September 30: It's Not Meant to Be

If I didn't know better, I would think someone was trying to protect my sanity. I'm doing everything I can to push myself over the edge and somewhere, someone is looking out for me.

Within the past month, my Internet connection has disappeared on more than one occasion without having any problems at all over the course of the previous year. When my Internet is working, the power will go out. Clear skies, no thunder or lighting and snap! Everything in my apartment shuts off. On Tuesday, I traveled 1400 miles to visit my family. Tonight, my mother told me she couldn't remember the last time the power went out. She told me this as we sat in the dark after a rare San Diego thunderstorm turned off the TV we were watching.

Within the past month, I've watched a six and half game lead in the National League West disintegrate into a three game deficit. I've sat boiling with anger as I watched the Padres throw away an all-but-guaranteed trip to the playoffs. I've taken my anger out on co-workers and family members. I'm arrived for shifts at work in the service industry in a sour mood because of my frustrations toward the team's lack of performance.

Being the son of a triple bypass survivor with over ten artery stints, the healthy and smart thing for me to do would be to stop watching baseball. I should get outside and get some fresh air. Take a jog or even a cold shower. Instead, I turn back to the computer and my Internet to land another blow to my sanity. I watch the Fox Saturday game each week. I listen as the San Diego announcers do everything in their power to remain sounding optimistic about the idea of making the playoffs.

For a while, however, every time I sat down at the computer to watch the game, the Internet would cease to work. I could call the Internet company, but would simply get a busy signal or be be placed on hold for an hour only to be told they had people working on the issue. The Internet would be down for hours while the game was played in a different part of the country. Eventually I would have to go to work without getting to see any of the game. I would have to go throughout a shift without knowing the results. When the Internet was working, the power would go out without warning. I could be sitting inside on a beautiful day watching the team piss away the game and then find myself sitting in front of a dark screen.

The first time it happened, I thought it was nothing more than coincidence. The second time it happened, I was furious that I was forced to miss another game. The third time, I was still upset, but I began wondering if I wasn't meant to watch them. I had to just laugh when it happened tonight.

If the Padres lose one more game, it's over. If they win the remaining three games as the visiting team, they force a tie. Is it possible? Yes. Is it realistic? Not really. My blood pressure has risen dramatically throughout the course of the season. My mood has been up and down all year. I'm ready for next year. Will this other-worldly phenomenon follow me and force me to miss games again?

September 29: Forgotten Comforts

It's funny; all the things you remember and all the little things you forget. My earliest memory is standing in my crib, hands on the rail, and watching my mom come into the room. I don't remember the details of what I was wearing or what stuffed animals were keeping me company. I can't remember if she was coming in to get me out or to yell at me for not sleeping. I just remember a quick, blurry snapshot.

That was probably twenty-six years ago or so. In the fall of 1989, my family moved to our current place of residence and for sixteen years until I left for college, I took at least one shower a day there. Of course there are the few nights that I was elsewhere, but for the better part of my youth, I was taking showers in Alpine, California in soft water.

For those of you that don't know, there is a huge difference between soft and the standard hard water you're probably used to. Water that has magnesium and calcium dissolved into it is often labeled as "hard." These two minerals can cause buildup known as "scale" on the insides of pipes which can reduce the flow of water. They also react with soap limiting lather and forms scum that can stick to shower walls. Soft water is simply the same water which has been filtered to replace the magnesium and calcium with sodium ions.

For most people, the minor issues of hard water are overlooked and ignored. For my dad, they are the perfect ingredients for an uncomfortable shower. When he first purchased the water softener, I didn't notice any difference. When the family took its annual trip to Palm Springs, however, I was forced to shower in the hotel and I immediately recognized the despicable nature of hard water.

Suddenly, the water didn't slide off my body. It beaded up and rolled off. I couldn't mold my hair into that familiar soap-Mohawk I had grown accustomed to making without the help of my Pantene lather. When I dried off, my skin felt dry; and I'm talking about flaky-skin-dry and not lack-of-water-dry. It was miserable!

I dealt with the uncomfortable sensation every time my family went any where while growing up. I would put up with it for the weekend until we returned home and I could go back to my soft water shower. It wasn't until college, however, that I was forced to take hard water showers for months on end. As horrible as the first week back from visiting home always was, I still managed to acclimate myself to the unfavorable conditions.

Last night, I took a soft water shower for the first time since February and I had forgotten how nice they were. No scum. Plenty of lather. No buildup in the pipes on the other side of the wall. It was simply magnificent. I remember the feeling of being lifted high in the air and placed on my dad's shoulders for a better look at the Main Street Electrical Parade at Disneyland. I can still see the top of his head and running my tiny little fingers through his thin hair in an attempt to hold on, but I couldn't remember the comforts of a simple soft water shower I took day in and day out.

September 28: The Coors Light Shirt

Tonight is party night. Tonight we're going downtown. We're going to hit the clubs, do some dancing, talk to some pretty girls and bring the party home with us. We're going to drink. We're going to smoke. We'll laugh and swear. We'll eat greasy drive-thru after the alcohol tells our brains how hungry we are. I'm going to do my hair and wear my metal watch. I'm going to wear my black, leather shoes and my hundred dollar, stone-washed denims. I'm going to wear expensive cologne, but I don't know what shirt to wear.

I could wear my black, striped shirt. When buttoned up, it extenuates my athletic figure. When I wear it unbuttoned, I am perceived as hip, cool and laid-back. Either way, I'm a stud. Girls throw themselves at me. They want to be with me. My friends are cool by association. The problem, however, is every guy at the club has a black, striped shirt. Tonight, I want to be different.

I could wear my black Ed Hardy skin-tight shirt. It has skulls and snakes. It has shiny lettering. It shows off my pecs and flat stomach. It's a brand that girls love and respect. Wearing my Ed Hardy skin-tight shirt is like showing up to the club with a Rolex. A Rolex that shows off my biceps and triceps. A Rolex that shows off my back muscles. The skulls represent my toughness in social settings. They say, "Don't mess with me unless your a hot babe." I love my Ed Hardy skin-tight skull and snake shirt. The problem, however, is I wore it to the same clubs last week. People would totally remember it and I would lose all credibility.

My Coors Light t-shirt. Perfect. It's got brand. It has a message: I like to party. I am a fun person to spend the night with. Beer is representative of drunkenness and hilarity. Drunkenness and hilarity simply translate to fun and memories. When I wear my Coors Light t-shirt, the bartender doesn't even have to ask what I want. Girls know that I'm health-conscience because I keep my calories in check. Coors is beer aka loose and calm. Light is health; aka sensitive. I'm a sensitive, laid-back, fun man.

* * * *

Every time I go to a bar or club with free giveaways, it's always an alcoholic-sponsored article of clothing. A Jagermeister ball cap. A Cuervo knitted shirt. A Bacardi baby tee. A company wants to get its name and product out there. The free giveaways are meant to bring in a profit. The giveaway doesn't cost the company anything and brings in money. It's a cheap way to advertise. The keyword in the last sentence is cheap.

You can go to Hot Topic and purchase a Coors Light t-shirt for fifteen dollars, but that doesn't mean it's a good shirt to wear to a club. No matter how much you spend on that shirt, the only thing people see is the cheap aspect of it. Are you a Coors Light representative? Are you being paid to flash the logo? Do you have free samples? Do us a favor. Stick to the black, striped shirt and Ed Hardy attire. It's easier to make fun of you when we know you spent a lot of money on your outfit.

September 27: What Would Freud Do?

