The Muffin Man

Here is another story from the archives. As always, everything in this story is true although I do attempt to tell it in the most interesting way possible. By the way this blog is dedicated to a couple of my most loyal readers, both hailing from the great state of Wisconsin. Teri and Cari, this ones for you.

Let's turn the clock back to 2001. I was a freshmen in high school and was really finding a sense of comfort and belonging in high school after the initial anxieties associated with starting at a new school. Before my second hour American History class I often stopped by the vending machines to pick up a snack to hold me over until lunch. Unfortunately, a lot of other students also decided to use this time to get snacks as well, causing a bit of a vending machine traffic jam, leading me to be late to class from time to time. I was never more than about thirty seconds late, but my teacher soon grew tired of this behavior. She was a couple months pregnant at the time and her resulting moodiness was apparent on most days. Threatening me with a detention, she made it clear that I was not to be late to class again. Not thrilled with the idea of staying after school, I decided to comply with my teachers demands and get to class on time.

After a couple weeks of being a model student, I was a little bit antsy to get into some mischief. I just don't think I'm wired to behave in school for extended periods of time. Its not in my DNA. On a day that seemed just like any other, I happened to notice a muffin sitting on my teachers desk. What most people saw as a snack for my teacher, I saw as an opportunity. I quickly raised my hand and my teacher called on me. Our exchange went something like this:

Me (raising hand): Can I have that muffin?

Teacher: Excuse me?

Me: May I please have that muffin on your desk.

Teacher: No, Ravi. You can't have my muffin.

Me: Please? How about just a bite? I'm hungry

Teacher: Well you should have brought your own snack.

Me: I can't, you banned me from the vending machines remember?

Teacher: I'm pregnant, you can't have my muffin.

Me: I'm diabetic, I need it more.

Teacher: Leave me and my muffin alone, do your work.

Now you would think that that would be the end of the story, but I was never one to give up quickly on the opportunity for free food. So as I shifted my focus mostly back to my worksheet, I could not shake the image of that muffin which was so close, yet still out of my reach. Furthermore, I felt as though my American History teacher needed a lesson on sharing, especially considering that she was bringing a new life into this world and would have to teach that child such lessons by example. Really, what I was about to do was for the well being of our future generations.

Clearly, unlike me, my teacher had forgotten largely about the muffin incident because several minutes later she left the room to pick up some more copies of a worksheet from the office across the hall. I saw my opening and I pounced on it. Quickly I walked toward her desk, grabbed the muffin and left a rather conspicuous trail of crumbs back to my desk. I then smudged a few strategically placed crumbs in the stubble on my face (yes I had beard stubble when I was 14) and hid the muffin in the compartment under my desk. Moments later my teacher returned to the room. As she placed the worksheets she had retrieved on her desk, she looked shocked and horrified to notice her muffin was missing. She slowly followed the crumb trail back to me as she shouted out my name. Our next exchange went like this:

Teacher: RAAAVI!!!!

Me: Yes ma'am?

Teacher: Ravi! Where's my muffin?!?!

Me: I'm sorry? What muffin?

Teacher: Did you seriously steal a muffin from a pregnant women?!?!?!

Me: I have no idea what you're talking about. Why do you assume I took it? Is this a race thing?

Teacher: Don't pull that crap with me! You have crumbs on your face!

Me: I had a low blood sugar I'm sorry.

Teacher: You are such a liar, go the the principal's office!

Me: I really don't think that's going to be necessary.

Teacher: Why not?

Me: Because I have something for you.

Teacher (looking at me confused) . . .

At this point the entire class was falling out of their chairs laughing (some literally). My teacher had not noticed this while yelling at me but became quite confused once she realized it. I slowly removed her muffin from its hiding place and put it exactly where it had sat before, unharmed on her desk, missing only a few crumbs. My teacher stood there, in total shock, completely dumbfounded as to what just occurred. I quickly mentioned to her that I thought she needed a lesson in sharing as I made my way back to my desk.

After finally collecting herself and regaining control of the class, my teacher proceeded with the lesson as if nothing had happened. What else could she do? I may not live on Drury Lane, but that day in American History class, my teacher discovered that I was in fact, The Muffin Man.

No Sugar Added

For those of you who don't know, I am a type 1 diabetic. This is relevant because a couple days ago, my great friend Beth Cavender (of falling down fame) sent me a picture on my phone of a diabetic cookbook with the caption "I should have gotten you this for Christmas!" Little did she know that I have a long held hatred for diabetic food. Whether it be sugar free cookies, no sugar added ice cream or even sugarless gum, I cannot stand it. I hear they have made great strides in making these types of products actually palatable but when I was diagnosed over 15 years ago they all tasted like stale rice cakes, so I now refuse to eat anything of the sort. The only sugar free thing I can stand is diet pop, which I happen to be addicted to.

Receiving this fateful picture message reminded me of when my hatred for sugar free foods officially hit epic proportions. It was my 17th birthday and I was hanging out with a girl I liked at the time and a couple other friends. We were attending an outdoor jazz concert (I know what you are thinking, and yes I did have to like that girl a lot to end up at an outdoor jazz concert in the middle of August), and it is customary to have a little mini picnic while you are listening to the music. Well, because it was my birthday our picnic included a pan of brownies that this girl had made for me with a candle in them. Now these weren't just any brownies, they were special brownies (not the good kind). They were sugar free brownies. The fact that I liked this girl once again comes into play because had it been someone else, I would have blown out the candle, made my wish and politely declined this sugarless dessert that was sure to be a train wreck at best. However, boys who like girls often do foolish things and I was no different. I thought to myself, that it'd been so long since I'd had any sugar free food that the industry may have come along way.

The industry in fact had not come a long way. It may have actually regressed. Those sugar free monstrosities were one of the single worst things I have ever tasted, and this is coming from the guy who as an adult ate a crayon for money (it was red). To give you an idea of how these things tasted, I'd like you to imagine something with me. Imagine that one day a saltine cracker was walking along and met a slightly promiscuous sponge. The saltine immediately fell deeply in love with the slutty sponge, and they were overcome with passion and consummated their new relationship. However, being a skank the sponge moved on, only to find herself nine months later giving birth to the illegitimate son of the saltine cracker. This bastard child that was born, was the batch of sugar free brownies that I was given for my birthday.

