At most points in time, the skies are usually packed with suits and retirees. But this week was a little different…
Monday morning, we took a full flight to Houston with a brief touchdown in San Antonio along the way. There were only 9 of us passenger types that were continuing on from San Antonio to Houston. We obediently stayed seated so Mary could do her through-count, and then we were permitted to move about the cabin. As a semi-seasoned traveler, I made my way towards the front of the aircraft to gain a better seat. Settled in on the window of aisle 3, they came.
Instinctively responding to the repetitive training, I reached to secure my oxygen mask before helping the 22 elementary school kids who had just begun scurrying onto our flight.
I hope little Johnny [who am I kidding – odds of one of those kids being named Johnny in this day in age are 3400:1] didn’t take it personally when we made eye contact and the only word I could muster was “really?”
Turns out J-Dog and his friends were on a field trip. That field trip was to the San Antonio airport and not Houston. Crisis averted. The children took their picture, put in their earplugs, and headed out onto the tarmac, leaving me to wish that I was the one going out on the tarmac.
We’re in the air on the way back to Nashville now [Yes, folks, this is another highly-anticipated live-but-delayed-due-to-internet-access post].
One sidenote before we get to the second of my two subpar storylines...
Sidenote: If you’re not familiar, Southwest is to other all other airlines as the Harlem Globetrotters are to the Washington Generals. This is mostly due to the fact that their employees act like people. Sometimes sarcastic people. And I LUV them for it. Today, just after family boarding, we begin boarding “B 1 through 30.” As B7, I am ready to hand the guy my boarding pass when this older couple comes running [relative term] up flashing their A27 and A28. “We’re A’s. We tried as hard as we could, but we just couldn’t get here fast enough.” I smile and wait. The Southwest guy takes the lady’s boarding pass and asks, “Why are you breathing so fast? Is somebody chasing you?” He then proceeds to step to the side and look for her pursuer.
I get on the plane, lock down my aisle seat on a row whose window seat is occupied. Immediately, I pretend to sleep so as not to be disturbed by someone looking to lurk on the vacant middle seat. After the aisle traffic has died down, I wake up. Soon, I find myself repeating steps 1 and 2 as we are waiting on some connecting passengers. During the waiting process, I am un-formally introduced to the child sitting one row up and over from me.
She says she’s three, but her fingers tell a different story. I have no idea what this girl’s name is, which is probably best in case this blog becomes huge so she doesn’t have TMZ coming after her. [NOTE: The water on today’s flight tastes like a mixture of hand lotion and icy hot.] We’ll call her Nancy, given my earlier stance on old-school names. Nancy had two shining moments before we reached 10,000 feet and my headphones went in.
1. Nancy’s mom was traveling with Nancy and her younger sister. Mom leaned up to the gentleman in front of her and asked that if little sister was getting too annoying to let her know, and she’d take little sister out of the carseat and hold her. The gentleman told her everything is fine, and Nancy responded by asking, “Mommy, is that PawPaw?” “No baby, that’s the nice man who is sitting in front of us.”PawPaw, if you’re reading this, congratulations on being generic.
2. As I mentioned, we were waiting on connecting flights. During the wait, Nancy asked, “Mommy, are we here?” This was a totally legitimate question given how much time we spent sitting at the gate.
As I close up the computer for this trip, I can tell you this, the safety information card in your seat pocket is very interesting to a three year-old. Also, I have determined that part of flight attendant school is avoiding French fries in the aisle. Nancy has gotten a little careless in her old age, yet no one has stepped on the rejected potatoes she has left strewn about the cabin.
Anyway, you want an advertisement for birth control? Film people traveling with their kids. Frozen pea sales will skyrocket.
Finally, I’m not sure about the amenities in Heaven, but if there’s a blog ticker up there somewhere and this is scrolling [Not saying these words are worthy of glory, but there’s a lot of time in eternity], to all you folks who were old when I was little, thanks for taking the time to eerily stop and look at me, making ridiculous faces and talking in awkward voices at me. My parents probably didn’t like it at the time, but I’m sure you meant well… Nice wings.
1.31.2011
1.17.2011
You Better Brace Yourself, Fool
Aside from reminding me how old I am on a regular basis, the church youth group is sweet enough to allow me to tag along on most of their adventures [though trips to D.C. and Disney replaced Pascagoula, Mississippi and Gary, Indiana immediately following my retirement from youth internship]. This weekend was back to Indiana. This time for a winter retreat, complete with skiing.
I have skied [or whatever the past tense of ‘to see’ is] before. However, when I say before, I mean one day in 7th grade. Below I have listed the highlights of the weekend. Granted, some emphasis is placed on skiing. While my audience may not be large, I’m not foolish enough to think they don’t want to hear the interesting parts of the weekend...
