today's MAMOMY

Most Awkward Moment Of My daY
MAMOMY.

It happens every day. Each and every single one. Some days its more awkward than others. And please, please remember that I feed on MAMOMYs. I love them. I nurture them. I like to create them because I know I can cartoonishly backward tip-toe out of them while others are left to savage what this social hurricane just brought.

MAMOMY.

And today, well, today was no different.

You see, I work in corporate America. The land of the stapler, the ergonomic chair, the out-of-office message, and the ever popular coffee that tastes like poopoo. It's the amber waves of grain across a sea of cubicles. I love it.

MAMOMYs sprout like dandilions in this realm. There are so many people from different backgrounds, all coming together, working on eggshells trying to get through the day while not divulging too much of themselves personally... it's the ingredients of a masterpiece.

Without further adieu, I give you Episode CMXI, "You got a prescription for that?"

Our main character in this play isn't someone I have day-to-day interaction with... no, in fact, I try to keep to myself. I have my scene. It's a scene that I operate very well in, and I enjoy the others who exist in my scene. However, there are those around us that are in Ven Diagram Scenes... and we have to acknowledge them in the least.

Clyde, our main character, is quite a number. Clothes are just a little too tight for my comfort. No, Clyde's wardrobe is not my business. But if his wardobe leaves little to imagine what and where his business is... he makes his business the business of those around us, no?

Clyde is normally a little off the wall. You can hear him. He's like an attention-starved tigger... most of the time I am processes his bouncing off of the walls by imaging what a stun-gun might do to our tightly-clothed, orange and black striped wonderful-ting-about-Clyde-is-that-Clyde-is-a-wonderful thing.

Clyde was a little off today. No bouncing. No singing. No gallivanting. No imitating Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. Clyde seemed more of a Eeyore than Tigger.

Someone happened to approach Clyde about this very thing.

That's the thing about this wild world of workdom... you are forced to show compassion for these people. You care--because that's the hand you are dealt.

So imagine this... bustling office... faxes, clicking, phones ringing, mumbled conversation about fall tv lineups, etc. There's Clyde--standing--dazed.

"Clyde--is everything alright? You seem kind of down today?"

Then it was like slow motion... I could see Clyde's mouth moving, but everything was registering lowly as he sprang-forth his response:

"I'm sorry you guys. Things have been rough lately and I've been taking a lot of Xanax today. Maybe I could get a break?"

(DEAD silence)
(Soooo silent)
(Like silent enough to hear a worm fart three blocks down)
(Seconds... minutes... I dunno it could have been days that passed by... no one said a word)

{Side note--for anyone unfamiliar with Xanax... drugs.com says that Xanax is in a group of drugs called benzodiazepines (ben-zoe-dye-AZE-eh-peens). Xanax affects chemicals in the brain that may become unbalanced and cause anxiety. Xanax is used to treat anxiety disorders, panic disorders, and anxiety caused by depression. }

Slowly, everyone turned, went to the closest pile of papers. Rustle. Straighten. Apply paper clips. Just do something. No sudden movements. No facial expressions. Just act... like... every... thing... is... normal...

Zoom the camera to me. Business me. Office me. I throw my hands in the air and I mouth MAMOMY.

Unwrap it.

Umm, hi.

It's me.

Yeah, I know... it's... well it's been a while. Are you mad at me?

It wasn't that I wasn't thinking about you... I was... I swear.



It's just, well, I've had a lot going. No no no no no... It's not that you don't mean as much to me as that other stuff.



I promise, things are going to change. I'll change.



(silence)



Are you there?

Good. I thought maybe you had given up on me.



I have something for you. Yes, a gift. Actually, a couple. Here's the first... and I'll give you the others soon. I promise.



Unwrap it.



It's a time of nude beginnings for the wife and I. Oops, I meant new beginnings. New beginnings. New house. New job. New joys in life (who knew the power that a weedeater brings). So let's start there.



New house. First house. And you'll learn about the house soon... but first, the process.



Let's flash back to February of 2007... Beyonce's "Irreplaceable" was number 1 on the Billboard Top 100 chart. The national average for a gallon of gas was $3.06. Peyton Manning led the Colts to a SuperBowl victory. Times were different then.



That's when we began our search.



We had no idea what would happen. Over the course of two months, we saw approximately 37 houses... including the greatness of the infamous "Chinaman House."



As our Realtor, Ronaldo (name changed to protect the innocent), stopped in front of the house near Coit & Park in Plano, I thought, Huh, this looks nice. An encouraging note considering some of the lemons Joanna and I had driven by before.



Sidenote-if you are selling your house, please make it look nice. If you put a tuxedo on a turd some people might not realize it's a turd and want to waltz with it... so if you want to get rid of your turd, clean it up.



Sidenote Sidenote - this does NOT mean you should use photoshop to paint your turd of a house in a good light for a picture online. There was nothing more frustrating to me than having to look online at photos of what I thought was a great house, only to drive by it and think I just drove in to a converted RV Park.



Back to our Chinaman House. We approached the door. All seemed to be in good order. Ronaldo, however, couldn't find the magic realtor box where all realtors can use their electronic spell to provide access to the house... it was no where in sight. So we knock. We wait. Ronaldo calls and finds the owner. He explains he had an appt.



Suddenly, the door opens (insert Gong noise) and a frail Chinamen stands before us.



"Relcome roo my Reautiful home." He grandly bows, presents the living room.

My eyes get HUGE. I look at Ronaldo, thinking surely there's a mistake and we can't possibly be going in.

But by this point Ronaldo is already inside, beginning to take notes in his magic realtor file. And believe-you-me, I can't tell you how many notes there were to take.

Before we proceed, let me provide a disclaimer. I am merely a professional observer, here to observe observations. Any potential stereotypes or likenesses involved are purely coincedental.

Let's start with the smell. It smelled like garlic basted dirty underwear. My eyes began watering the second I crossed the threshold. Not only that, but this poor-man's Miyagi was offering us a guided tour.

"Dis is de rormal rining roo." Yes, I know it reads like Scooby Doo was saying it, but I assure you, this could not have been less clear.

"Dis is rain riving rarea. You like? You like?"

"It's amazing. It's pretty much the most amazing riving rarea I've ever seen."

"Oh res, res. Dis ray, dis ray."

I look at Ronaldo. He's gone to another room to laugh. I look at the wife. She's chip-munking on me, trying to hold laughing in, like a certain Asian Hot Dog Competitor at the end of today's contest... unsuccessfully.

So I am on my own. It's just me, my sanity, my irreverent sense of humor and the fake Kim Jong Il walking me through his reautiful rome.

"Dis is masta redroom."

I see a room covered in tapestries and jars filled with things like looks like pearl onions or eye balls... dealer's choice.