Now I have heard many times that it is the thought that counts. Really? Is that so? Do you think the guy who came up with that saying ever received sugar free brownies for their birthday? I highly doubt it. With this being the holiday season, I want you to remember this lesson. When you are out shopping for someone, and aren't sure what to get, do not rely on the "it's the thought that counts" principle to convince yourself that anything you get them will be fine. This is a lie, it will not be fine. If you really believe its the thought that counts, then try thinking a little longer and buy a present that does not suck. Merry Christmas.

The Snow Buffet

The legend of the snow buffet began as best as I can remember about five years ago in a small town called Norfolk. Norfolk, was the home to a small private college and was notorious for it's harsh winters. It seemed as though all of the major winter storms which often steered clear of the big cities of Omaha and Lincoln (hey it's big for Nebraska), always seemed to find Norfolk. Now there wasn't a whole lot to do in Norfolk when everyone wasn't buried up to their necks in snow, so when the harsh blizzards forced everyone inside for extended periods of time, the cabin fever soon followed. People with cabin fever tend to do some things that no amount of logic or reason can explain and out of that madness, the snow buffet was born.

On one fateful winter night, late in the year 2005, I got my introduction to the snow buffet. It is unclear how exactly it began, but sometimes the girls of that small private school decide to mouth off to the guys. Their comments likely were not even remotely bad, they were in fact just jokes. However the mix of being barely disrespected and being trapped inside for days on end, sent the male population right over the proverbial edge. They picked up the mouthiest of the girls, took her outside and threw them into the snow drifts. Afterward these girls were aggressively encouraged to enjoy the taste of some of that snow while they were there. I was merely a witness at this point, but the snow buffet would change my life forever.

Since that inaugural snow buffet, it has been a rite of passage for many of those girls who decide to associate themselves with me and my group of friends. There is absolutely no mean spirited intent in the performing of a snow buffet, rather it is just some good natured fun. That being said, the snow buffet's most epic execution to date occurred about two years ago here in Omaha at the relocated campus of that small private school. There was a group of four girls (containing our informant who was promised immunity which she did not receive) who were coming back to the school sometime around 11 pm. We found out about this some time earlier, and had decided to act. We outfitted ourselves in the proper attire and began to head outside. We built a trench behind a small hill just in front of the parking lot and laid in it so that we could see when the girls arrived, but we were not visible to anyone in the parking lot. We laid in that trench for over 20 minutes as we awaited their arrival. Finally a large red Dodge Durango pulled slowly into the parking lot. The stars must have been aligned because they chose the open parking space directly in front of us. We laid motionless in our trench, waiting for them all to get out of the car and proceed up the sidewalk. Once they arrived next to an area where all the snow from the sidewalks had been piled up, we went to work. There were probably six of us in all, and we sprung into action like lions hunting a pack of gazelles. If you have ever watched Animal Planet, you know how this ends. The four girls were thrown in the snow, tabled top in enormous drifts, tackled into snow banks, and of course aggressively encouraged to eat some delicious snow for the better part of 2o minutes. When it was all over, they were exhausted and their spirit to fight back had been broken. We all walked back into the school, our arms raised in triumph. We had just been part of snow buffet history.

This year, the snow buffet-ing is on a record pace. The weather has cooperated nicely, after getting off to a slow start, the snow has come in a plentiful manner. The tradition of the snow buffet is being passed on to the younger generations in hopes that the legacy will continue long after my friends and I have left that small private college. Perhaps one day when I am old, I will see children playing outside in the snow, and they will forsake the building of snowmen, or riding of sleds, in favor of snow buffeting each other until their little frozen noses turn red. This is my dream.

As someone who does not appreciate most things involved with winter, this can sometimes be a miserable time of year for me. A lot of people tend to get a little depressed in the winter and I was certainly one of them, not anymore though. Since the invention of the snow buffet, I have had that glorious tradition to look forward to every year. The difference between the snow buffet and say Christmas, is that Christmas is just one day of fun in the middle of a frozen desert, but the snow buffet is an oasis that can last me through until the spring time. Is it too much to say that the snow buffet alone keeps me from being depressed in the winter? I don't think it is . . . I don't think it is.

I Get Knocked Down, But I Get Up Again

After reading the title of this blog you are probably expecting some inspirational words about perseverance and not getting discouraged by your failures and setbacks. Fear not, no such cheesy encouragement will be provided here, that's not how I roll.

This post is actually about literally falling down, getting back up, and falling again. Now most people would not consider the act of falling down a talent, but those people have never met Beth Cavender. Beth is well known, some might same even famous, for her lack of grace (read: clumsiness) and just general awkward essence, however yesterday she took things to a whole knew level. It was reported that yesterday Ms. Cavender managed to fall down a staggering eight times in what is believed to be a new world record for failing to stay vertical. Just for giggles, lets do a little bit of math on this. Let's say that Beth slept for 8 hours yesterday, and was in class for about 4 hours. That leaves only 12 hours to get all of her falling down accomplished. But she likely was not spending all of her day walking around outside as it was rather cold. So let's figure she spent a maximum of an hour outside, walking from place to place. This means that Beth Cavender managed to fall down a staggering once every 7.5 minutes that she was attempting to walk upright.

Now everyone falls down from time to time. When you live in Omaha in the winter, there will be ice and when there is ice sometimes you slip, no big deal. Most people usually learn after a couple falls to tread a bit more carefully, however, as an art major, Beth has managed to make a masterpiece of falling on her gluteus maximus. This is why I believe Beth's ability to fall down with such frequency is a talent, perhaps even a gift. Beth Cavender, I hope we can all be as awkward and clumsy as you someday.

No Habla Ingles

First off, a couple random things. Number 1, I realized that if I blog from my phone at work then technically I am getting paid to blog. Life long dream (that I've only actually had for like a month) finally realized. And second, I decided that instead of waiting for something interesting to happen and deprive you all of my blog until that happens (unlike Beth Cavender, I don't have amazing things like STD googlers waiting for me around every corner), that I would give you stories from the archive (aka my life prior to today) to keep you entertained. I assure you that all of these stories are true and exagerrated as little as possible. Here is the first of such stories.

