echos in eternity

The Reason I Haven't Written Much

2011-06-14T18:25:00.004-05:00

From time to time, some friends of mine who enjoy my blogs will encourage me, usually via facebook to write something new. There are three of them who do this (Josh, Al, and Beth), and I'm not sure if they have worked out some sort of schedule for reminding me that it is time to write again, but I figured I owe them an explanation as to why their urging is often ignored. (Note: Now that I have started writing Husker articles for bleacherreport.com, I seem to have appeased Al.)

I'm fairly confident when it comes to my writing ability. In fact, it is one of the only things about myself I am confident in at all. The strange thing about it is, despite knowing that I am a good writer, whenever I post a new piece of work, I am paranoid that I've somehow "lost it" until I receive positive feedback on it. When I first started writing for the Bleacher Report, this was difficult for me because a lot of the feedback you receive as a sports writer is negative. It does not mean that you are no longer a good writer, or even that you are wrong about the topic. A lot of times it simply means that the only people dumb enough to disagree with me are the same ones that are dumb enough to be loud about it. This is not to say that I'm always right, its just that those who disagree with me in an intelligent manner I view as positive feedback because it allows me to enter into a discussion with the person and its usually rather productive.

I once heard from a best-selling author whose name currently escapes me (maybe Malcolm Gladwell) that writers have only a certain number of words in them and after they run out, all they can come with with is mindless gibberish. At some point, I became afraid that I would run out of words. So I guarded them. I decided not to write anything unless it was going to be absolute gold. I wanted everything I wrote to be the best thing you had ever read. At the very least I wanted it to be the best thing I'd ever written. Recently I realized that this is utterly moronic. Not the part about wanting everything I write to be the best you've ever read or the best I've ever written, I believe that's a great, although lofty thing to strive for. No, the idiotic part was guarding my words. If I died tomorrow, what difference would it make if I had more words left to write? I decided I would rather live a long life and at some point, run out of well-crafted words to write than I would die knowing I left some of them in the tank.

I am currently trying to become a professional writer. I've gotten some contacts from a friend of mine who works at a newspaper and I'm doing everything I currently can to try and make this happen. Who knows, maybe someday I will be a best-selling author, or maybe the high point of my writing career will have been being named the #2 Husker football writer for the Bleacher Report in May 2011. Either way, at the very least, I will know that even if I fail, it will not be because I did not try. Unfortunately, that's not something I've been able to say very often in my life but now is as good a time to start as any.

The Jesus Juke

2011-05-29T23:39:00.002-05:00

A few weeks ago my brother wrote a blog about "The Jesus Juke" and those who perform it. For those of you who don't know, a Jesus Juke is essentially when "someone takes what is clearly a joked filled conversation completely reverses direction into something serious and holy" according to the man who as far as I can tell invented the term, Jon Acuff.

I'm sure we have all been there, everyone is having a harmless laugh and it comes to a screeching halt becomes someone feels the need to show how spiritual and religious they are while simultaneously condemning everyone around them as heathens. To be clear, there is a large difference between people pulling a Jesus Juke and people rebuking their brother or sister in Christ.

Anyway, my brother's situation was essentially that he was jokingly seeking revenge on his smoker neighbors. He offered his own idea of capturing farts in jars and unleashing them on his neighbors and was planning to ask for other clever suggestions for retribution which he had no intention of using. However he thought he would be opening himself up to a Jesus Juke and therefore decided against it. You can read all about it here.

The point is, I thought my four regular blog readers (you know who you are) might be interested in my take on the whole concept of Jesus Juking. Here is the comment I posted on my brother's blog:

I think the problem with the Jesus Juke is that it completely disregards the concept of humor. What does humor have to do with Christianity you say? Well, besides the fact that you can see God's sense of humor throughout your own life and history and the Bible (I'm not going to look up verses, just trust me, its there and its funny), God created us with a sense of humor. I believe firmly that the "image of God" we were created in involves not a physical image but rather our souls and reason and traits like the ability to love and laugh. If we were not made to have a sense of humor, I believe God would have not given us the ability to laugh.

That being said, had someone Jesus juked my brother for his humorous comment about farting in a jar, I may have felt the need to take a hot, steaming deuce on their front step. Not very Jesus like you say? Well I was just trying to let that person know that I didn't think the judgemental attitude they had about my brothers' smokers solution which led to their Jesus Juke was not the spirit of humility that God calls them to as Christians. I may not have done it in the right way . . . but then again, the Jesus Juker doesn't do it the right way either right?

The reason I can confidently say that the intent of Jesus Juking is as well-meaning as me pooping on someone's doorstep is because if you ever have had to rebuke someone in the love of Jesus, you almost always dread doing it. There is no joy in calling to correction the mistakes of a brother or sister in Christ, and it is not done in a public forum because all you want from that situation is for your brother or sister to grow closer with God, you have no interest in their humiliation. Jesus Juking is none of those things, it is an attempt to publicly shame those who we feel are not living up to the standard of what we think they should be, not of what God thinks they should be.

Jesus Jukers will deny my statement until the end, claiming they were trying to do the right thing. When they do that, just remember, I successfully defended the idea of me crapping on someones doorstep with the simple statement of it was well intentioned just poorly executed. But if this were really true, wouldn't they stop executing their good intentions in the form of a Jesus Juke? So next time you feel like Jesus Juking someone, think of it as taking a verbal dump on that person's metaphorical door step, and see if you still think its a good idea (Hint: its not). Sorry Raj, didn't meant to hijack the blog. Love you brother.

