At this point in the adventure, we’re in Vegas. We catch a cab from the airport to the hotel. If the cab were a crow, it would have traveled 3/4ths of a mile. But the cab was a cab, and it went 26 dollars. The house always wins.
We arrive at the Mandalay Bay. There’s a fancy revolving door with compartments big enough to house guests and luggage. We test the limits of these doors by packing 3 guys and 3 bags into one compartment. Two minutes later, we enter the lobby.
They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. The same holds true for this blog. Mostly because I have convinced myself that my parents and at least half of the eldership at church reads this. Nothing to see here, folks. Keep it moving.
On the real though, I have no idea what the first four word phrase in this sentence means. The trip was fairly uneventful, so allow me to unleash bullet points:
- We walked past Pete Rose. In Vegas. I love irony.
- We witnessed a boxing weigh-in interview in our hotel lobby.
- We saw lions lick some guy’s hand.
- We inhaled a lot of second-hand smoke.
- We walked out of the hotel at 10:00 AM and were instantly pegged by a limo driver who said (accurately), “These guys are going to McDonald’s. Bet on it.”
- We saw two heavy-set men holding hands wearing pink dresses.
- We were offered approximately 45,000 flyers for strip clubs and escorts.
- We left a tenth of an inch shorter due to the bottom of our feet melting as we walked around the pools [NOTE: We only walked around 4 of 7 pools on the hotel property.]
- We saw street performers dressed as Elvis, Michael Jackson, Mario, Luigi, Darth Vader, a Storm Trooper, a couple of those statue guys, the Temptations, and a midget dressed as Chucky.
- We saw some guy from Dancing with the Stars. [NOTE: I had to take one of my friends’ word for that one. The friend shall remain nameless.]
- We ate at an Irish pub stocked full of actual Irish people. I had a shepherd’s pie so as to feel the full Irish experience. [NOTE: I was unaware that the Irish experience lasted long past dinner.]
- We paid $6.49 for a bottle of water. Ok, “we” didn’t, but one of us did, and that was ridiculous enough for me to mention.
- We were offered cocaine. More than once.
- We watched an Oompa-Loompa lose $200 in under 2 minutes.
And we closed out the trip by listening to *NSYNC’s greatest hits album… Ok, “we” didn’t do that either, but I did, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. That was easily the best 50 cents I have spent this year. Thank you, Essex bargain hunting section. The world needs another boy band.
Anyway, that’s most of what I remember about the trip that could possibly be considered worth writing about… Next week, I’ll be heading to church camp to atone for my trip to Vegas… I’ve made it as easy as I can to cyber-stalk me. All you have to do is read. See you next time.
7.27.2011
7.24.2011
Once Upon a Midnight Dreary...
As I can’t sleep on planes, there’s only so much I can do to keep myself occupied in the sky. Therefore, you get stuck with another post. I’m on the way back from Las Vegas, crammed behind a couple of folks who are not from around here. Here being North America. The lady was kind enough to recline her seat while my computer was resting on the tray table, nestled tightly under the seat. I discovered that a Toshiba laptop can successfully prevent a Boeing 737 passenger seat from reclining by acting in a manner similar to your foot when a young child is trying to get through a door that you have pressed your foot up against the base of in an effort to entertain yourself and frustrate said child.
I’m not sure if the thoughts in my head are going to present themselves well in paragraph form, so hold on tight and leave your grammar standards behind...
On the flight out, I posted up on my window seat, and hoped for a solo flyer to settle into the aisle seat, thus raising my chances of having an empty middle seat. The other three guys who I was traveling with all filed into one row, so, naturally, having an empty middle seat beside me would pay mental dividends as well, knowing they were packed in like proverbial sardines while I was rocking two wind tunnel vents.
My plan worked. Some lady came and sat down in the aisle seat, and no one dared venture between us. Perhaps this was due to our combined leg hair, which was at least 1.75 times my own amount. Now, I’ve never been one to complain about the TSA screening process. I’m all for not being vaporized between point A and point B, but on this trip, I got a little annoyed. In reverse order and avoiding any foreshadowing techniques learned in high school literature class, in the Vegas airport on the way home, I walked through the metal detector (no body scan this time), and it beeped. I knew I was clean and free of any metals.
The TSA agent reassured me of this, “Ok, you didn’t set it off, but you’re a random. Please step in here.”
