Christian Snobbery (and Hob Nobbery)

It has come to my attention that there are certain “snobberies” within the Christian community. Well, I suppose these snobberies would exist in any group of people, but the group I am most familiar with would be the Christian community. Snobberies…Little obsessive hobbies that we pride ourselves on and enjoy displaying our knowledge of. Whatever niche it may be, we hone in on it and feel good about putting other people down who are not quite as advanced in that subject as we are. A few examples:

Christian Beer Snob – These may be the most pervasive and the loudest of Christian snobs. For some reason they prefer the darker brews to the lighter. They hate anything domestic and even have nice little names of mockery for them (“Butt wiper” comes to mind for Budweiser). They hate macro-breweries. In fact, the only thing they really like is some weird, never-heard-of-it-before, Belgian and German dark brews that were produced in the basement of some monastery and come in larger, differently shaped bottles. These beers taste absolutely disgusting to the average beer consumer, but to their advanced and sophisticated tastes – it is the only real beer available. Everything else out there is a sell-out. Christian Wine Snobs and Christian Liquor Snobs could fit under this category as well, I suppose.

Christian Coffee Snob – These are less frequent than the beer snobs, but like them, they prefer their drink dark. Folgers, Maxwell House, and any homegrown, domestic, macro-produced, grocery-store-selling grounds are no good. They call that “brown colored water.” The real coffee has to be imported from some small, South American village where they privately grow their beans (organic, dark, bold, coffee beans). Depending on the degree of Coffee snobs – Starbucks is at worst Satan and at best tolerable. But most coffee snobs secretly like the coffee (they say that it is simply “ok”), they just hate the Starbucks culture. They would never order a frappuccino. The darker, the bolder, the better.

Christian Literature Snob – Don’t be confused, these people don’t prize themselves on “Christian literature,” no, no, they are Christians who happen to prize themselves on anything but Christian literature. They quote things from authors and books the average reader has never heard of and claim that these pieces of lit are the greatest things ever. And you have to read them. Ever tried reading one of these books that the Lit Snobs recommend? Try getting through the first 50 pages. They’re about as entertaining as watching dust collect. But they will assure you that it is the greatest piece of literature ever composed, touching the depths of human emotion (boredom).

Christian Music Snob – There are several different molds of the Music Snob. Some are Classical Rock Snobs and claim that the newer stuff can never compete with the old. Some are Indie Snobs, until the entire world went Indie and now they feel a bit insecure, hoping to find their identity in a different genre. Then you have the Real Music Snobs – people mentioning old school Jazz and country musicians from the 20s and 30s, people who only listen to vinyl, who have never even heard of Dave Matthews. These people scare me. There is a whole host of Music Snobs and they are by far the most predominant of the Christian community – there is a Snob for every conceivable genre and era.

Christian Movie Snob – These Snobs scoff at mainstream, blockbuster, Hollywood pictures. They prefer B films, no, C films. If it is foreign, it already has a head start against homegrown films. The more subtitles, the better. If it is black and white, even better. Does it have a never-heard-of-before foreign director? Now we are talking. The content should be abstract and confusing, looking absolutely meaningless and stupid to the average viewer, but to the Movie Snob, these movies far surpass anything else. They appreciate the lighting, the cinematography, the angles, the symbolism, and other ridiculous things that no one else pays attention to.

Christian Snobs are sort of like Christian Gnostics. Whatever field of expertise they camp on, they invest their heart and souls and discover the secret element that allows them to appreciate the thing more than your average, run of the mill consumer. They are the elite. They have the key to understanding. “Oh, you didn’t catch that can of peas on the table in the foreground, that was a symbolic foreshadowing of the protagonist’s plight against his childhood memories. Oh, that’s too bad you didn’t catch it. It really unlocks the story.” Or perhaps you’ve heard, “You don’t like that? You didn’t catch that peppery, almost cherry, hint on the back palate?”

I’m somewhat of a blend of all the above – too insecure to not want to be an expert in something and too lazy and scatterbrained to invest and commit to any one field. But I suppose if I had to choose, it would be the Coffee Snobbery. Hate that Starbucks (but secretly love it).

Which one are you?

Mascots and Have-nots

While reading the news this morning, Kathryn and I came across a few more articles pertaining to the Tamil Tiger rebel group in Sri Lanka. Kathryn said something to the effect of, "Finally, a terrorist organization with a mascot."

I agree.

It's about time those radical, political, militant rebel forces out there go by something other than those weird, unpronounceable names. They need something a little more down to earth, something a little more collegiate. How about the Hezbollah Eagles? Or the Al Quida Yellowjackets? Or the Hamas Oilers? Or the Taliban Sooners?

Do the Tamil Tigers have cheerleaders? Do they chant, "Go Tigers, Go Tigers, Go!!!" as they invade innocent lands and oppress innocent people?

I think these terrorist/political groups should establish an intramural sports league. I'd buy tickets to see the Eagles play the Oilers. I would even try and snag some courtside tickets for the Sooners vs. the Tigers.

But I wouldn't cheer for them. I'd bring one of those big, giant foam finger things. Only mine wouldn't be the pointer finger.

Budgeting with Bush

I am currently writing my very first blog entry. I can't tell if it's an inevitable stage, like walking or riding your bike, or if it's the beginning signs of a spiraling down. As George Costanza was convinced that every moment in life "could be a show," so Matt thinks every thought in life "could be a blog". So here I spiral...

I recently read an article about women with the highest salaries in the world. I then jumped to the thought of the President of the United State's salary. He makes $400 thousand a year, which looks like a quarter compared to some of these techies out there. I was confused and even a little angry. Doesn't the President hold the highest, most respected seat in all the United States? No, I don't want him and his family to have enough money to create their own reality TV show, but this discrepancy seemed a little ridiculous.

Then I started having a little fun with my ponderings. For real. Why does the President need money? "Yeah, I gotta fly out to visit the Prime Minister of Malaysia...Shoot...We didn't budget for this...eerrrr...we'll have to cut back on groceries next month." Or maybe at a dinner with his cabinet. "Y'all, seriously, I've got this one! What do you think they pay me for??" I don't know much of anything about the specifics of the President's salary, but I'm having a hard time coming up with things he actually has to pay for. Tuition? Would his daughters' institutions really charge the President for their tuition bills? Or the power bill for the White House...who pays for that? I honestly doubt it's GWB. I can see the daughters shopping with that money. I can see that. But my mind doesn't venture much further.

555-DUMB

Whenever I am watching a television show or a movie or sorts and somewhere in the action, a character reveals a 7 digit phone number, my initial reaction is, "I can't believe they gave the entire number. What if some stupid prankster-kid out there dials it and it turns out to really be some poor, unknowing person's phone number. And what if like 500 people around the world have the same idea and start calling that phone number? Wouldn't the poor, unknowing person be able to sue the television show or movie for televizing their phone number? Shouldn't they be held responsible for the harassment? The poor, unknowing person would have to change out their phone number. It would be a huge mess. They'd have to send out one of those mass emails that says, "Hey my phone number has changed. From now, on call this number..." And then you'd have those people out there that got the email, but didn't immediately update the phone number in their cell phone and 3 weeks down the road they'd try to call the poor, unknowing person and not be able to get in touch with them. They'd call and call and only be met with the obnoxious tonal sound and the robotic-lady voice informing them that the number has been disconnected. Relationships destroyed. Legal alligations made. Compensation. Responsibility. Culpability. Drama. All because a television show or movie decided to disclose some fake number they made up."

And then after a while, once I calm down, my secondary reaction is, "Who would actually call one of those numbers? What type of prank would that be? What would they expect to hear on the receiving end? Do people really do that? I mean, seriously. That's ridiculous. Why would anyone reach for the phone, dial it up real quickly (or perhaps rewind the show if they missed it - assuming they had TiVo or a DVD/VCR player), and make the call? That's just stupid."

And then after a longer while, once I get revved up again, my thirdary reaction is, "Maybe I should do that. Just to see what happens."

And I invite you to do the same.

Donuts or Doughnuts?

If I was a police officer, I think I would be just a little insecure about going into donut shops wearing my uniform. Do cops even go in there anymore? Is the stereotype still legit? It is, at least, in every one's mind, but do you really find cops sitting at a table by themselves in the old Krispy Kreme, passing the time with a chocolate cruller? I must admit, it has been a long time since I have actually gone into a donut shop, so I can not be the voice of experience on this one. But all that to say - suppose I was a police officer...go ahead, suppose it....I think I would feel a little stupid going in to a donut shop. Wouldn't the cashier make a subtle joke or something? Would the rest of my cop buddies tease me if they found out? "Oh, Officer Howell, we don't go into donut shops anymore. That was so 1993."

Why are cops known for their obsession with donuts? I still remember the opening scene from Die Hard 1, where the black guy from Family Matters is a cop in a convenient store buying some goodies and donuts. (By the way, he played a cop on Family Matters too. That's just bizarre. Does this actor only play cops? Carl Winslow.) And you know it is in other movies. Especially good 80s and 90s flicks. I don't doubt it was all throughout Police Academy, but I don't know. I haven't seen those flicks in a LONG time. But for whatever reason, Hollywood wants you think that our police officers love a good hunk of fried dough. But who doesn't? Why are cops the only ones getting stereotyped? Surely there are other professions that eat more donuts than cops. What about donut bakers? They are back there all day, probably eating donuts. Or what about loiterers? Certainly those that loiter in donut shops should be stereotyped more than the coppers.

Making this world fatter one person at a time...

Awkward Photos (Part 2)

For Corbin again...

