It's a Christmas miracle

All those cursive writing lessons are finally paying off, right? Honestly, when was the last time you wrote in cursive? The only time I really consider writing in cursive is when writing thank-you cards, but, honestly, that line of action usually breaks down once I realize I have forgotten how to write a cursive "J."

I am toying with the idea of doing a "year in review" post, but that would require me to try and recall any happenings older than two months old. It's a stiff task to say the least. I will have to consider whether I actually want to do it or not.

So what's the Cheetos cheetah on about? Eh? Chester's a bit of a wild card. Talk about a cool cat. He wears sunglasses. Also, he engages in dangerous extreme sports and, if his more recent commercials are any indicator, seems to support a healthy amount of hooliganism from his consumers. Keep it spicy, Chester. Furthermore, have you visited the Cheetos website? In my extensive research for this paragraph, I did just that. The top headline? "Stolen Jewelry Found In Cheetos Bag." Hey-oh! If that's not solid advertising, I really don't know what is. Way to capture the hard to reach 18-35 year old white male crowd. Evidently several New Jersey teens stole $7 thousand worth of jewelry and hid it in a Cheetos bag in their apartment. Given New Jersey's residents' well-documented decision-making track record, do you suppose that at any point they accidently stole $7 thousand worth of Cheetos and hid it in a jewelry bag? I sure hope so. Another fun fact? One of the other main stories on Cheetos.com is about a New Jersey-based environmental firm that develops speakers from recycled Cheetos bags. New Jersey is clearly doing its part to discover new uses for former snack reticules. Step it up, rest of the continental US.

What did you do yesterday? I did nothing. And Kevin Garnett said that was impossible. . . .

A couple of weeks ago, I was taking finals at school when I got an interesting assignment from a professor. He required that our final paper be turned in at sunset on a Sunday. At first, I was annoyed. What does sunset even mean? I wanted a little more structure. However, upon much reflection, I realized that this was how I wish all deadlines would be given. Because, in the end, the deadline of sunset sounds like a rendezvous, which is awesome and fun to say. I like where my professor went with it, but maybe it could be more exciting. Let's get a train involved. Also, a riddle wouldn't hurt. Make me feel like my expose on organizational communication is actually a list of the numerical launch codes required to make Kim Jong Il knock it the heck off. I'm not saying you should hire trench coated men with accents and scars to stop the delivery of my paper (though I am open to the idea); just make me feel like James Bond. Once. I guess that's the point of my college experience, really. I want to feel like I'm in Her Majesty's Secret Service. Nick Nack and Jaws? I'm in. Maybe they will make an appearance. Doesn't hurt to ask. Although I don't know how you are going to get into contact with Herve Villechaize.

I was reading my old posts the other day (because I am a proponent of hilarity), and I realized something. I have a bear fixation. Nothing serious (I hope), but it's there. There seems to be some evidence that, if I turn some of my attention to orcas (which I pronounce "orchas" because it is fun to do so), I will be able to continue on in my life in a normal fashion. I probably shouldn't even make this observation, but orcas are a lot like panda bears. Except they spend more time in water. And less time eating bamboo shoots. Also, there is the whole fur difference.

Oh, I nearly forgot. Happy Christmas y'all.

"Your soul is an appalling dump heap overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of deplorable rubbish imaginable, mangled up in tangled up knots."

-Theodore "Dr. Seuss" Geisel, in his song, "You're A Mean One, Mister Grinch." The term grinch is often used to describe people who despise Christmas, especially those who are parsimonious around Christmas time. That's you, people who give underwear as a gift.

My Affliction

I know, I know. The title sounds very dark. Don't not read this simply because you have apprehensions about the title (or the author).

What I actually want to talk about today is mutations. The truth is, I have one. Now, it would just so happen that I did not get one of the cool mutations--I can't fly, my body does not spontaneously regenerate itself when I get wounded (well, it does, but it takes the usual amount of time that it takes any reasonably healthy, non-hemophiliac human being) and I can't control electrical currents. Even my Hulk powers are limited. No, I got color blindness. I would argue that it is cooler than male-pattern baldness, but not by much. Yes, I am color blind. And not necessarily in the socially-conscious, everyone is equal way. Google Health (I know! I had no idea such an entity existed either!) describes it as such: "Color blindness is the inability to see certain colors in the usual way." Which I think is slightly narrow-minded. After all, what comprises usual? Not too long ago I saw a documentary about a woman who married the Eiffel Tower. Ok, so that is unusual and off-topic, but how else was I going to let everybody know?

I have met quite a few people that were excited by the fact that I am color blind. I don't really see the appeal, though. I mean, I can't use my special power to fight crime, and as far as I know, they won't even let me be a fighter jet pilot. I'm not like the kid from Little Miss Sunshine who dreamt of being a fighter pilot, but even if I wanted to unleash hot death from the red skies, the knowledge that I CAN'T, well that is hard to take. (Fighter jet pilot can be added to the list of things I will never be. Also on the list? Physicist, keeper of The Orb and bear. All mystical endeavors, to be certain.) However, the novelty of my color blindness usually wears off pretty quick once (I assume) others figure out I can't get special discounts at restaurants or cure people with a gesture. Perhaps the original draw is just that color blindness makes an individual unique. Only 1 of every 10 men have this mutation (Google Health calls it a "Genetic Problem." I say, hey, take it easy, Google.) and even fewer women are color blind.

Now recently I saw a headline that said, if my memory serves, "Color Blindness Cure Found In Monkeys." At first, I was excited. Finally, right? Then reality struck me . . . how am I going to get a hold of a monkey to cure my poor eyeballs? I'm pretty sure it is illegal to own a monkey in California, even for medical use (or is that just ferrets?), and once I have the monkey, then what? Do I eat the monkey? Do I need to somehow inject it into my body? If so, must it go into my eyes? I don't think I can fit a whole monkey into my eyes. . . . Perhaps I must absorb the monkey? If so, it sounds like I will have to acquire a special machine to make that possible. Can I buy a machine? What will the shipping costs be? How much room will it take in my dorm room? You see my concerns now. Of course, after reading even the first several words of the article, I understood that the monkeys themselves did not hold the cure to color blindness (though I think we can all agree that they have many other answers in store for us), but that people had simply been experimenting on monkeys with color blindness. The point is, there is hope for those of us who dress funny or have never really experienced the color purple (at least not in the way Prince intended; come to think of it, I'm not sure if anyone has ever experienced the color purple the same as Prince has).

"I'm gonna wait 'til the midnight hour. . . ."

-Wilson Pickett, who was evidently unaware of my uncle's maxim that "nothing good happens after 11 o'clock."

