway.]
Seriously, you’re already picturing the commercial in your head, aren’t you? Well, that doesn’t entitle you to the copyright. This little blog is time-stamped, sucker. My extensive knowledge of Business Law indicates that when I prove it my was my idea first, I win. Anyway, in the commercial concept I have guided you to, you are picturing Benny the Jet Rodriguez outrunning the Beast while Sir Elton John is wailing in the background, “Oh, Bennie she’s really keen. She’s got electric boots and a mohair suit.”
When someone produces Jets (and after I start getting royalty checks), be sure to get a pair for yourself. Then stop pretending to drown… because Wendy Peffercorn will be all over you, Squints.
Sure, those of us who have entered Corporate America know the excitement that comes with the rare opportunity to wear jeans to work. But what if you could appear as though you were wearing jeans, when, in actuality, you were wearing sweatpants?
Honestly, I don’t see that much difference in the comfort of jeans as opposed to the comfort of khakis (what a ridiculous word, when spelled out) or slacks (am I the first person under the age of 60 to use that term?). The one obvious benefit is that you don’t have to use a napkin when you wear jeans.
Take a minute and think outside the inseam: do we really live in a world where you can’t wipe your hands on your pants and feel like you’re legs are surrounded by a cuddly polar bear? Hannah Montana could make this happen – it’d be the best of both worlds. Of course, she’d have to stop taking rides on the reefer rocket first.
In reality, I don’t want Miley as the spokesperson for Jet Pants. I want Mike Vitar. Who’s Mike Vitar, you ask? Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez. Benny “the Jet” Rodriguez. Think about how much faster Benny could have run away from the Beast if he had been wearing Jets instead of jeans. I guarantee Jet Pants would have made enough of a difference in his range of motion that the Beast would have never gotten close enough to nip at Benny’s haunches, and, as a direct result, Benny would have never yelled the first curse word I remember hearing. [I believe that to be a reasonable claim. I would have been 8 when watching this movie. Frankly, I don’t remember much before age 8 anyway.]
Seriously, you’re already picturing the commercial in your head, aren’t you? Well, that doesn’t entitle you to the copyright. This little blog is time-stamped, sucker. My extensive knowledge of Business Law indicates that when I prove it my was my idea first, I win. Anyway, in the commercial concept I have guided you to, you are picturing Benny the Jet Rodriguez outrunning the Beast while Sir Elton John is wailing in the background, “Oh, Bennie she’s really keen. She’s got electric boots and a mohair suit.”
When someone produces Jets (and after I start getting royalty checks), be sure to get a pair for yourself. Then stop pretending to drown… because Wendy Peffercorn will be all over you, Squints.
12.07.2010
Skip to the Bottom for Christmas Gift Ideas
A brief excerpt from my life… Last work trip I took, I returned to the Nashville airport, walked the 4 miles through long term parking construction to my car, loaded my suitcase in the trunk, climbed inside and turned the key. It was at this point I was welcomed home by the reality that my car was as broke as Andrea Bocelli feeding quarters into an arcade trying to beat Galaga.
After I remembered I had roadside assistance through my recently acquired new car insurance, I soon found myself waving down the tow truck driver. He had a normal name, so, naturally, we’ll give him an alias. So Gus pulls up and asks for my insurance card. Actual conversation to follow:
“This your wife’s card?”
“Nope. I’m Loren.”
“Huh... You a Johnny Cash fan?”
Easily the greatest conversation I’ve ever had with a tow truck driver. A few minutes later, I learned that the airport still charges you for parking, even when you try to sneak your car out on the back of a tow truck.
Gus was nice. I hope he didn’t like me asking him to repeat everything he said because it was hard for me to interpret his twang with the windows down. Anyway, all worked out wonderfully, but I figured if you clicked looking to catch a glimpse of life as me, I should give it to you.
As I type this, G6 is on. A word of warning for all you young, malleable minds (malleable - Wordly Wise level 9 word), no matter how fly you are feeling or how numb you are from popping bottles on ice in a blizzard, it is never a good idea to sip scissors.
Here I thought kids were just huffing rubber cement, which, I learned at church last week, requires a paper bag. It appears we live in a society where everything Billy Madison used to make his blue duck and pass first grade is now used by kids looking for a high while dancing around on a glittery floor, listening to Ke-dollar-sign-ha.
Who needs urban dictionary when you have East Nashville church kids? Not this guy. Even if we don't have Jesus on our neck-uh-lace, you don't want to mess with South Historic Inglewood.
Finally, for those not-last-minute-but-clearly-not-first-minute Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa shoppers, stop reading this and go buy your kids some Pogs. They're quacktastic.
After I remembered I had roadside assistance through my recently acquired new car insurance, I soon found myself waving down the tow truck driver. He had a normal name, so, naturally, we’ll give him an alias. So Gus pulls up and asks for my insurance card. Actual conversation to follow:
“This your wife’s card?”
“Nope. I’m Loren.”
“Huh... You a Johnny Cash fan?”
Easily the greatest conversation I’ve ever had with a tow truck driver. A few minutes later, I learned that the airport still charges you for parking, even when you try to sneak your car out on the back of a tow truck.
Gus was nice. I hope he didn’t like me asking him to repeat everything he said because it was hard for me to interpret his twang with the windows down. Anyway, all worked out wonderfully, but I figured if you clicked looking to catch a glimpse of life as me, I should give it to you.
As I type this, G6 is on. A word of warning for all you young, malleable minds (malleable - Wordly Wise level 9 word), no matter how fly you are feeling or how numb you are from popping bottles on ice in a blizzard, it is never a good idea to sip scissors.
Here I thought kids were just huffing rubber cement, which, I learned at church last week, requires a paper bag. It appears we live in a society where everything Billy Madison used to make his blue duck and pass first grade is now used by kids looking for a high while dancing around on a glittery floor, listening to Ke-dollar-sign-ha.
Who needs urban dictionary when you have East Nashville church kids? Not this guy. Even if we don't have Jesus on our neck-uh-lace, you don't want to mess with South Historic Inglewood.
Finally, for those not-last-minute-but-clearly-not-first-minute Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa shoppers, stop reading this and go buy your kids some Pogs. They're quacktastic.
11.29.2010
With A Little Love and Some Tenderness...
Well, I promised I would have an amazing day today. I think I was fairly successful in that endeavor. It started off well – took my car to Nissan because if there was ever going to be paradise, I didn’t want it to be by the Check Engine light. The Nissan guys were in good spirits, laughing and whatnot. Little did I know that was all just to loosen up my purse strings. This isn’t supposed to be about my car, but let’s just say there was enough wrong with it that Nissan asked to sleep on it.
In exchange for my 2004 grandma colored Altima, they gave me a 2010 slate colored Altima. Slate might be the coolest color name outside of orange, and that’s only because you can’t eat slate. Slate you glad I didn’t tell an orange joke?
After they verified I knew how to operate a push-button start, I drove away to discover that the guys at Nissan had set all of my presets for me. Let’s just say 107.5 was the closest any of the six stations got to country. In lieu of hunting for stations, I decided to live it up.
In a perfect world, I would live every day in a musical like the Scrubs musical. Today was close to perfect in this regard.
Midday, one of my friends managed to get Tender Tennessee Christmas stuck in my head for at least the 6th time this year. That sentence wasn’t meant for humor, or even to tell you about my day. It was more to remind you that they say in L.A., it’s a warm holiday, it’s the only place to be. But it doesn’t matter. Give me the laughter.
While living it up this afternoon, James Brown informed me that Santa Claus goes straight to the ghetto. I can’t think of anything that says two days before December like thinking about Saint Nick in the hood.
A few songs later, I had the privilege of hearing Akon and Michael Jackson’s new song. This made me wonder a few things…
One. If Michael Jackson were still alive, would he do a song with Akon? As screwed up as he was, MJ had one of the most impressive voices in culture, pop or otherwise. Akon’s voice has never been heard. There weren’t a lot of words in “Hold My Hand”, but even without any blowfish, I enjoyed that 4 minutes… Glad Konvict Muzik purchased the rights to Michael Jackson's leftover syllables.
Two. How long do we have to wait for MJ, Tupac, and Elvis to release the most impressive single ever to hit the airwaves? Seriously, gentlemen, make it happen. Life on that island must get boring. I don’t know if there’s room in your mouths for me to put words, given the coin in there for Charon the Ferry Boat Man, but this could happen. “I’m Starting with the Man In the Ghetto Gospel” – there, that should give you some common ground to start on. Feel free to go in whatever direction you choose… I trust the Decomposed Amigos.
Three. If I had to choose between being blind or def, I’d choose blind in a heartbeat. Sure, there are tax incentives for being blind, but also, if you were def, you’d never get to hear Nelly’s "Just a Dream". But those of us who were blind would get to hear it every time we turned on 106.7. I am excited to live in a world where Nelly is back on the radio, but the number of times that song gets played per day is St. Lunacy.
Well, in case you can't tell by the volume of hyperlinks, I have full internet now. Lookout, world.
In exchange for my 2004 grandma colored Altima, they gave me a 2010 slate colored Altima. Slate might be the coolest color name outside of orange, and that’s only because you can’t eat slate. Slate you glad I didn’t tell an orange joke?
After they verified I knew how to operate a push-button start, I drove away to discover that the guys at Nissan had set all of my presets for me. Let’s just say 107.5 was the closest any of the six stations got to country. In lieu of hunting for stations, I decided to live it up.
In a perfect world, I would live every day in a musical like the Scrubs musical. Today was close to perfect in this regard.
Midday, one of my friends managed to get Tender Tennessee Christmas stuck in my head for at least the 6th time this year. That sentence wasn’t meant for humor, or even to tell you about my day. It was more to remind you that they say in L.A., it’s a warm holiday, it’s the only place to be. But it doesn’t matter. Give me the laughter.
While living it up this afternoon, James Brown informed me that Santa Claus goes straight to the ghetto. I can’t think of anything that says two days before December like thinking about Saint Nick in the hood.
A few songs later, I had the privilege of hearing Akon and Michael Jackson’s new song. This made me wonder a few things…
One. If Michael Jackson were still alive, would he do a song with Akon? As screwed up as he was, MJ had one of the most impressive voices in culture, pop or otherwise. Akon’s voice has never been heard. There weren’t a lot of words in “Hold My Hand”, but even without any blowfish, I enjoyed that 4 minutes… Glad Konvict Muzik purchased the rights to Michael Jackson's leftover syllables.
Two. How long do we have to wait for MJ, Tupac, and Elvis to release the most impressive single ever to hit the airwaves? Seriously, gentlemen, make it happen. Life on that island must get boring. I don’t know if there’s room in your mouths for me to put words, given the coin in there for Charon the Ferry Boat Man, but this could happen. “I’m Starting with the Man In the Ghetto Gospel” – there, that should give you some common ground to start on. Feel free to go in whatever direction you choose… I trust the Decomposed Amigos.
Three. If I had to choose between being blind or def, I’d choose blind in a heartbeat. Sure, there are tax incentives for being blind, but also, if you were def, you’d never get to hear Nelly’s "Just a Dream". But those of us who were blind would get to hear it every time we turned on 106.7. I am excited to live in a world where Nelly is back on the radio, but the number of times that song gets played per day is St. Lunacy.
Well, in case you can't tell by the volume of hyperlinks, I have full internet now. Lookout, world.
11.26.2010
Time for Giving Thanks Has Passed
I was far too preoccupied yesterday with dressing to be thankful. The food group dressing, not the act of putting on clothes. As such, I shall be thankful tonight. Don’t get me wrong, I am thankful for a lot of nouns (you know, persons, places, things, and ideas), but tonight I choose to focus my finger calories on the nouns I am thankful for, but would also be interested to live without for a short amount of time…
Cell phones. It’s nice to be able to reach anyone anytime. It is not always so nice to be expected to be reached at any time. Plus, rotary phones way more reliable than an iPhone.
Marching bands. No disrespect intended to the band geeks out there. Drumline is one of my top 4 movies of all time. However, if there were no marching bands, there would be far less Rocky Top.
Cars. They’re supposed to fly by now, you know. Plus, mine currently has the check engine soon light on.
Social Media. Ironic, I know. I love a good tweet as much as the next guy, but I have no interest in the airing of your proverbial laundry on your facebook wall. Nor do I have an interest in you flaunting your literal laundry or lack thereof on said facebook.
Toenails. I’m sure they serve a purpose, but why must they grow? And collect sock gunk in their corners?
Electricity. To be blunt, humans are soft, and fire is fun. In immediate retrospect, I may be more thankful for electricity than I thought.
Whales. They’re majestic creatures, truly. However, if there were no whales, there would be no Whale Wars on Animal Planet. On the other hand, Willy would have never been in captivity and that cool Native American guy wouldn’t have blazed the pop culture trail wearing his puka shell necklace. [Ironically, per IMDb, that guy’s name is August Schellenberg.]
Seven seems like a good enough number for this category of thanks. I could go on, but really, seven's plenty.
A quick rundown of things I’m thankful for and thankful that I don’t have to live without (in no particular order): Hot Pockets, family, Glee, church in the hood, TSA agents, blankets, Mom's lasagna, Sean Connery movies, Memorial Gym, you (inasmuch, not leaving you out), adjectives, good drivers, flannel sheets, and “chocolaty goodness”.
To close motivationally, per usual… A portion of tonight’s [Note: I wrote this a couple of days ago and was inhibited from posting] Thanksgiving Wednesday night devo thought made me ponder [I may be going out on a limb when I say the percentage of crossover between the audience reading this and the 47 people at church tonight is relatively low]… “Live life, just as you have it... Smile, even if you have no idea what’s going on.” Tomorrow’s over/under is set at 5,400 calories. [Editor's Note: If you took the under, please make your payment accordingly. I will accept PayPal.]
Crank up the Christmas music.
Cell phones. It’s nice to be able to reach anyone anytime. It is not always so nice to be expected to be reached at any time. Plus, rotary phones way more reliable than an iPhone.
Marching bands. No disrespect intended to the band geeks out there. Drumline is one of my top 4 movies of all time. However, if there were no marching bands, there would be far less Rocky Top.
Cars. They’re supposed to fly by now, you know. Plus, mine currently has the check engine soon light on.
Social Media. Ironic, I know. I love a good tweet as much as the next guy, but I have no interest in the airing of your proverbial laundry on your facebook wall. Nor do I have an interest in you flaunting your literal laundry or lack thereof on said facebook.
Toenails. I’m sure they serve a purpose, but why must they grow? And collect sock gunk in their corners?
Electricity. To be blunt, humans are soft, and fire is fun. In immediate retrospect, I may be more thankful for electricity than I thought.
Whales. They’re majestic creatures, truly. However, if there were no whales, there would be no Whale Wars on Animal Planet. On the other hand, Willy would have never been in captivity and that cool Native American guy wouldn’t have blazed the pop culture trail wearing his puka shell necklace. [Ironically, per IMDb, that guy’s name is August Schellenberg.]
Seven seems like a good enough number for this category of thanks. I could go on, but really, seven's plenty.
A quick rundown of things I’m thankful for and thankful that I don’t have to live without (in no particular order): Hot Pockets, family, Glee, church in the hood, TSA agents, blankets, Mom's lasagna, Sean Connery movies, Memorial Gym, you (inasmuch, not leaving you out), adjectives, good drivers, flannel sheets, and “chocolaty goodness”.
