I came out of hibernation and shaved my legs for this?!?

The bastard maples that surround my yard like an enclosing phalanx laugh maniacally at me, I imagine, as they hold onto their arsenal of dead and wilted leaves into might-as-well-be November.

Joke’s on them: I probably won’t rake my yard this fall anyways, regardless of when they unleash their crunchies.

Joke’s back on me: I’ll have to rake them when they are soggy and mixed with 9 months of dog shit next spring. The trees know this.

The mental image of a classic Roman phalanx wielding an arsenal of modern missiles makes me giggle harder than the joke I just made. It’s a shame when no one believes me when I tell them I’m funny.

Like the little arboreal nutrient factories have done, my urge to write anything has become drained and exhausted.  Maybe it’s the season of death and decay, maybe it’s the lessening sunlight and accompanying Vitamin D deficiency, or maybe it’s the Viking’s losing season and loser quarterbacks and loser coaching staff that is turning good quarterbacks into loser quarterbacks.

What my writing inspiration lacks in chlorophyll, I’ll harvest via chloroform – meaning I’m going to take a deep breath and incapacitate myself until I’m spent. That is supposed to be some sort of deep, profound metaphor for conquering writer’s block, but it will probably just turn into a thousand words of what it seems like: a masturbatory experience that not one of you won’t regret walking in on.

Welcome to Gallagher’s show! Oh, you have front row tickets? This way please. I hope you brought a rain coat.

Lack of literary ambition mirrors my seeming lack of social outings. It’s not like I’m a homebody any more than I was before: I shoot pool on Monday nights, sometimes Tuesdays, meet up for chicken wings with another group of friends Wednesday nights, and sometimes play cards on Fridays. It just feels emptier, I think, without the trips to the beach with beautiful women in sexy bikinis (or in nothing at all) that had turned up the heat on a meteorologically disappointing summer. Hell, I was even told I looked positively Jack Johnson this summer. I WAS Jack Johnson this summer, you know, minus the copious weed smoking and amazing guitar skills and millions (thousands? hundreds?) of dollars he has.

I had a tan and the wispy unkempt hair resultant of a recent swim and no combing afterwards.

Ladies, contain yourselves.

No, the nights these days [Editor’s Note: the great part about editing my posts myself is that I get to say things like “the nights these days…” and not have someone tell me how stupid it sounds] are instead filled with streaming media and online gaming, the latter of which I had sworn not to do until the snow flies and I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn't postpone that until the snow melts as well. Five hours of Doctor Who over dinnertime, the time I should be doing my laundry, the time I should be doing the dishes, pause to let the dog out, and bedtime make the eternal darkness outside stretch into -oh shit, I used the word “eternal” back there so I can’t say eternity now… um- infinity. I rarely text anyone, and even rare-erly [Ed: really?] receive any.

Work is the tits. Oh fucking auto-correct, I meant “the pits”! It’s actually not, but what else am I supposed to say when someone else brings up their crappy job?! “Sucks to be you! I make enough to pay my bills and my mortgage and inject cardboard crack straight into my carotid!!” At least when people complain about the weather they are complaining about a shared experience. Unless the person they are complaining to lives in San Diego. Because go fuckyourself, San Diego! California should quit stealing all my friends!

So yeah, that’s my sob story: a not-so-grand tale of First World Problems. Not exactly enough substance to write a Linkin Park album but surprisingly close HAHAHAHAHAHA LINKIN PARK EMO JOKES ARE STILL FUNNY!!! It’s not exactly like I’m a starving Ethiopian HAHAHAHA MY NETFLIX SUBSCRIPTION FEE COULD FEED HIM FOR A MONTH!1!

I’m such a dick sometimes. At least it makes it easier to write these exhibitions of autofellation.

The end to my woes is only as far away as the cute bartender with cleavage wider than the gap in her teeth at whatever bar has a karaoke night going on, I know. That can be expensive, though. Stripper+blow parties in the backseat of an Aston Martin and a credit card zero-balance are mutually exclusive at my pay rate. I could maybe skip the car and host the strippers at my house and still make my mortgage, but first I’d have to clean it up.

I disgust myself sometimes. What’s more disgusting to you, dear reader, is that this isn't one of those times.

Eureka! I’ll hire strippers to be my house maids!

That’s a much better idea then when I once tried to hire maids from a seedy motel to be strippers… Hey! It was totally consensual! Right up until the point I gave them the green card I promised them!

I don’t know who this little blog post is going to piss off more: my stripper friends, my maid friends, or my mother.

I almost went out for Halloween 3 nights ago. I got like 3 hours’ warning that hey, the bars have to celebrate tonight because Halloween’s on a freaking Thursday as if that’s the scariest day of the week at all (Someone get that Gregory guy on the phone, I have a bone to pick about his calendar). I always want to do some witty pop-culture reference from the past calendar year, but I didn’t have a fox costume or NBA jersey, nor the time to make up an Obamacare 404 webpage costume, or the idea to dress up as the zombified Jeff Hanneman.

Funny aside: when researching the funniest celebrity death of 2013 for that joke, the pictures Huffington Post used on their website for some recently deceased folks were instead blank with the words “The Image License has Expired”. You can’t make this shit up.

I think I will dress up, though, in what in the nerd kingdom is called “cosplay” (and what everyone else calls “a flashing neon sign telling women to stay thefuck away from this weirdo”) for the Doctor Who 50^th Anniversary feature-length episode. And I’ll probably do the same for the next Star Wars flick to reach theaters too (maybe as Goofy, Jedi Master). It’s kind of fun to make something up and wear it proudly. And there’s enough nerds out there that do the same thing that I can find acceptance from them and feel good about myself. And they all have horrible acne and social skills so I can feel superior to those lonely virgin nerds, too.

Ok, I’m getting pretty close to disgusting myself now.

I think my favor for seclusion started with the last camping trip of the year, Labor Day weekend before the weather turned and the leaves were still green. Sure, I was with family, but I spent a lot of the weekend in zoned-out space, staring at the fire or napping an afternoon away. One cannot find the same escape during a lazy weekend at home that one finds in the Boundary Waters. That camping trip was a rejuvenation oddly coming at the end of summer as opposed to Spring, the traditional season of renewal. Maybe I’ve just been extending this serenity for far too long. The Dude abides, but you can only write so many post-dated checks for creamer HAHAHAHA ARE THESE ENOUGH NERDY POP CULTURE TRIVIA TO GAIN YOUR ACCEPTANCE PLEASE?!?!?

Whatever it is, it’s a long Minnesota winter and it’s only going to get worse. Anybody is going to have to make sure to fight the sadness of S.A.D. to make it through alive. I’m definitely going to have to clean my house up to entertain people, as it’s going to get too cold to have stripper+blow parties in the backseat anymore (I don’t know if you noticed, but strippers don’t wear effective winter clothing). I’m glad I made it to tailgate at least one Vikings game so far, and with a regular 9-ball schedule I’ll still get out and see folks. And that’s just what you have to do.

Oh shit, the Playstation 4 releases in less than a month?!

Someone come shovel me out before Christmas. I think I have enough supplies to last until then.

Dream Journal

What follows is a sort of dream diary I jotted down one morning. It's not any sort of prose or anything. It's just the thoughts and ideas and feelings I had immediately waking from this dream. I typed it up into a Google Docs file and have since forgotten about it.

I named it Weaver House, because the Remington House is already taken. Most people don't want to hear about other people's dreams. I don't blame you if you quit reading this now. But I wanted to just put this out as a curious study into psychology. When I reread this, I could very clearly recall the emotions and visions I experienced when I first woke up. I didn't use direct names. I even realized that when I said "Victorian" before I kind of meant more "Southern Plantation". But whatever, it is what I wrote when I first recorded it. Enjoy. Weaver House Dream

… river ride, fishing maybe, boats

… out of the way, idk what state

… known place, as in popular, but no governments seemingly care, and some people seem drawn to the place and its mind-altering reputation like a drug or escape

… Victorian maybe... front covered porch opens up to river, three-season porch on 2nd floor above it. rear porch on SE corner of house.

