April 30: Not So Famous Amos

In Mrs. Cole's third grade class, we were required to do reports on influential African Americans. Some people went the boring route and chose Martin Luther King Jr. or Rosa Parks. Being the natural clown that I am, I did my report on Bill Cosby. I remember we were asked to do something more than just a written report, but I can't remember what I did or what I learned about the Coz. In fact, I remember my classmate Doug's report and presentation on Wally Amos and his "Famous" cookies more than my own.

When your primary objective in life is to act like an idiot and try to make people laugh, you care more about cookies than human rights. Perhaps that's what caused me to remember Doug's report. I'm a big fan of the cookie and all things related to it. I can do a spot-on imitation of Cookie Monster's C is for Cookie and I often fantasize about the chip warmer at work being filled with homemade cookies instead of corn chips. Whenever I go home or my parents visit me, my mom bakes cookies and I usually eat five to six a day until the batch is gone.

Now, when I say that I remembered my friend's presentation, I don't mean that I remember everything about the cookie pioneer. I just remember Doug bringing in homemade cookies for the class as a part of his report. He did such a convincing job of telling the story and struggles of Wally that he had every eight-year-old in that class drooling at the thought of a good cookie. Because the report was on Famous Amos and Doug brought in the tasty treats, the two became synonymous with each other.

Since that day 19 years ago, every time I see a bag of Famous Amos cookies, I think of Doug and his report. I think about how well the report was presented to the class and how I've always longed to have a fresh Famous Amos cookie. These thoughts circle through my mind every time I hold a bag in my hands and open the package. I dream about being in the kitchen with Amos as I pop that first bite-sized cookie into my mouth. I am, however, instantly extremely disappointed as soon as that dry, dusty texture touches the surface of my tongue.

Store-bought Famous Amos cookies are little discs of sand embedded with flavorless chocolate chips. I've never been a fan of Chips Ahoy and their obnoxious animated cookie mascot. Famous Amos cookies are just slightly better than the Nabisco snack and not by much. When I pop a cookie into my mouth, I want my taste buds to dance and throw little parties on my tongue. Unless I purposefully freeze it, a cookie should be soft and chewy. It should be flavorful and cause me to salivate. A cookie should not send me in search of the nearest water fountain. Don't get me started on dipping a Famous Amos Cookie into a glass of milk! I might as well dunk a rock and pop it into my mouth. Come to think of it, that might actually be better than the compacted sawdust chunk that is a Famous Amos.

Obviously I never had the pleasure of having an original, but I guarantee that if they were anything like the nonperishable mess that I know and hate, Amos never would have gained the distinctive title of being famous. He never would have found himself in that dynamic trio that he's in with Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth. On the other hand, if his original cookie was as disgusting as it is today, I wouldn't have anything to complain about on April 30. So, in a way, I want to thank you, Wally. Thank you for sucking.

April 29: (Race) Car Ya-Yas

I recently posted a blog entry on my distaste for bumper stickers. I wrote how I didn't see the point of expressing one's views with adhesive and plastering those beliefs on a car that was going to be left unattended was just asking for trouble. Today, however, I would like to write about using one's vehicle for comic relief.

Is it just me, or do an overwhelming number of Mexican gardeners have awesome stuffed animals riding on the outside of their compact trucks? While sitting at a traffic light today, I looked to my right and noticed a blue stuffed shark strapped to the tailgate of a small Nissan truck. Its vibrant blue fur was quite the contrast to the unwashed dark blue of the dirty truck. I've never seen a teddy bear on a Suburban or a Camry. I have yet to see a stuffed Nemo on a PT Cruiser, but there's always a spot for such a character on a beat up Ford Ranger with a lawnmower in the bed. The real joy for me, however, comes when I see that oblivious man behind the wheel staring blankly ahead. He never looks like the kind of guy that would have a teddy bear on the grill of his truck. He looks so serious!

I know for a fact, that my next favorite is a favorite for almost everyone. There is no better feeling than that of witnessing a Dodge Ram with a pair of beige colored testicles swinging peacefully from the trailer hitch race by on the freeway. I could be having a lousy day, but when I pull up behind that truck at a stop sign and I see those nuts, my mood changes drastically.

I want to meet the guy (I'm assuming it was a dude) that came up with such an idea. I bet he was the life at every party he attended. I bet he had the best sense of humor around and he was the envy of pranksters everywhere. How did he come up with the idea? How many balls did he have to see before deciding they would look good on the back of a truck? Was he looking at a trailer hitch when the idea light came on or was he staring at a hairy sack? How much money has that guy's invention generated?

Antenna balls is another form of automobile flare, but I think they're a little overdone. They aren't original anymore. I really liked the campaign that Jack-In-The-Box had a few years ago, though. Depending upon which city a person was in, he or she could get their Jack antenna ball with that particular city's baseball helmet. Buy a Jumbo Jack in San Diego, get a Padres Jack antenna ball. Buy one in Kansas City, get a Jack sporting a Royals helmet. When Wienerschnitzel had the commercials with the running hotdog, people could get a little hotdog to put on their antenna which was cool, but overall, the concept isn't that creative or funny anymore.

The best example of automobile hilarity that I can remember, however, was how a driver used his car's DVD player. It was about nine o'clock at night and I was in Hemet, California. I was at a stop light when I looked to my right and saw that the car was playing a movie. I always like trying to see if I can guess the movie that the riders are watching before the light changes, so I was squinting and trying to figure it out. It didn't take long for me to notice a naked woman on her back being violated in every which way. Embarrassed, I quickly looked away, but not before noticing the driver looking at me through his tinted window and laughing hysterically.

I don't know if he was laughing at catching me catching him watching porn or if he was laughing at my own attempt at getting double takes. On that particular night, I had a life-sized stuffed dummy riding shotgun in my own truck. I had just finished shooting my Survivor audition tape and I couldn't possibly throw my dummy away. I didn't have any place to keep him, so I kept him strapped into my truck. I usually keep him in the back seat, but for some reason, I thought it would be funny to drive around with him in the front seat that night. No, I have never used the carpool lane with him. It was simply for a laugh.

Stuffed animals strapped to the racks of a trucks and antenna balls expressing team pride. Pornography on a night's drive and swinging testicles racing by. I've seen some fascinating forms of creativity on and in vehicles. Some are weird and completely random. Others are hilarious and awe-inspiring. Don't use your vehicle for propaganda, but as a means of expressing your creativity. Drive around with a dummy in your car and you'll be amazed at the number of double takes you get on a daily basis and you'll be equally impressed with how scared your passengers will get when they realize they aren't the only ones riding with you!

April 28: Let's Vent

If you have ever been a server, you know what it's like to think your night is over just to have one last group of people arrive and expect to be served as if it's the middle of the shift. It sucks when this happens, but you do it anyway.

Tonight, this very thing happened. I had all of my checks closed out and I was in the back doing my final duties before calling it a night when a co-worker informed me that I had been sat. I had to drop what I was doing and give the group of people the rundown of having to order right then and that they would only be able to get one round of drinks.

Fifteen minutes later (now five minutes after the close of the restaurant), I brought them their orders and asked if there was anything else they needed. A very flamboyant man pointed to his empty glass and said, "I need another margarita. Does anyone else want anything before last call?"

I simply laughed and reminded him that last call was fifteen minutes ago; in other words, it was when he sat down. He then threw his hands down in frustration, looked over his shoulder, and asked, "Where is my cousin?"

Apparently, he is cousins with one of the restaurant's owners. He's that guy that has never done anything for the restaurant but happens to be related to someone that has. He never worked there on the weekends or helped seat people on a busy afternoon. He's that guy that goes in because he knows he can get away with things that he couldn't at other restaurants.