Trident White: Whitens Teeth and Helps Prevent Stains

We recently purchased some Trident "White" chewing gum. Gum is always a handy item in case one is looking to have a chew. Besides, Trident White is sugarless. And it whitens teeth as you chew it. And it helps prevent stains. With all of the benefits included, it was hard to pass up. We gladly paid the 85 cents for a cool rush of Trident flavored chewing gum that aided in the whitening of our teeth.

Once we got home I read the back of the package and took a closer look at the fine print. It reads:

The great tasting way to a whiter smile!
Chewing 2 pieces of Trident White sugarless gum after eating and drinking helps:
-Prevent stains
-Strengthen teeth
-Whiten teeth in as little as 4 weeks

Ok. Let me get this straight, Trident White people. I need to chew 2 pieces of gum after every time I eat? I would say that it is fairly accurate to assume that an average person eats 3 times a day. So the Trident people expect me to chew 6 pieces of gum every day? Excessive. Then it goes on - it will whiten your teeth if you do this for 4 weeks straight! So in order to really experience the "white" part of Trident White, I have to relentlessly chew 6 pieces of gum a day for 4 straight weeks.

I've done the math. That is 168 pieces of gum. Only after chewing 168 pieces of gum do you get your whitening results. And if 12 pieces of gum come in one package, you have to buy 14 packages of gum. Surely this much gum chewing can't be good for you. Assuming they are 85 cents a package (I'm not sure....could be more or less), that is going to run you close to 12 bucks. Just on gum alone. You could buy a CD for that.

So there it is people. Do you want whiter teeth? You can have them. It will only cost you 12 dollars, 4 weeks of time, and 168 pieces of gum to chew. Stupid.

Greek Week: Sneak Peek

3 weeks, 20 chapters, and 227 vocab words later, I have survived Greek 1. Endless hours forcefully cramming bizarre paradigms and strange vocabulary into my skull are over. No more daily quizzes. No more third declensions. No more memory clues to help remember tricky words. No more afternoons spent plugging away on workbook excercises when I could be tossing a frisby in the park. No more dreams about me studying (it is true, I did have several dreams....nightmares). It is over. Yes, it is over. And I have the scars and battle wounds to prove it.

I'm very excited to be finished with Greek 1. And I really am going to enjoy the 5 WHOLE FREAKING DAYS I have before Greek 2 starts. Good grief. It just doesn't stop. 5 days. That's all I get. And then the insanity resumes. More vocab. More quizzes. More translations. More weird memory clues. More afternoons spent. More dreams.

I Grilled the Grill

Summer time marks the season of lemonade, bathing suits, sun burns and hotdogs. For our household, it marks the season of near disaster. Yesterday I was given a simple assignment - Grill two chicken breasts. It was about 7 in the evening, we had just enjoyed a wonderful meal outside on the back porch, and Kathryn was in the midst of preparing some chicken/pasta dish for the week's worth of lunches. She needed two chicken breasts grilled. We have a grill. This shouldn't be that hard. But of course....disaster.

I turned on the gas and lit the three igniters (sp?) - so far so good. Let it heat up. Give it a good ten minutes or so. Nice and toasty. Kathryn sat outside and I swept the porch while the grill heated up. We enjoyed our last few moments of an insanity-free evening. After a few minutes I opened up the grill to check on the progress and as soon as I lifted the lid, thick, cobalt smoke came billowing out. Balls of flames were consuming the insides. And then I saw what had happened. I had left the black, plastic scrapey thing in there from the previous use. Laffy Taffy-like, strings of burning plastic, stretched between the lid and the grates creating what looked and felt like the jaws of some monster you'd find in a low budget horror film. Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire....in fact, great balls of dripping oil-like fire that was once plastic, er..solid plastic.

For some reason in the moment of terror and desperation, I managed to kindly ask Kathryn if I could borrow her glass of water. (She said yes.) I tossed it onto the inferno and quickly turned off the igniters (sp?) and the gas to the troubling chorus of hissing and wheezing as the strands of black plastic cooled down. 2 hours later I evaluated the damage and discovered that plastic cools down to a solid that is just about as hard as it was before it liquified. Now I have chords of frozen plastic threaded between my grill grates.

There is no help desk phone number for this kind of problem. This problem does not make the FAQ list. Now we're left on our own to decide: do we spend money replacing grill parts and/or grill or do we take a chance with that first burger, marinated and seasoned with toxins? Tough call. Honestly. Tough call.

[Written by both Mathryn]

Sammy + Lily = Silly

This is my new nephew. And my new niece. Their names are Sammy and Lily. They are babies.

Aunt + Uncle = Auntcle

My sister had twins yesterday. Pics forthcoming. I am an uncle. Kathryn is an aunt.

The following is an email my mother sent out:

Samuel Jacob was born at 7:57 a.m. weighing 5 pounds,
3 ounces and 17 inches long.

Lillian June was born at 7:58 a.m. weighing 5 pounds
exactly and 17 inches long.

Mon, dad, babies and grandparents are all doing well.
We think the babies look like Todd but have Amy's
strawberry blonde hair.

This is gospel. What a great day.

Misnomers and Money

A broker is someone who buys and sells goods and assets for others. It is in the interest of the person who hires the broker for them to make the most amount of money possible.

So isn't it a bit odd that they are called a "broker?" Shouldn't they be called a "richer?"

I'm not going to hire a broker. That sounds masochistic.

Awkward Photos (Part 1)

For Corbin....who else?

Tommy Jaundice

Juan-Dee-Say

The Rise and Fall of Ol' Trusty

It had to have been 2002. I was living in the Gomer Jones Dormitory on the campus of the University of Oklahoma. In the athletic dorm lounge, the mini-student union of our little four-building complex, I played my first game of ping pong. The kind people in the athletic department had graciously supplied us with paddles - awful plastic paddles that reversed the purpose of a paddle - rather than sending the ball in the opposite direction, it absorbed the velocity and deadened it, dropping the ball immediately to the ground. They were smattered with green felt, a thin, fuzzy layer of cloth that not only didn't help, it made things worse. Those were the worst paddles ever.

And I was terrible. But day after day we would play. In between study breaks. After lunch. Right before your next class. Late at night. The paddle that once was so awkward in my hands was now perfectly conforming to it, resting in my palm as if it it were made to be there. Serves would be returned without the ball being lauched across the room in the other direction. Points were being made. Games were being won.

I don't know where Ol' Trusty was during all of this but we eventually met. Ol' Trusty was the coveted wooden paddle of the assortment of plastic, felt ones. Trusty was plain, brown, and simple - a meager wooden paddle with a sheet of sand paper glued on each side. It's handle was broken in that the added grips had been removed. All that remained was a flat, wide popsicle stick that fanned out into an actual paddle. But yet it was coveted because it was one of the rare wooden paddles among the pantheon of plastic options. I played with Trusty so much that I began to worry that perhaps while I was away, someone else would play with it and snap it in two in a raged response to losing (this was a legitimate fear for it had happened with many-a-paddle). So I did what I had to do. I took Trusty in to be my own. I adopted him. I took a sharpie pen to each side of the sand paper. One side read: Ol'. The other: Trusty. It was that day that the marriage was forged. The slogan would become, "In Trusty I trust."

I never played with anything else. We were known around the campus to always be together. People would say, "There goes Trusty and Matt." He would attend my classes with me. He would rest on the table while I was at the library preparing for a test. And then there was that legendary night where Charles and Jason and I stayed up well into the evening playing. The legend has it that Trusty and I could not be beaten. Charles and Jason would trade spots, back and forth, losing and sitting out and waiting their turn again, but it was no use. Game after game Trusty racked up the victories. It was a night like no other. I think we must have won 50 straight.

After I graduated college, Trusty came with me. I couldn't part with him. He rested in a small crevice in the trunk of my car for months. He moved with me from Oklahoma to Texas to Louisiana. He was called upon maybe twice in Baton Rouge to play, but for the most part he was content to sit peacefully in my trunk. Waiting. Waiting for his time to shine again.

And from Louisiana, Trusty joined me to Tennessee and then North Carolina. On my first day of school at the seminary, I was informed by the other students that ping pong was huge here. Students played nonstop. There was a room dedicated to the olde past time and it was filled during every class break. During my first class last week, I unsheathed Ol' Trusty from the trunk of my car and let him shine once again in the splendid glory that was his.

Only he did not shine as brightly as I once remembered him to shine. Technology must had gone and advanced since my days at Oklahoma, for the students here sneered at my simple wooden paddle - they all sported new, inline foam paddles, sleak and polished with the perfect amount of soft foam on each side to add just the right amount of spin and thrust. I soon learned that Trusty could not compete at this level. Defeat after defeat piled up as the week unfolded. At first I thought that it was my inability to play at this new level. I optimistically hoped that I would catch up with time and secure my first victory. But my fear was that the fault didn't lie with me...but with Trusty.

Fellow seminary student Dave Kulp let me know with no hesitation that Trusty would not be able to perform at the Seminary level. We were in the pros now. And game after game, Kulp pounded Trusty into embarrassment, thus fulfilling the ominous prophecy against it. Trusty would not be able to compete at this level.

And so in an act propelled by shame and sadness, the divorce was secured, and I set down Trusty and picked up the new, inline, glistening foam paddle. The other students diabolically smiled, as if I had been won over to the darkside. And no doubt I had. I had sold my soul to victory and left my dear friend behind. Trusty will be forever etched into my memory as a dear friend, a true companion, and one that would not give up a fight. But Trusty was indeed old (hence, Ol') and his capacities were discovered to be limited. And so this blog entry is for you, Ol' Trusty. It was good while it lasted, but I must move on. Adulterous traitor I may be, but victorious I will remain.

