October 31: Only 55 Days Left

Halloween is a day for little kids to flaunt their dress-up skills. It's a day for eating candy, walking around the neighborhood, and dodging cars. It's a day for girls to wear scandalous outfits without consequence and for guys to dress as girls without consequence. All Hallows Eve also happens to kick start the holiday season.

It's a pretty unoriginal thought, but it bothers me nonetheless. It seems as though stores bring out their Christmas decorations a little earlier each year and it's beginning to get a bit ridiculous. In fact, I was in a Home Depot last week and they already had their miniature village displayed throughout the cotton snow. Last week! A week before Halloween.

I understand that it's a dog-eat-dog world and business owners don't care about Christmas as a family holiday. Money talks and that's all they care about. How can I make a buck? How can I get people to buy their decorations from me and not my competitor?

In eight weeks, Santa will be sliding down chimneys and tripping over train sets circling trees. Until then, you can expect every Sunday ad featuring kids in pajamas holding new toys. You can expect the mid-term election propaganda to be replaced with "This Weekend Only" commercials and door-busting prices. Stores will feature glittery snowflakes and synthetic Douglas Firs.

And then Thanksgiving.

Once Turkey Day passes, then the yuletide sh*t will really hit the fan. Those holiday commercials will now be placed around holiday made-for-TV specials. Claymation specials about flying reindeer and magical snowmen will dominate the airwaves. Radios will play nonstop carols and the news will be littered with stories about homeless victims of the recession.

Eight weeks. Are you ready? Why are you still sorting your trick-or-treat candy? Shouldn't you be hanging mistletoe and stockings? Do you have your 55-day advent calendar set up? You better get started.

October 30: $#*! My Dad Says

$#*! My Dad Says is a television series based off of a Twitter account. Apparently, the creator and author of the account was a 29-year-old man that lived with his 74-year-old father and he simply posted the various things his dad said on a daily basis. How they created a successful show from a 140-character count posting is beyond me and I've never seen it so I can't actually comment on the show itself.

While sitting through one of the countless promotions CBS ran for the sitcom during Surivor, I began thinking about how I could relate to the premise of the show. I don't know if either of your parents are like this, but my dad had a special saying for every day objects that he used with frequency in the days of my youth. Because he used the terms with such consistency, I grew to assume that these were the proper names. It wasn't until I got to junior high, though, that I began to learn the truth behind these "father-isms."

Thanks to my dad's quotes and my mother's refusal to teach me what the quotes actually meant, I went to junior high school calling my Chapstick "lip jizz" and my sandals "Jap flaps." I didn't know what either meant beyond what their connection to the product was. A car was a car and a tree was a tree. The balm that I applied to my lips was simply lip jizz. The thin slice of material that slapped the bottom of my bare foot was a Jap-flap.

I suppose in a way, it makes sense that my dad would use these terms to label these items, but how can you send your small, innocent child to school with cherry-flavored lip jizz in his pocket? How can you expect your child not to get in trouble with the Asian community when he's casually referring to his cheap, and poorly assembled flip-flops as a product of the Japs?

They call it junior high humor. Fart jokes and sexual innuendo-laced sentences. When a little boy arrives claiming to be applying jizz to his lips, he will eventually get ridiculed for it and so it didn't take me very long to start using a different term. The same thing happened when referring to my sandals.

Looking back on those terms, it's easy to laugh and brush them off. I'm pretty confident my dad didn't do any permanent damage to my psyche so I'm not upset by it. He still uses his convoluted vocabulary with regularity as though his words were real definitions to every day objects. It makes me wonder if the choices I make when referring to items will be hard-wired into the vocabulary of my children. After all, it's just $#*! my dad said.

October 29: February 6

I don't know anything about astrology. I don't know what sign works best with mine. I know that I should have sex with one, but my marriage would be more successful if I married another; I don't know which ones to do those things with though. I don't know what my sign says about me and I don't know if I fit the profile. I follow a different set of principles: I look at the celebrities I share my birthday with and form my opinions of myself off those people. Today, I will share those discoveries with you.

Ugo Foscolo (1778) - Foscolo was an Italian writer and poet. One might argue that I'm somewhat of a writer myself. After all, today is my 302nd post of 2010. On top of that, I love spaghetti and lasagna. This makes sense!

Mary Rudge (1842) and Wilhelm Cohn (1859) - This is starting to get a bit creepy. Rudge was English and I speak English! I even took an advanced placement English class in high school. Cohn was German and guess what my main ethnicity is. German! My grandfather translated it for the Americans in World War Two! Rudge and Cohn also happen to be chess masters. I suck at the game, but I own a board.

George Herman Ruth (1895) - "Babe" Ruth was an American baseball player and is arguably the best player in the game's history. I am obsessed with the sport. I love (attempting) playing it, watching it, and talking about it. I recently quit my job so I could watch the team I root for in the playoffs; and they didn't even make it!

Ronald Reagan (1911) - The Great Communicator and 40th President of the United States. Reagan was also a popular actor. I was an active member in my high school's drama club and I won "Most Likely to Win an Oscar" as my senior standout. I don't get too involved with politics, but my major in college happened to be Communications. Weird, huh?

Zsa Zsa Gabor (1917) - I just like saying her name. Zsa Zsa.

Tom Brokaw (1940) - Brokaw has a great voice. I have a great voice! People tell me all the time that I have a face for radio and that could only mean that I have a voice for radio too, right? I love pretending I'm the voice over for movie trailers and commercials.

Bob Marley (1945) - Pot-smoking Jamaican and Rastafari lover? Not me, but it's still cool to say I share a birthday with the lead singer of the Wailers.

Axl Rose (1962) - The lead singer of Guns N' Roses wants to be taken down to the paradise city where the grass is green and the girls are pretty. I have to admit. It sounds kind of nice. Maybe I would want to go there.

There you have it. Based on the aforementioned names of celebrity I was able to learn a lot about myself. Everything about my life makes sense now. I can die without any questions. With that being said, here are a few famouse people that have died on the day I was born:

St. Photius I the Great (891)
Prince Alfred of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha (1899)
Emilio Aguinaldo (1964)

October 28: Opening Theme

Growing up, I never really had any inclinations to purchase movies when they made it to video cassette. I had the Karate Kid series, Back to the Future II, Jurassic Park, ET, and the Naked Gun series, but that was it. I never counted down the days until a movie was released to the public until DVDs came around.

Maybe it was because of my age and my overall lack of interest in the medium, but it seems to me that DVD brought a new wave of interest to consumers in owning major motion pictures. I don't remember my friends coming to school on Wednesdays with the news that they had just purchased Teen Wolf on video. I could be wrong, but I don't remember television series being popular on tape cassette either. With DVDs, it was suddenly popular to own favorite series from yesteryear and today.

I have a pretty large accumulation of DVDs, but more than my complete collection of Pixar films, my most prized discs are those of my Seinfeld set. I had to wait a few years in between the release of the first season and the ninth, but I was counting down the days the entire time. I would wake up early on those Tuesdays, make my way down to Best Buy and pick myself up the latest season before starting my day. I was always so excited about my new purchase, that the discs never made it home without being unwrapped even though I couldn't do anything with them.

It was with Seinfeld that I discovered the joys of TV on DVD. I could watch any episode I wanted at any time. I could easily watch the fourth episode of the fifth season and follow it with the eleventh episode of the eighth season. I didn't have to fast forward through commercials or episodes I didn't want to see. It was fantastic!

Because of this new "discovery," I started purchasing other TV shows on the format. Curb Your Enthusiasm, The Office, Family Guy, etc. Unfortunately, however, it didn't take long before I discovered the one disadvantage of watching my favorite shows on DVD. The reason I didn't realize the flaw with Seinfeld is because Seinfeld doesn't have a full-length song as its theme and opening to each individual episode. It's simply a quick bass diddy to take the audience from the street up to Jerry's apartment. With most other shows, however, the audience has to sit through the theme each week before their show starts. Because the theme is a part of each episode, it's included with each episode on the DVDs. If the viewer wants to watch multiple episodes of a series, he or she now has to hear the same song over and over again.

