July 31: Beirut

It was the winter of 2008. I had just received word that I had been hired as an intern for a baseball statistics company 3,000 miles away from home. I would soon be driving across the country by myself to a location in which I had never been to work with people I had never met. The thought was terrifying and thrilling at the same time. Before I could partake in my adventure, though, I had to find a place to call home for the next eight months.

The first logical step was to scour Craig's List every day and hope to stumble upon an affordable yet safe abode. I was looking for everything from one bedrooms to studios to guests houses to rooms to rent in strangers' homes. I didn't know what the standard of living on the East Coast was. The last time I had been was in the eighth grade and finding a place to live wasn't exactly at the top of my to-do list.

I emailed a few people before finding something promising that sounded fairly close to the office I would be working out of and wasn't out of my planned budget. If things fell into plan, I would be living in the basement of a home that housed two guys who were similar in age to me. We exchanged a few emails and I explained my situation.

When he determined that I wasn't a complete nut, we arranged a time to speak on the phone and work out the details of our situation. When the day of the call arrived, I was nervous because time was running out and I desperately needed a place to drive to from my parents' home in CA. I anxiously paced around my living room as he described the house I would be calling home and which of his belongings I would be sharing the basement with.

My nervousness turned to pure adrenaline when he mentioned the ping pong table. I quickly let him know that he didn't stand a chance against me and he was free to challenge me whenever he liked. We joked around a bit before getting back on subject, but all I could think of from then on was that ping pong table.

To make this already long story a bit shorter, things didn't work out. I ended up connecting with two other interns and forming a threesome in which to live which happened to be much closer to the office. The new situation was much better than the basement, but I still yearned to play some ping pong.

About two months into the internship, I received an e-vite from the owner of the home I was supposed to live in inviting me to take part in his annual Beirut tournament. I didn't have a clue what a Beirut tournament was, but in the invitation he had given a breakdown of the night's events. An hour before the tournament was to begin, "players would be allowed to practice on one of the many tables provided." In my mind (and because we had spent so much time talking about table tennis), that meant a Beirut tournament was a giant ping pong tournament. I immediately RSVPed my response as I will be attending.

When the day came, I dragged one of my new friends (Steve) from the internship along. After all, this would be the first time I would meet my would-be roommates in person. It would just be silly to go alone. I grabbed my personal ping pong paddle (complete with padded, protective case) and hit the road.

As the GPS navigated us to the party, I grew more and more excited at the idea of a room full of simultaneous ping pong games but something deep in me kept asking, what if it's not a ping pong tournament. What if it's something completely different?

There was no turning back. I parked my truck and Steve and I made our way up the sidewalk toward the house. "Maybe you should tuck the paddle in the back of your jeans' waistline just in case it isn't a ping pong tournament," Steve suggested as we were about to push open the front door. "Then you won't look like the idiot with the only paddle at the party." Best. Advice. Ever.

A Beirut tournament is nothing more than a Beer Pong tournament; and this was one heck of a set up. There were at least ten tables all supporting triangles of red cups of beer and at least fifty people waiting to throw ping pong balls into said cups. Music was blaring and laughter was rampant as I introduced myself to the hosts and signed up as if I knew what I was getting into the whole time. Before the tournament began, I quickly ducked out to dispose of my embarrassing paddle in my truck. I arrived in time for the National Anthem and the ceremoniously delivered speech that the host presented to kick off the evening.

Steve and I were ironically paired up with the hosts for our first round and we held our own for most of it. In the end, however, they came back and slammed the door on our dreams of winning it all in our glorious anonymity. I never did play ping pong with my would-be roommates, but going into the Beirut tournament expecting a basement of table tennis nerds was one of my highlights of 2009.

July 30: Don't Interrupt Me!

It was an extremely hot and humid day and for reasons that I can't quite come up with, I decided it would be a great idea to go for a long bike ride. My definition of a long bike ride, however, tends to be slightly different than most people's (not you, Darren). I started riding and I knew it was the wrong activity right from the beginning of the ride. Sweat immediately began forming on my brow as I peddled down the relatively flat street...

I use Smart Balance buttery spread instead of traditional butter. Why? Because my mom bought it while I was growing up and it's a "healthy substitute" for butter. I don't know the nutritional facts of it and I don't know if I'm defeating its purpose by using more to get any flavor.

...Where was I? Anyway, I was peddling down a flat street and I was already sweating profusely. My helmet was doing nothing to soak up the salty discharge and my eyebrows were already saturated with it. This left nowhere for it to travel but into my eyes. Have you ever had sweat drain into your eyes? It's not comfortable. It stings like...

Why is U the only letter of the alphabet that gets the pleasure of being doubled? It's like, whoever's job it was to come up with twenty-six letters for the English language ran out of ideas toward the end. "This will be S and this will be T. Then U, V, and um, let's see. Let's just double U and and erase the top of part of the middle line; W. Perfect.

...hell! Now not only did I have to worry about passing cars and children playing on the sidewalk, but I had to do it blind! I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to straighten out my bike's course before the perspiration forced me to clench them closed again. The weird thing is that instead of pulling over and wiping my eyes, I just kept riding. Why didn't I think about...

This is pretty irritating isn't it? When people ask me what my biggest pet peeves are, I'm always strapped for ideas. There are so many things that bother and annoy me, but I don't want to scare the person off. I inevitably say something dumb like, "When a vending machine thinks my crisp dollar is too crumpled."

Being interrupted is by far my biggest pet peeve. I hate it and it can instantly change my mood. I've been sent home from work for flipping out on another employee just for interrupting a conversation I was having. It went something like this:

I was explaining to another employee how we were going to break down the table arrangements after a large party when this third guy comes charging at us with his arms flailing in the air. He said something along the lines of, "Hey hey hey, Brandon." I responded with "HEY HEY HEY, JASON! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M TALKING WITH SOMEONE?!" The manager then said, "Brandon get out of here. Go home."

I was livid. Up until the time Jason interrupted me I was in a relatively good mood. There's just something about being forced to cease talking and slamming the breaks on my train of thought that really irks me. When I tell stories to people and they interrupt me with questions regarding the details of the story, I go ballistic. Sometimes I respond by stopping and starring and asking them if they're ready for me to continue and sometimes, if they interrupt me too much, I'll stop the story completely and simply walk away. This last one is my favorite method because it really lets them know how irritated I am with their behavior plus they don't get the end of the story. They'll beg me to continue and they promise they won't interrupt anymore, but I rarely give in.

The most ironic aspect of this whole pet peeve of mine is that I am forced to interrupt people every day for my job. I can't simply approach a table and wait for them to finish talking or I would be waiting there all night. "Are you guys doing alright?" Boom. Done. Next table. I sometimes wonder if I would lose it if a server did that to me, but I have no other choice.

For me, there isn't anything worse than being interrupted. It's not that I want to hear the sound of my own voice, but having to halt my train of thought because of someone else's inconsideration really ticks me off.

July 29: Instant Gratification: Now Even More Instant-Er

It's official. The future is now. Books and articles have been written about the impact the Internet has had on Generation Now. Every day more and more people were getting their news via the Internet and morning papers were going by the wayside. How could getting the news on the Internet get any faster? It couldn't, right? Wrong.

I don't "tweet," but I am on Twitter. For those of you that aren't members, it may seem pointless, but trust me, it's pretty cool. The way it works is a user has 140 characters to write a message. These messages can be anything from an update of events planned to a link to an interesting website. Other Twitter subscribers can then "follow" these updates (or tweets) and have each tweet sent to their Twitter account. Confused yet?

Let me try to clear things up. Let's say I have five friends that have Twitter accounts. These friends find me on the website and click the follow button by my name. Now every time I send a tweet, it is forwarded to each friend. If I decide to tweet, "I'm going wakeboarding tomorrow" that message will be sent to my five followers and they now know that I'm going wakeboarding tomorrow. I don't follow any friends or send any tweets myself, but I do follow the Padres, Major League Baseball Trade Rumors (MLBTR), Funny or Die, and a few others. And here is where today's topic comes into play.