I was in fourteen different plays in high school. The last of which was a musical in the spring of my senior year. 2001. Nine years ago. I haven't had to memorize any lines or go to any rehearsals for nine years. Last night, I had the dream that all actors have. I'm about to go on stage in front of a full house and I don't have a clue what any of my lines are. It doesn't matter what play it is or what part I have. I have lines that I'm suppose to deliver and I don't know any of them. I'm holding a script, but it has a different role's lines highlighted. My cue to enter stage-right is performed and I step into the bright lights and I'm wearing glasses.

I had just graduated college and my parents asked what I wanted for my graduation gift. I wanted one thing and one thing only: to get LASIK surgery. I had been wearing glasses for as long as I could remember. The one thing I remember about my first day of kindergarten? Forgetting my glasses. Upon graduation, I went to the optometrist and received my referral to the ophthalmologist. I then took out my Rigid Gas Permeable contacts for the last time to let my eyes take their natural shape as I made monthly visits to the doctor. In December of 2005, I stared into a circular, pulsating laser and never put on another pair of eyeglasses again. A few nights ago I had a dream I was visiting with some friends and I was wearing glasses while my teeth kept falling out effortlessly.

If you're just a tad different than the norm in high school, you're going to get made fun of. If you have acne or you smell funny, you're going to get made fun of. After spending the majority of my youth with metal braces glued to my teeth and wires connecting them, I had the apparatuses removed for the final time during the first semester of my freshman year of high school. That was 1997. For thirteen years people have commented and praised my straight teeth. For thirteen years, I've been flossing and brushing. Chewing sugar-free gum and drinking a lot of milk. For thirteen years, I've been dreaming of losing or chipping my teeth.

I'm still waiting tables so having dreams of not being able to keep up with being sat is expected, but why am I still dreaming of events that were a major part of my life so long ago? I haven't acted on a stage since high school. It's been even longer since getting my braces removed. What does this mean? WWFD? What would Freud do?

September 26: Status Update Etiquette

Last week, I re-read a post I wrote in May of 2009 using Facebook's Notes feature. The writing's terrible and there are quite a few grammatical errors. This is the post:

I recently received a comment on a Facebook note I wrote almost a year and a half ago and it reminded me about the power of the note. It's an often-forgotten feature that is there for everyone to see every time they click on someone's profile to stalk them. Let's face it, that's what Facebook is: stalking. Now, granted, it isn't as easy to stalk someone (you actually have to be "friends") on Facebook as it is to stalk a complete stranger on Myspace, but I digress.

My note today (only my second, but I think I'll use the feature more now that I've been reminded how powerful and influential it can be) is not about the ethical dilemmas we face when clicking a "friend's" profile link, but it is on the topic of something that has always irked me. There are many things in life that "get my goat," but the one that I can write about here that we can all relate to is the Status Update feature that many Facebookers loves to use. I know that some of you enjoy using the updater more than others because of another Facebook feature we ALL use: the Newsfeed. "Brandon has updated his status from 'single' to 'it's complicated' is something you will probably never read in the Newsfeed, but again, that's a topic for another day.

The Status Update feature that Facebook has allowed us all the benefit of using, can, and HAS been used for good things. However, I feel that some of us (you know who you are) are taking the updater for granted. My goal with this note, then, is to give you a few lessons that will make you look more intelligent while expressing yourself. The following will use some examples, and to avoid any confusion, I will use my own name as the Facebook user's name (you).

If you have been with Facebook a while and you are a frequent user of the Status Updater, you will have noticed that when Facebook first started, all of the updates started with "Brandon is." It was the user's responsibility to fill in the blank. "Brandon is going home for Christmas." The problem with this was that some people didn't take the time to form proper sentences that incorporated the preposition "is" into his or her update. Status updates started reading "Brandon is I am hungry and can't wait for dinner!" The creators of Facebook took the liberty of changing the website so errors like this wouldn't happen. Status updates now started with "Brandon is" with the preposition being highlighted to give the user the option of being able to remove it. Updates could now read "Brandon just needs some attention" instead of the user having to come up with "Brandon is starved for attention and needs to take extreme measures to fill the hunger."

Problem: solved, right? Not so fast. Users of Facebook still find it difficult to press the backspace button a few times to erase the "is." Status updates still came in as "Brandon is New Office episode tonight!" Really? Brandon is now a television show? That should help with the need for attention, right?

Anyway, I know that there will be people who will read this note and find many grammatical errors. I'm not here to give a lesson in perfect writing, but I want you to know that when people read your updates, they think less of you for being dumb. I know I do. The truth is, most of you out there are smarter than me, but it doesn't show in the way you express yourselves. Please take the time to take a quick look at what you're about to post and fix any blatant typos. Occasionally, when I post a status update, I will look at it in my profile and if I see an error, I will fix it. You can delete the previous unintelligent status completely from your profile and no one will ever know that you made the mistake.

Before I conclude, I have one other thing that I would like to mention. Please pick an update for yourself and stick to it. No one cares that "Brandon is reading MLB rumors," "Brandon just burped and tasted a brown sugar Pop-Tart he had an hour ago," and "Brandon is doing a load of laundry, but forgot to take the change out of his jeans and is now listening to the sounds of clanging metal reverberate off the walls of his apartment" all in a two-minute time span. Seriously, no one cares. You may get a comment here and there about how a similar situation happened to one of your "friends," but that person was probably just bored. Please be creative in your updates, but don't over-do it.

I know this note was long, and for those of you that read the message in its entirety, I thank you. Now go out there and let the world know what you're up to, but please show us that you have some self-respect.

September 25: Foam Party Love

The first time I saw her, she was soaking wet. I was with my friends and she was with hers. The room was dark and noisy with the sounds of laughter and celebration. Foam rained down from the ceiling and everyone danced in the damp surroundings. As the party and chaos continued, our eyes kept meeting from across the room until we found ourselves holding each other within the clutches of dance. Like sponges, we absorbed the soapy suds and cold water. We clung together before separating and spraying each other with fits of laughter.

We remained together for what seemed like minutes but felt like hours at the same time. Lost in conversation and flirtation, the room began to spin. Whether it was the detergent's scent or the sheer feeling of happiness, I'll never know but the room continued to spin faster and faster. Forced by the pull of gravity, I found myself against a wall where I was unable to pry myself free. With every rotation of the room, I grew more and more dizzy. I wondered where she had disappeared to, but I was too consumed with my lightheaded state.

I prayed for stillness. I prayed I wouldn't get sick. I prayed to see her again once more before the end of the night, but more than anything, I prayed for the room to stop spinning. And just like that, it did. Weak and exhausted, I peeled myself from the wall and collapsed into a cold, damp pile. The noise had stopped. The suds had stopped. The room had stopped. I faintly remember looking around the dark and humid room at a collection of tired beings that looked the same way I felt. The room exploded in light just before fatigue won the battle, forcing me to close my eyes and pass out.

When I woke up, I had the sensation of floating. Where was I? Was this another club? Still damp from the previous party, my body was warm and rapidly drying. As if in a dream of clouds, I tumbled feet over head and head over feet. I softly bounced around this room of wonder. When I had gathered my bearings, I was able to look around with a clearer state of mind.

I was in another room of recognizable faces. It was the same crowd that was at the foam party! I saw my group of friends. I saw her group of friends. Where was she? I slowly danced around the room in desperate search for the girl I had quickly fallen for. Warm, relaxed, and soft I brushed against strangers and friends alike until I spotted her. She was more elegant than I remembered. Her dark skin was smooth and silky. Paralyzed by her beauty, I stared until she turned and saw me. With a smile that made my heart leap into my throat, she glided toward me and I pulled her into my now-dry arms. We picked up right where we had left off at the foam party with the exception of a slower, more rhythmic sway. We danced. We laughed. We floated around the hot room and were held together by a static electricity that was pleasant and surreal.