Ol' Trusty, may you forever rest in peace.

Jones House: Mander

My dear friend Steve is not normal. But who is, really?

My Reconciliation with Clive Staples

For years I rolled my eyes at C.S. Lewis. Inundated with Lewis quotes from books and sermons, I wrote him off as a syrupy, smooth, simple author whom syrupy, smooth, simple Christians appreciated. I associated him with rudimentary training manuals for Christian volunteer leaders who wanted to work with youth groups. The title of his great opus - Mere Christianity - can't help but give you that impression. He doesn't discuss anything deep, he only deals with mere Christianity - the bare basics, the simple and obvious, the trite and cliche. In my pretentiousness, I preferred to read those authors dealing with something beyond mere Christianity - those who used big theological words that ended in "ism" and "ification" and who quoted German theological journals in the footnotes. Lewis was cotton candy. They were the hard stuff.

And so when I got the syllabus for my first seminary class and noticed that two Lewis books were required, I was disappointed. And after reading them, I realize how greatly mistaken I have been for all of these years. Lewis is anything but cotton candy.

He is as gritty as it gets. He is just simply...cool. He writes about alcohol and cigars and sex. He makes no room for sympathy with those he disagrees with, in fact, he tears them to pieces with little remorse. His humor and wit is woven into his clear-headed arguments. He is miles deeper and much more profound and right than I ever gave him credit for. He understands reality and all of its strangeness, beauty, sickness and potential - and describes it all with fresh insight and imagination.

I have made my peace with Jack. And it is great to have found such a good friend in him. I now look forward to getting to know him better over the years over cups of coffee, pints of beer, and other pleasantries that he can enjoy with me.

The Only Four Pictures I Have of Gerard

Unfortunately, my dormitory webcam only caught four snapshots of the gorgeous Charles Gerard Steger VI. Here they are for your viewing pleasure.

A Clintvention

clintestructable

clintroduce

clintention

clinteractive

clintantaneous

Bachelor's Degrees and Two Pieces

It has come to my attention that 9 universities in the USofA require a swimming test to graduate college. This seems completely arbitrary and random to me. What in the world? The test: one must swim 50 yards and tread water for 5 minutes. If you can't do this, you don't graduate. Might as well not fool with bulking up the resume, putting in those extra hours of community service, heck, even quit studying if you know you can't pass the swim test. It is absolutely necessary. If you can't swim, not only do you drown, but you can't graduate.

The schools - Notre Dame, MIT, Cornell, Columbia, Hamilton, Dartmouth, Swarthmore, and Washington and Lee, plus the service academies.

Swimming requirements for a degree? I don't get it. I don't even think I could tread water straight for 5 minutes. Do you realize how hard that is? Good thing the University of Oklahoma could care less about my cardiovascular devolopment. They now seem to only care how much money I am going to give them as an alumni. Perhaps if they were more concerned with my natatorial maturation I would give them some money for a change.

Sand, Sunscreen, and Sundry Other Items of Annoyance

Two and a half weeks at the beach. RUF Summer Conference. Panama City. Anyone else would have been thrilled, I'm sure. They probably would even be aghast to hear me complaining about it. But complain I will. And complain I must. I don't like the beach. I don't think I ever want to return.

Last year I wrote a similar blog entry entitled, "Son of a Beach," where I elaborated a familiar rant of displeasure with the ocean, the sand, the sunscreen, the subsequent sunburns, the salt water, the sea weed, the smells, etc. And yes, all of those things still burrow into my patience and rob me of any enjoyment. After 2.5 weeks at the beach I stepped into the water twice. I walked on the sand four times. I'm sorry. It's just not my thing.

Sure I enjoy looking at it. That is fun. But that can only last so long. Don't get me wrong, the beach is beautiful. The relentless rhythm of foamy waves lapping on the sparkling, hot sand is a glorious sight. I just prefer to view it from within an air conditioned room. Call me spoiled. Go ahead. Call me that. Spoiled.

The routine is what gets me. You squeeze into that netted, uncomfortable swim suit and remove every other article of clothing. You smear smelly ointment over every square inch of skin that will be exposed to the sun. This requires calling in reinforcements to smear it on that part of your back you can't quite reach, which is most awkward if the only one around to administer help is a male. Awkward to say the least. Then you leave your pleasantly cool room and step out into the glaring, merciless sun (I forgot to bring sunglasses. Didn't wear them the entire time) and squint your way across the street to the beach front. It is hot. Sweat has begun to bead on your shoulders and forehead. You've only been simply walking. Walking. Once you arrive at the sand, you toss your sandals aside and trudge through the unbearably difficult-to-walk-through sand, which gives way under every step forcing you to put in twice as much energy into the next. Once you make it to the water (if you can muster the strength to walk that far) you step in only to have your skin constrict and your arms raise up in a spastic tauntness due to the surprisingly frozen temperature of the ocean. You may gradually and bravely go further into the rising tide, careful not to get certain extremities wet. Once you've had enough of the saltwater spilling into your mouth and the sweat stinging your eyes you return to the sand, only to have it almost magnetically stuck to your now wet feet. You trudge back up to the road collecting more sand as you go (which everyone knows never fully leaves your body. I've heard of people finding granules in their scalp weeks after leaving the beach). You snag your abandoned sandals, assuming someone else hasn't first, and tip toe your way across wood and hot concrete to those foot-showers where you are again blasted with frozen water on your legs to rinse off the glued-on sand. You slip back on the sandals and now walk back to the room, which ironically is no longer plagued by the blazing, suffocating heat, rather it is replaced by the ocean-driven winds whipping you and driving the chill into your shriveled, exposed skin. Back in the room you shower and more sand appears in the bottom on the tub. And thankfully that suntan lotion is now cooked into your skin, so the smell can linger about you everywhere you go. And when you step out of the shower you realize that the bathroon floors have collected large puddles from when you walked in from the beach, dripping swimsuit in tow.

Misery. Utter misery. You can have it. I was there for two and half weeks and I read three books. I sat by the pool. I swam a bit. I played basketball and volleyball. I played Pool Game with the LSUers. I ate ice cream. I talked with folk. But I did not go to the beach much. Nor do I think I'll return.

The Jones House Archives...UNLOCKED!

A Link to the Past

College. It was a time of many pranks, many adventures, and little studying. It was a chapter of life riddled with late night free pizza runs, water ballooning frat guys, running from angry frat guys, and touring unsuspecting people through abandoned slaughter houses. These are the memories and moments that stand out. These are what I look back on with great excitement and subsequent nostalgia. It was a chapter of life that is closed and forever behind me.

Or is it?

With being married I have discovered that the metaphorical "college years" of my life do not necessarily have to be forever locked away in the memory vault. In the dorms I had Steve, Clint, Jason, Blake, Russ and countless other idiots to parade the town, search out free food from closing fast food chains, and terrorize pedestrians with. Now I have Kathryn. And we will carry on the torch together. We will. We must.

Last week while in Charlotte we were on one of our many, exhausting, yet necessary errands around the city to pick up something that was 'needed' for the apartment. The errand was Best Buy to try and snag a very-much needed television before they closed at 9:00 with some of our very-much appreciated wedding cash. We found one, grabbed it, and had it loaded in the back of my car by 9:15. It was dark now, of course, and the metal bars that Best Buy rigged up on the doors behind us reminded me that places were closing down at this time. So when I saw the Domino's Pizza neon blue sign glaring at me on the same strip mall, two and two were instantly put together. Like the Kingdom of God in reverse, the age before broke into the present and I menacingly convinced Kathryn to step inside to attempt a free pizza scam.

I couldn't hear anything from the car outside. I sat in the driver's seat and saw her through the window talking with the young man behind the counter. The tension was mounting. What was she saying? Why was it taking so long? I was trying to piece together the conversation given their behavior and head nods. But there was nothing to go off of. It was a silent movie with manikans. Then the man turned and began looking around behind him. My heart began to race, for I knew that if you can just get the employee to turn and search, the battle has already been won. He is now on your side. He is now looking for pizzas that have been put into the pile identified as "messed up orders" or "pick-ups that were never picked up." It was that set of pizzas that the employees ate on while they worked and it promised to be the set of pizzas we would eat on as well, though without cost. Kathyryn emerged from the door moments later with three pizza boxes in her arms, boasting of thin crusts' pepperoni and pineapple, jalepeno and canadian bacon, and hamburger and sausage. The score was big. The emotions ran high. The celebration had begun.

On her way out to the car, the employee that gave her the pizzas burst out the door shouting, "I hate Domino's. I quit!" As we drove away we could see him walking out to his car in the parking lot. Terrified and embarrassed that she had somehow gotten the poor man fired, Kathryn called up the Domino's to check it out. It turns out the young man was simply going out to his car to get something and wanted a little attention from Kathryn as she left. No harm done.

Kathryn wouldn't touch the half-eaten-on pizza, leaving three large pies just for me. For free. And in so doing, a new era of life has been ushered in, a strange hybrid of past and present, single and married, adolescent and adult. And with this new era I will enjoy not only the adrenaline and newfound company, but the fruits of free pizza, free chicken and biscuits, free rice, free tacos, free custard, and free food wherever Kathryn can be convinced of going into next. May the trumpets of marriage resound.

married merriment

i am married now. we are very excited. thrilled, even. marriage is so much fun. we can hardly stand it. we can't take it. we're married. it is every thing we ever wanted. marital bliss. that's what it is. bliss.

we're so happy.

we're matthryn.