Point A to Point B

The natural progression of my thoughts could be described as bizarre. Allow me to elaborate by giving an example:

I was driving to Sacramento several days ago, when I saw a dead squirrel on the side of the road. After expressing the proper amount of joy that at least somewhere something is being done about the overpopulation of what some people call the "Gray Plague," I was reminded of a recent trip I made in which, deep in the blackness of the night, I (unintentionally) struck and (I assume) killed a pedestrian rabbit who happened to be crossing the road. I then considered "deer crossing" signs and a) how much damage a prancing eight-point buck would do to my Focus and b) how rarely one sees a deer cross the road in the leaping position the signs depict. Naturally, when one is on the deer crossing sign mind track, one is forced to consider other signs delineating an animal and its inclination to cross a motorway. Let's see, we have the equestrian, the occasional moose, child chasing ball, hand-holding foot traffic, bovine, armadillo, kangaroo (if you're down under) and, of course, the duck with ducklings in tow. Now, two thoughts enter my mind when I contemplate the duck with duckling train crossing sign: first, I think about the immense joy I would feel if I saw a whole squad of baby ducks following momma duck (it seems that daddy duck is rarely in the picture). In my mind, there would probably be a light rainbow behind the glistening mountains in the background, perhaps the ducks are whistling softly, I don't know. The second thought which stumbles into my mind like a guy who lives on the subway arriving late to an ill-fated job interview at, ironically, Subway, is the Berenstain Bears. Stick with me on this one. I don't know what your memory of the Berenstain Bears includes, but the most vivid picture I have is this sequence: The bears are on a road trip, when all of a sudden they strike the car ahead of them, which has unexpectedly stopped for no apparent reason. Poppa Bear is FUMING. He's ready to rumble, and, as a bear, we can expect a certain amount of carnage as a result. But, the driver of the car in front of him steps out of his car and guess what? This dude is huge. He is at least three-quarters grizzly and was only recently released from the penitentiary for crimes in relation to disorderly conduct, assault and public indecency (we assume). We can practically hear Poppa Bear gulp in fear. He gets out of the car, asks his children, the aptly named Brother and Sister, not to watch, and approaches the furious driver. However, once the two meet, and Poppa Bear sees the actual situation, which of course is that they were at a duck crossing and Mother duck and her ducklings were crossing the street in a row. Poppa Bear feels foolish, apologizes, and, in the end, it turns out that the bear in the car in front really isn't that upset and is just glad that nobody was hurt. What was the intended lesson here? Some say this story illustrates our need for just a little understanding . . . a sentiment with which I agree. However, I would add a caveat: this story illustrates our need for understanding, only if the person in the car you just hit gets out and happens to be larger than you. Otherwise, let the fisticuffs begin.

And, there you go. That's pretty much the route my brain follows. Squirrel=childhood suggestions of road rage.

"We're not like real rocking rockers. We'd rather write about feeling and emotions."

-The Fray, a band who sings songs like "How To Save A Life," a diddy which surprisingly makes no mention of CPR.

One topic. Just one.

Guess what, guys? Football is on the decline.

So tonight I am watching football, as one does in the evening. What should catch my attention but the evident rule changes in the National Football League. What we have here is the wimping (yes, I verbed the word wimp; I also verbed the word verb) of football. I watched one penalty in which a receiver missed a pass and a safety struck him from behind (if at this point you are lost, there is a good chance you don't understand the sport of football). Now, the ball bounced off the receiver's hands (put him on the bench, coach, them hands are fer catchin) and probably a half second afterwards the safety collided with the receiver. Usually this would not be a foul, but because of the rule changes, the referee felt inclined to say it was a personal foul. Not five minutes later, I was informed of the rule that, as soon as a player's helmet is removed, a play will be whistled dead. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a perversion of the sport which we love. No longer are players allowed to hit one another. If we continue in this fashion, five years down the road tackling will no longer be allowed. The downward spiral from that point will go as follows:

2015: Tackling disallowed; two-hand touch rules initiated

2017: Unnecessary touching disallowed; flag rules begin

2018-2020: Dark ages of society and sports; analog clocks disappear from society along with the understanding of basic grammar and the necessity of real human contact

2021: Flag-pulling ruled offensive; games become orchestrated, televised games of hide-and-seek; Lions perform uncharacteristically well

2025: Different teams considered unconstitutional; television time is instead devoted to three hour crafts workshop

2026: Moon strikes earth because of density of humanity; thousands are glad (or would be if the earth hadn't been crushed by lunar body) they did not waste time at medical school

In a country which allows mixed martial arts (for the record, I am not arguing against the brutality of mma, but rather against the milksopping of football), it is hard to believe these rule changes. You see, occasionally someone in an mma fight will get kicked in the head. Controversially, in professional football, excessive pushing is considered an extreme offense. I'm just saying, let's have a little continuity. Some of my favorite memories are of football and I hate the idea that it could disappear. I hope that someday my children will be able to cheer a well-choreographed touchdown pass or laugh at the expense of the Oakland Raiders and Al Davis' bizarre draft choices. But if they are forced to sit through a hit-free football game, well, then, NFL, I don't have any answers for you. You've taken it all. What more could you possibly want?

"I like to believe that my best hits border on felonious assault."

-Jack Tatum, retired player of the sport formerly known as football (possible new names? "Run and touch," "Shareball," "Powerwalkball," "Minimal-contact Twinkletoelery." Vote for your favorite or submit your own).

The fable of the clock: an inspiring tale

When was the last time you heard someone play a sitar really well? Oh, all those sympathetic strings. Fantastic.

Following what is arguably the best introduction to a post ever, allow me to attack one of the major problems today: which way do you pass the food? Now, people will tell you different things, but the most agreed upon direction is to the right (or counterclockwise, as the resident horologist likes to say). I have no beef (literal or otherwise) with the passing of food starboard, but I do think that we need to set in stone the rule, because there are few things that are as awful as that panic when you have two dishes in your hands, each headed in a different direction, and no way to serve yourself food. My hope is that someday, probably about 20 (if I'm being pessimistic, which I am) years in the future, when our children have become too dumb to fend for themselves, this will come in handy. Take, for example, this scenario: Little Billy has discovered an ancient relic, in pieces, known by historians as an "analog clock." Now, nobody has seen one of these in use, and, really, humanity's understanding of time as a useful tool has slipped to the same level as our being able to ever rationalize the purchase of a cinnabon prior to an airplane ride or a local Shakespeare festival in the middle section of our country; this being said, Little Billy has an extraordinary drive to accomplish something in which others his age are uninterested (probably due to the fact that his parents did not "spare the rod"). He decides he will attempt to recreate the analog clock in its full functioning capacity. He listens not to the whining masses about the possible implications a working clock has on the poor icebergs; rather, he works harder than ever to find out all he can about how to reconstruct the clock. Eventually, after the clock is completely rebuilt and refurbished, before it is wound, the philosophers and even individuals in the useful branches of science will ponder aloud, "I wonder in which direction the 'hands' of the 'clock' will travel?" And at that time, if all goes well, Little Billy will respond, with a certain sense of entitlement, "Counterplatewise."

That story was long and possibly worth it.

"The biggest misconception people have about me is that I'm stupid."

-William Michael Albert Broad, or Billy Idol, hard-rocking rock star who liked to rock hard and live life to the fullest. Rock. Hard. Oh, and he was blonde. Tight shirts? Yeah, he's a fan.

With nothing better to do

Bulldozers are cool. We can all agree on that; however, do they really merit an hour-long show on natgeo (it used to be National Geographic, but evidently natgeo is more hip)? However, just when I was thinking that this show was boring, they decided to drive a Komatsu over a pickup truck. Nice.

How have you all been? I have not written anything for a good long time, and it is possible that most of you do not even remember who I am or why you would have read my blather in the past, but let's get this post on the road before all the goodwill is used up.

Squirrels: it is well understood among literate individuals that by using the word "snake" or "serpent" in the Bible, Moses likely meant the more correct translation of "squirrel" when describing Lucifer's actions in the fall of man. You would think that by this point in history, the squirrel population would have been entirely eliminated, but this is not the case. An example of twisted squirrel evil: whilst camping, a grey squirrel stole a biscuit and left a fecal nugget in what can only be interpreted as some sort of deviant tooth-fairy-esque act. If there was ever a declaration of war, this would be it.

