Flirting FAIL

I have a buddy who fancies himself quite the ladies' man. Well, let's be frank, I have lots of buddies who fancy themselves quite the ladies' men. I think it's a predisposition of the male species to err on the side of confidence, or at least the appearance of confidence, when dealing with the fairer sex. Obviously, this is not always the case and even the best looking, most intelligent, genuinely hilarious guy deals with bouts of insecurity, but when was the last time you saw a homely, overweight, snaggle-toothed girl approach a super hot guy in a bar and lay down her best game? That's what I thought. To all of the gorgeous women reading this blog, and I like to imagine there are thousands sitting on pins and needles waiting to see what I'll write next (I'm a guy, that's what we do), how many times have you been approached by a guy with a beer gut, stained shirt, bad hair, and a braided belt and had to reject his advances while he fumbled on oblivious to your rejections? Long story short: if one sex is more prone to out-punting its coverage, it's the one with the external plumbing, just saying.

Anyhow, back to my buddy; we'll call him Kevin. Kevin is not a guy who consistently out-punts his coverage. It's not that he's an Adonis or anything, but the kid has a lot going for him. He's funny, intelligent, and confident. In most cases, that will carry a guy pretty far. Interpret "pretty far" as you will. So, Kevin was in the gym at his apartment complex the other day working out when an attractive young lady we'll call Jennifer walked in to take a spin on the treadmill. Kevin was actually about to finish up his workout, but being ever on the prowl, decided to extend his run for a while in the hopes that there would be an opening to initiate a conversation. He's cagey for his age.

A good twenty minutes later and feeling closer to his aerobic limit than he would like, Kevin decided to call it quits. Women love a fit guy, but a guy who passes out on the treadmill screams manorexic. As he was toweling off and collecting his things, Jennifer decided to introduce herself by way of saying she was glad he had finished his workout because she was going to be embarrassed if she started after him but finished before him. They exchanged casual banter and then as they were leaving she gave him her apartment number and said if he ever wanted to hang out he should stop by. Success!

Back in his apartment and basking in the glory of attention received, Kevin's sense of victory was soon tempered with the realization that there were two apartments with the same number in the complex, albeit in separate buildings. One was four doors down from his apartment and the other was across the street. Thinking there was no chance he would not have noticed a sultry vixen living mere feet from his front door, he confidently concluded that Jennifer must live in the same numbered apartment across the street. When he ran this logic by me a few days later I had to agree that it made sense. All good so far.

As he was working late hours that week, he decided he couldn't just stop by after he got off work. Again, this makes sense. A knock on the door at 11:00PM screams, "I really just want to do you." Every guy knows that even if that is precisely all he wants, actually admitting to it isn't going to get him anywhere. However, he didn't feel he could wait the 10 days until his schedule settled down as she might think he wasn't interested or, even worse, forget she'd invited him over in the first place or even who he was. There could be nothing more awkward than knocking on a girl's door and then reintroducing yourself and reminding her how you met as she stared at you blankly...except maybe the spelling of the word "awkward." Seriously, it's pretty awkward. Look at it. I'm right.

Kevin decided that the best course of action was to leave a note on her door with his name and number on it that said, "Hey, I'm working odd hours this week, but if you want to grab a beer sometime soon, give me a shout," then he skipped off to work. At about 9:00PM that night his phone rang. Thinking it might be Jennifer, he answered hoping she would suggest a beer that night. A guy on the other end of the line asked menacingly, "Is this Kevin?"

Now, up until this point Kevin hadn't done anything wrong. He could have easily said yes and then explained himself innocently if it turned out, and it was looking like it was going to turn out, that Jennifer actually had a boyfriend who may have come by and seen the note before she had. Sometimes though, you're put on the spot and you freeze. It happens to the best of us. Once, during my freshman year in college, my girlfriend, who went to another university, came in to town to visit for Valentine's Day weekend. I was going to a conservative Baptist university with dorm visiting hours and couldn't have her stay with me. Additionally, a dorm room with a roommate, microwave, and no private bathroom says a lot of things, but "romantic soiree" isn't one of them. We decided to stay in a hotel close to campus. I thought everything had gone off without a hitch, but then my dad called midweek and sounded really, really put out. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Hey dad!

Dad: Hey.

Me: What's up?

Dad: Nothing.

Me: Ok?

Dad: [silence]

Me: Everything ok?

Dad: Yup.

Me: Ok?

Dad: [silence]

Me: You sure?

Dad: Yeah. Just getting ready to leave town for work.

Me: Ok.

Dad: [silence]

Me: You're sure everything is cool?

Dad: Yeah. Oh hey, I got something in the mail today asking me how I enjoyed my stay at the Courtyard Inn across from your campus on February the 13th. Care to explain that to me?

At this point, a laundry list of innocent excuses went streaming through my head at warp speed but none of them seemed even remotely plausible and I'd already paused for about 10 seconds so I answered with about the only honest thing my mind could muster at the moment.

Me: Nope.

Kevin similarly froze and came up with the considerably less honest but equally idiotic answer, "Wrong number," and then hung up.

Clearly, the guy was going to know it was not a wrong number. Seriously. Kevin had written it down on a piece of paper and even if the guy thought he'd misdialed, he could look at his phone and check what he had dialed against Kevin's personally handwritten and signed number.

About an hour later, wondering why on earth a chick with a boyfriend had asked him to stop by, his phone rang again. The caller ID displayed the same number from the menacing guy who he'd told had the wrong number. Not having come up with a better game plan in the interim hour, Kevin let the call go to voicemail.

The guy left a message. It went something like this:

Menacing Guy: Hello, Kevin Pearson, and this is in fact Kevin Pearson's number. Kevin Pearson from Wabash, Indiana who went to Indiana University and studied political science and lives at 3301 146th Street, Apartment 3B. You need to call me and make things right on your end because, to be honest, you're getting into creeper territory and you need to explain yourself. If you don't sack up and call me, things will escalate because I will escalate them.

Holy. Shit.

At this point, Kevin is FREAKING OUT. Who does that?! And what does "escalate things" mean?! The guy already did some serious internet digging to get ALL of his personal information and then called him back and told him about it. Isn't that already an escalation?

So, seeing no other way out of things and not wanting Ike Turner to break down his door, Kevin called the guy back.

Menacing Guy: Hello, Kevin.

[So creepy!]

Kevin: What the fuck, dude?

Menacing Guy: This is Cornelius. You've got some explaining to do.

Kevin: Dude, I left a note on a door because I met the girl who lives there in the gym and she said to stop by some time to hang out. There isn't anything to it. We're both new in the area. I'm not trying to be shady. How did you get all of my personal information?!

Cornelius: You let me worry about that.

Kevin: What is your deal?

Cornelius: That's all there was to it?

Kevin: Yes! I had no intent. We didn't even talk about relationship stuff or anything. She just said you guys were new in the area and didn't know many people.

At this point, Kevin is assuming Cornelius is her boyfriend (a safe assumption) and, although he's not lying, he's definitely spinning things for damage control.

Cornelius: Ok, man. If you say so. I just gotta watch out for my girl.

Kevin: Seriously.

Cornelius: Why'd you say I had the wrong number earlier?

Kevin: What? I haven't gotten any calls this evening.

Cornelius: Whatever, man. Say what you want to.

Clearly, this is an awful lie and Kevin really has no way out of it, which makes the next part SO MUCH WORSE.

Cornelius: Sharon's a hot girl and guys are always trying to creep on her.

Kevin: Wait, did you say Sharon? The girl I met was named Jennifer.

Cornelius: Whatever.

[click]

The girl he met was Jennifer. And she lives four doors down from Kevin. No way Cornelius believes any of this.

I love...

My sister and I used to play this game on long road trips out to my grandparent's house for Christmas where we would wish one another a happy holiday by very earnestly and sincerely ornamenting the beginning of the greeting with all sorts of florid language and then putting a horribly obscene capstone on the sentiment. An example: On this Christmas Eve, the commemoration of our Lord Jesus Christ's birth, I would like to bestow upon you my most sincere and heartfelt hope that you succumb to a particularly aggressive strain of syphilis and die insane and alone. Merry Christmas.

Before you assume that we come from a dysfunctional family or that we genuinely despise one another, let me further explain that we usually both fell out in belly aching laughs at the conclusion of each greeting and that we genuinely love one another more than probably anything else in this world. Well, that may not be true. She has a husband and a son at this point so I'm cool with being number three on the list. Sorry mom and dad!

A buddy at work and I have recently started playing a derivation of this game in which we text one another all of the things we love and then put a bow on our texts by concluding them with something like, "But above all, I love my job." This is funny because we do not in fact love our job and insist on playing this game in the hopes that all the things we love will somehow rub off on our real feelings for the job and thereby make the job more bearable. Or maybe it's sort of a Big Brother double speak thing and we think that if we say we love our job enough, above all other things, that we will eventually really love our job. This hasn't worked yet, but it won't stop me from trying. In the meantime, at least, it keeps me entertained.