The Wedding Bells Toll For Me

The countdown is 48 hours. Wedding. Details. Insanity. This is my life right now. Parents meeting the in-laws. Opening gifts. Finalizing details. Checking into hotels. Running around town. Checking the weather. Packing. Getting sick and needing vitamins. More gifts. More weather checking. More insanity. More details.

48 hours.

And then it will all be over. Kathryn put it best - it has been interesting to enjoy all the preparation and at the same time wish it all away. And that is very true. You love it. You hate it. Light meets darkness. Ying meets yang. You love the wedding and you also desperately want it over. You cling to your last few hours of singleness and also can't wait to toss them away forever. Life is very strange in that regard. Very strange indeed.

48 hours.

I have nothing else to write here. I am spent.

U Haul?...Screw Yall

In the past 2 years, I will have moved 5 times. Gross.

1. Oklahoma to Dallas
2. Dallas to Baton Rouge (with Benn)
3. Benn in Baton Rouge to Nick in Baton Rouge
4. Nick in Baton Rouge to Barrett in Baton Rouge
5. Barrett in Baton Rouge to Kathryn in Charlotte

I hate moving.

Never before had I rented a U Haul truck to move with and never again will I. Despite the obvious name recognition, U Haul is no good. I'm not sure if I could be sued for libel here but I don't care. I hate U Haul. Don't ever use them. They are no good. Repeat: no good.

Kathryn reserved us the truck in Atlanta two weeks ago and just like Seinfeld, when we arrive our reservation proved to be pointless. They did not have the furniture pads for us that we had reserved and they only had one truck left - an old, worn out old-man of a truck with no gas in it and the check engine light on. Kathryn complained to them (actually, just to 'her' since there was only one woman working there that day) and asked them (again, 'her') what the point of "reserving" a truck and furniture pads was. The incompetent woman replied, "You just better be glad you even got a truck." And the whole Seinfeld episode repeated in our minds. "I don't think you understand the point of the reservation. The reservation reserves us a truck. You know how to take the reservation, you just don't know how to hold the reservation. Anyone can just take them..."

So without furniture pads and no time left to go somewhere else for a better truck, Kathryn drove Ol' Halfdead home and when I arrived the next day we loaded it up. To the brim. And when Saturday morning hit, we headed out for Charlotte with me behind the wheel of Ol' This-Truck-Is-About-To-Die and Kathryn in my car. When we made our way into Hill Country, I could tell the U Haul was having difficulty on the inclines. I found myself rocking back and forth in the driver's seat with the dillusional assumption that I was helping it creep over the hills. It miraculously was getting there. And making good time I might add.

Until we hit Gastonia, the smaller city just 30 miles west of Charlotte. Ol' Halfdead began to buck and sputter and was dropping speed quickly. 60 miles an hour descended to 50. Then 40. Then 30. I had to pull over. Cars were blasting by me. I rolled to a stop on the shoulder of the road and she died on me. Completely passed out. Ol' Halfdead had breathed her last. With all of our stuff in the back. And 30 miles away from its destination. I tried restarting it only to have it lurch back and forth and sputter dead again. In defeat I rested my forehead against the wheel cursing the doomed truck and the diabolical company that gave it to us.

I knew it would happen. I had numerous people tell me to not go with U Haul. They told me similiar stories. Trucks have broken down before. The employees are completely worthless. But I didn't listen. I let the numbers dictate my decision. Never again.

Kathryn sat on hold for 25 minutes with the U Haul idiots while I opened up the hood and looked at the engine. What I was looking for, I have no idea, but I have seen men on the side of the road do the same thing. Open it up. Make it look like you at least have some idea what you are doing. There is no desperation like sitting on the shoulder of a highway with a broken down car, having the loud woosh of cars force you to yell over the noise and cover your face from the wind. You begin to think crazy thoughts like "Maybe we'll have to sleep out here tonight" or "What if a car from the highway crashes into the back of our truck and all our stuff catches on fire?" There was no hope. U Haul was not picking up. Cell phone batteries were running low. I had no idea where to go, who to call, what to do. It was not a good moment for me.

After a half hour (Kathryn still was on hold) I cranked up the engine again and miraculously it started. I put it in park and hit the gas and it slowly eased its way onto the highway. I got it up to 30 and then 40 and then 50 and then 60. She came back to life. Like a spiritual regeneration, Ol' I-Hate-This-Truck was born again. Kathryn hopped back in my car and we were again on the road. For the remainder on my 40 minute drive into Charlotte I was praying that God would sustain the life of the worn out, rusty, old shell of what used to be a truck. And He did.

But never again will I use U Haul and I recommend you do the same. You might think like I did - hey, U Haul has the name you know. You just sort of call all sorts of moving trucks and trailers 'u hauls.' But be not fooled. There is more to this company than meets the ears. Screw yall, U Haul. You should change your name to We Suck. I can hear it now, "Hey, man will you help me move this Saturday? All I got is one car load and a We Suck."

Baby Teeth (And All That Jazz)

It has been a long time since I found myself tongue-ing a loose cuspid or molar. But some neighbor children here in BR find themselves with wiggling and loose teeth, only to wiggle them long enough to pop them out. And of course there is a bit of a reward for this feat in our culture. Why there is a reward for losing teeth will perhaps be the topic of another post, but not here. I wish to explore something different. I do.

What is the point of baby teeth? What purpose do they serve? Why don't we just grow in a layer of teeth and...you know....keep them? I don't know, but are humans the only things that lose teeth?

It is so bizarre to me. We don't have baby arms that we shed off only to grow 'adult' arms. Or baby livers. Or baby eyes. Why the teeth? Here we have a whole set of perfectly good teeth that just...eventually fall out. And new ones that are bigger and stronger somehow emerge right beneath them. Why didn't the first set just come bigger and stronger? Or better yet, why do they stop growing when they hit a certain size? Surely they could grow up with you and grow into the adult, bigger, stronger sort of teeth. Surely. But no.

Chew on that for a bit.

Today is the Day

I am quite familiar with Coffee Shop Culture. There's no pride in that sentence, I simply live in coffee shops. I understand what the clientele will look like. I know what 'cool' people order. I know what sorority girls order. I can tell a great deal about somebody by whether or not they put sugar and cream in their coffee. I know where to sit. I can tell who is there to study and work and who is there to be seen. There is a whole new culture surrounding these little coffee houses. And with culture comes etiquette.

One of the things I have come to sadly expect in coffee shops are those who don't understand the rules. Rule number one: Don't make/answer phone calls within the walls of the coffee shop. You take that trash outside. If somebody calls and you desperately need to take it, walk outside. No one wants to hear your isolated, loud, terribly selfish conversation 2 feet away. And yet people do it. They do it consistently.

I have come to expect the etiquette to be broken simply because IT ALWAYS HAPPENS. Even this morning, while I found myself in a local coffee house, someone picked up a phone call and carried on an entire conversation in the seat next to me. How in the world am I expected to concentrate in these conditions? And here’s the thing, when the phone call ended, this guy got up and left. That was his sole purpose of being in the coffee shop – to take the phone call. Unbelievable. Take that trash to the streets.

Today was the day where I almost made a phone call and talked on it as obnoxiously loud as I could to teach everyone in there a lesson. “Hey, what’s up?….oh, I’m just hanging out in a coffee shop….nothing…..ha! ha! ha!…..sure……no, what time are you going to the thing?.....no, nobody else is here but me......ha! ha! ha!.....oh, that's a riot!!!"

You people with cell phones are ruining the coffee shop culture because you are breaking the coffee shop etiquette. Put down the phone. Take it to the streets if you must.

It's Getting Hot in Here

Why is Louisiana so freakin humid? I'm sweating right now. I was sweating in January. I wore a sweater twice this year. When will it ever be cool again? When will it stop? Why must it be so hot?

Plan "It" Earth

An interesting play on words was the title of a speech recently delivered by Tupac Shakur's mother at McKinnley High School here in Baton Rouge a few days ago. Though I only heard about this event after the fact, I have heard enough about it to feel as though I actually was there. And I have decided to take up the call to Plan "It."

What 'it' is, I have no idea. But here speech was basically about teenagers and their problems today, how everything is all about the upcoming kids (makes me think of - "I believe the children are our future..."), etc. She said that the suicide rate is higher today than...I don't know...I guess yesterday. And she noted that racism isn't the problem, it's that people aren't living long enough to actually deal with racism.

That's about all I know. Perhaps I am not qualified to report on the speech because I have no idea what it was about, what 'it' is, and why she thinks people aren't living that long today (perhaps she is using OT figures as her standard for life span. Noah did live 950 years). Regardless, I think Mrs. Shakur had a point. We must join forces and Plan "It." Earth, there is this thing we need to plan. In other words, we need to Plan "It," Earth!

Her poetry, her sense of vocabulary, her unparalleled wit in playing with words is evidenced in the legacy she has left behind in her son/rap artist/social hero/martyr/general Tupac. Racism isn't the problem. It's life span. The children are our future. Don't do drugs. True love waits. Click it or ticket. He who smelt it dealt it. Don't drink and drive. Plan "It" Earth.

The Beetle's Purpose

In my overly reflective and pensive moments, I tend to read much into what I observe around me. Meaning becomes robust in the little things. Illustrations abound all around me. Parables envelop me.

Tonight I was sitting on the back porch with a friend and my attention was fixated on a small, June-bug like beetle. The porch light was on, which was what I assumed was the catalyst to drive this beetle into a reckless frenzy. Time after time it would fly through the air and smack head on with full force into the wall. And like one of those paddles with the rubber ball connected to it by an elastic string, it bounced back again. Over and over driving itself against the wall. I couldn't help but laugh at the poor bug. What in the world was it doing? Why did it not learn the first few times that it couldn't/shouldn't fly in that direction? His suicide piloting ended in just that. He doubled up his efforts and collided with all its strength into the wall, falling to its demise, never to be heard from again. It actually killed itself.

