Throwing in the towel

My life is about to get very complicated.

But, quite possibly, infinitely more interesting. Which is good news for blog.

While I was in Super Target on Saturday, 2 things of note occurred. The first, being the intensely obese woman I saw wearing the shirt with a cat on it that stated, "Cute but dangerous." Which reminded me of how much I love those kinds of shirts, and how they are typically worn by a pretty particular demographic. My favorite such shirt of all time, being the 3XL white T with an angry marching duck with a ball cap turned backwards, stating "I'm the boss."

This one, in fact. It is remarkable how this nearly verbatim image was pristinely mummified in my mind for the last decade or so, being that is how much time I am fairly certain has passed since I have seen one of these draping a human torso.

The second pretty great thing that happened, was I received a call from a man friend in New York, petitioning my advice about a date he had with a 55 year old incredibly wealthy dude with a house in the Hampton's. While I found this to be flattering--my advice being sought at the attempted genesis of a very awesomely taboo relationship--I also felt like the only advice I could give, was to do probably exactly the opposite of everything I EVER DO IN A RELATIONSHIP. Or, rather, concerning the attempt to begin one.

He gave me an all too common scenario--he felt like the date went well and great and lovely, but then at the end, Rich Man seemed indifferent and aloof, and left Man Friend with a feeling of, "WTF just happened or didn't happen and how did I do something wrong when everything seemed right, and not even a little wrong, except for the apparently unperceived wrongness at the end of so much right?"

At which point, typical overzealous me probably frets, and then subsequently attempts to pry and probe for possible reasons and motives of disinterest, or I make my thoughts and feelings way too obvious or available. I told him that I hate playing games, and I just like to be genuine with my feelings. Which, apparently, is the WORST THING TO DO.

It would seem members of the opposite (same)sex do not desire clarity and transparency, but rather are drawn to horrible games, reticence, and indifference. This, apparently, fosters interest. Or some such bullshit.

After a time, I began to realize that he and I think the same way about relationships and dating. So I implored him to ignore his every instinct, and do the complete opposite of whatever his heart told him. Because his (my) heart is an IDIOT, and does not know how the (fe)male heart functions. Or, rather, most other hearts, be they male or female.

I think I'm ready to try the asshole card.

Which, I now realize, in the context of this post, sounded like it meant something entirely different than what I meant.

I'm just going to be an aloof, reticent asshole, utterly disinterested in you (girl), devoid of all feelings, to see if that works for me (you).

If that doesn't, I suppose it is never to early to start my collection of 3-4XL Big Dogs and other sundry animals saying clever things shirts, for when I finally decide to throw in the towel and let obesity whist me away into a comfortingly happy existence as a McDonald's acolyte.

Death by wolves or death by creed. coin flip.

I'd say the following qualifies as a not only an early 2k11 miracle, but also as an important lesson. http://gizmodo.com/5739091/how-creed-saved-a-norwegian-boy-from-a-pack-of-wolves

In case you don't want to take the time to read that article, basically there was a Norwegian lad who was walking home from school. Apparently, a pack of wolves found him and contemplated devouring him. His mother, born of a long line of good viking stock, had taught little Walter that, if ever attacked by a (pack of) wild beast(s), running away is the worst thing that one can do. This apparently lets the wild beast(s) know it is okay to then attempt to devour the escapee. If one merely holds one's ground, and maybe plays CREED REALLY LOUDLY, the wild beast(s) may have second thoughts.

This is apparently what happened, when little Walter stumbled into the midst of the pack of wolves.

First, my mind is slightly blown that, of all things about which a mother must warn her child, what to do if one encounters a pack of wolves is at the top of the list. Man, but American moms are overly paranoid. Can you imagine, having to worry about your kid getting chewed to death by wolves while walking the 2 blocks home from school? I suppose they should have wolf guards, instead of crossing guards in Norway land. Dressed in the skins of beasts (mostly wolves) and wielding a wolf carved scepter hewn from the tallest tree in Norway in one hand, and an axe made from the cold bones of ancient Inuits in the other, s/he (they) would be the envy of all Scandinavia. And certainly local children would need not fear being eaten by wolves, or other sundry carnivorous creatures.

I certainly can't say that I am surprised that Creed served as an effective ward against a pack of blood thirsty wolves. I think that is the lesson we can learn here--whether faced with a pack of wolves, a pack of unwanted friends, bullies, Nazis, illegal immigrants--its a pretty small demographic of douchebaggery that is somehow immune to the repellant musical horrors of Creed.

I'd rather be consumed by wolves than to suffer even a small moment of Creed induced eardrum rape. Shame on that boy. He may have spared himself a violent death by chewing, but he has shamed himself in front of God, the world, and the animal kingdom.


Dirty finger nails and weird shit drawn all over the hands. That seems about right.

Satan is a tea party liberal

Sometimes I feel like the politics in this country are a festering lesion on Thomas Jefferson's illegitimate son's club foot.

Whenever national tragedy occurs, the analytical cogs immediately begin turning in the heads of political pundits and politicians, seeking the best ways to exploit and manipulate horror into a positive outcome. And they aren't even subtle about it anymore.

So many articles over the weekend began targeting (I better be careful, as the word "targeting" may have to be stricken from the political arena, since it be a word that could incite violence, obviously) the vitriolic political rhetoric coming from conservative talk radio, the tea party, and Fox news as fuel for violent and radial acts.

On my way home from trying to undo an entire month of sedentary, gluttonous damage, I tuned into Sean Hannity for about 5 painful minutes as he began his show. Immediately, he went on the offensive, pointing fingers, and playing quote after quote of negative, semi-violent rhetoric from the mouthes of liberals. I mean, all of his little cronies must have spent every waking moment from the time the first bullets penetrated flesh, till his Rocky Survivor theme rolled across the airwaves, scouring the archives for "violent" liberal quotes.

Why can't tragedy bring out the best in people, rather than a load of acerbic criticism and acrimonious rhetoric? It seems as though in politics, everybody thinks that the only way to make anything better, is to utterly vituperate and ultimately destroy the other side, and thereby prove that one's own side is infallible.

I am fairly certain, if this crazy asshole came out and said, "The night before I decided to kill the Congresswoman, Lucifer Satan visited me in a dream, and told me to do it. Also, to always buy local." that the political world would immediately begin discussion and speculation as to which party or faction Mr. Lucifer belonged.

Surely, the Dark Lord would be a liberal Democrat, since all are baby hating abortion loving morality despising mongrels. Or maybe Lucifer is a right-wing Conservative, since they are all greedy, gun loving and therefore murder promoting selfish capitalist scumbags.

Perhaps the Son of the Morning is a Tea Party activist, since they are all violent racists, seeking to violently and racistly overthrow the government. Or maybe Satan is a Muslim, since all those people do is strap bombs to their chests, and blow people to hell (home.)

Maybe the Dark One is actually a Christian, since he loves to hate people who are different (which would be everyone) and he thinks everyone is going to hell who doesn't think like he does (which is everyone.)

Shame on everyone who is trying to turn this event into some sort of a political advantage. But, I suppose, that is business as usual.

I think, ultimately, we have to remember or come to the realization that we don't live in a completely benign, sterile society. There will always be people who do despicable things, in the name of one cause or another. We can't and shouldn't stop people from saying what they want to say, acting how they want to act, living how they want to live, believing what they want to believe, simply because it rubs us the wrong way. Or because, occasionally, someone takes a specific message to the maximum, crazy degree, and acts out violently.

Even if this guy did happen to be a staunch, tea party activist--SO WHAT. If he was a left wing commie, WHO CARES. Christian, Muslim, Jew, Jedi Warrior. 99.99% of people aren't incited to violence when they hear so-called "radical rhetoric." Unfortunately, living in a free society means occasionally we have to deal with that really shitty .01% that are.