A sampling of our exchange:

Me: I love puppies. I love BBQ. I love Tex-Mex. I love beer. I love books. I love soccer. I love girls. Mostly though, I love my job.

Him: I love the Stacked Pickle, movies, yoga pants, but most importantly, my job.

Me: I love Deadspin, fantasy football, adult internet sites, Thanksgiving, Bjs, ribeye steaks, Banana Republic, road trips, and again, above all else, my job.

Him: I love Facebook, Texts From Last Night, dill chip, Hooters, girls with daddy issues, your mother, and still, more than anything else, my job.

Me: I love Buffalo pretzels, Timmy O'Tooles, my mother (appropriately), your mother (inappropriately), Jesus Christ, tigers, Japanese vehicles, hip hop music, thongs, but more than anything, my job.

Him: I love text updates, dating, boneless wings, chicken nachos, Benny Hill, Great Big Sea, Steve Yzerman, spandex, and once again...my job.

Me: I love lingerie, Tosh.O, Lil' Wayne, flannel sheets, hot showers, running, iPods, but first and foremost...my job.

Asinine? Probably. Hours of mindless fun to pass the time? Yup.

Paper Route - Carousel

I'll eventually get back to Marathon Man, I promise. I just sort of burned out writing the damned thing at about midway. If you look closely, I think it's pretty obvious where I reached the how-can-I-put-a-bow-on-this-thing point. It sounds cliche, but the whole lead up to the event and then the actual event itself were accented by so many other confusing, frustrating, energizing, emotional, humorous, and all around cathartic events, that, to be honest, writing about it is a little exhausting. Oh, poor tortured me, right? Bullocks.

Anyhow, I thought I'd follow a thread that's snaked its way through a number of the previous posts, and is not altogether unrelated to Marathon Man, and throw another music post your way. This band is outstanding. They are originally from Illinois but call Nashville home now. Much of the lyrical content of their songs touches on faith and Christianity, but they vehemently reject the idea that they are a "Christian band" out of a philosophical distaste for that industry. Very interesting. If you're interested, you can read a great article about them here.

I'll post a video of one of my favorite songs of theirs along with the lyrics. Definitely a punch to the gut and I think anyone can relate.



You and I are gonna get it right
Don't let me go
It takes two to make a leader but
One has to follow
Help me, help me understand
What we've become
We fell apart and then proceeded to
Both play the victim
On and on and on we go
Just like a carousel that's lost control
We don't know why, we don't know why
We go, we go, we go in circles
I want you more than anything
Just as you're leaving
For every wound there's an apology
That's lost its meaning
You and I, I think we're better off
Without each other
The last ride, the unavoidable
Keeps getting farther
On and on and on we go
Just like a carousel that's lost control
We don't know why, we don't know why
We go, we go, we go in circles
On and on and on we spin
To find an end where we begin
We don't know why, we don't know why
We go, we go, we go in circles

Quote of The Year...So Far

My roommate and I were discussing relationships and music with a bartender when he dropped this pearl on us:

"I met my wife singing karaoke. I dug her Journey and she dug my Danzig."

Glorious.

Marathon Man

This post will be seriously revised in the next few days and I'm not happy with it at the moment, but I've been sitting on it since November and wanted to somewhat wash my hands of it!


I recently ran my first marathon, and as it turns out, running 26.2 miles is not easy. Who knew? I'm not going to say it's the hardest thing I've ever done physically, but it's pretty damn close. I enjoy running and can wax philosophic about the Zen like trance one falls in to on a long run when one settles into an easy stride and breathes just so and it feels like the wind is blowing one effortlessly along one's route. I can do that. This was not that...at least not after mile 15 or so. I was pretty vigilant about my training schedule, but toward the end of the 16 week cycle, I started to take a few liberties. It's not that I lost motivation or commitment, but that life happened. Life always happens. Work and travel and any number of other things conspired to cut a few miles off this run and delay that run by a day or so. By the end of the training, my initial goal of breaking 4 hours had been somewhat tempered by the realization that this was probably a bridge too far and that finishing with some semblance of self respect was a more realistic carrot for which to strive. All foreshadowing pointed to a disastrous outcome.

The ominous feel to the event started long ago (although I didn't realize it upon registration), when the marathon was scheduled for Halloween. Let's be honest, a celebration of the macabre seems an inauspicious date on which to do anything except celebrate the macabre, but at the time I registered for the marathon, things in my life were going swimmingly and an extended weekend with loved ones all endeavoring to the same goal seemed like a great idea. That was before two of the original participants succumed to catastrophic injuries and had to withdraw their participation. Then one of the aforementioned catastrophically injured and I broke up. Without going into detail, morale dipped. My roommate and I pushed on with our training and achieved a level of confidence that started to taper off long before our actual tapering should have started, but plane tickets, a planned proposal (to the other catastrophically injured original participant), entry fees, and hotel reservations committed us for the long haul. Our last long run with one another, a 15 miler that kicked off at 6:00AM, was completed as a cold front blew in and sleeted all over our final seven miles. Our conversation for the last hour of the run consisted of my roommate saying, "This fucking sucks." And me replying, "Yup."

On the morning we were supposed to leave to catch our flight to DC for the marathon, my roommate, his girlfriend (now fiancee!), and I were rerouted at 4:00AM from our planned route to the airport due to a horrific looking car accident. And by "horrific," I mean I'm pretty sure someone punched out for the final time. At least two cars no longer resembled cars and the entire road was closed down. This was Omen #1.

We boarded separate flights with plans to meet up at the airport in Baltimore for the short trek to DC. Their flight came off without a hitch, but a guy died on my flight. Seriously. I don't mean to make light of the gentleman's death, but as far as bad omens go, an unexpected death on your flight tends to get one thinking. This was omen #2. By the time I finally got to DC, I was tired and a little on edge.

I was staying at a friend's apartment in Cleveland Park and needed to catch the Metro to Georgetown to deliver my roommate's engagement ring to him (he asked me to travel with it to avoid his girlfriend potentially finding it and ruining the surprise). After an epic plane ride and ensuing cluster fuck at BWI waiting for a shuttle bus that never came then finally renting a car to drive to DC, I decided a long walk from Cleveland Park to Georgetown was just what the doctor ordered, so I decided to forgo the Metro. I immediately reconsidered my decision as I settled into my jaunt south on Connecticut Avenue. In front of the zoo, a bird flew inches from my face, into the backside of a bus stop shelter, and then fell dead at my feet with a crushed head. This was omen #3. At this point, I was feeling a little like The Become Death, but I pressed on.

Things started to look a little better that afternoon when my delivery of the engagement ring met no snags and my roommate and I were able to get some passable BBQ into our stomachs (side note: BBQ isn't exactly what I would call optimal pre-race fueling). The uptick in omens continued that evening when my Baylor Bears managed a famous win against The University of Texas (this looks much less famous now that the Longhorns weren't even in a bowl, but whatever), but after leaving the sports bar at around 11:30PM, I realized all that had really happened was that I had managed to stay up way too late, had 2 too many beers, was stuffed full of grilled meats, and was about to spend a short night's sleep on an air mattress. Non of these things were recommended in my training plan as Ways to Succeed in Your First Marathon.

4AM came fast and furious just as it had come the previous morning when I woke up to catch my flight to Baltimore. Mercifully, things started to look up at the metro that morning. I met and wound up running much of the race with a wonderful woman who lived in the area. This is one of the things I love about runners, especially runners in what guarantees to be a difficult event. I used to race bicycles and there's an alpha male element to cycling that just really pisses me off. I can remember rolling neutral onto a course for a 60 mile road race in one of my first events and being told by the guy next to me in the pace line that he wasn't at the race to make friends. He told me this after I asked the horribly offensive question, "How are you doing?" Cocksucker. Runners would never do this. They're more likely to offer you a banana and make you believe that you're about to qualify for Boston than they are to look you up and down and describe how thoroughly they're about to destroy you.

I met Juliette on the platform of the Cleveland Park Metro stop. She was obviously a runner which made my, "Are you running the marathon," question that much more ridiculous. What else would someone be doing in the Metro well before sunrise in running gear on race day with a what-the-hell-have-I-gotten-myself-into expression on her face? As it turns out, she was also running her first marathon and had the same target time in mind...and she didn't drop dead in front of me which was good considering the previous day's events.

We boarded the Metro and as we snaked our way underneath the DC streets more and more runners started to filter onto the train. By the time we had gotten to the Pentagon City stop, the train was packed to capacity and the buzz of excited anticipation was palpable. My roommate had met us on the Metro after spending the evening proposing to his girlfriend and celebrating when she mercifully said "yes." I say "mercifully" not because there was any doubt she would say no, but because I couldn't stomach the prospect of running the whole event with a heartbroken buddy...or doing the "good friend" thing and bowing out of the race to go help him drink his sorrows away. I mean, I may or may not have been responsible for multiple deaths and a bird suicide the day before. I had to participate.

