When you go to see the new Star Wars and you have Uncontrollable Parent Judgement Disorder

So the new Star Wars movie; I bought a ticket. I went. I experienced joys that are only comparable to that of seeing my wife and children emerge from the galactic womb as re-born Marvel superheroes intent on securing my legacy as the greatest closet nerd in human history.

Yes, it's good.

You know what's not good? Poverty, war, and  my cell-phone data plan.

Also, taking small children to cinematic masterpieces that should be enjoyed collectively in awed silence.

There were a few things that I promised this blog would not be, namely, 'another' parenting blog. Well, I'm a hypocrite and it turns out I also have children. They consume my world; they consume it in a way that I can't describe. They eat everything in my world; but usually nothing on their plate. And it's friggin' beautiful. There's no harm in admitting that all the good parents understand that life just kinda stops for about 70 billion years when you have kids. That's the important part of being a parent; you miss stuff.

You miss the new Star Wars movie (unless, unfortunately, you are geographically separated for a little bit from your family because WORK (GAAHHH WORK $*%&#!)). Sorry for all the punctuation. You miss all things Twitter and Instagram and Netflix - at first - because you're too busy NOT missing your kids. You watch movies 12 years after they come out because you are too busy making sure your kid understands the importance of covering his mouth when he coughs (so all the little green men in his lungs don't have a chance to invade Poland). You check Facebook for two minutes while you're at work because you're too busy at home making sure your kid 'gets' why Spider-man is better than all other super-heroes. You have to make sure they eat too, which every parent knows is a task that takes a MINIMUM of 14 hours a day. EVERY. DAY. You miss catch phrases, the 'big game,' and email blasts about sales that are only going on for the next ten minutes. You miss those things and never look back, cause you're too wrapped up in watching the greatest adventure there is; growing up.

I don't like to be the guy that judges. I especially don't like being the dad that judges other dads, but sometimes...I am. It sneaks up on me.

 'You shouldn't let that kid sleep with you EVERY night.' 'You shouldn't let that kid swing from those rafters.' 'JESUS, PLEASE GET THAT KID TO A HOSPITAL - HE'S DRIPPING THINGS FROM EVERYWHERE.' These are the things I say to myself, in my head, and not out loud cause I don't know the right way to parent and I'm not about to impose my ignorance on some other guy that has no idea how to parent. I'm getting to Star Wars, I promise.

Someone brought their kid. Not their seven year old 'she-can-probably-handle-this' kid, but a full blown little rugrat that hasn't really mastered the whole dexterity thing yet. When they walked in, I put my judgement away and told myself that the parents in question know what's best for their child, and maybe that's Star Wars. Probably not, but hey, I'm not here to judge. I'm here to watch things go BOOM.

 He immediately started wailing. LOUD. They tried rocking him; nope. They let him run around the theater, slightly supervised by a room full of strangers in the dark. They let him have a ball, which he then tested the 'bounciness' of on every available surface. He ran back and forth in front of the screen. This is what really did me in.

Imagine, you are seeing the sequel to three movies that were significant in your childhood (when it was age appropriate and you had mastered how to hold a spoon), and in that movie, there are dramatic pauses. You know, with SILENCE. But they are interrupted by the pitter-patter of little feet. In all other situations, that sound makes my heart play beautiful symphonic masterpieces. Not when I'm watching Star Wars, alone, away from my own little pitter-patterers. Two things flashed through my dad-brain when I heard that sound; 1) I wanna pick up that little munchkin, rub his head, and then give him the best tummy raspberry in history, and 2) if those parents don't get that little snot out of here I'm going to do something. #1 was out of the question because, well, you shouldn't pick up a strangers kid when you are sitting alone in the dark and give him tummy razzes. I went with number 2.

I brooded and judged in silence (did you expect me to call the authorities?). If you think your child can handle a two and a half hour space-opera, then by all means, feel free to test that theory. When that theory fails, do what any good scientist (or parent) does; take him away from the light-sabers and try again another day. I get it. You spent $40 to get your family in to see the hot new movie; but your kiddo just aint't ready. You're gonna have to eat that ticket - and many more to come - because that's what happens when you're a parent. You miss stuff, even when you've already paid for it.

When your kid likes DC comics and ruins everything

My wife texted me today with heartbreaking news; heartbreaking enough for me to stop everything I was doing at work and text her back immediately. I had even considered calling her, just to hear her voice so that she could soothe me.

My son, she reported, was a big fan of Green Lantern.

Perhaps that's a little melodramatic. And perhaps you are incapable of appreciating true art; I'll be the judge of that. We are a Marvel Comics House. (Please notice the period at the end of that last sentence). I will not stand for a son - even if he is only 4 years old - who has anything above a sniff of contempt for DC. What's wrong with DC, you ask (maybe you asked 'what is DC?" to which I would reply 'exactly'). Let's start with their characters; mythological Gods and Goddesses living in made up cities fighting ridiculous villains. Don't get me started on Superman. Fine!

Superman. Jesus, what's not wrong with Superman? He's ridiculously perfect and that does not a hero make. Heroes need a flaw. Kryptonite is a weakness, not a flaw; having a rain induced mold allergy is also a weakness, but I doubt many people would read your comic if that was the singular weakness of your protagonist. Wait...maybe that's a bad example, cause THAT would be an infinitely more impressive character than Superman, who's capable of fooling an entire city by putting on glasses and a tie. Is Metropolis full of half-wits? Oh, and when DC needed to revive that joke of a comic, how did Superman die? He was clobbered to death by a marauding space alien. That's it? The man of steal, the unstoppable, bullet proof force protecting humanity got punched to death? No. Just, no. Superman should have died at the hands of Lex Luther, who bored him to death with a 37 page monologue detailing his plans for global domination. And Batman...Batman is untouchable. He is perhaps the only saving grace that keeps me from crying myself to sleep at night over the human rights crisis that is DC comics. But, I digress.

The issue is not, really, that my adorable little super-hero-loving 4 year old has chosen the wrong side in a decades old War-On-Crappy-Comics (term officially coined by Bush Senior in his address to the nation on September 5, 1990 (facts totally made up)). The issue is deeper, and it took me a few minutes to really grasp what was twisting my brain so tight. I don't really mind DC comics, if push comes to shove; everyone has moments of weakness (except, apparently, Superman. Unless a space alien falls to the Earth and punches him a bunch). His adoration for Green Lantern means little, really. What 4 year old would understand the difference between DC and Marvel comics? Or Chevy and Ford? Or Star Wars and Star Trek? Jeeze, the kid thinks EVERY meat is ham. I don't expect him to understand that Marvel is better (YES I KNOW IT'S JUST MY OPINION - BUT IT HAPPENS TO BE THE RIGHT OPINION). I can't adequately explain to a 4 year old that Marvel's characters are closer to human; they have real problems like girls, alcohol abuse, and the most serious rage disorder in history. I can't explain that, even though some of DC's characters have those enticing types of character flaws, they still somehow come off as, off. There's no depth to their shallowness...