Mosquito hawks? My opinion? First, thank's for asking; second, it is key to my argument that you understand that these insects do not actually eat mosquitos. They do not kill mosquitos. They do not even drive past mosquitos houses real slow late at night and give the stink eye. Therefore, I say this: they have been living falsely through their reputations as mercenary mosquito life-bandits for far too long. Retribution should be swift. Remember when you were a child and, having already run out of large, furry animals to persecute, turned your innocent, child-like rage to insects and your mom stopped you moments before you superman-punched a mosquito eater out of the atmosphere by saying, "Don't do that; that's a good bug. It eats mosquitos." Do you remember how you regarded that bug for the next bunch of years? You probably looked at it and said to yourself, "Oh to serve such a purpose as this insect does!" I bet you feel foolish now. And so did I when I learned nature's dirty little secret about the mosquito hawk.

Whew! Information overload, right? This post is like the straight to vhs version of if a Snapple lid and the entire catalogue of ranger rick animal magazines had a love child, but the child was fathered by Walker, Texas Ranger (the character, not the actor who played him), and had Stever Irwin's daughter and the security guard from the Kaplan College commercials as godparents.

That's ridiculous.

"Sink me, your tailors have betrayed you."

-Sir Percy, from the untouchable classic, The Scarlet Pimpernel. Any movie in which the French get bashed is okay by me.

The twilight of humanity brought about in a most ironic fashion

Gooooood evening folks. I figured, with all this debate about the Twilight series going on (can you call it a debate when only one party seems to have any understanding of normal human behavior and what truly defines "good" or even "passable" literature?), it was more than time that we should let mother nature weigh in on how she feels about this new trend. Hence, I give you the facts: bear and shark attacks are a direct result of the creation and following of the Twilight series of "books" and "films."

The most important facts which correlate with the events of the series are listed above in the handy scatter plot. However, what isn't present is the interpretation of the facts. That's what I am here for. That, and to accept any free swag which may be sent my way. Contact me if you are interested. Some might ask why I don't put my mailing address here to cut out one step of the swag-receiving process, and my answer is simple: I don't want to receive in the mail a shrunken head, DNA or some sort of frightening photograph montage of me in which all the pictures were taken without my knowledge and from a high vantage point.

2003: The year at which our chart begins and the year in which this "author" from Phoenix decided to conjure this ridiculous fantasy of shiny, non-threatening vampire-lovin'. How's this sound?- a brown bear, in response to this clear attack on literature and better judgment, killed a dude. What's more, sharks got in on the action and attacked forty people. I hate to be the one who points this out, but when both the forest and the sea say, "Whoah, now," it may be time to take heed.

2004: A relatively quiet year. Why? Because she was still in the process of writing the "books," and, frankly, the beasts of the earth and water did not think she would a) complete them before realizing they were trash or b) ever succeed at finding a publisher dumb enough to endorse them.

2005: Bad news, bears (and sharks not to mention [and the people who were attacked also not to mention])! Twilight is published and there is trouble in river city (and also cities not adjacent to water). This is arguably the bears' biggest response to the travesty--they go to bat against six people in North America and feast well. The shark puts up average numbers (smart thinking, sharks. You don't want to get burned out yet, not with two more "books" and heaven knows how many "movies" left to rear their frightening, dull heads).

2006: New Moon was "published" and the animal attacks continued. I am sad to say that I only caught wind of this today (despite the fact that I regularly peruse the internet to find statistics of wild animal attacks. You have stamp collecting, I have a morbid interest in nature's retaliation towards the invention of the deep fryer. I don't hate your hobby, don't hate mine.), for if I had been aware of this when it was going down, perhaps we could have avoided the release of any more well-organized pages of blather and the needless loss of life purely attributable to society's willing acceptance of Twilight.

2007: Eclipse is out and the sharks have had enough. They pick up the slack for their furry brethren by attacking 50 people. Maybe I'm an optimist, but I like to think that perhaps those people never had to sit through a reading of one of these "novels."

2008-present: The attacks and deaths continue, as do the clear and personal attacks to good taste. The bears have, in my opinion, spoken closely. We have always looked to the bears for guidance, and they have never failed us (except for that one time, when they were like, "No, it's cool . . . the Challenger is totally space-ready.").

Shall we answer the call of the wild? And after we have finished relieving our bowels, should we not respond to the clear message of nature? Nature's message: "Knock it off, Twilight dweebs." Who would have thought that nature would still be using the euphemism "dweeb?" But then again, nature is old school.

"Why are people so afraid of bear attacks?"

- Question on Grizzly Bay, a web site devoted to making people feel comfortable around grizzly bears. I have a suspicion that the site is run by bears to the purpose that people will be easier to eat. Here's a short list of why people are so afraid of bear attacks:

1) The word "attack" is a word with which one should be uncomfortable.

2) Bears are frightening, hungry beasts who will occasionally bite a head or two. This is another perfectly valid reason for fear.

c) Just because I am more likely to be killed by bees than by bears does not make the thought of a bear attack less horrifying; just because something is unlikely does not mean that someone should not be concerned about it.

IV) Full-grown grizzly bears are roughly the size of a Datsun. If you shag carpeted the exterior of a Datsun and made its primary food source flesh, I would also be afraid of that.

5) Your condescending question makes it clear that you have never had to run for your life while urine trickles down your cargos and you search for either a tree to climb or a large-caliber firestick because a bear is chasing you.

F) Have you ever been flicked with a rubber-band? Did it hurt? Probably. Bear attacks hurt waaaaay worse.

Summertime blues like Eddie Cochran. That will be the only Eddie Cochran reference. Sorry, blue suede shoes fans.

Well, everybody, I've figured it out. You see, for some time I (and other inquiring, efficient minds) have pondered the question: "What the dickens is wrong with music today?"

Now, I know a lot of you will argue that the problem with today's music is that it lacks an emotional quality, has no real message, or that its message is one of, if I may, "money and hoes." Still others may say that the problem lies in the fact that the music is too digitally enhanced or that the bands have to scream too much. Finally, a small percentage of you may take issue with the fact that, in bands of today, a v-neck is considered not only acceptable but necessary.

Up until recently, I would have agreed with you. However, we would all have been wrong if we had taken that route.

Therefore it gives me great pleasure to tell you all the answer to the problem:

Today's music lacks . . . harpsichord solos.

Weren't expecting that, were you? But it's true. How much more would we enjoy music if the occasional 12 minute harpsichord solo was thrown in the middle.

Summer is at hand, yet I find myself still in school. I am ready for summer, although I am sure some of you are saying, "Come along, now, Benjamin. You have only been in school for the last quarter because you lacked foresight and had a less-than-stable moral structure. You cannot possibly be ready for summer." If that is how you feel, you are a bad person, and I would not be the least bit surprised if something negative befell you.

That last sentence had a lot of aggression in it.

"It's summertime and the living is easy. . . ."

-Sam Cooke, a pioneer of soul music who was killed in the winter of 1964 by a hotel manager with an itchy trigger finger. One can only ponder if it had been summertime, would this have happened?

Does absence make the heart grow fonder? I don't answer that question in this post. This title is really long.

It has been nearly a fortnight since I have last written anything (I considered adding the phrase, "of meaning" to that last sentence, but thought better of it) on this little soapbox. I think it is fair to assume that I have been missed.