To close motivationally, per usual… A portion of tonight’s [Note: I wrote this a couple of days ago and was inhibited from posting] Thanksgiving Wednesday night devo thought made me ponder [I may be going out on a limb when I say the percentage of crossover between the audience reading this and the 47 people at church tonight is relatively low]… “Live life, just as you have it... Smile, even if you have no idea what’s going on.” Tomorrow’s over/under is set at 5,400 calories. [Editor's Note: If you took the under, please make your payment accordingly. I will accept PayPal.]
Crank up the Christmas music.
11.15.2010
If You're Lost , You Can Look...
So, North Nashville recently got a new Super Wal-Mart. By North Nashville, I mean Madison, specifically Dickerson Road. Yes, that Dickerson Road. However, even on this infamous Nashville roadway, the Super Wal-Mart crowd is 47% less sketchy than the regular Wal-Mart in Rivergate. All that to say, I bought some new sheets.
When I was little, I always had a favorite part of wintertime, outside of the obvious gift-receiving. There was the time that I thought I would have fun and help out by breaking the ice off of the sliding glass door, only to have my father inform me that the ice was in fact the outer pane of what used to be a dual pane sliding glass door… But, alas, that wasn’t my favorite yuletide of my youth event. Nope… that title was reserved for when Mom determined it was time to put the penguin sheets on my bed.
Baby blue sheets full of vibrant penguins living the dream. The best part of the sheet change? Those punderful penguins were made of flannel. Flannel sheets make a man think that Al Borland had it right all along. To draw a terrible and disgusting analogy, flannel sheets are a grown man’s womb. But instead of going through the awkward process of taking a wrong turn and wandering off into some dark fallopian tube, a man can simply peel back the covers and climb into the warmth and security of a good set of flannel sheets.
Some relatively young adults might be more inclined to seek out high thread counts to impress their overnight visitors. Those folks are seeking the warmth of a woman. Or an STD... Me? I’m seeking the warmth of the Wal-Mart sheets I got on sale for fifteen dollars. That included two pillowcases, a flat sheet and one of those physically unfoldable sheets. And, one day, I’ll marry that mountainwoman that will climb in those flannel sheets with me. We can save the Egyptian cotton for summertime.
So, let’s close this out with a little motivation… Maybe you can easily remember your favorite part of childhood. Maybe you don’t want to remember your childhood. Hopefully, your best days are ahead of you. A wise man once told me if these were the best days of my life, I should kill myself. Don’t go that far, but do take the time to do something that makes you truly happy.
Find your flannel.
When I was little, I always had a favorite part of wintertime, outside of the obvious gift-receiving. There was the time that I thought I would have fun and help out by breaking the ice off of the sliding glass door, only to have my father inform me that the ice was in fact the outer pane of what used to be a dual pane sliding glass door… But, alas, that wasn’t my favorite yuletide of my youth event. Nope… that title was reserved for when Mom determined it was time to put the penguin sheets on my bed.
Baby blue sheets full of vibrant penguins living the dream. The best part of the sheet change? Those punderful penguins were made of flannel. Flannel sheets make a man think that Al Borland had it right all along. To draw a terrible and disgusting analogy, flannel sheets are a grown man’s womb. But instead of going through the awkward process of taking a wrong turn and wandering off into some dark fallopian tube, a man can simply peel back the covers and climb into the warmth and security of a good set of flannel sheets.
Some relatively young adults might be more inclined to seek out high thread counts to impress their overnight visitors. Those folks are seeking the warmth of a woman. Or an STD... Me? I’m seeking the warmth of the Wal-Mart sheets I got on sale for fifteen dollars. That included two pillowcases, a flat sheet and one of those physically unfoldable sheets. And, one day, I’ll marry that mountainwoman that will climb in those flannel sheets with me. We can save the Egyptian cotton for summertime.
So, let’s close this out with a little motivation… Maybe you can easily remember your favorite part of childhood. Maybe you don’t want to remember your childhood. Hopefully, your best days are ahead of you. A wise man once told me if these were the best days of my life, I should kill myself. Don’t go that far, but do take the time to do something that makes you truly happy.
Find your flannel.
11.08.2010
Cute Girls on the Short Bus
I'm about to get my Natalie Merchant on...
So I’ve been doing this blog thing for a little while now… This is post number 20 in fact. A milestone of sorts. I don’t have any intention of being the guy who writes for a little while, finally gets a following, and then forgets about the folks that got him there. This is for you guys… It’s easy to get on the bus when the going is good, but you all started on the bus. Sure, it may not be a big bus yet. But the people I want reading my blog are the people who are willing to be the first ones to hop on the short bus on a cold morning.
I want this to be as enjoyable as possible for you guys. I want you to get rewarded for being first on the bus – not only by getting the back seat where you can spend the ride imagining what would happen if you opened the emergency door, but while you’re back there reading the instructions on how to open the door, the cute girl comes and sits beside you… Not the cute girl from your grade, but the grade above you.
Allow me to say thank you. Thank you to the folks in Denmark who keep looking at this thing. And thanks for starting to tell your friends in Sweden... Canada, the UK [Is The United Kingdom like The Ohio State? Additionally, while watching The Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader a while back, they tried to tell a guy there were only 3 adjectives in a sentence. However, there were two additional “the”s in that sentence, bringing the grand total of adjectives to five. Sure it’s an article, but an article is an adjective] , Mexico, Germany, Singapore, Israel and Pakistan, I see you too. Like ZZ Top, this blog is bad and worldwide. Probably more the former than the latter.
Thank you to my second leading source of volume, the high Simmons. [First hyperlink of my young blogging career]. Mile high. Taking the occasional break from studying the laws that govern the greatest country in the world and shaping the young to become President so that they can go to any sporting event they want, the Skeets have been kind enough to let some of their loyal readers stray off the path and into the rocky soil.
And there are a couple of more groups I need to thank. First, thank you to the people who come here by clicking the “Next Blog” button. Sure, you’re probably looking for some creepy erotic blog, but, alas, you stumbled upon this creepy non-erotic blog. Thanks for stopping by.
Lastly, thank you to the creepers. I know your kind. You claim “Hey, he’s putting it out there, he doesn’t need to know I’m reading it and taking notes on his life.” And you’re right. Lurk away. You’re an important part of society. Without you lurking, I wouldn’t have to worry about staying true to my blog. It’s you who is going to call me out about anything contradictory to something I posted on here. And it’s to you that I promise to never again use the phrase “stay true to my blog”.
Remind me to remember you all again in a few years when Mark Zuckerberg, Jay-Z, Rosie O’Donnell, Bruce Willis and Taylor Swift are on my blog's board of directors.
I want to thank you. Thank you.
So I’ve been doing this blog thing for a little while now… This is post number 20 in fact. A milestone of sorts. I don’t have any intention of being the guy who writes for a little while, finally gets a following, and then forgets about the folks that got him there. This is for you guys… It’s easy to get on the bus when the going is good, but you all started on the bus. Sure, it may not be a big bus yet. But the people I want reading my blog are the people who are willing to be the first ones to hop on the short bus on a cold morning.
I want this to be as enjoyable as possible for you guys. I want you to get rewarded for being first on the bus – not only by getting the back seat where you can spend the ride imagining what would happen if you opened the emergency door, but while you’re back there reading the instructions on how to open the door, the cute girl comes and sits beside you… Not the cute girl from your grade, but the grade above you.
Allow me to say thank you. Thank you to the folks in Denmark who keep looking at this thing. And thanks for starting to tell your friends in Sweden... Canada, the UK [Is The United Kingdom like The Ohio State? Additionally, while watching The Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader a while back, they tried to tell a guy there were only 3 adjectives in a sentence. However, there were two additional “the”s in that sentence, bringing the grand total of adjectives to five. Sure it’s an article, but an article is an adjective] , Mexico, Germany, Singapore, Israel and Pakistan, I see you too. Like ZZ Top, this blog is bad and worldwide. Probably more the former than the latter.
Thank you to my second leading source of volume, the high Simmons. [First hyperlink of my young blogging career]. Mile high. Taking the occasional break from studying the laws that govern the greatest country in the world and shaping the young to become President so that they can go to any sporting event they want, the Skeets have been kind enough to let some of their loyal readers stray off the path and into the rocky soil.
And there are a couple of more groups I need to thank. First, thank you to the people who come here by clicking the “Next Blog” button. Sure, you’re probably looking for some creepy erotic blog, but, alas, you stumbled upon this creepy non-erotic blog. Thanks for stopping by.
Lastly, thank you to the creepers. I know your kind. You claim “Hey, he’s putting it out there, he doesn’t need to know I’m reading it and taking notes on his life.” And you’re right. Lurk away. You’re an important part of society. Without you lurking, I wouldn’t have to worry about staying true to my blog. It’s you who is going to call me out about anything contradictory to something I posted on here. And it’s to you that I promise to never again use the phrase “stay true to my blog”.
Remind me to remember you all again in a few years when Mark Zuckerberg, Jay-Z, Rosie O’Donnell, Bruce Willis and Taylor Swift are on my blog's board of directors.
I want to thank you. Thank you.
11.03.2010
For a Smile They Can Share the Night
Because you have no reason to read this, I don’t have to have a reason to write it. Today’s topic: stereotyping. Why you ask? Well, in a world of coincidences…
I spent the early evening in deep discussion about the stereotypical Brentwood girl. After all, it’s No-Pants-and-Uggs season. If you haven’t purchased your Cleveland Cavaliers 2011 calendar… you know, the one with LeBron James on the cover because they print those things way too far in advance… if you haven’t picked up your 2011 calendar, No-Pants-and-Uggs season runs from September 2nd through June 28th.
For those of you sweet innocent girls out there, I’m not upset that you choose to wear tights under your dress or your strangely long, ridiculously overpriced t-shirt… No-Pants-and-Uggs season is geared more toward those girls who are genuinely offended when a male is suckered into glancing at the Urkel-high thong popping out of your low-rise paint pants.
Anyway, so I spent a decent amount of time making casual references to the anything but casual attire one might find at the local frozen yogurt store in the upper-class part of town. [Note: I mean, really, a store that sells only frozen yogurt? ] Don’t get the wrong idea, Brentwood girls are great people… even the ones with vicegrip pants, but they are fairly easy to pigeonhole (thank you, Microsoft Word synonym finder).
So I stopped at my slumdog shell station on the way home from that conversation. While I’m waiting for my tank to fill, a set of rims pull up to the pump on the opposite side of the parking lot. [Note: The car the rims are connected to doesn’t really matter in Inglewood.] So the rims pull up, with their tinted windows and sound system blaring. Now that you have all joined me in my first stereotype, the song blaring from the rims? Don’t Stop Believing. So, I transitioned from stereotype 1 to stereotype 2. I went from thinking a young male with his obese father’s pants around his ankles was going to step out of the rims to thinking a high school kid who has been given a little too much of his parents’ money to do with as he so poorly chooses. Then the guy stepped out of the rims.
As I try not to commit manslaughter with suspense, let me tell you a little about the man who stepped out of the rims. While I’m pumping gas like Alshon Jeffery, singing along to Journey, a middle-aged man with his white shirt and red tie, with his driving cap atop his smiling head, danced out of the rims and into the gas station. That’s about as close to unstereotypable as a situation can get… unless he had let his mother drive.
So what did we learn today? You can’t judge an audio-book by its case. Everyone is living just to find emotion. Journey went on and on and on and on, long before Lamb Chop. And when we’re all singing to the same song, we’re never really strangers.
I spent the early evening in deep discussion about the stereotypical Brentwood girl. After all, it’s No-Pants-and-Uggs season. If you haven’t purchased your Cleveland Cavaliers 2011 calendar… you know, the one with LeBron James on the cover because they print those things way too far in advance… if you haven’t picked up your 2011 calendar, No-Pants-and-Uggs season runs from September 2nd through June 28th.
For those of you sweet innocent girls out there, I’m not upset that you choose to wear tights under your dress or your strangely long, ridiculously overpriced t-shirt… No-Pants-and-Uggs season is geared more toward those girls who are genuinely offended when a male is suckered into glancing at the Urkel-high thong popping out of your low-rise paint pants.
Anyway, so I spent a decent amount of time making casual references to the anything but casual attire one might find at the local frozen yogurt store in the upper-class part of town. [Note: I mean, really, a store that sells only frozen yogurt? ] Don’t get the wrong idea, Brentwood girls are great people… even the ones with vicegrip pants, but they are fairly easy to pigeonhole (thank you, Microsoft Word synonym finder).
So I stopped at my slumdog shell station on the way home from that conversation. While I’m waiting for my tank to fill, a set of rims pull up to the pump on the opposite side of the parking lot. [Note: The car the rims are connected to doesn’t really matter in Inglewood.] So the rims pull up, with their tinted windows and sound system blaring. Now that you have all joined me in my first stereotype, the song blaring from the rims? Don’t Stop Believing. So, I transitioned from stereotype 1 to stereotype 2. I went from thinking a young male with his obese father’s pants around his ankles was going to step out of the rims to thinking a high school kid who has been given a little too much of his parents’ money to do with as he so poorly chooses. Then the guy stepped out of the rims.
As I try not to commit manslaughter with suspense, let me tell you a little about the man who stepped out of the rims. While I’m pumping gas like Alshon Jeffery, singing along to Journey, a middle-aged man with his white shirt and red tie, with his driving cap atop his smiling head, danced out of the rims and into the gas station. That’s about as close to unstereotypable as a situation can get… unless he had let his mother drive.
So what did we learn today? You can’t judge an audio-book by its case. Everyone is living just to find emotion. Journey went on and on and on and on, long before Lamb Chop. And when we’re all singing to the same song, we’re never really strangers.
10.30.2010
The Perfect Song
So I’m typing this from 39,000 feet in the air. Once we reached the magical altitude where an ipod no longer can cause a plane crash, the earbuds were in. During “Another One Bites the Dust”, I convinced myself that I was going to try to remember every song that played until it was time to turn off all electronic devices in preparation for landing.... Kind of like my own version of one of those youth group games where you’re all going on a hypothetical trip, and you have to remember what each person is bringing on that trip. It was halfway through “I’m Sorry Momma” when I realized this was not only not a good idea, but also impossible. Perhaps if Coach McPherson had taught me a memory jogger for numbers 11-50, I might have been able to do it.
Instead, I decided I would share with you my musical journey from Los Angeles to Nashville. I’m sure there are a lot of bad musicians out there who could sympathize, empathize, and maybe even harmonize with a musical journey between these two cities, if that was what I was referring to. However, I am simply referring to the soundtrack of the skies. I have set the ipod to shuffle on all songs. As long as I remember, I will write each song title and artist below. In a completely non-condescending font, I highly doubt any of you will recognize all of these songs. So take this opportunity to expand your horizons. I will be inserting random comments along the way, because being on a plane isn’t all that interesting. But, I will try to keep it short since this has potential to be the longest post ever.
Not that you care, but the hardest part of this journey is going to be not hitting the next button. Buckle up, folks. In fact, go ahead and make sure your chair backs and tray tables are in the upright and locked position as well. Thank you and welcome aboard.
Whispering Truths – Red Shepherd
Another One Bites the Dust – Queen
I Miss My Friend – Daryl Worley
Daniel – Elton John
I’m Sorry Momma – Eminem
No One Loves Me Like You – Jars of Clay
Born to Be Wild – Steppenwolf
Hard Habit to Break – Chicago
Cowgirl’s Saddle – Garth Brooks
[The woman in the window seat in front of me just went to the bathroom. I promise not to update you on all trips to the lavatory, but this is the girl who, on a full flight, tried not to let anyone sit beside her because “she gets sick on planes.” ...So many problems with this scenario.]