When I was in high school, I was not the biggest fan of studying or doing my homework. Now that surely comes as a shock to all of you who know me as an extremely studious and hard working scholar today, however it is true. It isn't that I didn't like school, its that I felt as though many of my assignments were in fact a waste of time and that my life would be more productive playing NCAA football on the Xbox in my friends basement (Buske shoutout!). I still maintain that if I were to be hired as a football coach that I would be 100% capable because of the time I spent playing that game. Anyway, the point is I didn't like doing homework. The problem was, I couldn't just not do my homework otherwise I wouldn't get credit for the assignment and I would get in trouble with my parents. This was a lot more drama then I was looking for. So it became a little game of mine to try and get out of doing as much homework as possible while convincing my teacher to still give me credit for it. It is a rather challenging game, but lucky for me, I'm a rather clever fellow.

In my world geography class as a sophomore, we had to do these study guides every week over the section we were studying. I hated those things. They were long and time consuming and all around just pointless. Well I was sitting in class one day about a month into the semester when an idea came to me. After class I went up to my teacher and told him I had really been struggling to complete the weekly study guides. Knowing I was a bright kid, he asked me what I was talking about. I went on to explain to him that English was actually my second language and that for some reason the length and style of the readings were just overwhelming to me. I explained that I was very embarrassed about this and I had gone as far as to learn an American accent to cover up the fact that my native tongue was actually Hindi as learned from my father who was born and raised in India. I could tell that my teacher was having a hard time buying this, so I acted as though I was getting very upset and started mixing the three phrases of Hindi I know into my desperate pleas that he not tell anyone about my situation. I then apologized for my broken English, explaining I slip into it sometimes when I am rattled. I believe he thought I was about to cry when he finally told me that it was alright and that he wouldn't tell anyone and most importantly that I no longer would be required to complete the weekly study guides. Victory was mine.

I went the rest of the semester without doing a single study guide and received an A in the course. The teacher never spoke a word to me about what we talked about that day after class. Just for the record, the three phrases I know in Hindi are roughly translated, "You are a donkey" and "You are a dog" and "Your mother is a cow." I learned them when I was visiting my dad's family in India when I was six years old. The best part about the whole situation? There actually was a student who legitimately had English as their second language and when that student asked the teacher for the same treatment I had gotten, the teacher refused to believe him, and even chastised him because he thought the student was making fun of me. I would have felt bad for this kid but he knew English just fine and was just trying to get a free ride through class. Who does that?

No Shave November Update

Pictures from the 1/3 of the way point (taken yesterday)

The Breakup

One of the most distinct memories I have from high school occurred on some random day as my friend and I were walking to her truck in the parking lot after school to go hang out at my house. As we climbed into the vehicle, I noticed something spectacular happening right before my very eyes. In the row of cars directly in front of my friend's truck we witnessed a real life, soap opera style collapse of a love triangle. There was the guy who was old news, the girl, and the new guy. The whole thing was like a solar eclipse and car wreck all rolled into one and I simply could not take my eyes off of it. My friend quickly noticed the spectacle as well and neither of us even budged a we stared at the trio for several minutes. As the old guy shamefully begged the girl to take him back, the new guy stepped in between them with the girl eventually walking away emotionlessly. The old guy did not let up, now shouting at both the new guy and the girl, and my friend and I found ourselves rooting for him to break down into tears. As the new guy and the girl got in the car and drove off together, leaving the old guy standing in an empty parking space, our wishes were granted as he began weeping like a small child. My friend and I both cheered before quickly deciding to leave in case he saw us.

I stopped by Jimmy John's today to enjoy a quick Gargantuan before work. I got my pop and sandwich and sat down in a booth by myself, directly behind a guy and a girl. Since I was alone, I ended up partaking in some people watching with the guy and girl in front of me being the easiest targets. At first I could not really tell if these two were just friends having lunch, whether they were on a lunch date, or what exactly was going on. Their calm and quiet discussion fooled me for quite some time. Finally as they continued talking, I realized what this was. They were having Breakup Lunch. I tried not to make it too obvious that I was monitoring their situation, but make no mistake, I was fully tuned in. The girl, who was wearing scrubs so I assume she was a nurse or something similar, very calmly explained that she was not going to support him or drag him around with her anymore. From what I heard, it seemed as though this guy was some kind of jobless, lazy tool and in the girl's defense, he was taking her on a date to Jimmy John's so she probably wasn't terribly far off the mark. I have to give the girl credit, she was unbelievably calm and resolved through the entire encounter, almost shockingly so. She challenged everything I ever thought I knew about girls and their crazed, irrational, and emotionally charged ways (kidding ladies . . . kind of). She seemed so detached from the whole thing that I briefly wondered if they were breaking up because the guy found out that his girlfriend used to be a dude. The guy on the other hand was extremely defensive and kept rambling on and on about how she didn't respect him and how she never gave him any credit for anything. He appeared to have some sort of sense of entitlement that left me with the impression that he had to be a trust fund baby. I could not help but wonder though if the guy knew he was going to get dumped and that is the reason why he chose to have the date at Jimmy John's. Every guy knows what I'm talking about. Your girlfriend says we need to talk, let's go get something to eat. That is basically code for, I'm going to squeeze one last free dinner out of you before I break your heart. So kudos to this guy for sticking it to her by taking the cheap way out.

As the situation wound down, the girl claimed she had to get back to work (probably lying) and coolly got up and left by herself. The guy stayed only for a moment longer before also departing. The whole thing absolutely made my day. At the risk of sounding like a terrible person (and by that I mean, with the absolute certainty of sounding like a terrible person), public breakups are probably one of my favorite things to watch from a distance. You just know that they decided to do it in public to avoid a scene and usually they fail miserably. The best part about this breakup though was the completely lack of an explosion that I felt was certain to come. This girl let the guy go as if she were firing a secretary. Cold, calculated, and distant. She was basically the breakup version of a sniper. It was breathtaking and fantastic. If anyone who is reading this is planning on ending it with their significant other sometime in the near future, please, do it in public, for the sake of everyone who might be there to enjoy it. If you are two are going to be miserable, at least make everyone else happy.