You may not think it would be that big of a deal, but having to fast-forward through a thirty second to a minute long song every thirty minutes can get pretty annoying. You can't put a disc on and do something else without having that song lodge itself into your head. Because Seinfeld doesn't have a long, drawn out theme, this is one more reason it is the best show in the history of television.

October 27: Ann's Profile

Hi! I've never done anything like this before so forgive me if I ramble. I'm just a young farmer girl looking for a mate. I've been living with my brother Andy for as long as I can remember and I'm ready to branch out.

I love slouching around and relaxing. I love playing with little girls and attending tea parties with my best friends, Teddy Ruxpin and the Velveteen Rabbit. I'm not like other girls, either. I don't have to get dressed up to have a good time. I love my breezy, blue polka dot dress and my cute little white apron. When I venture outside to the tire swing under the old oak tree, my bonnet keeps my red hair in its place. I just love my outfits.

I'm very traditional. Something I'm very passionate about is the anti-vaccination movement. I lost a dear friend of mine to a vaccination to smallpox in the 1920s and I never forgave those doctors. I strongly believe that if a person is ill, they should die a slow and painful death. It's just not right to get science involved.

I'm looking for a man that I can stare at and not get bored with. I need a man with a soft touch that doesn't mind a girl with buttons for eyes. If you like eating stones and pretending they're biscuits, we'll be perfect for each other. Also, Teddy and Velveteen have to approve.

If you think you and I would be a good match, I would love to hear from you. By the way, I don't respond to emails, letters, phone calls, or text messages. I can't wait to hear from you!

October 26: Hollywood Ideas

Throughout the years, I've had some crazy ideas and done some weird things. I've never tried to make any money by the things I've done or come up with, but after watching these ideas come to fruition in Hollywood, I'm starting to think differently. Granted, most of the examples I'm about to list are sad and pathetic attempts at giving myself more credit than I deserve, but it's still fun to write about nonetheless.

I used to work at a restaurant that had the most ideal kitchen floors for my personality. I was able to run and slide on the heals of my non-slip shoes from one end to the other and it was fantastic. I can't remember how I discovered it, but I did it so often and with such regularity that I actually considered getting myself a pair of Heelys shoes so I could slide around on sidewalks and streets on days I didn't work. I would not only slide on my heals at work, but when the conditions were right, I would act as though I was ice skating and playing Center for the Los Angeles Kings.

If you'll remember the trailer for Jim Carrey's Fun With Dick and Jane he does the very same thing on a sidewalk in the rain. I don't know if he's running from something or someone or just goofing off, but he's definitely sliding and throwing his arms way out to the side with each stride. This happened after I had been skating through the kitchen for years.

That isn't the most extreme example, but to list the most isn't how you're supposed to do things when writing a blog; trust me. A few years ago, I came up with a "Forrest Gump approach to life." You see, in the film, Forrest says, "Okay" to pretty much everything that comes across his path. Football, Army, running, shrimp business, etc. Anytime an opportunity arises, he simply goes with it. Because of this attitude, he lived a pretty darn good life. That was going to be my approach; until that is, until I saw the trailer for another Jim Carrey movie. Yes Man.

My senior year of college, all of the Resident Advisors had some sort of meeting in one central location. While we were waiting for the meeting to get underway, I decided it would be funny to pull my hands up to my chest, stick my rear out and my head up. I would make two fists with the exception of my index and middle fingers. I was a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I took bouncing steps and roared with all of my might. I don't know if people were laughing at me or with me, but they were laughing. It was great. It was great, however, until an actor by the name of Jim Carrey did the same exact motion in A Series of Unfortunate Events.

I hope you're still reading because the last example is by far the best. When I was a senior in high school, I came up with a hilarious SNL-type sketch that would make fun of the current Snickers ad: "Not Going Anywhere for a While? Grab a Snickers!" You see, a black man would be driving a car and he would get pulled over by a white cop. The driver would then ask why he was pulled over and point out that he wasn't doing anything wrong, but the cop wouldn't have it. A voice over would then ask, "Not going anywhere for a while? Grab a Sni**ers."

At the time, I thought the joke would be too racy and insulting to ever make it to TV, but a few years later, MAD TV had a sketch exactly like it. White cop. Black driver. Cop accuses the driver of speeding, but the driver was at a stop light. Cop then suggests a broken tail light only to find out it's a new car. Cue the voice over.

Some of the examples above are dumb, but how can you argue with the Snickers? I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw that sketch! Maybe it's one of those things where you drive by a street light late at night and it goes off as soon as you drive beneath it; and it does this every night for weeks. You really believe something is special about you but it's probably something about the way your headlights are aimed and the speed your car hits a dip in the road to make the light bounce just right. It's still fun to imagine your ideas are crazy enough to work in Hollywood.

October 25: iTunes Dribble

I don't know why, but iTunes isn't very consistent. The idea is that a consumer can load his or her music to the computer and iTunes will organize it automatically. It will label each track with the appropriate title, artist, album, genre, and album artwork. Unfortunately, there are quite a few inconsistencies with this feature. Because of it, my parents have assigned the project of correctly organizing their music to me.

When my plane touched down in San Diego a month ago, they had just over 2,000 tracks that needed my expertise. These were songs from their personal CD collection as well as a few titles that my sister and I had left at the house since leaving for college. For the most part, iTunes correctly labeled the tracks and albums, but it was way off with the artwork. I had to then Google-search all of the albums that it got incorrectly and then copy and paste each image on to each track. For the albums I couldn't find, I had to take the sleeve out of the jewel box and scan it into the computer.

Once the album artwork was correct, I went through and made the genres match. Then, I made the minor adjustments that only an obsessive compulsive iTunes organizer would think to make. For example, on Josh Groban's eponymous album, he has a duet with Charlotte Church. iTunes labels that particular track's artist as "Josh Groban Feat. Charlotte Church." The problem with this thinking is that when you're browsing artists on your iPod, you'll see "Josh Groban" and then "Josh Groban Feat. Charlotte Church." If you select "Josh Groban" and listen to all of the tracks, you won't hear his duet. If you select the other, you'll only hear one song. This bothers me and I fixed all of the tracks with this issue.

I have finally cleaned up the 2,000 plus songs, but now I have a completely different project. As stated in an earlier post, my parents recently purchased a USB turntable to convert all of their vinyl records to mp3s so they could add them to their iPod library. The idea seems simple enough, but I have to sit at the computer throughout each album so I can click the "Next Track" button and separate the recordings. Once the album is recorded, flipped to the other side and recorded, I have to manually insert all of the information. Then I have to Google-search the album art and apply it as well. Again, because I'm so anal retentive about getting everything right, I manually insert the start time and stop time of each track to shave off the dead space around the song. Finally, the album is complete.

I have now been sitting at this computer for over six hours and I've had iTunes open the entire time. My parents' library is finally starting to shape up and look very professional, but I'm pretty sick of sitting here. Because it was nine o'clock when I started writing my daily blog and I had already been sitting here for four hours, you my devout reader, have the pleasure of reading this dribble. Good night!

October 24: Sunday Entertainment

The grounds are nicely landscaped with agapanthus and birds of paradise and the always mowed-lawn is bordered by a neatly trimmed hedge. A heavy wooden door leads the way into the building's foyer with a front desk occupied by a smiling, yet bored attendant. Beyond the desk, the sitting room contains walkers, wheelchairs, and sleeping residents. Upstairs, the long, well-lit and quiet hallway leads to a padlocked door that few know the combination to. The door opens to an entryway with a small table displaying a photograph of a different person each week; in memoriam. Welcome to La Vida Real Memory Care.

