EDEN’S FIRST VALENTINE

It’s that time of year again —the time when men around the world leave the comfort of their couch or chair grooves, turn off the sports broadcasts and hide from their significant others. Yes, I am referring to Valentines Day, which is actually just the shorter version of its original name: “Pay Attention to Only Me Day. I’d venture to say that Valentines is the one holiday that consistently comes unwelcomed every year to roughly 50% of the population.

I wish that I could properly express my feelings for this holiday in a way that would be understood by women and, simultaneously, have men around the world stand behind me in full support and agreement. But since I have conceded on the first part of that wish ever becoming a possibility, I have chosen to give a history lesson as a way to explain the male’s inability to live up to the lofty expectations of this romance-filled celebration instead. Hopefully it will be able to fulfill my second wish and elicit male support.

A friend of mine once asked, “Why are men such jerks all the time?” The friend was, of course, a female, and the question was most likely rhetorical. However, being the all-knowing man that I am, I went ahead and answered it anyway. After all, what good is all this male knowledge and advice if it goes unused? Am I right, gentleman? Anyway, my response came in the form of this history/biology lesson:

Most guys, me included, are born without the exhibitus sensitivula bone (commonly known as the “sensitive bone”) in their body, a point we are frequently reminded of by our female counterparts. Anyway, if research is correct, this bone was located in or near the rib cage originally, anatomically speaking. However, in the beginning of time and human existence, the patriarch of our race demonstrated an unfathomable amount of unselfishness and, ultimately, sacrificed this bone in order to create a companion for this dreary life. This act was, by far, the most generous deed ever perpetrated by man to date.

At the time, we (by we, I am, of course, referring to mankind —in the male-kind sense of the word) thought this was a good and necessary idea. We thought we had weighed our options adequately and come to a solid conclusion and decision that companionship would be worthwhile and completely essential. After all, companionship —in principle— sounds like a great alternative to dismally roaming the globe in lonesome fashion. However, unforeseen side effects (pun somewhat intended) began to surface, jabbing us like a thorn in our proverbial (and incomplete) rib cage. Not minutes had passed, after the transfer of bone, before a barrage of nagging, whining, complaining and belittling erupted from our newly created partner. Horrible mood swings, a roller coaster of emotions, and statements of “why can’t you be more like…” became frequent occurrences. Suddenly, “roaming the world a lone man” started to seem like a metaphorical “walk in the park.” It was at this moment that we began to second guess our decision to open up and share (pun intended most emphatically).

The consequence of our first father’s actions still surrounds us to this day. Females all over the world gush sensitivity out of every pore, whereas males are unable to display even an iota of sensitivity on any given issue. It’s what scientists call “human nature.” And women, bless their hearts, are conceiving and attempting every way possible to change it.

Truth be told, I don’t mind Valentines Day quite as much as I may make it seem. Where I hate the obligations to meet or exceed the romantic expectations that this holiday generates, I do appreciate the opportunity it affords to show my loved one just how much she means to me. Too often in our busy lives, the act of showing care, love, and even (dare I say) romance gets lost in transit. We may have given up our sensitive bones, but we still have our hearts.

I may not be able to gripe openly about the chore of being romantic without certain repercussions, but I will complain until my sides split about the commercialism of February 14th. Who knows, maybe I’ll lose my attitudinal excessivitus bone in the process.

A Decision Has Been Made

As of 2:41, Mountain Standard Time, on January 7th, 2010, I have come to the important decision and conclusion that I don't care if the Manatee becomes extinct.

Not that I really ever cared before, but I am now officially and publicly vocalizing my stance on the issue. I mean, if the Manatee is not going to make a more concerted effort for its prolonged survival on this earthly sphere, then why should I worry about it? Well...as of 2:41, on said day, I'm not going to.

That is all.

Corralling the Caroling

Is there anything more uncomfortable than standing awkwardly in your own doorway as friends, neighbors or even people you don’t know serenade you with well-wishes and holiday cheer by means of a Christmas carol?

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I submit that there isn’t.

I don’t want anyone to think that this statement, in any way, insinuates that I hate Christmas —because I don’t. I am just simply stating a simple truth that many are afraid to say themselves for fear that, in doing so; they will be demeaning another’s efforts to spread a little holiday cheer and kindness. After all, it is because of this kindness and longing for universal peace and love that this season is such a popular time of year —world wide. The presents help too, I’ll admit.

However, in an effort to continue with unabashed honesty, I do feel that, in following the guidelines of spreading said peace and love, the act of caroling might be, in and of itself, a direct contradiction to achieving that goal, not to mention one of the least thoughtful deeds a do-gooder can commit. Think about it, visiting friends and neighbors, ringing their doorbells, interrupting their evenings and proceeding to sing popular Christmas hymns in courageous but excruciating, amateur fashion for several minutes, while simultaneously letting cold air in the house because the kind-hearted listeners are too nice to shut the door before the song is finished —or too slow to get it closed between song selections— may be one of the rudest forms of teasing one human being could bestow upon another.

Caroling is a generational thing, pure and simple. In the days before hundreds of channels, movies on demand, iPods, singing greeting cards, and “elf yourself” holiday e-cards, people loved going caroling. It was all they did. It brought color to their monochromatic world. In the olden days, people would wait anxiously by their doors and windows, Kruger style, hoping to secure an invitation from a passing caroling troop. Sometimes, when an invitation wasn’t proffered, they would just try to blend in with the group and see how long they could last before they were sent home —usually at the behest of the old, frumpy school teacher who sang a painful soprano part louder than the rest of the choir. I think I even read somewhere that caroling was a tradition that was practiced all year long. They would just interchange their Christmas song selections with hymns or a mind-numbing renditionall forty verses of “She’ll be coming around the mountain.” Caroling was, for our generation X through Z understanding, the equivalent of an evening watching a High School Musical movie or “Glee.” The only difference being that, instead of singing along with Zac Ephron confidently behind closed doors to an unresponsive flat screen HD TV, you would be singing sheepishly on a front porch to an audience that, believe it or not, probably feels more awkward than you.