"Dis is my daughter's room. She at unirersity."

"Education is very important" is what I said.

"Lord, if you have to take me in my youth, do it now" is what I was thinking.

The tour concluded with a walk-through what he called a "wok area"... which I am pretty sure was a work area.

We didn't end up buying that house. And I'm okay with that. But you see, that's not the point. There may not be a point... but there is a proclaimation. I have a gift. I can walk in to an empty room and take it for more than it's face value. I can see what something can be... it's potential. I don't see what it is.

But believe me, when I entered mini Hong Kong for a guided tour, much like riding "It's a Small World" at Disneyland, my gift was no where in sight. Things were coming at me from all angles, and I was so disoriented, disgusted and disenchanted by why my trip on "It's a Small World" stalled in Asia, that I couldn't see, hear, taste or feel anything.

I could smell. Remember? Garlic basted dirty underwear. With a hint of old pot-stickers. And I can't imagine living with that smell all around me, all the time.

So, as we celebrate this Independence Day, let us thank America for her beauty, Her grace, and Her ability to let freedom rind, even if it means gross-smelling Asia houses for sell.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Baron Davis schools more than the Mavs

Big Bad Radio Me

The revolution will not be televised, but you can hear snippits of it on the radio.

Too Soon?

How do you know when an action is too soon?

For instance—a wounded and dumped soul getting back into the dating game—how soon?

Or a joke about a controversial topic? Anna Nicole, anyone?

It goes beyond that. This was the dilemma surrounding Flight 93, the movie about September 11^th.

I believe that we don’t know how soon is too soon.

And today I face that challenge.

My mind is wrecked. My spirit disheveled. My stomach is swirling in a pool of acidic angst (or maybe its coffee) as I ponder a decision I made today:

Fraternity Cuff links.

On our first anniversary, my wife gave me a nice set of cuff links that were of the seal of Kappa Sigma, the fraternity I was in at college.

They are really nice. And, frankly, pretty classy.

But I haven’t worn them… once… until today.

I’ve been scared.

I’m afraid its too soon… too soon since I have been involved in Fraternity.

I am at a point in my life where I don’t know what to think about my past involvement in fraternal matters.

I loved it. I lived it—breathed it—I took in as much as I could from my time in a fraternity at college. Yes, that meant things like parties, and wearing silly t-shirts with greek letters, and plenty of dances, and paying dues, and paying for the dances, and paying for the t-shirts.

And, yes, where I come from it almost meant nights of a gym filled with 80 guys practicing choreography, only to slap on costumes and heavy make-up to sing and dance competitively. Not gay. I promise.

But it also meant meeting some of the most incredible people and entertaining some scenarios/events that have shaped who I am. Fraternity, along with many other factors, have formed me.

So don’t read this and think I don’t think fondly of my time with Fraternity… because I do.

This May will mark my 4^th anniversary of my emergence from the bowels of Baylor as an undergraduate, at which point I began to distance from Fraternity.

I was even at the ol’ BU for another year—but kept Fraternity at more than an arm’s reach.

I didn’t, and still don’t, want to be one of those guys that ‘can’t let it go.’ Instead, I acted as if I turned the page. Ended the chapter. Moved on.

But I contend that there is a point in which is it appropriate, even classy, to look back at those old chapters. Maybe embrace them. Maybe even support them with apparel/accessories.

Am I at that point? I don’t know.

Part of me thinks that you have to be gray-headed. Part of me thinks it depends on how successful you are at distancing.

I, for example, am probably the best Distancer I know.

Want examples? I cringe at the site of Ninfa’s. I won’t come near Roxy Grove. I only talk to a few people that shared Fraternity with me—and I tend to avoid being in the same public venue as those I don’t talk to (I have, on occasion, walked the long way around a restaurant to avoid people).

But I wore the cufflinks today.

It feels a little unnatural, like I’m in 8^th grade on the same couch as a friend who’s making out with some chick. But, like watching a friend make-out, part of me accepts it, and coyly I crack a knowing smile.

Drivers' Ed

Driver’s Education may be one of the most undervalued educational ‘seminars’ that a person ever attends.

After all, its based on the completion of this course, at the ripe old age of 15’ish, that you are given permission to operate a combustible piece of machinery that uses fuel & fire to move from point a to point b.

Driver’s Ed experiences come in all shapes and sizes.

Some, like Corey Haim’s, include a militant Carl Winslow & cup of coffee (greatness of License to Drive).

Others, like my precious wife’s, include a sequel. (Scoreboard me for passing it the first time.)

My own Driver’s Ed experience is, well, unforgettable.

In Sweetwater (the center of the universe), Driver’s Ed is taught in school—as a separate course. I took it when I was 15. My instructor was the GREAT Dennis Mosely.

Mr. Mosely was the Geometry teacher, known for his paper football (equilateral triangle) tournaments, his western wit (“I was born under a mesquite bush at mile marker 501 in Pecos, TX”) and his EXTREMELY sweaty armpits (rhombus-like yellow stains that we presumed were caused by staring at hot high schoolers all day).

The Mosely was definitely a fan favorite. Me being the fan of course.

When I think back over my time with Mosely, three things stand out:

1) The 6:00 AM shift. After taking the written test, we were sent out with Mosely on to the streets. I, being the morning person I am, signed up for the first shift—the 6:00am shift. I suppose this time is normally spent practicing parallel parking, 10 and 2 and the use of the blinker. Not me. Mosely & I grabbed some donuts (from Doris’ Sweet Shop) and then went out to his land so that I could feed his cow, Norman. One cow. Norman. I named it (City Slickers is brilliant). The thing about was… well… I wasn’t driving. Sure, I drove out South of town where Norman resided. And yes, I drove around many cow chips to get to Norman. But then, for a couple of hours, I just hung out with Norman… and Mosely.

2) The fight. Our Driver’s Ed class was a Who’s Who for our high school. You had athletes (the GREAT Robert Reed, aka short Manute Bol), cheerleaders (hey now), brains (Curtis Cecil) and guys like myself, who mostly identified with, well, David Spade (as previously noted). With all of these personalities, some had to clash. And two did. That’s when I witnessed the one of the top three fights of all time. This one is actually number 2 on my list. Curtis Cecil and the effeminately named Courtney (dude).

Curtis Cecil ran in my crew. He was a brain. He was an athlete. He was a choir boy. He was a Renaissance Man, which is why he ran in my crew.

His challenger is this fight was Courtney, the she-named. Courtney was as bland as they come… Kind of hung out with the skaters, only because of a dysfunctional family tie to them.