No idea what a random is, but here was a plexi-glass cage. I stepped in and waited for another agent. My travel companions continued on their journey. Two minutes later, TSA 007 shows up. He asks which tubs are mine on the conveyor belt. I tell him. He goes over to them, grabs my shoes, and tells me to grab the rest and follow him. We go behind the scanners, and he opens a cabinet. He then proceeds to wipe my shoes down with either one of those wipes you get with chicken wings, a maxi-pad, or a temporary tattoo. After a 1.5 second wipe, he hands me my shoes and sends me on my way. So, if one of those shoe-bomber guys is reading this, please fill your bathtub with sarcasm, submerge yourself, and accept my heartfelt gratitude. Jerk.
Ok, so that was TSA point one. Back to the original flight out… As soon as my row-mate sits down, she begins knitting or crocheting (I hope that’s how you spell crow-shay-ing), I don’t know the difference. Which brings me to this question: How come there are several black and white pictures of me au natural posted on a TSA body scan reader’s closet wall while this lady can get two spears into a plane? Apparently, knitting requires a lot of extension of the left arm towards the closest human’s right eye.
So that was the first leg of the flight out. That flight went from Nashville to Chicago. Time in the air: 1 hour. Ground gained on Vegas: none. Second leg was a full flight. My seatmates were talkative. In fact, I thought they were friends until they introduced themselves to each other 3 minutes into the conversation. They introduced themselves to me. We chatted. Some of you know me well, and know that I love to chat with strangers, but for everyone else reading this, planes were not meant to be a real-life session of chat roulette. I’m not complaining though, they were nice girls, and they stopped talking at 10,000 feet. That should be the 11th commandment.
Two shining moments from flight two :
One, the flight attendant came by with snack options. When presented with cheese crackers, golden oreos, pretzels, and peanuts, middle seat asked, “Do you have any gluten free options?” Middle seat and the flight attendant finally decided that peanuts were probably gluten free. Green light.
Two, if you ever find yourself wondering if the big bang theory could really hold up, take an evening flight southwest (I meant the direction, but I recommend the airline as well) and sit on the right side as you look towards the front. From 35,000 feet above the ground, I watched the sunset in the distance while a thunderstorm went on below. It was one of the coolest things I’ve seen. Then, on the flight back, I watched the lightning below as the stars decorated the sky above. So for that, a sarcasm-free thanks, God.
Tune in next time for the actual Vegas part... Well, the parts I can write about.
I’m not sure if the thoughts in my head are going to present themselves well in paragraph form, so hold on tight and leave your grammar standards behind...
On the flight out, I posted up on my window seat, and hoped for a solo flyer to settle into the aisle seat, thus raising my chances of having an empty middle seat. The other three guys who I was traveling with all filed into one row, so, naturally, having an empty middle seat beside me would pay mental dividends as well, knowing they were packed in like proverbial sardines while I was rocking two wind tunnel vents.
My plan worked. Some lady came and sat down in the aisle seat, and no one dared venture between us. Perhaps this was due to our combined leg hair, which was at least 1.75 times my own amount. Now, I’ve never been one to complain about the TSA screening process. I’m all for not being vaporized between point A and point B, but on this trip, I got a little annoyed. In reverse order and avoiding any foreshadowing techniques learned in high school literature class, in the Vegas airport on the way home, I walked through the metal detector (no body scan this time), and it beeped. I knew I was clean and free of any metals.
The TSA agent reassured me of this, “Ok, you didn’t set it off, but you’re a random. Please step in here.”
No idea what a random is, but here was a plexi-glass cage. I stepped in and waited for another agent. My travel companions continued on their journey. Two minutes later, TSA 007 shows up. He asks which tubs are mine on the conveyor belt. I tell him. He goes over to them, grabs my shoes, and tells me to grab the rest and follow him. We go behind the scanners, and he opens a cabinet. He then proceeds to wipe my shoes down with either one of those wipes you get with chicken wings, a maxi-pad, or a temporary tattoo. After a 1.5 second wipe, he hands me my shoes and sends me on my way. So, if one of those shoe-bomber guys is reading this, please fill your bathtub with sarcasm, submerge yourself, and accept my heartfelt gratitude. Jerk.
Ok, so that was TSA point one. Back to the original flight out… As soon as my row-mate sits down, she begins knitting or crocheting (I hope that’s how you spell crow-shay-ing), I don’t know the difference. Which brings me to this question: How come there are several black and white pictures of me au natural posted on a TSA body scan reader’s closet wall while this lady can get two spears into a plane? Apparently, knitting requires a lot of extension of the left arm towards the closest human’s right eye.