Before the door has a chance to latch behind you, the thick, musty stench of death climbs into your hair and latches itself to your clothing. Walking around the wall that separates the premises from the exit, the sound of the television is loud and disruptive to ears that work properly. There are three rows of approximately ten chairs facing the TBS movie of the week or the San Diego Charger game; twenty of which are consistently occupied with more sleeping and dazed-looking elders.

My parents go through this routine every Sunday to visit my grandmother. She's been residing here since the passing of my grandfather a year and a half ago but it's a new experience for her every time. They always sit in the same area with her and her new best friend, Norma. They always arrive at about the same time and talk about the same things.

Occasionally Norma and my grandmother can't talk too long because they have to get back to searching for their deceased husbands. Sometimes my grandma and grandpa are going to a show, but she can't find him or the tickets. According to the caretakers, Norma's husband is always at the driving range with the car. It doesn't matter if it's sunny out or if it's raining; he's golfing.

If you've never been to an Alzheimer's home, you should put it on your bucket list and then move it to the top. It's a great experience. Sure, the facilities are sad, depressing, and smell awful, but where else can you have a conversation with your grandmother and be interrupted by a woman pushing a walker who can't hear? She can't remember if she had lunch and she can't remember if she's hungry. If you tell her that she probably ate with everyone else two hours ago, she'll walk away and come and ask you again in five minutes. "Have you guys had lunch yet?"

I can visit with my grandmother for fifteen minutes and she'll ask if I have a girlfriend twenty times. That's pretty annoying, but it's kind of fun when you realize you can tell her anything and it won't matter. "Yes, Grandma. I've been seeing a girl, but I don't think things are going to work out. I'm leaving her." This, of course, leads to the discussion of ethical ways of breaking a woman's heart.

That's what's so great about visiting people that can't remember anything. It's like a real life improvisation practice. Making the slightest change to an answer can drastically alter the direction of the conversation. How long can you go without breaking character?

Don't get me wrong. I can't imagine losing my mind and not knowing what was going on. I would hate living with a bunch of old people that could die at any moment. I wouldn't want to be locked into a building, but I think my grandmother is happy. She doesn't know enough to be miserable. You have to have a sense of humor about it and not let it get to you which is why Sundays are so entertaining.

October 23: Hidden Treasures

People are rarely willing to reveal their most embarrassing moments of growing up. Why would we want to relive and recreate the times we wish never happened in the first place? A girl falls face first in the mud in front of her crush. A boy gets kicked in the crotch by a bully at school. These are the moments that shape who we are, but they are not the moments we want to experience again and again. It is for this very reason that I have no qualms about sharing the following story.

I must have been twelve-years-old. He must have been thirteen. It was a Friday night and I had been looking forward to it since I received my parents' permission the previous week to have a friend stay over. We would explore the brushes and creeks of the canyon behind my house. We would get Little Caesar's pizza for dinner and play Mario until my mom came in and told us to go to bed. The next day, we would eat waffles for breakfast and play HORSE until it was time to say goodbye. It was sure to be a fantastic visit.

Everything played out just as planned. We did some exploring. We had some pizza. We plopped ourselves down in front of the television set and I unwound two controllers, blew out the Mario All Stars cartridge, and powered up the Super Nintendo system. We worked together as we tried to unlock new levels of Mario 2 before my mom came in and told us to start taking showers. I would go first and he would keep playing and then we would switch.

When you have a friend stay the night, it's important to cover his or her tracks throughout the stay. Your parents may have rules that the visitor might not know about and as a resident of the premises, it is your responsibility to pick up after the guest. These little "chores" might include removing a wet towel from the hamper and hanging it on a designated rack or turning any lights off that aren't being used. When my friend returned from his shower, I went to the bathroom to tidy up.

For the most part, my friend did a nice job cleaning up after himself. He remembered to hang his towel up and the lights were all turned off. He did, however, forget to hang the bath rug over the edge of the tub, but it was a forgivable offense seeing as how I took my shower first and he didn't know any better. What wasn't forgivable, though, was what I found beneath the bath rug.

When I bent down to grab the rug, I expected to see white tile, but to my absolute horror, my eyes fell on two three-inch brown, soft and lumpy logs. Frozen in disbelief, I stared at the fecal matter while the sounds of a tiny plumber jumping over pipes and stomping on turtle shells played somewhere in the distance. A plumber. Pipes. How ironic! I couldn't believe what I was looking at. How did this happen? How could a thirteen-year-old person miss a toilet by that much and then cover it up with a rug?

After scratching my head in confusion for what seemed to be hours, I told my mom what I had discovered and she did the dirty work for me. Of course by dirty work, I don't mean the clean-up. She's the one that approached my "friend" on the subject. She's the one that told my "friend" to stop playing Mario and to get into the bathroom. She's the one that told my "friend" to get down on his hands and knees and scrub my bathroom floor with disinfectant.

Because of the events of the evening, I don't remember much else about the visit. I can't remember how much longer we played video games or how late we stayed up. I can't remember what we had for breakfast or if we even played HORSE the next day. I just know he was never invited back to my house.

I haven't been keeping tabs on him, but if I were I betting man, I think it would be safe to say that was his most embarrassing moment. Who knows, though. A kid dumb enough to cover his own excrement with someone else's bath rug is bound to have a few moments of shame. I don't think he went around sharing the memory with anyone else, but I figured this was the best venue for me to.

October 22: The Toto SanaGloss

The Toto SanaGloss has it all: Prestige, style, and comfort. And with the industry's only integrated glaze, its ceramic possesses a super-smooth, ionized barrier which repels particulates that tend to cling and build on more conventional surfaces. Bacteria, debris, and mold don't stand a chance on the naturally clean exterior and interior. Less water is used, fewer harmful sanitizing chemicals are needed, and the environment can breathe a sigh of relief with every flush.

When young adults make plans to visit parents, they look forward to the home-cooked meals and the freshly laundered bedsheets. Some bring hampers of dirty laundry while others bring grocery lists. Girls look forward to being with daddies and boys look forward to a warm motherly hug. I look forward to sitting on the Toto SanaGloss.

Few people are as particular about their toilets as I am; and I'm not kidding. I do a lot of sitting on the porcelain throne and if it isn't comfortable, I can get cranky. I'm only twenty-seven-years-old, but I've done enough research in the field to know what's important. Today, I've done you the favor of listing those priorities. Keep in mind that these are my preferences, but I'm confident the average person can appreciate them as well. You're welcome.

For me, the first prime concern in a good toilet is that it be an elongated bowl. It's hard to turn the pages of a 700-page novel with one hand while the other is holding my plums out of the water and away from the front, inside rim. You don't always know who sat there before you did. Sure, the thing looks clean, but even mothers and fathers can cause back splash. I just assume keeping as far away from that front area as possible. With a round bowl, this is virtually impossible, but with an elongated one, those worries are for the past.

You can have an elongated toilet, but if the seat isn't right, forget about it. If the seat is too flat and doesn't have any form, the inside edges can dig sharply into the sides of your buttocks causing extreme discomfort and red lines; quite embarrassing if you plan on mooning anyone within the next ten minutes. A good seat will curve in around the entire edge for maximum comfort.

I wasn't even aware of a "slow hinged seat cover" until my dad installed my Toto a few years ago and I have to say, it is pretty nice. What is a slow hinged seat cover, you ask? How many times have you gone to close the lid of your toilet only to have it slip out of your grip and slam close with a deafening crash? Imagine standing after reading a chapter of your latest book and being able to simply reach behind you and tap the cover down. Instead of slamming, the hinge catches the lid and slowly and quietly lowers it to rest on the seat. Bliss.

Speaking of bliss, the flush is bliss. Short, strong, swift, and quiet. One powerful whoosh and it's over. The tank refills itself silently so waking loved ones, roommates, and the neighbors is also a thing of the past. I never hear it running for no reason. I never worry my deposit won't depart. The toilet simply does what it's supposed to do; flush.

