February 28: Two Months Down

February 28. Two months down and only ten to go. One post every day for one year. Period. I have to say, it was kind of cool looking over the past two months of posts. If this little project lasts (which I doubt it will), it should be very interesting to see what other things I will have come up with.

For tonight's post, I decided to come up with a list of five of my favorites. You can call this entry cheating or a wash, but give me a break. I have to come up with 365 original ideas to write about. If you don't like it, wait until tomorrow.

#5 January 8 - This was a pretty straightforward post. There really wasn't anything too exciting about it and if it was posted any later in the year, it probably wouldn't have made the list. I included it because I felt it was the first time that I found a writer's voice that I liked. I feel like my better posts include a dry and sarcastic tone and those elements first surfaced in this entry.

#4 February 17 - The Stacker of Molcajetes was a post that I was, and still am, extremely proud of. I feel like anyone can do what I do for a living and to blatantly make fun of it was really enjoyable.

#3 February 26 - I wrote this just two days ago and it still makes me smile. Bathroom graffiti is hilarious and I'm really proud of myself for creating a story based around it. While writing this one, I realized how much fun (and dangerous) writing in the first person can be.

#2 January 13 - This could have easily been number one, but I ultimately decided that it didn't have the character build-up that the post below had. Just like the January 8th entry, this was somewhat of a groundbreaking post. I discovered how much fun letting my creativity take over could be and if it weren't for that, then I would have never come up with my number one.

#1 February 18 - I was driving home from work one day and saw a piñata in the front yard of a house and the rest was history. I knew immediately that I wanted to write about what it was like to live as a piñata and get the sh*t beaten out of you by a bunch of five-year-olds. The post is one of my longer ones which I know turns people away, but it remains my favorite one of 2010.

February 27: Again?!

Look, I don't really know what I'm talking about here, but I have less than an hour to submit a blog entry and this is all that I can think to write about. This is probably going to piss some people off.

Chile was just hit with an 8.8 magnitude earthquake. Hundreds of people have died and the country was left in ruins. All of this happened less than two months after the devastating earthquake in Haiti and President Obama is already talking about how the United States is going to help.

I think it's horrible what these two countries are having to deal with. If I were in their shoes, I would want all the help available to me. I don't think the United States should be the ones to come to the rescue though.

I don't understand why the United States feels any obligation in helping these other countries. Our country is in the worst shape it has been in since the Great Depression, so shouldn't our focus be on getting ourselves back on track? Shouldn't we concentrate on taking care of our citizens before worrying about the people in other countries? Sure, we're still better off than Chile and Haiti, but if we keep printing out dollars that we don't have what is this country going to be like for our children?

Where were these countries when Katrina hit? People can argue that they didn't have the money or means to send aid, but we don't have the money to send aid either! So why are we doing it? Our economy is on the brink of total collapse. We are so far in debt that we'll never get out. The value of the US Dollar is worthless, but let's print up some more Benjamins and send them over. Let's let our own country go to the dogs while we play Superman to the other countries in the world.

I don't understand it. I don't get it. I feel awful for the people in these countries. I can't even begin to imagine what they must be going through, but I don't see the point of helping them right now when we have huge problems of our own.

I'm sorry if you find this offensive, but it's how I feel. If you have a good argument, then I would love to hear it. Good night.

February 26: Brandon Was Here

What is it about a bathroom stall that makes it such an appealing place to express one's thoughts? I was five-years-old the first time I sat on a thin piece of tissue paper in a public restroom. It was at the beach in San Diego and the floor was covered in sand and water; at least I hoped it was water. The cinder-blocked room reeked of seaweed and urine, but I remember hoping that the stench was permeating from the next stall over. I sat on the ice-cold, metallic toilet with my short legs dangling over the edge; not long enough to reach the sandy pee-water. I could hear the waves lap the California shore as people came and went. The open stall didn't provide any privacy so I was constantly being interrupted by surprised guests.

Aside from my concern of sliding off the toilet into urine, it was a pretty enjoyable experience. There was something fun and exciting about waving to people that thought they were walking into an empty stall. It was my first time sitting on a metal toilet and being able to listened to the ocean at the same time. Something was missing though. Something wasn't right. I couldn't quite put my finger on it at the time, but I realized what it was the next time I found myself sitting on a public toilet with a permanent marker in my pocket.

I don't remember the circumstances of having the pen because I was still very young, but as soon as I sat down, I instinctively reached my tiny hand into my Oshkosh B'Gosh pocket and grasped the Sharpie. Without thinking, I pried the cap off and wrote "Brandon was here" on the wall to my right. Wow! What a feeling! That was twenty-two years ago next Thursday and I haven't looked back since.

My penmanship has really improved and I've even learned to write legibly with a pocket knife. When I leave my house, I always make sure I have my wallet, keys, cell phone, permanent marker and sharpened Swiss Army knife. I can write in all capitals, bubble-letters and even mysterious ciphers if I feel so inclined.

I am no longer restrained to writing just my name either. I've since moved on to poetry and I occasionally draw pictures of penises and naked women. I don't know, I guess you could call me an artist. I push my political views on future users of my stall. I draw swastikas and homophobic caricatures. I leave phone numbers of ex-lovers and arrange times for people to meet and have latrine-intercourse.

I don't know what it is about a good bowel movement brainstorm, but it makes me feel better about my direction in life and where I am at any given moment. Any problems I'm experiencing are instantly erased when I carve my initials into a metal toilet paper holder. I don't have anything against Jewish people, gays, blacks, or Mexicans, but when I write a discriminatory slur in permanent marker while sitting with my jeans around my ankles, I get a sublime sensation that nothing else can duplicate.

I'm not always the first one to write something on a wall but believe me, I let my opinions on the other pictures and insensitive remarks be heard. Sometimes I'll add my own detail to a picture or I'll simply cross out a line in a poem. I've visited stalls from my past only to find my artwork defaced and because I put so much thought and effort into each of my marks, I let the delinquent know how upset I am. I use expletives and racial slurs to get my point across and it makes me feel better to know that somewhere someone has just been put into his place.

So, the next time you're in a public stall, look for my work. You'll notice it by its superiority over the other crap (no pun intended) on the wall. If you happen to have a blade or a marker on you, by all means, leave a nice message. After all, I consider my art the original Facebook wall post and I would love to receive a like or a comment.


This post was inspired by a Dane Cook routine.

February 25: Speedy

I woke up today and went through my daily routine of checking my empty email inbox and visiting the six websites I frequent every day. I have a Yahoo mail account as well as my standard Gmail, so when going to the site (no new email of course) I glanced at the top four "noteworthy" stories of the day. "Speed skater Misses Race," "New Take on 'Speedy' Cartoon," "Lago Addresses Controversy," and "French Bacon Burger Brouhaha."

I've never been one to get into the Olympics. To me, it's nothing more than a new show to watch on TV for a bunch of couch potatoes that don't normally know anything about sports. People who don't watch or talk about sports all year long are suddenly obsessed with the events. I don't get it, so I didn't care about why the speed skater missed his race or what Lago's controversy was.

I figured "French Bacon Burger Brouhaha" was just another campaign to get the public off of greasy, fatty foods and to start eating more greens until I read the attention grabber. "A mayor claims religious prejudice after some French fast-food outlets replace their bacon burger." I was all about reading about my healthy options until I saw it was more about religious prejudices. That was it. I didn't care. Next story.

The final story was accompanied by a picture of the beloved childhood cartoon, Speedy Gonzales. The caption below the picture read, "A new Speedy Gonzales film will avoid the 1950s cartoon's stereotypes, producers say." Maybe it was the fact that the article was about a cartoon and not a more adult-themed bacon burger that sparked my interest, but I clicked the "racist cartoon" link anyway.

I like Yahoo stories because they're short and to the point. Plus, they're written at a third-grade level which I can understand. The article explained that Speedy had a friend that was named Slowpoke Rodrigues and that the producers were working on creating a story that eliminated these prejudices. First of all, how is that a stereotype? One mouse is fast (Speedy) and one is not fast (Slowpoke). Secondly, does that mean Slowpoke is gettin' a job washing dishes at the local restaurant? (Don't hate, that would be pretty darn accurate.)

I also found it amusing that Yahoo announced George Lopez would be the voice behind the new-and-improved Speedy Gonzalez. George Lopez! A comedian whose entire catalogue of material is based off of the Mexican stereotype! How ironic is that?

I generally don't care for new versions of old films/cartoons, but this is even more upsetting. I feel that if you don't have the creative mind to come up with something new and original and are forced to "re-imagine" a classic, then you can't change the basic elements of the original. I understand that our society views the world differently than it did in the 1950s, but if you're going to take away what made the original a classic, then you might as well put in the extra effort to come up with a completely new story.

I don't remember being offended as a child by Speedy Gonzalez, but then again, I'm a white, heterosexual male from the middle class. Everything was, and mostly still is, written for me. Call it role reversal if you want, but it offends me more that classics are now being re-imagined to try to please everyone. I'm completely flummoxed that they got away with remaking a cartoon about a fat and lazy cat, but I guess that's why I'm not in the bizz.