Dressing gay

Typically, when accused of being gay, the assumption is made by one of two parties, and for two or three reasons.

The first party, being extended family members. The second, young children in minivans leaving 7-11 in the summer time with mom. In the little bigot in training's defense, I WAS wearing incredibly short shorts, on an extremely hot day, riding a bike. Which, in case you weren't aware, makes yelling "faggot!" out the window totally called for. And 9 times out of 10, the little shit might be right.

I imagine the conversation in the van went something like this:

"Denton (pronounced Deh-uhn), roll up that window, air conditioning isn't free!"

"Ah, but mom its haw......Whoa, lookit! FAGGOT!"

"!Deh-uhn! Roll up your window! Don't ever draw their attention, you might catch the gay."

Anyways.

When accused, whether vocally or non by party numero uno, I think there are two main reasons. One, being the fact that I have somehow inexplicably been a complete and utter failure in the marriage arena, despite living in Utah Valley for way too many years. 28.5 year old men in Utah are obviously either mentally unbalanced, or gay if they aren't married.

The second reason, compounded with the first for an unprecedented level of possible gayness, is that I dress well. This, more than any other thing, bothers me. I don't care that my heterosexuality is put into question because I missed the 21-22 1/2 year old marriage bus. But what I DO care about, is being thought gay because I dress well, when in reality, I've never actually known a gay man who dressed better than I do. With the possible exception of ONE.

I don't know if this is a Utah phenomenon, but the stereotypical well dressed gay man is a mythical creature that is totally screwing all us straight dudes over. Not in the sense that being thought gay is something terribly (or even remotely, in my opinion) offensive, but because (most) Utah gay men dress, from what I've seen, atrociously.

Last night, I was in Smith's. I encountered 4 gay men, in 2 separate couplings. As I pulled a gallon of Kroger 1% out of the cooler, I stopped in mid removal and simply stared at the man next to me. American Eagle hoodie, which I guess isn't the worst thing in the world, and a pretty standard "I don't give a shit" piece. But coupled with flare jeans, and high heel clog boots? Ohhh girl.

Now, it wasn't as though he was going for a tranny look. He just somehow missed the memo, along with a lot of other Utah babes, that FLARE JEANS AREN'T A GOOD IDEA. I immediately wished that the gallon of milk in my hand was heavily carbonated, and that I could shake it mightily, stab the knife I wasn't carrying into the top, and spray his awful ensemble with milk, yelling "Stop dressing like a BYU coed!"

The other two dudes in the checkout line just looked like a couple of slobs. One guy in baggy jeans with frayed bottoms and a Mossimo shirt, the other with one of those awful olive green canvas belts with the 2 metal hoops at the end wrapped around come puffy tan cargo jeans, circa Aeropostale 2001. Common guys, step it up a notch.

I've let a few babes drag me to a gay club dancing in the past. On the way, I thought, "This could be great for 2 reasons. Certainly, I shall be in the straight dude minority, and there will most definitely be a lot of straight girls in attendance, looking for some non-threatening male dancing counterparts. And secondly, most of these gay men will probably be so poorly dressed, that the females shall veritably flock to me like the children of Israel to Moses in the desert."

Maybe I am getting different memos than the Utah gay man community at large, but I'm not sure why so many homosexuals think that wearing the tightest shirt into which one can feasibly pour oneself is a good idea, regardless of body type. I guess this would be the standard I'd assumed most of the world understood: If the shirt does not reach the top of one's pants, and one must have the help of 2 or more people to slide one's torso into said article, one should discard the offending article. I just don't know why gay dudes with bad bellies and love handles think they are exempt from this rule. NOBODY IS EXEMPT.

Silk shirts, shirts that button up the front with dragons or tribal designs, polos with popped collars, anything with a logo, in reality. COMMON! Rise to the stereotypical standard!

So I guess what I am saying, oh ye people who accuse me of "struggling with same sex attraction" due to the fact that I know how to put together jeans, vests, blazers, sweaters, and pocket watches in a multitude of ways that "work," is you don't really know what you are saying. I don't even remotely dress like a Utah gay man.


4, incredibly straight, well dressed doods.



THIS is the only one that I think offers up a good argument for "gay."

Utah gay men, you can do better.

How to make 2k11-infinity a better place

Every time a new year begins, I can't help but think of all the things I wish would go away permanently, thus making all years hence forth and forever a little bit better.

Sometimes, I wish Facebook would go away. But then I think, "Who am I kidding? I love Facebook. Don't strike me dead or delete my account for that blasphemous though/status update, Mark Zuckerberg." I think, rather than wishing for the annihilation of Facebook, I'd just prefer the banishment of certain features.

First, being the inane "check in's" that are constantly occurring. "Reginald Bojangles checked in at Bill's Taco Barn." While I would probably be typically interested in 98% of what a person named Reginald Bojangles would be doing at any given moment, I just can't care about where he is. Unless the update with the little red pin said, "Reginald Bojangles checked in on the Moon," and Reginald actually checked in on the moon, I don't give a shit. I don't care about when you check in at church, school, restaurants, massage parlors, whore houses, or Yosemite. STOP IT.

I really dislike, nay, abhor relationships that are more obvious via Facebook than the info section saying "Rodrigo is in a relationship with Don Julio." And some pictures together. But a constant relationship wall to wall, status to status cute-fest is nothing short of nauseating, if not completely repugnant. I am happy for your happiness, and like, totally interested in how much you love each other and shit. But maybe you could just like call me on the phone and tell me about it for 3 hours. Or blow my brains out. Either way.

Status updates about an omnipresent horrific weather condition. Even if I never emerged from my house EVER, I would be keenly aware of every cold, snowy, rainy, or otherwise blustery moment of the wintertime, due to the incessant bitching that occurs on Facebook, each time global warming takes a break from boiling us in our own carbon emissions. Unless an icicle falls from your roof and pierces your chest, I don't really care how cold and snowy it is. And please don't "check in" at the hospital.

Any Facebook statuses involving feces. Or flatulence.

I wish people would never send "Happy/Merry-insert holiday" mass texts. I don't need my phone vibrating my pocket 27 times on Martin Luther King Jr. day with generic "black power!" texts. If the text isn't personal in some way, it is annoying, rather than thoughtful. "Hey Fish! Black power bud!" is a text worth getting.

Over the last few weeks, I posted a series of statuses addressing some of these issues, using quotes from viable, authoritative resources to prove my point about some of the aforementioned items. Most of these were in the spirit of Christmas.




Some things not related to Facebook.

Newborns posed in everyday items in which one would never expect to encounter a newborn, e.g. buckets, boots, flower pots, ammunition boxes, etc. I know my mother (and probably most mothers) absolutely adore an infant wrapped up in a confederate flag and stuffed into the end of a civil war cannon, but I just find all such pictures creepy, unless I know the infant. I think if it were my infant, or a family infant, I might find such things weirdly cute. But I just want Anne Geddes to stop.
Would anyone care to explain to me what isn't creepy about this picture? Are the liver spots on the hands somehow endearing? Or is it the claw like fingernail on the left index finger with enough length to make Dracula, or a coke addict jealous that tugs at the heart? Or the fact that an infant which seems to be premature by at least a trimester and a half is gently sandwiched between said hands?I DARE you to try punishing baby Hitler. Too cute!

I think maybe just newborns in general, I am not a fan of. I wish they emerged from the womb as 8-10 month olds. I realize this would require considerably larger wombs, and even bigger birth canals, but I think we can all agree that skipping the lolling neck, spitting up, way too fragile phase would be well worth it.

