August 5: Blast Laughter

We were all standing around waiting for the evening rush to begin. It was a relatively cold evening and those of us that were scheduled to work the patio didn't have anything to do other than to gripe about what a waste it was for us to be there. I, of course, was trying to make the good looking new girl laugh without looking like I was trying. I wanted to appear personable so I was including the entire group in my jokes. Little did I know that this new-hire had a sense of humor of her own.

I don't exactly remember what she said, but I know I was the only one that laughed; and I laughed hard. There weren't any guests on the patio; just the four of us which made my guffaw that much louder. I had mixed feelings of cold and nervousness and I wanted her to think I thought she was funny. I wanted her to see what a laid-back kind of guy I was so I threw my head back, closed my eyes, and bellowed out a hearty laugh that awoke the silent, winter air. When I opened my eyes the other three members of our group stared with blank faces. "It wasn't that funny," one of them said.

We've all done it. A reporter interviewing a star athlete will unintentionally laugh louder than usual at a wise-guy answer. A nervous employee trying to keep his anxiety buried until one small joke allows it to erupt in one loud, obnoxious burst. A punk waiter trying to impress the new girl at work.

One of my favorite movie scenes is from Mary Poppins when Mary is scolding Burt and the children about laughing. She begins explaining that some people laugh through their noses and follows it with an example. After Uncle Albert hisses with laughter at her imitation, she goes on to sing about people that laugh through their teeth. This stops everyone in their tracks until Burt describes people that laugh too fast and those that only blast. HAAAAA!

It's hilarious when it happens. In fact, it's a joke in and of itself! It's embarrassing and fantastic at the same time because you make an ass out of yourself when that's exactly what you were trying avoid.

August 4: It's All About Winning

In December of 1997, the San Diego Padres acquired pitcher Kevin Brown from the Florida Marlins. Brown had just helped the Marlins win a world championship and he was about to lead a Padres' club to its first World Series since 1984. Although the team ended up getting swept by the New York Yankees, their appearance in the Fall Classic sparked San Diego to vote on a proposition that led to the building of a new downtown ballpark which would keep baseball in America's Finest City for years to come.

Brown was a hero in '98. He was a leader in the clubhouse and a mentor to the entire pitching staff. San Diego loved him. The city loved him, however, until December 12 of the same year when he bolted up the I-5 to accept the first ever 100-plus million dollar contract for a pitcher by signing with the Los Angeles Dodgers; the Padres' biggest rivals. Kevin Brown instantly became the most hated man in San Diego.

This afternoon I was sitting in my air-conditioned apartment watching a Giants/Rockies game when I had an epiphany. The Giants started the day off with just as many wins as the Padres, but with two more losses which put them at a full game behind the Friars for first place in the National League West. With the season crawling by, I've been watching the other teams in the Padres' division and keeping an eye on the standings at all times. I need the Padres to win every game and the other four teams to lose.

But why? Why am I so obsessed with baseball? Why do I care if the Padres win? What will change for me? As I sat watching and praying that the Rockies held their lead, I thought about my predicament. I thought about how insane it was to root for a team and how I continue to let my emotions get tied up by something that is completely out of my control. I still can't forget game 163 in 2007 when the same Rockies that I was reluctantly cheering for today beat my beloved Padres to claim the last remaining postseason berth. I thought about how an entire city could view Kevin Brown as a god and then hate his guts when he pulls on a different team's jersey.

It's no secret that I love the Padres. I want them to win every game. I hate how they've never won a World Series and that they are one of two teams that has never had a player throw a no-hitter or hit for the cycle. But how is my life going to be any different if they win it all? If the night ever comes when I witness them make that final out and celebrate on the infield, I will be jumping and screaming. I will be beside myself with joy, but how will the next day be any different? It won't. It would be one thing if I gambled, but I don't.

A doctor heals the sick. A veterinarian takes care of our pets. A mailman is responsible for delivering bills and letters to expecting people. But athletes? They make millions of dollars to throw a ball around as millions of people cheer for them. I can't comprehend it but if you'll excuse me, the game is about to start.

August 3: Please Pass the Vulgarity

As a waiter, I witness guests with looks of frustration at neighboring tables all the time. I've had to apologize for loud and inconsiderate groups that may have had one too many margaritas and I've even taken the liberty of telling junior high kids that they weren't the only patrons of the restaurant.

I can remember times when I was growing up that my family was the aggravated group that had to deal with hyper, disobedient tykes. I'm sure I was a part of an irritating table or two in high school, but rarely can I remember sitting in a booth and being cognitively embarrassed to be a part of the group I was with.

