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.