I wish the Westboro Baptist Church would just go away.
Actually, going away isn't quite good enough. I wish Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Vishnu, Boba Fett, and Santa Claus would get together and strike the WBC from the face of the earth. Preferably, in a way involving fire, lasers, and maybe a huge mudslide full of glass shards, liberalism, and homosexuality, so it be an ignominious death.

While this post has a slightly negative tone, despite the previous items, I actually liked 2k10. And am looking forward to 2k11. I just think the United States would be a better place if, rather than wasting time bickering about the economy, healthcare, and the Mexican invasion, Congress would address these paramount issues.

A year in books, food, movies, and music.

Here are some great things that I loved in 2010, but weren't necessarily birthed in 2010:

Books that captivated me this year:
Everything is Illuminated: Jonathan Safran Foer
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close: Jonathan Safran Foer
The Lies of Locke Lamora: Scott Lynch
Red Seas Under Red Skies: Scott Lynch
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo: Stieg Larsson
The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy: Douglas Adams
Pygmy: Chuck Palahniuk
No Country for Old Men: Cormac McCarthy
1984: George Orwell
Towers of Midnight: Brandon Sanderson and Robert Jordan
The Road: Cormac McCarthy
Eating Animals: Jonathan Safran Foer
The Way of Shadows: Brent Weeks
The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy: Tim Burton
Gardens of the Moon: Steven Erikson

Music that moved me this year:
Sufjan Stevens: Age of Adz
Arcade Fire: The Suburbs
Blow: Paper Television
Bob Dylan: Biograph
Crystal Castles: Crystal Castles
Decendents: Milo Goes to College
Discovery: LP
Hot Chip: Made in the Dark
Jurassic 5: Quality Control
Justice: Cross
LCD Soundsystem: This is Happening
M.I.A.: Arular
Mates of State: Re-Arrange Us
MSTRKRFT: Fist of God
NOFX: Coaster, The Longest EP
Passion Pit: Manners
Phoenix: Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix
Ratatat: LP4
Starf*cker: Jupiter
Vampire Weekend: Contra
Royksopp: The Understanding

Places that fed me:
Brugges Liege Waffles
The Park Cafe
Mazza Mediterranean
Sage Cafe
Vertical Diner
Desert Edge Pub
Sawadee
Red Iguana
Bay Leaf

Movies that blew me (mind):
True Grit
There Will be Blood
Inception
The Town
Scott Pilgrim vs the World
127 Hours
Shutter Island
Kick-Ass
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Waiting for Superman
Black Swan
The Cove

2k10, a miracle for every man, woman, and young(wo)man

For those of you who have pissed away an (but not limited to) entire year of your life reading this blog, you may recall that I dubbed 2k10 as the year of the miracle, due largely to a laundromat coin machine accidentally giving me 14 quarters instead of the customary 8 one would receive in exchange for 2 George Washingtons.

Since the end of the year is but a day away, I feel like an update as to the miraculous state of 2k10 is necessary. In reality, only one miracle I was expecting actually came to pass.

The first miracle I expected, was the acquisition of a grown up job. Not only do I not have a grown up job, but I was actually fired from the job that I had, thanks to a little fbook mishap. Turns out, after this guy
was "transfered" in lieu of a deserved firing, posting this:
was a poor life decision. Facebook privacy; too little too late. (A comment asking "what about Frank?" Frank, being the above photographed shitthead, is missing. This photo, taken from his craigslist female companionship solicitation, no less.)

So, rather than receiving the expected grown up job miracle, I took it upon myself to create my own miracle, by returning to school for a masters degree. Now I am hoping that 2k11 will be the year of the grown up job miracle.

The next miracle was that of acquiring a wife. This did not happen. I think I'm just going to go ahead an broaden my expectations for that miracle to occur sometime between 30-40. I mean, it has to. Right?

I expected that during 2k10, someone would acquire the internet nearby, and that I'd be able to steal it from them, instead of having to rely upon the laundromat, and the Salt Lake City Library Homeless Shelter for interweb browsing. I patiently waited at least 3 months for 2k10 to provide me with said miracle, but finally had to give in and pay qwest. The only bright point, is that I got to name my network "Interwebmachine3000," which is certainly the envy of all area networks.

The one miracle that actually did occur, was that 2k10 was a golden year for Javier. Nothing broke, no expensive parts failed, he only ran into the back of 1 Mercedes Benz, and killed fewer than 2 animals. I might wash him in 2k11.

I was hoping that during 2k10 the cat lady would either give up smoking or die. In that order. Neither miracle occurred, but lately she seems about as close to death as one can be, and still live alone eating enormous pizzas and drinking a 24 pack of Natty light weekly. All things are hastening her demise.

She did, however, lose Smokey the cat (to lung cancer, I suspect) a few months back. So now I only occasionally hear her yelling for 2 cats to get back in the house, instead of 3. And no more dead mice in the entry way, as apparently that was Smokey's specialty.

Even though many of the miracles I expected didn't come to pass, 2k10 was still a pretty good year. Here are some reasons:

Macbook pro
Jonathan Safran Foer
Sufjan Stevens in concert
Vancouver backpacking
2-3 times weekly summer mt. biking
10 lbs lost
10 lbs regained
Bosch mixer
The Walking Dead
Cooking skills
Summer birthday ropeswing picnic friend adventure
New nephew
New friends
A niece that loves me and can kind of say my name
3.9 in masters college
Bread baking skills
I like people I didn't used to like
Inception
Great books
Don't ask don't tell repealed
Brugges liege waffles
Park Cafe
The plant I mostly forget to water lives and thrives

So, even though every miracle I hoped for didn't come to pass, one thing is again certain; I love a lot more people this year than I did the year before. Which, I think, is the best measure of a good year.

Chrismis

I miss Christmas as a kid. I miss pouring over the humongous toy catalogue that came in the mail from Toys R Us every year, trying to find the perfect Medieval Lego set priced well under $100 dollars. I miss new Nintendo systems coming out, and begging for months to have one, and never really expecting one, but then actually getting one.

I miss the futility of attempting to sleep Christmas eve, and the pre-bed negotiations about the hour in which it would be legal to arise and acquire our stockings. I feel like my parents typically acquiesced to 5 am for the stocking retrieval, and then 6 am for present time.

I miss my parents saying, throughout the entire month of December, that times were tough this year, and Christmas probably wouldn't be as good as previous years. And then Christmas always being just as good, if not better than previous years.

I miss getting the absolute shittiest of presents that my siblings purchased from the Secret Santa Workshop at school. So shitty, in fact, that I can not recall a single one. But it sure made them feel like they were able to maintain an element of surprise in their gift giving, which is most of the fun.

I miss the year that I woke up about 4 am, and decided to pass the last hour watching cartoons. My room was directly adjacent to the TV area. I surreptitiously crept out of my room, sat on the Lazy-e-boy, and turned on the cartoons, keeping the sound above barely a whisper. Within moments, most of my siblings had sensed an animated presence in the house, and had themselves materialized upon the couches surrounding me. And then my mother, sensing the un welcomed AM cartoon invasion, and the premature arousal of her children, came downstairs and thwarted our efforts at arriving at legal Christmas wake up time via a quick, Nickelodeon diversion.

I miss having unmarried siblings with nowhere else to go.

I miss telling my best friend that I found out that Santa wasn't real. And then him telling his little sister that Santa wasn't real. Then his mom bitching to my mom about her telling me, me telling him, and he telling his sister, that Santa wasn't real.

I miss Santa being real.

I miss those 25 days till Christmas calendars with the little cardboard doors with the serrated edges that hide 25 dry, nasty chocolate treats within. I miss the tole painted elf with the little wooden squares that dictated how many days till Christmas, and taking turns with my siblings, changing the number each night.

