August 31: Let Me Live

Last night I had a dream that I would like to share with you. Most of our dreams don't make any sense at all and this was one of them. I'm usually not a fan of having to sit and listen to someone else's dreams because I never find them as interesting as the person telling the story but I figured this would be a good use of today's post.

In high school, the nearest bus stop to my house was about a mile away. In my dream, I must have still been in high school because I found myself walking to the stop. For some reason, I decided to take a different route which in turn caused me to realize that I was going to miss the bus if I didn't immediately start running. After what seemed like fifteen minutes of nonstop running, the bus I was trying to make drove past and the driver yelled my name out the window as she went by. Luckily, my parents pulled up in an old, unrecognizable car shortly thereafter with my sister in the back seat. They all got out and greeted me with hugs, but because I was still trying to get to school on time, I told them to get back in the car so we could go and that I would drive.

The house I grew up in was in the mountains and my school was down the hill about twenty to thirty minutes away. I'm telling you this because the voyage that my family was on took us on roads I had never seen before that went uphill. As we drove along, it started to rain - really hard. I know we didn't start off listening to them, but at some point on the journey, I remember hearing Queen's Let Me Live. (Great song, by the way)

This last part is the most ironic part of the dream, because it was during this song that the road turned sharply to the left at an upward climb. I knew the old car would struggle to make the climb so I pressed my foot down on the accelerator in order to maintain my speed. Unfortunately, I pushed down too hard which caused the tires to spin frantically on the wet pavement. As the tires spun, the car began to slide backwards until we met the edge of the cliff and fell off.

As the vehicle pulled us down, I saw the hood travel backward and over me until I was hanging upside down strapped in by my seat belt. All was silent as I saw my phone hit the car's ceiling. I kept hoping that the hood would continue until the car was right side up when we would eventually land but of course, this was not the case. We landed upside down.

In a lot of my dreams, I am aware that I'm dreaming. I can look at a situation and not fret because I know it's just in my imagination. This one was different though. I could feel myself lying on my back. I was in shock. This wasn't really how it was going to end, was it? It had to be a dream. Try as I might, though, I could not open my eyes and force myself to wake. I could hear a loud mechanical sound that I knew wasn't in my bedroom. I couldn't move my arms or legs so I just laid there trying to force my eyes open.

Obviously it was just a dream. I'm alive and well. That mechanical noise I heard? It was just my oscillating fan. Why it was so loud as I lied and waited to die is anyone's guess. Now, aren't you glad I shared that story with you?

August 30: In the Cards

"Where do you see yourself in five years?" How often have you heard this question? I'm guessing you've heard it quite a few times. For some strange reason, every employer that has ever interviewed me wants the answer and it's a great conversation started at dinner parties. I've overheard other people discussing their predictions in coffee shops and diners for as long as I can remember and in the summer of 2005, a group of my friends and I decided to get a professional answer.

We had all recently graduated from college and none of us, save for Max, really knew what we wanted to do or in what direction our lives would be headed. On a busy street in Orange, California there was a small and often overlooked strip mall with a liquor store, Dollar Tree, Check 'n Go, and a 24-hour taqueria for all of your unknown-meat desires. If it weren't for the three foot sign made of plywood, no one would ever know about the palm reading fortune teller wedged in between the liquor store and the Check 'n Go.

It was here on a lackluster afternoon in July that my friends wanted to get this "professional" prediction. "Where do you see yourself in five years?" Would we still be friends? Will any of us have made it big by then? Married? Children? Alive? The possibilities were endless. I had breezed through school with relative ease. My grades weren't as good as they could have been, but I knew that I hadn't really tried my hardest either so I was confident living on the streets wasn't in the cards for me. I was in good health and I had maintained an active lifestyle by bicycling and occasionally working out so I couldn't imagine an unexpected health scare in my near future either. I was on the right path to a bright future, right?

Upon pushing the cheap wooden door into the dark shop the sound of the street disappeared behind us and we were met with the high-pitched sound of a small bell on the inside handle of the door. The cliche of thick incense-filled air is what I expected and what I received. The black painted walls and overall lack of decor, however, surprised me. The only source of light came from a lone recessed light fixture set in the ceiling directly above a short counter to the left of the entrance. A few pamphlets of services offered by "Madam Miriam" were the only contents on the counter and they were carefully arranged on the dusty surface.

On the other side of the counter there was a square card table accompanied by four copper-colored metal folding chairs. On top of the table, a black sheet was being used as a table cloth. A sheet! For beds. Two stacks of tarot cards lied face up in the center of the table on either side of a half burned out stick of incense in an ash-filled dish. Other than the small table and counter, the room was empty.

When the door closed behind us, it rang the cheap little bell once more. A minute later, the black rear wall opened flooding the small room with sunshine from the back alley and, who I assumed was, Madam Miriam walked in.

I expected the powerful vanilla-scented air. I didn't really have any expectations of the room itself, but I was completely taken aback by Miriam. I expected long frazzled, gray hair and wire-rimmed frames with thick lenses. Yellow, crooked teeth and a long, hooked nose were shoe-ins. I thought a shawl would be involved somewhere in the getup, but I did not expect a young woman with solder-length dark hair. This "Miriam" lady was hot! She was casually dressed in a loose-fitting black blouse and denims that showed off her shapely legs.

After an initial meet and greet session, she took the three of us and had us sit around the table in the provided chairs. She said she always goes in alphabetical order by first name which had me batting first. From beneath the counter, she retrieved a fat red candle and after lighting it with her cigarette lighter, placed it next to the incense dish and joined us at the table. The small flame danced and flickered as she shuffled the tarot cards and had me place both of my hands (palms up) on the table.

One by one she read our palms and told our futures. None of our destinies sent her screaming in terror. None of us had any ties with the dark Lord or ancestors that tried breaking into our current dimension. On the whole, it was a waste of twenty dollars which was expected. But what was her expert prediction for me? "Where do you see yourself in five years?" Let's just say that if I thought she knew what she was talking about, I would have gone into the military while I was still young enough.

August 29: The National Anthem

I'm all about being unique and expressing one's individualism, but the butchering of the National Anthem has got to stop. Whether you're performing in front of a hundred million Super Bowl viewers or simply taking part in the opening weekend ceremonies of a local Little League, stretching out "And the rockets red glare" is not cool.

I have a hard time believing that when Francis Scott Key and John Stuart Skinner watched in horror from the HMS Minden while the British attacked Baltimore, this is how Key hoped his little poem would be delivered. Roseanne Barr? Somehow I can't imagine Key condoning the addition of the extra "soul" that these young girls feel is necessary to a song that is such a traditional part of our country's history either. The word is free. Not freeEEEeee.

The piece was penned during a very serious and traumatic time. It's an emotional song and coupled with being on stage in front of a large number of strangers can be a terrifying thought for a lot of people. It would only be natural to be nervous and to be timid in such a situation would be enough of a "personal touch." Not only is it nerve-racking to perform, but simply being asked to is one heck of an honor.

Attempting to prolong your fifteen minutes of fame is only human nature. If by doing so, however, you ruin a national tradition, let me ask on behalf of a ballpark of fifty thousand standing fans for you not to. I want to salute my country's flag. I want to honor the men and women who have fought for my freedom. I do not want to place my right hand over my heart as you yell, scream, and massacre the Star-Spangled Banner by adding rhythm and funk to your delivery. Thank you.

August 28: (500) Days of Summer

While waiting for the Padres' game to begin today, I found myself toying around with forgotten features on my computer. One of these features was the movies option of my iTunes. I rarely watch films from my computer so there isn't any reason for me to use the feature. In February of this year, however, I took a trip home to San Diego and I had put a few movies on my iPod via the feature for the flight. Today, I was reminded of (500) Days of Summer. I clicked on the small icon with the intentions of watching a short clip and ended up watching the entire film. I could have retrieved the Blu-ray disc and enjoyed the movie on a larger screen and in full surround sound, but I was already too involved.