The MLB trade deadline is on Saturday and teams that are chasing a division title are scrambling to beef up their rosters. The fun thing about Twitter is that anytime MLBTR or the Padres representative catches wind of a rumor, they can tweet via text message and that message will be instantly forwarded to me. I could speed things up even more by having all new tweets sent to my phone, but I choose not to. I was, however, at my computer when the rumors of Miguel Tejada being traded to the Padres started surfacing.

At first it was a forwarded message from a Padres' writer stating the Baltimore Sun was reporting he had been scratched from tonight's game. Could this mean he had been traded? Then it was a similar message from MLBTR followed by another Padres' tweet about a Minor Leaguer in Baltimore's system being scratched. Could this mean he was being promoted to replace Tejada? Within five minutes and three tweets of speculation later, MLBTR broke the story that the deal was, in fact completed.

In between tweets I kept visiting MLB.com to get an official word, but received nothing. It wasn't until about a half an hour later that MLB had updated its website and mentioned the trade. One could argue that without the Internet, there would not be Twitter, but the fact remains: A medium that is replacing newspapers with instant gratification has now become even more instant.

July 28: Sticky Situation

Have you ever chewed a piece of gum so long that it literally dissolves in your mouth? It's disgusting and I don't recommend it.

It's the beginning of the shift and I just finished a delicious egg and brisket taco. Pieces of stringy brisket nestle into the crevices of my back molars. The taste of salsa sits on my breath as I flip through the side duties book to see what I need to be working on. Aware that I will be talking in close proximity with complete strangers, I reach into my apron and grab the last piece of sugar-free Peppermint Orbitz.

Weeks of riding in my pocket against my warm body and sitting idle on the front seat of my truck in the hot summer sun has caused the last remaining stick of polyisobutylene with artificial sweeteners to harden in the waxy wrapper it's packaged in. Not only is it difficult for me to pry the wrapped gum from its pack without tearing it in half, but once free, I struggle to unwrap the stick of gum.

Proud of myself for undressing it without completely ruining it, I slowly bring it to my lips, grasp it between the tip of my tongue and my front teeth, close my eyes, and pull it into my dry mouth. Just like those Doublemint twins and Big Red models taught me in the commercials of my youth. Whether I'm chewing a new piece of Juicy Fruit or a small stick of Trident, I can't resist casting myself in a gum commercial of my own. Ask me sometime and I'll show you what I mean.

Anyway, the night progresses and the gum loses its flavor. The consistency stays roughly the same until about an hour in. At this point, the gum becomes rubber and chewing it becomes more of a chore than a pleasurable involuntary and repetitive motion of chews. Because it's a relatively busy night at work, I continue doing my thing and I don't pay attention to the flavorless piece of tire that's in my mouth.

Before I know it, seven hours have passed and I'm behind the wheel of my truck driving home trying to decide what I'm going to write about. As I chew and contemplate various topics that have been running through my head all night I wonder what inning the Padre game is in. How pissed off will I be when I see the score?

Then, from out of nowhere, my gum instantaneously turns soft and its smooth, contoured texture becomes a gooey, soggy ball of construction paper and starchy paste. It doesn't stick to itself. It sticks to my teeth and my tongue. My mouth can't comprehend the sudden lack of plaything and begins to salivate in hopes of finding something. My jaws stop and the grainy lump sits on my tongue and waits for me to dispose of it. I can't. It sits and melts over the surface of my tongue like a stick of margarine on a hot stove. I can't take it anymore. I open my car door and let it fall out on to the passing pavement. I can't spit it out because it doesn't have a form. I would just end up spitting a spray of rotten mess all over the opened door.

Gum is great. I always have a pack in my truck and in my apron at work. It masks the stench of my breath beautifully and it helps me concentrate on the agonizingly difficult task of waiting on needy people. It keeps the tartar and plaque buildup minimized and I just look cool when I chew it. I don't recommend, however, chewing it for more than five hours. I don't know the exact cutoff between tire and paste which is why I feel five hours is a safe bet. If you want to chew longer, be my guest but beware of the disgusting mess you'll soon encounter.

July 27: Persistent Pessimism

Most of my posts are dark and pessimistic views on every day occurrences. Am I apologetic about that? Well, when I first realized the direction my entries had taken, I was a little embarrassed. After all, no one likes a "Debbie Downer" or someone that always has something negative to say. If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all. Remember that one? But as the days went by and the posts piled up, I began to take pride in my pessimistic views.

I stopped worrying about how my writing was being perceived because I was having more fun on my high horse. It's just more enjoyable to go off on a freak or a situation that I've encountered. Finding the positives in common events is boring and doesn't offer any original thought, but to nag on ridiculous topics is just plain funny.

Being pessimistic in person is a little exhausting, however. A face-to-face conversation is harder to avoid for the person conversing with the pessimist. You can't just walk away in the middle of the interaction. If you don't like my view on the way a traffic light is positioned or my hatred toward movie goers, you can close your browser's window. You don't have to sit there and take it like you might if we were talking in person.

So yeah, 365 Days of Brandon has its dark moments. I don't have a very optimistic view on the homeless, growing old, tip jars, or fat and lazy people. But they sure are funny, aren't they?

July 26: A Last Minute Blind Date

For those of you that have read every post (let's be honest here...it's just my mom), remember when I posted an entry about how people will bring up people they know that live in a mentioned city? "I'm moving to Austin, Texas." Really? You should call Brandon because he's in Austin, Texas. Remember how I made it abundantly clear how I hated that? Well guess what. The same can almost apply to blind dates.

When a drunk girl goes on and on to another drunk girl about how she can't find a decent guy, that shouldn't be an open invitation to call me and drag me out to a bar. Don't get me wrong. I love that people are looking out for me. I love that I have friends that think of me when a cute girl is looking for a specific kind of guy.

It's no secret that I'm reaching the point of desperation here. I'm nearing my late twenties and heading into my thirties with one relationship under my belt. Every girl I meet is either taken or doesn't want to see me for more than a week. I'm an educated, neurotic, anal-retentive, anti-social dweeb that works in a restaurant. How am I supposed to compete with guys that know what they want in life? You can only make a girl laugh so many times before she realizes you're broke and don't have any direction in life.

I didn't get the entire story because the author was unbelievably inebriated by the time I arrived. What I gathered from the slurs and obnoxious tangents, was that the mystery girl was looking for an educated guy that wasn't a musician and had a good job. Did she request anything else? I'm sure she did, but like I said, this was all I got. Well, thanks for thinking of me but a decent job I do not have. And if that's all she's looking for, I doubt she'll have any problem.

Look, blind dates are cool if the organizer knows both members better than four beer's worth. I appreciate the thought. I'm flattered that a peer is doing her best to find me someone that I can have fun with, but please don't call me at 10:45 in the evening to meet someone that you just met yourself. Don't go on and on about how I'm this ridiculously good looking guy that's smart and funny and charming and witty and hot and athletic and compassionate and flirty and down-to-Earth and an all-around-great guy. I can't live up to the hype and the conversation won't last beyond fifteen drunken interruptions.

July 25: A Curse or a Blessing?

At the trade deadline in 2009, starting pitcher Cliff Lee was a part of a five player deal that sent him and outfielder Ben Francisco to the Philadelphia Phillies from the Cleveland Indians. Lee finished the season with a 7-4 record and a 3.39 ERA and helped the team to its second consecutive World Series appearance. He wasn't a slouch in the postseason either. With a cumulative ERA of 1.56 in five games pitched, he won four of his decisions with two complete games; one of which was in the World Series against the eventual champion Yankees.

On December 16, the Phillies traded their recently acquired ace to the Seattle Mariners in a nine player deal that landed them starting pitcher Roy Halladay from the Toronto Blue Jays. Suffice it to say, Lee was shocked when he heard the news. Arguments could be made that the Phillies would never have gotten as far into the playoffs as they did without Lee and here they were trading him away less than two months later.