Without warning, the room again exploded into light. Shocked and stunned, the occupants of the room dropped to the floor. My dance partner and I remained together, but we quickly found ourselves in a hot pile of strangers. Within the confines of the pile, I magically felt weightless. By forces I cannot explain, the group was pulled from the room and thrown on to a soft, flat surface where our pile fell apart.

I lied on this foreign land holding on to the girl of my dreams until I felt something grab my body and watched something grab hers. We held on to each other as the two things tried to pull us apart. The static that kept us together throughout our final dance sparked and crackled as our two bodies were separated. I watched in agony as this unexplained force placed her with her friends. She reached for me as I was deposited amongst my own.

I have no sense of time. I don't know how long ago that fateful night was. I don't know how long I've been in this dark cedar-scented place. All I can think about is when I'll see her again. I would give anything for another night with her. I would put up with spinning room and the warm floating room. I yearn for her silky touch. I long for the static cling.

September 24: Doppelganger Week

It was the first week of February. On that Monday, I noticed a few profiles on Facebook with a unique look. My friends were posting pictures of celebrities instead of themselves. On Tuesday, this trend continued and I saw more celebrity profile pictures. By Wednesday, I discovered I was in the midst of a phenomenon called Doppelganger Week. Find a picture of a celebrity that you resemble and post it as your picture for one week.

I don't know how it was created or even why, but I do know that it was pretty fun to see the celebrity lookalikes throughout the week and beyond. I had to get in on this new fad, but who was I supposed to pick as my doppelganger? I have received so many comparisons while growing up that I didn't even know where to begin.

I ended up going with Woody from Toy Story because I hadn't seen many cartoon doppelgangers and I wanted to be different, but I could have gone in so many different directions. I've been told I look like Jim Carrey, "Weird Al" Yankovic, Jimmy Neutron, Bob Saget, Steve Carell, a professional golfer by the name of Skip Kendall, Stephen Colbert, and Hugh Jackman. Just within the last week, I've been told Daniel Tosh and Ben Quayle (son of Dan). I'm sure I'm missing a few, but you get the point.

I know what you're thinking. Hugh Jackman? Don't flatter yourself, Roesler! Trust me, I'm not making this stuff up. Up until last night, I had never heard of this Ben Quayle character, but a guest at the bar pointed it out and pulled up a picture of him on his iPhone. Out of the eleven names above, I believe Quayle gets the honor of looking the most like me. I wouldn't go as far as calling him my identical twin, but he's definitely closer than someone like Yankovic.

I'm sure most of these references were made based off the way I acted at the time. I'm a pretty eccentric and hyper guy. I tend to run around with an unprecedented amount of energy and enthusiasm so I can understand the Jim Carrey comparison. I'm not big on the political or current events scenes, so I don't know where Colbert comes from. "Weird Al?" I was a big fan in high school, but I don't look anything like him. Saget and Carell? Jackman? Before this post, I had only seen one picture of Kendall and it was a black and white, small newspaper picture of him in his follow through swing.

The one thing I share with all of these names? Brown hair. That's it. I see myself every day and the people making the comparisons sometimes see me once and never again. They're making snap judgments so it's easier to make comparisons. Whatever it is that they see in me, every new comparison just makes me feel like I have the most generic face of all time.

September 23: Dave the Dodo

They used to call me names and tease me for my unique fear of the two-legged, smooth apes. It was my brothers and sisters, however, that were afraid. They were afraid of me. They couldn't understand how I could be so antisocial with man. They were embarrassed to be associated with me. Even my own mother, Deb, barely paid any attention to me. How could a respected bird give birth to such a freak? When I was young, Deb provided food for me, but I wasn't allowed to eat the delicious tambalacoque seeds that she gathered. Those were for my brothers and sisters. I had to eat worms and insects. Only on my birthday each year was I allowed the delicacy.

My only friend, Delmon, from three tambalacoque trees south tried convincing me on more than one occasion that the "human" was a friend. The animals the humans brought with them to our island of Mauritius were friends. When the dogs plundered our nests, they weren't being malicious; they were "playing." I didn't subscribe to Delmon's theory. There was something mysteriously vindictive about the way my neighbors would leave nothing but human footprints with their disappearances.

Hello. My name is Dave and this is my story. I am the last remaining dodo bird on the planet. You may have heard of my kind before, but I doubt it was in a positive context. "Dead as a dodo? To go the way of the dodo?" My species was one of the first to go the way of the dodo. The irony of it all is that we are a species of natural immortality. Unless killed, we were the only living organism designed to live forever. Unfortunately, as far as researchers are concerned, we were among the first species to be extinct during human history. Sure, the dinosaur gets all the attention (especially with the recent discovery of the Kosmoceratops), but unlike the giant reptiles, humans were directly responsible for my family's demise.

We were a peaceful bird. In comparison to your blue jays, robins, and even penguins, we were an ugly group. Standing at about three feet with gray feathers and long, bulky beaks we weren't your typical bird of beauty, but we had class. We stood tall and proud. We couldn't fly, but we loved to spread our wings and pretend. We chirped politely and eloquently over morning dew drops and we never treated each other with disrespect.

We were a major part of the ecosystem too. Those tambalacoque seeds I mentioned above? One of the only known ways they could germinate was by passing through our digestive tracts. I'm no scientist, but even I have to admit that's pretty cool. Do you know what happens to a tree when you take away its source of germination? It ceases to exist. Thanks to the extinction of my kind, the tambalacoque is about to go the way of the dodo. Our one major societal flaw was the fact that we were so peaceful. With the exception of myself, we welcomed the arrival of the human and everything he stood for.

I spent my youth in ridicule for being such a "chicken" with human interaction. To communicate with them, however, just felt wrong. When I saw one approaching, I ran the other way. I didn't trust the males, females, or their domestic pets. I went through this routine for years as I watched my population dwindle until there wasn't another dodo to come home to. After every escape, I would return to a flock of one less. No one ever asked questions about where Darren went or why Dimitri left with the two-legged hunters. No one seemed to care that they hadn't seen Daria for weeks or that Diana's chicks were left without a mother. All they wanted was to get to know the next human to enter our village.

So here I am: the last of my kind. Alone and more different than I ever was when I was being made fun of. I've seen wars and natural disasters. I've overheard of scientific discoveries and I stood outside a home as its occupants watched a man walk on the moon. I miss my mother. I miss Delmon. I even miss my brothers Doug, Dre, and Darnell. I miss the way my sisters Denise and Danika would tease me for being different. My only joy in the world lies in finding a rare tambalacoque seed, passing it through my digestive system and in turn keeping the species alive.

September 22: In Case You Were Wondering

My phone contract is up and I can't decide on an Android or an iPhone. Thoughts? I'm getting an iPhone! (John Doe and three others Like this) Brandon has installed the Facebook for iPhone application. Just got my new iPhone. These are so nice! Here's a picture I took of myself on my new iPhone. (John Doe Likes this)

Brandon has checked into Westgate Lanes via Places. Brandon has checked into Coldstone Creamery via Places. Brandon has checked into HEB Grocery Store via Places. Brandon has checked into Chevron via Places. Brandon has checked out via Places - 30 minutes ago via Facebook for iPhone.

Gym Time. Standing in line for the new James Bond movie! Bond was great! Meeting friends at Outback Steakhouse. I'm sitting in the booth under the boomerang on the Northern-most wall. My friends are staring at me as I type this update on my virtual QWERTY keyboard. Here's a picture of my Gold Coast Coconut Shrimp - Yummy! So full - About an hour ago via mobile web.