Not too long ago, I was walking from my dormitory to the cafeteria. It was a sunny day, with few clouds in the sky, and I was walking with my eyes open (which is usually the case when I begin to get into trouble). All of a sudden, a drop liquid struck me square on the left eyeball. Recall, if you will, my description of the day earlier in this paragraph: sunny, few clouds. So, when the globule of heavenly drink impacted my iris, it is not surprising that I thought I was being attacked. Both eyes shut rapidly, in order to impede other stillicides from entering my skull, and I began throwing looping right hooks to defend myself in my blind state. It turned out that the drip was just a stray raindrop. However, in that time of trouble, it was very pleasant to see my Emergency Action Plan so effectively come alive.

Have you ever asked anyone the question, "How are you?" only to receive the answer, "Well, it's Friday." If so, there are a couple possible problems with this response. First off, check the date. Is it actually Friday? If not, it is safe to say that the person with whom you are conversing does not have a proper grip on reality. Backing away slowly, while possibly not the best course of action, can't hurt in this situation. However, if the day is, in fact, Friday, this second problem needs to be handled: is the person deaf? Along with that, is this person deaf AND a very poor lip-reader? Because, as any hearing person will tell you, "How are you?" sounds nothing like, "Pray tell, which day of the week are we up against?" And any person who can see will tell you the lip movements during the last two sentences are quite different. This was a long-winded attempt to bring an end to people telling me what day it is when I ask them how they are faring.

I went to Leatherby's this weekend (Hey, Leatherby's, free advertising. How else would you have reached my eight readers [out of which an estimated 88% already know of your existence]?). If you are not feeling what we humans call "jealousy," it is either because you, also, were at Leatherby's this weekend or because you just don't understand, and there is nothing I can do to make you understand. For this I am sorry.

As I was driving back to Napa Valley on the 12 this evening, I was afforded a delightful moment: it was about 8:30, the sun was low in the sky and casting orange-red light on the clouds and the windmills were basically silhouettes against this magic backdrop. What's more is that, as I was pondering this, Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence" came up in the shuffle. The entire atmosphere gave me shivers, an experience which I thought could not be bested. However, immediately following in the playlist was "Thriller." If you have never driven the 12 in May at 8:35 with "Thriller" on the stereo, you are missing out.

Also, and this may be strange, every time I go on a trip the song "She's Gone" by Hall and Oates comes on my iPod. I like the song, but is there anything that makes you feel more alone than Darry Hall and John Oates singing a breakup song from the 70s while you maneuver a hatchback solo through wine country?

"A hat raised half-heartedly is a courtesy without charm."

-Evidently an old proverb. Who first said it? I don't know. Why don't you do some research? Do you think I enjoy writing this last part? I wish I had never started writing quotes at the end. It's too much pressure. That's probably why I make up half of the quotes; I find it difficult enough to find someone to whom I can falsely attribute the words.

A dollar late and a day short

I've often been asked, "Ben, what inspires you?" Well, if you came sprinting to this post to find the answer to that riddle, it behooves me to give you at least part of the answer: the prospect of free t-shirts.

Don't stop reading just because of the clearly weighty subject that are likely to be confronted today!

Ziploc brand bags: what are they on about? Well? This is one of just a handful of areas in which, if you do not spend the big money, you will be sorry. What's that? You buy Glad bags because they are cheaper, but every time you need to store roast beef you curse yourself and your decision-making ability? You are not alone. Safeway sandwich bags are even worse. Inevitably you will try to open a bag fresh out of the refrigerator and the end will rip, leaving you 1/32 of an inch to grab on to. At that point, you might as well get a pair of scissors or call the fire department, because this test of skill will only show that there is not a single thing you have done up to this point in your life that will assist you.

In general, stores today thrive on the fact that, for the most part, you are too lazy to do things on your own. Cheerio to you, however, if you are one of the few that looks at something in a store and say, "I could make that." If you are one of those people, rest assured that, in the case of a survivor-scenario, you will be one of the few to make it to the end of the story (and you may get to try your hand at cannibalism!).

The cartoon "Marmaduke" is not currently funny, has not been at all funny in the past and, from the looks of things, will not be funny in the future. Sorry, Marm, but we can tell from the premise of the comic strip alone that you are a large dog that sometimes does things that are unexpected (but not funny) from a large dog. How many "Who's walking who?" jokes must we suffer through? I just get the impression that the author tells himself after each use of the joke, "They just didn't get it. I will wait a couple of months and try it again. This is comedy gold." But it is not comedy gold. It is more equatable to a metal like worm-eaten aluminum, where half of the aluminum is actually Bondo painted to look like worm-eaten aluminum.

I have found that, when driving, if somebody honks at me, I only respond the way they probably want me to if I have actually been doing something stupid. However, if they are just being a reprobate hound (meant in an extremely negative way), I am very unlikely to change my manner of driving for the better.

Does it make anyone else slightly woozy to scroll through the news feed on Facebook? I will let the punctuation and capitalization issues slide for now, but enough with the emoticons! If your writing is not expressive or cognitive enough to be able to express emotions without the use of a colon/semicolon (which would probably otherwise go their entire existences unused by certain individuals) or the parenthetical marks (to which I have a certain affinity), you should try to find an online networking system that uses only pictures and symbols. That way you won't even have to read! My final thought, on that same subject: The word "and" has a "d"! Include the "d"! Your ignorant updates are taken to new lows when you begin with "judy an me gone 2 th mol ushud com 2! <:-X}"

"Don't hate the player, hate the game."

-King Henry VIII, in regards to individuals player-hating and bringing their sass-mouth comments into his court. Not verified.

For lack of anything insightful...

Some undirected questions and statements:

At what point did the v-neck become a t-shirt and cease to be known as a blouse?

Why don't cell phones come with a standard ring tone that actually sounds like a real phone? Instead we have some sort of quasi-hip-hop mistake blasting form our 2cm speakers. The vibrate function on phones has become a necessity.

Regarding the wine train in Napa Valley: is it really a good idea to pick up a bunch of middle-aged people, give them a ride through the valley, stopping a various wineries to get absolutely besotted (because nature is best viewed with damaged depth perception), then drop the same middle-aged winos back at their cars?

When did the romantic of life of a drifter turn into such a negative thing? As a child, there was a certain freedom related with being a vagabond. Just you, your stick with a bandanna and all your possessions and the open road. . . . Great songs like "King of the Road," "Big Rock Candy Mountains" and, I think, "I've Been Everywhere" all serve to remind us of how delightful it would be to wander the world. Today, street people don't live nearly as glamorous of lives.

I've put a lot of thought into the "Terminator" movie series, and it hurts my brain a little bit each time. Because, if you think about it, the machines will know immediately if something has failed in the past, because their future would already have been changed, and they would therefore be less likely to send back the original terminator to kill Sarah Connor, but if they don't send him (do you assign a machine a gender?) back to kill her, then the resistance never would have sent back John Connor's father, who is actually his descendant (what?). So if you think about it, it's really a vicious circle. This movie really grabs hold of the so-called "Butterfly Effect" theory, in that every single thing about the past can change the future. It is the same with the "Back to the Future" films. Although in that series, fewer people were dispatched via shotgun.

We are a big fan of saying, "These colors don't run." We use that in reference to the flag of the United States, the red, white and blue and that we fight for certain things. However, if the order of the colors is changed slightly, those colors do run. I'm looking at you, France.

You would think that a word like "catamount" would mean something really cool. But it doesn't. At this point, I am giving you the opportunity to find a dictionary.