If you're in the market for a new toilet, let me recommend the Toto SanaGloss. It's ionized glaze keeps the surface clean and its elongated bowl keeps your junk cleaner. Not only does it remain sterilized, but to merely sit on the seat allows for a serene and comfortable experience. To have these two features would normally be enough, but the Toto adds the slow hinge seat cover and a flawless flush to make it the superior toilet for every lavatory escapade. Coming home just became a bit more enjoyable.

October 21: The Olympic Swimmer

I was never any good at Halloween. Sure, I had the running-around-my-neighborhood-at-dusk-like-an-idiot down and I could stuff my face with fun-size Snickers and Milky Ways with the best of them, but my costumes always lacked originality. I was a clown (fun not scary), Dracula (pre-Edward Cullen era), the devil (with horns that actually lit up), a mummy, and a bum. My dad worked for United Parcel Service, so it just so happened that my most "creative" costume was a UPS man. The outfit was so simple and cheap that I was able to repeat it at least two more times.

It wasn't until my sophomore year of college that I had a decent costume. Two of my best friends and I took a trip to the local Target and we let our imaginations loose. One of my friends (we'll call him John) purchased a little kid ninja suit and the other friend (code name: Jane) purchased an inflatable pumpkin suit complete with an automatic internal fan to keep the costume from losing air. I went with more of a hodgepodge approach by getting a Sponge Bop outfit and a Madeline (you know, little French orphan?) yellow brimmed hat which included red hair stitched to the inside. The outfits weren't even that good, but we had so much fun with them that we immediately started planning for the following year.

The biggest event (aside from the Red Sox world championship) of 2004 was the Summer Olympics in Athens, Greece. People were still raving about a young swimmer by the name of Michael Phelps when the calendar flipped to October and the three of us decided that in order to win the Best Costume award, we would have to do something extreme. We would have to turn heads and make jaws drop. I suggested showing up to our party in as little clothing as possible and John did one better: we go as Olympic swimmers.

We had a few weeks to prepare our costumes and at first, we thought they would be pretty straightforward. We would go to Big-5 Sporting Goods, pick up matching swim caps, goggles, and of course, Speedos and show up to our party. How difficult could that be? But as the countdown to the event dwindled down to days, we realized that we were all pretty hairy. If you know me at all, you'll know I'm one missed haircut from being a clean-cut version of Harry from Harry and the Hendersons. Showing up to a party in nothing more than a Speedo would not be funny; it would be the most terrifying Halloween outfit ever. If we wanted to go through with the humility of arriving in these outfits, we would have to be respectful to the other attendees.

The next few meals we shared together were spent in discussing how to remove so much hair. I had shaved my head bald in 1998 in honor of the Padres making the World Series and I never forgot the razor burn my head endured for an entire week. I wasn't about to put my entire body through that torture, but how else could we safely remove the hair? We knew what Nair was, but none of us had actually used the product, so without giving away any details of our plan, we asked a girl at a neighboring table what her experience with it was. She was very helpful, but I wish I could have heard her thoughts after watching three guys huddle together before asking her about a product that removed hair.

After failing to come up with an answer to our hairy predicament, we found ourselves getting more and more discouraged at the thought of showing up to our party in incomplete outfits. I didn't want to take a razor to my legs, arms, and chest for fear of the burn and the Nair just didn't seem to be a viable option. It was looking like we would be arriving with a Speedo and a whole lot of hair until John showed up to dinner in the cafeteria with a smooth arm; he discovered that his electric beard trimmer would do the trick. The plan was back on!

The day of the party arrived. John woke up and finished the job he had started before coming over to my room and making the hand off of the trimmer. When he left, I laid out a bed sheet and switched the little buzzing tool on. I started on my toes, worked my way up my legs, and watched as the white sheet became progressively darker with my trimmings. When I was done, I pulled my Speedos up and my swim cap down. I snapped my goggles into place before looking in the mirror through their blue tint to see an albino seal staring back at me.

I don't want to brag, but we definitely stole the show. People didn't know whether to laugh or scream when we entered the room "fashionably late." Our images burned the retinas of our friends who simply could not look away. Somehow, we failed to win Best Costume, but we were satisfied with our Scariest title.

I take mental notes all year on prospective outfits for the coming Halloween. I always want to have the funniest, most creative costume for whatever party I may be attending, but I inevitably come up short each year. I had the most unoriginal costumes for twenty years before having two fantastic outfits. Looking back on those three Olympic swimmers, I fear I will never be able to top that outfit.

October 20: Two For Two

Most kids I knew growing up that owned a basketball hoop had it attached to the roof of their house above their garage or they kept a portable hoop in the cul-de-sac. Either way, they usually had to avoid parked cars. I always had the luxury of being able to play without obstacles.

When I was five, my family moved to our recent house and my dad had a open space of concrete poured for the sole purpose of putting in a basketball hoop for me. It was the perfect place to run around, shoot free throws, and lob three-pointers to my heart's content. I would spend most of the nights of my youth running around on the smooth cement in imaginary worlds where I was beating buzzers and being drafted by the Orlando Magic until blisters formed on the bottom of my bare feet. I came up with games where making more free throws increased my chances of a certain girl at school liking me. If I made six out of ten shots, for example, I had a sixty percent chance she was into me.

In elementary school, I was always the first picked at recess. My skill level must have stayed in the fifth grade, because once I graduated to middle school, I started getting chosen somewhere within the middle of the group. Although I was still playing just as much as ever at home, I failed to make the Freshmen team in high school. I was convinced I was better than I had shown in the tryouts, so I went back out for the Junior Varsity team the following year; and I made it.

When the coach informed me I had made the team, he was straightforward in letting me know that I probably wouldn't be getting much playing time, but he still wanted my enthusiasm on the team; he wasn't kidding, either. I was played so seldom that I didn't even bother taking my warm up pants and jacket off once the game had started. I just stayed at the end of the bench and waited for the game to end so I could go home.

I was like the retarded kid they let on to the team to make me happy. Had I stayed on the team until graduation, I'm convinced I would have won the "Most Inspirational" award at the team dinner. I would have run a little too fast to the podium to get my certificate and my teammates would laugh at me, but I would interpret their laughter as encouragement. The coach would say something like, "This next recipient always showed up to practice with a smile on his face. He was a hard worker and was a joy to have on the team." In other words, "This guy really sucks at basketball and I didn't have the balls to cut him."

I believe it was one of the final games of the season and we were up by a good twenty points with two minutes remaining. One of my teammates asked me why I wasn't playing, but he happened to ask the question just loud enough for the coach to hear. It wasn't until the other players chimed in, however, that the coach felt pressured into letting the retard have a go.

The next thing I knew, I was standing at one end of the court as a team member passed the ball in bounds to me. I took a few dribbles toward our end of the court before an opponent came to cover me. Because he was so aggressive in his attempts to get the ball, I was forced to stop dribbling and hold the ball as tight as I could against my chest. He kept slapping at the ball as I curled my body tighter and tighter while trying to protect the ball until the referee blew his whistle and my teammates on the bench erupted with applause and laughter. Did the retard do something right?

One of the reasons I sat the bench so often was because I clearly didn't know the rules of the game. I knew whichever team threw the ball through the hoop the most won, but that was about the extent of my knowledge. Apparently because of the way my opponent was covering me, I was awarded the opportunity to shoot a free throw. If I made the shot, I would get a second one.

As I walked toward the other end of the court, I saw my teammates cheering and rooting me on. I saw the coach's blank face and I saw the lethargic Junior Varsity cheer squad counting down the minutes until they could call their boyfriends. This was my moment to shine.

I toed the free throw line as my stomach did flips and my knees shook. I held the ball in both hands at my waist and looked up at the hoop which seemed miles away. I didn't even bounce the ball before I raised it in front of my face, bent my knees, stood on my toes and released. The gymnasium went silent as the ball rotated through the air and fell softly through the net. My first point of the season. The second shot felt eerily similar to the first. No bounce. Bent knees. Silent delivery. Unlike the first, though, it bounced on the side of the rim, hit the glass, and fell clumsily through the hoop.

