Why MTV Should Quit Now

Remember when MTV actually played music videos?!? It was this really novel thing. Music Television. Now they really have no affiliation with music anymore. It's not Music Television anymore; it's Crap Television. CTV. That should be the new name. CTV (not to be confused with Cornelius Van Til).

I don't normally watch MTV (hereafter CTV) due to the fact that we actually get .5 channels in this house (we only pick up ABC...and that is, if one of us is standing by the TV, holding the antennae, and leaning to the side at a 90 degree angle). But when we are on vacation and we have a TV with 999 channels, for some reason I gravitate toward CTV. I suppose I am curious what is happening in the world of music, culture, and the arts. I suppose I want to reconnect with the channel that first exposed me to Aerosmith and Eminem. I suppose I want to actually see a music video. But when I get there - I don't find music. No music videos. No TRL. No "Yo! MTV Raps." Only a group of random 20-somethings thrown together in a house being followed around by cameras. And everyone is making out.

Here is something that needs explaining to me. Why are the characters from the Real World battling it out on the sand with the characters from Road Rules? What is going on here? It's like having the cast from Diff'rent Strokes (sorry, Kathryn, you wouldn't know anything about that) in a cage match with the cast from Webster. Or maybe the cast from Step by Step in a bar fight with the cast from Full House. Frankly, I'm a bit confused. This group of random 20-somethings who have lived together in a plush New York penthouse for the previous 6 months are now all wearing red uniforms and running through an obstacle course of enormous rubber tires on a beach. Why am I watching this? And remind me what any of this has to do with music. At least back in the day on CTV they had....you know....MUSICIANS doing stupid obstacle courses and playing basketball and rapping on stage during Spring Break. Now it's just this random cast of nobodies. I might as well be looking through the blinds at my neighbor's house.

And I miss Coolio. Where did he go? Gangsta's Paradise? Come back, Coolio.

Shoop: Musings on Salt N' Pepa

We've been singing a lot of Salt N' Pepa around the house lately. Shoop. Whatta Man. Push it. Classic hits that influenced a generation. These songs changed the way we thought about the world, about ourselves, and about others. These are timeless songs, to be forever stored in the archives of music revolutionaries. They were the ones who wanted to first "talk about sex, baby," and boy did they. I think every song they wrote had this basic erotic theme running through it. Just think about it. Is there one song they aren't famous for that has something to do with...well....you know?

As I think back on Shoop and Whatta Man, I get a bit confused. Aren't these two really just the same song? They were on the same album. They became popular at the same time. They both have catchy choruses. They both are the same tempo and they sound nearly identical They both are about...well...you know. They are pretty much the same song. One song split into two. They go together in my mind. Just like you can't hear Queen's "We Will Rock You" without it being followed up by "We Are the Champions," so it is with "Shoop" and "Whatta Man" in my mind. I challenge you to find the difference to these songs.

Their most memorable line: "You so crazy, I think I wanna have your baby."

Now this is a fascinating lyric. Pepa (in 'Whatta Man') comes across a man (a mighty, mighty good man) who is humorous. She says that she has finally found someone who can make her laugh. That's exciting. Funny people are hard to find. She found one. And what is her reaction to this exciting discovery? ...I want him to impregnate me. That's just odd. Most girls I know who come across funny guys don't first think to themselves, "I think I want to be pregnant." But of course, that's why Salt N' Pepa gets the big bucks. They think of stuff like that.

Second most memorable line: "Can I get some fries with that shake-shake boobie."

Here, Salt (in the song 'Shoop') asks this particular gentleman for some fries in addition to his "shake-shake boobie." I must be honest, I am at a loss as to what a "shake-shake boobie" actually is. But it is clear. She wants it. And she wants a side of fries, apparently.

Whatchu Talkin' Bout Kathryn?

The following is an actual dialogue that Kathryn and I had one night this week...

Matt: Do you remember that Diff'rent Strokes episode that Adrian mentioned tonight?

Kathryn: I can't remember any Diff'rent Strokes episodes. All I remember was Tootie.

Matt: Tootie was in the Facts of Life. You don't remember Diff'rent Strokes?

Kathryn: I guess not.

Matt: Wait, you're telling me you've never seen an episode of Diff'rent Strokes?

Kathryn: Nope.