I miss John Denver and the Muppets Christmas album being a Thanksgiving-December 25 staple.

I do not miss the year that my mother made us go see Voice Male.

I think I most miss really getting into the spirit of Christmas. It is difficult to do so, I think, when one lives alone. And when one is really busy with work and school, and living alone throughout most of December.

Merry Christmas, friends. Enjoy it with people you love.

Perspective

Pass it on.

A very epic maxim christmas bro!

There are few things on this planet that make me feel more simultaneously baffled and happy.

I can scarce contain my childlike wonder upon imagining the douchbaggery that will be present at this party beer bonging funnels of egg nog. Dude after dude, slamming redbull after redbull, minds abuzz with copious amounts of caffeine, ginseng, and taurine, clouding all judgement and landing them in the Bishops judgement seat on Sunday morning for excessive zipper sparking.

"Dress to impress from casual to glam but don't show ur assets at this Killer Maxim Theme Holiday Mansion party!!!" What? what does that even mean? And is "Killer" part of the title? Apparently "don't show ur assets" (it is somewhat painful to even quote "ur") is a hip way to say dress code. Which seems wholly unnecessary, since this isn't Halloween, which is the only certified BYU Mormon skank holiday.

I imagine the bro writing this was constantly pumping his fist in the air, after each "sentence." I'm pretty impressed that he used the correct "their," in reference to the female glory that would be in attendance. I am, however, concerned about "You into Boys? We got some crazy ones of them too!" Avant garde sentence structure aside, this question seems to be geared toward men, and therefore gay men. I think he should have been a little more clear and said, "Yo ladiez, you into boys..." This would help stem the tide of homosexuality that will probably mistakenly descend upon the party, drink all the fruit spritzers, realize no alcohol is involved, and storm out in a flamboyant rage, leaving with half the ladies who just wanted to dance and were sick of all the attempted bro crotch grinding.

I guess when I read these sorts of things, I am amazed that EVERYONE isn't having the same incredulous/embarrassed/hilarious reaction that I am. Incredulous, because how can this guy possibly be serious? Embarrassed, because...how can this guy possibly be serious? And hilarious, because...HOW CAN THIS GUY POSSIBLY BE SERIOUS??

I guess I fail to take into account the endless droves of dudes who purchase Ed Hardy shirts, whose main goals are at least 5:1 man to babe hot tub ratios (as opposed to the usually 20:1), finding the most epic killer top 40 grinding parties, and selling enough alarm system or Direct TV accounts to score sick H2's and beamers. And the true religion donning hollister babes that are like, so into that.

THANK YOU.

Blizzard jihad

Yesterday, Utah was brought to it's knees by a merciless testicle squeeze from the local weathermen and the media outlets for which they work. That was an inadvertent rhyme.

While I was hunkered down in a cold, dark basement next to a 50 gallon drum filled with wood, wadded up toilet paper, kerosene, and consequentially fire, a 72 hour kit strapped to my back, a rifle clutched in my cold, nervous hands, quick shallow breaths leaving visible evidence of my terror in the air, I thought, "maybe I'm overreacting."

As was the rest of Utah.

As I was browsing Facebook 'liking' all kinds of shit after waking up at about 11, I began to notice a lot of buzz about some blizzard that was either apparently ushering in the zombie apocalypse, or the second coming, depending upon what you believe/hope for. So I started doing some homework, and tuned into the radio. (The homework was unrelated to the radio, if that sentence confused you like it did me.)

Every few minutes, radio people were frantically updating an eager Utah about the certain death that was blowing in via Wendover. From what I could gather, by 2pm, Wendover had already been completely destroyed and had descended into anarchy. The citizenry had divided into vicious packs of survival gangs, burning all remaining tooth brushes, looting homes and businesses, and slaying local animals in order to make new clothing.

Schools everywhere were shutting down by 2pm, because a blizzard jihad was to be descending upon us within the next...4 to 5 hours. I could vividly imagine parents on a mad dash to get to school, some mom in her pink Bebe sweats in an Escalade, seat warmers cranked full blast, driving over the curb and onto the grass, running over 5 or 4 kids before skidding to a halt in front of the main entrance, rolling down the windows and screaming for her child. I imagined this sort of thing was going on at public schools all over Utah. Under slightly overcast skies. The wind seemed threatening though.

My school was the last higher learning edifice to bow to the hubris of the blizzard media. I was already at school when I found out that I was being deprived of my 3pm class. In lieu of being educated, I would have plenty of time to buy a lots of gallons of water, fruit snacks, dehydrated fruit, and jerky to get me through the impending doom. When apocalypses happen, one should be less than fickle about omnivorous responsibility. Nutrients are what's important.

I headed to Smith's to get supplies (milk, cereal, and ice cream, in reality) and there was literally no place to park. I walked into a mad house of people buying big boxes of bottled water, and tons of toilet paper. I guess I should have taken toilet paper into account; if the water system goes out, there goes my bidet. Certainly, Smith's was having record sales of flash lights and 50lb sacks of rice.

I got home, got my gun, and waited for the Jesus to come.

By about 8:30, there were a few inches of snow on the ground, and it had pretty much stopped falling out of the sky. In my frantic search throughout Smith's for 100 hour candles, I didn't consider the fact that maybe I was going to have a terrible hankering for a frozen pizza about 8:30. So, back to Smith's I went. Salt Lake City was a literal ghost town.

I went with a Di Giorno cheese stuffed crust 5 cheese pizza. And a veritable medieval broadsword of an ice scraper, as mine had broken near the end of last years snow season.

As soon as I took the first bite of the pizza, and was overwhelmed by the pungent taste of cheddar, I knew I'd made a huge mistake. I bit into the "cheese" filled crust, and my tongue was violated with none other than what seemed to be squeeze cheese out of a can. I have never wanted 5 dollars and a treacherous drive through snowy roads back so badly.

I am simply amazed by the media's power to utterly shut down the state, all because of some greenish blob on a radar screen. I will never trust reports or anarchy coming out of Wendover again.

There are some weathermen feeling very smug, or very sheepish today.

Indications

I wish that notifications on facebook were called "indications," because I believe that the quantity of one's so-called notifications really indicate just how good one is at friendship. If one only has a few notifications a week, this would obviously indicate that one isn't very good at friendship. Indications.

I recently had an experience in the rain, and I'm not sure what this indicated of me.

I was in dire need of some rice paper wraps for spring rolls. I had all other necessary ingredients chopped up and ready to go, yet somehow forgot the most crucial part. I entered my car, and ventured forth into an awful deluge from the heavens. I've never owned an umbrella, despite thinking every time I have to walk anywhere in the rain, "I wish I had an umbrella. I'm going to buy one next time I am in an umbrella store."

Every time, I think this. And I never think to buy an umbrella when I'm in the umbrella store.

I tried Smith's first. They didn't carry rice paper wraps. They did carry milk, which I also remembered I needed. As I was returning to my car (still in an unbelievable downpour) I received a phone call. There was a guy waiting for me at my car (unrelated to the phone call, though the previous sentence structure indicated that he might have been). Being distracted by the rain, the phone call, and just generally not thinking clearly, I put the jug of milk in the trunk of my car, where I typically put groceries. This gave the man the opportunity to approach me.

"Hey, um, I know you are on the phone. But can I ask you something?"
"Well. Okay. I guess so. But make it quick, it's raining like hell."
"OH. Okay. Well. Um. Say, that's a nice bike rack (referring to the one on my car). I used to have a bike."
"Yeah yeah, what do you need?"
He was talking very slowly. It was raining very hard. I was losing the patience that I never really had.
"Um, well, okay. Um. I used to be in this mission, and like um they used to help me out with some different things, and um well see, the thing is..."
"What are you getting at here? Money? You want money? Are you asking me for money?"
"Um, well, see the thing..."
"Here homes, here is a dollar. God bless."

