The Right to Bear a Hobby Horse

My dog is what some might call a "vagine." I mean, when you think about it, one of the pragmatic uses for even having a dog is protection, right? But I bet if I asked my dog what her job is...she might respond "eating" or "sleeping" or "licking her ass, then my face."

These are not paid positions (and there are no more openings).

So a few weeks ago, when I was awoken by her growling and snorting in our bedroom, my first response was "Maggie...SHUT THE HELL UP! IT'S TWO AM!!!"

But the growling kept going...and she started to pace in the bed. The next thing I know, Tauni is shaking my arm and says "I think I hear someone in the kitchen."

Of course, my first instinct was to say "Tauni...SHUT THE HELL UP! IT'S TWO AM!!!" but I am more pragmatic than the dog...and I thought I better not. I did try to ignore her, but with the combination or growling and the incessant shaking, I eventually, slowly, begrudgingly woke up. And I heard it.

No...that couldn't be...no...A SOUND! And another sound. In fact...that sounds like...someone...NO...moving...rattling...NO F'IN WAY!

And my heart sank...because now...now it was my time to be "the man."

***

Being a man has a lot of perks in life. First of all...I can pee standing up OR sitting down. Really...I enjoy this choice. After a long day...sometimes, I am not embarrassed to admit, I sit to pee. Sue me. This makes me no less of a man. In fact, I think it makes me more of a man. Yes. A manly man I am for sitting to pee.

I also don't have to care about stuff...being a man and all. Some women assume men don't have feelings, but we do. It's just so little is actually expected of us...we can play it up! Centuries of men saying "I don't care" have built upon themselves in a form of ancient viral marketing...and now...when we choose to...we can pull out the "I don't have feelings" card almost at will. It's brilliant if you asked me!

But there are times it sucks to be a man! And I can tell you...hearing a sound in your kitchen in the middle of the night is DEFINITELY one of those times. What the Hell am I supposed to do at 2 AM with rustling...RUSTLING emanating in the room on the opposite side of my house? Ask my eighteen-pound-pussy-ass dog to protect us? Turn to my five-foot-nothing girlfriend?

No...it was time to be a man. So I did what any man would do...I picked up the closest blunt object within arm's reach of my bed and started to head for the kitchen....of course, this being me, the most violent instrument within arm's reach from MY bed...was a fucking hobby horse. Doesn't this look scary:



So, if you can imagine...I am tiptoeing down the hall way...hobby horse in hand...and on my way to beat the living shit of what I presumed to be a 7' tall monster waiting for me in the other room.

Here is an artist's rendition:



Luckily for me...on the way there, with my vicious dog cowering behind my every step, I realized the sound was nothing more than a raccoon that had gotten into the kitchen to eat Maggie's food through our open back door (now closed and locked every night). So...I started banging the hobby horse and clicking its ear. Why? So it would neigh and make some galloping sounds, or course! Worked like a charm...and whatever was eating my dog's food scurried away as brave little Maggie went ape shit...after it had gone.

And we all were safe and sound. Mark MANasse with his HOBBY HORSE...saved the day.

Sigh.

A fun little postscript:

Maggie has taken a big dump every night by the back door to try to cover up the smell of the raccoon who came in to eat her food. So that's been really fun. Way to show the raccoon who's boss, Maggie. You rock!


_

Television Preview Sucks My Ass (A Not-So-Hilarious-Tale of How I Was Scammed!)

I preach and preach to my students that just showing up, butt in chair, does not lead to success. It's important to do your homework...because failing to prepare is preparing to fail! Hokie...but oh-so-true!

If I had taken my own advice, my Friday night wouldn't have sucked major balls. You see, a few weeks ago I received a seemingly innocuous piece of mail from a corporation called Television Preview claiming (I thought) to need my advice about future television shows.

HOW COOL!

Did I think about how they got my name? Why they were asking me? Investigate them even one tiny bit? Of course not...all I could think of was watching some never-before-seen pilots and giving my clearly valued opinion.

To make matters worse, I shared my excitement with a friend of mine the day of the previewing. I explained that I had "somehow" been "randomly selected" and my Friday night would be filled with Must See TV to be!

She then mentioned how a friend of hers went to something that sounded very, very similar before. Unfortunately...the TV shows were actually quite old, and this was a scam to get people to watch commercials and give input about different products.

My balloon sufficiently deflated...I of course decided to put her in the "hater" category and let Debbie Downer know that I appreciated her concern, but there were major TV companies vying for my opinion...and I was going to give it to them!

***

Well, wouldn't you know it? Tauni, a friend of hers, and I went to the screening and we were greeted by the following by Television Preview:

1997's Soulmates. Oddly, while the host claimed that the show took place in 1999, then 2003, and eventually ended up in present day...what we in fact saw was flannel, big hair, and gigantic cordless phones. Bullshit much? And OH MY GOD...not only was it old...but it SUCKED. I mean really, really sucked. Worse than any Lifetime movie made for TV type of sucking. Perhaps this was to get us to look forward to the commercials they made us sit through?

This was then followed up by 1997's Dads. The best part about this show was that C. Thomas Howell was in it...and any 30 something dude knows he was in Red Dawn...sadly...he only played "the friend" in Dads. How the mighty had fallen! This show was better than Soulmates...but 1997? Come on!!!!

But the commercials...holy mackerel! Every few minutes, the shows would stop and they would come on...one of which stands out much more than the rest. It was a TP commercial and literally talked about how other TPs SMEAR POOP while theirs is 3x more SMEAR RESISTANT....and they proved this by showing PICS of the other brand smearing poop! Clearly...this intrigued me....but still...not appropriate for a TV commercial, even in my book.

After being there for a few minutes, we started to think this seemed a little suspicious. So THEN (not before), we decided to investigate. We pulled out our phones and did our homework....just a little too late. Here is Television Preview's take on what they do:

Television Preview® events have been taking place for over 30 years with the sole purpose of testing material being considered for broadcast. By participating in the Television Preview screening event, you have the opportunity to directly influence what you may see on television in the future. You will be participating along with people from across the globe.

Our goal is to simulate your television viewing environment. You will be asked to view pre-recorded 1/2 hour segments (including programs and commercials) just as you would in your home.

It should be noted that our company does not seek to sell you anything. Your opinion on the material you will be viewing is what we want. These data will be analyzed and passed on to the producers, directors, sponsors, and other people that make decisions as to what makes it to air and what ends up on the cutting room floor.

As our way of saying thank you, there be will be approximately $250.00 in attendance prizes awarded throughout the Television Preview screening. We look forward to seeing you at the screening.

Clearly...they aren't lying...but they are TOTALLY misleading...if we just would have gone to good ol' Wikipedia we would have seen this was all BS!

But wa-wa-wa-wa-wait...it gets worse!

The host was a PAINFULLY unfunny, skeleton of a man. He made terrible joke after terrible joke...most including AWFUL sexual innuendo. Seriously...he actually said things like:

On your form, it asks for sex. Please check off yes, no, or sometimes.

I didn't know people told that "joke" after junior high. Now imagine...TWO HOURS...TWO F'IN HOURS of that!

My favorite thing this guy did had to be when he introduced his assistant...the one he deemed "exotic." Want to know why...what possibly made her so exotic???? She was Asian. Yeah...that's right. Asian. Now, don't get me wrong, her silver-skin-tight-and-too-short-dress-with-gigantic-pink-high-heels-ensemble was not what I would call "normal," but this isn't 1960. You don't call someone exotic because she happens not to be white, jackass. I was waiting for him to say "oriental," and I know he would have if he could have stopped making a buffoon of himself for five seconds.

Another thing they did that was completely shoddy was to put signs on EVERY DOOR...EVERY DOOR...that said "This door is for emergency exit only" to try to keep people from leaving or perceiving a way out. I took one of these signs as a keepsake...and then we turned it into the hotel's manager when we tattled on them!

But BY FAR...the cherry on top of the cake had to be the couple sitting in front of us. First of all, at one point, the wife said "this was so much better the last time I came." HUH...WHAT?...You see...she didn't know it was a scam...and went back for more...and brought her husband! As soon as we let them know this was all BS...the husband took out his phone, turned to a fart program he had previously installed (Never know when THAT would come in handy, I guess), and proceeded to create different types and lengths of fart sounds while the Host was talking. This guy made long fart sounds, short fart sounds, wet ones, loud ones, airy ones...you name it...he did it. Again. And again...and after he and his wife almost rolled out of their chairs with laughter...Tauni, her friend, and I bidded Television Preview adieu...with visions of farts, smeared poop, exotic Asians, and terrible late 90's TV dancing in our heads.

And this is exactly why doing your homework is important.

_

There's a Caterpillar In My Bok Choy

Not very often do you google search something like "bok choy caterpillar" and come back with a bunch of results for a movie with it's own website: http://www.theresacaterpillarinmybokchoy.com/

...but I did, and there is, so here we are.

Anyway...I found the mother fucker that single handedly ate THREE of my bok choy plants. Here he is before I threw him into the next yard:



I guess it really is a cabbage moth larva? Here is a professional picture:



I bet you didn't know they have green blood. But they do. Whoops...I might have squeezed it just a little too hard. Tee hee.

But why didn't I kill the little shit before it ate all my plants? I couldn't see it! It was the same exact color as the soil...and it wasn't until this morning that he made the mistake of not burying himself more fully.