Walk inside, entry way opens onto wide living room. pillars form a wall. walk left, and see recliners and a coffee table against north wall. across from north door is a couple of bedrooms on south wall. (uncle sits in one watching over a lost cousin). Left of the bedrooms are stairs that go up (IDK what’s on the 2nd floor. Get the feeling like an old couple (Cobb and Mal in limbo) is up there. left of stairs is kitchen and back porch.

spiderwebs in the house, even though you know people walked through this way minutes ago. not quite dusty, but unused. dirty windows let no light through. dark and heavy air inside

entering the house, one feels the sense of still oppression. after a while, one senses an encroachment on their mind, but can’t quite put a finger on it. feeling of something gnawing away at the back of your consciousness, but not quite dread, not despair. Just blackness (not visual), void of thought (subconscious pushing through?).

fear the place as you enter

go to bedroom where uncle is sitting next to a bed, cousin laying almost comatose with a lazy lost look in his eyes, like slow to move to whatever stimulus. feverish without the sweat. get the feeling that being here in this state is a last-ditch effort to cure the condition, not cause it.

others around you start to change. some become different people (victorian?) complete with different clothes (possible hallucinations but you don’t know that). the real world is overlayed by some possessed vision. Sunlight (outside) seems to bring people back to themselves, but they never know they were gone.

outside, headcount of group, notice brother is missing. start yelling for him, see him in 3-season above porch (even with the screens, he’s “inside” the house’s grasp) someone in group (former relative by marriage maybe) runs in to rescue him, lays him in the sunlight as he comes to. this hero decides to stay in the illusion (Cypher from The Matrix).

Yes, I DO even lift, bro!

I am such a wuss.

Back in 9^th grade, when our phys ed class mandated it, I used the weight room at the high school and lifted some weights. I only tracked what I needed to and only did it for as long as the syllabus demanded, otherwise I’d be sacrificing my whole nerd-clique stance that dumb jocks who spend all their time in a gym were just assholes and jerks.

I quickly gave it up for all that, despite seeing noticeable results in a few weeks. Maybe if I had stuck with it in the 15 years since then, I wouldn’t be feeling like I am today.

I’ve nicknamed myself C-3PO. Not because I’m particularly skinny, prissy, or fluent in over 6 million forms of communications, no, but rather because for the last 38 hours I’ve been brokenly shuffling around with my arms crooked and held out away from my body and my back held erect. It’s dawned on me:

Jocks don’t walk around like this to arrogantly show off their barrel chests and bulging biceps. No, they walk around like this because when you lift weights to get big, your muscles are sore, tight, and there’s no way you can stretch them to walk normally!

So my buddy Molimo has been on a huge fitness kick the last year or two, and it shows: he’s dropped 120 pounds and nearly doubled his bench press weight to get it back to what it was in high school. He’s been a big encouragement for my running, weight loss, and now, weight lifting. He finally convinced me to spend the whopping $8 for Snap Fitness’s free 30 day trial (the 8 bones were for shipping me the door card) and I met him at the gym. This was very new to me, and I was very intimidated. We hit the bikes for warm-up and right away Molimo was complimenting me on my muscular legs, so that helped alleviate some of my insecurities right there. Walking into the free weight room, I saw a couple of women working out, probably pushing more weight than my pipe-cleaner arms could push, but that didn’t deter me, either.

“Oh man, even that little dude’s a beast!” I said of someone barely out of high school.

“Who, him? Nah, man, he’s little! You’ll be much bigger than him!” was my coach’s reply.

Molimo started me with bench pressing, and we found my max at 145 lbs. That right there was unexpected! I truly felt I would be struggling with just the bar! After a little formulaic wizardy with his smartphone, Molimo calculated I should do 3 sets of 10 reps at 90 pounds. I figured, pshh! Easy mode! I just did 145!

I only completed 5 on my last set before my arms gave out, but Molimo pushed me to crank out 3 more, then 2 more, then to do the “burnout” which involved a non-stop series of presses, half presses, and slow presses. My arms were cold wet noodles, and this was only the beginning.

Things I’ve learned about myself: I can’t do inclined sit-ups; I can’t do pushups (hell, I couldn’t even push myself up from the floor, had to have Molimo pull me up by my arms!); my legs are much stronger than I thought, and I could do a full set at 220lbs on the hip abductor machine, though that machine is dangerous – one moment of relaxation and the machine could close my legs hard on my package, and I’m pretty sure swollen testicles would put me out of the gym for a while!

Two hours went by quickly, and I felt we should have done more, but I guess doing arms, core, and legs in one day was probably overkill already. I went home and ate anything I could find with “protein” listed on it, and relaxed.

The ache started setting in around bedtime, and by the time I was asleep, it was a full-blown pain. I’d wake up multiple times, unable to rotate my body or reach my hands over my head to adjust my pillow. When I had to get up and piss (I love drinking a gallon+ of water a day, except for pissing so often), it felt like when I had my kidney surgery and I had to grunt and groan just to sit up in bed.

Of course the dog needed to go outside too.

I could walk with my arms held against my belly in imaginary slings, but reaching down to, um… aim at the toilet… and then to flush, and then further to open the outside door for Juno… Each was an exercise in controlled breathing, grunting, and wincing in pain. Work today was the same way: slow ambling down hallways, trying to project a calm demeanor but internally catalogue each tight and sore tendon and muscle fiber. When privacy was afforded, I’d groan and grunt and pant just to do simple things like push the bathroom door open, or stand out of my desk chair.

Is it always going to be like this? Why would people perpetually cripple themselves like this? All the nagging doubts and questions plagued me today, but I kept them at bay with motivating thoughts. My end goal isn’t to be cartoonish like Arnold or Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, but more like fit and strong, like Daniel Craig’s James Bond, or big and imposing like Tom Hardy’s Bane. I’m trusting everybody who says that after a couple of days, this pain will go away, and the next time I hit the same weights I’ll be a bit better prepared.

In the meantime, I’m shoveling down as much food as I can get my hands on, and napping every spare moment I get (like today’s lunch break, when I went home and slept for 45 minutes). My body is calling in the emergency reserves to repair itself, and complaining to me all the while. That’s ok, though. Little does it know that in a couple of days, I’ll be back for more!

Prof Outdoors

Sometimes you come across a review of a live music event and in reading it, just wish you could rewind time and go there to experience it yourself. Other times, you read that article and wonder just what business the author had in being there in the first place. I’m not sure where Frank’s “TheOld Man and the Sea of Gampos” falls. I’m pretty sure where mine is going to fall, though!

Let me start off by ribbing my friends and once-upon-a-time concert buddies: we knew about this Prof Outdoors show since the day it was announced, I had ordered meet & greet tickets the minute they went on sale. We had weeks of warning. So why is it that when something like this comes along, I’m driving solo to the cities and scraping by to sell my remaining tickets?

Now, back to my general audience, who may feel a bit uninitiated with the lingo flying around here. See, Prof is a Minneapolis hip hop artist and rapper who has climbed the ranks of the underground and fashioned a coast-to-coast fan base right in the intersecting loop of the Tech N9ne/Atmosphere Venn Diagram. This show, a 7 hour outdoor end of summer festival at the Cabooze in downtown Minneapolis, sold out to 4,000 Gampos as a testament to his flair, likability, and showmanship.

Oh, by the way, a “Gampo” is Prof’s fan, synonymous to Deadheads or Maggots (Slipknot’s fans; if I have to tell you what Deadheads are you should just stop breathing right now). The OG Gampo was quite a character, legend tells, a paragon of the not giving a fuck, party boy at the expense of society attitude.

Nomenclature and vernacular out of the way, let’s get to the show, and the trials and tribulations found within.

Frank and I hitched a ride to the venue and hopped into the shortest line labeled “Hard tickets” (Protip: Will Call tickets are hard to sell, since they’ll need to be with the person whose name is on the tickets at the booth. Never buy Will Call). We get through painlessly and instantly hop into line for the Meet & Greet. I regret to learn that St. Paul Slim is playing the first set, and I could only hear it while in line. However, I was instead treated to the fangirl mannerisms of a trio of young girls in line ahead of us, obviously excited to see the man of the day.

I contemplated quoting Meghan’s Law, a la “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell”, but I wanted to actually stick around and enjoy the show, so I avoided any behavior that might introduce me to Minneapolis’ Finest.

The front of the M&G line is where it gets interesting: the trio of girls get told that they needed a yellow wristband for the M&G. Frank and I didn’t have one, either. Turns out, there was a separate line for M&G ticketholders and a 15 minute episode of ineptitude by event staff ensued. After failing to persuade the folks at the gate that yes, this receipt in my email right here is a legitimate receipt for tickets and it says right here “Meet & Greet”, this big bearded biker guy asked my name and immediately said “Yup, I saw their tickets, give them wristbands.” I tried to by my new pal a beer but he would not accept. Thanks, doesn’t-put-up-with-bullshit-from-coworkers dude, this Bud’s for you!

