June 30: Halfway Through

Today marks the end of June. June is the sixth month of the year. Today marks the halfway point in my quest to write one entry a day for an entire year.

I think I've had a pretty good run so far. It has been a lot more difficult than I could have ever imagined but I'm pretty impressed that I've been able to maintain the goal as long as I have. Some of the posts have been insightful pieces on the way I think. Others have been made up stories that have caught readers off guard. I've done imaginative entries that I thought were hilarious only to receive zero comments. I've published posts that I thought were throw-aways and received a lot of feedback.

Over the course of the sixth months, I've gained twenty followers to my blog. That's twenty more than I ever thought possible. Having someone inform me that they read a recent post never gets old. Sometimes I'll receive a comment from the most unlikely of people and those are the most fun. I hope to have twenty more followers by the end of the year.

Taking part in a project like this is interesting because sometimes someone will tell me that the first post they read was one of my worst entries. The likelihood of them coming back to read more is pretty slim which is discouraging because every once in a while I have a good one in there. Because I write a post every day, it's very easy for a good post to get lost amongst the bad ones. I'm over-saturating my blog with entries, but I guess that comes with territory.

Six months worth of daily posts. Some of them are good and most of them are bad, but I'm proud of myself for staying strong this far in. Thank you to all of my followers and readers and I hope to keep you entertained for the next six months.

June 29: Lazy

Why is it so difficult to keep my room clean? Every time I move into a new place I tell myself that things will be different. I won't leave dishes in the sink. I'll throw away empty Gatorade bottles. When I do a load of laundry, I'll fold the clothes and put them away immediately. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Flash forward eight months from signing my latest lease and here I sit in a cluttered apartment. I have a pile of clean clothes that are always in my way. When I want to watch TV, I have to move them off of the couch and when I want to go to bed, I have to throw them back to their original resting place. Why don't I just fold them and put them away? Why am I so lazy?

I have dishes in the sink with water in them. The funny thing is that I have a dishwasher. Why is it so difficult to rinse a dish and put it in the washer? Oh, that's right! Because the dishwasher is full of clean dishes that I haven't put away yet.

I have papers on my coffee table, dining room table, desk and floor. I even have papers on top of my dresser and more on my kitchen counter. Are they important papers? No. They're weekly grocery ads, Clear high-speed internet offers, Netflix free trials, and other various forms of junk mail that I'm too lazy to take out to the trash.

I've only dusted my room once since I moved in and vacuumed maybe five times. I have so little to do on a daily basis, but I can't muster up the small amount of energy it takes to tidy the place up. I don't even do anything when I'm here. I sit and read baseball rumors all day. That's it. I'm not even looking for a job or doing anything productive at all. Why am I so lazy?

Speaking of lazy, I don't even want to bother with coming up with a decent ending to this post.

June 28: Baby Park

The turtle in the cloud descends with his horizontal traffic light. The left lights up red and then goes out before the middle light glows red. Finally, and as the engines around me flex their muscles with anticipation, the last light shines. With a final wave of his tiny green hand, I slam my foot on the accelerator propelling my small, blue cart into a small burst of energy. The race is on.

My racing partner's hands grip tightly on my shoulders as I approach the line of four spinning mystery boxes. My head start gives me a slight advantage, but it doesn't take long for the rest of the group to catch up to me. I grab the nearest mystery box and and hand it back to my partner while keeping my foot pressed firmly on the gas pedal. He takes the prize as we slide around the first turn. The contents of the box are still being revealed while we lean hard into the turn causing a blue flame to send us into another burst of speed. Three mushrooms. Perfect.

I use the first mushroom at the climax of the burst of speed from the turn. I'm sent flying into a small hyper speed. I'm in first place, but not by much. I can hear the growl of Bowser behind me and the high-pitched barks of Donkey Kong just behind him as I lean into another turn. I narrowly miss crashing into the corner when the blue flame returns sending me through another burst. I use my second and third mushrooms upon crossing the starting line which signals the completion of the first of seven laps.

My adrenaline is pumping. The grip on my shoulders is painful. Objects are flying all around us. We barely escape a giant, spiked turtle shell sent courtesy of Bowser. I hear Donkey Kong's bark again as he hurls a banana peel in our direction. It lands perfectly in front of us and doesn't allow me any time to avoid it. My cart's right front tire hits it and we spin out of control. My partner flies off the back of the racer and grabs the bumper in desperation. I don't have time to wait for him to climb back on so I floor the accelerator once again and drag him as he struggles to climb aboard.

We've lost ground, but we're still in third place behind Bowser and Donkey Kong. We're five laps in so we'll have to focus and make every turn just right to get that burst of energy we so desperately need. I grab another mystery box, hand it to my wing man and lean into the next turn. A red shell. Nice. I tell my friend to wait to throw it until we've made the next turn so I can aim us for a double mystery box. Wait for it. Wait for it. Now! He throws the shell with all of his might and we watch as it seeks its target. Direct hit!

I grab for the double mystery box as we race past the commotion of spinning, yelling, and screeching. Second place. I take one of the boxes and hand the other one back. Final lap. My partner's box is nothing more than a red faux mystery box so he drops it immediately. We are within striking distance of a first place finish. My box contains the illusive blue turtle shell!

This is the moment we've been waiting for. With my foot on the pedal, I stand in my seat and tap my partner's hand. In one, smooth movement, I leap to my left and out of the driver's seat. My partner leans down from the right, grabs the steering wheel and slides into position. He's now driving and I'm holding on for my life with the blue shell ready for takeoff.

I let go and watch it spread its angelic wings and soar toward Bowser in front of us who is within grasp of claiming first place. The shell makes contact and sends an explosive ring around its target. Bowser and his partner, Baby Mario spin out of control; but so do we. I forgot about that ring of destruction and we got sucked into it. As the world flies around us, I watch helplessly as Donkey Kong and Princess Peach race through the finish. We stop spinning shortly after Bowser does and he claims second. We finish in third.

Baby Park is my turf. I own that course. A stupid mistake cost me a title and now Donkey Kong and Princess Peach get to strut their stuff in the award ceremony. Every one is cheering for DK and that annoying little hussy and it's me they should be acknowledging! I'm the real winner. I deserve that gold cup.

June 27: Afraid

What's your biggest fear? Jerry Seinfeld does a funny routine in which he talks about the number one fear in America being that of public speaking. He lets the audience know that speaking in front of a crowd is more terrifying to most people than dying. He finishes his joke by explaining that when people go to a funeral, they would rather be in the casket than giving the eulogy.

I don't have a fear of speaking in front others and I certainly am not afraid of dying. I am, however, terrified of getting a DWI or DUI. I still don't quite know the difference, but I know way too many people that have one or the other and sometimes more than one. I've heard horror stories of getting pulled over for a broken tail light only to have the night end with a trip to jail. I've heard stories of people totaling their cars and ruining their weekends only to be slapped with the charge as the icing on the cake.

It's so easy to get one and I just think that would be one of the worst things that could happen to me. Not only would I have it on my record, but I've heard that you have to pay thousands of dollars in fines and attend classes and so much more. My friends go to bars all the time after work and drink to be social, but I'm so afraid of getting a DUI that I sometimes stay at home.