I love everything about this perfectly cast film from the fantastic soundtrack to the non-linear way of telling the story. Directed by the relatively unknown Marc Webb, it's about a young man that meets, who he thinks, is his soul mate and the five hundred days she spends in and around his life. The story jumps around and is told in one-day segments which are marked by the corresponding day in the relationship. In one vignette, the audience meets Summer (played by the lovely Zooey Deschanel) but the next might be of how Tom (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) feels three hundred days later. The movie jumps around like this for its duration, but it's still a joy to watch the blossoming and crumbling relationship of these two characters.

In addition to the nontraditional way of telling the story, Webb uses unique ways of keeping the film feeling different from any other film. In one scene, he splits the screen between Tom's expectations of how how he thinks a party will play out and the reality of how the party actually progresses. With this style, the audience can easily watch simultaneously as the two shots take a drastic change in direction from the same starting point.

Upon viewing the film for the first time, I came straight home to my computer where I proceeded to download the magnificent soundtrack. Webb takes the audience on an emotional journey that is enriched beautifully by the likes of Regina Spektor, the Smiths, and Deschanel's own She and Him. As great as the soundtrack may be with its lesser known bands, it's the big-named Hall and Oats that steals the show with a terrific dance sequence at the climax of Tom and Summer's relationship.

Every once in a while a film comes out that is so different and refreshing that you can't stop thinking about it and and (500) Days of Summer was one of those films for me. If you are unable to remember a special person from your past while watching it, you might not have a soul. The music is great. The story is great. And the film as a whole is simply terrific.

August 27: To the Left, To the Left

We all do it. We're either distracted by the radio or by the phone call we shouldn't be taking. Sometimes we simply don't know where we're going until it's too late. In these situations, we find ourselves merging through two lanes of traffic in an attempt to make that last minute left turn. It's embarrassing when it happens, but everyone does it.

Whether we're in a foreign city or we're involved in a heated debate on the Arizona Immigration Law with our passengers somehow we all fall victim to the same mistake. In the best case scenario, we will have realized our mistake on a vacant road and our error won't affect any other drivers. Worse case scenario? We're the first vehicle at a light two lanes from the turning lane with ten cars and trucks behind us and in the two lanes to our left. Light goes green and we hold back everyone behind us until we find two drivers to our left that are kind enough to let us through which in turn holds everyone behind them back. The latter was obviously an exaggeration but I've seen it happen.

When we witness such stupidity it angers us. Why couldn't the guy accept his mistake and face having to drive through the intersection and make (what my GPS likes to phrase as) the next legal U-turn? By cutting across multiple lanes of traffic, this imbecile has just made a lot of angry drivers miss a light that they normally would have made with ease.

What's even more common is seeing a car sitting in two lanes at once. You know what I'm talking about. We all do this one too. We pull up to the light and instantly realize our gaffe. We need to be in the next lane. What do we do? We put our vehicles in reverse (We don't actually have time to do this one very often but it does happen) and maneuver them to the correct lane. More times than not we don't have enough space to get our cars completely situated in the new lane so we're stuck in both. This doesn't cause near the headache that the first situation causes (although it can) but it leaves us visible to every vehicle behind us in both lanes. People laugh at us and complain about our lack of common sense without realizing that they too have been in the same scenario at least once before in the past.

These simple and everyday events can affect us in different ways depending on the mood we're in and the level of urgency we may be in. If we're late for work or some other engagement these situations are infuriating. If we're just out for a casual drive, we probably wouldn't even notice it. What I love, however, is witnessing a bashed up car making these mistakes. These are the people I don't feel bad for. These are the people that I laugh at and complain about the lack of common sense. A damaged vehicle in this situation is a person that should be driving with a little bit more caution and clearly isn't.

We all do it. Nobody is perfect. We're going to make mistakes, but if you don't learn from your mistakes, you should be made fun of. You should be laughed and pointed at. Being late to work and having to wait for the next light is sort of worth it when the person making you wait has a wrecked car.

August 26: Dexter

Everyone said I should watch Weeds. I couldn't get through the second episode. People everywhere have told me how much I would like It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, but when all the dialogue is delivered by yelling and shouting, it can cause quite a headache. Up until last week, The Office was the only recommended show that I really got into.

The day after I finally gave in (which wasn't until the penultimate episode of the third season) to my friend's request, I went out and purchased the entire DVD collection. There are very few television shows that are easy to get introduced to mid-run. It makes it even more difficult when the show is an hour-long drama. Who has the time and energy?

Somehow the topic of conversation with the anaesthesiologist last week while waiting to go into surgery turned to Dexter. One minute he's telling me that he's going to be the one to knock me out and the next he's recommending a TV show about a serial killer. I don't get it, but that's not the point. I had heard of the show, but I didn't know any more than the basic premise and I never had any intentions of watching it.

It has been nine days since I pressed play on the first episode of the first season. Three and a half seasons, twelve episodes per season, and a total of forty-two hours later, I can officially say I'm hooked. This show is absolutely fantastic and if you enjoy a good mystery thrill ride, you should definitely check it out.

Michael C. Hall plays the role of Dexter who, as a child, witnesses the barbaric murder of his mother and as a defense mechanism, grows into a man who is emotionally paralyzed with a dark hunger. Because the life of his mother was stripped away from him, he thirsts for the life of others. Adopted by the cop that finds him, Dexter is raised to go through life while making the best of his addiction with a certain "code" to follow.

Dexter is gory and brutal. It's vulgar and raunchy. As I watch upwards of four episodes per sitting, I find myself emotionally invested in every aspect and side-story of this show about a serial killer that can't feel any emotion at all. I don't want to tell you what to do with your free time, but watching this drama should be at the top of your list of priorities.

August 25: Vocabulary Lesson

impulse |ˈimˌpəls|
noun

1 A sudden strong and unreflective urge or desire to act : I had an almost irresistible impulse to giggle | [as adj. ] impulse buying.
• The tendency to act in this way : he was a man of impulse, not premeditation.

2 A driving or motivating force; an impetus : an added impulse to this process of renewal.

3 A pulse of electrical energy; a brief current : nerve impulses | a spiral is used to convert radio waves into electrical impulses.

4 (Physics) A force acting briefly on a body and producing a finite change of momentum.
• A change of momentum so produced, equivalent to the average value of the force multiplied by the time during which it acts.

spontaneous |spänˈtānēəs|
adjective

Performed or occurring as a result of a sudden inner impulse or inclination and without premeditation or external stimulus : the audience broke into spontaneous applause | a spontaneous display of affection.
• (of a person) having an open, natural, and uninhibited manner.
• (of a process or event) occurring without apparent external cause : spontaneous miscarriages.
• archaic (of a plant) growing naturally and without being tended or cultivated.
• Biology (of movement or activity in an organism) instinctive or involuntary : the spontaneous mechanical activity of circular smooth muscle

schmuck | sh mək| (also shmuck)
noun

A foolish or contemptible person.

August 24: Life's a Beach

A light breeze grazes my cheek. All is silent yet deafening. The sound of civilization is drowned by the crashing, foaming, salty presence of the Pacific. On top, the ground is unbearably hot on my bare feet, but just below the soft surface, the infinite grains of gray sand form a light hold on my feet. It makes its way in between each toe and fills the tiny gaps between toe and nail. Unlike its upstairs neighbor, it's warm and welcoming; like a soft towel retrieved from a dryer. The cool, salty breeze. The soundtrack of thunderous tranquility. The uninterrupted warmth of sand. I'm not a fan.

I don't understand the obsession people have with the beach. I like the idea of the beach, but the actual visit is never as enjoyable as I had pictured it to be. What is it? Water and a whole lot of sand. Oh and the crowds. How could I forget about the crowds? That's it. Why is that so great?