I don't remember if the coach left me in for the remaining minute and thirty seconds, but my moment had come and gone. I finished the season with a free throw percentage of one hundred. I don't think that's ever happened in March Madness and I know it's unheard of in the NBA, but that's what I do. I didn't enjoy my time on Junior Varsity so I never even tried for Varsity, but I did my share in that particular game to win by at least twenty-two. I owe it all to those countless nights I spent shooting free throws until it was time to come in and go to bed.

October 19: The Scholastic Couch

When I first moved away to college, the most important piece of furniture was the top or bottom bunk that was provided in my three-person room. I didn't care about armchairs, desk chairs, armoires or TV stands. All of the furniture I needed for my freshman year was taken care of. Even if I wanted something else, there wasn't room for it.

The furniture was again provided for my sophomore year, but because I was hired as a Resident Advisor, my bed, dresser, and desk were alone in the same size room I shared with two other students the previous year. Suffice it to say, I had some extra space. I had room to bring in my brand new 20-inch TV, my new simulated surround sound system, my Nintendo 64 and games, and my collection of DVDs. I had all the pieces for the ultimate bachelor's pad; except the couch.

On a cold October evening, a friend from my crew team drove my then-girlfriend and me in his El Camino to a house we found in the classifieds. The ad had mentioned a yard sell that was held the day before. One of the items being sold? A pullaway couch! We called the lady the night of the sale and discovered the couch was still available for the rock-bottom price of ten dollars. Because I was on a limited budget, the price was a bit steep, but it was a pullaway; plus the seller threw in a free set of old, zebra-print sheets!

After paying the kind lady, my friend and I loaded the back of the El Camino with my new prized possession before driving back to the residence halls where we humped the thing up three elevator-less flights of stairs. We were exhausted, but it was worth it! I had a couch of my own. It smelled foul and looked worse with the faded sheets "protecting" me from the unknown substances on the upholstery.

I never took advantage of the pullaway feature, but the couch didn't last very long anyway. A friend of mine sold me her futon in the latter months of the school year, and because it didn't look terrible or smell awful, I was quick to jump at the deal. My seating options had just improved ten fold.

What is it about being in college that makes everyone desperate to get a couch? Everyone in school wants one thing and one thing only: The oldest, most vile loveseat sofa available. They get old couches that parents don't want. They get them from their grandparents' basements. They get them from yard sales and thrift stores. Students will see an old couch outside someone's house in the pouring rain and honestly consider picking it up for their room. They turn beds into lofts and move provided desks and dressers beneath just to make room for the big, moth-infested sofas. It's hard enough to walk through a college dorm room without extra furniture, but this fascination with couches makes it virtually impossible.

And then they just throw them away! After spending, sometimes, months rearranging rooms and finding the perfect, cheapest solution to their love seat obsessions students don't even try to get anything in return for their findings. Dumpsters are literally full of used, used sofas at the end of each semester. It doesn't matter if the thing had been in the family for a hundred years. No one wants to move it. School's over!

My futon was the last collegiate couch I owned. It made it through my sophomore, junior, and senior years before I pawned it off on someone else, but it was good to me. Although I would never furnish my house with the likes of it, it sure made those nights with Shrek more enjoyable. It was no ten-dollar filth fest, but it was the perfect couch for college. Every college kid would be and should have been jealous of my beloved, scholastic futon.

October 18: Over-Ruled

This post was written on a complete whim and was conducted with minimal research.

I was never any good in the subject of Government. It didn't interest me in the least during the one semester I was required to take it. As a result, I did as little as I had to to get through the class. Big mistake. I'm about to go off on a pretty touchy subject and I now run the risk of looking like a fool because of my lack of knowledge in the area, but I digress.

Aside from the "freedom," part of the allure of the United States of America is the democracy. The people make the decisions. If people want to make a change, they tell their Congressman (or someone) who somehow gets it on the next ballot. The people then vote for or against this new proposition. Pretty cool, huh? The people make the decisions. Except they don't any more.

In November of 2008, the people of California voted against same-sex marriage. Whether you're for or against the issue, you can't deny the results of the vote. No. Nay. Against it. If you voted Yes, it sucks. You win some, you lose some. I know it's an insensitive way to look at it, but that's the way it goes. It's the same for those who voted Yes on an issue that would raise taxes and the proposition failed.

Earlier this year, a federal judge somehow over-ruled the whole thing. The people voted No, but he said Yes. The majority of voters in California voted against gay marriage, but one man with power saved the vote. People were overjoyed. They posted notes on Facebook about their renewed faith in California, but no one questioned democracy. No one seemed to be concerned that the majority didn't mean anything at all.

It doesn't matter what the issue is. If the people vote that murder should be legalized, according to democracy, I should be able to kill my neighbor without consequence, right? Maybe that example is a bit extreme, but you get the point. I think the bigger issue here is that our voice doesn't mean anything.

On November 2 of this year, the citizens of California will get another look at the downfall of this so-called government of ours. Proposition 19. The legalization of marijuana. If it passes, it's legal in California, but not nationally. Users are still subject to the feds. The other night, my mom showed me an article on how federal officers plan to regulate the federal law if the proposition passes. Because of this, she is contemplating leaving that part of the ballot blank.

I don't know exactly why there are federal laws and state laws, but there are. Only now the line is being blurred. A federal judge can step in and over-rule a state vote. Federal agents can shut down marijuana dispensaries even though they're completely legal within the borders of the state. What's going to happen with Prop 19? Will it be a step toward legalizing pot on a national level or will it be a wasted vote?

October 17: Do The Dew

I don't drink Red Bull or Monster. I've never had a Rockstar or a 5-Hour Energy shot. I don't want to "Unleash the Beast," or "Party like a Rockstar." I don't want wings and I don't want to "feel (something that) lasts for hours." Heck, I don't even drink coffee. Granted, I hate the taste of coffee, but I'm more concerned with the caffeine. I don't like the idea of forcing my heart to work harder than it has to just to keep my eyes open. It just seems dangerous.

I'm not going to put my life on the line for any of the aforementioned products because they can offer me a little pick-me-up; they aren't even that refreshing. When I need a cold drink, I want something that's invigorating and stimulating. It's for these reasons that I "Do the Dew" as often as I can. For as long as I can remember, Mountain Dew has been my drink of choice.

It's just that it tastes so unbelievable! I can't even describe the flavor, either. It's somewhere between citrus and pure sugar water. It's not lemon, lime, or orange. It doesn't have the syrupy taste of other colas and it's pure exhilaration. It goes well with everything from Taco Bell to pizza. I like drinking it with chips and salsa and trail mix. I drink it with lunch and pour it on my Cheerios in the morning. Instead of swishing Listerine, I gargle Mountain Dew. I keep a small glass of it on my bedside table in case I get thirsty in the middle of the night and I'm working on a prototype shower faucet that sprays warm dew.

The best part of Mountain Dew? Its contraceptive qualities. Every time I pour myself a tall glass of the carbonated acidic-looking beverage, I know the chances of one of my boys slipping through the cracks decreases. Why worry about always needing a condom when, if I drink enough of it, I can simply fire blanks? Birth control is a billion dollar industry and Wal-Mart has twenty-four packs of Dew on sale for five bucks. "Pop a can, slap an ass" has always been my motto.

I have t-shirts and caps with the green and yellow logo. I have Mountain Dew flags hanging on the walls of my room and on the poles in my yard. Multiple poles. Multiple flags. I have a Dew logo tattooed on my lower back and a Dew decal for my truck. When I lived in California, I made hundreds of dollars each week from recycling so many Dew cans and green, plastic bottles. I prefer the one-liter bottles because they fit in my bike rack easier for those long rides, but I have every size imaginable in my fridge.