Any thoughts?

The Proposal

2010-11-02T13:43:00.002-05:00

As many of you know already, I recently got engaged to my beautiful future wife, Chelsea. Many of you may also have heard that I proposed in a rather unique way with the help of a few friends. For one of the few times in my life, I feel as though me talking about something couldn't possibly do it justice, so here is the link to the youtube video of my proposal. Watch it, and then I will give you some information that can't be seen in the video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sDl0y6zJ9w4&feature=player_embedded#!

Most people who know me understand that I can be a little be absent minded when it comes to remembering certain pieces of information that have recently been imparted to me. However you should also know that I have an uncanny knack for recalling the most random and tiny details of certain things no matter how long ago I learned about or witnessed the event. This is relevant because that is how I came up with this idea for my proposal. A couple of years ago, Chelsea mentioned off hand that she thought it would be amazing if someone proposed to Beyonce's Single Ladie's Video. When I decided I wanted to marry her, this is the first thing that popped into my mind when I was thinking of the best way to propose. So before I had even decided when I was going to actually pop the question, I got a couple of my buddies together, Al (the dark haired one) and Dud (the tall blonde) and we started learning the Single Ladie's Dance. If you know Al and Dud you can imagine that Al was quite receptive to the idea almost immediately, while Dude was quite a bit more hesistant. It was only after I pulled the, "c'mon man, you're one of my best friends, I need you", card that Dud gave in.

In case you're wondering how I got Chelsea to randomly come to a park in the middle of the day while riding with my friend Willie (one of my videographers), here's how that went down. Chelsea and I had planned a sushi date for after she was supposed to babysit that afternoon, I made these plans to ensure she would not be busy with someone else. Then, I called the family she babysits for and asked them to call and tell Chelsea they didn't need her that day so she would unexpectedly have a chunk of time free after her 1 oclock class. I collaborated with Willie to meet her outside of her classroom and tell her that my car broke down and that I asked him to bring her when he came to pick me up, this was believable because my car had been acting up. Mad props to Willie for improving when Chelsea asked why she couldn't just go pick me up, by saying, oh he asked me to help him try and fix it, which she bought without any further questions. I had already told Willie where he needed to take her and as soon as she got out of the car, the music played and as they say, the rest is history . . . or hopefully at the very least the rest will end up being a youtube sensation.

The Bad Kind of Spooning

2010-09-01T00:47:00.003-05:00

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

2010-08-08T14:55:00.002-05:00

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

2010-07-15T00:04:00.000-05:00

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

2010-07-14T13:41:00.002-05:00

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

2010-07-13T16:33:00.003-05:00

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

2010-07-03T22:49:00.003-05:00

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

2010-05-26T15:23:00.002-05:00

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

2010-05-20T20:43:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-24T23:39:00.003-06:00

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

2010-02-08T20:24:00.002-06:00

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.

The Muffin Man

2009-12-27T20:11:00.004-06:00

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

2009-12-23T00:36:00.003-06:00

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

2009-12-16T14:08:00.007-06:00

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

2009-12-15T13:19:00.002-06:00

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

2009-11-18T15:13:00.002-06:00

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

2009-11-11T18:27:00.002-06:00

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

The Breakup

2009-11-11T17:16:00.006-06:00

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

2009-11-04T23:23:00.005-06:00

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.

My Close Call

2009-10-30T18:20:00.004-05:00

Yesterday I was making my way from Omaha (the greatest place ever) to Los Angeles (let's just say its no Omaha), in order to help my sister move halfway across the country to Houston with my other sister and her family. Of course, I couldn't just fly from Omaha to Los Angeles, no that would make too much sense. First I had to fly to Chicago and then go to Los Angeles. For those of you who are geographically challenged (read: retarded), Chicago would be approximately an hour and a half flight in the complete opposite direction of where I needed to go. Anyway, I make it to Chicago despite some moments of pretty severe turbulence where my destination suddenly seemed much less certain, but once I get there my flight is promptly delayed by 35 minutes. The 35 minutes grew to 45 which threw me into some Vietnam like flashbacks of last Christmas when I was flying from Chicago to Houston and had my flight delayed almost 16 hours (in reality I believe the delay was actually 11 hours, but the grandeur of my ordeal grows with each telling of the story). Luckily this delay never stretched to much more than an hour (a real hour, not a making it a better story hour). This single hour though was more than enough time to identify two Arab looking, heavily bearded men who I was hoping beyond hope were not on my flight.

Now let me just say that I am in no way a racist and do my best not to racially profile people. That being on the table, if you see two Arab looking men, with Osama beards and there is a chance that they might be on your flight from one major city to another, some less than utopic scenarios start flying through your head. I started having a debate with myself about whether or not these men were actually a threat, thinking things like, well they aren't wearing turbans or anything like that, but they do have some bandannas tied around their heads . . . maybe that's the modern, less conspicuous version of the turban? Just a little glimpse into how my mind works. Ironically, I'm sure many paranoid white folks have had this same inner struggle when noticing that I was going to be sharing an aircraft with them. I just didn't want you to think this fact was lost on me.