The water is way too cold. I have never been to the beach when the weather is hot enough to warrant jumping into sixty degree waves for very long. Granted, whenever my family took trips to the beach, we always got there between nine and ten o'clock in the morning; not exactly at the climax of the sun's day. Still, even when we were getting ready to leave at one in the afternoon, it wasn't hot enough to stay in the water for more than fifteen minutes without freezing to death.

"You have to shuffle your feet." Have you ever been on your way to meet the waves, looked down, and seen a stingray swimming by your bare feet? I have, and it wasn't exactly something I enjoyed. I don't know how bad it hurts, but I don't intend on finding out. Call me crazy, but I don't have any desire to experience a golden shower after a chance encounter with a jellyfish either.

A mouthful of salty aftertaste, a ocean floor of enemies, and hypothermia are a few reasons to stay away, but its the sand I can't stand. Aside from the fact that it's impossible to walk to the boardwalk in the afternoon without some sort of protection for your feet, sand is a complete nightmare. You simply cannot take a trip to the beach without coming home with a lifetime supply of the grainy and obtrusive stuff. Upon first arriving, I would always hesitate before kicking off my sandals because once you plop down on that blanket, the sand has won. Try hard as you might and that blanket always ends up covered in it. I don't know why people even bring one. We might as well just sit right on the ground because you can't keep the sand away.

Before getting into the car to come home after a trip to the coast, my family would always drop our belongings on the grass in the parking lot and wipe everything down. Legs, arms, backs, ice chests, chairs, everything. We would then stand downwind and shake the hell out of our towels. Sure, we got most of the sand, but to get all of it would be impossible. Weeks later, I would still find sand in my ears and under my nails.

Like I stated above, my family was always one of the first groups to arrive. A trip to the beach and a pink box of Rose's Donuts simply go hand in hand. None of this barbecue and beach nonsense. The beach was always a morning activity for my family. If you go at any other point in the day, the crowds are insane. No parking. You get the sand no matter when you go, but go in the afternoon and you have to put up with punk kids running by and kicking clouds of dust in your eyes. Like getting hit in the face by a Frisbee or a paddle ball? Arrive late and you'll get your wish.

Don't get me wrong here. One of my favorite things to do is to walk to the end of the pier in Seal Beach after a machaca meal at Taco Surf. I had some of my best conversations with my dad while walking to the pier on beach trips. The idea of a warm day at the beach is fantastic. Actually going and having to worry about sea life, icy water, sand invasions, and the crowds? Not so much.

August 23: No Love No Problem

Here we go again. When I came up with this goal to write 365 different posts, it was at the end of December. The first December, mind you, that was not spent in the medium climate of California. I came up with the idea not knowing what the upcoming year would have in store for me. I wasn't thinking about the San Diego Padres because I, like everyone else in the country, didn't think they would amount to anything in 2010.

If you've been keeping up with this blog, you'll know that the Padres have taken over my posts within the last few months. They're winning. They're winning to the tune of having the best record in the National League. They're winning to the tune of being one win away from being the only team other than the New York Yankees to have a winning record in the last seven consecutive months. It's a good time to be rooting for the Friars and my excitement is clearly making its way into my blog. The Padres are on my mind so they're what I'm writing about. Deal with it.

This morning on the way home from rehab, I was listening to Colin Cowherd on ESPN Radio. I rarely listen to the channel because there are too many topics in the world of sports other than baseball. I don't know jack about any other sport so listening to shows about the NFL, NBA, or college football just doesn't do it for me. I lucked out this morning, though. Colin was talking about Cincinnati Reds baseball and how he thought they were frauds. If you don't know anything about baseball, the Reds are the other surprise team in the sport this year. Colin, however, isn't buying it. He thinks they're a team built for the regular season and will never amount to anything in the postseason.

He made some good points about how the Reds have beat up on the lousy National League teams, but what caught my attention was how in the process of naming off all of these terrible teams, he never once mentioned my Padres. He didn't bring the Padres up because they aren't a terrible team. When Colin started naming the teams that were going to succeed in the playoffs, he named the Cardinals, Phillies (neither of which has a better chance of clinching a playoff berth than Cincinnati but that's neither here nor there), and Yankees. Again, no mention of those guys down in San Diego.

After yesterday's win over Milwaukee, a fan called in to the postgame show and sang the same tired song that San Diego fans are used to. It's the only song we know. "The media doesn't give the Padres enough credit." Even in 1998 when they made it to the World Series, the producers played clips of spaghetti westerns that asked, "Who are these guys?" They were on one of the biggest stages in sports and they still weren't getting any respect. It used to really bother me. This was my team you're not talking about!

I don't know when it changed, but I have a completely different perspective now. I don't want my team featured on Baseball Tonight. I don't want Colin Cowherd talking about my team's chances at success (whether it's a positive or a negative). I know how good or bad my team is doing and I don't need some talking head giving me his opinion. Without the media coverage, my team can do their thing, fly under the radar, and leave their opponents wondering what hit them.

Every player that comes to San Diego loves it. They never stay because they can get more money from another team, but their most memorable years are those spent in a Padres' uniform. Ask Greg Maddux. The year he had the most fun? 2007. His first year with the Padres. The Padres didn't make the playoffs that year (and no, I don't want to go into more detail than that) so why was that year so memorable for Mad Dog? I'm going out on a limb here, but I would be willing to bet that the lack of media coverage that he was used to in Atlanta, Chicago, and Los Angeles had something to do with it.

The only thing that coverage brings is pressure. If you get a group of athletes that can play the game, playing in a city that doesn't get any "respect" from the "experts" can be that extra boost needed during crunch time. If you want to root for a team that ESPN loves, buy a Red Sox or Yankees cap. I want my team to win. I want to be the underdog. Who are these guys? Just another baseball team. Hey, how about those Yankees?

August 22: The Muppet Show

Last weekend I decided to take a last minute road trip to Denver to experience Rockies baseball in Coors Field. If you know me at all, you know that I've recently become absolutely obsessed with touring Major League ballparks throughout the country. The original plan was to drive the three and a half hours to Arlington and back but due to a friend's change of plans, I was now going solo and I decided to just keep venturing North after the game. Because I lack the basic understanding that a distance on Google Maps is quite different than the actual distance, I purchased my ticket for the Rockies' game for the very next night. 787 miles in 19 hours without any sleep or rotating drivers? No problem. My post today, however, isn't necessarily about my trip, but more about stirring up old memories.

When I was a kid, my parents bought me a Fisher Price turntable to expose me to the wonders of great music. I had the vinyls of Endless Summer by The Beach Boys and Peter, Paul, and Mommy by Peter, Paul, and Mary. It wasn't uncommon to walk by my room on a Saturday afternoon, and hear me jamming to Raffi, but my favorite record had to be The Muppet Show by the Jim Henson gang. I can still remember lying on my stomach, kicking my feet up behind me singing backup to Wild Thing's "Mahna, Mahna."

Years later when Napster came around, I did everything I could to bring back those memories in digital form. I couldn't find the entire Muppet album, but I was able to find a few favorites. Fast forward to my trip to Denver and I found myself rockin' out to the likes of "Mr. Bassman," "Being Green," and of course "Mahna, Mahna." In my extreme attempts at staying awake while out on the open road, I was thoroughly enjoying my nostalgic throwback; So much so, that I made a mental note to pursue my digital hunt once again upon the completion of my trip.

Through the magic of the Internet and the sheer boredom of having to sit at home without anything better to do, today I found it. The entire The Muppet Show album and its sequel in their entirety. Great quality and fantastic entertainment. Memories have been streaming endlessly for the past hour or so. Remember "Gonzo Eats a Rubber Tire to 'Flight of the Bumblebee?'" How about "Lydia the Tattooed Lady?" I thought these songs were great when I was a tyke but there I was at 27-years-old on the verge of tears from "Halfway Down the Stairs" by Kermit's lovable nephew Robin!

I knew I liked the Muppets. I love the 3D show at Disney's California Adventure and I can do a pretty darn good impression of "Being Green" and of Ms. Piggy screaming, "Kerrrmieee!" but until today I never realized how much I love the entire cast. I haven't seen the movies in years, but now it's my mission to re-familiarize myself with them. I knew Hollywood was in the process of making another Muppets film and now I can say that I am officially looking forward to seeing it.