This brings me back to my first and original point: caroling, even with good intentions, seems like a brutal way to express neighborly love and holiday-season warmth. But then again, I was born on the flip side of the last century.

The Most Wonderful Time of Year?

It’s that time of year again. The time when we fold up our shorts and t-shirts, bring out the pants and jackets, and settle in for several months of refusing to leave the house until the need to run the defrost in the car has passed.

Winter is a bleak, less-than-favored time of year for me and many other people who have asked that their names be left unmentioned. I think that the founding fathers —not the Washington, Jefferson, or Franklin type, but the ones that laid the framework and schedules for our seasons— anticipated the lack of popularity for the winter season and, therefore, stacked all the best holidays in those months in an effort to even things out. The only problem with this is, they left January and February wide open with nothing to look forward to but Groundhog Day —which really isn’t a holiday at all. It's just a little rodent’s opportunity to rub several more agonizing weeks of coldness in our frost-bitten faces.

I once expressed my loathing for winter to an acquaintance of mine. This person is what many people refer to as a “ski bum,” which, essentially, is someone who has trouble holding down a job, has less-than-stellar hygiene, frequently asks to borrow money for bus fare, and wears snow pants all year long. In fact, come to think of it, the only actual difference between a ski-bum and a street-bum is the shopping cart and accordion. As I lowered the gates and let loose with a flood of reasons explaining my lack of fondness for the frosty season —general coldness topping the list— this perceptive and wise person responded with a piece of advice designed to help me cope. His exact words were, “Maybe you could take up snowboarding.” I turned around and walked away. I was bored with the conversation anyway.

I didn’t always detest winter. I remember, as a kid, looking forward to snow, sledding, and snowball fights. But, with each year I age, my flare for winter and its wintery wonders seems to melt. Now I understand why St. George, Scottsdale, and pretty much all of Florida are such popular destinations for old people. Although, that still doesn’t explain dinner at four in the afternoon or driving with the left blinker on. I expect by the time I reach retirement age, I won’t even like opening the freezer anymore.

So, unless I decide to uproot my family and move somewhere closer to the equator, I guess I will just have to come to terms with the unavoidable turn of seasons. It’s only a few months of excruciatingly miserable coldness. On the positive side, wrapping up in several layers of sweaters and blankets on the couch doesn’t sound all that bad. I suppose the biggest obstacle will be finding something to occupy my time until summer returns.

Maybe I could take up snowboarding.

G.O.L.F.

If you sit back and think about it, golf is kind of a silly game. But then again... so is curling.

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The origin of golf is as muddy as the water hazards conveniently placed on courses around the world. Some believe it can be traced back to the Romans. Others believe it made its roots in China. The most common historical belief, however, is that the modern game —the game we know and love…then hate, as we dig our way out of the bunker on eight…and then love again, as we make our way back to the club house, bragging to our friends about how well we played— is that it originated in Scotland around the 12^th century with shepherds knocking stones into rabbit holes.

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Another popular rumor, specifically among the antiquated or chauvinist male crowd, is that the word “golf” is actually an acronym for “Gentlemen Only Ladies Forbidden”. It’s no secret that golf is known as a gentleman’s game, and whether or not females were allowed to play in its early beginnings is of little consequence to me and the current times in which I live —with exception of my music. I like 80s music. Deal with it. Anyway, I just hate the pressure of having to consistently hit my tee shot past the ladies tees on every hole in order to avoid the embarrassing march to my second shot with my pants around my ankles. What “gentleman” developed this unofficial rule?

...

Golf is an interesting sport, and I’m not just stating that as a personal opinion. I know a lot of people who would agree and many who would unconsciously agree. I don’t claim to be a pro, by any means, even though I have bragged up my game on several "water-cooler" occasions. I guess what it all boils down to is, golf is just one of those sports that seems within our grasp of attaining professional status. With other sports, such as basketball, football, or the Olympic sort, there are very apparent physical qualities associated with the top tier athletes. For all of us sub-six footers, we know that the NBA is probably a little out of reach, so we limit ourselves to “dominating” in pick-up games and church ball. And, I think the majority can relate to the fact that I can’t bench press a dump truck, nor do I weigh as much as one either. So, the NFL isn’t a viable option. Soccer and baseball don’t really count because baseball requires interest and soccer is for poor people and children with too much energy.

...

In contrast is golf. Golf is different. Every time someone young or old steps up to the first tee at a local municipal golf course, they believe that their game is going to be very reminiscent of Tiger’s the weekend before. Then, three balls and two bent irons later —as they make their way to the first hole’s green— they’re shocked at realizing they’ve already hit course par.

...

An example of this mentality was demonstrated recently when my dad and I made an attempt to finish 18 holes in under seven hours. We made our way through the first few holes feeling pretty confident about the direction our scores were headed. Then, the back nine happened. It got so ugly and miserable that, at one point, I had to encourage my dad to stop sulking, get out of the sand trap where he was sitting, put his left shoe back on and finish the hole. As added incentive, I may have even promised a special trip for ice cream on the way home. The point is this: it got pretty bleak to say the least. If either of us thought we were just strokes away from obtaining our tour card, we were quickly reminded that, in reality, we couldn't be further away. In fact, it's pretty humbling to realize that, not only are you undersized and under conditioned for the mainstream professional sports, but you can’t even hack it, (yes, hack it) at a novice level on a city course with an unlimited amount of mulligans at your disposal. At least there were no ladies around to observe our shameful display of ability.

July 4th: A Timeless American Holiday

Ever since I can remember, the Fourth of July has always been my favorite holiday.

Every year on Fourth of July eve, we could hardly sleep at night with excitement and anticipation for what Uncle Sam would bring us the next morning. I remember staring out my window into the starry night sky with a vigilant eye, hoping to catch a glimpse of Uncle Sam making his special visits to eagerly waiting, legal U.S. citizens. You’d think he would be easy to spot in his super cool, gas-guzzling, government issued Humvee pulled by fifty elephants and donkeys, which represent each state and their party alignments. However, for whatever reason, his stop at our house always remained secretive... but no less magical.