If that wasn't enough carnage for one morning, we also found this carcass "living" under our shed. What you might not be able to capture here is that his limbs and spine had been torn from his body. Ah, nature. You truly are beautiful.

Your Tax Dollars at Work

I got a letter from my district office today. The letter contained a form for change of address and instructions.

The instructions stated:

District forms are not forwarded by the post office. We need your current mailing address to send you important information. Please fill out the enclosed change of address form so that we can have you current mailing address.

What I learned:

My district office clearly has my current mailing address because it was ON the letter they sent me today.

My district office made it clear I can't receive mail from them unless they have my current mailing address. They SENT ME A LETTER telling me this.

I need to fill out a form to let my district office know of my current mailing address, even though they have it because it was on the letter, a letter I wouldn't have received unless it was addressed correctly.

Question:

How did we get to the point of needing furloughs in California? No idea. Nope. No idea at all.

So Long "Where's the Beef?" Hello "Where's the North American Beef?"

Ever notice that we add words to foods to make them sound better than they really are? You know...something like:

Q: You want cheese with that?
A: Nah

but if asked

Q: You want Aged Vermont Extra Sharp Cheddar with that?
A: Oh BOY...DO I?!?!?!

This happens all the time...especially at restaurants that are pretending to be high quality. In fact, I find there is a direct correlation between the number of adjectives to describe the food to the price. For example:

A burger with everything on it may run you about $5.00 to $8.00

while

A Japanese Kobe Beef Burger with Arugula and Smoked Real Californian Pepper Jack...well you are looking at at least $20.

This never really bothered me until recently when I saw a Wendy's commercial. Yeah...Wendy's. I haven't been there in about ten years, either...all I know is that they have square (why?) burgers and shakes that they don't call shakes.

Anyway, in this commercial...they claim that they just don't have REAL beef in their burgers...but they have REAL NORTH AMERICAN beef.

Is this supposed to make me feel better? First of all, North America is a pretty damn big area and includes such places as Tijuana and New Jersey. MMMmmmm...polluted.

Secondly, it simply freaks me out when a place claims that they have beef in their beef! That makes me ask two questions:

(1) What did you use before you made this claim?
(2) What are other places using that this is a claim you are actually proud to make?

What's really weird is I went onto Wendy's website to pull the commercial for this blog...and at least on the internet, they aren't using the "Real North American beef" terminology anymore. So that verbiage (a) is only on TV (b) has been pulled because IT WASN'T TRUE or (c) was simply made up in my mind.

Nah...it was probably made up in my real, North American, aged and pepper-JACKED mind.

Ode to Fall (And I Guess Winter If I Have To)

Oh Fall, how I hate thee.
You are a cold time of year.
Your days get dark early.
Your frost chills my rear.

One good thing about you
I hate to admit, but I'll say.
Once October comes around
The tourist, he finally goes away.

Honestly, my bike rides do suck
From May through September.
There are so many novices
Whose faces I want not to remember.

They get in my way.
They ride in dramatic, dangerous droves.
They don't know what they're doing.
They are idiots, I suppose.

Even worse are the "experts"
With their mile-long peloton.
Hogging my road
I have a finger for you to sit and spin upon.

But Oh in October.
Things do take a turn.
Oh in October.
Fewer bikers to spurn.

It's cold in the mornings
The tourist, he begs.
So, he packs up his bags,
And his puss between his legs.

So, I look forward to 60s.
Or 50s. Or 40s. No colder!
Then I can ride free in my jacket
Not crowded on a sandwiched shoulder.

Don't get me wrong.
Otherwise Fall, it still sucks.
But at least I can ride in peace now
Away from all those stupid, motherless...guys.



_

Lost in Mental Masturbation

During my first week of living in the Czech Republic (9 years ago), I got invited to a ball. Yeah, a ball! I still carry my ticket in my wallet because I have always felt that this ball was a defining moment in my life. I was out of my comfort zone, and attempting to communicate with people who had no way of communicating with me. I also puked something awful that night because Americans really don't know how to drink. You know you've had a full night when you puke more than you talk.

Anyway, there was a community bus that took us from the ball site back to town (weird, they actually have a mechanism in place so people don't drink and drive), and during this bus ride, there was a Czech comedian playing on the radio. It was amazing to me to be surrounded by over a hundred other people...all of us in silence...and every so often, every single person on that bus would erupt into laughter at something the Czech comedian said...while I sat there and looked out the window at all the snow that blanketed the ground. Their laughter stinging my ears.

***

At the dog park this morning, I got to witness a fascinating conversation between two elderly guys. I'll call them Bob and Larry for the sake of this blog...and here were some of their finer moments:

Bob: So Larry, you get everything done yesterday that you were supposed to?
Larry: What was I supposed to get done?
Bob: I don't know.
Larry: Guess I did, then.

Bob: That dog just went to the bathroom.
Larry: Yup.
Bob: Sure was a good one.

Bob: You working on your crossword puzzle?
Larry: Yup.
Bob: *Silence*
Larry: Say, Bob...you were in the Marines...what's the strap you carry over your shoulder. It starts with Band.
Bob: Bandolero.
Larry: That doesn't seem to work.
Bob: Well, that's what the Mexicans call it.
(For the record, I think he meant Bandoleer)

Bob: Sorry about my dog growling.
Larry: No problem.
Bob: This dog is grumpier than my ex-wife.

On and on they went, and I sat there for over thirty minutes just listening to them, staring at the grass, seeing nothing but green...and just laughing internally at how ridiculous the conversations were.

***

On the way home, I played and replayed the conversations that Bob and Larry had in my head. The more I thought about them, the less funny they became until the moment struck me where I remembered a young kid staring out a window, feeling ostracised...seeing nothing but white.

I don't know if loneliness has a color, but I know what it sounds like. People are talking and laughing...but there is something missing in the words.

"Clowns and Bikes" are nothing like "Hookers and Blow" Part 1

I get these stupid thoughts sometimes like:

Why do we sleep?

Which then turns into:

What is sleep?

Which, then of course leads to:

Why can't I fit my entire fist into my mouth? (I don't know why...but this really fascinates me)

But this blog isn't about fists, fisting, or anything of the like. I'm writing because after suffering some of the worst and prolonged insomnia of my life (Which of course led to me thinking about what insomnia is and my fist-to-mouth ratio again)...I have had two of the most incredibly deep and relaxing nights of sleep that I can remember in a long time. Unfortunately, when I sleep deeply...I don't dream of anything normal...no sex...no hookers...no blow (this is normal, right?)...I get the following:

Night One

I am walking towards a beach with a giant group of people. We are all partying, screaming, yelling...it appears to be a birthday party for Tauni. I realize that I am going to have to make some sort of toast, and I feel like an idiot because I don't know what to say. So...the only thing I think of possibly saying is:

Here's to Tauni. Here's to Tauni. Here's to Tauni. She's a damn fine gal.

As I finally come to terms that this is what I'm going to say...this guy I know, Mark Clemens, starts drunkenly screaming some jumbled chant that everyone else starts saying...and he has a CRAZY look on his face..like he is drunk out of his mind. I'm telling you...CRAZY LOOKING!!!!

The next thing I know...because of this chant...people are climbing on top of each other and making, what I can only classify as, human totem poles. Higher and higher people went...chanting Clemens's chant again and again.

This of course leads to the people on top of the human totem poles turning into CLOWNS...that's right...CLOWNS...and these clowns then blow up balloons...get on top of the balloons...and try to float away.

But wouldn't you know it. They are unsuccessful. The balloons keep popping..and the clowns plummet back down into the crowd...and the clowns, and the people in the crowd get hurt.

Seriously...what grown man dreams something like this? Clowns? Balloons? Clowns floating on balloons? This dream must mean I'm gay. I'm certain of it.

One website on dream interpretation suggests to ask the following questions of yourself if you have had a dream about a clown:

***

QUESTIONS:

1. Did you feel like a clown on the day before the dream who did not really know what he was doing?

2. Who does the clown with its false smile remind you of?

3. Who in your life seems friendly but is actually a bit false?

***

My Responses:

1. I feel like a clown every day. I never know what I'm doing. It's called being a human being, jackass. I wish I could find the guy who made this website...do you know what you're fucking doing? Can YOUR fist fit in YOUR mouth? I bet so.

2. No one...but now...maybe you, website creator, because your website has not helped me at all.

3. My dog always acts really nice when she wants food. That bitch.


So if anyone has any real suggestions on what this dream means...let me know!

Part 2 to follow.

Tosh.0 is One of the Best Shows on TV

Here is a video from Comedy Central's Tosh.0. If you haven't watched this show yet...you are missing out!



I'M A DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOG!

Farming -- Day One

Tauni and I recently started buying organic and local. Yeah...we truly are THAT kind of yuppie.

Also, we decided to grow some of our own food, too. I'm going to keep track of how terribly this goes.

Here is what Day One looks like:



You'll just have to imagine what the watermelon seeds look like because I planted all of them, but if you look VERY closely, you can see all the other seeds. LOOK CLOSELY I SAID!



We are growing five things: Tomatoes, Carrots, Bok Choy, Corn, and Watermelon...



...but we are growing them two different ways to see which way works better. One way we are trying is inside these peat pellets....never thought I would ever use any kind of pellet...but here we are.






