May 7: That's Simply Not True!

It's no secret that I'm obsessed with Survivor. I've applied nine times to be on the reality show. I've written multiple posts on the topic. I've seen every episode and I get genuinely upset when an episode is spoiled for me. I avoid certain websites until I've seen the most recent episode and I've been known to shed tears from emotional tribal councils and family reunion scenes.

People are always telling me that I would make a great castoff. I have a natural agility and athleticism that would help me in physical challenges and I'm smart enough to know what's going around me. Although I don't do so well with bug bites, I'm an overall outdoorsy kind of guy so spending 39 days outside wouldn't bother me.

One of my biggest setbacks in being a good survivor, however, is my inability to lie, cheat, and manipulate. Throughout its ten-year run, the show has evolved from one (somewhat) integrity to complete chaos and manipulation. I recently Netflixed the first season and the castaways were completely opposed to creating alliances to remain in the game. Alliances are now crucial for survival. If you aren't a part of one, you're gone. Period.

Being a part of a group isn't the only thing that has changed throughout the years. Contestants are now creating multiple alliances and bouncing back and forth between them. In order to do this, playing a dishonest game is a must. Feelings get hurt and paranoia runs deep throughout the course of each season.

I am fine with all of this. I know it's a part of the game that I love. I believe there is still a way to beat the game when manipulative players are involved. On last night's episode, however, I watched in amazement as one member of a strong three-person alliance made accusations against another to stir more paranoia. The accusations were completely made up and so ruthless that the accused broke down in tears of pure frustration and bewilderment.

As I watched with my mouth open, I tried to imagine what my reaction would be in the same situation. How would I respond if I were a part of what was thought to be such a strong alliance only to be manipulated against for no other reason than to scare other castaways? I know it's a part of the game. I know you have to be cunning and merciless to further yourself, but watching that scene changed the way I fantasized about being involved. Would I be able to sit there and listen to such bold-faced lies about me without breaking down in tears?

I love Survivor. I want nothing more in life right now than to be on the show. I'm confident I would dominate physical challenges. I don't think I would cause any tension at camp. People would keep me around for pure entertainment purposes. The show has a way of creating lifelong friendships, but allowing myself to trust new friends within the game could be my one major downfall.

May 6: Spot-Free Rinse

Insert card. Remove quickly. One moment please. Do you have a super saver card? No. Do you want to buy a car wash? Yes. Remove nozzle and select grade.

I've never actually purchased a car wash at a gas station, but with my good friend coming into town today, I thought I would wash away the one hour's worth of rain from last week that had left my truck covered with brown water spots. All I was looking for was a cheap rinse and the four dollar option was perfect.

After putting $30 worth of gas into the tank, I entered my truck into "laser-wash" garage and let the touch-free machine do its thing. Before I knew it, and while my truck was still dripping with spot-free rinse, I was being signaled to drive through and go on my way. Apparently, a four-dollar car wash didn't include my favorite part: the high-powered blow dry.

I wasn't worried though. I live a few miles away from the gas station on a straight road. This would be the perfect opportunity for me to rev my engine and dry the vehicle for free. As I pulled out of the station, I put the accelerator to the floor sending my truck speeding down the road.

The needle of the speedometer slowly made its clockwise turn to 20, 30, 40 miles per hour. The standing water on my hood shook and clung to the paint before letting go. The drops on my windshield crawled up the glass before launching off the roof and behind me.

50, 60, 70 miles per hour. This was a lot more fun than sitting still and watching the blue blowers try to pry my windshield wipers off. I was racing around cars to continue my increase in speed; weaving in, out, and around traffic. Pedestrians flew past as they stared in disbelief at my speed.

The needle on the speedometer was nearing 80 miles per hour as my truck spat its excess water on cars we were passing. Just a little longer and my truck would be dry. I was excited to get home so I could inspect my vehicle. Would my theory prove effective?