As kids we would often stay up through the night reading stories to each other, like: The Preamble, The Constitution, or our personal favorite, The Declaration of Independence. Sometimes, as we sleeplessly sat in our rooms eagerly awaiting dawn’s arrival, we would quiz each other on the amendments or the dates that each state joined the Union. Those were good times, nay, great times!

Finally, morning would arrive, and we’d soar from our bedrooms like bald eagles from a telephone pole in a newly developed neighborhood. Jumping loudly on our parents’ bed to wake them, we would sing: This Land is Your Land; this Land is My Land; America the Beautiful and all our other favorite Fourth of July carols.

As a family, we would then head down the stairs and to the backyard to see what wonderful pieces of meat Uncle Sam had left us under our barbeque grill. We could hardly contain ourselves. Each person would hurriedly un-wrap their special Fourth of July gift, revealing a different cut from their favorite animal. I usually got select grade, premium Angus ground-beef hamburger patties that were perfectly-formed! My sisters and mom typically found non-steroid enhanced, boneless chicken breasts or fresh fillets of fish; my brothers always got an asortment of hotdogs and brawtworst; my dad —a one-inch rib-eye steak.

I recall how thrilling it would be to see the half eaten plate of Baked Beans we'd left out the night before, or to stumble on the empty soda cans that he had discourteously strewn across our yard. Dad usually made me clean them up, but I didn’t mind because they were just signs that he had truly visited us. Plus, nothing could ruin this special day for me —nothing.

Yes, I may be guilty of the occasional, in-the-moment love spouting for other holidays, but the Fourth of July will always hold a tender place in my heart. And now that I am older and with a family of my own, I can hardly wait to see the excitement on my children’s faces as they find Uncle Sam’s grill-able gifts under our barbeque.

Technology Has No Age

Growing up in this day and age just isn’t what it used to be —for starters there are far more buttons. I quickly found this out when a ten-year old kid embarrassed me for even being born as he beat me soundly on a new video game being displayed at a local department store. With the score growing exponentially in his favor, I began asking him some probing questions, like: “So, do you get out much?”

I am always amazed at how much time people, specifically teenagers, spend chatting, blogging, playing video games or surfing on the web with friends, strangers and probably Dateline’s Chris Hansen. I guess the act of covering every square inch of a neighbor’s home with toilet paper is considered old fashion. I bet it would be more popular if there was a smart phone application for it.

Technology has not only changed the face of how we do business and interact, but our overall behavior as well. This was recently demonstrated during an opportunity I had of being a chaperone at a youth, spring break getaway that was held in my area; and when I say, “my area,” I am, of course, referring to my home. The situation was pretty simple, really. I volunteered to be the chaperone because the idea of several reckless, teenage kids inconsiderately invading my house during a weekend stay sounded like a great patience building exercise. Let it be known that this was not my idea. A clean freak with obsessive compulsive tendencies does not invite teenage boys to stay at his house for days on end.

When my wife first told me that her younger brother and a few of his friends —and by few, I mean somewhere in the ballpark of his entire senior class— would be coming to stay with us for a few nights, my immediate response was, “Are they bringing their own food?”

In all honesty, I am not opposed to being a gracious and hospitable host to the occasional guest we may have. I just tend to develop a large knot in my stomach at the thought of teenage boys growing stir-crazy in my home without a structured schedule to keep them busy. Nevertheless, I was kindly invited to, and these are my wife’s exact words, “get over it”. Sure it was going to be an inconvenience, but the real issue was my vivid recollection of having been a seemingly invincible teenager at one point in my life. I am well aware of the thought process, or lack thereof, that goes in to choosing a group activity. In fact, having been a teenager myself at one time, I participated in many “team building exercises”, commonly referred to as pranks, mischief or no-goodery. These exercises typically resulted in a strengthened relationship between me, my parents and various law enforcement officials —and those are just the memories I can still recall.

It wasn’t until this large group of guys stayed at my house that I realized technology has taken much of the rambunctious behavior, not to mention the social interaction, out of being a teenager. This was exemplified late Friday night when the thought came to check on the boys and see why they were being so uncharacteristically quiet. It turned out they were all diligently engaged in rapid texting conversations —cleverly referred to as “text-versations”— with, not only friends in other places, but with each other as well. I’m sure this quiet form of communication is appreciated by their parents, at least until the bill comes.

At the end of the weekend, I came to the sobering conclusion that technological advancements, while truly amazing, are quickly making many business practices, means of communication, delinquent activities and certain people completely obsolete. If I have any hope of keeping-up in the world, I had better just “get over it” and embrace the future. However, I will always prefer wiping egg off the door over having computer hackers steal my identity.

As for the house guests, I had no real reason to complain —other than the fact that one of them clogged the toilet, causing it to overflow. But that would have never happened had they turned off their phones and video games and put the toilet paper to its real and intended use —decoration for someone else’s yard.

The Answer Is Yes

From a young age, I was brought up under the tutelage of, what I consider to be, respectable role models, even though many of them happen to have been of the less reputed, and oft-criticized male classification. In fact, to this day, I don’t quite understand why men, as an organization, seem to have such a bad rap. Sure, we may find humor in the simplest forms; such as: bodily functions, jokes involving bodily functions, or any unexpected, solid-object making contact with areas where bodily functions are emitted. But that really shouldn’t be a determining factor for our overall intelligence. If anything, it is just another great example of our ability to “keep it real”. After all, it is a lot cheaper to spend side-splitting hours making fart sounds come from armpits than it is to gossip about the latest hook-ups and break-ups over a three hour shopping spree that results in hundreds of dollars worth of shoes that seem to differ only in color. But I digress.

I was always taught to respect women and treat them equal. However, I have to admit that this has been hard at times and, quite often, a bit confusing. After all, girls always seemed perfectly capable of opening their own doors. But for whatever reason, society —and by society I am referring to every woman I know— has made it perfectly clear that failure to assist in this seemingly trivial task can have a damaging and lingering effect that will undoubtedly resurface at every opportunity possible.

