,,,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.
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.
8.16.2009
Mountaintop Anchovies
Last week I went to Salt Lake City, Utah. It was supposed to be a 2 year mission; however, it was cut a little short, and I only ended up staying for a week for work. It was in Salt Lake City (SLC) that I came to understand what life is like for a desktop icon: No matter where I was or what I was doing, there were picturesque views of mountains surrounding me. All I was missing was the daunting decision of whether to send or not send the error report when I inevitably screw up... Which brings me to my next point: Who gets paid to receive these error reports? I feel like that has Bill Gates' son-in-law's career written all over it. Moving on.
As I type, I am beginning to realize how little there is to write about from SLC. Oh well, guess I'll give it the ol' fashion post-graduate try... Once upon a time, we decided to drive up a mountain for dinner. We set out from the 94 degree weather of the city and began our ascent. Half a mountain later, we set eyes on the restaurant for which we had made reservations. However, we were a little early. It was suggested we use our extra time to continue our climb. I now know exactly what it feels like to go off-roading in a rented Chevrolet Malibu. It is all it's cracked up to be. Turns out, the mountaintop drainage system carved into the Utah slopes was not built for small sedans. The Malibu held up quite well though. If you are in the market for an off-road vehicle, allow me to take this opportunity to voice my support for the suspension of the small Chevy. Forget the Land Rover or Wrangler, just buy a Malibu and put a lift on it... Just this man's suggestion.
Once we got to the top of our climb, we pulled off on a scenic overlook of sorts. Though I'm not sure you can call it an overlook when you are on the top of a mountain and yet you are still surrounded by even taller mountains. We got out of the car to realize it was 50 some-odd degrees and windy. Not quite the sauna we had left at sea-level... We experienced the views and the wind, then took it on back down the hill. As we drove the empty winding roads, I began to feel as though we were in a horror movie. I fully expected to round a corner on the mountain's edge and see a traffic barrier set up with a chainsaw-wielding doctor with a can of fava beans in the pocket of his trenchcoat... We made it safely back to the restaurant. Walking through the door beside the restaurant sign, we were greeted with a long, tall staircase. There was no additional signage, only a windowless flight of stairs leading to another closed door.
When the door opened, Michael Jackson went moonwalking down the stairs as Vincent Price bellowed threats of a corpsy shell. Behind the creaky door was a small, dimly lit hallway housing... you guessed it... an antique dentist's chair. I can't make this stuff up. After regaining our composure and the changing of soiled garments that may or may not have taken place, we finally discovered the hostess for the restaurant nestled opposite the Jigsaw dentist chair. She kindly led us to our speaker-side table. We then began our relatively uneventful meal.
No less than one day after I had uttered the words "If I've never had something, I'll at least try it," I was greeted with my Caesar salad at this establishment. While the music of Motown boomed from the speakers above our heads, my Caesar salad was topped with a fish. "I've never had an anchovy," I may have said. "Well, then you must try it." Great. "They're a little salty." So I cut Nemo in half and went for it... I felt like I had just taken a bite out of a salt lick. My parents were kind enough to let me own fish as a child in order to make me feel like I had a real pet. Theoretically, when you own a fish, you should clean out the bowl or tank at some point in the lifespan of the fish. You remember what it smelled like when you didn't? That was the aftertaste that followed me sucking out the contents of a salt shaker... While I'm crossing that off my list of things to do in life, I will go ahead and cross that off my list of things to say to coworkers while traveling.
Overall, it was a great trip... I'm sorry you missed out, but I'm also sorry you spent this time reading about it. Have a splendid rest of your day. Love always...
As I type, I am beginning to realize how little there is to write about from SLC. Oh well, guess I'll give it the ol' fashion post-graduate try... Once upon a time, we decided to drive up a mountain for dinner. We set out from the 94 degree weather of the city and began our ascent. Half a mountain later, we set eyes on the restaurant for which we had made reservations. However, we were a little early. It was suggested we use our extra time to continue our climb. I now know exactly what it feels like to go off-roading in a rented Chevrolet Malibu. It is all it's cracked up to be. Turns out, the mountaintop drainage system carved into the Utah slopes was not built for small sedans. The Malibu held up quite well though. If you are in the market for an off-road vehicle, allow me to take this opportunity to voice my support for the suspension of the small Chevy. Forget the Land Rover or Wrangler, just buy a Malibu and put a lift on it... Just this man's suggestion.
