Happy Thanksgiving, Pilgrims!

Here we sit on the eve of the most obese holiday ever created, baking pies, stuffing turkeys, and seeing how much whipped cream we can fit in our mouths from the aerosol can on the counter. Boy, life is grand, I’ll tell you what.

For full effect, download “Kind and Generous” by Natalie Merchant, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

During this festival of fatness there are more than likely a grouping of traditions that all of our families participate in. Aside from the potential murdering of innocent grandmothers during black Friday, my family has one of the most corny, most overworked traditions imaginable: We all sit around the table with Jell-O in our bellies and tears in our eyes, and tell one another what we’re thankful for.

I know. Gag my mature way of thinking with a spoon.

The thing that gets me about this tradition is that we’re all saying the same things in an overly dramatic cycle. “…thankful for my family, thankful for my friends, thankful for this food that has been placed before us.” Those are all things every member of my family already knows we’re thankful for. So you know what? I’m going rogue this year and using this blog to tell you what I’m REALLY thankful for.

I’m thankful for a DVR that allows me to tape a six-hour broadcast of Modern Family to watch at a later date while I’m stuck at home in my underwear.

I’m thankful for No-Shave November being created and exploding as a viral way of hygiene just so I can have everything above my neckline impersonate a homeless man.

I’m thankful for Wal-Mart, which allows my personal self-esteem to grow while watching the tomfoolery of other people around me.

I’m thankful for Craigslist being used as an exploitation of people selling really nice things at really dirtcheap prices. Because of you, I have found my furniture, my barstools, and my road bike.

I’m thankful for my height, which allows women who are 5’10”, not be forced to write off their entire high heel collection if by some chance we start dating.

I’m thankful for places such as Gold’s Gym, which allows me to fine-tune my physical character as a modern day Greek God, but at the same time allows me laugh at stick figures yelling in agony just so all the women in spandex will notice them.

I’m thankful for Asphalt Pie at Winger’s.

I’m thankful that Chuck Palahniuk, Rick Reilly, Joseph Gordon-Leavitt, and the Cohen Brothers have been birthed, only to help shape the kind of writer I want to become.

I’m thankful for my Mom’s pomegranate-pineapple raspberry Jell-O she makes every year, that could easily win a dessert contest at any Relief Society bake-off in Utah.

Don’t tell anyone about this, but as of last Friday night, I’m secretly thankful for Pinterest.

I’m thankful for past roommates who taught me how to cook, which I now use as one of my main strategies in wooing the heart of a woman.

I’m thankful for having a sports team to cheer for that doesn’t suck every single year. How could I have a motivation for life if I were only a Cubs fan?

I’m thankful that I’ve never taken a duck-faced selfie.

I’m thankful that I don’t have an Instagram account, because if I did, all I would see tomorrow are filtered pictures showcasing how unhealthy everyone is eating.

I’m thankful that the Twilight series has officially been killed off.  

I’m thankful for my ability to tell a story in less than 700 words and still keep an audience entertained whether in person, or on paper.

And most of all, I’m thankful that you keep clicking on my links every three days as a follower, giving me the motivation to keep documenting my life through social media.

In the words of John Wayne, “Happy Thanksgiving, Pilgrims.”

Taking People In Doses

I have been sitting in my underwear for seven straight hours, doing nothing but watch a steady stream of college football. And I couldn’t be happier with my life.

For full effect, download “Hysteria” by Muse and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Seriously people, since 9:30 this morning I have been laying on my couch, with a beard on my face and Doritos in my hair, binging on bowls of Marshmallow Mateys every 40 minutes, and doing nothing but watch guys in their mid-twenties beat each other up in helmets. Dang, I love Saturdays in the fall.  For the majority of the day I have been alone. By myself. And I love it. You know why?

Because sometimes I can only handle people in doses. 

I’m sure you all know what I mean. We all have people we can only take so much of. People who are great the first few moments we see them, but after three minutes their annoying traits make us want to pull out their fingernails with a pair of pliers.