It's funny what a little road trip will bring. Here I thought I would simply bring home a few pictures and two more souvenir ballpark shot glasses. Will I listen to these hilarious albums over and over? Probably not. But now I have them for my next rambunctious mood to sing along with and to remember laughing at that ridiculous Fozzie Bear and his stand-up comedy.

August 21: Eat Me

Let's play another round of everyone's favorite home game - The Hypothetical. You have a friend that loves drugs. I mean he really digs them. He's cuckoo for cocaine. He snorts it, sniffs it, and mixes it in with his Ovaltine. He buys it, shoots it, loves it. Suffice it to say, he's addicted. It controls him like a puppeteer. Go here. Do that. Behave this way.

After living this dark lifestyle for a few years, he cleans up his act, gets a sponsor, and goes through the twelve steps toward recovery. Well things are going pretty smoothly for our protagonist. He's got himself a girl, found a decent job, and just officially house broke his new puppy. Things are going great. Great, that is, until he gets hurt at work and needs to get surgery. For one hundred points, should you (A) Offer to watch his puppy while he recovers, (B) Offer to get his groceries while he recovers, or (C) Buy him a gram of cocaine?

When I lived in California, I would go through a pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream a few times a week. Half Baked, Oatmeal Cookie Dough, Mint Chocolate Chip, it didn't matter. When I moved to Austin, I discovered Blue Bell ice cream. Made in Brenham, Texas they have the most nostalgic commercials; and for good reason. An old man narrates a series of 1960s-styled vignettes about how there are certain things you never forget; the last of which is your first taste of Blue Bell ice cream. Let me tell you - it is the best ice cream I have ever had. As of a month ago, I was going through half-gallon containers of Vanilla Bean in three helpings. I would then find myself back at the store for another go-around.

Enough was enough. "For the month of August," I told myself, "I would refrain from eating any ice cream." How hard could it be? I told myself I would write one blog entry a day for a year and I was still going strong. If I could do that, this would be a piece of cake (without the delicious frozen topping), right? Right???

I had my surgery on Tuesday and a good friend of mine picked me up and brought me home afterwards while she went to the pharmacy to get my medicine. Unaware of my addiction, she also picked up three small things of ice cream. For the next twenty-four hours, all I could think about were those personal cups residing in my freezer. They called my name and begged me to eat them. The first cup lasted one day and all three were gone in three. Seventeen days. I was clean for seventeen days. Sober for seventeen lousy days.

The cups were gone, but so was the streak. A ballpark often sells advertising behind home plate for the viewers watching on TV at home and Dairy Queen took advantage of this space in Miller Park where the Milwaukee Brewers play. Guess where the Padres are playing right now. Guess who had a large Oreo Brownie Earthquake from Dairy Queen today. Guess who is officially off the wagon.

Her heart was in the right place and contrary to how it might read I am extremely thankful for her kind gesture. How can a person complain about a friend buying him ice cream after he just had surgery? It's hard, but so is overcoming an addiction. In our hypothetical scenario, our friend had to steer his ship clear of the cocaine sirens. I tried staying away from America's favorite frozen dessert, but oh how the Blue Bells toll. Let's just hope September is busier than August and can keep me distracted from the freezer section of my local grocery store.

August 20: Fundamentals

Ryan Ludwick just made the first out in the bottom half of the first inning. It was a towering fly ball to medium right field and he had plenty of time to get into position and wait for it to fall into his outstretched glove. His left arm remained at his side. He made the catch with ease, but since his arrival in San Diego, I've seen him drop two very catchable balls because of this lack of basic fundamental play and it's incredibly irritating.

I haven't played in an organized baseball or softball league for a few years now but it always really bothered me when my teammates would refuse to make the fundamental plays. I would get visibly and vocally upset when an outfielder would make a one-handed catch and people would wonder why. It isn't that it's crucial to use both hands when making a catch, but when a player fumbles a ball for no other reason than a lack of effort, it really pisses me off. You never know when that dropped ball will be the difference in the game.

When you have a group of coed twenty-somethings that get together every Monday night to get drunk and play softball, you can't necessarily be a stickler for fundamentals; which is why I took so much flack for being that kind of guy. I couldn't help it though. I don't know if my competitiveness in softball stems from an overall lack of talent at the level at which I would prefer to be playing, but it was rather embarrassing catching myself yelling at friends to use both hands after they had just made an out.

As I finished that last sentence, Adrian Gonzalez fouled off a first-pitch inside slider from a pitcher that had just walked the previous batter on four consecutive balls. No sooner had I started criticising the lack of reasoning had the Padres' announcer made the observation. Gonzalez ended up singling the run home so the foul became a moot point, but it upset me nonetheless. Am I good enough to be making these kinds of complaints? Absolutely not. Would I be able to lay off the inside pitch? Probably not, but I'm not being paid millions of dollars either.

These players should be able to make a catch with both hands. They shouldn't be swinging at pitches right after a pitcher walks a batter on four pitches. You're out there to make the basic plays and more but if you aren't playing fundamentally sound ball, that's not going to happen. Should I get so upset at my drunk friends during a softball game? Probably not. But a player who has dropped two balls within a month on a team that is making a push toward the playoffs? That's a different story.

August 19: Brace Yourself

What is it about the beige-colored apparatus that doctors use for splints that make patients look trashy? A part of me has always slightly frowned on those that wear them. You can take a clean-cut guy in designer clothes or an attractive girl in high heels and put their arm in a blue sling, and I will automatically look at them as being on a lower level as me. Am I the only one that does this?

It's not as though I treat these people any differently or talk down to them. I don't spit at their feet or refuse to hold doors open for them, but I'm ever so slightly disgusted by them. I never stop and wonder what put them in the splint, sling, or brace either but I do want to stop and stare. What is it that makes me want to do such a thing? Is it the beige? Or is it that combination of dark blue with white straps, loops, ties, and Velcro?

Whatever it is that causes people to stop and stare now finds itself wrapped around my own arm. The doctor told me to keep it elevated which is like waving a flag and yelling, "Look at me!" I feel like I'm constantly making an oath with my left arm cocked at the elbow and my hand up near my face.

I think what makes me hate these things so much is the accessibility the public has to them. Anyone can go to Wal-Mart and pick up a splint to fix their self-diagnose. Whose to say I'm not faking this injury for attention? "Look at poor me. I'm a daredevil and a real man and my injury is proof of that!"

I've never wanted to give people in splints or braces the satisfaction of having my attention and now that attitude has come back full-circle to slap me in the face. I don't want any special treatment, but I feel like I'm a walking hypocrite with my wrist wrapped and held at a permanent sixty degree angle. But trust me. I am a real man.

August 18: Freedom of Speech

This just in: Dr. Laura will not be renewing her contract at the end of the year. This comes just days after her "N-word rant" caused outrage amongst the media. Schlessinger made the announcement while making an appearance on Larry King stating that after doing radio for thirty years, "I want to be able to say what’s on my mind and in my heart and what I think is helpful and useful without somebody getting angry or some special-interest group deciding this is a time to silence a voice of dissent."

I have never been a devout listener of Dr. Laura's, but I've heard a good amount of her program. Although she can be a bit obnoxious with her interruptions (a major pet peeve of mine) I never heard her treat a guest that didn't deserve it with disrespect. She has an abundant amount of imbecile callers that either can't think for themselves or just want to be on national radio and she talks down on most of these listeners for good reason.

When I heard about her so-called "rant," I couldn't imagine it being very dramatic. I didn't know what to expect from the Michael Richards' tirade because I wasn't familiar with him outside of his sitcom persona but I had a general idea of how Schlessinger might respond if provoked enough. Today I listened to the call and just as I had expected, it was blown way out of proportion.