There have been times where I drove home that I probably shouldn't have, but a lot of people I know make a habit of doing it. I don't know how they can do it time and time again without being afraid at all; not only of getting caught, but hurting someone else too!

Some people are afraid of death. More people are afraid of getting up in front of a crowd, but I'm afraid of getting a DUI with one or two beers in my system. It's not about not being able to maneuver the vehicle anymore. It's about catching a cop on a bad night.

June 26: Huh?

Today a transgendered person came into the restaurant where I work. Whatever. I don't have a problem with the lifestyle. Does it make me feel uncomfortable? Absolutely. But if they do their thing and I do mine, things will go smoothly. My post today is not about my opinion on the matter though. Normally I wouldn't even write about it because I don't think I have enough material for a decent entry, but because of the unusual circumstances surrounding what I saw today, I'm going for it.

The situation was this: Two women entered the restaurant and sat down with each other. No biggie. I probably wouldn't have even noticed if it weren't for another server pointing out the unusually large arms and masculine features of one of the women. Upon further investigation, we came to the conclusion that one was definitely a man.

Okay, that's fine. Two friends enjoying some Tex Mex on a warm Saturday afternoon. But wait, there's more! The server that brought the couple to my attention then pointed out that the two were playing footsie under the table. I was officially confused.

A guy feels so uncomfortable with himself that he'll get surgery to look like a chick and puts up with the points, stares, and whispers from people like me. He now feels comfortable in his/her own skin, but wait! He still likes girls? Am I missing something here? There has to be more to the story.

Maybe he fell in love with this girl. I mean, he fell hard for this chick. She was his everything. She was the fuel to his fire, the wind beneath his wings. All of it. He would do anything for this girl, but it turned out that she was a lesbian. No matter how nice he was to her. No matter what he bought her. No matter how many long-stem roses he sent, it would never be enough. He had to do the unimaginable to win the heart of his Juliet; and he did.

This raises the question, though, as to whether or not she's aware that her girlfriend used to be her best friend that mysteriously disappeared a few months ago. Did he/she tell her? Even if he didn't tell her, did he wait for the full surgery to woo her? I mean, if I wanted a girl that badly, I would have a hard time waiting for all of the arduous procedures to be completed before trying to get with her. When a transgendered woman who hasn't gotten the surgery yet is sexually aroused, doesn't she still get an erection? People will notice! You can only say you have something in your pocket so many times before raising suspicion.

Look, maybe this post is going to prove how naive and unintelligent I am when it comes to this subject matter. Is this considered a risque entry? Will people be offended? I don't know. But when a dude becomes a girl to get with girls and succeeds, it raises so many questions that it makes my head hurt. Who pays when they go out? Who leads when they dance? Who watches the baseball game and who gets mad when the toilet seat is left up? Guys with girls, girls with girls, guys with guys. Fine. Guys that are girls with girls that like girls? Ouch.

June 25: Toy Story 3

This post contains major plot spoilers. If you haven't seen the film, I strongly suggest waiting to read this until you have.


For Brandon Roesler, summer brings two things. If you've been reading any of these posts within the past two weeks, you know the first: baseball. I live and breathe Padres' baseball from Opening Day to the final pitch of the season. I watch and/or listen to as many games as I can and (this season especially) I'm constantly watching the standings and how the other teams in the National League West are performing.

The other thing I look forward to all year is Pixar's latest summer release. Perhaps you've heard of the studio. Wall-E, Up!, The Incredibles, Finding Nemo, Cars, etc. I love every Pixar film. I own every Pixar film. I can tell you who directed each one and in what order they were released. I love everything about them from the traditional short before the show starts to the emotional plots and deep character development.

This summer was no different than any other. It took eleven years for it to happen, but this was the year that toys would rule again. Toy Story 3 hit theatres last Friday and I have now seen it twice and cannot wait to see it again.

I was a little skeptical about this one. I felt like waiting this long to release a sequel was like scraping the bottom of the barrel for ideas and characters. Not only that, but the third film wasn't directed by the Pixar guru, John Lasseter like the previous two were. It was directed by Lee Unkrich who co-directed Toy Story 2, but hadn't actually directed any of the other studio films. On top of that, Jim Varney (you might remember him from the Ernest films) passed away shortly after the release of the second Toy Story. Varney was the voice of one of the main characters and I always hate it when a character is played by someone other than the original in a sequel.

The reviews started coming out the week of the release and I didn't read any of them. I wanted to go into the movie with as little knowledge about the film as possible. I knew it was about the toys going to a day care, but that was about it. I saw an A here and a four-star rating there, but that was typical of the Pixar films. I would be the judge of this one.

Toy Story 3 blew me away! Blake Clark (known mostly for his roles in various Adam Sandler productions) replaces Varney and it is virtually impossible to tell the difference. Unkrich filled Lasseter's shoes like a champ. I love how Pixar doesn't abuse the 3-D format with cheesy gimmicks that fly out of the screen at the audience. They didn't do it in Up! and they didn't do it here. They use the format to enrich the overall feel and and environment of the film. Within minutes of the lights dimming, I completely forgot I was wearing those obtrusive glasses and I was able to enjoy the world of toys without any discomfort.

The film is rated G which would lead one to believe that it's a kid movie. It's not. Sure, kids love it and it entertains everyone on the surface, but the overall theme is that of moving from one stage in life to the next and what it's like to let go of the past. I don't know if it was because of my deep love and admiration for the characters or the pure excitement of a new Pixar movie, but I had tears welling up within the first five minutes of the picture upon both viewings. The real waterworks came (again, both times) toward the end of the film.

I'm a grown man and I never had a connection to a toy the way Andy did, but watching the toys hold hands as they're about to face their demise is gut-wrenching. Two minutes later, and just as my eyes have dried, the audience is taken to the heartwarming handing down of toys from one generation to another. More tears. Lots of them. Are they tears of joy or tears of sadness? I don't even know. I was just thankful for the glasses I was wearing to hide my emotion.

One of the reasons I hate going to the movies is kids. I hate their impatience and lack of consideration for other movie goers, but upon both viewings, Toy Story 3 captured the attention of the smallest child throughout the duration of the film. Watching the kid in the row in front of me throw his clenched fists in the air when the toys were rescued even added a few tears of joy. I wish I was that young again to be able to experience this awesome movie from that perspective.

I've seen the movie twice now; one of which was in the IMAX form. I definitely recommend the latter. It's more expensive, but the experience is so much greater and so much more enjoyable that I feel it's well worth it. Even after seeing it twice, I can't get enough. I love reading the reviews and articles on various websites. I love searching for lists of hidden "easter eggs" throughout the film. I love learning that the trash man is Sid, the vicious neighbor from the first film. I love learning that the voice of Andy was the same in all three films. I think it's great that the actor that provides the voice for Barbie is non other than Ariel from Disney's The Little Mermaid.

Summer brings two things for me: Baseball and Pixar. The Padres are in first place and I can't wait to add Toy Story 3 to my collection. So far, it's been a pretty good summer.