Love Me Do – The Beatles
[This song begins a lot like the Sesame Street theme song. So much so, in fact, that I wondered when I had gotten the Sesame Street theme song]
Taxi – Harry Chapin
Before He Cheats – Carrie Underwood-Fisher
Turf’s Up – Brad Paisley
Take the Keys to My Heart – Garth Brooks
Karin Boye’s Evening Prayer – as performed by the DLHS Concert Chorus, circa 2003
[I am getting an incredible amount of odd enjoyment from this experience. This is probably a bad idea, because the anticipation for the next song is similar to Christmas Eve. Thus, each song goes by a little slower.]
Excuse Me Mr. – Ben Harper
When a Man Loves a Woman – Percy Sledge
This is the Way We Ball – Lil’ Flip
[I like a little rap as much as the next accountant, but I blame my brother for that one. Though I do like to floss, and all my diamonds do gloss.]
Owner of a Lonely Heart – Yes
[While we’re blaming family members… Dad, I hope you have googled me, stumbled upon this, and smiled.]
Roll Out – Ludacris
[I don’t think it’s fair to blame the brother more than once. I am at fault here as well. I promise I tried to clean the library up a while back. Crack slipper.]
Give – Third Day
[I can’t decide if Luda and Third Day back to back is hypocritical or well-rounded… Leaning toward hypocritical.]
Just For You – Sam Cooke
[Well, I understand pilots have bladders too, and I did make a promise earlier, but how qualified are Southwest flight attendants? One of them just replaced a peeing pilot. They’re not allowing anyone to come up to the front. The pilot is now on the phone, just hanging out. Either this puppy is going down, or the other pilot is getting some action.]
Pony – Ginuwine
[Pilots and flight attendants have returned to their respective posts. That was quick, but she was cute.]
My Old Friend – Tim McGraw
The Way You Do the Things You Do – The Temptations
With You – Jessica Simpson
[Brutal honesty, but, with you, I can say anything crazy.]
Against All Odds – Phil Collins
Thank You – Sly and the Family Stone
[Five minutes of my life I will never get back.]
Stay Gone – Jimmy Wayne
You Got Me – LoCash Cowboys
[When did not wearing pants in public become socially acceptable? IF I wore tights out of the house, I like to think people would frown on that.]
Love Me Good – Michael W. Smith
Let It Be – Performed by Joe Cocker
99.9% Sure – Brian McComas
Dead and Alive – Loren Sanders
[Out of 1,610 songs, it only took 35 to get to one that I wasn’t quite ready to share with the blog world. If you’re not affiliated with Taylor Christian Camp, sorry, but this explanation is not coming.]
Oh What a Night – The Four Seasons
[If you are affiliated with TCC, you can imagine my disbelief when I heard the music come on for this song right after the last. And yes, this is the actual song.]
Can’t Tell Me Nothin’ – Tim McGraw
Little Maggie – Ricky Skaggs
[Remember that no next button commitment? Wavering.]
What Would Jesus Do? – Big Tent Revival
What is Wrong – Red Shepherd
[I would pause for a moment of silence, but that would require a hitch in the playlist giddyup.]
Don’t Worry ‘Bout a Thing – SheDaisy
Wrapped Around – Brad Paisley
She Thinks She Needs Me – Andy Griggs
[The two gentlemen beside me have become fast friends. 4 hours of talking. Sure, there’s a chance they could be reading this now. But I dimmed the screen and shrunk the font whenever I was writing about the flight attendant rendezvous during drink service.]
It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye – Boyz II Men
[On Fridays, BNA is one of my favorite places on earth. I enjoyed California. Work went well. We had a little time to go to the beach. But Dorothy was right.]
Groovin’ – The Rascals
Dust in the Wind – Kansas
[I love how effectively this artist tied in with my most recent reference.]
It Did – Brad Paisley
[Captain just came on… Looks like this party may be on its last leg. It’s been fun. Sure beats a second run through Sky Mall.]
That was indeed the last song of the flight... I know a majority of society could not care less about this post. However, if you ever wondered, "What is that guy listening to," maybe this will help you realize you probably don't really want to know.
For the 8 people who have clicked on my blog from Denmark, I hope you guys get to experience such culture.
#40000feet50songs2newbestfriends1poorexcuseforablogpost
Instead, I decided I would share with you my musical journey from Los Angeles to Nashville. I’m sure there are a lot of bad musicians out there who could sympathize, empathize, and maybe even harmonize with a musical journey between these two cities, if that was what I was referring to. However, I am simply referring to the soundtrack of the skies. I have set the ipod to shuffle on all songs. As long as I remember, I will write each song title and artist below. In a completely non-condescending font, I highly doubt any of you will recognize all of these songs. So take this opportunity to expand your horizons. I will be inserting random comments along the way, because being on a plane isn’t all that interesting. But, I will try to keep it short since this has potential to be the longest post ever.
Not that you care, but the hardest part of this journey is going to be not hitting the next button. Buckle up, folks. In fact, go ahead and make sure your chair backs and tray tables are in the upright and locked position as well. Thank you and welcome aboard.
Whispering Truths – Red Shepherd
Another One Bites the Dust – Queen
I Miss My Friend – Daryl Worley
Daniel – Elton John
I’m Sorry Momma – Eminem
No One Loves Me Like You – Jars of Clay
Born to Be Wild – Steppenwolf
Hard Habit to Break – Chicago
Cowgirl’s Saddle – Garth Brooks
[The woman in the window seat in front of me just went to the bathroom. I promise not to update you on all trips to the lavatory, but this is the girl who, on a full flight, tried not to let anyone sit beside her because “she gets sick on planes.” ...So many problems with this scenario.]
Love Me Do – The Beatles
[This song begins a lot like the Sesame Street theme song. So much so, in fact, that I wondered when I had gotten the Sesame Street theme song]
Taxi – Harry Chapin
Before He Cheats – Carrie Underwood-Fisher
Turf’s Up – Brad Paisley
Take the Keys to My Heart – Garth Brooks
Karin Boye’s Evening Prayer – as performed by the DLHS Concert Chorus, circa 2003
[I am getting an incredible amount of odd enjoyment from this experience. This is probably a bad idea, because the anticipation for the next song is similar to Christmas Eve. Thus, each song goes by a little slower.]
Excuse Me Mr. – Ben Harper
When a Man Loves a Woman – Percy Sledge
This is the Way We Ball – Lil’ Flip
[I like a little rap as much as the next accountant, but I blame my brother for that one. Though I do like to floss, and all my diamonds do gloss.]
Owner of a Lonely Heart – Yes
[While we’re blaming family members… Dad, I hope you have googled me, stumbled upon this, and smiled.]
Roll Out – Ludacris
[I don’t think it’s fair to blame the brother more than once. I am at fault here as well. I promise I tried to clean the library up a while back. Crack slipper.]
Give – Third Day
[I can’t decide if Luda and Third Day back to back is hypocritical or well-rounded… Leaning toward hypocritical.]
Just For You – Sam Cooke
[Well, I understand pilots have bladders too, and I did make a promise earlier, but how qualified are Southwest flight attendants? One of them just replaced a peeing pilot. They’re not allowing anyone to come up to the front. The pilot is now on the phone, just hanging out. Either this puppy is going down, or the other pilot is getting some action.]
Pony – Ginuwine
[Pilots and flight attendants have returned to their respective posts. That was quick, but she was cute.]
My Old Friend – Tim McGraw
The Way You Do the Things You Do – The Temptations
With You – Jessica Simpson
[Brutal honesty, but, with you, I can say anything crazy.]
Against All Odds – Phil Collins
Thank You – Sly and the Family Stone
[Five minutes of my life I will never get back.]
Stay Gone – Jimmy Wayne
You Got Me – LoCash Cowboys
[When did not wearing pants in public become socially acceptable? IF I wore tights out of the house, I like to think people would frown on that.]
Love Me Good – Michael W. Smith
Let It Be – Performed by Joe Cocker
99.9% Sure – Brian McComas
Dead and Alive – Loren Sanders
[Out of 1,610 songs, it only took 35 to get to one that I wasn’t quite ready to share with the blog world. If you’re not affiliated with Taylor Christian Camp, sorry, but this explanation is not coming.]
Oh What a Night – The Four Seasons
[If you are affiliated with TCC, you can imagine my disbelief when I heard the music come on for this song right after the last. And yes, this is the actual song.]
Can’t Tell Me Nothin’ – Tim McGraw
Little Maggie – Ricky Skaggs
[Remember that no next button commitment? Wavering.]
What Would Jesus Do? – Big Tent Revival
What is Wrong – Red Shepherd
[I would pause for a moment of silence, but that would require a hitch in the playlist giddyup.]
Don’t Worry ‘Bout a Thing – SheDaisy
Wrapped Around – Brad Paisley
She Thinks She Needs Me – Andy Griggs
[The two gentlemen beside me have become fast friends. 4 hours of talking. Sure, there’s a chance they could be reading this now. But I dimmed the screen and shrunk the font whenever I was writing about the flight attendant rendezvous during drink service.]
It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye – Boyz II Men
[On Fridays, BNA is one of my favorite places on earth. I enjoyed California. Work went well. We had a little time to go to the beach. But Dorothy was right.]
Groovin’ – The Rascals
Dust in the Wind – Kansas
[I love how effectively this artist tied in with my most recent reference.]
It Did – Brad Paisley
[Captain just came on… Looks like this party may be on its last leg. It’s been fun. Sure beats a second run through Sky Mall.]
That was indeed the last song of the flight... I know a majority of society could not care less about this post. However, if you ever wondered, "What is that guy listening to," maybe this will help you realize you probably don't really want to know.
For the 8 people who have clicked on my blog from Denmark, I hope you guys get to experience such culture.
#40000feet50songs2newbestfriends1poorexcuseforablogpost
10.28.2010
I Smiled and Said, "I'll Have Some of That"
Once you reach adulthood [Note: Adulthood is different than Manhood, as I have been reminded oh so many times by practicing married men.], you quickly reach a point where you identify the good things in life. They’re not always big things. In fact, for the most part, they’re quite the opposite. For instance, the inspiration for writing this? Today I went to the bathroom at work, and the water was blue.
Not much is better in the work/school/gas station environment than seeing blue water when you enter a bathroom stall frequented by several people each day. Could it be a false sense of cleanliness? Absolutely. But at least there’s a chance that stall won’t give you hepatitis. Not all deuces can be taken in 7th grade hall at David Lipscomb Campus School. [Note: For the uninformed, this was the location of choice for the duration of my high school career. This hall was no longer used after my class finished 7th grade, and, as such, solidarity was easier to find here than anywhere else in Harding Hall. If you walked in and saw feet, you were beat, and it was time to let the victor have his soil. In retrospect, the fact that so many males saw this as their personal bowel haven, probably means it was the most disgusting location available.] So, if you must go in a public-ish bathroom, the blue water makes cleaning up with Georgia Pacific sandpaper all the more bearable.
More little good things? Let’s see… I’m on an audit this week, so I meet 3 co-workers in the hotel lobby to head to work. We all climb in the Impala, and start the car up. Three of us in the car each have 2-3 years experience in our department. The fourth, we’ll call well-experienced. Today’s little good thing: cranking up the car and hearing Tone Loc’s “Wild Thing”. Per a little Wikipedia research, “Wild Thing” was the first single released from the 1989 album Loc-ed After Dark. The second was like unto it, “Funky Cold Medina.” If you have heard one but not the other, rest assured, you have heard them both. For those who completely missed the boat, these songs are as different as Pat Green’s “Wave on Wave” and “Feels Just Like It Should”. Regardless, listening to Tone Loc before 8 a.m. with a Department Director is a good thing.
Free food in the break room at work – another good thing. Unless… Last week in the office, I overhear some discussion about pizza. I have my ipod on, so I don’t hear all of it. Then I get an IM from a coworker who sits near me, asking if I’ve heard anything about pizza because someone from the 1st floor is asking about rumored 2nd floor pizza. Well, yes, I have. I suddenly remember more of the conversation overheard than I think I ever heard in the first place. I share my knowledge, and we set off to explore. We go to the far break room and spot 6 pizza boxes. I duck my head in the nearest cube and ask, “what’s the deal with the pizza?” “Is that that smell?” – actual response. “Yeah, it’s on the table in here. Anything on the table in our kitchen is fair game – same here?” “Yeah…” Now there are three of us in the kitchen. One guy starts opening boxes... he identifies the first pizza as artichoke, and it’s a good thing he did because I couldn’t identify artichoke if my life depended on it. Second pizza: artichoke. Third: some unidentifiable vegetable. Fourth: artichoke. Fifth: Pineapple. Not chunks, mind you, but full slices. Sixth and final pizza appeared to be cheese. However, there were only 2 pieces left and the first 5 boxes had sufficiently scared me to a point where I was sure I could make it the last 2 hours of the workday without a piece of pizza. However, normally, free food in the break room is a good thing.
I could go on, but by this point, you have already come up with your own good things. You have also convinced yourself that your good things are better than mine. They probably are, but a conceited approach to little good things in life: not a little good thing.
Not much is better in the work/school/gas station environment than seeing blue water when you enter a bathroom stall frequented by several people each day. Could it be a false sense of cleanliness? Absolutely. But at least there’s a chance that stall won’t give you hepatitis. Not all deuces can be taken in 7th grade hall at David Lipscomb Campus School. [Note: For the uninformed, this was the location of choice for the duration of my high school career. This hall was no longer used after my class finished 7th grade, and, as such, solidarity was easier to find here than anywhere else in Harding Hall. If you walked in and saw feet, you were beat, and it was time to let the victor have his soil. In retrospect, the fact that so many males saw this as their personal bowel haven, probably means it was the most disgusting location available.] So, if you must go in a public-ish bathroom, the blue water makes cleaning up with Georgia Pacific sandpaper all the more bearable.
More little good things? Let’s see… I’m on an audit this week, so I meet 3 co-workers in the hotel lobby to head to work. We all climb in the Impala, and start the car up. Three of us in the car each have 2-3 years experience in our department. The fourth, we’ll call well-experienced. Today’s little good thing: cranking up the car and hearing Tone Loc’s “Wild Thing”. Per a little Wikipedia research, “Wild Thing” was the first single released from the 1989 album Loc-ed After Dark. The second was like unto it, “Funky Cold Medina.” If you have heard one but not the other, rest assured, you have heard them both. For those who completely missed the boat, these songs are as different as Pat Green’s “Wave on Wave” and “Feels Just Like It Should”. Regardless, listening to Tone Loc before 8 a.m. with a Department Director is a good thing.
Free food in the break room at work – another good thing. Unless… Last week in the office, I overhear some discussion about pizza. I have my ipod on, so I don’t hear all of it. Then I get an IM from a coworker who sits near me, asking if I’ve heard anything about pizza because someone from the 1st floor is asking about rumored 2nd floor pizza. Well, yes, I have. I suddenly remember more of the conversation overheard than I think I ever heard in the first place. I share my knowledge, and we set off to explore. We go to the far break room and spot 6 pizza boxes. I duck my head in the nearest cube and ask, “what’s the deal with the pizza?” “Is that that smell?” – actual response. “Yeah, it’s on the table in here. Anything on the table in our kitchen is fair game – same here?” “Yeah…” Now there are three of us in the kitchen. One guy starts opening boxes... he identifies the first pizza as artichoke, and it’s a good thing he did because I couldn’t identify artichoke if my life depended on it. Second pizza: artichoke. Third: some unidentifiable vegetable. Fourth: artichoke. Fifth: Pineapple. Not chunks, mind you, but full slices. Sixth and final pizza appeared to be cheese. However, there were only 2 pieces left and the first 5 boxes had sufficiently scared me to a point where I was sure I could make it the last 2 hours of the workday without a piece of pizza. However, normally, free food in the break room is a good thing.
