Magic in the water

Upon reading a friend's post, I began to reminisce about classic skating. It is strange to think about how expensive things seemed to be when I was young. I could rarely afford the 3 dollar admission to get in to classic skating. Mostly because, when one is 10-13 years old, one must rely upon the mercies of one's parents for any monetary allowance. I recall my parents being somewhat parsimonious when it came to an allowance. My friends would all get paid for mowing the lawn, but I never did.

It is funny to me that skating around in a circle over and over again for like...7 hours is appealing to anyone. I guess the highly anticipated moment when the lights would suddenly turn green, and then Green Day's "When I Come Around" would come on made it all worth while. And "Cotton Eye Joe."

Actually, what really made Classic skating so great, was the couples and snowball skates. Being a rather stellar nerd, I really had no hope of ever "going with" a girl during my tenure as a junior high student. "Going with," being the term for dating. And by dating, I mean possibly holding a female's hand in the halls at school during lunch, and probably talking on the phone. And maybe even meeting at Classic.

So in anticipation of approximately 12-15 minutes of basically forced hand holding, I would don my coolest t-shirt (probably a "No Rules," or perhaps a nice flannel) and the baggiest jeans my mother would let me wear (likely High-Sierras, or Levi's if I was lucky,) and throw a chain on my wallet. I would make sure my hair was parted in a perfect line, like an ass crack right down the middle of my head.

And of course, I would leave my glasses at home. Because what girl is going to want to skate with some loser with glasses?

I think one of the most interesting things about the couples skates, is that I am fairly certain that I never once talked to nor interacted with a girl after I skated with her. It was like there was some unwritten law, or mystical barrier which barred ex-couples skaters from talking to one another or having any further interaction, besides that of mingling hand sweat to Bryan Adams. And what on earth does one at that age talk to a girl about? "Hey, I'm Andy. I like rollerblading, medieval Lego's, Super Mario and Zelda, and now that I'm in 7th grade, I'm really good at swearing. What kinda damn shit do you like to do?"

I remember one occasion in which my mother picked me up early from Classic. We were all going to a family movie. It was called "Magic in the Water." Of course, I had neglected to wear my glasses, in an attempt to procure my Classic skating soul mate through deception. No way was I going to find her with those wretched gold-rimmed glasses. To this day, I have always wondered just what exactly the magic in the water was. I couldn't see, it was all blurry. Also, how my father was convinced to see that film. What a trooper.

Wait. I just looked it up. There is a picture of a little girl serenely posed upon a giant dinosaur's head, protruding out of a lake. She looks very contemplative. The size of the full moon in the back ground is just preposterous.


Save us obama, from ourselves

There are two things that I really wish would go away.

First, flare jeans. I am astounded by the number of women still wearing that horrendous cut of jean. Please, please for the love of Zeus stop wearing them. I understand that the skinny cut isn't for everyone. But the flare is just down right disgusting. Please girls of the world, if you can't do the skinny, at least wear jeans that fit, with a straight leg. I was walking through the mall yesterday, and the flare was everywhere. I would see packs of girls meandering about, wearing a variety of different jeans. The baggy flare jeans clad females just looked so sloppy. And if you must insist upon wearing them, at least put on something other than cross trainers. Have a little dignity.

I guess on that note, I also really wish the Buckle would go away. I think I die a little inside very time I see someone wearing True Religion jeans, or an Affliction t-shirt. Whenever I pass that store, I just laugh incredulously at the people rifling through the black button up shirts with the huge fuzzy crosses on the back. Or trying on jeans covered in pre-fab holes with a flaming dragon embroidered on the ass. I guess I am just mostly astounded at the prices people are paying for this garbage. To each his own, I suppose.

I was talking about the "Buckle" fashion with a friend at work who is from Mexico. He has pretty great style. We were trying to figure out what to call a person who decks himself out in such clothing, and all we could come up with was a "Mexican sweet bro."

With all of the great music coming out around the world on a weekly—nay—daily basis, I can't understand why anyone is still choosing to listen to Axle Rose's disgusting voice. So, Axle Rose is really the second thing I wish would just go away. I can appreciate Guns and Roses for what it was back in the 80's and early 90's. I can even understand why people who were old enough during that time to be into them still listen to them. What I can't understand, however, are the new fans. Like, the 22 year old guy in my house who is still "getting the Axle out" multiple times per week. His voice crinkles my spine.

Flare jeans, and Axle Rose. And, I suppose, the Buckle. If those three things would but fall off the face of the earth, I think the world would be a much better place. In fact, had Obama included those three items in his presidential "to do" list, I'd not have pissed my vote away on Bob Barr.



