September 6: Man in the Mirror

Have you ever walked by a bathroom with its door open in your own home? If it’s like my bathroom, the mirror above the sink can be seen through the open door and if you have something on your mind, seeing a person in the corner of your eye in your own personal bathroom can scare the crap out of you. Without a conscious mind, seeing a reflection of yourself when you least expect it can have heart-skipping results. It’s just you, but in that moment of doubt, it’s a stranger. Someone watching you vacuum the living room. Someone waiting for you to notice him.

When I’m by myself, my mirror is my best friend. When the music is thumping and I’m feeling unusually hyper, that good-looking guy in the mirror is my biggest audience. He’s there to sing along with me. He’s there to critique my outfit. He’s always honest about how my hair looks and he never lets me leave the house with something in my teeth. When I try talking to him about something that’s been on my mind he mimics me, but I don’t get upset. I know it’s all in good fun.

The man in the mirror may be my best friend when I’m alone at home, but when I’m in public, it’s a different story. I hate public-reflected Brandon. It’s this version of me that stares at me through the crack in the bathroom door. For some reason, whenever I’m in a public place where there’s a mirror, I can’t stand the sight of myself. It doesn’t matter if I’m in a restaurant with a large mirror to make the room look more spacious or if I’m drunk in the bathroom of a club. That Brandon looks so tall and skinny. He looks deathly pale and what’s up with the clothes he’s wearing?

When I’m washing my hands in a public restroom, I hate making eye contact with myself. I can see the guy to my right and his reflection looks the same as his real-life twin. The guy holding his son up to the sink to my left looks the same too. The guy in front of me? The one staring back with that stupid grin on his face? Who does he think he is?

Don’t get me started on talking into a mirror with someone else. If I could stand behind a partition of some sorts, I wouldn’t have a problem looking into a mirror and talking to a friend’s reflection. If I have to stand there, however, and watch myself react to something the friend says? The term cringe-worthy would be the understatement of the year. It’s bad enough that I can never get away from the sound of my own laughter, but to have to watch it is too unbearable for me.

There two versions of each of us. There’s that hilarious goofball that sings with us and makes sure we look our sharpest and then there’s that creepy doppelganger that follows us to public places and watches us from forgotten and unlit bathrooms in our own homes. One is good and one is pure evil. Why can’t the good one be my wingman? “You look great, Brandon. Go and talk to that cute girl!” Instead I get, “Look at you. You’re pathetic. A girl like that would never go with a skinny twerp like you!”

Well I’ve had enough. I’m not going to let myself get intimidated by myself any more. I’m starting with the man in the mirror. I’m asking him to change his ways. And no message gonna bend any clearer. If I want to make the world a better place, I’ve got to take a look at myself and make a change. That’s what Michael would do anyway.


*For whatever reason, whenever I write an entry outside of this website, copying and pasting is a nightmare. I apologize if today's post looks unusual.

September 5: Smokin' Baby

New Zealand earthquakes. College football. Chile miners. These are just a few of the things the Internet has been buzzing about over the weekend but none of them are as noteworthy as Ardi Rizal. A young boy from Indonesia is forced by his mother to make a life changing alteration to his daily routine and everyone is taking her side!

Raised in the South Sumatra province of Indonesia, Rizal was given his first cigarette from his loving father at the ripe age of 18 months. Since then, life had been grand. Rizal enjoyed spending the first two years of his youth hanging out on his red toy truck with his feet propped up on the blue steering wheel, his hands behind his head, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He loved puffing smoke circles as his friends ran around and played in the grass. At two-years-old, Ardi's habit was already limiting him from joining his pals, but he didn't care. He was happy.

Minding his own business and smoking upwards of forty cigarettes a day, Rizal lived life to the fullest for over a year and a half. Happy and content as he was, the rest of the world became outraged once a video of the toddler doing his thing surfaced online. People wanted his parents turned over to Child Protective Services. They wanted new tobacco laws enforced. All Ardi wanted was another cigarette.

Rizal's father, Mohammed couldn't see what the fuss was about. He thought his son looked healthy and because he threw such monumental fits whenever his parents attempted to keep him from his hobby, Mohammed simply ceased trying. He wanted his son to be happy and to enjoy his youth. He wanted to be the "cool dad" on the block. Rizal's mother, Diana on the other hand, felt differently.

The victim of a childhood with strict parents, Diana wanted her own son to experience the same life of discomfort she had. Where Mohammed was lenient, she held her ground. No TV on school nights. No dessert unless the plate was completely clean. Ardi had chores at age two that some kids never had. Chores that included rotating the tires of the family caravan, cleaning out the hen houses, and sweeping the soot from the chimney. If it weren't for that cigarette with the addictive nicotine that was secretly handed to Ardi from Mohammed while Diana was at the grocery store, none of this would be an issue. She didn't care about his health; she just didn't want her son to be happy.

