The Bad Kind of Spooning

When I was young my parents had assigned each of their children (me and my three older siblings) certain chores which needed to be done on a regular basis. In all honesty unless we had company coming over in the near future, and by near future I mean within a day or so, most of the chores were neglected. However there was one thing that got done in a fairly consistent manner and that was putting away the dishes. We were each responsible for a certain section of the kitchen where things were to be put away. As the youngest and therefore the shortest at the time, I was in charge of making sure the silverware made it into the correct spots in the silverware drawer, this was by far the easiest job but for some reason I still hated it. Despite the fact that putting away the silverware was really the only chore I had to complete pretty much ever I remember being in a terrible mood every time I was asked to do it. I remember trying to hold out for as long as I could so that most of the clean silverware would be used by the time I got around to putting them away so that I wouldn't have as much work to do . . . Ya know, because those five extra forks I didn't have to put away were really making a difference.

Still, despite the ease and infrequent demands of my chores, I felt as though I needed a way to pay my vengeance on my family for making me endure such horrible hardships. I don't remember how old I was when I finally developed my plan for revenge, but I'm certain that I was old enough to know better. It occurred to me one day that one of the most aggravating things you can do to someone was lick a piece of food before they got a chance to eat it. So I thought to myself, wouldn't licking the utensils they use to eat that food be just as bad if not worse than licking the food itself? And so it was settled, anytime I was upset at my family for any reason, everyone got their silverware licked before I put it in the drawer. I'm not sure how exactly I came to this decision, but I clearly remember only licking the spoons, I really have no idea why but I bet there was something brilliant behind it.

Perhaps the best part about all of this is that I learned at some point later on that my brother is an enormous germ-a-phobe. Apparently my family punishment was harshest on him. The ironic thing is, no one ever knew that I was doing this. I would go about licking every single spoon that came through the dish washer, and no one was the wiser. It wasn't until last Thanksgiving that I told any of my family members about my old spooning routine, yet somehow I found it to be an oddly satisfying way of getting back at my family for any wrongs I felt they had perpetuated against me. I guess it is kind of like when a chef spits in a rude customer's meal and they eat the whole thing without a clue, the chef is nonetheless happy with his form of justice. I wouldn't go so far as to call my little spooning trick justice, I mean after all my family really didn't do anything to me except ask me to do an incredibly easy chore about twice a week.

Anyway, I know its a little late, but I'd like to apologize my family for subjecting them to the bad kind of spooning, but I must say, all of that spoon looking may have paid off. I mean, I don't have to put away silverware anymore . . . I'm gonna count that as a win.

The Bathroom Proximity Factor

I pee a lot. I mean A LOT, I always have. Since I was a kid, I remember having to go to the bathroom all the time. So much so that it can become quite an annoyance. Pretty much the longest I ever go without going to the bathroom is about two hours. Actually, I don't know why I said about . . . it's exactly two hours, like clock work. Unless I've had a lot to drink, or there's other extenuating circumstances, then its like every hour and a half . . . or every hour . . . or ever 17 minutes, whatever. The point is, I have to pee a lot, its a much larger part of my life than I'd like to admit.

With that being said, the availability of a bathroom is extremely important to me. No one wants to pee there pants, so if you're someone who has to go pee a lot, like myself, bathroom availability becomes a big deal. I remember as a kid not liking to ride in the car for very long because you could pretty much bet the farm on the fact that I'd have to pee sometime during the trip. And when I say I didn't like being in the car very long, I don't mean riding a few hours to Grandma's house, I mean riding 15 minutes to see my dad at work. It got to the point that we had to allow extra time for my inevitable bathroom break and I had developed a list of approved gas stations whose bathrooms were nice enough that I didn't fear catching some sort of disease by using them. Gas stations with bathrooms on the outside of the building need not apply. (For the record, there's a gas station on the corner of 120th and Center whose bathroom was just immaculate. It even had framed pictures of puppies on the wall so it felt like you were peeing at home, however its changed ownership since I've last been there, so I can't currently vouch for its condition.)

However, as my need to frequent the restroom didn't diminish as I grew older, neither did the role of what I came to call The Bathroom Proximity Factor in my life. I began to realize that the ease of which I could locate and use a bathroom heavily influenced how much I enjoyed whatever activity I was taking part of. Road trips used to be torture until I learned to dehydrate myself for a couple days before the scheduled departure. Playing basketball in college was great because I was never away from the locker room for more than about 40 minutes at a time, so no problem there.