The highest grain-count I have ever seen in a loaf of bread is seven; breads are very proud when they can call themselves 7-grain. Why doesn't anybody put more grains in though? I have a theory that someone tried to, but the bread exploded from too much grain.

Do you think the pioneers ever dreamed about fabric softener?

I would like to be able to reference "my summer home" in casual conversation someday.

As far as names are concerned, "Sea Lions" and "Manatees" are examples of, respectively, winners and losers.

"There is not enough time to do all the nothing we want."

-Bill Watterson, creator of Calvin and Hobbes and a great man.

A plethora of information!

I cannot tell you how many times someone has consulted me, trying to ascertain whether or not they are, in fact, at risk of becoming a victim in a horror film scenario. As such, I have devised a short, seven question multiple-choice quiz. Using the answers from this quiz, you should be able to tell whether you are at risk of becoming just another victim or if you have the wherewithal to survive a horror scenario. Write down your answers throughout the quiz and read the key at the end to see how you fared.

1. You enter an abandoned cabin in a deep forest. Your first instinct is:

a) Take a shower.

b) Look around for potential dangers/loudly ask if anyone is there.

c) Pillow fight!

d) Run through the cabin blindly to show your valor, accompanied by the cheers of your companions.

e) Get into the fetal position in a corner.

2. While at a party in the woods, some of the more popular people attending the gala decide to go to the old house where the school's janitor lives and spread toilet paper about, despite credible and substantial evidence that the custodial worker murdered the last group of kids who perpetrated a similar action. You:

a) Take a shower.

b) Realize that this is not your scene and drive back to town.

c) "Aw, all you guys brought is two-ply?" (Generally, at this point, the other people in the group will begin asking each other who you are)

d) Decide that the only way you will ever go to a prom is by joining these kids; then, lead the way.

e) Weep uncontrollably until someone calls your parents.

3. You are being chased by a man with a chainsaw through a building. You have just narrowly escaped his second attempt to capture you and have a few minutes to spare. You decide to:

a) Take a shower.

b) Leave the premises and be vigilant.

c) Write insults on the walls of the building. These written jibes should include nasty things about the man chasing you, his family, his choice of chainsaw brand and potential learning disabilities that he may, in your opinion, possess.

d) Set an elaborate trap, using yourself as bait and putting the control of the trap in the hands of the person who, despite being the most inept, is also the most attractive of the group.

e) Sob chokingly and hope the killer will take pity on you, as you are behaving in a very pathetic manner.

4. You happen along an extremely feminine boy-vampire and a whiny girl in a light forest. You:

a) Take a shower.

b) Kill the vampire with a stick.

c) Run from tree to tree around the pair. Occasionally flick the ear of one of them, while whispering about how you once ate a bat.

d) On the encouragement of your friends, challenge the vampire to a biting contest. Be sure to have it filmed.

e) Write or read books on the topic.

5. You are about to take a trip into a known creepy place for an overnight stay. You bring:

a) Loofah, body wash, shampoo and conditioner.

b) A knife, flashlight, cell phone, fresh batteries, some food, maps and a gun.

c) Nothing! In fact, the nearer you get to the destination, the more clothing you remove until you are naked.

d) Whatever your friends tell you to bring, including their favorite foods, and enough cool stuff so that no one will dislike you.

e) A heavy sleeping bag, blinders and noise-cancelling headphones. At the last minute, you will decide not to go or have a fear-induced seizure.

6. A number of precariously stacked heavy things have fallen on the person chasing you. You think the attacker is dead, but you are not sure. You:

a) Take a shower.

b) Take a blunt object and be certain.

c) Urinate on the body and write a song about the television show M*A*S*H*.

d) Ask your friends what to do. Follow their instructions, no matter how poorly thought through.

e) Attempt to offer medical help to the individual, but become self-aware at the sound of your voice cracking and lie down to cry.

7. You have just escaped the location of the horror scene, and are safely on your way to refuge. You:

a) Take a shower.

b) Continue towards freedom and warn others about the dangers of the area.

c) Vow to make it an annual reunion.

d) Offer to sacrifice yourself so that your friends can make it to safety, despite the fact that this action is neither needed nor warranted. Your friends will probably agree with it, as they do not like wishy-washy individuals. They will, however tell of your bravery.

e) Become incapacitated as the reality of what you have been through comes to you. Never contribute to society again.

Now, for the key:

If you answered mostly "a":

Your hygiene, while immaculate, will likely be your downfall, especially in a horror scenario. You need to figure out when it is appropriate to bathe and when it is appropriate to worry about self-preservation. You respond to most situations by suggesting "getting wet." You likely have an affinity towards being naked in strange places, which is healthy only in small doses. Follow this advice: "Watch before you wash."

Legitimate threats include: drowning; getting attacked mid-scrub; hypothermia.

If you answered mostly "b":

Congratulations! You are not likely to get caught in a horror scenario, but if you find yourself in one, you should fair quite well. Your penchant for violence is a plus, but you sometimes worry too much. On occasion, you will not be enjoyable to be around, because you must do everything in a very careful fashion. Many people may suggest that you are a party-pooper, but you will know who was right when attend their funeral. If only they hadn't been so focused on showering. . . .

Legitimate threats include: old age; others putting you at risk; taking the wrong anti-biotic.

If you answered mostly "c":

You are completely insane, and for that reason alone you may survive a horror scenario. The killer will not be able to guess your next move, and thusly will have a difficult time capturing you. You also have a love of nudity in public and unfamiliar places, one that will likely cause your arrest someday. You are enjoyable to be around, but you take unnecessary risks and don't use a logic-based thought system. You may survive some awful things, but you are also the most likely person to someday become the axe-wielding psychopath who lives in the middle of the woods. Therefore, we come to the conclusion that you seek dangerous situations not only for the adrenaline-rush, but also as a form of demented apprenticeship.

Legitimate threats include: bizarre, self-inflicted death; fool-hardiness; nudity amidst a lightning storm.

If you answered mostly "d":

You have no personality, and, following most horror movie scripts, will therefore be one of the first to die. Bummer. On the other hand, your actions, while fool-hardy, are often seen as extremely courageous. You have a good chance of scoring with one of the attractive victims before your untimely demise. And if you were hoping for a creative passing, I have more bad news for you. People can't wait until you are gone, because you just agree with everyone. Therefore, you will die in a cliched, uninteresting manner. Like tripping while running away. Everyone does that. Occasionally you will find yourself being the brains of the group, and then the entire party is in trouble. You are sometimes brave, but in the end, your name won't break the top five in the credits list.

Legitimate threats include: cliched, all-too-early death; jumping off a bridge; poor judgment in "Truth or Dare."

If you answered mostly "e":

You have a crippling fear of nearly everything, and probably became short of breath while reading this quiz. Once you figured out my trend of writing all the fear-invoked responses as the last option, you went ahead and only read those for the rest of the quiz, on account of the fact that your poor ticker couldn't take the excitement of the other suggestions. You are likely obese and eat unhealthy foods, but that is not the rule. In fact, there is a pretty good chance that you are weak, pale and spindly. Nobody knows why you joined their adventure trip into the wilderness; they probably just asked you as a gesture of kindness, or perhaps you are related to one of the contributing members of the flock. Either way, they assumed you would decline, blaming your asthma or butterfly-collecting habits. Your life will go by unfulfilled, but at least you won't die via garden tool (unless the wound is self-inflicted and accidental).