Ardi Rizal has been off cigarettes for just shy of a week now. He has become more active with the kids in his neighborhood. He still loves his little red truck, but the scars left from his controlling mother may never heal. In the past week, he has been known to call out for his cigarettes in his sleep. He draws tobacco leaves in the dirt and hums Marlboro jingles while he plays. It hasn't been confirmed whether or not he'll ever talk to Diana again, but Rizal has publicly gone on record as saying that he has not smoked his last ciggy.

September 4: Do You Have a Pen?

Maybe I'm the wrong person to be writing about this sort of thing given my position in life. It would be one thing if I had an admirable position of status but I don't. My opinion doesn't really count for anything, but I am always flummoxed by the lack of effort that is often exercised by job applicants.

Being back to work on "light duty," I have the distinguished honor of leading group upon group to vacant tables throughout a bustling dining room with a stack of menus and a warm smile. I also have the pleasure of standing at the front of the house in my black attire to welcome each guest as they push and shove for the next available table.

It is the latter in which I see an attractive blond-haired girl arrive and ask the head host for an application for employment. Seven o'clock on a Saturday evening. Upon receiving an application and a menu to use as a surface to write on, she proceeds to sit in the one vacant chair (usually reserved for guests waiting to be sat in the dining room) in the lobby. Dressed in a black tank top, black slacks, and black sneakers, it's clear she came straight from another restaurant. Was she fired? Did she quit? Whatever it was, she obviously doesn't understand the demands of a restaurant staff at seven o'clock on a Saturday evening. Oh, and we wouldn't happen to have a pen for her to use, would we?

I get it. Working in this particular industry isn't the most ambitious of positions, but you obviously need a job. Would it kill you to act professional for your first impression? Am I professional when I'm at work? No. I'm probably the least professional member of the staff, but I still wore a decent shirt and tie when I applied. Not only does dressing up look professional, but there's something about a necktie cutting off my air circulation that tricks my brain into making me act professional for a future employer.

Although I never leave my home without a pen in my pocket, the idea of attempting to fill out an application without one is just plain silly. I have yet to make words appear on a piece of paper with the powers of my mind. Again, professionalism. You want a job? You want to be perceived as a person that is capable of performing a simple task? Bring something to write with.

In between seating groups of people, I watched this girl with the restaurant's pen fill what position she was applying for and what salary she expected. (How I wish I could have seen her answer.) I waited for her to return the application to our head host only to be told to return Monday afternoon when business would be slower. I couldn't wait to see her expression when she realized she had just wasted half an hour.

She stopped writing. She stood to return the paperwork. Before she made it to the front desk, she was intercepted by none other than the restaurant's general manager. The head honcho. She was sure to get the "come back later" request. Instead, he pulled her aside and asked her about her qualifications.

Maybe I'm the wrong person to be writing about this sort of thing given my position in life. I'm just a waiter with an education from a private university. Before tonight, I never would have applied for a position without at least a tucked in collared shirt and my own pen. Maybe that's my problem. I should be applying for jobs in my pajamas and with a week's worth of facial hair. After all, I'm just the idiot with the menus.

September 3: Ain't No Fashionista

I have a decent sense of humor. I have an incredible sense of taste. If there is the smallest amount of coffee in my brownies, I will discard the dessert faster than you can say, "it's supposed to bring out the chocolate!" I've made do with my other senses, but the one that has gotten the best of me for twenty-seven years is my sense, or lack thereof, of fashion. When it comes to clothes, whether it's buying them, wearing them, or even washing them, I'm clueless.

Up until a few years ago, I only wore shorts. Summer, Autumn, Winter, and Spring. Shorts. Sunshine or rain. It didn't matter. Shorts. I literally had two pairs of jeans (one of which my sister put over a fireplace to dry and burned them rendering them useless unless I was painting or playing in mud) and one pair of black slacks for Christmas and Easter. I never wore my decent pair of jeans because they weren't decent at all. I was under the impression that the "baggier, the better" rule applied with jeans. Oh. And they were cargo jeans.

So imagine my surprise when I ventured into the world of shopping for a pair of jeans and discovered that it wasn't just about buying for 32-inch waist. Loose fit, straight leg, boot cut, low-rise boot cut, regular, and painter. I'm not exaggerating here. Just a few years ago, I had no idea I would have this many options. I ended up getting the straight cut because it sounded better than boot cut. When I finally got around to wearing them out a week later, I was miserable.