• In case you’re a facestalker, I want to be the one to tell you, I bought and wore a scarf. Let’s just say, the scarf gene passed down quite effectively.
• In ski school, Dave, my instructor, asked me if I was left handed. I responded no, attempted to perform his next simple task, and he asked, “Are you sure you’re not left handed?”
• I enjoyed some of the greatest worship time I have had in a long time… No offense to the Sunday morning regulars at church who may be reading this.
• This little fella was riding the magic carpet behind me on the bunny slope. 15 seconds after this photo was taken, I looked down and saw 2 tiny skis between mine. The little man was tucked under me like I was a papa penguin.
• Our lodging for the weekend: a Boy Scout lodge. If you’ve ever spent much time on a church trip, you have probably experienced the joy of Podunk accommodation. This weekend was no different.
• The walls in the aforementioned Boy Scout lodge were apparently made of paper mache. Similar to what I imagine a low-security prison to be like, every door clicked at least 3 times when it slammed, echoing throughout the hall of 2-man cells.
• Dave looked at me on my last trip down the hill in ski school with a sad look that said something along the lines of, “Son, you need at least 3 more hours with me before you can look like anything above an alpine tumbleweed.”
• This weekend reminded me that a mid-20s accountant can pull a lot out of curriculum intended for 16 year-old high schoolers.
• Loveland, Ohio is basically the Hendersonville of Cincinnati. As determined by the houses, Red Robin [Yum.], boutiques, and Starbucks in the grocery store.
• In my 3 hours I spent practicing until I could turn left, my favorite moment was when a little kid, no more than 4 years old, was walking up the hill holding his snowboard, alerting everyone he passed, “You better brace yourself, fool.”
• While watching Toy Story 3 [The title for the weekend was Toys R Us, theme being how to stay tru [sic] to yourself, others and God.], I realized Ken wore rompers and still managed to get Barbie approximately 3 times.
• I’m still not sure I can turn left, but I did have the pizza and right turn to fall back on [pun] to kick inertia in the snowballs and stop my descent.
• Even as Christians, we often find ourselves “putting more weight on the backs of those who already have so much… weight that we’ve dropped more often than we’ve carried.”
• I fell more times than I had fingers, thus failing one of the personal goals for the weekend.
• Apparently, it was a good decision for me to call it a career after one year in cub scouts. Of the three showers in the guy’s bathroom, one was a handicapped stall that could have used about 4 gallons of CLR. The other two were designed with a stationary shower head, protruding 2 inches from the wall, drizzling straight down. As such, I chose the handicapped stall and waited 3 minutes each morning for hot water.
• One of the youth ministers on the trip came back from a ride on the lift and shared what he had learned from his lift buddy: It's best to tie someone up with nylon rope. It doesn't leave rope burns.
• Turns out a weekend like this one gives you that spiritual encouragement that makes fulfilling the “warrior picking up his sword and slashing demonic thugs” role a little easier to fill for a while. [Relax, elders and deacons, that wasn’t the lesson, but demonic thugs was to spiritual analogies mentioned this weekend as the Black-Eyed Peas are to modern day pop music.]
• In an interesting turn of events, I joined one of the kids in the ski lodge in singing a few a cappella songs by a local group from a cd released circa 1996. After said kid left on the first van back to the boy scout barracks, I looked over at the next table in the lodge only to see one of the youth ministers who was in the local a capella group in the mid-‘90s. He was also joining a Nashville youth group on a ski trip. The term “small world” doesn’t really cover that one.
• My previous post regarding popular youth group songs held 75% true. Only Vanilla Ice failed to arrive... Rob Van Winkle went cousin Rip on us and disappeared.
In summation, it was a great weekend for fun, spiritual growth, and humility, courtesy of a fleet of 8 year olds that are way better at skiing than I will ever be.
I have skied [or whatever the past tense of ‘to see’ is] before. However, when I say before, I mean one day in 7th grade. Below I have listed the highlights of the weekend. Granted, some emphasis is placed on skiing. While my audience may not be large, I’m not foolish enough to think they don’t want to hear the interesting parts of the weekend...
• In case you’re a facestalker, I want to be the one to tell you, I bought and wore a scarf. Let’s just say, the scarf gene passed down quite effectively.
• In ski school, Dave, my instructor, asked me if I was left handed. I responded no, attempted to perform his next simple task, and he asked, “Are you sure you’re not left handed?”
• I enjoyed some of the greatest worship time I have had in a long time… No offense to the Sunday morning regulars at church who may be reading this.
• This little fella was riding the magic carpet behind me on the bunny slope. 15 seconds after this photo was taken, I looked down and saw 2 tiny skis between mine. The little man was tucked under me like I was a papa penguin.