No Shave November

I'm not exactly a big fan of the winter. The cold weather really just isn't my cup of tea. I mean look at me, clearly I was built for the tropics. Now with that being said, there are not a whole lot of things that make the transition into winter an enjoyable time for me. Of the limited number of items I like about this particular season, most of them are sports related, go figure. The college football season picking up steam. The Major League playoffs, except this year, stupid Yankees. The beginning of the college basketball season, especially the seemingly annual occurrence of a Division II team knocking off a national power in a meaningless exhibition which the D-2 guys will undoubtedly tell their grandchildren about like it was played at the end of March instead of the beginning of November. Thank you to the Le Moyne Dolphins for this year's edition. Aside from the holidays, which are obvious, there are only two non sports related events that make the shorter days and frigid temperatures bearable for me, the Snow Buffet, and No Shave November. Today's topic is the latter, so you will have to wait to learn more about the Snow Buffet and all of its glory.

No Shave November is a rather simple concept, you and your closest guy friends just do not shave for the entire month of November to see how much facial hair you can grow in that amount of time. When I put it like that, it sounds like a long, drawn out version of a pissing contest, but I'd like to think it is much more than that. To me, it is really more of a tribute to all bearded men everywhere, a visual shout out to lumberjacks, mountain men, and anyone else who wears flannel. It could be called the National Tribute to Bearded Men Month (like Black History Month for white guys), except that's quite a mouthful and No Shave November just has a nice ring to it. Not to mention that this is a real test of a man's resolve. As ridiculous as it sounds, not shaving for an entire month is a pretty trying ordeal, there is the constant itching until your beard gets long enough, the potential to look like a creeper if your face doesn't wear a beard well, and on a personal note, when I grow out my beard people think I am expressing my allegiance to Al Qaeda. In my most recent attempt at No Shave November two years ago, I caved and shaved just halfway through, it remains one of my deepest regrets. Not many people finish the race. It is basically the Iditarod of facial hair.

In order to appreciate the importance of this month, it is necessary to understand the significance of a beard that is allowed to grow without hindrance. There are many different types of beards and reasons for growing them. There is the "My Face is Ugly so I Grew a Beard to Cover it Up" beard, also known as the Abe Lincoln. This may be the most practical reason for growing a beard. There's the, "I Want to Be a Member of a Boy Band" chinstrap style beard, also known as the Joey Fatone (or for those that know him, the Justin Chitwood). There is the, "This Guy is Completely Unstable" beard, think the Unibomber. There is also the "Eff You" beard, which often occurs after difficult break ups, whether it be with a girl or with your employer. The Eff You beard is a constant reminder to whoever it is that you are directing it toward that they have no say in your appearance anymore and no matter how terrible, creepy, unprofessional, or ridiculous the beard looks, no one can do anything to stop you from growing it. Finally there is the "I'm a Man" beard. The "I'm a Man" beard is the kind worn by the kinds of men who are too busy being manly to bother with shaving. The most famous example of this beard is the NHL playoff beard. Now I am not a huge hockey fan, although I do find it entertaining, but it does two things it does better than any other sports. It's championship trophy (seriously the Stanley Cup is sweet looking) and the playoff beard. The "I'm a Man" beard is the purest and most honorable form of facial hair and it is this type of beard which I seek to honor in No Shave November.

You see, I have been blessed, or cursed depending on how you look at it, with the formidable ability to grow facial hair at ridiculously fast rates. However, the one time I used this skill to its full ability was in the process of growing an "Eff You" beard during my senior year in high school. Not to be overly dramatic or anything, but this would be like if Superman decided to use his powers to play professional football instead of saving the world. Would it absolutely be impressive to watch? Of course. Would it be the best use of his abilities? Not even close. This is what happened when I was 17. I was very upset about a girl breaking up with me, and proceeded to grow and "Eff You" beard for the next two and a half months, it was glorious in appearance but not in motive. I have no inherent opposition to the "Eff You" beard, in fact I feel it is a helpful and sometimes necessary coping mechanism. It just somehow seems tainted to have my only magnificent beard grown to spite someone else, rather than for my own personal enjoyment. So this November, I will be growing it out, in all of its hairy splendor, who knows if it goes really well I might even let it go into December too. I will almost certainly look like the Indian Kimbo Slice, what could be better?

There is also the distinct possibility that everything I have just written is complete gibberish and No Shave November is just a thing college guys do because they aren't married and don't have real jobs. It's hard to say, but I'd like to think it's more. Much, much more.

Age Before Beauty

Omaha, NE

As NFL teams waged war against each other at locations scattered across the country, a much more important battle was fought on the fields outside Stonebridge Christian Church. As the chilly Omaha afternoon turned to evening, the youth group sponsors faced off against the youth group students in an epic . . . a legendary . . . a historic game of tackle football. This game was not played for playoff positioning or home field advantage, but rather for bragging rights, and that was plenty.

Unlike traditional football contests which have standardized numbers of players on each team, the students literally outnumbered the sponsors throughout the entire encounter. Fighting against extra players and younger legs, the sponsors fell in an early two touchdown hole against the students. The students received the ball first and quickly marched down the field for their first score and had their second score set up by a pass that slipped through defensive specialist (forced into action on offense due to the students numerical advantage) Andrew "Big Z" Zetterman's hands which resulted in an interception.

Down by two touchdowns, the sponsors showed their experience and poise, quickly responding with a scoring drive, capped off with a classic option play. Quarterback "Rumbling" Ravi Lulla forced his way into the end zone, barreling over anyone that stood in his way. The sponsor's defense, led in the first half by Big Z, came up with a huge stop before the tandem of Alex "Heisman" Hall and Josh "White Lightning" Laughlin (which is ironic due to his thundering running style) took over on the next scoring drive to tie the game up.