After a manager informed me that he was a part of "the family," I served him his margaritas (he was the only one of the group that wanted one) and continued with my closing duties. So not only does he feel entitled to show up ten minutes before the restaurant closes, he can receive drinks when every other guest is being turned down for the same request. On top of that, he paid with a hundred dollar bill!

I know anyone that's reading this doesn't care, but I appreciate you letting me vent. Good night.

April 27: The Final Speech

Comm 101. Public Speaking. A class that was required for graduation. A class that most people feared and put off until the last semester of senior years. Public speaking is the number one fear for Americans so it made perfect sense that this was by far the largest class on campus. The average classroom size at Chapman University was thirty people, but Comm 101 had upwards of one hundred students.

Students stressed over final papers and exams, but dreaded standing in front of a lecture hall full of judgmental peers. A semester of technique and style led to a two-week period of final speeches by nervous and terrified young adults. They gave speeches on deaths in the family. They delivered sermons on the struggles of immigrating Mexican families and gave tirades on political mumbo jumbo.

When it was my turn to face the crowd, I nervously descended the stairs to the front of the lecture hall. I stood in front of the giant dry erase board and waited patiently for the professor to get his papers organized. When he pointed at me signifying the okay to start, I scanned the audience. Students from freshmen to seniors looked down on me with anticipation of another long and boring lecture on a family pet or the purchase of a first car.

In a deadpan, I began with an oral history of the yo-yo. I drew diagrams of axles and strings. I explained how the evolution of technology changed a simple toy and how creating a ball-bearing to spin around a metal axle resulted in longer sleep times and more advanced tricks. As the ridiculously silly address progressed from history lesson to enthusiasm over a child's toy, my energy level climbed higher and higher.

The audience, which started as a stressed out and slouched group of students, sat up in their seats and leaned forward. I delivered each word with clarity, enunciation, and unparalleled fervor. I bounced back and forth with merriment from diagram to diagram as each student dutifully listened.

They roared with laughter as I extracted my bicycle helmet from beneath the podium and placed it on my head. Their anticipation grew as I withdrew my purple Spintastics Tigershark yo-yo and did a few loop-de-loops in preparation for my Hydrogen Bomb finale. They held their breath as the butterfly-shaped toy shot to my right, fiercely spinning at the end of the string. Eyes were glued on the the purple blur as it flew around extended fingers, bounced off taut strings and shot through a final loop-de-loop before safely landing in my open hand. The spectacular culmination sent an unseen wave of energy throughout the room causing every sitting member to leap to his and her feet in uproarious applause.

Although I had politely asked for a standing ovation if my attempted stunt were to succeed, it still felt great to be on the receiving end of such admiration and love. As I proudly stood with my Tigershark clenched in my right hand, I couldn't help but smile and take several bows. Fear of speaking publicly had nothing on me!

April 26: A Moment of Your Time

As I lie in bed with the shades drawn, the ceiling fan quietly sends a peaceful breeze throughout my apartment. My eyelids grow heavy and my breathing becomes shallow and calm as sleep descends upon me. Dreams of cool brooks, grandiose swaying trees and sugar plumbs (or something like that) flicker through my mind's eye. My goose down pillows comfortably form to every contour of my tired and heavy head and my 1500 count thread Egyptian cotton sheets feel soft and cool against my worn out body. I'm in a world of clear blue skies and vibrant green grassy fields. The phone rings, destroying my fantasy world and sending me flying back into reality.

It's Chris from the National Rifle Association. He wants to know how I'm doing before he introduces himself. You see, if he introduces himself first, it allows me to hang up the phone faster. This way, he's insured a way to keep me connected; pretty smart if you ask me. He wants to know when the last time I went hunting was. He wants to know if I'm interested in preserving the second amendment from the government (or something like that).

I humor him by letting him know that I'm fine and out of habit, I ask how he's doing. I don't care how he's doing, but I ask anyway. I tell him that I've never been hunting and that he should save his breath; I'm not interested in what he has to say. But wait! He insists on trying to spark my interest with that second amendment thing. I interrupt him and tell him that I'm simply not interested. I tell him to cross my name off of his list and to move on to the next guy.

After ending the call, I ponder about what it must be like to have a job like that. I was rude to the guy because he unknowingly woke me from such a comfortable siesta. Granted, I probably shouldn't have been sleeping in the middle of the day, but still.

I can't imagine being forced to go into work every day and call complete strangers to get them to donate money or sign petitions or take surveys. No one likes being called by telemarketers and because there is that invisible shield protecting us, we don't have any problem treating these people like crap. Sure, the guy probably knew what he was getting himself into when he took the job, but it's one thing to know that you're going to get a few rude people and a completely separate issue to have to deal with them 99% of the day. It's got to wear a little thin, doesn't it?

I begin to feel bad for Chris. I was part of the problem. He'll go home tonight and his girlfriend or wife will ask him how his day was. He'll respond by saying how much he hates his job and how he hates being the bad guy; the stranger that no one wants to talk to.

As I lie in my darkened room staring at the silent ceiling fan, I regret my actions, but when I rub my eyes and realize how tired I still am, my empathy disappears. How dare he call me and disrupt my slumber. What makes him think I would want to hear his propaganda on the NRA? I long to return to my grassy fields of sugar plums and placid blue skies.

April 25: You Just Got Poned!

In high school it was Goldeneye. In college it was Halo. Guys everywhere were crowded around television sets and killing each other with AK-47s and grenade launchers. As time passed and technology improved, people didn't even have to be in the same room to play. They began gunning each other down from different states and countries. Now, friends connect their consoles to the Internet and use headsets to communicate with each other. Some of them team up with each other to kill other teams and some of them prefer the free-for-all style where it's every player for himself.

I purchased Call of Duty 2 for my Playstation3 console with the hopes of improving my game skills on the day the game came out in November. I had never been any good at any game that wasn't baseball related, but I thought I would try nonetheless. What I didn't expect, however, was the enthusiasm these other online players possessed. Guys will literally spend hours on end playing the same game over and over again running their characters around in these made-up worlds dodging bullets and spitting expletives and insults through their headsets. A noob like myself had less than zero chance at survival.

I've never been called such offensive and downright foul names by complete strangers. N-words, F-words, c*ck-sucker, and f*ggot. All because I couldn't shoot and kill before being shot and killed myself! You see, when you're sitting comfortably in the privacy of your home with a headset on and a controller in your hand, you can say whatever you want to the other players in your simulated battle zone. And because I spend each round running around aiming towards the clouds instead of mowing enemies down with gunfire, I am the recipient of such taunts.

This is the basic breakdown of each round for me: Game starts, my character steps around a corner and POW! Dead. Camera changes to the killer's perspective and I watch my character step around that corner only to be gunned down by a merciless teenager with a different area code. The game then drops my character in a different area of the level. This time I'm in a warehouse and at the top of a flight of stairs. I'm more cautious as I approach a window to look down on the other players in hopes of picking each one off. Out of my rear speakers, I hear a slash and watch my character fall to the ground. Camera changes to the killer's viewpoint again. There I am; looking out of the window minding my own business. My killer approaches my character, withdraws a knife and slices through the back of my neck.

Throw in the expletives and hate-filled insults in between each kill and you have a typical round of online play. My character stays alive for an average of fifteen seconds before being gunned down and dropped into another area of the game. This "entertaining" process goes on for the duration of the five minute round before the game congratulates me on spending the most time looking through the "kill cam." My counterparts are being awarded with "best shot" or "most kills." I get "most time spent looking through the kill cam." Thanks.

Suffice it to say I didn't play Call of Duty 2 very much before retiring it to my shelf. I finished the game on the easiest setting (which took longer than it probably should have) and haven't played it since. This is the new wave of home entertainment: to sit at home in my underwear and be called a f*ggot by punks with no lives. At least it comes to me in stunning high definition surround sound!

