Crushing Reminder of Failed Romance Available to Best Offer

So, I've been meaning to post this tale of romance, woe, and Craigslist sales for quite a while now but have just not mustered the energy to do so until now. Years ago (yes, years) I was engaged to a delightful young woman but things just didn't pan out. This can be attributed to a variety of things, but youth, naivety, and fundamental differences would front any list entitled "Why It Didn't Work Out."

The thing about ending an engagement is that after all of the heartache and upset there's still the matter of an artificially valued ring that neither party involved in the breakup has any use for. Fortunately for me, the Ex in question was classy enough to return said artificially valued ring and I didn't have to swallow the entire cost of the diamond and band. Unfortunately for me, the diamond industry is comprised of some nefarious bastards who convince women and men that shelling out three months' salary for a not-that-uncommon stone is de rigueur and essential to asking someone to spend the rest of her life with you. This is all well and good until things don't work out and the jilted lover (me in this case) is left with something that is really only worth a tenth of whatever three months' salary fetched at the original purchase. I was in grad school at the time so three months' salary wasn't a huge amount in the grand scheme of things, but that's not really the point. The point is that I spent way more than I could afford, got my heart broken, and then was left with a considerably depreciated rock I had no use for. So I turned to Craigslist. My ad:

Here's what I have:

One white gold, lady's, solitaire ring; set with one, transparent, white, princess cut, natural diamond. Substantiated weight: .72 ct. Proportions and Finish: Good. Color: H-I Clarity I1. Comes with Carte Blue Evaluation and appraisal.

Here's what I really have:

This diamond has been tucked away in desks and closets throughout the numerous crappy apartments I have lived in for the past four years. I have resisted the urge to heave the ring, a representation of my painful past, into a lake or ocean or river of liquid hot magma or some other tired cliche of endless reclamation. I have also resisted acting upon the much less dramatic advice of my friend Barrett to take the ring to a jeweler, extract the diamond, and "Get [me] a sweet ass man ring."

Every time I look at it, I feel like someone has punched me in the nuts...in public...and like maybe they'll do it again for a good laugh. My ex-fiancee gave it back to me after I returned from a trip to Argentina as a grad student in 2004. Did I flounce around with some Argentine Tango goddess when I was there? Nope. On the contrary, I spent most of my time wondering why The Ex had broken a lease in my name THE DAY AFTER I LEFT despite telling me the day I left that everything was cool and she was looking forward to moving into the apartment with me. I don't know if you've ever tried, but it's pretty tough sub-letting a loft from 8,000 miles away even if it does have wood floors, high ceilings, and is located in a delightful area just off the prime entertainment strip of a college town. I'm just saying.

Anyhow, we did the "just dating" thing again for a while after I got back (mostly this was just sleeping together and pretending things would work out), I spent an interminable year living with my parents - remember, I'm apartmentless at this point - I took a job working at a Starbucks that was managed by a neurotic and over-protective single mother who also tried to get in my pants (true story), there was much more floundering and gnashing of teeth with The Ex as I tried to extract myself from the sticky mess we had made (seriously, get your mind out of the gutter), and I finally wound up single and happy in the beautiful, Midwestern megalopolis of Indianapolis, Indiana. It's OK so far, but I still don't know what the fuck a Hoosier is.

So what do I want for the ring? Great question. If you have a charming, intelligent, blonde haired, blue eyed, tan, atheltic, angel of the morning laying around the house I'll take her. Check that. I think that's human trafficking and I'm pretty sure it's illegal. How about this? Make me an offer that you feel takes into account the following:

Worth of the ring. Emotional toll. The negative balance of my checking account. 1 year's membership to Match.com. Seriously. Following the advice of another friend, one much less wise than Barrett, I got on Match because it seemed like time to move on. Good grief. Date #1 proudly proclaimed she had been in a Girl's Gone Wild video (the one with Snoop Dogg) and was also a Reds fan (much less forgivable). Date #2 showed up on my porch one night with a psychological study explaining passive/aggressive disorder. Date #3 was a raging bulimic...and alcoholic. And date #4...well, you think I would have learned, no?