Ok, that may have been a bit graphic, I apologize. But you know what I mean.

Heck, to you I may be one of those annoying people. Perhaps I fall in the category of someone you can only stand for a few quick lines of conversation before you fake a phone call or use some other tactic to get rid of me. I know you can only put up with so many of my sarcastic rants on dating. However, along with me there are others that can go ahead and join the club of people we just can’t stand.

Take for instance the John Doe I deal with once every eight months. This is a guy who at first glance feels like a homegrown hero whom I’ve shared many childhood memories with. But after thirty seconds of listening to his sermons about how successful his first few semesters of law school have been, and how amazingly beautiful his children are, and every single other detail of his life he tries to “one-up” me with, all of this helps me realize how worthless our friendship actually is.

Or what about the ginger-haired pigeon who questions me once a week via Facebook about my love life, my dating prospects, the fact that I’m still single and why I haven’t followed her example and found a partner as loving, and adoring, and admirable as the husband she talks crap on while doing yoga with her sister-in-law. Yes, I can only stomach your sage advice on relationships for so long, so please shut your yapper.

These two prospects are just a few of the people who I have to handle in doses. There are plenty of other creatures whose presence I can only stand to be in for a few brief moments of my life: the RedSox Bandwagon Jumper, the Thick-Eyebrow Drama Queen, the Lonely Tiger, the Play-by-Play Narcissist, the Holier-Than-Peter construction manager, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I can only tolerate them for a brief amount of time. And thank the good Lord upstairs they all live over 300 miles away from me.  

In a few short days we will all celebrate that one holiday Pilgrims and Indians created with a sacrificial turkey. Family and friends will come together and loosen their belt buckles for the outpouring of sweet potato casserole and lime Jell-O salad. We will be exposed to people we can only deal with in doses. Annoying Uncles, geriatric Great-Grandmothers and hypocritical cousins all rolled into the same household. Some of them we can stomach for longer periods of time. And this Thursday we’ll all get together and take shots of one another.

Alcohol may or may not be included.

Some of the best relationships we have are with the people who we can handle for extended amounts of time. People who when we’re with them, we’re not counting down the seconds off our watches in agony. People who we can tell our deepest, darkest secrets to, and they still L-word us in spite of our flaws. Maybe that’s what we are all looking for to make our life just a little bit better. 

Someone who we don’t measure in doses. 

I’m Just As Gay As You Are

Many of you might have clicked on this link hoping it would be a 600-word coming out party, finally confirming your suspicions that a 28-year old single man who is thin, neat, and clean, living in the state of Utah has closet attractions to members of the same sex. Part of your suspicions may have evolved from the fact that my earliest childhood best friend was named Courtney. Granted, Courtney was a boy. Don’t hate his parents. They were probably hippies.  

For full effect, download “Applause” by Lady Gaga and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

M: “So…I’m thinking of getting my hair colored, but I’m not quite sure if I should go completely dark. Or should I add highlights, or what? I am so confused.”

Me: “And why are you asking me?”

M: “Oh quit with your bearded-face front. You and I both know you understand how a woman’s hair should look.”

This is the part where I tuned her out, stroked a few of my no-shave November whiskers and threw up my automatic response of manliness that I didn’t know the intricate details of how she should fine-tune her hair for the upcoming season, just so she could keep everything in order with her Winter wardrobe. This in fact is what the majority of all members of the male gender will do in times of sexual-preference questioning. Followed by a burping session, a crotch-scratching, and a download of highlights from the most recent episode of Monday Night Football. Hey, I need to keep my reputation as a manly man, don’t I?

Cue Drew McIntyre, an extremely hetero-sexual married man who can comb his chest hair and strangle a lion with his bare hands, walking in mid-conversation and being asked the same question.