I like to freeze it in Dixie cups with straws to make little Dew Popsicles. I use it as a substitute for wine when cooking and dressing for salads. Most people have pictures of their family throughout their homes. I have framed pictures of the Dew logo. I even carry the thin, plastic label from my first Mountain Dew in my wallet!

Red Bull, Monster, Rockstar, 5-Hour, and coffee don't do it for me. They're just too unhealthy. Trust me, one of these days, someone's heart is going to explode from drinking so much caffeine. I care too much about my health to risk drinking any of those energy drinks. I need something natural and organic. I need something cold and refreshing. I need to be jacked up on Mountain Dew!

October 16: Bed Time Story

This is sort of embarrassing. This is the type of thing people aren't supposed to go around sharing. Check that. If I were a teenage girl, it would be very cool to talk about. It would be hip and cool. Unfortunately, I am not a teenage girl. I'm a grown man capable of growing a thick beard. It's sort of embarrassing. I think I'll write a public blog about it.

Since finishing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Year 7) over a week and a half ago, I pace around my sister's room every night before I crawl into bed and lie with my eyes open until sleep pulls the blanket over me. I've been partaking in the nightly ritual because I'm not within the comforts of my own home. Each night, I'll open my sister's closet and stare blankly at her collection of books. My eyes scan over the Shakespeares and Steinbecks of Advanced Placement classes. My hand reaches for a classic that I was never required to read in school. A classic that slipped through the cracks of my education. A classic that now has notes scrawled in my sister's hand on every page; pure distraction for an innocent reader.

After a few nights of pacing, I had my mom get my high school yearbook from the attic. Lying in a bed with a hardcover book containing the memories of over 3,500 students propped open isn't exactly "easy on the back," but I got through it. It actually only took me two nights because of the pathetic amount of comments by an alarmingly low amount of friends. I was back to pacing.

Each night I pulled that sliding, mirrored closet door open, one particular set of books made their presence known. It was a group of black paperbacks that were neatly placed in front of the Harry Potter series. My sister had run out of room on the shelf, so she was forced to start lining up a second row of books; quite the novel idea, don't you think? I had no intention of starting the series. I saw fifteen minutes of the adaptation of the third novel and I hated it. Why would I want to read the entire series? I didn't just have hours on end to sit and read something because it was popular. Wait. I did. I do. I have more time than I know what to do with.

The reading is garbage. It's written at a sixth grade level; and that's being generous. To give you some idea of what level the writing is on, go to www.365DaysofBrandon.blogspot.com and read the elementary vocabulary and lack of creativity. Although, maybe that's the way it's supposed to read. After all, it's told from the perspective of a seventeen-year-old high school girl. Genius. What do I know?

I'm only a hundred pages in, but what is up with that Edward Cullen guy? He's just so smug, yet charming. What's up with those snide remarks of his and his inconsistent attitude toward my new friend, Bella? He's smug and then he's angry and tense. Who does he think he is? What's so funny about being approached by three guys in one day in hopes of being asked to the Girl's Choice Dance?

Yeah, I'm talking about Twilight. Big deal! It may be a bit embarrassing for a grown man to be reading such trash, but it puts me to sleep. It's good to keep in tune with what the kids today are reading and talking about. I'm just a cool guy. Now I can talk to teenage girls and be a welcomed addition to their circle of friends which is more than I had when I was in high school. Maybe I can get a few more people to sign my pageant...

October 15: A Simple Request

I understand people have their values and beliefs. I understand that not everyone was raised the way I was. We all come from different backgrounds and we have different upbringings. A black twenty-seven-year-old raised in the barrios of Detroit probably isn't sitting at his parents house on a Friday afternoon blogging about mundane observations like the twenty-seven-year-old you're currently reading. He probably would never consider quitting a job to take a month and a half off to do nothing.

No matter what a person's background is, however, I can't understand why the presence of body odor can still be so prevalent in a developed country. Allow me to rephrase. A man working in the fields from sun up until sun down has my permission to stink when he gets home at night. A professional dancer rehearsing under hot lights the day before an important recital has my blessing. These two sweaty beings have the luxury of being able to go home and freshen up before they go out in public.

A high school student shouldn't make the kids around him gag on his stench. There is no excuse for an accountant to cause fellow employees to lose the pigmentation in their faces as a result of her unbearable fetor wafting from her underarms. It shouldn't matter how hot and muggy it is outside or whether the office doesn't have circulating air. If you have access to a shower and a stick of deodorant, people should not be fainting around you.

I understand we're all different biologically. I'm aware that some people just sweat more than others. I know that our diets can have an affect on our body odor; I've always been afraid to eat large sums of garlic for this very reason. I still don't think that's an excuse. If you can't escape your own perspiration, carry a wash cloth with you, occasionally dampen it, wipe yourself down in the bathroom and for the love of Pete, keep that thing in a air-tight Ziplock bag!

But, Brandon. What about the people that don't believe in using hygienic products? What about the people that view these products as an opposition to their religions? My answer: What about the rest of us? Isn't there something in every religious handbook about treating others with respect and dignity? Isn't the Golden Rule a part of every religion? "Do unto others as you would have done unto you." You want me to drop my drawers and break wind in your face? Because that's what you're doing unto me.

Look, we were all raised differently so we believe different things. The Chilean miners didn't have access to a shower for two months; they're going to stink. If I ever get accepted to participate on Survivor, I understand that I will stink. As a member of a developed country, however, there should be no reason to possesses such vileness. Please do your neighbors and me a favor; wash!

October 14: Fridays and Saturdays

While growing up, Friday nights were spent on the patio while margaritas or daiquiris were for my parents and nachos and tacos were for everyone. Saturday nights were usually a glass of wine for my mom, a cold beer for my dad, and peanuts for everyone while Mom prepared dinner in between her turns of the weekly board game we were playing. Because we were underage, my sister and I usually enjoyed some sort of juice, a Gatorade, or (on a rare occasion) a cola during these "happy hours," but that's not really important.

While we conversed or took turns rolling the dice, Dad always had music playing in the background. If I close my eyes tight enough, I can still hear the pops and scratches of John Denver's Mountain High vinyl and I can still see the kitchen table light's glare on the Sorry! game board. It wasn't always the popping of a record, though. Sometimes it was Enya's May It Be flawlessly being delivered from a compact disc. Whatever the music, it was always an essential part of the evening's activities.

Most of the time I was able to recognize the artist. ABBA, John Denver, Enya, the Carpenters. Occasionally, however, he would put on something I hadn't ever heard of or someone I just didn't know. I never inquired about such choices because I was always too preoccupied with deciding whether I should play my red eight or my red Draw Two card, but I enjoyed the selections nevertheless.

As the years have gone by, I've become more and more occupied with my own life. Going away to college two hours away from home has slowly dissolved those Friday and Saturday memories that I cherish so much. I mean they're still there, but up until two weeks ago, a Friday night was not what it was when I was younger. Those nights were usually reserved for hanging out in a residence hall office and letting locked out students back into their rooms. Since college, Fridays and Saturdays were my biggest money-making shifts.

Today my dad purchased a USB turntable to convert his old vinyls into mp3s so that he can add them to his iPod. Why the sudden urge to do so? Because his computer-competent son was in town for a month and he figured this would be the perfect project for him. (After typing that sentence, I realize how bitter it may sound. I honestly love organizing and editing music in iTunes so it really isn't a hassle for me at all.) I don't share the same enthusiasm for the television programs airing in the house as my parents which means the computer is always available during Glee and Private Practice. Everyone wins!

Before sitting down to watch Grey's Anatomy, he gave me three albums to start the project with. All three were Crystal Gayle. Because they came from his collection, I was sure I had heard her at some point, but I wasn't familiar at all. The only reference to Gayle was a t-shirt that Ricky Bobby wore in Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby.