Here's a picture of: My puppy sleeping. My hurt hand. Myself in a mirror flexing my abs. Look how full my shopping cart is! My baby doesn't know what a computer is, but here he is standing on a sidewalk. A coffee shop. A foggy beach. A random pedestrian without his shirt crossing a street. Look at my speedometer! A 24-Hour Fitness. Look at the clock on my dashboard! It's 4:44! Here's another picture of me in the mirror - 19 hours ago via Facebook for Blackberry.

I Like this. You Like this. We all Like this. 45 other people Like this. John Doe Likes this photo. Jane Doe Likes your link. Jane Doe commented on your link. John Doe commented on his own link. Jane Doe Likes John Doe's comment.

This sucks! My phone is broken - 3 minutes ago via Facebook for iPhone. Here's my new phone number. Here's my AOL Instant Messenger screen name. Here is a list of my family members. Here is my hometown and current city. I went to this high school and graduated in this year. Here is my Twitter, my Blogger, my email, my home address, my blood type, my social security number, and my checking account password - 17 minutes ago.

I am currently: Cooking for friends. Jogging. Typing on a computer. Standing on a street corner. Buying donuts. Watering my hard-to-reach plants. Staring at a wall. At work. Sleeping. Wondering what my friends could possibly be up to right at this very second. If only there was a website to make this possible - 38 seconds ago via Facebook for Android.

September 21: The Cleveland Indians of Baltimore

Because it's beginning to look less and less likely that I will be watching my team in the playoffs in two weeks, I went to a backup plan. Today I watched as a team with a rookie catcher who couldn't make an accurate throw to the pitcher made an unlikely push for the World Series. Led by a washed up, has-been catcher as the interim manager, the fictional 1994 Cleveland Indians had all the promise in the world coming off a division-winning season with the addition of a highly touted free agent catcher. But would the stars align for this band of misfits? Could the team overcome the return of their hated owner?

Let's me set the record straight. Major League is the superior film of the series but because it wasn't available on Netflix streaming, I was forced to settle for its sequel. With that being said, if you're able to look past the inaccuracies, the second film is still an enjoyable hour and forty-five minutes.

A manager making the decision to bring in a dropped player as a coach? A player turned owner turned general manager turned bench warmer? A Cleveland team playing in a Baltimore ballpark? Although all of these story lines can be made for the sake of the film, I have a hard time forgiving the filmmakers for failing to acknowledge a basic baseball rule. Pedro Cerrano crushes a pitch into a flock of seagulls in deep center field, rounds first and continues his trot to the aid of a fallen bird. Instead of being called out for traveling outside of the base path, the umpire waits until the outfielder tags him. It's an entertaining scene, but inexcusable for a baseball enthusiast such as myself.

Ichiro Suzuki didn't make his debut in American baseball until 2001, so the fad to bring over Japanese players wasn't as big in '94 as it is today. I don't know how many Asian players were in the major leagues when the film was released, but Isuro Tanaka has got to be one of the most racist depictions of a character of all time. Introduced in the team's clubhouse wearing a gray kimono and toting a Samurai sword, he is the stereotypical Japanese man in every sense of the word.

It's called Progressive Field now. In 1994 (the year it opened) it was Jacobs Field. I've never been, but based on pictures I've seen, it looks like a pretty nice ballpark. It has a great view of the downtown skyline in center field and was even voted as the best Major League ballpark in a Sports Illustrated fan poll in 2008. I have been to Oriole Park at Camden Yards in Baltimore and I thought it was a great field, but I can't understand why the film was shot here as opposed to Cleveland's brand new complex. The warehouse in right field is a trademark of the Orioles and if you know baseball at all, you'll remember the brick wall towering over Cal Ripken Jr. as he jogged around the warning track after breaking Lou Gehrig's record. Seeing the jumbo tron with The Sun on its top border flash "Indians Win" takes away some of the magic.

Major League II has every sports movie cliche from the rival slugger glaring at the pitcher to the miraculous come-from-behind victory. It's predictable and yet still entertaining. It has returning characters, new characters, and characters played by different actors from the original. It's a true sequel. Not as great as the first, but still decent.

September 20: Trigger Finger

We're nearly ten months in, but 2010 is shaping up to be the worst year of my life. '08 still has the strong advantage, but after some terrific (and I use the word in the most pessimistic and facetious way imaginable) news, '010 is like the Colorado Rockies making for a late season push. On August 3, I was told not to go to work to rest a hurt finger. On August 17, I had that hurt finger repaired and was out of work until September 3. Today, I was I told I have Trigger Finger on that "repaired" finger.

What does that mean? Simply put, the muscles in the forearm are connected to the bones in the hand via tendons. Sheaths attached to the bones keep the tendons in place, and the tendons can then slide through the openings causing the hand to contract into a fist. I don't know if it was a result of my surgery or something else, but the tendon in my left pinky has become inflamed causing it to get caught on the sheath before snapping through. Once diagnosed with Trigger Finger, it doesn't go away. The more conservative approach to an injury like this is to make a splint for the finger to limit the use of that tendon and hope for the inflammation to subside. The more extreme measure is surgery.

Yeah, that's what I need. I work in an industry where my wage can change from day to day depending on my placement by management. If I keep taking time off in full month increments, why would a manager place me in a section where I have the ability to make a decent living? Why wouldn't they want to put me in sections that would make me want to quit and have someone else pick up my problems?

From the outside, I look fine. Aside from a little scar from my previous surgery, there is no sign of pain or discomfort. I look like a complete wimp if I have to keep going in for expensive surgeries at the cost of my employer. "Owie! My pinky hurts. I can't work."

I want this issue to just go away. I cut my hand on a small piece of glass. It's supposed to heal right away and let me get back to swinging baseball bats and golf clubs. I want to row and lift weights. Instead, I'm stuck wincing as I reach for the Q on the keyboard.

September 19: Smoking on Third Base

Maybe I'm of the wrong gender to be writing this blog, but I found the topic interesting nevertheless. Girls have always complained about the double standards of sex and dating, but it wasn't until recently that I had an opportunity to see it first hand.

I have an old friend (let's call him Joe) that had his eye on a girl (we'll call her Jane) for a while. One night while intoxicated, Joe approached an intoxicated Jane and asked her out. Jane didn't know much about Joe, but still agreed to accompany him to a local restaurant the next evening.

The date went well and Jane found that she enjoyed being in the company of Joe. She either liked him or was lonely enough to allow Joe to escort her to her apartment afterward. Upon arriving at Jane's, the new friends conversed over a beer and a shared blunt. Drunk and stoned, the couple soon found themselves in a fierce battle of tonsil hockey. Clothes were strewn and saliva was swapped. Then Joe passed out.

Joe woke the next morning in Jane's living room by himself. Jane had stayed the night in her bedroom. Being the gentleman that Joe is, he knocked on the door to let her know that he was leaving and that she should lock the door upon his departure. To Joe's surprise, though, Jane grabbed him and pulled him into her bed. The intense make-out session picked up right where it had left off. Clothes were, again, strewn. More saliva was swapped. Joe was sober. Jane was sober. Joe was aroused and acted on his impulses and Jane, completely naked now, stopped him.

The next day Brandon sat quietly as he held his phone to his ear and listened to Joe relay the events of the previous evening. I listened to Joe read a text he received from Jane later in the day apologizing for turning down his sexual advances. I listened as Joe went from being excited to nervous to angry. Joe started off excited that he hooked up with a girl like Jane. He became nervous because he didn't know what his next move should be. After being told she was too tired to "smoke another blunt," Joe became angry that his "next move" didn't yield the results he was hoping for.