So yeah, met Prof and Fundo for the 5^th or 6^th time, Frank’s first. Go to grab some beers (nobody laughed when I replied to the $5 can of PBR by saying “Someone in Seattle is crying into his beard and scarf right now”) and meet up with the rest of our arriving friends. Eat some high school cafeteria food for $10 a plate. Chit chat with the myriad interesting people there. Feel old.

Yup, I was definitely among the oldest of people there, older than most if not all the performers. When I was in the crowd to finally watch Prof, I kept my hands held up lest some young girl tries to say I grabbed her or something. It was quite uncomfortable.

It was like being a chaperon at any of my future children’s high school dances.

Prof’s set was amazing, as usual. Picture this: the stage is decorated with taxidermy in a way that only Minnesota would allow. Four thousand people appeared out of nowhere and the previously manageable crowd suddenly turned to a sea of people. The 80-degree sun had set, alcohol coursed through bloodstreams, second winds were found by everybody who had already been dancing and jumping around to the opening acts.

The beat of a previously unheard song greets the crowd, and those that can hear it over the roar of appreciation might have been confused, but once that bass hits and Prof spits his first words, any unfamiliarity is replaced by a Gampo’s trust in their master and commander. People jumped. Waved arms in the air. Juggled many beach balls over our heads and upheld a giant hamster ball, St. Paul Slim at the center, trying to keep his balance, failing. Fights broke out, 3^rd base was reached by some of the couples there (including one ahead of me, which again evoked that creepy voyeuristic uncomfortable sensation until I moved around them. Prof had guests on stage, from Slim for Everybody Down into Horses in the Ghetto, and ShaLa for James Bond Blimp. It was everything a Prof show should be, even though at smaller venues there’s a bit more intimacy between the Gampos and their god.

The encore-demanding crowd was instead greeted with a wave of disperse orders from the local popo, leaving a pretty weak closing song that even Prof would later apologize for. Curfews are curfews, and being at an all-ages show means respecting them. We missed “Yeah Buddy”, his go-to closer party song that nobody holds back for. Next time, maybe.

Will there be a next time? I’m getting old, turning 30, which is ancient to the populace of kids who couldn’t yet wear an alcohol-granting wristband. Four thousand people in an outdoor lot was such a removal from the main act that I almost felt cheated.

I’m sure I’ll continue to see Prof in Bemidji or Duluth, smaller venues, where “Meet & Greet” means more than “Hey, now pose for the pictures, now get the hell outta here” (though, to be fair, I did get to give Fundo a piggy-back ride at this show…). But these large shows require a different sort of energy, maybe one provided by Red Bull-mixed drinks and not just light beer, or maybe one found in 20 year olds and not 30 year olds. I’m glad I got to see him in his hometown, but Prof might just be something I can only enjoy in small doses.

I certainly hope he continues to get popular though, so to help do that, I encourage everyone to go to profstophouse.bandcamp.com where you can download all of his stuff for free (maybe one album needs money, but you can safely skip Project Gampo). Bump it, enjoy some more Minnesota music in a vein that Atmosphere doesn't quite touch. And try to see him next time he’s at someplace like Clyde Ironworks or Pizza Lucé.

S.O.S. - Save Our Servers

I love thunderstorms, whether I’m watching the flashes through my living room windows, the windshield of my truck, or even am out standing in the rain with my face skyward.

I’m also a very heavy sleeper. I fall asleep watching loud James Bond or Lord of the Rings movies, or listening to extreme death metal blastbeats and harsh vocals. I often miss most thunderstorms at night, only to hear around the coffee machine the next morning about storms so wildly exaggerated I wonder how I didn’t wake up in Oz.

So it was a pleasant surprise to me to awaken at 4:00 AM Wednesday morning to a fireworks display of lightning out my window. I figured I could afford to stay up a few minutes to watch the lightning, then drift back off to sleep. It would be a nice little allowance, and for a summer which lately felt more like fall, a welcome reassurance that it was still indeed August.

It wasn’t 30 seconds after these pleasant thoughts passed through my head that my power went out. Nearly immediately, my phone started dinging to let me know I had emails rolling in. Sure enough, they were alerts from our Uninterruptable Power Supplies letting me know that the servers were running on battery power.

My house livened up with power within a minute or two, so I still hoped from under the covers that I’d receive the emails stating that power has been restored to the servers, and I could go back to sleep. Emails did ring through, but they stated what I feared: battery power was running low and servers were starting to shut down. Crap. I needed to go into the office.

The last time we had a major power outage in our office was a year ago, and it was a Saturday, so thankfully there was no lost man-hours. Back then my partner McGrowl and I bought some branded hats with LED lights in the brim from the marketing closet. I was glad I set mine aside for power outages, so I doffed that while I stepped out into the rain and climbed into my truck.

I arrived at the office first. McGrowl lived much further away, and he also took the time to brush his teeth before leaving home. So I let myself into the office and started gracefully shutting down what servers were still running. I unplugged the printers and plotters as well; nothing can blow a fuse faster than 15 large electronic devices all firing up at once when the power returns.

With all my responsibilities completed, all I had to do was wait.

The battery-operated security lighting illuminated the office in a haunting way. The storm front had long passed by and outside was a pitch black world. I wandered the halls, taking comfort in the flip-flop slapping of rubber sandal souls on my heels. I whistled the song stuck in my head, before realizing that the song was not very conducive to whistling. Not that I had an audience anyways.

I kept the light on my hat brim on as I walked the perimeter hallways of General Population (what I call the cube farm part of the office building). A truck drove by outside, and I briefly worried that seeing a bobbing light in the window would prompt a good Samaritan to call the police. I’d have to explain myself somehow to them, even though I’m not on the emergency contact list for the office. Then I thought maybe I looked ghostly, like some spirit apparition haunting the lonely halls well past the witching hour. That’s ridiculous, the driver probably didn’t see me, and even if he did, he’s probably on the way to whatever building he works in to make sure his systems are alright. The thought of a spooky encounter spurred my mind to start thinking about the Slender Man, though, and I quickly diverted my path away from exterior windows and the view of the shadowy trees they provided. I could follow any of those slim dark tree trunks up from the ground only to realize instead I was looking at a tall tuxedoed man without a face…

I might not be in Oz, but I sure felt like the Cowardly Lion as he roamed that dark forest with Dorothy.

More time goes by and I’ve been here for an hour. Reddit on my phone has helped entertain me, but I can’t ignore the scratchy feeling in my throat. Goddammit, I’m getting sick. I better go get some OJ and maybe something for breakfast. I might be here a while.

As I pulled out of the parking lock, McGrowl was pulling in. Open window to open window, I told him my plans for breakfast and he showed me his gallon jug of Sunny D to prove he thought the same. He told me how far down the highway the power was out, warning me to not go to the usual Holiday and find another 24-hour gas station. Freedom was my next choice, and in there I found my OJ and a box of day-old pastries. I warned the attendant that their main competition is out of power down the road, they may want to make sure they have fresh coffee made up in bulk for the morning breakfast rush!

Back at the office, McGrowl and I spent the next hour and then some in the dark, eating doughnuts and chit-chatting, coming up with ideas of what sort of installations or hardware upgrades we could do since the system was all down anyways. It was about a quarter to 6:00 when the power came back on, and a half hour later we seemed to be back in business, minus the loss of one minor server exhibiting hardware malfunctions.

I drove home while everyone else was showing up to work, and I took a nap. I woke up late, showered and cleaned up, and got back to work well after all the coffee maker stories about last night’s storm was told.

***


Ok, I shit you not, but as soon as I hit Ctrl+S to save this blog post into Word, the power drops out again. And guess whose work PC's UPS doesn't work anymore?! This guy's.

It's hard to write about pills without referencing Alanis Morissette's debut album

I finally like what I see in the mirror. My last bad haircut (have I ever had a good one?!) is growing out enough to be manageable again, and maybe a few weeks from styling it proper again. My face has shaped up to actually have a jawline and cheekbones. This blue and green striped V-neck t-shirt fits me pretty well, and it feels good to be able to wear something with confidence. These shorts are pretty comfortable and fit well – what's this in my pocket? Sudafed pills I had grabbed and pocketed so I could take some and rid myself of this clogged nose.

I guess pills only work if you take them. Thinking about taking them, planning on taking them, all exercises in futility without swallowing them.

August hasn't been kind to me, or rather; I haven't been kind to myself in August. After seeing an awesome low weight of 293 pounds, I'm back up to hovering around the 300 range. After keeping a relatively reliable running regiment, I've let weeks slip by without breaking a sweat. Dreaming about running my first 5k non-stop before my 30th birthday was a noble goal in May.