So that was the first leg of the flight out. That flight went from Nashville to Chicago. Time in the air: 1 hour. Ground gained on Vegas: none. Second leg was a full flight. My seatmates were talkative. In fact, I thought they were friends until they introduced themselves to each other 3 minutes into the conversation. They introduced themselves to me. We chatted. Some of you know me well, and know that I love to chat with strangers, but for everyone else reading this, planes were not meant to be a real-life session of chat roulette. I’m not complaining though, they were nice girls, and they stopped talking at 10,000 feet. That should be the 11th commandment.
Two shining moments from flight two :
One, the flight attendant came by with snack options. When presented with cheese crackers, golden oreos, pretzels, and peanuts, middle seat asked, “Do you have any gluten free options?” Middle seat and the flight attendant finally decided that peanuts were probably gluten free. Green light.
Two, if you ever find yourself wondering if the big bang theory could really hold up, take an evening flight southwest (I meant the direction, but I recommend the airline as well) and sit on the right side as you look towards the front. From 35,000 feet above the ground, I watched the sunset in the distance while a thunderstorm went on below. It was one of the coolest things I’ve seen. Then, on the flight back, I watched the lightning below as the stars decorated the sky above. So for that, a sarcasm-free thanks, God.
Tune in next time for the actual Vegas part... Well, the parts I can write about.
7.11.2011
Back to Life. Back to Reality.
What took you so long? Well, welcome back. Glad to have you.
I’ve been meaning to write for a while, but nothing was coming to me. What changed? Well, nothing. Then, like a FIFA ref to Rachel Buehler, the realization red card hit me: writing about nothing is infinitely better than watching this dingleberry on the Bachelorette trying to keep Carrie Underwood’s little sister interested while he talks about the environment.
Hold that. She’s about to drop the people’s elbow on this guy. “I don’t know if I see you as my husband.” Boom. “You don’t want to meet my family?”
Don’t worry, buddy. There are plenty of other fish in the tank-less water heater.
“I’m shocked. [Pause] I want to spend the rest of my life with someone. [Tear]”
If all else fails, maybe you can be Will Scheuster’s stuntman and see if things work out with Emma.
But you’re not alone. Many have gone before you, and many will follow after. You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. Of course, the most famous is “Never get involved in a land war in Asia,” but only slightly less well known is this: “Never go on television looking for the love of your life.”
If we’re stuck in a reality television world, the least they could do is force the contestants onto shows they didn’t sign up for. Blindfold the Bachelorette guys and force them onto one of those Wipeout courses. Make the Big Brother folks cook on one of those British guy’s shows. Make the Expedition Impossible people switch places with the Amazing Racers. Well… on second thought, scratch that and have every Survivor contestant ever sit in a room and watch every episode of Survivor and give the last one left in the room a million bones.
I think I’m starting to realize why people read books… or get cable. Honestly, I could go either way.
Stay cool.
I’ve been meaning to write for a while, but nothing was coming to me. What changed? Well, nothing. Then, like a FIFA ref to Rachel Buehler, the realization red card hit me: writing about nothing is infinitely better than watching this dingleberry on the Bachelorette trying to keep Carrie Underwood’s little sister interested while he talks about the environment.
Hold that. She’s about to drop the people’s elbow on this guy. “I don’t know if I see you as my husband.” Boom. “You don’t want to meet my family?”
Don’t worry, buddy. There are plenty of other fish in the tank-less water heater.
“I’m shocked. [Pause] I want to spend the rest of my life with someone. [Tear]”
If all else fails, maybe you can be Will Scheuster’s stuntman and see if things work out with Emma.
But you’re not alone. Many have gone before you, and many will follow after. You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. Of course, the most famous is “Never get involved in a land war in Asia,” but only slightly less well known is this: “Never go on television looking for the love of your life.”
If we’re stuck in a reality television world, the least they could do is force the contestants onto shows they didn’t sign up for. Blindfold the Bachelorette guys and force them onto one of those Wipeout courses. Make the Big Brother folks cook on one of those British guy’s shows. Make the Expedition Impossible people switch places with the Amazing Racers. Well… on second thought, scratch that and have every Survivor contestant ever sit in a room and watch every episode of Survivor and give the last one left in the room a million bones.