Drew: “If it were me, I would go with something that accentuates your facial tones and really brings out the color. I’ve seen your hair dark, and I think a chocolate feel would be good on you.”

M: “Thank you Drew. At least someone here is comfortable enough to give me an honest answer.”

Cue me imitating Ken Jeong from “Community” with my hands cupped around my mouth in a mocking fashion: “GAYYYYYY!!!”

M: “Shutup Brock! You are just as gay as he is. You in fact were raised by a bunch of sisters and probably know all about what warm and cold colors are. If anything, you are more gay than Drew is, ADMIT IT!”

In the back of my mind it clicked that I actually do know the difference between warm and cold colors. Curse those damn women who raised me and secretly gave me Estrogen shots while I slept.

It was at this point where the Freddy Mercury fairy who floats around Project Runway conventions demoted my man ticket to someone who wears berets and performs gymnastic routines to Aladdin’s “A Whole New World”. She’s right. I am just as gay as he is. I have watched the “Rocky Horror Picture Show” on multiple occasions out of preference, not obligation. I understand and follow the rules of never wearing brown shoes with black pants. I know every single line of every single song from “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat”. Those may sound like a bunch of incorrect flaming stereotypes to trademark my now burnt-to-a-crisp character, but M is right. Although I may not have a single ounce of sexual attraction for another man, in reality I’m probably just as queer as Elton John.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. 

The Electric Toothbrush

By the time you start reading this, I’ll be off somewhere in the middle of the desert.

For full effect, download “1985” by Bowling For Soup, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

For the second Sunday in a row I am on a road trip. A 13-hour, 36-minute, 827-mile, longest-time-I-will-ever-spend-behind-a-steering-wheel road trip to be more specific. As you’re reading this I am probably in Las Vegas, or Barstow, or Pasadena or even Victorville. I can’t really tell you where I’m at exactly just as you clicked on this link. However, I can tell you that I’m chauffeuring a 15-passenger van to Long Beach, California and back. Sitting next to a kid named George.

George is actually one of my customers this morning. He’s a 17-year old goober whose closest doppelganger would be Manny off of Modern Family. He’s a sweet young buck who is desperately trying to grow sideburns just to look a little bit more mature, yet at the same time starts snickering when his buddy sitting behind us says the word “fart”.

For the 12 hours I’ve spent with this kid, I think we’ve been the best of pals.

George is young. George is naïve. George is immune to the tragedy of having to wear big-boy pants in the modern world. And he’s okay with that. So don’t bother him while he plays Candy Crush as we chug along through the Southern California desert.

Flash back 24 hours from where you’re sitting right now, to find me standing in the personal hygiene aisle of the Bloomington Hills Wal-Mart, holding an electric toothbrush in my hand. I’ve been standing here for over six minutes now. Comparing prices. Tossing ideas back and forth in my head. Reading consumer reviews and customer satisfaction reports.

About an electric toothbrush.

Fast forward two hours to find me wearing basketball shorts, a Calvin and Hobbes T-shirt and double-XL yellow cleaning gloves, down on my hands and knees. Scrubbing my toilet in a rhythm as smooth as an infant’s ass. I don’t care what’s going on around me. I smell like 409 and Clorox Bleach, listening to a Podcast about the Munchausen Syndrome, and haven’t a care in the world. I am on cloud nine. Don’t bother me please. I’ve got germs to kill.

I’m telling you about these two odd moments because they give you the best perspective as to who and what I am at this point in my life. I am aging. I am stiffing up. I am getting personal gratification by mulling over the purchase of a new electric toothbrush and scrubbing away my own piss. Essentially, this means I am now a grown-up.

I’ve blogged plenty of times about maturing and sooner or later turning into a grumpy old man. Most of the time they are comical pokes at a generation of creatures who need vitamin supplements just to stay coherent. But this time, things are different. This time, I think I’m okay with getting older. I am okay with turning down a friend’s invitation to an afternoon of Guitar Hero just so I can sterilize my bathroom. I am okay with being a grown-up. I am okay with getting old.