June 24: Some Young Guy

I don't know if he was kidding or not, but it made me feel uneasy. A guy I know came up to me today and said that he was collecting money for another guy that was hospitalized. Sounds like a nice gesture, right? Well it might be if he went into more detail.

There are very few things in life that I have a hard time talking about and money is one of them. I find it difficult to tell a table that gratuity is or isn't included. When a guest hands me the check with a wad of cash, I always get change because I'm incapable of asking if they need it. I never count my money at the end of a shift just so I can tell people that I don't know how much I made and I hate tipping people because I feel like they judge me no matter how much I give. I can't explain this (for lack of a better word) personality oddity, but it's who I am.

Which brings us back to this guy asking for money for some other dude. That's all that was said. "Hey, Brandon. I'm collecting money for this guy that I know because he was hospitalized." I don't know how other people responded to this plea, but I wasn't about to drop what I was doing and grab my wallet. How much can I give? Twenty? Is twenty dollars enough? How about thirty? Can I please drop a bill for this guy?

Call it cheap or call it frugal. Heck, call it selfish if you want, but I didn't want to give him anything. Am I supposed to feel sorry for "this guy" because he's been "hospitalized?" At least give me a story. Tell me the guy was shot robbing a convenience store. I would be more likely to give money to that guy than your protagonist. I mean, the people in Africa give me pictures of skinny kids with cleft lips. All I received from you was a word with hospital in it.

Because of my inability to talk cents (get it?) I simply suggested the collector see me when I wasn't so busy. It wasn't a no and it wasn't a "let me go make ten bucks so I can give it away to a total stranger." It was avoiding the topic at hand which is what I do best when confronted. I didn't hear from him again today, but that's not to say that I won't hear from him tomorrow or the next day. Hopefully his friend dies or gets out before I get approached again. Don't judge me for that last line.

June 23: Right On

And while I'm on this little tirade, let me add how much I hate when people don't understand which way to yield when walking.

It's not that difficult. Here in the United States, you drive on the right hand side. When riding a bike, on a designated paved road, you stay to the right. You stay to the right when getting passed, so why can't people comprehend the idea of walking by each other on the right as well?

Here's the situation: I'm walking in a straight line when I notice a person approaching in my direction. I see him and he sees me. As we get closer and closer, I make a slight movement to my right (expecting him to do the same) to allow him room to pass. Oblivious to my gesture, he keeps going straight and we do one of those "I move to my right and he moves to his left and I move to my left and he moves to his right" all at the same time.

I've had people take the initiative (I normally applaud this) and force their way past me on my right (I despise this). How is it not second nature to always walk on the right-hand side? That's the side you drive on and we spend what, one-third of our lives behind the wheel? Or do we spend one-third of our lives sleeping? Either way, we spend a lot of time driving on the right and it should only feel natural to do the same when walking.

June 22: What's Up?

I woke up this morning on the right side of the bed. I heard birds chirping gaily and the sun was casting rays of warmth on my white walls through the parted window shades. I felt alive and well-rested.

My laces were snug, but not too tight for my morning jog and there was a cool breeze coming in from the West. My joints felt good. My feet felt great. The run woke me up and made me feel fantastic.

My morning shower was refreshing and my hair responded well to the product applied. My granola had the perfect amount of crunch to offset the viscous low-fat strawberry yogurt. The banana was ripe, the orange juice was cold, and the flax was fresh.

I won the Home Run Derby that my friends and I held. I made some dazzling plays at short stop and my slider had more cut than usual. The humidity was down and the sun felt great on my bare shoulders. Swimming in the creek after a day in the sun was the perfect finish. My day was perfect until I went to get lunch.

As the girl behind the counter applied spicy mustard to my toasted wheat she casually asked, "So, how has your day been going?" Suddenly, my day was ruined.

I've just accepted the rhetorical greetings, "What's up?" and "How's it going?" They're new ways to say hello. No one actually wants to know what is up or how things are going. But this "how's your day been going" nonsense is a new one. Am I really supposed go into detail about my day to this complete stranger? I don't want to hear about her day so why would she want to hear about mine? Is she asking me to be nice? My idea of a nice response would be to not bore her so I give a one-word answer.

Do me a favor. Don't ask me how my day has been going because I guarantee if I answered truthfully, it would bore you. If you really want to have a conversation with me, ask me something original. Now, why am I still single?

June 21: Oh, Baby!

The night was underway and the restaurant was fully staffed. Three managers patrolled the three main dining areas and the adjacent patio. The wait to get a table was just under an hour, but people were in high spirits as they celebrated Father's Day with loved ones.

I was placed by management in the fourth row of the dining room known as "The South." This gave me three tables that could seat four, six and eight people. I rotated a fourth table designed for four with the server scheduled in the third row. As the night progressed and each row filled with parties of families and friends, each table became progressively more difficult to reach. When paralleled tables of big groups were sat, occupied chairs touched backs making it virtually impossible to gain access to certain parts of groups.

It was about seven-thirty when I had a party of four adults, three kids and a baby arrive in my section. Grandma and Grandpa were being treated by Mom and Dad as the three kids had adventurous balloon-sword fights and the infant slept. The baby wore a white protective foam helmet and slept peacefully through the loud and boisterous events of the evening. Whether the child wore the helmet because of an undeveloped skull or as a result of a traumatic event, I wasn't sure. I wanted to ask, but feared embarrassment for the parents so I left it alone.

The family's visit was relatively calm. There was a mishap over an entree sent out by the kitchen staff but other than that, everything was rather uneventful. Uneventful that is, until I started collecting the dirty dishes. The restaurant I work at is very big on ambiance and the authenticity of the Mexican culture so the dishes used are made of a heavy ceramic in various pastel colors. With each dish, a variety of accompanying bowls and ramekins are used to serve sides. This inconsistency of matching tableware coupled with the occasional left over enchilada can make it very difficult for one to successfully stack plates.

As I was gathering the plates, bowls, silverware and linens off of the table, I tried to minimize the trips I would have to take to the kitchen so I kept taking more and more. My arms started to shake as I reached over the sleeping infant for one more fajita plate. The adults were oblivious to my outstretched arm as I tried to balance my load.

When a person tells of being in a car accident or a traumatic event, he will often describe it as time standing still or moving as if in slow motion. Witnessing the topmost plate shift on a bowl of uneaten charra beans and fall was no different. I tried to catch the falling dish with my free hand, but that only managed to throw off the entire stack's balance. Plates came crashing down around me sending projectiles of rice and beans all over my black pants but all I heard was the deep thud of ceramic meeting foam.

A baby never cries right away. It always takes it a moment to realize what has happened. The sound of broken ceramic was still ringing in my ears when the baby began its wail. My stomach turned over and wrung itself into a knot as my heart leaped into my throat. Of all the kids this could have happened to, I had to chose to drop a heavy orange plate on the kid with a protective helmet to avoid an accidental bump.

The cry of the infant immediately ended the mother's conversation and she whipped her body around to comfort her son. The terror that I felt wasn't anything compared to the look of agony and pure fright. Without paying any attention to the overturned plate of grilled onions and peppers, she instinctively grabbed for her baby and pulled him free of the wreckage. The cries of pain were drowned only by the deafening silence of onlookers at the neighboring tables.