Unswallowed pills.

My good buddy Frank over at Kinked Slinky (kinkedslinky.blogspot.com) has issued the challenge: Come the end of September, we are running the Dave Ryan KDWB Special Olympics 5k in Minneapolis.

Suddenly my ass is in dire need of a fire lit under it.

If I had to state the moral of my story this year it would be that “nobody is responsible for your happiness but yourself” and I've done what I can to follow that, for the most part. I've managed to reach my first goal of weight loss; I've developed confidence that I previously thought improbable. Beyond that, though, I'm shy of accomplishments. And it's time to hold myself accountable, time to swallow a few more bitter pills.

I'm sure 6 weeks is enough to be able to walk/run the 5k. It might not be non-stop running and it might not be before my 30th, and I'm sure that that birthday won't pass without a bit of remorse. But a couple of weeks after that I'll be watching Frank leave me in the dust and then carrying on a conversation with the geriatric lady walking her labrapoodle at the back of the pack.

I hadn't set a new weight limit yet, and I suppose I probably should. 300 was a good first goal, and I wanted that because the Aeron computer chair I wanted to buy has a 12 year warranty but only for those less than 3 bills. I suppose now 275 should be an achievable goal, so let's set Christmas as my deadline.

I didn't get that awesome computer chair at 300 because it costs $700 and money has been extraordinarily tight of late. I can't blame anyone but myself, of course. I had gotten accustomed to the lavish lifestyle of mine when I had two roommates to help foot some of my mortgage. Now that I'm back to living by myself I'm reminded of just how important money management is. I didn't take a mortgage I couldn't afford by myself. Of course, major expenses arise. I'm putting off a new roof for another year because at first I intended to go to California by July to visit friends. Then a repair bill for my truck cost me my plane ticket and then some. Tack on a root canal (that totally could have been prevented with routine check-ups – see your dentist, kids!) last week and whatever funds I had are dwindled again.

As far as lighting a fire under my ass financially, I'm actually feeling good right now. I've paid for the root canal by selling 6 little pieces of cardboard (ever hear of Magic: the Gathering? It's a collectible card game I've played on and off for 19 years, and yeah, cards 17 years out of print but still heavily played are in high demand!). I even paid nearly half of my credit card bill this week, though I did so with the expectation of needing to charge to it again to get me through this next paycheck. I'm going to try to liquidate a few more belongings and climb out of the red (well, I'll still have my mortgage, my truck payment (until February!), and my student loans to pay off, but that’s all part of the American Dream™ isn’t it?).

If you've gotten this far, I want to make it clear that this isn't just some long-winded whining on my part. It's more of an open letter to my dear friends and my readership (which is pretty much one and the same) to invite you to give me a swift metaphorical kick in the ass when you see me. Keep me honest, nag like you're the stereotype of a bitchy girlfriend. I've enjoyed many encouraging compliments of late, and a definite increase of attention from the ladies (go on, brush yo' shoulder off), but like a junky addict, the same dosage just doesn't do it anymore, and I need more. I can't allow myself to become complacent, so I ask you to push me further.

I don't think it's selfish to ask this, either. I've had other folks surprise me by admitting that I inspire them as well, so really in doing what I ask here, you're not just helping me improve, but you're the pebble that hits the pond and ripples forth ever-expanding waves of motivation and inspiration. You might even inspire to push yourself beyond your comfort zone!

There's studies that show that talking about goals in life fulfill some sort of psychological reward and can actually be detrimental to your progress towards those goals. Saying you're going to run after work makes it less likely that you will. That's why when outlining my goals here, I ask for your help. Responsibility to my health and finances are just pills in my pocket, and just writing about them isn’t the same as swallowing them.These words alone can’t be rewarding to me when I expect you all to yell “Put down the beer, fatty!”

Let me revise that. “Put down the burger!” Because there’s no way I’m giving up my precious beer!

My New Drug

It’s like breathing deep after putting a fresh mint into your mouth.

No, wait. It’s like the first inhalation after stepping outside into 20 below air.

Better yet, it’s like what I imagine mainlining liquid nitrogen would be (you know, except for that whole instant death part).

It’s like all these feelings at once, applied directly to your eyeballs.

So when you’re playing beach volleyball it’s a given that sand will find its way onto every inch of your body. And unless you wear them yourself you may not know that contacts in your eyes are a magnet for those small particles of silicates. And everybody knows just what sand in your eyes can feel like. I’ve learned that keeping some sand in your pants can be a useful tool for escaping confrontation.

So this fateful Monday eve, fresh from a victorious night of bumping, setting and spiking, I find myself with Thor at Cheap Thrills bar. The bar is nearly a year old, and I’m a fairly new customer here. I didn’t expect to ever patronize this place, as their substitution of a beer pong table instead of a pool table didn’t quite tickle my fancy, and more-so because I absolutely despise places that charge a dollar for a glass of water to a DD or a drunk who’s had too much.

Yet, here I am, since that’s where Thor was debuting Monday Night Karaoke.

No suspense here: karaoke is never at its best with a Monday night bar crowd.

Thor waits for the 8 dart teams to finish their league games before setting up the equipment, so we’re saddled up to the bar and recounting war stories from the front lines of volley-battle, until I can’t take it anymore. My eyes are Saharan, contacts threatening to secede from the union and depart my eyes for new lands on the dirty bar floor.

And of course I don’t have any eye drops. Thankfully, Thor’s to the rescue.

See, he knows a few people in this bar and is not a complete stranger. So with me on his wing we walk up to a couple of girls in search of tetrahydrozoline. One, the small blonde whose sultry eyes lit up with the chance to do a good deed, didn't even need to have eye drops; she was very easy on the eyes already in her volleyball outfit of a tank top and booty shorts. I couldn’t get drops in my eyes soon enough as bringing her sexy curves into focus was a priority.

“Have you ever tried Rohto?” she might have asked as she searched the infinite confines of a woman’s purse. She produced a small bottle of eye drops the like I’ve never seen before: a clear convex bottle with a blue top labeled “ice”. “They are amazing!” she might have promised. As long as they clear my eyes, that’s my primary concern.

Cap off. Head back. Two fingers of one hand to split my eyelids while the other hand held the bottle precipitously close to my eyeball. Squeeze. Drip-splash.

OHHOLYMARYMOTHEROFGODANDALLTHOSEANGELSSINGINGTHEIRCHORUSES this shit is indeed AMAZING!!

A Klondike bar commercial proceeded to reenact on my eyeball as my blinks spread this magic potion across my red and irritated eye. This sensation would definitely make Ben Stein break character and exclaim “Clear Eyes, moisture-WHY AM I WORKING FOR THE INFERIOR EYE DROP COMPANY?!?”

I very hastily included the right eye to make this an orgy of eye-gasmic proportions. The look on this gorgeous girl’s face as she watched me must have been similar to when a junkie gets his friend to try acid for the first time ever – pure amusement. The arctic blast swept across my eyeballs like someone opened the Casket of Ancient Winters (if you’re not a fan of Thor comic books, just wait until the second Thor movie comes out, I’m sure it’ll be in there). It scoured my eyes and contacts of all offending sand and gunk like no other eye drops ever have.

However, the feeling subsided in short order, and as my eyes returned to room temperature, I was left wanting more. I swear my hand nearly shivered in trepidation as I handed back the small vial. I needed my next fix soon, and just like a good drug dealer, the first taste is free. “About $7 at Wal-Mart” my Siren informed me. I knew right then I was to go buy my own stash and take hits judiciously.

I’ve since bought the “cool” green and the “ice” blue bottles of Rohto eye drops, and I’ve never passed an opportunity to bring enl-eye-tenment to my friends. The ice is much more potent than the cool, in my experience. Secrets this good demand to be shared. If you ever suffer from allergies, dry contacts, or the feeling that your eyeballs need a little tender loving care hardcore S&M sex play, go out and find this stuff.

I’ll sell you what I have left in my pocket for $10, just meet me in the back alley in 5 minutes. Cash only.

Dusting the Pedestal my Trophy Should Sit

I am closer to the person I want to be than I have ever been, but I look in the mirror and see the longest expanse of barren wasteland between me and the ideal. The babbling promise of pristine brooks empty into muddied plains of shit, and I'm wearing brand new wingtips.