I think I’m starting to realize why people read books… or get cable. Honestly, I could go either way.
Stay cool.
6.18.2011
East Nashville is Too Stupid for McDonald's
Editor's Note: I wrote the first part of this post a few weeks ago, but then I calmed down and decided not to post it. Yesterday, East Nashville assured me I should go ahead and throw it up here. So I just opened the word document and tacked on yesterday’s experience at the end…
If the stereotypical East Nashvillian approached you in Kroger, you might be intimidated by the pale, unshowered, ritualistically-pierced gangbanger with his skinny jeans sagging beneath the weight of his marijuana, art supplies, and 9mm.
Given the aura my neighbors give off, you can imagine the line of fancy restaurants waiting to get into Inglewood might not stretch around the block. Or even around a Lego for that matter. While Morton’s and Ruth’s Chris sit atop their ivory towers barely within biking distance (because we all know east-siders love their bikes), I’m here to tell you East Nashville isn’t competent enough to handle McDonald’s.
I had plans to mow the yard today. Then, outside, it began to look like one of those old-timey pictures you get made in Gatlinburg. You know, all brown and murky and whatnot. So I opted for an extra study session at work in lieu of mowing the yard. Plus, I figured the rain would rinse the pterodactyl [didn’t even use spell check] poop off my car. [Seriously, the birds at my house must be emus.] Therefore, I could use the time I would have spent washing my car on Saturday mowing my grass.
Given the extended day at work, I didn’t really feel like preparing dinner tonight. Even for my definition of preparing. So, I decided to join the billions served. The McDonald’s nearest my house has a double drive-thru. Side-by-side. Thus, allowing the patron to pick a lane prior to ordering. This piece alone was almost too much for the guy in front of me to handle, but I waited patiently while he made the wrong decision.
I proceeded into lane 1, ensuring that I would be given the opportunity to order first. I ordered. 30 seconds later, the half-naked grandfather in the car next to me ordered. I pride myself in having a fair share of observance for my surroundings. As such, I was fully aware that, in order for the drive-thru to operate at its highest efficiency from this point on, I would need to arrive at the first window before Captain Beergut.
Once the person in front of public indecency left lane 2, I took my spot on their bumper. Then the shirtless genius proceeds to weasel his car into the 74 degree angle between my front bumper and the rear of the car in front of me. Cautiously assuming I was smarter than this guy, I chose to ignore his existence. Then he began to yell. Mind you, no one was moving, and I had my windows up.
Continuing my ignorance, he continued his. As he screamed at me to inform me he had ordered first, I decided pretending he wasn’t there was futile. So, windows up, I looked over at him. It was at this point I learned he was a grandfather. And that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I couldn’t see pants either for that matter. As he continued to yell at my passenger side window, I stared. Blankly. No emotion. No words mouthed back. Just staring.
He stopped yelling. I won’t claim I intimidated him. I will claim there must come a point when a senior citizen wearing only skin realizes his son and grandson might not be keen on him continuing his tirade. He closed his soliloquy with, “Do you understand me?” My window didn’t answer him.
I didn’t contest his position, allowing him to continue on to the first window, where they charged him $4.25. Surprisingly, that was the total of my order too. What are the chances? Alas, all I was left with was the joy of smirking at him while he looked back in his side-view mirror.
You might ask, “Loren, was this story really worth 700 words?” Well, no, not unless that toddler survives the next few years of his life without a car seat and reads this one day, coming to the realization of what a feat it was to make it out from under the shadow of his pappy.
Next time it rains, I’m eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Never fear, today’s story is shorter. Big Macs are currently 99 cents. As such, I have been to McDonald’s more in the past 3 weeks than I have in the previous 2 years. What can I say? I’m a sucker for savings.
Anyway, yesterday, I ordered my Big Mac and pulled around. As I waited behind the minivan at the second window, everything seemed to be going smoothly. The McEmployee handed a bag of food out the window, and the van started to pull away.
Three feet later it stopped. The lady driving the van opens the door. [Note: Often in East Nashville, this is done at a drive-thru because the window doesn’t work. That was not the case in this event.] The lady driving leaned out and said, “He didn’t get his fries.”
I couldn’t hear the McEmployee’s response, but it was apparently not enough to make the van driver happy. She got all the way out, and reiterated, “He says he didn’t get his fries.”
Again, I can’t hear the response, but, if there was a response, it was very quickly cut off by the van driver’s claim, “[Expletive] that! I’ve got the grease! I’ll just talk to the manager.”