I stood and stared without the ability to speak. I wanted to rush to the aide of the mother, but I knew that I had done enough. I wanted to disappear and never show my face in the restaurant again. I wanted to turn back the clock by two minutes and tell myself to take a few extra trips to the kitchen.

That story didn't actually happen, but can you imagine if it did? Boy, that would suck!

June 20: Stop Go

"I like Texas 'cause Texas is the only state ballsy enough to have its own toast. I love Texas Toast, but I do not have a Texas Toaster. I've got to stuff that sh*t in." - Mitch Hedberg

I thought that would be a good introduction for today even though today's post has nothing to do with Texas Toast. It is, however, all about my hatred toward Texas traffic lights. I don't get it. Everywhere you go in the United States, the lights are the same. Sure, some of them hang from wires and others are attached to poles that reach over the street, but they're all the same. Red on top, yellow in the middle, and green on the bottom. Ask a kid to draw a traffic light (better ask him to draw a stop light because he probably doesn't know what a traffic light is) and I guarantee he'll draw red on top, yellow in the middle, and green on bottom.

Not in Texas, though! No, sir! Texas lights are horizontal. Red on the left, yellow in the middle, and green on the right. The only part that Texas got right was yellow. That's the part that everyone ignores! I've seen some street lights in other parts of the country that are horizontal, but travel one block down and you'll see that they're back to normal. Not here. Every single light is screwed up. It's not just Austin, either. I have a friend that lives in College Station, TX and she said the lights there are out of whack too.

Can you imagine how difficult my transition to the Texas lifestyle as been because of this debacle? Ever since I could draw, I've been coloring red on top and green on bottom and at the age of 26 I had to suddenly approach intersections completely different! It's been miserable. I'm still not comfortable with it.

What I want to know is how the kids that are raised in Texas survive in other states. They only know horizontal lights. Ask them to draw a stop light and they'll put red on the left and green on the right. Aren't they confused when they read picture books that were published in Vermont? "The grass is green. The sky is blue. The stop light is...what's this? Red on top?! That's not a stop light! I bet the sky isn't even blue!" It's not just traffic lights. Their entire world is flipped over.

Texas needs to change. They can keep their toast and their goofy liquor laws (more on that later). They can keep their y'alls and queso, but leave the traffic lights alone. Don't do it for me. Do it for the children!

June 19: Kids

Kids are the worst. They're rude and inconsiderate. They're loud and obnoxious. They're dumb beyond belief and they are not cute.

Give a kid a balloon and let a strange man paint a dragon on his face and he cries. Sit a kid on a jolly fat man's lap and he'll cry. No matter what you do for him, he's going to cry. Kids are whiny, ungrateful little jerks.

They complain when you aren't there yet. They complain over a scratched knee and actually believe that a kiss from Mommy makes the "owie" better. They're afraid of the dark and freak out when a spider is near.

Kids have runny noses and dirty hands. They don't have any respect for the clothing that Mom and Dad bought them. They trip over their shoelaces and they can't swim. They flail their arms too much when they run. They stand in my way and aren't apologetic about it.

They don't value money and the cost of things. They want gifts and believe a painting done with their fingers is an adequate gift in return. They can't spell or add, but I'm supposed to be proud of them for drawing a stick figure?

Kids say the darndest things but they do the dumbest things too. They'll chase a ball into traffic and get too close to a dangerous animal. They'll draw on a freshly painted wall and plaster their boogers under antique tables. Things not going your way? Why not yell and scream at the top of your lungs? That might work.

I hate kids. I. Hate. Kids. I hate how they can't order for themselves and I hate how they're more concerned with their electric gadgets than a question being asked of them. I hate their lack of manners and their missing teeth. I hate them. Happy $%#@ing Father's Day.

June 18: Again? Really?

One of the hardest parts of this so-called project of mine is coming up with something to write about on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Why these days, you ask? Well for one, the restaurant I work at remains open an extra hour on Fridays and Saturdays which makes it that much more difficult to have my post in by midnight. I basically have to write my entry before I go into to work to guarantee it meet its publication deadline. Couple that with the fact that I'm scheduled to work two shifts every weekend on either Saturday or Sunday. Because of this demanding and rigorous commitment, I'm left with virtually no time to sit down at the computer and exercise my creative juices.

Let's take this weekend for example. It's Friday afternoon as I sit here punching keys and hoping for a readable transcript to unfold. I work tonight and won't get home until after midnight. I am then scheduled to be at work at ten o'clock tomorrow morning and will remain until midnight again. On Sunday, I signed up for a rowing class at 10:45 and then I work that night. My weekend is shot.

You might be thinking, "There's plenty of time to write something when you wake up tomorrow before you go into work." Yeah, that's true. But coming up with something to write about right out of bed is extremely difficult. I don't think anyone wants to read a detailed description of me not knowing lines to a play that I'm in on my high school theatre stage. I've considered a week of writing down my dreams, but what happens when I have that embarrassing dream about a co-worker? I'm not going to post that!

The point I'm trying to make here is that I never anticipated this kind of dilemma when I came up with this idea. Because of my hectic weekend work schedules, my poor readers (hi, Mom) have to read a post about me complaining about having nothing to write about every seven days just like this. I just hope I'm putting some sort of creative spin on the boring topic.

June 17: Hold Your Breath

No one pays him any attention. He goes about his business alone and quiet. I sit from the sidelines and watch him keep to himself. I feel sad for him. I want him to feel welcome and not like that of an outcast. I ask him a casual question about who he is and he stops to answer. He stops to answer a little too close for my comfort. He opens his mouth to respond and his yellow, crooked teeth are exposed before a wave of hot breath pushes through and slaps me in the face. We all know someone with bad breath. We've all had that encounter of communicating with someone that invades our personal space. But to have the two be one and the same is a horrible, horrible combination.

As I sat and listened to this guy talk, it was painfully clear why no one bothered. It was a disgusting reminder why I didn't bother. I had talked to the guy before, but never in this proximity. I never enjoyed talking to him because I thought he was a dirt bag, but now that I'm aware of this retched gas that permeates from within, I will do everything in my power to avoid any and all communication.

In high school, I knew guys that had horrendous breath and I was always amazed that it didn't affect their relationships with girls. Unlike the aforementioned douchebag, these guys were genuinely nice people. They were funny and smart. They could contribute to the conversation without creeping everyone out. They had the confidence to get girls, but I could never understand how a girl could voluntarily kiss something so vile and repugnant. I could hardly talk to the guys without holding my breath and riding in the same vehicle with them was torturous. They always minded their personal distance from people, but to be in a relationship with a girl means that distance doesn't exist. How could a kiss be anything short of making out with a dumpster?

Maybe the old adage is true; love is blind. Then again, doesn't that go hand in hand with the expression, beauty is in the eye of the beholder which means both of these cliches are purely physical? Love is blind. It doesn't see, but it sure as hell can smell! I have an extreme lack of experience in the field of love so maybe love is blind to all including scent. All I know is that when Turd Ferguson opened his mouth and the cloud of hot, damp air billowed out and sank into the pores of my face I nearly fainted. If I ever find myself in the presence of a lady friend with that kind of exhalation, I won't care how good she looks. I won't be going in for the lip lock.