Lee packed his bags and moved his family once again to a new city. What did he do for the Mariners? He only went 8-3 with two no decisions, held on to a 2.34 ERA and struck out 89 batters while only walking six. He did this all while Seattle flushed their season down the drain and sank to the bottom of the American League West. Then on July 9 the Mariners sent their ace to their division rivals; the Texas Rangers.

5,402 miles in 343 days. That may not seem like that big of a deal, but when you factor in a person's family, the stress of finding three new places to call home, moving belongings three times, and getting acquainted with three new cities, it becomes a "big deal."

You might be wondering why a player of Lee's caliber would be traded so frequently given his consistency to put up such good numbers during the regular season and prove to be a valuable commodity during the postseason. It's simple. A player that's as good as Cliff Lee at the ripe age of 31 and approaching free agency is a terrifying thought for any team employing the left-handed pitcher. 2010 marks the end of Lee's current contract which means that teams can bid on his services at the end of the season. A proven track record guarantees top dollar for those services and if a team isn't confident in being able to retain him beyond the expiration of his contract, trading him to a team that is willing to give up top prospects to acquire him makes the most sense for the good of the organization.

Today, starting pitcher Dan Haren was traded from the Arizona Diamondbacks to the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. It's not quite the same situation as Lee's because Haren is in the middle of a long-term contract but it got me thinking. Is it more of a curse than a blessing to have so much talent? A player with such ability will eventually get paid millions upon millions of dollars to flex that talent, but what kind of toll does that take on a person and his family?

Until Cliff Lee can sign that contract and include a no-trade clause, he is at the mercy of whatever current club he's with. On one hand, the chances of him being traded to a contending club are pretty high. More times than not, a team at the bottom of its division won't trade away the farm system to acquire a pitcher they'll more than likely lose at the end of the season. A team that feels it's one piece away from having a championship club will gamble a few of its prospects in the hope of winning now. The Mariners knew they were out of contention so they sent Lee to Texas for some pieces that might help them win in the future. Instead of pitching in meaningless games, Lee is instantly a part of a team making a run for the postseason.

Hundreds of millions of dollars to have to move the family across the country multiple times within a short period. Cliff Lee will get the contract this offseason and he'll move his family once more; until, that is, the twilight of his career when a team is desperate for pitching. Is having the talent to make teams drool with dreams of pennants and trophies a curse or a blessing? I wish I could tell you.

July 24: A Recurring Favor

This post doesn't apply to you, Amanda. It doesn't apply do you either, Phil. This post is for all of you truck drivers. We love our trucks. Some of us drive big trucks and some of us drive compact trucks. The bros lift theirs and the gangstas lower theirs. When it comes down to it, though, we're all driving trucks. I'll even throw in the El Camino with this one. If it has a bed, this post is for you.

Although we love our trucks, we put up with one common request from friends, family, and neighbors. Whenever someone needs to move, guess who they call. Whenever someone needs to relocate a large item (i.e. barbecue, refrigerator, etc.), guess who they call. They call us truck drivers.

I've moved mattresses, barbecues, and couches. I've even escorted a dog to his final resting place. I moved all of these things for other people because I own a truck. I've moved bales of hay, entertainment centers, and patio furniture. Why? Because I own a truck.

I'm not complaining. It comes with the vehicle and I know that. When you purchase a truck, it's inevitable that you will eventually be asked to help someone move or be asked to transport something. It can get old though. I hate moving my own things so why would I want to move someone else's?

This post doesn't apply to you, Frank and it's not for you, Kate. This post is simply for all of the other truck drivers/owners out there. You are not alone.

July 23: The Regular

This one goes out to all of you restaurant workers. What is the deal with the restaurant regular? I mean, really. I've worked at two other restaurants before the one I'm currently employed by. The first restaurant I worked at had it's regulars and I'm sure the second one did too. I only worked at the second one for six months so I didn't really notice anybody over and over again. The current one, however, tops them all.

Normally a restaurant regular is some lonely dude that sits at the bar every night, watches SportsCenter or the game of the day, has a few beers, maybe makes a creepy comment to a pretty young thing that sits next to him, and leaves. One guy, three or four beers, maybe something small to munch on, and that's it.

It's a whole different ballgame at this place. Families come in and sit in the dining room at least once a week. Couples come in and sit in the dining room every night. They order food every night. It's not always the same thing, but it's something. Do you want to know how bad it is? These "regulars" are so bad that they're invited to the company Christmas party; and they attend!

Now, I understand what's going on from a business' point of view. But what about a pride thing? Don't these people have any at all? Don't they realize how pathetic they look to everyone that works there? Every day? Really? They come in like it's no big deal. News flash: It's a giant deal. You eat dinner at the same place every single night of the week. "Gee, Honey. Where do you want to eat tonight?" Are you kidding me?!

Not only is it a pathetic display of having nothing better to do, but a funny thing happens to a person when they go to the same place over and over again; they believe they are above everyone else. All of a sudden it's okay for them to order off-menu items and make the strangest requests. They know the inventory better than the waiters so they know that the kitchen has cocktail sauce when it's no where to be found on the menu. They know to ask for refried black beans and white cheese on their nachos instead of the standard refried beans and yellow cheese.

I don't know about you, but if I ever found myself visiting a restaurant every day of the week and the entire staff knew who I was, I would feel a little intimidated come gratuity time. After all, I would be seeing the server the next day and remembering who I am goes a little further than face recognition. With that being said, how can that lady that doesn't tip anything at all continue to show her face?

I'm not exaggerating here either. This lady isn't an every day-er, but she still comes in once a week. She's not overly needy or bossy, but she never leaves a tip. Never. I had the pleasure of serving her once and when it was time to get her her change, I brought the exact amount hoping that she would at least leave the coins. Wrong. That ugly, fat chick took every last penny and left me nothing.

If you can't cook or you don't have any friends, going to the same restaurant is not the answer. I'm the perfect example. I can't cook and I don't have any friends, but I don't visit the local bar every night to get my chicken wings. I go through the drive-thru and I live on a steady diet of strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts. If I had the money and the lack of pride to visit the same place every night, I would at least leave something and I definitely would not attend the company Christmas party. But that's just me.

July 22: Green Light Red Light

I am cruising. Not speeding; just cruising. Okay, that's not entirely true. I'm traveling five to ten miles an hour over the speed limit, but it's not like I'm going crazy here. I am simply cruising. It's 11:32 in the evening and I'm the only one on the road. Ahead in the distance I see the bright glow of the green light illuminating the road and nearby surroundings. I maintain my speed and prepare to fly through the intersection. The light changes, however, to yellow and finally rests on red just as I approach the crosswalk.

I turn my head to the right and see nothing for miles. I turn my head to the left and guess what, nothing! No one is coming from either direction and no one is waiting to turn left through the intersection. There aren't any pedestrians or emergency vehicles anywhere. The best part: Every traffic light at the intersection is red. Why am I stopped? Why am I sitting here like an idiot?

As I sit there with a blank expression on my face and an idle engine, I stare forward lost in frustration at the scenario. Should I go anyway? Who would see me? Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a change in the illumination on the streets. I take my foot off the break and prepare to accelerate through the intersection when I realize that the change was not my light. It was the cross-street's! Well, that's just great. The cars that aren't there can now continue with their nightly journey.

After what seems like hours, my light goes from red to green and I can continue with my own journey. Pissed off, I drive through the night trying to make sense of it all. I just don't understand how traffic lights work and it really bothers me. I thought there was some kind of sensor; whether it be on the light itself or in the pavement. Don't tell me they're on a timer because that would just be dumb.

When I was younger (and sometimes now when I'm trying to be funny with a passenger) I would flick my high beams on and off in a situation like this. I used to think that I could trick the traffic light into thinking I was an oncoming emergency vehicle. Now, I tell my passengers that it works and hope that I get them to try it the next time they find themselves in the situation.

However it works, it needs to be remedied. Right now, we're just encouraging road rage. I know I speak for others when I say that I find myself speeding even more to make up for lost time after sitting for no reason. I've been told that the way my headlights reflect off of the road could have an effect on how the traffic light reacts, but that's just silly. I've had traffic lights force me to stop in the middle of the day, so how do you explain that one?