I'm not really certain what that indicated.

Upon entering my car, I consulted the God Phone, and found an Asian market nearby called Southeast Supermarket. As I approached the street upon which it was to be located, I saw on the corner, through the rain, "Southeast Supermarket" in green letters on the front of the building. So I pulled in the parking lot, parked my car, finished my previous conversation, and re-entered the rain. There were a few "hipster" looking kids sitting at a table under the roof awning, barely out of the downpour.
"WTF are there hipster kids hanging outside an Asian supermarket in the pouring rain?"

As I approached the doors, I could see through the wall of windows lots of little tables inside, and lots of bags of coffee on shelves along the wall. "What the? Did they put a coffee shop in the Asian market? Where the hell am I?"

So I backed up to look at the "Southeast Supermarket" sign, and it turned out to say "Salt Lake's Finest." Somehow, between the S in Salt lake, and the est in Finest, my mind constructed Southeast Supermarket.

This would indicate that I'm blind AND stupid.

One more slice of faith in humanity lost

Today in my iGoogle page, the top "news story of interest" was about Lil' Wayne, a rapper who is actually (physically, anyway) a grown man, despite the confusing nature of the adjective antecedent to his name. (I realize most of you know precisely who he is; however. this blog is confoundingly prolific when it comes to acquiring mom-aged readers, and therefore Lil' Wayne may not be recognized with absolute ubiquity.)

This "top story" indicated that Lil' Wayne was worried that he might have some imminent legal trouble brewing from a woman claiming to have produced a fifth illegitimate child. The previous 4 were all with different women, 2 of which were born about 2 months apart. Classy.

How does this happen more than once, let alone 4 times? He certainly can't blame Catholicism, Mormonisim, Utah public education, nor extreme right wing Christianity for that level of contraceptive ignorance. He is apparently finding out the hard way that a girl-on-top can still get pregnant. Someone needs to clue him in. Although, making a gazillion dollars a year probably makes one less worried about child support bills, and therefore contraceptive measures. I don't even want to imagine the WayneTD's that guy is farming out.

Behold, your role model.

The glories of technology

For my teaching and technology class, we have this book that is apparently sort of a didactic joke. So our blessed teacher decided that it would be more helpful if we each picked a chapter, gleaned the most important points, and posted them to a Westminster wiki for reference purposes.

I realize that this may be funny only to me, but this was the result of that assignment. I might fail. It's hard to know.

For those who may not know, I am attempting to accrue massive debt amounts for a masters at teaching, in order to acquire a modest pay track bump, and to have the ability to look upon fellow inferior bachelors degree teachers with at least a minimal amount of credible disdain.

I spent at least 8 or 7 times as much time doing this assignment as what would have been the case had I not done it in such a ridiculous fashion, so I post this here with hopes that I didn't waste that much time so between 7 and 4 people would read it. Nay, I am hoping to double, possibly triple that number.

Anyways. Enjoy, or don't.

The National Council for Accreditation of Teacher Education (NCATE) has created a base of standards for schools which basically state that all teachers must: understand diversity; teach lessons that incorporate diversity; connect instruction to students experiences and cultures; be culturally sensitive and sensitive to gender; classroom equity.

This chapter focuses on how to accomplish this with the glorious blessings of technology.

Technology is a means by which students who suffer with disabilities can express themselves and participate in classroom experiences and assignments when they otherwise may not have been able to do so. Technology can provide voice for those who can not speak, mobility for those who can not move, and many other glorious possibilities.

Students with disabilities such as cerebral palsy, who may lack the ability to manipulate a writing device, can use technology to veritably negate the rather antiquated craft of writing with one's hand.

Other students with disabilities, while having the ability to participate in activities such as brainstorming, may often write illegibly, and therefore find frustration upon attempting to read what they have written. Word processing programs may excoriate unnecessary frustrations from the learning process.

Word prediction software may also be used to promote writing victories for students who struggle with typing speed. After the first few keystrokes, the supercomputer software program divines the most likely word, thus increasing speed and spelling accuracy.

Custom dictionaries are also a superglorious function of some word processing programs. If, for instance, a student is writing with much frequency about a Scutellosaurus, which is an absurdly long and tedious word to write with multiplicity, the custom dictionary can learn this word, and insert it upon request. Also, the custom dictionary allows one to write such seemingly made up words with spell checker impunity. This causes the spell checker to seem less supercilious and fickle, and eliminates red underline ubiquity.

Talking spell checkers, besides being a valuable source of robotic companionship, allow students to make spelling selections based upon a phonetic suggestion, which is at times helpful when writing in this grammatically and vernacularly nonsensical language we call "English."

While these technologies may be invaluable tools in a teacher's digital tool belt, it is imperative that these tools not become as a prosthesis--a new limb, as it were, replacing the old worn out limb of "teaching." While the talking spell checker may be an admirable tool, it should not take the place of regular instruction. Tenure does not give the teacher permission to acquiesce control of the class to the talking spell checker.

Reading is another area of learning where technology has abundantly bequeathed upon teachers many invaluable resources. A High interest-lowlevel book, rather than simply converting text to sound in a dreadfully androgynous voice, dramatizes text with character voice distinction, thus creating an entertaining dramatization that is deceptively educational.

Scan/read systems, seemingly developed by mighty Zeus himself, allow users to scan any text existing upon planet earth, which is then (possibly via divine intervention, or extra terrestrial technology) converted into auditory output. As the mighty computer utters the text, the corresponding words are highlighted upon a screen, bestowing upon the reader an auditory/visual experience, unsurpassed by any Veggie Tales in existence.

Teachers who are lacking in skills of proper auditory projection may use Assistive listening devices in order to be heard and enjoyed by all students. Poor acoustics and quiet demeanors are no match for a personal amplification system, worn by students as earbuds. Sound amplification systems (external speaker systems), while also opening up the possibility of holding a successful Megadeath concert in the classroom, also create an environment where even the most soft-spoken teacher may never fear miscommunication, nor development of a hoarse voice from incessant yelling. However, with Sound amplification systems, one must be wary of profane utterances muttered under one's breath at every moment.

Expanded keyboards, mini-keyboards, and customizable keyboards, rather than referring to varying models of Casio music devices, are distinct typing units that exist to help students with various word processing needs. For students with limited range of motion, mini-keyboards may be of more practical use than a full sized keyboard. For those who struggle with precision, expanded keyboards may be the "cats pajamas," as it were.

Students gifted with minds immeasurably greater than those of average mortals, may also be blessed though educational technology. Rather than wallowing about in irrelevant, simplistic curriculum, they may use the "internet" to delve into more advanced realms of knowledge, not heretofore known in the public school system.

Technology, we must not fear. Educational technology is the door through which all students should pass, receiving a complementary gift bag of relevant technology, and bumper stickers with intelligent slogans on the way in. Why stand by, O fellow teachers, and let the technological fear train pass by, on tracks of digital wonder and achievement? Nay, let us employ all technological gifts imparted upon us as if from on high, that we may help--nay--usher our students into a new world order of quality, effective public education.

I'm sorry. This was self indulgent.

All things go...except me sometimes

There is a bathroom related mental disorder that I think is pretty universally referred to as “stage fright.” It seems that the extent to which people suffer from this affliction varies in degrees of intensity. Essentially, stage fright means that one is rendered unable to urinate when in the immediate vicinity of others. For some, a relatively small buffer zone between oneself and another fellow urinator is needed−perhaps a thin protective physical barrier between 2 urinals is sufficient. Or maybe, in a situation where multiple urinals line a wall, if the urinators are staggered by intervening empty urinals, bladder evacuation may successfully occur.