February 24: Relocated

I have been relocated. I've been uprooted and planted into a new environment. I am not as whole as I once was, yet I am more of a presence now than I ever have been.

I lie on my back in my new landscape. This foreign land is plain and barren. The world is spread across my peripheral. Nothing is behind me, yet I am terrified of its growling presence. I am wedged between two cream-colored, smooth surfaces. What is this place? Where am I?

My days are short and sporadic. They are blinding bursts of light that are commonly accompanied by a hot, damp, nauseating stench that makes its way from the nothingness behind me. Rarely does the air flow in reverse, but when it does, it's cool and comforting. My rain comes in total downpours and ends instantaneously. Debris is forced upon me with gargantuan metallic objects and then disappears behind me as the sharp tools retract in the oncoming night.

My nights are pitch black. A curtain of solid extinction of light is followed by the wet and heavy monster that sweeps across the land. It moves rapidly in search for something lost. I can hear its thick body lapping the crevices and canyons in the distance. With a slurping and sliding, it moves across me. Its surface is smooth like the land, but wet and soft like nothing I've ever felt. I immediately feel a suction so strong and intense that I'm sure I lose color. I don't know why, but I hold on to my new location with all of my might. I don't want to leave this strange new place. Finally, the beast lets me be and disappears. Daytime.

The growling emptiness behind me breathes hot air into the world with a loud, deep roar. The daylight is exceptionally bright and lasts longer than I remember it lasting yesterday. Suddenly, a giant figure appears and stares into my world. It is pleasant looking. From a peaceful, round-shaped and smooth surface of contours and unique shapes, two blue circles framed in white look down on me. A dark void beneath the two blue circles parts its red borders and calmly responds with some unknown form of communication. Nighttime.

The slimy beast returns and sucks more life out of me, but I hold strong. The monster gives up just in time for morning. Instead of the familiar metallic objects, I am greeted with a long, wooden spike. It jabs from the sky at the smooth surfaces on either side of me. It stabs it's pointed end just below me before retracting and piercing my green, wilted skin. I am helpless against the power and strength of its violent movement. My body is ripped from my crevice and is forced to slide along its length. As I lose all feeling and life, I am pulled toward the light and away from the hot stench from below.

I have been relocated.

February 23: Clueless

Where is my husband? I can't find my husband. He always tells me where he's going, but he didn't even say goodbye today. He doesn't care about me! This really pisses me off. He doesn't have any respect for me at all. Where is he?! I've looked every where. You say he's off hitting golf balls? Why didn't he let me know he was leaving?

Ike died two and a half years ago.

I woke up with these bruises on my arms and legs. Everyone keeps asking me what happened. I don't want to concern them, but they should know. Their safety is in jeopardy. Those two Mexicans came into my room last night. They hit me and threw me down. I tried to fight back, but they were so much stronger than me. The taller one held me to the ground and left these black and blue marks on my arms as the shorter, stockier one kick me. I screamed and tried to push them off of me but no one came to help. After kicking me and pulling my hair, the two men dragged me out of my room and down the hall and left me in the living room. The funny thing is they didn't steal anything.

Grandma fell out of bed and hit the nightstand.

Hi, Grandma. "Hi, sweetheart. How are you? Do you have a girlfriend yet?" Nope. Still waiting for the right girl. "She's out there. When you feel that little pitter-patter in your heart, you'll know she's the one." (Laughing) Ok, thanks for the tip. Today is my birthday. "Happy birthday, sweetheart! How old?" 27. "Wow. Do you have a girlfriend yet?" (Laughing) No. I've got my eyes open though. "Well, you just have to be patient. You'll find her." Thanks, Grandma. You look well. Are you feeling okay? "Yeah. I feel fine. How's school?" I graduated five years ago, Grandma so I'm not in school anymore. "Oh, that's right. Do you have a girlfriend yet?" (Not laughing) No I do not. "Why not?" Girls don't like me. "That's not true! You just have to be patient." Have you had any visitors today? "Not a soul. Is school keeping you busy?" Not lately. "Do you have a girlfriend yet?" (Slowly shakes head and stares forward) "Well. That's okay."

"What are you guys doing here? I don't have time to visit! Ike and I are going to a play tonight and I can't find the tickets. I can't find Ike for that matter." Well let's go see if they're in your room. "I've looked there. Where is Ike?" Maybe he's in the shower. "Why would he wait so long to take a shower? The play starts in a half an hour!" Maybe he's getting the car. "That could be. Where are those tickets. I think someone stole our tickets. Damn it, you can't trust anyone here. I knew I should have left them at will call. The play is going to be sold out and we're not going to get our money back. Where the hell is Ike?"

There was no play to attend.

February 22: The Cool Guy

Dear Friends,

Terminator 2: Judgment Day on Blu-Ray is playing on my fifty-inch Panasonic plasma TV. Bullets are flying past me through my 7.1 Bose surround sound system. As I sit on my Italian leather sofa, I can feel the bass in my chest as it pounds through sub woofer.

When the film ends with the climatic scene in the factory, I pull my boot-cut, stone-washed Diesel jeans over my Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs. I pull on a pair of Gold Toe socks before slipping into my Air Jordans and throw on a Gap solid tee. I'm ready to go, but not before I place one drop of Acqua di Parma Colonia Intensa Eau De Cologne behind each ear. I grab my Polo Ralph Lauren leather jacket off of the coat rack and my Ray Bans and Signature Gold genuine alligator skin wallet off of the entrance table before I head out the door.

My Bentley Continental GT looks good in the end spot that I parked it in last night. With just a click of a button on my key chain, I start the engine and turn the leather seat warmers on. I can already hear the soft jazz music playing through the Bose sound system as I approach the vehicle, open the door, and get in.

I sit and think. I think about what a cool guy I am. I think about all the people that wish they could be just like me and of all the people that want to be with me. I think about how many second-looks I'm going to receive as I drive my Bentley down the freeway. How many winks will I get from gorgeous women driving convertibles? I ponder all of this as I type on my virtual keyboard.

Love,
Brandon

Sent from my iPhone.

February 21: Dear God

God is great. God is good. And we thank him for our food. Amen.

Dear God, My mother is sick and it's not her time. Please give her strength and help her battle this sickness. Amen.

Dear Heavenly Father, we thank you for gathering us together today. You have blessed us with such a wonderful group of friends and family members. Thank you for our health and our happiness. Heavenly Father, we thank you for everything that you have provided us with and ask for you to continue to bless us. Amen.

Dear Lord (Amen), Thank you, Lord for the beautiful children in this room (Amen). Jesus, you are Lord (Amen!). Thank you, Lord for our friends, O Lord! (Amen!) Thank you, O God for the beautiful day you hath brought (Amen). Lord! You are a merciful God! (Amen!) You are an understanding God! (Amen!) You are a most GRACIOUS God, O Lord! (AMEN!) Now let's put our hands together, Lord (Amen!) and praise the many blessings (Amen!) that you have provided, Lord! (AMEN!)

Um. Hi, God. It's me, Brandon in Texas. Yeah, um. So I know I haven't written or called lately, but I've got a favor to ask. You see, there's a new Playstation game coming out next month and I really want it, but money has been tight lately. I was wondering if you could possibly make my boss at work put me in some better sections so I can afford this game. God, trust me, this game is sick! It's a first-person shooter where the goal is to kill as many civilians as possible. Anyway, if you do this one little thing, I promise I will never use your name in vain again. Thanks. Love, Brandon. I mean, Amen.

Dear God! What is that?!

Oh God, no! Please, God don't let this be. Oh my God this is awful. Please don't let her die, God!

Oh my God!

OMG.

February 20: Jelly Belly Confusion

A color deficiency is the inability to perceive differences between some of the colors that others can distinguish. For as long as I can remember, optometrists have told me that I possess a color deficiency and have trouble distinguishing reds and greens. My sister is quick to point out my inability to tell certain colors apart in various areas of my life; most notably when I dress. My pseudo-disability has never really affected any part of my life until now.

I recently took a trip to Costco and I just had to get the four pound container of Jelly Bellies. They're the original gourmet jelly bean, you know. 49 flavors! The four pounds isn't an exaggeration either. I'm literally looking at the label right now as I use the home row of keys to type this sentence. But what do Jelly Bellies and having the inability to distinguish colors have anything to do with the other?

On the backside of the container, the fine folks over at Kirkland Signature had the brilliant idea of including a diagram. It is simply a picture of each jelly bean and what flavor is associated with each one. It's actually fairly helpful, but it's not good enough.

For the most part, all of the beans are easily distinguishable. I know every time I pick up a red bean with yellow specks, I'm going to get a Sizzling Cinnamon. I always know when I'm about to pop in a Tutti-Fruitti because of its distinctive smorgasbord of blues, yellows, and greens scattered across the pink surface.

Sometimes, however, I think I'm getting a Peach and I get the disgusting Top Banana instead. I like Peach-flavored candies. I like banana-flavored fruits. I hate banana-flavored candies. I can't tell the two apart because I'm handicapped and it's not right. Jelly Belly should do something to rectify this!