The game then became a shootout between two powerful offenses. The students used their speed to strike against the stronger sponsors. The sponsors responded by breaking tackle after tackle, reminiscent of Tommie Frazier trucking through the Florida Gators defense, on their way to the end zone. After trading leads for much of the first half, the power of Laughlin and Lulla (collectively known simply as Chocolate Thunder) and the Quarterbacking of Heisman Hall and Lulla became too much for the students after intermission.

With the game tied at seven touchdowns a piece, the sponsors ratcheted up the defense with help from late addition and defensive anchor, Nick "Ndamuhkong Suh" Brown, and scored four straight touchdowns on offense to take a commanding lead. At this point the sponsors started making history. Roger "The Lone" Wulff came in at quarterback and found Bob "Speedy" Swanson on a 40 yard touchdown bomb to form the oldest scoring connection in the history of mankind, coming in at a combined age of approximately 94 (exact records were not kept at the time of their births).

The sponsors finished the remainder of the game with a comfortable four to five touchdown lead, proving once and for all their physical dominance and overall superiority over the students of the youth group.

That's My Jam!

How much better would life be if it were accompanied by everyone's own personal movie-style soundtrack? First of all you would have the pure entertainment value of always having something to rock out to, but also life would be about a thousand times easier to navigate through. Just think about it, you meet someone for the first time and think they are normal enough to perhaps have a friendship with until you realize they have some bizarre European techno blasting on their soundtrack. Now you know its best to walk away now rather than have to awkwardly decline an invitation to participate in recreational drug use later. Ladies, you find yourself on a first date with a guy you don't know all that well. Your male companion has opened doors for you, pulled out your chair and by all measures been a perfect gentleman that you think you would like to go out with again. Wait a second, is that Sex and Candy by Marcy Playground on his soundtrack right now? Check please! Life soundtracks could even help cut down on hate crimes. Say you are a person of color like myself, if you hear country music of any kind just turn your naturally tanned self around and you have steered clear of trouble and a possible race war with some hillbillies. Are you concerned that a member of your basketball team might be gay? Just tune in to his pregame life soundtrack and if he's listening to Josh Groban instead of Jay-Z, then you might want to reconsider the community showers idea.

The practical applications of life soundtracks are virtually endless. How much more romantic would your proposal have been if you had Sinatra quietly crooning in the background? Having a bad day and want everyone to leave you alone? If people could hear Break Stuff by Limp Bizkit playing in your head then they would know better than to ask you stupid questions today. There has to be some sort of technology to play whatever song we have in our head out loud and in real time, and if there's not then people need to start working on it rather than trying to figure out how to create a colony on the moon. Life soundtracks would be beneficial to everyone, let's make this happen. Someone call NASA.

Cheater, Cheater, Pumpkin Eater

One of my best friends and former roommates is the pastor of student ministries at a local church. This basically means he is in charge of running the junior and senior high youth groups for the church. He is rather good at his job and while under his watch, the junior high youth group has exploded in size and as a result he has recruited several people including myself to help out as volunteer youth sponsors. Basically our roles are to lead small groups and just have fun with the kids during the game time. Now the game time is where it's at. Junior high kids generally are not overly tuned in during the small group time, not that they're bad kids or anything, they just have the attention span of a goldfish with ADHD. Needless to say it can get a little frustrating trying to get through to a junior higher on a deep level. So game time is where the frustrations can be released a little bit, namely in the form of dodge ball.

Now we play a lot of different kinds of games but about 94% of them are some variation of dodge ball. This is probably because if we weren't allowed to throw things at the children after they completely ignore the profound theological knowledge we attempt to lay down, none of the sponsors would ever come back. I don't want you to get the wrong idea, the kids are in no danger. We use those foam nerf and gator balls that are basically made up of the same thing as those swimming noodles which are designed so it is physically impossible to hurt someone with them. And while we occasionally play sponsors versus students games, the sponsors are usually distributed evenly between the teams. Still there is something therapeutic about blindsiding a 7th grader who somehow couldn't manage to stay quiet during a 30 second prayer.

There is however one major problem with game time. Junior high kids are bigger cheaters than Major League Baseball players. Now obviously none of our students are shooting up roids to get an edge (although we do have a giant 8th grader who I suspect of recreational HGH use) however they will blatantly disregard just about any rule intended to govern a game. In general, to actually get one of the kids to sit down during a dodge ball game, you have to hit them with a ball at least four times and directly call them out before they will even consider the fact that they are no longer part of the game. Sometimes video replay and 11 witnesses are also required.

It used to boggle my mind how anyone could cheat with such a disregard for anything that resembled integrity. Now it is possible that its because they completely disregarded any lessons we have had on integrity. Honestly I don't know what it is. What I realize now though is that its not just junior high kids, because there was a split second in our dodge ball game on Wednesday night where a ball hit my shoe and for just a moment I thought to myself, "Maybe no one saw that . . . "

Best. Concert. Ever.

I know you all have been anxiously awaiting my thoughts on the Creed concert that I was so eagerly anticipating a few blog posts ago and I will leave in you suspense no longer. I have three words for you. Best. Concert. Ever. Alright, so maybe that is a BIT of an exaggeration and honestly I do not have the concert going resume to support that statement to any length. However, the concert was absolutely everything I could have ever hoped for and more. You truly appreciate the musical prowess of a group to a much greater extent once you see them in person. Mark Tremonti, the lead guitarist and composer of most of Creed's songs, is a fantastically talented individual. I was also impressed with Scott Stapp's ability to produce a strikingly similar sound to that heard on the recorded versions of Creed's songs. To me this is always a measure of how good a band is, their ability to match their sound in a recording studio during a live performance, and Creed measured up admirably. On this same note, opening act Staind was absolutely incredible at this, their sound was an exact replica of what you hear on the radio or on one of their albums, and while I only enjoyed about half of their set, I appreciated this about them.