So, to the victor go the spoils. Send me an offer and if you wind up the lucky bastard with this ring, then I hope you have better luck with it than I did. I'm just tired of happening on it during the occasional cleaning fit. It's like coming into your living room after hosting a party and finding your drunk friend still on your couch. Go home already. And stop throwing up!

I'm not sure what I expected from posting this ad. I thought I needed to write something clever enough to differentiate my decidedly underwhelming ring from the literally hundreds of other rings being hawked by guys apparently in the same position as myself. I never sold the ring via Craigslist, but I did get a flood of emails from all sorts of people. Here are the high (low?) points:

"Dude, you've missed your calling. Professional storyteller all the way. Something a la Garrison Keillor. I think you should sex it up a bit though with a picture of your ex. Just saying. It would drive traffic to your post, assuming of course, that she was/is hot."

He was probably right. A little pervy, but probably right.

"Is that a bottle of Bell's Oberon Ale? Good beer. Drink more of it."

I'm not sure if this was intended as advice to get over the heartache or if possibly this was sent by a Bell's representative. Potato, potahtoe (that's a tough one to make translate through text), I took the advice. It was delicious.

"Well, I cannot afford to pay anything for your reminder...my last major relationship stole my engagement ring from my exhusband that I was saving to give my daughter!! Sounds like a soap, I know...Sooo...I mean it, I came across this as while trying to find the number of the guy who sold me a 'non working' dryer for 150...'it works great,' he says. I really cannot afford to pay you for your ring, but please don't ever do anything foolish and throw it in the ocean...I am here for you!!! You will feel just as 'free' and a single mom like me could feel special!!! Win, win."

This was not an uncommon theme in the replies I received. Apparently, there are a lot of women out there who just want someone to give them a ring...for free. I had no idea how to respond.

"My daughter and her goofy friends live in Indy (although they are not hot blondes) and are always interested in adding intelligent people to their group."

I got like 6 of these from parents trying to introduce me to their daughters. What parent surfs Craigslist and decides that a guy trying to sell an engagement ring is relationship material for their daughter?!

"I've been composing this email for about 20 minutes trying to think of something witty enough that you'll say. 'Man, that chick should get the ring even though she's happily married and has a kid and probably would just sell it for a bed anyway.' But, unfortunately, I haven't really come up with anything spectacular. I'd offer you my sister, she's a hottie who lives in Los Angeles...but like you said, there are probably some ethical and legal ramifications involved with that sort of transaction, so we better not go that route."

...and a bunch of these trying to introduce me to their sister. The preceding paragraph in this email was all about the Disney Princess bed the woman was trying to buy for her daughter. Apparently, she searched "princess" and my ad is what she got.


"Take your substantial, romantic and loving energies, and give bits of it to the women around you who aren't crazy...but no more than you're comfortable with. Give this energy also to your mom, sisters, grandma, whoever you love and aren't romantically connected with too. Most of us are starved for it, and be aware that some may lunge at you. Begin, slowly, to sort out the women who really appreciate what you give, and who don't take advantage of your generosity, and listen to the women who return your affection. Date them. Listen to them as best you can...just because a woman is beautiful, hot, fuckable, doesn't mean she's good."

This is the most lucid, thoughtful advice about relationships I think I've ever gotten...via the internet...on Craigslist. I'm still wondering what possessed the woman to write it, but wow.

"I have very little interest in the ring, but I might be able to make you an offer on a date with a brown haired, brown eyed, tan girl from the East Coast?"

This was actually written by the tan girl from the East Coast. She wrote like 5 more times. We never went out, in case you were wondering. I'm all about serendipity, but this was just a little too romantic comedyesque for me.

"Your friend who suggested a sweet ass man's ring is a bit of a douche. Men who wear jewelry like that are creepy."

Barrett's no douche, but the general rule here is noted and usually holds true.

"Stay away from Mach.com. My brother used it because he said it's a way to find girls to hook up with. You could do that was a lot less than $35/month by going to Broad Ripple on a Friday night."

This email made me re-up my Match membership!