Once we got to the top of our climb, we pulled off on a scenic overlook of sorts. Though I'm not sure you can call it an overlook when you are on the top of a mountain and yet you are still surrounded by even taller mountains. We got out of the car to realize it was 50 some-odd degrees and windy. Not quite the sauna we had left at sea-level... We experienced the views and the wind, then took it on back down the hill. As we drove the empty winding roads, I began to feel as though we were in a horror movie. I fully expected to round a corner on the mountain's edge and see a traffic barrier set up with a chainsaw-wielding doctor with a can of fava beans in the pocket of his trenchcoat... We made it safely back to the restaurant. Walking through the door beside the restaurant sign, we were greeted with a long, tall staircase. There was no additional signage, only a windowless flight of stairs leading to another closed door.
When the door opened, Michael Jackson went moonwalking down the stairs as Vincent Price bellowed threats of a corpsy shell. Behind the creaky door was a small, dimly lit hallway housing... you guessed it... an antique dentist's chair. I can't make this stuff up. After regaining our composure and the changing of soiled garments that may or may not have taken place, we finally discovered the hostess for the restaurant nestled opposite the Jigsaw dentist chair. She kindly led us to our speaker-side table. We then began our relatively uneventful meal.
No less than one day after I had uttered the words "If I've never had something, I'll at least try it," I was greeted with my Caesar salad at this establishment. While the music of Motown boomed from the speakers above our heads, my Caesar salad was topped with a fish. "I've never had an anchovy," I may have said. "Well, then you must try it." Great. "They're a little salty." So I cut Nemo in half and went for it... I felt like I had just taken a bite out of a salt lick. My parents were kind enough to let me own fish as a child in order to make me feel like I had a real pet. Theoretically, when you own a fish, you should clean out the bowl or tank at some point in the lifespan of the fish. You remember what it smelled like when you didn't? That was the aftertaste that followed me sucking out the contents of a salt shaker... While I'm crossing that off my list of things to do in life, I will go ahead and cross that off my list of things to say to coworkers while traveling.
Overall, it was a great trip... I'm sorry you missed out, but I'm also sorry you spent this time reading about it. Have a splendid rest of your day. Love always...
8.15.2009
Welcome, Me...
The cultural phenomenon of our time dances to the rhythm of my fingertips.
That seems like a decent sentence to begin my blogging career. I've never been the first to follow the crowd. However, I feel the need to satisfy my thirst, though not yet dehydration status, for writing, and as I don't see myself writing a book in the near future, this seemed like the next best option. I haven't quite decided if I am going to tell anyone about this little gem... So, if you stumbled upon this by hitting the "Next Blog" button, congratulations, and please take this opportunity to locate the favorites button at the top of your browser.
What are you going to write about, Loren? Good question. Beats me. You see, I'm an accountant. As such, I am one of the most interesting people on earth. Ever. So I figure, I'll write about saving the world. Then when that gets old, I'll write about whatever I want to because this is a blog, and you shouldn't be reading it anyway. I might just treat this as my personal journal, a diary of sorts. Because, after all, the internet is a safe place for information.
Alright, just like everything I do, this will be more interesting to me at the beginning than later down the road. So, I have to end the welcome post to start my first legitimate contribution to the blog...
That seems like a decent sentence to begin my blogging career. I've never been the first to follow the crowd. However, I feel the need to satisfy my thirst, though not yet dehydration status, for writing, and as I don't see myself writing a book in the near future, this seemed like the next best option. I haven't quite decided if I am going to tell anyone about this little gem... So, if you stumbled upon this by hitting the "Next Blog" button, congratulations, and please take this opportunity to locate the favorites button at the top of your browser.
What are you going to write about, Loren? Good question. Beats me. You see, I'm an accountant. As such, I am one of the most interesting people on earth. Ever. So I figure, I'll write about saving the world. Then when that gets old, I'll write about whatever I want to because this is a blog, and you shouldn't be reading it anyway. I might just treat this as my personal journal, a diary of sorts. Because, after all, the internet is a safe place for information.
Alright, just like everything I do, this will be more interesting to me at the beginning than later down the road. So, I have to end the welcome post to start my first legitimate contribution to the blog...
That's all for the pregame show... Before you continue reading, please rise, remove your hat, and sing the National Anthem aloud.
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