Matt: Do you know what "Whatchu talkin' bout Willis?" is?

Kathryn: No.

Matt: Wait! You've never heard the expression "Whatchu talkin' bout Willis???"

Kathryn: Never heard of it.

Matt: Holy crap, I'm writing a blog about this.

The Philosophy of Toothpaste

Every now and then I get to thinking about toothpaste. It's just something I do. It's a hobby. And a habit. It's a hobby-habit. But not a hobbit.

Why is the predominant scent (the predomi-scent) of toothpaste - mint? Why does "mint" have a monopoly on the scent? Just look down the toothpaste aisle. You'll see: Whitening Mint. Fresh Mint. Avalanche Mint. Cool Blue Mint. Chunnel Mint. The craziest they get is - Peppermint. But of course, peppermint is a close cousin to regular mint. I realize mint is a much better aroma than say - hummus - but there are other pleasant smells out there as well.

Consider this - Lemon. When you spray down your kitchen counters with lemoney Lysol, it smells refreshingly pleasant. So, why in the world isn't there a lemon-scented toothpaste? Or what about orange? We recently purchased an orange-scented counter-top spray cleaner and trust me - this smells good. Orange is the new lemon. Good smells. But not good enough for our breath?

Mint seems to have the monopoly on the toothpaste scent. Mint scent. But again, I ask you - why? Ever washed your hands at someone's house who has that good vanilla/cinnamon/lavender soap stuff with the little bits in them? Oh...that smells good. What is wrong with lavender smelling toothpaste? Is it not minty enough for Crest? Would someone with lavender breath be welcomed or shunned? I'm not sure. But the possibilities are endless and yet the toothpaste people feel pretty content with mint. They are mint content. Content with the mint scent.

Clint?

The Writers Strike is Over....

After a good 2 month blog-free vacation, I feel rested, refreshed, and ready to begin collecting my observations and ideas about the world around me. With the real writers strike being officially over now, I feel compelled to begin writing myself. If they can quit striking, so can I. Quit the strike. Strike the strike. Sprite.

Thesis: My dad got me a flashlight for Christmas. Not just any flashlight, mind you. This is a flashlight that does not use batteries. This flashlight is powered by a simple crank that is...well....cranked - somehow powering this interesting little device and enabling it to emit light. Is that all it does? No. It also has a radio in it. That way when the power is out, one can still stay updated with weather reports (all the while cranking it, of course). You may think....surely this is all that this device does? You'd be wrong. It also charges your cell phone. So when the power is out and the house is dark and the feeling of uncertainty is the highest - you can illuminate a room, stay in touch with news updates, and call loved ones to inform them of your safety. It is the perfect apocalyptic, Y2K gizmo.

But to me, the most interesting part about this contraption isn't what all it does....it is the name of this product. It's actual, official name is "The Forever Flashlight EZ Crank Radio Cell Charger." In case you haven't put it together, the name is basically just a list of everything that it is capable of doing. Reading the instructions is actually quite humorous. "When an emergency arises, simply turn the crank on the Forever Flashlight EZ Crank Radio Cell Charger to power it." Another excerpt: "No batteries are needed for the Forever Flashlight EZ Crank Radio Cell Charger." How about a product with a little bit longer name?

I wonder what life would be like if we simply named things by an exhaustive list of what it accomplished. Take a car for example. How about changing its name from "car" to "The EZ Move-Along While Sitting and Listening and Being Air-Conditioned Transporter." Or how about changing the name of "phone" to "The EZ Button-Pushing Communication Device That Goes In and Out of Coverage in Charlotte." What about "book" - "The EZ Multi-paged Flipping Paper Weight with Information In It."

Conclusion: It's good to be back, although I will be honest...I feel a bit rusty. And crusty. And dusty. Trust me. Justly. Busty? Sushi.

Fat Bottomed Christmas

Every now and then (and again), I get somewhat obsessed with a particular song and listen to it as many times as I have access to it. For example, this past Spring was the inauguration of my "Shins" phase, where I mostly listened to their song "Australia" over and over and yet over once more again. At one point in my life, the song on repeat was the New Kids' "Step by Step." (Step One, we can have lots of fun) I can't say that I am proud of that one (or two...or step three). But as it is, for this Christmas season, the song that has selected me (I would have never selected this on my own) is Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls," their 1978 release dedicated to...well....girls with fat bottoms (this is the fifth parenthetical aside in this paragraph).