We are also trying to grow our food the "traditional" way, inside soil and pots. Notice how quickly our basil grew!






ok...ok...we bought pre-grown basil.

Wish me luck...I'm sure I'm going to mess this up!

A Circuitous Discussion on the Loss of MoJo and the Need for JoMo

Do you remember (or have you even heard of) Shakey's Pizza? They used to be a large pizza chain in the US, but alas, there are only a few left now, which I don't understand with great adds like this from the 80's. How could that commercial not save them? Hmmm...

Anyway, the reason I even started thinking about Shakey's is because of one of their delicious menu items that I remember eating frequently as a kid: the classic, the tongue-burn inducing, the twice-fried MOJO POTATOES.

Now this is going to sound odd and seem like a tangent, but stay with me here.

A few years ago, Darron and I used to drive by a place called Shaker's Pizza in Fremont when we both lived up in the Bay Area.

We joked that this had to be no coincidence, and that Shaker's Pizza was trying to use the previous coattails of Shakey's to gain popularity....and perhaps even sold JoMo potatoes in a-little-too-close-connection to its predecessor.

Perhaps Shaker's marketing strategy worked because they are still around, and at the pinnacle of their popularity, even made an appearance on THE Casual Critics Review of Fremont's Red Lobster. You know you've made it when you are a passing comment on a shit website's review of a DIFFERENT restaurant.

So why the hell am I mentioning all of this???

For about the last week, every time I try to workout, I feel this lack of energy, drive, desire...MOJO! I have nothing to tap into. No gas is in the engine...and much like all the Shakey's, I don't know where it went. I am getting desperate and looking for energy anywhere I can find it. Coffee. Bars. Gus. Crack. But nothing. My MoJo, for the last week at least, is gone.

Point being...I want my MoJo back, but if it's gone the way of Shakey's, I would seriously even settle for some of that Shaker's JoMo right now.

Gaguuuu...Gaguuuu

The best thing about going camping and ending up placing the tent by a skunk den is that showering definitely lowers on the “to do” list:

To Do List While Camping

1. Bug Spray
2. Lock Bike
3. Megan Fox
4. Shower
5. Roast Marshmallows

To Do List While Camping Next to a Skunk Den

1. Bug Spray
2. Lock Bike
3. Megan Fox
4. Roast Marshmallows
5. Shower

You see…VERY different.

***

Darron (you may know him as one of THE Casual Critics, or from his exploits as playing the “pea” in a recent rendition of Princess and the Pea at the Huntington Beach Playhouse. Don’t believe me? Check it out.)and I had some free time this summer, so we ended up taking a camping/road biking trip to Lake Cachuma, California. When we arrived at the campground, we asked the ranger on duty which site would be the best. She said it depended on what we liked, and we should go check out the campsite to see. We didn't seem to mention that we liked being haunted by skunks, but that's what we got. Remind me not to ask her for any financial advice.

We went out and drove around…finding that site number 455 was somewhat isolated with a great view of mighty Lake Cachuma. Why we wanted isolation, in retrospect, seems odd. We are two relatively straight guys.

Once we found 455, we hurried back to the ranger, not wanting anyone to stake our territory. I even let Darron out before I parked so no one would take our wonderful and fresh smelling spot.

Lucky us, number 455 was still available. When we returned to set up our tent, we found that the ground was dry, hard, steel-like, and impenetrable. But we kept at it. Taking our time to get our tent set up in the PERFECT spot.

That night, at about 8:30, while we were grilling up our dinner, I happened to watch two skunks walk right toward us. The two turned into four. As we try to figure out where they are coming from, we find two of them, turned...butts and tails up, facing us. We ran. And then ran some more.

***

The next morning, I ask Darron if skunks are nocturnal. He says yes. I walk out of the tent to use the restroom, and there is one of the skunks. Waiting for me. I run back into the tent. The skunk it right outside, and starts calling his friends: Gaguuuu...Gaguuuu...Gaguuuu. And we hear them answer back from around the campground: Gaguuuu...Gaguuuu...Gaguuuu.

I have translated that conversation into:

HERE THEY ARE. LET'S SPRAY THEM AND THEN RAPE THEM...NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER.

I am a linguist after all.

We have had enough, so I call Tauni about how to get rid of skunks. It turns out, we could use fox or coyote pee to keep them away. Unfortunately, we were fresh out, so we discuss peeing directly into their den with our own urine. I'm not saying we did this. But I'm also not saying that we didn't.

The second night, camp 453 (which was vacant the first night), has some campers. I ask Darron if we should warn them. He says: No. We had to find out the hard way; they should, too. I ask him if we should at least move the tent away from the skunk den before it gets dark. But he again declines and states We’ve made peace with the skunk.

At about 8:30, they return, and Gaguuuud us all night long. I'm STILL sore.

***

If being attacked by the skunks wasn't enough, here are some of my favorite Darronisms that came up in no particular order:

Darron's Take on Wildlife

If you are even exposed to a bat, you should seek medical assistance immediately because they could bite you so quickly, you might not even know it. And then you could have rabies....and die.

Darron's Take on Sports

I am really looking forward to the Angel game. I just hope no one gets killed. Two people have been killed there this year.

Darron's Take on Farm Animals

What a beautiful horse. Just don’t pet it. It will think your fingers are carrots and bite them off.

Darron's Take on Piers

This is a great pier. If I were going to kill someone, this is where I would take them.

Darron's Take on Swimming

Mark: If I pushed you off this pier, would you forgive me?
Darron: NO!
Mark: No? Come on…you wouldn’t?
Darron: I wouldn’t have time…I would be dead.

Soda and Boobs

Conversation Number One -- I'm Not a Good Mentor

I'm in a classroom before a presentation I needed to give today. I am all alone, and will be for awhile. I get up to use the restroom, when half way to the door, I realize that my keys are in the computer's flash drive. We aren't supposed to leave the classrooms unlocked, ever, for any reason.

I think Eh...I don't need to lock the door. I'll only be gone a second....and there is nothing to steal except the sodas people get for showing up to the presentation.

On the way to the bathroom, I walk past a student...and HAVE TO LAUGH at myself as I momentarily worry that he might go into the open room and take a soda....not that I CARE...they are just sodas....but the possibility is there. Nah...Who would do that...and I'll only be gone another thirty seconds...I'm so stupid.

But wouldn't you know it, as I return from the bathroom, I catch him leaving the room WITH a soda...and I feel like I am in the middle of that Seinfeld episode when the guy who is going to play Kramer in Jerry steals the raisins.

As he hurriedly walks around the corner, we have the following conversation:

Me: Excuse Me! Can I help you with something?

Him: (He walks back toward me...soda and a handout for the presentation in hand) Are you a professor here?

Me: (Staring at the soda) Yup.

Him: You'll probably be my teacher.

Me: (Still staring at the soda) Huh?

Him: I have a class in this room next Wednesday.

Me: Ohhhh...well, many teachers use this room. In fact, those materials you have are actually for a meeting we are going to have in here in a second (I didn't mention the soda...but I am still staring at it.)

And then, for some reason, he tells me about his placement test, how he did on it, and some of his life history. While he thumbs through the presentation materials in his right hand, all I can do is just fixate on the can of soda that he has under a napkin in his left....the water slowly dripping off of it...the napkin soaking up the condensation...

We go on...him telling me about his life, me indirectly hinting to return the things he has taken from the classroom. We have a five-minute conversation where the words were about school, but the context was about a stolen can of soda.

Seriously? Who goes into a classroom and just takes a soda?

Conversation Number Two -- Who am I Kidding? I'm the Best Mentor Ever!

At the store tonight, Tauni bought one of those magazines that discusses the lives of movie stars. Alyssa Milano's wedding photos were on the cover, and the sixteen-year-old checkout guy didn't know who she was. So the following conversation ensued:

Me: You really don't?

Him: Nope.

Me: Who's the Boss? Charmed?

Him: I haven't seen those.

Me: Have you seen Embrace of the Vampire?

Him: What's that?

Me: Do you like boobs?

Him: (He looks at me, my girlfriend, my girlfriend's boobs, and then back at me.) Yeah.

Me: Then you'll like this movie.

Him: What's it called again?

Me: Embrace of the Vampire

Him: I'm going to put it on my Netflix queue right now (reaching for his phone)

Me: It might not be there (meaning it's old and not that popular so they might not have it)

Him: Yeah, there might be a wait for it (thinking I meant that too many people have it at home)

I molded a young mind tonight. And I didn't steal ANYTHING from the store...

If Darron and I were in Charge...

