June 7: Welcome to the Bigs

High school graduations are among us. Another crop of young students are walking across stages all over the country. They're shaking hands with principals who have no idea who they are. Nine years ago, I went through the same routine. I waited in the blistering sun wearing my dark blue cap and gown and waited for my name to be mispronounced by the master of ceremonies only to shake the hand of a lady who acted like she knew me and was thrilled that I had made it.

I waited in that sun with seven hundred other graduates. Some of us would go on to do great things within the last nine years. Others, like myself, would accomplish absolutely nothing. The sky was the limit, though, on that hot June morning. We had accomplished the first step to achieving that future we all deserved.

As hot as it was that morning, it was a somber one as well. Childhood friends were saying goodbye. The people we saw every day for years would soon be in a different part of the country. For those of us that were moving away for college, we would soon be forced to find a new clique to be a part of. We would make new friends and create new memories in our new cities. At least we would have our ten-year reunion, right?

Wrong! I wasn't sucked into the Facebook vortex until my senior year of college, but since that fateful day of celebration (people at my school were literally ecstatic at the idea of our school being accepted to the Facebook universe) the social networking website has completely stripped all of the fun from the inevitable ten-year reunion.

From the moment Chapman University was considered cool enough to be added to the network of colleges, I started getting friend requests from some of my closest friends from high school. Because it had only been three years since I had seen a lot of them, there wasn't a lot of shock upon seeing updated pictures of them.

There is, however, the occasional friend that has found me more recently after all of these years and more times than not, I'm disgusted at his or her transformation. Kids that I once played soccer and little league with look like they could eat me. I've never seen so many chins in my life. Rolls and rolls of fat have appeared from nowhere to suffocate the images of my long, lost friends.

Now, it's virtually impossible for me to judge how I look now compared with how I looked then because I see myself every day. It's like when you hang out with a friend and his hair gets longer and longer and you don't notice until he cuts it off, but I honestly don't think I look that different. I'm still the skinny, white geek I was on that hot June morning in California. Some of these other kids, however, are just plain grotesque.

I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with beer. I'm not a health guru by any means, but I have noticed that all of the fat kids are holding cans and/or bottles of beer in the majority of their Facebook pictures. The only reason I say this is because I don't drink a lot, yet I have definitely let myself go since high school graduation and I'm still just as skinny as ever. My diet is horrible to say the least, but I have managed to keep the beer to a minimum and I look fantastic compared to some of these cats.

To be honest, I don't know what it is. All I do know, is that I'm absolutely shocked to see the state of these people. I doubt that I will go to my ten-year reunion, but even if I were to go, I wouldn't be shocked at all because of Facebook. Kids that could once run a mile faster than me now look like they could roll a mile faster. Tether Ball contest winners would now dominate in pie eating contests. If I'm this critical about the way they turned out, I wonder what they think about how I've aged.

June 6: Casey

The long scratch is followed by a soft thump before the scratch returns. The needle has reached the center of the spinning and lopsided vinyl and sends a repetitive reminder to turn the record and continue the album. The turntable sits on a beat up, hand-me-down oak table under a blanket of yellow light from an antique lamp in the corner of a dark and cluttered efficiency apartment. The unpolished brass lamp reaches up and into the crooked, floral-printed shade which protects the room from the harsh light of a 60-watt bulb.

An old army cot with one flat pillow and a neatly folded, tattered and frayed blanket sits in another corner of the room. At the foot of the makeshift bed, on top of the oak dresser, sits a small black and white television set with two manual nobs and two long antennae reaching out and up from the back of the unit to the ceiling. Next to the head of the bed, and on the other side of the black milk crate (used as a table) a plush and plaid armchair of oranges, blues, dirty yellows, and dark greens rests.

A quiet, oscillating fan sweeps over a gray and worn out shag carpet. The ground, however, is virtually out of sight. Small manual pumps and deflated rubber balloons of every shape and color are strewn from wall to wall like empty cans of beer in the home of an alcoholic. Round blues and long, oval-shaped greens. Red balloons twisted and shaped into poodles missing the puff at the end of their tails. Yellow hoops connected to orange balls with pieces of white string. Deflated pirate swords and remnants of popped party hats.

The scratch and thump of the turntable continues as an old man with unkempt gray hair and thick glasses stands in front of the bathroom mirror with a paper plate of various samples of paint. He wears a faded, short-sleeve blue and white plaid shirt. High, tan shorts rest on his hips and over his pale, thin legs. His old, off-white socks loosely grab hold of his shins and dip into his brown, leather sandals as he leans over the sink and stares deep into the mirror's reflection of himself. With his left hand, he softly dabs a thin brush into the brown paint, then the yellow and finally the white before bringing the tip to the skin of his own face.