No, none of that is the issue. The issue, I realize, is that - aside from the foundation shaking knowledge that my 4 year old's artistic tastes may be unrefined - sooner or later we are going to disagree about something real. Some day down the road, he is going to have real opinions about real issues AND THOSE OPINIONS MIGHT BE WRONG. What if he votes for - gasp - "the other guy?" How will our house function if, when he is 16, he believes that the government has every right to put a tracking chip into everyone's butt so they can monitor our movements across the neutral zone between The United States of Russia Owns Europe and The People's Republic of I Told You China Was Taking Over? Then what?

Then, I suppose, we'll have to sit down and talk. We won't agree to disagree, because that's not a real thing (people just get tired of arguing). We'll understand each other in a whole new dynamic; no longer will I be the all-knowing, strong as Superman dad. I'll be the dad-who-I-still-love-but-should-really-give-up-on-that-whole-Marvel-vs-DC-thing. I won't be a myth any longer; in true irony, I'll be - in his eyes - like the Marvel characters I know and love. Flawed. Our house won't fall apart, I won't send him off to boarding school (well, maybe. I mean DC! Seriously!), and I'll get to witness him grow into his own person.

Or maybe he'll come around and we can keep being friends.




Jesus, just kidding. I love that little guy, and he can like whatever comic book characters he so chooses. He'll just have to deal with me telling him how wrong he is on a regular basis.

All Hallow's Eve and the guy with the G-4

For this particular post I would like to embrace my scattered thoughts and simply spill them all out on this virtual page, like orange juice that my kid just dropped on the floor after I explicitly told him to "use two hands, please!" First, I'd like to get a complaint out of the way; I am surprised that after centuries of inter-class psychological warfare, rich people have yet to realize that they need not trumpet their richness. I get it.

 Recently I was at my local gym, avoiding the yoga-for-babies classes while gracefully dodging the aggressive glances of "serious" weightlifters who probably have to be kept away from the yoga-for-babies classes because they clearly eat the souls of babies (how else would you get so swole, brah?). I was wearing a sweat-shirt (how appropriate!) that says "Air Force," because sometimes I like to remind people that they should thank me with some flag waiving and a low altitude fly-over (or maybe just a "hey, thanks"). I had my headphones in, blaring some serious hip-hop - since I identify with the struggling inner city set - and a gentleman began talking to me. He had headphones in as well. I am not a virtuoso when it comes to social interaction, but I am aware that is a fools errand for two people wearing headphones with music playing are not in the ideal setting for creating friendly banter. I am also not so adverse to small talk that I will ignore someone making polite noises with their larynx in my direction, but if you have headphones in, and the person you would like to make polite noises at has headphones in, and they are holding a bunch of weights and grimacing from the shear struggle of it all, perhaps now is not the time to make conversation. As he said something to me (my lip reading is poor, so I'm certain he didn't say what I thought I saw him say, which was "are you pooing this?"), I simply responded with my standard gym response "yeah." This seemed to signal for all involved that our exchange was over; I was wrong, and unbeknownst to me it was on "pause."

Half an hour later I found myself, wearing nothing except a towel, facing this same gentleman as he made a second attempt at "small" talk. Small is in quotations because my stereotypes of the rich were hugely reinforced in this conversation, in which the man in questions clearly did not grasp what constitutes "small" conversation. Side note: I do not expect people who I do not know to have any spectacular insight in regards to my "10 favorite ways to kick-it." I am confident, however, that I am not alone in that "talking to strangers while being butt-naked" is absent from said top-ten list. To speed this along I will simply write out our brief conversation below:

Gentleman: "So were you actually in the Air Force?"

Me: "Yep."

"What did you fly?"

Why does everyone think that everyone in the Air Force is a F&*$#ing pilot? Damn you, Hollywood. "Actually, I started out as a mechanic for jet engines. I didn't fly anything other than a lap top, ha-ha." (This little wise crack was met with silence and a blank stare).

"Oh, Yeah. Well, we have a G4. A close friend of mine is in the Air Force, but he is thinking about getting out so he can be our pilot. I like the G4, but it just seems to be a little much, you know what I mean? I mean, when we traveled with my mother - you know, she needed such a large entourage - it was perfect...but for us, well we could make do with something smaller. Perhaps something that only needed one pilot."

How did we go from "were you in the Air Force?" to "I have too much money. Please listen to me passively complain about how I have too much money." "Uh, yeah, I totally know what you mean? Well, hey, I smell bad, so I'm gonna hit the showers. Good luck with everything." If you get to over-share about being rich, I get to over-share about my body order.

"Have a good one!"

"You too. Um, see ya."

I am not saying this guy was rude intentionally, and maybe it's too harsh for me to offhandedly judge him for going totally banana's over telling me about his personal airplane problems; if I had my own airplane I would probably tell everyone. I would walk down the street, and as the less fortunate asked me for my spare change I would gleefully hand them a 20 and say, "here you go, I have an airplane!" and then I would leap in the air and click my heals together in a perfect freeze frame, cause if I'm rich enough for an airplane I'm rich enough to buy a time-freezing-80's-pose device.

In short, I feel like we have spent the last couple centuries having a punch-drunk back and forth with the super-rich about their nose-to-the-sky attitude (by "we" I mean the unwashed masses), and the result is that being a super-rich captain of industry is fine; it's just not o.k. to drop "oh man I don't know which private jet to buy for myself," in casual conversation with said unwashed masses. Speaking of unwashed masses, lets get on that scattered brain train and talk about Halloween!

I don't have much to say, save for this; I miss the days of homemade costumes. I realize that there are still lots of people doing their own homemade costumes, but it seems to be an increasing rarity as we drift ever closer to becoming a "Disnocracy" (that's a term I just made up as short hand for identifying the impending Disney-conglomerate nation-state that we will all be singing and dancing through within the next 10 years).

Last evening my wife and I took our boys into town for the local trick-or-treat event and we wore, as a family, super-hero capes, masks, and shirts (and the boys wore super-hero underwear over their pants because they are young enough to get away with it). It was heart warming, and as much as I hate to be the guy reminiscing about the "days of old," it did make me miss the Halloween's of my youth where only the rich kid bought a costume from the store. We had a "super" evening out on the town, and the nostalgia for the classic home-town family friendly Halloween was palpable. This brings me to 2 final points; 1) I am eternally grateful that my wife has a sense of adventure and is willing to stand-out from the crowd, and 2) I am pretty sure that the rich kid from my childhood who used to buy costumes at the store just accosted me in the locker-room at my gym....