June 16: Who's Gonna Pay For This?

I think about death a lot; probably too much. I live by myself and I often wonder how long it would take someone to find me if something happened. When I had a car payment, I wondered who would be responsible for paying off the loan if I croaked. Now that I own my truck, I often wonder who would be responsible for cleaning up the mess if I were to shoot myself in my apartment.* I mean, it's one thing to have to inform parents or employers, but it's completely different to be the owner of an apartment and have to clean up blood, paint walls, and put in new carpet.

That sort of remodel isn't cheap. That's an expense that the killer should have to pay for, but obviously he wouldn't be able to do that if he were to succeed. It's not fair to ask his parents to pay for it; they have to deal with the loss of a loved one. The landlord shouldn't have to pay for it, but who is legally responsible?

I once knew a guy that was in real estate and I thought, who better to ask than him? I tried to keep the gory details to a minimum because I didn't want him to be concerned for me. I asked him about a landlord finding a tenant hanging and he gave me some kind of simple answer (obviously I can't remember what was said). Because I wasn't getting the answer I was looking for, I gave a more grim example. "Let's say," I started, "that a tenant shoots himself in the head and his brains go all over the walls and he falls to the ground where a pool of blood forms all around his lifeless body."

Surely, I thought this would answer my question. Instead, what I got shocked me and made me feel terrible. I mean, I felt genuinely horrible. "Well that's exactly what happened to my brother," he said before telling me all about the laws and walking away.

I apologized over and over again trying to convince my friend that I didn't have any malicious intent with my questions. He was very understanding and said that it wasn't as hard for him to talk about as it was a few years prior, but I still felt awful.

When you ask a question like that and get that answer, all your memory is able to hold on to is the thought of this kid's brother. You don't remember anything else. You don't remember the guy telling you about the laws involved in these situations. Above all else, you don't go back to the guy the next day and ask the same question to get the information you were originally seeking. Now, I'm stuck back at square one.



*Just because I think about it, doesn't mean I have any real intention of suicide.

June 15: Solved

I figured it out. Up until two seconds ago while resting my face in my arms trying to come up with something to write about, I didn't know how they were doing it. I figured out how my place of employment was keeping me there against my will.

The only day I have off in the week is Tuesday. When my schedule allows it, I sleep until noon and sit in front of the computer watching Seinfeld clips on YouTube until it's time to shower and go in for another miserable night of serving enchiladas to ingrates. I'm given every Tuesday off, so why haven't I used the time to find a better job?

I have failed to find something better because my employer is a genius. He schedules me forty to fifty hours of running around in the hot Austin air every week. When Tuesday rolls around, I'm too exhausted to work up the effort to go out looking for something better. My day off is spent playing baseball and then crashing for the remainder of the day.

I can't not play baseball because, let's face it, it's baseball and Brandon doesn't live without baseball. Congratulations, almighty employer. Your evil ways are recognized, but now that I know the secret, I pledge to beat this system of yours.

June 14: Brush, Floss, and Dry Off

One of my favorite parts of the day while growing up was when my sister and I would brush our teeth just before going to bed. Our bathroom counter had two sinks that shared a large mirror and I always enjoyed sharing the time with her.

The act of brushing and flossing one's teeth followed by some gargling is supposed to be a relatively quick routine. For me, however, it always took twice as long as it should have. You see, every single night, I was too preoccupied with trying to make Lindsay laugh to concentrate on getting in and out of the bathroom.

The one night that I will never forget started off like any other. We were both in front of our respected sinks applying toothpaste to our soft-bristled, dentist recommended toothbrushes. We both used gentle, circular motions as I made nonsensical noises and obnoxious faces in the mirror. Lindsay wasn't responding to the usual acts so I was forced to up the ante.

After tossing her used piece of floss in the waste basket, she proceeded to swish her mouth with cinnamon-flavored Act mouthwash. Because of my efforts at making her lose control with laughter, I was still brushing, but the inevitable laugh was waiting for the perfect moment to emerge. That moment came when Lindsay leaned her head back to gargle.

I can't remember what I said or did, but it was the breaking point for my dear sister. As she was gargling, the laughter erupted from within and sent her mouthwash straight up and out of her mouth toward the ceiling. Her instant reflex was to close her mouth and lean forward to spit what was left of the mouthwash into the sink, but as she did this, the cinnamon projectile came crashing down on her back. It was beautiful.

I had a pretty happy childhood, but I will never forget the quality times I spent with my sister while brushing my teeth. Since that fateful night, she has refused to gargle while in my presence and I couldn't be happier to have achieved that level of fear within her.

June 13: Something to Lift the Spirits

In the 1930s, a nation cheered for a small horse named Seabiscuit and an old boxer by the name of Jim Braddock. Times were tough and these two characters pulled an entire country together and gave hope to millions. In 2010, a young man emerged from a city in California and found himself in the spotlight as he pitched in the capital of a battered nation.

A few days ago, I received an email from my aunt from Washington DC. The subject line was "Our New Pitcher" and she was referring to the young phenom, Stephen Strasburg of the Washington Nationals. "As you can imagine" she wrote, "DC is a buzz over Stephen Strasburg. We watched the first game by TV and the stadium was completely sold out with standing room only." She went on to tell me about how her husband became emotional to see the young man pitch because it reminded him of when he was given the opportunity to be a bat boy for a Major League club when he was younger. She concluded the paragraph with, "It is so nice to have something so exciting to lift the spirits of so many who are having a tough time."

Seabiscuit, Braddock, Strasburg? I don't think so. Don't get me wrong, he's an amazing pitcher and a lot of fun to watch and root for. His fastball routinely hits one hundred on the gun and his changeup is faster than a lot of pitchers' fastballs. In his Major League debut on Tuesday, he struck out fourteen without issuing a single walk; a first in MLB history. He struck out the last seven batters he faced. Through four innings of work today, he had already struck out an additional seven hitters. Suffice it to say, he's good.

My issue with him being a beacon of hope and inspiration for millions lies in the insane contract he signed last year when he was drafted. Before throwing a single pitch at the professional level, he already had a $15.1 million dollar deal for four years. He received a $7.5 million bonus for signing and then another $2.5 million just fifteen days after the contract was approved by the Commissioner's office. After the four years is up on that first contract, the sky is the limit. Who knows where the economy will be, but I guarantee you it won't affect the right-hander.

The country was in disarray when Seabiscuit beat War Admiral and Braddock (literally) beat Max Baer. Two average Joes stepped into the spotlight and shocked and inspired everyone. Dreams really can come true, but how is rooting for a rich superstar athlete comparable? Sure, he'll be pitching in the nation's capital for the next few years and it's fun to watch him, but is this really our next Cinderella story?

June 12: Would You Like Pus With That?