April 24: Don't Judge Me

When I walk into someone's living room, one of the first things I notice is the DVD collection. I'd like to think that I'm not the only one that eventually ends up browsing the list of titles as soon as an opportunity presents itself, but that probably isn't true. You can tell a lot about a person by the choice of DVDs he or she might have and I'll even go as far as to say that I judge my friends based on their taste in movies. Is it fair for me to do this? Not at all. Especially when you look at my collection.

I went through a Jim Carrey phase where I collected every (mainstream) movie that he was in. I don't have Earth Girls Are Easy or Once Bitten, although I have seen both and both are equally terrible. My collection begins with Ace Ventura: Pet Detective and ends with Bruce Almighty. It was after the latter that I realized I wasn't such a fan anymore. Fun With Dick and Jane? The Number 23? Give me a break! I have every movie in between that he starred in though. I don't have Batman Forever or Simon Birch because he wasn't the lead in either of those movies.

Because I was such a fanatic about collecting each of his films, my collection can look a little lopsided. It's easy to only see certain blocks of titles by quickly looking at my shelf of DVDs which makes my taste in film look extremely limited. Take, for example, my nine seasons of Seinfeld, six seasons (and one coming in June) of Curb Your Enthusiasm, ten Pixar films, and five seasons of The Office. All are great, but they take up a lot of space on my shelf and draw a lot of attention. The box of the first three Indiana Jones pictures is huge and distracting as are the three dictionary-sized extended editions of The Lord of the Rings.

If you look closer, however, you might find some real gems. (500) Days of Summer and Inglourious Basterds are new additions and both are fantastic if you weren't already aware. The Departed, Kingpin, and the Back to the Future films are all classics. These are the movies that I want to be judged on, but they some times get overshadowed by the bulkier and more expansive collections.

So when I go to a friend's house and start judging him on his collection of movies, I should probably think twice about what he would see if he were to browse my shelf. Most embarrassing movie I own? My Big Fat Greek Wedding. In case you're wondering, I won it in college and didn't go out and spend my hard-earned cash on the Nia Vardalos rom com. That doesn't mean that my friends wouldn't see it sitting with my Gladiator disc, though. I only hope that the giant, silver Toy Story box distracts them before they notice.

April 23: Tucky

My uncle lives in a small town in Indiana just off of the Ohio River and within minutes of the border to Kentucky and Ohio. He's lived there his entire life where he raised cattle and farmed corn, tobacco and soybeans. He is one of the nicest and most intelligent human beings I have ever met and he will do anything for anyone. He will literally drop whatever he's doing to help someone else, but he also happens to be the biggest hillbilly hick that I have ever met in person. Larry the Cable Guy is nothing in comparison to my uncle. My uncle is the guy that Jeff Foxworthy is talking about with his "You might be a redneck if..." routine.

It wasn't until I was forced to hang out with him for a week with nothing to do in the dead of winter that I changed my mind about his redneck status. Tucky was a short and grotesquely thin man with greasy black hair and missing fingers. When he cackled his smokey, raspy laugh, his dark pockets of missing teeth peered out from his lips. His scratchy, deep-woods accented voice was, I'm sure, a result of years of smoking multiple packs of cigarettes a day.

The first time I met him, he drove up the gravel drive in an old, beat up blue sedan. He stepped out of the car with a half-empty can of beer in one hand and a burning cigarette clinging to his dried and cracked lips. The scent of smoke and alcohol overpowered his pungent body odor and overall lack of hygiene as he entered the small shed where my uncle, his friends, and I sat trying to stay warm.

Apparently everything he owned was stuffed into his car. He had just burned down his apartment (a scheme that my uncle was convinced he used to get insurance money) and he was forced to live out of his vehicle until he could find another place to call his own and burn down. From the passenger side of the car, he pulled out an antique kerosene lamp that he had just purchased for ten dollars. He was positive, however, that it was worth much more which is why he felt it necessary to show it off to my uncle and his friends.

After convincing my uncle to buy it for twenty dollars (which my uncle later sold for fifty) the conversation somehow moved to the multiple girls that Tucky had been with. (Can you tell, yet, that my uncle and his friends considered Tucky the town idiot and kept him around for nothing more than a good laugh?) Being in the presence of such a repulsive individual, one can only imagine how disgusting his sexual achievements must have been which is precisely why we encouraged him to give us stomach-turning details of each one.

Three cans of beer and two cigarettes later, we were being entertained with stories of what his girls liked and how they liked it. Before I knew it, Tucky was pulling a paper grocery sack from the trunk of his car and bringing its mystery contents into the shed. Dildos of varying size and color, a string of anal beads, a clear tube with an accompanying pump, and other random toys and instruments fell out of the bag when it was overturned by the eight-fingered man. Tucky then carefully lined up the dildos by height as my uncle, his friends, and I laughed uncontrollably. The line was finished with the biggest, blackest rubber dick I had ever seen. The thing was the size of the eucalyptus logs we had been feeding into the shed's furnace!

Like any good comedian, Tucky didn't let our laughter stop before moving on to his prized piece: the clear plastic tube; also known as the penis pump. He then began to explain how it worked and if we had let him, there is no doubt in my mind that he would have dropped his pants on the shed floor and given us a visual lesson.

My uncle is a hillbilly hick, but he's got nothin' on a raspy voiced, greasy haired, yellow toothed town idiot with missing fingers and a sack full of fun. My week in Indiana was long, cold, and boring, but Tucky's visit somehow made the trip worth it. I've tried telling the story to friends and family. I'm trying again with this post, but I don't think I could ever do genuine justice to the man with the penis pump.

April 22: Traffic

It's raining. The drops of water fall from the blackness above; almost appearing from nowhere to crash on my windshield. The tail lights in front of me illuminate everything in red. I can feel the weight of each drop on my truck's roof. My vehicle is motionless on a four lane highway. Red as far as I can see in front of me and white as far as I can see behind me. The oncoming traffic races by at astronomical speeds on the other side of a center divide one lane to my left.

As I sit and listen to each drop of water smack and explode against my truck's paint, I wonder what has caused the traffic to come to a complete stand still at 11:34 pm on a Thursday night. It can't be construction. I've traveled this same highway every night for the past two years and not once have I seen any kind of indication that there would be road work. I haven't seen any heavy machinery or a single orange cone. This has to be something other than construction.

I have literally been sitting in this traffic for over forty-five minutes. I've moved maybe fifty yards. The rain will not let up. I was supposed to be home a half an hour ago, but whatever is causing this traffic jam is out of my sight. How far does this bumper-to-bumper nonsense last? A mile? Five miles? What if the cause of it all is twenty miles down the road? How long will it be?

Finally the glaring red lights in front of me fade to a mild orange. Traffic is moving. We're clear to go. I let my foot off of the brake as the Corolla in front of me pulls away. The cars on my left speed up and move forward into the rain. The eighteen-wheeler to my right revs its engine and lurches forward. This is definitely the end of my wait. This isn't one of those let-my-foot-off-the-brake-for-half-a-second-before-I-stop-again moves. This is the real deal. I move my right foot slightly to the right and apply pressure to the gas pedal. My truck groans under the unexpected nudge I give it. The rain seems to fall harder on my windshield and and just as I'm about to increase the speed of the wipers, the red lights return.

Damn it! I thought I had gotten through it! I thought whatever it was that was keeping this traffic from going anywhere had gone away. There better be some major carnage up there to keep me stranded out on this wet pavement in the middle of the night. If I don't see blood on the asphalt, I'm going to be really upset. I mean, this is ridiculous! I can understand traffic like this during rush hour, but at midnight? Give me a break. Give me something to look at. I need some kind of payment for making me wait like this. There better be shattered glass and bodies on stretchers. There better be people huddled in masses crying over lost loved ones. I want to see the jaws of life trying desperately to save a mangled woman only to find it's too late.