A long time ago, I decided nothing unsavory would ever go down on a plane that I was on. I figured that security at airports is to the point that whatever anyone could sneak onto a plane would not be fatal to me in a single strike and that I could overpower them and avoid catastrophe before they could do much damage to me. I mean these guys aren't exactly Navy SEALS, they train on monkey bars in the desert. I like my chances. Now I'm kind of a pansy in a lot of areas of life. I would never become a cop because I'm afraid of getting shot. I don't ride roller coasters because I'm afraid of heights. I prefer the shallow end of the pool due to my fear of drowning. I don't like to take chances because of my fear of failure. I know these things about myself so it is not like I have some sort of delusions about my inherent level of bravery and heroism. However, believe me when I say, I would single handedly take down the entire Taliban if they tried anything shady on my airplane.

With this in mind, I chose my seat (thank you Southwest's open seating) directly behind the two gentlemen in question so that I could keep tabs on them. Yes I know I'm ridiculous. For a while the flight was fairly uneventful, save for the moment when, after feeling like I'd already been on the plane for an insufferable amount of time, the pilot happily announced that we were now passing Omaha, Nebraska. My reaction, which was only audible in my own head, was a sailor-friendly tirade which can most cleanly and accurately be summed up by simply saying, FML. Probably an hour or two after this announcement, I noticed one of the men I was sitting behind had been looking around nervously for some time and then all of a sudden I saw him remove his head phones, motion to his friend who then removed his own headphones as they made eye contact and nodded to each other, as if to say "it's time". They then both bowed their heads and began conducting what I believed was, for lack of a better term, a pregame prayer. Now I do not know much about Jihadists, but I assume before they head off to collect their 72 virgins, they toss one up to Allah to bless their mission. Like I said, I do not know these things, but I was convinced that these two guys on my flight were absolutely in the market for some virgins. This is when I started formulating my plan.

I decided that if I saw both of them head toward the cockpit, I had to take action. My plan was to punch one of them in the back of the head (figuring that since it is illegal to do this in boxing, it must be rather harmful and hopefully debilitating) and put the other in a choke hold, squeezing the life out of him with my considerable bicep. I'm convinced this would have worked and if a problem arose, I trusted that someone else on the plane would jump up and help out. However as I was finishing formulating my plan, both men had put their headphones back on and returned to what they were doing before the interruption. Crisis averted. Perhaps I wildly misjudged the situation. And it is possible that this makes me borderline racist. Maybe my perceived threat level of the situation was blown completely out of proportion. We will never know. Let this be a warning to anyone in the Middle East who has plans of doing something unsavory though. I travel a lot, and I may end up on your flight. And if I do, you better believe I will go all sorts of Rambo on you.

Age Before Beauty

2009-10-25T23:59:00.002-05:00

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!

2009-10-22T18:02:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-16T14:46:00.003-05:00

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.

2009-10-12T14:09:00.005-05:00

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

2009-10-09T00:58:00.006-05:00

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

2009-10-07T00:05:00.005-05:00

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

2009-10-01T23:51:00.005-05:00

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

2009-10-01T00:09:00.005-05:00

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

2009-09-28T16:19:00.003-05:00

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

2009-03-11T14:22:00.000-05:00

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

2009-03-07T15:00:00.002-06:00

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.

The Trifecta

2008-11-21T02:11:00.002-06:00

Several minutes ago, I displayed a complete mastery of my bodily functions by peeing, tooting, and blowing my nose all at the same time. I know it doesn't sound all that impressive, but try it, its a tricky act to pull off. Here's to multi-tasking.

Under-rated

2008-11-10T16:47:00.002-06:00

I realize that underrated, like overrated is not traditionally spelled with a hyphen, however I was going for the chanted version, you know like when a rather highly regarded team is beaten but a significantly lesser team in some sort of sporting event, the fans of the lesser team will often chant, "over-rated!" to mock the team that lost. Which I never really got that, because if you beat someone, doesn't it look better for you if they're really good? Why would you want people to think they're overrated right after you beat them? If it weren't so wordy, I'd probably chant something like "You are every bit as good as people say you are, but it turns out we are just that much better than you!" or something to that effect. Anyway, that's not the point of this post, rather the point is to mention a few of my very favorite things which are extremely underrated by our culture and society as a whole.

1. "Can't Hardly Wait" - This classic comedy with romantic overtones set as a group of seniors graduates high school not only contains Jennifer Love Hewitt in her prime, but also some pretty memorable quotes and even a solid soundtrack. It has the 90's written all over it. But most importantly, it has the guy who plays The Bass Player in "That Thing You Do." . . . Speaking of which . . .

2. "That Thing You Do" - A romantic comedy about a band called The Wonders who have one smash hit before everything comes crashing down, this film is rather hilarious. One of Tom Hanks first ventures into directing did not do well in theaters but developed a cult like following. Anyone who has ever seen this movie loves it. You cannot prove to me otherwise. If you say you can you're a liar. Just kidding . . . but seriously.

3. R.E.M. - I don't know exact song titles, because I, like everyone else, severely under-appreciate the greatness of R.E.M., but a few of my faves are "Losing My Religion," "It's the End of the World," "I am Superman," and "Stand in the Place Where You Live." I just don't understand when discussions about the great rock bands of the 80's and 90's how this group is forgotten. Also their front man Michael Stipe does a great song with Coldplay's Chris Martin called "In the Sun," check it out.

4. Elementary School Pizza - You know the stuff I'm talking about, the rectangle pizza with the cheese too white to be real cheese, but man was it delicious. I think elementary school cafeteria food got a bad wrap in general, but maybe that's just me.