BADAH-BOOM! Happy Halloween to my 3 or 4 readers!

Moving, when it's painful.

Boxing up the things, fixing the fixtures, replacing the light switch covers that you bought special just for your boys' rooms; these things are painful when a move is something you HAVE to do. These things are painful because they are a necessity, not a luxury. They don't come as the result of a new magnificent job; they come as the (hopefully) final nail in a coffin that is set to be  buried so deep in the ground that God can't see your decomposing, middle-finger-raised-to-the-sky-we-refuse-to-give-up posture. And yet, so much love is felt in the tears that my wife cries as she boxes things up, because she knows-probably more than me- that our boys will be o.k., and that this, like so many things, is a temporary trial. I don't get a lot of opportunities as a man to confront my inner most pains, a result of a lifetime of what feels like bad-luck, but is most likely the Universe saving me from catching a bullet too early (or hopefully, at all).

Is that too heavy? Probably. Is it NESSA-SCARY (ha! coin that phrase and pay me the royalties)? Yes. Period. This blog's inception came with what I thought was a short list of requirements; a) an outlet, while comical, that came with some over-burdensome "life lessons," and b) a lighthearted dream-space where I could let loose my inner-albeit more innocent-demons. What I have come to realize, after months of odd-jobs and much hand wringing in the spirit of "it'll-get-better" future planning, is that this space is mine (while owned by some internet guru with an omnipresence that I can't pretend to understand).

Have I lost you yet? My apologies, pain is so very rarely neat and tidy, being the bridge troll that it is. 

My beautiful life has come to (pardon the cliche) something of a crossroads, and I can't even fathom how to thank the friends and family that have rushed to support our little family. Here on Earth, with billions of people to worry about, and issues that possibly (definitely) threaten our entire species' existence (read:global warming), we have people in our lives that continue to sacrifice time (and yes, money) to ensure that our children grow up in a world relatively free of suffering. A slightly warmer world, but with that "homey...-I'm-gonna-be-alright" feel.

This post is for you. 

Note: If you really love me, you'll forgive my overuse of my favorite punctuation; the semi-colon (see what I just did?).

If there is one thing that I know for sure, it is this; my wife is the best wife there is. Faced with adversity and an unsure future, she did what any rational, beautiful woman would do. She danced her F@#$%ing brains out to the Pandora station that was playing on my I-phone, "Ace of Bass," and sang at the top of her harmonic lungs. Her epic battle cry? Natalie Imbruglia's "Torn." She showed my boys (and me) (too young to really "get it,") that life, however absurd and terrifying, is about celebration. The celebration of being cognizant; the celebration of rain, sun, internet videos of kitties and babies, and following Kanye West and Kim Kardashian's ridiculous cycle of being too cool for school. The celebration of life is never a celebration of solely what is good; it's a celebration of the mere fact that we get the chance to experience it. The human race is probably "doomed," in the sense that, well, we just can't get it right. But we get to be here. We get to look up and dream, and as far as we can tell, no one else has gotten to do that. 

I refuse to blame the "world" for our befallen state, but I will blame the love of family and friends for us making it through this tough time. Damn you! Damn you for being so supportive. Damn you for being there. I blame you for the love I feel in my heart, and for the relentless feeling that we can make this life successful. Damn you for ensuring that my boys, my wife, and I are cared for, loved, and protected from the worlds' most dubious plans. Damn you.

Note: That last paragraph was sarcasm. Without you, we'd be one sorry lot. 

Landscaping is pretentious

A few things occurred to me this week while I shoveled rocks for what amounts to a six pack of beer per hour (slightly snobby beer, but still) - landscaping is the pinnacle of our culture's hubris. I know what you're thinking (I don't, but that rhetorical device makes my life easier), wouldn't something like a gold-plated Ferrari, or maybe Kanye Wests new hobo-clothing line be a better example? No! *Smacks your nose with a rolled up newspaper* It's landscaping. Lets put this in perspective; if you believe in a higher power - like the Flying Spaghetti Monster - you probably attribute this worlds natural beauty to some seriously cosmic awesome powers. Or maybe you subscribe to one of those other *lesser* theories, like the Universe slowly churning sub-atomic particles into dust, then larger clumps of star matter, followed by the sol, the planets, mountains, rivers, kittens, and then using nuclear-fusion to create all the warmth and light that spills across that really great view you have of the water treatment plant.  Guess what, landscaping is your way of saying "F*ck you, Universe/Vishnu!" You look out at all the natural beauty that you blog about (ugh, bloggers) and think "you know what, I really want to cover that 3000 square feet of space in front of my house with grass that isn't native to this part of the world, and I want it to gracefully wander up and down across my line of sight, so we should probably build a G@d-damn mountain right...there. Oh, and I want a bunch of trees ripped out of there home during infancy and put along the street. Yeah.

Is there anything more indicative of our inability to put on fairy wings and sing harmoniously with nature than our determination to have Kentucky bluegrass on every square inch of the Northern Hemisphere? Is our natural human tendency to categorize and organize - like a global Pinterest board - also responsible for our need to make nature look a little more...planned? I guess, in the end, what I'm really trying to say is this; I do not like hard manual labor.

If you're a landscaper, I don't necessarily dislike you or what you do. I like pretty stuff just as much as the next guy. I f@$#ing love meandering paths. Love. I get immense joy out of driving down a tree lined street that has had time to mature to the point that there is a light green canopy shading my way to the local organic/incense/burlap sack/shoes-made-from-re-purposed-elephant-poop store. I do not like, however, shoveling thirty thousand metric tons of rock out of your new yard, which were forged over eons by processes beyond our imagination. I really really REALLY hate working in direct sunlight on any day where the thermostat creeps past 71.6 degrees, especially if my job that day is shoveling forty thousand metric tons of rock (the first 30 took long enough to shovel that the Earth was able to form another 10,000 metric tons). I'm all for "getting my hands dirty," and working in "the great outdoors." But I'm all for those things when I don't have to actually do them myself for more than a few hours, as a side project at my own house with my own view of the water treatment plant. It's like when a friend asks you to help them move; I get to feel better about myself for putting in 1.5 hours of solid work over the course of several hours while I annihilate their beer supply and then drop not-so-subtle hints about ordering pizza. In then end, what I'm really, really trying to say is that I am looking forward to working in an office again, and if I complain about being in that office, I give you permission to bring up this post while I pretend to not know what you're talking about.


Side note: Is it intentional that the "b" in subtle is...subtle? It's a letter that has no place in that word, but there it is, hanging out smack dab in the middle like some poor  student that wandered in to the wrong class on the first day, but was too embarrassed to leave. I'm fairly certain that the "b" in subtle is embarrassed to be there, but is too embarrassed to get up and leave because it's been there for like, a long time now, and it would be awkward to get up and walk out....