The three of us made our way off the Metro and followed the crowd through a security checkpoint and into the staging area where we reluctantly stripped into our race clothing (it was cold!) and started to limber up. This will be entirely too much detail, but I'd not been able to take care of business AT ALL the previous day as I was never in the company of an unoccupied and/or quiet restroom with more than two minutes to spend using it and now I was eyeing the phalanx of Port-O-Potties with increasing anxiety. Everyone's seen the photos of marathoners who suddenly lost bowl control during their run and I was convinced that I'd better not push my luck (those damned omens again).

After waiting in line for over 30 minutes, my time to take care of business finally came. I rushed into the Port-O-Potty, dropped my shorts, and...nothing. The fact that the race was scheduled to kickoff in mere moments and there was still a line of hundreds of people ALL WAITING ON ME mere feet from where I was then anxiously seated conspired to induce the most distressing and crippling stage fright I've ever experienced. I left the Port-O-Potty empty handed (full boweled?) and made my way to the start line with Juliette and my roommate to begin what I was now sure would be an epic disaster to entail possible death or, at the very least, violent and embarrassing bowel distress.

My thoughts and feeling per mile:

Start: It took us 10 minutes to get to the start line from the 4 hour corral so by the time we crossed the start line much of the pomp and circumstance of the official start was over. Also, I imagined the Kenyans being halfway through the course and I suddenly felt pale, pasty, slow, and lumbering. Sort of like an Imperial Walker from Star Wars.

Mile 1: Smooth, effortless gliding. We ran a mile already?!

Mile 2: I'm still feeling pretty good. Good conversation. Good friends. Good people watching.

Mile 3: Cake.

Mile 4: Seconds on the cake.

Mile 5: Maybe BBQ and constipation are secret recipes for success.

Mile 6: I could shit right now.

Mile 7: That was a big hill. I could REALLY shit right now.

Mile 8: I have to stop to shit RIGHT NOW.

Luckily, mile 8 is apparently where a lot of people feel this urge and a nice sprawling bank of Port-O-Potties was set up on the side of the road for just that purpose. Unfortunately, a lot of people feel this urge at mile 8 and I had a good 10 minute pit stop when the wait and actual performance of the deed are taken into account.

Right before I ducked off the course, Juliette said something like, "I'm going to keep going! Catch up!" I didn't realize it at the time, but this is terrible advice to give anyone in an endurance event.

Mile 9: Unencumbered by extra weight, I'm feeling great. Breathing through my nose.

Mile 10: Let's gear it up a bit. I'm flying.

Mile 11: Did I just run a 7:15 minute mile in the middle of my first marathon? Yup.

Mile 12: Maybe I should dial it back a bit.

Mile 13: Halfway there!

Mile 14: That 7:15 minute mile may not have been a good idea.

Mile 15: This is kinda staring to suck.

Mile 16: This sucks.

Mile 17: Hey, it's the Washington Monument. Whatever.

Mile 18: Sweet Baby Jesus, my calves are tight.

Mile 19: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Mile 20: Second wind! Awoooooooo!

Mile 20 1/2: That didn't last long.

Mile 21: Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming....

Mile 22: [white noise]

Mile 23: Where are my legs? Oh, there they are. Why can't I feel them?

Mile 24: Pain. Hurt. Legs.

Mile 25: Dooooon't stop...BELIEVIN'!

Mile 26: I'm seriously going to finish this thing!

Finish: Those people who say they get choked up are so full of it....wait, why am I crying?

The end, and I knew this from my previous marathon experience as a spectator, is the most chaotic, frustrating, and endless process of the whole event. Unless you're super badass or super not badass, you're going to finish with a whole gaggle of runners and it will take an eternity to go anywhere. During this eternity your legs will feel like someone has tapped into them with a funnel and poured molten lead into them. If you're like me, you eventually find a place to lay down, stretch, and JUST STOP MOVING. This place will be maybe a mile from where you're actually supposed to meet everyone but you just won't give a shit. You just ran a freaking marathon.

Eventually, I made my way over to the reunion area and met up with Juliette and my roommate's fiancee and relived the marathon mile by mile as we waited for him to show up. I'd known during the race that he wasn't feeling it (silence, a grimace here and there), but I figured a night of engagement celebration would have that effect. I lost track of him at mile 8 when I ducked off the course to relieve myself. Apparently he'd had a similar need at mile 13 and it was then that I'd overtaken him. When he finally did show up, he revealed that he'd started cramping up at mile 8 and had seriously considered running straight to the hotel at mile 16, but he'd stuck it out and now here we all stood, Juliette, her parents and a friend, my roommate, his newly minted fiancee, and myself among a bustling but exhausted crowd of runners. It had been a tough few months of training, least of all because of the training, but we'd done it and that odd, twisting course replete with bird suicides, actual deaths, catastrophic injuries, brutal training runs, bowel distress, new friends, cramping at mile 8, and an engagement all somehow seemed to fit...or maybe I was just too exhausted to make sense of it all.

Either way, I'm definitely doing it again.

Top 25

Note: If you follow the links in this entry, forgive the commercials.

So I'm on a bit of a music kick these days. I used to do this when I was younger, particularly in high school and college. I would buy an album (Jeez, remember CDs?!?) and listen to it beginning to end with the liner notes in hand. Lots of times I had to have music playing to fall asleep. I'm not listening to more music or enjoying the music I do listen to any more than I normally would, but I'm thinking about it more. Some of this undoubtedly has to do with long commutes with nothing but my iPod for company. I'm a big fan of putting the two thousand something songs in that little miracle box on shuffle and just letting it rip. I do my fair share of skipping around, but it's nice to get reacquainted with a song or unexpectedly hear something that takes you back to a specific moment in time. That's not always good, but it's always interesting.

The other catalysts for this renaissance of musical primacy are friends of mine who are either in the business or just have really, really ridiculously good taste (at least similar to mine) in artists. My buddy Mike, who is a member of a prominent band which shall remain unnamed, has recently introduced me to Paper Route. Mike has a habit of giving me solid referrals to the point that when I'm feeling things are getting a little stale, I'll call him up and ask him what he's listening to these days. I have yet to be let down.

My self-admitted music snob friend Maria has similarly introduced me to Sleigh Bells. Maria's introduction was kind of a wake up call. You can't turn on the TV or get online right now without seeing something about Sleigh Bells. I guess it was a sign of how far gone I had gotten (and how much Top 40 radio I was listening to) that I had no idea who they were until Maria threw me a bone.

I love having people like this in my life. Music always changes and new bands are constantly popping up all over the world. Your favorite song is probably still floating around out there in someone else's head. It's just an idea he/she needs to write on paper or tentatively pick out on the strings of a guitar. It's exciting to compare musical tastes and new bands with friends like these because the conversations are always reinventing themselves and discovery is always just catching up away. Which is why I'm presently at such a loss, a loss dripping with guilty pleasure.

You can tell a lot about a person by what's in their iPod. And you can tell even more about them if you go to their Top 25 Most Played list. I did this earlier today. I was shocked. Apparently, my sensibilities are a lot more mainstream than I'd like to admit. I attribute some of this to pre soccer or training run playlists. At least, that's what I tell myself. It would be really tough to glide through a 10 mile run listening to Elliot Smith. Seriously. But the fact remains that the majority of my Top 25 Most Played is rap music. I can't quite explain this. I grew up upper middle class and white. So did my sister, but she has a deep and abiding love for Tupac.

It occurred to me to doctor the list. I could squeeze in some Gaslight Anthem, Mumford and Sons, Death Cab For Cutie, et al and post a list sufficiently cool/esoteric enough to rescue my ego from total disclosure...but where's the fun in that? So,here goes:

1. I'm So Hood (remix) by DJ Khaled - This one cracks me up. Mostly because DJ Khaled is such a freakin' joke. I am patently against producers in their own songs and especially when they talk over huge portions of the song bragging about how they make hit records. Having said that, the first few verses in this song are awesome, particularly Ludacris and Busta Rhymes. I also gain a little bit satisfaction watching the artists in this song awkwardly interact with DJ Khaled in the video. He clearly has no idea what to do on screen and winds up looking like a bad high school improv student. Plus, they all look low grade annoyed by him, sort of like having to hang out with the water boy at the football party. Or like they're all thinking, "God, I wish he'd quit doing that with his hands." Perfect pre soccer song. PS: There is nothing about me that is even remotely hood.

2. All of The Above by Maino - Firstly, Maino is awesome. It's complicated, but he's one of those artists who is a total trainwreck/thug, but is also completely authentic. I don't think I'll ever wrap my mind around how someone can have booze and strippers i their videos, but also be a positive role model for kids. This only seems to be a debate in rap music. I don't think I've not gotten a yellow card in a soccer match when I've listened to this song before kick off.

3. Everybody's Changing by Keane - Clearly, we're changing gears here. I'm pretty sure Maino and Keane have nothing in common. To be honest, I wasn't a big Keane fan until I saw them at Austin City Limits Festival. It was during that huge "we all want to sound British and somewhat vintage" phase and I sort of dismissed them out of hand. Granted, they are British and don't try to sound vintage, but whatever. I just wasn't in to bands like this at the time. I was at the festival with my girlfriend, it was early evening, the festival hadn't quite yet turned into the choking dust bowl it would the next day, and we sat on a hill and watched their set. I was in love and this was one of those perfect moments that you later realize occur so rarely in life.