This is also true of a certain sensitive, yet uncomfortable situation that men get forced into all too regularly. I am, of course, referring to the interrogation that takes place whenever a new outfit is put on. At the risk of over-generalizing, similar situations may also include, but are not limited to: pants, shoes, dresses, skirts, hair styles, pajamas, cars, houses, house plants, mirrors, couches, friends, ex-friends, enemies, strangers, electronic equipment, and basically anything that a female may, or may not, come in contact with.

In fact, just the other day, as I was watching a sporting event on the television, I found myself backed in to one of these tight-fitting corners. My wife sat down next to me on the couch and, with a heavy sigh, asked if I thought her arms were skinnier than an acquaintance we had made earlier in the week. It is actually quite a surreal experience to be in a pickle, such as this, and also be simultaneously watching the infielders on the TV put a base runner in a pickle between first and second. In either case, you had better be a quick thinker or a fast runner.

My answer was obviously, yes. I passed the test. But, honestly, did I really have a choice? I mean, what options did I have? I am not insinuating that I lied. It’s just that, unless you have a combination of poor judgment and a lofty moral code or you’ve been slapped in the face too many times to remember the proper response protocol, there really is only one viable answer for situations like the one I found myself in. The real problem comes when you begin to wonder if they really believe the answers we give them. After all, for the thousands of years we’ve spent together on this giant, co-educational rock we call earth, women have to be aware of the fact that men are constantly being less than honest with them.

I wouldn’t even call it lying, really. Nor would I say that our lack of complete honesty is specifically done in an effort to spare feelings. If anything, the answers we give in situations like this are probably more for our own welfare then they are for the women with the probing inquisitions. In fact, I wouldn’t even label them as answers or responses. They are reactions. Our reactions, I would say, are typically made in an effort to get us out of the uncomfortable situation as fast as possible and back into the mindless, easy-going world we know and love. It’s all just part of the “fight or flight” instincts that kick in when we are put in imminent peril.

When it’s all said and done, wondering if women know this or not really doesn’t matter. What does matter is that our answers, whether brutally honest or exactly what they want to hear, achieve both agendas and placate all parties involved. After all, constantly worrying if the pin stripes on the uniform make the player look fat just makes the game go slower.

When the Situation Gets Difficult, the Difficult Get Situation

Every year I celebrate an anniversary. Sometimes these anniversaries are significant; other times they are just random. These anniversaries typically mark some sort of achievement or milestone I have accomplished in my life. I know this sounds pretty vague and rather obvious, but even the slowest of wits can claim an anniversary in one form or another.

I am speaking more specifically of my momentous graduation from college; and by momentous, I, of course, mean: not completely thought through. College and university studies are often referred to as “higher learning” which, simply translated, means: spend as much time here as possible as a way to put off the murkiness of grown-up life. And by grown up life, I am refering to the reality of waking up every morning to a job your degree has absolutely nothing to do with.

Isn’t it good to know it was all for something.

I don’t want to sound completely cynical about post-graduation life, but doesn’t it seem odd that students come and go but professors are the only ones who seem to hang around? It’s probably because they are the only ones smart enough to have figured out that staying in school is the best way to avoid having to move back in with the parents or live where a high-speed connection isn’t free. In fact, not only are they living the carefree college life, but they have made a paying career out of it.

I don’t know what it is about careers and jobs that make them, well…jobs. The problem is that, even if you are lucky enough to be doing what you always dreamed of doing, somehow reality strikes on your already bruised skull and that once golden career turns out to be plain and boring work. You may even start to wonder if that fantasy of a perfect job is a reality waiting to be discovered. It’s for this reason that I began brainstorming formulas to find the career options that, I feel, would hold their value and be a pleasure to wake up to every morning.

First, you have to think of the things you enjoy doing the most. My first thought was swimming, and to be more specific: relaxing by the pool. The problem with this is my options are limited to lifeguard or pool boy. The first entails the taxing responsibility of being vigilant and possibly having to save someone. While the idea of resuscitating some hot babe doesn’t sound all that bad of a responsibility, the likelihood of it being a hairy, obese, sea lion of a man that decided to ingest his complete lunch plate in one bite is far greater —and that grosses me out. The later involves work, which is what I am trying to avoid. So obviously that won’t work, but I’m on the right track. I also like going on vacation. So why not make vacation a career?

Every year corporate allotted vacation days go unused in our workaholic society, and every year these poor, forgotten vacation days become void and unusable as the accruing begins anew in January. So, my simple solution would be to start a firm that specializes in making use of people’s unused vacation days. For a moderate but realistic price, I would be happy to take a cutthroat work-addict’s forgotten vacation days off their hands and use them at my discretion. For a small additional fee, I’d even in send a postcard to the person’s family, friends, co-workers, and boss stating how great it has been to get away and enjoy some time away from the office.

Who knows, a year from now I could be celebrating the one year anniversary of putting this job into effect. Maybe, I’ll celebrate by going on vacation somewhere nice.

Homeless-ness: A Full Time Gig

Right now, this very minute, people all around the world are ruining Christmas for me. At least that is what I would say if the world revolved around me. But then, if you think about it...if the world really did revolve around me... we would probably be faced with quite a few problems, scientifically speaking. For one, my love and heart-warm-ed-ness, though weak most of the time, at its strongest would never be enough to fuel the earth and all its living creatures. Second, gravity would be severley messed up and people and objects alike would be flying around everywhere without a care.

Speaking of not caring, homeless people are an interesting bunch. I'm not talking about people that have fallen on hard times and currently are without home...not the legitimate ones. I'm refering to the people that are "homeless" by choice. These are the ones that you typically see on the corners, looking all pitiful and bedraggled, begging for money with their carefully crafted, authenic cardboard signs and misspelled words. They really tug at the heart strings, don't they?

I was leaving work from the arena the other day, here in the downtowm area, and I was approached by one of these seemingly lupine city nomads. He asked me for my spare change. I don't carry cash on me, to be honest. But instead of the quick "no", I responded with the question, "What do you need it for?" The weathered man responded, "I'm hungry and want to get some food." I then thought fast, remembering something my dad did many moons ago, and invited him to come across the street to the cafe with me where I would buy him some lunch. Normally, I would say that a truely homeless, deprived and famished person would jump on an invitation like this, but his answer was simply, "Thanks anyway." I didn't care. I wasn't even really going to the cafe; I just said that to see if he would bite (yeah, pun intended!).