I thought I was semi-fluent in ghetto language, but I have no idea what it means to have the grease. However, to have it at McDonald’s is, at least, ironic.
The lady pulled up and waited to speak to the manager. That manager was, understandably, in no hurry as he was at the window when I pulled up, sharing a laugh with at least 3 other workers.
I’m ready for Big Macs to go back to being overpriced.
If the stereotypical East Nashvillian approached you in Kroger, you might be intimidated by the pale, unshowered, ritualistically-pierced gangbanger with his skinny jeans sagging beneath the weight of his marijuana, art supplies, and 9mm.
Given the aura my neighbors give off, you can imagine the line of fancy restaurants waiting to get into Inglewood might not stretch around the block. Or even around a Lego for that matter. While Morton’s and Ruth’s Chris sit atop their ivory towers barely within biking distance (because we all know east-siders love their bikes), I’m here to tell you East Nashville isn’t competent enough to handle McDonald’s.
I had plans to mow the yard today. Then, outside, it began to look like one of those old-timey pictures you get made in Gatlinburg. You know, all brown and murky and whatnot. So I opted for an extra study session at work in lieu of mowing the yard. Plus, I figured the rain would rinse the pterodactyl [didn’t even use spell check] poop off my car. [Seriously, the birds at my house must be emus.] Therefore, I could use the time I would have spent washing my car on Saturday mowing my grass.
Given the extended day at work, I didn’t really feel like preparing dinner tonight. Even for my definition of preparing. So, I decided to join the billions served. The McDonald’s nearest my house has a double drive-thru. Side-by-side. Thus, allowing the patron to pick a lane prior to ordering. This piece alone was almost too much for the guy in front of me to handle, but I waited patiently while he made the wrong decision.
I proceeded into lane 1, ensuring that I would be given the opportunity to order first. I ordered. 30 seconds later, the half-naked grandfather in the car next to me ordered. I pride myself in having a fair share of observance for my surroundings. As such, I was fully aware that, in order for the drive-thru to operate at its highest efficiency from this point on, I would need to arrive at the first window before Captain Beergut.
Once the person in front of public indecency left lane 2, I took my spot on their bumper. Then the shirtless genius proceeds to weasel his car into the 74 degree angle between my front bumper and the rear of the car in front of me. Cautiously assuming I was smarter than this guy, I chose to ignore his existence. Then he began to yell. Mind you, no one was moving, and I had my windows up.
Continuing my ignorance, he continued his. As he screamed at me to inform me he had ordered first, I decided pretending he wasn’t there was futile. So, windows up, I looked over at him. It was at this point I learned he was a grandfather. And that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I couldn’t see pants either for that matter. As he continued to yell at my passenger side window, I stared. Blankly. No emotion. No words mouthed back. Just staring.
He stopped yelling. I won’t claim I intimidated him. I will claim there must come a point when a senior citizen wearing only skin realizes his son and grandson might not be keen on him continuing his tirade. He closed his soliloquy with, “Do you understand me?” My window didn’t answer him.
I didn’t contest his position, allowing him to continue on to the first window, where they charged him $4.25. Surprisingly, that was the total of my order too. What are the chances? Alas, all I was left with was the joy of smirking at him while he looked back in his side-view mirror.
You might ask, “Loren, was this story really worth 700 words?” Well, no, not unless that toddler survives the next few years of his life without a car seat and reads this one day, coming to the realization of what a feat it was to make it out from under the shadow of his pappy.
Next time it rains, I’m eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Never fear, today’s story is shorter. Big Macs are currently 99 cents. As such, I have been to McDonald’s more in the past 3 weeks than I have in the previous 2 years. What can I say? I’m a sucker for savings.
Anyway, yesterday, I ordered my Big Mac and pulled around. As I waited behind the minivan at the second window, everything seemed to be going smoothly. The McEmployee handed a bag of food out the window, and the van started to pull away.
Three feet later it stopped. The lady driving the van opens the door. [Note: Often in East Nashville, this is done at a drive-thru because the window doesn’t work. That was not the case in this event.] The lady driving leaned out and said, “He didn’t get his fries.”
I couldn’t hear the McEmployee’s response, but it was apparently not enough to make the van driver happy. She got all the way out, and reiterated, “He says he didn’t get his fries.”