4. Buried Myself Alive by The Used - Changing gears again. I used to think of The Used solely as "that band with the lead singer who was dating Ozzy Osbourne's daughter" (a clear publicity stunt). Having said that, they have some pretty damned good songs. What can I say? It appeals to the skate punk in me.

5. Ride by Ace Hood - I plead the Fifth here. No idea what to say. I can remember being between relationships and getting a ride to the airport from a female friend with whom there was always a mutual attraction. This song was on the radio and I thought, "Maybe?" PS "Maybe?" is never a good thing to think when contemplating whether or not to start a relationship. Also, Ace Hood songs should never serve as an emotional impetus for anything.

6. Get Like Me by David Banner - Total disclosure? I love David Banner. I remember after Hurricane Katrina there was a huge controversy because Banner gave a huge amount of money and time to the relief effort in Mississippi (his home state) and was later given some civic honor for his efforts. A Republican politician had the temerity to suggest that Banner wasn't a role model and should not be honored for his work and support because some of his songs are less than totally appropriate (some are, but seriously, what a dick). Also, I went through a phase when this song came out that when people asked me what I was up to later I would just say, "Stuntin'." When they stared at me blankly, I would clarify, "It's a habit."

7. What You Know by T.I. - Great song. Awesome beat. TI is easily one of the best lyricists in hip hop music today. Maybe not in this song, but that's beside the point. What makes this song is the beat. It's epic. Yes, epic.

8. Banquet by Bloc Party - I was actually introduced to Bloc Party by a video game. It was one of the incarnations of EA Sports' FIFA franchise (I can't remember which). Who says video games can't have positive effects on young minds? I'm not quite sure why it's this song that's in the Top 25, especially considering there are other songs by the band that I like much more, but I'll take it.

9. Out Here Grindin' by DJ Khaled - Here's that freakin' DJ Khaled again. Honestly, he's a total ass clown, but maybe all he does is make hit records? Does anyone remember when you could buy "Homies" from candy dispensers? DJ Khaled looks like a Homie.

10. Lights, Camera, Action by Mr. Cheeks - What's great about this song? The guy's name is Mr. Cheeks. That is the least badass rap name of all time, which makes it badass. Plus, when this song came out I think Mr. Cheeks was something like 40. Whatever. It was my go to song when I was playing soccer in college. Coincidentally, my girlfriend at the time was also a soccer player and it was her go to song as well. I'm guessing this had less to do with lyrical content and more to do with the chorus and the beat. I'm hoping so anyway.

11. Give it All by Rise Against - If Maria isn't rolling her eyes already, she will when she reads that Rise Against weighed in at number 11. Firstly, they're from Chicago (her hometown). Secondly, they're a politically active, vegan, environmentalist, animal rights band. I mean, really?!? Can a band be more earnest? I can't help myself though, this is a great punk anthem. Love it. Trivia: the lead singer has two different colored eyes.

12. Stuntin' Like My Daddy by Birdman and Lil Wayne - Can you not like Lil Wayne? What a freak show. Say what you will, but the guy is a legitimate rap star. Prolific, artistic (or at least a trend setter), and he just doesn't give a damn.

13. Unholy Confessions by Avenged Sevenfold - This is definitely a guilty pleasure band. When I was teaching high school and overhearing teenagers bitch about their angst filled lives, I had to accept the fact that I was listening to the same music they were. This is definitely a band in the "my parents just don't understand me" genre, but the two guitarists are legitimate virtuosos and there's something reassuring about the fact that even the 2000s couldn't kill The Metal. PS Watching this video makes me want to be a ROCK STAR.

14. Shawty Say by David Banner - David Banner again. This song is essentially about treating women correctly. Granted, David Banner says it in his own special way - which is probably the way the previously mentioned Republican politician was referring to when he railed against him being honored for charity work - but that's beside the point. The other great thing about David Banner? The chick who says his name over the beat at the beginning of every song.

15. Kimdracula by the Deftones - This one totally flummoxes me. The best I can guess is that I made a playlist once and put this song on it twice. I love the Deftones, but this is not the song I would have picked. *High School flashback* My best buddy Gary took me to a Deftones show in 1996 at Liberty Lunch in Austin, TX. There were all of 300 people in the crowd and the show cost $3. $1 for each band playing. Deftones, Man Will Surrender, and Human Waste Project. It was, and still is, the best concert experience of my life. Chino Moreno has an incredible voice and they are one of the few bands I listened to at that age that has actually grown with me. Also, "I wish these snakes were your arms...." great lyric. Note: The video on this link is not the actual music video because they never made one for this song.

16. Dope Boys by The Game - Ok, I legitimately have no business listening to this song. Like I said before, there is zero hood about me. The Game is from South Central Los Angeles and had a scholarship to play basketball at Oregon State but just could not shake the hood in him. Honestly, and I mean this with no judgement or humor, but if another rapper is going to get shot sometime soon, a la Tupac, it's going to be this guy. Having said that, the beat is ridiculous.

17. You Are the One by Shiny Toy Guns - This song is addictive. I'm not sure a keyboard riff has been more balls out awesome since "The Final Countdown". I mean that ironically and seriously. I used to listen to this song before indoor soccer matches to get my Euro fix (the band is actually from California). I also have to confess that I had a faux hawk at the time and was referred to at work as "The creepy European guy". Shiny Toy Guns no longer has the same female vocalist. They replaced the chick in this song, Carah Faye Charnow, who is also exhibit A in how sexy tattoos can be on a woman, with another girl named Sisely Treasure. Does that not sound like a porn name to anyone else? Anyhow, treasure does a decent enough job, but Charnow had a voice like a bell.

18. Just Dance by Lady Gaga - Ok, ok. What the hell? Well, I'm a product of my times and my times are currently defined by Lady Gaga (at least my popular culture times). Honestly, though, I challenge you to not want to dance, or at least hum along, to her songs. Plus, she's an actual artist who actually writes her own songs. She's also proof that you can exude sexuality and be sexy without actually being terribly good looking.

19. Hi Hater by Maino - Another great song I challenge you to not sing along to.

20. Savior by Rise Against - Maria, roll your eyes once more. Honestly, I can't explain the video. People in stuffed animal suits. Who knows? It's a pity too because the song stands on its own merits and would be fine if the video were even just a performance montage. Whatever. I'm not sure why I love this song so much, but I think it reminds me of an Ex in that waaaaaaaay too serious and emotional kind of way.

21. Jackie Will Save Me by Shiny Toy Guns - Again, no official video for this song, but I wasn't listing the Top 25 Most Played Videos, was I? I've got nothing new to say here about Shiny Toy Guns. Guilty pleasure...Euro feel...Carah Faye Charnow is sexy as hell. That about covers it. Oh, one more thing. If I were a professional soccer player and had to have a Youtube clip video set to music, this might be the song I'd use. I'd be badass...and maybe a little gay.

22. The Taste of Ink by The Used - Another The Used song. I think it's hilarious that an emo band hails from Salt Lake City. Great song to belt out late at night in the car.

23. Split Me Wide Open by the Bravery - This is another band I got in to because of the Austin City Limits Festival, and this is just a great song. Synth, guitars, great vocals. Sort of reminds me of all the reasons I love The Cure. There's this highly sexual and somewhat androgynous quality to the lead singer's voice that fits just perfectly with the music. Can't believe I just wrote that. See the last five words on #21.

24. Smile Like You Mean It by The Killers - I feel like I may have a thing for keyboards.

25. Wake Up by Metalkpretty - I have a thing for bands with female lead singers who have PIPES. this girl can sing her ass off. Also, and this really creeps me out, she looks exactly like a girl I dated a couple of years ago. The resemblance is uncanny enough that I wikipediaed (I totally made that a verb) the band to make sure it wasn't her. Also, some friends of mine saw the girl I dated in a Lowe's the other day. Pretty good sign she's not a rock star. Damn.

American Girls, They Want the Whole World/They want Every Last Little Light in New York City

I get addicted to bands. I'll hear a song that strums one of my admittedly many emotional chords and I'm hooked. Sometimes this results in a terrible crime. I love a song so much and put so much stock in how well written all of said band's other songs must be, and then...nothing. It's the worst kind of sleight of hand. You get all prepared to love a body of work but instead you're asked to tolerate a life's work of mediocrity for two minutes and thirty seconds of accidental genius.

[Aside: I had this great analogy working here about wonderful first dates and shitty second dates and wanting to be rescued from shitty second dates and I even worked "deus ex machina' in there, but it seemed too self satisfying.]

[Aside to my aside: See how I went ahead and used the self satisfying analogy in a self deprecating way? I am such an asshole.]

