October 7: Smiling Cigar Guy

Unless you've been living under a rock for the past week, you have probably heard or read of the smiling cigar guy at last week's Ryder Cup. A photographer captured the picture of a lifetime when he had the misfortunes of having his camera placed in the immediate trajectory of a Tiger Woods' shot. The ball is beautifully blurred as it approaches the lens while a focused Tiger and group of fans watches its flight.

A man from Channel 4 balances his camera on his shoulder while another raises his arms to keep the crowd quiet. A man in a white cap and t-shirt crosses his arms as he follows the ball and another keeps his hands calmly thrust into the pockets of his pressed, blue slacks. This last man sports a navy blue jacket, long red hair pulled into a ponytail, and oh yeah - a terrific Zapata mustache. While every face in the crowd behind Woods possesses a look of concentration and attentiveness, our protagonist is calm and relaxed while chewing on an unlit cigar. His countenance suggests nothing shy of a euphoric jubilation.

Five years ago, the photo would be the subject of countless chain-letter emails. Ten years ago the picture might find its way to a rudimentary Sports Illustrated website before being the subject of desire in the physical magazine and various daily newspapers. In October of 2010, however, it has become a "web sensation" in a matter of days.

The mere fact that a photographer was able to so clearly capture such a fast moment is brilliant. That alone would make the image a thing of wonder, but to have this anomalous character in the front row of onlookers makes it a classic. People aren't talking about the ball, though. They aren't tweeting about the pristine crowd or the in-the-moment moment. It's the smiling cigar guy everyone wants a piece of and thanks to the wonders of technology and Photoshop, every computer-sitting geek is putting his creativeness on the World Wide Web.

People have discarded the action shot of golf and crowd. They've taken this unusual man and his cigar, cropped him off of the fairway, and inserted him into our more revered moments of history. Suddenly, the smiling cigar guy has found himself on the cover of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club. He's casually standing in the corner of the ring as Muhammad Ali looks down at a KOed Sonny Liston. He's in Times Square celebrating the victory of Japan with a horny sailor and nurse. Somehow, he even managed to pose next to Neil Armstrong while cruising the craters of the moon!

Whether it's a lack of general activity or something else, people have really taken creative advantage of technology. It's absolutely amazing and entertaining to witness what people can do with their computers. The fact that these avenues of expression are open to the public intrigues me and awes me at the same time. A complete stranger and unknown can become an Internet sensation just by being at the right place at the right time; and that 'stache helped too!

October 6: Gagging on Glee

I understand that not all of us share the same likes and dislikes. I say "potato" and you say "potato," right? I like beef enchiladas and you like cheese enchiladas. I get it. What I don't get, however, is how the pop culture phenomenon known as Glee has gotten as big as it has.

Now, we're all entitled to our own opinions. Rarely do I meet someone that is still fascinated with Survivor. I'm crazy about it. I've seen every single episode of twenty-one seasons. I get emotional when introduced to every new cast. The difference between Survivor and Glee, though is that it is legitimately good television. I can relate to the characters. I enjoy watching them succeed and fail. The characters of Glee are obnoxious and flat out odd.

I'm not a professional critic by any means at all. In fact, I've only seen one episode of the show and it happened to be one that my dad admitted to not being very good. I don't know the back story of each character and I still don't really know what a Glee Club is. Choir? Drama? For these reasons alone, my opinion shouldn't be taken too seriously. But let's look at what I know:

A group of high school students sing popular songs. I like the music. I participated in my share of musical theatre while in high school so I guess I can kind of relate, but when I watch Glee I can't help but laugh at the show rather than with it. The football player is the same character as the lacrosse player in American Pie. There's the good looking brunette and the guy in the wheelchair. There's the overweight black girl and the overly gay guy. There might be a few others in the group, but I think these are the main people.

What I really don't like about the show is that it's like incorporating karaoke into story. Am I supposed to like the show because they're singing songs I know? Am I supposed to relate to them because I was once in high school? The one episode I saw was the one with Britney Spears songs. I saw it a week ago and I can't remember any storyline at all. It was nothing more than one Britney hit after another. Oh, and one of them had the guy in the wheelchair singing "Stronger" as he played football; with able-bodied athletes! Am I supposed to buy into this?

Survivor has twenty contestants stranded on a beach voting each other out while trying to maintain a level of civility toward each other. It's not the highest quality of entertainment, but for me, it's engrossing and amusing. It's psychological and hilarious. I would rather watch Survivor over Glee any day of the week and I can't understand how the latter could be so popular after the hour I spent watching it.