I think that's all for now, I'm sure there are a lot more things, but I noticed people basically only read my posts if they're under a certain length, so I'm trying to bend a little toward my fan base.

Buffalo Wild Wings

2008-11-02T16:23:00.002-06:00

I was at Buffalo Wild Wings this afternoon with my buddy watching some football before he went back home to Illinois. If you've ever been out to eat with me, you know that I go through my glasses of pop rather quickly and then about halfway through the meal they all hit me and I end up peeing about every 14 minutes until we leave. Well today was no different. As my first trip to the bathroom was coming to its conclusion, I was about to throw away the paper towels I used to dry my hands and noticed that the trash can was labeled 'Patio.' I looked at it for a minute and I'm still trying to figure out if someone just misplaced the trash can, or if I actually peed outside.

Feedback

2008-10-27T23:27:00.002-05:00

I find it amusing (also read, disturbing) that I got twice as many comments on a blog about a prophetic ear wax dream than I did on a blog in which I ask for help in finding direction in my life. Apparently giant ear wax resonates more with people than life choices.

A Letter to My Ankles

2008-10-25T23:02:00.002-05:00

Dear Ankles,

I would like to clear the elephant in the room. For some time now we have had what could be called at best a love/hate relationship. I try to love and take care of you, I buy you nice expensive braces, I ice you when needed. I've given you countless hours with a personal trainer (also known as a physical therapist). I try not to walk on un-even ground to try and avoid rolling you unintentionally. I work out my calves so you have something nice to look at. I wear Jordan Brand shoes so you are always surrounded by greatness and style. I've even given one of you an extreme makeover (aka surgery). Yet all you do is return my love with hate. I give and I give and I give, and you roll and you roll and you roll.

Sometimes I try to have conversations with you, you know give you a little pep talk. I tell you, I'm not going to ask much from you. I'm not going to try and make ridiculous cuts or plant hard on you, I just want to run, jump and occasionally shuffle without any problems. And if you could talk back to me, I'm pretty confident your response would sound something like, "Hahahahaha, don't you wish! We'll give out on you whenever we please!" And I've got to give it to you, you are joints of your word.

So after a third injury in the last month, I've given up my attempts to plead and reason with you. I'm giving you a break. No more jumping, no more coming down on other peoples feet, no more planting to get in front of my man on defense. You can officially take a leave of absence. Maybe in a couple months you will decide to come back to work for me. Until then, enjoy your vacation.

Sincerely,
The Rest of Your Body (aka Ravi)

What Should I Do?

2008-10-22T23:42:00.002-05:00

So I'm in my fourth year of college, and I'll be graduating next year with a degree in Marketplace Ministry. I have no idea what this means. Having no idea what your degree is really in is a pretty good indication that you have no idea what you want to do in life. After several years of trying to figure it out on my own, I've decided to get some outside help. That's where you would come in. Family, friends, strangers, loved ones, random blog stalkers, however well you know me, or don't know me at all, tell me what you think I should do with my life. I'm serious about this, I have no idea, so throw me a bone here.

Love Bug

2008-10-20T15:25:00.002-05:00

So I was driving in my jeep the other day, and I heard a song on the radio that I had never heard before. It was pretty catchy. It had a nice raw feeling to it and then built up to a genuine rock out type of groove. I was enjoying it. As the song wrapped up the DJ came on and announced that the song was "Love Bug" by the Jonas Brothers . . . And for the first time in my life I considered briefly steering myself into oncoming traffic. I had, without my own knowledge, and completely by accident, listened to and liked a Jonas Brothers song, in its entirety. I didn't know what to do. I still don't know what to do.

This happened about a week ago, and to this point my plan of action was one of secrecy and if necessary denial. But I found myself leaving this song on the radio the next few times it came on. I found myself bobbing my head, tapping my toe, and for the love of everything good and holy I think I may have even sung along for a few bars. It became clear to me that I have a problem. Is there some sort of support group for this? Can I get a hold of one of those memory eraser things from Men in Black? Anyone who has any answers, please advice.

Halfway Home

2008-10-15T10:09:00.003-05:00

We are at the halfway point of my intensive class. I'm not sure if I'm going to make it or not, its hard to say. Anyway, I just thought I'd share the highlight of my week so far, and while you would probably imagine it was when my professor uttered the phrase ''plunder his booty,'' you would be wrong. It appears there is some sort of double standard going on in my class. On Monday, myself and another student in class removed the shirt of the student sitting between us and threw it to the back of the room. In all fairness, we sit in the back, but he still had to get up shirtless and re-clothe himself. The professor witnessed this and said nothing. The next day, a student appeared to be playing games on his computer and was called out in front of everyone.

Maybe its because people know how to react to someone abusing the privilege of internet in class and they aren't quite sure how to respond to a topless male student in class. I bet dealing with that isn't something they cover in grad school.

Intensive Class

2008-10-13T13:45:00.002-05:00

I'm taking an intensive class as NCC this week, which basically means you take an entire 3 credit hour class and complete it in a week, going to class from 8-5 everyday. It's quite difficult to stay focused for that long but the promise of amusing phrases which can be taking the wrong way keeps me going strong. Just a minute ago my professor just uttered the phrase "plundered his booty" when referring to an ancient ruler. I giggled . . . out loud . . . I'm in college.