The Bathroom Proximity Factor even contributes largely into whether or not I like a job. Apparently its frowned upon to use the bathroom in the person's house you're working on if you're in the landscaping or house painting business. Needless to say those jobs didn't last very long and I'd be lying if I said I didn't pee under a few decks before deciding there had to be something better out there for me. Working from home seemed like a natural option until I realized no one would pay for anything I did at my house which is namely, eat, sleep and watch television. But finally I found Lens Crafters where I work as a Lab Technician (I make glasses). The restroom is right behind the lab, so its nice and close, and I can take bathroom breaks whenever I find them necessary. Is The Bathroom Proximity Factor the only reason I like working at Lens Crafters? No, but lets be honest, its a lot bigger reason than it should be.

The Greatest Weekend Ever

I figured out a while back that part of, or maybe even all of the reasons why people enjoy my writing is because I have the ability to make events sounds better or feel more interesting to my reader than they really were. I'd like to think I don't use too much hyperbole in this process, but rather I just highlight the absolute best things about a situation and describe them in an appealing manner. That being said, I've been trying to write a blog about two of my best friends getting married and the weekend that surrounded it for over a month now and I just haven't been able to do it. I would get half an idea of how to approach the topic and then it would evaporate just as quickly as it came to me. I couldn't decide whether to make it a humorous recap of all the shenanigans and tom foolery that we all took part it for three days or to write a tear-jerking, sentimental tale of true love and being a part of it. A moment ago, the problem with writing about this event dawned on me; the weekend was too good. Making an average road trip and wedding sound like the best time ever would be easy, but how on earth am I supposed to write about an event that words could never do justice, no matter how perfectly they were crafted?

I only spent one school year in the same state as Evan Stone, but he quickly became one of the best friends I will ever have. I can't properly describe the strangely close and mostly heterosexual relationship Evan and I have, so I would suggest you look at Turk and JD from Scrubs and use that as a point of reference. At one point during that same school year, I jokingly claimed that his girlfriend was my bff, I believe as a result of her promising to send me a batch of cookies with the next box she sent Evan. This girl, Becky, actually did become an incredibly good friend of mine and I couldn't have approved more when after Evan had moved away from me (tragically) and back closer to home (and closer to his girlfriend) in Illinois, he proposed to Becky and she said yes. That was in November of 2008. The wedding date was soon scheduled for June of 2010 and thus began the longest build up and most highly anticipated event of my life pretty much. Two of my best friends were getting married, pretty much all of my other best friends from college would be heading on a road trip to Illinois (the site of the wedding) for a long weekend and hopefully the best time of our lives. It's probably up for debate who was more excited for the big day to come; the happy couple or their road tripping, fun loving friends from Nebraska.

Usually when something comes with this much hype, it can't possibly live up to the expectations. I mean its just not even fair to expect it to. My friends and I were literally building up this weekend in our minds for over a year and a half. There was no way this thing could possibly come anywhere close to the dream we had painted in our imaginations. The scheduled departure day for Illinois came and things were at a fever pitch. I was excited beyond belief, but in the back of my mind I was a little bit worried. I realized that no matter how amazing this weekend was, and I was sure it was going to be phenomenal, I was probably still going to be a little disappointed. How could I not be? After 19 months of hype, a letdown was inevitable. It would have taken a miracle for things to turn out better than we had hoped for.

The weekend came, and passed all too quickly. I'm going to refrain from describing anything that happened specifically because it will never look as good on paper as it still does in my memory, and I just don't want to ruin that. Let me just say that I don't think any of us that made the trip to Illinois for Evan and Becky's wedding came home disappointed. I know for me it completely surpassed the hype. When we all made it back to Nebraska, one of my friends and I exchanged pretty much the same sentiment . . . what do we do now? We had been preparing all of this time for the greatest weekend of our lives, and we actually got it. How often does something turn out to be every bit as good as you had hoped for? Not very often, I know that.

I'd like to leave you with some deep philosophical conclusion to all this but the truth is I just don't have one. I know only a few things and here they are: I absolutely love my friends and will deeply miss these times I have with them once all of us inevitably go our separate ways. Evan and Becky are two of the greatest people I know, and I love them and both of their families so much. And last but not least, the fact that this weekend of their wedding lived up to all of the hype we'd built up for it gives me hope; hope that dreaming and wishing for things to be bigger and better than you ever thought they could be is alright, because every once and a while things work just the way you wanted them to. Just ask my friends Evan and Becky, their story is going pretty well for them. Now, I won't lie to you and tell you it happens all the time, it doesn't. It's a rare thing, but it only has to happen once in a blue moon to keep that hope alive, and thats good enough for me because like a man in a movie once told me, hope is a good thing, maybe the best thing, and no good thing ever dies.