People in wheelchairs get special ramps to enter buildings on. Blind people get pets to help them cross streets! But what do my people get? We get mouthfuls of unsuspecting flavor. Buttered Popcorn when we thought we were getting Toasted Marshmallow. Plum when we wanted Mixed Berry Smoothie! Don't even get me started on the Chocolate Pudding, Dr. Pepper, Licorice, Cappuccino confusion! I really want to try that Dr. Pepper, but I hate licorice and I hate Cappuccino even more. I wouldn't go near a dark-colored Jelly Belly if someone paid me to!

The point is this: When a crippled man like myself gets the urge to purchase a four pound jug of Jelly Bellies, the least Kirkland Signature could do would be to make my experience a more enjoyable one. Include a little elf that warns me when I'm about to eat a Piña Colada and not a Sunkist Lemon or at least print the label in high definition. Just because I'm not eligible for a handicapped placard doesn't mean I don't need help.

February 19: I Am

I
am a
bro. I am
a man. I am
a dude. I am a
homie. I am a yo. I
am a fool. I am a ninja.
I am a playa. I am a Broseph.
I am Brandon. I am Roesler. I am B. I
am Brando. I am B-Dawg. I am Brandizzle.
I am Brandon Brandon Brandon Paul. Cutest
baby of them all. I am
whatever you say I am.
If I wasn't, then
why would I
say I
am?


I
am a
son. I am
brother. I am a
cousin. I am a nephew.
I am a grandson. I am
not an uncle. I am a Roesler.
I am a friend. I am a
colleague. I am an acquaintance. I
am a mammal. I am
an animal. I am
a carnivore. I
am their
family.

I
am a
waiter. I am
a server. I am
an order taker. I am
a food runner. I am a
side duty machine. I am a stacker
of molcajetes. I am in the North. I
am fifth row of the South. I
am scheduled a double. I am
in the weeds. I am
a large Bob and
a Delux. I
am the
Brando.

I
am an
actress. I am
a model. I am
a dancer. I am whatever.
I am a little teapot. Short
and stout. I am the wind beneath
your wings. I am a balla shot calla.
I am Bruce Almighty. I am Batman. I am
Forrest Forrest Gump. I am the Bear Jew. I am
your worst nightmare. I am Dwight Schrute Assistant Regional Manager.
I am Dwight Schrute Assistant to the Regional Manager.
I am Inigo Montoya; You killed my father
prepare to die. I am Russell in
tribe 54. I am King Aragorn
and I have returned.
I'm Constanza: Lord
of the
idiots.

February 18: Today is the Day

Today is the day. A man enters the store sending the outside breeze through my pink hair and down my backside. The gust feels strange and odd, but I hear a small child pleading with him. "Oh, Daddy!" she shrieks. "That's the one! Oh please, Daddy? She's perfect. She's so pretty, Daddy!"

"Today's your special day, and what my little angel wants, my little angel gets. How much for the unicorn in the window?" he asks the store owner.

Before I know it, I feel the warm embrace of ten small fingers at the end of two short arms. Today is the day. I will bring joy and happiness to my new family. I will keep my head held high with pride. The child loves me so much and I love her. I ride in the front seat in the lap of my new friend past other stores and bare front yards. Not one yard that we pass displays anything that resembles me. Today is the day.

The man pulls his vehicle off of the road and parks on a short driveway. I can hear the screams and shrieks of joy as soon as the little girl opens her door. We are swarmed with love and praise from a crowd of adoring children. "He's gorgeous! Look at her horn! It's fantastic. Can I hold him? I want to touch her!" The man pushes his way through the crowd of small people and takes me in his arms. The little girl reluctantly lets go but soon, after begins clapping and jumping with pure excitement.

The man walks over to a grand and mature looking oak tree and brushes out the tangles of my purple tail. He softly strokes the side of my tissue-papered body. I remain as still as ever. My insides shift with anxiety as he turns me over to look at my underside. "It's a girl!" he yells towards the adults and let's out a heartfelt laugh. I feel my emerald green, magenta, and vibrant orange braided ribbon tug against my papier-mâché back. He has made his selection for my display. I will hang proudly from the branches of the old oak and ward off unwanted visitors.

My stomach turns with emotion as I am hoisted up, up, up towards the perfectly laced oak branches, acorns, and brilliant blue sky beyond. The crowd of adults and children sink away from me and I begin to sway back and forth. Parents are visiting with each other and drinking red punch. Children are running and laughing. Directly below me, my new friend is clasping her hands against her heart and looking up at me. A boy is swinging an old wooden baseball bat with all of his might next to her. He bites his tongue and scrunches his face as he grips the stick with both hands and swings it back and forth with hostility. I am concerned for my friend, but an adult takes the little boy and tells him to practice a few steps over. The breeze feels so good as it makes its way through my cardboard chest that I don't care to wonder what he is practicing for.

Once the man has chosen my perfect height, he ties his end of my ribbon to a nearby chair. He then lines the children into a single file. My dear friend is first. First for what, I do not know. The man then undoes the tie from around his neck and ties it around the eyes of my friend. He steps her away from the line and slowly spins her in a circle three times. The other children clap and laugh as she stumbles through the third twirl. The little girl, uneasy on her feet, reaches out blindly with her perfect arms in search of something to grab a hold of. The man goes to the practicing boy, takes the bat, and hands it to his daughter.

Her knuckles lose their color as she grips the skinny end of the wooden bat. I feel the lurch of my ribbon being untied from the chair. The sudden movement causes me to sway back and forth from the old oak. Small leaves softly fall past my golden horn and my crystal blue eyes as my weight causes the branch above me to shake. The man eases his grip on my ribbon, I drop, and my insides race to my head. Just before I crash into the ground, he tightens his grip sending my weight to crash into the pit of my belly. Screams of laughter and cheers erupt from the line of children. I swing wildly about at the end of my braided ribbon. My new world is spinning around me. The driveway with the car slides through my line of sight followed by the old oak, followed by the line of children. The talking adults are next to race by and are again followed by the driveway.

I can feel a whoosh of angry air below me followed by "oohs" and "ahhs" as I slowly stop spinning and start unwinding in the other direction. The same sights, only in reverse. The gust of wind again below me and more groans of suspense. The driveway, the adults, the line of children, and the old oak increase in speed as my world is brought to an unsurpassed level of shaking. My white legs, that just hours before, were sturdy on a shelf are now above me and my vision is suffocated with pink hair. Gravity pulls my legs back towards the ground and my braided ribbon snaps me upright as the familiar whoosh returns; this time ending with a deep and sickening thud. The instant pain on the side of my once beautiful white neck spiderwebs across my tissue-papered flesh. I am in pure agony, but mostly, I am confused. My world is a consistent conglomerate of spinning colors and a constant hoisting up and dropping down. Then nothing.

There is a stillness about the air as my spinning comes to its conclusion. The images of the yard and neighborhood begin slowing down and coming into focus. Just as I gain consciousness of my surroundings, I realize that I'm not being lifted and dropped any more. I am just slightly above the ground. Where is my friend? I need the little girl now more than anything. I need to feel her warm hug and soothing words of encouragement.

There she is. The man is taking his tie from her face. She is still holding the stick. She looks up from the ground and makes eye contact with me. She is not how I remember her, though. Her gentle eyes have been replaced with possessed eyes of rage and determination. She clenches her teeth and thins her lips as she grips the wood handle with both hands. The man stands up and walks to the next child in line. As soon as he squats beside the little boy, my new friend makes a break for it. She runs directly towards me with both hands gripping the bat above her head.

At first there are no sounds except for her small feet pounding the ground as she runs. Then one by one, the children begin to realize what my friend is about to do. Their high-pitched yells only cause her to run faster. The barrel of the bat makes a full circle above her head before it meets my hide and sends me flying. I don't feel the pain until I start my descent towards the waiting girl, arms cocked back in preparation. The old wood meets my face and snaps my head back. I can feel the cold evening's air slip inside my now-exposed neck and fill my hollow stomach.

Another whoosh of hate-filled air and my rear left leg is sent flying to the car in the driveway. Plastic-covered candies bleed out of me and spray onlookers below. My world is spinning again as I take another blow to the face. My once spectacular horn caves into my forehead, forcing my head back and causes the opening in my neck to split even more. The bleeding from my leg slows only because I am now losing my insides through my neck. The last smack is all my tired, braided ribbon can handle. It lets go of my back and throws me across the yard. I am completely decapitated upon impact with the grassy earth and my remaining candies fly in every direction.

Children are running about collecting my insides. Some are filling paper bags and others are stuffing their mouths. My crushed-in skull lies facing my destroyed body. My world. This is not the world I spent so many days in the shop window dreaming of. My friend is not the friend I thought she was. The man is not the man I thought he was. Even the old oak is different. Today is the day.