Again, I can’t hear the response, but, if there was a response, it was very quickly cut off by the van driver’s claim, “[Expletive] that! I’ve got the grease! I’ll just talk to the manager.”
I thought I was semi-fluent in ghetto language, but I have no idea what it means to have the grease. However, to have it at McDonald’s is, at least, ironic.
The lady pulled up and waited to speak to the manager. That manager was, understandably, in no hurry as he was at the window when I pulled up, sharing a laugh with at least 3 other workers.
I’m ready for Big Macs to go back to being overpriced.
6.11.2011
The New Woman's Guide to Getting Married
In the words of a famous General, 'I don’t mean to brag, but…' once upon a time, before I entered the 8-5 world [Note: Yes, Dolly, it seems the days of 9-5 are behind us], I spent some time as a youth intern. What that means is that I got paid to play games, make iTunes playlists, put together an occasional PowerPoint, and mold young people during the most impressionable part of their lives. Before I put my humble hat on, I was pretty good at most of those things.
All that to say, if you see teenagers driving away from my house, please refrain from checking any state or national registries. Though, odds are, they are leaving the scene of a crime. It seems last week there was a party on my deck starring King James, Nelly, and Tim McGraw: I have been trespassed against. Over and over again.
For those of you who didn’t grow up in a small Church of Christ, one thing you should know is that, while the CoC world is full of good people, these people don’t throw anything away. You want to know which people were at church on May 17th, 1972? I can look that up in our database. That database is a series of cardboard boxes full of attendance records. In case that whatever you call that cloth-like wallpaper that has covered the walls of the auditorium for 30 years now somehow disappears one day, never fear: We have a couple of spare rolls in a closet. Do you remember the plastic horses suspended by springs that you used to ride on as a child? I do. Mainly because they’re stashed across from one of the classrooms at church.
This week, some of those youth group kids avoided joining a gang and opted to clean up around the church. [Because everything a teenager does during the summer months that is not joining a gang is obviously in an effort to keep them from joining a gang.] As a part of their charitable labor, they cleaned out some of the relics around the church house.
As we have been taught for so long, act as if someone is always watching your actions. Unlike Crosby, Stills, and Nash, we have not taught the children well. In lieu of throwing the junk away, most of it ended up on my back deck.
Day one, day one, God made light when there was none. Day one, day one of church clean up, I come home to some new literature…
I found humor in this. Then things got a little more violent on day two…
Day three was a special one. Backstory: A little over a year ago, the preacher decided to do an object lesson involving trophies. Lucky… er, blessed… for him, our church was a basketball powerhouse in the 70s, a softball dynasty in the 90s, and returned to basketball glory in the early 2000s. If you’re doing the math on the basketball team, you’re right, I still haven’t found that humble hat. Anyway, preacher brought lots of trophies down from the 3rd floor and claimed he would throw them away a couple of weeks after the lesson if no one claimed they wanted them.
A year later, those trophies still sat in the corner of one of the baptistery changing rooms. Until day three. I back in to my driveway like any other evening, when I see a trophy on my gate with a sign reading “You’re the Greatest.” [Thanks, by the way.] I thought this was a great contribution to the deck compared to the previous days. Then I opened the gate…
Day four was the final day of cleanup. I managed to fight through the suspense and make it through the workday. Contrary to what you may have heard, most days when I come home, there are not girls waiting for me at the door. Day four was not most days…
As I know you read this looking for life lessons [and if you’ve read this far today, you obviously deserve it], here are today’s:
1. When you stumble across that banner that says “Community Day 1981”, go ahead and throw it away.
2. If you feel like giving me a gift, just leave it on the back porch, I’ll get it.
3. To my neighbors who read this, if anyone is wondering whether we have a Neighborhood Watch program, we apparently do not.
All that to say, if you see teenagers driving away from my house, please refrain from checking any state or national registries. Though, odds are, they are leaving the scene of a crime. It seems last week there was a party on my deck starring King James, Nelly, and Tim McGraw: I have been trespassed against. Over and over again.
For those of you who didn’t grow up in a small Church of Christ, one thing you should know is that, while the CoC world is full of good people, these people don’t throw anything away. You want to know which people were at church on May 17th, 1972? I can look that up in our database. That database is a series of cardboard boxes full of attendance records. In case that whatever you call that cloth-like wallpaper that has covered the walls of the auditorium for 30 years now somehow disappears one day, never fear: We have a couple of spare rolls in a closet. Do you remember the plastic horses suspended by springs that you used to ride on as a child? I do. Mainly because they’re stashed across from one of the classrooms at church.