I once knew a guy that couldn’t even make it happen if there were someone else anywhere in the entire bathroom. On an 9 hour plane ride down to Argentina, he was unable to urinate the entire time. That guy was severely disabled.

If my bladder is above the 50% capacity threshold, I can typically successfully go, regardless of the bathroom occupancy/urinal layout situation. Below 50%, it gets iffy.

I don’t really understand the mechanics of the disorder. I don’t think it has anything to do with shame, or embarrassment−I suffer from neither. Basically, the feeling is thus; when I peel open my pants and get down to business in front of a urinal, if there is somebody really close by, the pressure, or physical urge to urinate depletes by about 50%. So, if I was at the 75% threshold, it diminishes to about 25%, and evacuation can be successful. However, if I am at like 35%, and just trying to avoid having to eventually be uncomfortable in a movie...I guess I’m probably going to end up uncomfortable during the movie.

It is an awkward feeling, standing there, sandwiched between 2 pissing dudes, and being unable to make it happen. On the rare occasion that this occurs, I feel like an explanation is probably necessary. Like I need to tell these dudes why I seem to be just hanging out in front of the urinal, instead of doing anything practical.

“Really guys, I’m not just hanging out here, hoping to catch a peripheral view of your genitals, sizable and impressive though they may be. I just can’t piss. Seriously.”

Plus, if one is standing there in a busy bathroom, while 2-3 people cycle through on either side, in my mind, it starts to look really suspect. Or at least I think that people are thinking that I am looking really suspect. Honestly, I doubt anyone is even paying attention. But these thoughts probably add to the mental urination block.

Last night, I was at Kingsbury Hall at the Sufjan Stevens concert. I don’t have words for how gloriously, spectacularly, wonderfully beautiful that experience was.

I decided, previous to Sufjan taking the stage, that I didn’t want to wish at any point during his set that I had urinated. I was only at about 25%. But I didn’t want that, over the ensuing 2.5 hours, to rise above 50%. So, I ventured down the the bathroom.

There was a line of about 10-15 urinals along the wall, all but one of them occupied. They were pretty damn close together, those urinals; broad shouldered men would be pret-ty cozy. I moved into the unoccupied urinal space. I tried to think watery thoughts, and to imagine I wasn’t practically bumping elbows with 2 other guys with exposed genitals.

At 25%, I didn’t stand a chance.

I glanced over my shoulder, and there were about 4 dudes waiting to fill in any vacancies. Double the pressure. “Common little guy, I can’t just keep standing here. It is getting awkward,” I told it. The guy on the right finished, flushed, and left.

Dammit.

A new guy cycled in. Finally, after another excruciatingly long 20 or so seconds, I decided it was time to give up. But I was also torn about what to do. I felt like I needed to say something, explain my failure. Explain that I wasn’t really just a penis spy. I did have to pee. Just not quite enough. I decided it was time to try something different, something other than just slinking away in shame.

I sighed. “Too much pressure. Can’t do it.”

The guy to my right absolutely cracked up. “Too much pressure. Oh man, that’s funny.” I zipped up, and walked away, dignity somewhat in tact.

In the restroom, honestly, apparently, is the best policy.

A good night for a fight

I've been thinking about fighting a lot lately. How fighting is such a meaningful activity, and how I'm really sorry I have been mostly deprived of the experience of feeling my fists pummel a kids face, or having the wind forced from my lungs by the knee of an opponent. Obviously, there is something really really great about fighting. I'm just not entirely sure what it is.

I think I have been sort of a coward for a lot of my life. I've never been a big fan of confrontation, which unfortunately happens to be an integral part of the fighting experience. I just don't get riled to the point where I think the only answer is to deal pains and injuries and bruises with my fists. I am typically okay with the idea of dealing out verbal mockery, and shaming a person into submission, rather than hitting.

I think, over the last several years, I have been under the influence of the thought that "I'm an adult, and it sure is embarrassing when adults fight." But secretly, whenever I am with a friend who I know beyond a doubt could protect me from just about anyone, I always secretly want someone to pick a fight with us. Then I could participate, but not be counted upon to deal the major damage. But it never happens.
In fact, I have only been in four fights in my entire life, three of which occurred in the second grade. There was this kid named Chad. He had some older friends who were coaxing him into battling me. He then attempted to punch me in the face. I ducked, quick as a quail, and followed with a few feeble pops to his cheeks/forehead. At which point, he crumpled to the earth and yelled that he had had enough. This happened thrice, and, feeling rather full of myself, I told my mother that I was sick of beating him up. We had a nice pow wow with my teacher, and all anger issues were resolved. Really, I should have continued kicking his ass every day for as long as possible, as the next time I would fight, I would take a rather stellar beating.

As soon as Wesley’s fist met my upper cheek/eye, and the back of my head consequentially slammed into the locker, I knew that not running away had been a poor life decision. Again, this fight had been utterly pointless, and caused by older guys putting him up to it. For like, three weeks he had been asking me when we were going to fight. And, for three weeks, I had managed to avoid the conflict. I had begun to carry around a small Old Timer knife, under the delusion that I would just pull it out and threaten to cut his head off if he managed to get me cornered. For some reason, things just never quite play out as you expect. Especially involving knives and threatening to cut someone’s head off.

“So, we gonna fight today Fish?” I was getting sick of that question. “Hold on. Let me put my bag in my locker.” At least he was a gentleman about it. As I slowly entered in the combination, I realized in horror that I had forgotten my blade. So much for threatening to decapitate him. I threw my bag in the locker, and turned around. About twenty people had gathered. Heart in my throat, I sort of squared up and put my fists about chest level, as the “Kick his ass Wesley!” chants began. And then my neck was snapping back, and I was wondering whether I could get away with punching him in the dick. After two or three more well placed blows to my facial region, I sort of flailed my arms at his face in a desperate attempt to inflict come sort of damage. I think I slapped him in the ear. He then proceeded to pummel me twice more, and then a teacher walked around the corner. At that point, everyone dispersed, and I reopened my locker. I did a pretty good job of holding it together until I entered the locker room and cried like a baby bitch. It was my pride more than anything that had been wounded.

So since that time, I have been very hesitant to re-enter the world of fighting. I just remember thinking, as fist met cheek bone, "Holy shit. So that's what this feels like. This is about 75% worse than I expected."

I thought I came close recently. I was with a friend late in the eve in the Beto's drive-thru line. The line seemed forever long, and I needed to urinate. So I decided to exit the vehicle, run around the corner in an apartment complex parking lot, and piss on a wall. Upon rounding the corner, and undoing my belt and unzipping my pants, I noticed a guy walking out of a parking garage in my direction. There was an alley way about 10 yards away from me, so I jogged over to it.

Upon entering said alley, the guy yells, "Hey! What are you doing!"

I yelled, "Is there a problem?"

He yelled back, "What are you doing back there?"

I thought, is this my chance? Will this turn into a fight? Am I willing to push his buttons over a great place to urinate? Do I really want to fight with a full bladder? What if I get punched in the lower abdomen, and I pee?

I decided to push a tiny button. "What the hell is the problem?"

"I'm a deputy sheriff."

"Oh." Whoops.

So I walked over, and he asked what I was doing back there. I said, "Well, honestly, I was looking for a place to piss. Seemed like a good idea at the time."

He said, "Oh. Well. People are back there some times. I'm really tired, I've been working 72 hours."

I said, "Oh. I just need to pee."

He said, "Well, if you go back around over there, there are some rocks. You can pee back there."

"Thanks deputy."

I'm glad we didn't fight, because the reality is, I'd have probably ended up with a couple of black eyes and pants soaked in urine.