At least they, meaning the bums, aren't all dishonest with their motives and purposes. Just the other day, another street fellow was standing on the corner with a sign that read "need money for pot". Now, although I can't say I totally support his cause, I do have to admit I was tempted to donate solely based on his straightforwardness and gumption. Everybody loves a bum with gumption.

Anyway, to wrap this bad boy up, I've decided that being a bum (and by bum I am refering to those sneaky societal "homeless" leaches) is a full time job. Yep, remaining jobless (in their case) is a full time job. In fact, knowingly or unknowingly, they have made a living out of trying not to make a living. If they would just put some of that tenacity (I was going to say will power, but then I started laughing and could barely type straight) toward a real, respectable career...they might make it. But then again, that is why they do what they do already...the pressure and responsibility of a respectable career and "making it" is just too much for their rag-dressed bones to handle.

THERE IS NO BLACK AND WHITE, ONLY GREEN

Who cares whether the candidates are black, white, female, male, old or young? The real question is: Do they drive a hybrid?


Elections are finally over. After what feels like decades of tough and, at times, dirty campaigning, America has chosen a new leader.

I find myself sitting on the couch, this Super Tuesday —the day many people around the world have been eagerly anticipating for months. The sun has been buried behind the distant horizon for hours. In fact, it was dark at five in the evening, making me and many others, I am sure, feel like the kid who gets sent to bed while his friends still play in the street outside his window.

On the TV I am being loaded with campaign information, a trickling of incoming national and state specific election results and the image of a frozen map with a growing number of red and blue states. However, it is my internal feelings that surprise me the most. I don’t want to make this a political rant, by any means, nor do I care to even share my particular political partisanship, but there are a few, unique things that I am sure many others are experiencing.

First and foremost, we have a new President. The election of Barack Obama came as an internal surprise; and by internal, I mean my own feelings. Typically I have voted Republican; that is no secret. However, this time around I didn’t feel partial to either candidate. So, here on election night, I find myself watching more than rooting. When the news broke that Obama had exceeded the necessary electoral vote number, I thought I would be disappointed because of my Republican-ness history —but I wasn’t. In fact, I confused myself with a feeling of excitement; excitement, I feel, being produced by the possibility of the unknown. Here is my reason. I will use a version of the cup half-full, half-empty metaphor to explain.

A McCain presidency, as I see it, would be like having a cup on the table. However, the cup is completely empty of any water, except for the remaining condensation that is slowly dripping down the outside and pooling onto the table where it rests.

McCain may be a new candidate (and by new, I mean not GWB. After all, the man is no stranger to running for president. He and H. Ross Perot should form a club.), and he may have new people surrounding him; but, over all, I never believed his team would be too different from what we have experienced in the abysmal Bush years. Had he won, I wouldn’t feel like there would be an overwhelming possibility for a new dawn, a dawn of change for the better.

With Obama, the sentiment is different. I don’t want anyone to assume too much from that statement, nor do I want to be awkwardly lumped with the “nuts for Obama fans”. I just find myself curious with the unknown possibilities —for better or worse— that might be with him as a president. And most of these feelings stem from the fact that I know little about how he plans to turn the sinking ship —that is our country— around.

So, to continue with the optimist, pessimist metaphor as it relates to an Obama presidency: the cup is on the table, and it also is completely empty. However, there is a pitcher with an unknown amount of water in it right next to the cup. Will there be enough to fill the cup, or will it leave it empty? I don’t know, and that’s why there is curious excitement.

SUPER POWERED

Superman had all the powers one yellow sun could bestow upon an individual. They included flight, speed, laser beam/x-ray eyes, and incredible strength that was advertised as stronger than steel —possibly even tungsten; but who knows, he was born in 1932, after all. All these attributes were sure to guarantee his financial freedom and pick of the ladies. However, he lived a lonely life, consumed by an alter ego and secrets he felt compelled to keep.

Batman’s super power was a bottomless wallet —an attribute many would love to share. Basically, he was the mortal equivalent of Superman, except with a lady on each arm.






Whether he liked it or not, Edward had scissor hands. I wouldn’t call it a super power, by any means, but I might say unique. And even though his career options were extremely limited because of this seemingly unlikely biological happenstance, he made the best of his situation.





He-Man was the mild mannered Prince Adam of Eternia one moment, and the hyper-buff He-Man the next. His power was straight forward; he was the strongest man in the universe. However, his stamina was suspect. He was also quite fast and fairly acrobatic, but this was hardly showcased due to budget restraints.


The X-MEN were mutants, just like the Teen Age Mutant Ninja Turtles…only, the turtles were a quartet of dudes who fell in some radioactive fluid at the exact same time an equal number of turtles fell in. Somehow they magically morphed together and were raised by an Asian martial arts instructor that, coincidentally, shared their same fate —except as a large rat. Their super powers included the ability to eat entire pizzas with a combination of toppings that would make any non-mutant turtle throw-up a little in their mouth.

Rocky Balboa’s super power was the ability to stay in the ring for dozens of rounds with an opponent twice his size; never block one punch —which resulted in a face that looked like a severely bruised plum— and still have the energy and heroic determination to win in the end.





Mario and Luigi were not super heroes at all, yet they are often referred to as “Super Brothers”. Fraternal love and saving a stranded princess does not equal super power, nor does smashing bricks with your head and jumping on mushrooms. I'm sorry, but your super hero status must be in another castle.



What in the world is a Green Lantern?

Captain Planet and the Planeteers were known for wielding elemental rings and taking the form of earth, wind, fire, and so on. If saving the world didn’t work out well for them, it was good to know they had a successful music career to fall back on —ba-dum-ching!




Spiderman was a spider, the Punisher punished, and the Kool-aid man could burst through brick walls without spilling one drop —OH YEAH.

The beloved Harry Potter was an emotional wreck, but who could blame him…his parents died when he was little —back off. Even though he struggled with spells, was a mediocre student at best, and had the worst communication skills of any adolescent wizard at Hogwarts, he did inherit a cool cloak.