He uses quick, yet careful little strokes as he applies the gold to his cheek. He watches his reflection and takes mental note of the elasticity of his skin. He considers the reaction of the epidermis as he strokes down, then up and then from side to side. His breathing is silent and held at times of deep concentration. The horn of a unicorn slowly takes shape as the brush works with a mind of its own.

Satisfied with his work, he washes his face, pulls a khaki vest over his button-up shirt and checks the contents of his pinewood art box. Paint and clean brushes? Check. Balloons and hand pumps? Check. String and a foldaway cardboard sample display? Check.

Silent and lost in his thoughts of what paint works with different types of skin and how to keep a giraffe from unwinding into one long yellow balloon, he grabs his supplies and exits the apartment. The door shuts behind him and the deadbolt is secured through the sounds of jingling keys. The fan continues its wave and the forgotten turntable lets out a long, tired scratch before dropping a soft thump.

June 5: The Black Card

Most of us in the restaurant industry have seen the American Express "Black Card" at one point or another. Guests come and go and we see our share of MasterCards, Visas, Discovers, and standard American Express cards, but it's the mysterious Black Card that never fails to get the server to show it to all of his or her peers upon receiving it. What's so special about these Black Cards? Why does it cause such a fuss at the computer stations?

Up until tonight, I only knew two things about the card. For one, it's made of anodized titanium which makes it heavier and sturdier than your typical credit card. The only other thing I knew was that there was no credit limit for the owner of the card.

To learn more about the card go here: http://finance.yahoo.com/banking-budgeting/article/109721/how-to-get-amex-black-card?mod=bb-creditcards

Man, I'm really not in the mood to write anything right now! Sorry.

June 4: Secrets Revealed

A girl I work with bumped into me tonight. I responded by telling her not to grind me while on the clock. She of course laughed and I continued the joke. "If you really want to grind me," I teased, "just send a text message later."

I was merely being a goofball with this friendly banter, but upon hearing the last line, her jaw dropped, her eyes became wide with amazement, and she literally stopped in her tracks. "How did you know about that?" she asked.

I didn't have any idea what she was talking about. I assumed from her reaction, that she sent some kind of sexual text message (probably in a state of inebriation) to a mutual friend or colleague. I don't stumble upon scenarios like this very often, but when I do, I continue the dance as long as I can. I play coy and act omniscient when asked questions about my sources to their private information.

As the night continued, the curiosity on her end didn't last for very long. I did, however, pass her talking clandestinely with a male friend and was immediately greeted by suspicious stares from both sets of eyes.

In a matter of five minutes and without saying a word, I discovered something extremely ignominious and humiliating for two individuals. I, of course, don't know the minute details of the situation, but obviously both parties were embarrassed by the surfacing of said information. It makes me wonder what else I could uncover on a daily basis if I were slightly more consciously perceptive of my surroundings.

June 3: My Padres

Last summer I watched over 250 Major League Baseball games. Two Five Zero. Some of them were live, some of them were recorded, and some of them were watched live as they were being recorded. A few were longer than the standard nine innings while others were shortened by rain. I believe the longest I saw was sixteen innings and the shortest was a postponed game that lasted half an inning. On average, I watched two to three games a day for the duration of the season.

By the time the season ended, I was exhausted. I was sick of baseball. I had seen too much. My one true pastime had started to feel like work and I began to hate it. Fastball, curveball, cutter, slider, change, I didn't care any more. I was doing my share of the work in the office and then I would go back to my apartment and watch the Padres' games. It was a lot of baseball, to say the least.

This year has been a complete turn around. I still catch the back end of most Padres' games, but it's not nearly enough. It's a lot easier to follow a first-place team than a last-place one. I plan my evenings around their games and I get really upset when I have a night off and they do too. Like tonight.

My apartment feels extra lonely and quiet tonight without the sound of Ted Leitner and Andy Masur describing every detail of the game. I miss the constant buzz of a crowd and I even long for the repetitive Kerry Steigerwalt and Associates commercials. I could listen to another game with different teams involved, but it isn't the same as having my Padres there to root for.

I saw entirely way too much baseball in 2009. I have missed entirely way too much baseball in 2010. It's funny how one can grow so sick of something only to really miss it when it's not there. It's still early in the season, but I could really go for some more baseball right about now.