October 5: Breathe In Whistle Out

I can deal with the obnoxious muzak. The scream of a dentist's drill is irritating, but ignorable. I can put up with ringing phones and the nonstop traffic of patients and delivery men. A couple conversing about their weekend plans? No problem. The continual call for patients to be taken to the back rooms? Bring it on. One aspect of trying to read while in a waiting room that I simply cannot ignore, however, is the obese man across from me breathing heavily through his thick mustache.

The location: A cardiologist's waiting room. Armchairs lining the perimeter. Tables stacked high with old issues of People and US Weekly. The room was relatively empty when I entered with my mom and dad. Like an eleven-year-old girl, I sat beside my mom next to the magazine table in the corner with my finger marking my place in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Year 7). The pages were parted and the binding spread across my lap before I was settled in the soft chair.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron were just completing their transformations into their new identities thanks to the Polyjuice Potion when the assistant called my dad back. Concerned for her husband's health, my mom followed him in; leaving me alone with my three friends outside of the Ministry of Magic. There was one other man in the waiting room with me and an older couple that were soon called to the back.

Before I knew it, Hermione was in the courtrooms with Umbridge, Ron was taking care of a raining office, and Harry and I were searching for R.A.B.'s locket in a kitty-decorated office. While we tiptoed under the Invisibility Cloak, a heavy-set man entered the waiting room and plopped himself down in a chair facing me on the other side of the room. By the time Harry and I realized that what we were looking for was somewhere else, I was barely making it through one sentence increments without the interruption of whistling air.

Let's pause a moment for a demonstration. Go to an open window and place your mouth within an inch from the screen. When you're there, exhale. Go ahead. I'll wait. You know that high-pitched sound that was created by blowing air through the tiny stitching of the window screen? Imagine hearing that with every breath a stranger makes. Inhale whistle. Exhale whistle. Slow, loud, and annoying. Now try to read a book with that as the background noise.

It would be one thing if he was breathing with a normal pattern. Inhale 1-2-3. Exhale 1-2-3. Inhale 1-2-3, etc. I don't know if it's because he was nervous about seeing the doctor and I don't know if it's because he couldn't get comfortable in his seat, but his breathing was so scattered and unpredictable that I couldn't follow Harry around without stopping and rereading. I tried over and over again to go uninterrupted from the "Senior Undersecretary to the Minister's" office, into the golden elevators, and down to the courtrooms. I tried to sit in on the Muggle-born's hearing, but all I could hear was this man's breathing.

My Uncle Wes was a loud breather. A friend of my family is a loud breather. I remember standing at the bus stop as a kid with my neighbor and furrowing my brow in disgust at his loud breathing as he told me about his weekend. I don't get it. If I can sit ten feet from a person and hear his breathing, how can he not be bothered by it himself. His nose is three inches from his ear! Doesn't that noise get old? It's not as though he's out of breath and has to breathe harder. His exhales are whistles!

Eventually my parents came back from their appointment and rescued me from the obnoxious man, but not before I became thoroughly annoyed by his hissing and wheezing. Harry, Hermione, and Ron eventually escaped the grip of Yaxley, but not as quickly and effortlessly as they would have had the fat man not been present. It will forever be a mystery to me how a man can breathe so audibly and be so unaware of the noises coming out of his own nose and mouth.

October 4: Ice Cream Cone Fool

There's really no way around it. I can wear sunglasses. I can wear the latest designer clothes. I can listen to hip hop or I can listen to Mozart. I can wear flip flops and boardshorts or I can wear Dr. Martins and Diesel jeans. No matter what I do or how I go about it, there is no way to eat an ice cream cone without looking like an idiot.

Before you criticize my intelligence, make sure you read the previous sentence correctly. There is no way to eat an ice cream cone without looking like an idiot. Eating a cup of ice cream from Cold Stone and maintaining a respectable demeanor is achievable. Looking stylish on the beach while enjoying an ice cream sandwich is possible. As silly as the "Choco Taco" brand is, people eat them all the time without appearing foolish. A cone is different.

With a cup of ice cream, I can spoon a small amount into the mouth and allow the sugary treat to melt on my tongue. With a cone, one cannot savor the flavor with bites. When biting into a scoop of ice cream, the nerve endings in the teeth and gums relay rapid messages to the brain to freeze. It is virtually impossible to enjoy an ice cream cone without licking and lapping with the tongue.