It was during the latter stage in which Joe described Jane as a "skanky-ass ho" and a bitch. Reminding me over and over again that Jane was completely naked, Joe was furious that a girl dare to let him get as far as he did without letting him close the deal. "Who does she think she is?" he kept asking. I asked him how he would have felt if she had let him in. Would he still think she was such a bitch? "Of course not," he replied. "I would think she was a slut for putting out on the first date."

Now, I'm not sure I know what the difference between a skanky-ass ho and a slut is, but that's neither here nor there. The fact is that Jane couldn't win in Joe's eyes. Don't put out and you're a bitch. Put out and you're a slut. Obviously, both have negative connotations. I've heard girls complain about this for years. Why can guys go out and have as much sex as they want and be applauded for their efforts and successes and a girl is a slut if she attempts the same thing?

I don't know the answer. I don't exactly aspire to be Joe or Jane, but it does seem kind of unfair. If guys are supposed to go out and have as much sex as they can, but girls aren't, who are the guys supposed to be having sex with?

September 18: Pick on Someone Else

I'm not a huge football fan; pro or collegiate. I couldn't care less about the NBA. Hockey? What's that? It's no secret that the only sport I follow is baseball. Not Minor League baseball or college baseball, but Major League Baseball. It's all I care about. Not only do I love the sport, but I love the Padres of San Diego. A team in its forty-first year. A team without any world championships, no hitters, or players who have hit for the cycle. Since 1969, the team has been to the World Series twice and has a 1-8 record between the two appearances.

If history says anything at all, the team I love and follow is not any good. For this reason, I've never been one to talk down on someone else's team. No matter how much I loathe the Dodgers, Rockies, Giants, or Diamondbacks, you will never hear me talking trash to a fan of those teams. No matter how poorly any of those teams are doing, I will never rub it in the face of its fans. I never have and I never will. I understand that when people do it to each other, it's generally in jest and it isn't intended to hurt feelings. But because I don't follow any other sports and my heart is 100% into Padres baseball, "trash talk" hurts.

For some reason, people love to tease me. I don't know if it's because I laugh it off or because I'm genuinely goofy. Whatever the reason, people seem to leech off this trait and attack me at my weakness for the Padres. Although, I never thoroughly enjoy the taunts, I can deal with the first few assaults. It's when they keep coming that really irritates me. I know they've been sucking. I know they aren't deserving to make the playoffs. I get it!

Today it happened. A lot. Someone thought it would be funny to tell everyone I work with to approach me and mention a recent game. Okay. Funny. But when people come up to me multiple times it gets old. Really old. "Man, I'm sorry to hear about your Padres?" Are you? Can you name three players on the team? Who do you like? Can you name three players on that team? The answer was always no.

Make fun of my hair. Make fun of my inability to get a date. But leave my Padres alone. It's sort of a sensitive subject and I don't find it that amusing. Thank you.

September 17: Uneasy Thoughts

Imagine needing to make a stop at a gas station late at night. After filling your tank, you decide a few Little Debbie chocolate cupcakes would be a nice treat. You enter the brightly lit store and walk down the aisles of short shelves until you find your midnight snack when you hear the jingle of the door opening. Looking up, you see a hooded figure with his head turned down enter and approach the counter. I don't know about you, but my initial thought is store holdup.

Now imagine you're in the drive thru of your local Taco Bell. The intercom statically comes to life with a young slang-laden voice. It's a voice of poor enunciation and jive. He asks what you want and you order the number 5 (Nachos Bel Grande, taco, and soft drink) without sour cream and a Mountain Dew. You wait for him to repeat your order but hear nothing. "Hello?" you ask. Finally he comes back and asks you to order again. "Number 5 without sour cream and a Mountain Dew." After listening to the employee laugh in the background with his friends, he speaks into the microphone. "That's a number 5 and a Mountain Dew. $6.25 at the second window." You reiterate your request for the omission of sour cream but hear nothing. I don't know about you, but my initial thought is sour cream.

Call it an assumption. Call it a stereotype. Whatever you call it, it's the same feeling I get after picking up my truck from the mechanic. After paying my bill, I'm instructed to wait for the mechanic to "bring my vehicle around." Watching your own vehicle drive around the corner is a weird feeling. It's like sitting in the passenger seat while a friend drives in the seat that is usually reserved for you. Something just feels off. When the truck comes to a stop, a heavy-set man steps out and I thank him before climbing in.

Before driving off, I take note of the interior because God knows I can't tell a difference to the way the engine is idling. I realize I should have totaled the three or four coins I had in the center compartment before turning my vehicle over, but there's no way of knowing now if the amount is less. Is my rear view mirror still adjusted to my height or did someone bump it out of alignment while getting in? Is my library card, physical therapy appointment card, car wash card, and hairdresser business card still in the second cup holder?

I hate that feeling of not knowing what happened while I wasn't there. I know they put that cheap piece of plastic on the seat and that flimsy piece of paper on the floor, but I still feel like they messed everything up by climbing in. I hate how the emergency brake isn't where I left it. I hate wondering if they turned my radio on to see what I listen to. On the other hand, I love wondering if they caught a glimpse of the life-sized dummy strapped in my backseat. Did they have a good laugh by themselves or did they bring all of their greasy buddies over to have a peak inside?

Stereotyping a hooded figure at a gas station store as a criminal. Assuming a punk kid will mess up your number 5. Wondering what the mechanic touched in your truck. Nothing is certain, but it's that initial thought and wonder of what could happen. What might happen. If you've read Malcolm Gladwell's Blink you might believe it's the unconscious part of the brain trying to tell us something. Whatever it is, I don't like it.

September 16: Mathematics, Science, and Wrestling

Stephen Hawking was once quoted as saying that "Galileo, perhaps more than any other single person, was responsible for the birth of modern science." He was known as the father of modern observational astronomy, the father of modern physics, the father of science, and the father of modern science. Only Father Christmas is a more celebrated parental figure in the history of the world.

Born the first of six children in Pisa, Italy to Vincenzo Galilei and Giulia Ammannati, Galileo Gary Galilei was just your average kid. He could be found playing stick ball with his friends in the neighborhood cul-de-sac every day after school until the sun descended over the horizon of the center of the universe before he was forced to finish his homework. He got in trouble just like any other boy growing up in the sixties and seventies of the sixteenth century. Often times the neighborhood stick ball tournament would be interrupted by Giulia storming out of the house demanding that Galileo clean his room; the same room she had requested to be cleaned twice the night before.

For all intents and purposes, though, Galileo was a good boy. He loved his mom and dad and never meant to disobey them. Occasionally his curiosity would distract him, but on the whole, he did what he was told. He hated school but he went because his parents worked hard to provide him and his siblings the education they were deprived of. He scored average marks in arithmetic and the sciences, but it was the high school wrestling team where he excelled. In fact, to this day, Galileo still holds the record for fastest pin time at Pisa High. If it weren't for the full scholarship he received from the University of Pisa for his accolades in the sport, he may never have turned out to be the genius we all know him for.

While enrolled in the university, Galileo juggled his time between wrestling, his studies, and mopping the halls as a part time janitor. It was during a late night mop through the mathematics building in the spring of 1582 that Galileo came across a blackboard with a challenge to the students of an upper division course. Scrolled in white chalk across the top border of the dark green surface was a simple request: "This is a problem that took my colleagues and me more than two years to prove. I'm hoping that one of you might prove it by the end of the semester." Galileo dropped his mop, picked up the lone piece of chalk, and altered the course of his life.