George is still seated next to me in this van, off in his own bubble. His headphones are blaring, his fingers are in a flurry of texting, and he just downed his third straight Dr. Pepper and it isn’t even noon yet. He’s got his entire life ahead of him. And at this point in time, he doesn’t have a care in the world as the desert passes us by.

Now someone just turning 40 could read this blog and laugh to themselves about how I am such a young fool who has no idea what real life is like. And you know what? They’re probably right. Life is all about perspective. We all have our own take on this thing we wake up to every morning. Whether it’s a Hispanic kid in the middle of puberty, a cocky college recruiter who deliberates over toothbrushes, or some balding fat man with wrinkles who just had his fifth child. We are all playing different roles.  

At one point in my life I was George. I lived for the latest release of Madden for my Play Station. I would go on South Park binges until 4 in the morning. I could drink a 2-liter of Mt. Dew under ten minutes without blinking. I was a boss.

But the thing is, that’s not me anymore. The man I am now is in the driver’s seat of a van looking to get home early enough so I can watch a documentary about Auschwitz I have saved on my DVR. I’m a man who will get a rush of chills when my life insurance policy shows up in the mail. I’m a man who craves a solid bathroom cleaning session and a brand new electric toothbrush.

And you know what?

I’m okay with that. 

Note To Future Self

Kids, as you know this blog is mainly designed so you, my posterity, can have an insight into who your Father really was over the course of his young adult life. At least that’s what I hope all of you reading this understand to be my blog’s purpose. It’s for my kids, not for you. Yeah, I’ll take a Facebook like and a complimentary shoutout here and there, but seriously, this blog is for my kids. Quit being so selfish.   

For full effect, download “Robbing Me Blind” by We Are The Strike, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Sometimes I read past journal entries and laugh about things that “past self” at one point thought was a serious/devastating issue in my life. The future self in me now gets a smile on my face when I read about how devastated past self was when the Utah Jazz lost in the 1997 NBA finals, and when Abby Arnold broke my heart just after I turned 16.  

Seeing those things made me wonder what if the tables were turned and I could talk to my future self and give him some suggestions. Almost like putting a really ugly box in the ground that pretends to be a time vault and have future self, who is undoubtedly a ridiculously good looking hunk and well-published author, teaching Human Communication at some big time University, have a glimpse into his past. But if I can talk to him for three minutes and tell him some of the things I want him as a Father to do for you, this is what that three-minute list would sound like.

Take you to a pet store and walk around entranced at all the awesome-looking fishes, but not buy you a cat.

Show you how to carve pumpkins in the park. 

Build a cardboard box time machine in our garage and teach you how to navigate through our basement.

Have sleepovers on our back deck in the summers.

Teach you how to believe in Santa up until you turn 13. Then after that, teach you how to grow up, know the true reason I’m so tired on December 25^th, but still somehow keep the true meaning of Christmas alive in your heart.

Teach you why places like Maverick and Texaco are your childhood Mecca.

Watch cartoons on a Saturday in our pajamas and get sick off of a Fruit Loop buffet.

Girls, show you how to change a tire, change your oil, and change a boy into a gentleman.

Boys, show you how to open a door for a girl, wear a suit, and make a free throw.

Let you help me by stirring things when I’m cooking amazing meals. That may not seem too important, but at least you know that I enjoy having your help.  

Instill in you the passion about why The Ohio State University is the best team to root for.

Give you the motivation to chase your dreams and not give up, but at the same time be the shoulder you need to cry on when things don’t always go as planned.

Teach you how to play pranks on each other.

Help you understand why Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is the greatest cartoon franchise in the history of humanity.

Answer your questions when it comes to religion, politics, and sex. Not just hide behind the covers and hope the controversial things will just figure themselves out on their own. 

Show you the proper way to toilet paper a house. 