Three years prior, Curtis Cecil broke it off with a lady he was seeing at the time. Courtney was said lady’s rebound. There had been animosity between the two since (that was 1995). Since we all shared a Driver’s Ed room together, it all came to a head.

They met at the creek—a location between their homes. Curtis Cecil had plenty of support from our crew, and Ven Diagram friends to assist in the event that Courtney’s skater bunch intervened.

Courtney showed up with a D Battery in hand, intended to use it on Curtis Cecil.

That’s not what happened. In fact, what happened was that Curtis Cecil pounded the she-named Courtney so hard with his right hand that he broke a metacarpal. Scoreboard, Curtis Cecil.

3) The Old Man & the trailer. Like I said earlier, I had the 6:00am shift. But I didn’t visit Norman every day. There were times in which other visits had to be made—like the Old Man & the trailer. One morning, Mosely & I were cruising along. He was giving me directions (Left, Right, Right, Right, Left, etc). and I was following suit. I soon noticed that we were in a shady part of the ‘Water. There were houses with no doors… cars with no windshields… and, most importantly, a mysteriously trailer. That’s when Mosely said, “Right about here’s good.” To him that meant “Stop.” So I did. And he got out. I locked the doors as he walked to the front. He pounded on the front door of the trailer. Nothing. I prayed. Nothing. He pounded again. I could see from a car that the small window on the front of the trailer was now cracked. Eyes peered out. Old eyes. Then the window raised a bit more. Very confusingly, an arm stretched out from the window (an old arm) and unlocked a pad lock on THE FRONT of the door. As it opened, I could see the oldest man I had ever laid my eyes on standing in the doorway. He looked like a mummy in an A-shirt and very (VERY) used briefs. Mosely went inside. The door shut. I sat in the car. I don’t know what happened—but it was probably 15 minutes before Mosely emerged. He locked the pad lock (awfully generous) and gave the door a pat. Then he got in the car and we left. He was smiling just as much afterwards as before. I still have no idea what happened in there—or why the mummy chose to lock his door from the outside, seems inefficient-and probably never will.

Like I said—everyone has their own Driver’s Ed story. Yes, mine is a tad bit demented, very curious, and possibly fake. But, then again, that’s how I prefer my soup to be served.

A BIG Decision

Some decisions are more important than others.

When it comes to life decisions, you have to realize and then prioritize those decisions. You must make sure that, when all of the milk has been spilled, you’ve properly made the big ones.

Indeed, life is full of big decisions. College. Marriage. Faith. Those are three of the biggest. But there’s one more—one that may go unnoticed in certain circles.

Like Stevie Wonder getting lasik, I want to shed some light on this subject, because I recently made this BIG decision.

WHO WILL PLAY YOU IN YOUR LIFE STORY?

Each of us has dreams—and a number of us believe that we are destined for great things.

Some people think just like my man, the humble one, Eccentric, who said, “I’m going to be blowing up as big as Michael Jackson… maybe bigger.”

Ambition + Drive + Luck + Awesomeness = One day looking back and coyly sneering, “Not Baaaaad.”

Who do you want to represent you in your life story? What celebrity best encompasses your every being?

Let’s allow some room for a disclaimer—there are two possible answers here. There’s the realistic answer and the lack-of-self-awareness answer.

The lack-of-self-awareness answer belongs to those who really have no idea who they are. They are looking A-list, or demi-god, like a Robert Redford, Paul Newmann or Bono.

Listen, I love me some me, and I’d like to think of myself as a wittier Robert Redford, but come on…

The realistic answer belongs to those who know who they are, where they’re going, and, most important to this subject matter, what celebrity they are most aligned with.

Many factors can lead you to making this decision:

1) Look-Alikes. Everyone looks like someone. Maybe it’s Jon Lovitz. Maybe it’s Ava Gardner. Perhaps it’s Gollum. If you know that you resemble someone, you might take on a bit of their persona.

2) Act-Alikes. It could be that you don’t strongly resemble anyone in-particular, but you might act like someone. I’ve been told that I act like Yoda. Yes, that means that I am full of endless wisdom; Backwards I speak; and I tend to walk with a cane.
3) Want-to-be-Alikes. Some people strongly identify with someone in particular, despite a lack of physical resemblance or resemblance in personality. These people are voted “Most likely to have surgery to look more like their fixation.” Creepy.

Those are just some of the factors that can lead you to your decision. That leads me to my decision.

When I began this divulge of harmonious harmony, I told you that I had made my own decision as to who would play myself in my own life story.

Drumroll.

David Spade.

He’s an undersized (frame, that is) man who makes his money through quick with and understated cynicism.

No, he’s not as versatile as I think myself to be… but he knows what he’s best at and sticks with it. Oh, and he’s currently seeing Heather Locklear.

Scoreboard.

So go about your day mulling your decision. Who would it be?

Eccentric

This guy's my hero.

No Mulligans Needed

My wife tells me, often, that I need to think before I speak.

My reply normally consists of doing the monkey-face blow back at her. Classic rebuttal.

Do I think before I speak? Most of the time. But when I think, I normally think about 1)how shocking or 2)how self-amusing what I am about to say will be.

Let’s take a look at some fateful moments in my past which I shocked my audience.

1) “You’ve been in a terrible mood lately. It’s probably because you’re pregnant.” Those words came out of my mouth in an impromptu meeting circa 1994. I was in 7^th grade. The people attending that meeting were myself, Knucklehead Lance, our school’s Vice Principal and my Special Projects Art teacher, to whom the comment was directed. Still, to this day, I contend that she had it out for me—and I wasn’t the one that knocked her up.

2) “Where’d you park your Harley, butch?” Ahh, college. My first class in college was volleyball. And my volleyball teacher, well, she was suspect numero uno for tranny-dom. So, one day, under my breath, I said what I said. She was close enough to hear. That’s the story on how I got a B in volleyball.

3) “Let’s be honest, you’re not a real teacher, so you don’t have to have an attitude.” Sophomore year in college. I was the only sophomore in a Freshman level English class (not that I was an idiot, no, in fact I finished with enough English hours for an undeclared English minor). My ‘teacher’ was a grad student. On the second day of class, she said to me (in front of the class, mind you), “Justin, just because you’re the only sophomore in the class doesn’t mean you have to have an attitude.” Boom does the dynamite. She came at me full force. So, as you can see, my reply had to put her in her place. She hated me.

4) “Scott’s got a Zorro fetish.” Want to know an easy way to get a rise out of an executive? Shoot the wheels off of a meeting you’re in with them. I was in a meeting with one of our executives and we were being pitched by a very bad product that focused on movies. When I realized it was a waste of my time, I began trying to see how far I could get the meeting off task and possibly make the executive have to excuse himself. So, when Zorro was brought up… I felt it only natural.