My radio scans through clear Right-Wing talk to the static accordions of Hispanic music to sightings of unidentified flying objects. I hear commercials for tank less water heaters before being forced to listen to commercials for natural home turf lawns. I want to hear a traffic report, but instead, I hear fourteen-year-olds calling late-night radio programs asking about premature ejaculation and how to tell their parents that they're pregnant. I want to know how much longer I have to wait before I can see some real graphic material but have to endure the wrath of a Republican going ballistic on the current president.

I hardly notice the steady progression I've made in the last hour. All I can think of is the commotion my windshield wipers are making and the seemingly endless line of red lights in front of me. When the blinding red evaporates and pulls away for what seems to be the one hundredth time, I don't get my hopes up. I know it's going to stop as soon as I believe the wait is over. It doesn't though.

Now is my chance to see real trauma. Now is my chance to see death first hand. I'm actually going to get to see severed limbs and scattered brains. Brains! Pink and red. Soft and spongy. Wet from rain and covered in gravel. I speed up to maintain my position within the traffic. I look to the right and then to the left. Which side is the mayhem going to be on?

The traffic continues to speed up and makes its way through the night. A flashing exchange of reds and blues ahead on the right. The site of the accident. I increase the speed of my wipers as I peer through the right side of my windshield at the flashing lights. I stare through the passenger's window as I pass the desolate scene. One patrol vehicle with flashing lights is what's left of whatever it was that kept me waiting. One officer in the driver's seat with his eyes turned downward writing a report. All that waiting. All that time wasted and nothing to show for it.

April 21: The Bumper Sticker

On my way home from work, I found myself sitting at a red light when I noticed that the car in front of me had an outline of a fish with legs and feet to the left of the license plate. Within the outline, Darwin was written. I've seen the evolution decal before, but for some reason, today's made me think about opinionated bumper stickers. "Bush/Cheney," "McCain/Palin," "Obama/Biden," a yellow equal sign over a blue square, etc. They're all over the place and they range from politics to sexual preferences to sports teams.

It's pretty dangerous (and pointless) to make a statement on your car. I don't think there is anything wrong (in fact, it's lame if you don't have an opinion) with taking a stance on a topic, but you're putting yourself out there by taking that stance on a vehicle that you leave unattended on a daily basis. Just because you're leaving your car behind doesn't mean you're taking your opinions with you. This is the perfect opportunity for somebody with an opposing view to take their stance.

Although I'm not one to use my vehicle as a way of expressing thought, I do have a San Diego Padres logo on my rear window. I am a die-hard Padres fan and I forever will be. I'm not always proud to be a fan because they're not a competitive team year in and year out, but I still follow them win or lose. Having the SD logo out there for everyone to see isn't as dangerous, I feel, as other stances I could take. The Padres are a pretty boring team for non fans. They have only been to the World Series twice in their forty-one years of existence and they came up short both times. Even the Dodgers, their "division rivals," don't consider them a rival like they do of the Giants. When I park and leave my truck, I'm not concerned with any Padres haters. It would be different, however, if I were a Yankees fan with a logo on my truck. Leaving my vehicle unattended in Boston would just be asking for trouble with the history that those two teams and their fans share.

When it comes to more serious topics, however, I feel there is a time and a place to let one's opinions be heard. It's a sign of what a poor state our society is in when we feel obligated to tell the world that we're for equal rights for gays. If everyone were compassionate and understanding of others, putting the yellow equal sign or the strip of rainbow colors on a car would serve no purpose. But because our society is littered with ignorant bigots, people feel obligated to announce that they're different. Unfortunately, in making these bold claims, people are putting themselves out there for vandalism and/or worse. Does it bother me to see the rainbow? No. I couldn't care less what your view on gay marriage is, but considering the ramifications for slapping the sticker on to your bumper has to be taken into account.

The same thing goes for political bumper stickers. Sure, the election seems to last forever, but it doesn't. Now you're stuck with showing off who you voted for. If your candidate won, great, you got your way. If he lost, you look bitter. If he won and he drives the country into the ground, it's your fault! Either way, there are people that voted for the other candidate and no matter how well your guy is doing, their guy "would have done better." I just don't understand why you would invite someone of an opposing view to vandalize your sticker or run his/her key down the side of your car.

There are ignorant people that hate gays. There are Republicans and Democrats. Adam arrived and gave one of his ribs to Eve. Adam used to be a monkey. Animal rights activists and owners of guns. People want to kill babies and people want to wear fur. I love the Padres and no one cares. My teachers used to tell me that there was a time and a place to be a clown and the same principle applies to putting bumper stickers on your car. If you feel like you have to push your opinions on me, tell me you like listening to Nirvana or that you're the lizard king and you can do anything (aka funny stickers). I'm not just saying this for my sake. I'm saying it for you and your car's.

April 20: Welcome to Wal-Mart

Good morning. Welcome to Wal-Mart.

My black rubber-soled shoes are tightly laced up and tied in a double knot. My red Mickey Mouse shirt is clean and tucked neatly into my blue jeans. My long, black hair is pulled neatly into a French braid. My bright, blue vest is freshly pressed and it proudly displays my yellow smiley face pin over my left breast.

Good morning. Welcome to Wal-Mart.

Steven, from the night crew didn't do a very good job putting away the carts again last night. If he keeps this up, I'm going to have to report him to management. What's so hard about lining up fifty shopping carts? Take a cart and push it into the back of another one until you can't push any more. Repeat. Not only do you have more space for more carts when you do it this way, but it's a direct reflection on our beloved store. It's the first thing the guest sees upon entering.

Good morning. Welcome to Wal-Mart.

The Redbox guy is here with the new releases! This is the best part of my job. I have first pick of the new DVDs. What's he putting in there today? The Lovely Bones? That's the Lord of the Rings guy, right? I wonder if my kids would enjoy that one. I'll have to ask the Redbox guy if he's seen it. He knows so much about movies.

Good morning. Welcome to Wal-Mart.

Is that Ray from Electronics? Oh my God it is! Be cool. Breathe. "Hi, Ray! Welcome to Wal-Mart! Get it?! I'm a greeter! Ok, well I'll see you later!" Whew. Breathe. He really is the greatest. The way he walks in on his cell phone every day. He's really popular and I think he might know my name. Or at least what it starts with.

Hi. Welcome to Wal-Mart. Shoes are straight back and to the left of Electronics.

I remember when I first started and I didn't know where anything was. People would come in and ask where the paper towels were. I didn't know whether to point them towards Household Items or Groceries. I didn't know where Gardening was or how far back Home Office was. I've really come a long way since I joined the staff six months ago. It's hard to believe that I've been a part of the Greeters longer than anyone else. People come and go I guess. I can't afford to give up my Redbox privileges, though.

Hi. Welcome to Wal-Mart.

It's almost lunch time. I love lunch time. It's so great having a McDonald's so close. I usually get the number 2 combo. The simplicity of two cheeseburgers, fries, and a Coke is really satisfying. I think, however, that I will go for the Chicken McNugget meal today. I've totally been craving them all day.

Good afternoon. Welcome to Wal-Mart.

I better get the return gun. "Let me just put this sticker on your item. You can walk around the store first, but make sure you keep the sticker on. When you're ready to make your exchange, the Customer Service counter is right over there."

Good afternoon. Welcome to Wal-Mart.

My feet are killing me. Just one more hour until the shift ends. I've got my new DVD to watch tonight. Another great thing about working here is that I can get my groceries before I go home! I don't have to fight the traffic to get to a grocery store. I'm already here! I've got to get some milk and cereal. Maybe I'll get some microwavable popcorn for the movie tonight too.

Good evening. Welcome to Wal-Mart.

April 19: The Pen Is Royal Blue!

"Hey, Brandon. How was your day?"

"Hi, Mom. It was okay. Nothing too exciting."

"Hey, why is the front door unlocked?"