Great ideas

I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about things that land people in really unfortunate life situations. Or how those situations and lifestyles are perpetuated.

The more I study, the more I realize that poverty begets poverty. If one's parents are poor and uneducated, it is often likely, without the intervention of a good school and quality teachers and parental pushing in an education oriented direction, that one will also end up poor and uneducated.

Hence, places like the projects exist. Neighborhoods in Harlem and the Bronx, and in every major city churn out generation after generation of impoverished people. White and black. Immigrants and natives. People with similar brain capacity, but dissimilar life opportunities. Contrary to antiquated belief (and still some right-wing-ultra-conservative-belief) stupidity and ignorance aren't hereditary, strictly speaking (obviously I am not talking about hereditary mental illness, or other disabilities caused by biology or genetics, nor did I mean to just call people with mental illness stupid...you get what I mean).

Here are a couple of things that I don't understand.

I get that sometimes kids are going to school, and what they are being taught seems pretty irrelevant. They feel like teachers don't care about them. That school is hard. They are falling and staying behind. The thing I don't quite understand, however, is at what point it ever seems like the best idea to just quit. How the most logical thing becomes dropping out.

"I think its time to really take charge of my life and quit school forever. Education? Get real. Fast food is where it's at. Americans are only getting fatter, and therefore I shall be entering a solid industry, with plenty of room for growth, and spectacular job security."

I mean, there are many schools in the country that have drop out rates of 50% or higher. Which means, there are millions of kids who somehow think that quitting school is a good life decision. Which I find wholly baffling. Perhaps, I simply have forgotten about the severe irrationality of youth.

I forget that I EVER thought it was a good idea to wear studded belts and army cargo pants. I remember convincing myself that science was bullshit, and that math was the PURE science (slightly ironic, since I can't even remember how to do long devision, and simple algorithms totally befuddle my mind). Because how did I know scientists weren't all liars? (the obvious irrationality of that thought does not escape me). Like take a nucleus for example. If scientists had never before seen a nucleus, maybe it wasn't real. I realize now that it was entirely possible that scientists had actually seen a nucleus, but my rural education misinformed me.

I actually still don't know if scientists have ever seen a nucleus. Thanks, college.

I am the American science/math failing statistic.

I understand that kids drop out for lots of reasons: the family needs more income, pregnancy, drug habits, drug selling incentives, and whatever. Anywhere from 8-10% of high school students drop out per year.

The other, I suppose somewhat related thing that I wonder about, is hardcore drug abuse. Such as meth. Or heroin. How exactly does ANYBODY ever even try that stuff? At what point does one think, "You know what? I think I'm just going to go ahead and give meth a shot. I've certainly heard a lot of success stories surrounding meth, I hate my teeth and wish they were rotten, I enjoy open sores, and I'm really ready for the emaciated look."

NOBODY doesn't know that meth way sucks. I mean, I understand kids giving weed, psychedelic drugs, and even coke a shot. But man. Meth. That doesn't ever turn out well for anyone. Designer drugs can be passed off as glamourous. Just look at Lindsay Lohan and the Olsen twins. But do a quick image search of "meth addict," and "coke addict," and you get very different results (please, PLEASE don't take this as me giving coke the thumbs up. Just saying that I slightly understand people doing coke, whereas meth just blows my mind). I realize that most people probably aren't starting with hardcore drugs. Obviously. And that people are seeking the most intense, cheapest high possible. But meth?

I guess every now and then I consider removing the breaks from my mountain bike, and bombing the steepest, fastest hill I can find. Which I guess is sort of like meth. And I suppose thinking about throwing my $3k mt bike off of a cliff, and buying a Walmart Schwinn is about like quitting school.

Never mind. I get it.

Merely animals

I think nature is beautiful.

I am bothered by how we treat some things in nature, specifically animals. I have written before about my thoughts on zoos. I recently went to the aquarium in Sandy with my family. Little fish in big tanks, I don't so much care about. However, a 20 foot long, 10 foot wide, 1.5 feet deep figure 8 shaped pool full of stingrays sure did bother me. Why do they have to be in there? So a bunch of fat Americans can shove their fat hands in the water and poke them? Why does ANYBODY need to be able to poke a stingray? It seems wrong.

In the age of high definition television and the existence of Planet Earth, I think we need not keep creatures in absurdly small cages in order to be able to have a "real life, animal experience." Well, it really isn't a real life, animal experience, because they aren't real wild animals anymore.

That, however, isn't what this is about.

Let me preface this with the idea that I don't, on some levels, have a problem with hunting. For instance, because we, as stewards of planet earth (and in this instance, the west) have basically eradicated wolves and many of the other large predators that historically kept deer populations in check, we now have the responsibility to maintain those populations, in order to avoid mass starvation and disease epidemics.

I also am much more okay with a deer or an elk living out its existence in the mountains, or wherever, and then being hunted and eaten by people, than the so-called living done by animals in factory farms previous to slaughter.

I noticed a friend had changed his facebook profile picture to one of him with a slain elk. Turns out, this photo had been uploaded to an fbook site for a bullet company. Upon clicking though some of the pictures, I was astounded by (and reminded of) the absolutely alien, completely unrelatable world in which rednecks dwell. The completely senseless nature of the killing that is applauded in the world of bad grammar, camouflage hunting brand hats, and humongous trucks.


For whatever reason, on planet redneck, small creatures are of little worth, beyond providing "fun" target practice. Even more disturbing than this photo, were the comments included therewith.
Kyle: "Yeeessssss I love it...lol"
Seriously? Kyle loves this? And is loling? Wtf is the matter with this guy/people? Why is blowing the guts out of a fat prairie dog funny, or thrilling, or awesome to anyone? On a similarly grotesque photo of another prairie dog's bullet induced visceral explosion were some other comments that really built my faith in humanity. Not only did 3 people "like" the photo, but Roger said: "Never knew what hit him ! lol" Again, the loling. One can not help but wonder what sort of chemical brain imbalance is required to induce maniacal laughter at the sight of a marmot that has been eviscerated by a bullet.

Pretty damned funny, don't you think?

Then there was this: Why does anybody have to kill one of these? Have you ever seen a mountain goat in the wild? They are unbelievably beautiful, and it is an amazing thing to watch one climb up the most impossibly steep terrain. From where does the need to destroy beauty stem? This mountain goat, stuffed with whatever the hell taxidermists stuff dead creatures with, set upon a fake mountain in a hunting store, or in some guy's office, or its head on some wall, will never come even close to invoking the feelings of awe that encountering one alive in the wild would.

Nobody is eating a tough old mountain goat, so don't try to use that as an excuse.

Lastly, why does anyone need to kill this? 2 of the comments that went along with the picture were the most bothersome:
Lane: "Well that is one beautiful bull. The trophy of a lifetime! Congratulations."
Ken: "WOW Beautiful animal You better have high ceilings to mount that guy on the wall."
That this bull's head is going to end up on some redneck's wall is nothing short of a tragedy. Ken and Lane were right. It WAS a beautiful creature. The trophy of a lifetime. But for what point? So Mr. Redneck can feel good about the size of his package every time he enters into the room and stares that bull in its dead, glass eyes? So that he can prove to all who see it that he was man enough to shoot it, rip out its guts, and cut off its head?

My father has no animal heads on his wall, nor has he ever slain a "trophy." He is certainly no less a man for it.

Killing for the sake of killing just seems wrong, even if they are merely animals. When one shoots marmots, or rabbits, or other small creatures that one is not going to eat (which is most small creatures) one is killing because one enjoys killing.

When one kills a large, inedible creature because one desires for said creature to adorn one's wall, one is killing because one enjoys killing. One is creating a monument to killing for sport.