Its Spelled With a K

2008-09-30T20:14:00.002-05:00

What you are about to read has only been told to a very select few people who I believed would be able to still look at me as if I was sane after having heard this. It has become clear to me that I probably am crazy so I might as well tell everyone.

A few months ago I had a dream about an amazing girl. This dream was completely pure and innocent in nature. It took me through several dates with this girl where we went to dinner, interacted with each other, and just in general enjoyed each other's company. She was beautiful and funny and intelligent, and quite literally the girl of my dreams. Her name was Nikole, very specifically spelled with a "k". When I woke up I realized that I did not actually know this girl in real life which was, as you can imagine, very disappointing to me. The next day after telling my best friend about this dream, I decided to try something a little strange. I entered the name "Nikole" and searched all of facebook for this girl I'd only met in my subconcious. Unfortunately I was unsuccessful in finding a girl who matched the name and face of the girl from my dream.

I had pretty much let the situation go when about a month later I was a groomsmen in a wedding, and while at the reception I saw a girl who looked eerily familiar, but I had no idea from where. She was beautiful, so I introduced myself and she said, "Hi, my name is Nicole," and that's when it hit me. She was the girl from my dream. This girl who I believed my imagination had just created out of thin air was standing right in front of me. I was completely blown away. I didn't know what to do. The rest of the reception continued with little of note occurring, but the next day I told my best friend that I met the girl from my dream. I had found out that it was not spelled with a "k" but her name was Nicole and they looked just like each other, so I figured it had to be her.

This is where everything got a little weird, as if it wasn't already. A little while after the wedding reception, I had another dream with Nikole in it, but this one was not joyful at all. Nikole was basically yelling at me the entire time, chewing me out for thinking that Nicole from the wedding was her. "Its spelled with a 'k' you idiot!" She screamed. She was rather unhappy that I had overlooked this rather important quality about her name just because I met a girl who looked like her and almost had the same name. I have no idea what this all means but I just thought it was interesting. You may now continue your lives normally.

The Number For

2008-09-27T23:04:00.003-05:00

It has been brought to my attention that I have trouble spelling out the following digit "4" in my blogs. I apparently have a tendency to forget the all important "u" which, aside from context, is the only distinguishing factor between the number and the three lettered conjuction. I would like to point out that I just spelled out "3" with no trouble at all, so the issues with "4" appear to be an isolated incident and not a sign of a much large numerical spelling disorder. I would like to apologize to all of my meticulous readers who no doubt have been deeply disturbed by this discrepancy, and perhaps even though that I was trying to convey some sort of hidden message in my blogs but purposely misspelling the number "4." I assure you that I am seeking treatment to remedy this issue and hope that it will not deter you from reading future blogs. Also I hope it is my unbelievably cleverness such as that displayed in this blogs title, and not my grammatical prowess which keeps you coming back for more. Thank you for your support in this difficult time.

Yellow Car

2008-09-25T23:32:00.002-05:00

Sometime last spring my friends and I started playing this game called "Yellow Car." This is a very simple game. Basically while you are on the road, anytime you see a yellow car, you announce it to whoever you are with. Whoever sees the most yellow cars wins. There is a twist however. If you see a yellow hummer and announce it, you win the game, end of story. Not a real brilliant game but it can be fun, especially on long road trips.

I had a dream the other night about this game. I don't remember the specific details but I was with my siblings, who began playing the game with me while we were in California for my brother's wedding. As we were driving along in my dream, I spotted for yellow hummers parked next to each other. I quickly yelled "Yellow hummer! Yellow hummer! Yellow hummer! Yellow hummer!" as to ensure I was credited with all for vehicles. Before I knew it I had been crowned by some outside force as the all-time worldwide winner of the game "Yellow Car." And that was the end of my dream.

These are the things that happen in my head.

Conspiracy Theory

2008-09-19T02:05:00.002-05:00

So I was thinking the other day, there aren't enough good conspiracy theories going around. Now there are plenty of conspiracy theories, but most of them suck and don't make any sense. For example, there is a rumor that Heath Ledger isn't really dead, and that his death was faked to spike the hype surrounding the Dark Knight, and that he will make a miraculous return as the Joker in the next film. As much as I would love this to be true, it's stupid and doesn't make sense, thus it is not a good conspiracy theory.

I however have an amazing conspriacy theory. The New England Patriots were mandated by Roger Godell, commissioner of the NFL, to throw the Super Bowl, thus ruining their perfect season. Now you are going to have the knee-jerk reaction that I'm a bitter Pats fan, that is incorrect. I do love the Red Sox, but I'm not Bill Simmons and I have been able to think logically about football since the Patriots Super Bowl loss.

Anyway onto the finer points of my theory. First of all, if watching SportsCenter has taught me anything, its that Spygate was a really big deal. But does anyone feel like the Patriots were really punished as if it was a really big deal? Their coach who makes millions a year got fined several hundred thousand dollars, whoopty. Secondly, they lost their first round draft pick, which would have been the last pick of the round, however they had a pick in the first round anyway due to a trade they had completed. So the removing of the first round pick lost a lot of its sting. So other than some bad publicity and most of the free world outside of New England now hating them, the Patriots got off pretty easy.