I couldn't help but smile to myself as I slid the first record out of the sleeve and carefully placed it on the table and lowered the tonearm. I was immediately thrown into the past as I recognized the first track. Images of my family sitting around the oak table playing Chutes and Ladders and Tiddly Winks shot across the retinas of my memory. I could hear the loud grinding of ice in the blender as my dad made a new batch of "margos" and I could almost taste the Tupperware that I used to sip cold CranApple from.

I never knew it was called "Why have you left the one you left me for" and I didn't know it was by Crystal Gayle, but it was so familiar and nostalgic. As I sat and listened to song after song thinking of my childhood, I kept thinking how great it would be to put these memories on my iPod as well. Each song was accompanied by the soft interruptions of a pop here and a scratch there and it just added to the overall enjoyment of my new project.

Fridays and Saturdays have changed a lot since my youth. Instead of watching my parents drink margaritas, I'm watching strangers drink them. I no longer take showers and reserve the long spot of the couch for a rented movie with my family. Now that I have all of my dad's old records, though, I can start weekly traditions of my own and I can't wait to start.

October 13: Floating Babies

Have you ever seen a small child floating face down in a body of water? It's terrifying.

When I was younger, my family would take weekend trips to the California/Arizona border where we would camp on the shore of the Colorado River. We didn't camp in a motor home or stay in a hotel. We did it the old fashioned way - in a tent. We went to the bathroom in the woods while flies clung to our bums and we took showers in the fast-moving current of the river. Our site consisted of nothing more than a six-man tent, a collapsible picnic table, our inflatable boat, and a canopy with a few folding chairs beneath it.

We would always arrive at our site late Friday night and set everything up with the help of our trusty Coleman lantern. Before retiring to our extremely hot and uncomfortable tent, we would sit around drinking cold water and take in the sounds of nature.

Saturday always started with the high pitch scream of my dad unzipping the tent at six in the morning before breaking the dawn's silence with the inflating of our boat. We would usually be the first people on the water where we could take advantage of its smooth surface and have the most ideal conditions for water skiing. Mom would be back at camp preparing breakfast for our return, we would eat, put some sunscreen on, and hit the water again until dinner time. We always had steaks and salad as we watched the sun set over the California banks across the river.

Sundays started the same as Saturdays. Dad gets up first and unzips the tent and I follow him to the boat to take advantage of smooth water. Breakfast, sunscreen, skiing. Around noon, we would come back and have a little lunch before beginning to break camp apart. When, I say "we," I mean my mom and dad. Mom would sweep out the tent and Dad would do everything else. Lindsay and I would sit in the chairs under the canopy and splash in the water until it, too, had to be disassembled. It was during one of these Sundays that my sister tried to teach herself how to swim.

The memories are a bit fuzzy, but I remember watching her waddle through the shallow waters as I sat in one of the folding chairs. The next thing I knew, she was lying face down with her arms spread out. I leaped from my chair, ran to the nearest phone booth, stripped off my suit, and flew to her rescue. I grabbed the back of her one-piece and pulled her to safety. The funny thing is that I don't remember her crying. She spit some water out of her mouth and nose and went right back to playing. Mom and Dad never found out. Until tonight.

I will always remember our family camping trips. I remember the cold nights in the mountains and the muggy nights at the river. I remember water skiing and hiking. I remember the little sounds of the tent and the way the handle of our 25 horsepower outboard motor felt in my hand. I don't remember the feeling of crossing a wake on a single ski, but I will never forget how scared I was when I looked down and saw my sister floating there. If you've never seen a child floating face down in water, you have got to experience it. It really is something else.

October 12: Nice Pix

If you ask me, it's still weird. Technology is constantly changing and for the most part, we welcome its changes with open arms. Being able to carry music in your pocket. Taking pictures and watching movies on your phone. One hundred miles per gallon. Television in the third dimension. Using the Internet to find a lover. If you ask me, it's still weird.

As a society, we're becoming progressively more and more involved with our careers. Nine to five is no longer the standard or norm. People have their office work, their emails and text messages that need responding to on the way home, and more work waiting for them on their home computers. People don't have the weekends off anymore. I have one day a week off and I'm just a waiter! We simply do not have time to go out and meet someone new to date.

Websites like Match.com and eHarmony are the perfect solutions, right? For the cost of a few bad dates, a subscriber can weed out the bad seeds and go out with someone they know they are compatible with. As time passes, this idea is becoming more and more acceptable, but it's still weird.

Wasn't it just a few years ago that people were logging into chat rooms and talking with complete strangers without profile pictures? Wasn't it just a few years ago that Chris Hansen was making busts on old man perverts? Meeting someone online now is a lot safer than those days. Sure, you can lie on your Match.com profile, but Facebook has eliminated a lot of the unanswered questions of legitimacy. Even if you meet a real person on one of these sites, isn't it a bit awkward telling your parents and friends how the two of you met? I feel like my parents would only remember the Chris Hansen years.

There are a lot of reasons to join one of these sites. We're told over and over again that dating within the workplace is a bad idea. I agree. Working alongside someone you used to date is miserable, but if you work forty to fifty hours a week, finding someone outside of your profession is pretty difficult. Dating sites are perfect for people too timid to approach others. The idea of a dating site appeals to gorgeous girls that can't go to a bar without being hit on. The real problem, however, is that dating sites are also the perfect avenue for socially inept men.

A recently graduated, attractive female works fifty hours a week to advance her career. After years of schooling, she has finally landed in the field of her dreams and she's ready to experience life with someone special. Because she works so much, she doesn't have the time to join a co-ed recreational activity. She doesn't attend church and she doesn't have any friends with eligible suitors for her. Her only chance to meet a guy is on Friday night when she goes to the local bar with her girlfriends. Unfortunately, the only men in these venues are the men looking for one night stands; something she's definitely not looking for at this point in her life. She resorts to testing the waters of online dating.

She creates her profile and posts a few pictures. She is very clear in her profile about what she's looking for and who she is. Upon the first twenty-four hours of having an active account, she receives multiple emails from guys twice her age looking for some young tail. Subject lines that read, "Hey Baby" and "Smart AND Sexy?" fill her inbox. She is invited to spend nights out on the town. She is given phone numbers and AOL Instant Messaging screen names. Facebook and Myspace links are pasted in every other letter.

This is not the bar scene. This is not a co-worker approaching her for coffee after work. This is worse. This is disgusting and vile. It's degrading and sickening. She reads each email and finds herself becoming more and more repulsed with each one. Occasionally, she stumbles on a letter with a clever quip about something she wrote in her profile from a relatively attractive guy, but because it's mixed in with all of the others, he's just another creep. She doesn't respond.

A recently graduated male is searching for someone special. He's heard about Match.com and decides to go for it. He finds the profile for an attractive girl. It's well-written which means she's intelligent. She writes about the closeness she shares with her family. She writes about her passions in life. She's standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. She's white water rafting and sky diving. She's playing with her dogs. He writes and never hears back from her.

My theory is that girls believe guys receive just as many emails as they do, but I don't think it's true. A good looking girl has no motivation whatsoever to ever write a guy when she gets (at least) five emails from (at least) five guys a day. By the time she's done reading creepy letter after creepy letter, she subconsciously classifies every guy on the site as creepy. Any guy she writes is, and will be, a creep which, in turn, means no letters for the male subscribers.

Horny guys have ruined bars and clubs for decent guys. The idea of meeting someone on the Internet is still weird to me because it's still a relatively new concept, but the medium is already ruined by the same horny guys that tainted the bars. Online dating fascinates me. I find the idea absolutely mesmerizing. I wish I could witness a girl's reaction to the countless emails she receives and I wish I could read them. I want to talk to girls and hear their experiences. I want to know about the successes and the major fails. I want to know why people go on and how long it took to be scared away. If you ask me, I think it's still weird.

October 11: Irregardless

Ill be the first too admit that Im not the best person two bee righting on this subject. English was never my best subject in school and this little 365 Days project should be the perfect example of why I lack the credibility to breach such matters. They're are certain things in life that really irritate me, though, and one of the biggest annoyances is that of poor grammar.