I could go on, but by this point, you have already come up with your own good things. You have also convinced yourself that your good things are better than mine. They probably are, but a conceited approach to little good things in life: not a little good thing.
10.14.2010
Just to Turn It Around
Hey, Daniel Powter, you suck. Yeah, maybe I did have a bad day. The day is almost done (Editor's Note: Since I still am sans internet, the day was done last night), so now I can take a look back at it. By my standards, it was a bad day. No one that I know got hypothermia after falling off a crab boat in the Bering Sea. No, my identity wasn’t stolen while swiping my credit card, trying to become a Maxx-inista. Turns out, my gas pedal came back up after I pressed it down in the Altima. So maybe, by standards other than my own, the day wasn’t all that bad.
My idea of a bad day? Getting stood up by AT&T, for starters. I can’t remember if I have shared this on here before, and I can’t check for reasons that have been and will continue to be mentioned, but my 50 year old house doesn’t have a phone jack. No, not one. No, not one. As such, AT&T has to come out and install one so that I can get internet service. My sweet mother was kind enough to come hang out at the house from 8-12 [Note: While pointing subtlety out removes all subtlety, please note the subtlety that my wife didn’t stay at the house – that roster spot is waiting for just the right free agent]. Alas, the phone company didn’t come, and the only numbers I had rang endlessly for 20 minutes. You’d think the phone company could answer their leading product occasionally.
Throw on a few hours of monotony, some traffic, a dash of attitude, a cellulite email I wish I had never seen, and (apparently) a few too many stripes for one day’s apparel, and that’s as bad as it gets in my book. While spitting into the wind at karma, my days don’t get much worse than that. Funny how it takes until the 15th hour for me to realize, “Hey, moron, suck it up.” Miss Tracy, I hope you take a break from noticing all the sentence fragments to enjoy the commas I just used to set off the noun of direct address. On my bad day, I still got to spend the day with people I like. I ate 2 square meals and a triangle… I’m not really a breakfast guy… I sang along to a good 22 or so songs. I hung out at Riverwood with a few cool youth group kids, and a few cooler old people. On top of that, I’ve got 20 people lighting me up with motivational scripture on facebook updates.
So, thanks, God, for my bad day. Thank You for the kindness, laughter, and joy that filled my bad day. Thanks for letting me spend my bad day, constantly coming in contact with friends and family. And Thank You for not letting me freeze to death on an Alaskan crab boat... Maybe tomorrow will be better.
You know the worst part of my bad day? Not being able to come up with an appropriate synonym for “bad day”.
My idea of a bad day? Getting stood up by AT&T, for starters. I can’t remember if I have shared this on here before, and I can’t check for reasons that have been and will continue to be mentioned, but my 50 year old house doesn’t have a phone jack. No, not one. No, not one. As such, AT&T has to come out and install one so that I can get internet service. My sweet mother was kind enough to come hang out at the house from 8-12 [Note: While pointing subtlety out removes all subtlety, please note the subtlety that my wife didn’t stay at the house – that roster spot is waiting for just the right free agent]. Alas, the phone company didn’t come, and the only numbers I had rang endlessly for 20 minutes. You’d think the phone company could answer their leading product occasionally.
Throw on a few hours of monotony, some traffic, a dash of attitude, a cellulite email I wish I had never seen, and (apparently) a few too many stripes for one day’s apparel, and that’s as bad as it gets in my book. While spitting into the wind at karma, my days don’t get much worse than that. Funny how it takes until the 15th hour for me to realize, “Hey, moron, suck it up.” Miss Tracy, I hope you take a break from noticing all the sentence fragments to enjoy the commas I just used to set off the noun of direct address. On my bad day, I still got to spend the day with people I like. I ate 2 square meals and a triangle… I’m not really a breakfast guy… I sang along to a good 22 or so songs. I hung out at Riverwood with a few cool youth group kids, and a few cooler old people. On top of that, I’ve got 20 people lighting me up with motivational scripture on facebook updates.
So, thanks, God, for my bad day. Thank You for the kindness, laughter, and joy that filled my bad day. Thanks for letting me spend my bad day, constantly coming in contact with friends and family. And Thank You for not letting me freeze to death on an Alaskan crab boat... Maybe tomorrow will be better.
You know the worst part of my bad day? Not being able to come up with an appropriate synonym for “bad day”.
10.06.2010
"Name It Sex and Everyone Will Read It."
So, I’m driving home last night from South Nashville, when 107.5 the River [Note: I have yet to receive any advertisement revenue from local businesses. However, when this blog takes over 4th place on most frequented websites, behind the likes of Google, Facebook and Wikipedia, I will be happy to endorse almost anything.] reveals that bed-checks are over and requests have taken their place.
First off, for those of you who only listen to country because someone convinced you that if you want to claim Nashville as home, you must only listen to country, must drink sweet tea at every meal, and must have some weird obsession with John Deere products… expand your horizons. Continuing, a bed-check is where someone, typically a middle school girl, calls a radio DJ who goes by the name Butter, and name-drops their middle school friends, probably sneaks in a high schooler to be cool, then usually finishes by giving Butter a “bed-check”. You can see how that would be appealing to the average radio listener.
So the sacred bed-check has been forsaken in favor of the good ol’ reliable listener requests. Genius. To put this in perspective for those below the Mason-Dixon line, but outside the reach of the River, bed-checks are like an electric push mower, and taking requests is like a John Deere tractor.
Moving on, as I listened to the requests poor in from Music City, you know what didn’t come up? Well, yes, technically the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” isn’t wrong, but what I was looking for “Billionaire.” You know what was requested? “Ice Ice Baby.” To call say Robert Van Winkle bridges generational gaps is selling him short.
After going on… conservative estimate… 40-plus Riverwood Youth Group trips [Note: For the uninformed, I either served as a “youth intern” or was that creepy old guy who never really left the youth group – your call], there are a few songs that are more than pop culture. The short list: Hey Ya, Bohemian Rhapsody, Don’t Stop Believing, and Ice Ice Baby.
Hey Ya: Arguably the greatest song to ever be released… from the perspective of the person responsible for setting up the Christian school basketball game playlist. Beyond shaking it like a Polaroid picture, it’s as clean as a whistle. Trust me. After all, I am your neighbor.
Bohemian Rhapsody: Not only is it a song of epic proportions by one of the greatest bands of all time, it also has the added benefit of being physically impossible to sing along with. However, that has not stopped millions of people from trying. Bismillah.
Don’t Stop Believing: In a lonely world, you know who has this song in common? Strangers. When you get right down to it, we’re all living just to find emotion, and when you take the Journey through life, why not take it with the cute small town girl or that strapping city boy?
Ice Ice Baby: You know what Americans can’t resist? [I’ve asked a lot of questions here. Turns out, there’s no one to answer but me. Feel free to answer aloud. Especially if you’re reading this on your phone in a public restroom.] Americans can’t resist an underdog. The odds were, are, and will be stacked against Rob. I’m not playing the race card. Whether he’s white, black, or Japanese, he ‘s a dull pair of Wal-Mart hedgeclippers in a world full of Stihl chainsaw rappers. But somehow, he overcame the odds and released a nonsensical, self-absorbed collection of one-liners that blazed a trail. I’m not saying he was the first. “That’s what she said” wasn’t the first witty quip, but it raised the bar.
I love M&Ms, preferably peanut butter, and Marshall Mathers, but there’s only so many times I can listen to Rihanna sing about liking pain. For one hour, top 40 [More like top 5, da dum… chh] radio got it right: Stop telling people what to like and let their ears splash in a warm pool of greatness without ever having to tilt their collective head and shake the moisture out.
First off, for those of you who only listen to country because someone convinced you that if you want to claim Nashville as home, you must only listen to country, must drink sweet tea at every meal, and must have some weird obsession with John Deere products… expand your horizons. Continuing, a bed-check is where someone, typically a middle school girl, calls a radio DJ who goes by the name Butter, and name-drops their middle school friends, probably sneaks in a high schooler to be cool, then usually finishes by giving Butter a “bed-check”. You can see how that would be appealing to the average radio listener.
So the sacred bed-check has been forsaken in favor of the good ol’ reliable listener requests. Genius. To put this in perspective for those below the Mason-Dixon line, but outside the reach of the River, bed-checks are like an electric push mower, and taking requests is like a John Deere tractor.
Moving on, as I listened to the requests poor in from Music City, you know what didn’t come up? Well, yes, technically the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” isn’t wrong, but what I was looking for “Billionaire.” You know what was requested? “Ice Ice Baby.” To call say Robert Van Winkle bridges generational gaps is selling him short.
After going on… conservative estimate… 40-plus Riverwood Youth Group trips [Note: For the uninformed, I either served as a “youth intern” or was that creepy old guy who never really left the youth group – your call], there are a few songs that are more than pop culture. The short list: Hey Ya, Bohemian Rhapsody, Don’t Stop Believing, and Ice Ice Baby.
Hey Ya: Arguably the greatest song to ever be released… from the perspective of the person responsible for setting up the Christian school basketball game playlist. Beyond shaking it like a Polaroid picture, it’s as clean as a whistle. Trust me. After all, I am your neighbor.
Bohemian Rhapsody: Not only is it a song of epic proportions by one of the greatest bands of all time, it also has the added benefit of being physically impossible to sing along with. However, that has not stopped millions of people from trying. Bismillah.
Don’t Stop Believing: In a lonely world, you know who has this song in common? Strangers. When you get right down to it, we’re all living just to find emotion, and when you take the Journey through life, why not take it with the cute small town girl or that strapping city boy?
Ice Ice Baby: You know what Americans can’t resist? [I’ve asked a lot of questions here. Turns out, there’s no one to answer but me. Feel free to answer aloud. Especially if you’re reading this on your phone in a public restroom.] Americans can’t resist an underdog. The odds were, are, and will be stacked against Rob. I’m not playing the race card. Whether he’s white, black, or Japanese, he ‘s a dull pair of Wal-Mart hedgeclippers in a world full of Stihl chainsaw rappers. But somehow, he overcame the odds and released a nonsensical, self-absorbed collection of one-liners that blazed a trail. I’m not saying he was the first. “That’s what she said” wasn’t the first witty quip, but it raised the bar.
I love M&Ms, preferably peanut butter, and Marshall Mathers, but there’s only so many times I can listen to Rihanna sing about liking pain. For one hour, top 40 [More like top 5, da dum… chh] radio got it right: Stop telling people what to like and let their ears splash in a warm pool of greatness without ever having to tilt their collective head and shake the moisture out.
9.29.2010
Dumps Like A Truck. Truck. Truck.
Blogging is pretty much an exact science… You want to write about the random stuff that happens in your life? Someone will read it.
Hello, someone.
So I got a haircut yesterday. You’re right, that is the most interesting thing you’ve read today. Anyway, I walk in, [Note: I just did some quick research to see if I could say “I walked right in and sat right down,” but, alas, that is the jingle for the slightly shoddier low-budget haircut joint.] and I stroll on up to the computer, just like every other time. They take my name, and tell me it will be “just one minute.”
I had already mentally prepared to spend 5-plus minutes perusing the internet and trick or tweeting on my phone, so their illusion of speed did not phase me. As I will still trying to determine the appropriate complimentary and/or supplementary angles for my wallet, butt, and the old plastic chair, the greeter lady informed me that she was sorry, but it would take a little longer than they thought.
Fast-forward five minutes. In fact, go ahead and fast forward far enough to where you are in a world where the phrase “fast forward” garners only blank stares because the audience you are speaking to has never fast-forwarded anything. It’s a blu-ray world, people. Time to part with the Betamax. Anyway, similar to the night before Christmas…
“That’s me.” Yeah, go figure, the name in the computer was the one guy who was in the waiting area. It was at this point she began to explain that once she had a lady named Charlie who was waiting when she called for a man named Charlie to get a haircut. I honestly enjoy it when people screw up my name or are certain they heard it incorrectly. It’s fun to see how people respond.
I corroborated her story by looking around to make sure no criminals’ bodies were strewn about the place with major head wounds. She started with the clippers. I guess she was making sure the guard she had put on them would stay in place, but from the cut-ee’s perspective, it felt more like the potential for intracranial [Note: Bill Gates corrected my typing of “intercranial”. I would think “intracranial would be between craniums, but I’m no scientist.] bleeding.
She then moved in on the back of my neck. She worked on it. She moved my head. She worked on it some more. Moved my head some more. It wasn’t until my chin was resting on my chest and she pushed my head down that I offered up a little resistance. “Sorry, honey, but you’ve got a tornado back here.” Good to know. A few gray hairs and a natural disaster never hurt anyone. I still don’t know what that means beyond 3 minutes of trimming.
Overall, it was a good trip. $12 well spent… At least I hope it was $12. Their computer got stolen and she had to give me a paper receipt. I’m no expert on internal controls, but that could have been a very expensive low-budget haircut.
Hello, someone.
So I got a haircut yesterday. You’re right, that is the most interesting thing you’ve read today. Anyway, I walk in, [Note: I just did some quick research to see if I could say “I walked right in and sat right down,” but, alas, that is the jingle for the slightly shoddier low-budget haircut joint.] and I stroll on up to the computer, just like every other time. They take my name, and tell me it will be “just one minute.”
I had already mentally prepared to spend 5-plus minutes perusing the internet and trick or tweeting on my phone, so their illusion of speed did not phase me. As I will still trying to determine the appropriate complimentary and/or supplementary angles for my wallet, butt, and the old plastic chair, the greeter lady informed me that she was sorry, but it would take a little longer than they thought.
Fast-forward five minutes. In fact, go ahead and fast forward far enough to where you are in a world where the phrase “fast forward” garners only blank stares because the audience you are speaking to has never fast-forwarded anything. It’s a blu-ray world, people. Time to part with the Betamax. Anyway, similar to the night before Christmas…
All the children were nestled all scared in their chairs
While slightly inebriated women ran sharp implements through their hair.
On second thought, I might just wear a kerchief or even a cap.
Because that lady with the scissors redefines a deathtrap.
When from behind the colored hair gel, there arose such a clatter
Clippers were dropped so all could help in the matter.
The most experienced stylist spoke with such candor
“Who [on God’s green earth] is Loren Sanders?”
While slightly inebriated women ran sharp implements through their hair.
On second thought, I might just wear a kerchief or even a cap.
Because that lady with the scissors redefines a deathtrap.
When from behind the colored hair gel, there arose such a clatter
Clippers were dropped so all could help in the matter.
The most experienced stylist spoke with such candor
“Who [on God’s green earth] is Loren Sanders?”
“That’s me.” Yeah, go figure, the name in the computer was the one guy who was in the waiting area. It was at this point she began to explain that once she had a lady named Charlie who was waiting when she called for a man named Charlie to get a haircut. I honestly enjoy it when people screw up my name or are certain they heard it incorrectly. It’s fun to see how people respond.
Like the lady at the dollar store a couple of years back… They don’t let you take the carts out of the dollar store. In fact, they attached poles to each cart to prevent anyone who believes the whole “4-on-the-floor” thing from rolling them out the door. So, this older lady asked me to help her get her bags from the door to her car. As I was going back in after saving the world, she said, “Now what’s your name again?” As if I had told her before, I replied, “Loren.” “Loren?” “Yes ma’am.” “Wow. That must have been rough.”