February 17: The Stacker of Molcajetes

They must be stacked just so. Not too high and not too low. Three rows deep and four rows across. In the North? Make sure they are stacked at least five high. In the West? Better make it six high. Their job is universal. They house the Land O Lakes and the Borden. They are primarily used to present the red, fiery liquids, but have been known to accurately divide the more mild, yellow flavoring amongst children. In the industry, they are known as the molcajetes.

It takes a specially gifted individual to stack molcajetes. It takes a person of patience; for the molcajetes are not as plentiful as one might assume. It takes a person with a sound knowledge of his surroundings. Someone that knows his way around a stainless steel shelf. The molcajete is a crafty creature and relishes the idea of losing itself amongst the other beings. It is devoted to the mysterious game of disappearance. He who can locate a molcajete when others have given up all hope can accomplish anything.

He can stack beige warmers and clear cups for frozen treats of different color. He can lift a 32 gallon storage bin filled with crispy corn-flavored scoops over his head and into the belly of the hungry temperature-controlled beast. He can produce slices of lemons and limes from their original forms. It takes, however, so much more than patience and perseverance to be a successful stacker of molcajetes.

Agility is not a skill learned or taught. It is a skill that one is born with. The ability to remain upright and quick on one's feet during the fast-paced confusion of nightly activity is a must. It is crucial. He who cannot escape the dangerous reach of a skating, white creature carrying frozen water cubes cannot and will not ever be a successful molcajete stacker. If he cannot retrieve the brown cardboard crate with the printed Styrofoam down from the heavens without unleashing the Earth-hating fiends upon unsuspecting passers, he most certainly cannot stack molcajetes.

Thou may have the ability and precision to stack seven inch clear plastic holders of carbonated elixir. Thou may even be able to stack round, flat keepers of warm edible wrappings, but those simple abilities do not guarantee that thou can stack molcajetes. Can he deliver one flat, orange surface of said plastic holders stacked six high, three rows across, and four rows deep? No. I have met the one they call Molcajete Stacker. He is all-knowing in the ways and skills needed to stack molcajetes. He is agile. He is patient and persistent. He is Brando.

February 16: Day 10

Day 10. I'm freezing. I didn't get any sleep last night. I couldn't get comfortable. My back hurts and my neck is throbbing. I stepped on some kind of thorn last night hiking back to the camp. My left foot is really tender and I can hardly put any weight on it. I have no idea what time it is. If I had to guess, I would say it was around six in the morning. The sun has officially risen above the horizon.

We still don't have an adequate shelter. It rained last night, but not as hard as it did those first nights. Everything is wet. How am I supposed to fall asleep in these conditions? Brian (I hate that turd with a passion) has got to be the loudest sleeper in the world. How is it that the only guy that can fall asleep snores like that? Even if I could get comfortable, I wouldn't be able to doze off because of that jerk! I can't wait to win blankets and pillows just so I can suffocate him into silence.

I can definitely start smelling everyone too. The lack of deodorant out here is becoming painfully noticeable. As rancid and rotten as their stench may be, I'm getting more comfortable with sleeping (or lying there) in such close proximity to these people. Maybe it's because I'm getting to know them better, but their body heat sure doesn't hurt either.

I'm really surprised I don't have more bug bites. I have quite a few, but not nearly as many as I had expected. I wonder if it has anything to do with the time of year. Maybe if it was hotter, the bugs would be thicker. I'm really thankful I don't have more though. I wonder what my arms and legs will look like in a week. I can't wait to see the before and after pictures.

Last night was the third tribal council and second one in a row that I've had to attend. We won that first immunity challenge and felt pretty confident, but going to two in a row has really shaken the tribe's confidence. I really hated to see Kelly leave. I didn't want to vote for her, but I can't let my emotions get in the way of my ultimate goal. I was just starting to get to know her, too. I'm looking forward to laughing with her again, but I hope it's later rather than sooner.

I've finally gotten the fire going again and I'm starting to warm up, but that's all relative. I'm still freezing. I'm covered in sand. I've only been here for ten days. How did my body attract so much sand in so little time? What am I saying? Ten days. It feels like a lot longer. It honestly feels like I've been on this beach for a month already. Some of these people are really getting on my nerves. Twenty-four hours a day for ten days. I'm so sick of listening to Brian talk about the job he left in Missouri.

So far my game is going well. Will I still be here in twenty-nine days? I don't know. Do I trust the people that I've aligned with? To a point I do, but I'm not dumb. I've seen the show. I know how people flip. If the opportunity arises, I'll probably do the same thing if I don't think it will cost me final votes. The trick is to do it before the formation of the jury. If the opportunity doesn't present itself before then, I might be stuck with the group I'm with. I think I can trust them. I need Jim to remain the ringleader. I'll continue planting the seed in his mind and let him voice the decision to the rest of the alliance.

How long have I been staring into this fire? I was the first one awake and now there are four other people chatting around me; including Brian. They're talking about going out on the raft today for some more fishing. More of the same. I think we should focus our efforts on fixing up the shelter or making a small shelter to store the firewood under so it can have a chance to dry out. I'm not going to say anything though. I'll just nod my head and go with the flow. Man, does Brian ever shut up?!

February 15: Push

Boy meets girl. Boy goes out with girl. Boy and girl break up. Boy and girl get back together. Boy marries girl. Girl has baby. This is the basic premise for what seems like every movie or TV show romance. Of course, there are different elements to each one, but for the most part, this is it. I don't mind a romantic comedy. Call me a wuss or a "Mary" (thank you, George Costanza) but I'll admit to really liking some of them. What I don't like, however, is the "giving birth scene."

Here it is: The featured couple is usually in an argument about something stupid and pointless when the girl is involuntarily forced to curl over in pain as she grabs her stomach. The guy immediately forgets their argument and rushes to her side.

The next shot is always one of two situations. The first has the guy driving like crazy and weaving in and out of traffic as the girl moans in pain. If the audience isn't treated to some outrageous driving, they will always get to witness the woman being hastily wheeled down the hospital corridor on a stretcher by a group of nurses and doctors. Everyone is looking down at her as her husband tries to keep up and unsuccessfully tries to peek through the crowd at his girl.

From here, the audience is transported to the operating room where they have a view from the foot of the bed looking at the girl with her legs spread under a cover. The woman's hair is matted and plastered to her face with sweat as she screams. "Keep pushing/breathing," everyone in the room yells back. At this point the man shows up late with his scrubs and mask on. By the way, he was running down the corridor when she was on the stretcher, so why is he always late to the operating room? Once there, he will inevitably faint at the sight of his newborn crowning out of his wife. Hilarious, right? If he doesn't faint, he's by her side, petting her damp hair and occasionally leaning in for a sweaty smooch on the cheek. More yelling, more screaming, more obnoxious and unoriginal attempts at being funny until that wet and slimy life-form is sleeping contently in the arms of an exhausted and smiling mommy.

Whether the movie or television show is a comedy or a drama, for some reason the producers always feel that the birthing scene will add more hilarity or a new sense of comic relief. It's funny, right? A pretty girl throughout the show or movie is now an ugly, screeching beast. She wails expletives and curses her husband, but he better not think about leaving her side! The louder she howls, the funnier the scene, right? Or how about when she yells for drugs when just moments before she was insisting on having a natural birth? Man, that's classic!

I love a good romantic comedy. It's always fun watching a guy chase after a girl for an hour and a half and I've gotten a lot of advice from watching such movies. The birth scenes, however, are so cliche and overdone that they can almost ruin a movie for me.

February 14: Hypocrisy

What is this guy in front of me doing? First he signals, then he turns it off. Then he weaves to the left as if about to change lanes, and then he straightens out. Oh, great! Now he's braking! What is he braking for? There isn't anyone in front of him. We're not at a stop light. What on Earth is he braking for? If only I had a chance to pass him. What if he's drunk though? I've heard that you're never supposed to pass a drunk driver. Or am I not supposed to let a drunk driver pass me? Oh, man I can't remember. Okay, now's my chance. Here we go. Of course! The idiot's on his cell phone. "Get off the phone and drive, pal!"

Doesn't this guy know it's against the law to drive and talk on the cellphone at the same time? I mean, why doesn't he just go over the speed limit too if the rules don't apply to him? He might as well run some red lights or make an illegal U-Turn. If you're going to break the law, you might as well do something fun.

Here I am minding my own business and I have to slow down because he decides that he's not going to obey the...hold on...I just got a text message. Oh, no way! My buddy just got engaged! I have to send him a congratulatory text. C...o...n...g...r...a...y...oops...backspace...t...s...!...!...1. Now where was I? Oh, yeah. I'm minding my own business trying to get to the drive-thru before it closes and I have to change my driving patterns because of people like this. I mean, not only is it unsafe for you and other drivers, but it's rude and inconsiderate to the people around you. Are you really that important that you have to be on the phone wherever you are?

Give me a second. I just pulled up to the drive-thru. "Hi, yeah um can I get a number 2, but no cheese? Coke's fine. No that's it. Okay, thanks." I love the number 2. I get it every time I come here. I've had other things, sure, but you just can't beat the number 2. Hold on. "Hi. There you go. I might have 82 cents in here somewhere for you. Well here's 85. Ketchup? Um, yeah I'll take a few packets. Great, thanks, you too."