Now let's back up a couple steps. Heading into the concert, I certainly had some concerns. I had heard the horror stories of some Creed concerts several years ago while Stapp was battling severe alcohol problems where he was so intoxicated during concerts that he could not even remember the lyrics to the groups most famous songs. While I understand that Stapp has reportedly sobered up, he was still playing a concert in Council Bluffs, and spending more than a couple hours in the CB could even drive a priest to the bottle. Basically I was just crossing my fingers that this show was not going to be the victim of an untimely relapse. Well there was good news for the crowd and for Creed, Scott Stapp appears to still be riding the sobriety wagon (all jokes aside, good for you Scott, keep up the good work). With these thoughts fresh in my mind, the very real fear was born that seeing this band live might irreversibly taint my love for them. Not only was there a possibility that musically Creed could have been awful live, there was also the chance that all of the band members were just giant tools which would have completely ruined the experience for me. A part of a performer's personality comes through during a live show that you just cannot begin to pick up on from a recording, and unlike some people I find it difficult to seperate someones personality from their work, thus the reason I hate Brett Favre.

Luckily my concerns were put to rest with the very first song. Creed came out to a heart pounding ballad backed with fire and pyrotechnics that instantly let you know, this was going to be a good show (I apologize, I don't know the name of the first song they played, I believe it is from their new album which is yet to be released and it is not one of the singles they have put out). There are some bands, regardless of their style of music that just put on a great show and Creed is one of them. They simply know how to capture a crowd and not let them go until the final note is played. The only thing I was worried about after the first song of the concert was that Creed would be too busy promoting their new album to play their most famous and popular songs. I didn't know if they were one of those bands that had started to resent the music that had caused everyone to love them in the first place. Once again, Creed pulled through for me. They struck a balance of playing some of their new stuff (check out "Rain" from their new album, its fantastic) while embracing the songs that everyone was there to hear. They even wrapped up their encore by playing "Higher" leaving the crowd equal parts satisfied and amped up.

All in all, I could not have been happier with how the concert went. Even the cheap tickets that I bought were pretty much centered in front of the stage, and the MidAmerica Center isn't big enough to have a bad seat in the house (which was packed). Through this experience, my love for Creed has grown exponentially and has filled me with sorrow for those who still refuse to accept the greatness that is Creed.

Lord, I Was Born a Ramblin' Man

Sometimes I find it impossible to fathom the fact that I am 22 years old. I am almost done with college. Whether I end up going on to law school or not, I'm pretty much a year or two away from being a full blown adult. I am in no way ready for that. I still feel like a kid, literally. When people ask me how old I am, in my mind the first number that pops in my head is usually somewhere around 15. Then I remember that I can drive, so I have to be at least 16. Then I recall that I graduated high school putting me in the neighborhood of 18. Finally I realize I can legally buy alcohol which puts me at 21, and somehow I always end up remembering that last year relying solely on my clever ways. 22 years old. Luckily my mind works over these steps fairly quickly so people don't end up thinking I am the victim of some sort of brain injury or mental handicap because I can't even tell them how old I am without some serious thought. I'm going to be a bit all over the place tonight. I can't really sleep so I'm just going to type until I get tired. Maybe I will write something brilliant or hilarious or divinely inspired as my insomnia gives way to delirium and finally to sleep.

It may surprise you to find out that for someone who has changed their major in college close to a half a dozen times, I've only ever really wanted to do one thing. Play professional baseball. Like most people, this became something that was no longer a possibility sometime in high school. After a shoulder surgery and a broken elbow, there just wasn't a whole lot of zip remaining in my right arm. I tried to teach myself to play left handed, figuring I hadn't thrown with it all my life so there had to be plenty of juice left in it. You can ask my parents, I really did but it just isn't as easy as Pat Venditte makes it look. On kind of a sick side note, it is kind of a relief that I hurt my arm. I mean, yeah I had to quit playing competitively but I probably would not have made it pro even if I had stayed healthy. Its not that I wasn't good, just that chances of it actually happening are pretty astronomical. At least this way when people ask if I hadn't got hurt, if I would have made it, I can look them in the eye and say, absolutely. Sometimes never knowing is the greatest gift life can give when you fail to reach your dreams.

For some reason baseball was the only thing I could ever manage to funnel all of my considerable focus and energy entirely into and I think that is why I have such a hard time figuring out what I want to do in life. It isn't that I can't find anything I want to do, it's that I want to do everything. I want to write movies. I want to own a restaurant. I want to coach. I want to teach. I want to sing. I want to be important, and I don't mean famous, I mean important. I want to matter to people, now if that makes me famous too then I guess that's alright. I want to change the world. I want to save the Church from itself. I want to make people laugh and I want to move them to tears. I want to be an inspiration. I want someone to pay me for writing this blog. And when it is finally my time to die, I want to go down in some sort of epic manner that just doesn't exist anymore except in Braveheart and Gladiator. I want to do everything because for some reason in the midst of all of my insecurities, I honestly believe I could. I am the strangest blend of unsure and self-confident. Maybe I really could do all those things, even if not all at once. But instead it looks like I'm going to be a lawyer, because for all of those things I want, there are some things I don't want too. I don't want to be poor. I don't want to have to worry about providing for my family (if I ever have one). I don't want to worry about how I'm going to pay for my diabetic supplies. It isn't that I necessarily want to be a lawyer, its that being a lawyer keeps me away from all of the things in life that I don't want.

As I continue on my never ceasing trek toward adulthood, more of the doors that used to be open are starting to close. It started with baseball, that was the first door to shut, the first opportunity squandered. Every day, another door closed, another dream forgotten, another chance wasted to be who you want to be. It feels like at some point you have to start trading your ideals for practicality, and maybe to a certain extent you do. But through it all I just thank God that I can always close my eyes, and listen to that perfect song, and feel like, if only for a moment, that I can be all those things I wanted to be, and do all those things I wanted to do. In that moment is where I find peace and perfection; strength and purpose. That's when it hits me. The only thing I want is to live my life in that moment, and you know what? I can live there, and I will, because that door is still open. So here is to my trophy wife, my dream job, and being the man I want to be, I know you are out there waiting for me, and I'm on my way to find you.

The Angel Who Got His Wings

Anyone who knows me is well aware of the fact that I am a huge Red Sox fan. In fact you don't even have to know me that well, if you have ever had a conversation with me, or even seen me walking down the street, you probably know this about me. What you may not know is how seriously I take my baseball. The list of things in life that are more important to me than Red Sox baseball is pretty short, certainly shorter than it should be, but that's just the way it is. That being said, on the eve of the start of the 2009 Major League Baseball playoffs, I have a confession to make; I am not wholeheartedly rooting for my beloved squad from Boston.