We're allowed to turn right at a red light, so why can't we drive through an intersection when it's clearly safe to do so? If I ever run for office, this is what I would change. I guarantee you people would eat it up.

July 21: Movie Reviews

Despicable Me - A man tries to prove how villainous he can be by coming up with a scheme to steal the moon. I usually don't fall asleep until the third or fourth movie, but I was out before (I assume) he completed his task. The animation looked great and the film makers really took advantage of the 3D format. There was a fun bit during the credits where they stretched the technology to its max. Children of all ages would enjoy this, but I don't think it could entertain the adults like a Pixar film could.

Grown Ups - A group of childhood friends reunites with families of their own. This was Adam Sandler at his most Adam Sandler-esque. All of the Sandler regulars made appearances (even Steve Buscemi) and the entire script was nothing but one liners...one liners that weren't funny, that is. There was everything you would expect from a Happy Madison film from fart jokes to fat jokes but they all just seemed forced.

Inception - A team of experts devise a way to go through people's dreams. If you don't like to think when watching a film, stay as far away from this one as you can. It's really easy to get lost, but if you're able to hang on, it's a really great trip. I don't do very well with accents and there were a lot of them in this one so a second viewing would clear a lot up, but the visuals alone are truly amazing.

Eclipse - I only saw the first thirty minutes of this one because I had to wait for the next movie to start. I haven't read any of the books nor have I seen any of the movies. Thirty minutes of this one was too much as it was. Vampires and werewolves fighting for the attention of a human girl? No thank you. I honestly don't know how those actors take themselves seriously after being in such crap.

Knight and Day - Two groups fight over the possession of a battery that never loses power. This is what a summer movie is all about. Sure it was dumb, but it was fun. Nonstop action and peril. Funny dialogue. Great stunts. Tom Cruise was great and Cameron Diaz looked great. The actors had a lot of chemistry which made the film that much more enjoyable.

Toy Story 3 - I think we all know how I feel about this one. I've now seen it in 3D, IMAX 3D, and traditional 2D and I still get choked up. By far the best movie of the day.

July 20: Actions Vs. Words

I told her I had a job interview. I didn't get it. I told him I was going to go on an extreme bicycle ride. I never did. I told my parents I went out with a girl that I really liked. She never called me back. I don't tell people anything anymore because it's too easy to get excited about something and share it with everyone you know only to have it fall apart at the last minute. I don't know what hurts more: the actual failure or having to inform everyone you've told that things didn't work out like you imagined they would.

In the fall of 2007 I had had enough. I was working a dead-end job with no sign of change. I was two years removed from graduating college and I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I was bored and depressed. I needed a jump start to my life and in September I thought I had come up with the perfect way to do so. I was going to ride a bicycle to every Major League ballpark in the country in one season.

By October I had purchased a new bike and touring panniers (an investment that set me back approximately $1,600). By November I had visited my local AAA for state road maps, pieced them together to create an expansive collage of interstates and highways that took up an entire wall of my bedroom, and had the route highlighted. My panniers were loaded on to my bike and they were stuffed with old clothes to weigh me down. Every day I had off of work I was riding a thirty mile loop to train my legs for the strength and endurance I was going to need.

I had purchased a How-To book on touring and even went as far as writing to the Lou Gehrig Foundation to ask for a sponsorship. I told everyone I came in contact with what my plan was. I would start in San Diego on Opening Day, watch a Padres game before starting off toward Arizona, Denver, Arlington, etc. I would ride to the tip of Florida before trekking north to New York and then back west to Seattle and I would finish in Anaheim. I had it all figured out.

That Thanksgiving weekend, I woke up at 5:00 in the morning and began a journey that would take me from Orange County to San Diego. My plan was to go slowly and take my time so I could end up at my parents' front door and surprise them. As far as they were concerned, I had to work that night and I would be driving home after my shift. It was going to be great to see the look on their faces after I had pedaled over a hundred miles.

It would have been great to see their faces. You see, not only did I have to ride south for so long, but once I got to San Diego, I would have to climb 2,000 feet to reach my hometown of Alpine. By the time I had reached the base of the hill I was supposed to start climbing, my legs gave up. I couldn't go any further. I was forced to call my mom and tell her I needed her to come and pick me up. I rode for just under one hundred miles that day which should have been cause to celebrate, but having to call for help was a crushing blow of defeat.

After taking a long, hot shower I sat on the couch and zoned out while my dad watched his nightly programs and my mom did various chores around the house. My legs were numb and sunburned and my thoughts were elsewhere. I was incredibly vulnerable and my mom took advantage of the moment to convince me that the trip I had just taken would be nothing in comparison to the voyage I had been planning. She made sure to let me know that there wouldn't be someone to come and get me when I was ready to call it quits. She begged for me to reconsider and I reluctantly did just that.

To get amped up about something and want to share the excitement is natural but to have to hang your head and admit defeat is brutal. This is why I don't share anything with anyone anymore. I try to keep my plans to myself and only share them once they've panned out. I've seen it happen to other people and I feel so badly for them when I have to watch their expectations come crashing down around them. It's just easier to hold off for a tad longer before celebrating.

July 19: Man Down

Tonight's victim was Dustin Nippert. Last year it was Hiroki Kuroda and in 2008 it was Chris Young. Every year (and sometimes more) a pitcher's head gets in the way of a line drive. It's terrible when it happens. A pitcher's mound is sixty feet and six inches from home plate and the pitcher is closer than that when the ball comes flying back at him at more than a hundred miles per hour.

As horrifying a thing as that must be, I can't get to the Internet fast enough when it does. I have to see it. MLB.com was the first site I went to when I got home from work tonight to see the event. There's something magical and creepy about watching a grown man drop so quickly. Would I want to be the pitcher? Absolutely not. Do I feel bad for the guy? Heck yeah I do! It doesn't make it less of a spectacle though. Fastball meets maple meets face.

I used to think it was sick to want to see a video of a pitcher taking a fastball to the face. I used to think it was something to be ashamed of, but it's science! If an object is traveling at X velocity and hits a soft, fleshy surface what will happen?

My only objection is that the event tends to be a little repetitive. The guy throws the ball. Less than a second later he's writhing on the ground as the batter rounds first and tries to make it to second. The announcers groan and exhale slowly. The crowd is on its feet with hands covering mouths. Trainers, players, coaches, and umpires crowd the mound and wait for the thumbs up sign from the pitcher as he's carried off on a stretcher. There's the thumb. There's the standing ovation from everyone watching. Game continues.

And yet here I am writing about wanting to watch it as soon as I come home. What is it about seeing a man in such pain that mesmerizes me so? It's not a malicious thing because I witnessed Chris Young go through it two years ago and I hated losing a starting pitcher. It's not that I want these players to get hurt but I don't know what it is.

July 18: What's in a Number?

You're at a bar having a good time with your friends. The music is bumpin' and the adrenaline is pumpin'. There might be some sports highlights on a nearby screen and everyone seems to be in a fairly jovial mood.

A group of girls comes in and one of them catches your eye. You let her settle in and get a drink. You face your group of friends but your focus is on the girl. You observe her take notice when you make a joke. She's listening, but keeping her distance.

Finally, you work up the nerve to break the ice by saying something dumb like, "What're you drinkin' there?" She answers and just like that you find yourself having a light-hearted conversation with a complete stranger. Suddenly time shifts into overdrive and before you know it, your group of friends is ready to move on. You let your new friend know that you have to go, but that you want to continue the conversation so you ask for her number.

You make little jokes about how you've never met someone with so many 3's in her number or how this is the first phone number you've ever received. Once you have the tenth digit (area code included), you press send which calls her phone and in turn, gives her your number. You say your goodbyes and you walk away with a little extra skip in your step after successfully closing the deal.

Fast forward a few days. Fast forward to a time when you're sober and alone at home. Fast forward to a time where you barely remember what she looked like or how she sounded when she laughed. Fast forward to you holding your phone and searching through your contacts until you find her first name with the name of the bar where you met in parenthesis. Fast forward to you sitting with the receiver just grazing your ear as the distant ring sends sound waves bouncing against your drum.