I was educated on the proper ice cream cone eating techniques at a very young age by my father. The trick was to enjoy the cone with constant vigilance. The main objective of the ice cream was to melt all over my hand and drip on my clothing. It was my duty to constantly rotate the cone in my hand and lick around the rim of the cone and up toward the apex of the scooped ice cream. If I maintained this routine, the ice cream would never get the chance to create a laundry nightmare for my mother and it would save me the embarrassment of walking around with chocolate on my shirt. Unfortunately, this method does not eliminate the awkwardness of appearing to be an unintelligent simpleton.

Think about it. When you see a guy walking down a sidewalk with his tongue out, do you want to approach him? Do you want to get to know the guy that has his head cocked to the side with a look of pure concentration in his eyes as he laps vanilla into his open mouth? How mature can one in this situation appear to be?

I love eating ice cream cones. It makes me feel five-years-old again. It also makes me look five-years-old. I can't remember the last time I spilled ice cream while enjoying a cone, but it's because of my attention to detail that makes me look so foolish. It doesn't matter if I'm wearing a Hugo Boss shirt from Nordstrom or a Cherokee shirt from Target. No matter what I do, there is no way for me to look cool while eating an ice cream cone.

October 3: Honing Hancock

It's an unwritten rule in fame and celebrity that your name must not be legible when written on a postcard picture of yourself. When framed, a poster of you looking off into the distance must possess a black (or sometimes silver) scribble of ink. Only one letter of your name is supposed to be clear. It's usually the first letter of your first name and it's always at least four or five times bigger than the following dips and twirls of ink that represents your name. An autograph is a stamp of identity. It shows the fans that you're kind enough to stop and sign memorabilia, but due to its sloppy nature, it's clear you have somewhere more important to be.

As a child with fame and fortune in my dreams, I practiced my signature over and over again. There are seven letters in my first name and seven letters in my last name. The B was always the easiest. It was the rest of the name that tied my pen up. I didn't want someone to be able to tell what was written. I wanted them to know it was something with a B, but nothing else. Although I had that rule set aside, I didn't want my autograph to simply look like a B followed by scribbles.

After perfecting the first name, I contemplated including a middle initial before getting started on my last name. When I signed documents and forms, I would go back and forth before realizing the P should definitely be incorporating. After all, I was named after my deceased grandfather whom I had never met and it just felt right to include him in all of my glory.

I had my first name and my middle initial. Now it was time to end with a bang. Again, the R was the only letter that needed to be legible and the rest couldn't be a labyrinth of loops, dips, swirls, and twists. It had to look like it said something, but stay mysterious at the same time. Ps and Rs are very similar. The only difference is that an R has a little tail. This fit nicely with the layout of my autograph because the tops of both letters looked good so close to each other.

Years have gone by since I took up my project to perfect my signature. I have the general idea down and with every check I sign, it gets fine tuned a bit more. With every car insurance form I fill out, the letters glide more fluidly into the next. My autograph has slowly evolved into the perfect signature. Now, who wants to hire me to be famous for them?

October 2: Daddy Co' Fix It

When I was growing up, Saturdays were for sleeping in. They were for waking up and watching cartoons and the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. Saturday mornings were for sitting on a plastic beanbag chair that stuck to my bare back as I collected bananas and shot through explosive barrels as Donkey Kong. They were for turning up the volume on the TV in attempts to drown out the leaf blower just outside of my window.

Now in my twenty-eighth year of life, I often sit and wonder what qualities I would have to contribute to a successful marriage and family if I found myself involved in one. I can organize an iTunes music library and I can beat everyone I know in a game of ping-pong. I can score a baseball game and even hit a seventy mile-per-hour straight fastball three or four times out of every ten thrown at me. I can name all of the United State capitals and quote Seinfeld with the best of them, but in terms of being a everyday handyman, I'm worthless.

Today as salty sweat fell from my nose to the dirt I was shoveling, my mind began to wander. Fifteen years ago, I would be on that uncomfortable beanbag chair staring at a television set trying to get a plumber to throw fireballs at turtles as my dad worked in the yard. Instead of racing that plumber around on a go-kart, I should have been outside with my dad. I should have been learning about sprinkler systems and retaining walls. I should have been pushing wheelbarrows of edged ice plant and weeds to the burn pile in the canyon. I should have been learning how to change the line of a weed wacker and how to install an outlet.

I don't have a clue how to do any of the essentials that every family man should know how to do. I can plunge a toilet, but I can't change the flusher ball. I can change the oil in a car, but ask me to replace the timing belt and you'll get a blank stare. I know you're supposed to prime a wall before painting it, but I don't know when I'm supposed to use an oil or water-based paint. I don't know if those options even exist!