Lets complain about the military together: a journey through the governments other DMV

I happen to be a member of our nations armed forces, and it's great (no sarcasm). I enjoy the pride that swells up inside me whenever I put on my uniform. Despite being largely in disagreement with almost everyone I work with on a personal level (insert a comment here about your particular political leanings, then just assume that I agree with you, but everyone else doesn't...), our professionalism and mission focus has enabled me to become friends with people I probably would not have ever given a second thought. In fact, in a different time-line, I probably would see some of the people I now agreeably work with and I would turn to my snooty-turned-up-nose friends and say something like, "my dear chaps, I do say, I think that gentleman is rather dense," and then we'd offer up a stuffy group chuckle. If I'm going to be in a different time-line, I'm obviously going to be annoyingly British. Regardless, I hope that I can continue to participate in Team America for many years to come.

With that out of the way, I'd like to reinforce all the things you've heard about the bureaucratic, money-devouring, 5 headed guardian of the river Styx that you have heard so much about. I am not the first person to complain about ineptitude and head-slappingly frustrating processes worthy of a Monty Python movie; but I'm going to be the one complaining today (luck you!). As a side note, I took some time off from writing this, your favorite blog, so that I could spend approximately 4.5 weeks in line for my military issued service ticket number for the other line that I actually needed to be in. Also, because I don't feel like going to military jail in Siberia for the next several decades, you and I are going to pretend that we're making fun of the DMV. Even the DMV makes fun of the DMV, so suffice it to stay, this little story is totally true, but I'm not going to reveal any details that could line me up for a quick trip out the door...of the "DMV."

Recently my "driver's license" expired, but I had a contract that said I was should have had another 3 months before that happened. I am not sure if you have ever tried to call the DMV to clear up a matter, but it usually goes like this;

I'll just call them and all of this will be cleared up.
*Ten minutes of ringing, no answer*
They must be busy, I'll try again in a little while
*Ten minutes of ringing, no answer*
Is this the right number? I should Google it...*
*Five minutes of ringing, hang up in frustration*
Ok, seriously, last attempt
*"Hello? Yes this is the DMV....uh-huh...no we can't do that over the phone, you'll have to drive the three hours here and spend two days going in bureaucratic circles. Thanks for calling!"

So I drove my oh-so-happy-behind the three hours to my friendly neighborhood DMV and what turned into a series of conversations that were so similar in substance that I had moments of panic that I was in a real-world nightmare version of Groundhog's Day. The conversations usually went like this;

Me: "Hi. You guys were supposed to give me a new license, but I have all this paperwork that you screwed up and it says that you are giving me a used toilet. I don't want or need a used toilet, but I would really like my license."

Worker at DMV who gets paid to fix these things: "Oh, we'll get that cleared right up! Can I see your paperwork? Ah yes, if you just go to the office across the hall we can get you your used toilet!"

Me: "Um...look, I don't know how to say this, but I am pretty sure you are deaf, or perhaps you're Broca's area just went into shock, cause you seem to either not be hearing me or not understanding me. I need a new license, you're supposed to give me one, and I have no idea why you are insisting on giving me a used toilet."

WaDMVWGPTFTT: "Oh right...You have to go to the Active Duty DMV for that. It's across town."

Me: "I'm 1,000% certain that your DMV is the one that needs to fix this, you guys wrote the contract and you're the ones who have to amend it."

Idiot: "Oh, no, that's not how it works. Head out to the other DMV and see if they'll get you a license based on your current contract, it might work."

Suddenly Balding Faster Man: "Right....I'll just drive out there and ask nicely. Ok. thanks?"

So I drove from my DMV to the Active Duty DMV, which was across town. Normally this would not be an issue, but I was driving between the two furthest points in a town, heading through several security checkpoints (the DMV is serious business). I queued up at the other DMV, waited patiently, and then finally got the opportunity to approach the desk and explain what was going on. Here was the response:

Person at the desk: "Oh, everything you told the guy at the other DMV to do is exactly what needs to happen. You were 100% correct and I am so sorry that you had to drive all the way across town to hear that. By the way, you are the most handsome, most intelligent, infinitely patient person on the planet."

Me: "Thanks."

So I headed back to the other DMV, just to be told that yes, of course they could rewrite that contract for my license! Why hadn't I just said so?!? They got right on it, and everything is all fixed, I should have my new contract in the next 5 to 452 business days (tops).


I take mad pride (MAD PRIDE!) in maintaining my DMV bearing, and continuing to be professional in the face of inane processes that do nothing more than make my life hell while simultaneously setting a pile of money on fire. And I'm going to continue to take pride and stay professional, but just remember that the next time you see someone who needs to get a form from the "DMV," so that they aren't issued a standard government used toilet, they probably don't want to talk to you because their brain has been mushed a giant, government issued mind-grinder.

I spent two days going in these circles. I had to leave my family, drop my own money for gas and food (thankfully a buddy took me in). I try, with all my might, to not complain and not blame the Universe for my woes. All that being said, however, does not keep me from leaving you with one final thought. I don't need or want your used toilet, please keep that in mind the next time you are trying to figure out a gift for Christmas.

Blood Pressure Cuffs and Truck Nuts

I've been reading a lot about language and it's cousin, communication, which could be argued to be our species' most powerful adaptation/creation/gift from God/write your personal favorite here (choose your own adventure/worldview). I've also been using all two of my eyes to see things that make me second guess humanity's claim to the number one spot on the Earth's Billboard Chart in the category of "most intelligent species." Combined, these two things probably amount to little more than fodder for slightly pretentious party banter for all those fancy soirees that I'm so often invited to (which is zero, probably because I had to google how to spell "swaray"). But I'm going to take that annoying party banter banging around in my head and turn it into an annoying blog post (you're so excited)! And in case you are wondering, I am of the opinion that it is grammatically legal to start a sentence with the word "but." And, "and." Also, by default, clearly I think you can use them to end a sentence as well. With all that in mind, this story covers both ends of the spectrum of human potential; the absolute pinnacle of humanity's ability to transfer information across distance and time, and humanity's ability to communicate mountains of stupidity in a mere nanosecond. If this post had a title (it does) it'd be called Blood Pressure Cuffs and Truck Nuts.