Easy step-by-step directions on how to catch a terrorist.



darron_evans: ha - the list of indicators often
associated with suicide bombers released by the FBI
today:
darron_evans: Irregular, loose-fitting clothing not
appropriate for warm weather, possibly with
"protruding bulges or exposed wires" or a noticeable
chemical odor.
mcnastabator: hahahahha
mcnastabator: NO WAY
darron_evans: nice exposed wires
mcnastabator: if they say anything like "I have a
bomb" in arabic or english...they may also have a bomb
darron_evans: if you see a suspicious looking man humming
or whistling the tune "La Bamba," notify police
immediately.
mcnastabator: hahahhaha
mcnastabator: anyone heard "ordering" the "bomb
burrito" when not in an establishment that has such an
item on their menu, such as an italian
restaurant...please watch carefully
darron_evans: Giggles: Hee Hee
darron_evans: I'd like a bomb burrito.... err... I
mean a bean burrito, please.
mcnastabator: see
mcnastabator: that is suspicious
darron_evans: yes - my antenna would go up, definitely
mcnastabator: but sir, we only have ice cream here
mcnastabator: would you like a waffle cone?
mcnastabator: NO...I want a BOMB burrito...WINK WINK
darron_evans: when in a restaurant, and the guy next
to you tips the waitress a thousand dollars, and she
says, "Thank you! Oh my gosh, thank you!" and he says,
"You'll never get to spend it. We'll all be dead in
about 30 seconds." you should be suspicious.
darron_evans: let the police know right away.
mcnastabator: hahahahahhahahahahahahahahahaha
mcnastabator: hahahahahahahahahahhahahahahah
mcnastabator: I'm still laughing
mcnastabator: hahahhahahahahahahah
mcnastabator: I might even give that a
mcnastabator: lkjfahlkhsfklahdsfklhsd
darron_evans: Disco: Roar
mcnastabator: you'll be dead in 30 seconds
mcnastabator: we have to put these on our sites
mcnastabator: this is classic
darron_evans: yes, i'll cut and paste and email it to myself

It Sucks Being Us

My girlfriend's friend has what I would consider "a cool job." A job that when you have the mundane "What do you do for a living?" small talk with her, you actually pause and say: "Wow..really? That's cool!!" Don't believe me?

She works with dolphins for a living. Fucking dolphins! Cute, cuddly, intelligent dolphins. Nothing to complain about there.

You know what sucks about being us...no matter how good we have it, no matter how cool our lives might be....we'll find fault. This dolphin job, like all jobs, has its good days and bad days. Sometimes the dolphins bite. Sometimes the dolphins splash. Sometimes they rape sea turtles. It's a vicious cycle.

How sad is this? If even working with dolphins can suck...there really is no hope of ever truly being happy...ever.

Let's review what could be wrong with some of the world's greatest jobs:

Job #1 -- Megan Fox's Underwear Selector:

She always wants me to pick something out 10 minutes before I'm have to leave. If she knows she needs underwear, can't she tell me at 3 and not 4:50?

Job #2 -- Blow Job Receiver:

Stupid Nancy never finishes on time...

Job #3 -- Space/Time Traveler:

God...I'm so sick of finding life on new planets. It's always the same damn thing. Yeah...yeah...you fear our superior intellect. I'm going to cure some disease for you...then you're going to build me a statue...every time...the same thing.

Job #4 -- NBA Superstar:

$10 million? $10 million? I could leave here tomorrow and they would be fucked. They don't even know how to use the copy machine...and they want me to play for $10 million. Why does Stan get $12 million a year...he doesn't do shit.

Job #5 -- Fresh Baked (Nut Free) Chocolate Chip Cookie Taster:

My boss is such an ass. He yelled at me because I only tasted ten cookies this hour...and he wants me to do fifteen. God, if I had his job, I would totally let everyone eat ten cookies/hour....WITH milk.


We are all doomed. All of us. We'll never be happy

Photo Caption Contest

Below is my latest Facebook picture. Whoever comes up with the best caption (as voted on by me...and maybe my dog), wins...wait for it...wait for it...

His/Her caption being used on my Facebook page. And maybe I'll buy you a coffee or something.

Blogging: A Defense

I saw a pic on one of my "friend's" Facebook pages that said, and I quote:

Blogging: Never before have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.

Now...that's funny, but you know when you start laughing at something, then you start thinking about it...and the laugh turns to a chuckle...to a laugh-pause-laugh-pause...until you finally think "Shit. That kind of is true. About me."

Don't worry. I "defriended" her instantly.

But this did get me thinking. Why do I blog? Should I blog? You know what? I think I was born to blog.

In what other forum could I let people know that a little girl pooped on my leg while her non-English speaking grandmother laughed at me?

How could I go on living without people knowing that I was raped during my colonic?

And that 90% of my massages end with some kind of inappropriate fondling?

The public needs, no, deserves to know that my dog has a drug problem and likes to ooze things from her ass onto me.

What kind of person would I be if someone in Romania didn't know that a beetle attacked my testicles?

Could you really be complete without knowing that I had a man do a 360 so I could check out his outfit in the men's room...or that I am in love with my male swim coach?

How would you know that I have a vendetta against some poor guy with the same name as me because he gets more google hits?

And don't get even me started on Eva Longoria!

Would it matter if I stopped blogging? Probably not. Do I have little to say to few? Perhaps. But you know the old adage...if my dog leaks anal fluid onto my leg, and no one is around to read about, did she really ever ooze?

Oh she did...and so here we are.

A Career Change

So I have decided that I am just going to do it. I am changing my profession. From this point on, when somebody asks So..what do you do? I am no longer going to say "I'm a teacher." Instead...I am going to say "I'm a writer." Here's three reasons why:

(1) The Farrelly Brothers

The first reason I am doing this is because of one of my life mantras that I picked up from Dumb and Dumber, clearly, a deeply philosophical movie. While discussing the rules of a game of tag, Harry (Jeff Daniels) and Lloyd (Jim Carrey) have the following conversation:

Lloyd: [nudges Harry] You're it.
Harry: [nudges Lloyd] You're it.
Lloyd: [nudges Harry] You're it, quitsies!
Harry: Anti-quitsies. [nudges Lloyd] You're it! Quitsies, no anti-quitsies, no startsies!
Lloyd: You can't do that!
Harry: Can too!
Lloyd: Cannot, stamped it!
Harry: Can too, double stamped it, no erasies!
Lloyd: Cannot, triple stamped it, no erasies, touch blue make it true. [puts his hands over his ears and sings]
Harry: No! No! You can't triple stamp a double stamp! You can't triple stamp a double stamp, Lloyd! You can't triple stamp a double stamp! LLOYD! LLOYD! You c--

What we learn here is that while this argument SEEMS childish and absurd, Lloyd is actually taking a powerful stand for what he believes in. He goes so far as to decree to his interlocutor "[You]Cannot, triple stamped it, no erasies, touch blue make it true. [puts his hands over his ears and sings]"

In sum, I don't care what you say. You have your truth. This is MY truth. I will not, in fact, cannot listen to your disagreement any longer.

I have touched blue, people. There is no going back now.

(2) I Don't Need to Show You the Money, Jerry.

I have asked and re-asked many, many people about this possible "change in employment" for the past week or so, and you know what? Congrats! Most responded as a good American should. They wanted me to show them the money. Or, more specifically, they asked:

What have you published?

Although the answer to that is a big, whopping nothing, that does not mean that writing cannot be my profession. One person in particular noted "It wasn't like Vincent Van Gogh made money while he was alive...but he was clearly an artist." And while I'm not 100% happy about being compared to a nut job, the sentiment is definitely there.

The difference in me now compared to let's say, a week ago when I started thinking about this "career change" is that I had only tried to publish one time in my life before last week. And you know why I previously tried? I was taking a creative writing class in college, and the "final" was to try and publish something.

So my nothing has been a very special nothing because I never tried. But I'm trying now...and money or not, that makes me a writer.

(3) Heart of Darkness

Like all people, I'm probably not 100% sane, but that's ok, right? What is sanity, anyway? Maybe it is pretending to be something you're not for the sake of others. I'm a writer because I'm looking for something. I haven't found it...yet.

I'm not a "literary quote" kind of guy, but this about sums it up:

I don't like work--no man does--but I like what is in the work--the chance to find yourself. Your own reality--for yourself not for others--what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means. -- Joseph Conrad.

I guess I just couldn't say it any more clearly than that.

Netflixism

If you're like me (and I know that you are), you probably suffer from a case of Netflixism from time-to-time. You like the idea of having movies shipped to your house...and you're good at watching them weeks at a time, but there is always that lull. Maybe you get too busy. Or maybe, just maybe, you got a little too adventurous in what you chose to have delivered to your home.

The red envelope starts to haunt you. You don't want to watch anything on, by, or related to whatever unfortunately lies within it. I know. I know. You even recheck the envelope once in awhile to see if the movie living inside its red prison happened to change. Nope, still When Harry Met Sally. Shit.

Yes. I understand. It seemed like a good idea to put (fill in the title of that movie you have always wanted to see here) in your queueueueue three months ago, but then it arrived, didn't it?

Oh...Citizen Kane...yeah...I'll watch that next weekend.

The problem is, next weekend becomes two weeks, next month. Before you know it, that little red envelope, which is supposedly so full of guilt-free membership, becomes a fucking Albatross. Stupid Netflix with their stupid no late fees.

So, Netflixism -- the act of letting a movie sit on your coffee table for months on end, but you are too stubborn to return it without watching it first. Also see "idiot" and "we todd did."

***

My most recent bout with Nexflixism was with the movie Hancock. I think that movie moved from my coffee table to my kitchen counter 15.5 times. The .5 is for when I threw it on the floor and did a jig on top of it. (By the way, I don't know if you have ever looked up the word jig, but I just did because I was curious about what it would say...and man, I am glad I did: a rapid, lively, springy, irregular dance for one or more persons, usually in triple meter. Who knew?)