What was I talking about, this is awesome. Well worth 200 dollars.


Death in a box

I count myself, at the very least, a moderately intelligent human being. So I should have probably deduced that a boxed meal called "Hamburger Helper," whose mascot is a disembodied hand with a face, could probably not be rendered tasty by any changes that I might employ.

I purchased a new George Foreman on account of my old one being constantly and irreparably infected with months of unwashed beef cookings. First, it was the Destroyer, and now someone else has taken up his standard of leaving noxious beef remnants all over my poor Foreman. (On a side note, it seems that the beef eaters are always the ones who refuse to clean their cow drizzlings. Chicken eaters seem to clean up after themselves.)

So, I purchased the new one and told the person I thought was responsible for all of the Foreman beef sludge that the new one was a chicken only device. So today I arose, and the new Foreman was covered in coagulated cow fat. I was pissed, because I wanted to do something with chicken.

I had 2 boxes of Hamburger Helper that have been rotting on my shelf for the last 8 months, which I inherited from Andre when he moved back to Reno. Never one to just randomly buy a lb of hamburger, and thinking that someday I might just grow desperate enough to eat said boxed meals, I never used them nor threw them away. So today I thought that perhaps if I used chicken instead of beef, the meal might be rendered more tasty. Chicken is always an upgrade from hamburger. And pasta, chicken, and cheese sauce...how could that be a bad idea?

Since the Foreman was filthy, I had to resort to using a microwave to thaw, and then a skillet to cook the chicken. Ultimately, the sauce was disgusting, and the chicken was like eating rubber cubes, and sort of tasted like tuna. Rubber tuna cubes, pasta, and a disgusting cheese sauce. Again, I don't know why I expected any different.

I guess I learned that when a meal is already potentially disgusting, adding a healthier ingredient won't magically cause it to be delicious, and will in all actuality probably render the meal even more disgusting. Hamburger Helper was engineered to be unhealthy and full of red meat. I was a fool for trying to make it otherwise.

I would have felt guilty feeding that to a homeless person, so instead shoved it down the gullet of the garbage disposal. I almost felt bad doing even that, as the rotting, mephitic refuse that I normally stuff down there is a definite step up from the death in a box upon which I wasted a pound of chicken.


Great things to say from the pulpit

I think that when one is speaking in church, it is a pretty bad idea to say, "So you guys are probably gonna think I'm retarded but..." at any time. One should, as a general rule, probably avoid words such as "retard," or "blows" or "a-hole" at the pulpit (I have heard all of these at one time or another.) But one should especially not say "retard" when there are most definitely no fewer than 7 actual mentally retarded people in the congregation.

So, so awkward.

Oh, and then go on to give an exceedingly incoherent 20 minute talk about...something.

On an unrelated, and rather pitiful note, it would appear that I threw my back out last night making an Italian soda. Oh yes friends, an Italian soda. Wtf. Am I an 80 year old man? Because I certainly feel like one. There must have been something that I did to lead up to it. I mean, the simple act of making an Italian soda and then extending my arm out in an awkward, stretched out fashion could not have been what caused a sudden, horrible pinching feeling to occur in my lower spinal column. I just can't figure out what it could have been.

Except for some awkward church time, I have spent the day lying upon my back, hoping my spine will fix itself in some miraculous fashion. I have to make a living, and I don't think Carrabbas will give me workers comp for throwing out my back while making a bar drink, nevermind the heavy, ice filled glass, the difficult flavor pumping, and then having to extend my arm perfectly perpendicular from my body to place said heavy drink where it might be accessible to my fellow employees. I think I was lifting with my back, rather than my legs. What a retarded thing to do.


Yes, that is a statement

I'm sort of disappointed in poofs.

I've gone my whole life using bar soap. Rarely have I employed the scrubbing power of a rag. Only when I have been super grimy. Which is rare. Because I avoid grime at all costs.

But I've always been somewhat fascinated by the shower poof, and the idea that one would use that in lieu of a bar of soap. First, am I getting comparable cleaning power from a tiny bit of liquid soap, worked into an almost endless supply of lather? Or does rubbing the actual bar of soap on my body act as a far superior cleaning mechanism? Is there sufficient germ/odor killing power in the lather?

I always hate it when I am visiting someone's house, and all they have is body wash and a poof. I guess I feel less violated sharing a bar of soap, than using a hunk of cloth that has been rubbed who knows where, and has consequentially stored who knows what bodily filth. So I always end up using half of the host's bottle of body wash, since I can't use their poof. It's like washing oneself with pump hand soap. Ridiculous.