Such is not the case with The Gaslight Anthem. There is nothing profound about me saying this as they're already a critically acclaimed band and have been around for a few years, but I'm just now getting into them and want to enjoy this honeymoon period for all it's worth. If you don't know the band, please consider this an earnest introduction. In particular, check out The Queen of Lower Chelsea (title of this entry from the song), Miles Davis & The Cool, and She Loves You.

Lyrically, all of these songs are outstanding. Touching, intelligent, mature. Plus, they can bring the rock. That's always important. Enjoy!

Another Letter to My Nephew

Dearest Otto,

Here's the deal: It looks like your folks have settled on Otto as The Name You Will Forever be Called. I put that in all caps to remind you later on how final something like this is. Seriously. My folks decided, for no other reason than to be confusing I'm thinking, to also call me by my middle name. Every roll that is called, every job interview you attend, every face-to-face meeting with someone in an official capacity will start with you saying, "Actually, I go by 'Otto'."

Whatever. Your dad is in the same boat so maybe he thought he'd be a smartass and pay it forward. To be honest though, it's not that you'll have to explain, ad nauseum, For The Rest of Your Life (See what I did there?) that you actually go by your middle name that bugs me, but that for whatever reason, the much, much cooler "OJ" was voted down. I know, I know, initials for names can be obnoxious. Trust me, I once had a friend named "BJ", I know the weight a set of initials can put on the shoulders of an unsuspecting adolescent. It's not pretty. "OJ" though? Solid...save for the whole "named after a probable double murderer" thing. Details, details.

Anyhow, how have you been? I still haven't gotten to meet you in the flesh. I'm feeling a little like I'm shirking my duties as an uncle, but multiple time zones and a paucity of expendable income in my bank account have conspired to keep us on opposite sides of the country. Soon, dear Juice, soon. I have, however, seen many a picture of your earliest days and have heard you wailing like a banshee over the telephone as I try to talk to your mother about shit that probably doesn't really matter to her at all these days. Tough to tell her about what I'm listening to or reading these days when she's worrying every second about the helpless infant crying in her arms for whom she is SOLELY RESPONSIBLE. Puts things in perspective, I suppose. If anything, it makes me realize how desperately unready I am to impregnate anyone. I say "impregnate" not to make it impersonal, but to point out the fact that I have a few hurdles to jump over before I can say "have a baby." You know, details like fall in love, get married, plan. Actually, you don't, but one of these days you will...and I'll be able to offer you a whole slew of advice, not all of it willingly gained. But that's a conversation for another day. Just remember, you'll have tough times, but eventually it will all be worth it. If you ever get lost, look at your parents as a model. Hell, even I do sometimes.

Enjoy discovering the world on a daily basis and doing whatever it is 3 month olds do to occupy their time. I'm guessing this is a lot of feeding and sleeping. Sounds like heaven!

Cheers,

Your Uncle

Love, Tex-Mex, and IBS or When a First Date Goes to Shit

There are a few simple truths I've been taught in my time on this earth. No one is in charge of your life but you. Curiosity is one of the greatest blessings in life. Love and generosity are incredible gifts to both the recipient and their source. Those are of the high brow ilk.

A few others for your consideration: Beer is better with friends. Sex is best when you actually like the other person involved. Everyone knows at least one good "Oops, I shit my pants" story.

It is the last of these truths of which I would like to write today. In particular, I am thinking of a story that was relayed to me in college (What is it about those years that a good story outweighs potential embarrassment every time?) and that has stuck with me ever since. Were this story not told to me by a person one degree of separation from its unfortunate protagonists, I might doubt it as a horrifying and ingenious work of fiction composed by someone seeking to entertain, sort of like the Lard Ass story from Stand By Me. However, I have never doubted this story's veracity.

This is a tale of woe, misfortune, and love lost at the hands of a particularly irritable bowel. The protagonist, who we'll call Billy, was a newly appointed youth minister in a prominent church in a small town in Texas. Coincidentally, Billy's name was/is really Billy. I figure "Youth minister who shit himself" is a largely unGoogleable phrase and would likely render no results for the actual Billy of whom I'm writing. Fingers crossed.

Anyhow, Billy was young and single and launching what promised to be a long and successful career in the ministry. If you know anything about Texas, you'll know that this is the type of thing mothers of young, single women who are members of prominent churches in small towns in Texas lick their chops over. Such was the case with Billy. Every mother with a single daughter of marriageable age in this particular town was slyly and not-so-slyly trying to hook Billy up with her daughter. It was only a matter of time before Billy accepted one of these dates (I mean, if he didn't the rumors might start regarding his sexuality, and then where would he be? This also happens in prominent churches in small towns in Texas, sad to say).

The date was to be a traditional dinner and a movie affair with the dinner part taking place at a Casa Ole. Apparently, this was the small town girl's favorite restaurant, which probably should have been a red flag to Billy. Casa Ole is the bane of legitimate Tex-Mex all over the Lone Star state. It's sort of like the Chili's of Tex-Mex, but of lesser quality and with a more obnoxious decor. Jose Lima used to sing the jingle. Some say that, aside from his Cy Young caliber year with Houston, this was his best work.

Enough about Jose, God rest his soul, Billy knew two things about himself that were unconditionally true in all situations. 1: He had to have home field advantage for any bowel movement. It was a hang up born from something that must have occurred early on in life. I can only guess what this was, but I think a lot of people have this hang up, although probably not to the degree Billy did. 2: He was afflicted with irritable bowel syndrome and never quite knew what would set it off. Sometimes it was spicy food. Sometimes it was greasy food. Sometimes it was something he couldn't put his finger on. At any rate, he occasionally experienced regrettable and violent bouts of explosive diarrhea. With those two truths having governed a substantial portion of Billy's behaviors for God-knows-how-long, Billy and his date arrived at Casa Ole to begin their evening together.

According to the version of events that was told to me, the date was going swimmingly. Conversation had flowed easily and familiarly in the car on the way to the restaurant and the two had continued their enjoyable evening over a bowl of salsa and some tortilla chips. Billy was genuinely interested in this small town girl and the small town girl appeared to be genuinely interested in Billy. She was attractive, intelligent, and witty despite her affinity for Casa Ole.

The two had ordered their food but it had not yet arrived when Billy felt a horrifyingly familiar sensation in his lower abdomen. You know what I'm talking about. It's as if someone has reached inside your body midway between your navel and naughty bits and clenched your intestines with an iron fist. You break out in a low grade sweat and wring your hands at the discomfort and begin to asses, with razor sharp accuracy, the most efficient route to the nearest bathroom. Billy, unfortunately, was a prisoner to truth #1 and the most efficient route to the nearest bathroom was not left at the hostess stand and all the way to the back of the restaurant, but straight at the hostess stand, into the car, east on Interstate 20, off at Main Street, through two lights, left, right, another left, into his garage, out of the car, through the utility room and kitchen and living room, down the hall, and left into the bathroom.

Billy looked at his date and interrupted her mid sentence.

"We have to go. Now."

"What?" She replied. "The food isn't even here yet and the movie doesn't start for another hour."

"Now," Billy said as he plopped a fifty dollar bill onto the table.

[Aside: Casa Ole's entire menu probably doesn't add up to fifty dollars]

Billy jumped up from the table and his date, confused, followed after him to the car.

Speeding out of the parking lot, the small town girl tried to ask Billy what was the matter, but he couldn't say anything, such was his level of concentration at keeping what was inside of him inside of him. Even if he could explain, that's really not first date conversation.

They made it to his exit, but Billy knew he wasn't going to make it. He was face to face with a horrifying choice. He could violently shit his pants in the car with his date, a date he genuinely liked, or he could pull over on the Interstate and unleash hell. Billy chose the latter but was immediately confronted with another horrifying choice. Once out of the car, he had to decide, given that there were no bushes or trees to conceal himself behind, whether to face the car and thereby give his date a front row viewing of his expression during the most agonizingly embarrassing moment of his life, or he could face away from the car and give his date a front row viewing of the reason he was having the most agonizingly embarrassing moment of his life. Billy again chose the latter, slightly more modest option. He ran 10 yards away from the car, turned to face his confused and worried date, dropped his pants, and absolutely turned himself inside out while he grunted, cramped, and gasped his way through the ordeal.

Cars honked.

When it was finally over, Billy pulled his pants back up and tried to act as professional and appropriate as one possibly can in a situation such as the one he was now in. There was no toilet paper, and despite his date graciously averting her eyes, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what had just happened. Billy got back in the car and began to head for her house. There's really no salvaging things when a first date goes this route. They drove in silence for a few minutes as they both must have searched for what to say. Finally, the small town girl broke the silence.

"Are you OK?" She timidly asked.

"Did you not see what just happened? Of course I'm not OK," Billy replied.

I would love to say that Billy and the small town girl were able to recover from this epic catastrophe and that they're laughing about it now after years of marriage, but I can't. I mean, I suppose it's a possibility, but this is where the story ended when it was told to me. I like to aim a little lower and think that this is finally what cured Billy of his need for home field advantage. Left at the hostess stand is always the best option.