Apparently Fat Bottomed Girls are worthy of serenading because they "make the rockin' world go round." I suppose this was the case back in 1978. I'm not sure when large-bottomed women stopped making the rockin' world go round but I know that they certainly don't make it spin anymore. I'm not all that sure what is currently making the rockin' world go round, but I'm fairly certain it is no longer girls with fat bottoms. It's probably heroin or something like that. I do know that fat bottomed girls were at least making the rappin' world go round in 1992 when Sir Mix-a-lot announced to the world that he liked "big butts." Maybe the fat bottomed girls made a genre switch from the rockin' world to the rap world. And I would venture to say that they may be in fact still makin' that world go round.

The B-side to Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" was a song called "Bicycle Race" where Freddy Mercury sung over and over that "all he wants to do is ride his bicycle." And he wants to ride his bike "where he likes." This is all he wants to do. He gives it to you straight. His bare and honest confession is that all he wants out of life is simply to be able to ride his bicycle wherever he would like to ride it. No restrictions. No parks with closing times. No bike trails roped off. All he wants to do is ride his bike. Wherever he would like. A simple life pursuit. A catchy song. And a really sad song if you think about it.

So for this Christmas as we gather around the ornamented tree with egg nog filling our glass and yuletide cheer filling our heart, we'll be singing "Fat Bottomed Girls" and "Bicycle Race" alongside of the traditional holiday hymns like "O Holy Night" and "O Come All Ye Faithful." Fat Bottomed Girls are makin' the holidays go round for me this year.

Merry Fat Bottomed Christmas.

My New Diet

A number of weeks ago I found myself over at a friend's house for dinner. That friend was Julie Goff. She had Kathryn and I over for what we have later referred to as "a delightful dinner." The fellowship was quite enjoyable and the food was rather impressive (shrimp and goat cheese quesadillas). And when it was time for the first restroom break, my night became even more amusing. They had a scale in the bathroom. A digital one. It had been a long time since I actually weighed myself and so I was quite curious to see what I weighed these days. I have never really been one to be concerned with weight, simply because I have been a walking skeleton for most of my life. (The only period in my life that I was weight-concerned was in high school when I was trying to heap on the pounds for basketball season - only so I wouldn't get mauled by the much larger men in the paint.)

So I stepped on the scale and waited. I was waiting for weight. You could say I was weight-waiting. So after a moment of weight-waiting, it finally registered on the screen. 143 pounds. I gasped in astonishment. That is a far cry away from my all time highest weight - a whopping 190 pounds (this was acquired while living in Baton Rouge due to a steady diet of late night fried chicken fingers, Taco Bell, and pizza). I went back into the other room and reported my terrible news. Somehow or other over the past 2 years I have lost 50 pounds. And that is without the aid of a tapeworm. Julie informed me that I was doing it wrong, that I had to tap on it and let the scale calibrate to zero, and then step on it. I returned to the bathroom with new hopes, with new expectations, and with more weight-waiting.

This time I weighed in at 170 pounds. This was much better than before - but still disappointing. I stood there on that digital scale, peering down at my skeletal frame and made a decision right then and there. I would go on a diet. A diet to gain weight. A diet to get back to 190 pounds.

So far, my new diet has been going great. The second night of my diet involved me eating a late night chicken leg and half a tub of ice cream to my wife's astonishment. The rules of this diet are fairly simple - eat everything. And when you get full, keep eating. And eat a lot of crap that is bad for you. Candy, ice cream, fried foods, soda (though not too much....you remember how delicate my teeth are these days), etc. So far, I have been loving my new diet, though I have been much more lethargic as of late. I have been going for seconds every night at dinner, which has been nice, though the leftovers have been depleted as a result. Breakfasts are still the trickiest meal - they involve preparing something while you are still half asleep. But I make sure to catch up on lunch and dinner.

I wonder how much I weigh now, after a week of pure Thanksgiving gluttony. I did not hold back. And I wish I would have. Several nights I went to bed groaning while holding my sides. But I was still thankful.