It is supposed to be a motivating revelation to understand that I and I alone am responsible for my happiness, but at times it's an oppressive burden in the face of 30 years of Hollywood expectations and hollow facades on imaginary houses. Would that I started my journey, those first steps borne on despair, many years earlier, so that now I had a back to look towards, and an appreciable history traversed unfaltering, though any date of departure would not promise this maiden journey a smooth one. As it stands my past has only had any forward momentum recently, and even that's peppered with unjumpable hurdles that instead bent and strained and stretched until finally giving way, allowing for a few steps of unhindered joy before the next restraining encounter.

It is when one meets the next of these hurdles before the previous one splinters that I – I mean “one”, no I really mean I – start to entertain the encouragements of that disembodied voice of Loki himself to stop pushing, to submit to the kinetic and experience the brief weightlessness of flight and falling before meeting violently the same path trodden already and discovering that all your broken hurdles are repaired and standing sentinel again.

It is either at the point of deadly whispers or catastrophic crashing that I find myself in tonight. I guess I've not yet stopped pushing forward against the sling, I might just be holding my ground and maybe only making prophecy of my fanciful flight, should I just relax my knees and release the tense friction between heels and pitted road. I must be there, hoping the more words I put down here tonight equate to more Newtons against my barriers. One needs not experience the fall back to fear it, for “back” is a road one already has surveyed. So I yearn to find fortuitous destruction of my constraints in this exercise.

Holy shit, I can write pretentious as fuck if I want to.

The faerie fire that draws me waywardly towards the evening woods is ever the approval and desire of other people. As if sugar-coating it in fantastical prose could make that admission any easier.

I know I'm not alone in somehow finding myself an adult, yet still thirsting for the child-like necessity of attention. I'm not the only one saying “Look what I can do!” and hoping to turn heads. In everything I do is the shameful hope that I'll be found worthy of your response. Blog posts here. Facebook statuses. Unanswered texts. Everything a preschool crayon artwork held up to the refrigerator that never has enough magnets. There is an entire demographic of me hoping to find themselves the male lead in their very own Hugh Grant rom-com because there's never been a better psychological Mary Poppins than the silver screen Ms. Mary herself with enchanted parasol floated upon.

There are plenty of ways to describe the lackluster love lives of such subjects. I don't feel myself any more advantaged in being able to distinguish myself as a “Nice Guy” as opposed to the ignorants' self-assessment of “not like those douchebags who mistreat women”. I mean, yes, there is yardage to be gained by knowing the other team's playbook, but only if one puts the mental resources to work in deciphering their plays and learning how to counter them. I feel like I'm burning fumes to generate the simplest calculations in this cunning tactic of being one step ahead of the rest.

The symptom of seeking external validation hints at the root malady: not having faith and confidence in yourself. And boy, has that never fit me more to a T than in recent years. Finding myself at closer to 400 pounds than 300 was a soul-shattering discovery, and this coming at the tail end of a shitty relationship that I willingly – unnecessarily – extended way past its shelf life meant a dangerous precipice edge on which I tip-toed. I could succumb to the emotional darkness (which, for many nights in real darkness as I laid alone in my crappy efficiency apartment surrounded by the meaningless clutter of a consumerist life, was a wholly inviting option). Or I could prove myself worthy of the 46 chromosomes my biologically-successful parents donated to me and I could plow headfirst into the beast and push through it to the end-zone.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment of eureka, the moment I took the step forward, as my moment was not near as heroic or odds-defying as many other people's inspirational autobiographies. But it was a moment indeed, or a series of moments, and after a few stumbles I found myself on the Path of Small Changes. I knew I couldn't wave a magic wand of determination and cure my ills, but by focusing on small tweaks I could develop habits and then build on those towards a grander design.

So anyone who has read my work will know I've lost a lot of weight recently (in the face of what's left to lose, I have to remind myself that 55 pounds so far is A LOT of weight). Many know I'm over a year into home-ownership, I've passed the 5 year anniversary at my career, I own my own vehicle and I am papa to a beautiful husky. I don't toot my own horn because it sounds good. I only toot it to try to keep in tune.

The contrasting colors in this potential masterpiece are a multitude of not-good-enoughs and other such personal failures. I can't seem to be able to devote any time to learn to play any of my 4 guitars at all. I cannot handle learning a second language, despite having three years of classes in it throughout junior and senior high. I cannot play my favorite games enough to be truly competitive. I have a library of unfinished books that may look like a cohesive shining whole to a guest instead only are the negative spaces of unread chapters to my eyes. And I cannot convince myself that I am deserving and worthy of being loved, despite the mountains of common sense and contradictory encouragements I receive.

This largest demon I cannot even write about here, though I don't know if my apprehension comes from caution or cowardice. Suffice it to say that Ahab never had a harder time realizing his white whale didn't live in the unforgiving azure and white of the sea but instead dwelt within the eternal black of his own heart. (And don't let me fool you, I've never read more than a chapter into Melville's most recognizable, though I've owned a copy for 10 years).

I suppose the very act of even publishing this masturbatory examination of the darkness that creeps at the very edge of composure is itself a continuation of my eternal hymn that begs for validation. But I say in whatever vanity it carries that I instead name thee, demon, and in naming thee invoke all the courage and progress found in identifying the demon inhabiting the child in your favorite exorcism movie. As the writer of this, my movie, I know the adversary I face, even if I cannot reveal him to you (yet), and all these words are ever more pounds per square inch of pressure against the limiting beliefs I contest with.

I don't know how to write this to persuade you, to persuade myself, that I'll be alright, that I'll conquer this. I want each post to have some moral or goal or happy ending, though before we can get teddy bears toppling a highly-trained galactic military, we must first lose our hand and handicapped as such come to grips with the evil discovery of our parenthood, no?

Eliot becomes Buffalo Bill

I am so in love with myself.

I’m pretty sure any reader who doesn’t know me at all would groan and scoff at a statement like that, attributing all sorts of guido- or muzza-personalities to me and assigning descriptors such as “douchebag” and “full of himself asshole” to me.

I’ve been called worse.

The reality of it is that the above sentiment of acceptance, respect, and pride in my being is a rare alien emotion to me. I don’t recall a time when I’ve ever looked in the mirror and told myself that I look good without knowing deep inside that I’m ignoring the fact that I’m “faking it til I make it”. Oh sure, there are times when I’ve complimented myself for looking as good as I can, all things considered (and the majority of the things needing considering were about 50 pounds of obesity). I could shine a turd enough to pass military inspection, but today I feel drastically different. Today, I’m not a piece of polished excrement. Today, I look in the mirror and truly like the person staring back at me.

Sunday afternoon I was texting a few people to find something to do outside. It was a gorgeous day in the 80s, not a cloud to be seen. I had mowed my lawn earlier that day, and quite happy that I got that task out of the way. My eventual plans came unbidden from one person I’d have never expected: one of my friends from California was back in Minnesota unexpectedly and invited me to go the lake with her. A very immediate acceptance took me up to McCarthy State Park. Their beach is famous for how gradual a slope it has; their farthest buoys are out 100+ yards from the shore, and the water only comes up to my chest.

As I park at the beach, I hear my name called from behind my truck. Lo! And Behold! Two more of my friends - these two girls I know from karaoke - just happened to arrive at the beach at the same moment I did!

So here I am at a beach, surrounded by girls I don’t know, in immediate vicinity of very attractive girls I do know, and I shamelessly take my shirt off.

Three months ago, I didn’t believe the people that espoused the benefits of exercise to a person’s emotions.  I’m a smart, learned man, and I have a firm high school diploma’s grasp on human physiology and chemistry. Yet somehow knowing the difference between serotonin and dopamine didn’t prepare me for the discovery of just how much regular exercise carries my moods.

Granted, I only run, and only 3 to 4 times a week, for about 30 minutes each time, so I don’t pretend that I’m doing anything more than the bare minimum. I’m preparing for a 5k race, and following the Couch to 5k program (currently re-doing week 6 to make up for a week of not running). But even just 90 minutes of exercise a week has done wonders for this couch potato. And if I don’t run? I legitimately feel depressed, prone to munching on junk food to fill the void, losing all desire to go out and see people or even to feel the sun.

My self-aggrandizing up there isn’t just a huge example of patting myself on my back, but an attempt to reach out to someone who might be like I was. I hope to give someone some encouragement that might fit them personally. I mean, I’m not perfect. I’ve got a long ways to go. Hell, I still way over 300 pounds! But I feel that I can do more with 305 pounds today than I ever accomplished at just 250 pounds 6 years ago.

I like myself that much now.