I have since decided that boot cut jeans, although relatively uncomfortable at first, look the best on my scrawny legs. I now had a wardrobe of shorts, a few eight-year-old (and up) button-up collared shirts, a whole lot of free t-shirts. I decided it was time for my fashion-savvy sister to take me to the local American Eagle Outfitters (her suggestion) and let her pick out some new clothes.

We were pretty successful. She told me this polo would look good with jeans, this thermal would look good underneath it, that polo would look good with those shorts, and so on. I tried them on and she said yay or nay. And so it went until I had a 100% recycled AEO bag of new clothes. Perfect right? Think again.

In the store, I felt ridiculous in the "vintage fit" polos, but she insisted those were the style and they didn't look bad. Even if I felt comfortable in my new purchases, I didn't know what went with what once my sister was gone. Could I wear the blue, striped polo with plaid shorts? What about the green, striped polo? I bought a blue polo to go with the shorts, but could any of my t-shirts work with them as well?

This is what goes through my head every time I get ready to go out. The American Eagle polos have since been replaced by the old button-ups. As comfortable as the plaid shorts are, they rarely come out of the drawer any more either because I don't know what goes with them. I've had the same pair of tan shoes since my sophomore year of college, but I'm afraid to buy a new pair because I don't know what's cool and hip.

How long can I continue this trend? When is someone going to call me out for wearing the same shirt over and over again? I've tried using my sister's expertise and reading Men's Health for their advice. I've tried finding complete outfits online and even take mental notes of clothes that I think might work but I'm still helpless. I have absolutely no sense of fashion and I'm destined to wear the same clothes I wore in high school for the rest of my life.

September 2: FaceTime = Annoying Time

Remember when cell phones started popping up everywhere? You could be at the grocery store and the guy in front of you would be on his phone while the cashier tried to get him to pay for his groceries. It always took this guy longer to retrieve his credit card because he was using one hand to hold the phone to his ear.

A few years later, the idea of the bluetooth headset came out and instead of being extremely rude to the cashier, he looked like a complete lunatic to anyone on the opposite side of his earpiece. Standing there talking too loud and to himself. The credit card was more accessible but he gave up any illusion of not being a jerk.

Just as I was evolving to accept this form of annoyance, Apple had to release the iPhone 4 with its FaceTime chat. If you don't know what this new piece of technology is, then you probably haven't been exposed to it yet. You will. Let me put it this way: It's much worse than having to hear someone on his phone. Simply put, it's a camera that is on the same side as the receiver. A user can now hold a video chat right from his phone wherever he gets service.

I didn't think anything of it when I read about the iPhone incorporating this technology, but yesterday I was able to witness just how annoying it actually is to anyone not involved in the conversation. I was in line to see a movie and the guy next to me was holding his phone out in front of himself and talking extra, extra loud to make sure that the microphone was picking up his voice over the surrounding noise. After chit chatting for a bit, his wife leaned in and started yelling at the phone too. Isn't that neat?

As cool as the technological advance is, it really made this guy look like a pretentious punk. "Look at me and my retina display. Look how I can carry on a pointless conversation over video for no reason at all other than being on video." Again, it's incredible what Apple has designed. I'm amazed at how cool the idea of it all is, but do we really need this? Is this really what we should be spending our money on? You think this is bad? Yesterday, Apple announced the new iPod Touches will carry the same feature. I can't wait.

September 1: I'm Derek Jeter!

One of my favorite things about a movie is the use of the celebrity cameo. For whatever reason, a person playing himself is always funny. I think I've always found it an entertaining part of going to the movies, but it wasn't until I saw Austin Powers in Goldmember that I fell in love with the cameo. Tom Cruise as Austin Powers, Gweneth Paltrow as Dixie Normous, and Kevin Spacey as Dr. Evil, and a cigar-smoking Danny Devito as Mini Me all directed by Stephen Spielberg within four minutes? Absolutely hilarious. As terrible as it was, The Love Guru has by far, my favorite cameo. There is a scene in the Mike Myers flop that takes place at a professional hockey game and the game announcers are spotting celebrities in the crowd. Two of those celebrities? Mike Myers and Kanye West watching the game together. Brilliant.

It's the celebrity cameo that really attracted me to Entourage and Curb Your Enthusiasm. The premise of these two shows make the perfect venue for a cameo. Entourage is about a fictional movie star and his group of friends. The show follows the group around Hollywood as the star makes movies, buys expensive cars, and meets other real celebrities. Now in it's seventh season, it has gotten pretty bad, but seeing Matt Damon and Bono ask for philanthropic donations is great. Although the cameo isn't the only thing that I like about Curb Your Enthusiasm, it's always fun watching the main character wrestle with the likes of Rosie O'Donnell over such trivial things as who will pay for lunch.

