I Might Go Ballistic

Everyone has a pet peeve or two.

Whether it's which direction the toilet paper is supposed to unroll, people who forget how to use coasters, or the idiots behind you who won't shut their yappers while the rest of theater is trying to enjoy "Man of Steel".  There's a whole slew of things that drive us mad, drive us crazy, and push us to the point of grabbing fistfuls of our own hair and start charging angrily down the road in a naked hissy fit.

The one thing that pushes more of my buttons more than anything else though, are the lazy fools at Wal-Mart who think that a parking lot doubles as a valet service for their shopping carts.  For the love of everything that is holy people, make your obese ankles walk a few extra steps and return it to the designated area a whopping ten feet away from you.  Actions like this give further ammunition to the argument that mankind as a whole is decreasing its amount of intelligence.  

Motivation For Hostages

Once history runs its course and future generations will have the chance to read the stories that make up the books of our lives, it will be a sad day when they get to the chapter where the characters we’re all playing come to the realization that nearly all of the decisions we make are contingent upon manufactured rectangles of paper that have dead guys' faces painted on them. 

For full effect, download “Sixteen Tons” by Merle Travis, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

At some point every one of us will have to face the semi-depressing reality that the choices we make are primarily driven and controlled by money.  That sounds like the plotline to an accountant’s version of George Orwell’s “1984”, but it’s the honest truth.  Money is what binds us.  It’s what drives us.  It’s the motivating factor behind 90% of the decisions we make.  And sadly, we are all victims of a monetary-driven pandemic that’s been around since Jacob bought out Esau’s birthright. 

Think about it.  Where we live, where we eat, what we drive, what color pair of Crocs we’re going to buy, all of these decisions are based off the number one factor being how much bling bling we’re gonna bring bring.  And yes, that last sentence is a white man’s version of trying to use inner-city slang for comedic effect, but don’t go judging me too harshly.  Every single material thing that makes up your personality was at one point or another purchased by some form of currency. That last statement scares the Tom’s Deli Sandwich I had for lunch right out of me. 

EVERYTHING revolves around money.  And yes, I all-capped the first word of this paragraph just to get through your thick skull how petrified I am by this concept.  The next 50 years of my book will be decided largely by either a vast collection, or on the opposite side a depressing lack, of money.  Every last detail of my life will be written by this factor.  Any job I take, any house I buy, any car I purchase, any girl I decide to settle down with, these are all decisions that have money playing a key variable as to whether or not the equation will make any sense.    

I’ll even ask you, why are you doing the things that you are doing right now?  Just think about it for a second and go ahead and stew over that for a few minutes.  Why?  Why are you going to school?  Or why did you just sell your car? Why is she wanting to be a nurse?  Why did he interview for that job? Why is that couple deciding not to have kids for a few years?  Why the heck do I want to get a PhD?

For money.  All of these decisions are made because of money. 

Some of you out there will take the opposite side of this argument and say that your decisions aren’t entirely decided off money, and that you make choices based on your innermost personal wants and desires in life.  But if you say that, you’re about as honest as O.J. Simpson.  And if you’re not seeing my side of things by the end of this blog, well you’re just as foolish as him too.   

You can make pathetic attempts of slanting your perspective all you want and try to swallow some placebo-like justification that money isn’t what runs and rules your daily actions.  But don’t kid yourself.  That small plastic rectangle with 16 engraved numbers sitting in your pocket is the real reason you get up every morning.  It’s what controls your actions from Point A to Point B.  It’s the vice-like grip on your subconscious pair of nuts that’s keeping you in check.       

I’m baffled.  And angry.  And frustrated.  And scared to death that my life, and your life, and every other cornbread-fed sucker’s life out there has been forged, molded, and now revolves around money.  That we live, we breathe, we eat, and we die, all for money.  That the choices I make, the career paths I walk down, the relationships I nurture or extinguish, that every single ounce of my existence is being held hostage by a subliminal briefcase keeping tally marks on whether I’m in the red or in the black. 

Is this real life?  Is this what you and I will be working towards for the next fifty years?  

You tell me. 

I don't know what else is.  

Talking to Strangers

If you’re looking for some sarcastic rant about me being single, then you might want to just close your browser window now.  I think this might be one of those “feel good” posts that’s so emotionally charged it would make Nick Saban tear up.  Sorry to disappoint.

For full effect, download “Welcome Back” by John Sebastian, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

I had the chance to catch up with an old college buddy this past weekend, a man who I haven’t seen or talked to in over nine years.  (Seriously, stop reading at the end of this sentence, it’s only going to get mushier from here on out, I promise you).  He and I were a pair of chummy roommates back in the day when the Governator had just been elected and “Crank Yankers” was a popular show on Comedy Central.  I am that old, I know.