To start, I should inform you (that's you! reader number one and two) that for a short time I worked at Walmart a large retail store known for it's colorful customers, outstanding customer service/short wait times, and a seemingly infinite benevolence towards its workforce. The "why and how" of my two week stint at this company is really boring, so if you are the type of reader that needs "explanations" or "back-story" here's a quick children's book version of events; An evil wizard wanted to rule the land, and he killed the nice and pretty employment princess, and his first act as the new ruler of our lands was to force me to work at NotWalmart for two weeks. Fin. Satisfied? Neither am I, but let's move on anyway. In my two weeks at NotWalmart, I experienced a few things, which are these; 1) There are far fewer "colorful customers" at the large retailer than the internet would have you believe, but when they show up it's like watching a clown SUV unload, 2) the people who work there are, by and large, incredibly nice people who are overworked (not true!), underpaid (liar!), and generally crapped on by the corporation at large (gasp! fiend!), and 3) if you make your store "gender neutral" the people at NotWalmart will totally make fun of you endlessly, despite their political leanings. While working there, I was gifted with an experience that I have not had in many years, and this time, it occurred in the reverse.

I should inform you of one other thing before pressing forward; I have lived in South Korea. Twice. I know that might not be the kind of revelation that merits two whole sentences, but it was a big deal to me (and eventually, my wife). (And no, I am not implying my wife is Korean. She's as white as Donald Trumps dreams, and if you are wondering, so am I). The adventures I (we) had while south of the 38th parallel are probably varied and crazy enough to elicit their own blog (dear god no please not another one nopleasenodon'tdoit!), and perhaps in the future I'll share some of those stories here. For now, however, let it be enough to tell you that I spent a lot of time gesticulating like a break dancer forced to do the robot for eternity. Like any sane person you probably assumed I would only go to a country if I spoke that language at some fundamental level, which would lead you to thinking "whoa! this guy speaks Korean and he's not Korean?!?" But I do not speak Korean. In a pinch, should I find myself in the R.O.K. again, I can order a beer, some water, and I possess the capability to hand a Korean taxi driver an address already printed out on some paper to avoid having to try to find a way to tell him I am in his country and have a 1.5 year-old's fluency in his language. Also, I can point to a menu even when it doesn't have pictures (please, hold your applause), which is how I got a popular Korean delicacy delivered to my table one evening. It was cooked silk worm larvae, by the way. Delicious (just kidding, it's probably more disgusting than it sounds, but to each Korean their own). The important thing to keep in mind, though, is that I have been the guy in the foreign land trying to get someone to show me where something is without being able to tell them what I'm looking for verbally. Life, as I've experienced it thus far, really likes its circles, like some crazed 5 year old with glazed eyes just tracing endless circles onto a sheet in an effort to ensure that no circles go un-drawn. So approximately one week ago I was the guy who was trying desperately to understand someone who clearly did not speak English.

I wish I could say that this was not your typical "he-didn't-speak-my-language-and-it-was-hilarious-to-watch-him-try" story, but alas, I lay no claims to originality. As I was busy being grossly overpaid by NotWalmart (sarcasm, for those keeping score) I was approached by an Asian gentleman that appeared to be in his mid to late 50's. He did not say one word, he just shoved his cell phone in front of those two eyes I was telling you about and expected me to decipher the characters before them. Now, if he had been using some kind of translator, this move would have made a sh*t ton of sense. Instead, what he appeared to be showing me was a dictionary entry for some complicated idea (let's say...love) that was written in Chinese and then translated into Korean, placed in a bottle and sent across the ocean only to be discovered by some California born Vietnamese man who subsequently translated the message one final time so that this man could show me what he wanted and have it be as clear as dawn breaking over a valley on a crisp summer morning. Wow, that was beautiful, I think I just wrote the next Nicholas Sparks novel...What I'm getting at is that I do not read whatever Asian language he was showing me, and this must have registered on my face because the man looked me in my two eyes and said the only English phrase that he would speak for the rest of our time together. He pointed to his chest and said, "I, no English." And then he smiled the kind of smile that one uses when you desperately need something and have no way of conveying it. With those three words and his body language he communicated mountains of information (Help! Jesus how do you not know what I just showed you on my phone?!? Is there really no one here that speaks Mandarin/Korean/Klingon?!? I just need a F@$&in'                 ). What it did not say, however, was what he needed.

He moved on to attempting something I used to do in Korea; Charades. I'm pretty sure he was doing his Charades in Chinese though, cause I was a lost little lost puppy for a good 5 minutes. In that 5 minutes he made the same few moves and produced the same few sounds repeatedly while he waited for me to simply guess what he was looking for. He placed his right hand on the upper part of his left arm, then moved it in a circle to the bottom. He then made a "hmmmm, shssshhhs" sound. He followed all of this up by placing his hand in front of him in a fist and saying "gump gump, gump gump," while he pulsed his fist. I stared at this little play for some time before I realized what he was looking for; a blood pressure cuff. And that's not really the point of this little adventure. Once I got him to where we kept our blood pressure cuffs (NotWalmart sells F$@#ING everything) he thanked me profusely and would not stop shaking my hand, but I only had one thought. Thank all the Gods that I never had to track down a blood pressure cuff on my own while I was in South Korea, because I don't remember seeing it on any of the menus I pointed to. This guy gets a bunch of my respect, because he got me to see the picture in his head while only speaking 3 words of my language (which only conveyed that he spoke no more of my language than that) and having a willingness to wait for the stupid white kid to figure out what his flawlessly executed pantomimes were signalling.

You know who doesn't get any of my respect though? People with "truck nuts." If that seems like it came out of nowhere, clearly you did not read the title to this post. Are we all caught up? Great, let's press. Truck nuts, if you are unaware, are nuts for your truck. Yes, as in testicles. Boys (and possibly some girls) put fake rubber testicles on their trucks in an effort to signal that they are at the bottom of the gene pool and should not under any circumstance be expected to make good life choices (I'm assuming, but I think this is a pretty safe assumption). This, in reality, is a true gift, because I've always wanted a readily visible signal to let me know who to avoid. It may seem that this whole "truck nuts" thing has little to do with our Asian hero from not even one paragraph before, but I assure you they have much in common (and no, it's not testicles...well technically yes they share that in common, but not the point). Why are we (still) talking about truck nuts? Well, our hero, who communicated that he needed a blood pressure cuff, probably to keep himself alive, was communicating without words just like our Truck Nuts "friends." What's more, and what really brings us full circle (life loves those circles) is that within less than a weeks time I witnessed a moment of communication with almost no words that brought back some of my fondest memories of being a traveler in a distant, but friendly land, and this amazing ability to communicate without words (or even with them) is not limited to people who don't put rubber testicles on their metal penises (seriously, it's not even a question that what they are implying is that their truck is their penis, and if you think otherwise you should probably put some Truck Nuts on your vehicle), but sometimes I wish it was. I don't really believe in censorship, and I'm sure that as soon as I hit "post" some comedy genius will vindicate the use of Truck Nuts in some witty film that appeals across generations and cultures, but in the time between finishing this and hitting "post" I'm going to go ahead and say people who use Truck Nuts scare me.