Is there anything more awkward than that first conversation? I'm not exaggerating either. The first time you dial the number and she picks up has got to be right up there with sitting naked in homeroom. Maybe it's because I'm a complete turd and know absolutely nothing about talking to girls, but I never have anything intelligent to say after, "Hey, it's Brandon from the bar."

I was just thinking about you and thought I would call. Pathetic. Well, it's been three days since I received your number and here I am calling you. Laughable. I could use a cold beer and thought about places that sell beers and I thought about the bar I was at three days ago and remembered meeting you and getting your number and now I'm calling you. It's as good as anything else I have.

There is always the rhetorical, "Hey, how's it going?" question. I think we all know how I feel about these questions, but I always answer the same way: "Great, how are you?" This always leads to her saying that she's been busy with blah blah blah or yadda yadda yadda which turns into a conversation where I ask her everything about the activity. Before I know it, she's told me a half an hour worth of material and I've recited nothing about what I've been up to.

I don't think I'm complaining because I hate talking about myself. (I'd rather write a blog about myself every day for a year....) These conversations are funny because she always ends up telling me some pretty personal things (Mom was just diagnosed with Parkinson's, Dad's an alcoholic, Step Dad used to scream obscenities at her and her mom, etc. etc.). I don't know if it's my expert ways of asking probing questions or my fantastic listening skills, but on more than one occasion a girl has said, "Now that you know my life story, what about you?"

Come to think of it, this first conversation isn't all that bad. Sure they all start the same and I can't stand monotony, but I end up listening to some pretty interesting things. I rarely have to worry about stuttering and stammering because she's doing all the talking. No, those initial phone conversations aren't that bad at all. Now if I could only work up the nerve to go and talk to more girls...

July 17: Two-Plied Terror

I don't like buying books. A book, for me, is not like a CD or a movie that I want to experience over and over again. I love to read but when I finish a book, I'm done with it. Because I'm not settled down into life yet and I'm constantly on the move, boxes of books are not something I want to be hauling around. A week of enjoyment isn't worth the twenty dollars either. For these reasons, I'm an avid visitor of libraries.

I have three library cards from various locations in California, one from Pennsylvania, and I had my Austin card within a week of being here. I love having a different book on my nightstand to fall asleep with and to wake up to. It wasn't until a recent conversation with a friend that really screwed that up for me. You see, I sleep in boxers. No shirt; just boxers. I never had a problem propping a book up on my bare chest while in bed until this conversation.

"I always feel dirty after I read from a library book. You never know where the book has been or how many people have had it in their dirty homes."

I knew that other people had read from the books. That's how the library system works. I knew the librarians didn't wipe down the books upon return, but they were books. Pages with words. That's it. I always believed that books were published with magical self-cleaning, never germ-infested pages but it was this conversation that was nestled into my mind every time I lay in bed with a book on my chest. Nevertheless, I persevered and kept reading.

I had the fateful conversation almost a year ago and I was on the cusp of forgetting all about it. There were nights where I didn't think of where the book had been as it sat on my naked chest. This morning, however, the conversation knocked on my door and let itself in. After reading for half an hour, I got to the point in the book where the last reader left. Sometimes this page is marked by a scrap of paper or a folded page corner. Sometimes it's a copy of the library receipt with the due date and sometimes (as was the case this morning) it's a piece of toilet paper.

It was simply a piece of clean tissue, but it was clear where the book had been. The patron had come home from the library and had to drop a load. He was so excited about his new library book that he brought it along with him. He dropped his jeans around his ankles and followed with his underwear. He then sat and shat with this book (currently residing on my chest in my bed) resting on his naked lap.

As he turned each page, the waft of the previous night's meal snuggled within the fibers of the book. When he was finished (in more ways than one) he tore a piece of toilet paper to mark his place, sat the book aside, wiped off, and flushed. Based on what I've seen in other bathrooms, I would guess that he didn't put the lid down before flushing which meant poop particles were flying around and landing on the clear plastic cover. He probably didn't wash his hands before picking the book up and placing it on the nightstand next to his bed. Either he became bored with the book or he ran out of time before having to return it, but here it was: on my chest still marked with his two-plied tissue.

Horrified, I carefully pinched the corner of the tissue and threw it out of the binding and on to the floor. I retrieved my own library receipt and marked my place before tossing the book aside. I was too disgusted to continue reading. Maybe this is what happened to the last guy. He was enjoying a book when he came across a snotty rag left by the previous reader. Disgusted and too disturbed to read beyond page forty-one, he grabbed the nearest marker and closed the book. Maybe every time he went back to continue reading, he couldn't get past the idea of that rag and before he knew it, it was time to return the book.

I don't like buying books because I don't want to have to put up with storing them and moving them every time I change residencies. But if reading other people's bathroom material is the only other option for me, I may have become a Barnes and Noble member.

July 16: Just a Dream

In honor of Inception opening today, I thought I would tell a story about an incident involving a dream that took place in December of my junior year of college.

It was the final week of the semester and if the students weren't studying or taking their last finals, they were preparing to take a month off before the Spring semester would begin. Because I was a Resident Advisor, I had to stay on campus until the end of the week even if all of my finals were over.

I can't remember what day of the week it was, but I must have been up late the night before because I was taking a nap in my dorm room in the middle of the afternoon. I was in one of those sleep cycles where I wasn't really dreaming about anything worth remembering, but I was in a state of deep relaxation. My breathing had slowed to a crawl and I was very comfortable when someone knocked on my door.

I remember calling out for them to come in. I remember her head sticking into the room. I remember not getting up or even turning to face the door (which, by the way, is very unlike me). She told me she was heading home for the Winter Break and she just wanted to say goodbye. I remember her coming in and leaning over my bed and giving me a hug before leaving. That's all I remember because I immediately fell back to sleep.

Aside from my extremely rude actions and her forwardness, this story doesn't seem very far from ordinary, does it? Well when I woke up from my slumber, the whole interaction was such a blur that I questioned its very existence. Did I dream of her coming in and saying goodbye or did that really happen?

I wrote that not getting up was unlike me and that's very true. When someone calls me and wakes me up, I do my best impression of an alert human being when answering. I always have and I always will. Because I mask my true state so poorly, I'm always asked if they had awaken me to which I try to convince them that they hadn't. I can't imagine me just lying there and not making any effort at all to be more cordial to this poor resident.

The weeks following that day were filled with confusion. I never mentioned it to the student because of embarrassment of not knowing if it actually happened or not. Everything about it felt very real. I just have no idea if it was.

July 15: Will Work for Weed

Is it just me, or is there a homeless guy on every street corner in Austin, Texas? Ragged, faded t-shirts and ripped jeans. Unshaven faces. Torn and battered baseball caps and worn out tennis shoes, boots and sandals. And why are they all Christians?! Each sign comes equipped with a good ol' fashioned blessing. They limp up and down the center divide of busy streets with puppy dog eyes and sometimes with puppies too! Some have buckets to collect the change and others stuff the currency into denim pockets.

I've seen more cardboard signs in the last ten months than I can remember, but the ones that stood out are the following: Just Plain Hungry (Simple and to the point), 99 Cents Short of a Happy Meal (Does McDonald's allow adults to purchase Happy Meals?), Will Work for Food (Not very original, buddy), Unemployed (Duh!), and Disabled (You look fine to me). I read this last one today and it may just be the most unique I've seen.

First of all, the sign belonged to one of only two female bums, excuse me, homeless people I've seen since moving to Texas. She had a limp (maybe this was her disability) to her left side as she walked up and down the line of waiting cars. She wore a loose-fitting pink tank top that accentuated her bra-less, sunburned bosom. Aside from the content, her sign was like any other; fourth-grade penmanship in black permanent marker on brown cardboard. Center-aligned, it read: Disabled (Next Line) Anything Helps (Next Line) May God Bless You. To the right of the second line and encircled was the number 420.

Look, I don't know why you're out there in the hot sun begging for money. I can't imagine being in a situation where I didn't have a roof over my head at night. I don't know if you're in the process of trying to find employment or if you're just lazy. I don't know what your disability is, but I have a hard time taking you seriously when your one suggestion to strangers is that they give you weed.