What’s a story without a tangent or two? I’ll tell you what it is, it’s a circle, and you’re stuck going round and round and not really having any idea what you’re missing out on outside your circle world. So my court-appointed hairdresser quickly changes the subject as we walk to her chair. She tells me they got robbed, and the thieves took the computer. She then begins cutting my hair. Don’t worry, she wasn’t there when they robbed the place.
I corroborated her story by looking around to make sure no criminals’ bodies were strewn about the place with major head wounds. She started with the clippers. I guess she was making sure the guard she had put on them would stay in place, but from the cut-ee’s perspective, it felt more like the potential for intracranial [Note: Bill Gates corrected my typing of “intercranial”. I would think “intracranial would be between craniums, but I’m no scientist.] bleeding.
She then moved in on the back of my neck. She worked on it. She moved my head. She worked on it some more. Moved my head some more. It wasn’t until my chin was resting on my chest and she pushed my head down that I offered up a little resistance. “Sorry, honey, but you’ve got a tornado back here.” Good to know. A few gray hairs and a natural disaster never hurt anyone. I still don’t know what that means beyond 3 minutes of trimming.
Overall, it was a good trip. $12 well spent… At least I hope it was $12. Their computer got stolen and she had to give me a paper receipt. I’m no expert on internal controls, but that could have been a very expensive low-budget haircut.
9.22.2010
One Day is Coming.
You know who really suffers when a person who refuses to call himself a blogger but occasionally contributes to the blogosphere delays getting internet service at his house? The general public. I know, folks, and I'm sorry. Again, I find myself stealing church internet prior to a Wednesday night service... We'll get it straigtened out... I still have to get a phone jack, then get internet, but after that, we'll be good to go.
See you then.
See you then.
8.18.2010
Church Camp: Achieved.
...Stealing church internet to do a fantasy draft and post this (I don't yet have internet at the house. Sure, it's already been almost a month)...
As I sit here in a world without internet or television, I am greeted by a wonderful alternative to unpacking boxes full of crap that I never should have owned in the first place… telling the world (or the 4 of you reading) about church camp.
Sure, you might think I’m a little old for church camp. If I were a camper, you’d be right. But instead, I get to be a counselor. Yep, a bunch of adults who can still remember the shenanigans they pulled as campers are now put in a position to guide the youth of America and, theoretically, prevent current generation shenanigans. We’ll see how that worked out…
If you’re reading this looking for literary flow, you will be disappointed - Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Overall, it was a very calm week as far as the kids were concerned. No complaining. No injuries. Generally good attitudes. And a lot of them really took the spiritual aspects seriously. As far as the staff: One concussion. One twisted ankle. One “boxer’s fracture”. One broken leg. And two pedestrians hit by a motor vehicle. We had generally good attitudes and took the spiritual aspects seriously too, though. On to the highlights…
We go to camp at Taylor Christian Camp, located in Scottsville, Kentucky. Maybe you’re familiar with it. Maybe you know where Scottsville is. Maybe you know how to use Google maps well enough to figure out where Scottsville is. Or maybe you’re a Scottsville resident – If that’s the case and Jan of “Jan’s Bookkeeping and Tanning Salon” is reading this, kudos, Jan: your willingness to provide the perfect combination of necessary personal services to generations of Kentucky’s finest is, in a word, inspirational.
Taylor doesn’t have a pool, but we’ve got a creek. One of our staff members decided it would be a good idea to ride his mountain bike down the hill leading to the creek, grab the ropeswing, and jump off his bike into the creek water below, avoiding the drop off and certain face-plant that awaited him if he missed the rope. As I’m not too good on a bike and generally try to avoid drowning while unconscious from smashing my head into rocks, I volunteered to hold the rope…
Surprisingly, it was a semi-success. Both rider and bike ended up in the water without any blood. No spectacular stunt was pulled off the rope, but the execution was achievement enough.
Let’s see what else happened… In order to thwart the freaking out of any parents reading this, the following was done only after all parties involved were ensured that all minors were in a location far enough away to where they had no idea what was going on. We have a six foot diameter blue ball at camp. We use it to play a game where six teams each send out one person at a time to try to push the blue ball back to their team and knock over a cone. However, for as long as I can remember, the object of the game is to run at the ball at top speed and see who flies the furthest.
Well, in order to fulfill the wish of a camper who had to leave early due to our summer camp being in the fall and school starting in the middle of the week, two of the staff members agreed to take a free shot from the big blue ball. Upon review, it was determined the maximum amount of force that could be applied to the ball for said free shot would be applied by a Dodge Ram 1500. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum agreed to the truck shot. I’ve never been more scared and excited about the same moment. Naturally, we practiced this before the actual event. And just as naturally, the truck ended up going significantly faster in the actual event than it did in practice. Truck hit ball. Ball hit staff. Staff hit ground. Ball hit truck. Ball hit fallen staff. Truck bumper comes to rest within reach of staff. Silence ensues. Staff member A makes a noise and moves. Staff member B responds with noise and movement of his own. Hilarity ensues because, after all, any time something so incredibly stupid happens and no one gets seriously injured, it instantaneously achieves the highest standard of humor.
Don’t worry though, Staff member A went down the slip-n-slide the next day, got his pinky caught in a small tear on the billboards being used as the slick surface for sliding, and broke a bone in his hand. When I later pointed out the obvious that he got hit by a truck without any problems yet let his pinky send him to the hospital, I asked if he told the doctor he’d been hit by a truck. “No. Are you kidding? That didn’t come up.”
Tune in next time as we transition from the physical to the intellectual side of the TCC 2010 Story Vault.
As I sit here in a world without internet or television, I am greeted by a wonderful alternative to unpacking boxes full of crap that I never should have owned in the first place… telling the world (or the 4 of you reading) about church camp.
Sure, you might think I’m a little old for church camp. If I were a camper, you’d be right. But instead, I get to be a counselor. Yep, a bunch of adults who can still remember the shenanigans they pulled as campers are now put in a position to guide the youth of America and, theoretically, prevent current generation shenanigans. We’ll see how that worked out…
If you’re reading this looking for literary flow, you will be disappointed - Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Overall, it was a very calm week as far as the kids were concerned. No complaining. No injuries. Generally good attitudes. And a lot of them really took the spiritual aspects seriously. As far as the staff: One concussion. One twisted ankle. One “boxer’s fracture”. One broken leg. And two pedestrians hit by a motor vehicle. We had generally good attitudes and took the spiritual aspects seriously too, though. On to the highlights…
We go to camp at Taylor Christian Camp, located in Scottsville, Kentucky. Maybe you’re familiar with it. Maybe you know where Scottsville is. Maybe you know how to use Google maps well enough to figure out where Scottsville is. Or maybe you’re a Scottsville resident – If that’s the case and Jan of “Jan’s Bookkeeping and Tanning Salon” is reading this, kudos, Jan: your willingness to provide the perfect combination of necessary personal services to generations of Kentucky’s finest is, in a word, inspirational.
Taylor doesn’t have a pool, but we’ve got a creek. One of our staff members decided it would be a good idea to ride his mountain bike down the hill leading to the creek, grab the ropeswing, and jump off his bike into the creek water below, avoiding the drop off and certain face-plant that awaited him if he missed the rope. As I’m not too good on a bike and generally try to avoid drowning while unconscious from smashing my head into rocks, I volunteered to hold the rope…
Surprisingly, it was a semi-success. Both rider and bike ended up in the water without any blood. No spectacular stunt was pulled off the rope, but the execution was achievement enough.
Let’s see what else happened… In order to thwart the freaking out of any parents reading this, the following was done only after all parties involved were ensured that all minors were in a location far enough away to where they had no idea what was going on. We have a six foot diameter blue ball at camp. We use it to play a game where six teams each send out one person at a time to try to push the blue ball back to their team and knock over a cone. However, for as long as I can remember, the object of the game is to run at the ball at top speed and see who flies the furthest.
Well, in order to fulfill the wish of a camper who had to leave early due to our summer camp being in the fall and school starting in the middle of the week, two of the staff members agreed to take a free shot from the big blue ball. Upon review, it was determined the maximum amount of force that could be applied to the ball for said free shot would be applied by a Dodge Ram 1500. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum agreed to the truck shot. I’ve never been more scared and excited about the same moment. Naturally, we practiced this before the actual event. And just as naturally, the truck ended up going significantly faster in the actual event than it did in practice. Truck hit ball. Ball hit staff. Staff hit ground. Ball hit truck. Ball hit fallen staff. Truck bumper comes to rest within reach of staff. Silence ensues. Staff member A makes a noise and moves. Staff member B responds with noise and movement of his own. Hilarity ensues because, after all, any time something so incredibly stupid happens and no one gets seriously injured, it instantaneously achieves the highest standard of humor.
Don’t worry though, Staff member A went down the slip-n-slide the next day, got his pinky caught in a small tear on the billboards being used as the slick surface for sliding, and broke a bone in his hand. When I later pointed out the obvious that he got hit by a truck without any problems yet let his pinky send him to the hospital, I asked if he told the doctor he’d been hit by a truck. “No. Are you kidding? That didn’t come up.”
Tune in next time as we transition from the physical to the intellectual side of the TCC 2010 Story Vault.
7.26.2010
Ever Checked Your Shoes for Poo in a Carpeted Building?
If you took 2-inch by 4-inch stickers off of plastic boxes about 20 times a day, what would you do with them?
If you answered a question with a question, I’m right there with you… You’re wondering if they are recyclable and if this is a trap question to determine if you are truly green in an age where it is cool to worry about the future of the planet. Well, I don’t know if they’re recyclable. Nor do I care.
The right answer is “Well, Loren, I would probably wad them up into a ball. But not a new ball everyday… No, I’m thinking I’d wad them into the same ball. Every day. For five years.
So I spent last week in Tampa for work. We were looking at the warehousing for a couple of hospitals down there. It was on this trip that I met Baby. Baby is the afore-referenced ball of packing stickers. How many packing stickers would you have assembled, in pounds of course? Well, you’d weigh in at a smidge under 300. Pounds, of course. Naturally, you’d want to put eyes and lips on Baby, and occasionally dress her up.
What else happened in Tampa? Good question. You just got your participation points for the week. Let me tell you what else happened in Tampa… We got sabotaged. While my creativity rots away in a cubicle from 8 to 5, even in my imagination’s prime, I couldn’t have made up the following…
I had just badged back in from the bathroom. Yes, badged in. As I walked into our conference room that we were working in for the week, a coworker immediately asked “Do you smell that?” It was at that precise second that I could and did respond with “I do now… What is that?” “I don’t know. I just saw a guy walk by and spray something in here.”
That something must have been the intestinal lining of fourteen cows and the melted glass from twenty-three thousand used rectal thermometers, in aerosol form. I have smelled something similar before… In your effort to learn more about me, you’ll be excited to know that I used to work in a fireworks warehouse. It was there that I was introduced to the Wild Geese Rocket.
Fireworks come from… brace yourself… China. Apparently, cardboard, paper, and urine are the preferred packing products. After a trip across an ocean and 2,000 miles of non-ocean, the cardboard really starts to smell. Don’t worry, the urine doesn’t smell at that point.
Anyway, it smelled [insert your preferred synonym for dreadful here]. We marveled at the odor for a while, which I believe to be analogous to watching a school bus teeter on the edge of a cliff, with nothing but a herd of helpless sheep below. Then we began to look for a solution. People who work in the areas around our conference room began to wander in just to see if it really smelled as bad as they had heard. No one left disappointed.
The guy we were working with most of the time came in and immediately told us to evacuate. Done. So, we’re hanging out in the hallway when he decides to begin the manhunt. Blue shirt, white tie. Look out.
Everyone at the facility has their picture up on the wall… Well, everyone except for the prime suspect. Facility guy comes to us, picture in hand, “Is this him?” Coworker, “I didn’t get a good look at him. I just saw the back of his head.” As I wonder how this guy got profiled as the assailant, facility guy explains, “He has a history of doing stuff like this.” I really want to know what you have to do to get the kind of reputation where you are immediately accused of stinkbombing a room full of strangers in a professional environment.
Regardless, Febreeze and Lysol started coming from various locations and the fumigation began. There’s really no elegant way to go into your office and come out with a can of Lysol. Still, it worked for the most part. A couple of hours later, all that was left was a potential blog post. You can thank public enemy number 2.
If you answered a question with a question, I’m right there with you… You’re wondering if they are recyclable and if this is a trap question to determine if you are truly green in an age where it is cool to worry about the future of the planet. Well, I don’t know if they’re recyclable. Nor do I care.
The right answer is “Well, Loren, I would probably wad them up into a ball. But not a new ball everyday… No, I’m thinking I’d wad them into the same ball. Every day. For five years.
So I spent last week in Tampa for work. We were looking at the warehousing for a couple of hospitals down there. It was on this trip that I met Baby. Baby is the afore-referenced ball of packing stickers. How many packing stickers would you have assembled, in pounds of course? Well, you’d weigh in at a smidge under 300. Pounds, of course. Naturally, you’d want to put eyes and lips on Baby, and occasionally dress her up.
What else happened in Tampa? Good question. You just got your participation points for the week. Let me tell you what else happened in Tampa… We got sabotaged. While my creativity rots away in a cubicle from 8 to 5, even in my imagination’s prime, I couldn’t have made up the following…
I had just badged back in from the bathroom. Yes, badged in. As I walked into our conference room that we were working in for the week, a coworker immediately asked “Do you smell that?” It was at that precise second that I could and did respond with “I do now… What is that?” “I don’t know. I just saw a guy walk by and spray something in here.”
That something must have been the intestinal lining of fourteen cows and the melted glass from twenty-three thousand used rectal thermometers, in aerosol form. I have smelled something similar before… In your effort to learn more about me, you’ll be excited to know that I used to work in a fireworks warehouse. It was there that I was introduced to the Wild Geese Rocket.
Fireworks come from… brace yourself… China. Apparently, cardboard, paper, and urine are the preferred packing products. After a trip across an ocean and 2,000 miles of non-ocean, the cardboard really starts to smell. Don’t worry, the urine doesn’t smell at that point.
Anyway, it smelled [insert your preferred synonym for dreadful here]. We marveled at the odor for a while, which I believe to be analogous to watching a school bus teeter on the edge of a cliff, with nothing but a herd of helpless sheep below. Then we began to look for a solution. People who work in the areas around our conference room began to wander in just to see if it really smelled as bad as they had heard. No one left disappointed.
The guy we were working with most of the time came in and immediately told us to evacuate. Done. So, we’re hanging out in the hallway when he decides to begin the manhunt. Blue shirt, white tie. Look out.
Everyone at the facility has their picture up on the wall… Well, everyone except for the prime suspect. Facility guy comes to us, picture in hand, “Is this him?” Coworker, “I didn’t get a good look at him. I just saw the back of his head.” As I wonder how this guy got profiled as the assailant, facility guy explains, “He has a history of doing stuff like this.” I really want to know what you have to do to get the kind of reputation where you are immediately accused of stinkbombing a room full of strangers in a professional environment.
Regardless, Febreeze and Lysol started coming from various locations and the fumigation began. There’s really no elegant way to go into your office and come out with a can of Lysol. Still, it worked for the most part. A couple of hours later, all that was left was a potential blog post. You can thank public enemy number 2.
7.17.2010
Hit the Deck
Why the delay and random Independence post to break up the housing saga? Mostly because I didn't want to jinx it... I believe my house-hunting to be over.