Street lights zoomed by. Trees were blurred. Just as I was about to slow down to make the left turn on to my residential street, however, I noticed the flashing lights.

May 5: Babies

I just read an article in the most recent issue of Entertainment Weekly about the upcoming documentary, Babies. The piece made me remember sitting in the dark theatre months ago when I saw the trailer. The preview begins with two infant brothers from Africa sitting next to each other playing with piles of rocks. One reaches for a nearby empty plastic bottle and is instantly pushed away by the other. In response, the first baby bites the naked shoulder of his brother who proceeds to jerk the biter by his neck before going back to his rock leaving the biter with his head buried in his hands while crying. All one shot and with no music.

The trailer goes on to explain the premise of the film: four babies from four different parts of the globe (Bayanchandmani, Mongolia; Tokyo, Japan; Opuwo, Namibia; and San Francisco) are filmed for one year. Sufjan Stevens' The Perpetual Self or "What Would Saul Alinsky do?" plays as the kids play with animals, CDs, and bouncing chairs. The babies gaily flail their arms and legs on tables, dance, swim, cry, and giggle. As the music's tempo picks up and the infants are nurtured, carried, fed, and bathed, the audience can't help but laugh with the toothless kids before a great finish to the trailer with one of the kids sitting in a basin with a goat lapping the water.

According to the article, the film has no dialogue save for a few background voices. It's a film that is eighty minutes long and shows the simplicity of being young and how uniquely kids in different cultures are raised. There is a quote from the little boy from Mongolia who is now four-years-old and after watching the movie that he stars in, he says, "This is a film about me, the sky, and how my big brother has been beating me up." Precious!

I don't know if this movie is going to be any good and I don't know if it will be able to keep my attention for 80 minutes. Normally I'm not a baby person at all. People go crazy for babies. I don't. Period. I am, however, really excited to see this film. Not since Young at Heart has a trailer sparked so much emotion from me, so I hope it lives up to the hype.

May 4: Kiss From A Rose

If you know me at all, you know that I love to sing. If you know me at all, you know that I suck at singing. If you know me at all, you know that I don't actually know the lyrics to any song. I know the first line of the chorus and that's about it, but it doesn't keep me from yadda-dat-datting through the rest of a song and irritating any innocent person within vocal range.

One might think that because of my love for singing obscure songs without knowledge of the lyrics, karaoke would be the perfect venue for me. It's not. Music and Brandon simply do not mix well. I either can't keep up with the highlighted words or I have a tendency to want to rush to the next verse. Couple that with my inability to carry a tune and you have a deliciously awful train wreck of entertainment.

* * * *

Matt Wieters had just gone 0-4 in his anticipated Major League debut in Baltimore. The Orioles still beat Dontrelle Willis and the Tigers before a sold-out crowd and a post-game display of fireworks. Once the crowd had dispersed from Camden Yards, Ken, Steve, and I made our way across the street to Pickles Pub where four bottles of selected beers were being sold for five dollars from sidewalk vendors. We watched happy Baltimore fans play Corn Hole, Beer Pong, and Billiards as we made our way through the various rooms of the pub and threw back beer after cheap beer.

After the bouncers escorted us out with the masses from the pub and forced us to finish our drinks, we found ourselves in a small bar down the street from Oriole Park with a few lingering fans. People moved in slow motion around me and I had to speak slower and louder to get my words out clearly. As if I had been planning it for years, I made a beeline to the karaoke disc jockey and put my name on the list of singers as soon as I entered the building. I had Seal's Kiss From a Rose stuck in my head for about a week and this was the perfect outlet.

Within minutes of submitting my name, I had forgotten all about it. I made my way to the bar to get another beer and was in the middle of an important conversation of useless drivel and nonsense when the D.J. told the crowd to give it up for Brandon. Remembering what I had done, I took a defiant gulp of beer before slamming the glass on the bar top and made my way to the stage as the "Bayya (Bop Bop) Badda da Da (Bop bop)" introduction began. I had just enough time to dislodge the microphone from the stand before the first line on the teleprompter started highlighting itself in lime green.