My biggest gripe, however, with these two shows is the lack of consistency with their celebrities. Now, I understand the producers and writers of these shows can't have every cast celebrity play themselves, but it gets really annoying when a semi-star like Tim Meadows or Elisabeth Shue plays a fictional character in a mostly nonfictional world.

In one of the latest episodes of Entourage, an actor that has received most of his recognition from fellow HBO show, Curb Your Enthusiasm plays a fictional sitcom writer and it ruined the entire episode for me. Jeff Garlin plays a Hollywood agent named Jeff Greene on Curb. Being that he plays a character with his name, it makes it easier for viewers to remember his real life name. To guest on a show on the same network (a premium network that people pay to have, no less) as a character in the same industry with a different name is just dumb. If he had to be on the show, couldn't the writers keep him Jeff Greene? That would actually be kind of cool!

I know not everyone is as big of a film/celebrity buff as I am so these things probably aren't that noticeable, but there are a lot of people who know a lot more than I do. Tim Meadows? The guy was on Saturday Night Live for twenty-five years! Elisabeth Shue? She's an Academy Award winner and Hamlet 2 was advertised with her making an appearance as herself! She was Daniel Larusso's first love, for cryin' out loud! She plays an actress on Curb! She is an actress! Why couldn't she have played herself?!

There are plenty of capable actors and actresses out there that can play these roles for half the price. But, Brandon. What happens when those actors become famous? Then you're in the same situation, right? In a way, yeah. But you cast the show for today and not tomorrow. Do you think Mel Gibson would be as famous if his latest escapades happened twenty years ago? No.

Austin Powers, Entourage, and Curb Your Enthusiasm have some of the best celebrity cameos out there. A Will Ferrell movie usually has a few good ones too. I love cameos. I loved when Derek Jeter yelled, "I'm Derek Jeter" in The Other Guys. If Jeter would have yelled something like, "I'm a relief pitcher for the Round Rock Express," I would have been really irritated. So the next time you're casting a movie, remember this post. Thank you.

August 31: Let Me Live

Last night I had a dream that I would like to share with you. Most of our dreams don't make any sense at all and this was one of them. I'm usually not a fan of having to sit and listen to someone else's dreams because I never find them as interesting as the person telling the story but I figured this would be a good use of today's post.

In high school, the nearest bus stop to my house was about a mile away. In my dream, I must have still been in high school because I found myself walking to the stop. For some reason, I decided to take a different route which in turn caused me to realize that I was going to miss the bus if I didn't immediately start running. After what seemed like fifteen minutes of nonstop running, the bus I was trying to make drove past and the driver yelled my name out the window as she went by. Luckily, my parents pulled up in an old, unrecognizable car shortly thereafter with my sister in the back seat. They all got out and greeted me with hugs, but because I was still trying to get to school on time, I told them to get back in the car so we could go and that I would drive.

The house I grew up in was in the mountains and my school was down the hill about twenty to thirty minutes away. I'm telling you this because the voyage that my family was on took us on roads I had never seen before that went uphill. As we drove along, it started to rain - really hard. I know we didn't start off listening to them, but at some point on the journey, I remember hearing Queen's Let Me Live. (Great song, by the way)

This last part is the most ironic part of the dream, because it was during this song that the road turned sharply to the left at an upward climb. I knew the old car would struggle to make the climb so I pressed my foot down on the accelerator in order to maintain my speed. Unfortunately, I pushed down too hard which caused the tires to spin frantically on the wet pavement. As the tires spun, the car began to slide backwards until we met the edge of the cliff and fell off.

As the vehicle pulled us down, I saw the hood travel backward and over me until I was hanging upside down strapped in by my seat belt. All was silent as I saw my phone hit the car's ceiling. I kept hoping that the hood would continue until the car was right side up when we would eventually land but of course, this was not the case. We landed upside down.

In a lot of my dreams, I am aware that I'm dreaming. I can look at a situation and not fret because I know it's just in my imagination. This one was different though. I could feel myself lying on my back. I was in shock. This wasn't really how it was going to end, was it? It had to be a dream. Try as I might, though, I could not open my eyes and force myself to wake. I could hear a loud mechanical sound that I knew wasn't in my bedroom. I couldn't move my arms or legs so I just laid there trying to force my eyes open.

Obviously it was just a dream. I'm alive and well. That mechanical noise I heard? It was just my oscillating fan. Why it was so loud as I lied and waited to die is anyone's guess. Now, aren't you glad I shared that story with you?