The Decision Part 2

In my original post about Lebron James' decision I also included a section in which I discussed my thoughts on the manner in which Lebron made his announcement but took it out so it wouldn't distract from what I felt was the more important point of the blog. However, since I already wrote it, I figured why not post it as well, so here are my thoughts on how King James made his decision.

I completely understand that athletes mean way more to fans than fans mean to athletes. In fact, everyone understands this. Fans agree to dish out ridiculous amounts of money to watch their favorite athletes play, to wear their shoes and jerseys and anything else with their name on it. In return, athletes do their best to perform and pretend to give a crap about the fans. That's just how it works. Part of every athletes' carefully crafted image is how good they are at acting like they care about their fans. Everyone is perfectly alright with this arrangement . . . Until someone screws it up, and then all hell breaks lose. Lebron James royally screwed this up. He had every right to leave Cleveland for another team, personally I would have gone with Chicago but thats just me, but how you do things is a crucial window into your character. When we saw this glimpse from Lebron James what we found out was shocking and a little disturbing.

Deciding that he needed to have an entire hour devoted to himself to announce something that literally took about 15 seconds was essentially like a guy hijacking the halftime show of the Super Bowl to break up with a long time girlfriend who coincidentally had bought him tickets to the game (some analogy credit there goes to Bill Simmons). James didn't even have the common decency to tell the Cavaliers he was leaving before the rest of the world found out so they could start coming up with a practical contingency plan. He just strung them along for the ride, giving them hope until the very end. Lebron did however have time to refer to himself in the third person almost half a dozer times and to talk about all he had done for Cleveland. Maybe mailing it in during the playoffs was James' way of giving the Cavs his two weeks notice. By choosing to have a one hour self promoting special to announce his decision, James proved to be one of two things. He is either so unbelievably arrogant and self-absorbed that he didn't care that doing this on national television would rip out the hearts of everyone in Ohio, or he is just so naive (read: stupid) to have realized it would rip out the hearts of everyone in Ohio. Or there is a third option, that he is a little bit of both, unbelievably arrogant and a little bit daft. The point is you pretty much have to a royal douche in order to think you are important enough to hold a one hour special to announce where you want to play basketball. I used to be a Lebron James fan, I enjoyed watching him play basketball. I assume someday I will enjoy watching him play again, but right now I just think he's kind of a tool. The Heat will be fun to watch and watch them I will, but they will be more fun to root against. Here's hoping that Kevin Durant with his decision via twitter get the better of the King somewhere down the line.

Lebron James forgot something crucial when he decided it was a good idea to flip off everyone in Cleveland. While James, or any other athlete for that matter may not care about fans or what they think, they need to remember that without the fans, they wouldn't matter at all. Athletes are rich because fans are willing to pay to see them and where the same gear they do. Athletes are famous because fans care about what they do. If you took away the fans, Lebron James would be Sydney Crosby. Sure, people would kind of know who he was, and they might watch a playoff game or two, but overall he'd be irrelevant to our society as a whole. Without fans, King James would be less important than Landon Donovan was before the World Cup. So while fans might care way more about athletes than athletes care about fans, the athletes need to be careful not to upset the balance because at the end of the day, its the fans money that lines the athletes pockets.

The Decision

First off let me say that I don't care that Lebron James signed with the Miami Heat. Would it have been nice if he stayed home, and won a championship in Cleveland? Yeah, I would have liked that, let me say, I'm a little old school like that but whatever. The one real problem I have with the situation (other than the fact that by demanding an hour to make a 15 second announcement we learned that King James is a royal douche) was the fallout from the situation involving Cleveland Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert and "Reverend" Jesse Jackson (I only put reverend in parentheses because it is unclear to me is Jesse Jackson has ever actually given a sermon, seeing as all he ever talks about is race).

The problem I had with the whole fallout from "The Decision" is probably not what you think it is. I don't really have a problem with Dan Gilbert's comments regarding Lebron. Would he have perhaps been better served sleeping on that email for a night before publishing it? Yeah, probably. Did he go a little overboard? Maybe. But did Gilbert show most of all that he's a fan just like the rest of us? You bet, and that's what I love about his comments; they're the exact same thing that every other Cavs fan was thinking that night (although probably minus more than a few expletives). That being said, the PR guy who was on call that night needs to be fired immediately . . . Unless Gilbert's comments were a carefully thought out plan to unite his fan base with him, instead of the very real possibility of the owner being blamed for letting James get away. Either way, Gilbert's comments are not my problem.