"Oh, um. I uh. There was a cat and I opened the door to scare it off and um, I must have forgotten to lock the door."

"A cat?"

"Okay, Carly was here! I'm sorry I lied! I don't know why I did it. I'm sorry!"

When it comes to lying, I am the absolute worst! I can't do it. Lying is never even an option for me. When someone asks me a question, I give the honest answer every time. My brain just doesn't work fast enough to be able to come up with a creative fabrication on the spot.

Recently I was, for lack of a better word, forced to lie. I don't know who reads these so I'll make this as vague and ambiguous as I possibly can without losing any of the story. I knew I was going to have to lie, so I tried to put my words together so it wouldn't technically be a lie. I thought by doing this, it would make it easier for me to achieve my goal, but it didn't.

My hands immediately became cold and clammy. My knees literally started shaking. The tone of my voice became slightly higher and the volume was just a bit louder. I stuttered and quickly looked into the listener's right eye before breaking eye contact all together and looking toward the ground. My stomach turned over and my heart rate increased. I don't know what the listener was thinking. I don't know if he/she believed me, but I definitely felt vulnerable and extremely guilty. And I wasn't even technically lying!

I've gotten in trouble with tables that I've waited on because I told them the truth about how their food was prepared. I've had guests ask me my opinion on certain menu items and I flat out told them how disgusting I thought the item was. Peers ask me personal and private questions and because I don't have the ability to make something up, I go with the truth; and then I'm made fun of it.

I'll never be able to cheat on a girl or steal from work. If I murder someone, I better hope I'm never a suspect. Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment is a perfect example of the type of paranoia that I would experience if I ever did commit a crime.

Whenever people find this out about me, they're always telling me to just lie like it's something easy that everybody does. For whatever reason, though, I can't do it. If I know what I'm saying isn't the truth, I'm convinced everyone else knows it too. I simply cannot lie.

April 18: The Many Looks of Brandon

I think it first started in my freshman year of college. I was in a strange and unfamiliar place and I didn't have a job. My savings was a one-way road. My bank account wasn't being replenished in any way; it was simply dwindling with every purchase. I had to cut back on everything I could, which included haircuts.

As August turned to September turned to October, my short, spiky hair grew into a wavy mess of brown disarray. I began wearing a baseball cap to class because I didn't know how to style longer hair. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to part it down the middle or slick it back. Keep in mind this was before Zac Efron and Justin Bieber redefined the hair-across-your-forehead look. I didn't have a celebrity to copy which meant I didn't have any sense of direction whatsoever.

By the time April hit, I had given up all attempts to maintain a stylish look so I thought I would grow my first goatee. Again, I didn't have the slightest idea how to care for the look, so I just let it grow and curl over my lip and into my mouth. I didn't want to trim too much of it off so with every morning shave, it grew wider and wider. I now had shoulder-length, wavy hair and a thick goatee. I was Jesus.

In May, all of the new hires for Residence Life met each other at an informal gathering. We played ice breakers and talked about what the next year would be like. Not many people remembered what anyone looked like when they saw each other again after a long summer so my crazy appearance was lost and my first impression didn't mean anything; except for my friend Becca. On many occasions she reminded me how she thought I smoked pot and played acoustic guitar on grassy knolls. I wore all hemp and cared more about the environment than my own well-being. I was a hippy.

I kept a fairly conservative look for the next six years. Keeping my hair short could again fit into my budget so I didn't do anything too exciting. I grew out the goatee a few more times and kept it trimmed. With facial hair, I would meet new friends and whenever I shaved, they were always shocked. They were only familiar with Goatee Brandon. It wasn't until I was fired and was forced to go back to a restricted budget, however, that I grew out my hair again.

I had just moved into a new apartment and I didn't have a job. I couldn't afford to get my hair cut. Plus, I really liked that early-Office-Jim Halpert-look. As my wavy locks returned, I found another job but would quickly realize that I was an outsider amongst the employees. I don't know what it was, but I never really clicked with the staff as a whole like I had in Residence Life and at the place of my firing. I felt too straight-edge to really get along with anyone. There weren't any good looking girls that I wanted to impress so it was the perfect time to grow out a mustache to go along with my poor attempt to look like a Dunder Mifflin sales associate.

My friend Max participates in Mustache March every year where, you guessed it, he grows out a mustache for the month. It looked creepy, disgusting, and awesome every year and he was always trying to get me to join in on the fun, but I could never bring myself to do it. Now that I didn't give a damn about what I looked like, I could really let my new facial friend shine; and I did.

My hair kept growing and my hesitation to bring the blade too close to my precious upper lip hair resulted in a slow crawl down the sides of my mouth. Before I knew it, my hair was all over the place and I had a fantastic handlebar mustache. I don't know what the parents thought when I greeted their tables, but it had to be something along the lines of, "Don't you dare look at my child, you perv." I was a biker hippy.

The 2008 Baseball Winter Meetings forced me to cut all my hair off and shave away the hilarity I had created. The purpose of the meetings was for me to find a job so I had to look somewhat professional. I never would have believed, however, that the job I would get would lead to another great opportunity to create magic.

I was now being paid to sit in an office with eleven other guys and watch baseball for upwards of sixty hours a week. The office was in Coplay, Pennsylvania and there wasn't a good looking girl in a one hundred mile radius of the town. I decided it was the perfect time to bring back my mustache (with a new twist) and try out the famed soul patch. My facial hair grows slowly so it took about a month to fully materialize, but once I could curl both sides of my mustache into a Spanish twist and my soul patch was a perfect isosceles triangle, I knew I had something special. I was a pirate.

Ironically, this was the exact time of the summer that I had planned on visiting my aunt in Washington D.C. She said she loved it and thought it looked really good, but you know how family can be; especially family that you see every five years. They don't want to hurt your feelings so they'll say encouraging things even if it's the opposite of their actual opinion. What my aunt didn't realize, however, was that I wanted to look this stupid. It was hilarious and seeing the reactions of total strangers was my idea of a good time.

On my visit, I met my aunt's step daughter for the first time. This was a girl that had to hear stories of my sister and me for ten years without ever meeting either one of us. Oh, how I wish I could hear her thoughts upon shaking my hand! After my visit, my aunt was talking to my mom and I'll never forget what she told her. Apparently, her step daughter did have an opinion! She told my aunt that if I ever wanted a girlfriend, I would have to shave. Priceless.

It's funny how quickly people grow used to one's appearance no matter how ridiculous that appearance might be. I kept the pirate look for a few more weeks, but once I became tired of it I shaved it off and all of my friends couldn't stop commenting on how weird I looked without it.

It's been ten months or so since I've had any sort of facial hair and the itch to try something new was back. I've done the mustache. I've done the goatee. I've done a variation of the soul patch, but never had I done the genuine, look-how-tough-I-can-look-with-a-patch-of-hair soul patch. I have to admit, it's coming in quite nicely. Sure, it looks absolutely ridiculous and when I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror I can't make eye contact with myself, but it's something new and fun. I'm a douche bag.
Maybe it's a sign of insecurity or maybe it's a sign of pure awesomeness. Whatever the case may be, it's fun to change my appearance for the sole purpose of trying something new. It's also fun to look back and imagine how all of my past encounters picture me. The guys I rowed crew with in college remember Jesus/Hippy Brandon. A few people remember Goatee Brandon. My co-workers from Dave and Buster's remember Biker Hippy Brandon. The Baseball Info Solutions gang remembers Captain Brandon and now the new hires at Matt's Famous El Rancho (Always Good) only know Douche Bag Brandon. I'm looking forward to one day introducing Lumberjack Brandon.

