The Worst Day Ever...

Anyone born in the 1980's will admit that the above image was one of the worst things that could happen to you as a child. In between chipped teeth and broken fingernails trying to pry these two apart, nothing halted creativity more than this conundrum.

The Post Secret Road Trip

I need better sleeping habits if I come home from work for lunch and can't keep my eyes open through a half an hour session of Looney Tunes. Those poor sleeping habits are what made me have a skewed R.E.M. schedule for the last four days or so.

For full effect, download that one Kenny Loggins song about Winnie the Pooh that you and I used to listen to at night and fall asleep to. Listen to that throughout the duration of this post.

I do need to catch you up on this past weekend's events. By the way, I have been a real curse word of a blogger this year. Last year I was so dedicated, so religious about my postings. This year my blogging skills are on the same level as Lamar Odom's field goal percentage. But with that being said, I L-worded this past weekend. With a passion.

For all of you first time readers, this past Friday, myself, Chris Caldwell, and Bryan Uhri took an 802 mile road trip to Grand Junction, CO to watch a Post Secret Live event. For those of you who don't know what Post Secret is, do yourself a favor and go to postsecret.com. I don't have the time or the energy to spoon-feed you the answer.

Road trips with guys are some of the best times of your life. They are a combination of dirty jokes, red bulls, and hot wings, all saran wrapped with deep thoughts into one another's personal lives and hidden selves. Yes, those were good times as we packed into my Rogue and took off down I-70 East for 5 1/2 hours. Have I mentioned before how that stretch of land is uglier than Khloe Kardashian? Whoa, that's two disses to the Odom family. I need to tone it down.

The trip was good. The food was better. Some hometown hot wing spot was the joint we hit up surrounded by pale ale and dozens of in-bred Broncos' fans.

In-Bred Bronco: "Shouldn't have traded Tebow. BRONCOS RULE!"

Cue four syllable word to confuse the behemoth.

The Post Secret event was a hit. Honestly it brought tears to my eyes as bi-sexuals, schizophrenics, and gorgeous deaf girls stood before a microphone and confessed their hearts out to the audience. My respect for everyone in the auditorium rose every ten minutes as we all sat in the padded chairs and figuratively held hands, all in harmony on the chorus of Kum-Bah-Yah.

For the record, the creator of Post Secret, Frank Warren, has a heart full of gold. I am convinced the man has a place docked in heaven right next to Mother Teresa and John Lennon. The man is incredible. Devoted to a heartfelt cause for no other reason other than his love for humanity and the people that surround him. Walking out of that event, I wanted to get his initials tattooed onto my lower back.

True story.

Overall, it was one of the best road trips that I've had the privilege of enjoying. And I'm sure the other sausages in the car felt the same way as we journeyed home into the night, pulling into our pad just after 3:30 Sunday morning. But it was all worth it. The screwed up sleep schedule, the lack of dietary consistency, the fact that for a split second, I think I had some kind of wet substance coming out of my eyes, all of it made the ride great. And something that I think I might L-word doing again with a member of the opposite sex.

That is, if she doesn't mind my new tramp stamp.

Pre-Post Secret

388 miles away from home, three nimrods sit at a bar in Grand Junction, waiting for hot wings and beer battered fries meanwhile glued to the pixels making up the next stage of Draw Something.

Yes, that's us. Myself, Chris Caldwell and Bryan Uhri took an extended man-date road trip across I-70. Which I may add, is the most boring piece of land outside of Wyoming itself.

For full effect, create your own road trip playlist and play at maximum volume for a sustained five hours.

I would go into detail about this trip, an iPhone combined with a fresh order of hot wings won't do it justice, so until then, just listen to Bob Dylan and tell all those dirty little secrets in your own mind. I'll be back with a full recap tomorrow night.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:At a bar in Grand Junction, CO

I L-word Being a Man

As most of you know, I grew up in a very unique household surrounded by women. I say that meaning that I had 11 sisters. Sisters who were very girly, very feminine. However, I stood my ground and maintained my masculine side. And I have a few things to say about how I love being a man.