So, even though there are many super powers that would be quite tempting to possess, I suppose if I had to pick one, I would choose the Scott Bacula Quantum Leap ability... without the having to solve people’s personal issues bit. It would just be fun to cause a scene at someone else’s expense. It might also be just as cool to be Scott Bacula.

Post a comment saying what super power you would choose?

The Diabolical Jerkbacks

The year was 1986. Ronald Reagan had traded acting for politics. Michael Jackson was readying the release of a follow-up to the immensely successful Thriller. I was in second grade.

Living in Las Vegas at the time, I enjoyed the rigors of grade-school academics. Honors and science-fair blue ribbons for superb volcano creations were just some of the accolades I had achieved at this young age. School yard chums and “yes or no” box-checking-crushes were not beyond me either.

However, not everything was smooth sailing; in fact, some things wee too smooth to enjoy. At an early age, we discovered I was allergic to gluten. This ruled out any possibility of eating grained goods. My stomach was very volatile and sensitive. Even the smallest piece of bread would send me running to the bathroom, hoping to make it there in time. This caused serious concern in my day to day activities, especially when I was away from the comforts of my home and bathroom.

One day I found myself sitting in class, quietly taking a vocabulary test with my fellow classmates. We had just come in from lunch. Cautiously matching the right definition with the right word, my concentration was suddenly broken by the all too familiar rumblings of my stomach. The flood gates were about to rip open. I didn’t have much time. I rose quickly from my chair and headed toward the teacher’s desk. She gave me permission to go, and I wasted no time leaving.

All had gone well. I sat back down in my chair and resumed spelling. Not more than ten minutes later, the rumblings returned. This couldn’t have been a worse time for an episode like this. I quickly jolted myself to the front of the room, once again pleading for permission to go to the bathroom. This time the teacher looked skeptically into my watery eyes. The answer was no. I had just come back from a bathroom trip and any reason to leave now was purely for juvenile no-goodery —at least that was her understanding and logic.

I returned to my desk, head lowered and worried. I didn’t know what to do. The pressure amassed in my stomach like an army attempting to break through the castle doors. My palms were sweaty, my forehead glossy with a mix of perspiration and anxiety. Then, without warning, the troops burst through the door. The castle had been breached. I had gone to the bathroom without leaving the confines of the classroom or my chair. The battle was lost.
I carefully made my way to the teacher’s desk for a third visit. This time I kept things short, sweet, and to the point. “Teacher, may I go call my mom? I need a change of pants.”

Besides me, the teacher, and my mother, no one ever knew what had taken place that tragic day. I can’t say I was embarrassed really, more discouraged than anything. It was quite the traumatic experience for a seven year old.

I have since overcome that particular allergy and am proud to say I have been nearly accident free for quite some time now —fingers crossed.

A Molding of Words

I thought it an odd, yet fun change of pace to post some poetry... in lieu of the usual smattering of words, opinions, and observations.

DEAR YESTERDAY

Minutes burn away, erasing tender moments we once shared together.
Now, only fleeting reflections of a distant past flicker their fading images on the screen of a weary mind.

Tick

It wasn’t long ago we were embraced in the arms of life, enjoying cool walks in the silvery rays of a moonlit stage.
Above us the star-speckled sky winked.
Heads would turn. Eyes would gaze with envy.
Together we shared of each other.
The world stopped its relentless turn. Seasons never changed.
Present played its Siren song, while past idled by on a park bench, lost in thought.
What we knew was what we loved, and future warmed our side.

Tick, Tick

Now gray, wintry days stretch for miles, and nights go on for years.
I long for times gone by, while future ambles off.
Past warms the bench to one side, distance spans my right.
And in the air a droning pulse resounds.

Tick, Tock

Aron: A Fine mix of Chaos and Order

I am really trying to be a more consistent poster of things. After all, what good is a blog if you never use it. On top of that, how do I expect to manage in the ever-evolving world of technology. I need to catch this bus and ride it, not just watch it go by.

I don't know why it is so difficult for me to write, maybe because I do it for a living. Which brings me to tid-bit number two. It has nearly been a year, and I must say it has been a pretty good ride...pun some what intended. Working for Larry H. Miller and the Utah Jazz has been a shear joy.

As many may or may not know, I work as the creator of Copy and Concept for LHM Advertising. I am responsible for many of the radio and TV spots you see for the many businesses of Larry H. It has been a great job. One that allows me to express my creativity in many different ways, go to Jazz games, and work out of the arena. It has also opened up new fun outlets for me and my silliness. I have included two commercial links if you would care to see them.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VceiyEQcORc

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZeM_nWJWleI


To add to the pile, I have been playing in the up and coming band LLoyd and Floyd and the High Octanes. You may have already seen them on TV. They are the un-official ambassadors of speed at Miller Motorsports Park. I also have a children's book that is to be published this fall, fingers crossed.

Believe it or not, I have a hard time writing a post such as this. I am not much for being too showy. I feel a little dumb doing it, but I have been asked on several occasions to share what it is I do and some of the things I have been in. I hope no one minds. If so, get over it. You knocked on my door and visited my blog, jerk. Sorry about the jerk bit; I didn't really mean it, or did I? Anyway, that and family is my life.

Bathroom Behavior

Be warned, this topic contains high levels of potty-language.

For some reason I am extra perceptive of my surroundings when in the gentlemen’s lavatory. I don’t know why this is, but I think I have it pinned down to a combination of several different contributing factors. Bathrooms are typically revolting places to be in, thanks to the supremely efficient and tidy manner in which the general male population comports themselves. This obviously tends to put me on high alert. Also, bathrooms seem to create an unexplainable element of shame. It’s almost as if, when entered in, they act as a self awareness vortex. This provides an entertaining show when you become aware of it.