I was at Andre's house in Reno, and they had this Dove body wash. Really, the only time I have ever not been pissed about having to hand wash myself with body wash; it smelled really really great. So I decided to give up the bar, and go with the poof and the Dove body wash.

I'll have to say that overall, I am disappointed. Washing my armpits with lather from a poof, rather than with the actual bar of soap itself feels rather sub par. I don't become as slippery. I like feeling slippery, and then not. I feel like if I become slippery, and then rinse the slipperyness away, the ensuing post slippery feeling indicates cleanliness. Lather just isn't as slippery.

What the hell am I even writing about.


Poor nesting locations

This just baffles the hell out of me.

Of all the places to store one's toothbrush...I can't imagine a more filthy location. And this isn't some random fluke; I have witnessed this occurrence many times throughout my college life. There is always at least one roommate that doesn't mind leaving his toothbrush in the most deplorable of locations. The sink has got to be (almost) the most filthy part of an unclean bathroom. Layers upon layers of spittle, caked all over the place. Remnants of toilet matter that is ejected into the bathroom atmosphere each time the toilet is flushed, all to come floating down to gently land upon the sink/toothbrush.

I guess the most confusing part, are the ubiquitous safe toothbrush storing locations that exist in any given bathroom, and that a person would choose to use none of them. I mean, if it comes down to it, store it in your room (which is actually what I do.) I started thinking one day about how the small shelf where I was laying my toothbrush had previously nested countless other toothbrushes over the last 400 years that this house has been in existence. I shuddered to think about the layers upon layers of previous tenant's dried mouth juices in which my toothbrush was wallowing. Plus I heard that on myth busters, they proved true that no matter where one places one's toothbrush in a bathroom, said toothbrush never entirely escapes the toilet germ ejaculation.

So maybe I'm a little germ conscious. I am much better than I used to be. Before I lived in Argentina, I would never under any circumstance touch a piece of raw meat. I had a deathly irrational fear of ecolli and salmonella. A piece of uncooked chicken would render me paralyzed with fear. Clean a toilet without gloves? Forget about it. Living in a country where people not only allowed their diseased, scab ridden, hairless dogs to live, but gave them an honored place in the home got me over my fear real quick. One can shake a hand that had previously been petting a diseased dog only so many times before getting slapped in the face by a raw chicken breast seems like no big deal.

So I guess what I am saying, is germs no longer terrify me. However I do have my limits, and leaving a toothbrush on the side of a filthy sink, open to all manner of hand wash splashing, spittings, and toilet sprayings does not fall within them.


Avoiding no dignity through anonymity (part VI i guess)

So every now and then I get verbally attacked on my blog by a hater. And pretty much always anonymously. So very brave of them/you. This morning around 7:45, my peaceful slumber was interrupted by a vibration in my bed. I checked my phone, wondering who was bothering me at that ungodly hour. Turns out it was an email from Mr. Blogger. He notifies me when someone leaves a comment on one of my posts. Every time I see the header "Anonymous" I try to throw up a mental barrier against the ensuing negative criticism. Here's what Mr/Mrs. Anonymous had to say concerning the post "No dignity."

"What would you like someone to do? Hit you? Hello, why don't you quit being such an ass. I don't know who you are, but just by reading your blogs, I can tell you are an ignorant ass. You probably think anyone that is not mormon is probably evil. GROW UP. Why don't you quit complaining about what other people do and worry about yourself. You should have been looking at this roundabout situation in an uplifting manner. LIke maybe you should have been nicer to the person. Especially since you said they must have been scared of the roundabout. Why don't you put other peoples feeling into consideration rather than being an ass to everyone you come into contact with. You know...maybe the guy just lost a loved one...and maybe he was having a hard time dealing with it...and then here you are...and ass that thinks they are better than that person...you are the one with no dignity...or maybe too much...you seem to be quite full of yourself. "

"Huh," I thought.

Then my phone vibrated a second time. Another Anonymous gem. This one, concerning the Gary Coleman post.

"Agian with being an ass...what has Gary Coleman ever done to you? Nothing...sounds like you have some major issues. You are going to be one of those people that die alone."

I was pretty amused. I was clearly dealing with a sensitive creature. I responded to the first, "'You probably think that anyone that is not mormon is probably evil,' just labeled you for the ignorant ass that you are.