De Ja Vu or Crazy "Matrix" Shit

This is just WEIRD. Go back and read my post from September 17, 2006 (or don't; it's probably not that weird to you). Good? Finished it? Now read the post from September 17, 2010.....

What the fuck?!?!

FML.

Of all of the galactically stupid things I've done in my life, the most recent doesn't really rank in the top 10, but it's pissing me off something fierce. Last weekend, I flew back to Texas to watch my Baylor Bears become bowl eligible for the first time since my voice changed...at Homecoming...with the majority of my college buddies present...and my father...and as an added bonus, we earned a top 25 ranking. This also has not been done since about the time my voice changed. Tex Mex was consumed, stories were bandied about shotgun style, karaoke was preformed, an alumni soccer game was played, and I generally got to recharge my happiness batteries although I was exhausted by the end of the trip.

As per my previous post, I'm a new uncle and my sister lives on the other side of the country. Flights are not cheap to the other side of the country and I had my fingers crossed that American Airlines would overbook at least one leg of my trip and need volunteers to take a later flight in exchange for a voucher. This happened on the second leg of my trip and I volunteered, but alas, they did not need me and I arrived in Texas empty handed.

However, on the return leg of the trip, I accepted a 4 hour lay over in exchange for a $300.00 flight voucher. Success. This morning I was thinking of dates that might work for a trip out to meet the Little Fella and catch up with my sister when I remembered, with a sickening feeling, that I HAD FREAKIN' SHREDDED MY BOARDING PASSES AND FLIGHT COUPON AT WORK THE DAY AFTER I GOT BACK. The voucher is non refundable and American Airlines will not replace it. I spent 4 extra hours in the DFW airport just for the hell of it. There isn't a suitable profane phrase to sum up how I'm feeling right now.

A Letter to My Nephew

Dear Samuel Otto,

Where to begin? Well, first off, welcome to the world. It must seem like a big place all of a sudden. I mean, one minute you're floating around in blissful darkness and the next it's all lights and doctors and hustle and bustle. Right now you're preoccupied with sleeping and feeding and pooping yourself, but all of that will change, probably quicker than your parents will want (more on them later). It's a funny thing this world. It can be scary and overwhelming. Trust me. But with some time you'll come to see that it's really pretty small and we're all pretty similar despite our trying desperately to prove otherwise. Right now there's a kid on the other side of this floating blue sphere experiencing many of the same things you are. Maybe you'll meet that kid some day and find something in common. Seem strange? Well, let me tell you, I've run in to people I went to high school with on other continents. No planning or forethought to it. One minute you're walking down a street in Scotland, far away from anything that seems like home, and then you bump into (literally, in my case) you're buddy from English II. It's only scary if you allow yourself to settle for a smaller scale. Be curious! I know you will, it's in your genes. I think between your mom, dad, grandparents, and myself we have all the continents covered...well, maybe not Antarctica. Put it on your list. We've only got a limited time here and your clock started ticking on October 7th, 2010. That's when you were born.

Your parents will be able to tell the story of your arrival much better than me, I wasn't there. They'll talk about how the electricity on the military base was out and how the dog needed x-rays and how the car was broken down. They'll talk about how happy they were that you were born easily and that you were healthy and they'll argue about who you most resemble. They'll talk about how they picked your name. Let me tell you, it wasn't an easy process. They intend to call you Otto, which is cool by me, but since your last name starts with a "J" I may exercise obnoxious uncle rights and refer to you as OJ or Juice. Not a fan? Well, you were almost a Miles. Seriously. Your mom was partial to the name, but your dad and I had to talk her off that ledge. You may know a Miles in your time on this big, tiny planet and I can all but bet that Miles has two inhalers, allergies, and glasses well before the other kids. I like to think of Miles as that kid in the back of the class who wipes his nose on his sweatshirt and is always a step behind. Your third grade teacher may say something like, "If all of you get your science books out in five seconds we can play Heads Up Seven Up at the end of the day." Don't worry if you don't know what that is, it's a badass third grade game and you'll love it down the road. Well, Miles will be the kid that gets out his history book and ruins it for everyone. You'll hate yourself for it later, but with all the other kids you'll turn around and say, "MILES! Not your history book!" Count yourself lucky. You're OJ.

Life's going to move pretty fast, OJ. It seems like just yesterday that your mother and I were smuggling vegetables from the dinner table into our underwear, excusing ourselves, and flushing the offending greens down the toilet. She'll never tell you this, but she got caught once because said offending greens were too much for our childhood home's plumbing to take. No way can you convince your parents that you ate, digested, and crapped whole trees of broccoli. Remember when I told you I had a lot to teach you? Consider the dinner plate to underwear to restroom heist and early freebee.

Before you know it you'll have left childhood and games of catch and Saturday morning cartoons behind and you won't even realize you miss them. There's a brief moment of hell called middle school that you'll get through fine. Remember, whether you're a jock or a band geek, nothing is permanent. Middle school kids suck and, I hate to break it to you, you will too. There's no way around this. It's a cruel time and kids that age are cruel kids. On the whole, you'll probably be one of the less cruel kids because you've got two gems as parents. Trust me on this one. I've known your mom literally since the day I was born and your Old Man has been a buddy of mine since the middle school days I was just referencing. In fact, your mom has known him since about this time as well, and she thought we were both way too full of ourselves then. Truth be told, we were...and probably for the ensuing ten plus years afterwards. You'll get out of that stage. Things change and so do people.

Back to your parents. Your folks are the kind of people who would stop in a rainstorm in the middle of nowhere to help someone with a flat tire. They're the kind of people who, around Thanksgiving, will buy an extra turkey and donate it to a homeless shelter. They're the kind of people who will teach you to always stick up for the underdog and always take your victories and losses with humility and grace. I'm saying this with years and years of evidence and the privilege of witnessing them both at extraordinary highs and debilitating lows. They're salt of the earth type people, and although I'm sure sometimes you'll be embarrassed by them, in the end you'll see the same qualities I'm telling you about now. You're a lucky kid, Samuel Otto.

You don't know it now, because you're really just a pudgy ball of baby rolling around in blankets and flapping your arms, but someday the shit is going to hit the fan and your parents will be the first people there for you. Some bully is going to insult you or some girl is going to break your heart and your mom will say something like, "This too shall pass." I know she'll say this because that's what my mom (your grandmother if you're not big on the whole geneology thing) said to us. You'll roll your eyes and sarcastically think, "Thanks for the comfort," but she'll be right. Time is a funny thing. When things are going well, you'll never have enough of it, but when things are bad, when your heart feels like it's been wrenched from your chest and you just want to be better NOW, minutes will pass like days. I hate to be a spoiler, but this will happen and it's what makes the good times that much more delicious and meaningful.

Your dad is going to teach you a lot of cool stuff. When you're old enough to understand, he'll be your hero. It's kind of unavoidable in your case because he's a fighter pilot. Without getting into all the weighty moral intricacies of what being a finally honed weapon of war entails, being a fighter pilot is pretty freaking cool, and you'll most certainly be all about it. I know this because I felt the same way about my dad. Your mom is a sensitive, thoughtful, emotionally intelligent woman. Your father is similarly thoughtful and emotionally intelligent, but he provides a needed foil to your mom's way of thinking. Ditto my parents. Sensing a pattern? Your dad will be gone a lot. It's unavoidable considering his job, but those moments when he's home? Cherish those. There's nothing like basking in the glow of a father's affection and feeling the love of something that is a part of you and will leave again. Take a nap next to the guy. Go on a hike with him. Let him teach you how to start the grill or work on the car. When you get to that crappy middle school phase, he'll become less your hero and more your task master, but that phase will pass. By the time you're your own man and can look back on your childhood and reflect on your teenage years, your dad will be your hero again, but he'll also be human. That's an important combination because it allows you to love him even more. It allows you to see that he chose to be that person for you. OJ, you're already a lucky boy.

I hope I get to be a big part of your life. I hope you come to see and love me as I've come to see and love my uncles. I hope our geographic differences are not too much to overcome. I hope you always feel loved and cared for. I hope you are able to embrace every opportunity you choose to take advantage of. I hope your life is an adventure of your making. I know you're off to the best possible start with the best possible parents. I can't wait to meet you.

Sincerely,
Your Uncle

Holy Awkward

So, I would normally never post on back-to-back days. It's sort of a principle thing. Blogs are a dime a dozen, and who's really interesting enough to write about their life every single day?

[Aside:] The answer there is no one.

But I feel compelled to let this one rip (future pun totally intended). I'm in the process of training for a marathon. This process is sometimes rewarding and sometimes utter torture. Occasionally I feel like Mercury flying wing footed just above the ground and the pure exhilaration of running fast(ish), over distance, and comfortably is enough to make me smile suddenly and laugh to myself. This was the case yesterday when I found myself slowly but surely clicking through the gears on a seven mile run and finishing strongly with a maniacal grin plastered across my face. But, as the Greeks were so fond of pointing out, when a mortal likens himself to a god, there's sure to be some sort of divine punishment. Ah, hubris.