Two or three days ago I came home from work only to find a white zit on my chin. Thanks, everyone. Yeah, it's embarrassing to tell a friend that there's something growing on his face, but it's the polite thing to do. You're saving him future embarrassment by giving him the opportunity to fix the problem right then and there. This way, he doesn't have to wonder how long he had this monster upstaging him when he finds it at the end of the day like I did. Anyway, I popped the beast and squeezed out its guts until I bled.

The next day the spot on my chin was red. Understandable. I went throughout my day hoping it wasn't too obvious that I had taken measures into my own hands. I asked a few people if it was very noticeable and they said that it was now that I had brought it to their attention, but not before then.

Fast forward to tonight. Fast forward through my entire day of work thinking the zit was gone. Fast forward to the moment I get home and see that the thing was twice as big and twice as white as it was two or three days ago. Thanks, everyone. Man, puberty sucks.

June 11: Scrubbing in the Rain

For whatever reason, I've always preferred to wash my truck myself. I enjoy spending time in the sun and I like the fact that I know all of the hard to reach crevices are getting cleaned. I used to wash my truck every time I went home from college because my parents have a steep driveway and it was easy to park on the hill and let the water run out of the bed.

Coincidentally, every time I washed it, it would always rain within the week. It could go months without a drop, but as soon as my truck was clean, the sky would open and my hard work would be ruined. Within the last year or so I've come up with a way to beat the weather and for the very first time, I'm revealing my secret. Are you ready? I wash my truck in the rain and with the rain.

That's right, when it's raining and I feel like it's going to continue for at least a half an hour longer and my truck needs a cleaning, you can find me in my board shorts scrubbing away. I simply take a bucket with some car soap, fill it with water from a faucet and go to work. What's great about this method is I always get a spot-free rinse. I don't know how it works, but I leave my truck in the rain after I've lathered it up and when I come back and the sun is shining, the vehicle looks fantastic.

Being out there with the cold rain falling on a bare back can get a little chilly and I've even washed my truck this way in the middle of January. The latter was miserable, but it was worth the finished product. I've always wondered what my neighbors were thinking when they would drive by and see me washing my truck wearing only board shorts with it pouring down rain. They were probably thinking, "Smart kid."

So there you have it. The next time it rains and your car needs a cleaning, I recommend going the cheap route and use Mother Nature as your source of water. It's exhilarating to be so cold while doing a chore that most people hate doing. It's also fun wondering if you're going to spend the next week in bed with the flu.

June 10: Sandlot Baseball

There is a Church of Latter Day Saints about a mile away from the home I grew up in. When I was fifteen or sixteen, the church put in a baseball diamond for youth programs and church sponsored family events. I'm not a Mormon, but that didn't stop me from taking advantage of the fenced-in yard.

Since that field was built, I spent countless afternoons shagging fly balls, crushing home runs and playing catch with friends. I've since moved away, but the sandlot kid in me never left. I've convinced coworkers to join me on local fields for years now and no matter who I play with or how many people we get together, the fun factor remains high.

There's just something fantastic about getting out in the sun and tossing a baseball around. I love everything (with the exception of pitching to an invisible target) from warming up with a simple game of catch to running the outfield trying to make that Web Gem catch. It's such a simple activity without rules and everyone is simply at ease. There's a pitcher, a batter, and if we're lucky, an outfielder or two to throw the ball back to the infield. The players rotate positions until everyone's worn out. Nothing else. Beautiful.

Since those days on the LDS field, I've probably lost twice as many balls as I've found, but that never seems to matter. What matters is getting to let that energetic, innocent kid out of me. I could play every day and I only wish I was better so I could have played competitively in high school.

June 9: Killer Hat, Man!

The game had just finished and I had a hankerin' for some ice cream. Unfortunately, my supply was out and I was forced to walk up the hill to the nearest gas station to pick a pint up for myself. When I entered the store, I noticed that the Mexican attendant was wearing what looked to be a brand new Washington Nationals baseball hat.

The game I had been watching was none other than that of the Nationals and Pirates where Stephen Strasburg was making his highly anticipated Major League debut. He was absolutely dominant and worthy of the media attention he had been receiving for the past year or so.

I don't normally make a habit of talking to people based on what ball cap they happen to be wearing, but because of the coincidence of Strasburg's debut and the gas station clerk's hat, I thought I would engage in a friendly baseball chat. I grabbed my Blue Bell Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream and approached the counter.

"Did you see Strasburg's game tonight?" I asked casually.

The Hispanic man ignorantly smiled and shook his head while making some kind of nonsensical noise. "Are you a fan of the Nationals, or do you just like the hat?" I asked trying to save him from his embarrassment of being talked to like a human being. Again, he smiled like an idiot and with a goofy little chuckle he said, "hat."

I hate this thing people do with the baseball hats. I can't understand why someone would wear a $35 dollar hat with a team logo on it just because they like the style. I like the little leprechaun that Notre Dame uses for a mascot, but I don't know anything about the school or the athletics department. Sure, I got a pair of Fightin' Irish boxers after I saw Rudy, but that wasn't necessarily an article of clothing that could start many conversations.

You like the white curly W on a solid red hat? Why? Because it's the same W that Walgreens uses? If you don't know anything about a team, don't wear their gear. If you absolutely have to wear it, make sure you don't wear it on the team's biggest game. People that know a thing or two about the team will ask you questions about the game. You're going to have to answer those questions by responding that you don't know what they're talking about.

I can't tell you how many times I've approached a guy wearing a Padres hat in hopes that he would know that day's score only to be told that he just likes that hat. Really? An S and a D interweaving with each other? Yeah, it's spectacular, isn't it? It's such a revolutionary idea for the world of fashion. Do me and the rest of the sporting world a favor and wear a Quicksilver hat instead.

June 8: The Waiting Room

Jerry Seinfeld on being called in to see the doctor: "And then, they finally call you and it’s a very exciting moment. They finally call you, and you stand up and you kinda look around at the other people in the room. 'Well, I guess I’ve been chosen. I’ll see you all later.' You know, so you think you’re going to see the doctor, but you’re not, are you? No. You’re going into the next waiting room. The littler waiting room."

I can usually relate to this feeling of angst when I find myself in a waiting room, but sometimes I wish I had more time. Today I sat down on a leather seat in a local barber shop to wait for a trim when I noticed the most recent issue of Sports Illustrated in the magazine rack. The picture of the three USA soccer players was so big that it blocked out most of the magazine's title causing me to nearly miss it.

When I grabbed the issue, I didn't anticipate any articles worth reading. I'm not a soccer fan at all and I assumed that with the arrival of the World Cup, most of the magazine would be designated for the subject. I expected to just breeze through the pages and look at the pictures, but when I saw the MLB Draft Preview in the Table of Contents, the race was on.

I promptly turned to page 58 to read about the projected (and actual) number one pick, Bryce Harper. I read an article on the seventeen-year-old in an issue from last year so I didn't feel too much pressure to finish today's. I was more interested in the projected pick of the Padres and who they actually chose. It wasn't until I saw the side article on the Padres' first overall pick in 2004, however, that I really started to feel pressed for time.