In preparation for trip 3, Rea sent me a few more listings. I picked out one that was quite near the parents’ house. As I wanted to live a little more in the East Nashville area, so I RealTrac-ed anything in the area with 2 bathrooms. This is mainly so I can have one bathroom that appears clean for visitors without having to actually clean it. Found one with potential. Trip 3 was set – 2 houses.
So, Mom had been asking to join me in the house viewings. She said she didn’t want to go to give me her opinion, she just liked looking at houses. Trip 1 occurred at the same time as a family dinner that no one told me about until 24 hours before. As such, Mom had alternate plans. She didn’t make it to trip 2 either, so trip 3 was her first time out.
I told Mom I’d pick her up after work. As I get to the parents’, Dad informs me he’s decided to ride along for the house that is near to them. A family outing has been formed. So we roll up to house 7 to see Rea talking to the homeowner. Homeowner pulls out of the driveway as we get out of the car. This will become slightly less unimportant shortly.
I introduce Rea to the parents and vice versa. Let the house viewing begin.
House 7: Located on a riding mower sized lot. Pro. We open the door and are immediately met with a new objective: find the cat that’s been smoking a pack a day. Con. Why did we care earlier that Rea had been talking to the homeowner? Because it was during that conversation that homeowner informed Rea that the wood in the first room we walked into was formerly used at a Captain D’s run by his wife’s ex-husband. Let that sink in. Not only is fish-grease-soaked wood a selling point, but the guy went through his wife’s ex to get the fish-grease-soaked wood. That’s pretty much all I remember about house 7. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus, West Nile, Double Emphysema. Naked people seen: 1.
After I have made my way through house 7, Mom comments, “Wow. You went through that really quickly.” Rea, “Yeah, usually I have to schedule an hour to show a house. For Loren, it’s more like 15 minutes.” Turns out, I can tell if I like something almost as quickly as I can tell if I don’t like it. Mind you, I have seen plenty of places I didn’t like in this process. God made home inspectors to find the flaws. So, Rea and I make small talk as Mom and Dad roam around house 7, making up for my sub-par walk-through.
House 8: After Dad says peace out, we’re back in Inglewood, where the slogan is “It’s where we want to live.” Catchy. We park on the street. Primarily because there is no driveway. Good start. We walk the 45 yards of new deck to get to the door. And by new deck, I mean enormous monstrosity that the seller appears to have built himself. Good news, if a strong wind blows through, it will take care of tearing down the 6 foot fortress. Either that or I’m hiring some Israelites with trumpets for 7 days.
As we enter, Rea tells us the house has been staged. For those of you who haven’t watched as much HGTV as I have, that means, someone has strategically arranged the furniture in order to create an atmosphere that encourages home-buying. This would become very apparent when we walked into the master bedroom to discover a cute breakfast in bed tray. These are the kind of personal touches that really make me feel like I could live in one of these places. Overall, nice place. Pretty much all carpet, lots of green, and an enormous mirror that could replace the moon in a pinch. Outside of the “improvements” the guy made on the house, I like it. I kind of wish Noah would have consulted me prior to building his ark outside, but I guess the rest made up for it.
To make an incredibly long story short, after potentially acquiring Tetanus, West Nile, and two strings of Emphysema and seeing one naked person scurrying around, we commence to make you jump. Jump. Nevermind. That was Kris Kross. We, in actuality, commenced the offer/counter-offer process on House 8. Whew.
Thanks for following my soap opera. If you're not some sketchy blog-hopper, stop by the house sometime... There's a clean bathroom if you need it.
In preparation for trip 3, Rea sent me a few more listings. I picked out one that was quite near the parents’ house. As I wanted to live a little more in the East Nashville area, so I RealTrac-ed anything in the area with 2 bathrooms. This is mainly so I can have one bathroom that appears clean for visitors without having to actually clean it. Found one with potential. Trip 3 was set – 2 houses.
So, Mom had been asking to join me in the house viewings. She said she didn’t want to go to give me her opinion, she just liked looking at houses. Trip 1 occurred at the same time as a family dinner that no one told me about until 24 hours before. As such, Mom had alternate plans. She didn’t make it to trip 2 either, so trip 3 was her first time out.
I told Mom I’d pick her up after work. As I get to the parents’, Dad informs me he’s decided to ride along for the house that is near to them. A family outing has been formed. So we roll up to house 7 to see Rea talking to the homeowner. Homeowner pulls out of the driveway as we get out of the car. This will become slightly less unimportant shortly.
I introduce Rea to the parents and vice versa. Let the house viewing begin.
House 7: Located on a riding mower sized lot. Pro. We open the door and are immediately met with a new objective: find the cat that’s been smoking a pack a day. Con. Why did we care earlier that Rea had been talking to the homeowner? Because it was during that conversation that homeowner informed Rea that the wood in the first room we walked into was formerly used at a Captain D’s run by his wife’s ex-husband. Let that sink in. Not only is fish-grease-soaked wood a selling point, but the guy went through his wife’s ex to get the fish-grease-soaked wood. That’s pretty much all I remember about house 7. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus, West Nile, Double Emphysema. Naked people seen: 1.
After I have made my way through house 7, Mom comments, “Wow. You went through that really quickly.” Rea, “Yeah, usually I have to schedule an hour to show a house. For Loren, it’s more like 15 minutes.” Turns out, I can tell if I like something almost as quickly as I can tell if I don’t like it. Mind you, I have seen plenty of places I didn’t like in this process. God made home inspectors to find the flaws. So, Rea and I make small talk as Mom and Dad roam around house 7, making up for my sub-par walk-through.
House 8: After Dad says peace out, we’re back in Inglewood, where the slogan is “It’s where we want to live.” Catchy. We park on the street. Primarily because there is no driveway. Good start. We walk the 45 yards of new deck to get to the door. And by new deck, I mean enormous monstrosity that the seller appears to have built himself. Good news, if a strong wind blows through, it will take care of tearing down the 6 foot fortress. Either that or I’m hiring some Israelites with trumpets for 7 days.
As we enter, Rea tells us the house has been staged. For those of you who haven’t watched as much HGTV as I have, that means, someone has strategically arranged the furniture in order to create an atmosphere that encourages home-buying. This would become very apparent when we walked into the master bedroom to discover a cute breakfast in bed tray. These are the kind of personal touches that really make me feel like I could live in one of these places. Overall, nice place. Pretty much all carpet, lots of green, and an enormous mirror that could replace the moon in a pinch. Outside of the “improvements” the guy made on the house, I like it. I kind of wish Noah would have consulted me prior to building his ark outside, but I guess the rest made up for it.
To make an incredibly long story short, after potentially acquiring Tetanus, West Nile, and two strings of Emphysema and seeing one naked person scurrying around, we commence to make you jump. Jump. Nevermind. That was Kris Kross. We, in actuality, commenced the offer/counter-offer process on House 8. Whew.
Thanks for following my soap opera. If you're not some sketchy blog-hopper, stop by the house sometime... There's a clean bathroom if you need it.
7.05.2010
"I've Never Used a Port-O-Potty"
Americans are all pyro-maniacs at heart. Nashville had millions of people staring at the same point in the city, drooling over flashing colors. Where else can you find that? Hundreds of other cities across the U.S.A. Count me among the pyros.
Taking a break from the drama of trying to spend more money than I have made life-to-date, let’s talk about America’s birthday. We have a family at church that owns a parking lot downtown. They are kind enough to donate their enormous patch of blacktop every year for “food, fellowship, fireworks, and alliteration.” That might not be the exact title, but it’s close. Riverwood (that would be my church home, and thus, is mentioned first) and Northside have been doing this for a few years now. This year, we invited Jackson Park to join in on the good times.
We showed up a little early to help set everything up. Good news is, the bouncy house people also showed up early to drop off the two Moon Bounces. We got everything set up in record time and set out for the bouncy house. Sure, the youth minister and I probably each exceeded the overall weight limit for these things. However, Independence Day must be a big day for the party rental place, so no one was there to enforce the rules. Having never done a front flip, cartwheel, back flip, or a handstand, I was suddenly presented with the perfect opportunity to achieve all four.
As a twenty-four year old male, I have discovered a bouncy house hangover is nothing to joke about. I failed at all of my four inflatable missions. Having failed at the front flip with a couple of hops to build up inertia, I decided that perhaps I should try a flat-footed back flip. Apparently there is an invisible table located outside the entrance of the Moon Bounce where you must check your logic. As I landed on my face on my one back flip attempt, I discovered I was in pain. Not in my face per se, more the toe I had apparently gotten caught on the netting and then slammed into the floor of the blow-up mansion. I chalked it up as a mild sprain and continued bouncing.
Here I lounge on my July 5th holiday, icing my foot and trying to massage the pain out of the neck I landed on countless times. Lesson learned. Until next year.
Regardless of my pain, a good time was had last night. Plenty of hamburgers and hotdogs, youth group kids conquering their fear of port-o-potties, a little concert, a period of worship consisting of old folks mumbling through newfangled devotional songs, children happily bouncing in the puddles of sweat and blood we left for them in the bouncy houses, catching up with old friends and church league rivals, 4 visits to the dessert table, 93 degrees, 84 ounces of fluid, one folding chair that was far too small for me, and lots of explosions. Like I said, a good time.
Hey, America, let’s do this again next year. Even if China has taken over by then, we’ll be alright – they make all the fireworks anyway.
Taking a break from the drama of trying to spend more money than I have made life-to-date, let’s talk about America’s birthday. We have a family at church that owns a parking lot downtown. They are kind enough to donate their enormous patch of blacktop every year for “food, fellowship, fireworks, and alliteration.” That might not be the exact title, but it’s close. Riverwood (that would be my church home, and thus, is mentioned first) and Northside have been doing this for a few years now. This year, we invited Jackson Park to join in on the good times.
We showed up a little early to help set everything up. Good news is, the bouncy house people also showed up early to drop off the two Moon Bounces. We got everything set up in record time and set out for the bouncy house. Sure, the youth minister and I probably each exceeded the overall weight limit for these things. However, Independence Day must be a big day for the party rental place, so no one was there to enforce the rules. Having never done a front flip, cartwheel, back flip, or a handstand, I was suddenly presented with the perfect opportunity to achieve all four.
As a twenty-four year old male, I have discovered a bouncy house hangover is nothing to joke about. I failed at all of my four inflatable missions. Having failed at the front flip with a couple of hops to build up inertia, I decided that perhaps I should try a flat-footed back flip. Apparently there is an invisible table located outside the entrance of the Moon Bounce where you must check your logic. As I landed on my face on my one back flip attempt, I discovered I was in pain. Not in my face per se, more the toe I had apparently gotten caught on the netting and then slammed into the floor of the blow-up mansion. I chalked it up as a mild sprain and continued bouncing.
Here I lounge on my July 5th holiday, icing my foot and trying to massage the pain out of the neck I landed on countless times. Lesson learned. Until next year.
Regardless of my pain, a good time was had last night. Plenty of hamburgers and hotdogs, youth group kids conquering their fear of port-o-potties, a little concert, a period of worship consisting of old folks mumbling through newfangled devotional songs, children happily bouncing in the puddles of sweat and blood we left for them in the bouncy houses, catching up with old friends and church league rivals, 4 visits to the dessert table, 93 degrees, 84 ounces of fluid, one folding chair that was far too small for me, and lots of explosions. Like I said, a good time.
Hey, America, let’s do this again next year. Even if China has taken over by then, we’ll be alright – they make all the fireworks anyway.
Home Shopping - Networking
So, due to the success of houses 1-3, more internet listings head my way. I pick a fresh round of 3. As I take some pride in knowing where most gang violence is likely to occur in East Nashville, I decided to take a drive around to explore the potential neighborhoods. Small problem: the little sticker that held Australian Karen, my Garmin, in place was affected by the change in temperature and stopped being sticky. As such, I left Australian Karen in the air-conditioned comfort of the rental house. Additionally, I didn’t feel it worth my while to pull over, pick up my phone, and look up the addresses.
Using my stellar navigational skills, I managed to locate 33% of the houses. Found all 3 streets. Only one house. Sweet, going into the house showing completely uninformed.
House 4: This was the one house I found in my pregame study. That’s because it’s literally one minute from where I live now. Nice house. If you like the feeling of being on the inside of a hand-rolled cigarette. Luckily I do like that feeling. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus, West Nile, Emphysema. Naked people seen: 1.
House 5: This was a quaint little house that was listed for half of the property assessor’s 2009 value. I figured I’d check it out. Nice little neighborhood. We are walking through the house – it’s nice enough. A little smaller than all the other joints we’ve looked at, but looks relatively fresh. Rea has these sheets that have a little more info than the sheets she’s sent me. As we’re walking around the basement of house 5, she reads (aloud), “Suffered foundation damage in the flood.” Anyone know the quickest way out of a strange basement? There’s a reason kidnappers don’t tell their hostages that there was structural damage to the foundation of their dungeon. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus, West Nile, Emphysema. Naked people seen: 1.
House 6: So, we’re on our way to house 6. I knew where the road was. And, due to my affinity for not getting carjacked, I knew I wanted to turn left onto that road as we approached it. Right it is. [Note: 97% sure they just bleeped out the word “crap” on Holmes on Homes.] So, we drive past the 3rd sketchiest market in Metro Nashville, and arrive at house 6. Rea pulls in the driveway, beside a teenage gentleman sitting in his car. He apparently was a member of the neighborhood watch. Or the Mexican Mafia. So we exchange pleasantries: “Hey, how’s it going?” (silent stare). We take a look around this house – by far, the biggest house I’d looked at. Not bad, but the neighborhood was a little suspect. In fact, the guy in the driveway was probably a little suspect in some felony somewhere. One feature of house 6: the stone mini-amphitheatre in the backyard. I decided it was either a Greco-Roman bathing area or a ping-pong arena. We didn’t stick around long enough to find out.
House 6 gets 2 paragraphs. Big time. So, I liked the house part of house 6, but wanted to check into the surrounding environment. I called up an old friend. And by called up, I mean facebook messaged. [Note: Again, I acknowledge my error, but feel free to harass anyway.] I will await her reply. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus, West Nile, Emphysema. Naked people seen: 1.
At this point, I’m beginning to tire of being in the background of an episode of Cops, nearly being crushed by a house, and coming up with new ways of saying, “I’m sorry for risking your life, Rea, to look at a house I no longer have any interest in.” My internal conversation went a little like this:
Me: “Rea’s probably getting a little annoyed showing you all these cheap houses in the hood.”
Me: “Well, turns out she’s in the personal service industry. She can suck it up.”
Me: “Yeah, but seriously…”
Then Rea cut me off when she told me that the last person she found a house for looked at 30 houses before she found the one. At that point I decided I’d cut my eyes out before I’d look at 30 houses. Color me encouraged.
The sentence you are reading right now is designed to foreshadow the foreshadowing. Maybe something positive would happen on trip #3.
Using my stellar navigational skills, I managed to locate 33% of the houses. Found all 3 streets. Only one house. Sweet, going into the house showing completely uninformed.
House 4: This was the one house I found in my pregame study. That’s because it’s literally one minute from where I live now. Nice house. If you like the feeling of being on the inside of a hand-rolled cigarette. Luckily I do like that feeling. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus, West Nile, Emphysema. Naked people seen: 1.
House 5: This was a quaint little house that was listed for half of the property assessor’s 2009 value. I figured I’d check it out. Nice little neighborhood. We are walking through the house – it’s nice enough. A little smaller than all the other joints we’ve looked at, but looks relatively fresh. Rea has these sheets that have a little more info than the sheets she’s sent me. As we’re walking around the basement of house 5, she reads (aloud), “Suffered foundation damage in the flood.” Anyone know the quickest way out of a strange basement? There’s a reason kidnappers don’t tell their hostages that there was structural damage to the foundation of their dungeon. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus, West Nile, Emphysema. Naked people seen: 1.