"There used to be a graying tower alone on the sea. Yoooouuuu became the light on the dark side of meeEEE." Never had I gotten further than these two lines. Never had I opened a CD cover or looked up the lyrics online and I couldn't read fast enough to keep up with the continuing highlighting of (to me) nonsensical words. I stood on stage and read the lyrics to myself as the background singers echoed what I was supposed to be singing.

At this time, a drunk Steve emerged from the restroom and saved the day. He leaped on stage, grabbed the mike out of my hand and took the reigns of the evening's entertainment. Was Steve a closet Seal fan or was he just really good at reading? I don't know, but if it weren't for him, the audience of eight people would have had to endure four minutes and forty-eight seconds of torturous noise and cringe-worthy drunken awkwardness.

I'm not usually this inebriated when making an attempt at karaoke, but the result is always the same. I select a song that I think I know, stand on stage and struggle to make it work until the D.J. pulls the plug or until I ditch the stage and the still-playing song and background singers.

For the remainder of that summer, Ken and Steve were kind enough to remind me how horrible I was and how I owe everything to Steve. It was all in good fun; or at least I think it was, but mark my words: Someday, I will blow an audience away with a hilarious '90s love ballad. I just need to learn a lyric or two before that dream becomes a reality.

May 3: For It's Root, Root Root For The Visiting Team!

The home team's pitcher stands on the rubber and peers over his glove at his catcher. He shakes off his teammate's first sign and goes into his windup following the second. As he rocks his weight on his left leg, his right foot toes the strip of white on the mound and settles just in front of it. He shifts his weight to his right leg as his left rises and crosses his body, cocking the gun that is his right arm.

Upon its release, the red-laced, white ball hangs in the air for a bit too long. The right-handed visiting slugger waits for it to drop into his zone as he brings the barrel of the bat around to meet the white ball of leather, yarn, string, and cork. The crack of ash echoes throughout the sold-out crowd and the ball soars over the left field wall into a sea of silent fans.

I leap to my feet with joy and yell my support as the batter jogs around the bases. All around me, fans remain seated and shoot me glaring looks of hatred as my hands slap each other with furious repetition. I remain standing. I remain screaming. My applauding fails to cease. My team has just scored and I want the 43,000 fans around me to know who I'm rooting for.

There isn't anything like cheering for the visiting team. It's a weird feeling being the minority at a ballpark. I've supported the Padres in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Washington D.C., and Pittsburgh in that order and seen them win the first two and lose the last two. I was humiliated in a crowd of over 50,000 in L.A. as my beloved Padres gave up the lead in the eighth, but was overjoyed to watch them regain it and win the ballgame in the ninth. The game in San Francisco was a close one, but again, I was able to hold my head high as I walked out with a Friar's victory. After waiting through a three hour and eleven minute rain delay in D.C., however, I had to walk out in shame as the Nationals scored thirteen times compared to one Padres' run. My team took three games of a four-game series from the Pirates and yet I was at the one game they had lost.

It's a tight rope to walk. To sit in a crowd wearing the visiting team's colors. If your team wins, it feels great. But if your team loses and you're the minority, humiliation is an understatement. Walking out wearing that jersey and cap is like walking out with a sign that reads, "Make fun of me, please!" There isn't any point in arguing or getting upset. You just have to smile at the hecklers, laugh with the taunts and act as though none of it matters.

For as long as I can remember, I have been asking for an authentic Padres jersey and I finally got my wish this past Christmas. Ironically, I had to move away from San Diego and my Padres before receiving my gift. Now that I'm in a city that A, doesn't have a Major League team and B, is closest to a city who's team is outside of the Padres' division, I rarely have an opportunity to wear it. A jersey isn't a piece of clothing that you can wear on a (non-baseball related) date or to dinner with friends. It has to hang in the closet and collect dust for just the right occasion.