Legitimate threats include: large, predatory birds; food-borne illness; bed sores.

I hope you have learned a little bit about yourself from the post. It was unfair of me to test you on something that (most of you) have not been studying for. Regardless, if even one of you is more prepared the next time you come into a dodgy situation with strange circumstances, then I will have accomplished something.

"I'm tired of getting kicked from games when the enemy are noobs when I own them.=P [sic]"

- Cocomynuts, someone who plays video games (and apparently quite proficiently!). I think this quote serves to ground us all and really rearrange our priorities. After all, it's one thing to complain about video game problems out loud; it's really quite another to start an online forum where you can air out your virtual issues.

Easter Holiday

I watched bowling today (because I have the money). PBA. No big deal. Pretty standard stuff.

Does it blow the mind of anybody else that bowlers are considered athletes? I think that this is one of the only sports that provides for the competitors to drink alcohol while participating in their sport (with the exception of darts, but there is a significant difference between a 13 pound ball and a sharpened feather). Honestly, there are cup holders built in to the sporting equipment. Also, they have a fan built in to the ball collector, in case the competitors should start to sweat on their hands. Heaven forbid that they lose any calories; let's put a stop to that right now.

Most of you are probably thinking, "Ben, if you watch bowling and consider it 'standard stuff,' why did you think to point it out and share it with us?" Simple, inquiring minds: there was something magical going on during the bowling match (do you call it a match? I should know this). Yes, friends, a time-honored act of sport was occurring while the gentlemen were taking turns throwing a ball down some oiled wood; a tradition so beloved in so many legitimate sports, that, eventually, the tenpinners had to catch on: trash-talking. That's right folks, some good old fashioned rubbish-rambling. The crowd, naturally, reacted with delight, no doubt wondering if, perchance, an altercation might arise and, if so, perhaps taking mental stock of the fact that the heavy, urethane, plastic or reactive resin (or a combination of the three) balls might come into play as weapons.

Also, some of the fans had signs. Now, I dislike fan signs at legitimate sports, but to bring a home-made sign to a bowling rally (do you call it a rally? I should know this) really shows that you know your obscure sports and their loosely titled "stars."

I drove from Stockton to Angwin today, and therefore used Junction 12. This road is terrible on a good day, but today was rainy and I had the joy of following a truck and trailer for the majority of the trip. The trailer contained "molten sulfur" and evidently had just a sliiiight leak. So that was fun. Before I took stock of the words defining the contents of the truck ahead of me, the question crossed my mind, "Is someone taking a death-fueled blowtorch to two dozen rancid free rangers? If so, why would they chose that particular method to celebrate the Easter holiday?"

Yea, it is Easter (or, Passover, for my Jewish readers. Shalom). And it comes but once a year, so enjoy it. I hope you all had a pleasant weekend. I have now come to the end of this entry, and indeed it is shorter. On the positive side, this means that maybe you skimmers out there might get a chance to read a whole post. You have all been so mollycoddled by my long posts and your excuses of not having enough time to finish them. Well, here you go.

One final thought on Easter: does the Easter Rabbit's hiding of eggs seem to anyone else like he is encouraging people to dispose of young children? He certainly is not taking responsibility for these discarded fetuses. I wonder if people would throw newborns in the dumpster if they had not first witnessed this negligent rabbit's actions. Someone needs to tell him what a poor example he is setting for people. This could be difficult, since we all know that rabbits do not speak English.

"Thought is the fountain of speech."

-Chrysippus, stoic philosopher who died in a most interesting fashion! Whilst taken to drink, he, as one does naturally, lent some drink to his companion donkey, who attempted to, while inebriated, eat some figs. Evidently this is unimaginably hilarious, and our philosopher friend laughed so hard that he died.

age

Have you guys ever thought about old people? They come from a different time and can teach us all sorts of things. Then, they start taking money out of our paychecks. . . .

Age does a lot of different things to people, but the main agreed-upon way in which it is shown is crankiness and fear of technology. But there is no question that "back then" was, indeed, a "simpler time." For one thing, many people had no legitimate reason to hate other people, but they still did. And they could do it simply because they wanted to. Now that's simple!

I think the one major thing, however, of the olden days that should be brought back is the allowing of punishment. In the past, when a child was misbehaving, some adult would step up and let the child know that what it was doing was neither warranted nor welcome. The adult would do this, regardless of whether or not the child was their own (I mean, was related to them; if they literally owned the child, by means of some sort of a monetary, goods or work exchange, it's kind of a different story). And the question, naturally is, "Why?"

FOR THE BETTERMENT OF SOCIETY!

That's right, because old people looked at how society could be made better in a way very different from how people today look at it. Children have always been looked at as the future (even though, with the elderly, it was often viewed this way in a resistant manner); now, many of the adults of today (for simplicities sake, we shall refer to them henceforth as "spineless yuppies") view this "children=future" equation with fear. They believe that their children will come back to get them if they are not weak and push-overs to their children. Spineless yuppies want nothing more than for their children to be flaccid, whiny underachievers who have never worked for things in their life. And the scary part about this is that they are largely succeeding. What they have failed to see, however, is that their children will come back to get them anyway, because they have not learned the basic purposes of life, and basically have not developed desirable qualities as humans.

Old people, on the other hand, tried often to raise their children to respect others and to contribute to society (and by this I mean actually help society through voting and being responsible, not by trying sell paintings on the street in San Francisco). Each child is different, but a good impact via hand generally does the trick in helping a child learn. This system has worked for so long, but for some reason it began changing within the last fifty years (I am ball-parking it. I don't know exactly when it changed, nor do I know why it changed. No research was done for this, beyond what I have observed.), and not for the better, jack!

If you aren't fired up about hitting children at this point in the blog, there's nothing that can be done for you. Obviously there are some exceptions to the rule; occasionally children grow up perfectly normal and well-adjusted and responsible and respectful DESPITE being shown no punishment as a child. But the fact of the matter is, the rest of the children who weren't taught by a wooden spoon against the upper thigh basically amount to a big ol' failure-pile.

Back to old people: here is a list of things that I think make today a better time to live in for old people (note: at this point, I have only one item in mind, so the list may turn out much worse than I originally intended. Or much better!)

A) These days, old people can tell neighborhood children not to play on their property and justify it because "my insurance doesn't cover one of your idiot kids getting hurt in my cinderblock garden." In the past, old people couldn't soften the blow; they just had to say, "don't play on my property because I'm old and my senility may cause me to discharge my firearms at your idiot offspring."

2) Laws today help keep old people driving automobiles despite the fact that they no longer have the reflexes or cognition to do so. Also, if an old person commits some awful traffic crime, they can get off without any real trouble. In the past, when an old person ran over a pedestrian and dragged him or her all the way into their driveway by means of a foot wedged in the bumper, they could face criminal charges and would certainly not drive again. Not anymore.

iii) On average (according to no real reports but rather my own imagination), the elderly have about twice as much time to complain and be crotchety as they used to, due largely to longer life expectancy. Think about it, if you could be basically guaranteed an extra seven years during which all you had to do was sit on your porch and talk about the failings of those around you . . . well, that would just be fantastic.

Four) Today, the government pays old people; do you know what the major qualifying stipulation of receiving social security is? NOT HAVING YET DIED! "Congratulations on another year, how would you like ten percent of a working person's pay check?" "Don't mind if I do!"