With that in mind, let's review what we know about the NFL commisioner, Roger Godell. He does not take it easy on people. Pacman Jones? Banned for an entire season without a real conviction if I remember correctly. Tank Johnson? Banned for games for possessing guns. How many guys in the NFL have guns that are not registered to them? Sounds like a message being sent. Chris Henry? I don't even remember what he's done, I'm pretty sure it has to do with smoking a lot of dope, but either way, he's been suspended a lot by the Commish. Godell obviously doesn't play around.

So we have pretty solid evidence that the NFL's only real dynasty right now has been cheating, and we have a commisioner who likes to bring down the thunder on anyone who makes his league look bad, and you think this all went away for a few bucks and a meaningless draft pick? I doubt this very highly.

This is what happened, if Godell has to go back and strip a Super Bowl title from someone, the entire integrity of his league is compromised, so he wasn't about to do that, but Godell, along with anyone who knew anything about football realized that the Patriots were not a team that was going to be beat. So Godell ordered them to lose. How do I know that the Patriots didn't lose on their own? It wasn't the fact that the most dominant team in football history lost, its how they lost. For the first time ever, they looked unprepared. When has a Patriots team coached by Bill Belichick ever looked unprepared? If you are looking for some game film then stop, the answer is never. You think before the game that would send him flying to immortality that Bill Belichick of all people showed up unprepared? And you think I'm crazy.

Here's the bottom line, the Patriots were ordered to lose the game or be stripped of their other three Super Bowls. Godell, knowing his audience, realized that people would feel much better if ''karma'' kept the Patriots from going undefeated than if they finished 19-0 and were stripped of their other championships. That's just how America works.

Think about it for a while . . . It makes sense.

The Older Girls Love Me

2008-09-15T23:19:00.002-05:00

I was bench pressing during my workout and had taken the weight off the rack and lowered it to my chest, just the same as I always do, however when I went to push the weight back up, my wrist just kind of gave out. It felt very weak and there was a sharp shooting pain in it. Thankfully I had a spotter so I didn't die, but still it was concerning nonetheless. I was doing a decent amount of weight, but nothing that should have caused any of my joints to fail me. Anyway, I attempted to finish my workout but was rather limited and ended up having to cut things short.

A couple days later, after the pain in my wrist had not subsided at all, I went in to see an orthopedic doctor who specialized in hand and wrist injuries. When I got there I had to fill out some forms, describing the nature of my injury, how it occurred, that kind of thing. A while after I had returned the forms to the receptionist, an elderly nurse, probably about 70 years old, walked me back to an exam room. Once we got to the room she started flipping through my chart and asking me why I was there. I explained to her that I hurt myself lifting weights. She didn't seem overly interested in what I had to say, and asked me to remove my hoodie so that she could take my blood pressure.

As she went to place the blood pressure cuff on my arm, the woman who was old enough to be my grandma and had seemed thoroughly indifferent to my presence suddenly exclaimed, "Oh my goodness! I can tell you really do work out!" In that unmistakable startled old lady voice. Being extremely caught off guard, I just nervously laughed, and said "Yeah . . ." with my voice trailing off as I awkwardly came to the realization that I had just been hit on by a 70 year old woman.

I guess the bright side of this whole thing is that apparently there is at least one demographic of females who digs me, so at the very least, when I reach my golden years I'll be a p-i-m-p.

Ear Wax

2008-08-31T02:49:00.001-05:00

I had a dream last night that a giant piece of ear wax fell out of my ear, and then when I woke up this morning . . . a giant piece of ear wax fell out of my ear. I'm not even kidding.

Back to School Special

2008-08-20T19:32:00.002-05:00

I know I have been away for a while, and I apologize. School recently started back up for me (yesterday) and so that involved moving back into the dorms, getting my financial aid situation taken care of and all of that wonderful stuff.

Anyway, Monday I moved back in and found myself rather excited to do so. I figured out that I love college, at least the lifestyle part of it. Living with a few of your close friends, doing random, stupid things, and developing terribly unhealthy sleep patterns, what could be better right? The problem is, you can't live the college lifestyle, without actually having to endure the school part. If I could just live in the dorms and hang out with my friends and play basketball, I'd be thrilled to death. But this pesky little thing called class keeps popping up, and if thats not bad enough it comes along with its buddy homework to ruin the party.

Now I've only had three classes so far in my two days since school started, and I haven't had to do or turn in any home work yet, but I know its coming. I know its coming to ruin my late night hangouts and runs to Taco Bell. Is it too much to ask to be able to go to college without having to go to school?

The Olympics

2008-08-10T20:02:00.002-05:00

I would just like to share with you a few reasons why I love the Olympics, and I can promise you most of them will not be deep, and touchy-feely like, "Oh I just love how for 2 weeks all the nations come together and stop fighting." I don't care about that crap, even if you don't fight for two weeks, everybody still hates everybody else, so really the whole peace during the Olympics thing is a facade at best. Anyway, moving on to the things I do care about . . .

The Olympics always give me hope that boxign could be big in America again. The Olympics have been the launching point for so many great fighters (Ali, Frazier, Foreman, Sugar Ray Leonard, just to name a few) that every time I see an Olympic boxing match, it gives me hope that it still has the power to launch a few more. Despite not particularly enjoying the Olympic style or scoring system for boxing, it is still one of my favorite things about the games . . .