"My name is Jon aka Wolf I know random bu id liek to tell you something and if you take the time to read this i appreciate it as well but id liek to tell you about a story of a marine adn his ex. I got out of high school and started to work hard for a life better then the one served to me by my folks and make something better of myself. so as it seems i went day in and day out working my butt off for a new car a new place and all and all a new life. one day i meet a young woman she was here for school from cali well we got to know each other for over 2 years i decide she was the one i left everything her sold my truck left my job moved to cali with her when she was done with school. we ended up moving in to geather and thinkgs got really tight so i decided to join the marines to take care of us and know that id be able to supply for me and her. well i made it thru basic adn came back home and asked her to marry me well she was all happy and glade btu i was wrong i got my first station in specnav san diago and hell i got lucky to be able to stay in the same state for my first station and be abel to see her on the weekends well after yr of this i got hurt and discharged from the u.s.m.c.

came back home to find she wanted to be with me for the money nd beafits i wake up one morning to her gone and the ring left on my desk to find out she moved back in with her mom and was with another guy for the past yr and 1/2 while i was in the core i knwo life can behard my friend but beleive me take it one day at a time adn learn something from it i knwo you can nvr really forget the ones we love or loved its not in us to forget because we alwas want what we cant hae but i have been alone not even dating because i dont want to urt againbut im learning to trust woman and im dating this amazong woman that see me for me and nothing more. but i just wanted to let you know it will get better and to take time in life because you nvr kwno when youll lose it all at once adn start all over ppl are the best thing in ones live but the worst as well adn im sry to hear that you went thru almost the same thing but i wish you the best of luck in life and best of luck with selling the ring i wish i could let mine go it still sits in my locker box with my uniform to remind me i guess..."

Jon...er...Wolf? Stay tru.

"My knight of almost 20 years decided while I was out of town working that he felt abandoned...poor baby...alcoholic, mama's boy. Had to go find comfort and picked up some skank...last one left after 'last call' and took her home! First night, bam! What a catch! Of course he didn't have the balls to tell me he was doing us both! Had to find out the hard way!"

I can only hope the "hard way" wasn't a scorching case of herpes. I kind of think it may have been.

"Hey, I'm not interested in buying the ring, but I find your writing incredibly hot. I want to meet you."

Again, we never met. If the other email was a little too romantic comedyesque, this one was a little pornesque.

"Hoosier is a term that originated from basketball. Have you seen the movie Hoosiers?"

False. Clearly the term existed before the movie came out! You can't use the word in question in the definition. I'm still flummoxed.

"Dude, thanks for the laugh. That sucks! Haha! Not sure how I came across your ad as I was searching Craigslist for 'Ass play.' Whatever, it was worth it. Good luck, Bro!"

I wonder how many other anal lotharios I gave a good laugh? But does anyone want to buy the fucking ring?!

Today's Band Everyone Has Heard of But More People Need to Listen to: Alkaline Trio

Full disclosure: I hate February.

It's still winter but all of the cool stuff is over. Christmas? Check. New Years? Check. Bowl games? Check. Super Bowl? Check. Also, 28 days, February? Just 28? Get your shit together. All of the other months are laughing at you. February sucks so bad the greeting card industry had to come up with a holiday to remind us that we love other people. What would we do in lieu of this fictitious holiday? Apparently moan and groan and commit acts of domestic violence at an alarming rate.

One quick order of business before we get down to business. I need to extend a shout out to Drinking Stories' newest fan. Belle writes an exceptionally witty blog entitled Life As We Make It. How do I know this? Well, I've read a good portion of it and the first post made me snort a little laugh and I'd only read the title. It's solid. Trust me.

Now, on to Alkaline Trio...

This is, you guessed it, a trio from Chicago, Illinois. I don't know what it is about that city, but it produces exceptional musical acts from all genres. Kanye West, Lupe Fiasco, Smashing Pumpkins, Rise Against, Chevelle, Buddy Guy, Muddy Waters, Twista, Common...the list goes on and on.

Sure, you may not be a fan of the punk/pop genre, but lyrically Alkaline Trio takes the cake. Matt Skiba, the most lead of the two singers, has an awesome voice and his lyrics are ironic, dark, macabre, but also touching and often tongue-in-cheek. Plus, I can muster enough range in my decidedly rangeless voice to belt out my own renditions of their songs when I'm in the car...alone...and at night...and not stopped at a light where other motorists can see me.