That. Is. Wrong.

Showering with strangers

I think that there is either a creature, or a homeless man/woman that lives in the crawlspace of my house.

When turning on the shower, not much is worse than, upon turning the water knobs, getting shot on the crown of the head with an unexpected, cold shot of water. So extremely unpleasant. In order to avoid this reoccurring scenario, I always make certain I turn off the middle "shower activation knob" when I end the bodily cleansing process. I swear I always do it. I hate the cold-water-head-shot that much.

What I think is happening, is the homeless person/creature living in my crawlspace is coming out when I am gone, and using my shower. Which seems a little antithetical to the nature of a homeless person. I'd have expected he/she/it to consume my foods and maybe sell my clothing now and then. But apparently this is a clean homeless being. Although, if this being is dwelling in my crawlspace, technically it isn't homeless.

I really am bothered by this.

One time I think homeless being got careless, and turned off some lights while I was in the bathroom showering. I suppose it might have been in anger or frustration. Maybe there was a homeless ball, or some other such homeless activity that homeless being was attempting to attend, and he/she/it needed a shower, but was unable to since I was showering. It was an eerie feeling, opening the bathroom door to unexpected darkness. I'd be okay with this parasitic relationship if homeless being would simply remember to turn off the middle knob, because it sure as hell isn't me forgetting.

I google image searched "homeless shower creature," to try to get an idea of what I might be dealing with. I thought these were the 2 most likely and relevant results.


If it be the former, I'm probably going to let the issue slide. However, if it be the latter, I'm kicking Zac Efron's ass if I suffer another cold head squirt. I'm pretty sure I could.

I hope my towel isn't being used.

Beware the walmart nip slip

Why does choosing a toothpaste have to be such a complicated, difficult decision? The situation is infinitely worse when you hate most flavors of mint. Which I do. I'd rather get karate chopped in the throat than put a hard candy mint in my mouth. The only mint flavors I like are spearmint (some, in gum form) and wintergreen (all, in every form). Toothpaste does not exist in the former, that I have ever seen, and I have only ever found one paste in the latter. Crest has a whitening expressions wintergreen flavor. The problem--it exists only at Walmart.

I'd rather get karate chopped in the throat by a leper than go to Walmart.

Walmart may be one of the most depressing places on the planet, next to a dog pound, or maybe an orphanage that got half burnt down, so some of the kids have to sleep in the kitchen, or in the game room that has actually zero games. Maybe just like one edition of Candy Land, but most of the cards are missing, and 2 of the corners are chewed off.

Every time I go to Walmart, its like a pall of sadness descends upon me. Like I see the guy with the ultra-massive baggy jeans, a mesh top shirt, black fingernails, various hooks and chains connecting straps to other hooks or chains, super long greasy hair, neck tats and eye makeup, and for one second my heart is warmed. Because who the hell else would hire this guy? But then I get immediately depressed again, because how could they hire this guy?

As I find myself glad that goth guy's mesh shirt nipples are ate least barely covered by his blue vest, I am immediately depressed by all of the basically immobile folks hauling way too much ass around on the motorized carts, packing the baskets with frozen corn dogs and hostess cakes. I'm bummed out by the path they have taken (whether pushed onto, or voluntary) that has brought them to the motorized-cart-transfat-processed-food-Walmart-run. And I want to teach kids to avoid that path like maybe they should avoid goth guy. And then the philosophical, multicultural, supposed-to-be-non-biased teacher guy in me feels bad for thinking that.
But then I recall the time when I saw goth guy in line at the self checkout at Smith's, and heard him on the phone telling his friend how interested he was in serial killers and Charles Manson.

Kids should definitely avoid goth guy.

All of that, just for a tube of toothpaste.

This morning I squeezed the very last vestiges of the wintergreen toothpaste from the tube. Not one more iota of paste was left. I'd been putting off this trip for days. On my way to Walmart, I passed by Super Target, and suddenly remembered that Super Target existed, and also remembered that Super Target is at least 100% less depressing and 175% cleaner than Walmart. The risk, however, was whether or not they would have wintergreen toothpaste. I decided to risk it. No leprous drop kick to the chest for me today.

Once I finally navigated myself to the toothpaste aisle, I tried to make sense of the 400 different options available. One thing was immediately clear--no wintergreen. DAMMIT.

This is where it gets hard. HTF am I supposed to know which will be the least nasty mint? There are about 90 different flavors that end in mint, each flavor as arbitrarily nondescript as the next: smooth mint, radiant mint, long lasting mint, clean mint, fresh clean mint, extreme herbal mint, minty fresh mint, cool mint, refreshing mint. What a bullshit marketing strategy. They probably all taste roughly the same, yet pricing is slightly different all around. Plus, they all claim to serve differing functions. One is tartar control, another is cavity control. Why the hell can't tartar control AND cavity control be combined, along with super whitening power, and enamel booster, to create one hell of a super paste? It's all a gimmick.

The only mints with which I am immediately familiar, are ones that actually have names that refer to something specific--spearmint, and wintergreen. EVERYBODY knows what those taste like, but I'll be damned if most people are aware of the subtle differences between radiant and clean mint.

The only other flavor I could recall being somewhat able to stand was "regular paste." I swear they try to make you feel bad for buying the cheapest tube of toothpaste by calling it "regular paste." In fact, they probably add sugar to it as a punishment for not spending the extra 43 cents to get minty fresh mint. Or maybe sand. Maybe they should call it "sucker paste."

Pro-life vegan athiest

I have a friend who doesn't believe in God. Which doesn't make me sad, because this person isn't sad. Or lost. Or a bad person. I find the more I learn about what other people believe, the less I believe that my faith has any sort of a monopoly on happiness. In fact, I don't believe that in the slightest.

I believe that the ability to find happiness doesn't come from any singular source, that people can choose to be happy and good, whatever their state may be. Whether it is Mormonism, Catholicism, Islam, or cooking Liege waffles that makes you happy, that is your prerogative. It isn't my place to tell you what is valid. There are certainly things that inherently bring unhappiness, but I'm not going into that.

Christians may argue that the source of all happiness is God, or Christ. Which is fine, and doesn't disprove what I am saying in the least bit. If all happiness comes from God, (Christian God) then the happiness that people of different faiths (or no faith) feel ultimately comes from that source--but it is just simply labeled differently. Still, it boils down to a choice.

As I was thinking about this friend's non-belief in a God, some interesting philosophical questions cropped up in my mind concerning atheism. First, concerning abortion. It would seem to me that a person who believed that there was no God, and that there was no life after this one should be strongly opposed to abortion. If, when we die, we really really die, then any sort of practice that prematurely ends the life of another human should be looked upon with the greatest of abhorrence.

In the case of abortion, the possibility of existence would be completely and utterly canceled. I think that with a pre-life/post-life paradigm, it is possible to think that, if an abortion takes place, whatever God in which one believes could potentially "replant," for lack of a better word, the aborted spirit or soul elsewhere. Or, barring that, at least there is an afterlife. Existence isn't destroyed, merely postponed. Or shifted.

I also think that an atheist could conscionably be nothing but a vegan. The same idea applies--if there is only one existence, how could someone in good conscience unnecessarily cause the death of a living thing? Some may argue that an atheist has no conscience because an atheist, lacking a God and potential judgement, has no motivation to be a "good person." Which is totally bogus. It is a sad concept, thinking that people are only good because of a fear of God. People should be good, because being good is the right thing to do. Because being good makes one feel good.

Now, I realize that "being good" is somewhat relative. "Being good" means different things to different people. But I think that most, regardless of [no] faith can agree on a basic concept of goodness.

I realize this post doesn't flow with the regular tone of this blog, but I'd like to know what other people think about this.