Anyway, this movie sucked...and it was the worst kind of sucking imaginable. Yes...it used teeth. Also, it didn't suck from beginning to the end. I have mentioned this before with movies...but I can appreciate (and sometimes enjoy) movies that just let you know they are going to suck from the first scene. Take any movie with Jessica Simpson in it for example. Right away, you know it isn't going to be be deep or meaningful. She is pretty much happy when she is in a movie that isn't released directly to DVD. Point being, you don't get invested in it. You just sit back, relax, put your hands behind your head, and let the suckfest begin!

But Hancock...oh no...Hancock didn't do this. Hancock decided it was going to be pretty good for about one hour. I was sitting there actually presently surprised...wondering why the movie got shit-canned by critics, and why I hadn't seen it yet. But like a lot of other Hollywoody type movies...they realize that the average American probably has about 1.5 hours of attention span...so once they hit that one-hour mark...they fall into the dreaded how-are-we-going-to-wrap-this-up-neatly-in-the-next-twenty-to-thirty-minutes game. I hate this. I absolutely hate this with a passion.

I think this is akin to a girl getting you all riled up, pants off, condom on...and then saying she's got to go because her husband is coming home. Lady...you should have told me you had a husband in the first place, and I wouldn't even be here right now...I would be home watching Jessica Simpson's Private Valentine instead!

***

So after Hancock ended tonight, I was initially mad at myself. Why did I waste my time? Why did I watch this crap?

But you know what...it really isn't me who is to blame. It is my Netflixism...and my hope that just once...one of these Hollywoody movies will finish what it starts. No husband. Full penetration. There really is no better way to summarize a good flick.

Alas, this may be impossible to find. So, I'm just going to go watch Embrace the Vampire again. Alyssa Milano sucks...but she sucks so good.

His Name is David

And he comes from Spain. Don't pronounce his name like us simpletons in CA, though. Try DA-veet, and you'll be closer.

I talked to him at the airport because his shoes were off, and he happen to sit by me. Chance? Fate? It wouldn't soon matter.

That's so smart

I said to him not knowing that he would become part of the next four hours of my life...even though the flight from SF to SD is only about one hour.

Is dis normal...what's da word...procedure?

He asked me about having to take his shoes off at security. This and his accent led to a full barrage of questions.

He was from Spain, and a teacher of children, looking to improve his English. He had spent the last few weeks studying in New York, and was now on his way to San Diego where da surf was bedder.

I was just amazed that I had never thought of this before. Why not wait to put my shoes back on at the gate? Why the rush to put them on right away at security? With all his accent and all our conversation...it was the shoes. It was the shoes.

***

Flash forward and we are back home. I checked a bag in SF because I discovered putting a suitcase in an overhead compartment with a bum shoulder is not so easy. It was a little embarrassing to ask my five foot nothing boss if she could "stow it" for me on the way to SF...this time, I had planned ahead.

I watch the conveyor belt travel counter clockwise. Around and around. I hate checking bags because I have places to go. I'm busy. Why wait? I have to go home...to do...something? Nothing? I don't know what. All I know is that I need to be there.

Then Da-veet walks up, he is waiting for bags, too, and I think about his shoes, and how brilliant he is. Innocently I ask where he is staying, and he tells me downtown San Diego.

And thoughts of my feet being free and running in sand fill my head. I can be this guy. I can do it, too. So I ask Da-veet if he wants a ride. I was in no rush after all...and a pressure let go that started in my toes and slowly worked its way up my body. It empowered my hands and tingled my fingers. My hair stood on end. And my bag came onto the conveyor belt. It was time for the adventure to begin.

***

He had two bags the size of dead bodies, so I joked that he couldn't kill me if he was a mass murderer. He laughed. His English is really good. We shoved his life into my car and started towards downtown: All I need is the address.

And while he looked, he discovered he didn't know where he was going. He had a phone number with no address. My ten-minute adventurous jaunt became an hour. Then two. We called a number. Then another. I spoke to someone in Canada. He accidentally called the San Diego police department. We sat on First Street, in The Gaslamp, parked in the yellow as he fiddled with his papers, and I struggled with an iPhone.

He apologized. And he apologized again. He apologized for apologizing. His accent grew thicker. His words failed him. His shoes tightened.

We eventually found his home, and I let him know again and again that it was no trouble. I had nowhere to be. And as I dropped him off, I remembered the image of him carrying his shoes and sitting down next to me...and how lucky he really is.

So Relax...My Ass...

You know when you are in the middle of a situation, and you don't really feel like you are participating until, before you know it, you look up and your girlfriend is staring at you while another man is holding and gently caressing your hand?

What the Hell?

You know that feeling of then being zapped back into reality and quickly pulling your hand away, pretending like it never happened...

ZAP

And then she comes over and asks the obvious question: "Why is that guy holding your hand?"

Um...

You know what I mean, right?

Well. Let me explain.

***

We went back to the fair last night and we were on our way out when an Asian guy who spoke less English than a mute donkey coerced us into entering the "So Relax Massage Booth"

It sounded relaxing after all.

I asked him if my shoulder would be ok...seeing as I just broke it.

Yes he said instantly

I asked him if they would be nice to my collarbone.

Yes, before I was done speaking.

I, of course, checked for complete understanding by asking if he would let me kick him in the balls and call him Francine while I poured chocolate pudding down his pants singing an a capella version of I'm Too Sexy.

Yes, he coolly replied.

Clearly any fan of Right Said Fred is welcome to massage me.

I went into the So Relax booth and was passed off to "Andy." The chances that Andy's name was actually "Andy" is about as likely as me tongue kissing Mylie Cyrus after her fifth Grammy. "Andy" was clearly from China and only knew how to say one thing in English for the first 12 minutes of our relationship:

"What's matter? Too hard?"

But I'll get back to this.

I was placed upon the massage chair, and my mouth and nose were forced through a small breathing passage. "Andy" started off by jabbing his elbows, both of them, into my traps with the gentleness of an Andre The Giant bowel movement fist clench. I then became instantly paralyzed with fear as he coarsely moved to my neck and rubbed my skin with his right thumb like he was trying to remove rust from a 1925 penny that had been soaking in an iron bathtub since WWII. Clearly intuitive by nature, "Andy" took my squirming to mean that perhaps something had gone awry.

"What's matter? Too Hard?"

Yes.

It seems "Andy's" listening ability was far surpassed by his speaking ability. I'm not sure he was acquainted with the word "Yes" during his brief stint in the US, and he moved to my head which, unbeknownst to me, somehow must resemble a bongo drum. He beat my temples and cranium to a pulp, massaging the deep tissue of my brain. Shit. I didn't even know my brain was sore.

This was all a prelude, though, to my favorite part of the massage when he got behind me and straddled me like I was Demi Moore and he was Patrick Swayze from the pottery scene in Ghost. He then, no lie, took his knee, while straddling me, and rubbed it all the way down my IT band, from my hip to my lower leg. While he pushed his entire body weight into me and onto the leather massage chair, I started audibly laughing because this might have very well been the most homoerotic moment of my life...and I was paying $12 for it.

"What's matter? Too hard?"

I now only hoped he meant his massage techniques...and not anything else on him.

He ended the most traumatic 15 minutes of my life by literally closed-fist punching my legs, back, kidneys, back, spleen, and spine to the point where my laughs were rendered staccato:

Ha PUNCH ha...ha PUNCH ha PUNCH ha PUNCH ha...ha PUNCH

I got up from my beating, er, massage and staggered around looking for Tauni. She was at the end of her punching bag session from the looks of it. I was wobbly, and felt like I might fall over.

"Andy" came over, picked up my left hand, and started massaging my fingers.

"What's matter? Too hard?"

I kind of just stared at him. I really felt like I had just been pummelled.

"You strong man. You strong."

He said this as he was stroking (yes, stroking) my fingers. One. By. One.

I looked over to Tauni again...and she had walked over and asked me her very much suitable "Why is that guy holding your hand?"

I looked "Andy" in the eyes and his malformed teeth glistened.

I looked back at Tauni.

We ran-walked away from the So Relax booth as quickly as possible. We held hands, realizing that not only were we not relaxing...but our skin burned and our dignity was shaken.

Sage Advice

Ah Kaiser. You are to hospitals as McDonald's is to fast food. You might as well have signs in your patients' rooms that say: "Safe is emptied nightly. We have no bills over $20.00. Don't forget your flu shot."

During my last appointment, Doctor Chuckles comes in with a grin and a handshake. He pretends we have been friends for years, but I'm not sure I would be friends with this buffoon.

Mark Man-ass? he states upon clasping my hand.

Sure. I'm not in the mood to correct him. I just want my diagnosis.

I'm Greg. Your P.A. That is a Physician Assistant.

No...I never saw an actual doctor one time during my recovery...but that's ok...I have never really seen Ronald McDonald in person, either. I know he exists. And I know he is a clown. In fact, Greg has a lot in common with a clown, now that I think about it. He is goofy and probably cries himself to sleep at night. Oh, he also had a rainbow wig on and size twenty shoes.

Nice to meet you, Greg.

So, Mark...you been doing a lot of push ups? How many can you do?

And my heart sinks. Push ups? Was I supposed to do push ups? Did I just fuck up my recovery time? No. I haven't been doing any.

Oh, well. A lot of people say 100.

What the fuck is this guy talking about? He could at least juggle or ride a unicycle or something. His jokes were falling flatter than Mylie Cyrus's ground breaking Fly on the Wall Um..ok. Was I supposed to be doing push ups?