April 17: Douche Defined

You are a fantastic human being. People trust and respect you. You entertain the masses. You're funny, yet sensitive. You're not a follower, but a leader. When you talk, people listen. Rooms light up when you enter. People turn their heads. You have the ability to cause people to lean towards you when they listen. They stop what they were doing when you're near. Sunlight is warmer and shade is cooler. You make living fun. You make people strive to be better at everything. Now if only someone else would believe it too.

You, my friend, are a douche bag. No one likes you. I'm not being mean. I'm being honest. The way you carry yourself. The way you laugh at your own idiotic remarks. The way you try to give constructive criticism only to come across as pompous and pretentious. I have a crazy story, but you always have one crazier and more elaborate.

Your car is littered with opinionated bumper stickers, yet you can't hold an intelligent conversation about any of the topics. You're always hip with the current trend, but you're living paycheck to paycheck. You're a forty-five-year-old video game fanatic. You're sixteen-year-old expert on everything and nothing. You wear Air Jordans and can't make a free throw. You wear Fubu but you're white. You sport a gold chain and cross, but you're not Catholic. You have a San Diego Padres hat, but you can't name two players in the starting lineup. Silhouettes of naked girls ride the mudflaps of your lifted truck.

You use the words "Aight" when you mean alright and "Late" when you mean goodbye. Are you aware that the bill of that ball cap is intended to shade your eyes and not your shoulder? Do you really need to limp when you walk? So you can bench 240, but can you count that high? You have a small patch of hair just below your lower lip and you actually think it looks good. Sunglasses. Sun Glasses. Glasses to be worn in the sun. You wear nonprescription glasses because the frames make you look smarter. You wear a sweater vest with the collared shirt untucked because lazy and unkempt is the fashion. Axe body spray overpowers the scent of Old Spice shower gel and Right Guard Antiperspirant.

You don't know it, but everyone else does. It takes one to know one? I don't think so. Only one word can describe a certain individual. It is a word that upon hearing it in reference about said person, people nod and agree almost instantaneously. Douche bag. Always a man and never a woman. She is a different word. No one likes a douche, but ironically one is never alone. A douche bag doesn't know he's a douche bag which makes him all the more douchey and that makes me laugh.

April 16: Oh yeah

It's just like riding a bike. I think it's funny how that line doesn't relate to everything. Once you learn how to ride a bike, you never forget. Well, I don't know about never, but you can go years without riding and then get right back on without any problems. You can participate in another activity so frequently that everything about the event becomes second-nature. Give it up for eight years, and it's amazing how much you have to learn over again.

I rowed crew for a year and a half in college. Practices were held every day except Sundays at 6:00 am. The daily routine of waking up at 5:00, meeting my carpool, driving to the "boat house," running a few miles for warm-up, stretching, getting on the water by 7:00 and rowing for an hour became so familiar that I didn't think I would ever forget the procedures of it all. I never thought I would forget all the terms or forget what side of the boat was port and what side was starboard.

It's been eight years since I last sat on a rolling seat in the water and on Tuesday of this week, I joined the Texas Rowing Center. You see, when you go in to work early every day to eat greasy Mexican food before your shift, you start to pack on the flab. I was in the best shape of my life in college because of rowing and I wanted to work my way back to that state. Ultimately, I would like to join a team and get back in the habit of waking up at the crack of dawn and accomplishing more in those early hours than most people will during the entire day.

I contacted one of the coaches and she told me that I needed to sign up for a membership and then complete four lessons on land before I could join a team. At the completion of each lesson, I was permitted to take a scull out and get the feeling of rowing back.

Aside from the basic form, I had forgotten everything. I forgot how important it is to keep your oar handles level to balance out the boat. I forgot how to get in and out of the boat without flipping it over (I haven't fallen into the water yet, but I'm positive it's coming). This morning I was asked to help a crew lift a four-seater out of the water and I had no idea where I was supposed to stand.

When I was on the water, I suddenly remembered how horrible those first few weeks in a boat of eight rookies were. I was completely alone this morning, but my dragging oars, constant fighting with my balance and missing the water all together with my blades reminded me how futile it felt to be in a boat without any consistency or team-rhythm.

I'm only three days in and I have one more lesson before I can actually join a team, but it should be interesting to see how long it takes for those skills to return once I'm forced to row with a team and I don't have the luxury of being able to stop at will. Some things are like riding a bike, but for me, rowing is definitely not one of them.

April 15: Another Facebook Grief

I know I've written about it in complete excess already, but I have another grief with Facebook. I still don't understand the fascination. Don't get me wrong, I'm completely addicted. I obsessively check every status update to see if I've received any thumbs up likes because seeing "Four people like this" is thrilling. I post videos that I find entertaining for the enjoyment of others. I love it when people write on my wall. My absolute favorite thing about Facebook, however, is the mere topic of Facebook in every day conversation. In my opinion, casually mentioning the social networking website in a conversation is pure comic gold. If I tell a girl that I've just met in real life that my goal is to write all over her Facebook wall, it's an instant joke that she'll never forget. (Don't use that unless you plan on giving me credit.)

As obsessed with the site as I am, the idea behind publishing a list of favorite activities and interests is a bizarre one. To connect that list with past friends and colleagues is even more strange, though. It's cool to see what your friends from high school have been up to and when I received a friend request from one of my teachers, I became giddy with excitement. I thought it was hilarious that someone three times my senior was on a social networking site originally intended for college students.

It's one thing to use Facebook to reconnect with old friends, but to use it to play games like FarmVille and Mafia Wars is plain sick. However, that complaint is for another post. My grief with Facebook today is that I don't know how to react towards a person in real life after being added to his or her list of friends. At some point, he either saw my little picture and thought, "I know him. I'll add him to my Friends list" or he made the effort to look me up. Either way, he made a connection. I receive an email telling me that Joe Blow (I don't actually have any friends with that name, but I would love to add that guy to my list!) added me as a friend on Facebook. I usually oblige and click the little confirm button. Done. I am now friends with Joe Blow.

My dilemma now is that I don't know the proper interpersonal etiquette that I'm supposed to practice when I see Mr. Blow at work the next day. Am I supposed to say, "Hey, thanks for adding me" or "Gee, I'm sorry I didn't add you first?" Am I supposed to ignore it because that's the online world and we're in the real world? "What happens online stays online." The only acceptable reaction that I've come up with is to make a joke. With extreme sarcasm: "Hey, thanks for the invite to your list of friends!" It probably makes him feel uneasy, but at least I'm not ignoring the topic.

I've always felt slightly uncomfortable seeing someone in person that I had recently chatted with online. I don't know what it is, but when I see a person in the flesh after conversing with them through email or instant messaging, I almost feel like I was talking about them and not to them. Suddenly the conversation we had the night before feels lost and foreign and being added to someone's list of friends feels almost the same.

Alexander Graham Bell once said, "Mr. Watson, come here! I need to see you." Did Bell face the same dilemma the next time he saw Thomas Watson in person?. I'm hoping he did and that it's just a matter of time before I overcome my neurosis towards Facebook. At the rate that technology is advancing and evolving, however, I'm sure Facebook will be long gone and I'll have something else to get paranoid over.

April 14: Easy Money

I need to get a job. Bills are piling up. Mom and Dad won't let me live at home anymore. The GF is buggin' me for jewelery. I have to get me one of those PS3s. MLB 2010: The Show?! Sign me up! The guys want to go on an epic trip this summer. Car payments and insurance. Girlfriend. Rent. Fun. I need to get a job.

I nailed that interview. Some Mexican restaurant. I've done fine dining, so anything is cake in comparison! Both of those managers loved me. I was so money in that interview. When can I start? Tomorrow!

First day of server training. Blah blah blah. Boring. It's the same nonsense. "Offer the guest drinks, get drinks, take order, deliver order, deliver check." Boom! Done. Next. Nice to know where things are located, but I'm ready for tables of my own. I'm already sick of making money for this "trainer."