So yeah, I’ve got people dumping frustrated posts on Facebook about how I will not shut up about running or playing sports. Sure, I’ve occasionally been that guy that talks a lot about fitness. But I feel like I desire to because I’ve come from the other side, I’ve laughed at those people and never understood why they feel like rubbing it into my face. Now that I’m on my way, though, I understand that it’s such a good feeling to see results, to get compliments, to get attention from more and more people, that I can’t help but shout it from the rooftops in hopes that I might help just one person on the edge to get up and start improving themselves.

If you’ve ever looked in the mirror and wished you could believe yourself when you say “I look good!” then please take it from me: you’ll get there, if you work at it. Look up nutrition (a subject I sorely lack in, even yet at this point in my life), develop some simple exercising programs to get you moving even just three times a week, and stick with it. The boost you’ll feel is incredible, I guarantee it.

Eliot Ness Was Not "Untouchable" to the TSA

Sunday before last I learned a lesson: I looked so good I was dangerous.

So I’m standing at the small local airport, head and shoulders visible above the curtains of a “privacy” booth, a TSA agent doing his damnedest to not let my shorts fall off as he’s running his fingers inside my waist band. The two dozen people going through security all saw the tall guy with the bright yellow polo holding his arms out to the side, getting some hands-on action courtesy of the US government.

My belongings, the few that I was carrying, went through the x-ray machine with no issue, and I had walked through the metal detector without error… at first. But instead of the usual alarm that triggers, in moments I had received a less urgent tone from the machine. I was the lucky winner of a random selection for additional screening! Yay! Eliot Ness, come on down! You’re the next contestant! But I wasn’t guaranteed a good junk groping just yet; first I had to win the lightning round: an agent was already snapping on blue latex gloves and had me hold my hands out, palms up, while she swabbed them with some paper discs and sent them through the analysis machine. When the sniffer dinged twice with a bold red screen: “Explosives detected”, they turned to the bin of my belongings. I laughed; surely the sandals I wore that day had soaked up some spilled gasoline the last time I mowed my lawn, and that was what triggerd the - nope, all clean.

After I received my complimentary pat-down, I asked the agent why my hands triggered the detector, if my clothes and belongings checked clean. He identified that I had pomade in my hair (check), was wearing cologne (check), and asked if I used some sort of lotion that day (just shaved my neck, after-shave moisturizer, check). Apparently, any one of those could contain nitro-glycerides which stayed on my skin. A good hand washing or rubbing alcohol would take care of them next time.

Rewind 15 minutes earlier: security doors open up and I decide to piss one more time before going through. Afterwards, I scoped myself out in the mirror, then realized I didn’t piss all over my fingers and I didn’t want my paperback book to get wet, so I’m not washing my hands.

***

After collecting my luggage at Lambert Airport in St. Louis, MO, my first task was to get my rental car. The company set me up with an “intermediate” sized car, after I specifically requested something to fit my 6’4”, 305 pound frame. “We’ve got you in this Mazda 3” the guy said.

If my life were a sitcom, this is where the laugh track would go.

Five minutes later I’m comfortable in a new Ford Escape at the additional expense of $4/day. I synced my phone to the onboard computer and it bumped some Prof from my phone automatically whenever I started the car, giving MO a little taste of MN underground hip-hop.

***

Everyone in our Missouri branch office is super friendly. The drawl was apparent in their voices, and the funny looks I’d get as soon as I spoke proved that my almost-Canadian accent was giving them enjoyment in return. A group of 9 joined me for lunch that Monday, and of course I wanted to get a good taste of some real BBQ. I was the first to speak up to our waitress for my drink order, and since I’m not drinking pop soda anymore, I was proud to get water.

Everyone else: “Sweet tea.” “Unsweetened tea.” “Raspberry sweet tea.”

I very quickly changed my order. When in Rome…

***

Every bar and restaurant with patio seating had giant metal fans running full-blast to provide a breeze. One particular bar’s fan was blowing the savory smell of the burger grill right at me. I laughed that by the end of the night, I’d smell so good I’d need a cattle prod to keep hungry people away from me.

The smell certainly didn’t make the wait for my Yogi Burger any shorter. I was told by our waitress (who almost looks like Sweet Dee from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia) that the burger was huge, I’d not need fries. After five minutes of assault with kitchen smoke, I started regretting at least not getting the jalapeno poppers as an appetizer.

The burgers eventually did come out, though, and mine was a sight. Sitting solitary in the basket, the burger was not diminished by the absence of sides; it stood tall and wide like a monument. Onions drooped lazily over the edges of the beer-battered, deep-fried patty. Thousand Island dressing oozed out of both the top and bottom buns as I crunched through the burger with my first bite. Imagine the largest onion ring in your life, but instead of the sometimes-unwanted slimy bit of onion, it’s high-quality beef to be found inside. It was a damn good burger.

***

A delayed flight from St. Louis to Minneapolis meant I wasn’t making my connection home, so instead I took a 2 hour layover to get on a flight to Duluth. It was during those two hours that the 60-mph-wind, rain, and hail hit. I was already having a hard time finding a ride home from Duluth, but as the flight status kept creeping further and further into the future, my prospects got worse and worse.

The wind and rain was an awesome sight through the airport observation deck windows, but the repeated severe weather alerts on the P.A. system only got more and more on my nerves. Text messages started coming through to my phone from work: our headquarters office was without power and it might not be on again until Sunday or Monday. Who can go in? Who can check these servers? Can we redirect the website to an external host so we can communicate with our employees? I sat nursing a $7 tap beer watching these come in, begging people for a ride home or a place to stay. Then the most stressful event of the night occurred:

With my flight delayed til 11:40, two and half hours out yet, the bartender said “I have to close soon. Last call.”

Preposterous Portions of Pancakes

Not long ago, mammoth blood was found preserved in a frozen carcass. This gets exciting, as visions of cloning these long-extinct beings prances through every John Hammond-wannabe's head. But if we could clone and grow our own woolly mammoth, what would you feed it?

You feed it the pancake feast at RJ Riches, that's what.

My loyal readers have seen my accounts of Ducky's housewarming party, and hopefully they will also have had a chance to visit Frank at Kinked Slinky to read his take on Saturday night. We both promised our joint telling of breakfast the next day. So be sure to read his post today after reading mine, because we're both two grown men of our word, and it takes two to tackle just writing about the pancakes we got. Hell, it would prove to take two just to eat one of them...

For two people who can no longer sleep in past 7:00 AM, even on the weekends, the morning after a party is fraught with tip-toes and hushed voices. Someone was asleep in every room, shoes piled haphazardly around the doors and patio. It didn't take too long for Frank and I to decide that if we kept waiting for Ducky to get up, our growling stomachs would wake everyone else up and hasten the households' oncoming hangovers.

Frank and I cleaned up the yard a bit, collected our belongings, and soon I was following him from Roseville to Riches. Frank was confident that we take Highway 10. Naturally he took County Road 10 instead, and we had to double-back through church traffic before we found the end of our pancake pilgrimage.

Frank: Walk into RJ Riches and you feel minutely as if you’re in the opening scene of “Reservoir Dogs.” Surrounded by scenery as dirty as the men involved, Eliot and I started our recovery from a … shall we say, inelegant night of partying (at least on my part) at this veteran New Brighton diner. The gem was the taste of breakfast, and two large men got killed by a gigantic pancake.

The family-owned restaurant was 1970's answer to the 1950's all-stainless steel breakfast diners like Denny's. Wood-grain laminate accents and decades-old glass lamp covers - none of which matching in color with the others - met us. The people working there could all have been family indeed, from the hot 20-something chick working the register; our hostess, the lone blonde, who might have been the adopted cousin; and the perpetually grumpy (but hospitable enough) portly aunt who served us. In the kitchen, visible through an old-fashioned brick pass-through, the type found in a pizza place, the father and the uncle of this family worked the grills.

Frank had foretold epic prophecy about RJ Riches' pancakes. “The size of your plate” he said, and a glance at the table next to us confirmed. The menus might as well have been 3 blank pages and a section titled “Pancakes”. The only option we had to consider was if we wanted the Pancake Feast, a cake, choice of meat, and eggs; or Rich's Challenge, which is all the above and a healthy serving of your choice in potatoes. I figured that I didn't need any extraneous carbs getting in the way of my cake, so I ordered the blueberry pancake, bacon (what else?!) and eggs, over-easy, which of course were destined to break yolk into my pancake.

Frank: For the first time in my life, I sucked down a whole pot of coffee. It tasted like the contents of a rain gutter, but you don’t aim for a Wolfgang Puck face at a family restaurant. I pooh-poohed the bacon for a slice of ham. The "premium" pancake blends cost a little over a buck extra, but if you've ever seen me pass up a chocolate-chip pancake ... you haven't, because it's never happened. I would have paid the tip of my pinky for chocolate chips on my pancake.