But seriously, everybody, let's relish the elderly. They have much to teach us (just like the [legal] aliens) and too often we put them in the back of our minds and take them for granted. And embrace getting old, as not everyone is given that privilege.

Wow, you guys. Kind of a somber note there at the end, right? This has been Ben, just reminding you all: beat your children!

"Dah dah daaah-dah dah dah daaah-da da da da da dadadada da. . . ."

-Carmen: Récit & Habanera: Quand Je Vous Aimerai?...L'amour Est un Oiseau Rebelle, a song often heard in movies and will stick in one's head; it's quite catchy. And it's opera. Oooh, sophisticated!

Spring Cleaning

Are you guys ready for March Madness? It's on. Seriously, right now, if you were to turn on your tv (as I'm writing this), you would be watching the opening of Florida vs BYU in Oklahoma. I love the tournament, because it gives all the deadbeat fathers with gambling problems a chance to recover from putting their faith in Peyton in February.

Here's something I have noticed (entirely unrelated to March Madness), and I would like you to play this scenario in your head:

a family has just ordered (do you use "ordered" or "hired" in this case?) a maid. (The family is clearly wealthy, and, let's be honest, probably caucasian. I don't like to pander to stereotypes, but the majority of wealthy people in the world are white [according to a census I just imagined], and white people loathe chores and housework in general.)

Is that image in your head, like a slowly running british movie with too much acting and too little storyline? If the answer is yes, skip the next sentence and continue reading. If your answer is no (people who answered yes, please stop reading this sentence!), reread the previous paragraph, but skip the parts that were parenthetical. Those are for our advanced readers, anyways. So, now that the original Yes people and the original No people have joined us, please imagine this next part: the woman of the wealthy family (because she was not always rich and feels slight guilt about making someone else do the tasks which are hers, as a woman [again, I don't like to pander to stereotypes, but vacuuming? Come on!]) cleans the house before the maid gets there. Now, if that story had been told in a more streamlined, understandable way, we would probably scoff and give a guffaw, that someone would clean a house which they have paid someone else to clean. Now, I don't think that maids are in the business of judging a family based on the cleanliness of a house (unless it's truly awful). However, I've noticed that people about to visit the dentist, whom they have paid to clean their teeth, tend to go through a sincere teeth cleaning process at home, and do you know why we do that? Because we all fear that the dentist will look at us and say, very condescendingly, "Have you been flossing?" We all know the answer to that is no, but we think that by flossing our teeth the morning of the dental appointment, we will be able to fool this guy. A word of advice: just because dentists aren't real doctors doesn't mean that they can't tell you've only flossed once since the last time you saw them. So here is my final point about dentists and maids: if maids went to maid school for as long as dentists go to dental school, then they could say, condescendingly, "Have you been dusting the credenza?"

At this point, I think that it is worth pointing out that the above topic made a whole lot of sense in my head. Now, as a rule, I haven't reread what I have written (I am afraid that I will second guess myself, delete it all and end up writing about celebrity gossip), so I don't know if it has any sort of flow. If you enjoyed it, leave a comment and tell somebody else how fantastic it was. If you hated it or didn't understand it, leave a comment and tell others it will get better and that it has huge potential.

Have you guys noticed (I think the answer will be no) that in Enterprise Rental commercials ("We'll pick you up"), the suited Enterprise employee always shows up alone? Since he brought the car, how does he get back to work? Or does he just hang out with you the whole time? Shouldn't Enterprise use the buddy system? It works for swimming and field trips. That's as close to a sure thing as you can get.

Speaking of swimming, at work I saw a product whose description I was shocked to read. It was a kickboard, a styrofoam board used for people who don't know how to swim and old people. However, the kickboard was marketed as a "Competition Kickboard." Are there competitions which involve kickboards? That's pretty weak, like a running race that has moving sidewalks you can use or a bicycle race where the bikes have cruise control.

At the conclusion of this blog, I would like to apologize to dentists everywhere for suggesting that they are not as good as other people who attended medical school. Dentists, you're just as relevant and authentic as other doctors. Good job.

". . . I'm dressed so fresh, so clean. . . ."

-Andre Benjamin, perpetuator of one of Hollywood's finest afros and an individual who likes shaking (epileptic?) women.

Wastin' away again in

I have discovered something about flying (on a jet, not physically mustering the ability to fly without a machine). I fly Southwest, for the simple reason that they are an inexpensive airline. But I believe that what I noticed is true for nearly all airlines: in order for me to board the plane quicker, I need to either lose my leg or purchase an infant. Now, this is something that many have you have probably also thought while watching the handicapable or child-burdened enter the jetway before you. I found myself wondering, however, how closely they check to see if the papoose you are holding is real. Could I get seating priority by carrying a doll?

I sat next to an obese person coming on one of my flights (thankfully one of a shorter nature). I had never before had to sit with my elbow on my crotch, my entire left side of my body collapsed like my muscles had intense dystrophy problems. That was extremely uncomfortable, and, when added with audible, struggled throat-breathing of the gentleman next to me, made for a largely unenjoyable flight. And I still feel that if he had only put the separating arm rest down between us, I would have been able to reach New Orleans without his warm, humid flesh reaching to me through his intolerably tight t-shirt.

But everyone complains about flying. We want more room, better snacks (Please bring back honey roasted peanuts with some sort of consistency! I can't handle salted any more!), a full can of drink, more attractive flight attendants (I miss the good ol' days when they were called Stewardesses and had to pass a visual test to serve drinks to cranky businessmen.) and the right to use our electronics in a continuous manner, from the time we enter the airport until we are in our city of destination (Really? My iPod is going to make the plane crash? I've never heard of that being the cause and I KNOW that some people aren't following the rule.). However, I think there is very little incentive for the airlines to provide us with everything we want, because there is very little customer loyalty. Let's be honest: if it were twenty dollars cheaper (and, obviously, some assurance of safety) to fly by giant slingshot to my destination, I would never step on a jet again. No real people ever turn down a cheap fare because "they don't offer moist towelettes and a compliment as I enter the aircraft." And people that do say that should be taken outdoors and beaten with Hot Wheels track sets (the old yellow, blue and red ones, that required creativity, not the new city block style play sets).

While in Florida, I had the delightful opportunity to eat at a restaurant known as "Margaritaville." As the name suggests, it is owned by Jimmy Buffett, singer and writer of the song after which the restaurant is named. It was a pretty cool atmosphere and the food was tasty (Although, after being charged $14.64 for a burger, I felt like I had been just slightly robbed. And they included the tip in the check! I didn't even get a chance to stiff them! I believe in paying food service people their full due [meaning: don't tick off the people who handle your food], but tipping wasn't always compulsory. What happened to earning your money?). In the restaurant, they had several large projection screens playing music videos, mostly of normal artists you would expect in a laid back restaurant, people like Ben Harper, Jason Mraz, John Mayer, et cetera; however, the rest of the songs were performed by, you guessed it, Jimmy Buffett. Unlike normal music videos, which show the band singing/playing a song, and perhaps showing a story to go along with it, Jimmy's videos followed this basic line:

1) Eight to ten seconds of Jimmy Buffett (with the nice red hue that only comes from spending too much time in the sun and being white) with a guitar player starting the song on a stage at a bar on a beach (wow, that's a lot of prepositions!)

2) Three and a half minutes of middle aged men and women getting absolutely PLASTERED. I don't mean they were playing with stucco, I mean they were consuming just about every known alcohol in every conceivable manner. This was usually interspersed with clips of these same stumbling 40- and 50-year olds dancing wildly (wildly meaning both provocatively and slightly unsteadily) to Jimmy Buffett music.