You know, the number 2 is so good that I can't even wait until I get home to eat it! Besides, it doesn't taste right if it's not hot. Oh man, this Coke is good! Look at this thing! Does this look like the picture to you? What is this?! Man, I told her no cheese! Welp, too late now! It's still pretty good. Now, where was I?

Oh yeah. People driving and talking on the phone. I hate that so much. You know what's even worse? By the way, this burger is fantastic! What's even worse is when people are changing their music and driving too! Playing with the iPod and not paying any attention to the road. I'm really surprised you don't hear about more accidents being caused by these sorts of things. I think the media should be forced to report every time an accident was caused by a cell phone or an iPod/radio/CD player/GPS.

Why can't other drivers be more like me? Am I the only one that obeys the rules? Am I the only...hold on...oh, man! My buddy already has a date set for his bachelor's party! This is going to be sick!

February 13: The Emergency Room

This is an old note that I wrote on Facebook, but I've always been really proud of it. For the three of you that have probably already read it and are disappointed by not having something fresh to read today, I apologize. For everyone else, enjoy.

* * * *

It has been said that life is like a roller coaster. One minute, you’re up and the next minute you’re down. Every once in a while I will find myself in a situation where I feel like the most normal person in the general vicinity which can be a real boost to one’s self-esteem. Sometimes, that place is standing in line at the post office. Other times, it’s waiting patiently at the ice cream counter at the local Rite Aid at two o’clock in the morning. Today, it was the Lehigh Valley Hospital’s Emergency Room.

Before I get started, I want to assure you that I’m fine. I jammed a finger a while ago while playing basketball and it has yet to properly heal. Because I don’t currently have health insurance, visiting the Emergency Room to get an X-Ray was my best option.

I walked through the automatic sliding glass doors expecting to see a woman with a caved in skull or a man who attempted to shake hands with a wood chipper. I would have put money on at least seeing a kid with a bloody knee and tears in his eyes, but I didn’t get any of that. All I was treated to was a black girl in pink scrubs with a room full of empty chairs and a TV set into the wall behind a locked plastic plate blaring on about some former American Idol contestant.

When the receptionist saw me, she handed me a clipboard to fill out and then was reminded by the black girl that she had been there first. The receptionist simply replied with, “I know” as if to say, “There are two of you and only fifty of us. Please be patient.” As I filled out my paperwork, the girl was called to the back. With a look of discomfort, she slowly stood and walked gingerly through the doors towards recovery.

Shortly thereafter, I was escorted through a series of hallways to get my X-Rays. On my way, I passed a dark-haired woman wearing a floral print hospital gown who was taking great caution with each barefoot step. As the woman limped passed me she gently held her stomach with fingers that had inch-long purple claws for nails. She wore an expression of pain and confusion that clearly said, “This baby is about to fall out of me onto this cold floor and I can’t find my room!” From the back of her opened hospital gown a thin clear tube led up to the extended arm of the woman’s overweight, sluggish, late-teen daughter who held the woman’s half-filled IV bag.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that the X-Ray process took a total of five minutes, but when I was finished the nurse escorted me back to the waiting room where it was miraculously filled with people. Although there still wasn’t any blood or tears to entertain me, I did get the pleasure of overhearing a Hispanic woman start a conversation on the provided telephone in Spanish only to yell in English two seconds later that she was using that particular phone because it was free and she didn’t have any minutes left on her personal phone.

After watching a Hispanic teen-mother’s children play with a Lion King book that plays sounds (like they really know what Hakuna Matata means) for about fifteen minutes, I was escorted back into the hospital labyrinth of hallways, senior citizens on stretchers, and wandering expectant mothers being followed by fat offspring (Yes, I did see that dynamic duo again).

I was directed into a solitary room (also known as the second waiting room) that had a bed on wheels and one chair. “The doctor will be right with you.” I waited patiently with my book until a female nurse burst through the door and asked if I had sat on the bed. “I’ve been here for two minutes. Not only did I sit on the bed, I rolled around in it, jumped on it, and rubbed my face on the linens.” I told her I hadn’t and she let out a very audible sigh of relief. She said something about a patient being in there earlier, but she didn’t go into any more detail than that. Hospitals give me an all-too-eerie feeling as it is, but did she really have to tell me that an unoccupied bed in a room that I was assigned to was so unsanitary that I couldn’t even sit on it? She then led me to the hallway where, wouldn’t you know, she wanted me to sit on a bed! There was a curtain divider between my hallway bed and another hallway bed on which sat the black girl in pink scrubs from the waiting room.

It was on this bed that I was able to hear what happened to the girl. Apparently, she was at work (do the scrubs mean she worked at that particular hospital?) when she discovered a “giant” bug. In her attempt to flee the scene, she jumped onto a chair, fell off, and broke her leg.

I was sent home with the reports that my finger was simply sprained and would heal with time. So, after spending the better part of an hour and a half in the Emergency Room, I was left with expecting a bill that won’t pay for anything I couldn’t have done myself. More importantly, though, I left the hospital with a giant grin and a feeling of pride and self-respect.

The next time you’re feeling down about life and you need a natural pick-me-up, may I suggest visiting the Emergency Room?

February 12: Seven Ballparks

When I received news on December 26 of 2008 that I was hired to work at Baseball Info Solutions in Coplay, PA as a video scout intern for the summer of 2009, I was stoked. Not only was I excited to get paid to watch Major League Baseball games, but I was excited to be able to experience a new set of baseball parks.

At the time, I had been to every ballpark on the west coast from San Diego to Seattle and upon receiving news of my hiring, I made it a goal to visit the seven ballparks that would be accessible to me during my stay in Pennsylvania. Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington DC, New York City for the Mets, Boston, New York City for the Yankees, and Pittsburgh were all within driving distance to where I was going to be so I thought this would be the perfect time to see those parks.

The first one was easy. Philadelphia was about an hour away and that trip pretty much fell into my lap. One of the other interns was a huge Milwaukee Brewers fan and the team was going to be in Philly in April. One day, this intern stood up in the office and made an announcement that he was going to be going to Citizen's Bank Ballpark to watch his Brewers play and asked if anyone else wanted to join him. Even though I really wanted to wait until the Padres were in town, I didn't know if I would get another opportunity so I said I would go. We drove there in the morning for the 1:05 game, had no problem with parking, and even got to see a near no-hitter by Dave Bush of the Brewers.

The next trip took place at the end of May. I had planned on going with two friends from the internship so we must have chosen that particular game because we all had the same days off. The destination was Oriole Park at Camden Yards in Baltimore and the game just so happened to be the Major League debut for one of the more touted prospects; Matt Wieters of the Orioles.

It took us about three hours to drive there, and we did so with the threat of rain. The game was scheduled for 7:05, and we were all praying that the rain would wait until after the game because we didn't like the idea of driving so far only to be turned away due to a postponement. We got into town early enough to get a beer at a local bar and an official Baltimore crab cake at a nearby restaurant. As we sat and ate our lunch/dinner the sky opened up and the rain began.

We walked over to the ballpark and took in the sights as we stood under awnings, overhangs and anything else that would keep us dry. After only an hour's delay, the game started and we saw a home team victory. Wieters went 0-4, but it was still cool to see the crowd's enthusiastic reaction to a routine play that he made in the first inning.

My next trip didn't come for a few months. I have an aunt that lives in DC, so I made it a point to visit her at the end of the July when the Padres would be in town to play the Nationals. I was able to visit with my aunt, see all of the monuments and memorials and watch my beloved Padres get their butts kicked by the worst team in the Majors. Not only did I have to watch my team take a pounding, but I had to wait three hours in the pouring rain by myself to do so. The game started on time, but after one full inning of play, the tarp was pulled on to the field and the game was delayed due to the weather. My aunt, her husband and his daughter decided they had had enough after two hours of waiting so they wanted to go. I told my aunt that I didn't drive that far to watch my team play one inning and I didn't mind taking the train or a cab back to her house by myself once the game finished. I was glad to see the Padres play, but it was pretty humiliating having to walk out of Nationals Park wearing my San Diego gear with my tail between my legs at 2:00 in the morning.

By the end of August, I hadn't seen any other parks and my goal was looking pretty grim and futile. There was just a little more than a month left on the season and I still had to see both New York parks, Boston, and Pittsburgh. The Padres were going to be in Pittsburgh at the end of September so I wasn't worried about that one, but I was finding it more and more difficult to convince people around the office to take their minimum wage and spend it on a trip to a ballpark to watch more baseball. I was able to convince one of my friends to go to New York for a Mets game on August 24, but I was getting pretty depressed that I was still going to miss the Yankees and the Red Sox.

Then in the middle of August, everything came together perfectly. I sent a random text to a friend in California asking him if he wanted to meet me in Boston to watch the Red Sox play at Fenway. I didn't think there was a chance in Hell that he would say yes, but he did! Then, from out of nowhere, one of the interns asked if I wanted to join him and his roommate on a trip to New York to watch the Yankees make up a game from earlier in the year with the Angels.