Somewhere between my third and fourth cup of coffee, the plates arrived. The ham and eggs looked like everyone else’s ham and eggs, but the pancakes … well, look at them.

It didn't take long for our food to arrive, and though I had already spied our neighbor's pancake, nothing had prepared me for the one destined for my mouth. The breakfast was served on two plates: a smaller plate for the meat and eggs, and a large dinner plate dwarfed beneath this huge pancake. If Bob - “His name is Robert Paulson” - had taken his shirt off for Fight Club, I could imagine seeing two of these pancakes as nipples on his bitch tits, “the way you think of God's as big.” The edges of the pancake nearly drooped over the edge of the plate to touch the table top. The crust was an even golden brown, and the cake was thick yet fluffy. When I make pancakes, I'm lucky if one out of 3 of them turn out as well, and mine are hardly poured larger than a DVD. This behemoth before me was perfection.

Before we dug in, we made good on our pre-breakfast deal of flavor-swapping. I took my butter knife and tried to assess the best way to attack this task. Carving out a chunk to share was like trying to dissect a blue whale with an X-acto knife. If we had a real estate agent present when we swapped the large tracts of our pancake territories, we surely would have needed to pay closing costs.

The first bite I took was of the chocolate chip, sans syrup. And let me tell you, it couldn't have tasted any better if served to me in a picnic on the fields of Elysium. I made short work of the chocolate chip, and finally turned to a piece of bacon. Yes, the cake was so good that I gave it priority over bacon.

At this point, both Frank and I were able to start forming words again, and we started discussing the ideas you'll find in these words here. It was interesting to hear that while I was chewing in reverent silence, brainstorming just the words I'd say about these enormous cakes, Frank admitted he did the same thing. In fact, he said it was nice to not have to worry about keeping up conversation.

Now, to my blueberry. I carefully cradled the two over-easy eggs and placed them on the two-thirds left of my cake. They looked comically inadequate, and once broken, the yolk barely lubricated the fluffy cake. I supplemented it with some maple syrup and started in: the blueberries were warm, unbroken, and juicy, meaning the cake had been stirred with care. A few bites of egg-soaked cake, the rest of the bacon, and I chased it all with the remainder of my orange juice (with sufficient pulp to prove that it was either home-squeezed.. or at least it was the expensive store-bought kind that mimics home-squeezed). My hunger was satiated, tummy straining at its limits, and as I sat back in the booth and relaxed, I realized that a full half of my monster cake remained.

I looked up at Frank, who hadn't made it even as far as I. “The wife will appreciate this, at least” he stated as we asked for our to-go boxes.

Frank: Yeah, I had eaten a pathetic portion of my pancake. The balance was cut into sections, like a damn dinner table, and stacked on top of each other in a styrofoam container. It took my until Wednesday to finish it. Just know that entire pizzas came and went at our house during this pancake's lifetime. This pancake lasted longer than Petoria ... I think.

With each of our bills under $15, both Frank and I came to the conclusion that RJ Riches was a step above your commercial “family-styled” restaurants. Whether all the employees there were truly related or not, I never got to ask. It matters little, though, with pancakes that weighed more than the wood-carved box Grandma kept the recipes in, a Thanksgiving dinner atmosphere, and reasonable prices, RJ Riches earned our future return.

Keeping the Peace, and Keeping to Myself

I’m the third “Jason” – and the fourth “Jay” – at this party. Since it’s not really kosher to arbitrarily assign nicknames like “Ranger” (since he’s the only other Jason here from Da Range) or Fingertoes (since that Jason is inexplicably wearing Vibrams instead of sneakers), I decided I’m going to from here on out introduce myself solely as “Ness”.

Ness found himself at a housewarming party in Roseville. “Ducky”, to affectionately loan a nickname from Kinked Slinky, and his what-she-lacks-in-height-she-makes-up-for-in-beauty girlfriend, let’s call her, um… “Shorty”, have extended this 200+ mile invitation my way to help them celebrate being property owners, so I made sure to grab my ball cap and packed an overnight bag. I prepped my truck with a fresh oil change the night before, and loaded a tent and sleeping pad in the back, just in case we avoided any thunder and the night proved decent enough to sleep outside. I was happy to help deliver Marine Vargas (sorry, never did quite learn your proper rank) to the airport for her return flight to California the same morning, then I found the street I was directed to, but did not see the promised balloons-tied-to-mailboxes that universally indicated “PARTY OVER HERE!!!” (is that a Family Guy joke? I feel like it was…). Before I can call our hosts liars, though, I see a car pull over to park on the side of the street, and out pops Shorty herself, pulling the strings of three helium balloons.

Guess who ended up tying them to the mailboxes. It was one of my few contributions to this party.

Let’s fast forward through setting up the volleyball net, hiding from slight rain showers, the arrival and introduction of further guests, the tapping of the keg, and the eventual arrival of Frank and his tailgate- (and junkyard-) ready PT Cruiser. Alright, so the only other person I can expect to know is here, it’s time for Ness to get super smashed with some bros, right?! “PK DRINK!”

While my intentions might have been as high as Pokémon-shaped parade balloons, my spirits were a little more bounded to Earth. I just don’t know what it is. I feel like I owe Frank not one but two weekends of jovial camaraderie now: both recent times I've visited I've felt like my damage meter was at 210% and a slight poke would knock me away. (If you haven’t picked up on the video game references yet, than that last one was like a home-run bat to the head. Ok, ok, I’ll stop now… and start with other nerdy pop-culture references!)

I had stayed in and got some decent sleep the previous two nights, yet I still felt thin, like too little butter scraped over too much bread (thanks, Bilbo). I sat in my Big Boy camp chair (over-sized and reinforced to support my fat ass) and drank keg beer. I paid attention to the lavish praise Frank received on his weight loss efforts while glancing down with loathing and despair at the manboobs still hiding within my green Harley t-shirt. Here I am, prime opportunity to meet many new people – women – but years of lethargy is taunting me from the past. I realized that my fake-it-til-you-make-it has run out, and I make some lame excuse to myself to allow Frank to baste in his due glory, promising myself that my time will come when skinny-Frank is old and busted, and skinny-Ness will be all the rage.

So I sat in my silence, making cursory conversation only when addressed by someone who feigned interest out of pity, it seemed. Nobody really cares what I do for a living. A brief spark of personality leaks through when I get to talk about my dog, but nobody wants to suffer a pet-lover's monologue that extends into bat-shit crazy territories. And in return to anyone suffering through my rantings and ravings about my sweet Juno, I won’t give a shit about your Maltese.

I listened in on conversations, soaking in snippets from one acquaintance to another, trying to make sense of these strange windows into strangers’ lives, trying to drown out the rising depression snaking its way up my spine. I just don’t get it. Am I just that tired, though I've done nothing but drive a few hundred miles and walk for 30 minutes in the Mall of America? Is it the dreary cloudy weather and clingy damp cold that screams more of April than June? I've successfully navigated the societal landmine field of rooms full of strangers before, and managed to even provide some life to a party or two. I have no shortage of things to talk about, but today I was more an anti-social Butters than I was a floating social butterfly, and it sure stung like a bee. Maybe if I imbibed drinks as mixed as my metaphors instead of beer, I would have loosened up a bit more. But as it was, I had stood there struggling to initiate conversation with a woman I would never ever see again in my life.

As the sun set and I took an inordinate amount of trips down the long driveway to my truck to change into progressively warmer clothes – first from shorts to jeans, then from Chuck Taylors to boots, finally to grab a hat and jacket – the party reached a crescendo and everyone adopted the roles they would carry for the rest of the night. Two of those particular roles were Super-Frank, the BAC-fueled hero that Gotham needs but nobody asked for right now, and Disciplinary Officer Ness, whose sole task it became to make sure Super-Frank didn't hurt anybody or himself in his antics. Read Frank’s accounts over at Kinked Slinky to get a good feel of how the evening went. Unnoted, however, was how I was forced to get uncharacteristically aggressive with some Mr. Smartass Commentary, who did not find Super-Frank in any way agreeable. There are few times I leverage my size and weight advantage over someone, and this jerk cowed pretty easily. To be fair, I did ensure Super-Frank hung up the cape and settled down for the night, and fisticuffs were averted.