• Our lodging for the weekend: a Boy Scout lodge. If you’ve ever spent much time on a church trip, you have probably experienced the joy of Podunk accommodation. This weekend was no different.
• The walls in the aforementioned Boy Scout lodge were apparently made of paper mache. Similar to what I imagine a low-security prison to be like, every door clicked at least 3 times when it slammed, echoing throughout the hall of 2-man cells.
• Dave looked at me on my last trip down the hill in ski school with a sad look that said something along the lines of, “Son, you need at least 3 more hours with me before you can look like anything above an alpine tumbleweed.”
• This weekend reminded me that a mid-20s accountant can pull a lot out of curriculum intended for 16 year-old high schoolers.
• Loveland, Ohio is basically the Hendersonville of Cincinnati. As determined by the houses, Red Robin [Yum.], boutiques, and Starbucks in the grocery store.
• In my 3 hours I spent practicing until I could turn left, my favorite moment was when a little kid, no more than 4 years old, was walking up the hill holding his snowboard, alerting everyone he passed, “You better brace yourself, fool.”
• While watching Toy Story 3 [The title for the weekend was Toys R Us, theme being how to stay tru [sic] to yourself, others and God.], I realized Ken wore rompers and still managed to get Barbie approximately 3 times.
• I’m still not sure I can turn left, but I did have the pizza and right turn to fall back on [pun] to kick inertia in the snowballs and stop my descent.
• Even as Christians, we often find ourselves “putting more weight on the backs of those who already have so much… weight that we’ve dropped more often than we’ve carried.”
• I fell more times than I had fingers, thus failing one of the personal goals for the weekend.
• Apparently, it was a good decision for me to call it a career after one year in cub scouts. Of the three showers in the guy’s bathroom, one was a handicapped stall that could have used about 4 gallons of CLR. The other two were designed with a stationary shower head, protruding 2 inches from the wall, drizzling straight down. As such, I chose the handicapped stall and waited 3 minutes each morning for hot water.
• One of the youth ministers on the trip came back from a ride on the lift and shared what he had learned from his lift buddy: It's best to tie someone up with nylon rope. It doesn't leave rope burns.
• Turns out a weekend like this one gives you that spiritual encouragement that makes fulfilling the “warrior picking up his sword and slashing demonic thugs” role a little easier to fill for a while. [Relax, elders and deacons, that wasn’t the lesson, but demonic thugs was to spiritual analogies mentioned this weekend as the Black-Eyed Peas are to modern day pop music.]
• In an interesting turn of events, I joined one of the kids in the ski lodge in singing a few a cappella songs by a local group from a cd released circa 1996. After said kid left on the first van back to the boy scout barracks, I looked over at the next table in the lodge only to see one of the youth ministers who was in the local a capella group in the mid-‘90s. He was also joining a Nashville youth group on a ski trip. The term “small world” doesn’t really cover that one.
• My previous post regarding popular youth group songs held 75% true. Only Vanilla Ice failed to arrive... Rob Van Winkle went cousin Rip on us and disappeared.
In summation, it was a great weekend for fun, spiritual growth, and humility, courtesy of a fleet of 8 year olds that are way better at skiing than I will ever be.
1.10.2011
Elf Ears? I Guess I Can See That
Well today was a snow day… and, even though I am a grown, tax-paying citizen, I built snowmen (well, more on that later), threw snowballs at children, went sledding, and basically lived the dream. Since you clicked the link to learn more about me and waste 2-8 minutes depending on your reading level, let me tell you about my day…
The alarm was set for 6:15… Always ahead of the curve, I woke up at 6 and called the number at work to see if our office was open. It was then I heard the sweetest words outside of “There’s a new Die Hard movie coming out” – “The Corporate campus is closed.” At this point, I turned the alarm off and hit the hay hard for a couple of more hours. I like my job a lot, but, today, I’ll take 2 hours sleep over a spreadsheet.
So I rolled out of bed at some point, showered to be presentable for, well, no one, and then checked the phone. I had a lovely text message waiting on me inviting me to a day of snowy adventure with a few church folks… What else would I be doing all day? Well, I started by watchingRegis Seth Myers and Kelly, so the day was probably bound to fail anyway.
When I arrived, there was already a snowman assembled, fitted with an Auburn hat and a spy scope. The resident seven year old set out to name the snowman, realized “Aubie” sounded too familiar [In hindsight, he probably feared copyright violations], and stumbled through something his parents decided must have been “Oliver.” Thus, Oliver the Auburn fan snowman was born.
Snowball fights ensued. As I figured I had a natural athletic advantage over a majority of the participants, I decided to give myself a challenge and settled for throwing my snowballs over a small building in the backyard. Relatively unsuccessful, I set out to tick off Oliver.