And in a strange way, that poor, ridiculous beetle demonstrated to me my poor, ridiculous life. Over and over again I smash my head against the metaphorical wall, promising myself that I had learned my lesson and that that would in fact be the last time I ever did that again. And without fail I find myself rubbing out another welt, wiping away a bloody mess. With reckless abandon I careen through my life knowing full well I should have learned by now what is destructive and what is helpful. I hope for progress and yet sadly discover it comes much slower than expected. I hope for change and yet at times wonder if it will ever come. Will I struggle with these things forever? I wonder. Am I simply hopeless? Am I beyond repair?

It's funny how God uses silly things like beetle's smashing themselves to death to teach us lessons. He gives us little pictures into our lives. He uses beetles. Dead theolgians call this General Revelation. I am just like the beetle. Perhaps Kafka was on to something.

Excellentlymagnificentitious

There is nothing worse than selecting groomsmen. What a terrible, terrible thing we have made it. It has been twisted into one big friendship competition where the Best Man wins and takes all. It is a self-created fraternity of the elite. Only the upper echelon are included. It creates a visible divide between the insiders and the outsiders. A mere "usher" is almost an insult. At least in our society, to be an usher is to 'almost make it' into the fraternity. But you didn't make it. No, you got beat out.

The whole thing is just so awkward. Selecting the groomsmen puts the groom in a terrible position. He has to look at his friends and actually pick which ones he's closest to. Think through your own friends. Obvious ones come to mind. But then down at the bottom of the list it gets trickier and fuzzier and people must be selected over others. People must be discarded. Elitism reigns.

Now if you happen to be one of the privileged, selected groomsmen, life is alright. You were chosen. You are one of the elite. You are one of the insiders. Perhaps that is how some people think about God's election and why they are so angry at it. Their assumption is that God picks the good ones and throws out all the "ushers."

I wish groomsmen and ushers didn't exist. Don't get me wrong, it's a great idea and I very much look forward to having my dearest friends up there with me when I get married, but count on us to make it into a pick and choose game of matrimonial elitism. If I had to do it over, I'd gather a group of homeless people from off the streets, dress them up in tuxes and have them be my groomsmen. I'd make a grand theological statement. "This is what God does. All of those people you marginalize and write off, those are the ones I'm closest to. They are the elite, not those who think they are the elite. The last will be first." I should have done that.

And all my real friends would have been sitting there pissed at me.

Galactic Real Estate

While bouncing around the world wide web in search of groomsmen gifts, I stumbled across something quite peculiar. As a gift, you can purchase real estate on the surface of the moon. And it is not a joke. Right now, one acre of moon land is going for $29.99. Here is the add:

It is true. You can purchase land on the Moon. 100% legal and real! Moon property is: a great gift, potential prudent investment and an interesting conversation piece. Attractive gift pack.

Now what in the world is going on?? "Potential prudent investment????" Sure, it is stuffed with potential. Maybe in 800 years when civilizations are forming on the moon and some huge corporation needs your acre to expand their office space, then you can hold out and raise the stakes and cash in on that investment you made 800 years ago. That $29.99 would bring back like a million fold.

Who even owns the moon in the first place? Who would I be buying this acre from? The government? Would I get a picture to know what my plot of land looks like? Do they have coordinates where exactly it is or is it just "somewhere up there on the moon."

What a complete joke.

Tuesday is Fat!!

It is Mardi Gras here in Louisiana. Fat!! Yep. You can't really miss it here. You know why? Because the school is shut down for 3 days. That's right. LSU is not in session Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. You know what I have to say to that? Fat!!

Kathryn was here this past weekend and on Sunday we dipped down to New Orleans before her flight that evening. While Mardi Gras is a little depleted this year, given the current events, it was still a Fat!! time. Bourbon Street was a carnival of sorts with the ever-present street preachers. They help up big signs that read, "Homosexuals, Fornicators, Drunkards, Theives, Burn in Hell." The preacher had a Fat!! megaphone and was shouting to people, "You must have lost your mind!!!!" There was a huge crowd surrounding him shouting back at him. I think they were throwing beads at him. Now that's Fat!!

We were only there for about 15 minutes but I had this recurring nag to want to buy a Hand Grenade, the New Orleans famous, enormous, plastic green test tube filled up with who-knows-what combination of hard liquor. I just felt like I needed one amidst the Fat!! insanity. I didn't get one though. Looking back, I should have. Drat!!

Today is Ash Wednesday and I have already seen several people with the black, ashy cross on their forehead. I go back and forth on this one. At times I think this is silly and embarrasing and I wouldn't want that blemish on my forehead. And at other times I think it is a great way to participate in a tradition that announces, "Yes, I am sealed and branded by Christ." Either way you look at it, you have to admit it's Fat!! Any one can see that.

I'm thinking about giving up my cell phone for Lent. Or toilet paper. Maybe belly lint. That would be Fat!! I could tell people I'm giving up lint for Lent. Maybe I should give up Fat!!

Pride and Pies

The fact that Eating Contests exist is the ultimate proof that humans are saturated to their core with sinful pride. We compete at everything. There is not one area of life that is not transformed into some sort of competition to provide a platform for people to step on each other while all simultaneously groping for a trophy or some form of recognition that they are in fact "the greatest." This seems to be the driving questions behind the disciples who hung around with Jesus. (Mark 9:34). I wonder if they ever had eating contests.

When I was younger and would hang out with my friends there were no doubt days that were fraught with mind-numbing boredom. "What do you want to do?" was the only question that always got answered by the other person repeating the same question. And so we would be laying there on our backs watching the ceiling fan and one of us would get the idea to raise our legs up and try to connect our exposed toes to the spinning fan blades above. The other one would see this happening and try to accomplish it as well, only with more expertise, which meant reaching up higher, or balancing on only one hand or something. And suddenly both people are entertained for they are now in the midst of a competition, albeit over something ridiculous, but nevertheless they were competing. And this still happens all the time. Our driving competitive nature just gets more subtle and sophisticated as we grow up.

Adults try to 'one up' each other by telling a more impressive story about their children or droping a better joke or funnier anecdote. Guys in college try to out-do each other at the sushi bar by seeing who can load up the most wasabi on their dinner. Girls compete with each other for attention - both from each other and from men. Students eagerly compare test scores. Drivers fight for the "best" lane. Businesses compete for patrons.

And in light of the ongoing Olympics, it is obvious that we still have that distant disease of the disciples - the fighting for who is indeed "the greatest." And all of the ways we do this are...well...sometimes simply embarrassing. My point: Eating Contests. I think we have hit rock bottom with this one. Have we simply run out of things to compete in? We've taken care of running, swimming, jumping, throwing, walking, skating, and skiing. It was only a matter of time before someone said, "Hey, I bet you I can eat more than you." And it will only be a matter of time before this contest makes its way into the Olympics as an official event.

Just picture it. By the way, I can eat more than you.

Metaphysics and Sushi

I'm not sure how one would actually define sushi, but I'm sure the word "fresh" would have to be included somewhere in it. For what makes sushi sushi - at the least, it is a fresh piece of edible raw fish. See this got me thinking. What if you went to a sushi place and didn't finish it all (maybe you filled up on doritos earlier or something) and so you stuffed up a doggie bag with leftovers? You go home and put them in the fridge. But the next day you couldn't get around to eating it because you had plans with Johnny Handshake or something.

So there it sits in your fridge for a day or two. When does it cease to be sushi? When does it simply become rotting slabs of raw fish? How long does sushi "keep?"

See at conception, sushi is edible and fresh, stripped straight from the fish. If that isn't eaten somewhat quickly, it becomes...well...not sushi anymore. It is then simply disgusting. But when does this change take place? How long will sushi keep? How long will sushi remain sushi?

Shush.

Cell Phones or Hell Phones?

Cell phones have gotten worse. I hate them now. I really do. And I'm pretty sure you do too.

Is it just me, or are more calls being dropped? I certainly am asking, "Hey? You there?" a lot more. I certainly have found myself talking on and on about something, notice that I have not received any affirming 'uh huhs', and then discover that the call had been dropped five minutes ago and I had been talking to myself.

What is the deal? Have they made too many cell phones and the towers are overloading? Is the service just REALLY bad where I am? Is it my phone? Should I get a new one?

Help me out here people. Let me know I am not alone. If your cell phone sucks and you want answers raise your fist with me. I demand justice. I want my money back. I want my life back. I will not talk to myself with a plastic box up against my face any longer.

I hate cell phones. Bitter, boiling, acrid, hatred.

Hygiene, Bathrooms, and Deception

Sometimes when I use a public restroom I don't wash my hands after I'm finished. But I put on an elaborate production to make those around me THINK I am washing my hands. I run the water. Sometimes I put my hands under the stream, sometimes I don't (it depends if the others in the restroom can see me or if they are just listening). I tap the soap dispenser to make the noise like I was in fact actually pumping soap out of it. So with the water running, I stand there and wait for about how long it would take for me to actually wash my hands. Then I turn off the water, tear off a few pieces of paper towel, rub them all over my dry hands and toss the dry towels into the trash. Then I leave the bathroom confident that whoever happened to share that room with me knew that I took the time to wash my hands. They believe I'm not one of "those" people, you know, the kind that just do their business and then disgustingly walk out.

I am not joking. I actually do this. I just did in fact (that was what gave me this idea).