I grew up with the assumption that if something broke, "Daddy Co' Fix It." My dad is the ultimate man. He does all the work on the family cars, all of the yard work, and has been for as long as I can remember. Saturday has always been his day to mow the lawn, edge the ground cover, pull weeds, hedge the bushes, and blow off the patio. When he wasn't giving this house the amazing yard it has, he was getting his finances in order and doing everything he could to make them grow. Somehow, however, he always found time and knew how to fix any problem my mom, sister, or I ever had. A broken Barbie Doll? A Pinewood Derby Cub Scout car? A broken Christmas decoration? He could do it all. If I were to learn how to be a handyman, he was the one to learn from.

Today I uncovered a septic tank, built a compost sifter and used it, trimmed the orange trees, hosed off the patio, and dabbled in scraping the eaves in preparation of painting them. I learned how to use a table saw and the importance of setting a sprinkler to soften the dirt I needed to shovel. I did and learned all of this in one day. Imagine what I could have learned had I been by his side every Saturday for the past fifteen years!

I often wonder what a girl's father might think of me as a man. How could I support her and provide everyday services to the place we would call home? What kind of father would I be? I'm only twenty-seven, but these thoughts weigh heavy on my neurotic mind. I know how to warp to level eight, but I can't fix the kitchen sink without calling a plumber. Today made me realize how much I've missed and how unimportant the Power Rangers actually are. I was too busy wasting time in front of the TV to learn how to be a man from one of the best.

October 1: Harry Potter and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

I haven't told many people of my latest harebrained idea/adventure. It goes something like this: I quit my job, fly across the country, and live with my parents for a month and a half. I don't have any friends in the area and I don't have anything to occupy my time with. The room I had growing up has since turned into a place for my parents to store junk which means I'm sleeping in my sister's room. Surprise, Lindsay!

This winter the first part of the last Harry Potter film will be released. I read the first three books when they were released. Then I read them again in preparation for the fourth book. When the fifth book came out, I re-read the first four before moving on to the fifth. I read all five again before reading the sixth. Can you guess what I did before starting the seventh book? Before the first movie came out, I read the book again. You might say I'm a bit familiar with the series.

Because I've only read the seventh book once, I need some refreshing before forking over my hard-earned cash to see the film. Because I don't have anything to do for a month and a half, this is the perfect opportunity for me.

Coincidentally, Oprah interviewed the author of the Potter books today and it was noted on Entertainment Weekly's website that J.K. Rowling is "open to write an eighth, ninth, and tenth book" to follow up on where we left off with our favorite boy-wizard. As much of a fan of the series as I am, hearing this news does not excite me.

When Rowling sent Harry off to Hogwarts, she had planned on writing seven books; one for each year spent at the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. How beautiful and poetic is that? How perfect is that? In the interview with Oprah, Rowling said she felt done, but anything can happen. By "anything," she clearly meant, "If the paycheck is big enough."

That's what I hate about sequels. Someone came up with a clever idea about an ogre and a donkey, made a movie and called it Shrek. It made a killing at the box office so they took that clever idea and stretched it across three more movies to get as much money as possible. The sequels all sucked and took away the magic from the original. Shrek was a classic and now when mentioned, a person must specify which of the four he is referring to.

On the business side, sequels make sense. They're guaranteed money-makers. But as forms of art, they're destructive. Jurassic Park, Caddyshack, Grease. All great movies. All have terrible sequels. The Lost World, and Jurassic Park 3 are awful just plain stupid. Taking out a velociraptor with gymnastics? Are you kidding me? The original was brilliant. It's scary and fun. It was original and influential. The first sequel was Spielberg telling us that he didn't care about making a decent movie. The third was absolute garbage with the Jurassic Park brand attached to it.

Don't even get me started on sequels to real classic movies. I've been hearing rumors on a Goonies sequel for a long time. The Indiana Jones one actually went through and although I tricked myself into liking it, it's still pretty bad. A swinging LaBeouf with monkeys? I just read about a second Independence Day in the works. Wasn't the last July 4th exciting enough? Why not focus on surfacing the Titanic and let the Na'vi have a "vacay" after the hell they've been through?

There are very few sequels that are as good or better as their originals. The Godfather and Toy Story come to mind right away, but look at the third Godfather movie. Eventually greed will turn ugly. Will I read Harry Potter year 8, 9, and 10? Without question. Will they live up to the hype that they're sure to garner? There's no way of telling; especially since there isn't any guarantee they'll even be written. If Rowling does decide to bring Harry back into our lives, I hope they don't tarnish my feelings for the original books.