Back in early April, the baseball loving world was buzzing about the arrival of a 22 year old pitcher named Nick Adenhart. Adenhart was the top prospect in the Los Angeles Angels' farm system and was considered by most one of the top pitching prosepcts in all of baseball. In his first start of the season, Adenhart threw six shutout innings for the Angels, no small feat for a rookie. So much for growing pains or adjusting to the big leagues huh kid? However the celebration didn't last long. Later that same night after Nick had pitched so brilliantly, someone else in Southern California made a very poor decision. This individual got behind the vehicle of their car while heavily intoxicated, and to make matters worse, they also had a suspended liscense. The point being, this person in no way belonged behind the wheel of a car, but they chose to drive anyway. Nick and his friends were hanging out that night after the game and while en route to some place or another, had their car sent sailing into a telephone pole by the aforementioned drunken driver who had run a red light shortly before hitting the vehicle containing Adenhart and three of his friends. Two of the passengers in Adenhart's car were killed instantly while Nick and the third friend were rushed to the hospital. Nick later succumbed to his injuries and passed away at the hospital. The lone survivor in Adenhart's car was only able to make it after having his skull surgically reattached to his spinal column. The drunken driver? They were fine apparently. At least fine enough to flee the scene of the accident on foot.

Normally this would just be a sad story of a ball player dying too young, but ultimately that story would fade and be forgotten. After all, the kid was a rookie, he hardly had enough time to make an impression on the sport of baseball. But that is part of the tragedy isn't it? The ceiling that he was never given the opportunity to reach? The life that he was never allowed to finish living? There's more to it than that though. Every game this season, the Angels hung Nick Adenhart's jersey in the dugout with them. They left his things in his locker. He was very much still a part of that team. When the Angels clinched the American League West title, they celebrated with Adenhart, holding his jersey in the middle of their joyous circle and showering it with beer and champagne; the same postgame shower everyone else on the team got. I do not know anything about Nick Adenhart the person, not a thing. By all accounts he was a good guy, but I have no evidence of that. I do know one thing though, a group of grown men do not act this way about someone who did not leave a lasting imprint on their lives. The fact that Adenhart did it in such a short amount of time is even more impressive.

For the third year in a row the Red Sox are matched up with the Angels in the first round of the playoffs. The Angels have never beaten the Red Sox in a postseason series. In my head I want Boston to win the series and if they do I will absolutely be rooting for them to win another World Series. I've got to tell you though, I don't think there is an inch of my heart that doesn't want to see the Angels present Nick Adenhart's parents with his World Series ring on Opening Day 2010. I'm not a fair weathered fan, and I'm certainly not switching my allegiance from the Red Sox to anyone else. Like I said, there is a very short list of things that are more important to me than Red Sox baseball, but seeing Nick Adenhart become a World Series champion is absolutely on that list.

With Arms Wide Open

Back in the late 1990's and early 2000's a cultural phenomenon swept the country. This phenomenon was known simply as Creed. Creed pumped out three straight albums that went multi-platinum proving that they were not just some flash in the pan. Then in 2004, the band quickly and abruptly broke up amongst rumors of personal issues between band members and the well documented alcoholism of lead singer Scott Stapp. Stapp had become widely hated by just about everyone for the alter ego his drinking problems produced, and that is where Creed backlash began. Everyone realized that Scott Stapp was a tool, and everyone started to hate the music he sang because of it. Well in reality, sober Scott Stapp was not a bad guy, even according to his bandmates who like everyone else, didn't care much for the drunken antics of their frontman. Creed collapsed almost as fast as Stapp's personal life and everyone who had loved the band so much (over 30 million albums sold) now hated them and their music just as much. Creed became the punchline to every joke about bad music, and everyone just pretended as if they never liked them. Basically Creed was Nickleback before Nickleback was Nickleback. But there is a big difference between Creed and Nickleback that most people fail to notice; Creed, unlike Nickleback, does not suck (sorry Ashley!). If you don't believe me, just check out VH1's top 100 hard rock songs of all time. You will find "Higher" checking in at number 95 on a list compiled just last year, and I contest it would be much higher (no pun intended) on the list if not for the outpouring of hatred that has followed Creed the last several years.

I bring all of this up for a good reason. I have to admit that I loved Creed just like everyone else, and when the tide turned against them, I am ashamed to admit that I drank the haterade just like the rest of the world. However, while sitting in my friends basement (Buske shout out!) watching tv, we stumbled across the aforementioned VH1 top 100 hard rock songs countdown and I had my eyes reopened to the greatness of Creed. As the beautiful driving guitar melody of Creed's most famous song blasted through the tv's speakers I was taken back to a much happier time . . . A time when people loved Creed. Since that day in the basement, I have made it my own personal little mini mission to reaquaint people with Creed. I put some Creed on my summer CD for my car so that everyone who rode with me had to deal with the fact that at one point in their lives, Creed absolutely rocked their faces off.

My journey back to loving Creed is coming to a very important moment next Wednesday. I will be attending my very first Creed concert, and I could not be more excited about it. Judge me if you will, but just put aside your prejudices and listen to the music again, just listen to them one more time and see how you feel. I think you will find yourself once again embracing Creed, with arms wide open.

The Worst Six Hours of My Life

This past Saturday I participated in taking a lovely little exam known as the LSAT. For those of you who don't know, the LSAT is essentially the entrance exam to get into law school. Do well on your LSAT, then you go to a good law school and start stacking mad cash; do poorly on your LSAT, then you go to a horrible law school and end up being a pro bono environmental lawyer. The point being that a lot of my future was going to be determined by how well I did on a test when I would rather be sleeping and then watching college football.