I don't think what she said was wrong at all and she never once directed the expletive toward anyone. She was merely making a point that depending on what context the word is used, it shouldn't carry a negative or demeaning connotation. "Black guys use it all the time. Turn on HBO, listen to a black comic, and all you hear is n*****, n*****, n*****. I don't get it. If anybody without enough melanin says it, it's a horrible thing; but when black people say it, it's affectionate." After the black caller expressed her shock that Schlessinger had just "spewed" the word, Dr. Laura asked her if she had ever seen HBO to which the caller responded with, "It doesn't matter. You're not black." Schlessinger's point exactly.

This country is going down the toilet; and at alarming rates. Whatever happened to freedom of speech? If you don't like what is being said or printed you don't have to be a part of it. End of story. But because of all of these little special-interests groups, people can't say what they want because someone's feelings might get hurt. The Dr. Laura incident is just a small example but it won't be the last. I'm saddened that she is pulling the plug on the third most listened to program in the country, but I am inspired by her reasons. I wish more people had the courage to take a stand against the direction this country is heading.

August 17: Credit Where Credit is Due

Kevin Towers was the general manager of the San Diego Padres from 1995 to 2009. His trades, drafts, and overall ways of running a ball club was the only thing I knew as a fan because I really didn't pay much attention to those things before 1996. Last year, Towers was let go and replaced by first-time GM Jed Hoyer. Everyone in the media is giving Hoyer two giant thumbs up this year with the success of the Padres, but I'm a little skeptical.

For the most part, Hoyer's off-season acquisitions of John Garland, Yorvit Torrealba, Chris Denorfia, and Jerry Hairston Jr. have delivered. As the July 31st trade deadline becomes a distant memory, his landings of Miguel Tejada and Ryan Ludwick have proved to be very valuable for this stretch run that the Padres find themselves very much a part of. The real story, however, of the 2010 Padres has been the pitching.

With the best overall ERA in the majors and one of the worst offenses, the Padres would be nothing without its pitching. The starters have kept the team in every game and the bullpen has simply been lights out. This is where my skepticism stems from.

Hoyer went out and signed Garland to a very modest one-year deal and he has lived up to expectations. Everyone else on the pitching staff was Kevin Towers' doing. It's virtually the same bullpen as last year and yet Hoyer is reaping the benefits. The Padres have the best record in the National League and the third best in the majors and yet no one is giving any praise to Towers' consistent ability to build a strong bullpen.

The fact that Hoyer was able to trade for Ryan Ludwick still amazes me. Ludwick wasn't even being offered by the Cardinals and teams weren't aware he was available. It was Hoyer that was in constant communication with St. Louis. The only way they would give him up is if he had a starting pitcher of value to offer. He then went to Toronto, persuaded them to let go of Jake Westbrook for a prospect and then to the disbelief of everyone in baseball, sent the pitcher to the Cardinals for Ludwick. It was a brilliant move and it has already been paying for itself.

As inspiring as that trade was, I still haven't seen him address the pitching. Thanks to Kevin Towers, the pitching is solid this year. What happens when it's time to stock up again? Will Hoyer be able to find the hidden gems that Towers was known for? Only time will tell if he can draft players better than Towers (which I don't think will be very hard to do). Thinking outside of the box with trades could prove to be very useful for a small market team but it will be a few years before we see what a true Jed Hoyer team looks like. I only hope he continues with his creative ways to keep the Padres a contending team.

August 16: Piss or Get Off the Pot

According to Malcolm Gladwell, "The ventromedial prefrontal cortex...works out contingencies and relationships and sorts through the mountain of information we get from the outside world, prioritizing it and putting flags on things that demand our immediate attention." In short, it is the part of the human brain responsible for our ability to make decisions. Located behind the nose, mine must be damaged.

Life is full of tough decisions; some of which could have life-changing outcomes and others that aren't important in the long run at all. Making a decision to wear flip flops instead of closed-toe shoes to a movie is hardly important but deciding to have a surgery performed or hope that the injury heals on its own with time could have a different impact. The latter has been the contemplation I've been tossing around for the past few weeks.

The first doctor I went to in regards to my injury told me to get surgery. The second doctor gave me some anti-inflammation pills and told me to wait it out; which is what I've been doing. The first doctor told me I would not regain full motion of my finger after surgery. Did that mean no more rowing or baseball? My finger still hurt like hell.

What to do? Wasn't this Orbital 47's cue to come to my rescue? Yes. Get the surgery, do the rehab and get back to slinging tacos. No. Wait it out. You're getting paid to miss work. Watch some movies, read some books, play some video games. I wasn't getting anything. I've been leaning more toward surgery which, according to the book I'm currently reading, would suggest that was the route I should take. I needed to "Blink" and schedule my appointment. But what if the injury just needed time to rest and heal by itself?

Mom and Dad came to the rescue. As I drove through the bare Texas landscape on two hours sleep from Denver I found myself weighing the pros and cons with my listening parents. I felt more comfortable with the first guy. Pro. The second guy took his time and told me it wasn't his goal to perform as many surgeries as possible for maximum profit. Pro. No mobility after surgery. Con. There was a communication and cultural barrier with the second guy. Con. The first guy personally called me and left his cell phone number. Big pro. My finger still hurt just as much as it did before I took the cortisone. Con. As I listed off all of the aforementioned items to my parents, my ventromedial friend woke up. Call the doctor and express your concerns about the loss of mobility. Ask for his opinion on being active after surgery.

I guess in the end, I'm the one that came to the conclusion. I'm the one that looked at the options and weighed their relevance to my needs. My parents offered their support and suggestions. They told me what they would do given the information I had provided, but it was Brandon that needed to decide. The surgery is set (which could affect this 365 Days of Brandon thing) for tomorrow and if it fails to work, I'll have no one to blame but myself; which is why I didn't want to make the decision in the first place.

August 15: Magic Unlocked

Crap. I didn't mean for this to happen. It was just a game. It was supposed to be fun and harmless. I was enjoying a movie by myself eating Milk's favorite cookie when it happened. I reached pass the blue, plastic wrapper and into the clear, plastic tray. Rows of three. With my eyes glued to the TV, my fingers grasped the first cookie they touched. I was still finishing the previous cookie as I twisted one half of the cookie in one direction and the other half in the other direction. As the two halves separated every last bit of frosting remained on the cookie in my left hand. There wasn't any trace of white on the cookie in my right hand. I had, it turned out, unlocked the magic.

The image on my TV screen started to skip and the lights flickered so violently the bulbs actually exploded from the sockets. Sparks rained down on me as vertical static lines made their way up and down the screen. I sat in the glow of the film and watched as the lines started racing faster and faster. The audio was distorted and smoke started curling out of the DVD player. Before I knew it, the disc shot out of the player's slot like a frisbee and aimed for my throat. I was able to grab a pillow on the sofa just in time to block the attack, but suffice it to say, I was a little creeped out.

For a while all was calm. With the static imagine on the screen, all was silent. I sat gripping the ripped and torn pillow that the disc had dismantled and I waited for something to happen. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the ceiling fan, which was previously turned off, begin to slowly spin. It rotated slowly and its speed began to increase. It continued to spin faster and faster and I felt a searing pain on my lap. I looked down and saw the frosting-covered cookie. The fan was spinning so rapidly that it started swaying on the ceiling. I reached for the cookie and threw it down immediately after grabbing it. It felt like oven coils!

The cookie had landed by the dining room table and that's when I noticed the chairs leaning first to the right and then to the left. All four of them. As if dancing with each other. They rocked back and forth as the ceiling fan rocked harder and harder. I stood up and ran to the nearest chair to hold it down but it was too strong. Back and forth they danced slowly. As I tried to hold the chair down, my hands were being pushed upward. The chairs were rising to the ceiling!