No transition, he just moves on. So how long has it been since your injury? Nine weeks?

Yeah, a little over.

He doesn't look at the x-ray. Doesn't touch my shoulder. How does it feel?

Great.

Well, you're fine, then. But don't go lifting weights at the gym tomorrow or anything. Snicker, snicker, snicker. And then he snorted. SNORTED. And snickered some more.

OK, well, I kind of want to start training for triathlons again. Is that ok?

Yes. Just don't fall off your bike. That would be bad. I couldn't tell you what would happen. But just don't fall. That could be very, very bad.

And so I am listening to him and thinking: What the fuck is wrong with Doctor Chuckles? Don't fall? Don't fucking fall? Why the fuck would I want to fall?

My entire time with him lasted about two minutes. In the past twenty four hours, I have run two miles, swum 800 yards, and biked 10 miles. Everything feels pretty good...and I have done Greg proud.

I haven't fallen. Not one time. Snicker, snicker, snort.

My version of 9 1/2 Weeks (9 down, zero to go)

I was pushing my memory a bit, but as I left the doctor's today, about 9.5 weeks after I broke my collarbone...I had a vision of Mickey Rourke (pre jacking his face up) and Kim Basinger pop into my head.

Didn't they star in some soft core porn called 9 1/2 weeks?

So, I came home and checked it out. They did!

Apropos to my 9 1/2 weeks, the two lovers are seen in this clip as devouring food, each other, themselves. Wow. If they added a little McDonald's in there, they really would have captured my two months off!

So, of course, I had to come up with titles for porn movies involving my collarbone:

Marky Does Bone Healing

Deep (Soft Tissue Damage Near My) Throat

Touch My Bump

I Want to Collarbone You

Catch My Road Rash If You Can

Point being, I have been given clearance, Clarence. Now comes the fun part...trying to get back into shape...and lose the 25 lbs I packed on in my 9 1/2 weeks.

Hurray?

Ball Attacking Bug (8 down.....4 to go?)

God. He is like crazy and shit. Is he (not to genderize the thing, but I am using this pronoun as purely a linguistic measure, not misogynistic device) there? Why does he do the things he does?

For the sake of this blog, let's assume God exists and is paying attention to ME right now. That's right. Not you. Not North Korea. Not even Adam Lambert. Me. Does God pay attention to things other than "The Axis of Evil" or "Might-Be-Gay-American-Idol-Runner-Ups-But-Now-Is-Gay-And-Has-Been-Gay-All-Along-Pop-Culture-Icons-Of-The-Moments?" Again...for the sake of this blog...I shall presume YES.

To take this a step further...would this God care about my broken collarbone and how much emotional turmoil this injury has put me through? Not to say that I can't handle it or am I being a "pussy" about it (and yes, I am going for a record with the quotation marks this blog. I believe the previous record is 25...not sure how it is an odd number.)...because does God help pussies? I will presume no...so hence I can't be a pussy otherwise the entire premise of this blog would be blown.

So...if nothing else...I have established that God cares about me...is watching me...knows about my broken collarbone...and, most importantly...I am not a pussy.

Now I can proceed:

God is testing me!

***

Test Number One -- The Dog

I came home and had to take my dog for a walk three days ago. You see, she is now too much of a princess to use her pad anymore. She's a small dog, and much like a cat, has a little place to "do her business" inside the house. Somewhere along the line, Little Miss Thang decided that her pee/poop "was gross" and she will only go outside. While outside, she does what I can only say is close to a handstand so that no body part of hers is near her now dreaded excrement.

So...I take her out, and have not held her leash in my left hand for two months just in case she decides to tug. You see, with a broken collarbone, a tugged leash would be like a kick in the balls. NO THANK YOU!

We walk, we walk, we walk...and she has not tugged one time. I forget about my arm. I forget about the dog. I switch hands for one second. Literally. One. Just so that I could scratch my leg. And...as soon as that leash is in my left hand...she must have seen God himself because she pulled on my arm with tractor-trailer power. TUG!

Seventeen pound dog leash tugs are not usually accompanied with grown men screaming. This one was.

Test number one complete, though...There was no stabbing pain. There was no kick to the balls. There was only a grown man who envisioned shoving his dog's face in poo.

My arm must be getting better!

Test Number Two-- Derek Fisher

Those of you who read this and actually know who I am (yes, there is more to me than hating Mylie Cyrus), know that I am somewhat of a sports fan. Just kind of. To many, the love of sports, sports teams, and sports players...is somewhat a religious experience. You pray. You hope. There are icons. There is good. There is evil. Yes, yes...it is all very Biblical (again...just linguistics here...I could have just as easily used "Koranical," but I don't even know if that is a word...it did give me a chance to use more quotation marks...so close to 25).

A few nights ago...I was at my church...which is to say my couch...I was praying for a Lakers victory. There is no way God would let Orlando win. None. Not if there were really a God, right?

Done by 5 with only about 30 seconds to go...the Lakers make a dramatic comeback...capped by Derek Fisher nailing a three to send the game to overtime with just seconds to play.

HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!

I jump to my feet...off of my pew, (yes, I realize I changed metaphors here...wasn't the couch just my church, not a pew? Don't pay attention to stuff like that. This is just a blog and I can take liberties like that because...well...just because. I am the God of this blog, anyway...and in my world, changing a metaphor mid-story is just fine.) raise my hands to the ceiling...YES. YES. JESUS. YES.

Arms flailing. Feet jumping. Fists pumping.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

Yeah...NOT a good idea with a still healing collarbone. But I was alive. And so were the Lakers more importantly.

I MUST be getting better.

Test Number Three-- Ball Attacking Bug

If you can imagine how traumatizing it is to have a bug attack your balls, you are a better man than I. I had no idea. But I don't have to try and figure it out anymore because it happened to me last night.

Now, it is true, we are all God's creatures...but some of these creatures buzz...and fly...and are just icky. Do we have to count these things...do we need to love them? I don't think so. Especially if I am sitting on my couch minding my own business....in my boxers. I honestly believe that once a man is on the couch...and the pants come off...if that time becomes disturbed for any reason...we should have the right to kill.

So there I am...relaxed, reading about the Del Mar Fair on my laptop. I was on the food section...and just saw that this year they will have chocolate covered bacon. That's right...chocolate covered bacon.

About five feet in front of me...my sliding glass door is open. We get a nice breeze at night...so we often leave it open...door and screen.

I think to myself, Wow...chocolate covered bacon. Why didn't I think of that?...when

BAM

Something slams into my upper thigh...right between my left leg and my balls....and somehow under my boxers.

I turn to Tauni, who is on the other side of the room nowhere near me, the couch, or thoughts of chocolate covered bacon...and am about to question her:

Tauni, why did you throw something at my balls. You know, normal evening discussion.

When I turn to look at her, she is frozen in mid-movement. It looked like she was playing a game of freeze tag...and the thing that had tagged her was a twelve foot tall cockroach. She looked scared and disgusted.

Before I could ask my question and before I could ask her why she looked so creeped out...I felt a little tickle. On my balls.

That's weird. I don't usually feel a...what the..

And I reach down, with my left arm...the bad one..and am jamming my hand onto my balls because there is something new down there...AND IT IS MOVING.

I grab it (the bug) throw it on the couch, jump up, and do what I figure is the only thing I could do while my girlfriend is still frozen in time and I have just been attacked by a bug...UNDER my boxers:

Oh my GOD...oh my GOD...IT ATTACKED MY BALLS. IT ATTACKED MY BALLS.

And I am tap dancing on the floor...and Tauni is oddly not frozen anymore...but laughing. And laughing. She is in a fit...and I can't even find the room to be mad because all I can say is Oh my GOD...oh my GOD...IT ATTACKED MY BALLS. IT ATTACKED MY BALLS.

We eventually corner the beast with a glass cup on top, and a paper plate on the bottom. God's little creature didn't like this. So it hissed. Loudly and repeatedly.

Something that could hiss had been on my balls. Is there no grosser thing in the history of time?!?!?!?!?

But...my arm was ok. I had jerked, and grabbed, and thrown...with the bad arm. And I wouldn't have known I was ready to do that...without this ball attacker letting me know.

(For more information about the bug who attacked my balls, please visit Ball Attacker and scroll half way down the page. Look for: An adult ten-lined june beetle--Polyphylla decemlineata.)

***

My Dog. Derek Fisher. A Ball Attacking Bug. All part of the healing process. Not physically. Mentally.

Thanks, God....I really could have done without the "bug" on the "balls" though...

Could You Love Me Like My Dog...Owner

When I was in college, my girlfriend gave me a cutesie book entitled Could You Love Me Like My Dog, by Beth Flowers.

In it, it gives page after page of quotes like "Could you always protect me" or "Could you never stop putting your head in my lap." Shit like that...clearly, the catch being, to describe things dogs do that would be romantic if a person did them, too.

This got me thinking about how fucking crazy dog owners are. I have been spending a lot of time at dog parks recently...and seriously, next to engineers, dog owner's have to be the most socially inept people in the world (myself excluded, of course.) So if I were to write a book about the situation, I would entitle it Could You Love Me Like My Dog Owner...and here are some of the quotes it would contain:


Could you ask my how old my dog is every time you see me because you either have zero memory or are deaf?

Could you only talk to me like your dog is actually talking to me and you are just playing the voice inside his head because you are incapable of carrying out true person-to-person interaction that doesn't involve your dog?