Now the LSAT is made up of six 35 minute sections (only four of which are graded) and a 15 minute break in the middle. I'm not a math major or anything but I believe that adds up to three hours and 45 minutes. I was willing to accept 45 minutes to an hour for instructions putting me somewhere around four and a half hours for the whole test, which while an incredibly long amount of time, I was prepared to handle it. Somehow, in a turn of events inexplicable by either science or theology, this test last for over six hours. You heard me right, six. The actually time that it should have taken the test was almost doubled. It was unbearable. Excruciating. It may have been the worst six hours of my life. But this wasn't a title I was willing to give the LSAT lightly, and so I did some thinking. Here is what resulted:

The Top Four

4. 2003 American League Championship Series Game 7

As a diehard Red Sox fan it is difficult to even bring myself to recall this event. You may remember it as the Aaron Boone game. Red Sox vs Yankees, locked up into the 11th inning, Aaron Boone hits a walk off homer to send the Yanks to the World Series. This game probably only lasted about four and a half hours but the heartache which followed was more than enough to fill up the remaining 90 minutes. This would be much higher on the list if the Sox had not turned the 04 Yankees into the biggest choke artists in history.

3. The First Night After My Ankle Surgery, 2007

I had undergone surgery before, so I thought I would be alright with this ankle surgery, but that was not the case. Before I went under the knife, my doctor warned me that I was going to have some deep bone pain the next day, I had no idea what that meant but it sounded awful and I would soon find out that it was much worse than I ever could have imagined. Ironically having gone through the the previous surgery actually was a detriment because I had built up quite a tolerance to pain killers already. So rather than needing the standard percocet, vicadin or oxycotton to put me down, I needed a fistful of bear tranquilizers, which apparently are not readily available outside of vet clinics in Montana. But to make a long story short, my ankle hurt a lot until I was overcome by shear exhaustion until I fell asleep about 6-8 hours later. Moral of the story, if anyone tells you that you are going to have deep bone pain, you should probably leave immediately.

2. The LSAT. Nuff said.

1. The Stomach Flu Catastrophe of 2005

It was the night before a basketball trip my freshman year of college and I woke up around midnight with some rumbling in my tummy. I walked down the hall to our lovely community style bathrooms and found out that this rumbling in my tummy was actually some rather unpleasant diarhea. As it turns out, this bathroom break at midnight was the first of what would become a clockwork like need to purge my insides from one end or another every 20 minutes until about 6 in the morning. The worst part was that somehow, my body knew when I was in the bathroom and the 20 minute clock wouldn't start the countdown until I had left and gone back to bed. Needless to say this night was awful and to make matters worse, I was forced to stay home and not go on the basketball trip for obvious reasons. And that my friends, was the worst six hours of my life.

Rules of the Road

I'm not a fantastic driver. I'm not bad really. Certainly not bad enough to put me in the same league as female drivers, if you can even call them that. I prefer to use the term traveling multi-taskers of death, but that's besides the point. I'm just saying, in a little over 6 years of driving I have been involved in 2 accidents (1 of which was my fault) and gotten one speeding ticket. So like I was saying I'm a decent, maybe even pretty good driver, just not an outstanding one. I would however consider myself rather well versed in the rules of the road, both the written and unwritten ones.

The topic of road etiquette I'm concerned with today is when 2 cars are traveling opposite direction on a residential street and there is a car parked in the road. It is the responsibility of the person who is driving down the side of the road where the car is parked, to yield behind it so that the other person can get through, and then pass the parked car once the way is clear. This is not an merely common courtesty, it is your legal obligation because if you decide not to yield and you end up getting in an accident its your fault. This being said, I was in this situation today, yielded as I was supposed to, and then before I proceeded, the other person waved to me as if I had just done them some sort of favor by allowing them to go first. Really, I didn't have a choice though. It isn't like people wave at me for stopping at red lights or for not running stop signs. I don't get any sort of praise for going to speed limit. So why this? By waving at me when I yield behind a parked car for you, you're basically telling me, "Hey, I'm a terrible driver because if I were in your shoes I woulda plowed right through and killed us both." Do me a favor, if I wave you through at a stop sign, go ahead and give me a wave, but if I yield behind a parked car for you, go ahead and put that hand right back in your pocket so you don't openly admit that you have no idea what you are doing behind the wheel of a car. I feel better not knowing.

a moment of silence

I would like to take a moment of silence . . . My oldest sister Amber, is officially a Texan.

Now if you know my family at all you may know that Amber abandoned me 11 and a half years ago to attend college in Texas. However all this time I believe we all considered her a displaced resident of Omaha who would someday return to the greatest city on earth. She backed up these sentiments with her constant and unwavering Omaha pride, and hatred of all things which are considered the culture of Texas (examples: shotguns, pickup trucks, cowboy hats, rodeos, a southern drawl).

All of this came crashing down this morning when I learned Amber had purchased a pair of cowboy boots. She had jokingly invited me to a rodeo the day before, but there was no way I could have seen this coming. With the acquisition of this information, all of my hopes and dreams that my oldest sister would return home were brutally murdered like so many victims in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies that I can only assume Amber now loves. The sister I grew up with is gone, all that is left is . . . Texas Amber.

I imagine this is kind of what it feels like when someone you know becomes a zombie. Obviously you still recognize and and love them, but now they are dangerous and not the person you knew before. Here is hoping that Will Smith can find a cure for being a zombie.

my triumphant return

I don't know that I ever had enough readership to have anyone really mind that I stopped blogging (immediate family excluded), but my ex-girlfriend's mom has apparently been upset that I haven't written anything in a while, so I apologize for my hiatus, and I appreciate the loyalty of my limited fan base.

I feel like I owe an explanation for my abrupt disappearance from the blogging world. Sometime ago I was watching Donnie Darko with my roommates and became fascinated with the idea of time travel. So I began researching and reading about the structure of space-time and the relevant theories on its nature. One thing led to another and I've spent much of the last several months developing a theory on the nature of space-time and simultaneously a love for theoretical physics. Upon my graduation next spring, my plan is to take undergraduate courses in physics and mathematics with the hopes of being admitted to grad school to earn my doctorate in theoretical physics. If anyone remembers my blog about what I should do with my life, I believe I finally have my answer. I thank you all for your inputs and opinions and whether you believe it or not, you helped guide me to what I want to do, even if you did so indirectly. Anyway, I hope that that is a satisfactory explanation for my absence. I will attempt to blog more regularly from now on.

On a completely unrelated note I really miss my siblings.