So on August 24 (a Monday), I drove to New York City (about two hours) to watch the Mets play at Citi Field. I drove back that night and finished the week of work. On the following Monday, I took a bus to New York City where I got on another bus to Boston and spent the next three days with my friend. He knew someone that lived in the city so we were able to stay with him for free which saved a ton of money. I got back to my apartment late that Wednesday, worked through Sunday and took my third trip to New York City in three weeks to watch the Yankees in the new Yankee Stadium.

I officially completed my goal on September 18 when I saw the first of a four game series between the Padres and the Pirates at PNC Park in Pittsburgh. Of course, the Padres lost the one game I was at and won the next three, but I had done it! I saw seven different ballparks in one summer. I have now been to fourteen of thirty ballparks and can't wait for the new season to start so I can check the Rangers Ballpark in Arlington, Minute Maid Park in Houston, and possibly one more off my list too.

February 11: No Excuse

It has been three hours and eight minutes since my lunch break. The digital clock on my computer screen seems to be frozen. The round, white clock on the wall laughs at me as the second hand moves to the next notch at an alarmingly slow rate. I can feel each tick pound in my chest. My ears ring with each movement. The room is still and my cubicle neighbors are unaware of my lack of comfort. They continue to answer calls and take information, but I can only focus on the time and this annoying consciousness in my mouth. Nothing else matters to me. I will be free of this urge at five o'clock, but that's a lifetime away. I can almost visualize myself walking outside to get into my car and turning towards the ice plant-covered bank before getting in. My mouth is wet with warm, flavorless saliva and I need to get rid of this feeling.

* * * *

The morning breeze feels invigorating on my face. The trees seem to be dancing with the wind as they sway back and forth. The paved trail through the green landscape is still damp from last night's rain fall. My dog pulls with all of his might at his leash as a squirrel crosses our path. I smile as I hold the leather tighter in my hand and sturdy my stance against his pull. With every inhale that my dog takes, I can hear a nearby brook's water rush over smoothed pebbles. A bird whistles in the distance. The morning's sun stares across the horizon and begins its task of warming the cold, waking earth. The only thing that could make this moment better is to expunge myself of this nagging feeling in my mouth and sinuses.

* * * *

My batting gloves stretch over my knuckles as I grip the handle of the bat. Two outs. I step into the batter's box with my right hand extended to the umpire to request a moment to settle in. I take the bat in my left hand and distance myself from the plate with a tap of the barrel at the exact center point. Runner on first. My feet know what to do. My right foot claws into the soft earth while my left foot taps in search of the perfect location to settle in. My body's weight is slightly off center. My right knee supports a little more than my left. Top of the fifth. When I've settled in, I grip the bat above my left hand with my right and look towards the mound. The score is tied. The home team's pitcher glares over his glove covering his face. He shakes off a sign from his catcher as I work my tongue around the inside of my mouth. I extract the dark, mouthwatering liquid from the ball in my cheek. With my tongue, I swish the fluid around the crevices of my mouth before pursing my lips.

* * * *

The white light is directly over my face as I stare towards the ceiling. The back of my neck is cold from a metal chain that holds a blue tissue across my chest. A high-pitched drill sounds in the next room. Kenny G whales on his soprano saxophone. A man wearing protective glasses and a mouth guard reaches up with his latex gloved hand to adjust the piercing white light that I have been staring into. "One more," he says as he dips his rubber-headed drill into a dark mixture that is kept on a ring which he wears on his left hand. He leans in close, tells me to look in his direction, inserts the tool into my mouth, turns it on and applies the crystallized mixture to my back molar. When he's done, he hands me a waxed paper Dixie cup of water and gives me permission to turn to the tiny porcelain sink on my left and rinse. The cool liquid rushes from one side of my mouth to the other and collects remnants of peppermint-flavored fluoride in its wake. I lean over the sink and aim for the small drain. Other than brushing my teeth at home or vomiting, I am the only one that has any reason to spit.

February 10: Linbrook Memories

I went bowling on Saturday with my family and it got me thinking of all the bowling I did in college. For a while, I was going at least once a week and sometimes more. I became so obsessed with the "sport," that I asked for my own ball one year for Christmas and went out to get my own shoes as well. For my twenty-first birthday, my friends even went as far as getting me a personalized bowling shirt with my name stitched on the left breast.

The bowling alley that I went to couldn't have been any more authentic. I don't know about you, but when I think of a bowling alley, I think of sleaze and trash and that's exactly what Linbrook Bowl was. It was a 24-hour establishment in the heart of Anaheim. For those of you that don't know, Anaheim, CA is not Disneyland. Sure, the happiest place on Earth is located in the city, but don't let that mislead you. Disney has paid insane amounts of money to make the neighboring area look pristine and well-kept, but the rest of Anaheim is a dump. Everything is dirty and there are a lot of extremely shady looking characters. Linbrook Bowl is in that part of Anaheim.

I've seen drunken lunatics, sober lunatics, and I even saw a fist fight between two women in the parking lot at four in the morning. If I remember correctly, I heard "Stop it, Mom!" at the climax of the melee. It's the type of place that makes you feel unsafe when walking in, even worse when walking out, and I was never sure if my truck would still be there when I was ready to leave. The people that work at Linbrook range from tall, lanky black guys with lazy eyes to short, stocky, middle-aged women with bad attitudes. I frequented the place so many times that I found myself on a first name basis with these people, but when you rent a lane for an hour and time runs out in the seventh frame, it's good to be friends with the staff because they have the power to extend your time for no extra charge.

As crazy and sleazy as Linbrook was, some of my best memories from that era of my life have come from that place. I've bowled multiple games over 200 and even finished one with a 267 out of a perfect 300 for my personal best. One of my favorite Linbrook memories was a tournament that was held at 2:30 in the morning against the rules of the bowling alley. There were ten or fifteen people in the tournament and the entrance fee was $20. Everyone started on the same lane and bowled there until he achieved a strike. He would then move to the next lane over and bowl there until he received another strike. The first person to bowl a strike on each of the twenty lanes, would win the pot. To my surprise, I came in second place. I think I made it to the twelfth lane before I completely lost the lead and the game. It was a big event for me, though, because it was one of the first times I went bowling with this new group of friends and it felt good to prove how competitive I could be.

I didn't see any fights or drunk people on Saturday when I went with my family. I had to use the house balls and shoes because I didn't have my own with me. I walked out of the alley in the middle of the afternoon instead of the early stages of a sunrise. It was a completely different experience than what I had every time I went bowling in college, but it was still fun to think back to those times.

February 9: Adventure in Austin

Seasoned ground beef, shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, sour creme, queso, and a flat tostada shell wrapped and grilled in a flour tortilla. The Taco Bell Crunchwrap Supreme with a crunchy taco and a large beverage. Also known as the number 9. The following is the adventure I went through to get myself the delicious meal on this cold Tuesday evening.

My vacation had just ended. I thanked and bid a farewell to my friend who had picked me up at the airport. I watched her tail lights ascend the steep hill of my complex's parking lot before grabbing my duffel bag and unlocking the door to my apartment.

The thermostat read 54 degrees, Fahrenheit as I dropped my carry-on luggage in the entryway. I walked across the room and flicked the heater on without even taking my shoes off like I normally would. I called my mom to let her know that I got home safely and checked my email before grabbing the keys to my truck and heading back out into the cold.

The hot air sent a cloud of gray out of the exhaust pipe as I sat and let the truck warm up. As I let the engine do its thing, I tried to find a radio station to listen to. I have actually never listened to FM radio in my truck since moving here so I didn't know any stations.

After finding an English channel, I backed out of the spot causing the accumulated rain water in the truck's bed to rush out the back and spill over the bumper. As I drove up the parking lot's hill that my friend had just traveled, the water left a trail of wet pavement following my lead. Just as I was about to turn out on to the main road, I had to dodge a red vehicle that was pulling into the lot. Close one!

Because of the lack of lighting along the street and entrance to the local Taco Bell, I nearly missed the opening in the center divide. I would have had to wait at the light to make either a left turn or a U-Turn. Can you imagine what was going through my head?!

I usually get the number five when I visit the popular fast food chain, but I had that one a few days ago so I was in the mood for something different. By the way, the number five is the Nachos Bel Grande, a crispy taco, and a drink. When I pulled up to the drive-thru line, I turned my headlights off in consideration to the driver in front of me because that's just the kind of guy I am. After ordering, he drove along to the window and I moved into his spot next to the giant illuminated menu and order voice box.

It cracks me up how the people inside always assume the driver is ready to order as soon as he or she pulls up to the menu. If we all knew right away, why install a giant menu? So I put her in her place and told her that I needed a minute. When I had decided to go with the number 9, I told the voice box that I was ready to order. I told her that I didn't want any sour creme and I wanted a soft taco instead of the crispy one and a Mountain Dew as my beverage of choice. She inaudibly mumbled something, which I assume was the price, but I didn't ask her to repeat herself. I merely drove to the window to pay and collect my meal.