I only get to watch water polo once every 4 years, so I take full advantage. Water polo is really quite a fascinating and entertaining sport. Basically its a bunch of guys treading water for an hour and trying to throw the past a goalie into a net while the other team is beating the crap out of them. And you don't even want to know the unmentionable things that the teams do to each other UNDER the water and out of sight of the referrees. All in all, very exciting stuff. I enjoy playing water polo in the shallow end of pools where you can run or walk the whole time instead of treading water, and its still incredibly exhausting, but its about the most fun you'll have in a pool . . .

Team USA basketball. Sure it may have lost some of its aura of invincibility over the last several years (or had it completely shattered), but I get the feeling when I watch this team that we are back. Kobe Bryant says a gold medal would mean more to him than his NBA championships, and I believe him. He never plays D like this against Golden State, I'll tell you that much. And no matter how much the rest of the world is allegedly "catching up," they still don't have a Kobe Bryant . . . Or a Lebron James, or a Dwayne Wade, or a Dwight Howard, do I have to keep going? USA all the way baby . . .

And probably the biggest reason I love the Olympics is because I get to watch sports nonstop for 2 weeks, and instead of being considered an obsessed and crazed sport fan who may or may not need therapy for his problem, I'm simply more patriotic than most.

Bits and Pieces

2008-08-04T23:08:00.002-05:00

Just a few random thoughts floating around in my head . . .

After having seen The Dark Knight on opening night at midnight, my desire to see it again continues to grow exponentially. I'm basically at the point where I would go and see it by myself, it's just that good . . .

With the trade of Joe Rauch from the Nationals to the Diamondbacks, CC Sabathia and Prince Fielder of the Brewers become the heaviest teammates in Major League Baseball. The title did belong to Rauch along with former teammate Dmitri Young. Together the former Nationals teammates weighed in at almost 590 pounds, with the 6'11 Rauch making up 291 of that, and the 6'2 Young tipping the scales at 298. The new biggest duo combine to weigh 560 lbs, CC Sabathia measure 6'7 and 290 pounds and Prince Fielder a very robust 5'11, 270. I don't know why anyone would want to know this, but I did all of the research myself, so I am fairly certain about it's accuracy. I wonder if when the Brewers traded for Sabathia the Indians were required to provide compensation for an expanded post game food spread as part of the deal . . .

The Red Sox should probably consider not losing to the Royals, that would make me feel better about things . . .

If I were at least 6 feet tall I would definitely make a serious effort to train to compete in the Worlds Strongest Man competition. No I'm not kidding . . .

And last but not least, I'll give a special prize to anyone who can tell me where the name of my blog "echos in eternity" comes from . . .

Have a good day.

This Morning

2008-08-03T23:26:00.002-05:00

I was sitting in church this morning and found myself wanting to stand up and scream at the top of my lungs on more than my occasion. It was actually painful for me to sit there and see what the church has become.

Since when does a prayer have to come included with mood lighting and theme music? Does that somehow make it more effective? Is God more likely to hear us if we create a dramatic scene before we talk to Him? Somehow I don't think so. It is frustrating to think that we know longer believe that an honest cry to God is simply not good enough. Or maybe its that the people who lead our churches don't believe that the love of God is enough to move their congregation, so they have to "create a mood." Maybe if we actually demonstrated the love of God in our lives we might realize that it is more powerful than any mood we could ever set.

What might be worse than this is the fact that I actually heard a preacher apologize for the fact that he was about to make a theological point in his sermon. I was at church, if he isn't making theological points, than what is he doing? Isn't it his job to make theological points on Sunday morning? What made me absolutely sick though was that after he apologized for bringing up theology in church was that he never actually made anything that resembled a theological point. I mean if you are going to apologize for something then you better bring it. You better just whack me over the head with a 2x4 with something profound and earth shattering.

I think I would like any apology for all of the sermons I've listened to that completely failed to make anything that even resembled a theological point. That's what we should be sorry for.

Chocolate Bear

2008-07-25T00:45:00.003-05:00

If you take a quick glance over at my picture you may notice that I am not white. You may also notice that I do not exactly look black either. Yes, I said black. Not African-American, because you could be a white dutch guy from South Africa who came over to the U.S. and be more African-American than most black people.

But anyway, the point is, being neither black nor white, people often ask me what ethnicity I am, or where I'm from, or however they may decide to phrase it. And rather than just honestly telling them that my mother is from Illinois and my father is from so and so, I found several years ago that it is a fun little game to tell people something different everytime I get asked.

It started simple enough, saying that I was Mexican, or Latino, or Native American, and everyone I told believed me. So I started branching out a little bit, getting a little more exotic. I would tell people I was Phillipino, or Somoan, or one of my favorites Polynesian.

This spring I went to Trinidad where I found that I looked exactly like the local people. Naturally I just let people assume that I was a native son, which they did. Now one of my go to answers for my origin is that I'm Trinny (I'm not sure if its Trinny, or Trinnie, but I know that they use the shortened version because Trinidadian is quite the mouthful). It was kind of funny because as basically the only non-white member of a 50 person group, I gave everyone else instant credibility. If only they knew where I was really from.

To this day there are people I go to college with who I told during freshman year that I am Polynesian that still believe that to be true. And I suppose it could be, but you'll never know. As for my close friends though, they don't care where I'm from, they just take a line from Scrubs and call me their Chocolate Bear.

Facebook

2008-07-16T12:24:00.003-05:00

I was driving the other day, I have no idea where I was going which is completely irrelevant now but not being able to remember is going to bother me a lot. For the sake of giving myself a false sense of peace, I'll say I was heading to Buske's house.