Almost as if it burned the last of the fumes in my gas tank, this keeping of the peace was soon followed by a sojourn to the bathroom that became a turn-in instead. It was very easy to get comfortable in front of the TV, which was playing Men in Black. The big guy who was somber, brooding, and seldom of words, the guy who probably outwardly seemed like some aloof asshole but inwardly struggled with demons of inadequacy and loneliness all night, the sleeping bear that roused only when necessary to protect him and his own, soon fell asleep on the couch.

I can't imagine what conversation went on about me out around the bonfire, or if my absence was even noticed. Every party has to have that guy and I feel like I was definitely one of them. People probably dared sidelong glances at me and formed their opinions about me, wondering why, if I couldn't have any fun, did I even stick around the party. 

I know that reality is probably more sonderous than that. Nobody gave two shits about me, everybody had their own internal struggles at the party, whether it was over the game of bags they were playing, whether they should get up and grab another beer, or if they should stay by the warm fire and just be done for the night. I know I wasn't anything more than a background character to everyone else's story that night. It's still hard to find solace in that sonder, though. I still have the harshest critic nagging me from within, my own R Lee Ermey screaming obscenities at me, and unlike Gomer Pyle, I'm stuck enduring it without an easy way out.

I woke up shortly an hour or two later when Shorty, a woman of three-quarters my height and much less than half my weight, tucked me in like I imagine she’s done with her own son, giving me a blanket and pillow and even taking off my eyeglasses. I chuckled at the absurdity of it all as she did the same for Frank on the love seat opposite me, and I quickly found the sanctuary of sleep again.

Next week you’ll find the first of our (hopefully many!) double-team restaurant reviews, where we exhaust the English language, and maybe some Spanish, French, and Klingon, of ways to describe the largest pancakes we've ever attempted. I promise it won't be as morose as this entry! Scope it out Monday!

Triboelectric Filanges

I've just had the strangest reaction to the most mundane daily event today. This past weekend, I sliced my fingertip open – the index finger on my right hand. In absence of super glue, and the presence of a lawn party, typing work on a computer, and a night of volleyball, ensures that this split skin isn't going to heal very quickly. It’s a small gash, but it’s open nonetheless. It is into this open skin that a static shock charge leaped from the handle of the bathroom at work.

Now, who enjoys receiving static shocks? With the arrival of June, one would think we've survived the dry, electrical winter and should enjoy a nice reprieve from unexpected jolts, no? Apparently my office is dry enough to facilitate a buildup charge, and that homing bolt found exposed subdermal.

And it HURT.

Usually one’s reaction is to jerk their hand away, maybe gasp in sudden surprise. I actually exclaimed out loud a bellowed “OW!” and shook my offended hand violently. My finger throbbed, even long after the electrons dispersed throughout my body. Soon this pulsing pain was accompanied paradoxically with a numbing tingle falling over my fingertip. From first knuckle to the end of my nail, my finger fell completely numb.

“I might have just caused permanent nerve damage…” I pondered as I stood at the urinal (nature was calling and static shock in a surprisingly vulnerable spot or not, she wasn't going to wait for me much longer). Even now, a half hour beyond the critical event, my finger tingles.

I wonder if I could somehow take advantage of this rift in my skin. Maybe if I stick my finger into some radioactive ooze or gamma rays, I can make it glow like E.T. and heal things by booping them with my fingertip. But then I might as well just jump right in full-body and become a super hero like... Starving for Blog Content Man.

Fun fact to finish off this short little entry: did you know that the ooze that created the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is the same radioactive ooze that blinded Daredevil?!

Stay tuned for an epic joint effort double-team blog entry where Frank of Kinked Slinky and I tackle the largest pancake we've ever eaten.

Keep Calm and Don't Worry, Be Happy

Chicken wings have become all that ties together a group of friends. It used to be Magic: The Gathering (a nerdy-yet-very-competitive strategy game based off building decks out of a huge pool of cards, then playing the decks against an opponent), but with the closure of the local gaming shop, I've been unable to keep up with the crew via the game. Instead, I see them mostly on Wednesday evenings, 6:00, when a local eatery has a chicken wing special.

This past Wednesday was no exception, and the crew gathered, ate extreme amounts of cheap wings, and conversed about Magic, Memorial weekend plans, and work. Three of them all work at the same hardware/home improvement store, which provides as many entertaining stories as that Dane Cook movie would have you believe. Do yourself a favor, you don’t have to watch that movie, just take my word for it. Nobody needs to see any more Dane Cook.

After my bill was settled up, I stood up to leave, saying I've got yard work to procrastinate on, but Moped was studying two of the bills: hers and that of her boyfriend, Kaiba. It appeared that despite having two less wings than he, Moped was charged nearly a dollar extra. Whatever, we got cheap wings on special, Kaiba was paying for it all anyways, no big deal, right?

Guess so. When our artsy-hippy chick server (I say that most lovingly) returned, Kaiba brought up the discrepancy. The poor girl was already having a rough night; every table of the restaurant was filled and the pressure already manifested in some minor ordering errors (I’m not going to complain, those errors had resulted in me getting some free wings). So she exasperates “That’s because she’s got BBQ wings and you didn't, and since they aren't part of the special there’s an extra charge. Really, I undercharged you.” I laugh at Kaiba, who did in fact have BBQ wings and just talked his way out of a discounted meal. Our server comped the drinks and rang the bills up fresh for them, and I figured the issue was resolved.

Moped wasn't satisfied. She studied the subsequent slips with as much skeptical scrutiny as she did the prior bills. “Where does this dollar come from?” Those of us at the table explained that it’s the upcharge for BBQ sauce, just the way it works there, and how it’s been since we've all started meeting there for wings. She was not content, as the dollar charge did not appear on Kaiba's bill, despite him having BBQ sauce as well.

I was already standing to leave, and had to laugh at the situation. “Is that dollar worth all the stress and worrying you’re doing about it?!” A few others agreed with me. I just hope they left the poor server alone after that… and a tip, too.

It’s an interesting point to consider. Is a dollar worth your well-being? What is the cost of giving a fuck?

DGAF: Don’t Give A Fuck. It’s a philosophy I first heard of from some of my friends’ more underground stoner hip hop artists from Subnoize Records (Kottonmouth Kings, et al). Think about it, though. How often do we allow ourselves to get worked up over nothing? How many extraneous fucks are we giving over mundane or benign experiences?

Giving fucks is dangerous at times. Scenario: you’re driving a carload of friends to a concert. Music is playing, windows down as there’s always that one guy in the back smoking a cigarette, traffic all around you as you arrive to the metropolitan center of wherever. You’re paying attention to the cars around you, doing your best to not become tonight’s news story. The guy next to you is scouring road signs for your exit, but then that joker in the back seat is makes some wise crack and you’re watching him do his best Jack Nicholson impression through your rear view mirror. Suddenly you’re astute and observant navigator shouts “That’s our exit! Go right!!” Do you A) swerve across a lane or more of traffic in a sudden jerky of the wheel to cut through the yellow lines and narrowly avoid the retaining barrier of the exit, or B) not give a fuck and say “We’ll take the next exit and double back.”?

Damn. I just realized that probably nobody does Jack Nicholson impressions anymore. Um… Arnold works, right? Stallone?

There are times where giving a fuck is important, too. Most of them fall under human decency: family member or friend diagnosed with cancer, huge tornado devastates Oklahoma, that huge project is riding on your shoulders and deadline was three nights ago and clients are calling you up hourly for status reports. Shit yeah, give a fuck, and get your shit taken care of! Every once in a while there’s some story of people giving many fucks that just redeem my faith in humanity. Whether it’s Christian Bale dressed as Batman visiting a dying fan in the hospital, or kids comfortable in their homes at their computer screens setting up VPN connections for people in Libya or Syria so that they can continue to use social media and the Internet to organize and report on their social uprisings against oppressive governments who have otherwise blocked net access to their nations. I've seen people track down the perpetrators in a video showing puppies being inhumanely tossed into a river for sport and that allowed the local jurisdiction to bring them to justice (of course, though, we've seen with the Boston Marathon bombings that internet vigilantism can backfire extremely easy as well).

I encourage everyone to steady their knee-jerk reactions to events that happen to them just long enough to ask yourself if it’s worth getting worked up over. I don’t preach any Zen Buddhist meditation or anything, just a few breaths and a moment to reflect before reacting.

Some idiot cuts you off in traffic but there was no risk of collision? Someone yells “Run faster, fatty!!” while you’re out jogging? A dollar charge on your bill that’s already barely over $5?!  Give no fucks, let it slide, don’t stress out, and your life will be much more valuable without that dollar.