The girl at the front desk told me that I would only have to wait for about five minutes and I had already been sitting there for the quoted time. Any minute now they would call my name and I would be forced to put the magazine down. I started speed-reading through the text which meant I wasn't retaining any of it. All I could think about was the fact that if I didn't read fast enough, I wouldn't get to the end. I think the story was about how the Padres neglected the work they had done in scouting the top prospects in that year's draft and went with a cheap local punk named Matt Bush. He went on to be a complete bust for the Padres and the other prospects are now big names in the Majors.

I finished the article before getting called to the chair, but I didn't get to read near enough of the Draft preview. If I hadn't planned on going for a row right after my hair cut, I might have stayed just to finish the reading. In fact, I did that a few weeks ago when I got my stitches out. I went back to the waiting room and finished an article about Derek Jeter, Andy Pettitte, Jorge Posada, and Mariano Rivera.

The point I'm trying to make here is waiting rooms with short waits shouldn't have good magazines. I don't know how one would regulate this, but someone should start figuring it out. I'm sick of feeling rushed in the waiting room and I won't put up with it any longer.

June 7: Welcome to the Bigs

High school graduations are among us. Another crop of young students are walking across stages all over the country. They're shaking hands with principals who have no idea who they are. Nine years ago, I went through the same routine. I waited in the blistering sun wearing my dark blue cap and gown and waited for my name to be mispronounced by the master of ceremonies only to shake the hand of a lady who acted like she knew me and was thrilled that I had made it.

I waited in that sun with seven hundred other graduates. Some of us would go on to do great things within the last nine years. Others, like myself, would accomplish absolutely nothing. The sky was the limit, though, on that hot June morning. We had accomplished the first step to achieving that future we all deserved.

As hot as it was that morning, it was a somber one as well. Childhood friends were saying goodbye. The people we saw every day for years would soon be in a different part of the country. For those of us that were moving away for college, we would soon be forced to find a new clique to be a part of. We would make new friends and create new memories in our new cities. At least we would have our ten-year reunion, right?

Wrong! I wasn't sucked into the Facebook vortex until my senior year of college, but since that fateful day of celebration (people at my school were literally ecstatic at the idea of our school being accepted to the Facebook universe) the social networking website has completely stripped all of the fun from the inevitable ten-year reunion.

From the moment Chapman University was considered cool enough to be added to the network of colleges, I started getting friend requests from some of my closest friends from high school. Because it had only been three years since I had seen a lot of them, there wasn't a lot of shock upon seeing updated pictures of them.

There is, however, the occasional friend that has found me more recently after all of these years and more times than not, I'm disgusted at his or her transformation. Kids that I once played soccer and little league with look like they could eat me. I've never seen so many chins in my life. Rolls and rolls of fat have appeared from nowhere to suffocate the images of my long, lost friends.

Now, it's virtually impossible for me to judge how I look now compared with how I looked then because I see myself every day. It's like when you hang out with a friend and his hair gets longer and longer and you don't notice until he cuts it off, but I honestly don't think I look that different. I'm still the skinny, white geek I was on that hot June morning in California. Some of these other kids, however, are just plain grotesque.

I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with beer. I'm not a health guru by any means, but I have noticed that all of the fat kids are holding cans and/or bottles of beer in the majority of their Facebook pictures. The only reason I say this is because I don't drink a lot, yet I have definitely let myself go since high school graduation and I'm still just as skinny as ever. My diet is horrible to say the least, but I have managed to keep the beer to a minimum and I look fantastic compared to some of these cats.

To be honest, I don't know what it is. All I do know, is that I'm absolutely shocked to see the state of these people. I doubt that I will go to my ten-year reunion, but even if I were to go, I wouldn't be shocked at all because of Facebook. Kids that could once run a mile faster than me now look like they could roll a mile faster. Tether Ball contest winners would now dominate in pie eating contests. If I'm this critical about the way they turned out, I wonder what they think about how I've aged.

June 6: Casey

The long scratch is followed by a soft thump before the scratch returns. The needle has reached the center of the spinning and lopsided vinyl and sends a repetitive reminder to turn the record and continue the album. The turntable sits on a beat up, hand-me-down oak table under a blanket of yellow light from an antique lamp in the corner of a dark and cluttered efficiency apartment. The unpolished brass lamp reaches up and into the crooked, floral-printed shade which protects the room from the harsh light of a 60-watt bulb.

An old army cot with one flat pillow and a neatly folded, tattered and frayed blanket sits in another corner of the room. At the foot of the makeshift bed, on top of the oak dresser, sits a small black and white television set with two manual nobs and two long antennae reaching out and up from the back of the unit to the ceiling. Next to the head of the bed, and on the other side of the black milk crate (used as a table) a plush and plaid armchair of oranges, blues, dirty yellows, and dark greens rests.

A quiet, oscillating fan sweeps over a gray and worn out shag carpet. The ground, however, is virtually out of sight. Small manual pumps and deflated rubber balloons of every shape and color are strewn from wall to wall like empty cans of beer in the home of an alcoholic. Round blues and long, oval-shaped greens. Red balloons twisted and shaped into poodles missing the puff at the end of their tails. Yellow hoops connected to orange balls with pieces of white string. Deflated pirate swords and remnants of popped party hats.

The scratch and thump of the turntable continues as an old man with unkempt gray hair and thick glasses stands in front of the bathroom mirror with a paper plate of various samples of paint. He wears a faded, short-sleeve blue and white plaid shirt. High, tan shorts rest on his hips and over his pale, thin legs. His old, off-white socks loosely grab hold of his shins and dip into his brown, leather sandals as he leans over the sink and stares deep into the mirror's reflection of himself. With his left hand, he softly dabs a thin brush into the brown paint, then the yellow and finally the white before bringing the tip to the skin of his own face.

He uses quick, yet careful little strokes as he applies the gold to his cheek. He watches his reflection and takes mental note of the elasticity of his skin. He considers the reaction of the epidermis as he strokes down, then up and then from side to side. His breathing is silent and held at times of deep concentration. The horn of a unicorn slowly takes shape as the brush works with a mind of its own.

Satisfied with his work, he washes his face, pulls a khaki vest over his button-up shirt and checks the contents of his pinewood art box. Paint and clean brushes? Check. Balloons and hand pumps? Check. String and a foldaway cardboard sample display? Check.

Silent and lost in his thoughts of what paint works with different types of skin and how to keep a giraffe from unwinding into one long yellow balloon, he grabs his supplies and exits the apartment. The door shuts behind him and the deadbolt is secured through the sounds of jingling keys. The fan continues its wave and the forgotten turntable lets out a long, tired scratch before dropping a soft thump.

June 5: The Black Card

Most of us in the restaurant industry have seen the American Express "Black Card" at one point or another. Guests come and go and we see our share of MasterCards, Visas, Discovers, and standard American Express cards, but it's the mysterious Black Card that never fails to get the server to show it to all of his or her peers upon receiving it. What's so special about these Black Cards? Why does it cause such a fuss at the computer stations?

Up until tonight, I only knew two things about the card. For one, it's made of anodized titanium which makes it heavier and sturdier than your typical credit card. The only other thing I knew was that there was no credit limit for the owner of the card.