The first thought that went through my head when I read this was, "Ha ha ha." Then I wondered if she wanted marijuana for medicinal purposes. I then thought about her sign from an advertising perspective. I wondered what the average driver thought when he read the sign and whether or not he was more or less likely to help based on her choice of display. Being a young, ignorant, and selfish person I personally would be less likely to help someone asking for weed; so I drove by.

Look, I don't have a thing against the homeless. Most of them are mentally unstable and I think it's terribly lamentable that a society can simply toss them aside instead of having a solution to the problem. It's easy for me to sit here in my air-conditioned apartment and poke fun of a situation that I don't know anything about under the surface of what I see every day in my air-conditioned vehicle.

But because the market is so over-saturated with cardboard signs, deciding who to give my contributions to can be harrowing. Do I give my two cents to the guy with the puppy that can beg or do I toss a nickel at the guy with the local Longhorns hat? Should I roll my window down for the guy who needs a gun or for the lady who wants drugs? There are just so many choices!

July 14: Home Run Derby

Eight batters, three rounds, and ten outs each. Every year I get super excited for the Home Run Derby during the All Star Break in July, but every year I am reminded how boring the event actually is.

To start, I'm always disappointed in the contestants. I want to see the best of the best launching homers. I want to see Alex Rodriguez and Albert Pujols. Prince Fielder and Ryan Howard. Give me Adam Dunn and Vladimir Guerrero. I don't want to watch Chris Young and Nick Swisher! Those aren't home run hitters.

Watching chumps take batting practice gets really old really fast. I understand that Fox needs to make a television event out of it so they can sell advertising, but I think three rounds is a bit much. Each of the eight batters gets ten outs to hit as many home runs as possible. Then there is a second round of ten more outs followed by a third round of ten more! Watching a guy smash homers is great for about five minutes. After a while, I just watch to hear the commentators talk about the season and interview guests.

The All Star Game on the other hand is fantastic. I love watching a game where everyone on the field is wearing a different jersey. It's fun to watch the managers try and get every member on the team an at-bat. The Home Run Derby, however, is too much. If you have to do it though, I want to see some real power hitters.

July 13: Sunglasses Are Not Goggles

In the summer of 2004 I had a friend that worked as a lifeguard at a local community pool. One of the perks she received with her job was a fifty percent discount on major brands of sunglasses. When I found this out, I immediately placed an order for a pair of $125 shades.

Because it was summer and she was a friend from college, I lived about an hour away from her when the shipment came in. Luckily a mutual friend was throwing a birthday party and we were both invited. It was the perfect opportunity to collect my new shades because the party just happened to be a beach party!

The day of the big event arrived and I was more excited to get my new sunglasses than I was about seeing all of my friends and celebrating the birth of one of them. I wasn't disappointed either. The glasses looked sharp with their glossy, black finish and their polarized lenses were easy on my eyes as we walked on the hot sand to the party.

I dropped off my belongings with my friends' and said my hellos before venturing into the cold Pacific waves. As I waded into the frothy waters, one of my friends asked me if I thought I should put my sunglasses with my things. I had been waiting a long time to wear them so I wasn't about to just abandon the shades when all I was going to be doing was jumping over waves in relatively shallow waters. Bad idea. The first wave I decided to body board in on was all it took to slap the glasses off my face and out of my life.

To say I was bummed would be an understatement. To make a long story short, I purchased another pair of shades from my lifeguard friend at fifty percent off which meant I was simply paying full retail price. That was almost six years ago to the day and I thought I had learned my lesson.

Today I went on a party barge. A funny thing happens when you put a pair of sunglasses on your face first thing in the morning and drink a lot of alcohol: You forget they're there. A pair of sunglasses that have been with me since my sophomore year of high school sank to the bottom of Lake Travis on the first jump into the water of the day. I guess learning from my mistakes isn't something I'm very good at.

July 12: Mighty Fine Burger

The West Coast has In-N-Out. The East Coast has Five Guys. Texas has the cattle, but where can one go to eat said cattle? The first day I was in Austin, I stumbled upon the answer in a quaint and clean shopping center just off of Brodie Lane in Sunset Valley.

Mighty Fine Burger makes the best hamburger I have ever had the pleasure of biting into. The buns are soft, the tomatoes are ripe, and the onions and pickles: crisp. The lettuce is perfectly shredded so you aren't constantly fighting with it to stay on the patty. The meat, however, ties it all together. The 100% fresh, all-natural beef is ground and hand-formed on-site and you can definitely taste the quality!

A trip to Mighty Fine Burger without getting a hand-dipped Blue Bell ice cream milkshake is like going to Disneyland without riding Space Mountain. I've always been a malt kind of guy and sadly, MFB doesn't have the proper ingredients to prepare one, but their chocolate shakes are a pretty darn good substitute. Smooth, creamy, and fantastically delicious. A MFB shake is the perfect compliment to their always hot and crispy crinkle cut fries which are always prepared in 100% peanut oil.

Not only is the food fresh and delicious, but the general atmosphere of Mighty Fine Burger is perfect. Whether you're standing in line next to a trough of bottled beers and ice or washing your hands in the wall-mounted CleanTech 500 EZ, the restaurant is a joy to visit. The dining room is designed with simplicity in mind and it works beautifully. Guests sit on red, metal folding chairs at the picnic-styled tables with blue and white checkered tablecloths.

While waiting to refill my Orange Fanta, I overheard a little girl tell her mother, "This is the best restaurant I've ever been to." Mom replied with, "The best ever?" and the little girl nodded with an affirmative "Mmm Hmm." I wouldn't go as far as calling Mighty Fine Burger the best restaurant (that honor still belongs to Souplantation) but it is unquestionably the best burger I have ever had.

July 11: Parking in Rear

Is there anything more annoying than not being able to find a parking spot? Yes. Is there anything more annoying than finding a parking spot in a crowded lot only to find that the car in the adjacent spot can't stay in the lines? Yes. Is there anything more annoying than going out to your car in a crowded parking lot only to find that some lunatic decided to park directly behind you when you're clearly parked right in front of a pole? No.

How a person could possibly be so dumb is beyond me. It would be one thing if a group of us all parked in one lot, left, and returned together. But to visit a large restaurant that seats over four hundred people and park behind a complete stranger is mind boggling.

Did this person do this because I drive a truck and he or she assumed I would be able to shift in to four-wheel drive and climb over the pole? Did they do it because they saw the SD on my rear window and they were die-hard Dodgers fans? Maybe it was a guest that I served the previous week in which I gave lousy service and they happened to see me drive home that night. Yes. It must have been the latter.

I think that people get so angry when driving around a crowded lot that they'll do anything for a spot. That's proven every year at every summer street fair. People are willing to pay twenty dollars to be able to turn their vehicles off. Schools, private homes and businesses, and parks make a killing from their lots and driveways. Maybe this person made two or three laps around the huge parking lot and decided that they weren't going to take a fourth. The next open space they saw was where they were going to park their Nissan SUV. That space just happened to be directly behind my truck.

Thankfully, I was able to maneuver my truck around the pole and over a curb without hitting any other vehicles to get out. It didn't take away the frustration, though, had accrued upon witnessing the lack of intelligence this Nissan driver had so generously displayed. Just when I didn't think there could be anything more annoying than finding that my truck had been blocked in, it happened again.

July 10: Life is for the Living

I don't know if it's Austin, Texas or the specific restaurant that I work at, but I have never seen so many old people that look as if they're one sneeze away from keeling over. Walkers, wheelchairs, hearing aids, and a whole lot of loose veiny, translucent skin. Wisps of white hair that refuses to lie flat on freckled and speckled scalps and the posture! My goodness the posture!

It takes three grown men to help one doddery hunchback in and out of the front seat of a sedan. Getting an old lady from her seat at the table to the handicap stall takes another two middle-aged women and one little girl. One lady pulls the hands, one lady slips her right hand under the overcoat and supports the lower back, and the little girl holds the handbag.