Apocalyptic Contentment

This morning as I was packing my lunch (in an old Wal-mart sack), I found myself singing the Temptations' classic "Stand By Me." After a line or two into the first verse, Kathryn joined in - taking the lead vocals and I quickly moved into the "da-dum-dum" bass line. It was pure, musical delight.

And perhaps for the first time ever, I paid attention to the lyrics. And I found myself unexpectedly suspicious. I don't believe that singer. I don't believe that if a girl simply "stands by him," everything will be ok. And not just as a remedy for loneliness, but as the remedy to the end-of-the-world, apocalyptic meltdown that he describes.

The second verse begins: "If the sky that we look upon should tumble and fall, and the mountains should crumble to the sea." He is clearly describing the end of the world. The sky is actually falling. Mountains are crumbling into the sea. This is a picture of what Y2K was supposed to be - worldwide chaos and destruction. Planes crashing. Economies imploding. Mass hysteria. Death to millions. This is the catastrophic, portentous apocalypse.

And he continues, "I won't cry, I won't cry, no, I won't shed a tear just as long as you stand by me." This man is easily satisfied. Upon the advent of doomsday, this man won't even cry. Not one tear will befell his face as he looks upon his house being crushed, all his possessions being destroyed, his entire family screaming in agony as the "sky that we look upon" falls on them. He simply surveys the destruction with an apathetic contentment - because a girl is standing by him. It is the end of the world and this guy could care less just as long as his "darlin" stands beside him.

Frankly, I don't believe him. I love Kathryn to death but if the world was tearing to pieces right before my eyes, I would need a little bit more than just Kathryn standing beside me.

Brace Yourself

I haven't been to the dentist in probably over 2 years. And I went this morning. The following is a true story...

So there I am sitting in the waiting room of a small, modernized dentist office. I'm filling out the little info/bio sheet thingy that they give you with a clipboard. They want to know the name of my previous dentist and my current physician. Well, I don't know their names. So I have to turn back on my phone (they make you turn it off when you walk in....I guess phone calls disrupt their fancy high-tech equipment) and call my wife. Because she knows. And I don't. And now I feel like I'm 14 again.

They bring me back to the room for X-rays and drape that enormous, heavy X-ray protection bib on me. Now, if this thing is supposed to protect my body from X-rays, why aren't they putting anything on my head, especially since they aim that cannon-like X-ray thing 2 inches from my face. I'm sitting there the whole time wondering what kind of brain damage I am undergoing. And meanwhile, as they electro-shock my skull, I'm "trying to hold still" while biting onto those hard, plastic, gum-piercing pieces of film. Why must she position them in a way that lifts up my tongue and presses the razor-edge corner of the plastic 3 inches deep into the sensitive flesh underneath? And why does she honestly need 30 different X-rays?

The main dentist comes in next. She's got to be in her mid-twenties. It is a strange feeling when the professional doctor working on you is younger than you. So she pulls out that gnarled metal hook thing and begins probing into my gums and as she's doing so, she's dictacting some dentist jargon to the other nurse who is filling out my chart. I don't know what they are saying, but I know it doesn't sound good. "We've got a ruptured indocresin on 38....we're going to need to bridge up the mesial on 21....we've got bleeding around the decayed endroscular at 29." Not good when they use works like "ruptured" and "bleeding." I at least know those words.

After they do their thing, the main dentist (the teenager) sits down and reads the damage. She didn't even give me a round figure as to how many cavities I had. She just said "numerous." I have to go back three more times just to fix them all. Three more times. And three hundred dollars later. Not good.
And then she says that she's going to have to do what is called "a deep cleaning," one that involves novacane (yes!!) and drilling. It turns out that some of the "pockets" in my teeth are way too deep and that if she can't fix them, I'll need to see a specialist. Otherwise I risk having my teeth fall out. Not good.
And then she recommended "adult braces." She pulls out the little model set of skeleton teeth to show me what this "new technology" is capable of. No more primitive hunks of metal plastered onto each tooth and tethered with rubber bands, pulling the teeth into their desired position. Oh no. "Adult braces" are basically two clear, plastic retainers that you wear over your teeth. I can only wonder how much this is going to cost. And the sad thing is, I had braces in middle school. More shame. More humiliation. More expenses. Not good.