Not only be the Dad that you need to have in your life, but be the Dad that you want to have in your life.

Kids, I really hope that future self is a good Dad, and that he will have checked nearly every single one of these things off the list. And if future self hasn’t done any of this, well you have past/current self’s permission to kick him in the nuts, slap him in the face, or do something else violent enough to get his attention in order to remind him why past self put this list together. Because all of us need to have a great Dad in our life.

Especially you.

Perfect Timing

"Perfect timing" the fat man said as he stepped off the elevator. I shut my hotel door and filled his spot. He was right. The doors opening on cue just as I was leaving my room was right on schedule. And who would have thought I would have life changing inspiration for a blog from a little butterball that didn't make eye contact. 

For full effect, download "Lighthouse" by The Hush Sound and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. 

I would like to add that this post might be a bit semi-religious/thought provoking. So if you're looking for something LOL hilarious or a rant about my life as a single man, this is not a blogpost for you. Stop wasting your time and go back to Pinterest. 

I am at the end of another long, long road trip. A road trip that will hopefully validate my job as a salesman of education. I have lived off of Dr. Pepper and Cheesecake, dined with strangers, skipped with morons, fed the homeless, lost my chivalry, slept in dress slacks, drooled over soap, played Uncle to a two-year old, and serenaded my steering wheel all in a matter of 13 days. Funny though, the one thing I seem to be taking away from this shindig is a two-word proclamation from a thought provoking jelly belly. Perfect timing. 

Life is really just about perfect timing. After reading Malcom Gladwell's "Outliers" and having my self-esteem as a Canadian-born hockey player damaged for a significant portion of the rest of my life, I can admit to that. The majority of us feel that life is about perfect timing.

Listen to love stories, success accounts, people who have been saved by a stroke of genius, all of them had that one split-second moment in time that changed their course forever. When you hear swans rave on about finding that one true person they were looking to spend the rest of their lives with, it's all about timing. Either by coincidence or Karma they both were lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. And then together they lived on happily ever after.

Well, at least 47% of them did. 

I think something that damns us is the thought that we are all waiting for the timing in our lives to be absolutely perfect. We are waiting for that scripted instant when she walks into the coffee shop holding our favorite novel in her hand and makes soul-shaking eye contact with us. We are waiting for that sealed envelope of glory to accept us into graduate school just as we expected. We are waiting for our boss of three years to take our hard work into consideration and promote us to a higher level of pay. 

But the thing is, life is not like that. 

She doesn’t walk into that café.

Those envelopes are never delivered on time.

And the bosses we love and admire quit their jobs at the last second, and move out to the middle of nowhere.

So what happens next? Do we wait for the next available teller to short sell us a job we are overqualified for? Do we settle for an average woman who swipes right on our profile, who doesn’t really share the same interests as us, but would be an adequate mother of our future children? Do we give up on lifetime goals of achieving a higher level of education and just remain in an adequate state of content driving an overpriced Mazda Mid-life crisis to work? Do we just wait for the timing in our life to be absolutely 100% “perfect?”

That’s a hell of a question.

To refute the doughboy’s wise words, timing never really is “perfect”. The catastrophic events that shape our lives happen when we least expect them to occur. They happen almost on the opposite side of the spectrum, when things are the opposite of perfect. All of the events that we are waiting on perfect timing for, our jobs, our health, our relationships, all of those cataclysmic happenings are decided when the stars are not aligned in our favor.

They are decided when we want them to happen.

Is that an accurate perspective, or is in the intoxicating glow of the Emerald city outside my window at two in the morning combined with my gulping down of two Chris Hemsworth films in a matter of four hours turning me a little loopy?

In a few hours I will set off for my 1,144-mile journey via taxi, airplane, and my beat up Nissan Rogue, with Stephen King and Johnny Cash as my good company. I am headed back to the place that I call home. A place where a dozen unanswered questions await me about my career, about my relationships, and about my life in general. The one question I’ll be pondering the entire trip back is the same question I challenge you to ask yourself as you stare your sunken face down into a mirror. That one small question that has been burning through my mind since that fat prophet walked off the elevator. 