My problem is Jesse Jackson's reaction to Gilbert's comments. The alleged reverend first said that Dan Gilbert's comments put Lebron's life in danger. Now it is true that James and his people have received threats, but if you think that the idiots who take sports so seriously that they would threaten the life of a guy who is 6'8 270 lbs wouldn't have made those threats whether Gilbert said anything or not, than you're just as dumb as the people making the threats. To me, it sounds like Jesse Jackson hadn't heard his name on TV in a while and decided this would be a good time to speak up. That being said, morons out their who are making threats on Lebron James and his mom, pull your head out and go get a job . . . or a girlfriend . . . or go do anything that matters because right now you are a disgrace to sports fans everywhere.

My real problem however, arose when Jesse Jackson said that Gilbert's comments were like that of a slave owner. I know, it is shocking that Jesse Jackson pulled the race card. Let me ask you this, had Larry Bird been born 30 years later and was drafted by the Cavaliers, and decided last week to leave via free agency in the exact same manner that James did, do you think Gilbert would have reacted any differently? The correct answer is no. Gilbert would have gone off on Larry Legend the same way he went off of King James. Let me ask you another question, had Gilbert made those comments about Larry Bird, would Jesse Jackson have said anything at all, much less to go as far as to compare him to a slave owner? The correct answer is once again no. That's what bothers me the most about this whole situation. Jesse Jackson might be the most racist man in America, because only he would make this about race, when to everyone else it was about basketball.

Now before you start calling me out as a racist or whatever, go ahead and take a look to the right hand side of the page. Yeah, I'm the brown kid in the picture with the sunglasses. No, I'm not black, if by black you mean African-American. I'm not black if you mean the color either but then again neither are African-Americans, their skin is brown just like mine. The point is, when people see me on the street, they don't know what I am, but Caucasian isn't one of their guesses. So don't go off saying I'm just some white guy that doesn't understand. I understand perfectly clearly that the less people care about the difference between black and white, the less Jesse Jackson matters, so Jesse Jackson likes to try and create racial drama. That way he's still famous. I'm not saying racism is gone in America, because not being white, I know that it's not. What I am saying is, racism has a different face now than it did in the past and ironically, the face of racism this past week wasn't Dan Gilbert the white guy, it was Jesse Jackson, the black one.

The Blatt's Last Stand

Anyone and everyone who has heard me talk about Rosenblatt Stadium, the College World Series, and TD Ameritrade Ballpark, knows exactly how I feel about the situation. At least they did. I'm not sure if I was in denial, or if I just let my gusto for progress get the best of me, but for some reason or another, I didn't think that I would miss old Johnny Rosenblatt Stadium. I railed on and on about how the concourses are too small and smelled like everything from rotten garbage (at best) to human feces (at worst). I went on tirades about how the bathrooms had to be designed to resemble a medieval European dungeon (thats the PG version). The seats are too small, the hallways are too dark, and the parking situation is a nightmare. None of these things that I founded my arguments against Rosenblatt on are any less true now than they were before. In fact after experiencing another handful of games at the Blatt, they might be more true than they've ever been. You know what's coming though . . . All those things are true, but . . .

My first trip to Rosenblatt was also my first trip to a sporting even that I was old enough to remember and occurred in 1996 when I was 8 years old. It was the championship game of the 50th College World Series. This game would turn out to be one of the most memorable NCAA championships in any sport. In the bottom of the 9th with two outs, Louisiana State was down one run with a runner on base. Up to bat came Warren Morris, who had missed much of the season due to injury and had not hit a home run all year. Meanwhile, out in the right field bleachers, my brother and I were sitting with a family friend from church who had taken us to the game. I had quickly became deeply invested in the fate of the Louisiana State Tigers, mostly due to the fact that the stadium was covered in gold and purple and because the LSU fans are about some of the greatest people you could ever hope to watch a game with. In great distress as the Tigers were down to their final out, our family friend told me, well just stick your glove as high in the air as you can so he knows where you want him to hit it. Being 8, this made perfect sense to me and I did as I was told. The next thing I know . . . PING! It turns out Warren Morris could have used GPS (which no one knew existed yet) because his ball landed out a half a dozen people to my left. I wasn't overly upset about this though as I was caught up in the absolute bedlam that ensued as Morris circled the bases for his walk-off home run to win the National Championship. The old wooden outfield bleachers at the Blatt were literally shaking as the stadium essentially turned into a 20,000 person mosh pit. That game more than anything else solidified my lifelong love for the game of baseball. That game is the reason we as a culture watch sports. That game is the College World Series in a nutshell.