Before I leave they make me sit through two short videos. One on how to brush. And one on how to floss. I was officially 14 again. "Hold the brush like this....vibrate the brush in your hand gently as you go in clockwise rotations....brush at least two times a day." On the flossing video they actually taught you how to pull out the string and wrap it around your fingers. I'm surprised they didn't play another video on how to tie my shoe.

This year I'm dressing up as a dentist for Halloween. Crentist.

Free Coke and Stomach Troubles

We don't really buy coke in our house. And by "coke," I am referring to all types of "soda," "pop," and "soda pop" (Coke included). Coke can be Coke. And coke can be Coke. But it can't be cooke. Or kreme.

As I was saying, we don't buy this stuff. It is a bit of a luxury. We drink water. Occasionally pink lemonade. Very rarely something with a prefix of "cran," but never really coke. So...anytime I am somewhere and there is free coke, I drink it. And I drink a lot of it. I can't stop.

Tonight we had a picnic for my seminary. There were burgers, brats (ooooh yeah), dogs, and chicken wing stew. And potato salad. And chips. And coke. Lots of coke. Free coke. Coca-cola Classic that is. And how classic it was.

I had three cans in the span of one hour and 45 minutes.

And I felt like I was going to yack the rest of the night. A stomach filled with cans of sugary-carbonated-syrup is not a good mix with junked out, bulk-bought burgers, handfulls of needless Lays Original potato chips, and an unnecessarily large scoop of room-temp potato salad. I think I am actually sweating coke. And about to vomit my entire dinner up onto this computer.

When Chances Diet

I realized something very interesting today. Something very interesting indeed....

A "friend of mine" (who will go unnamed) invited me to go out to lunch with him and a group of people. I knew that I had some things to do that afternoon so I wanted to communicate to this (unnamed) "friend" that there was a possibility that I would show up. And, I might add, it was a pretty good possibility. So I said to this "friend" (Dave Kulp), "There is a...fat chance that I will be going."

As soon as this sentence left my lips I realized that I had misspoken. A "fat chance" seems to imply that there is not much of a chance in me going. So I corrected myself and said the exact opposite, "I mean, there is a...slim chance that I will be going."

And of course, this didn't really correct my previous statement. I still implied that the chances were low for me going out to lunch. Hmmm. Fat chance. Slim chance. I guess it doesn't really matter the exact "weight" of the chance, as soon as you designate it, you mean, "There is not much of a chance in me going." Next time I am going to say, "There is a moderately-sized-average-weight chance that I am going." This should get across what I mean.

Honestly people, how can a chance be "fat" anyway? Maybe the word people are really pronouncing is "phat." Remember when that was cool...to say "phat?" What happened to this linguistic gem? Will it come around and be cool again? Phat chance.

Liars....All Liars

Kathryn and I, united as Matthryn, somehow acquired free tickets to a "jazz club" a week or so back. Kat got them through her work and the day that the tickets were for happened to be on an afternoon where we didn't have much going on. So...we bounced on down to the local jazz club for some smokey, blue-like-jazz.

The event was a silent auction to try and keep afloat a local pottery store here in Charlotte and the "jazz" music was to be the background ambiance. It seemed like a pretty cool idea. We could walk around and check out the pottery and groove to the smokey, sleepy, syruppy jazz.

Well....we sort of did that. We got there and we did walk around and we did look at the pottery...but there was no music in the background. There was a stage, for sure, but it was empty. But we were informed the "jazz" was coming, so we sat down at a table and waited. Let's face it...we were there for the smokey syrup jazz. I really could care less about pottery.

So then the "band" gets up there. Two guys. That's it. One is holding a flute. The other is holding...nothing. And there are two mics set up. I'm a bit confused as to how this is going to work and then...my confusion is broken by the interuption of a full jazz band pouring in over the speakers. Drums, bass, guitars, pianos, brass, etc. The two men start grooving to this pre-recorded, canned "jazz" track and then one grabs the mic and starts singing. My jaw hit the floor. Are we serious here? This is the "jazz band?" This is what I came out for? Two men singing karaoke (and playing a flute) over an instrumental tape?