June 2: Brociety

We are a family. A group of individuals with similar beliefs and values, we support one another through thick and thin. We may have different backgrounds and upbringings, but we are still one and the same. If you aren't a part of our clique, you are an outsider and will be treated as one. We are an unorganized fraternity of brothers. We are Bros.

Many have asked and inquired about our niche, but being a member is not as easy as one might think. There are rules that one must follow. Traditions one must respect. In order to be a Bro in our exclusive society, one must know and wear the many facets of the culture. Tight-fitting Ed Hardy shirts, Affliction hats with flat brims, and Diesel jeans with designed wear and tear. Whatever the article of clothing, it must be ridiculously expensive and it must proudly and boldly display the brand.

We drive black or white lifted trucks. We must not get more than ten miles to the gallon. We decorate our babies with naked angelic and devilish women decals. We cover our back rear windows with the Famous Stars and Straps F and our license plates are framed with intelligent quotes like, "Horn Broken, Watch for Finger."

To be a Bro, one must look like a Bro. That means spiked hair with frosted tips. It means arms the size of tree trunks and chests so inflated they could pop. Protein, bench press, protein, curls, and more protein. A Bro must not concern himself with his legs. The Diesel and Lucky brand jeans are there to cover the lack of definition and overall muscle in our quadriceps and hamstrings. If a Bro is insistent in wearing shorts, he must have Mom and Dad pay for calf implants with earnings from their car dealerships or construction companies.

Aside from a Bro's love of brand recognition and protein powder, beer is essential. Natural Light, Keystone Light, and Coors Light are a Bro's best friend at a party. When we're not involved in the discussion of our maximum bench press, we're filling our red cup with more beer. One must know how to tap a keg. One must partake in the traditional keg stand and shotgun ritual. Skills in Beer Pong, Quarters, Kings, and Flip Cup are essential. One will never achieve Bro status until he attempts to crush an empty can on his forehead. Only the elite will succeed.

We race dirt bikes and quads. We attend monster truck rallies and talk about wakeboarding. We drink beer and work out. We do these things for one purpose and one purpose only; to pick up chicks. A Bro is not interested in a committed relationship. He is not interested in hearing what a chick has to say. Our goal with every chick is to get inside her pants. End of story. This intention often forces us into committed relationships, but we will not let it deter us from our main objective. We will continue to sleep with as many chicks as we can until we get caught.

We are a family. We are a fraternity. We're loud and obnoxious. Moronic and dimwitted. We swear, smoke, drink, and party. We chase tail and lift weights. We are a group of individuals that will stop at nothing until we have gone all the way with a broad. We are the Brociety.

June 1: Noodle Trouble

A man stands with a mallet. It takes all of his upper-body strength to lift the tool's head from the ground and swing at its target. The head of the mallet smashes into the flat surface and sends a deep ringing wave of energy from the point of contact and throughout the wall. Loud, thunderous vibrations take control of the previously placid surface which just so happens to be my skull.

I have a pounding headache. The skin on my back burns and is hot to the touch. My eyes are tired and bloodshot. The man with the mallet is merciless as he continues to slam his blunt instrument on my skull over and over again.

Today I spent six hours jumping off and swimming around a barge on Lake Travis for a coworker's birthday. There was drinking and dancing. Loud music and more drinking. There was leaping from second-floor levels and flying through blue water slides. Floating on multicolored noodles and saving runaway noodles.

At one point, I found myself swimming after one of these escaping noodles. No matter how hard I tried, I could not gain on the floating device, but I found myself further and further away from the party. Before I knew it, I was sucking in a combination of air and water doing everything I could to stay afloat. If I could only get to the noodle, I could rest and hope for the captains of the barge to see me floating on the horizon and turn the party to come and get me.

If it wasn't for the boat of strangers, I may not be writing this post. They maneuvered their craft so one of the passengers could grab the noodle and then came to my rescue. I grabbed on to the orange float and was pulled toward the barge while trying to keep from being sucked into the motor. After waving my thanks and gratitude to my new friends and watching them drive off, I breathlessly hoisted myself on to the barge and collapsed on the floor. No one even noticed I was gone. No one saw how far away I was. No one even saw the boat save me and drop me off!

Drinking, swimming, dancing, yelling, jumping, burning, and being saved has left me exhausted and worn out. The mallet is smashed into my skull once again and my ears are left ringing. I had a great time today, but now I need another day off of work to recuperate from my day off of work.