This week, some of those youth group kids avoided joining a gang and opted to clean up around the church. [Because everything a teenager does during the summer months that is not joining a gang is obviously in an effort to keep them from joining a gang.] As a part of their charitable labor, they cleaned out some of the relics around the church house.
As we have been taught for so long, act as if someone is always watching your actions. Unlike Crosby, Stills, and Nash, we have not taught the children well. In lieu of throwing the junk away, most of it ended up on my back deck.
Day one, day one, God made light when there was none. Day one, day one of church clean up, I come home to some new literature…
I found humor in this. Then things got a little more violent on day two…
Day three was a special one. Backstory: A little over a year ago, the preacher decided to do an object lesson involving trophies. Lucky… er, blessed… for him, our church was a basketball powerhouse in the 70s, a softball dynasty in the 90s, and returned to basketball glory in the early 2000s. If you’re doing the math on the basketball team, you’re right, I still haven’t found that humble hat. Anyway, preacher brought lots of trophies down from the 3rd floor and claimed he would throw them away a couple of weeks after the lesson if no one claimed they wanted them.A year later, those trophies still sat in the corner of one of the baptistery changing rooms. Until day three. I back in to my driveway like any other evening, when I see a trophy on my gate with a sign reading “You’re the Greatest.” [Thanks, by the way.] I thought this was a great contribution to the deck compared to the previous days. Then I opened the gate…
Day four was the final day of cleanup. I managed to fight through the suspense and make it through the workday. Contrary to what you may have heard, most days when I come home, there are not girls waiting for me at the door. Day four was not most days…
As I know you read this looking for life lessons [and if you’ve read this far today, you obviously deserve it], here are today’s:1. When you stumble across that banner that says “Community Day 1981”, go ahead and throw it away.
2. If you feel like giving me a gift, just leave it on the back porch, I’ll get it.
3. To my neighbors who read this, if anyone is wondering whether we have a Neighborhood Watch program, we apparently do not.
5.30.2011
God Bless Nashville and the Surrounding Areas
If the stereotypical East Nashvillian approached you in Kroger, you might be intimidated by the pale, unshowered, ritualistically-pierced gangbanger with his skinny jeans sagging beneath the weight of his marijuana, art supplies, and 9mm.
Especially if you’re from Brentwood and are already committed to looking at your reflection in the fogged up door in the frozen food aisle. Because, in front of the Bagel Bites and Pizza Rolls, there stands a pair of oversized sunglasses perched a few inches above a shimmery shirt with enormous armholes that hangs a full four inches below the waistband of a pair of tights tucked neatly into a pair of, you guessed it, Ugg boots.
O tal vez eres de Antioquía. Usted no tiene miedo de usar sus pantalones cubiertos de pintura y botas con punta de acero. Su bigote está bien establecido por encima de los labios que hablan español. A medida que tirar de su camioneta de la playa de estacionamiento...
You have to quickly steer your truck up onto the sidewalk to avoid the soccer mom in the giant SUV who is completely lost because she typed the wrong address into the GPS she uses to get around Green Hills. The typing in of the incorrect coordinates is understandable, given the fact that she typed it in while driving in bumper to bumper traffic, fixing her makeup, texting her friend in the giant SUV behind her, and waving her hands around at the driver in front of her as if he is the one who would fail a retest at the DMV. I won’t speak to your mothering skills, but you’re failing at the stay-at-home part, lady.
Excuse me for one second, I was distracted by the thought of working someone from Madison into this. I still struggle to comprehend how a person could walk around in such large shorts. For those of you who have purchased such large shorts, do the plaid boxers and wifebeater come with it? Maybe it’s a big one piece. I’m pretty sure the Michael Vick Falcons jersey that is draped around your neck and one shoulder is sold separately, and I’ve seen the signs for the Air Force Ones ($35 if you call the number stapled to the telephone pole).
Honestly, I stole the first paragraph from a post entitled “East Nashville is Too Stupid for a McDonald’s” that I wrote a couple of weeks back, but the blog server was down (that’s about as techy an explanation I could give). My anger for the guy at McDonald’s expired, but I was kind of proud my description of a stereotypical East Nashville resident. So I thought, “How can I morph this into another post?” Then I thought, “It’s Memorial Day, run with that.”