Not only was it a big let-down, but even for them to be singing (and playing flute) karaoke, they were utterly unprofessional. The main singer (not the flute player) would interact with the "sound guy" in the back IN BETWEEN LYRICS. He'd be in the middle of a Stevie Wonder joint and be singing, "I just called to say..." then look to the sound guy and ask, "Hey, am I loud enough" and then jump right back in and finish the lyric a few beats behind: "I love you." At one point during another song the karaoke singer tried to get somebody's attention to bring him a stool to sit on. Although for some reason, he didn't just ask somebody and interupt his song like he did with the sound guy. So he was singing away and trying to make eye contact with this one guy who was walking close to the stage. He's up there waving his hands because, Heaven-forbid he interupt his song now and actually ask the man for a stool. Somehow he gets his attention and is able to communicate "I want you to bring me a stool" while continuing to sing. This involved a lot of distracting pointing and gesturing and leaning away from the mic to grab the stool and mumbling some forgotten lyrics as he tried to set it up and get comfortable....while singing. It was a total joke.

I think Kathryn and I were the only ones actually listening to this. Everyone else was too concerned with the pottery, which ended up being the main attraction anyway. We left soon after that with a justified sense of music-righteousness, knowing that what just happened in there was not only not "jazz," it was not music. Utterly terrible. It may have been redeeming if this guy treated it like a karaoke thing and invited others to come up and sing. I would have dropped it like it was tav.

Worcestershire Sauce and Other Anomalies

How in the world do you pronounce "Worcestershire"? I think everyone pronounces it differently. Some say, "Wore-shuh-shire." Others, "Wore-shuh-sure." And yet others, "Wore-chester-shire." There are a myriad of pronunciational options....and it drives me crazy. What is this word? What is it even referring to? Was Worcestershire the name of some English villa where it was invented? Is it the name of the dude who invented it? All mysteries.

Untiil I checked out Wikipedia. And they provided two pronunciations that I have not heard yet: "Wuster-sure" and "Wuster-sheer." Unbelievable. Turns out this stuff does come from Wuster-sure, England. Big whoop.

---

When you pop in a DVD, it usually takes you to the Main Menu. I was thinking about that lately. "Main Menu." Why would we call this initial screen a "menu"? A menu is the list of dishes available at a restaurant. The options on the DVD opening page are not this at all. So, how random, in reality, is it to refer to this opening page a "menu?" It makes just as much sense to me to refer to it as a "Main Law Code." Or a "Main Itinerary." Seriously, people. A menu? Worlds of food and digital/visual entertainment collide.

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This past weekend Kat and I took a flight from Charlotte out to Texas. I hate flying. I am terrified of it. So, as we were sitting there waiting to take off, the flight attendant walks around and checks to make sure everyone is buckled in and sitting upright and all that. No big deal. Standard procedure. We had our window closed (because frankly, I can't look out the window without feeling like I am going to die) and she told us to open it. Well, no one questions why anymore. So we did. "Hey, why do you want us to open the windows? I don't understand why that is such a big deal?" Her reply was assuring, "In the event that we crash, I need to be able to sufficiently see our surroundings to make decisions." That is what I need to hear as I sit there sweating and panting in terror already. I have to open up my window because we just might be crashing. And, I might add, I don't really think that my open window is going to really accomplish much if we are all hurdling to the earth from 23,000 feet at 400 miles an hour. But I will comply to your silly rules.

Bicentennial Blogging

This is a self-congratulatory post. It is to celebrate the fact that this is my 200th time to do this. Ever since I started "blogging" way back in Feb of '05, I never dreamt I would keep it going this long. I never would have thought that I would make it this far. Wow. 200 posts. I feel like something. I feel like someBody. I am a somebody. I am important.

Feb '05 to Aug '07. Exactly 2.5 years. 30 months. 200 posts. That's almost 7 posts a month for 2.5 straight years (well, granted, May Madness throws those numbers off a bit). What a wonderful ride it has been.

Here's to public narcissism.

A Moment of Silence for My Youth

Kathryn and I have been doing what any normal and educated person would be doing in the record setting heat of summer: doing intensive manual labor in the yard. Afternoons have been spent hunched over, ripping up weeds, digging up plants, developing blisters on my hands, and sweating most of my body weight away. Stupid, I know, but we are on a mission to put in some new beds in our front lawn and we will not let catci, bees, or 104 degree heat stop us. I like to call it: Mission Impossible. I sing the theme song often to Kathryn's dismay.