Here's my question: Am I alone in this sickness? Is there anyone else out there as disgusting as me and willing to admit it or am I, as I suspect, the only one who would go to such lengths to avoid having to actually wash my hands? Now is the time. You can come forward and admit it. There is no shame. Consider this an altar call. Just imagine the song "Just As I Am" playing over and over in the background.

Nightmares and Daymares

I awoke this morning with a vivid memory of a terrible nightmare I had. It was my own rehearsal dinner night. It was a grand party with tons of folks there enjoying themselves. And at the end of the dinner I finally put two and two together and say, "Wait! We didn't do any toasts or anything! Where are my groomsmen?" I brought this up to my mother who, by her reaction demonstrated that she had also failed to notice their absence. The night ended on a sour note once we realized that none of my groomsmen showed up. Well, except Russ.

In my dream I called up Blake and Clint and got no answer. Then I called Doug. He picked up. But he probably regretted that decision after the romping I gave him. The next scene of the dream was a bedroom with a bunk bed and Clint was sitting up on the top bunk and I was down below. Doug was somewhere in the room and I was continuing my said romp. I remember part of my argument was "you don't agree to be a groomsmen and not show up for the rehearsal dinner. it is part of the package. when you agree to be a groomsmen, you are making a promise to be there, not just for the wedding, but for everything involved in the weekend." This was my thought. And I let Doug know what I thought filled with aggression and hostility.

And of course, Clint has to enter the argument. In a soft, yet firm, counter action, Clint responds, "Well, I'm not so sure an agreement to be a "groomsmen" necessarily means an agreement to show up at the rehearsal dinner. That to me simply means that they agreed to stand up there and be a groosmen."

Typical Clint.

I don't remember anything else about the dream/mare other than I was very upset and Doug was very ashamed. But surprisingly enough, it did raise an interesting question - When one agrees to be a groomsmen in someone's wedding, does that obligate them to all of the activities of that given weekend? Or they confined simply to the actual wedding ceremony?

Your thoughts/opinions are welcome.

Gratuitous Gratitude

I will not names here but a "friend of mine" recently received a gift from a "friend of theirs." I'm not sure what the gift was or the occasion behind the giving of this certain gift, but whatever it was it warranted the response of a thank-you note. You are well aware of the thank-you note, the burden of writing them, and the irrelevance of receiving them. But that is beside the point. My "friend" wrote this thank-you note and sent it. Everything is normal so far.

Then my "friend" received an email from their "friend" thanking them for the thank-you note. This sounds like a joke, but it is very true. My "friend" received a thank-you note for sending a thank-you note for them sending a gift. When will it stop? Should my "friend" write a thank-you note back? When will the gratitude exchange come to an end? It has to, lest it spin out into an endless, relentless exchange of thanking them for thanking you.

I'm not a fan of the thank-you note. Any time I receive something now the question pops in the back of my head, "I wonder if I have to write a thank-you note for this." Can you receive any gift without it being connected to an obligation to write a thank-you note in return? Is there anything that bypasses the obligation? (Pez dispensers, the passing of a pencil, roommates buying toilet paper??) I don't even like receiving things anymore. I associate it now with the difficulty of trying to think of something nice to write, the difficulty of trying to think of enough things to write so I actually fill up the entire card, and the difficulty of keeping up with the given postage of the day.

Ever had someone get upset with you because they did not receive a thank-you note? Or one that arrived "on time?" That all is so silly to me. To give something with ANY expectation is to defeat the purpose of GIVING it, right? It is not a business transaction (I give you gift, you give me recognition that I gave you the gift), it is a GIFT, that is, a free, gracious, giving of something with no obligations, expectations, or strings attached. The moment you demand something after the giving of a gift, it no longer is a gift. It then becomes a business deal (see my thoughts on "tipping").

I think it is a good thing that we thank each other for things and that we remain thankful for all of our gifts and blessings and graces; however, the moment it becomes obligated and expected, it taints it and removes the sincerity of the gratitude.

Thank you for reading.

The E. in Robert E. Lee stands for Egg

There are a number of new phases I am entering into. I felt like you should know. I feel like Picasso. Maybe this is my blue period.

...

I am officially entering my Beach Boys phase. I am slowly transferring my obsession from the Beatles to the Beach Boys. While I will never forsake my affections for the Liverpoolians, I am really enjoying Brian Wilson and his antics.

I am officially entering my tea phase. I like tea now. I still like coffee but I do enjoy a spot of tea. Herbal. With lemon.

I am officially entering my spinach phase. I love a good spinach.

I am officially entering my hookah phase. While I attempted before, this time it will take.

I am officially entering my moving phase. I am moving out of my place in a few days. I am moving in with some friends. Then 2 months after that I am moving to Charlotte. Which means that in the past 2 years, I will have moved 4 times.

I am officially entering my social apathy phase. Who cares if you wear sweat pants? They are comfortable. Pajamas too.

I am officially entering my beard phase. Though I tinkered with the facial hair before, it is now my look. It is more me than I am. Therefore the beard will come. And it will stay.

I am officially entering my Sudoku phase. I can't go a day without one.

I am officially entering my official entry to phases phase. I have decided to enter into several phases (officially) now.

Eye Make Up vs. iMake Up

Upon flipping through a recent Rolling Stone magazine, I couldn't help but notice that several of the new musicians (male, musicians that is) have gone to wearing eye make up. A little eye liner, a little color around the edges and there - now you have a cool, trendy new look. If you combine the eye make up with a shaggy, meant-to-look-unkempt-but-really-is-quite-manicured, sweeping across the face, highlighted hair cut, then you have almost every new musician featured in the magazine. This got me thinking. Fashion, when you think about it, is so silly. Or at least the pursuit to be trendy or "in fashion." To try and keep up is so exhausting. It is so transient. It is ever-morphing.

Go ahead, pop that collar. It will be stupid in 5 months. You'll regret that decision in the pictures. Go ahead and buy those a-little-tighter-than-normal jeans. Baggy will be in style in 8 weeks. Trust me. (I can't wait for "sagging" to come back. Or maybe even the Kris Kross thing). Let your hair grow out and swoop it across your eyes. In a few months that will be as played out as trucker hats and aviators.

So what is one to do? Is there a style that trancends the relentlessly changing trends? Does the simple polo-shirt and khaki combo rise above the ebb and flow? I'm not sure. But it sure is entertaining to watch it happen and to watch people chase this faceless ghost named Style. The strange thing about our culture is this Antithesis of Cool Coolness. We are a culture of cowards who thinks they are rebels. As soon as something is cool, it is now uncool. But the thing that made it "cool" in the first place was that it was original and out of the ordinary and new. Indie music is becoming the new main stream. Forgettable coffee houses are becoming the new Starbucks. Little independent iMacs are becoming the new Gateways. You see, technology is the same way. The iPod I got in the summer of '05 now looks huge and ancient like those enormous Zack Morris cell phones. And by 2007 the iPod Nanos are going to look like old Ataris. You just can't keep up. There is certainly more thinking to do about this and how the ebb and flow of cultural trends accelerates and is affected by postmodernism and the glut of information due to the internet (blogs included).

I just want to know when mustaches will be cool again. What about powdered wigs? Or leather, bicycle jackets? Or wearing pony tails out to the side? Or getting extra large T-shirts and making them into dresses by simply binding a belt around them? Or Discmans? Or Minidiscs? Or CD ROMs? Or Laser Discs?

Diary Entry of Rudolf Hargrove (5-15-1937)

This hickory-laden coffee house emits the stench of sweat and roasted coffee beans. I smear the sap from its opened pores and waft it closer, only to be surprised by the scent of adhesive and chemical. I'm empty stomached and it's well past afternoon now. My nerves suspend beneath my skin frayed and disrupted, mangled from the coffee and cigarettes. Last night's dark bitter chocolates and dry scotch doesn't feel like such a great idea now, especially mixed with the rattled nerves and nicotine glow. My eyes dart across the smoky coffee house now. Panicked and back and forth and back like wild geese. My skin is now crawling across my stained bones and I itch the crust until it pinkens. I'm unnecessarily nervous and ravenously hungry with an upset stomach that now spills on top of itself in disgust. I'm shaking and the pen I write with seems to be posing great difficulty to clasp. It drops from my clutches and my shaky hand goes to retrieve it, much like a man twice my age who has consumed too much barley. I despise how this old wooden chair squeaks with every shift of my weight. The smells of the coffee beans are too much now. I'm still shaking. Vibrating almost like a cog in some industrial factory. Wait, that's not sap. That's simple glue. Glue that has since been stained into a deep and golden brown. Oakey and smoky. This coffee house is poorly lit. Dim and smoky. Ah I can smell those fresh pastries on Hartington Street. Those crescents and tiny danishes stuffed with fresh cherries. The ones with the flaky crusts and the light sweetness. I really should not have had that chocolate last night. It is a great irony that when one gets to a certain point of hunger that certain foods sound displeasing. I suppose a parched man in the desert would not turn down water or much less be disgusted by the thought of it. I wonder if the sap-glue would be edible. If only I could remove it from this hickory wall. Drat. No luck. Perhaps a cigarette will tide me over until supper. Drat. They really meant business when they put that glue on the wall. It must be holding together the whole coffee house.

Pride + Amnesia = Pridnesia

Going home for the holidays is always interesting. Especially when you run into people you went to high school with. This is the sole cause of anxiety in my life when I go back home. These people are everywhere. Lurking around aisles at the grocery store, waiting in line at Starbucks, the next table over at Chili's. And the worst thing about these people is that I have completely forgotten all of their names. And this is why I get so tense around them. This is why I avoid them at all cost. It's the awkwardness of it all that drives me into hiding.