The elderly can't walk, hear, or speak louder than a whisper. They usually don't have a sense of humor, they're rude and bossy, and they're crotchety beyond belief. They can't drive, jog, or cook and they contribute nothing to society with the exception of an occasional good story; and that's if they can remember it!

As soon as I can't wipe my own butt it's time to pull the plug. When I need someone to put my parking break on so I don't roll away, it's time for a make out session with a goose down pillow. Let me go to the bathroom by myself. If I can't get up, leave me there; I don't want to return. When I need someone to spoon the dribble off my chin, it's time for a spoon of arsenic to my oatmeal.

I'm a firm believer in euthanasia. I once saw a quote that read, "Life is for the living" and I never really understood what it meant until I started this post. Being carted around and babied all day every day is not living. If you're an infant, then yeah, life will come around. But if you're an old man or woman, life isn't going to get any better for you. It's only going to get worse.

I feel like people keep their parents and grandparents around for their own selfish reasons. An old man that lies in bed all day long, hooked up to a breathing apparatus and an IV is not living. He's a vegetable. Yeah, it's difficult letting go and maybe my views will change when I find myself in that scenario, but keeping them going isn't doing them any favors. If they were in a coma it would be different. But being a hundred and three in a wheelchair by a window without your mind is useless.

I guess what I'm really trying to say here is do what you want. But when I reach that plateau in life where I need someone in the stall with me, I'll say my goodbyes and get on with it.

July 9: The Power of the Promise

When I was a little kid, I was walking along a sidewalk just outside of my house when I came across the two kids that lived next door. A brother and a sister, they were both in their back yard and I stopped to talk to them over the fence. I must have been four or five-years-old because this conversation took place with the neighbors of a house I lived in until just before I turned six. Forgive me for not being able to recall more of the memory, but it's been a while.

Anyway, I remember walking on this sidewalk and then stopping to have a chat. I don't remember what the chat was about or why I was walking down this street by myself at such a young age, but I just remember the girl telling me how important it was for me to keep my word whenever I made a promise. I'm paraphrasing here but she said something along the lines of, "You have to do it because you promised."

If only life were that simple. A promise in the eyes of a child means everything. A promise in the adult world means nothing. People make promises all the time only to abandon them. To us, the word promise is just a word that we throw into an intention to add effect and hope. "I will take out the trash tomorrow." "I promise to take out the trash tomorrow." I don't know about you, but I would naturally rather put my faith in the garbage being taken out tomorrow on the second guy.

Unfortunately, life isn't that easy. Unless you really know the person, a promise doesn't have any power at all. I usually try to give the benefit of the doubt to a person making his or her first promise to me but am, more times than not, disappointed. Take my recent run-in with a fellow employee. A week ago, he promised me that he would do everything in his power to adjust the schedule to my benefit. When approached about the subject three days ago, he acted as though he had been spending every waking minute on the task at hand. Tonight the results of his efforts will be revealed. My prediction: he didn't try at all and he just threw in the P-Word to avoid any further confrontation with me.

Promise a child you will be there for his baseball game and you better have some explaining to do if you miss it. Promise a fellow employee that you'll cover his shift next Friday and they're just words. I promise to do my chores right after this TV show. I promise to take out the trash. I, (Bride/Groom), take you (Groom/Bride), to be my (wife/husband), to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; and I promise to be faithful to you until death do us part.

July 8: Original Prankster

Years ago (and I mean years ago) I was enrolled in an after-school latchkey program. My parents didn't want me being at home alone while they finished the work day so they had me go to the local community center where other children would go to wait for their parents to come and pick them up. While I was there, I would do my homework and take part in other recreational activities with my friends.

One of the staff members at the community center was a guy named Joe. I don't know how old he was or if that was his only job, but I remember three things about him. The first was that he was a huge Dodgers fan. The second was that he was a fan of the Eagles. The third thing I remember about Joe, and in my opinion the coolest, was that he had a retainer with a fake tooth attached to fill in a space in his smile.

I remember Joe had been working at the community center for quite some time before I made the discovery. A few of us were eating our afternoon snacks in the nearby park and Joe was sitting at the table with us. He looked at me, smiled, and his front tooth magically descended slowly from his gums before retreating back into its place.

I was floored. How cool was that?! He had a guaranteed laugh wherever he went. I just couldn't understand why he would wait so long before showing it off to us. I remember thinking that if I was fortunate enough to have such a device in my mouth, I would show it off at every possible opportunity.

As the years passed, I've matured. I no longer yearn for dentures for the sake of getting people to laugh. Instead, I've moved on to wanting a prosthetic eye. Think about it the possibilities! If you have a good one, you get by without anyone ever really noticing; just aim it forward. When in the right mood, however, a glass eye would be a perfect prank.

Aim it off-center and you have a hilarious case of Amblyopia. Take it out and you're a pirate. Slowly roll it across a table and you've got dining room chaos! Slip it into a roommate's bowl of Cheerios or use it in a game of marbles. The possibilities are endless!

I haven't seen Joe in fifteen years so I don't know if he's still up to his old tricks. For his sake, I hope he found a decent job so he could get his teeth fixed. For my sake, I hope he had an eye gouged out so he could experience the joys that a glass eye could bring. If I can't have one, I strongly believe Joe would be the next best person.

July 7: @#%&

People have come and gone throughout my life. Some of them are funny while others are too sensitive. I've made friends with a few and enemies with a few. Some of these characters are a joy to be around while others are just plain annoying. I've met people that were funny on purpose and others that are unknowingly funny. A recent acquaintance fell into the latter category. He was a nice enough guy and he meant well, but his lack of vocabulary was laughable. Every other word from this chump's mouth was an F-Bomb or the S-Word and it was pretty f*ckin' funny.

He didn't saturate his sentences with expletives for laughs or to make his point. It was just the way he spoke. He would casually intersperse his stories, compliments, and questions with four letter words not suitable for a child's ear. The funny thing was that he was the proud father of a young daughter. I always wondered if he spoke like that in front of her, but I didn't really care. It was just fun laughing at his cockamamie ways.

He would say things like, "The weather is so f*cking nice. I wish I could go to the f*cking lake and lie in the goddamn sunshine." Another line you might overhear him deliver would be, "Brandon, would you mind taking this sh*t to my table so I can go the the f*ckin' bar and grab some f*cking margaritas? Thanks, bro." He was never angry when talking which made it that much more enjoyable. As I type examples of things he would say I'm realizing that it's not going to read as funny as my memory is playing for me. Trust me when I say that I spent the tail end of many conversations with this dude by simply laughing at his choice of words.

I'm not the smartest tool in the shed, but I try to keep my cursing to a minimum. When I let the occasional expletive fly, it's usually for comedic purposes even when I'm expressing my frustrations. Many times, I'll be talking to my parents on the phone and describing a person with whom I despise, but a part of me still wants to be funny. Because I so seldom swear, my hope in describing said person as a "piece of sh*t d*ckhead" is that it clearly paints my emotional feelings with a comedic element to it as well.

One of the many reasons I like Jerry Seinfeld's comedy so much is that he can be so funny without succumbing to cursing. There aren't many comedians out there that can do a forty-five minute show without cursing up a storm. I feel like it's almost a cop out to resort to four letter words to get a guaranteed laugh. Everything is funnier when you throw an F-Word in there somewhere, but it takes a real artist to come up with an entertaining idea without that crutch.

When a person drops an F-Bomb in every sentence, it takes all of the sting away. My dad always said that people who cursed a lot were unintelligent and they couldn't think of a better word. I don't think my friend was dumb, but a person that swears that much is showing a certain lack of energy in coming up with something a little more descriptive.

I've met some people with the goal of their words sparking a laugh. Other friends, like today's subject, unknowingly become the butt of the joke when they do or say absurd things. Cursing is funny, but it's too easy. Curse too much and you no longer look cool; you look foolish. But you become a f*cking laugh riot!