Galileo Gary Galilei was remembered for his countless and distinguished accomplishments. The telescope, astronomical observations, and the still standing record at Pisa High. But it was his continual support for Copernicanism that ultimately landed him in trouble. It was his public displays of support for the heliocentric view that caused two philosophers and clerics to denounce him to the Roman Inquisition. The identities of the tattletales were never released, but many speculate that one of them was Galileo's opponent in that fateful wrestling match.

Galileo was never the quiet type. He loved to brag about his accomplishments and he wasn't shy about his views on Earth not being at the center of the universe. After his denouncement, the Catholic Church announced they would drop the charges if he promised to abandon his support for the controversial theory, but his hubris wouldn't go down without a fight. Sixteen years later, Galileo published Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems. Upon publication, the Inquisition concluded he was a suspect of heresy and forced him to live the final ten years of his life under house arrest.

The irony for a man that knew so much about planets, stars, solar systems, and wrestling, was that he didn't have a clue about every day household matters; and now he was forced to live in a world of such issues. He didn't know the first thing about patching holes in walls or fixing an Internet connection. When he clogged the toilet, he had to call the neighbor to plunge it clean. For ten years, Galileo lived a life of darkness and when his body was discovered, the house he had been forced to live in was in a complete disarray.

Galileo Gary Galilei lived an incredible life until his arrest. Respected in mathematics, sciences, and barbaric athletics it is often wondered what finally did him in. Was it the embarrassment of not knowing how to unclog a toilet? Was it natural causes or did his biggest rival in the wrestling world get the last laugh by making the final pin?

September 15: Smart as a Picture of a Fox

Superman has the ability to fly. Spiderman has the ability to shoot webs from his wrists and Houdini could escape from the most complex and perilous of contraptions. My sister can do an uncanny impersonation of Snow White at the wishing well and I have the useless ability to trick people into believing I'm smarter than I truly am.

For reasons unbeknown to me people are always under the impression that I'm über intelligent. Just last night I was talking to a colleague of mine who is light years ahead of me. At some point while watching me wait tables in a Mexican restaurant she came to the conclusion that I was on the same intellectual level as she was. This, I learned last night during our conversation. If she truly believes this admission and isn't simply humoring me with kind remarks, then I am flattered. I'm flattered by the notion of a person with whom I admire as a scholar might think of me reciprocally, but am flummoxed by her reasons.

My parents have always told me how "smart and special" I was, but that's a parent's job. One of the most paramount responsibilities a mother has is to instill a belief of positivity and confidence in her offspring. Without a mother's continual reassuring, no one would have the self-esteem to run countries and make life-altering discoveries. People would lack the self-assurance to build nuclear weapons and winning baseball teams. Without the onslaught of praise and love, the world would cease to function so (no offense, Mom) being told how smart I am doesn't quite register.

I've had employers tell me they had confidence in me based on my intelligence. Friends take my opinions a little more seriously because of this impression I exude. Could it be my decent posture and the way I carry myself? Could it be that I'm not missing any teeth? Maybe it's because I have a college degree and am working in an industry that only requires you to know how to tie your shoes. Maybe it's because I don't swear. My dad always told me people that swore weren't smart enough to use clean words. By not swearing, maybe people are deceived into believing I'm a smart guy. Taking the expletive out of "I'm so f*cking tired," however, isn't exactly rocket science.

I'm not using this medium to express my lack of self-confidence, either. I'm not looking for pity nor am I fishing for compliments. I am simply revealing the genuine me. Sure, I try to read as often as I can and I have more patience during a complicated and intrinsic film plot than most, but that doesn't necessarily translate to a strong intellect. My vocabulary is egregious to the point of nausea. I stutter and stammer through every sentence that falls from my lips. I simply cannot piece together a smooth and uninterrupted thought.

This is how my brain operates. I constantly question every action I take. I wonder if there is a more efficient way to do things. My mind ties itself into knots when I'm driving the streets in a foreign city. Check that. I get lost driving around my home town.

I would take an IQ test to prove to everyone how wrong they are, but I'm afraid the results would just depress me. So I continue on my way of deceiving the world into believing that I am smarter than I truly am. While Houdini is escaping locks and chains under water, I'm trying to form an uninterrupted sentence as people marvel at my astuteness.

September 14: Balls, Paddles, and Expectations

A $30 Stiga ping pong paddle with zippered case. A personalized bowling ball with bag, shoes, see-saw, and rosin bag. An unbelievable amount of expectations.

I love ping pong. Check that. I love ping pong. I've never owned a table growing up, but I spent hours upon hours playing with my roommate during my freshman year of college. It got to the point where we went to the local K-Mart and bought the cheapest paddles we could find so we didn't have to worry about the recreational center's office being open on weekends and during late night visits. It could be four o'clock in the morning and both of us were always willing to go to the residence hall's basement and play.

He was much better than I was and he consistently beat me nine out of ten times. How he was able to maintain the energy needed to play a less qualified player is beyond me. Because of his superior skills, I only got better and better. Eventually our one-sided games became more evenly matched. We would sometimes find ourselves in rallies that were so extreme that we both would start laughing uncontrollably until he slammed one past me.

I had kept that two dollar paddle beyond college and took it with me whenever I was going anywhere with a table. It was nothing more than wood and a thin layer of nubby rubber. As time went by, the rubber became more and more weathered and fragile until it shattered off the wood after an accidental drop. I was forced to go out and get a new paddle so I went extreme and bought the best one available at Big-5 Sporting Goods. I didn't want the more expensive one to weather like my old one so I purchased a nice case to keep it in when it wasn't in use.

During my Junior year of college, I moved on to bowling. Instead of playing ping pong at four in the morning, I was at the 24-hour bowling alley throwing strikes. Just like my last recreational obsession, I went out and collected my own equipment. People always laugh when I take out my own bowling shoes, but at three dollars per rental, they have more than paid for themselves. With a specially designed core, my ball has the hook I need that house balls don't possess. I still used the house's equipment to pick up spares, but having my own ball has had a huge impact on my game.

I don't mean to brag, but I'm probably better than the average player in both sports. I'm only better because I played both so much, but when I go to a friend's house for a casual ping pong tournament I still have my own equipment. When a group wants to go bowling, I bring my ball. When I show up in both scenarios with a possession that not many people have, I am automatically the butt of jokes in addition to having the expectations to perform resting on my shoulders. People expect me to crush them.

The problem with having these expectations placed on me is that I'm not still active in either sport. I haven't used my ball for a few years and I'm sure it would take a while to get back into the swing of things. Trust me when I say it's beyond embarrassing to throw a gutter after pulling out a ball with my initials on it. I can get back into ping pong a little easier, but I don't like being expected to skunk my opponent right away.

A person doesn't get made fun of for having his own skis or tennis racket. Is it different for ping pong and bowling because few people take the sports seriously? I suppose a person with his own pool cue would experience the same reaction as me in a pool hall. He would be expected to sink every shot. I just think it's interesting that different sports have different rules for owning your own equipment.

September 13: Football's Back? Damn.

Yesterday I was stuck at work while my beloved Padres were in the middle of a crucial game with the despicable San Francisco Giants. It was the fourth game of a four-game series and the Padres were trying desperately to stay on top of the National League West. I couldn't care less about anything other than baseball so I was making routine visits to the bar for score updates. The game wasn't on TV which meant I was forced to rely on the sports ticker on the bottom of the screen.