So, what is it I’m talking about; what does it all come down to? Simply put —male bathroom conduct. The psychological behavior behind this topic would produce a wonderfully entertaining and thought provoking study, if you can bare to hear it. Without getting too in-depth and personal, I have logged a lot of mental notes about bathroom conduct and behavior I have witnessed, as it pertains to men. Where to begin…

“Two men are walking down the hall in an office building. Both are very animated as they converse about politics, local sports, and women. Before they know it, they reach the door indicating “Men’s Room”. As they enter the bathroom, they continue talking as they approach the urinals. Unconsciously, they each select the urinal as far away from the other person as possible, and conversation stops. They then proceed to do their business. One man looks up at the ceiling, the other straight forward at the wall. Both occasionally glance down to make sure everything is all right. When finished, they meet back at neighboring sinks, no huge spaces between them now, and pick up their conversation right where they left off.”

What happened; what changed? The human male is notorious for eking sounds and smells from their bodies and then talking about it non-stop. Often times they are criticized for their overly open discussions and displays. On top of it all, they find mountains of humor in it. I know; I’m one of them. But what changes in a public bathroom?

Here is another rather interesting scenario I have witnessed on several occasions. From time to time I will find myself sitting in a stall, taking care of business. To my chagrin, someone else will enter the bathroom. Quickly they realize the presence of another person in a stall and are too embarrassed to occupy another stall with someone (me) already in the other. Their minds race as they try to figure out what course of action to take. At this point, a number of different options will play out.
Option one: (and I have done this myself) they will go straight to the sink, wash their hands (maybe), and head right back out the door, making it seem as though they came in with a purpose, even if to merely wash their hands. The funniest part of this option is that the effort made to “save face” by washing their hands instead of looking stupid and embarrassed with no apparent reason for entering is wasted energy because the other person can’t see you through the stall walls anyway.
Option two: another “save face” alternative: the person realizes someone is in a stall already and decides to fake number-one to demonstrate a purpose for entering the bathroom in the first place. This one usually backfires because, more often than not, they don’t have to go, or stage fright won’t permit it, and end up embarrassing themselves more by standing at the urinal for a minute, making now noise, and flushing without having gone. To make matters worse, they decide not to wash because they didn’t go; and after leaving the bathroom realize, “now that person thinks I don’t wash my hands. Crap.” Admit it; you’ve done this or something like it.
Option three (my personal favorite to witness): The person enters the bathroom, sees the person in a stall, but undeniable urges help him bravely decide to follow through anyway. However, after comfortably seated, the person begins to institute “courtesy flush” after “courtesy flush” in an effort to spare you of the noise. But that’s not the truth; it’s the excuse. We all know the real reason goes back to what I mentioned before —bathrooms create a stigma for keen self awareness and shame. That person was more concerned for his fragile bathroom ego and masking the noise than he was for my level of comfort.

So what does it all mean; why do these things or others like them, happen? I don’t know for sure. But for some reason they do. Despite our huge talk, we are all insecure when it comes to public bathroom actions. The funny thing is… everyone poops. We all do it, and we know we all do it. But, for some reason we attempt to hide it in a way to convince ourselves and others that it is only something that other people do. There are many more observations and crudities that I can mention, but time and space won't permit. In the end, after becoming more aware of bathroom behavior, I still find myself putting my own level of comfort as a less important priority as I search for an empty bathroom to really let loose.

A Cultural Pop to the Skull

I realize that when I write about sports, some of my loyal readers, more likely reader, are lost due to a lack of interest. This is something that I am not going to apologize for, sorry. Shoot, I apologized, and now I have offended my reader. Oh well. Anyway, I thought I would take a moment and put in my two cents, more likely several cents, on a few of the pop-culture issues that have come to my attention in the past few days.

First and foremost we go to the wonderful world of our favorite national passtime, no not keeping in touch with celebrities, that is next. I am talking about the real national passtime, baseball. Everybody's favorite bobble headed big-leaguer, Barry Bonds, is a free agent now. Word on the wire is that there are a number of teams in conversation with his agent, sweet talking and doing whatever they can to aquire the Bay-splashing bomber. This is ridiculous. Bonds has spent the last 15 years in San Francisco juicing dinger after dinger into the water and or into other dimensions. He is now just 21 homeruns shy of obtaining his coveted asterix and a place in the history books, and we are to believe that the Giants are actually entertaining the thought of allowing their biggest crowd drawing figure in what is sure to be the biggest and most publicized season of his career just amble off into the darkness of another team? I doubt it. Sure, he may be the biggest controversy and "conversational pleasure" in the major leagues, if not all professional sports, but let's give the Sanfrancisco brass a little more credit than this. For them to spend millions of dollars over the course of 15 years, back him on all of his steroid induced allegations, put up with his wise decision to get knee surgery from "Doctor Nick" under an overpass in downtown Frisco, and simultaneously enjoy the spectacle of sending smash after smash over the wall as he closes upon a seemingly unbeatable record, only to drop him just 21 short of 755 career homeruns, and a major league record, is ludicris.

What is even more funny to imagine is that Oakland, San Diego, and any other team persuing the crome-domium slugger actually think they have a shot at obtaining him. Then again, money talks, and stranger things have happened.

Now on to a more touchy subject. This is big, yet devistating news. The kind that needs to be taken seriously. If Kevin Federline-Spears doesn't secure a portion of his soon to be ex's estate and riches, as well as custody of the children he has worked so hard at raising, then he will release what he claims to be a four hour "special relations" tape of him and his bread winning wife Brittany. Well, we should take this seriously. I mean, other than his go-nowhere, Vanilla-Ice-wannabe rap career that he is hanging on to with all the deadbeat power he posseses, has he ever lasted more than a few minutes at anything? If he is going to put his incredible mind power to work on a failsafe blackmail plan, he probably ought to have been realistic on what it was and the details of what it needed to contain. Okay, let's say said alleged tape exists, for the topic of conversation. What would be on that tape? My best intelectual guess suggests this is what we would find, if it were released and is true. First, there would be nearly an hour and a half of only sound because the lens cap was left on. On top of that, the sound you'd here would be Kevin serranading his highly interested successful recording pop-star wife with a few of his "choicest raps". After they realize the lens cap was on, you would then see about forty-five minutes or more of fighting in regards to who was responsible for such a careless error. You would also hear, brought up by Kevin, "you didn't get on tape the crazy awesome moves I did while I was singing 'Popazou'." After that argument goes nowhere, you would somehow see it transform into another heated argument regarding camera angles and locations for their "hot" video production. This would then be somehow followed by another on film battle as to what all of the buttons on the camcorder do, which would then escalate into what all of the buttons on Darth Vader's chest plate do. This would last for another hour followed by one of the two locking themself in the bathroom refusing to continue with this absurd filming idea. After some groveling, or until they both forget what it was they were arguing, there will be a brief few recorded seconds of kissing followed by little Sean Preston falling off the bed and exposing yet another "careless mommy moment" and the camera running out of tape.