After spending the day floating the river, I found myself tired, hungry, and slightly inebriated as I slid into a booth with three people whom I had never met before the day had started. The conversation started casually enough with topics ranging from places of origin to vegetarianism. The orders were taken and the food was delivered as an elder couple was seated directly behind us in the neighboring booth. The woman and I made eye contact for a brief second as she sat facing our table and (who I presume to be) her husband sat with his back to us.

As if on cue, my table's conversation immediately shifted into the always-popular topic of sex. (On a side note, why am I the only person in the world that doesn't have any interest in sharing my experiences with peers? What I do with a girl is her and my business only. I've never had any desire to run to my male friends and describe in detail what I've been doing.) Words that included rape, anal, and foreplay were tossed around and were delivered with that extra pop that all provocative words and phrases possess. Expletives, stories of the loss of innocence and the spread of sexual corruption were traded like baseball cards on a playground.

The image of those aged blue eyes and soft smile kept replaying in my memory as the stories grew more and more promiscuous and vulgar. I remained silent and included the complimentary nod so as not to be seen as antisocial, but I was nevertheless embarrassed to be seen as a part of this group. To our booth neighbors, I was still guilty by association.

Did they say anything to us? No. Did they say anything to each other? I don't know. They never gave any indication that they were annoyed by our conversation and I didn't notice them shaking their heads in disgust at our low-brow topic. For all I know, our conversation never even made it to their table, but it doesn't change the way I feel about being in a group like that.

I may be aging myself here, but there's a time and a place for that kind of talk and a restaurant is not one of those places. Each of the four members at our table had a college education, so why couldn't we choose a more appropriate topic? I've always felt bad for people that can't have a good time without being interrupted by a rowdy group and today I was a part of one of those groups. I just hope that our conversation today didn't interfere with the couple's meal.

August 2: Superstitious Turk

For Christmas last year, my parents gave to me a San Diego Padres beer bottle koozie. It's great because it's in the shape of a little jersey complete with the number 0 on the back. After failing to have it in my possession any time I went somewhere where I ended up with a bottled beer, I started leaving it in my truck. It was such a cool little accessory and I really wanted to show it off so I thought by having it on the backseat of my vehicle I would be more likely to use it. I was, however, still forgetting all about it. It wasn't until recently that I saw it back there and decided to bring it up front with me where it just happens to be the perfect size to comfortably fit over my gear shift.

I keep it on the shifter every time I park; always adjusted to face outward and always gently pressed as low as possible on the handle. Since I've introduced the koozie to the front of the truck's cabin, it has become somewhat of a superstitious object for me. In my mind, the way I place it upon the shifter can determine the success the Padres will have in that day's game. If I can place it there without it getting caught on an edge and I can flawlessly slide it down, I believe the Padres will win. I can't knock it off center or I will be the cause for a Padres' loss.

This is hardly my first voyage into superstition. When I was a kid, I used to spend hours shooting free throws in increments of ten. I would then ask a question like, "On a scale of one through ten, what are the chances of my little league team making the playoffs?" If I made six free throws out of ten, I convinced myself that we would have a sixty percent chance.

Athletes are some of the most superstitious people around and no one had has many obscurities as professional pitcher Turk Wendell. According to The Bleacher Report, Wendell:

• Insisted that the umpire roll the ball to the mound rather than simply throw it to him. (If an umpire would ignorantly throw the ball to him, Wendell was known to let it go past him, or even to let it bounce off his chest, after which he would retrieve it from the ground.)
• Would turn and wave to the center fielder and wait for him to wave back before proceeding with each new inning.
  
• Would reportedly draw three crosses in the dirt of the pitcher's mound before each inning.
• Would crouch down whenever his catcher would stand.
• Would always take a colossal leap over the baseline at the end of each inning.
• Often brushed his teeth between innings (some claim that he brushed between every inning). While brushing, he often hid in the dugout, either by ducking behind objects or by facing the wall.
• Wore jersey number 99, in honor of Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, the main character in the movie Major League (played by Charlie Sheen). In addition, in 2000, he signed a contract worth $9,999,999.99.
• Wore a necklace made from the claws and teeth of various animals he had hunted and killed.
• Sometimes threw his glove into the stands when leaving a game.

I don't know how accurate the entirety of this list is, but the teeth brushing part definitely is. Any baseball fan will be able to tell you that they've heard about Wendell's oral habit. It's funny how we let a small act like being careful to place a koozie just right over a gear shift control our daily routines.