I have returned to Rosenblatt for every College World Series since then. Some years I was a die hard fan (when Florida State was there, or when I latched onto an underdog like the Louisian-Lafayette Ragin' Cajuns), while others I was just a kid that loved the game. In that time I've gone from hoping to participate one day as a player (before arm injuries and reality set in), to realizing that while the quality of play isn't up the the standard of the Big Leagues, the fact that those kids have never wanted to be anywhere more than they want to be in Omaha at that very moment, certainly makes up for it. I've gone from preferring the insanity that is the mob in right field when I started, to enjoying the ease and superior view of the reserved seats now.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've grown up with the College World Series, and therefore with Rosenblatt. I have changed a lot since my first game and so the fact that the Series, and even the venue is changing doesn't really scare me all that much. I've seen the bleachers go from terrifying wooden structures on the verge of collapse, to beautiful blue and yellow painted steel. I've seen the championship decided first with a single game, winner takes all and now with a best of three series. I've seen the games shown almost exclusively on CBS to now having it be an all ESPN event. I think that's why I'm alright with the move to the new ballpark, in the back of my mind it seems like I kind of always expected it to happen eventually, even if I didn't realize it. I am used to the College World Series changing. The one change I never would have been okay with was if the Series was no longer in Omaha, and the new stadium ensures that it will be here for at least 25 more years. I have always been pretty good at looking at the big picture when it came to this issue because the one thing for me that was non negotiable was having the CWS in Omaha. Once I understood that the NCAA was going to move the event to another city if Omaha didn't build a new facility, I was all for TD Ameritrade Ballpark; whatever it took to keep the Series.

Looking at the big picture for the last year or so at the last College World Series at Rosenblatt approached left all of the little things a little blurry. Those things came into focus on Monday evening as I made my last trip to the College World Series in the ballpark on the hill. I sat in a seat next to my oldest sister, who had taken me to so many games over the years. It just seemed right that my last one was with her (unfortunately my brother and younger older sister couldn't make it into town for the event). We got into the stadium about an hour before game time and just started reminiscing about everything we had experienced over the years. There was the year where we got trapped in the concourse by a tornado warning and the year Florida State came up just inches short of finally capturing the title. We had story after story, and this is when I started to realize that while I'm more than happy to let the big things change, there are some little things that I really hope stick around.

I hope the 70 year old LSU fan who tosses free beads to anyone who asks is still a regular. I hope head ground's keeper Jesse Cuevas decides to take care of the new grounds as well. I hope Lambert Bartak makes a cameo appearance or two during the 7th inning stretch at next year's Series. I hope Zesto's builds a downtown location right across the street from the new ballpark. I hope right field and left field continue their never ending battle for supremacy (a battle which right field will always win because "Left field sucks!"). I hope there is still a place for the countless tailgaters to set up shop and offer free food to complete strangers (namely me) just because they have extra. I hope the mile's worth of merchandise tents make the trip downtown so I can still buy my Florida State gear dirt cheap after they inevitably get eliminated. Most of all, I hope everyone, opponents and advocates of the new stadium alike, embrace the College World Series the same way we always have. After all, the true home of the College World Series is Omaha, and when it comes back this time next year, nothing about that will have changed.

The V-neck

Most everyone who has seen the light of day in the last year is now familiar with the "reality" show Jersey Shore on MTV. I put reality in quotations because after watching the show for more than about 11 seconds it becomes clear that none of those people have come in contact with reality in quite some time. If you haven't seen it, its essentially The Real World: New Jersey. A handful of 20 something guys and girls all live in a house together and stir up as much drunken trouble as possible. What seperates these folks from any other group is that they belong to a subculture that refers to themselves as guidos. A guido is an Italian person who is obsessed with their looks, their own self interests, and with being Italian. There style is very distinct and easily recognizable. They love v-necks, faux hawks or greased up spikey hair, and designer jeans. Most of all they have the uncanny ability to leave people shaking their heads and mumbling under their breaths, "wow, what an idiot," because of their ridiculous self-centered actions and the absurd amounts of drama which consequently follows them.

Now you may be saying, but Ravi, I know people like this but they aren't Italian, and its true these peple exist. Let me draw a parrallel for you. Remember when every 14 year old kid who thought he was a thug wore a fubu jersey? Same thing here, non-Italians everywhere are adopting the guidos style. This group of guido wannabes are most often referred to as bros, tools, or just dbags. While this cultural phenomenon is believed to have started in New Jersey, it has permeated its way throughout the country, even to the greatest place on earth . . . Omaha, Nebraska. Now let me say that it is a very fine line between being well groomed and being a tool. Between being an avid gym goer or fitness enthusiast and a dbag. There's nothing wrong with enjoying a nice pair of madras shorts and a graphic tee, but you have to stear clear of those man-cleavage showing v-necks. It's a very slippery slope that unfortunately, I fear a dear friend of mine could be sliding down at a breakneck pace.