I pulled and tugged to no avail. Eventually the chairs reached a height I was unable to match. I had to let them go and simply wait for what was to come. The fan, meanwhile, appeared to have met its maximum speed. Pieces of dry wall fell from the ceiling as the fan made a high-pitched whistle and spun its arms to a mere blur. Without warning, the first chair shot itself into the spinning blades. It exploded into tiny, sharp shards that flew in every direction. The pieces were thrown with such force that they stuck into the wall, carpet, and anything else in their path like darts. Just like the first chair, the others followed right after each other sending missiles of wood chips around the room.

Across the room from me I saw the cookie without frosting. I quickly came to the decision that the two halves had to be reunited. I don't know how I came to that conclusion. I don't know what gave me the idea. I just knew. As the circular dining table began to rotate and rise, I dove for the cookie. It was ice cold. The exact opposite of the frosting-covered side. At least this one was easier to handle.

The table was approaching its launching point as I laid on the ground holding the cold cookie in front of me toward the hot cookie. Luckily it was frosting side up and I wouldn't have to worry about my carpet being sticky. I closed my eyes tightly as I reached out. The table screamed toward the ceiling fan. I heard the explosion as I placed the cold cookie on its brother.

When I opened my eyes, I was sitting on the sofa. The movie was playing on the TV. The lights were dimmed and the pillow was unharmed. I looked up and looked at the still arms of the fan. The dining room furniture sat quietly. I breathed a sigh of relief as I reached for the next cookie.

August 14: Copy and Pasted

I wish I could copy and paste more than just text. Don't get me wrong. I love highlighting a line of text in that florescent blue and clicking on Edit and then Copy. I love placing the blinking cursor at another point in my writing, clicking on Edit again and then Paste. I'm getting so good at it, that I can copy and paste text without ever navigating my mouse to Edit. If you don't know the secret, I won't spoil it for you. One of my greatest memories is the day I discovered the shortcut. I don't want to deprive you of that feeling. So yeah, copying and pasting text is awesome. I just wish I could apply the feature to all aspects of life.

I'm a terrible storyteller. If something amazing happens to me, I have a hard time repeating the events to an outside party without butchering the details. If I could somehow highlight the entire event in florescent blue, click Edit and then Copy. I would be able to paste it when trying to re-imagine it to a friend. You want to know about my fight with Bully Joe? Let me just click Edit and Paste and there we are! Look how I dodged Bully Joe's fist there. See! I told you I landed a clean punch to his face! When the story ends, the scene disappears. Copied and Pasted.

I could copy and paste my tables ordering. That way when I drop off the Grilled Chicken Potato and they complain that they had ordered the Grilled Chicken Pasta, I can prove them wrong. Highlight, Edit, Copy, Edit, Paste. There's you on the cell phone. There's me waiting for your order. There's you putting your friend on hold and, "I'll have the Grilled Chicken Potato." There's me, "Grilled Chicken Potato?" There's you nodding. Copied and Pasted. Owned! I win!

Copying and pasting text is great. You might be surprised to learn that I use it all the time with this blog. Probably every post in fact. But imagine the possibilities of being able to copy and paste life. A child birth. A soccer game. A first kiss. The endless are possibilities. Wait. Check that. Let me just highlight, Edit...

August 13: A Night to Remember

Back in the day, hosts of dating shows always asked the contestants what their idea of a perfect date was. They received answers like, "go somewhere where we can talk and get to know each other." Boring. How over-played is that scenario? Allow me to share what my perfect date would be.

First I would arrive at her parents' house at seven o'clock because that's the time we agreed upon. I would nervously adjust my collar as I anxiously follow the brick walkway past her mother's zinnias and toward the intimidating French doors.

Her dad would answer my knocks by slowly opening the door and staring deep into my eyes. After inviting me to sit on their white sofa in the living room, he would proceed to interrogate me about my future. I will be able to hear the top 40 playing upstairs as my date finishes any last touches to her outfit. The conversation with her father would inevitably lead to him telling me about his gun collection and his love for shooting "weasels." At this point, her mother would step in from the kitchen wearing a floral-print apron to scold her husband.

After a brief introduction with my dates mother, the living room lights would mysteriously dim and Patrick Swayze would croon She's Like the Wind as she appears at the top of the staircase. Our eyes meet and she would look sheepishly to the ground. Just a fool to believe I am anything she needs, she slowly and effortlessly descends the stairs as if on an escalator. He's right. She is like the wind!

While keeping one eye on her father and the other aimed at the carpet, I toe the ground and murmur how lovely she looks. She giggles as her mom makes one more adjustment to her hair and her dad grunts. Mother escorts us to the door and tells us to have fun. As we step into the cool night's air, Father repeats what time she better be home by.

Being the gentleman that I am, I open the car door for her and wave one last goodbye to her folks as I get in on the driver's side. I strap on my seat belt and we're on our way. I keep my hands on 10 and 2 of the wheel and grip tightly trying to hide my balmy palms. We make small talk and she politely laughs at my pathetic attempts at humor as we make our way to the local ice cream shoppe (That's right. Two p's and an e).

A couple is doing the jitter bug to Buddy Holly on one end of the bar and a girl in a red poodle skirt is sitting on the counter on the other end. She has her hand to her mouth and is twirling her piece of gum around and around her index finger as her date, with his slicked black hair and leather jacket, leans against the bar and flirts with her. My beautiful date and I grab two rotating stools near the center of the bar and I order a root beer float with two straws. Extra cherry. Buddy Holly finishes It's So Easy before Chuck Berry teases us with You Can't Catch Me.

The vanilla ice cream and carbonated soda tastes so good. My nerves have subsided and I can finally be myself. We tell stories of our youth. We share jokes we heard the week before. She wipes my chin. She flutters her long eyelashes. When the dessert is finished, my nerves come back. I tell her how much fun I've been having and I ask her if she wants to go up to Lover's Lane. With a nervous giggle, she nods quickly and silently.

We're not alone on the hill that overlooks the night lights of our hometown. A line of cars face the beautiful view and I find a spot in between a green car and a blue pickup before turning off the engine. We sit in silence. No radio. Just silence. I can hear her soft breathing. It's quick and nervous. Without looking, I reach my sweaty hand for hers. My fingers gently wrap themselves around hers and they are met with reciprocation. Without saying anything, I turn and smile at her. This is how we stay for the remainder of the evening.

At 11:15, the brick walkway doesn't seem so long. The zinnias reach for us as if giving an ovation. The French doors aren't nearly as intimidating. We stand on the stoop looking at each other with both hands met. She thanks me for a lovely evening and leans in. My heart races as she applies a soft kiss on my cheek before opening the door and softly closing it behind her. The night is silent and I continue standing there trying to soak it all in.

I skip down the walkway as the zinnias cheer and dance in the night's breeze. The French Doors merrily wave goodbye and the engine roars like a lion. I feel like a lion. Like a king.

"Somewhere where we can talk and get to know each other." Pshh.

August 12: I Need a Rubber

You never realize what you have until it's gone. This statement could apply to so many different scenarios. Very few people keep cardboard boxes lying around their homes, but when it's time to pack your belongings and move, boxes become more valuable than gold. Jerry Seinfeld has a funny bit where he describes people in this situation. Everywhere they go, they have boxes on their minds. They walk in and out of stores just looking for boxes. He explains how there could be a funeral and everyone's crying, but because you're moving next week, you look at the casket and think, "That's a nice box."

I'm the same way with rubber bands. When I was a kid, I collected every rubber band that came with the morning paper. I remember keeping them in one of those really thin plastic bags that you get in the produce section of the grocery store. As my collection grew and grew, I bundled about ten together and tied them into a thick rubber knot. Thus began the start of my rubber band ball.

When just starting, I had to wrap a band around five or six times in order to get it to hold. By the time the ball reached four inches in diameter, I could simply wrap a rubber band around it once and it would be tight enough. I never actually did anything exciting with the ball. You would think someone as obsessed with baseball and miming the swing of a bat would find a use for it like, oh I don't know, hitting the ball a mile with a bat? No, I just kept it in my closet and when I got bored, I would sit and add more rubber bands.