5) “I think Darius Rucker said it best.” This was the opening line of my British Lit final exam. The prompt was to discuss Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73. I knew what the Sonnet was. I still know bits and pieces. It’s about time, that elusive marksman that ages us all. I had a firey case of writer’s block… so I began to quote Hootie & the Blowfish.

That’s it. Those are my top five no-mulligan-necessary moments. Stay tuned—because the day’s not over.

If Hockey dies, Hockey Dies

My latest escapade is detailed below. All accounts are 100% true. I’m not here to embellish, merely to make myself laugh.

I have, for the last two three years, begged and pleaded with someone to buy me a micro-recorder, mini-disc recorder, or even a talk-boy, so that I can share the life I lead and all of its nonsense with those around me.

My latest victims? The NHL All-Star Game.

Exploits:

First Exploit—An Observation. I hate hockey. It’s stupid. It’s just not my bit. So, as opposed to watching ANY of the 21 combined goals scored in the game, I defaulted to acting how my wife typically acts at sporting events: I watched the people. And believe me… there is people-watching to be had at a hockey game at the AAC. I love the sports-jersey, but I have never liked the hockey jersey. Too much. Too long-sleeved. In most sporting events, there is a clear division of socio-economic status between the jersey wearer and the non-jersey wearer. The more high-falooting you are, the less need you have for a jersey. Not only did I see MANY a jersey at this game, there was also MANY a blazer. Chris-Chris and Cash McMogulson were all over that joint. And it only got worse when I went to an after-party at the Ghost Bar.

Second Exploit-Bumming a Cigar CAN be done. My brother-in-law and I made a stop at the after-party hosted by Versus Network at the Ghost Bar. Seriously not my scene. The place is covered in chrome/silver/fluorescent green. Now, granted, I’m not someone who particularly enjoys the nightlife at a place like this. My version of nightlife is a second glass of port and two episodes of The Sopranos after my wife goes to sleep. So, myself, a wolf, donned sheep’s clothing to appear sheik enough to participate in this… aura. I was on the observation deck, when I noticed a VERY well-to-do gent (like Ben Kingsley in a Hugo Boss suit) smoking a cigar. Shamelessly, I approached him. The conversation went something like this:

Excuse me, do you mind me asking where you picked up the cigar?

Cuba.

I’m sorry?

CUBA (louder, to overcome the sound of Michael Jackson’s GREAT “I Wanna Rock With You.”).

No, did you grab it at the bar or was there a store downstairs?

I got it in Cuba.

I didn’t see that when I walked in—did I miss it?

No, I have a connection in Cuba.

Oh… well, enjoy.

You want one?

No, I couldn’t.

Please (reaches into his coat pocket).

No, well, okay. Wow, thank you… have a great night.

Now, with this exchange, you might expect that I opened the cigar, lit ‘er up, and enjoyed the cubano.

Nope. I put it in my pocket and took it home. Was I concerned that the fake Ben Kingsley would see me and wonder? No, what do I care. I’ve got my cigar—and I’m out.

Third Exploit-Confuse someone for Dolph Lundgren… on purpose. Brian Engblom is an analyst for the Versus Network. He’s been on ABC & ESPN. He’s a former NHL Defensiveman for many teams. And now, he joins the ranks of the select few celebrities who’s wheels I have shot off. While I was at the after party, I noticed one of the guys from the pre-game broadcast that Versus was doing. I didn’t have a clue who he was—but I knew who he wasn’t. He wasn’t Dolph Lundgren. Oh, but, me, well… I wanted to make him think that I thought he was Dolph Lundgren. So I handed my brother-in-law my camera and gave him instructions.

Take a picture for me.

Then I approached Engblom. He was talking to an older suit… so I waited patiently (awkwardly, but patiently). When I felt it appropriate, I interrupted.

Excuse me… could I trouble you for a picture.

Oh, sure. Absolutely.

(My brother-in-law takes the photo you see above)

Great. Thank you so much. I loved you in Masters of the Universe. You’re a great He-Man.

(INCREDIBLE awkwardness. Silence. Staring.)

I continue…

I love you.

(EVEN MORE awkwardness)

Then I turn and walk out. My time here is done. Veni Vidi Vici.

I Fear the Mannequin

I want to be frank. Not Frank. Frank can be frank, while still being Frank. Me, I just want to be frank.

Mannequins freak me out.

Some kids were scared of clowns. Others were terrified of mascots.

For me it was mannequins.

First, the spelling of the word mannequin is off-kilter. It’s one of those words that just seems to be walking around with its nose in the air and saying, “Look at me, I have a ‘q’ in my name that you pronounce as a ‘k.’ I’m sooo much better than you.”

I don’t like words that think they are better than me.

I don’t like the way mannequins are posed. Not so recently I was walking through a reputable department store when I noticed how contorted this pale, faceless pseudo-man was. He was wearing nice clothes—yes, but when I put on my Sunday best I don’t drop my left shoulder, lift my head, rabbit-arm my right arm and slightly bend my left knee. Listen, I took anatomy when I was in high school. I know that the anatomical position means that the human is upright and facing forward, allowing for the body to be sliced along the coronal plane.

And hear me—I don’t think that the anatomical position is the best way for us to display clothes in department stores.

I just don’t know why the powers that be have to go and Marilyn Manson our pseudo-humans to display clothes to convince us to buy them.

The way they stand has never convinced me to buy the clothes on them. In fact, more often than not, it discourages me from doing so.

I don’t know the exact solution.

Maybe we should all decide to contort ourselves. Would that be better? I think some sort of meeting in the middle should occur between us and our plastic counterparts. I believe Diamond Rio would be all for that.

And I support anything that the Poison of country music supports.

Or, perhaps mannequins should conform to our world. I think the GREAT Andrew McCarthy might have something to say about that (http://imdb.com/title/tt0093493/ ), seeing as how the girl of his dreams, Kim Cattrall, was a mannequin, which he created, that came to life.

My plan—let’s get rid of mannequins AS WE KNOW THEM. Why not just hire people to model clothes in-store?

Think about it—no more weird, contorted or posed fake-people (who really ever sits like the Thinking Man besides mannequins?). Instead, it’s a way to boost our economy. We’re creating jobs. why not just pay some poor, but well-kept schlep to stand on the same platform and smile?

Couldn’t we all use a little less mannequin and a little more schlep in our lives?

Racial Harmony

Allow me to bring some equality to your life this morning.

This video below is:

1) Me and LeDan Edwards, circa 1987.

2) Me and Jay Lockett, circa yesterday.

My 10-Years-Late Nightmare

Sometimes—well, the grass isn’t greener on the other side.

When I was 15, I would have killed—literally murdered, pillaged and plundered—for the opportunity to be involved in one weekend activity.