A Smattering of Old Favorites or No Time to Write Anything New

You know how Saturday Night Live used to always be live every week? And then they started taking a couple of weeks off here and there? And then they took a week off after seemingly every live show? Remember that? Yeah, this is sort of like that. Enjoy the reruns!

Also, in case you were wondering, I AM NOT comparing myself in terms of "the funny" to SNL...well, maybe the Chris Kattan and Jim Breuer years.


Texas Is The Reason

On Fire For The Lord

Ancient Economics

@&#!

J.U.I.C.E.!

The Fainter

Everything I Need to Know About Life I Learned at Scruffy Murphy's

Murder Most Foul

Believe Me Now?

Have you ever been caught in a situation that appeared to the outside observer to be 100%, beyond a shadow of a doubt, absolutely, OJ in the white Bronco, Clinton's semen on Lewinsky's dress, Colonel Mustard in the drawing room with the candlestick your fault? But it wasn't?

When my sister and I were in high school my parents recognized the need for a third car to accommodate our respective extracurricular activities. Early on in our pre driver's license days, there were a few too many left-at-the-soccer-field-until-8pm nights because one parent assumed the other was taking care of pick up duties. Additionally, my sister and I were into very, very different things and there was little to zero chance a band concert and a soccer tournament were going to be held a convenient distance from one another at the same time. A third car was necessary.

The problem was that said third car was not a high mileage Civic or Accord - either would have been an affordable and reliable buy - but a near brand spanking new Chevrolet Corsica. For those of you unfamiliar with the Chevy Corsica (it no longer exists), it has to be one of the most appalling, shambolic shit shows of a vehicle ever produced by an American automotive manufacturer. Seriously. Google it.

My sister and I had no knowledge of this at the time as my father was still viewed by both of us as the End All Be All of Universal Wisdom. That's some serious shit. Even though I was into my teenage angst years, I still thought of the Old Man as some sort of indestructible amalgam of Chuck Norris, Thomas Jefferson, and that guy from the Dos Equis commercials. The thought that he would be duped into buying an authentic lemon was beyond my ability to comprehend.

And then I started driving the car.

Everything about the Chevy Corsica was cheap, even the knobs on the radio felt like they were going to break as soon as you touched them (They didn't, but they only held out for a month or two). The brakes felt soft and dangerously incapable of performing their duty in an emergency situation (I think my parents invested in at least two costly brake jobs in the three years we owned the car). "Ergonomics" was clearly not a word that entered into the engineers' vocabulary when they were sitting around discussing the features they wanted to include in the car. Quite the contrary. After a few months driving the car, I began to wonder if, perhaps, the opposite had happened. Maybe the Corsica was one big joke on the American auto buying public perpetrated by Chevrolet engineers fed up with being told to constantly cut costs. It's as if they sat around and brainstormed how they could turn every good idea they had into a massive, stinking pile of suck.

Still, I was pumped to have a car to drive around in. I don't want to sound ungrateful. I have some fond memories of that car (And it's back seat...sorry Mom and Dad!). It's nice not having to ask for a ride everywhere and the freedom it afforded me as a high school kid in a part of Texas where NOTHING was within walking distance was delicious.

The downside of this situation was that my dad was still not convinced that the car was a POS. Every little creak or shimmy or grind was CLEARLY evidence to him that my sister and I were driving the car too hard and not doing our part to make sure that it was well maintained inside and out. At one point, the upholstery lining the interior of the roof of the car started to sag. Shoddy craftsmanship and cheap adhesive? No way. My sister or I had obviously done something, reckless, irresponsible, and damaging that caused the upholstery to sag. What this could have been, I still have no idea. When the brakes went out for the second time, it was because we were driving and stopping WAY too fast. I'll admit, I drove like most teenaged boys do, but not nearly aggressive enough to account for two brake jobs.