Could you mention the size and color of your dog's poop on a regular basis?

Could you tell me how purebred your dog is like it is some sort of reflection of your familial line?

Could you think you are original when you say my dog looks like the Men in Black dog?

Could you either (a) dress up like you are going to a debutante ball or (b) like you just got finished with a gangbang with no in between while at the park?

Could you say that "my dog never does that home" as it tries to hump the poor, blind kid in the wheelchair.


Look for it in paperback soon!

Breaking Point

I get tired of the high road. It's hard to be the one who consistently acquiesces when confronted with bull-headed assholedom. I preach it to my students. I am it day after day.

But today was not that day.

My complex has what is virtually a one-way road to the street. Today, a "gentleman" decided to park his car right in the middle of it while he unloaded his vehicle. This neither disturbed me nor made me think twice. There were tons of spots, some of which were mere feet from where he parked his car.

Weird, but I'm sure he needs to be there.

I get into my car, start to back up, and simply decide to wait for him to finish being completely self-centered. Take your time, I think. I'm not in a hurry.

In the midst of totally not bothering him, looking at him, smelling him, he starts to get flustered. He starts glaring at me, shaking his head, and continues to raise his voice while he retreats into his car. I am intrigued. As soon as he closes the door, he clearly starts YELLING AT ME (although I can't hear him because he didn't do this until he got into his car) and gesticulating to the point where I thought he might throw his back out.

On a normal day, I would give an apologetic gesture, a wave, a smile, and simply make him aware that no one was at fault here. This was some sort of interpersonal misunderstanding. I would make everything ok.

But, like I said, this was not that day.

I roll down my window and scream so he can hear me through his car door:

WHAT? WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU! And cup my hand in a c-shape behind my ear.

Now there have been few (very, very few) instances where I have engaged someone like this in my life...but what I have noticed, and what held true again today, is that people are generally pussies, and all you really have to do is stare at them, and they will back down. So this day, that is what I did. I just stared at him with my hand behind my ear until he eventually stopped yelling and sheepishly rolled down his window. At this point, I explained:

Look, man. I'm not in a hurry. Just take your time.

To which he then starts to explain how he only wanted my spot (or the spot behind me) and was trying to get into it but couldn't because I was in HIS way.

The fact that I found this ironic, a lie, or utterly ridiculous when there were ten other spots right in front of him, was of no importance, but I again did not let my gaze leave his eyes. He would look to the spot, to his steering wheel, to his hands, to his watch, and every time he looked up, there I was...

What would you like me to do? Would you like me to pull forward so you can park?

Yes and he hurriedly rolled his window back up.

Mid roll, I caught his gaze and he froze. His window half open, I explained: I will pull forward. Just don't yell at or get angry with me for no reason. I felt like I was talking to one of my students.

He paused, and continued to roll up his window.

SO...why write this? Who cares?

It wasn't until later that I thought "What if today were his day to pull out a gun and shoot someone...even though he normally doesn't do stuff like that."

Luckily...today was not that day, either.

Dear Idiot II

Ah yes...time has come to re-open the mailbag...and let the world know what kind of morons follow my blog. I have selected my three favorites for your enjoyment.

Stupid Question Number 1:

Mark,

I was sorry to read about your accident. Did it hurt? I hope you are feeling better.

Toronto John


Dear Idiot:

To be fair to you, you did ask me this question before I blogged and re-blogged about my collarbone, but I still have to ask, what the fuck is wrong with you? Yes, dipshit, of course it hurt! Have you ever gotten a paper cut before, John? Do they have those in Canada? I assume they do (you probably stole them from us). Now...imagine, simpleton, if you can, a really, really, really bad paper cut...but the paper is made out of asphalt and the cut was actually the shattering of your collarbone on said asphalt. Ouch, eh? Idiot.


Stupid Question Number 2:

Dear Manasseworld:

You are such an asshole. Where do you get off polluting the internet with your foul mouth? Boo hoo my shoulder...boo hoo my triathlons...you are such a cry baby.

You suck.


Dear Anonymous Idiot:

Your words cut to the bone. THE BONE! I thank you for taking the time to classify me as an entity, and not an actual person. This sheds some light on your deeper reading skills. Maybe I should repost my writing in pictures so you can actually follow along. I'm not sure why you follow my blog if I am so offensive, by the way. I can only presume you are in prison or you are my mom. If all goes well, maybe I could consider you both in the near future(don't ask). Anyway, here's a riddle for you, asshole. Who has a small dick and just got banned from my in-box? OK...that's Brian Gunn, but it could be you, too, if you don't shape up.

Oh...and to answer your question: my chair, the shower...and sometimes with my girlfriend.

(I'm just kidding, Brian!!!!)

Stupid Question Number 3:

Mark:

I've been reading your blog for about one year now. Who's Darron? You are always mentioning him on your tags (which I love by the way).

Curious Katrina


Dear Idiot:

That really could be a deep, philosophical question, but I will simply chalk this up to an idiotic one if you really have been reading me for about one year. He is a dude I have known since seventh grade. If you did any real investigation, you could probably discover he got me into blogging, we were the 2004 Yahoo National IMing champions (no shit), and we started Casual Critics together. I'm going to guess you were born in the 90's...because people your age dont try to figure shit out for themselves.

But...if this WAS a deep, philosophical question...I would have to say he is probably a transgendered pedophile. Just a guess.



OK...Keep emailing....IDIOTS.

Bitchiness Can Come in All Sizes

I saw Up last night. A pretty good movie. Heartwarming, really. My favorite character was Doug, a talking Golden Retriever (I think). He was the every dog: Dumb, loyal, slobber-filled. He made me think of my pug, Maggie, a lot.

Except for one thing.

Maggie, at times, is a real bitch.

I have definitely written about her...prima donna...nature before. But certain aspects of her personality become more and more defined as she gets older. And if she could talk, like Doug, I sometimes wonder what she would say. For example, when we go to the Starbucks drive thru near my house.

Maggie does not like this drive thru AT ALL...and she lets me know that every single time we go there by screaming bloody murder once we are in line. My normally mild-mannered and pre-occupied-by-crotch-licking dog becomes INCENSED by, I presume, a lack of control and waste of her time.

So, I offer to you the conversation I would have with Maggie in the Starbucks drive thru if she could talk like Doug from Up.

Me: OK. We are almost there. Are you going to keep it down today?

Maggie: What do you mean?

Me: We are almost...yeah know...there.

Maggie: Well, I honestly have no idea what you are talking about. I love going for rides, and always sit back here quietly. I am insulted that you would suggest otherwise.

Me: Really? OK..well, STARBUCKS is just up the street...and that is where we are going.

Maggie: What did you just say?

Me: I said Starbucks. We are almost there...and we are going to use the drive thru. Are you going to be able to handle that?

Maggie: Surely, sir, you jest. You aren't really going to...

Starbucks Employee: Welcome to Starbucks...can I take your order?

Maggie: MARK. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Me: Shhh...I'm trying to order. I'll have a...

Maggie: You better turn this car around. You better get me the fuck out of here right now. I swear...I am going to LOSE MY SHIT if you don't.

Me: Maggie...NO...bad dog. No!!!!

Maggie: You think you can shush me? Who the fuck do you think you are? Now either you keep driving the fucking car to the fucking park, or so help me I will take a dump right on your face. And I ate that pizza you left out...so you know I've got diarrhea.

Me: Seriously. Maggie. BE QUIET.

Maggie: Oh. I see how it is. You the "big man" now. You the "alpha male." Listen here, alpha boy, I pissed on the remote. Yeah...I pissed all over it...and every time you changed the channel last night, I just laughed and laughed. How you like that? You like that? Now, unless you get the hell out of this drive thru in the next twenty seconds, you won't know how...and you won't know when...but you WILL find a little something I like to call regurgitated field mouse in your shoe. So what's it going to be?

Me: You are a real bitch sometimes, you know that?


Oh...she knows. She just doesn't care.

A Return, of sorts (Six down, and Six? to go)

On a day where I took a Facebook quiz and was told that Kate Hudson would play me in a movie about my life (Which I oddly wrote about LAST November), I was definitely in need of some good news.








I'm not pregnant.

Also, I advanced from a recumbent bike to stationary bike today. Only ten minutes, and I'm not allowed to lean on the handle bars, but it was something! Now, I need to digress here for a second. Am I the only one who never heard of the word "recumbent" before? For years, I just called it a "recline-y bike." I knew it wasn't the "official" term...but shit, do you call that little punching bag thingy in the back of your throat that little punching bag thingy in the back of your throat or a uvula? Seriously, recumbent? Anyway...

I also went swimming today...kind of. I got in the pool and did 500 yards of kicking. Sadly, I was once again reminded that efficient swimming is to me as an award winning smile is to Mylie Cyrus. Some things are ugly no matter what you do.

Did you know that about two years ago, when I would use a kickboard in the pool that I would actually go BACKWARD in the water. BACKWARD. How is that possible? BACKWARD. Either that is a sign of a shitty-ass swimmer, or I was so powerful, my legs opened up a time-space vortex. Maybe a little of both. I wasn't that bad today...but I definitely wasn't feeling great. Worst part is...if I drowned, Kate Hudson would have played me in my biography. What would that movie have been called?

How to Lose A Mark in Ten Strokes?