So, while we have been breaking our backs in the oppressive Charlotte heat, we have developed a quick friendship with a neighborhood girl named Jericca. I think that is how you spell it. She most likely will not be reading this, so I suppose it does not really matter either way. Jerrica is around 10 years old and has recently moved to Charlotte from Indiana. She is a very sweet girl and loves to pet our dog when we go on walks. Lately, she has meandered into our yard and helped us dig holes, spray plants (and me) with water, and get dirty with us.

And she has been relentlessly inviting herself over to spend the night with us. At first I thought, now, this is just odd. Why in the world would this kid want to spend the night over at our house? Honestly, what would we do? Does she think we'd stay up all night eating ice cream and playing board games? Does she not know that we are probably the most boring house on the block? We usually eat a healthy dinner (thanks Kathryn), watch an episode of Lost, and then go to bed around 10 o'clock. She would hate it over here. I could think of a few more houses on our block that would be much more exciting and entertaining.

But then I remembered what it was like to be on the same street with grown-ups. You assume their world is so exciting and adult-ish. And I realized that this is how Jerricca sees us: grown-ups. We are married. We have a house. We drive cars. We work with plants in the front yard. That is about as grown-up as it gets. It finally hit me. I am no longer a child. I am one of those grown-ups. Do I feel like it? Not even close. Do I feel like I am merely pretending at this thing called life? Yep. Do I have any idea how insurance works? Nope.

If only Jerrica knew who I really was. I wonder if she would still want to sleep over then, knowing that I am really just a person like her in this grown-up body living in this grown-up house. I don't have the heart to tell her that I am not nearly as interesting as she thinks I am.

Bee-asco

Our latest run in with the elements of nature have taken the form of us getting attacked by bees. I know, it just never stops. So allow me to describe the Bee Fiasco (hereafter Bee-asco):

Episode 1: We were out doing some yard work about a week or two ago and out of nowhere Kathryn screams at the top (and bottom) of her lungs. I run over to her and she is hunched over clutching her ankle. "What happened?" Her reply: Something bit me and it really hurts. I surveyed the ground and happened to see a bee, somewhat stunned and motionless, so I stomped the life out of it thinking it was the culprit. I wasn't sure. Kathryn limped around for the next day or so it hurt so bad. We thought that maybe it was a spider. When it began swelling and developed a red rash around it, we knew that Kathryn was allergic to it....whatever it was.

Episode 2: I was mowing the other day and was going over a particularly rough patch of grass. There were twigs and small rocks around this area, so it was not a smooth mow but one marked with the clanking sounds of rocks hitting metal and sticks getting snapped. Out of nowhere, a searing pain hits my leg and I immediately assumed that a shard of glass had been shot out of the mower and stuck in my leg. I looked down, expecting to see a blade with blood pouring into my shoe, but rather saw a yellowjacket burrowing into my skin. And almost instantaneously, another searing stab to the back of my leg, right behind my kneecap - you know that really sensitive spot on your body. I knew I was under attack when I noticed the swarm of bees developing around me. I did what anybody would do in this situation: I let go of the mower, frantically waved my hands in the air, and ran away screaming in panic. I had uncovered an underground bee hive.

Episode 3: The following morning I was making up the bed and upon turning over a sheet, exposed a yellowjacket crawling inconspicuously across our bed. I took off my house slipper (yes, I wear house slippers) and pounded the life out of it. I thought...ok, now we have a problem. They are making their way INTO our house. Something must be done. I declared war, then and there.

I was clueless as to what to do with them. How do you kill these things? Where are they even coming from? After talking with a few folks and reading about it on the internet, I learned what to do. Stake out the nest. Find out where they are coming from. After a good while I finally saw the hole. In and out they went. Then, last night was the first strike. A cup of gasoline down the hatch. That should do it. We'll see. Tonight is another stake out....just to see who survived. And if need be, I will pour some more down. I'm tempted to light it, just to end this nonsense for good. You know, let them know that I mean business.

Till We Have Faces

Well, I finally did it. After years of scoffing, slandering, and sneering, I finally succumbed to the pressure and created an account on Facebook. Back in the day, while everybody combed through pages of friends, wrote on each other's walls, and poked each other (a practice I am still uncomfortable with), I stood by the computer laughing at them. Judging them. Thinking they were inferior, less in the kingdom, and certainly not as good as me. But I must admit, I have had a change of heart. And a change of schedule as well.

