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.