July 6: Gratuity Not Included

It sits on the counter quietly as I wait in line. It stares at me as I walk forward and give my order. Silently, it screams at me and makes a scene. I'm the only one that can hear its calls. The girl behind the counter knows it's there as she spreads mayonnaise on my sandwich. She smiles to herself because she is aware of the internal struggle I'm having. The short, stout monster sits with its mouth open and waits for me to pay for my lunch. It begs. It pleads. It heckles and taunts.

Is there anything more (for lack of a better word) offensive than an empty pickle jug sitting next to a cash register? The jars/boxes/jugs are always covered with a piece of paper with the word Tips boldly written in black marker. Occasionally the sign will also include a colorful smiley face or some gold stars, but the message is always the same: Give me more money for a job that I'm already being paid to perform.

As an employee that makes his wages off of the graciousness of patrons, one might think my stance on the tip jar would be different. What you may or may not know though, is that I get paid $2.13 an hour without my tips. I'm counting on a guest to leave a tip. I pay my bills on those tips. The tip jar, however, is set up by an employee that is already making at least (and sometimes more) minimum wage.

Minimum wage isn't a lot of money, but that's the salary agreed to work for when hired. During the interview, I doubt the employer said, "You'll be making X amount of dollars an hour plus tips collected in a dirty, banged up jug. Feel free to decorate that jug to your liking."

I feel uncomfortable when sitting at a red light while a vagabond holds a cardboard sign that reads, "Will work for food." I don't like being approached by the homeless for money either. I get the same feeling when I'm paying for a sandwich and I see the tip jar sitting on the counter. I'm paying for the sandwich; not the service. I still have to pour my own drink and get my refills. I still have to throw away my trash. If I wanted service, I would go to a restaurant and have the sandwich served to me. Am I supposed to tip you for preparing my sandwich? Why don't I tip the cooks in a restaurant then?

Where do the tips stop? Do I tip the guy that comes out and replaces my windshield? I think you're supposed to tip your mailman and newspaper delivery guy every Christmas, but no one tips their mechanic. We tip our hair cutters and our masseuses, but why don't we tip our grocers and our doctors? In "The Robbery" episode of Seinfeld Jerry asks, "What do you tip a wood guy?" in reference to a wood delivery service. He then asks if he has to tip a gardener.

The line is definitely blurry. Who do you tip? Who don't you tip? I think it should be left up to the customer. Everyone knows you tip a waiter; that's a given. Everyone else is paid a salary. Putting a filthy jug on a counter where you pay for your sandwich is too much. If you don't tip, you're a cheap jerk. You're never thanked for your contributions so why bother? My solution: don't insult the guest with the jar in the first place. Get rid of it.

July 5: 49 and 33

The (Padres) have now played 82 games. If they duplicate their record in the second half then they will have 97 wins. One shy of the '98 season.

This is a text message I received this morning from an old friend. As excited as I am at the prospect of having another '98 season (which ended with a trip the World Series) I'm a little less ecstatic about talking about it. You see, in 1998 the Padres weren't as big of a surprise as this year's club. They had recently acquired Kevin Brown from the Marlins who would be the ace of the pitching staff. Tony Gwynn was coming off another batting title season to go along with an offense that included Steve Finley, Ken Caminiti, Wally Joyner, and Greg Vaughn. They also had Trevor Hoffman at the back end of a spectacular bullpen. I can't remember if that club was favored to make it as far as they did, but they weren't picked by sports writers all over the country to end at the bottom of the league.

Which brings us to this year's team. The 2010 San Diego Padres were supposed to be last in the National League West and possibly the entire National League. Their only offense was Adrian Gonzalez and their ace was a tall right-hander that spent too much time on the Disabled List by the name of Chris Young. Hoffman departed in '09 and had his shoes nicely filled by closer Heath Bell, but second year closers rarely maintained their first year success.

The offensive predictions were accurate. The Padres are near the bottom of the majors in almost all offensive categories. They have the 26th lowest team average of 30 teams and they have the 25th lowest on base percentage. The only area where they're near the top is stolen bases. After spending most of the first half with the second most stolen bases, they've recently dropped to fifth.

What's keeping the Padres competitive this year is the pitching. Simply put, it's ridiculous. Chris Young pitched six scoreless innings in his first start of the year and has spent the rest of the season on the Disabled List. Other than that, the staff as a whole has the lowest E.R.A. in the majors, the most shutouts, and the most strikeouts. Their bullpen is incredible with the lowest E.R.A. as well. Heath Bell is just as good this year as he was last year and there are at least three other guys in the bullpen that could be successful closers on other teams. The pitching is what's getting it done for the Friars; which scares me the most.

If the Padres got a few runs, the pitching staff has been able to keep the lead. Scores of 1-0 and 2-1 are not uncommon at all. In fact, they have become the norm. The problem with this style of baseball is that three of the five starting pitchers are extremely young; one of which is only 22-years-old. Will these guys be able to continue their dominance for another 80 games and still be able to pitch effectively in the post season? What will pitching this much this early in their careers do to their arms in the long run? At what point will the 22-year-old Mat Latos' arm just give up? Will that shatter his confidence at the big league level?

It's been fun being a Padres fan so far. Nobody expected them to be 16 games over .500 at any point in the season; let alone halfway through. The July 31 trade deadline is fast approaching and there are a few things the Padres need if they want to continue their run. A solid starting pitcher would take a lot of the pressure off of the young staff. A bat to compliment Gonzalez's in the lineup would be great too, but what will this cost the future of the club?

I would love for the Padres to win 97 games. I'm saving all of my money for a trip to San Diego and playoff games in October, but I'm trying not to get my hopes up. I feel like talking about it too much will just jinx the team. The odds are against them and I'm aware of that; which is why I'm hesitant to send text messages like the one I received this morning.

July 4: Cut it Out

The other day I went to the bank to make a deposit. I was lucky to find a spot right out front because it was pouring. It wasn't just raining really hard, though. Rain was falling so hard and vigorously that I had to turn my wipers to the fastest setting; something I've rarely ever had to do.

Anyway, I found this great spot in front of the local bank, grabbed my cash, tucked my chin into my chest, and ran inside. I kept my head down as I watched my feet make their way to the counter of deposit slips, but I still saw the girl watching me out of the corner of my eye. I figured she was just an employee of the bank that wanted to give me the fake hello that she was required to give so I minded my own business.

As I counted my money once more before writing the total to be deposited, I felt her continued gaze. What did this woman want? Why was she staring at me? Now it was just awkward. I refused to let myself look up and make eye contact with this nut. Other people came in and joined me at the counter, but she didn't move. She just kept staring and staring.

Once the form was completed and I had my money, I was about to get in line to speak with a teller when I looked up. The woman was still standing there. She was wearing a navy blue pant suit and she actually looked pretty good. Her blonde hair had a soft shine to it and her fake smile glowed. Her face had the same shine that her hair did and so did her eyes. She was a life size cardboard cutout advertising home loans.

I don't really know how I feel about these things. I think they're hilarious when used in the right context. My friend has a life size Gollum from The Lord of the Rings films and we had our fun scaring people with it in college. We would hide it in the bathroom to wait for unsuspecting guests and we got a kick out of it each time they jumped. When I was younger, I had a Jessica Rabbit cutout that was great but I don't know what happened to it. Come to think of it, I wish I still had it. She would really tie my room together.

A cutout of a person in a public building is different, though. I'm always a little on edge when I step inside a bank because I always have so much cash on me. I don't want to talk to anyone and I don't want to make eye contact with anyone either. I want to go in, drop off my money and be done with the whole thing. Walking into that situation and immediately feeling like someone is glaring at me is not cool.

I haven't been to Petco Park since Trevor Hoffman departed, so I wouldn't be surprised if his cutout has been removed from the team store but his was kind of cool. Granted, he was in uniform and had his trademark leg up in the air as if about to throw a pitch so it wasn't as easy to be confused for a real person. But it was Trevor Hoffman!

My mom used to tell me that there was a time and a place for everything. She was mostly talking about me acting obnoxious and rambunctious, but I think the same applies to life size cutouts. If your intentions are to scare the crap out of people, then they're great. If you're trying to get people to ask you about mortgage rates, come up with something different.