When I rolled down my window, she stood at the sliding glass window with an empty cup. She had forgotten what kind of soft drink I had requested. "Mountain Dew please," I reminded her. She then turned to the soda machine, filled my cup, put a lid on it, and handed the beverage to me through the window with a wrapped straw on the side. After paying $5.25 (exact change), I waited patiently for my meal. The radio station that I had found was already on a commercial break.

After getting my sack-dinner, I drove back to my complex and parked in the same spot that I had recently vacated. My trail of rain water was still there as I activated the vehicle's alarm and made my way to my apartment. I then sat on my couch, inserted my latest Netflix arrival (Survivor Season 1, Disc 1), and enjoyed an authentic Mexican entree with my favorite TV host.

And now you know the rest of the story. I'm exhausted from a long day of travel and I don't care if you liked this post. I got it in before my midnight deadline and my resolution is still alive. Good night.

February 8: Why Lead When You Can Follow?

I have a friend who writes a blog and a few weeks ago, she wrote an entry about wanting her readers to become "followers." A follower on Blogger is nothing more than a reader that has attached his or her name and/or picture to a particular blog. (You can see my list of followers on the left-hand side of this page beneath the titles of my recent posts.) At first, I thought it was a silly and pointless request. In her post she had said that it was her goal to have at least one hundred followers by the end of the year. She pointed out that there were a lot of people that approached her about her entries and that they were constantly praising her for her creative writing skills. She was, and still is very receptive to any comments that people give her in regards to her blog, but she wanted these people to show their support by clicking the "Follow" button on her page. This was the part that I thought was frivolous and unavailing. I even left a comment letting her know my feelings on the topic.

She called me the next day and chewed me out for leaving such a rude comment. At the time, I didn't realize that what I was saying was very rude at all. I told her that I just didn't understand her fascination with getting people to sign up and follow her blog. I thought that a person that wanted as many followers as possible was just as bad as a person that wanted as many friends on Myspace or Facebook. I thought it was a superficial way to feel more popular and better about herself.

She made some pretty strong arguments though as to why she wanted the followers. Apparently, the more followers a particular blog has, the better chances it has to be featured on the Blogger website. She said that a lot of the time when random people search for blogs to read or join, they base their opinions solely on how many followers that blog has. Because of her desire to become a professional writer, she wanted to increase her ways of being discovered and noticed. One way to do that, she thought, was to gain more followers.

After apologizing for being such a "rudey" and trying to convince her that I had no intention of being inconsiderate at all, I changed my view on the matter. I've thought a lot about that conversation since. I've always enjoyed writing, but I have really gained a new appreciation for the craft and the people that do it for a living since starting this blog. I feel like I've accomplished something after every entry I write. There are a few posts that I'm not wild about, but for the most part, I really like the topics that I've come up with. I know I'm mostly doing this project for myself, but I also really want people to read what I write. I understand that it's difficult to follow a blog every single day, but sometimes I feel like I'm just writing for my three followers.

Just like my friend, I've been approached quite a few times about different posts. I've received a lot of random (and sometimes anonymous) comments and I've even had friends of friends mention my blog to me. I love getting comments from all of these new people, but it's still very difficult to get over the idea that Lizz, Max, and Steve are my only readers. I know my parents and my sister read each post, but there are still so many others that read them too and I want to know about them and you.

My request is the same as my friend's. If you read my blog, please follow it. It's so simple to become a follower and you won't even get an email after every post. The only thing that will happen is that your name will show up on my list of followers. You can use just your first name so there aren't any privacy issues either. If you already have a Google account, it's that much easier. I know that if I have more followers, it will inspire me to continue to come up with creative topics and I also think it would be very cool to be a featured blog on the website.

So, although this makes me a look like a hypocrite in every sense of the word, please let me know that you've been reading my blog by becoming a follower. Having to come up with a new topic every day of the year is going to be difficult enough, but if I see your name on that list of followers, you will really help me achieve my goal. Thank you.

February 7: The Self-Portrait

People are always asking me what traits I look for in a girl. Well, there are actually quite a few things that I look for. She has to be able to make me laugh and be able to hold an intelligent conversation. I've always wanted a girl that can make me think differently and not be afraid of speaking her mind. I don't want a girl with tattoos or an excessive amount of piercings. People always say how shallow it is to be so hung up on looks, but I can't be with a girl if I'm not physically attracted to her. Most importantly, though, I need a girl that can take a provocative picture of herself in a mirror with a camera phone.

A girl that can stand in a bikini with her thumb on the shutter release button while striking a promiscuous pose at the same time will win me over every time. When I see a profile picture that was taken in front of a full-length mirror on a social networking website, I make it a priority to send a friend request immediately. My heart races when I see a picture of a girl standing in front of a bathroom counter where all of her toiletries are spread out. I want to see her toothbrush, hairbrush, and mascara brush all in one shot. Nothing turns me on more than a grainy jpeg with a giant white blotch right in the middle of everything. And if that picture was taken on a phone with a full QWERTY keyboard? Oh, mamma!

A girl that likes baseball and Seinfeld can win big points in my book. It's a necessity that I find someone that will put up with my immaturity and elementary humor. However, if she owns a Motorola Razr v3 and a large mirror, she will instantly reserve herself a spot in my heart. I don't want a girl that will send me private pictures through email. If she insists on sending a personal text where she's scantily clad, I suppose I can deal, but what I really want is for her to post a picture that anyone can see.

How do I make the distinction between a good self-portrait and a bad one, you ask? Well, a good one will be followed by 14 comments from guys wearing "wife beaters" and trucker hats. Some of the guys will be flexing abdominal muscles while others will be dramatically looking at the camera with slight head tilts. Their comments will be a plethora of supportive remarks that range from "mmm" to "damn, girl!" to " yum" to "lookin' good, Sweetheart." I don't know about you, but that's when I know a picture is legit.

So, yeah. I'm pretty picky when it comes to selecting a girl. I want a girl that I can introduce to mom and dad. I need someone that can be a role model for my little sister. A girl with a great sense of humor and a knack for taking classy photographs in front of a bathroom or closet mirror is essential to my happiness. If she can take an over-the-shoulder shot with that 2.0 mega pixel camera phone, she better clear her life's calendar because I'm a gonna make her my wife.

February 6: The Costco Experience

When most people go out to eat, they like a place to sit down. They like to be waited on. Most people like to know what the chef's special is. What exactly is the catch of the day? Soup du Jour? I, on the other hand, am a simple man. I don't need anything fancy. In fact, I don't like having my food served to me on a silver platter. I don't like eating with polished silverware. I prefer eating my meals with a plastic spork out of a small, white crinkle-folded doily. I like to fight for my food. Getting that buttered piece of multi-grain toast should be as challenging as possible which is why I love Costco samples.

There is something magical about the entire Costco experience. I don't know if it's the mile-high ceilings or the overall vastness that the warehouse superstore offers. It could also just be the extremely smooth, cold, gray cement floors. Whatever it is, I love it. I could wander the aisles of a Costco for hours on end and never get bored. Where else can you get 64 ounces of Jelly Bellies? 36 rolls of toilet paper in one shrink-wrapped package? No problem! I can literally buy barrels of pretzels and Pop Tarts to last me for six months.

Not only is buying in bulk extremely appealing, but the food they serve at Costco is fantastic! Slices of pizza for $1.99 and fountain drinks for 55 cents. I honestly believe Costco pizza is up there with the best. I went to New York City three different times last summer and had pizza every time. It was pretty good, but Costco's pizza is just as good and it's much cheaper. I've never had more refreshing Coke either. There is something about Costco that makes everything better. When I see that 64 ounce bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup, I have to have it. I like chocolate syrup a lot, but do I really need that much of it? No. But for some odd reason, when I see it sitting in a cardboard box with twenty other bottles on a giant metal shelf, it speaks to me. It tells me that it will change my life. I must own it.

Not only does Costco have giant portions and delicious pizza, but the customer is treated to a bevy of fantastic samples every day. I may be exaggerating a bit with the chocolate syrup, but there is no embellishment involved when I describe the samples as "fantastic." Pulled pork, BBQ chicken sandwiches, slices of papaya, buffalo chicken wings, chips and salsa, chips and seven-layer dip, mini tacos, mozzarella sticks without any sauce, berry-flavored vitamin drinks, and brownies!

Is there anything more exciting and invigorating than standing in line to get a frozen steak and cheese flauta? That's what really makes a trip to Costco an adventure. The samples and the people waiting to get one. When I'm in the membership-only store, I become a vulture circling my prey. I know just when the toaster oven on that rolling station has finished its latest cooking cyle. The way that the employee in the red shirt and hat with the white hair net cuts through those hot pockets with scissors is just so appetizing. The only time the experience is better is when the hair net is wrapped around a male employee's facial hair like a pseudo beard.

A sample's shelf life on the little red tray is approximately ten seconds. Seriously. No matter how disgusting and undesirable a sample may look or sound, someone is always right there to swipe it up. My shins and ankles are in constant danger when approaching a sample table because of shopping carts and hungry customers. If you wait just one second too long to get your sample, someone else will take it. It doesn't matter if you've been waiting patiently and it's the last sample. Someone else will take it.