August 1: Veggie Tales

You shouldn't be surprised to know that while growing up, my family ate every possible meal together. During the week, my mom had to get ready for work so it was just my dad, sister, and me eating a bowl of cereal. But every night, Mom would cook dinner and the four of us would sit down together and talk about our days. On the weekends, we did the same, but with breakfast thrown into the mix.

Without the distraction of cell phones, books, or hand-held video games, we would always sit in the same seats at the table. Dad would be at the head with Mom to his left, Lindsay across from him, and me to his right. There would be meals filled with tear-causing laughter and meals of bad-mood silence. There would be times where I would orchestrate ridiculous games of nonsense such as Mom and me leaning into the table and Dad and Lindsay leaning away and then vice versa. Each game would end with uncontrollable laughter which inevitably turned into us laughing at Dad's high-pitched laughs.

I treasure those memories. Not only were these family times responsible for molding my personality and views on life, but I'm starting to believe that the meals we were eating were just as important. There was at least one serving of fruit or vegetables with every meal. We ate most of our meals at home and rarely ordered take-out.

As I witness parents feeding gobs of queso and grease to their kids on a daily basis, I often find myself wondering what these kids will look like when they move away from Mom and Dad and begin deciding what to eat on their own. I strongly believe that if it weren't for the years of healthy and steady diet while growing up, I would be a pudgy mess. Because I ate my fruits and veggies during my crucial years of development, I feel like my metabolism fully established itself which in turn has allowed me to eat as poorly as I currently do.

Although I don't eat like I used to, I'm still extremely cautious with what I eat which is more than I can say about the future of these young fatties. Queso and grease is just the tip of the iceberg, I'm sure. A parent that allows that kind of diet is a parent that brings home a bucket of KFC for a Friday night in front of the tube. A parent like that doesn't pay attention to the hours and hours a child will spend playing video games or surfing the net instead of playing little league or riding bikes around the neighborhood.

There have been documentaries upon documentaries of how America is becoming increasingly obese and lethargic, but I see it in person every day. These kids aren't eating right. Their ideas of exercise is playing Wii fit; a video game. What's wrong with being outside? What's wrong with ringing the neighbors' doorbell and asking if Jimmy can come out and play? Why do I care?

July 31: Beirut

It was the winter of 2008. I had just received word that I had been hired as an intern for a baseball statistics company 3,000 miles away from home. I would soon be driving across the country by myself to a location in which I had never been to work with people I had never met. The thought was terrifying and thrilling at the same time. Before I could partake in my adventure, though, I had to find a place to call home for the next eight months.

The first logical step was to scour Craig's List every day and hope to stumble upon an affordable yet safe abode. I was looking for everything from one bedrooms to studios to guests houses to rooms to rent in strangers' homes. I didn't know what the standard of living on the East Coast was. The last time I had been was in the eighth grade and finding a place to live wasn't exactly at the top of my to-do list.

I emailed a few people before finding something promising that sounded fairly close to the office I would be working out of and wasn't out of my planned budget. If things fell into plan, I would be living in the basement of a home that housed two guys who were similar in age to me. We exchanged a few emails and I explained my situation.

When he determined that I wasn't a complete nut, we arranged a time to speak on the phone and work out the details of our situation. When the day of the call arrived, I was nervous because time was running out and I desperately needed a place to drive to from my parents' home in CA. I anxiously paced around my living room as he described the house I would be calling home and which of his belongings I would be sharing the basement with.

My nervousness turned to pure adrenaline when he mentioned the ping pong table. I quickly let him know that he didn't stand a chance against me and he was free to challenge me whenever he liked. We joked around a bit before getting back on subject, but all I could think of from then on was that ping pong table.

To make this already long story a bit shorter, things didn't work out. I ended up connecting with two other interns and forming a threesome in which to live which happened to be much closer to the office. The new situation was much better than the basement, but I still yearned to play some ping pong.

About two months into the internship, I received an e-vite from the owner of the home I was supposed to live in inviting me to take part in his annual Beirut tournament. I didn't have a clue what a Beirut tournament was, but in the invitation he had given a breakdown of the night's events. An hour before the tournament was to begin, "players would be allowed to practice on one of the many tables provided." In my mind (and because we had spent so much time talking about table tennis), that meant a Beirut tournament was a giant ping pong tournament. I immediately RSVPed my response as I will be attending.

When the day came, I dragged one of my new friends (Steve) from the internship along. After all, this would be the first time I would meet my would-be roommates in person. It would just be silly to go alone. I grabbed my personal ping pong paddle (complete with padded, protective case) and hit the road.