This Saturday, however, I will be making my maiden voyage to Houston to watch the Astros take on the Swingin' Friars and guess what I will be wearing. Guess how I will be acting in the event of a Padres' run. I only hope that I will be walking away from Minute Maid Park with a feeling of pride and not that of embarrassment.

May 2: Hardy Har Har

Being in the restaurant industry can cause one to grow increasingly bitter towards people and life in general. A bossy patron. An obnoxious child. I've even been tempted to cry over spilled milk. Anyone, whether in the industry or not can relate to these things. One thing that most people outside of the industry may not be aware of, is that of the jokes that servers hear too often.

Occasionally a server will be so preoccupied with the job at hand that he or she won't be able to check up on a table right away. When the server finally gets a chance to stop by, he or she might ask something along the lines of, "How is everything?" Far too often, a hasty eater that has already licked his plate clean will respond with, "It was awful." Funny, right? You see it's funny because the guest actually thoroughly enjoyed the meal and is being facetious by complaining that it wasn't any good. To the guest and his friends, this is comic gold. To the server, it's another opportunity to exercise the pseudo laugh.

Other examples of such quips include, but are not limited to, lines about not asking for a dropped check and lines about never receiving an ordered drink after quickly downing the delivered one. Because I've worked in this God-forsaken industry for so long, it is extremely rare for me to hear an original joke delivered by a patron that causes me to genuinely laugh. Today, it happened.

I was in the process of delivering a tray of drinks to a table on the patio. I carried the tray out in front of me which blocked my view of the ground and outstretched legs. In an attempt to step over the latter, I accidentally kicked one of my guest's feet. It wasn't anything serious by any means at all, but I apologized nonetheless. The patron didn't miss a comic step, though and reacted as if I really laid into him. "My leg!" he screamed. "I'll never play piano again!"

Now, I don't know how the story will translate through the modern wonders of blog, but I found the reaction so far from the ordinary that I was sincerely entertained. The exaggerated response to an innocent mistake was perfect. The punchline was flawless and executed with quintessential timing and finish. What really pulled the whole thing together, however, was in the way that he refrained from laughing at his own hilarity.

I've heard them all. Reluctantly passing on an appetizer to save room for dessert. Forgetting a wallet and offering to wash dishes to pay for the meal. It takes a certain individual to make a horrible joke in a restaurant, but it takes a different kind of person to make a joke that a server actually finds amusing.

The next time you're out with your friends and you feel the need to make a smart alec comment in regards to your wobbly table, consider how original the line actually is before going for the laugh. Making a fresh joke is difficult, but trust me, it's possible. Not only will you receive a genuine laugh, but you will make a server's day and he or she might actually use it in that particular day's blog!

May 1: Restroom Etiquette

When using a public lavatory, there is a certain etiquette one must follow. Here are the do's and don'ts one should keep in mind when using such a place:

Do:

• Upon entering, open the door and stare at the floor when passing someone washing his hands.

• A quick "thank you" when having the door held for you is in order, but nothing more.

• Maybe an "excuse me" when crossing paths.

• Go in, do your business, wash your hands, and get out.

• If you go in with a friend or family member, discussing the movie you just saw is okay, but nothing more.

• Keep your children locked in the stall with you and let them ask questions as loudly as they want. Everyone else does it so it's okay.

Do Not:

• Do not make eye contact through the reflection in the mirror above the sink.

• Do not, under any circumstance, make small talk with the other patrons.

• Do not carry on a conversation with the person in the neighboring stall.

• Do not grunt, groan, moan, yell, or sigh.

• Do not reach for the paper towel dispenser if someone is using the neighboring sink.

• Do not comment on the most recent thunderous flatulence. We all heard it. You don't need to double check.

If you keep these few things in mind when using a public restroom, you will find your stay very pleasant and rewarding. Thank you.