First day of expo training. Blah blah blah. More boring. Knowing the table numbers will be helpful. This isn't a wasted shift, but I need to start making money. I can't do this much longer. I'm running out. The GF wants to go to the movies this weekend. Rent is coming up!

Two weeks later. Finally! Was that the longest training for such a simple job or what?! I'm broke! I need this money so badly! I'm in debt from getting my sick PS3. I owe the GF over a hundred bucks! I owe my parents money for paying last month's rent. I am absolutely broke!

What?! I'm scheduled in the closing room? I'm never going to get out of here! There goes my entire night! Unless...Hey! I'll give you $20 to stay and close for me. Really? Sweet. Thanks, man you're the best. What do I have to do for your section? What? Just five bucks more and you'll do it all? Nice!

April 13: Entourage

Peanut was a short, round, and portly little fellow. He was a social nut. He had a bold attitude towards life. He went into every situation with an admirable assertiveness that is hard to find in an individual. He stood strong in his beliefs that the buttery blend he created with his fellow legumes was unmatched in flavor. Not only did it taste great, but it balanced the often stubborn Jelly. He loved hanging out in bars and traveling on airplanes, but being the sport nut that he was, he loved a good ballgame too.

Cashew, on the other hand, was just plain nutty. Or was he? He was tall, lanky, had horrible posture and a split personality. He walked around with the weight of the world on his shoulders. And why shouldn't he? Raised alone and sheltered from the world, he had always been misunderstood. People called him a nut when in reality, he was a little more fruity. He was a seed that needed love and affection to grow strong but he never received it. The only friends he had were other misunderstood misanthropes like himself. Alone, he was boring, but when he was in the company of his salty and zesty friends, he was a real treat.

Raisin was an anomaly. People either loved or hated him. A direct relative of that fruit, Grape, he couldn't shake his dry sense of humor. The world as a whole, never knew whether to enjoy his antics or toss him aside. In 1986, Raisin's cousin, A.C. started a rock band with his friends, Beebop, Stretch, and Red and brought fame and fortune to the family name with the hit single, I Heard it Through the Grapevine. The name was synonymous with awesome and cool, but through the years, the fruity group couldn't keep its fresh appeal. They shriveled back to Earth and the public soon forgot them and went back to that pesky Grape. Raisin and his dry wit was left pleasing half a crowd.

Almond. What can be said about him that hasn't already been made perfectly clear? Big on the power of protein and a health nut by nature, he was more outgoing than anything. It never took much persuasion to get him to come out of his shell. He loved a good shave with a bowl of ice cream and that pasty mixture that Peanut was always raving about? It didn't even compare with his self-title Almond Butter. Almond was the kind of guy that had a perfect complexion and a chiseled look that made Sugar blush.

M&M: the most diverse, sweetest guy around. Men are from Mars and so was M&M. Everyone loved him. Red, blue, yellow, green, brown, and orange. Arguments have been made for years over which one was sweetest, but science had proven that each was just as sweet and friendly as the other. They say nice guys finish last, but M&M was the exception to the rule. Born in 1941, M&M had made appearances on ice cream, in granola bars, and in vending machines everywhere. He was so cultured that he'd been to more than 100 countries and he received the same accolades in each one. He was the kind of guy that would melt in your mouth and not in your hand. He became close friends with Peanut and Almond even though the two had their differences in opinion. Although Peanut and Almond couldn't stand each other, it was M&M that brought the two together.

An unlikely group of heroes. A brilliant idea of convergence and unity. In 1968, this sweet group of nutty fruits serendipitously met each other in California. M&M, of course, already knew Peanut and Almond and had arranged for them to meet. The latter two knew each other through word of mouth and from rave reviews from their sweet, mutual friend. Raisin was there visiting the graves of A.C. and the band. Cashew was searching for answers.

As legend goes, two surfers in need of an energy snack gathered the five unique individuals and the rest is history. Trail Mix was born. "The sum is greater than the individual parts" and this couldn't be more true for the new entourage. Each one had its own contribution to society, but together, they were inseparable. They climbed mountains together. They ran marathons and went on picnics as one. Trail Mix even hid in the pockets of students and teachers alike.

Finding one without the other isn't difficult, but strongly advised against. Why go social with Peanut, but leave the Omega-9s of Almond behind? M&M is fantastic, but Cashew needs some love too. Together they're fun, friendly, and energetic. Together, they are Trail Mix!

April 12: Missed Connections

The day started out like any other. I woke up, did my morning workout, made myself a protein shake and checked my email. No new Facebook friend requests and no real gain in my fantasy baseball league standings. Amazon sent me another "Top 10 Deals in Electronics This Week" email, but other than that, the morning wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

I took a shower, grabbed my book and folding beach chair, climbed into my truck and made my way towards Zilker Park to take in some sun. After a few hours of napping/reading I decided to go to Subway and grab myself a sandwich for lunch.

My heart stopped as I pulled the heavy glass door outwards and walked into the air-conditioned building. Behind the counter stood the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her layered light brown hair was pulled into a ponytail that dipped just below the dark blue collar on her Subway polo. She had the cutest spicy mustard stain just below the insignia on her left breast and her brown eyes sparkled as she welcomed me to the popular sandwich chain. I was speechless.

She smiled as she delicately slid her small hands, one by one, into clear plastic gloves she retrieved from a box adjacent to the mayonnaise. I was certain she could hear the pounding of my heart behind my ribcage as I stared at her magnificence. I watched her perfect pink lips work together to inform me of the Five Dollar Foot Long promotion. How I longed to touch those lips against mine.

I nervously stuttered that I wanted a foot long turkey on wheat with mayo and mustard. My eyes were forced to look down at her perfectly-shaped rear end as she turned toward the bread warmer to retrieve my roll. Her tight, black pants were covered in stains of mayonnaise, mustard, and pieces of wilted lettuce and bread crumbs. Never had a dirty garment of clothing been so completely intoxicating and sexy. She pulled the bread from the warmer with such grace and sliced through it with her knife with pure professionalism. The way she squeezed the white bottle and then the yellow sending a stream of mayonnaise and mustard on either side of the bread took my breath way.

I watched lustfully as we worked our way down the line of vegetables and condiments. I felt myself blush with each question asked of me. I didn't just want my usual pickles, lettuce and onions. I wanted it all. I wanted to stand on this side of the sneeze guard all day. I wanted to order sandwich after sandwich and watch her work forever.

Before I knew it, I was paying for my sandwich and my "three cookies for a dollar" with a twenty dollar bill. Her angelic beauty was enough to convince me to dump all of my change into the cleaned out pickle jug which was labeled "tips" in glittering puff paint. Unfortunately, the oven let her know it was time to remove the new batch of rolls at the exact moment I gave my generous tip and the act was lost and unnoticed.

I didn't have the courage to ask for her name so I turned and walked away more in love than I've ever been. I couldn't stop thinking of her brown eyes, pink lips, crumb-covered rump, and that spicy mustard stain as I drove home. If only there was a way I could let her know how I felt without facing the risk of rejection.

That's when I remembered it. Missed Connections on Craig's List. It was perfect! I would log on to the classifieds website and pour out my true feelings for the Subway girl. I would tell her how beautiful she looked as she wrapped my turkey sandwich and that I was in her store on the corner of Street A and Street B. I was going to write the time I was there and what kind of sandwich she made for me. She would get off work, check the Missed Connections page on Craig's List like I'm sure she does every night and see my post. She would then email me igniting the beginning of a wonderful relationship.

April 11: The Mutual Friend

What are the rules of seeing a mutual friend over and over again without ever being formally introduced to one another? I recognize her and I'm sure she recognizes me. We've never shared two words with another. She's been at parties I've gone to and I see her almost every night at work, yet she doesn't work there. Am I obligated to introduce myself?