At this point I had visions of sugar plums and a giant snow duck to go side-by-side with Oliver. It looked really good in my head. 20 minutes and several excuses later I was left with one of the following: A) a goldfish; B) a headless duck; C) a turtle or D) a bust [think museum] of someone famous laying on their back. Those were all actual interpretations. If you’ve ever taken a multiple choice quiz, you know the right answer is, of course, B. Alas, as I type, the duck is still sitting outside the window. He would be staring at me, but he doesn’t have a head… or he retracted it into his shell.
After the failed duck, we set out to sled. Traversing the streets of East Nashville on foot, we set out to find the greatest hills the Riverwood area has to offer. We found lots of concrete. But we stuck with it and eventually found enough ice and snow to keep us flying. In the most movie-worthy moment of my day, I manned the 2 man sled down the hill [Feel the rhythm] with a youth group kid on board behind [Feel the rhyme]. Once we reached a pretty good speed, I may have noticed we were veering a little left [Let’s get on up]. Apparently, the youth grouper realized this as well, and bailed out [It’s bobsled time]. It was within seconds that I ducked under the mailbox and slid into the ditch without the benefit of the sled. As you may be aware, given the post-sled analysis you are reading, I survived. [Cool Runnings]
We returned for an afternoon of Big K, Balderdash, and Blogging… As of 5:00, it’s been a good day, less Abraham Lincoln taking a nap in the backyard and a seven year old whispering to her parents that I have elf ears. In as non-sacrilegious tone as possible… When I was a child, I played in the snow as a child. When I became a man, I continued my childish ways, but stopped crying when I fell off the sled.
I don’t say it enough, but thank you for choosing my blog to waste your time. I know you could be watching Jersey Shore, or reading Harry Potter books, but you chose me instead. I’ll never forget that. Until the Alzheimer’s sets in.
The alarm was set for 6:15… Always ahead of the curve, I woke up at 6 and called the number at work to see if our office was open. It was then I heard the sweetest words outside of “There’s a new Die Hard movie coming out” – “The Corporate campus is closed.” At this point, I turned the alarm off and hit the hay hard for a couple of more hours. I like my job a lot, but, today, I’ll take 2 hours sleep over a spreadsheet.
So I rolled out of bed at some point, showered to be presentable for, well, no one, and then checked the phone. I had a lovely text message waiting on me inviting me to a day of snowy adventure with a few church folks… What else would I be doing all day? Well, I started by watching
When I arrived, there was already a snowman assembled, fitted with an Auburn hat and a spy scope. The resident seven year old set out to name the snowman, realized “Aubie” sounded too familiar [In hindsight, he probably feared copyright violations], and stumbled through something his parents decided must have been “Oliver.” Thus, Oliver the Auburn fan snowman was born.
Snowball fights ensued. As I figured I had a natural athletic advantage over a majority of the participants, I decided to give myself a challenge and settled for throwing my snowballs over a small building in the backyard. Relatively unsuccessful, I set out to tick off Oliver.
At this point I had visions of sugar plums and a giant snow duck to go side-by-side with Oliver. It looked really good in my head. 20 minutes and several excuses later I was left with one of the following: A) a goldfish; B) a headless duck; C) a turtle or D) a bust [think museum] of someone famous laying on their back. Those were all actual interpretations. If you’ve ever taken a multiple choice quiz, you know the right answer is, of course, B. Alas, as I type, the duck is still sitting outside the window. He would be staring at me, but he doesn’t have a head… or he retracted it into his shell.
After the failed duck, we set out to sled. Traversing the streets of East Nashville on foot, we set out to find the greatest hills the Riverwood area has to offer. We found lots of concrete. But we stuck with it and eventually found enough ice and snow to keep us flying. In the most movie-worthy moment of my day, I manned the 2 man sled down the hill [Feel the rhythm] with a youth group kid on board behind [Feel the rhyme]. Once we reached a pretty good speed, I may have noticed we were veering a little left [Let’s get on up]. Apparently, the youth grouper realized this as well, and bailed out [It’s bobsled time]. It was within seconds that I ducked under the mailbox and slid into the ditch without the benefit of the sled. As you may be aware, given the post-sled analysis you are reading, I survived. [Cool Runnings]
We returned for an afternoon of Big K, Balderdash, and Blogging… As of 5:00, it’s been a good day, less Abraham Lincoln taking a nap in the backyard and a seven year old whispering to her parents that I have elf ears. In as non-sacrilegious tone as possible… When I was a child, I played in the snow as a child. When I became a man, I continued my childish ways, but stopped crying when I fell off the sled.
I don’t say it enough, but thank you for choosing my blog to waste your time. I know you could be watching Jersey Shore, or reading Harry Potter books, but you chose me instead. I’ll never forget that. Until the Alzheimer’s sets in.
12.28.2010
1st Course in the 4th Circle of Hell's Kitchen
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.
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.
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