I see their face and the visual sparks some far off memory, lodged deep in the back of my mind where I rarely ever venture. The memories are so covered in dust that I can faintly recall that I do know them but have no clue where I know them from. And of course trying to retrieve a name to go with the fuzzy and foggy memory is out of the question. If people are not in the context that you knew them, it is very hard to peg them into a familiar hole in your head.

For years whenever I came home, I would awkwardly go with the conversation. "Hey...you," would be my response to them calling out my name and walking towards me with an extended hand. And I'd stand there for the next few minutes shaking and sweating and asking them questions and tip toeing around the conversation for clues as to who they might be. The fear of getting caught not knowing their name drove me insane. I couldn't take it. And so if I saw anyone that I faintly recognized, I would duck and hide and dodge. I'd grab my cell phone and quickly press it against my face to engage in a fake conversation that seemed so important it was understandable that I couldn't talk right then.

But not this trip. Not this time. I graduated in 1999. That is almost 7 years ago. I have come to the point in my life that I am willing to openly acknowledge the fact that I have forgotten people's names. By now, it should be understandable. And if someone actually gets upset that I have forgotten their name, they have major problems. After 7 years of not seeing someone, you have the right to forget. To be upset that your name was not remembered after 7 years exposes the ugliness of pride like lifting a rock and seeing the black, slithery, shiny insect underneath. "What?!?! You don't remember my name??" Give me a break.

And that's what I did. And nobody got upset. And it was wonderful to be freed from the self-imposed social chains. So from here on out, I'm asking. If I have forgotten (and I most likely have), don't be offended. You are not as important as you think.

By the way, I am writing this in a coffee shop back in Baton Rouge. And there is a grown, Indian woman a table over from me with a "Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen" bookbag at her feet. Ah, it's good to be back home.

Tip of the Day

One aspect of our society that has always perplexed me has been the idea of tipping. Here we have a person who has been hired by an establishment to perform some sort of service and when they actually perform that service, not only do they get a paycheck, but they get a little bit extra. From me. Simply for doing what they are supposed to do. The age old question remains - should we tip?

I waver on the issue, personally. Sometimes I tip, sometimes I don't. Sometimes there is no question - your lunch bill may have an added 18% gratuity in it. This is obligated tipping (which I am not a fan of). Or maybe your waiter was exceptional and it actually gave you pleasure to put down a few bills for him on the table. But sometimes it is not so black and white. There are a few situations that hang out in the gray zone. For example - Sonic. Do you tip the people that bring out your food to you from the little hut thing? What did they do that warrants something extra? They really only did what they were supposed to do, and that wasn't that much. They hang out inside the hut thing, when the food is finished cooking (which they play no part in cooking the food) they grab it, and walk it out to my parked car...15 feet away. In my opinion, that doesn't warrant a tip but yet there is this whole tipping climate at Sonic. You feel bad if you don't tip them. And I frankly don't know why.

Or what about that extra line on credit card print outs? There is a sandwich shop in town that I always go to. The procedure is this - you walk up to the cashier, place your order, he writes it down and hands it to a couple of "sandwich chefs" who assemble your requested sandwich. I hand him my credit card. The little receipt spits out and there it is - that glaring, blank line assigned for a tip. This one really puzzles me. Who I am I tipping - the cashier, the sandwich chefs, all of them? Where does that money go? And what extra service have they provided me that would warrant me to give them more money than their offered service that I already payed for? I don't get it. The dude is standing behind a cash register and punching numbers. He doesn't even have to know how to do math because the computer tells him how much change to give back. He takes my card, swipes it, gives me a receipt and a pen and...that's it. And that's what he is payed to do. I see absolutely no reason why I should tip him. And I don't. But for some mysterious reason, I always feel like he is upset with me when I hand him back the receipt with a line drawn through the spot for his would-be tip.

I really appreciated the tipping policy of Europe when I was there a few summers ago. There was none of this "obligatory" tipping like we have in the States. You sit there, the staff does their job...you know, they serve you food, and you pay for what you ordered. That's that. They will wish you well if you don't tip them. They will be glad you stopped in their restaurant. Now if they did an exceptional job, or if you were feeling a bit generous, you could gladly put a little extra on the top. This was their reward for great service. And this makes sense to me. In America, this function is removed. People everywhere are obligated to tip. It's like Christmas every time you go out to eat - you are obliged to give. And this, it seems to me, strips the heart out of what it means to give. To give means you give freely. You are motivated by generosity. You desire to expend your resources when someone has masterfully performed their duty.

If you were to roll out to Chili's or On the Border or wherever and had your meal and left no tip, the staff would hate you. You would not be welcome back. The manager would want to know what was wrong with the service. I hate this awful obligated tip-giving. If I want to reward someone's service, I should have that freedom and it should be an act of generosity. If I decide not to, I shouldn't get dirty looks and feel bad about myself and walk out with my head ducked down to avoid eye contact.

But as it were we live in a culture where you must tip. So tip I will. Only not at Sonic.

Egg Nog Blog

What in the world is egg nog? I've asked a great number people recently. No one really knows. Sure, everyone can identify what an egg is. But it is the nog that trips everyone up.

I'm used to drinks and foods to follow the normal, simple English concept of adjective and noun. Take Grape Juice for example. The "juice" is the noun that gets clarified with the adjective "grape." Simple. Or Vegtable Soup. Again, "soup" is the noun and "vegtable" is the adjective. If you apply that formula to egg nog, you find yourself in a world of confusion. No one knows what nog is.

Could there be Carrot Nog out there and we just don't know about it? Or Vegtable Nog? (Veg Nog). Or Shrimp Nog? Or Bacon Nog?

So I looked it up on ole trusty dictionary.com. The first definition was helpful - A wooden block built into a masonry wall to hold nails that support joinery structures. Most of the other definitions centered around that idea. Wooden blocks. Nails. Yeah, yeah.

Then I went to an Acronyn finder in hopes that mabye N.O.G. stood for something. I found out that in fact it does. The first on the list was National Orchid Garden. Then Net Operating Goal. Not Our Goods. Notice of Gaurantee. Nuclear Operations Group. Number One Gun. Beyond that, there was nothing to help unlock the puzzle.

Nowhere on the internet do we discover what Nog is. It remains a mystery, a perplexing conundrum to be unraveled only in glory. For on this side of heaven, let us all add it to the collected files of unsolved mysteries.

The Question of '05

Yesterday I was at a local coffee shop and after having ordered my cup of coffee, I walked over to the little "fixin' station," you know, the counter designated to the sugar, creamer, etc. I did my usual thing - a bit of sugar, a splash of cream - and something for the first time struck me as very odd. There on the shelf was a glass counter next to sugar. The contents of this container looked almost identical to the sugar - grainy, powdery like white stuff. Only the label on this container read "Creamer." And this got me thinking.

How can powder be creamer? Shouldn't creamer, by definition, be...you know...creamy? I don't understand how you put powder in your coffee and you get creaminess in the end. This makes no sense to me. Powder is one thing. Cream is quite another.

So there I stood in deep reflection at the fixin' station, pondering the metaphysical possibility of powder-based cream. And it reminded me of the astronauts and the freeze-dried, vacuum-sealed, stiff blocks of cardboard they would eat that was supposed to "ice cream." You remember this? Colorful cardboard can't be ice cream. And in the same way, white powder that dissolves in hot coffee can't be creamy. Call me crazy, but that is what I think.

More Musings on the Homeless

Yesterday I got approached by a 'homeless' man who was smoking a cigarette and looking for any spare change I had. Here's my question - should I give money to someone who has more jewelry on than me?

On another note - when I was in Memphis for Thanksgiving, Kathryn and I got approached by a large, large man who said he was looking for spare change to catch a train back to Phoenix. He was large. And this is how he began his request - "You're a Christian, right?" Very sneaky Mr. Large Homeless Man. I love it when they immediately manipulate you by tinkering with your conscience. Then he went on to say that he hasn't 1) eaten in 10 days; 2) just had heart surgery; 3) can't walk good because of a busted foot (he pointed to his shoe at this point); 4) he needed to go back to Phoenix to help people out there; 5) he has walked across town through the blistering cold; and my personal favorite, 6) I'm not on drugs.

Having just heard that the man hasn't eaten in 10 days, I kindly offered if he wanted to go across the street to get some food at a restaurant. He said, "No, they want me to have cash." I asked, "Who are 'they'?" He replied that 'they' were the Greyhound people. They wanted him to have money so that he could eat for the next few days. Hmmm. Does this story even make sense.

Again I offered, "Hey, if you haven't eaten in 10 days, I will gladly buy you some food, but I am not going to give you money." He didn't like this. He accused me of not "believing him" and not "listening to what he was saying." I said, "Hey man, I hear what you are saying. I am offering you food. I am offering to meet one of your needs. You know...food, the stuff you haven't had any of in 10 days." He walked away frustrated. I walked away frustrated.

My feelings toward the homeless fluxuate each day. Sometimes I walk away heart broken and eager to help, eager to give, eager to bring them into my home and prepare them dinner and have them sit at my table. And other times I feel so scandalized, so manipulated by their petty, transparent lies that I leave my encounters with them hardened and irritated. Can someone help me sort out these feelings?

The Single Man's Diet

Cheap and easy. This is the banner behind every single man's decision making process when it comes to cooking at home. We have no problem cooking a pot of macaroni and cheese and taking the whole pot to the couch to eat directly out of. This would be a good meal for us. No side items. No salad. Just the mac and cheese. Because when you are a man and having to cook for yourself, you think linearly. You make one thing. You eat one thing. Very rarely, very, very rarely will a man make two things. And it is only a myth that a man would make three.