Yesterday was Sunday. Yesterday was opening day for the National Football League. Yesterday marked the end of my quick score updates. For those of you that don't know, the ticker is alphabetized by sport; with the exception of Major League Baseball. The rolling scores go from AL (American League Baseball) to NCAAF (College Football) to NFL (National Football League) to NL (National League Baseball). Why the AL and the NL aren't together, I have no idea. I want to say as recent as last year it was done that way, but now it's not.

Throughout the summer, I've had the luxury of being able to avoid management just long enough to get a score update from the NL category before having to return to work. If I got to the TV too late, the score would repeat in a few short minutes. Now that this football sport is in full swing, I have to wait for the scores of college football (with accompanied player and team highlights) and professional football (with accompanied player and team highlights). If I get to the TV too late now, there's no way I can get away with just hanging out for the scores to start over.

When I had cable, I was always aggravated by the amount of attention SportsCenter gave to football. I always felt like they covered the sport ad nauseam and when I would tune into ESPN while lying in bed, I wanted to see what happened in the world of baseball too. Baseball has 162 games in a season and football only has 16 so I can understand a football fan's point that baseball might get more coverage. September, however, is one of the most important months in the sport and football just gets in the way of that for me.

People are always a bit shocked when they find out that I don't really have much of an interest in football. Upon meeting me, it usually takes approximately five minutes to learn of my obsession with MLB, but when hearing about my apathy toward the San Diego Chargers and football in general, people are usually taken back. Rarely will you find a man with a passion so strong in one sport and hardly any interest in any other sport. I'm that man.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm a bandwagon Charger fan. I get pumped when they make the playoffs. I try to rearrange my schedule to watch those games. The other regular-season 16? I don't really care. The first game I sat down and watched last year was the Chargers first round loss to the New York Jets. I just can't get into football. I'm so emotionally attached to the Padres that putting faith in another team that I have no control over would literally kill me. Also, I think football is nothing more than a one-quarter sport. The fourth quarter is where all the action is. You can score four touchdowns in the first and the rest of the game is a wash. If it's a close game with minutes left in the game, then (and only then) is the game exciting.

The Padres are fighting to stay alive in September and I have to wait forever just to get an update because football is back. SportsCenter won't cover anything but Big 10 or 12 or whatever it's called and the NFL. How's a guy supposed to look busy when he has to stand around a TV for an hour just to get a few scores? Everyone is talking about fantasy football and "pick-em" games. What about me? What about baseball? Have you all forgotten that it's America's favorite pastime?

September 12: Dinner with the Love Guru

Before video iPods and iPads there was the portable DVD player. A simple disc drive with a small screen attached. The portable DVD player was (and still is) the perfect companion for a long trip. Being able to take your movies with you on a flight or a road trip can really make the time go by faster. Parents use the devices to entertain their kids on such trips and even in restaurants so the adults can talk without worrying about what the kids are up to.

All of this is fine and dandy and I don't have a problem with it. Tonight, however, I saw an adult couple sitting at the bar with a movie playing. Now, I've seen people in restaurants with DVD players before so it's not that unusual, but those people are usually sitting by themselves. They normally look like the type of person that doesn't have a single friend in the world. Once I get past my initial reaction to laugh at these people, I feel bad for them. I feel bad that everyone around them (including the waitstaff) is laughing and pointing. These patron movie watchers have to be aware that they are the talk of the dining room. They have to be a bit self conscious, right? I mean, they are the only ones A) sitting by themselves and B) with a DVD player on the table.

The couple I saw tonight didn't match the norm. He was all tattooed up and she had a hip air about her. They looked perfect for each other. But if you were to take the player away and ask which couple at the bar it belonged to, I would never have guessed them. What really confused me, though, was the movie they were watching. It would be one thing if one of them was showing the other a clip of a project he/she was working on. I don't know. Maybe one of them worked in the film industry and wanted to share the progress he/she was making on a recent project. They haven't seen each other for a while and this was on the only opportunity they had to update the other. Instead, they were both watch The Love Guru.

I love Mike Myers. I think he's hilarious and I love every SNL skit and movie he's done; with The Love Guru being the exception. That movie is absolute garbage. I've said before that the only redeeming quality it has is that is contains one of my favorite celebrity cameo moments. Other than that, there isn't anything funny about it. To sit in a busy bar and watch a five-inch screen of The Love Guru makes you look like a complete fool.

Over the past two weeks, I've been hosting instead of waiting tables. Often times when I ask a guest how many people are in their party, I will ask if they need any kid's menus. Sometimes a grown woman will want one with a pack of crayons. I always oblige her, but I like to joke that the conversation must really be lacking if she needs to color to stay entertained. How healthy is the relationship of two people that would rather watch The Love Guru in public than to talk with one another?

You can pretty much put movies on anything nowadays. We always carry our phones with us so being able to store a movie on them for our next trip can be very convenient. With the portable DVD player, however, it's one more piece of equipment that we have to lug around. One more thing we have to worry about when we use the restroom or order messy food. If you don't have any friends and you still want to dine out, they can keep us occupied and not feeling so lonely. You're sending a whole different message to the people you're sitting around when you bring one into a restaurant with your significant other. At least play a respectable movie.

September 11: Immortal Sid

It's no secret how much I love Coast to Coast AM. I've already written entire posts about the late night radio show and posts about talk radio in general where the program ends up taking over. Anytime I find myself involved in a conversation about paranormal phenomena, I try to recruit new listeners. Halfway through my explanation of the program, however, I always find myself bored with my description. I can never come up with solid reasons on the spot for listening to the show. On last night's program, a caller made my job a lot easier.

I had just marked my spot in the book I'm reading, set it on the bedside table, and turned the radio on. George Noory, the host of the program, was taking calls from listeners in a segment known as "Open lines." This is the part of the show when people normally call with tales of ghost and UFO sightings. A few years ago, whenever Noory opened the lines for callers, I would always change the channel. Some of the callers were a little too good at describing the shadow people that lurked in dark corners of their houses.

The first caller last night wasn't calling about ghosts or shadow people. He wasn't calling about September 11 conspiracy theories either. He simply wanted to tell Noory that he was an immortal and that he really enjoyed the show. This, of course, sparked Noory's interest and the caller became the receiver of an onslaught of questions. George Noory isn't the first host of the program, but he does such a great job interviewing lunatics. He never asks demeaning questions or makes his guests feel as dumb as they sound. He always sounds legitimately interested in what the caller has to say even if he claims to be over 500-years-old.

What amazed me about this caller was that his answers actually made sense. "Sid from Canada" said that he has had to move around a lot because it would raise suspicions if he were to stay in one city for too long. He didn't know exactly how old he was but it was somewhere in the vicinity of 500. He's had a wide variety of jobs and he didn't know if his parents were immortals or not. When asked what he found interesting, he replied with "Wars and art." He liked how the wars have evolved through the years.

None of these facts were given in jest. Sid was completely serious and so was Noory with his questioning. How can you not find this caller fascinating? Coast to Coast AM is filled to the brim with callers just like immortal Sid. You never know what you're going to get when tuning in which is why you should make it a habit to listen every night. I'm begging you to please check out this program. Here is a link for you to find the station in your area:

http://www.coasttocoastam.com/stations

September 10: September Baseball

I've always hated the month of September. When I was younger, it marked the beginning of the school year. I know most schools start at the end of August, but I'm pretty sure my first day of first or second grade started in September so as far as I'm concerned, September means the end of summer. It meant the loss of days spent on Slip 'n Slides and the beginning of homework. September was synonymous with unbearably hot recesses and lunches and sweaty backs after walks home from the bus stop. After a ten game slide and six outs away from losing sole possession of first place, I hate September for a whole new reason.