I don't know if being introduced to her through someone else would make a difference. I've never had a conversation with this person so I don't know if we have anything in common. I feel like any first conversation is now bound to start like this: "Hey, I'm Brandon. I don't think we've ever been formally introduced, but I see you all the time." "Oh, hi. I'm blah-blah-blah." That's it. Where else could it go without being really awkward?

"Hi, I'm Brandon. I don't think we've ever been formally introduced, but I see you all the time."

"Oh, hi. I'm blah blah blah."

"Hey, nice to meet you. (Shakes hand.) So...what do you do?"

I'm already bored. Even if I had the patience and willingness to go through that whole over-played scene, I'll still be at square one the next time I see this person. I'm not going to approach her and talk with her like we're old friends every time I see her. It's going to be just as awkward as it is now, because I don't have anything to say to her and she doesn't have anything to say to me so we'll be doing the same thing we're doing now; nothing.

So, I'll sit here in front of the computer screen and write a blog on the Internet. I'll complain about the little social nuances that annoy me and in the end, I won't get anything accomplished.

April 10: Ping!

There is a woodsy area along one of the main roads that I grew up near. You see, in East County San Diego some people have a few acres of land that they will leave unattended and let grow at will. For the most part, a home owner in that area will focus his efforts on the main yard around his house. He'll put in sod and shrubs, but he'll leave most of the land alone. He'll let the natural, dry country brush go crazy. It's these people that wonder why they are always prime targets for the fires that roll through the area every other year, but I digress.

On one particularly hot day when I was a freshmen in high school, some buddies of mine and I thought it would be fun to meet at the road and walk through the woodsy brush towards the home of one of my friends. I'm pretty sure we were going to go swimming once we got there and just hang out at the pool, but we never made it that far.

As we tramped through the fallen oak leaves and deeper into the woods, we were forced to walk in a single file due to the increasingly thick bramble. Dominic, whose house we were going to, led the way, followed by Brad and myself bringing up the rear. I don't know what it was doing there or how it came to rest in this place, but as our trail led towards a solid wood fence, at which point our path would veer left, I found a silver spoon hiding in the ground cover. It was filthy and tarnished from the neglect and years it had experienced from sitting outside.

Being the joker that I am, I thought it would be a fantastic practical joke to play on Dominic to throw the spoon as hard as I possibly could at the approaching fence. In my mind, the spoon would invisibly fly by my friends and crash into the fence with a loud and thunderous boom. The idea was to scare them with this sudden burst of sound and it was, I thought, a fail-proof prank.

I waited until we got a little closer to the fence before cocking my arm back and firing the dirty utensil out of my right hand. I watched in slow motion as the spoon did somersaults in the air past an oblivious Brad. I never knew that the meeting of metal and skull could create such a loud ping sound. The spoon shot straight up after it slammed into the back of Dominic's head and returned to the ground a moment later.

After nearly falling on his face from the sudden impact, Dominic turned around while reaching his hand into his curly, blonde hair. He didn't find the humor in my joke as he looked at two shiny red fingers. He approached slowly at first as I walked backwards and tried to explain to him that my intentions were not malicious. He then sprinted towards me as I told him that it was a spoon that hit him and that I was trying to hit the fence. I even pointed out the spoon that had fallen to the ground which was a bad idea. He picked it up and in his growing anger acted as though it was his turn to throw it at my head. Lucky for me, he threw it into the woods and off the trail, but that was the end of our plans to go swimming. I guess taking a metal object to the back of the head leaves a person just wanting to lie down.

Dominic, if you're reading this, please know that I was and am very sorry. I'm pretty sure we've both laughed at the incident since then, but I don't blame you for wanting to throw it back at me; I'm thrilled that you didn't, though! So, kids. Let that be a lesson to you. Don't ever go walking through the woods with me following. You might just be the next victim to cause an awesome metallic reverberation with your head.

April 9: You're Laughing Alone

The night was winding down. Most of the guests had gone home and I was left to clean up their mess. As I swept around the black, circular tables, I came up with what I thought was a can't-miss joke. I started to laugh uncontrollably as I watched hypothetical snippets of me using my new joke through my mind's eye. My audience would fall over in fits of laughter as I performed each line with perfect timing and an unprecedented delivery.

Fast forward to me standing in the kitchen watching my first spectator walk away shaking her head. Thoughts of lunacy and pure confusion weaving through her mind as she goes on with her closing duties. She just didn't realize yet how funny my joke actually was. She'll think it over and a delayed reaction will engulf her immobilizing her from whatever activity she's engaged in at that given moment.... She just isn't hip enough to get it. My next audience will get the joke, for sure!

Throughout the course of a day, thoughts of hilarious acts and witticisms race through my head. Because I was born without a comic filter, I do and/or say everything that I "know" will be a hit. I can't help it. A random imitation of a passing aircraft. A spot on Guns N' Roses reenactment of Sweet Child O' Mine. A spinning, boomeranging tray on the ground. A dramatic avoiding of collision. A realistic pantomime of air guitar on a broom.

If I'm lucky, one in ten of these jokes, antics, or songs gets so much as a snicker. Rarely do my hopes of pure hilarity amount to anything more. I am my biggest audience. I give myself a standing ovation with every punchline. I am an audience of one and the show is sold out every night. I've been looking to expand my audience for twenty-seven years now to no avail.

I don't know how professional comics do it. I'm sure being legitimately funny helps a bit, but how do they put up with the rejection? Writing this blog, I've come up with a number of ideas/entries that I thought were comic gold only to receive zero response and reaction from readers. I guess I'll just keep writing, singing, sliding, spinning, yelling, bouncing, flying, and laughing by myself. Ha ha.

April 8: You Like Me! You REALLY Like Me!

We are all bred to seek approval. We let others dictate the way we live our lives. Girls strive to remain skinny because that's what society wants them to be. They're seeking the validation of peers, lovers, and even strangers. Kids play sports in school or compete in beauty pageants because their parents were too fat and ugly or weren't athletic enough to participate in the activities themselves.

I feel like it's such a cliche topic. How often do you hear a story about a magazine Photoshopping an image of their cover model to erase blemishes and to make her skinnier? How many films have been made about parents wanting their own childhood dreams fulfilled by their children? It's no secret that people want the approval. I'm not writing anything profound and original here. The reason I write about this particular topic, however, is because catching a person in the act of trying desperately to obtain the consent of others is a mixture of humor and sadness.

It happened to me the other night. Someone brought to my attention an act that he/she did which allowed me the benefit of being the subject of his/her decision. As if I hadn't already noticed the unusual circumstances that I found myself in, he/she had to shed light on the situation. Without so much as highlighting him/herself as the reason for my new position, he/she hinted at it. What did I think? I didn't know how to respond. Did this person want me to get down on my knees and praise him/her by bowing and kissing feet? Am I now forever in his/her debt?

I didn't know whether to laugh at, or feel bad for the person. It was humorous to catch a person begging for my gratitude, yet it was sad to wonder why this person felt they needed it. How was this individual raised? Was he/she never given credit for what was accomplished? What was he/she guarded from as a child? Where did these insecurities stem from?

Of course I thanked him/her, but in reality, it wasn't much of a favor at all. Changing the circumstances in which I was used to, didn't factor into the success (or lack thereof) that I had grown accustomed to. The only thing that he/she succeeded at was creating a stir amongst other individuals in the general vicinity.

Having the power to potentially determine the outcome of one's evening is a power that is taken for granted by certain people. It's these people that are the most insecure of us all. We all want to feel wanted. We long for acceptance into groups, but we don't all wear our desires on our sleeves for everyone to discover our emotional flaws. I believe these people put themselves in positions of "power" to compensate for some deep-down longing for approval; even if that approval comes from one's own self.

I wish I didn't have to be so vague with this post, but I'm not writing an anonymous blog here. It's observations like this that need to be written in a personal journal and not a blog on the World Wide Web. That's all.