Oh to be a fly on the wall. Please, please please let me be a rivet on a jean.

I just wanted to know what was going on—when high school girls got together.

You see, as a 15 year old boy, you wonder. You wonder what in the world they (they being those weird things that smelt okay called girls) talked about—what they did—and maybe, just maybe, if they did the same things you and your dudes did.

Well, thanks to 7 high school sophomores, my dreams are shattered.

Before you call me a “CreepBall” or play me off as some sort of Mark Chmura, let me explain.

My wife leads a group of high school girls at church. She teaches them… directs them spiritually… and acts as an accountability partner for them if needed. So that's my connection to these misled youths.

And me—well, I get the pure joy of going to dinner with my wife and seven 15 year-old girls. Joy is relative no? Because this was as joyful as using non-needle-nose pliars to remove my right ear-drum.

When guys get-together (whether it be to hang out, eat dinner or what-have-you), certain things happen. They eat a massive combination of Chee-tos, beef jerky, lil’debbie snack cakes, sodas (ginger ale was my favorite) and maybe, just maybe a slice of pizza or two.

When guys get-together, they fart.

When guys get-together, they play video games. They stay up late. They try to watch Showtime through the scrambled-ants-fighting thing on the TV. They prank call old ladies. They watch three hours of six episodes of the same SportsCenter. And, inevitably, they try to assemble the perfect girl by combining parts of girls in their school (much like Weird Science, but without the nuclear reactors and bras on heads).

That’s how they choose who they like—by picking and choosing pieces (both of anatomy and personality) from the buffet of high school girls that surrounds them.

Girls—well, it’s not that easy. Then again, it never has been easy with them, has it?

They are a different breed—a different species—they are wired like emotionally-fragile marsupials (I don’t really understand my reference; I just wanted to work in the word marsupial, so just go with it).

I went to the other side this past weekend. And the grass isn’t greener. In fact, it needs to be tilled and planted, then watered, then seriously prayed over to see if grass will even grow there.

I sat at dinner, at the furthest most corner of the table, in hopes that I might simply escape the entire activity and zone out. Remember, although my wife was there—one fact still remained, I was one bathroom trip from my wife from me being a 25 year-old married man stuck at a hole-in-the-wall Italian pizzeria with seven 15 year-old girls.

It began with smattering of cackles. Clothes. Coach purses. Camisoles. Shoes. Belts. Cell phones.

I kept trying to ignore them—but their magnet was drawing me back—because I was perplexed at what they talked about.

Then it was on to celebrity gossip and speaking about people on a first-name basis that they will never meet. They offered advice and opinions—which I’m sure Reese Witherspoon would find very applicable to getting through her divorce.

Soon enough—jackpot—they talked about dudes.

But, wait. They weren’t talking about dudes like we dudes talked about them. They weren’t trying to assemble the perfect (relative term) dude.

No—they were throwing out the word ‘romance.’

Seriously? 15? Romance?

I’m 25, married, and often confuse said term for someone who inhabits Rome. Their a romance, right?

Then, I heard something and felt sick.

“Oh, Todd (generic high school guy name) is soooo cute. And he’s so romantic and in to you.”

Cackles of agreement fill the background.

“Like that time that you dropped your chemistry folder and he picked it up—then you locked eyes.”

Insert spit-take theater. (note—spit-take theater can be awfully messy with a mouth full of calzone & marinara, and, for that matter, not a good coupling for the brand new Coach purse sitting across from you. Who knew?)

I may have blacked out. I may have zoned out. I can’t say for sure.
What I can tell you is that I felt like I was stuck in a Molly Ringwald movie.

The rest of the evening was a blur of Todd-talk, frappacino’s, and crotch-kicking.

Now I rest even more disturbed than I previously was.

If only present Justin could have warned 15 year-old Justin—“hey man, don’t worry. Don’t wander. You don’t want to know. Just continue to THINK that it always ends in a pillow fight and a game of MASH.”

Again, I’m not a CreepBall, or a retired pro-football player who hooked up with his daughter’s friends. No, I’m a messenger.

It doesn’t matter the age. It doesn’t matter the location. One truth remains—girls are weird.

New Year's Revolution

Welcome Mr. 2007. You've arrived, and we're all so glad to see you.

As with other years, plenty of people will be making resolutions. You know the type: I resolve to do this, do that, do the other.

So cool the resolution.

Not me. As with other things (board games, out of office bonding with co-workers, dog clothes, overpriced pizza, and ranch dressing to name a few), I am far too good for the resolution.

So, what you'll find here is not, I repeat, not a resolution.

By defintion, a resolution is: "a formal expression of of opinion or intention made."

Nope, not here. Get thee behind me, resolution.

What you'll find here is my 2007 New Year's Revolution (defined as: "a radical and pervasive change in society and the social structure."). Here here! Ol' Anxine! Hoo-rah! Revolute!

I revolute to make a ruling on physical contact based on depth of relationship.

Huh? Stay with me. Problem--often times we might find ourselves in social situations that call for physical contact. However, many times, we are unsure what the appropriate level of contact is. Hand shake? Hug? Hi-five? Perhaps a simple shoulder shrug with two thumbs up?

Here's scenario #1--I am standing in line with my wife, awaiting entrance to a particular venue, when lo & behold if we are greeted by an aquaintance whom we have not seen in some time (6 months?). We exchange pleasantries and then he extends his hand directly into the space between the wife and I. Handshake... right? I look at the hand, look at the wife, back to the hand, the wife, the aquaintance, the hand and then the wife. Am I suuposed to shake it? Is he trying to shake my wife's hand? Look at the hand. Look at the aquaintance. In a moment of sheer social awkwardom, I thrust my hand into his, shake, nod, and release. There's a pause, and then he extends again. Again? What's this guy's deal? Why he is so adamant about shaking my wife's hand? We don't know him well enough for there to be physical contact between he and her... afterall, I refer to him as an aquaintance! Wifey looks at me, the hand, the aquaintance, the hand, me, the hand, and then hesitantly extends. Now what are we to do with this? Let's look at another scenario.

Scenario #2--A co-hort of mine (we'll call him Jack) had invested a good 10-15 minutes in a conversation with others: a dude, another dude and his spouse. Jack doesn't particularly know the other dude and his spouse, hence the conversation. Jack talked with them about their 20, plans, hands, and what-have-you's. Again, it was probably no-more than 12 minutes of getting-to-know-you. As the conversation broke, and adieu's were being presented, Jack shook hands with the other dude. Solid good-bye. End it and move on right? Well, Jack made the telltale mistake of making eye contact with the spouse. Their eyes locked, so he felt obligated. The spouse began to move in for the side-hug. Jack froze, processed, and decided to go full frontal hug instead. Hugging someone else's spouse in full frontal mode is a big, big step. That's not a 15 minute relationship closer. Party foul on Jack, right? Wrong. He lifted the rug of social appropriateness and swept this blunder under with the use of skirting humor. "Guess we'll hug-it-out... we go waaaaaay back." Bold move. Let's look at one more before we make a ruling.