Yes, this is just a silly blog where I post my less refined thoughts, and one of these thoughts is not as complex as I've probably made it appear here; your Truck Nuts are stupid, but that being said they represent in some small form humanity's ability to communicate across time and space. Which has got to be humanity's pinnacle achievement. And there is probably something profound in this thought with regards to the internet and it's vast, ever expanding data piles (oh my God, there are data piles everywhere. What did you do?). I don't have the get-up and go to make something so poignant, however, so you're just going to have to deal with posts about Truck Nuts.

We've run out of real problems; we're allowed to like toys.

Nerf, the company that filled my childhood with fantasies of intense gun slinging battles full of slow-motion doves, car-hood slides, and bullet proof bravado, has created a line of toy guns marketed specifically to me (I'm assuming), Nerf: Rival. Nerf figured out that the Nerf guns I had as a kid got no where near slaking my lust for being John McClane. In fact, if anything was true of my experience with Nerf as a child it's this; I did not give two skittles about their sports line (hey look! a miniature soft football with super spiral capabi....oh wait, I don't like footbasketball) and their guns - what I REALLY wanted, all the time - were supremely misrepresented in their marketing campaigns. Take a look at the epic amounts of misrepresentation below;

Despite the fact that most of my "legendary" Nerf battles as a child ended with someone yelling, "you're too far away, I can't hit you...this sucks, let's play Nintendo," we still had fun. Not the fun you see in the commercial, with arrows flying straight, flying further than 5 feet, and not requiring 15 minutes a piece to load (and apparently these kids have full size target cut-outs of their closest friends, which is definitely something I'm on board with). I am getting away from the whole reason for this post, however. I recently read an article about the "Peter Pan" market, and this came maybe 3 hours after my boys and I watched the live-action Peter Pan (2003), which is the kind of coincidence that is so lame it seems like something an 11th grader would write into their play about "all the emotions." I was blasted from multiple cultural mediums in less than 24 hours with the very modern problem of wrestling my inner desire to be a full grown 12-on-the-inside-year-old with enough money and ingenuity to create my own at home version of Neverland, full of Star Trek posters, fifteen different types of video games, a fridge full of soda, and racks upon racks of Warheads with my responsibility as a Father/Husband/American-Cheese-Burger to be not a 12 year old. 

I guess what I'm attempting to say is that I saw some great friends from a long-time back this past weekend and it made me realize that we've written the rules for adulthood in very black and white terms, even in this day and age; you're either a 'Peter Pan" who has refused to accept the adult world of budgets, storage units, and bowel regulation or you're "mature" and thus incapable of recalling the joy that accompanies doing anything that doesn't involve the words "success," "dress slacks," or "aggressive banking." And yes, I realize that there are tons of scientists and the-rapists therapists who preach balance and moderation, but it always seems to be in an either/or frame of mind. There is a time and place to be an adult with responsibilities and a totally different time and space to be "young at heart." It's also entirely possible I'm talking out of my butthole and have missed all the influential work of some super-genius who has already asserted this very thesis, but they suck and my article is better. Seeing these friends made me realize that if you're a real live boy, you can be both a mature person and fun at the same time (STOP THE PRESS!!). 

I hadn't seen many of these friends in over 8 years, but like true old friends we fell right back into old jokes and our own *unique* brand of immature banter. But...it wasn't the "revertigo" I've heard referenced before by...some TV show (probably). It was more nuanced and our conversations flowed seamlessly between hilariously simple jokes about a T-Rex being unable to swear in on the Bible in a court of law and intelligent mature conversations about gender-constructs and what it means to be a good manager (which sounds pretentious because it is and sometimes "adult" and "pretentious" are synonyms). I'm probably walking you, my dear reader, down a perhaps too familiar path, but I do feel a slight obligation to remind myself (and anyone brave enough to read this pinball article) that we all have a little Peter Pan in us the ability to be young at heart and "grown-up" at the same time. This has probably been said before, especially in our quasi new-agey stay-in-touch-with-everything culture, but it was refreshing to be around people who have grown, yet not lost their inner Nerf warrior. To them, and to those out there who understand that real adults like Lego's, I just wanted to say...thanks for existing.

My sincerest apologies for being cringe worthy sappy for yet another unfortunate post in a  blog that is still trying to pretend it's not about me. 

Stardust

Warning: I may start waxing poetic at any moment within the confines of this post, and this is bad, because I can be extremely cheesy. Second Warning: I am comfortable in disclosing that I hold-maybe-a fifth graders level of understanding concerning astrophysics, "maths," physics-physics, and intergalactic diplomacy. Suffice it to say, everything I learned about outer-space comes from watching episodes of "Star Trek: The Next Generation" after school in grades 3 through yesterday. A recent news piece got the my wheel spinning though (yes, I only have one wheel, and it does me just fine thank you very much). If you worry yourself to tears every night over the probably-maybe-impending-nigh-times, then you should jam your fingers in your eyes RIGHT NOW because the next few lines may send you into a non-cheeseburger induced cardiac episode.


Is everyone who is still here finger-in-eye free? Ok, here it goes. Scientists have recently discovered that the Universe, the whole cotton-pickin' thing, is going to end (in approximately 100 billion to 1 trillion years)! This isn't exactly a revelation (see what I did there) to some folks, but what caught my attention is how scientists now think it will happen. Is the Universe set to stop expanding and reverse course, ending in a a giant Universe crunching calzone? Nope. Is "The Final Count-Down" going to start blaring from everywhere in the ether at once while humanity makes it's final rock thrusts amidst flaming asteroids (meters? meteorites? "dwarf" planets?), supernovae and aliens with lazers, blazers, and Tazers? Sadly no, it will be much less dramatic. In fact, the new end that scientists have predicted will be the most undramatic thing in...ever (literally). A lot like if there were some kind of grand cosmic opposite to MTV's Real World. Yes, that is the most recent reality TV reference I can think of because I refuse to admit that I have watched any reality TV since the first season of Real World. Essentially, the Universe is just going to just go *fizzzzzzzzzz........* Imagine you spilled an entire gallon of milk into nothingness and that gallon of milk ran in all directions over your 4 dimensional counter-top (or 8 dimensions or however many dimensions you want!) and just kept going forever. Eventually, the milk would be everywhere, but in such small bits that it would in no way resemble your favorite cow excretion. Every little bit of milk would be so far away from the other bits of milk that they'd get super cold (and sad) and just kinda hang there...forever. 


As I recall, the guys and gals who have PhD's in "unintentionally ruining all hope" call this universe ending pile of sadness "heat death." Also, they did not use the metaphor of spilled milk, because they don't have half of a bachelor's degree in English Lit from a state university. Everything is just going to expand, indefinitely, until the entire universe is reduced to elementary particles that are total loners. The Universe is going to slowly get quiet and dark, like after that 5th shot of tequila and your last lukewarm toquito. Only the Universe won't wake-up with a hang-over because the Universe isn't capable of being dehydrated, because it has all the water possible, and also, it will for all intents and purposes be no more.