Let me say first that Alex Hall is a great guy and one of my best friends. He is extremely generous and very loyal. However, recently I saw him do something which I found profoundly disturbing. It made me fear that I was losing my great friend and former roommate to the world of bro-dom. A group of us went to go see a movie recently, Iron Man 2 I believe, and Al showed up wearing a v-neck. We were all shocked, stunned, and concerned. We tried not to make a spectacle of the situation but it was like a solar eclipse, we couldn't stop staring at it no matter how damaging it was to our own well-being. In retrospect, I really should have seen it coming, but I just didn't want to believe it. With things like Tapout shirts and uncanny devotion to the gym, let's just say Al isn't the most surprising candidate to turn into a bro.

You're probably wondering, whats the big deal? So he wore a v-neck, as long as he doesn't act like a tool it isn't a problem right? Let me ask you this, would it be a big deal if someone you cared about was playing Russian Roulette as long as they were only using a gun with one bullet in it? Yeah that's what I thought. We had to act before we lost our friend forever, so we held a dbag intervention. By that of course I mean we ridiculed Al until he vowed never to wear a v-neck again. It was a small victory but an important one. As Al's friends, we did what we had to do, because friends don't let friends wear v-necks.

The Crash

A couple weeks ago I was working on a Saturday evening. I was scheduled to get off at 6, and did not have any real concrete plans on what to do that night. My friend Beth said she might go out downtown with some of her Creighton friends who I have a good time hanging out with, and that she would let me know if she ended up doing anything. Shortly after I got home from work, I received a text message from someone I know who works at the Embassy Suites. It said something to the effect of "There's an Indian wedding at work tonight, made me think of you." Now for those of you who don't know or just don't remember, I was known at one point in my life for having a habit of doing a few outrageous things on a fairly regular basis. For some reason, I haven't really done anything crazy in quite a while. Well at this particular point two weeks ago, it felt kind of like a "screw it, what do I have to lose?" type moment in my life. So feeling like having doing something a little crazy, and having a little fun, but not wanting to do something that would land me in prison, I put on my 3 piece suit, and went off to crash a wedding.

I arrived at the Embassy around 9 pm, about the time they were finishing dinner and getting ready to serve dessert. I snuck into the back of the ballroom as the bride and groom finished up some remarks thanking the most important people in their life. (Side note, they thanked Lou Ferrigno personally at one point, so while I didn't see him, I'm pretty sure the Incredible Hulk was there). Of course I took the opportunity to snag some dessert, you can't crash a wedding on an empty stomach. I had decided to keep a low profile until the dancing began, at which point I was going to plan my actions according to the only reference I had for being an uninvited guest to a wedding . . . The moving Wedding Crashers. Basically I focused on a few main points. Don't be the creepy guy in the back. Act like you belong there. And draw only positive attention to yourself. More or less I felt like these things were pointing me to be the life of the party. As the speeches and desserts were being finished and the DJ transitioned us into the dancing, it was go time.

To get everyone into the mood for dancing there is an Indian kid, probably just a little younger than myself who has the Evolution of Dance routine memorized (if you don't know what that is youtube it). It's really quite a spectacle to see someone do it live. Naturally, this young man and I became fast friends and posed together for several pictures for the wedding photographer doing the Usain Bolt style point. That was later in the night though. After he wrapped up his dance, the DJ encouraged everyone to come to the dance floor, and I'm never one to be left out so I went on out there. For much of the night the guests were forming a circle around a few people who were doing the most dancing. After spending a couple songs in the front row of the circle I made my way to the middle. I wasn't exactly sure how to dance to American hip hop songs that had been mashed up with Indian rap choruses, but I did my best, and judging by everyone's reactions, I am apparently a natural.

Soon the dance floor shifted into a more normal situation with people pairing up and covering the hardwood, and this is when things got really interesting. The person I paired up with for most of the night turned out to be the bride's sister. This was not intentional of course, it just kind of worked out that way. Furthermore, the bride's sister and I ended up dancing directly next to the groom for extended periods of time. So to sum it up, I was dancing in close proximity to two people from each side of the wedding, neither of which had any idea who I was. The best part of the whole situation? No one even asked what I was doing there. The bride's sister loved me. The Evolution of Dance guy thought I was the man. The drummer walking around (its an Indian thing, don't ask) wanted to be my best friend. And the groom thought I was great fun to have around. Not once, did anyone ask me how I knew the couple or why I was there.