3) The final seconds show Jimmy and the band wrapping up the set.

All of this information has lead me to this conclusion: Jimmy Buffett music is like catnip for old people.

So that was my "vacation." On the final leg of my flight home I got to listen to three men discuss NASCAR at length. Never had I hoped for a plane crash so much in my life.

"I got my Hush Puppies on. . . ."

-Jimmy Buffett, sun-burnt and hard-partying 63-year old who was born on Christmas whose music has become widely lauded catnip for old people.

Word of the day: products

Products: Think about it. What?

See that last line? From whence did that come? That is just what popped into my mind. You can see at this point I am experiencing the free empowerment (read, lack of interesting, relevant things to say) that blogging bestows upon its filthy man- and woman-children.

But seriously, do you guys think about products? For example, upon examination of a chapstick label, I noticed the directions were: "Apply freely to affected parts." Which, I think we can all agree, is pretty jim-dandy of them. However, the very next sentence says, "Warning: Use only as directed." Now, I consider myself a fairly imaginative fellow (Look! That penguin is about to attack! Never mind, it is just a stuffed sheep with a poor constitution.), however I cannot think of even one way in which the chapstick can be used in a way in which it has not been directed! It would be one thing if the directions suggested that the lip balm should be used sparingly; then I can see someone trying their luck and putting on three, maybe four layers of soothing balm on the affected area (you're a loose cannon and we don't have any place for you on this force). However, the directions say to "Apply freely to affected parts." Can someone help me out on this? I mean, is anyone actually tempted to use this cylinder of lip (and possibly other location) comfort in a way in which it is not directed? Maybe the makers just really don't want you oiling your gun with it.

Still on products, can you imagine the amount of work it takes to enjoy the things that you take for granted? (Many authors would have said "you and I," rather than just "you," but in this case, you're the only one of the two of us who takes these things for granted. If I took them for granted also, it is likely that I would not have dedicated what is now three sentences, and will probably be more, to the subject. So there. Think twice before you judge me, Judgey McJudgerson). For example, the idea of shoes blows my mind. I don't have anywhere near the capacity to design and construct my own shoes! I'm not very good at sewing (rephrase: I don't think I would be very good at sewing. I shouldn't write myself off as a poor sewer, but considering my hesitancy to try. . . . I am not sure I would even want to find out I was good at sewing, because of all the new responsibilities, not to mention the knowledge that I have such a skill! That's like accidentally finding out that human ears taste fantastic. It's like, "Great, now I gotta think about this every time I meet somebody new."). And really, to manufacture my own shoes would be just way too hard. I mean, I don't even know any orphans!

I could make a table if I had to. And, I have made one. A pretty good one, thanks for asking. It's a bit of a Frankentable, being that the other constructors and I stole its body parts from roughly five other once glorious tables.

When is the last time you made something for yourself? And I don't mean food or some papier mache piece of trash. I mean, I turned a book into a clock. What's up? (that last line was meant to be a somewhat threatening boast. It isn't an actual question regarding the occurrences in your life. But if you inclined to answer that question, please do so . . . but on your own time.)

Well, this is probably the last blog I write for at least a week (many of you are thinking, "Ben, it has been more than a week than your last blog. Believe it or not, you conceited sack o' dirt, we can survive without your arbitrary thoughts for a couple of days." If that is the case, and you are one of those who feel this way, I clearly was not writing that line of warning for you. I, rather, was writing it for the smaller group of people who were thinking, "A whole week?!? Oh, let me take hold of something sturdy for I feel faint! Will the sun still shine??" [delusion: possibly the REAL word of the day?]), on account of the fact that I will be doing some traveling. I am going to Florida to visit my brother. Please note that I did not give the exact location in Florida. Although it is unlikely that at this current stage in my career (and my CLEAR lack of popularity in the "Blogosphere" [yeah, that's a real word bloggers. Keep trying to make up a language, because it is working]) that I have gained any stalkers, I still want to leave a little bit of sport to the act of finding me and trying to keep a little part of me in their closet (please, not the liver).

I'll tell you this last bit for free: I just read the history of the MoonPie. What a fascinating snack that is. When I say I read the history, what I mean is I looked at the first two pages, then said, "There's more?!?" and acted like I had read the rest. Seriously, too much information about a graham cracker and marshmallow snack. Try to get through it yourself. You may be asking for a MoonPie to squelch your growing blood-sugar deficiency problem, such a long read it is. And no, MoonPie did not pay me for that glowing review.

"Oh, you tracked mud in the house again, Georgie!"

-(believed by some to have been said by) Martha Washington, grandmotherly wife of first president of the United States of America; she has a big boat named after her.

Olympian in quality!

Can you believe it? I am sitting outside right now, writing a post. I'm just like Thoreau (Henry David), except my writing has much less of a dirty hippy slant. However, I am overlooking a pond (albeit only by standing on my tippy-toes [tamob first use of "tippy-toes!"], and the pond is really just runoff water from rains past, and to call the viewing of it "transcendental" is practically illegal in the grossness of its falsity) and feeling like the wilderness is not that far away really.

On to more dire topics: what's the winter olympics about, eh? That stuff is UNWATCHABLE. I can see that the things these athletes are perpetrating are incredible, but I cannot stand to watch it. How many downhill runs do you have to watch before you realize they are all doing the exact same thing? Honestly, the only reason people watch these events is to see whether or not someone will fall. I am one of these people, as ashamed as I am to admit it; however, I take no delight in the crashing of one of these people. I don't enjoy it at all, especially when you consider how long someone trains for these events. Heartbreaking, really.

I have a theory on crashing however: the likelihood in any given event of a crash or mishap of some sort is directly related to the likelihood of someone to initially watch event, as evidenced by a graph I can see in my head but have neither the patience nor the wherewithal to make on a computer. Sorry, curling, but we are unlikely to see a heartbreaking mishap in your sport. As such, the only way we see your sport is by accidentally not changing the channel immediately after a sport with perilous implications ends. Which is unfortunate, because curling has the propensity to be pretty cool. Alas, most of us will never know. I mean, just think how disappointed you would be if you won tickets to an olympic event, only to find out that the event to which you had won tickets was actually curling. Shock and despair, friends, shock and despair.

Also, the winter olympics gives the horrible beast that is Mary Carillo another chance to rear its ugly head. I cannot handle this wo(?)man! She is just awful. Last night she did a segment about the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police, not to be confused with the RHCP [Red Hot Chili Peppers] or the even less known RCMB [Red Canterbury Munchkin Band]). It was both unenjoyable and highly condescending at the same time, proving that both women and beasts have the capacity for multi-tasking.

What do you guys think about the winter olympics? While watching them I sometimes wish that there were a rule that stated that for one day of competition, each event should have to wear the same outfits as their country's ice dancing troupe. Agree, disagree? Thoughts?

Regardless, having written whilst outside, and in light of the magnificent text I have just made a reality, I feel the only things that really separate me from being a truly famous writer are the lack of the following items:

pipe of mahogany

five days growth of stubble

non-combatted alcohol problem

fear of abandonment

Thanks for tuning in, and if you didn't tune in, thanks for nothing.

"Pardon me, I just have a slight frog in my throat."

-(Possibly never actually said by) Alexander Hamilton, tract writing brit-disliker who died in a duel, one of the confirmed coolest things to be a part of, but actually a pretty weak thing to lose.