Most people are quick to let me no how much it bothers them when people don't no the differences between you, your, and you're but always seam to forget the rule themselves when righting an email or sending a text message. Knowing these differences is won thing. Using them is "a whole nother." If you care so much about the differences between to, two, and too, please prove it by using the correct won. Its easy too sit and criticize ones grammatical efficiency, but if you dont take the time to capitolize the beginning of a sentence your just as bad as those you critique.

Why am I choosing now to to right on such a topic? Because I didnt think people ever actually used the word "irregardless." They do. Now, I would say that I could care less with how people chose two speak, butt I couldnt. I dont care how people speak. I can walk away from an ignorant person. I cant walk away an ignorant wall post. I cant walk away from someone speaking in all caps or run-on sentences.

Most nights when I sit down to right my daily blog, my mind is nothing more than alot of nots. After staring at my computer for an hour, the last thing I want to do is proof read my dribble. I just want to publish the entry and bee done with it. My mom is constantly sending me emails with grammatical fixes and suggestions (witch I appreciate) and I always immediately make the changes. However, I dont usually get the corrections until the morning after I posted the entry to my Facebook. Hear I am complaining about pour grammar and the majority of my posts are read before I make any corrections!

Eye have no write to sit hear and judge the way people right, but come on! Use a period or an apostrophe once in a while. I have a college education, but I dont feel like my righting has improved that much because of it. Im talking about the basics and everyone I know has at least a high school education. Effort. That's all I'm asking for. Thank you.

October 10: The Verbal Tip

It's a lose/lose situation. You get his hopes up. He thinks you're cheap. Giving a waiter five dollars on twenty-three dollar tab is normally a good tip. It's more than 20% which is more than average. Giving a waiter five dollars on twenty-three after complimenting his service, however, is the lose/lose situation.

It doesn't matter how busy or slow or what time of day it is. It doesn't matter if your words are genuine or insincere. As soon as you let slip how great you thought the server did, you might as well have included how you don't plan on tipping him to his expectations. Unless you graciously give a ridiculous amount of money to him, he will be disappointed in your ability to tip.

Most servers hate their jobs. Granted, there are a few who enjoy what they do, but on the whole, I would be willing to bet that 90% of the servers in the United States dislike their occupation. When a person clocks in for a shift with this attitude, he is more likely to have a pessimistic view toward the guests. It may not be reflected in the way he carries himself or speaks, but little things throughout the shift will be viewed from a different perspective.

When a person watches a movie and then raves about how good the film was to his friends, he is placing high expectations on that movie. When his friends go see the movie, they expect to love it, but because it was over-hyped, it only leaves them disappointed. The same thing happens when a guest verbally informs his server how pleased he was.

In the service industry, this is known as a verbal tip. A waiter is so rarely recognized for his or her services to the guest. Sure, that recognition comes in the form of gratuity (on what they hope is) on every tab. Very seldom, though, will a guest take the extra step to let the server know they are appreciated. Nine times out of ten, this guest will leave an inadequate tip. As a result of this, a server is immediately turned off by a guest's verbal remarks on the service. If he's been waiting tables longer than a month, he will expect a small amount and will view any fair amount to be insufficient.

There are exceptions to everything and this theory should not be excluded. A good rule of thumb, however, is to just avoid giving any verbal tip. I'm not suggesting ignoring the server, but you're showing your appreciation in a monetary form. There's isn't any reason to give him any reason to be ungrateful for that sum.

October 9: Keep In Touch

Every year the San Diego Zoo holds a walk-a-thon type benefit to raise money for animal conservation with the focus on a different species each year. In its fifth year, the elephant herds were the main stars of today's event. Each registered guest is granted access to the park hours before it's opened to the public. In addition to a tour through the recently added "Elephant Odyssey," walkers are treated to a designated course along the enclosures of koalas, vultures, bears, meerkats, lions, and more. There are giveaways from sponsors and live music throughout the three mile walk. Being the animal lover that she is, my mom has attended all but one of the annual events. Because this was the first time I've been home at this time of year, I decided to accompany her and see what all the fuss was about.

After picking up the number she was required to pin to her shirt for the walk, we made our way to a few sponsors' tents while waiting for the event to begin. Wouldn't you know that the first tent we approached was being run by an old friend of mine. A friend I hadn't seen since high school; over nine years ago. We exchanged greetings and hugs and she told me of her life as a mother and wife before my own mother and I made our way to the starting line.

I've never been a fan of small talk, but it was still good to see someone from my past. I spent, at most, five minutes exchanging pleasantries, but the encounter had me thinking about my high school days. When I came home, I rummaged through some of my old things and found the pageant from my senior year and was taken back to the "good old days."

Facebook may have taken away a lot of the magic of a high school reunion, but flipping through the pages of time was quite refreshing. Aside from the pasty-faced, greasy haired punk in the R section that stared back at me, it was fun being reminded what everyone looked like. Because of the social network, I know what everyone looks like today, but I had forgotten about those awkward teenage years they went through.

As fun as the pictures were to look at, the real joy of this afternoon was re-reading the little notes that my friends of yesteryear left on the first and last pages of the annual. I wasn't depressed by any means when I started, but if I had been, the compliments left would have easily lifted my spirits. For the most part, everyone leaves the same comment. "This year was great. KIT (Keep in touch)." Scattered amongst the unoriginals, however, were sincere notes of friendship and the unknowns that lie ahead. I had notes complimenting me on the talents I possessed in the theatre and how "funny" I was. People wrote how they knew I would succeed in life because of my ability to remain true to myself.

I am not one that takes compliments very well, so I am always questioning them. I don't know whether or not these old friends meant what they wrote or if they felt obligated to write something and were just blowing smoke at me. Either way, when I closed the book, I felt a sense of pride in myself. It was nice to receive such praise and to think that it all spurred from a chance encounter at the world famous San Diego Zoo. For those times when you feel down on your luck, let me recommend your high school yearbook.

October 8: Model Number 3

I grew up in a neighborhood of about fifty homes built by the same construction company. That means that there were three or four different models for my parents to choose from when selecting a lot. It also meant I had a few friends with the same house as me and sometimes one friend would live in the same designed house as another. My friend Jason lived in the same model as me, but my friend Shawn grew up in a house exactly like Brett's.

This weekend, I'm dog sitting for my next door neighbor. I don't know if I was offered the prestigious position because my mom let slip the fact that I quit my job to come home for a month and a half and I wouldn't be making any money or if my uncanny ability to take a dog to the lawn to piddle precedes me. Either way, I am now in possession of a garage door opener and a very classified house alarm code.

Upon entering the abode last night for my first shift, I was treated to the nostalgic discovery of another familiar model. I walked through the garage and into the same laundry room that my childhood friends Shawn and Brett know so well. The house, of course, was decorated quite differently, but it was still a trip to walk past the family room bar and wine cellar that I remember from my youth. From the outside, my house looks very similar to my next door neighbor's, but not having to walk down two steps from the hallway into the living room feels odd.

As the small Shih Tzu did her thing on the recently mowed back yard lawn, I couldn't help but walk through the house and let memories flood my mind. Memories of waking up on a Saturday morning after a sleepover to play an 8-bit Nintendo system in what seemed miles away from my home. Memories of lying in the dark talking about all of the cute third grade girls. I remembered little things like seeing a Vanilla Ice cassette tape sitting on a couch and the unfamiliar, yet comforting, scents of a different home.

I still have a day and a half left of feeding the gray-haired animal and letting it out to go potty. The work is minimal, but the memories are what makes the job a joy. The memories of sleep overs after Little League games and birthday parties catered by Little Caesars. I'm looking forward to being reminded of eating store-bought, miniature chocolate donuts tomorrow night when I walk through my neighbor's kitchen to fill the small silver dish with Kibble. I haven't been in another house in this neighborhood in more than ten years and this small chore is reminding me of a different life where things were more laid back and simple. It's nice.