Now you would think that to successfully finish of a wedding crash, I would have to sneak out as discreetly as possible. False. I was literally the last person there. I actually helped the Embassy banquet crew clean up the room. People just smiled at me and said goodbye, without so much as an inquisitive look which would indicate they were thinking, "Who is that guy?" I didn't know a soul there, and it was one of the most fun times in my entire life. The only thing I regret is that I won't be able to see the faces of the bride and groom as they go through the pictures and realize that they had their wedding crashed. There was a problem though . . . it was such a good time, that I really want to do it again. Maybe that movie is more realistic than I thought.

The Job Hunt

For the last two and a half years I have been a manny. You read that correctly, a manny. That is a male nanny. I watched five children for a family in the afternoons, three to four days a week. It was easy, the kids were cool and the parents paid me well. Basically all I did was make sure the kids didn't kill each other or run away and I was successful. It was the best job in the world for a guy like me. Unfortunately, this semester I ended up having to schedule classes in the afternoons for the first time in a few years, thus creating an unresolvable conflict which led to me having to give up my job until the summer.

So with no source of income, and a great need to gain some income, I began looking for a job pretty seriously. Now it would be easy to blame my inability to find a job on the bad economy and all of the mumbo jumbo. Of course I am just guessing that the economy is bad because that is what people tell me and I don't care too much about that kind of thing in general. No one I know has lost their job or anything so to me the economy seems just fine. Also I'm in college so in general things that happen in the real world don't tend to affect me all that much. So don't worry economy, I won't be taking a cheap shot at you today. The reason that I haven't been able to find a job, I believe is a direct result of something I discovered while sifting my way through available jobs. The problem seems to be that I have no marketable skills.

This isn't some sympathy party because I don't think I'm good at anything. Quite the contrary, I probably think I'm better at a lot of things than I really am. In fact, I will list those things for you right now and hopefully you will see my problem. I'm good at, Rockband/Guitar Hero (expert guitarist on both). I'm good at identifying where I know random celebrities from (such as a previous role they have played). I'm good at beating youth group kids at various sporting events such as football, basketball, and dodgeball. I'm good at singing like a girl. I'm good at catching the ice cubs that fall out of my freezer in my cup before they hit the ground. I'm good at writing or telling stories in a way that they sound usually three to four times more interesting than they actually were without ever fudging the details. I'm good at texting very quickly. I'm good at looking good in a dress suit . . . Let's be honest, I'm just good at looking good in general (just kidding, settle down . . . kind of). Anyway, those are just some of the things I'm good at and if you will notice they all have one thing in common: No one in the history of the world will ever pay me for doing any of those things.

I am not easily discouraged though and my job hunt continues. In the meantime, if you know anyone who is searching for a professional Rockband guitarist, go ahead and give them my number.

One Night in Tokyo

I apologize for my long absence from blogging, and this isn't going to be your typical post. This is something I wrote for a website that I had to create for class, I hope you enjoy it.

Twenty years ago there was the biggest upset in the history of sports. Twenty years ago was the event that marked the beginning of the end. Twenty years ago there was the perfect storm. Twenty years ago, there was one night in Tokyo. That night was February 11, 1990.

Mike Tyson was a wrecking ball. A bulldozer. A hurricane of haymakers. Mike Tyson was an unstoppable force, the likes of which boxing had never seen, not even in the glory days of Liston and Ali and Frazier. Mike Tyson was the power of George Foreman and the speed of Sugar Ray Leonard, all rolled into one terrifying package. Buster Douglas wasn't.

Buster Douglas wasn't a bad fighter, but he wasn't what most people would call a champion either. Buster Douglas wasn't a boxer who would ever reach his potential. Buster Douglas wasn't mentally tough enough to be great. Buster Douglas wasn't supposed to last an entire round with Iron Mike. There was something else that Buster Douglas wasn't; Buster Douglas wasn't who people thought he was.

Mike Tyson and Buster Douglas were only brought together as a way for Tyson to tune up for a tentatively scheduled super fight with Evander Holyfield. Douglas appeared to be the perfect opponent. He was a talented fighter who had an impressive enough record to seem at least like somewhat of a legitimate match for the fight. However, Douglas was such an infamous underachiever that the bout generated little interested in America, which is why it took place in Tokyo, Japan. Tyson's handlers understood that Americans were just about sick of seeing Iron Mike score knockouts versus overwhelmed opponents before they even had a chance to get drunk. The rest of the world though, was still craving to see this legendary warrior in person. Still, stateside the fight was thought so little of that only one betting parlor in Las Vegas had even set odds for the fight so that gamblers could wager on it. Those odds were set at 42:1.