My supply of rubber bands was endless. I had more rubber bands than GI Joes, X-Men, Legos, and K'Nex combined. My toy of choice? The rubber band. I'm kidding of course, but the point I'm trying to make is that if I needed a rubber band, I could simply go to the left-side of my closet and grab the Vons Produce bag from my blue laundry basket. If only I had known.

I'm still just as easily amused now as I was then, but with far few rubber bands. I never realize how few I have until I need one. A new bag of chips? Bags of frozen strawberries and vegetables? I've resorted to a Ziploc bag for my flax seed! My chips are getting stale, the frozen food is growing frost and the flax doesn't possess near as much nutty flavor as it did when I cut it open.

Why don't I go to Office Depot and buy a box? Why don't you go to U-Haul and get some moving boxes? Why pay money for something that if I work hard enough to find, I can get for free? I knew my mom had a bunch lying around because she still gets the morning paper so I had her mail me a few with her last letter, but a rubber band can only maintain its elasticity so long after living in the freezer. It's hopeless. I'll be on a rubber band hunt for the rest of my life.

Some people worry about not being able to find moving boxes. Others don't realize how much a boyfriend or girlfriend meant to them until he/she is gone. I had a lifetime supply of rubber bands and now I don't have any. I had it all. And now nothing. If you're reading this, be thankful for what you have been blessed with. One day it will be gone and you'll realize how important it truly was.

August 11: Cinnamon Toast Murder?

Standing at 5'8" and weighing in at 210 lbs Wendell the Cinnamon Toast Crunch chef has always been known for his over-the-top enthusiasm for all things sweet. Often perceived as a gentle old man with a passion for baking a crunchy cereal with cinnamon and sugar in every bite, Wendell has a dark past. Who is this friendly and likable man? How did he turn a simple idea into a fortune? Together, we'll explore the true story of Wendell and his sugary rags to riches tale.

In college, Wendell was a part of the Baker's Three; a group known around campus to harass and intimidate anyone that didn't share the same enthusiasm for cooking - which was pretty much everyone. The Three was formed when Wendell was a sophomore orientation assistant leading a group of recently-registered freshmen through the school's cafeteria. He noticed that most of his group was like any other group he had given tours to. They were interested in where students were disposing dirty dishes and where they paid for their meal. The group wanted to know about the pizza and pasta window. They wanted to know what types of salad dressing were offered. What caught Wendell's attention, however, were two kids at the back of the group. He noticed that their eyes were fixed on the dessert counter. As the group walked by the soft-serve machine and the glass shelves of pastries, Bob, the taller of the two, asked if pure cane sugar was available upon request. As if tied to the question itself, the shorter and pudgier Quello nodded and licked his lips. From that moment forth, the three were inseparable.

They would spend hours in each others' dorm rooms discussing the consistency of whole milk versus one percent. They performed experiments with every dessert item imaginable. After coming up with what they called Cinnamon Grahams, they bought matching leather jackets with "The Baker's Three" emblazoned across the back and each newly-appointed chef wore a personalized chef hat with their names stitched in gold.

At random intervals throughout each semester, the Three would perform a blitzkrieg of "cafeteria attacks" by running down the aisles and throwing any meal on the ground that wasn't breakfast or dessert-related. Students tried fighting back but found that they became the next targets. The entire student body was forced to live in fear of The Baker's Three.

In 1984, Wendell graduated with a degree in criminal justice and due to their lack of patience, the other two dropped out a year shy of their own graduation date. With Wendell taking the role of leader, the Three took their Cinnamon Grahams idea to General Mills and gave a very convincing presentation on the future of breakfast cereals in America. Bob and Quello sat quietly as Wendell explained that he had come up with the main idea. Infuriated, they stood in unison to argue with Wendell, but sat back down when he explained how much they were involved in executing that idea.

The CEO listened attentively and liked what he was hearing. This Wendell had a very pleasant look about him and his public speaking skills were top-notch. He was convincing, persuasive and he presented an excellent business model. Wendell was his guy, but the other two had to go.

In a closed-door meeting with Wendell, the CEO explained his dilemma. He was on board with the cereal, but he didn't like the idea of having three mascots. Snap, Crackle, and Pop had been promoting their Rice Krispies for Kellogg since 1927 and they were a success, but no one else had three mascots. It was too much of a gamble.

Wendell was a loyal young man. He knew how much his friends were involved in the creative process and he didn't want to abandon them. As loyal as he was, he was still greedy and impatient and he wanted to see his product on grocery store shelves as soon as possible. Together, they came up with a plan to test the cereal without any mascot at all for three years and if that didn't work out, they would try all three for four years. In the CEO's mind, it was a win-win resolution.

Cinnamon Grahams became Cinnamon Toast Crunch and did very well without any mascot at all, but in 1987 the CEO was forced to honor his agreement. For the next four years, he saw an annual decrease in profits with the three mascots but customer feedback reported that Wendell was well-received. He was forced to have another private meeting with the head chef.

Wendell never imagined how profitable his cereal would become; and he was only getting a third of the revenue. To multiply his earnings by three was unheard of so when the CEO asked that he get rid of Bob and Quello, he immediately agreed. With his trademark persuasion, he told the CEO that making money for General Mills was his number one priority and he would do whatever it took to increase profits. As he walked toward the office door, he turned and looked the CEO directly in the eyes and said, "Whatever happens stays in this office." Bob and Quello were never heard of again and Wendell has been the face of Cinnamon Toast Crunch since.

Many have wondered if the contacts he made while getting his Criminal Justice degree has played a part with the lack of investigation. Accusation is a powerful weapon. To make an assumption that Wendell did something horrific and unimaginable might be accurate, but it might also land you at the wrong end of a cafeteria attack; or worse. With his soft eyes and gentle nature, Wendell creates a fun and nostalgic feeling for young breakfast eaters around the globe. It is my only hope that by shedding some light on this iconic character's past, we can piece together the mystery of the disappearances of Bob and Quello.

August 10: Single-File Obsession

Call it strange. Call it annoying. However you want to label it, one thing's for sure. I love standing directly behind people in lines. I've been yelled at, cursed at, and even spit at for my unusual obsession. I've tried lying on couches while "experts' listen to my admissions of behavior but I continue to come back to the same natural desires. For me, there isn't any better experience than standing toes to heals with a complete stranger. I think I was in kindergarten the first time I discovered my unique habit.

It was the second week of school when my mom became tired of packing my lunch. She had a long day and simply couldn't muster the energy to spread Jiffy on a piece of bread and follow it with a slathering of Vons-brand grape jelly. Instead of washing a few baby carrots and putting them into a plastic baggie, she opened her purse and pulled out a crisp dollar bill and an old tarnished quarter. She put the currency in the outermost pocket of my backpack before tucking me in and giving me instructions on how to go to the cafeteria and give the lady with the hairnet my money.

Suffice it to say, I was excited. Don't get me wrong. I love a paper sack of PB and J, carrots, celery, and reduced-fat Wheat Thins just as much as the next kid. Not only was I intrigued by the idea of getting a hot meal, but the next day was Friday - pizza day. Pizza day was such a success the previous week and all of my new friends raved about how great it was. I could hardly sleep.

Lunch time couldn't come fast enough. My fingers couldn't paint the blank pieces of construction paper without stopping as I dreamed about that piping hot rectangle of starchy, dry, flavorless piece of "pizza." Morning recess was a bore and seemed to take even longer than the reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance.

Finally, I was escorted with the rest of "hot lunch purchasers" to the cafeteria and this is where it happened. Sarah with her tangled hair and Brave Little Toaster t-shirt was so excited for the pizza that she literally stood on the heals of my tennis shoes. I wasn't mad, but her enthusiasm drove me to imitation and I stood on the heals of Alex's sandals.

The rest, they say, is history. Ever since, no matter where I am, I have to get as close to the person in front of me as I can. Disneyland lines, grocery store lines, water park lines. Even if the line isn't moving, I can't help but to nudge in as close as I can. I don't know what it is. I love breathing down their necks. I want my hot breath to make its way past the forest of hairs and and spread across their scalps.