I love shopping at Costco. I can't think of a more satisfying feeling than leaving with a box of gold fish crackers that takes two people to lift into the car. The pizza and Very Berry Sundaes are to die for, but there is something barbaric, yet pleasurable about going in for a round of samples. There's something about dodging an out-of-control shopping cart that adds to the taste of three salted almonds. I don't go shopping on Black Friday, but I imagine it to be similar to trying to get a sample at Costco which intrigues me to no end.

February 5: The Perfect Pee

The lights are bright as I enter the tiled room. Tiles on the ground and tiles on the walls. Four mirrors reflect my stride as I make my way to the center of one of the walls. I face the wall and stand less than a foot away from it as I unzip my pants. The relieving sensation feels great as I urinate and watch the liquid silently drain down the wall. When I've finished, I pull the zipper up, step back, and let the automatic flush do its thing. I'm not usually a fan of using urinals, but when I notice that a restroom has an automatic flushing floor mounted urinal, I squeal with joy.

I don't find any comfort at all in using a wall mounted urinal. They are always too close to each other and the dividers that separate them are always too low. I feel like I'm on stage when I'm using a urinal on a wall and I can't go at all if there is someone standing at the nearest one. I feel like the design of these toilets is extremely unsatisfactory as well. No matter how I aim my stream, because of their lack of depth, I always end up splashing on myself. I've tried every aiming technique in the book and always come away with splash marks. I can aim for the urinal cake causing my stream to ricochet to the back wall and hope for a soft landing, but it still splashes all the way back out and all over my pants. I've tried aiming along one side thinking that the stream will again ricochet to the back wall and then splash to the other side of the urinal, but this idea also fails. The only way I've ever had any luck at a urinal was if there was water at the bottom that I could aim for. Being able to use one of those without having a neighbor is so rare that I don't even bother though. I always prefer the comfort of the racquetball court (also known as the handicap stall).

A floor mounted urinal is different. With these fixtures, I can aim my stream much lower on the wall which prevents splashing. Because I can aim lower, I can stand closer to the wall which gives me more privacy from neighboring pissers. I don't have to worry about the length or size of the dividers. A floor mounted urinal has its downsides too though. Most of them use manual flushes which are no good. I refuse to touch a public handle so I always use my foot to activate the flush, but on a floor mounted urinal, it is too high. I don't have a problem reaching it, but I don't want to be seen kicking my leg four feet up a wall in a restroom. Again, I will usually just use the private stall.

An automatic flushing floor mounted urinal eliminates all of these issues and concerns and makes for an enjoyable urination. I can stand close enough to the wall to keep spectators away; I get to feel like I'm peeing down the side of a wall without being drunk; and there aren't any splash marks on my pants when I'm finished. On top of that, I don't have to worry about how I'm going to flush! Whenever I am forced to use a public restroom, I usually go for the handicap stall for its privacy and spaciousness, but if there is an automatic flushing floor mounted urinal, sign me up!

February 4: Movie Run Strategies

Some families play board games together. Others take cruises to Alaska. Some families volunteer at homeless shelters while others take picnics. Today, my parents and I went movie hopping. You remember movie hopping, don't you? You were in high school and after going to the movies with one of your friends, he or she convinced you to sneak into another theatre before going home. You probably went into the movie after it had already started, but you still stayed until the end. Remember how exciting that was? Well my family does it on a regular basis and it was my parents that introduced me to "movie runs."

I've turned this family tradition of seeing two or three movies for the price of one into a day for myself to get away. I go to the movies by myself all the time and purchase one ticket. I then stay at the theatre all day and usually fit five full movies in. In fact, my record is seven movies in one day. Pretty impressive, don't you think? How do I do it? How can I see seven full movies in one day without leaving one early and going into another late? Today is your lucky day, my loyal readers! Today, I will tell you exactly how I do it and what my techniques are for not getting caught.

The first step is finding a theatre that is conducive to jumping from one room to the next without being noticed. Because of the recent downturn in the economy, it has actually gotten much easier. Most theatres are designed with two wings or hallways of individual movie rooms. Back when theatres could afford to pay more employees, they would have both of these wings roped off with ticket collectors at each hallway. This made it difficult to movie hop because when you're at home making a schedule, you don't know which wing a certain movie will be playing in. Once you're at the theatre, if all of your scheduled movies aren't in the same wing, it would be impossible to go into the other hallway without having a ticket.

Now that theatres can't afford to employ two ticket collectors, they rope off the entire lobby as soon as you enter through the front doors after purchasing your ticket. Once you get past that one ticket taker, you have access to either wing and depending on your level of comfort, you could easily go from one to the other without any problems at all.

Other theatres are designed as one big hallway which makes it that much easier to make your way from one movie to the next no matter what the economy is like. However, there are still movie theatres that are just too difficult to get around unseen. Finding the right theatre is the most important step to a successful movie run.

Once you know where you'll be spending the day, it's time to make a schedule. I always use Fandango to locate my theatre and look up the movie times the night before I go. It doesn't really matter what website you use, but I like Fandango because everything is organized nicely and they have the run-time for each show. This is crucial in planning your day. Once I have all of the movie times in front of me, I use a piece of scratch paper to start writing times.

I always try to start with the earliest showing and then do the math to determine what time the show will end. I then look for another movie starting no sooner than 15 minutes after the previous one is supposed to end. Just because a movie is scheduled at a certain time, doesn't mean it will actually start at that time. This will then will push the end time back which will mess up your entire schedule. You never know how many commercials or previews will be shown before the movie starts. You also have to take into consideration that the projectionist might not show up right on time. With all that in mind, never EVER schedule your next movie any sooner than 15 minutes after the last movie's scheduled end time. Sometimes I can make two or three movies fit together nicely, but then I can't get another one to work for an hour and a half after the third movie. This is no good. If this happens, start over with a different starting movie. After you've put together a schedule that works nicely, you're ready to go.

The next step is planning on getting hungry. When you sit in a theatre, other people will be eating popcorn and nachos. They will be slurping sodas and sucking candies. The smells and sounds will make you hungry. Trust me, you can't go all day without anything to eat. I've done it, but by the third or fourth movie, you start thinking about your stomach and you can't concentrate on the movie that's playing. I have found that buying a foot long sandwich at Subway is the best way to go. Keep in mind what vegetables you put on your sandwich. Pickles and tomatoes have a higher water concentration than lettuce and onions. This will cause your bread to get soggy. The idea behind getting a sandwich is that you can keep it in your lap for a few hours before actually eating it. You want it to be edible when you're finally ready to consume it. I always have the Subway employee wrap the two halves separately which makes it easier to sneak in and easier to eat in the dark without getting it all over myself. This way, I can also wait until the next movie before eating the second half. Occasionally I will sneak in a bottle of water as well, but that's up to you. Most theatres have drinking fountains in the hallways that you can use in between movies.

So I've got my schedule and my sandwich. Sometimes, I'll go to Rite-Aid beforehand and get some Mike & Ikes or Hot Tamales, but I don't do this every time. I always bring a light jacket too. No matter if it's winter or summer, sitting in an air conditioned building all day can get cold. I take a light jacket that has pockets on both sides of the liner so I can put a half of my sandwich on either side. I don't really know the rules of bringing food in, but I hide my food just to be safe. On any given day, I usually wear shorts and flip flops, but I always wear jeans and closed-toe-shoes when going to the movies to stay warm.

Once I get to the theatre and buy my ticket, I pay close attention to every detail as I make my way to the first movie. I take a mental picture of the guy taking my ticket because I know he may be on custodial duty later in the day. I look at the people behind the concession stand as well for the same reason. I try to find the manager and take notice of his or her habits of staying seated or making the rounds. When I hand the ticket collector my ticket and he or she tells me to go right, I always go left. I go halfway down the hallway and try to locate the rooms in which the movies on my schedule are playing. If I know the order of my movies and I see my fourth movie in the hallway on the other side of the theatre, it's easier to make a beeline from the third movie. You don't want to be wandering the halls looking at each marque because it makes you stand out.

So now that I know where all my movies are playing, I can just sit and enjoy each movie. When you make your way from one room to the other, you just have to walk with confidence. No one will stop you if you look like you know what you're doing. Don't make too much eye contact with the staff as you leave each room. Don't not make eye contact either. That will make you look suspicious. Sometimes when making your schedule you'll be forced to wait upwards of 40 minutes before your next movie starts. You can't go into the next movie that soon because the staff will still be cleaning it from the previous showing. You can't wait in the hallway either. In these cases, I will go into the bathroom and just stand in one of the stalls until I think the room is ready for new guests. I never try to enter a new room with more than 20 minutes until showtime.

That's pretty much it. Keep in mind that when you first start going to more than one or two movies at a time, you will get really bad headaches and your knees will hurt. You just have to stick with it and your body will adapt. You will also be forced to watch a lot of bad movies to get to all of the movies that you want to see. Now that you know my secrets, you should have no problem at all. Good luck and have fun!