It is important, crucial even, to realize that at this time, Mike Tyson was literally seen as unbeatable. People were actually starting to believe that it was literally impossible for Tyson to lose . . . not just this fight against Buster Douglas, but any fight against anyone. Leading up to the fight, there were scientists and medical experts who analyzed why Mike Tyson could very well be physically incapable of being so much as knocked down by another fighter. This wasn't the guy we know today, who is most memorable for biting off someone's ear and getting a tattoo on his face. This was a guy who was well on his way to becoming one of the greatest fighters of all time. At least that is what people thought.

Behind the scenes, the foundation on which Tyson's great career was built had been slowly eroding out from under him. A few years before the fight with Douglas, Tyson's trainer and father figure, Cus D'Amato died. D'Amato had taught Tyson the bob'n'weave method that made him so successful. After D'Amato's death, Tyson's discipline in keeping with this style deteriorated and he became almost exclusively a head-hunter. Fortunately for Tyson, he was physically gifted enough that he was able to continue dominating his opponents. Eventually though, the erosion of his style and of his team which surrounded him would catch up to Tyson in a big way.

In Douglas's corner, Buster was dealing with some serious issues as well. About a month before the fight with Tyson, Buster Douglas lost his mother, whom he was extremely close with. For the first time in his life, Douglas focused his considerable ability and talents with a singular purpose; to honor his late mother in the upcoming fight. Douglas proceeded to train with the dedication and commitment that makes great fighters. Motivated by the memory of his mother, Buster Douglas became the boxer that those close to him always wished he would be.

With Tyson's personal issues secretly setting him up to unravel and Douglas's personal issues providing him with that champion's drive for the first time, the perfect storm was brewing for a remarkable upset that no one saw coming. Still, there was a battle that had to be waged. Douglas had a decided size and reach advantage on the smaller yet quicker Tyson and Buster used this to his advantage perfectly. The boxing display put on that night by Buster Douglas more closely resembled a piece of art than it did an athletic exhibition. Never has pugilism looked so much like poetry. The way Douglas boxed that night was so beautiful that it is almost moving. Buster Douglas gave Mike Tyson everything he could handle for the better part of eight rounds and then it happened. The head hunter found his mark, and with the power of Tyson it usually only took one. Douglas crumpled to the canvas, the victim of a vicious Tyson uppercut.

Everyone assumed, with Douglas's history of lacking anything that resembled heart, that even if Douglas got up the fight was going to be over anyway, it was just a matter of time. The idea that Douglas would even get up seemed highly unlikely, but as the referee's count got closer to ten, Buster climbed to his feet. After willing himself to remain upright for a few seconds, he was saved by the bell marking the end of the round. This allowed him the time he needed to recover, but still Tyson was expected to finish him easily in the next round. Buster Douglas had other plans. Having regained his legs, Douglas went right back to his game plan which had led him to dominate Tyson for all but one punch of the night. The ninth round was a back and forth affair, with each fighter looking as though they could collapse from the punishment at any time. Douglas and Tyson both survived that round, but the same could not be said for the tenth. Buster came out with a fury, executing his punches perfectly before finally administering a deadly accurate combination which sent Iron Mike incoherently sprawling to the canvas.

Tyson, so unaware of what had just happened to him, appeared to be looking for his mouthpiece as he crawled on hands on knees in the corner of the ring as the ten count ticked off the precious few seconds which remained in Mike Tyson's reign of terror over the heavyweight division. Considering the circumstances and all that was at stake, the undisputed heavyweight title, the Douglas upset goes down as one of the all time great fights in boxing history.

The shear physical force that was Mike Tyson, being toppled by the mastery with which Buster Douglas fought was simply breathtaking. It also marked the beginning of the end, not just for Mike Tyson, but for the heavyweight division as well. Tyson went on to have legal troubles, both inside and outside of the ring before finally floundering out in multiple ill-advised comeback attempts. Buster Douglas lost the title in his next fight, getting knocked out by Evander Holyfield. He retired after the fight before coming back in the late 90's for nine fights, eight of which he won. As for heavyweight boxing, it has seen two decades of mediocrity with plodding and frankly just boring fighters. Boxing's highest weight class may never see a fight the likes of Douglas vs Tyson ever again, but it will always have that one night in Tokyo.