In what way was I cruel to this person? I simply honked my horn, and he had the irrational reaction. By turning it into an uplifting situation, are you suggesting that I pulled over afterward, and shared with him a loving message about jesus/roundabout etiquette?

Listen. Dead loved one's, recently acquired STD's, a lost job, having been kicked in the groin less than a half an hour gone--never makes flipping the bird less silly or justified.

And I'll not even go into the sarcasm that you are apparently to daft to grasp. Mr/Mrs. Anonymous."

People do not think before they react. This anonymous person clearly validated my entire point about flipping the bird; people react irrationally. They then do (or in this case say) things without thinking them through first. By labeling me an ignorant ass, and saying many things with the intent to be hurtful, Anonymous has labeled his or herself a rather stellar hypocrite (not to mention sort of an ass.) How did Anonymous know that I wasn't having a bad day, or experiencing the death of a loved one when I was creating the post? Why, instead of telling me I was going to "die alone," did the ever so righteous and apparently helpful Anonymous turn it into an "uplifting situation?" And saying that I probably thought all non-Mormons to be evil is just absurd and ignorantly judgmental. Again, just a big bloody hypocrite.

My response to the Gary Coleman comment; "Man, lighten up. I can scarcely imagine the high strung, tightly wound, stiff behind these bravely anonymous comments.

You may be right though; being a 26 year old un married mormon means I have at least a 93% chance of remaining that way, as I sort of missed the early twenties marriage boat. Due to being an ignorant ass, you see."

I guess there will always be haters. I would love it if, just once, one of them would not do it anonymously. That way I could like...digitally flip them off or something.


No dignity part V

Really? I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to come across this as I was in Vegas, since there are so many insta-chapels in that town. I guess I just can't fathom why a person would want to be married in Vegas. It's like sort of putting a hex on the whole thing from the start. I mean, Vegas is the absolute symbol of say anything/do anything/no consequences/no parents/no fidelity/getting married here is a joke. I mean, the idea that a Vegas marriage is going to be long term and meaningful is somewhat laughable. I realize there are exceptions to the rule but...

Come on. Do you really want your wedding photos in front of the uber cliche welcome to Vegas sign? I mean, the girl has a dress, which means they thought about this decision for at least five minutes. Perhaps they should have devoted twenty...

No dignity.



Over the last week or so, I have been busy being other places. I'm going to have to say that snoogling/wrestling/jumping on the air mattress/story book time/giant Costco churro consumption/early morning yelling/arbitrary screaming with little cousin Dylan was my favorite part of the trip. I want a 1.5 year old.

I also really appreciated, while walking through China town, observing several Chinese folk digging their hands into sundry forms of dried sea product (mussels, fishlings, shrimp, etc.) and then shoving their noses into whatever they dug up. Early in the stroll, I passed a fruit stand with the most humongous, delicious looking red grapes I have ever seen. However, after observing the way that the Chinese shamelessly, with no regard for communicable disease, pick up everything with their hands and then shove their noses into it, I was glad I passed. Who knows what they were doing with the grapes. I simply can't fathom how one would desire to place one's nose any closer to those dried fish products than absolutely necessary. I'm a rather tall fellow, and 3-4 feet of nostril to fish product distance just wasn't cutting it. I don't know how China town hasn't been quarantined for a massive hepatitis out break.

Speaking of Asians, yesterday in church a really funny thing happened. There were some new Japanese students in the ward. There was a girl who was sitting about three rows in front of me. As church began, she whipped out her camcorder and started filming. I love being witness to the validation of stereotypes. Especially in church.

A few pictures for my parent's sake.


Superficial discoveries

I'm sitting in San Francisco, waiting for Adam to get out of the bloody shower. I think my greatest discovery of the trip concerns the womenfolk of this town. Whereas New York has a seemingly disproportionate number of ridiculously gorgeous women as compared to every other place I have been, San Francisco seems to run the opposite direction. I am not saying that there are disproportionate levels of ridiculously ugly women here, only that the attractive female to unattractive female ratio seems to tip heavily towards the latter end.

I realize that attraction is relative, but I am speaking in a rather general, superficial sense. I walked/cycled all over that city yesterday, and only turned my head about 3 times. Not that I was on the prowl for attractive women, mind you. I am simply surprised that San Fran isn't teeming with head turners like New York. I though all cool cities were supposed to be that way. Like on TV. Perhaps the men fall into a similar ratio here; I am not certain. I tend to only check out men when they are with beautiful women, in order to superficially judge whether or not they are attractive enough to be with said beautiful women.

I guess my point is, I should really move here in order to remove a great deal of temptation in my life.