I have not been able to get off of this thing for the past 48 hours. I find myself updating my profile, uploading pics, searching out long lost friends, and stalking my friend's friends every free moment I have. And when I am not doing that, I am brainstorming about it. The Book of Faces has taken over my life. I am now that guy I once hated. I am him. I am on Facebook.

My internet world has collided with my real world. Today someone related to me in person (that is, face to face) about something that I had done online (that is, facebook to face). "Nice pic," or something like that. Facebook has not only seeped into my personal schedule but it has seeped into my daily relationships. People now relate to me through my profile. They write on my wall then laugh about it to my face (my actual face) when they see me. I am not only on Facebook, I am Facebook. I have embodied it. I am a walking wall. People actually poke me.

So I ask you this...because you probably have much more Facebooking experience than I do...how do I stop the madness? How do I unplug? I'm telling you right now, as soon as I upload this post, I'm going back to Facebook. In fact I've wasted enough time writing this stupid blog. Must....go....back.....to....Face.....book.....

Why My Wife Would Never Survive in the Wild

Kathryn has been dominated by the elements. In the past few days alone, she has received like 20 mosquito bites, a crippling bee sting on her ankle, an open blister on her hand from using a rake, a searing burn on her elbow from a cooking mishap, and several spots of poison ivy on her arms and legs. Oh yeah, and last week she was scrapped on the leg by an old, rusted fence. My poor, sweet wife.

I am Inconsistent.....Like You

I drove to Baton Rouge this past weekend. It was a delightful trip. Good time with old friends. Good coffee. Good food. I like sitting at a coffee shop for 4 straight hours and have different people cycle through and sit down and visit. That's just good old fun. (Emphasis on "old.") Certainly the worst part of the trip was the 12-hour drive. Coming back from BR up to Charlotte took a bit longer. 2 hours were added as a I sat parked on the highway behind major wrecks and road construction. I never really realized how exhausting it is just to sit there and do nothing. And I got one of those half-n-half tans on my arm. My left arm is darker than my right, since it hogged all of the sun for most of the drive. My left arm had fun in the sun.

On my journey back, I had a stimulating conversation with one, Russ Edwards aka DangerRuss aka Fussel aka Russ-in-a-Bag aka Sandwich aka RussBomb aka R-to-tha-You-to-tha-Double-S-Yall. We discussed "phone talking" and which ear we usually use when we are operating a cellular tellular. We both noticed that it is challenging to hear and hold the phone when you switch to the ear that you don't use very much, your "weak ear," if you will. I can only last so long on my weak ear until I have to switch back. We have come to the conclusion that your "strong ear" has been trained to hear phone conversations, whereas your weak ear hasn't. My strong ear is my right one.

The interesting thing is: my strong side of my mouth is my left one. I mean, I favor the left side of my mouth to chew food on. Very rarely do I pop over to the right. I only do it when I am consciously thinking about it.

So I talk on my right and I chew on my left. I think that balances out somehow.

Cactus: Ode to Hatred

I have spent the better part of my week digging up cactus from our yard during my free time. I am convinced that cactus is part of the fall. This evil plant has stubborn, extended roots, water-filled cactus branches (ie., very heavy), and the obvious needle-peppered exoskeleton. I have been hacking away at these monsters bit by bit. Once they are uprooted, I try to manually lift them into a thick garbage bag with my extra-thick leather work gloves. But work gloves are no match for their penetrating thorns. I have to stop every minute or so, remove the gloves, and pluck out the piercing needle from my finger. Not the most pleasant experience. I have previously written (vented) about poison ivy and onions and their feeble, delayed, defense-mechanisms. I have finally found a plant that I can respect as far as its committment to not being harmed. There have to be millions of thorns on just one cactus stem. Every possible spot to touch this thing is littered with skin-piercing, bamboo-like splinters. The cactus is clearly an introvert. It wants nothing to do with anybody. Or anything. It remains, truly, an island.

I hate these things and I have no idea how to effectively get rid of them. As for now, I am loading them up in bags, struggling with all of my might to lift the bags to the street, and hoping that the city will take them away. Please, City, take them away. They have no place here in our yard.