So this is what you got… Whether you’re a Blood or a Crypt, a goth or a prep, a jock or a hipster, a soccer mom or a kid with two moms, a retiree or a trust fund kid, a high-ranking executive or a college student eating Ramen noodles, there’s men and women who are literally putting their lives on the line to allow you the opportunity to carry on in your current role. And they don’t always make it back.
So, I’m sure it’s been put out there on a lot more important, well-read, higher-trafficked stages, but thank you to those of you who are serving, have served, will serve, or any other conjugation of the verb in the military. Yes, it is your job, but you deserve more than the thanks you get, more than one day’s memorial a year, and more than the $500 discount on a new car that I saw advertised today.
5.10.2011
My Digital Paper Boy Just Hit You in the Face
So it’s been a while… For those of you with A.D.D., this post is right up your alley. For those of you with epilepsy, might want to avoid the flashing lights - this post may have a flair for the psychosis. What have we missed since last we got together…
Personals
You ever wish your quiet neighborhood was suddenly infiltrated with millions of horny, pubescent creatures dangerously in need of some Visine? Who needs internet dating when you can live in a hole for 13 years only to wake up to a gaggle of girls that really only want to have kids?
Current Events
Happy belated Mother’s Day to mine. She’s better than yours, but we don’t have to get into that. Evidence: Me. And leftovers.
Sports
Did you know Nashville had a hockey team? Did you know Memphis has a basketball team? Did you know the NBA and NHL playoffs are nowhere near over? You're welcome.
Health
Then there was the time I flew with a sinus infection. I’m not asking to play a major role in your life, but let me make a difference here. A Greyhound bus may have a negative connotation. That connotation won’t make your brain explode. Pick up a can of Lysol and make sure your armrest is down.
World News
A couple of top secret stealth helicopters full of Leroy Browns flew into a residential neighborhood, a couple of hundred feet from a military training academy, and took down the most wanted man in the world. Oh, and they brought a dog along. I’m not here to give an opinion for or against the celebration of a man’s death, but someone should give Waldo and Nemo a heads up.
Pop Culture
Tonight, Glee took a moment to kick me and the rest of their audience squarely in the metaphorical crotch when they somehow roped us in to not changing the channel when they assembled a playlist that included the following: Rolling in the Deep, Friday, and Dancing Queen. America, emasculated.
Coupons
A few weeks back I had the pleasure of purchasing $93.78 worth of milk and ice cream. In case you were wondering, that’s 15 and 8 gallons, respectively, at Scottsville, Kentucky Food Lion prices. To the poor girl who checked me out, I apologize and wish you the best in your quest for interpersonal skills.
Now get out there and spit game like a cicada. Remember you’re fly.
Personals
You ever wish your quiet neighborhood was suddenly infiltrated with millions of horny, pubescent creatures dangerously in need of some Visine? Who needs internet dating when you can live in a hole for 13 years only to wake up to a gaggle of girls that really only want to have kids?
Current Events
Happy belated Mother’s Day to mine. She’s better than yours, but we don’t have to get into that. Evidence: Me. And leftovers.
Sports
Did you know Nashville had a hockey team? Did you know Memphis has a basketball team? Did you know the NBA and NHL playoffs are nowhere near over? You're welcome.
Health
Then there was the time I flew with a sinus infection. I’m not asking to play a major role in your life, but let me make a difference here. A Greyhound bus may have a negative connotation. That connotation won’t make your brain explode. Pick up a can of Lysol and make sure your armrest is down.
World News
A couple of top secret stealth helicopters full of Leroy Browns flew into a residential neighborhood, a couple of hundred feet from a military training academy, and took down the most wanted man in the world. Oh, and they brought a dog along. I’m not here to give an opinion for or against the celebration of a man’s death, but someone should give Waldo and Nemo a heads up.
Pop Culture
Tonight, Glee took a moment to kick me and the rest of their audience squarely in the metaphorical crotch when they somehow roped us in to not changing the channel when they assembled a playlist that included the following: Rolling in the Deep, Friday, and Dancing Queen. America, emasculated.
Coupons
A few weeks back I had the pleasure of purchasing $93.78 worth of milk and ice cream. In case you were wondering, that’s 15 and 8 gallons, respectively, at Scottsville, Kentucky Food Lion prices. To the poor girl who checked me out, I apologize and wish you the best in your quest for interpersonal skills.
Now get out there and spit game like a cicada. Remember you’re fly.
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