Isn't it about time? 

My Life On Red Bull

The following are my transcribed thoughts from the fifth longest drive in my young adult life, recorded on the 418-mile route from Spokane, Washington to Boise, Idaho.

9:18 p.m. I kind of feel like this drive is going to be like a giant Red Bull commercial. Minus all the sexual innuendo and cartoonish drawings.

9:41 p.m. Man, did that cashier have some bad B.O. I know they’re all liberals up here, but can residents of Washington at least wear deodorant?

10:26 p.m. 30 women at a bridal shower just made fun of me for calling a blind date. Yeah, I sure am famous now.

11:19 p.m. What am I doing listening to Stephen King narrate “Misery” as I’m going through a canyon covered in potential black ice? This almost seems like an intro to my life turning into a horror story. I need to hear something else. Oh yeah, Beiber, I’ll take some of that.

11:32 p.m. Oregonians must be pretty bored to put a sign on the Interstate noting that we are exactly halfway between the Equator and the North Pole. Wait, did I just say Oregonians? Something’s wrong. I need more Red Bull.

11:41 p.m. Fun fact of the day: Western State University in Colorado is the highest college in the entire country. And yes, high as in elevation, not high as in pot brownies. Someday that will be valuable when I audition to be on Jeopardy. 

12:01 a.m. Ok, someone needs to tell the Grandpa in front of me that he shouldn’t have taken his Subaru out for a late night drive.

12:20 a.m. You know, I’m getting tired. Maybe I should probably take a nap. Hey there’s a bunch of truckers by that rest stop. I’m sure a quick 20-minutes wouldn’t hurt. Unless they are all secret werewolf rapers and they prey on innocent college recruiters like me! I AM NOT STOPPING THIS CAR! Where is my blowgun?!

12:35 a.m. I want to punch Mother Earth in the ovaries for thinking a snowstorm in the middle of the night was a good idea. If I die on this trip, I am totally going to come back as some kind of pollution to piss her off!

12:44 a.m. I really need to pee. But I haven’t seen any signs letting me know that there’s a gas station for at least an hour. If I pull over and pee on the side of the road, will I be fined by the state of Oregon for $10,000? Probably. Heck, they won’t even let me pump my own gas in this place. Taking a whiz on the side of an abandoned highway is probably a felony.

1:17 a.m. I should totally blog about this tomorrow. Everybody will think my late night thoughts are hilarious!

1:18 a.m. Or maybe they wont.

1:38 a.m. My butt sure does fit nice in this seat. Come to think about it, my butt cheeks are pretty much imprinted forever into the Styrofoam I’m sitting on. This is almost like a molded statue of my head. Except it’s in the front seat of a car. And it’s of the other end of my body. Ok. We’re done here.  

1:59 a.m. SQUIRREL!

2:06 a.m. I could totally be a backup drummer for Muse if they asked me! Seriously, is there anyone better than yours truly at holding a beat? Yeah so what if I’m using empty water bottles and my steering wheel, I am an AMAZING DRUMMER!

2:20 a.m. How long is this hill going to climb?! I feel like I’ve been going up FOR-EV-ER! HA! Great movie! I need to watch The Sandlot again.

2:36 a.m. I know I said I need to blog about this, but maybe I should do it now while I’m driving. There’s like no one out here. I can just…HOLY CRAP THERE’S A DEAD COW IN THE ROAD! I CAN TAKE A HINT! PUTTING MY PHONE AWAY!

2:57 a.m. How long have I been steering this car with my legs?

3:04 a.m. I SHOULD TOTALLY START A BAR! IT WOULD GO RIGHT UNDERNEATH MY THAI FOOD/POWELL’S BOOKSTORE COMBINATION! YES! I AM TOTALLY STARTING A BAR! I’M EVEN GONNA CALL IT PUZZLES! Thank you Barney Stinson.