Scenario #3--My buddy, Buddy, had recently completed a project at his new place of employment. Buddy found himself in a situation to receive praise from his boss. His boss delighted, and complimented him on a job well done. Pause. Then Buddy made eye contact with the boss. Extended eye-contact. The boss then made the decision to extend a hand for a shoulder pat. Buddy looked at the boss' misty-eyes and tilted his head... kidding. Buddy looked at the boss, looked at the hand moving in his direction, the boss, the hand, the boss--then the boss froze his hand. More eye-contact. They both held their breathing... in a terror they made a mutual decision to turn and run from the situation. Ignore it and walk away.

Based on these scenarios, I propose the following rules:
-Socially speaking, men should never shake women's hands.
-Inter-spousal contact should only take place after 1)two exclusive couple-couple dinners 2)all-parties involved email exchange using the reply-all button 3)all-parties involved have spoken on the phone to all-parties involved (answering your spouse's phone is acceptable)
-Inter-spousal contact should take place on the following scale: hi-five, side-hug, side-hug with squeeze, then full-frontal. Note: Full-frontal should only be used with your closest inter-spousal friends. A good measure on this use would be: 1) Have you been on a trip with this person? 2)Has this person seen your undergarments, whether, clean, dirty or on your person? 3) Have you exchanged communication with this person just between the two of you (could be text, email, or phone) in planning an event for one of your spouses?

Revolute. The world is yours--if you're going to live here, make sure you're comfortable with it. And while you're living here, let's not shake my wife's hand. That's just socially ignorant.

Blame it on Mexico?

Today I returned from a trip to Mexico.

While there I was able to check off of few things I've been meaning to get done:

Check #1 - Read a good book on the beach while smoking a cigar. Okay, so it's not as funny, quirky, or as you'll see soon enough - shocking - as story #2 or #3, but I did have a "life moment" while reading Mario Puzo's The Godfather and reeling on a Cohiba. Not bad.

Check #2 - While at the fantastic all-inclusive resort and hotel, I found a fantastic all-inclusive place to take a dump. Stalls were a tad small, but, hey, it's another country afterall. Day 1 I made my regular stop down. Bravo. No qualls. Day 2 I went back to the same drop zone. I had just pulled my pants up when I heard a very she-like "sigh." Not a grunt. Not a squeal. A sigh. So I went about my business of washing all the while pondering what that sigh meant. I walked out - turned back to the door - and there it was - the triangle lady. Yes, I did my doodie duty in a woman's restroom. Twice. Scoreboard.

Check # 3 - This one's a little more complicated. As it turns out, some compadres of mine ended up in a Mexican jail the night before our return. Four went into the city - two were arrested and thrown into the paddywagon. So, being the Consigliere in this whole trip, I was summoned by the two not arrested (females) to accompany them, along with Antonio, a security guard from our resort to the jail. I wanted another pa-noose in the cab, so I asked that the famous Running One join me along with one of the two not arrested.

The job sounded simple enough - the manager from our resort was sending Antonio to be our negotiator. The price had already risen from its original $20 per compadre to $100 per compadre. The manager would act as an informant to a warden - and through the chain of command three degrees further - calling in a favor to the commander.

We arrived at the compound of a station. It was like a scene from wartorn Israel or Dusk Till Dawn or maybe even what you'd imagine if, well, just think about a shady compound surrounded by a field (150 yard radius), filled with dingos, and covered with guards who are carrying semi-automatic weapons.

For the next two hours I watched Antonio try to milk the proverbial cow of extorsion. But it wasn't working. And in that two hours we had been told no many a time. Running One was our button man - keeping our two cabs warm and on the premises. One of the two not arrested was with me in the lobby, working up tears and trying to score a sympathy vote.

I witnessed a purple panty wearing Mexi-Charles Manson restrained by four cops. I heard screams. I heard the clanging of a cell door and knew that my two compadres were somewhere in there.

When we felt our efforts were exhausted we started to leave. They weren't getting out tonight, meaning they'd miss our flight. Then Anotonio struck up a convo with an oozi-carrying Mexi-cop. He and our cabby convinced the gaurd to release our compadres. I don't know whether or not the Commander even knew. My thought is that since our price went up, he had no idea. That's right, we paid off the oozi-carrying Mexi-cop to spring our friends from the compound. What followed was a short series of driving back and forth to and from the front to the back door, as well as a moment of terror in which I suffered a panic attack, fearful that the cabby, Antonio and the gaurd had sold us out for our pesos.

Finally, (and much more detail not included), they were sprung.

And yes, we drove (the cabbies, rather) like maniacs back to the resort.

Chances are that my compadres' faces are up on a post office wall in Playa Del Carmen today.

Today was the day.

I was tested for aids today.

I promise it's not contagious

Famous last words of a person who just gave you something... I promise it's not contagious.

Setting: Local YMCA Lap Pool

It's mid-to-late afternoon and I was at the YMCA after work to swim some laps. They say it works every muscle group. I don't know who they are... don't really care. So I'm swimming in my lane, minding my own lap-business, and mentally listening to tracks from Outkast's Aquemini (it's what I do).

I notice a bulbous man standing just at the end of the lane that I am swimming in. He's not in the water. No, he's standing on the concrete level, goggles on his forehead, towel and water bottle in hand. I keep going. Swimming, that is.

I get to the opposite end and pause. I have my goggles on, but I'm eyeing Bulbous Man (now a formal salutation since I know nothing else thereof) and he is still just standing. I mean - he's breathing and all - but he's just standing there, like a Peeping Tom outside the window of their prey. And at this point I'm said prey.

To the left the other lanes are full. And to the right. So I assume Bulbous Man is actually waiting - more wanting - to split a lane (mark that) so that he can get his lap on as well. From the other end of the pool I give him the point (acknowledge him), point to the pool (acknowledge the field of play), and the thumbs up (universal symbol of acceptance). He breaks his stare and bulbously nods.

Time out - when I say bulbous - I don't mean that this man is fat. Or portly even. He's just... bulbous. Like an onion. Vidalia - not red.

I go back into my laps, but upon arriving at the other end I notice that Bulbous Man has not gotten in the pool yet. So I stop. I pull my goggles down (always to the neck, never the forehead for me) and make eye contact with my perpetrator.