I love being a man. I love not worrying about whether my toilet seat is up or down. I love getting excited about watching things blow up. I love reciting the story line of the 2004 NBA finals. I love not worrying about if my pants match my shoes. I love not having to put on makeup before I go out in public.

I love getting out of the shower, stopping and flexing in front of my mirror, and thinking that I’m the sexiest guy in the whole world. True story ladies, every guy does that. I love being able to get ready for the day in under five minutes. I love not worrying about excusing the mess to guests at my apartment, simply because most guys are messy and I have a reason for my messiness.

I love lounging around in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts all day long and not feeling guilty about it at all. I love eating a double cheeseburger at one in the morning and not worrying about if any of it is going to my thighs. I love watching the Super Bowl not just for the commercials. I love ogling over a picture of Carmen Electra just because I can. I love not having to worry about the agony of childbearing.

I love discussing the latest car trends with a group of my buddies not any of us having a clue of what we’re talking about. I love not asking people for directions when I’m lost. I love watching Dumb and Dumber hundreds of times and still laughing at the same jokes over and over again. I love talking about hunting stories with my buddies that we’ve all been on, and exaggerating the details until the story is nearly unbelieveable. I love growing a beard and pretending to be the Brawny man, or Paul Bunyan.

I love having enough pride to cheer on a football team that hasn’t had a winning season in seven years. I love going camping, not showering for five days and still feeling like a million bucks. I love not asking my buddy if the pair of pants that I’m wearing makes me look fat. I love talking about whose truck could beat up whose. I love having the ability to go to the bathroom wherever I want to. I love having a simple life. I love being able to be pleased easily.

I love understanding how an engine works. I love having the words testosterone in my vocabulary and not estrogen, as well as in my body too. I love watching movies that have massive explosions and fast car chases, and not ones that have long distance love, and romance from beyond the grave. I love not crying at the sight of a deer drinking out of a pond at sunrise while classical music plays in the background.

I love getting excited over a good set of nachos. I love seeing how many gummi bears I can stuff in my mouth on a Saturday night after drinking a 24 pack of Mt. Dew with my buddies. I love watching four hours of Sportscenter a day and being entertained throughout it all. I love pretending to know what I’m talking about when a girl asks me something about cars. I love being a man.

Fear

Ever since the young days where I would lay on my mothers’ bed at night and she would pour out to me the fantastic stories created by Tolkien in “The Hobbit”, my mind has been completely fascinated with the art of story-telling. And that deep fascination has carried into the way that I compose myself around friends. My reputation as quite an exaggerator precedes me on all aspects, but contrarily is praised at all angles when my mind delves into the deep files of extraordinary chronicles that have happened at one time or another. Ears will perk up, heads will turn, eyes will become entranced as I gallop on about being chased down a set of rural railroad tracks by legions of angry policemen. Or biking through the flooding streets of Virginia Beach while a storm with hurricane force crashed down upon my companion and I. I can see the reactions and effect it has on whatsoever crowd has gathered to listen to my increasingly tall tales.

As I have gotten older, my love for story-telling has only increased, as well as my desire to use this gift to my fullest ability. I remember doing a research paper my freshman year of high school on the subject of what we as young adults would like to be when we grew older and were slammed with the choice of careers. The most trendy picks such as rock star and model were a popular selection, and there were few students who had actually a genuine love for the career that they had chosen. I decided upon a writer, although I wasn’t yet sure what medium I would be focusing on later in life. The irony of that situation 13 years ago stands staring at me in the face every time I close my eyes on another wasted day of career-pursuit, or when I jot down another hope of an idea for a future blogpost. And it is looking back at me this moment as I gaze dumb-founded at the blinking cursor mocking me on the harsh white screen.

My English teacher, Mrs. Pennsylvania Bradshaw chided and scolded me for not having more direction in my research paper as to what type of writer I would like to become. Her words are echoing off the walls of my small St. George apartment as I sit in bewilderment and frustration at the side-career paths I have walked down currently to keep food on my table and clothes on my back. Hopes and ambitions at becoming a marquee name in the field of writing are almost becoming a lost cause as I quit whistling the Toys-R-Us theme song and begin a life of a career jammed down my throat because the creative soul inside of me is too lethargic to get up and make a name for himself. Sure I have consistently vented my writing urge to this blog for the past year and a half, breaking out random posts that have given my online persona a slight uniqueness. But on the big picture it is nothing to applaud and proclaim one of the greatest single feats of my young life.