The cake taker here, and the one thing that broke on the car that my dad was absolutely unwilling to believe was not entirely my fault, happened when I was turning in to our subdivision on my way home from soccer practice. It was a completely normal, mostly forgettable day. Nothing at all out of the ordinary happened and I was in no way abnormally tense, angry, or otherwise in need of physical release. I slowed as I approached the entry to our subdivision and reached up with my left hand to click the signal arm down to make a left hand turn. I was in no way angry, tense, or overly aggressive in this motion. However, the ENTIRE FUCKING TURN SIGNAL SNAPPED and then dangled ridiculously from the side of the steering wheel. I was in shock. After I made the turn, I pulled into our driveway and inspected the clean break in what appeared to be really sturdy plastic. Operative word here being "appeared."

How was I going to explain this? Thinking I'd done no wrong and believing that honesty was the best policy, I walked into the house and confidently explained to my dad what had happened. As I spoke I realized I should have come up with a really good lie. My dad scoffed and pursed his lips in a way that said, "You're my son, and I love you, but you're also totally full of shit right now." He walked out to the driveway and inspected the impotent turn signal for himself and, I believe, became further convinced that I'd done something in keeping with the rambunctiousness of my age rather than merely gone to turn left.

The turn signal was eventually repaired, but after that day I always thought about signaling with my arm out of the window when I wanted to turn left. Once we got rid of the car I tried to explain again to my dad that what had really happened that day was exactly what I told him. I still don't think he believed me. So Dad, if you're reading this, here's a list of things I have done:

I did hide grapes in my underwear as a child because I didn't want to eat them. I then snuck said grapes away from the dinner table to be disposed of in your golf bag. I'm sorry.

I did use all of you and Mom's expensive bath gel in the tub because it was green and I thought it would be cool as toxic waste when I was playing with my GI Joe men. It didn't just start coming out of the faucet as I claimed (My most ridiculous lie ever). I'm sorry.

As a three year old, I did drop a deuce on the back porch and claim a dog had jumped the six foot fence, shit on the porch, and then re-jumped the fence to vanish into thin air (My second most ridiculous lie ever). I'm sorry.

When Mom walked in to the living room on prom night my senior year at 2AM, my date and I were not actually just watching Mr. Wizard (My third most ridiculous lie ever). Thank you, Mom for taking your time walking down the hall and being extra loud. Still, I'm sorry.

When I came home the morning after Rachel's wedding...at 11AM...still in my tux, it's not because I spent the night at the hotel with the other groomsmen. Read in to that what you will. I'm sorry.

That Easter when I stayed up at school and you asked me what I did over the long weekend and I said, "Not much, just hung around campus." What I really meant to say was, "Barrett and I drove to Shreveport at 2AM and played blackjack for two days." I'm sorry.

I could go on and on, but I think I've proved my point, which is this:

When I told you the turn signal snapped off simply because I went to signal left, I mean THE TURN SIGNAL SNAPPED OFF SIMPLY BECAUSE I WENT TO SIGNAL LEFT. I'm not sorry.

When Almost Just Isn't Good Enough

Since my last poo post I have become even more secure in my assertion that a good poo story transcends all generational, social, and economic differences to bring a smile and belly laugh (sometimes guiltily had) to all who hear it. Everyone can relate because everyone's been there, whether they admit it freely or not.

This particular story involves three of my college buddies, Mike, Big Mike, and Jon. Big Mike was so dubbed to differentiate him from the other Mike and also because he was really, really big. If I had to guess, and resisting the urge to fall prey to Paul Bunyan legend effect, Big Mike was a conservative 6'7 and had to weigh at least 300 lbs. His moniker was well deserved.

One day, being college kids and perpetually underfunded, Mike, Big Mike, and Jon decided to take full advantage of a local Pizza Hut's all you can eat buffet. I initially found it surprising how many of these stories start with "So I was at this all you can eat buffet," but given the combination of over eating and food-exposed-to-the-elements-for-God-knows-how-long-under-a-heat-lamp I guess I shouldn't be surprised that so much intestinal distress can trace its origins back to a hearty buffet. It's like a perfect storm. Moist air from the Gulf meets arctic air from Canada and BOOM, you shit your pants.