I set out on my run today feeling full of myself, but I quickly realized the legs weren't there. Whereas yesterday I felt springy and light, today I felt like an elephant with concrete shoes. First my ass tightened up, then my calves, and finally my stomach started to rumble in protest. Two thirds of the way though my planned run, I was out of gas and walking dejectedly back home.

On the trail in front of me an Asian couple was shuffling along enjoying an evening stroll. When I first saw them they were a good hundred yards in front of me and I was confident that there would be no awkward walker-passing-walker exchange. You know what I'm talking about. It's sort of like when you see someone you know in public and have a brief exchange, say your goodbyes, and then both realize you're headed in exactly the same direction. No one likes that. It's awkward. Before I knew it though they were only fifty yards in front of me. Then twenty. Now ten.

They had been passing a mobile phone back and forth and speaking a staccato rhythm of what I believed to be Mandarin Chinese and I was confident that they had not yet noticed I was just behind them. Right as I was about to break into a jog and play the I-just-caught-up-to-you-because-I've-been-running card and coast the final quarter mile back to the house, the woman in the couple hung up the phone, paused for about two beats, and then uncorked the longest, most intensely strained fart I have ever heard in my life.

Oh. My. God.

I was like a burglar in a Loony Toons cartoon. I froze in a tip toe and tried not to breathe...both out of fear of being noticed and of the possible malodorous consequences, my face strained as if I were in the process of dipping myself into a frozen lake

At that very moment, the woman SHOOK HER FREAKIN' LEG to wrest out the final crescendo of gas. All told, we're talking a good five seconds of fart time.

Biting my cheeks and holding my breath, I faked my best I've-been-running-for-a-while-and-just-now-caught-up-to-you-and-no-I-definitely-did-not-hear-you-tear-the-sky-in-half-with-your-ass jog. When I was at the woman's eight o'clock, she noticed me, stepped to the side, and grabbed her husband's arm. As I passed, she said something in Chinese which, although I don't speak, I was able to roughly translate as, "Holy fuck, I just crop dusted the bejesus out of that guy!"

I ran the final quarter mile to sell the farce that I had been running the whole time and finished with another huge smile on my face, but for an altogether different reason. As my sister once told me, with a look of convicted sincerity on her face, "I don't want to live in a world where farts aren't funny."

Amen to that. And also, I'll think twice before cutting a run short again.

Cracker Barrel Casanova

I have never used a pick up line. To be honest, I didn't realize "game" and "raps" were as prevalent and well-rehearsed as they are until recently. I kind of always figured that if you were yourself and yourself was an attractive, confident, intelligent, and witty dude, that yourself would bat at least .300...which I guess sort of sounds like a pick up line. I also just realized I used a sports analogy to quantify matters of the heart...well, maybe not the heart...maybe just hormones...does that make it ok? Crap. Now I'm confused and off topic.

Regardless, I have never used a pick up line (trying to find my initial thread of thought again). I'm not saying I'm charming and witty and awesome enough to just be myself in front of an attractive stranger and legitimately expect a reciprocated interest. Quite the contrary. What I'm saying is that I have NEVER walked up to an attractive stranger and PURPOSEFULLY started a conversation in the hopes that one thing would lead to another and we'd wind up in the sack together. This is not to say I'm a shrinking violet, but that to me a planned approach to someone just seems really sleazy. Well, depending on your motivations, I suppose. I mean, if you're generally love struck by someone I guess a well-intentioned approach is ok, charming even, but walking up to a stranger to get in their pants is sort of heartless. Actually, it's the definition of heartless. But isn't "love struck" just a politically correct way to say you think said attractive stranger is really, really hot and want to get in their pants? Damn! Now I'm confused and off topic again.

This whole post started as a vehicle to relay the most ridiculous pick up line I've ever heard. I promise I'll get back on track. So, the other night (see, I'm back on track), a guy I know, and he's a really good guy - honestly, he just plays to the audience sometimes and I think spouts locker room banter to be one of the boys but is actually a big softy - said that he leads with, and I'm not making this up, "So, let's say after you and I wake up tomorrow morning, we go have breakfast at the Cracker Barrel." Cracker Barrel? Seriously? I feel like breakfast in bed would be a better route to take, or even a nice cafe with farm fresh omelets and mimosas. Crepes? Belgian waffles? Lattes? But Cracker Barrel? Off the highway? Exit 103? Maybe it's just ridiculous enough to work. Regardless, I can't say I'd jump at the opportunity to hook up with the girl who swoons at the prospect of a $6.99 eggs and bacon breakfast at the Cracker Barrel.

To each his own. I guess it's better than a McDonald's egg McMuffin.

Phantom Pains

I've read before that when a patient needs a limb removed either because of irreparable injury or cancer or infection that they can sometimes "feel" the limb even after it's gone because the nerve endings transmit sensations as if the limb were still there. I can't imagine how disconcerting this must be to the amputee, especially in the months immediately following the amputation. Can you imagine waking up one morning and feeling your arm only to come fully awake and realize that this appendage you can't imagine being without is gone? Forever? If the arm or leg was lost in a clinical setting, clearly it had to go. A conscious decision was made to sacrifice a limb to save a body, but that can't make it any easier to be without. Maybe it helps to rationalize and be philosophical about the loss, but in the end it's still a loss - a vital loss - and it must be heartbreaking.

Without indulging in hyperbole or stooping to teenage poetry, I'm feeling a bit like that these days. Before I go on, I have to admit that I'm a writer. It helps me make sense of things and order my thoughts. It's sort of like organizing a disheveled work space. Bills go in one folder, incoming and outgoing memos are separated, trash is disposed of, and before you know it, you can see a clear path forward and prioritize your actions. It's like that, but with emotions and thoughts and hopes. In realizing I need to do this to make sense of myself, I have to ignore the audience. It isn't for the audience (well maybe this explanation is), and I can't help that I know some of the people who will read this and that they may see themselves in it. It's not a message in a bottle or a flare from a sinking ship. It's where I am and hopefully a starting point to where I want to go.

To pick back up my analogy, my amputated limb is the loss of a relationship. I mean that strictly in the sense of loss and the now, more than three months later, realization of the gravity of that loss. It's the strangest thing that the easiest part of a break up, at least to me, are the few weeks immediately following the decision to end it. All of the bad things are perched aggressively in the forefront of your mind and the frustrations and hurtful things and reasons why it's not right come at you like a rapid fire diagnosis. I had to end things to save us from an unhappy relationship. We have to take your arm to save your body. I can accept that. I imagine most amputees can as well. When you're presented with all of the reasons why a thing has to be done, you can rationalize doing that thing, even if it's highly unpleasant and emotionally wrenching. But then the recovery starts...

You don't miss having your arm because it had cancer. You miss your arm because it was a part of you; because you could climb and throw and reach and hold hands or stroke your lover's face. You come to this point months after you've experienced the loss when the clinical decision has been taken and the necessity of having to make that decision has faded into the past. I don't miss my girlfriend because we fought and didn't trust one another and became gradually resentful of our differences. I don't miss her because I never felt she was comfortable being totally vulnerable to me or because I craved a measure of warmth, intimacy, and understanding that I'm sure looked an awful lot to her like losing herself. I miss her because she gave me exhausted hugs at the end of her workday and she sometimes unknowingly used the wrong word to hilarious effect. I miss that she has to sleep in pitch blackness, is the world's worst cook, won't save herself from embarrassment if the story is good, smiles like a spotlight, and when she genuinely laughs, sounds like a symphony. I miss her striking beauty and her graceful power. The diagnosis has faded and now I'm living without something I thought I would live with for the rest of my life.

Which places me at a starting point. Pick yourself up, kid.

Dirty 30

Full disclosure: I hate being 30.

I know it's just 30 and you hear all sorts of cliches about the joys of turning 30, but I think most of them are BS.

"30 is the new 20." No it's not. 30 is 30. 30 is 10 more than 20. 30 and 20 have very little in common except they are both divisible by 10...and 5...and 2. Ok, that's three things, but none of them make me feel younger.

"Life begins at 30." No it doesn't. Life begins at birth. Or if you're a Super Pro Lifer, it begins at conception. At any rate, it doesn't begin at 30. You can't abort your child as long as they aren't 30. That's murder. And murder is illegal.

"30 is when you get to start really enjoying being an adult." What does that even mean? All the fun adult stuff starts at 18 or 21. I feel like the 30 adult stuff is a mortgage, car payment, receding hairline (more there later), and an expanding waistline. Why did I have to wait 9 years to enjoy adulthood? And now that I did, I have the sneaking suspicion that the only reason someone is now telling me I get to start enjoying it is because this is precisely the moment that I realize I would like to be 21 again.

I could go on, but suffice it to say, turning 30 is a little like that moment when you wake up and realize you've slept through your alarm clock. One minute you're cozy and half asleep, like the bear on the Sleepy Time Celestial Seasonings tea box, the next minute you're in a complete state of wide awake panic because you're never going to make it to work on time. It's like that, but with more expletives.