Do I know that they're aware of my presence? Absolutely I do. I don't care. They'll step forward and I'm right there with them. I like to pile my groceries over the wand-like divider that they set up on the conveyor belt. If it's just a small counter and I see the attendant hand over the change, it's my turn. End of story. I push my way forward forcing them to hastily grab their bags and shove their money into their pockets.

People don't like it. In fact, they hate it. I've been called every name imaginable. I've been pushed back and ignored. The idea of getting to that disgusting piece of pizza has stuck with me and made a permanent home deep within the confines of my brain. If there's a line, I have to be at the front of it and I won't let anyone stand in my way.

August 9: Busted in Austin

Busted Beauties. Hansom Hooligans. DWIs and POCSs. In Austin, all of these can be linked with one another through a little piece of print media called Busted in Austin. For a mere dollar you can own the eight to ten page spread of mugshots from every criminal arrest that took place in the previous week. Recognize that cute blonde in the "Busted Beauties" section? Well you don't have to search your memory for too long because Busted has done you the favor of including her first and last name to accompany her charge. The magazine is literally nothing but mugshots, names, and charges.

The first time I heard about Busted was when I overheard a fellow employee telling a group of co-workers that he had found the mugshot of a girl we work with. I couldn't believe that there was a magazine of this nature. Was this legal? It seemed like an invasion of privacy to post a picture with a first and last name and make a profit. What with Facebook and Myspace, a first and last name and the Internet can get the wrong person a lot of information.

A person is caught driving under the influence. Because of this mistake, he has to pay for an attorney and countless other fines, loses his license, must attend alcohol classes, has a mark on his record, and now has to put up with the ridicule from anyone that purchases the magazine? It seemed a little harsh. I could understand it if the crime was child molestation or murder, but driving with a buzz?

Maybe it was because people that I knew were being featured. I saw the effects of this publication on the people that I worked with every day. I spoke with people that were proud to be featured in Hansom Hooligans and I saw the ashamed expressions of countless strangers being forced to pose. These were real people that were being exploited for the entertainment of anyone.

Then something snapped. What was I thinking? These people are criminals. It didn't matter if they were slightly inebriated or if they were in possession of a controlled substance. The law is the law. When I told my parents about it, my dad asked, "What about the kid that was killed by a drunk driver? Do you think his parents cared if the driver was embarrassed to be in a magazine?" I couldn't have said it better.

Yeah, I'm sure it sucks to be called out by co-workers. It's something that I never want to experience. And you know what? I'm going to think about that the next time I'm contemplating one more beer before going home? Is it worth it? Is that five minutes of extended buzz worth the money I don't have or the kind of fame I don't want? Not for me.

August 8: Movie Reviews

Dinner for Schmucks - A group of business men invite unusual guests to a dinner party. The most unique guest wins the trophy. He is also given the prestigious title of biggest idiot behind his back. I have never experienced such a strong love/hate relationship with a film before. I hated this movie. The story was unbelievably unbelievable. I hate Paul Rudd as the straight man. Rudd is at his best win he plays the sarcastic man/boy that isn't blinded by love (Anchorman, Knocked Up and Role Models) which was not the case for this role. I don't think his character did one interesting thing. This film was supposed to be the reuniting of funnymen Rudd and Steve Carell and Carell was the only funny thing about this reunion. In fact, it Carell was the only thing I liked about Schmucks; and I loved him. Every tiny nuance small remark was pure hilarity. Every moment his face appeared on the screen, I was holding my sides and laughing uncontrollably. Was his character well-written? No. Not at all, but because Carell is such a comic genius I didn't care. I simply enjoyed his antics. How can I recommend a movie that I loathed so much? Two words: Steve Carell.

The Other Guys - There are the badass cops that tackle the criminals with car chases and shoot outs and there's the captain of the squad and a few up and comers. Then there are the other guys. Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg play the sit-down cops that do the paperwork for the bigwigs. Wahlberg was once on his way to the top before he mistakenly shot a New York celebrity giving himself the title of the Yankee Clipper. Ferrell works behind a desk hiding from a scarred past. I don't know. I couldn't get into this one. Don't get me wrong. I love when Ferrell and director Adam McKay get together. I loved Anchorman and Talladega Nights. I love their online videos too but like Rudd, when Ferrell plays a real person, his movies just aren't that funny. Couple that with Wahlberg and the movie doesn't have a chance. Keanu Reeves gets a bad rapt because Wahlberg is by far the worst famous actor ever. He was decent in The Departed but sucks in everything else. The Happening would have been so much better if they had cast anyone other than him as the lead. So when you take these two components and throw in a few old jokes, you're going to get a lame movie. Again, it had its moments but was nowhere near the hilarity and quotability of previous Ferrell/McKay projects.

Inception - Today was the second viewing for me. I was blown away by the visuals the first go around and the ability to piece together the story this round made for one heck of an experience. I had seen this before but felt like I was experiencing it for the first time throughout the entire film today. Without the distraction of drugs, how often can one say that about a film? If you've only seen Inception once, you were probably left with the feeling of, "I should probably see that again." Follow that feeling. Trust me. Inception has the action and the romance. It tugs at the emotional strings and massages the brain at the same time. I can't say it enough. This film was so much better the second time. Simply brilliant.

August 7: A Day in the Life

For those of you wondering what it would be like to go a day with one arm, I've come up with a list of daily activities that are extremely difficult to complete without the help of that extra limb.

• Making a bed
• Carrying a bowl of cereal, a spoon, and a glass of orange juice to the table
• Rearranging dumbbells to vacuum the carpet they sit on
• Vacuuming a carpet and keeping the cord out of the way
• Measuring a cup of laundry detergent
• Folding clothes
  
• Ironing a shirt
• Getting into a car
  
• Driving in reverse
• Getting out of a car
  
• Carrying a case of Mountain Dew, two cans of Cream of Mushroom soup, and two cans of tuna without a basket
  
• Taking money out of a wallet
• Putting change in a wallet
• Cutting open a bag of frozen chicken
• Cutting open a bag of pre-packaged salad
• Opening a bottle of salad dressing
• Opening a can of Mountain Dew
• Getting to the child-proof drugs
• Scrubbing a dirty plate
• Clapping after the Padres make a dramatic comeback in the top of the ninth inning
• Punching a couch after the Diamondbacks hit a walk-off home run in the bottom half of the inning
• Coming up with a decent topic to write about

So there you have it, folks. A day in the life of a disabled person. See? We're people too.

August 6: Discuss THIS

I love discussion boards. They're one more way that we isolate ourselves from society, but to read through them can always garner a laugh. Take, for example, an article I read today in regards to the television series Lost. It was an in-depth look at a particular theory that the author had about the plot of the show and he went to great lengths to get his point across. At the end of the article, one of the first comments left by a reader was, "Lost blows."

This was a pretty mild example of how entertaining a discussion board can be. When you get a chance, head over to Ain't It Cool News. There's something fascinating about the world and life of a fan boy. They get very passionate about their movies and if they read a post about a film that they don't think will be any good, they hit the boards. I have read some of the most offensive and hilarious comments on that site through the years. Every time a new season of Survivor is announced, I get a kick out of the comments that are posted. "I didn't know that show was still on." "Does anyone still watch this crap?"

What's better than pessimistic comments is when readers start arguing with each through the discussion board. Someone might say, "Survivor is gay" and someone else will counter with, "You're gay!" Before you know it four or five readers are cursing and typing in all caps at each other. As an outside reader, these are my favorite interactions.

There are a lot of great articles on the web. As more and more people discover blogging, the topics are endless. There isn't a better dessert, however, to a fine piece of writing than a good discussion board brouhaha. Fan boys hiding behind the protection of their parents' basement walls leaving tasteless comments and getting into fights with people they've never met. I love it.