House 6: So, we’re on our way to house 6. I knew where the road was. And, due to my affinity for not getting carjacked, I knew I wanted to turn left onto that road as we approached it. Right it is. [Note: 97% sure they just bleeped out the word “crap” on Holmes on Homes.] So, we drive past the 3rd sketchiest market in Metro Nashville, and arrive at house 6. Rea pulls in the driveway, beside a teenage gentleman sitting in his car. He apparently was a member of the neighborhood watch. Or the Mexican Mafia. So we exchange pleasantries: “Hey, how’s it going?” (silent stare). We take a look around this house – by far, the biggest house I’d looked at. Not bad, but the neighborhood was a little suspect. In fact, the guy in the driveway was probably a little suspect in some felony somewhere. One feature of house 6: the stone mini-amphitheatre in the backyard. I decided it was either a Greco-Roman bathing area or a ping-pong arena. We didn’t stick around long enough to find out.
House 6 gets 2 paragraphs. Big time. So, I liked the house part of house 6, but wanted to check into the surrounding environment. I called up an old friend. And by called up, I mean facebook messaged. [Note: Again, I acknowledge my error, but feel free to harass anyway.] I will await her reply. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus, West Nile, Emphysema. Naked people seen: 1.
At this point, I’m beginning to tire of being in the background of an episode of Cops, nearly being crushed by a house, and coming up with new ways of saying, “I’m sorry for risking your life, Rea, to look at a house I no longer have any interest in.” My internal conversation went a little like this:
Me: “Rea’s probably getting a little annoyed showing you all these cheap houses in the hood.”
Me: “Well, turns out she’s in the personal service industry. She can suck it up.”
Me: “Yeah, but seriously…”
Then Rea cut me off when she told me that the last person she found a house for looked at 30 houses before she found the one. At that point I decided I’d cut my eyes out before I’d look at 30 houses. Color me encouraged.
The sentence you are reading right now is designed to foreshadow the foreshadowing. Maybe something positive would happen on trip #3.
7.02.2010
Bartender: One House, Please
Once upon a time, I decided it was time to stop paying rent. In lieu of facing a civil suit from my best friend’s sister and brother-in-law (my landpeople), I decided to drop a few thousand dollars on a house. Besides, it would have been really awkward serving communion on Sunday to the people who were serving me a summons on Monday.
Turns out, buying a house involves a little bit of effort… unless you just won Powerball. [Note: I discovered winning Powerball involves getting all the numbers right. When you get half the numbers, you do not get half the jackpot.] So, I got a real estate agent. Mainly so I could say I have a real estate agent, but also to facilitate the buying of a house. While I trust the safety of the worldwide web as much as anyone, I choose not to disclose my real estate agent’s name. We’ll call her Rea… Give it a second.
So Rea began sending me listings. Now before you get too excited, realize that the listings I was getting sent my way looked nothing like House Hunters on HGTV. [Note: Yes, I have watched way more than my share of HGTV since this process began. In fact, it’s on right now. Make jokes if you so choose, but I acknowledge my weakness.] My preferred home-buying budget led me to get a lot of listings that could have doubled an antique barn or perhaps a meth-lab. So from these listings, I weeded out the barns and started picking houses to physically visit. Old school, I know, but they don’t offer many virtual tours of houses that haven’t been lived in since a Roosevelt was president.
House 1: So I hadn’t met with Rea in person regarding the house hunt yet. As such, when I pulled onto the street, I felt a little bad that, instead of being greeted by fancy stone columns of a nice gated community, Rea would pull into the neighborhood with a Budget Brakes on her left and a Missionary Baptist church in the basement of a Discount Liquor on her right – Pillars of the community. Realizing this was a house I was looking to live in and these were the neighborhoods I might end up in, I stopped feeling a little bad... Until I pulled in the driveway and saw Rea in her Mercedes coupe. She got out and informed me she might have been a little scared to get out of the car before I got there. Superhero moment. Anyway, to use a Wordly Wise word, house one was dilapidated. I almost made it out unscathed, but I bumped my head on the rusty overhang that led to the basement. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus.
House 2: We drove from house one to house two. Logical progression if you will. The listing indicated house 2 was currently being rented. No big deal. They requested 2 hours notice before showing: Rea gave them 24 hours. “You see a car back there?” “Yeah, at least one.” “Ok, well, hopefully they’re not here, but we’ll knock in case.” It was at this point in the conversation we arrived at the front door. And heard a child crying inside. Awesome. So, we stood awkwardly on the front porch deciding whether or not to go in. We settled on knocking. Renter man opened the door. “We’re here to take a look at the house if that’s ok.” Rental man nods his head, opens the door, and proceeds to take off chasing his completely naked child who has just run through the living room. Good start. We make our way through the house quite quickly, but being sure to see all the rooms. Well, I take that back. I let Rea look at one room on my behalf. Primarily because there was a gentleman asleep in the aforementioned room. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus. Naked people seen: 1.
House 3: Closing out day one of home-viewing, we went to my internet-favorite house. We go in through the (formerly) finished basement. The carpets were all rolled up to the middle of the floor. Flood damaged - Welcome to my home hunt. We proceeded upstairs. I liked it. Really, I did. I liked it a lot. I could handle the basement damage – it would give me a project to make all this HGTV viewing worth it. We take a lap around the outside of the house, where we casually discover that instead of putting gutters on the carport, the preferred means of water evacuation was to collect it in a giant heavy-duty receptacle. Seems it was full of standing water. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus and West Nile. Naked people seen: 1.
Like I said, I really liked house 3. I tell Rea that I’m cautious to move too soon, but I did like it. She says she’ll look into it a little more and see if there are any similar listings. Within 2 hours, Rea tells me house 3 was theoretically sold when we looked at it. That’s not Realtor-speak for “You really liked it. It’s a good deal. I think we can make this work.” No, that means the house was sold when we looked at it.
This is going to be a good time.
Turns out, buying a house involves a little bit of effort… unless you just won Powerball. [Note: I discovered winning Powerball involves getting all the numbers right. When you get half the numbers, you do not get half the jackpot.] So, I got a real estate agent. Mainly so I could say I have a real estate agent, but also to facilitate the buying of a house. While I trust the safety of the worldwide web as much as anyone, I choose not to disclose my real estate agent’s name. We’ll call her Rea… Give it a second.
So Rea began sending me listings. Now before you get too excited, realize that the listings I was getting sent my way looked nothing like House Hunters on HGTV. [Note: Yes, I have watched way more than my share of HGTV since this process began. In fact, it’s on right now. Make jokes if you so choose, but I acknowledge my weakness.] My preferred home-buying budget led me to get a lot of listings that could have doubled an antique barn or perhaps a meth-lab. So from these listings, I weeded out the barns and started picking houses to physically visit. Old school, I know, but they don’t offer many virtual tours of houses that haven’t been lived in since a Roosevelt was president.
House 1: So I hadn’t met with Rea in person regarding the house hunt yet. As such, when I pulled onto the street, I felt a little bad that, instead of being greeted by fancy stone columns of a nice gated community, Rea would pull into the neighborhood with a Budget Brakes on her left and a Missionary Baptist church in the basement of a Discount Liquor on her right – Pillars of the community. Realizing this was a house I was looking to live in and these were the neighborhoods I might end up in, I stopped feeling a little bad... Until I pulled in the driveway and saw Rea in her Mercedes coupe. She got out and informed me she might have been a little scared to get out of the car before I got there. Superhero moment. Anyway, to use a Wordly Wise word, house one was dilapidated. I almost made it out unscathed, but I bumped my head on the rusty overhang that led to the basement. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus.
House 2: We drove from house one to house two. Logical progression if you will. The listing indicated house 2 was currently being rented. No big deal. They requested 2 hours notice before showing: Rea gave them 24 hours. “You see a car back there?” “Yeah, at least one.” “Ok, well, hopefully they’re not here, but we’ll knock in case.” It was at this point in the conversation we arrived at the front door. And heard a child crying inside. Awesome. So, we stood awkwardly on the front porch deciding whether or not to go in. We settled on knocking. Renter man opened the door. “We’re here to take a look at the house if that’s ok.” Rental man nods his head, opens the door, and proceeds to take off chasing his completely naked child who has just run through the living room. Good start. We make our way through the house quite quickly, but being sure to see all the rooms. Well, I take that back. I let Rea look at one room on my behalf. Primarily because there was a gentleman asleep in the aforementioned room. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus. Naked people seen: 1.
House 3: Closing out day one of home-viewing, we went to my internet-favorite house. We go in through the (formerly) finished basement. The carpets were all rolled up to the middle of the floor. Flood damaged - Welcome to my home hunt. We proceeded upstairs. I liked it. Really, I did. I liked it a lot. I could handle the basement damage – it would give me a project to make all this HGTV viewing worth it. We take a lap around the outside of the house, where we casually discover that instead of putting gutters on the carport, the preferred means of water evacuation was to collect it in a giant heavy-duty receptacle. Seems it was full of standing water. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus and West Nile. Naked people seen: 1.
Like I said, I really liked house 3. I tell Rea that I’m cautious to move too soon, but I did like it. She says she’ll look into it a little more and see if there are any similar listings. Within 2 hours, Rea tells me house 3 was theoretically sold when we looked at it. That’s not Realtor-speak for “You really liked it. It’s a good deal. I think we can make this work.” No, that means the house was sold when we looked at it.
This is going to be a good time.
6.18.2010
Excuse Me Sir, Is That a Back Tattoo?
,,,No, it's a nicotine patch.
When last we left our heroes, they had left the thrill and excitement of Memphis and were heading for Tunica. Upon arrival, we were greeted by a marble lobby, reportedly comparable to the foyer at the Blankmore. Needless to say, it was a little change of pace from the most boring roadways in the Southeast. We dropped the stuff off in the hotel rooms and headed for the casino floor. It was 1:00 in the morning. I see 1 a.m., on average, 3 times a year, and one of those three times is spent on the toilet. That average was about to skyrocket.
Let me take this opportunity to thank Tennessee, or Nashville, or whoever it was that outlawed cigarettes in public buildings. As I’m typing this, I’m getting sized for my trachea hole that I will be breathing through for the remainder of my life due to the amount of nicotine coating my lungs. Fairly confident that for one weekend my lungs were being covered in tar faster than the Gulf of Mexico. Sorry, BP, you got second place. Anyhoo, everyone in that place actually brought their mother so that they could smoke two times the amount of cigarettes they could without the extra puffer.
We entered the haze of the casino, and, admittedly, we were a little shell-shocked. Collectively, we headed for the penny slots. High rollers indeed. After the one-hit-wonder managed to win $50 on two spins of the penny slots, a couple of the less frugal members of the wedding party cracked open the wallets and hit the blackjack tables. Nothing eventful to report from morning one in the casino. Turns out, private school kids are fairly low-key in a Casino environment.
Saturday afternoon three of the eight travelers determined that there was one game in the casino that was impossible to lose at… craps. To be honest, it looked like they were right – no matter what the man voted “most patient” in high school rolled, they kept giving him chips. Maybe they were on to something… Regardless, I’m off to the penny slots again.
We eat, swim, and watch soccer in no particular order for the remainder of the afternoon. As the evening gambling session begins, I leave the true gamblers to their blackjack and craps and head for the comfort of the penny slots. Fairly quickly, groomsmen begin coming up to me… early reports indicate craps is not unloseable. Go figure. Yep, turns out there’s a reason 7 is the number that stops the game – it just so happens to be mathematical. Anyway, after reality came crashing down, and broke the backs of the high horses, the low rollers went and watched a few of our number play some blackjack…
It seems when you are the youngest people in a place that is predominately cranky, smoky, and wrinkly, you have the eye of the pitbosses. If you manage to ride that wave, and travel in packs, cracking jokes, providing applause, and generally raising Cain (I’ve never really typed that out – the capitalization, while accurate per Wikipedia, appears awkward), aforementioned pitbosses determine you are good for business and offer to provide you a complimentary steak and lobster buffet. Count it.
In summary, money was won. Money was lost. Food was eaten. Second hand smoke was inhaled. Poker tournaments were entered. Soccer games ended in ties, and thus could have never been played and would have made the exact same impact on history. Lungs were forever damaged. Groomsmen were cursed by dealers. And fun was had. Count it all as time well wasted (Paisley, 2005).
I know you’re wondering. It’s ok to go ahead and ask… Yeah, I came out on top. Up $18. Take that, gambling.
Next time’s topic – how I used my gambling winnings to buy a house.
When last we left our heroes, they had left the thrill and excitement of Memphis and were heading for Tunica. Upon arrival, we were greeted by a marble lobby, reportedly comparable to the foyer at the Blankmore. Needless to say, it was a little change of pace from the most boring roadways in the Southeast. We dropped the stuff off in the hotel rooms and headed for the casino floor. It was 1:00 in the morning. I see 1 a.m., on average, 3 times a year, and one of those three times is spent on the toilet. That average was about to skyrocket.
Let me take this opportunity to thank Tennessee, or Nashville, or whoever it was that outlawed cigarettes in public buildings. As I’m typing this, I’m getting sized for my trachea hole that I will be breathing through for the remainder of my life due to the amount of nicotine coating my lungs. Fairly confident that for one weekend my lungs were being covered in tar faster than the Gulf of Mexico. Sorry, BP, you got second place. Anyhoo, everyone in that place actually brought their mother so that they could smoke two times the amount of cigarettes they could without the extra puffer.
We entered the haze of the casino, and, admittedly, we were a little shell-shocked. Collectively, we headed for the penny slots. High rollers indeed. After the one-hit-wonder managed to win $50 on two spins of the penny slots, a couple of the less frugal members of the wedding party cracked open the wallets and hit the blackjack tables. Nothing eventful to report from morning one in the casino. Turns out, private school kids are fairly low-key in a Casino environment.
Saturday afternoon three of the eight travelers determined that there was one game in the casino that was impossible to lose at… craps. To be honest, it looked like they were right – no matter what the man voted “most patient” in high school rolled, they kept giving him chips. Maybe they were on to something… Regardless, I’m off to the penny slots again.
We eat, swim, and watch soccer in no particular order for the remainder of the afternoon. As the evening gambling session begins, I leave the true gamblers to their blackjack and craps and head for the comfort of the penny slots. Fairly quickly, groomsmen begin coming up to me… early reports indicate craps is not unloseable. Go figure. Yep, turns out there’s a reason 7 is the number that stops the game – it just so happens to be mathematical. Anyway, after reality came crashing down, and broke the backs of the high horses, the low rollers went and watched a few of our number play some blackjack…
It seems when you are the youngest people in a place that is predominately cranky, smoky, and wrinkly, you have the eye of the pitbosses. If you manage to ride that wave, and travel in packs, cracking jokes, providing applause, and generally raising Cain (I’ve never really typed that out – the capitalization, while accurate per Wikipedia, appears awkward), aforementioned pitbosses determine you are good for business and offer to provide you a complimentary steak and lobster buffet. Count it.
In summary, money was won. Money was lost. Food was eaten. Second hand smoke was inhaled. Poker tournaments were entered. Soccer games ended in ties, and thus could have never been played and would have made the exact same impact on history. Lungs were forever damaged. Groomsmen were cursed by dealers. And fun was had. Count it all as time well wasted (Paisley, 2005).