So the three protagonists in this story have probably eaten five or six pizzas worth of soggy, lukewarm buffet offerings and are coming to the end of their gorgefest. Side note: why is it that we don't use "luke" as a term to describe other middle of the road states of being? No one says Jay Cutler is a lukegood quarterback or that IKEA offers lots of stylish, lukelycrafted furniture. Think about it. Anyhow, at about the time everyone is feeling really, really full, Big Mike feels the lower intestinal rumblings of something about to go terribly wrong.

In all great poo stories there is a point at which the unfortunately afflicted main character can make a choice to endure a lesser embarrassment in order to avoid what eventually becomes the tragic ending. In my experience, this point usually occurs when said main character elects to do something silly like try to make it home in an effort to avoid having the general public take notice of his own private hell instead of using a more conveniently placed restroom and potentially stinking up the joint. I guess when the shit is going to hit the fan people would much rather be in a familiar, controlled environment. Risk aversion. Such is the case with Big Mike's tale of woe.

The thing you need to know about Big Mike is that he was a generally low key, easy going kind of guy. He typically went with the flow and never really struck me as a type A, fast working, strategic thinker. This is probably why Mike and Jon were so shocked when he sprang into action and started barking orders and laying out the plan of attack.

Big Mike drove a notoriously finicky and difficult to handle jalopy of a car that it often seemed he was the only person capable of divining a way to make run. No doubt knowing another driver would only stall his escape, he gave the following orders. Jon and Mike were to pay for the meal. He was going to get the car and pull it around to the front door. Move fast.

Jon and Mike had just paid and were approaching the front door when Big Mike came tearing around the corner in his jalopy, Sabotage style. Heeding his blaring horn, they ran out of the Pizza Hut and jumped into the car. He didn't even come to a full stop. Not entirely sure what was going on, Mike asked Big Mike what was up. Big Mike replied quickly, and without ceremony, "I'm going to shit my pants. We have to get to my apartment."

The short drive back to Big Mike's place was made in silence as Jon and Mike watched sweat bead on Big Mike's forehead. Big Mike clenched his jaw and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. I know Big Mike was on the verge of panic and trying to keep it together, but at this point in the story I actually feel much, much, much more for Jon and Mike. I mean, seriously? They must have been terrified that Big Mike wouldn't make it and they'd be trapped in a hot, old car with bench seats when the seal finally broke.

As they approached Big Mike's apartment, the barked orders began again. Jon, being in the passenger's seat, was responsible for getting the car to a complete stop and putting it in park. Mike was handed Big Mike's apartment key, told to bail out of the back seat, and run like hell up the stairs to get the apartment unlocked. As if the situation couldn't be more clearly dire, Big Mike added at the end, "Move fast, Mike. I'll be right behind you."

They screeched into Big Mike's apartment complex and it was go time. With the car still moving, Big Mike opened the driver's door and hit the ground running. Jon dove across the front seats and slammed the car's brake with his left hand and then threw it in park with his right hand. Simultaneously, Mike jumped out of the back seat and sprinted up the stairs to Big Mike's apartment for all he was worth. Now, in case I haven't made it clear enough already, Big Mike did nothing quickly. His demeanor and size had conspired to create what I can best describe as a gentle giant of a man. However, I like to think that were Mike able to turn around on his manic sprint up the stairs, he would have described Big Mike as John described Death of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in the The Book of Revelation. "And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him." Indeed.

Somehow, under all of the pressure of knowing Big Mike was moments away from turning himself inside out, Mike was able to unlock the door and step out of the way just as Big Mike threw it open and disappeared into the interior of the apartment. Jon made it up the stairs moments later and the two of them listened awkwardly as Big Mike went through the throes of explosive diarrhea from within the apartment. What they didn't know is that Big Mike had just about made it. Just about. Apparently, the pressure was just too much to contain any longer and as Big Mike dropped his shorts and began to sit down, he exploded. It was described to me as being 50/50 on target v. off target. It was also described to me as "epic," "heinous," "unholy," "incredibly foul," "having happened at a clearly ridiculous velocity," and "liquid black gunga." I have no idea what gunga is, but even though it's an obviously made up word, it may be the best example of onomatopoeia I have ever had the displeasure of hearing.

Here's to you Big Mike! You almost made it.

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