3:18 a.m. I’m still 31 miles away? WHERE THE CURSE WORD AM I! There hasn’t been another set of headlights for at least an hour! I hate Idaho.

3:31 a.m. If I ate a taco right now, would it count as a really late dinner? Or a really early breakfast? And how fast would it go to my thighs?

3:39 a.m. “NEVER LET ME GO-OH-OH-OH-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO! OH MAMA MIA! MAMA MIA! MAMA MIA LET ME GO! BEEZELBUB HAS A DEVIL PUT ASIDE FOR ME! FOR ME! FOR MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!”

3:47 a.m. …

4:01 a.m. I made it! Geez, what a ride. Whether or not this is a dream remains to be seen. Oh hey! I forgot about this Red Bull! 

The Crazies

I have met many, many strange people in my time on the road.

For full effect, download “Flightless Bird, American Mouth” by Iron & Wine and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

In my three years of being an academic talking head, I have never had a good taste in my mouth for the city of Portland, Oregon. Maybe it’s the bad taste still left in my mouth from a combination of maple bacon bars and rotten sushi. Yeah, you read that right. I was poisoned by a bad batch of donuts and not-so-fresh fish that totally ended my streak of being “vomit free since ’93”.   

For the longest time I have hated Portland more than I have hated okra. And after a miserable plane ride surrounded by a group of drunk Texans, I think I discovered the ultimate reason why I have had such a harsh dislike for this city.

Cue entrance stage left by a ridiculous amount of strange people.

I have met some crazies in my time up here in the Pacific Northwest. People who would make you wonder why they’re not wearing a straitjacket while being chased by fat men in white suits holding butterfly nets. Yes in the few short weekends I have spent up in the place my boss holds to be his own Mecca, I have seen them all. I have been surrounded by the Crazies.

Take for instance the lazy-eyed Grandma crocheting a cape at a college fair who once told me her Alma Mater was one of two man-made objects seen from space and that I should, “stick that in your pipe and smoke it!”

Then there is the plump fellow standing outside Voodoo doughnuts, holding an extreme miniature kite in his hands like a golden treasure and being as easily entertained as a three-year old with undiagnosed A.D.D.

Or what about the nutcase standing next to me wearing a few pieces of stapled construction paper as a formal piece of headwear, and telling 8^th graders they need to give up on their lifetime goal of becoming a civil engineer and look to pursue a much more reasonable career in scrapbooking.

I think the one who takes the cake in the category of crazies is the meathead who has a fetish for coconut pear soap and apple fritters. A man who can read sheet music and has no problem holding a beat, but questions his own sexuality if his body starts moving in a musical rhythm. This is a guy who lies to fortune tellers for pure entertainment and at one point in his life may or may not have gotten down on one knee and proposed to a sandwich.

Yeah, that donut munching, dance hater is yours truly. And he’s as weird as they come. 

You see I have met some nutcases while on the road, especially in my days up here in Portland. I’m talking about people you never want your future posterity to meet, but at the same time try and position your phone at an angle so you can take a picture of their weirdness without them even noticing. I wanted to mock them like nobody's business, but in the middle of writing this rant about fools I came to the harsh realization that we’re all a little bit crazy, aren’t we?

Like the girl who thinks it’s cool to skip down the street and say the word “flautist” in seven different languages.

Or the guy who needs to be intoxicated by fumes of hard apple cider to tell you that he once starred in the musical “Oklahoma”.

Or the girl who is missing her two front teeth and has a lifelong dream of opening up a Thai food restaurant/underground bookstore.

Or the nutcase who still thinks the Buffalo Bills are going to win the Super Bowl every year.

Those are some real creeps aren’t they? But then again, those are the people who got me through this weekend in a city lined with food-poisoned memories.

Yeah, I’ll take those nutcases any day of the week.