Why, you ask? Well, at a time when all of my friends are married, about to get married, having kids, buying houses, taking fabulous vacations with their fabulous significant others, and generally loving being loved, stable, and secure, I'm single (again), childless (as far as I know), renting a room from my buddy, and still planning for my financial future. I can hear your objections now:

"You have plenty of time."

"Don't be in a hurry."

"All of those things will eventually happen for you."

"You're still young! 30 is the new 20!" We've covered this one. See above.

Here's the deal, I'm not in a hurry. Clearly. If a relationship is not right, it's not right. No way am I going to wind up 60, brow beaten, and miserable because I married the wrong person. Nor do I want any hypothetical kids of mine to get some fucked up sense of what a marriage is supposed to be like by watching mommy drag daddy around by the balls or vice versa...except without the balls part...although that would certainly confuse my hypothetical kids. Not doing that. The real issue here is that the people I still have a lot in common with are in their mid 20s. I'm not afraid of winding up childless and alone, but as my same age friends check out of the single, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants club, I'm afraid of winding up the creepy older guy who doesn't quite fit in with the 20s crowd.

It wouldn't be so bad, but it seems like my beard and hair decided to turn gray at exactly the same moment. That moment? 30. Oh, and for added giggles, my hair decided to abandon my scalp in a way that leaves a tiny island on the crown of my forehead. My hairline is like the last stand of the 300 Spartans of Thermopylae. A few brave follicles are holding the pass while my forehead advances in a classic Rommel style pincer movement. I'd punch a baby for a full head of hair. Kidding. Well, maybe not. I guess it depends on the baby. I mean, if life doesn't start until 30...

Also, my left knee is becoming progressively wonkier. It used to be that running and riding the bike and playing soccer could be counted on to make me feel young and free and happy. Now I'm losing a step and having a little bit of difficulty keeping up with the younger players. Just standing in the kitchen making dinner, one of the decidedly adult things I actually do, causes my knee to swell up. Who gets hurt making dinner? 30 year olds. Oh, and when I do suck it up and play soccer I feel like I got the shit beaten out of me the morning after...and the morning after that.

A buddy of mine at work (he's 25...fucker) gave me crap about wearing a v-neck t-shirt the other day. Apparently, I'm too old. Too old for a v-neck?!? These kids today!

I accept that age cannot be reversed and I'd never go so far as to dye my hair or call Hair Club For Men (side note: are those not the creepiest commercials on TV?) or roid it up to try and reverse muscle and joint deterioration. I would stoop to Cialis though. Why lie? I just don't want to be the awkward older guy hanging out with the kids. No one likes that guy. Not even that guy likes that guy.

Here's to hoping 30 sits easier with me as the year goes on. It'd better. Next year I'll be 31.

Just a Random Great Song....

Sometime Around Midnight- Airborne Toxic Event


And it starts...
Sometime around midnight
Or at least that's when
You lose yourself
For a minute or two

As you stand...
Under the barlights
And the band plays some song
About forgetting yourself for a while
And the piano's this melancholy soundcheck
To her smile
And that white dress she's wearing
You haven't seen her
For a while

But you know...
That she's watching
She's laughing, she's turning
She's holding her tonic like a cross
The room suddenly spinning
She walks up and asks how you are
So you can smell her perfume
You can see her lying naked in your arms

And so there's a change...
In your emotions
And all of these memories come rushing
Like feral waves to your mind
Of the curl of your bodies
Like two perfect circles entwined
And you feel hopeless, and homeless
And lost in the haze
Of the wine

And she leaves...
With someone you don't know
But she makes sure you saw her
She looks right at you and bolts
As she walks out the door
Your blood boiling
Your stomach in ropes
And when your friends say what is it
You look like you've seen a ghost

And you walk...
Under the streetlights
And you're too drunk to notice
That everyone is staring at you
And you so care what you look like
The world is falling
Around you

You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her

And you know that she'll break you
In two

I Do Not Think That Means What You Think That Means

I'm a huge fan of people using the wrong word to express the wrong thought. Part of it is the deliciousness of being a grammar/vocabulary Nazi and secretly judging the person guilty of the misuse, but mostly it's the unintentional humor it creates. It's sort of a guerrilla chuckle. First you're in a business meeting expecting all sorts of boring nonsense bandied about by people acting important and then your boss throws out something like, "In the coming physical year we can expect to get more bodies." It's not that funny, granted, but hearing the boss confuse fiscal and physical is a petty little reminder that maybe, just MAYBE, you're more qualified to do his job...and therefore better...and therefore justified in playing Brickbreaker on your Blackberry when you probably should be nodding attentively. Whatever. As a side note: In case the boss in question is somehow reading this, I really don't believe I was more qualified to do your job. The preceding was for humor value...which I suppose was just ruined by way of my explanation.

A buddy of mine who's wife teaches at a well respected Southern university called me today and read the opening sentence of a paragraph from one of her student's papers regarding Title IX legislation. The student in question, dissecting the complexity of his point, decided to put it in "lame man's terms." Awesome.

My personal favorite incident of word misusage occurred recently in a moment of intimacy between two friends who will remain unnamed. The couple in question is limited somewhat in the realm of sexual positions because the female has a suspected retroverted uterus. I personally had never heard of this condition, but apparently it occurs in something like 1 in 5 women. Check Wikipedia if you're curious...or writing a term paper. Anyhow, the condition means that the uterus is tilted slightly to the back as opposed to the front and can cause pain in certain sexual positions. The couple in question was in flagrante delicto when the female, intending to make a joke about her suspected retroverted uterus, instead referenced her introverted uterus.

My vagina likes to spend time alone and is uncomfortable in social situations. Classic.

One Upper

We used to play this game in theater class in high school (yeah, I was in theater) in which the participants were to ad lib one upping one another. The trick was to start modestly and then increase the one ups in very small increments. You couldn't, for example, start with, "I signed my first professional football contract today, married a supermodel, and got a personal message from the President in my voicemail box congratulating me on how badass I am and how much he wishes he were me." I mean, where do yo go from there?

There was a flip side to this game in which the participants one downed each other. Same principle, but with progressively more depressing events. I recall one game being won by my buddy Will after he had been quiet for about five minutes. We all assumed he had given up as the other two players made up slightly more awful things that had befallen them throughout the day. Finally Will softly spoke up and, staring into the middle distance, whispered, "Do you ever just go outside, dig a hole, and lay in it?"

I loved these games mostly because I knew how obnoxious it was to be one upped and also because, as someone who has been accused more than once of being cocky, it sort of kept me in check. I was reminded of this last week on a business trip with some coworkers I had never before met. Turns out, one of the guys in the group was an ex New York City cop. One night over beers, he gradually started to open up about some of the things he had seen and done on the job. Mostly, these were your run of the mill cop stories. People caught in compromising positions in compromising places, bodies found, bizarre acts witnessed, etc. The guy was a cop in NYC for 10 years. Things happen.

Every step of the way this other guy, whom I had never met, would butt in with, "That reminds me..." or "Yeah, something like that happened to me once..." If I had been listening to two veteran police officers talk shop over beers, I would have thought nothing of it and just enjoyed the ridiculousness of the stories, but this other guy had never been a cop...or a soldier...or anything more than a mediocre desk type. Still, he comported himself like Billy Badass and at one point even wanted to compare calf muscles with the ex cop (he would have lost badly).

All of this was amusing and mildly annoying until yet another coworker asked the ex officer if he had been at Ground Zero on September 11th. He had, as it turns out, and he answered questions about it in the way that I have seen combat veterans answer questions about their experiences. That attitude is sort of tough to nail down, but when you see it, you know it's not bullshit. It's not braggadocio, but it's also not out for sympathy. It is what they saw. Period.

Everyone got very quiet as he said that one of the two things in his life he will never forget was the sight and sound of bodies hitting the streets as people jumped from the towers before they collapsed.

I put my beer down as I absurdly struggled to wrap my mind around what that must have been like, but was interrupted by the one upper. "Yeah, that reminds me of..."

Everyone else at the table turned and stared at him. We must have all been thinking the same thing. That reminds you of absolutely nothing! There is nothing you have experienced that can even remotely compare to witnessing the sky rain live bodies! You ass! I can't recall wanting to punch someone so badly, and when I scanned the rest of the table, they all seemed to be thinking the same thing. Everyone, that is, except for the ex cop. He listened politely and sympathized with whatever BS story it was that the one upper related to the table. I was shocked and a little shamed as well. The ex cop had every right to interrupt the one upper and tell him where to go with his likely fictional story, and the one upper, upon completion of his story, took a drink from his beer with a self-satisfied smirk.

Maybe that's the gift of tragedy. It gives us the ability to empathize and respond with grace even though there's no reasonable expectation that we do so. I still haven't picked my jaw up off the floor.

Unclear on the Concept

I was driving home from work today and I saw an obese (not fat....OBESE) woman brazenly throw her McDonald's hamburger wrapper out the window of her car.

She was driving a FUCKING PRIUS!