I am tired of using humdrum excuses of an infinitesimal group of has-been, could-have been, and never-was writers that were missing that one last push to become something great. To become a Hemingway, or a Tolkien, or Bradbury. The writers who have god-given gifts but are stopped dead in their tracks of excellence because of one simple word.

Fear.

Fear is what prevents us all from becoming something great. Fear is what puts despicable nightmares across our minds and shatters dreams that we have all had about something that we want so very badly. Fear is what tells us that we can’t. That we won’t. That we never will. Fear is the mind’s greatest bully as we intellectually sit on the playground debating whether to stand up for ourselves and hit him back.

My mother used to say that Fear was an acronym for False Events Appearing Real. Is that the truth? Who knows? But what are the thoughts that paralyze us from doing something extraordinary? What are the bone-chilling imaginings that make each and every one of us hopefuls alter our destined position of what we truly want to become?

As I shut the lights off and stare at the ceiling after yet another has-been day gone by, it will eat at me until the sunlight gleams through my window alerting me that another day has arrived. My biggest fear is that my speech will go unheard, my words unspoken, my scripts unread. The thought that my voice will fade away into the deep abyss of unwritten writers does more than just keep me up at night. Will I use this God-given talent for more than just a blog and a semi-entertaining post every once in a while?

Only time will tell.

As the curtain is drawn to a close on the final act of a rather short essay on life and the deeper meanings of it, I can’t help but close my eyes and remember lying on my mother's bed, as I said in the beginning, and lull myself to sleep listening to the grandeur of tales of Bilbo Baggins, of Gandalf and the elven expedition, of the cave of Smaug and the journey deep into the heart of his lair. The hair on the back of my neck stands up straight as I recall the first impulsions to walk down the path of story-telling. Will the fear hold me back, or will I stare into the bullies eyes and give him an uppercut explosion of creativity and excitement that send him roaring away?

It’s a good thing my Dad taught me how to fight.

Or at least, I hope he did.

My Secret Love Affair

Dear Hoist,

Look, I know that the two of us have had an amazing relationship over the course of us being together. It has been a wild ride, with some incredibly high highs, and of course some vomit-lined low’s. There are times in between burpees, kettlebell swings, and thrusters that make me want to go ballistic on you. But no matter what has happened, my love for you has continued to grow each and every day when we meet for a good solid hour and express our sweet passion for each other. I have loved the pet names that I have given you, names like Elizabeth, Nancy, and Fran.

Of course there is the pet name that I call you every once in a while that starts with a B and rhymes with itch, but that only happens in our arguments when you beat my physical body to a pulp. Anyway, the main reason for this letter is basically because I have to admit something to you. I made a mistake that I have to get out in the open just so that you and I can move on. Last night at around 11:30, I got a call from that girl that you know and hate with a passion. Remember who I’m talking about? “Rocky Road Ice Cream at Harmons?”

Yeah, her.

Well anyway, as I laid on my couch and thought of you, I made the stupid mistake of going out last night and hooking up with her. For two GIANT bowls we hooked up, and I thought it was so divine. In the back of my mind I was thinking, “What would Hoist say if she was just standing in my kitchen watching me shove my face full of this devilish deliciousness?” I feel so ashamed as to what I have done to satisfy my physical pleasures.

But, I have realized it was an errant mistake on my part, and after rolling around in agony all night, I realize that I need to re-commit myself to you, and what you have done for me in our relationship. I know that we’re probably going to fight and argue and you will no doubt physically abuse me, but that’s what I L-word about you. Again, I’m so deeply sorry for what I have done, and hope that you can look down in forgive me for my stupid, stupid physical mistake. I’ll see you kicking my butt tomorrow…

Much love,

Swamp Thing