He speaks.
"You just wanna choose a side?"
"Yeah, I'll stay left."
"Okay. I got this thing. I promise its not contagious. I think its some sort of sinus infection."

You're kidding right? You are absolutely kidding me that only three sentences into this conversation he is raising my threat level to red? If you don't know me by name - should you include the words contagious or infection in a conversation with me? Much less get into a lap pool with me and swim next to me? Same lane?

Now - grain of salt - I could drop a gallon of Freddy Mercury's AB in that pool, take a razor blade to my epidermis and jackknife into that pool without worrying about lesions. It's that chemically altered. Seriously - I've stopped showering for the purpose of removing dirt because I basically swim in Clorox. In fact, if you want me to take your whites up there I'm going in a couple of hours. Call me.

Back to Bulbous Man. So this sinus infection... he continues:
"I don't know for sure what it is. Have you ever had one of these?"
"Yeah. I get about two a year. Normally I'm on an anti-biotic for four days and a decongestant and then I'm fine."
"I haven't gone to the doctor. But I'm draining alot. I mean alot of flem."

Now this guy's thrown a non-specific amount of flem at me (figuratively speaking).

But he's basically saying "look dude - I'm sick and I'm about to get within feet of you and we're going to be swimming laps in the same clorox filled backwash infested waters." I've been pausing for a minute or two - anxious to get back to swimming - so I try to break it off.

"Well, flem's certainly a sticky situation. Good luck."

I turn, pull my goggles up and attempt to position them.

"Yeah, see, the thing is I haven't felt 100% since last weekend. I think it was the weather change."

Weather change? It went from 106 to 99 and tough guy here thinks it made him start producing more flem. Nice logic.

Moral of the story? I don't know. But I don't feel very well... ___________________________________________________________________ And now, a recurring bit that hasn't recurred, occurred or just plain curred for that matter:
OBSCURE STAR OF THE DAY

If this is new to you... it's okay. Don't be shy about it. I just want to point out and or celebrate obscurity in its finest form.

Michael C. Maronna

Maronna's acting creds include Pete and Pete, 40 Days and 40 Nights, and Slackers. He is rather brilliant in all - but the sock steals the show in Slackers.

Humanizing.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this arena are of sole purpose to educate and capitulate others. The author does not take responsibility for said views and opinions to be incorrect or against your 'religion.' Furthermore, the author has only been wrong 5 times in his entire life - an average of once per half-decade - and it is unlikely that he will offer his one mistake to this mole hill.

THEORY: You are not officially human until you are 1 year of age. Additionally, being of 1 year of age does not completely mean that you are human.

EVIDENCE: I don't care who you are - what your x or y chromosomes are about, or how 'hot' you think your mother-in-law was as a Varsity Cheerleader in high school. Your baby is not necessarily cute... your baby is an alien.

I have had this conversation before and will have it again. I believe that there is no such thing as a cute baby. How can something be 'cute' after passing through that baby-shooting portal?

Let's compare this to produce shopping. Let's say you have a banana and carry that banana in a ziploc full of vinegar, and that ziploc bag full of vinegar inside of a balloon for the better part of a year. Now pop the ziploc and then shove the banana through the small opening in the balloon. Okay, you can expand your opening enough to make room for the banana.

No matter how you slice and or seal it - some damage to your banana is going to occur. It may take the banana a little time to get back into proper produce-like shape.

Same for your baby.

My best estimate is that it takes approximately one year for your child to take on actual human form.

Perhaps a visual would help:

Fetus = Alien.












So when a child has its birth-moment... it still looks pretty much like this.

Again - after about a year I believe that you take on human form and it is only at that point that I will consider said child human.

However, there have been some notable beings that have not taken on human form.

Exhibit A - Sam Cassell









Still a fetus. Still an alien.

Exhibit B - Keith Richards














Still alive? Still not human.

And yes, this rule will apply to even the fruit of my very own loins in their time. No one is immune, and all eventually must pass through this portal into manhood, womanhood and, if relevant, humanhood.

All my best...

Things Couples Shouldn't Do

It has come to my attention that I have a responsibility to my inform my audience. There are certain things that should not be done by couples - never. Never-ever.

• Couples should not sway together. This morning, while sitting in a worship service at church, I noticed the couple in front of me. This particular couple was made up of a girl taller than guy scenario - not ideal. No offense, but girls taller than guys in relationships is just flat out weird. Okay, so this couple began to sway. Not side to side - front to back. Maybe its more of a rock than a sway. But the tallshe began the act. Soon enough, the short guy that mildly resembled an older version of Buddy Lembeck was rocking with. Front to back. Front to back. Inappropriate.
• Couples should not sit in the same side of the booth together. There are two sides of the booth for a reason. Use them, douchebag. It is perfectly acceptable to use go one coke, two straws, but you can't properly share said coke when you are on the same side of the booth.
• Couples should not have a 'song.' This has never been kosher, that is, blessed by a Rabbi. Why do you need to identify your relationship with a particular song? Do you think that the artist had you in mind when they recorded it? Get a flipping clue, boss. Now, let me be frank - I have tried to have a song with girlfriends in the past. Seventh grade - my first girlfriend. Kim Hale. I would call Power 103.7 in Abilene at night and attempt to request a song for Kim. It was Shai - Baby, I'm Yours. I would call time after time (and it was a long distance call from Sweetwater to Abilene at the time) and request Shai. And, time after time, the guy on the other end of the line would tell me that they did not have that song. They would still include my dedication, "This one goes out to Kimberly from Justin... he says what's up." That, friend, is a sign. No songs. No way.
• Couples should not announce to others when they are 'trying.' This has come up recently, being as we are surrounding ourselves with more and more preggers. I have an overactive imagination. The last thing I need is to have an image of you 'trying' creeping into my head and making me laugh. It's just distracting.
• Finally, couples should not 'go' in front of one another. This is a private act. In fact, I maintain that my wife does not 'go.' I 'go.' If it offends you, that's fine, but I 'go' daily. I am what they call "reg-u-lar." However, somewhere, some way the path got twisted. Someone felt it appropriate to do this most gross of human actions in front of one another. Close the door. And, if the door is closed - respect that. Don't beat on the door. Don't ask how things are going because I don't really want to give a play-by-play and I don't have someone to provide the color. There was a moment - probably a year in to mine and Joanna's relationship - when we were at her parents' house in Arlington. I was about to get in the shower and had closed the door. I turned on the shower, then sat to urinate. I was tired, and didn't feel like standing. So I sat. The next thing I know my girlfriend is walking in the door to get a hairbrush or somesuch, and I am stark naked peeing sitting down. See, moments like this can be avoided if you don't 'go' in front of one another.

Let these words pour over you and cover you with enlightenment. Ommm.