Is your wine glass full of tears yet (WHY DOES EVERYONE ELSE GET TO DRINK WINE ALONE!?!)? Well, toss off that heavy weight dear reader, cause it's going to be ok (at least, as far as I can tell). First, lets acknowledge one crucial fact before we move on; those PhD's could be totally wrong. It's happened at least once before, when Galileo told Copernicus to tell the Vatican that the sun was made out of cheese (or something to that effect). But that's not my driving point here, because the level of sadness that this news could put on anyone's day is mitigated by some brilliant, albeit distant, bright lights. 


*Sap Alert*


We're all stardust. You, me, Hitler, Kanye and Kim and North. I found myself laying on the floor the other day, simply gazing at my youngest son. This occurred approximately 6 hours after I had read not one, but TWO articles about the Universe's demise that was right around the corner, if you really think about it (not true; the sun is going to expand in 5 billion years and swallow all the inner planets like Hamburglar run amok, and if we survive that, in yet another measly 5 billion years our galaxy is going to collide with the Andromeda galaxy and I think that means it could be really difficult to drive around in your intergalactic-government issued space pinto. THEN, 90 Billion years after that, heat death). Sorry, got side-tracked. I spent a full ten minutes watching him play, looking at his big brown eyes as they pierced the Universe around him with humanity's greatest gift; observation. The Universe exists because we're here to see it, and we're here to see it because a long time ago some stardust blew life into us (and now that sh@t is in everything and we can't get it out and that's what really makes your butt itch when you go to the beach). What finally calmed my heart (and my mind, which spends way too much time thinking about things that will happen in a bajillion years) was that a long time from now, my two sons and I, my wife, you, Hitler, Kanye, etc. are all going to be spread out across the Universe. My mind comforts me by convincing me that there is something poetic and justifiable about such an end. An end where we all are reduced to our most basic components and we share oblivion together; an unimaginable number of cold little milk particles shivering together in the deepest night.


Please note: in this post, I am referring ONLY to our physical presence in this world, with maybe a splash of what would best be called "spirituality." Folks who want to assail me with Facebook posts about the eternal here-after, please just...don't. I get it. I really do, but this is my little piece of stardust and I'd like to keep it that way. Now, let's end with something FUN!


Adventures in mis-quotes that I wish existed, pt 1:


"Nothing vast enters the life of mortals without a purse."-Softoakles

"If you be not of the house of Montegue's, I pray you come and crush some wine cups with the house of Catapult."-Shakesmear

I will begin this post by saying that my intent for this blog was not to re-create the "I've-got-kids-and-it's-such-a-funny-slash-rewarding-experience" bloggernaut that has become omnipresent on all of the "webs." In fact, for my second entry, I planned on committing myself to writing about some of the fascinating articles I have recently (attempted) to read concerning the anthropology of counter-insurgency. That's some heavy stuff, dude. No dice. I intentionally set out to avoid the parenting bloggosphere for two reasons; 1) as stated, it's well-worn territory (here we go down the *paved* rabbit hole!) and, 2) I can guarantee that there is a multitude of people in existence, especially on the internet, who are much more capable in providing quality content in this particular niche than I could ever hope to. That being said, I would like to bang on the keyboard for a a few moments in an effort to relay the immense frustration that builds after hours on end of what can only be called "The Perpetual Noise Machine." Can *dad* you *dad* imagine *daddy* the *DAD* immense difficulty *DADDY* one *DAAADDYY* has *HEY DAD* in trying *DADADADADAD* to *(whispering) HEY DADDY* focus *DaAAaAAD* amidst *HEY! DAD!* constant noise? *DAD, I WANT FRUIT SNACKS*

You probably can, because you probably have kids, or nephews/nieces, or little brothers/sisters, or you've been to a restaurant, or you once accidentally stumbled into a "Yoga for Babies" class while earnestly attempting to arrive on time for that "Body Pump" class you always wanted to check out. By the by, doesn't "Body Pump" sound like an Orwellian euphemism for sex ("People having s-e-x? Gross, you disgusting degenerate!Decent people "Body Pump")? Regardless of how much body pumping you do, and whether or not it led to your own babies, you've most likely been privy to the "Perpetual Noise Machine," at some point in your existence. My humble theory is that this, more than anything, has to be the greatest challenge in parenting. Non. Stop. Noise. The "neediness" of my two boys, while sometimes tiresome, does not come anywhere close to the immense fatigue I experience after only an hour of non-stop noises from their tiny little mouths. I expect their neediness, and as a father-while I want them to learn to be independent-I have enough presence of mind to appreciate that those two little monsters still need me for most things, and I LOVE it. I have finally fulfilled my lifelong dream to be a freakin' super-hero, albeit on a much smaller scale (you want milk and cookies? WATCH THIS! BOOM, milk and cookies). And yes, much of the noise is them expressing a "need" (read:want), but if that was it-and I could be wrong, but it feels right-I think I would not feel so drained. It's the noises that happen in between and after the noise made for "needs." The noises that now fill all the cracks where glorious silence used to swell unencumbered, in my wife and I's beautiful pre-kids universe. It may be blasphemous as a parent to suggest it, but among the din of needs and wants, sometimes even their happy noises do nothing more than add to the pile. That's right, I said it, sometimes hearing my two boys enjoying life can actually make it worse (gasp! TYRANT!).

Before you get the gang together to lynch me, understand that most of the time I'm just like the rest of the drooling masses; baby/toddler laughter produces a broad smile and increased, doe eyed drooling. However, on the days when I'm attempting to make my way through an essay about anthropological perspectives in global counterinsurgency-because I'm sooo smart-the constant noise can wear me out. Why, you ask, am I even attempting to read such important scholastic works while my kids are awake? Easy; when else would I do it Mr. I-have-six-hours-to-myself-every-night? It's an unwritten rule (it might be written) that kids take up all of your time. All of it. If I owned a store full of nothing but hour glasses, my two boys would be the worlds best hour-glass cat burglars in the history of thievery. And they would rob that store everyday. As I type this, I am feeding my oldest some oatmeal while he hisses in my ear and "tickles" my scalp. If I waited until both boys were asleep to do this, I would be too exhausted to write the word "anthropological." And let's not forget that I'm happily married, so I have to make at least some time for "Body Pumping." So, before you lose your marbles over the fact that I just said that baby laughter kills fairies, try to stick with it for the apex of my strange little arc.