It’s been nearly a decade since we have really had the chance to catch up with one another and relive the old times we used to share “back in the day”.  Normally, long spaces of time like that make conversations with former friends as awkward as forgetting your girlfriend’s last name in the middle of a prayer, but for the two of us, we hadn’t missed a beat.  As Forrest Gump would say, ‘we was peas and carrots’.

For over an hour and a half we sat and talked with each other.  About life.  About relationships. About careers.  About dirty pictures.  He told me about his cross-country escapades building churches, with his wife and kid along for the ride.  I told him about turning down blind dates and having my head professionally sliced open.  For 90 minutes we sat there on a warm summer night, the sun setting behind us, with the reception buzzing all around about the newlywed couple, and us just drinking blue lemonade and relishing in the lessons we have learned in the years we’ve spent on our own.  I know that’s a cheesy line, but hey, I warned you.

At the end of the night we exchanged bear hugs, and vowed to do a better job of staying in touch.  In the back of our minds though, we both knew that wasn’t true. We wouldn’t stay in touch.  He had his life in California playing the role of one hell of a husband and father, and I would stay here in St. George, continuing my evolution as a 6’4” big kid who still laughs at “That’s what she said” jokes.  I hate to admit it, but without Facebook I wouldn’t know he even existed anymore.

I know what you’re thinking, this sounds like a semi-depressing post about the empty feelings of former friendships being treated like a bag of used condoms, but that’s not the point of this at all.  The real giddy feeling I had as I drove home that night was that I knew he was one of my truest friends, a man who has more value in my mind than my Netflix account.  If I can be away from a buddy since the Bush Administration, and then meet up with him and pick right back up our unfinished late night conversations about “The Matrix” trilogy, then yeah, he’s a winner in my book. 

The best part of all of this is that I know you have people like this in your own life.  You have BFFFOMWYDNTSUTOFBEOM, or as kids older than 17 would put it, “Best Friends Forever From Other Mothers Who You Don’t Need To Suck Up To On Facebook Every Other Month”.  You have those people in your life who you can ignore for a decade, and then randomly meet up and finish each other’s Moons Over My Hammy during late night Denny’s binges. And when you realize who they are, they’ll make your life that much sweeter. 

So just sit back, close your eyes, listen to the last few chords fade out of that one song you were supposed to download at the beginning of this post, and revel in the fact that you have a handful of strangers scattered out there who fit you like an old glove, and pray to high heaven that you’ll randomly bump into them at backyard wedding receptions.  Because I’m telling you, those will go down as some of the best nights of your life.   

She's Out Of Your League

Let this be a proclamation to any member of the male gender that is searching earnestly for a potential mate.

Stay away from my little sister Jade, ya hear?

Now don’t be confused, this isn’t the part where the overprotective big brother inside me takes you into my office, shows off the collection of dead animal trophies littering my walls while I massage my .357 Magnum and warn that if you ever make this little girl of mine cry, I swear to high heaven I will break a bone in your body for every tear that she weeps.  No, it’s actually the complete opposite.  I’m doing this because I feel you need a word of warning about going after my little sister.  Because I’m telling you, this girl is only a shopping cart full of troubles. 

And when I say troubles, I mean that there is no way in frozen Hell you are going to keep up with her.  For instance, say when you go out in public together and you see every other man (and a handful of women) around you become entranced with her ridiculous good looks.  When people are gawking at her beauty faster than you can blink, what are you going to do then?  This girl turns heads without even trying.  She’s got a face that makes Neil Patrick Harris question his own preferences, and you think you are going to be able to handle this?

Or how are you going to feel when she unintentionally makes you look like less of a man in everyday situations?  I say this because I think your boyhood is going to be a little more shriveled once you see her outperform you on so many levels.  Whether it’s outworking you at any job she’s been assigned, learning a second language, or knowing how to raise a family, cook you dinner, maintain a landscape, and sing the second verse of "Shenandoah" a cappella all without breaking a sweat, she can do it.  This girl has been a victim of middle-child syndrome in a household of women and survived and conquered it all.  You don’t think she can’t outhustle you at any task possible?

All I’m saying is she’s way out of your league. Seriously, WAY out of your league.  If you know how to road trip between two countries your entire childhood without a father figure whatsoever, and do it all with a drop-dead gorgeous smile on your face, then you might stand a chance.  But by that point she will have already lost interest and moved on to more important things in life like getting a PhD in European History, or becoming the highest paid teen model. You are really not worth a second date in this girl’s book. 

And if you think you have the slightest chance of getting into some kind of Facebook status-changed relationship with her and potentially tie her down in the next eleven months or so, well, think again.  She’s already mentally checked out of any serious commitment with the anticipation of teaching the gospel to anyone who will listen to her in about a year or so.  This girl is tougher than snot and can’t wait to live in a cave in Fiji for 18 months just to help other people.  She’s dedicated, knows what she wants to accomplish, has a desire to serve the Lord, and you think a box of chocolates and a late-night guitar solo are going to woo her away?  I’m telling ya buddy, you’re a waste of time for this girl. 