As the GPS navigated us to the party, I grew more and more excited at the idea of a room full of simultaneous ping pong games but something deep in me kept asking, what if it's not a ping pong tournament. What if it's something completely different?

There was no turning back. I parked my truck and Steve and I made our way up the sidewalk toward the house. "Maybe you should tuck the paddle in the back of your jeans' waistline just in case it isn't a ping pong tournament," Steve suggested as we were about to push open the front door. "Then you won't look like the idiot with the only paddle at the party." Best. Advice. Ever.

A Beirut tournament is nothing more than a Beer Pong tournament; and this was one heck of a set up. There were at least ten tables all supporting triangles of red cups of beer and at least fifty people waiting to throw ping pong balls into said cups. Music was blaring and laughter was rampant as I introduced myself to the hosts and signed up as if I knew what I was getting into the whole time. Before the tournament began, I quickly ducked out to dispose of my embarrassing paddle in my truck. I arrived in time for the National Anthem and the ceremoniously delivered speech that the host presented to kick off the evening.

Steve and I were ironically paired up with the hosts for our first round and we held our own for most of it. In the end, however, they came back and slammed the door on our dreams of winning it all in our glorious anonymity. I never did play ping pong with my would-be roommates, but going into the Beirut tournament expecting a basement of table tennis nerds was one of my highlights of 2009.

July 30: Don't Interrupt Me!

It was an extremely hot and humid day and for reasons that I can't quite come up with, I decided it would be a great idea to go for a long bike ride. My definition of a long bike ride, however, tends to be slightly different than most people's (not you, Darren). I started riding and I knew it was the wrong activity right from the beginning of the ride. Sweat immediately began forming on my brow as I peddled down the relatively flat street...

I use Smart Balance buttery spread instead of traditional butter. Why? Because my mom bought it while I was growing up and it's a "healthy substitute" for butter. I don't know the nutritional facts of it and I don't know if I'm defeating its purpose by using more to get any flavor.

...Where was I? Anyway, I was peddling down a flat street and I was already sweating profusely. My helmet was doing nothing to soak up the salty discharge and my eyebrows were already saturated with it. This left nowhere for it to travel but into my eyes. Have you ever had sweat drain into your eyes? It's not comfortable. It stings like...

Why is U the only letter of the alphabet that gets the pleasure of being doubled? It's like, whoever's job it was to come up with twenty-six letters for the English language ran out of ideas toward the end. "This will be S and this will be T. Then U, V, and um, let's see. Let's just double U and and erase the top of part of the middle line; W. Perfect.

...hell! Now not only did I have to worry about passing cars and children playing on the sidewalk, but I had to do it blind! I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to straighten out my bike's course before the perspiration forced me to clench them closed again. The weird thing is that instead of pulling over and wiping my eyes, I just kept riding. Why didn't I think about...

This is pretty irritating isn't it? When people ask me what my biggest pet peeves are, I'm always strapped for ideas. There are so many things that bother and annoy me, but I don't want to scare the person off. I inevitably say something dumb like, "When a vending machine thinks my crisp dollar is too crumpled."

Being interrupted is by far my biggest pet peeve. I hate it and it can instantly change my mood. I've been sent home from work for flipping out on another employee just for interrupting a conversation I was having. It went something like this:

I was explaining to another employee how we were going to break down the table arrangements after a large party when this third guy comes charging at us with his arms flailing in the air. He said something along the lines of, "Hey hey hey, Brandon." I responded with "HEY HEY HEY, JASON! CAN'T YOU SEE I'M TALKING WITH SOMEONE?!" The manager then said, "Brandon get out of here. Go home."

I was livid. Up until the time Jason interrupted me I was in a relatively good mood. There's just something about being forced to cease talking and slamming the breaks on my train of thought that really irks me. When I tell stories to people and they interrupt me with questions regarding the details of the story, I go ballistic. Sometimes I respond by stopping and starring and asking them if they're ready for me to continue and sometimes, if they interrupt me too much, I'll stop the story completely and simply walk away. This last one is my favorite method because it really lets them know how irritated I am with their behavior plus they don't get the end of the story. They'll beg me to continue and they promise they won't interrupt anymore, but I rarely give in.

The most ironic aspect of this whole pet peeve of mine is that I am forced to interrupt people every day for my job. I can't simply approach a table and wait for them to finish talking or I would be waiting there all night. "Are you guys doing alright?" Boom. Done. Next table. I sometimes wonder if I would lose it if a server did that to me, but I have no other choice.

For me, there isn't anything worse than being interrupted. It's not that I want to hear the sound of my own voice, but having to halt my train of thought because of someone else's inconsideration really ticks me off.