I'm pretty sure sexperts call it "noise fatigue." At least, that's what Wikipedia calls it. Yeah, I said sexperts. I usually just refer to it as "please for the love of Gandhi be SHUSH!" Why do I feel like this, more than anything, is the most difficult part of parenting? Because you cannot control it. Not even a little bit, unless you are willing to tape some mouths shut (no, that is NOT an option, jerk-face). If my kids don't share toys, I can work with them on it. If they won't eat, I can fulfill my other life long dream of being a super-villain by sending them to bed early. I can handle living on very little sleep, even though it does not put me in a happy place (thank you Basic Training!). But the noise? Good luck hombre. I'm sure that there is some mother-hen (or rooster) out there who knows "the secret," but they can bite me cause I haven't found their blog yet (I haven't looked real hard) and they sure as hell are not hawking their wares door-to-door like the saint they could be. I want to reiterate that the fatigue usually occurs after a peculiarly long stretch of neediness, say an hour or so, but once you hit that point...Once the "please-be-quiet-for-ten-seconds-o-meter" is full, ALL NOISE becomes unbearable. So, where am I going with this, other than exposing myself to anyone willing to read this that I'm some kind of noise-Nazi? I guess, to come full circle and really eat my words concerning the whole "this isn't a parenting blog" line...It comes down to asking the world, ever so gently to just back off for ten seconds. When you see kids out and about with their parents and you strap on your judging boots cause they are handing lollipops to their noise factory of a kid/s like some deranged Willy Wonka, keep in mind that that parent is a human person just like you (how heart warming)! Seriously, you know that cup of coffee you enjoy in the wee hours while the sun comes up, with nothing but your thoughts filling space around you? Or maybe you're of the wine in the evening set. Perhaps both, you lucky butt-hole. Either way, the parent you just called "lazy" or made you feel the need to ask "why do some people even try?" wants nothing more than to hand you their hysterically laughing toddler (who has suddenly decided after two hours of whining that since they are being handed to a non-parent they are in the best mood of their lives), lock themselves in your closet and fill that puppy up with some calm. I have to eat my words about not re-creating the "my parenting blog is better and different than your parenting blog," but I'm ok with that because I have experienced, like so many other parents, "the stare." Trust me, we want that kid to be quiet just as much as you do, and probably more so, and if you must know, I do not believe in the old-adage that kids should be seen not heard. Except that yes, sometimes, after an hour of "Daddy, I need insert anything here that is NOT a need," I wish my kids would just be silent little angels with wings and suspenders and bow-ties and who only expend the effort to run air over their vocal cords to say "thank you," with adorable British accents. So even if you are kind enough to not commit to "the stare," you should still shut that internal trap of yours cause I can hear you judging me (I told you I was an INPF).

Final thought; I promise to get to that really intellectual piece about stuffy social scientists throwing around their mental might to "fix" the modern conundrum known as "global insurgency," but for now I'm going to end here, and go lock myself in the bathroom for the best part of any parents day.




It's a silent poop,by the way. Parents love pooping in silence, and sometimes, because of their responsibilities, they don't get to. Do NOT, however, let a parent of small children tell you that it is not their favorite thing because clearly they need to poop because obviously they are full of $@&#.

It goes without saying that anyone who has a computer and the ability to peel their eyes away from the soul-crushing amount of kittens, babies, porn, memes and face-spaces made available by said computer, most likely has a blog. This one's mine! It's new (to me)! It's different (generated from one of 12 unique templates!)! It has an over-abundance of excited punctuation!(!)! Side note: I will likely refrain from using exclamation points for the remainder of my breathing time! Some initial questions that anyone who stumbles onto this page may be asking themselves at this very moment; Who is this guy? Why does he have a blog? Do I care? Is there truly nothing else I could be doing with my time right now? I will attempt to answer these questions, in order, in the following passages.

Who is this guy?

This is a BIG question. I have yet to find a person (including myself) that does not define who they are by a set of cascading categories, beginning at the top of an overflowing waterfall and trickling down to a stream that is much like the other streams, yet beautifully "unique" (my stream likes Star Wars and Star Trek). So, we'll start at the "headwaters": I'm a homo-sapiens-sapiens (sometimes understandably confused with australopithecus-afarensis (not really)), I fall into the gender category generally known as "dudeman" and I reside in the Northwest of the greatest-god-d@$%@d-nation-in-the-history-of-shut-up-and-give-me-that-cheeseburger. If you are one of those nitpickers out there who feels you need more salient information to decide whether or not I'm one of the "good guys" or just another insert politically relevant/divisive term here, well then please refer to the following short answer quiz:

What's with all the parentheses?: It's how I think (seriously).
Anything else?: Mos Def no.

Why Does he have a blog?

Yet another whopper of a question, you are good! I have no intentions for this to be read by a wide audience. Or any audience at all. In fact, I'll probably have trouble choking down some of these ramblings myself. The answer is simple I suppose; as an INFP-A (more on that later, I'm sure), I need a creative outlet, and that thing I do to pay the bills does not meet that need. This is a place I can come to to spill my jumbled thoughts and swirl them around on paper. Thoughts about the things I read, the (mostly lame) observations I make about the world around me, and ultimately, a place to flesh out/tryout words-on-paper ideas because I have always wanted to be a writer, but have only the faintest idea what that actually entails. I need a place to dump some of my esoteric and chaotic thoughts so that at least a tiny bit of focus can occur. I liken this experience to something a female companion once told me while I was studying abroad. She had-from my perspective-an incredibly odd habit of telling total strangers, sometimes literally passing on the street, some of the most intimate details of her life. She would liberally pour out her most inner-thoughts, sloshing them onto the street like some drunk tumbling out of a bar, without even the faintest hint of apprehension. She would not, however, generally share this information with her friends and family, the people she claimed to cherish so deeply. After she told me of this strange habit I immediately inquired as to why someone, ostensibly sane, would divulge such personal information to the unwashed masses. What she said was simple and eloquent, and captures much of my intention here; "It's like throwing out your trash. These things in my head, they get heavy and stinky if I hang on to them for too long. If I throw them into someone I know, they will surely stay around longer than I want. If I give them to a stranger, especially in a big city, the chances I'll see them again are almost zero." She swept her arms in an arc before her-The Sound of Music style-and ended by saying, "These strangers, they are all my trash-men." Side note: everything she said held a substantial weight because she definitely had a Latin accent, and everyone knows accents make you smarter. And yes, I just backhandedly called you my trash can.

Of final note: I will attempt to have this blog not focus on me. The things around me, maybe even including family and friends, you bet. Beyond that, however, I hope to write about things that make me think and write about those things with at least some semblance of perspective that is not wholly narcissistic, despite my secret admiration of Kanye West (yes, seriously).

Do I care?

Probably not.

Is there truly nothing else I could be doing with my time right now?

Probably yes.