I’m saying all of this because I’m really nervous for what is about to hit the fan.  After all, she’s going to graduate from high school in about thirty minutes, and from that point on we’re all in a world of trouble for how awesome she’s going to be.  At times, the annoying big brother inside me comes out to play, and jokes with her that secretly we all know she’s adopted.  Her hair alone should give a slight indication that somehow the nurses switched her out when she was born.

But the more time I spend with her, and the more I realize what this girl is going to accomplish, the potential that she has, the more I know that she is way out of anybody’s league. 

That's Not Safe At All

Women, the elderly and foreign people can often be stereotyped as bad drivers.  Well, you tell me...

Chicks Dig Scars

Hospital waiting rooms taste like a plastic sheet coated with Icy Hot when you're sitting by yourself at 1:45 in the morning.

Can someone please tell the Doctor to stop playing Candy Crush in the back and come give me a hand?

For full effect, download “Bleeding Out” by Imagine Dragons, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.  On a side note, if you ever meet a kid named Pace Beckstead, do the world a favor and kick him in the prostate.

I could try and come up with some emotionally charged metaphor to describe the glories of the Lord's hand at work with the creation of Zion's National Park. But those words would be a waste of space, because a chill-giving paragraph or two wouldn't do it justice. You just have to see it for yourself.

Zion's National Park is even more breathtaking when seven random people from all different walks of life join up to hike through the narrows, reveling in one another's company, and making fun of the way all the foreign people smell as you pass them by on the trail.  Seriously, try and find me one French person that isn't wearing a decade-old coating of B.O. cologne.

Dr. Andrus: "Good morning sir, I’m Doctor Andrus, and wow that’s quite a big…"

Me: "Hey, don’t interrupt me when I’m blogging in my head. Just do your duty and just get me out of here before Christmas, understand?”

It's amusing to walk waist-deep in a river and gawk at the different tourist stereotypes that litter National Parks year-round. There are the Canadians who can't say their vowels and have oddly shaped front teeth, the Europeans who haven't told any of their women that the bra has been invented, and of course there are the classic Asians who are caked in makeup, have a $9,000 camera hanging off their necks, and who hold two fingers next to their faces in order to look a tad bit thinner.

On the flip side, I wonder what kind of stereotypes they mutter in their own heads as they pass by all the local Americans with wide-eyed glares of confusion plastered on their faces. "Look at all of these obese, ugly, lazy nincompoops wearing Hawaiian shirts and Birkenstock sandals. And how come they're all staring at their phones in this beautiful canyon? Are they that in love with themselves?" Yes, we look just as ridiculous as you do, let’s just accept that.

Dr. Andrus: "There, I'm just going to numb it with this agent, and you'll start to feel..."

Me: "Shutup Doc, I'm in the middle of telling a story here."

I think if they were to take a gander at the group of friends I was walking around with, those bug-eyed stares would have looked more like we had just been accused of witchcraft in the 1600’s.  In fact, everyone did look at us like we had just escaped from the local asylum.  After all, how many times do you walk past a group of young adults wearing Camelbaks and inflatable dragons?  Yes kids, you read that right, we were wearing inflatable inner tubes designed for children ages 2-4, shaped like Dragons, Hippos, and Rhinos. I named my Deshawn. He was very intimidating.

I didn't mind all of the strange looks I was getting left and right. In fact, they kind of made me laugh the entire time. You probably would look at me like I was a walking leper if you saw the 6'4", 230-lb. sexy beast that I am wearing a blown up dragon that looked like an oversized bib from T.G.I. Fridays. He even did a pretty good job keeping an eye out for me when I lost my balance on a mossy rock and...

Dr. Andrus: "Just about done here. You doing anything fun for the rest of the weekend?"

Me: "Seriously, why do you keep interrupting me? Zip it and snip it buddy. I've got places to be before the sun comes up."

My dragon Deshawn didn't really save me, but at least I kept a slice of my dignity getting back up from my spill in the river.  And the fact that the six other people I was with were looking just as ridiculous as I was with their own inflatable napkins, made this trip to Zion's well worth it in the end.  And one day, I’ll have a pretty neat story to tell my kids about the scar I've got on my…

Dr. Andrus: "There, that should do it.  Now you can get back out there and enjoy the rest of your night. Do you have any fun plans?"

Me: "I'm taking shots of Lortab at 3:30 in the morning Doc, you tell me."

I assume it's going to take another two hours for the hospital to come ask for my Herbie Hancock, and by that time I more than likely will have slipped into a coma by pure boredom and intoxication from Icy Hot-coated sheets of plastic.

Where's Deshawn when I need him?