The lesson learned in these two pop culture tid bits is that, though celebrities have a lot of money and fame, it doesn't always mean they are smart. However, they do give us plenty to write and talk about.

This one is going over the right field wall!

We have all heard the oh so famous and cliched sayings, "when life throws you lemons ..." or, "every now and then life will toss you a curveball..." Well, I have come up with my own analogy similar to that of the curveball. "When life throws you pitches, swing as hard as you can and hope you hit it."

Okay, so I just made that up on the spot. It might not even be the best advice either. I mean, most proffessional athletes study pitchers, watch tapes, look for spin and rotations, observe the way a pitch is released from the pitcher's hand, etc. Then there is also the fact that they hold frequent batting practice and pregame warm-ups, recieve instruction from batting coaches, develop their swings, and lets not forget, go to the plate in game situations on average four to five times a game, 150 plus games a season, and face on average two to three pitchers per game. So, needless to say both the pitcher and the batter have to be on top of their game if they hope to succeed in either hitting or throwing.

In life, it is the same. Every year I wake up from sleeping at least once a day, for 360 days, for nearly the last 26 years of my life. I get out of bed and get ready for the day about 360 days a year, and I'm guessing the majority off those days I do so in the morning rather than latter in the day. So far, fingers crossed, I have a perfect record of getting dressed at some point in the day. I can't remember ever having left the house without my clothes on. I have a very high breakfast eating percentage and teeth brushing history. I am constantly facing countless decisions needing to be made, even before I leave the house, and this has been going on for quite some time now. So, without delving too much further into my life, you can see that I too, have to be on the top of my game and well prepared for what life has to throw me.

So why is it when some obstacle gets in my way and hinders my already practiced and prepared system of operation, day to day life, do I feel the first and foremost reaction would be to give up? I don't think I have ever seen a batter step in the box, watch the first pitch go whizzing by, then march back to the dugout saying, "Wow, that was fast. I don't need to see any more. Just mark me down for a strikeout."

What is it that keeps us in the batters box of life when we know failure is a possibility, and more inquisitively, what keeps us swinging? I would like to answer my own question. Okay, go ahead Aron. Occassionally we swing, sometimes prepared and knowingly, other times with our eyes shut, and we crank one up the middle, into the gap, or over the centerfield wall into the fith row. These successes are what keep us going. They keep us swinging. We may not have a chance of success with everything we do, but knowing that there is a possibility of success, no matter how much of a long shot it may be, is what keeps us at the plate time and time again.

So, why is it that my first reaction when faced with an obstacle is to lie down and give up? Well, for me personally, it usually has to do with a number of emotions: Comfort, Fear, Embarrasment, and most especially, my personal box. My box is where I live and where I am comfortable. I rarely make any dazzling plays, huge break through ideas, or new great relationships when I am in it, but I sure am comfortable though not always content. The truth is I need those huge plays and dazzling moments. I require, as a human being, acceptance and relationships. I love the attention and acknowledgement of a great idea. Everyone does really. I may swing a dozen times before I finally crack one out of the park, but when I do, those dozen swings before it don't seem to bother me much anymore. In fact, I dare say they made me better, nay, stronger. That is why we continue to play the game. One huge hit makes up for all the misses, and if it hasn't happened yet, don't worry, the right pitch will come eventually.

Imagine, Me a Father!

It might be hard for many of my closest friends, and especially family members, to even fathom the notion of me being a dad; but nevertheless, in only a matter of months that is exactly what I will be.

It seems that only a few years ago I was tied up in a sleeping bag and left on a random porch by some of my friends, only to await the answer of the door and hope that in their confusion and curiosity, kindness would find its way out of their hearts and they would release me from the bonds of the "Moby Dick" sleeping bag I found myself in. Upon my release, I was instructed that the only words I could utter would be, "Thank you, it was hot in there!" and of course, "See you later."

This always proved to provide countless hours of, not only entertainment for an evening of mischevious fun, but many other entertaining hours of fond reminisence years later.

I wasn't always the "goat", so to speak, that ended up the brunt of all the jokes. We all took our turns. But, these weren't childhood games. These "bets" as we called them, whether they be the sleeping bag prank, standing on the doorstep and imitating a gorilla, chewbaca, or a mime; running through the house without even knocking --screaming "aliens" at the top of our lungs; or using the fart machine in crowded and very public areas, were just some of the many ideas of fun we had not only in our teenage years, but well into our twenties also.

Now the majority of us are married and are fathers, or fathers to be. Have we grown up? Are we ready for parenthood? My answer... Why not? Sure we may act juvenille at times and our definition of fun might be very similar to everyone else's definition of immature, but who says that, when kids come, you have to be serious all the time and fun is out of the question?

I for one am a little nervous, but very excited to be a daddy. There are so many things I can't wait to do, teach, and enjoy with my boy! I can't wait to read him stories before bed, play him songs on the guitar, play catch in the yard, go to ball games, eat watermelon and spit the seeds at each other. I can't wait to watch him take his first steps, say his first words, disobey his mother or me and deserve a spank, go to his first day of kindergarten, tie a blanket around his neck and pretend it's a cape, or even come crying to our bed and wake us up because of a nightmare.

I don't doubt one bit that it will be difficult at times or a change of pace from what I am used to, but it will be great and something I cherish forever. I realize I will have to grow-up a bit, but I can still have fun and enjoy life in a semi-immature fashion. Who knows, maybe my son will enjoy being the one tied up in the sleeping bag too!

"My love for a great read and story allows me to over look the occasional gramatical error that might occur. But, then again... I am attractive!"
-The lady with the flag