I know you’re wondering. It’s ok to go ahead and ask… Yeah, I came out on top. Up $18. Take that, gambling.
Next time’s topic – how I used my gambling winnings to buy a house.
6.13.2010
Jello Syringe - I Don't Want It, But I Get It
I apologize in advance for the length of this, but it’s a blog. You don’t have to read it. Stop now if you want. Welcome to part one of to-be-determined…
I’m fairly confident I burned at least 1,500 calories this weekend merely by pulling my ID out of my back pocket. After work on Friday, I set out to meet up with the other three members of Car B, the late departure for bachelor weekend. Eight young men in their prime, determined to roll high, brush off golddiggers, and hit on 19… heading to Tunica. One small problem: Australian Karen, who lives in my Garmin, was unable to locate the address for the Gold Strike Casino… No worries, we’ll just start driving and see what happens.
Before we can get carded in Redneck Vegas, we decide to get carded in Memphis. Car A took off to Tunica, checked everyone in to the hotel, and backtracked to Memphis. We in Car B headed straight for Beale Street. Looking to be a pedestrian on the most popular street in West Tennessee? Please stand in line to verify your age and to be checked with a metal detector by a man whose sense of humor was lost somewhere in the first 2,000 groins he patted down before he got to mine. Good news: I was over 21 when I got carded in the middle of Beale Street.
I have now been to Beale Street. As such, I never have to return. It was approximately 95 degrees. At 10:00 at night. As some groomsmen in training may have wanted to whet their whistles, we decide to go into Club 152. Don’t worry, my streak of never having been in a club did not come to a screeching halt. This was a bar with 2 floors above it that allegedly qualified it to be a club. A later discovery would determine that club status cannot be achieved if the only people on your 2nd and 3rd floors are bouncers. In order to make that discovery, we first had to get in. For your reference, basketball shorts are not classy enough to get into a Beale Street finger-quote club. However, Ronald McDonald taught Grimace to be accepting before he put him in a yellow shirt and sent him to be the doorman at Club 152… Because all my buddies were going in, the man who, earlier in the day, swallowed Shrek whole graciously allowed me to pay him my $10 cover. Such a sweetheart. His silent partner then checked my ID. Still over 21. Boom (Graves, 2009). [NOTE: Please do not be alarmed if, going forward, you see in-text citations in MLA format.]
While basketball shorts are clearly a fashion faux-pas, double lip rings, back murals and pedophile moustaches are all acceptable accessories. Anyways, after our 45 minutes of talking to one another like we would do anywhere else, only at a higher volume, we headed out. Out past the people leaving the GWAR concert covered in blood, past the Ab-Belt guy flipping down the middle of the road, past 74 policemen, and back to the cars to take the party down to Tunica.
Tune in next time for the Mississippi part of our Mississippi adventure...
I’m fairly confident I burned at least 1,500 calories this weekend merely by pulling my ID out of my back pocket. After work on Friday, I set out to meet up with the other three members of Car B, the late departure for bachelor weekend. Eight young men in their prime, determined to roll high, brush off golddiggers, and hit on 19… heading to Tunica. One small problem: Australian Karen, who lives in my Garmin, was unable to locate the address for the Gold Strike Casino… No worries, we’ll just start driving and see what happens.
Before we can get carded in Redneck Vegas, we decide to get carded in Memphis. Car A took off to Tunica, checked everyone in to the hotel, and backtracked to Memphis. We in Car B headed straight for Beale Street. Looking to be a pedestrian on the most popular street in West Tennessee? Please stand in line to verify your age and to be checked with a metal detector by a man whose sense of humor was lost somewhere in the first 2,000 groins he patted down before he got to mine. Good news: I was over 21 when I got carded in the middle of Beale Street.
I have now been to Beale Street. As such, I never have to return. It was approximately 95 degrees. At 10:00 at night. As some groomsmen in training may have wanted to whet their whistles, we decide to go into Club 152. Don’t worry, my streak of never having been in a club did not come to a screeching halt. This was a bar with 2 floors above it that allegedly qualified it to be a club. A later discovery would determine that club status cannot be achieved if the only people on your 2nd and 3rd floors are bouncers. In order to make that discovery, we first had to get in. For your reference, basketball shorts are not classy enough to get into a Beale Street finger-quote club. However, Ronald McDonald taught Grimace to be accepting before he put him in a yellow shirt and sent him to be the doorman at Club 152… Because all my buddies were going in, the man who, earlier in the day, swallowed Shrek whole graciously allowed me to pay him my $10 cover. Such a sweetheart. His silent partner then checked my ID. Still over 21. Boom (Graves, 2009). [NOTE: Please do not be alarmed if, going forward, you see in-text citations in MLA format.]
While basketball shorts are clearly a fashion faux-pas, double lip rings, back murals and pedophile moustaches are all acceptable accessories. Anyways, after our 45 minutes of talking to one another like we would do anywhere else, only at a higher volume, we headed out. Out past the people leaving the GWAR concert covered in blood, past the Ab-Belt guy flipping down the middle of the road, past 74 policemen, and back to the cars to take the party down to Tunica.
Tune in next time for the Mississippi part of our Mississippi adventure...
6.06.2010
Save the World. NBD.
To the educational professional faction of my readership, allow me to apologize on behalf of America and the 160 character text limit. In the youth class I help teach at church, we had a little test – before you get all worked up, this was merely an opportunity for the kids to display their knowledge in an attempt to win prizes… We haven’t gone off the deep end and implemented some type of system that encourages kids to actually learn the Bible. I’m not sure if that was sarcastic or not. Regardless, it was only a means to tell you this – More than one teenage male in the class physically wrote the following response: “IDK.” Seriously… Seriously?
In an age where grown men can sit silently and send a message that reads “LOL”, this is getting out of hand. While I respect a man that can have radioactive beams shot into his scrotum, I’ve never been a big Lance Armstrong fan. However, as I’m watching Jesus Shuttlesworth light up Los Angeles like the spotlights the cocky FBI guy aims at Nakatomi Plaza in Die Hard, I find myself agreeing with every word from the mouth of pantsless Lance - No male over 30 should ever use a colon-dash-close-parenthesis.
In order to try to fulfill Ms. Tracy’s expectations from high school English and weave a common thread throughout my writing, do you really think John McClane would write “Hans looked sooo >:-0 when I threw him off the roof. LOL. TTYL” to Sergeant Al Powell (formerly Lieutenant Carl Winslow)? The man ran barefoot over 15 feet of glass shards while dodging Eastern European machine gun fire. If they had invented text messaging by the second time John and Holly got back together, he would be exactly 100% more likely to text “Yipee-Kay-Yay, Mister Falcon” than anything involving a smiley face.
Now Lucy McClane may be somewhat excused if she sends the occasional less-than-three to the awkward kid from the Mac commercials during Die Hard 4. I’m not saying I dislike it any less, but I’m not exactly going to talk trash to the officer’s daughter after he shot himself through the shoulder in order to get a bullet into the guy who had him in a choke hold.
Think how much harder it would have been for Zeus to figure out how to get exactly 4 gallons of water using only a 3-gallon jug and a 5-gallon jug at the elephant fountain if Simon Gruber had sent the riddle to him in 13-year-old-girl-text… New York City would have exploded. Bottom line.
I don’t expect you to observe all of the obscure rules of American grammar, but allow me to kindly request that we, as one nation, under God, indivisible, use actual words with liberty and justice for all.
Remember: only you can prevent the country’s most famous cities from being attacked by terrorists.
In an age where grown men can sit silently and send a message that reads “LOL”, this is getting out of hand. While I respect a man that can have radioactive beams shot into his scrotum, I’ve never been a big Lance Armstrong fan. However, as I’m watching Jesus Shuttlesworth light up Los Angeles like the spotlights the cocky FBI guy aims at Nakatomi Plaza in Die Hard, I find myself agreeing with every word from the mouth of pantsless Lance - No male over 30 should ever use a colon-dash-close-parenthesis.
In order to try to fulfill Ms. Tracy’s expectations from high school English and weave a common thread throughout my writing, do you really think John McClane would write “Hans looked sooo >:-0 when I threw him off the roof. LOL. TTYL” to Sergeant Al Powell (formerly Lieutenant Carl Winslow)? The man ran barefoot over 15 feet of glass shards while dodging Eastern European machine gun fire. If they had invented text messaging by the second time John and Holly got back together, he would be exactly 100% more likely to text “Yipee-Kay-Yay, Mister Falcon” than anything involving a smiley face.
Now Lucy McClane may be somewhat excused if she sends the occasional less-than-three to the awkward kid from the Mac commercials during Die Hard 4. I’m not saying I dislike it any less, but I’m not exactly going to talk trash to the officer’s daughter after he shot himself through the shoulder in order to get a bullet into the guy who had him in a choke hold.
Think how much harder it would have been for Zeus to figure out how to get exactly 4 gallons of water using only a 3-gallon jug and a 5-gallon jug at the elephant fountain if Simon Gruber had sent the riddle to him in 13-year-old-girl-text… New York City would have exploded. Bottom line.
I don’t expect you to observe all of the obscure rules of American grammar, but allow me to kindly request that we, as one nation, under God, indivisible, use actual words with liberty and justice for all.
Remember: only you can prevent the country’s most famous cities from being attacked by terrorists.
5.01.2010
The Champ is Here
Yes. It is Saturday night. And I am writing a blog post and beginning a sentence with a conjunction, two things that most people shouldn't do. However, some guy named Noah knocked on my front door a few minutes ago, looking for a donkey, as he had only one of the mandatory pair. In layman's terms, Nashville is waterlogged, and here I sit.
Over the last month or so, I've traveled the country. From Nashville to Chattanooga to Los Angeles to Tampa. The following are the highlights...
Chattanooga. Where my father spent his early childhood, I spent a week of my [I have no idea what to call this stage of my life]. Chat-town was actually a pretty interesting place, and we didn't even see the aquarium. We did, however, eat at a hippie Jewish restaurant. For all my UTC readers, that was your shout-out to the Yellow Deli, where you can eat a lamb sandwich while listening to the gentle tones of a harpsichord. While it was a nice little city, as it turns out, I was there to work, and work I did. As such, we kept the highlights to a minimum.
Los Angeles. Ok, so it was actually Thousand Oaks, but it's just an hour away, and in LA traffic, that's saying something. I know what you're thinking. Sadly, I didn't even fly into LAX. I took my dream and my cardigan just in case there was a problem at the Bob Hope Airport and we were forced to land at LAX... No dice. Anyway, I was there for 2 weeks. Worked from 8 to 5. This left me with ample time each day to do what I wanted to do in Southern California. For the first week and a half, it was 80 degrees and sunny. In Nashville. It was sunny in California too, but it was about 60. I sucked it up. I would like to share that the Creator of the universe really outdid himself about 20 minutes from my Hampton Inn. I drove my rented Hyundai Elantra through some of the most beautiful mountains and canyons. While I was taking it in at 45 mph, I was being tailed by a few locals who were not happy with my adherence to the speed limit. As such, when I exited the final canyon, I went a little faster than I normally would... only to discover that I had to take a hard left turn or hope the guy who rented the Elantra before me had caulked the car and paid the Indians to ford the ocean, as the beautiful mountains immediately gave way to the ocean. It was pretty awesome.
Tampa. From the West Coast to the Gulf Coast. In case you tuned in to hear me complain about my job, I apologize. Tampa was nice. Wonderful weather. Doubletree on the beach. It didn't even smell like oil until Thursday. I didn't mention it before, but the closest I got to someone famous in LA was at lunch one day with some of the staff from the hospital I was working at. While enjoying my burger, one of the guys said to me, "You know the guy O.J. killed?" Allegedly. "He's buried behind you." That was it. Ron Goldman's grave was 200 yards away... All of this was redeemed at the Tampa airport on Friday. A fellow auditor turned to me and said, "You know John Cena?" As I am 24 and have cable television, while I may not watch it religiously, I am still familiar with professional wrestling, so this question was basically rhetorical. Cena may have been wearing headbands around his biceps, but if he was, it was under his dress shirt. The man was dressed to a T - whatever that means. He was huge though. Almost as big as the Southwest employee scanning boarding passes. Sorry to disappoint, but I did not get his autograph, I did not arm wrestle him as one co-worker suggested, and I did not even do his patented "You can't see me" hand motion at him. On the bright side, his intro music was stuck in my head for the duration of the flight.
________________________________________________
Well, on a couple of occasions, I have considered writing on this thing with consistency. You can see how well that has worked out. I'm about to take the plunge and link it to my facebook. Not really sure if that will change how often I write or not. We shall see.
Over the last month or so, I've traveled the country. From Nashville to Chattanooga to Los Angeles to Tampa. The following are the highlights...
Chattanooga. Where my father spent his early childhood, I spent a week of my [I have no idea what to call this stage of my life]. Chat-town was actually a pretty interesting place, and we didn't even see the aquarium. We did, however, eat at a hippie Jewish restaurant. For all my UTC readers, that was your shout-out to the Yellow Deli, where you can eat a lamb sandwich while listening to the gentle tones of a harpsichord. While it was a nice little city, as it turns out, I was there to work, and work I did. As such, we kept the highlights to a minimum.
Los Angeles. Ok, so it was actually Thousand Oaks, but it's just an hour away, and in LA traffic, that's saying something. I know what you're thinking. Sadly, I didn't even fly into LAX. I took my dream and my cardigan just in case there was a problem at the Bob Hope Airport and we were forced to land at LAX... No dice. Anyway, I was there for 2 weeks. Worked from 8 to 5. This left me with ample time each day to do what I wanted to do in Southern California. For the first week and a half, it was 80 degrees and sunny. In Nashville. It was sunny in California too, but it was about 60. I sucked it up. I would like to share that the Creator of the universe really outdid himself about 20 minutes from my Hampton Inn. I drove my rented Hyundai Elantra through some of the most beautiful mountains and canyons. While I was taking it in at 45 mph, I was being tailed by a few locals who were not happy with my adherence to the speed limit. As such, when I exited the final canyon, I went a little faster than I normally would... only to discover that I had to take a hard left turn or hope the guy who rented the Elantra before me had caulked the car and paid the Indians to ford the ocean, as the beautiful mountains immediately gave way to the ocean. It was pretty awesome.
Tampa. From the West Coast to the Gulf Coast. In case you tuned in to hear me complain about my job, I apologize. Tampa was nice. Wonderful weather. Doubletree on the beach. It didn't even smell like oil until Thursday. I didn't mention it before, but the closest I got to someone famous in LA was at lunch one day with some of the staff from the hospital I was working at. While enjoying my burger, one of the guys said to me, "You know the guy O.J. killed?" Allegedly. "He's buried behind you." That was it. Ron Goldman's grave was 200 yards away... All of this was redeemed at the Tampa airport on Friday. A fellow auditor turned to me and said, "You know John Cena?" As I am 24 and have cable television, while I may not watch it religiously, I am still familiar with professional wrestling, so this question was basically rhetorical. Cena may have been wearing headbands around his biceps, but if he was, it was under his dress shirt. The man was dressed to a T - whatever that means. He was huge though. Almost as big as the Southwest employee scanning boarding passes. Sorry to disappoint, but I did not get his autograph, I did not arm wrestle him as one co-worker suggested, and I did not even do his patented "You can't see me" hand motion at him. On the bright side, his intro music was stuck in my head for the duration of the flight.
________________________________________________
Well, on a couple of occasions, I have considered writing on this thing with consistency. You can see how well that has worked out. I'm about to take the plunge and link it to my facebook. Not really sure if that will change how often I write or not. We shall see.
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