For example - I came home one day from work, searched the kitchen over and found that I had no groceries. Well, all except for a pound of frozen ground chuck in the freezer. Good, now I don't have to go to the store. I had just found dinner. I thawed the meat, browned it, drained it, and then...ate it. By itself. A pound of ground beef. Straight.

Tonight (I kid you not), I ate beans. I opened up a can of baked beans, heated them on the stove and ate them straight from the pot. There was nothing else. No meat to eat with it. No bread to dip in it. Just the beans.

This is the single man's diet. We cook one thing (we usually don't even do that) and we eat it. We don't chop vegetables for salads. We don't have one pot of rice cooking and one pot of green beans cooking and a brisket in the oven simultaneously. We like to take it one dish at a time. One meal at a time.

That's not to say we can't combine items we might find around the kitchen. Macaroni and cheese and tuna? Great idea. Bread and cheese? You got yourself a sandwich. Chili and baked Lays? Healthy Frito pie. Biscuits and hotdogs? You've got yourself a biscuity hotdog.

The possibilities are endless. We will continue to eat and we will continue to survive. We are poor and we are single. And this is what we do.

A Letter

Dear Downstairs Neighbor,

You are probably wondering why I am writing you a letter at 4 in the morning. Let me remind you. Oh yeah, it is because your music is still vibrating through my ribs even after I walked down stairs and asked you to turn it down. It seems that you have enjoyed providing me with mid morning wake up calls. I especially liked the one last night when I woke up to the sound of glass breaking, only to look outside to see your girlfriend smashing out your windows in a drunken frenzy. My favorite part was when you got home and engaged in a primal shouting match for another 30 minutes.

You should know that I have been fantasizing for the past 20 minutes on what I would like to do to you and your noisy friends. I first thought of lobbing water balloons from the other side of the street, disrupting your outdoor latenight get-together. Then I thought of going downstairs and flipping the power breaker. That would stop the music at least. You know those holes in your windows from where your girlfriend smashed them? I have thought about tossing in stink bombs or live rats or things of that nature. I'm not beyond calling the police, too you know. You see, the thing is, I am struggaling not to hate you right now. That is a struggle that I am losing. I hate you. And I am dreaming of inflicting bodily harm on you.

I will tell you this - I love your raw unconsiderateness. You don't seem to remember that you have people living all around you, separated by paper-thin walls. That is admirable. You also know how to enjoy yourself. At 4 in the morning. Several nights a week. I have grown used to waking up to your late night shindigs. You just fail to remember that other people exist besides yourself. That is pure virtue.

So please cut back on the mid morning wake up calls. Otherwise, I might carry out some of my threats. I would burn your place down, but mine would go up in flames with it. So you are at least safe from that. But whatever else I can do to send you to your demise, I will certainly do if the noise continues.

Thanks for understanding.

Matt

O Day of Rest and Gladness (Happiness)

Yesterday was my birthday. And it was happy. It was happy simply because everyone I knew wished it to be so. They wished it and it came true. What a powerful word my friends have, that they would wish something upon me and it come to pass. Thankfully they didn't wish me an ear infection birthday or a diarrhea birthday or a poison ivy birthday. That would have been miserable.

I'll be honest, I don't understand the point behind the happy birthday wish. Well, ok, sure I do. You want the person who had the birthday to be happy. How sweetly simple. There's nothing to it. You want the person to be happy so you simply say to them "happy" and the expectation is for them to be so. That is why I think we should wish our hopes for happiness on the birthday person the day before their birthday. To say 'happy birthday' half-way into their day is to basically say, "well, whatever remains of this day, I hope that part is happy." If we said 'happy birthday' the day before the actual birthday, we would be wishing them the maximum 24 hours of happiness. None of this, part of the day happiness wish. And that would be the best gift of all - 24 hours of solid, unbreakable happiness.

Why do we only wish happiness on people once a year? Well, I guess that's not quite accurate. We do wish them a happy new year. We wish them happy Valentine's day. Happy Hanukkah and Thanksgiving. (Do people say 'happy Easter'?) And once a year, we strangely enough wish people to be "merry." Beyond a few exceptions, your birthday is a day where you will be guaranteed a wish of happiness. Something finally dawned on me after all these years of receiving happy birthdays - I have been selfishly hogging all the happiness on my special day. People should be able to share in the happiness of my birthday with me. It is much too greedy of me to horde it all. So throughout my special day I wished people a happy Matt's birthday. I just figured others should partake in the happiness. If the day is that special to grant me happiness, there should be enough happiness to go round. But of course, if I am consistent (and I am) then I should wish you a happy Matt's birthday the day before my actual birthday. So get ready people. Next year on November 15th, I am going to wish happiness upon you for a full 24 hours - the day we celebrate because on that day I came to exist, the day of rest and gladness, the day of my birth.

Star Whores

I live in a toilet. Seriously. This place is a dump. My entire place is caving in at the middle, making a nice slant-like decline in my room. I am afraid that it will collapse soon. Raccoons scurry about. Poison Ivy crawls up the back side of the house. The foundation is so bad that doors are getting harder to close. The bathtub is caked in brown mold. The electricity is unbelievably unpredictable. There is absolutely no insulation so if it is hot outside, it is an oven inside and if it is cold outside, it is a freezer inside. There are patches of wood on the floor that are so torn up and squeeky, I avoid stepping on them out of fear that I will fall through to the floor below. My mailbox is nailed to the dilapitated wood ouside, dangling precariously by a single nail. Because of the rotten foundation, there are actually holes in the house where the windows are bent downwards, letting in all kinds of fun uninvited insects (mosquitos and wasps mostly).

But don't get me wrong, I love it here. Well, love is a bit strong. Maybe strongly like. No, that's a bit too strong too. Let's just say that I like it here. Now, come to think of it, it is more like hate. Hate is the most appropriate term. I hate it here. Let's be honest, people, living in a toilet can have ramifications on your welfare. If you are not happy at home, you are not happy. If a man's home is in disarray, so is his heart, so I've heard. And I believe the rumors. That is why I am hoping to be out of here in December when my roommate gets married.

Oh wait, I almost forgot, Yeah, there is no real estate in Baton Rouge because of Katrina. Hmm, that poses a problem doesn't it? And it's not like people want to move into a new place with me because after all, I'm moving out in April. No one likes a roomie to split three months into a new lease. And so my options are this: move in with somebody and pay rent for a few months (which poses a whole new set of concerns) or stay here. Here, in the toilet.

Conundrum? Oh yes. Sort of like the title to this post.

Tanning and Masculinity

I'm not going to lie. I went tanning. I actually paid $7 to lie/lay (?) for 20 minutes in this glowing, body-length pod, subjecting my skin to the perils of burning and cancer. And I did it willingly. I was not compelled. I was not forced. I choose to.

My reason: I have developed these "sun spots" on my shoulders and back, a bacteria that naturally lives in your skin but can emerge to the surface in tropical climates. The pigment is not working or something and the only way to restore a unified color of skin is to burn the top layer altogether. Hence the tanning bed. There.

I walked into the lobby and there sat the receptionist, a college-aged, blonde who was carelessly smacking away on some gum. The room was fortunately empty, except the several displays of lotions and oils, all identified with such names like "Edge" and "Sexified." I was already emasculated. I approached the counter and she asked, "Have you tanned with us before?" She had her hands in position on the keyboard, ready to type in my information. "Uhh, no. This is my first time. And I only want to go once."

"But that is so expensive. You can get the $20 package that allows you to go five times."

"Yeah, I only want to go once."

"Fine. Fill out your information." I picked up the pen and took the clipboard, seriously considering making up an entire fake identity. I looked at the names on the list above me. Surprisingly, some of them were guys. One was named Rodney. I felt that that name sounded fake. I didn't want people coming in after me and reading the list and seeing my name. Now I know that sounds a bit arrogant of me, like the entire city of Baton Rouge is going to know my name. But what if someone comes in that does know me? And the one time in my life where it would have been justifiable to lie and to forge an identity, I didn't. I wrote down the truth. I think I even gave my address and phone number.

So I'm escorted to this little room with this space pod in it. There was a fan and a chair. That was it. "Since this is your first time, only go 10 minutes."

"How high does it go up to?"

"20."

But I wanted to get burned. Surely 20 minutes wasn't going to do it. She left, I closed and locked the door, and got...naked. Well, almost. I kept my boxers on. There are some areas of my life that I don't want to get burned. I set the dial for 20 and climbed in to the glowing, xerox-looking-glow, body pod. I drapped a towel over my face and laid/lied (?) there. Kelly Clarkson was playing over the internal speakers. And I was given the next 20 minutes to be alone inside of my head and reflect and evaluate on what I was honestly doing. It was truly miserable. They shouldn't give you that much time to be aware of the fact that you are actually tanning. Insecurities run wild.

After a while, the lights shut off and I climbed out, searching my body for signs of red only to find the usual pale hue that was there before. I dressed, left and waited for the burn to emerge. And it did. Remember that towel I put over my face? Well, that left a nice awkward, sideways burn stretched across the front of my neck. The rest of my body turned into a nice reddish-pink by that evening, all except for where my boxers were and...my shoulders. Yes, that's right. The one spot I wanted to get burned didn't. I couldn't figure it out. I think it is because of how those machines are shaped, it tends to only tan your front and back and neglect your sides and your shoulders.

So, yes, I am planning on going back. Only this time I am going to lay on my side and let the shoulders get in on some of the action. 7 more bucks down the drain. 20 more minutes alone to evaluate how pathetic I am. And all for the expense of my sunspots and masculinity.