To learn more about the card go here: http://finance.yahoo.com/banking-budgeting/article/109721/how-to-get-amex-black-card?mod=bb-creditcards

Man, I'm really not in the mood to write anything right now! Sorry.

June 4: Secrets Revealed

A girl I work with bumped into me tonight. I responded by telling her not to grind me while on the clock. She of course laughed and I continued the joke. "If you really want to grind me," I teased, "just send a text message later."

I was merely being a goofball with this friendly banter, but upon hearing the last line, her jaw dropped, her eyes became wide with amazement, and she literally stopped in her tracks. "How did you know about that?" she asked.

I didn't have any idea what she was talking about. I assumed from her reaction, that she sent some kind of sexual text message (probably in a state of inebriation) to a mutual friend or colleague. I don't stumble upon scenarios like this very often, but when I do, I continue the dance as long as I can. I play coy and act omniscient when asked questions about my sources to their private information.

As the night continued, the curiosity on her end didn't last for very long. I did, however, pass her talking clandestinely with a male friend and was immediately greeted by suspicious stares from both sets of eyes.

In a matter of five minutes and without saying a word, I discovered something extremely ignominious and humiliating for two individuals. I, of course, don't know the minute details of the situation, but obviously both parties were embarrassed by the surfacing of said information. It makes me wonder what else I could uncover on a daily basis if I were slightly more consciously perceptive of my surroundings.

June 3: My Padres

Last summer I watched over 250 Major League Baseball games. Two Five Zero. Some of them were live, some of them were recorded, and some of them were watched live as they were being recorded. A few were longer than the standard nine innings while others were shortened by rain. I believe the longest I saw was sixteen innings and the shortest was a postponed game that lasted half an inning. On average, I watched two to three games a day for the duration of the season.

By the time the season ended, I was exhausted. I was sick of baseball. I had seen too much. My one true pastime had started to feel like work and I began to hate it. Fastball, curveball, cutter, slider, change, I didn't care any more. I was doing my share of the work in the office and then I would go back to my apartment and watch the Padres' games. It was a lot of baseball, to say the least.

This year has been a complete turn around. I still catch the back end of most Padres' games, but it's not nearly enough. It's a lot easier to follow a first-place team than a last-place one. I plan my evenings around their games and I get really upset when I have a night off and they do too. Like tonight.

My apartment feels extra lonely and quiet tonight without the sound of Ted Leitner and Andy Masur describing every detail of the game. I miss the constant buzz of a crowd and I even long for the repetitive Kerry Steigerwalt and Associates commercials. I could listen to another game with different teams involved, but it isn't the same as having my Padres there to root for.

I saw entirely way too much baseball in 2009. I have missed entirely way too much baseball in 2010. It's funny how one can grow so sick of something only to really miss it when it's not there. It's still early in the season, but I could really go for some more baseball right about now.

June 2: Brociety

We are a family. A group of individuals with similar beliefs and values, we support one another through thick and thin. We may have different backgrounds and upbringings, but we are still one and the same. If you aren't a part of our clique, you are an outsider and will be treated as one. We are an unorganized fraternity of brothers. We are Bros.

Many have asked and inquired about our niche, but being a member is not as easy as one might think. There are rules that one must follow. Traditions one must respect. In order to be a Bro in our exclusive society, one must know and wear the many facets of the culture. Tight-fitting Ed Hardy shirts, Affliction hats with flat brims, and Diesel jeans with designed wear and tear. Whatever the article of clothing, it must be ridiculously expensive and it must proudly and boldly display the brand.

We drive black or white lifted trucks. We must not get more than ten miles to the gallon. We decorate our babies with naked angelic and devilish women decals. We cover our back rear windows with the Famous Stars and Straps F and our license plates are framed with intelligent quotes like, "Horn Broken, Watch for Finger."

To be a Bro, one must look like a Bro. That means spiked hair with frosted tips. It means arms the size of tree trunks and chests so inflated they could pop. Protein, bench press, protein, curls, and more protein. A Bro must not concern himself with his legs. The Diesel and Lucky brand jeans are there to cover the lack of definition and overall muscle in our quadriceps and hamstrings. If a Bro is insistent in wearing shorts, he must have Mom and Dad pay for calf implants with earnings from their car dealerships or construction companies.

Aside from a Bro's love of brand recognition and protein powder, beer is essential. Natural Light, Keystone Light, and Coors Light are a Bro's best friend at a party. When we're not involved in the discussion of our maximum bench press, we're filling our red cup with more beer. One must know how to tap a keg. One must partake in the traditional keg stand and shotgun ritual. Skills in Beer Pong, Quarters, Kings, and Flip Cup are essential. One will never achieve Bro status until he attempts to crush an empty can on his forehead. Only the elite will succeed.

We race dirt bikes and quads. We attend monster truck rallies and talk about wakeboarding. We drink beer and work out. We do these things for one purpose and one purpose only; to pick up chicks. A Bro is not interested in a committed relationship. He is not interested in hearing what a chick has to say. Our goal with every chick is to get inside her pants. End of story. This intention often forces us into committed relationships, but we will not let it deter us from our main objective. We will continue to sleep with as many chicks as we can until we get caught.

We are a family. We are a fraternity. We're loud and obnoxious. Moronic and dimwitted. We swear, smoke, drink, and party. We chase tail and lift weights. We are a group of individuals that will stop at nothing until we have gone all the way with a broad. We are the Brociety.

June 1: Noodle Trouble

A man stands with a mallet. It takes all of his upper-body strength to lift the tool's head from the ground and swing at its target. The head of the mallet smashes into the flat surface and sends a deep ringing wave of energy from the point of contact and throughout the wall. Loud, thunderous vibrations take control of the previously placid surface which just so happens to be my skull.

I have a pounding headache. The skin on my back burns and is hot to the touch. My eyes are tired and bloodshot. The man with the mallet is merciless as he continues to slam his blunt instrument on my skull over and over again.

Today I spent six hours jumping off and swimming around a barge on Lake Travis for a coworker's birthday. There was drinking and dancing. Loud music and more drinking. There was leaping from second-floor levels and flying through blue water slides. Floating on multicolored noodles and saving runaway noodles.

At one point, I found myself swimming after one of these escaping noodles. No matter how hard I tried, I could not gain on the floating device, but I found myself further and further away from the party. Before I knew it, I was sucking in a combination of air and water doing everything I could to stay afloat. If I could only get to the noodle, I could rest and hope for the captains of the barge to see me floating on the horizon and turn the party to come and get me.

If it wasn't for the boat of strangers, I may not be writing this post. They maneuvered their craft so one of the passengers could grab the noodle and then came to my rescue. I grabbed on to the orange float and was pulled toward the barge while trying to keep from being sucked into the motor. After waving my thanks and gratitude to my new friends and watching them drive off, I breathlessly hoisted myself on to the barge and collapsed on the floor. No one even noticed I was gone. No one saw how far away I was. No one even saw the boat save me and drop me off!

Drinking, swimming, dancing, yelling, jumping, burning, and being saved has left me exhausted and worn out. The mallet is smashed into my skull once again and my ears are left ringing. I had a great time today, but now I need another day off of work to recuperate from my day off of work.