The Padres are breaking my heart. All year I told myself that it was just a fluke that they were in first. I told myself it would never last. They weren't supposed to be any good, let alone this good. Fighting for the best record in the National League? That wasn't them. I would have been thrilled with a .500 record, but at the end of August they were a whopping 27 games over. After taking two of three games from the second place Giants, I started to believe. It wasn't about whether or not they would be playing in October. It was, "how deep could they go?"

They were six and a half games up on those fading Giants. The Rockies were done. The Padres, however, refuse to score runs now and both teams are back. If the Giants hold on to this lead, they will be tied for first. The Rockies have won their eighth in a row and are breathing down the necks of both the Giants and Padres with just two and a half games back in the standings. This is September baseball. I hate it.

They call it scoreboard watching. Every game matters. I'm not just talking Padres games. I'm not just talking Giants and Rockies games. I've got my eye on every single National League game at all times. The Florida Marlins are nine games out of the Wild Card race but I'm still rooting for the Washington Nationals. If I can't have the NL West title, I need every team going for the Wild Card to choke.

I'm convinced every action I make is directly related to the Padres' success. Do I keep the Padres jersey koozie on the gear shift while I drive or just while I'm parked? Will stepping on the cracks of the sidewalk leading into work actually matter? Should I eat every breakfast out of my Padres hat bowl or none of them? This is how September baseball affects my daily life and it's driving me crazy.

There is still a month of baseball. Anything, and I mean anything, can happen. Do I want the Padres to struggle to keep up for the next two weeks and then go on a tear to make the playoffs and cruise through the playoffs? Or do I want the Padres to go on a tear now, clinch a playoff berth and fizzle in the postseason? Obviously the former, but for crying out loud do I hate September. Watching a team that's still in it at this point in the season is better than watching a last place club, but isn't any picnic being in the situation either. I hate September.

September 9: Recommendations to Hate

I'm no expert, but I love movies. I read Entertainment Weekly more for the articles on upcoming films than the ones on TV shows, music, and books. I visit websites like Ain't It Cool for the same reason. I love movie trailers, rumors, and trivia so I guess you could call me a bit of a "buff." It's for this reason that my parents will periodically ask me for recommendations for their Netflix queue.

The problem with this theory of theirs is that we have complete opposite tastes in movies. I loved (500) Days of Summer. They hated it. I was stoked to find that Zombieland was available for instant streaming and I loved every minute of it. They gave up thirteen minutes in and later told me that they spent the time exchanging looks and wondering what I could possibly like about it.

This is how every recommendation goes. I'll go on a movie run and tell them how much I loved Inception. I'll tell them how tears welled up in my eyes three different times for Toy Story 3. They like hearing what movies I like. They just don't like the movies. Yet, they continue to ask me what movies they should add to their queue.

They like movies like The Ice Princess and 27 Dresses. I like Inglourious Basterds and District 9. I think the last movie that we both agreed on was in 1994 and it was called Forrest Gump. I'm obviously exaggerating here, but we rarely strongly agree on a film.

It shouldn't bother me when they don't like my recommendations, but it does. I feel responsible for wasting their time. They received Mr. Brooks today in the mail and I just have to wait for them to tell me how much they hated it.

September 8: Electrotherapy with Boredom and Curiosity

The Empi 300 PV is a state of the art electrotherapy system for home use. Its two lead wires connect to electrodes that are placed on the targeted muscle and supplies an electrical current to stimulate muscle contraction. With the Empi 300 PV, I have been instructed to use the electric current to contract the recently repaired tendon in my fifth phalange on my left hand.

When the physical therapist showed me how to use my new toy, she dialed the intensity control to a modest 4.0. Upon pressing the start button, my fingers twitched, tingled, and curled into my palm without my help. At a setting of 4.0 I was unable to extend my fingers. They were locked into a fist for the five second interval that the therapist had assigned. I was astonished at the strength of these one inch, sticky circles on my arm. "How high do the settings go?" I asked. 14.0 was the answer.

Boredom will lead a child to light drops of oil on fire in his father's garage. Curiosity will cause teenagers to experience with sex and drugs. Combining the two can have fatal and/or comedic results.

As Mick Jagger bounced on a stage singing "Jumping Jack Flash" in Martin Scorsese's Shine a Light, I sat shirtless in my chair at the dining room table. In front of me, the Empi 300 PV sat quietly with its wires and electrodes waiting for further instruction. My chin barely reached my right shoulder as I massaged my naked bicep with my left hand. I slowly curled my right arm across my body and studied the muscle movements. I watched them flex and felt the specific locations that caused the arm's movement.

Satisfied with my observations, I peeled the first electrode from the clear plastic covering and carefully placed it on the lower half of my relaxed bicep. I then placed the second electrode on the upper portion of the muscle just below the shoulder. With my right arm hanging at my side, I followed the two lead wires from the bicep to the output jack of the system's control box.

My heart raced when the front display panel on the gray box lit up upon turning the power on. The intensity controls were still set at 4.0 from my earlier session. I pressed the up arrow once and watched the digit to the right of the decimal change to 5. Twenty more clicks and I was at maximum strength. If 4.0 made a fist, surely 14.0 would be enough to lift an arm.

My racing heart was now accompanied by a deep rhythmic beat from somewhere behind my sternum. The palms of my hands were damp and I didn't notice the old footage of the Rolling Stones and their early interviews. With all of my focus and concentration on the wires taped to my arm, I got as close to the bicep as I could; I wanted to see every minute, flexing movement. My eyes were on my arm, my left fingers were wrapped around the machine, and my thumb was softly grazing the start button; and then it pressed down.

The deep pounding I heard in my chest before my experiment was nothing compared to the slapping I felt immediately after depressing the button. In a matter of less than a second, my entire arm went numb before rocketing across my chess where my relaxed fingers met my unsuspecting face and I was nearly thrown out of the chair from shock.

Boredom is the state of feeling weary from a lack of interest in one's current activity. Curiosity is a strong desire to know or learn something. A bag of frozen vegetables held to the left side of my face is the result of combining the two. The Empi 300 PV has been dialed down to its recommended 4.0 where it will stay for the duration of my at-home treatment to the tendon in the fifth phalange of my left hand.

September 7: Wikipedia

"Wikipedia is the best thing ever. Anyone in the world can write anything they want about any subject. So you know you are getting the best possible information."

Like Michael Scott of The Office, I love Wikipedia. I'm pretty sure the content is monitored a little more closely than the quote might suggest so I'm not too concerned with the origins of the information. The website has been a huge part of this "365 Days" project of mine. I've learned more about cereal mascots, trail mix ingredients, and Famous Amos from Wikipedia than I could have ever imagined. When I get an unusual idea for a post, I go straight to my browser's bookmarks and navigate my cursor to the online encyclopedia. Sometimes I'll Google an idea and I will still be sent directly to Wikipedia.

As great as the site is for looking up random facts about the origins of the National Anthem or the story behind Honest Abe, there are so many other features that few people know about. Every day, there is a featured article on a random subject (Did you know Hastings Ismay was the first Secretary General of NATO?), a daily photo with accompanying facts (Today's is a picture of the seaside daisy), and an "On This Day" section. I couldn't care less about most of this featured information, but I still love that it's there in the event that extreme boredom sets in.

Wikipedia has everything. Today I was considering writing about the crazy colors that Crayola comes up with for their crayons. I wasn't surprised at all to find that the site had a list of every color released by the coloring company since it was founded in 1885. Michael Scott was correct in saying that anyone in the world can write on a subject, but I know there is some sort of regulation and checking. I just don't know what that process is. If only there were a website that would have that kind of information...