Anyway, a commercial came on over the radio for a new cell phone. The fact that I actually listened to the commercial is shocking in itself, because I'm usually pretty quick on the preset trigger, but regardless of the reason, I heard the ad. A cell phone commercial is usually nothing special, however the focus of this one seemed rather strange to me.

Pretty much the only feature of phone which was highlighted on the commercial was how quickly this phone could get you to your facebook page. That's right, no talk about affordable pricing, or incredible area of service, no dropped calls or unlimited text messaging. Apparently the only thing this phone company wanted you to know about its product was its ability to keep you in close proximity to your favorite social network.

The funny thing about all this though, was that I didn't even think it was a bad ad. I mean, the thing genuinely had my attention. Rather than scoffing, and saying, what has this world come to or blah blah blah, insert your preferred elitist rant here, I was wondering, how much is this wonderful new phone? Now that is a pretty significant accomplishment but whatever marketing company put this commercial together, because I'm not even 100% sure this phone can actually make phone calls and I want it.

I think I know why too. About a year and a half ago, I was flying home from Houston and was sitting next to a rather attractive girl who was about my age. We started talking and spent most of the flight laughing and enjoying each other's company. It was one of the best flights I've ever had in my life because of the company I was in. So naturally, when we landed, I wanted to keep in touch with this girl, but instead of asking her for her phone number, I turned as I grabbed my carry-on and said, "Hey, can I add you on facebook?" The best part was, she didn't even skip a beat, she just agreed eagerly before we went our seperate ways.

Now maybe this is more a commentary on me than it is society in general, but apparently to some people like myself, a phone that can get me to facebook is a lot more useful than a phone that can make phone calls. Who knew?

My Entourage

2008-07-13T23:20:00.002-05:00

Recently a friend of mine eloped with her longtime boyfriend. She was already engaged so the wedding wasn't that big of a shock, and knowing her, the fact that she eloped was almost expected. However she was the latest in the growing line of my friends who are now married.

So it kind of got me to thinking, not about what girl I could or should married, don't worry I'm certainly not ready for that, but rather about who would be in my wedding party. As I started to think of the guys I would want to be my groomsmen, the names formed quite a formidable list. Obviously there was my brother and my two best friends from high school. But then there is my youth group leader who I now consider a mentor, my brother-in-law, my buddy I have known since we were toddlers and at least two of my college friends.

That would put me at a solid eight groomsmen, which is an absolutely absurd number. I started to think, although my wedding day is at a conservative estimate 3-plus years off, there is absolutely no way I could trim that group down at all. So what is a guy to do? Beat the system that's what. I've got two words for you; Wedding Entourage.

Here's how it works. After the parents and grandparents have been sat as they traditionally would be, my entourage and I start to roll down the aisle to a tune which lets everyone in the crowd know that, while I'm romantic and ready to start my new life, I'm still hood. At that point the appropriate number of my boys would head back and escort the bridesmaids to their assigned spots before my entire entourage clustered behind me as a metaphorical gesture of them having my back as I awaited the arrival of my bride at the front of the sanctuary.

And that my friends, is a little thing I like to call pure genius.

The 5 o'clock Shadow

2008-07-13T00:58:00.006-05:00

I started shaving when I was 12 years old, and have basically hated doing it ever since then. It's time consuming, tedious and no matter how much practice I got, I could never seem to avoid cutting myself on a regular basis. Finally last year, I asked my family for an electric razor to minimize the annoyances of shaving. My brother granted my wish and got me one. My good ol' electric is the kind of razor which cleans your face up enough to get rid of any itching or discomfort which may be caused by facial hair, but it doesn't cut all the way to the skin like a traditional razor would, thus leaving me with a 5 o'clock shadow everytime I shave.

Now I never did mind sporting the scruff because I'm a 20 year old college guy, so looking a bit rugged works toward my overall goal of looking like I'm hardcore. However until recently, the 5 o'clock shadow of which I have become so fond, was never really the most popular look. I have no idea what has changed but all of a sudden, scruffy is apparently what most guys are going for. And how do I know this? It isn't my strangely vast knowledge of popculture or my embarrassing enjoyment of MTV's programming. It's girls. That's really how we as guys decide if things are popular or not right? It's whether or not girls like it. If girls like the way we dress, that's the cool way to dress. If girls like the way we dance, that's the cool way to dance. When I talk to a girl that I am interested in taking out sometime, I almost always ask what kind of facial hair they prefer on guys. The girl probably thinks I am asking so that I can prepare my face accordingly, depending on their answer, but really this question has the potential to be a deal breaker for them. I basically am going to show up to the date with my standard stubble no matter what their answer is, because aside from weddings, I don't show up baby faced anywhere. Luckily, the answer recently has always been, I like a guy with a 5 o'clock shadow.

So what does it all mean? Probably nothing important to tell you the truth. Girls change their minds about what they like more often than guys change their boxers. And even when a girl says she wants one thing, its usually a 50/50 shot at best that that's actually what she really wants. I don't mean to criticize the female population, I just have noticed their overall fickle nature lately. But for now at least, I've got the "in" look working for me. And I'll probably still have it when it goes out of style, and I'll still have it when it comes roaring back. Just a warning for the ladies out there though, I hope you like my stubble for a while because I am more likely to get rid of you than I am my 5 o'clock shadow . . . just kidding . . . but seriously.