Fibromyalgin - F-I-B-R-O-M-Y-A-L-G-I-N

Well, I must admit, I have been a quarter-century old for almost a week now.

The world is different at 25. I am officially closer to 30 than I am to 20. It can't be too long before I give up on what the world thinks and starting wearing pants that rely on elastic.

In the mean time, I have a few things to note.

1) I had a brush with greatness (all in perspective). Joanna and Julie
threw Craig and I surprise birthday party. At that party we had a minor celebrity of the most pious state: one of the up and coming preachers in the United States. Yes, that's right. The fake Jack Bauer. The double-fake dwarf of Ivan Drago. You can see him here to the right.



2) In route to my birthday party - I was like this. Let me tell you,
when your wife hands you a bandana and tells you to cover your eyes, you dont think you are going to end up in the backseat with a dude. That's not even on the radar. Very Brokeback.





3) I was very domestic yesterday (Saturday). It's not normally this way,
believe me. Joanna and I make it a point to preserve our youth and spend
our Saturdays spending time together, not doing 'married things. Then again, yesterday was different. We moved furniture, moved 'lumber' from 'Home Depot' for someone to make a fence. We bought the big TV. We went to Ikea. It was officially the most domestic I have ever been and let me tell you, it feels violating. But, then again, thanks to domestication, I now have the McCordVision Cinema Center (also known as my living room/family room/den). Yes, those are my feet, and yes, I will have that picture on my desktop so that, even while at work, the Chief
and the Samsung will make me feel at home.

Even worse this time.

A while ago, I shared an experience from On The Border in which my wife was hit on in front of me. It was kind of like being castrated without anesthesia.

It happened again. Kind of.

At On The Border, we had a small 'confrontation' with a mildly attractive young man who looked like he could be on a soap opera.

This time, the place was Main Event. The culprit - a rather large and portly white woman with hair like Brian Bosworth. Oh no. Boom goes the dynamite.

Joanna and I met our small group from church at Main Event recently to play laser tag. While waiting in line to enter the laser tag facility, my wife spotted the very popular game, Dance Dance Revolution.

Because my wife spends more time around 9-year olds than she does me (who may or may not act like a 9 year old), there are times she falls into the trap of being consumed by their culture. She doesnt wear Hello Kitty t-shirts. I have to put my foot down somewhere.

Anyhow, so Joanna decides to get on this game and begin dancing - without any credits to start the interactive portion.

At this point the female John Daly enters. She says to my wife - 'You wanna dance?' At this point I am three feet from this going on. Rather than become defensive, I decided to let it play out. I figured I could take the mammoth of a woman if need be.

Joanna blindly answers yes. So the woman (debateable) produces four Main Event game cards from her fanny pack. I kid you not. Joanna and her try one - no credits. Relieved, I say 'Well, let's get by the laser tag door. They should open it any minute.'

Before Joanna could decide, the she-Daly begins swiping card after card, like a person coming off of a Red Balls binge. She looks at my wife - eyes blurred by the Miller Lite - and esteems, 'There you go. I want to see your little ass dance.'

The music scratched - maybe only in my head.

So Joanna danced. Yes, I allowed it. One - I wanted to see the woman's reaction. Two - Joanna was very focused and it amused me. Three - who's to argue with a white woman who looks like a heavy-set Tommy Gunn?

Not me.

Does dating ever end?

Now that I am more than a year-and-a-half married, you'd think I was done dating. Nope.

Before you grab your cell phone to call my wife and scream unfaithfulness, let me let you in on this little secret: she's in on it too. And, no, we don't 'swing' that way (both literal and metaphorical in meaning).

Here's the thing - dating doesn't end. Ever.

Recently we have become good friends with a couple of other young married couples. Let me explain the story. I have changed the names of those involved to protect them - you never know.

We me Bonnie and Clyde at church. Sunday school class. Yes, we knew them from Baylor - knew of them - but never crossed the societal circles in place to hang out with them then. My wife and I thought it might be fun to spend time with them. So she went out of her way to do research on them and their likes/dislikes.

Point A - this is exactly what you would do as a dude interested in a hot chick. You would ask another female about her to see if you might possibly be compatible. It just so happens that my wife internet 'stalked' Bonnie through the facebook. To-may-to, to-mah-to.

Then came the approach. We asked them to dinner on a Sunday morning - again at church.

Point B - ask someone out in a safe place. You are making yourself vulnerable to rejection and want to have a safety net nearby incase they say "Not interested. You smell like doody." Believe me - it happens.

After Bonnie and Clyde accepted the invite - we decided on a place... an obscure and relatively quiet restaraunt where the conversation can carry the evening.

Point C - location for the actual date is huge. Dont blow it with Chili's if you want this to work.

So then came the actual evening - and yes, I found myself as well as my wife actually cogniscient of the attire we would don. The evening was good - began by holding our cards all close to our respective chests, but then, as it carried on, we felt more comfortable around one another and let our gaurds down.

You see what I am talking about? Am I the only one who notices the exact parallels to dating?

It's the same thing when looking for a home, looking for a church, meeting your co-workers, etc.

Perhaps that is the only way we know to meet and or get to know other people.

Anyhow - Bonnie and Clyde had us over for the Super Bowl and are actually coming over for dinner tonight. That's like the third date. Things are getting pretty serious. Maybe we'll make out.

Releasing of the hounds.

It has been too long. I apologize. I have no excuse. I have no reason.

(Why do I talk to you like we are in a relationship?)

I don't have an over-arching theme for this, more just minor observations and theories that I have been thinking about:

1. Weddings would be much more enjoyable if everyone loosened up. That being said, I might embark on a new career as a wedding planner. However, in order to use my services, you must comply with these two principles: No flower girls. Flower girls are a waste of time and space. From now on we will replace flower girls with clowns in full clown garb. Also, just to mess with people, I want to serve toast for the toast. Not champagne or sparkling cider. Toast.

2. Traffic makes me suicidal. Not really, but kind of. When I retire I want to think about how much of my life was wasted in traffic and say - gee, its no wonder that people shot each other trying to get through that mess.

3. I paid for a single 24 oz Corona at a gas station recently completely in change. Does that conjur any stereotypes? That's what I do - break down barriers.

4. I think the British sound far more intelligent than any other people in the world. Think about it... take a news story about a fire burning down an apartment complex. There is always one witness - if you listened to an American and a Brit say the exact same thing you would think the Brit sounded more intelligent. I want to be a Brit. They have an air of class about their everyday life. Love it.

5. What is the real difference in college and the real world? I don't think there's much. It's a time shift, but not much else. College is just like the outside world - it's just the outside world is more boring.

That's it for me. I bet I could throw a football over that mountain.