Almost Famous Backward Swimmer?

Can't Swim Wars?

You, Me, And The Dead Guy in the Pool?

God, she has made some shitty movies. My death just might save her career.

Would Somebody Please Think About the Children (Five Down, Seven? To Go)

I went for a doctor's visit yesterday and received some great news. My doctor said, and I quote:

You are healing like a child.

I'm not a smart man; in fact, some might argue I am neither smart NOR a man...so I queried: Is that a good thing?

Yes...yes...that means you are healing very quickly and faster than expected.

And for the first time in weeks, I actually felt something other than a sharp, stabbing pain in my shoulder. I felt something that felt like...glee...and I wasn't even at a prostate exam!

***

But this conversation got me to thinking about the word "child," and the ramifications of using this word to describe someone.

Clearly, as we all just learned, "healing like a child" is a GOOD thing!

But being a "child molester," well that is bad (Yes, Chris...very, very bad).

Being a "child prodigy" seems pretty cool, but maybe packed with too much pressure...and what if one is prodigious at something stupid like playing the flute. Yeah...I said it...and we were all thinking it. Nobody really likes the flute, homo.

A "child star" seems like it could be good...if you want to end up a drug addict by the age of 13. And don't even get me started on "child pornography." How do you think Mylie Cyrus got her start?

There are situations where being "with child" could be one of the happiest moments of someone's life...but the entire birthing process ultimately seems wet and messy. If I want wet and messy, I'll just buy another dog.

I can't think of many occasions where being considered "child like" has a good light. Maybe if you murdered someone and your attorney uses this as a strategy for averting the death penalty. But that seems extreme.

A "child psychologist" seems like a crap job. You are most likely treating the effect (the child) not the cause (the parent). That's a lot like talking to an empty carton of ice cream. There might have been something good in there before...but I don't remember where I put the whipped cream.

When someone tries to tap into his "inner child," I believe that is only a euphemism for "I am about to cheat on my wife." And that's a no-no....isn't it? Well...I'll just chalk that up to a "maybe."

Point being, not only did I have a great checkup yesterday, I actually received the best compliment possible that contained the word "child" in it!

Who says HMOs suck?

Man Code, Broken

As I finished peeing in the urinal on campus yesterday, another man walks into the bathroom towards the sink. I don't want to have any real interaction with him (Man Code), so I hesitate and pretend I am still going when I am clearly done. Not even a drop left....I stand and wait for him to hurry up and leave.

After about fifteen to twenty seconds of waiting for him to finish at the one sink in the bathroom, he hasn't budged. He has his right foot on the counter, and he is using paper towels to dab his forehead AND shine his shoes. What a multitasker.

I look at the ground (Man Code), and start to walk towards him. He says "What's up, man? How are you?"(Man Code, Broken). I don't know him...so he really shouldn't speak to me unless we accidentally make eye contact somehow. Confused, I say "Fine."

He backs up to let me use the sink he has been crowding, but he is still standing between me and the paper towels. Did I mention he has a gun? Because he does...he is a sheriff, and I wouldn't think a thing about it, until he starts talking to me again:

"Nice day, huh?" (Man Code, Broken).

I feel at a loss and cannot figure out what is going on..."Um, yeah?" And hope this awkward transaction is over. I just want to dry my hands.

"You going to graduation?" (Man Code, Broken)

"No...no, I'm not." And here we are...now in the middle of an actual conversation in a place meant for release and solitude (Man Code). But...I am, and always will be, an idiot. So, I engage him to see where this goes to fuck with him (Man Code): "Are you?"

This was clearly a mistake. He then tells me how he has to go because he is running security...and how it is in a nice part of La Jolla...on and on he went. His feet now alternating on the counter as he continues to shine his perfectly shiny shoes...

In the middle of one sentence, he puts both legs on the floor, and appears to be done. I decide to make a lunge for it. I reach across him to get to the paper towels, and as soon as I do, he kicks one of legs right back on the sink so that I run into him. My hand simultaneously on the paper towel dispenser and my torso on his inner knee and thigh (Man Code, [very, very, very] Broken).

Did I mention he had a gun?

I say "EXCUSE ME," quickly dry my hands, and turn to leave. I get to the door...I push it open...and although you won't believe me...he really did say the following:

"Hey, Buddy?"

Almost to freedom, one foot in and one foot out of the restroom: "Yeah?"

"How do my pants look?"

"What?"

"How do my pants look? Are they too big?" (Man Code, Destroyed)

And I paused for what seemed like eternity to me. I didn't know what to make of the past three minutes of my life. But a sort of courage took over me as the sun was glowing on my back...so, you know what I did...and this is the God's honest truth...I made a spinny motion, counter-clockwise with my index finger pointing up...signaling for him to turn in a circle so I could see.

And he did. He turned around for me...360 degrees...my little ballerina.

As I left, I lied. I said they were fine...but his pants were clearly too big. I just didn't have the heart to tell him (Man Code?).

I think he knew.

The Great Debate

I'm growing a beard right now in protest of my broken shoulder. What am I protesting? Not important...but it is going well.

Unfortunately, this stupid beard of mine has A LOT of gray hairs in it. Which led me to have the following debate in my shower earlier today:

Self: Wow...I really have a lot of gray hair for being 34.

Other Self: 34? Are we 34?

Self: Shoot. I think so. When was I born?

Other Self: 1975...so quick math...

Self: Yup...2009, that is 34 years...

Other Self: But we haven't had a birthday yet!

Self: I am definitely 33.

Other Self: Shit...We REALLY have a lot of gray hair in our beard for being 33.


Observations:

You know you're old when you don't know how old you are.

I really need to stop with the "we" voice in my head. That Smeagol shit really freaks me out.

No gray pubes yet. So I got that going for me.

12 Steps (Three Weeks Down...Ten to Go)

As a reader of my blog, I can only assume you are familiar with 12 Step Programs. If you regularly read this, you are most likely a drug addict, a loser, and/or gay. Some of you are probably all three. Point being, here is what I am going through.

Twelve Steps To Collarbone Recovery

Week 1: I Am Powerless (aka My fucking arm doesn't work) -- During this stage, the injured collarbone is literally powerless. You can't move it because the bone is not attached to the joint. This shit hurts so much, you can't even masturbate. Yeah...it's like that!

Week 2: There is a power greater than me (aka God likes to fuck with people) -- During this stage, you start to itch in places you can no longer reach...and your armpit smells from lack of air circulation. You may or may not be able to wipe your own ass. Even your own dog thinks "That dude smells. I lick my own asshole every five minutes...but I aint licking that guy."

Week 3: Turn my life over to a greater power (aka Invest in a large stick) -- The greatest thing about being an "evolved" animal is that you can choose to worship false idols when it suits you best. Personally, I believe in Stick. Stick scratches me. That's pretty spiritual when you've had a itchy ass for three weeks.

Week 4: Moral inventory (aka What did I do to deserve this bullshit) -- At this stage, you reflect on all the other injuries you've had. The thought "I'm a fucking klutz" comes to mind when you think about the number of bones you have broken...and you are pretty sure you must have raped a midget in previous life. You only hope he was an evil midget and somewhat deserved it because you don't want much more punishment in this life.

Week 5: Admit I am wrong (aka Realize you are just a jerk, and you had this coming) -- OK...so no one saw you swipe that chick's underwear from her house...but you knew it wasn't right. It was even worse to follow her around with them sticking out of your coat pocket like a handkerchief. But seriously, did you have to send them back to her with you in them while you were wearing nothing else? Getting pushed down some stairs and breaking your collarbone seems like the punishment fits the crime, weird-o.

Week 6: Ready to remove my defects (aka You just suck, invalid) -- After six weeks, you really just want to be healed. You feel the "trendy" and "strappy" sling is a bit played out at this point.

Week 7: Ask a higher power to remove the defects (aka Beg, pussy) -- You lost Stick weeks ago...and your dog isn't going to help you do shit unless you bathe in bacon grease. Why not? You'll try anything once. Covered in bacon grease, you beg your dog to help you get your sling off. Your dog asks you to sit and rollover before she helps you take off the damn thing. She gives you the "How do you like it" look. Fuck her, anyway. You had her fixed for a reason.

Week 8: List people I have wronged (aka Think about people you could beat at a triathlon if you weren't hurt) -- It's a short list. Stick is on it. So is some guy named Brian Gunn. Don't ask.

Week 9: Make amends (aka Start moving your arm) It's been two months. You finally have the ability to look at your bike again. You have saved up enough money for a sledgehammer...and you have already written your bike's eulogy. In the speech, you mention what a nice bike it WAS. Your bike cries, but you don't give a shit...

Week 10: Continue admitting how wrong I am (aka You are Catholic or Jewish) You haven't stalked any women in months...but Stick and your dog do hide from you in the corner in the fetal position. You keep doing arm curls in preparation of fucking your bike up.

Week 11: Meditate to connect with a higher power (aka Your arm stopped throbbing, so you can finally get some sleep) -- You start to realize you never purchased a stick, you don't own a dog...and your bike is incapable of crying. You did steal some chick's underwear, though. You really are a sick fuck.

Week 12: Connect to others (aka Finally leave your house, recluse) Your arm is all better. You don't have much desire to kills others anymore. Much. You start bike riding again only to fall off and break something else. Man, maybe that midget wasn't evil after all.

I Don't Know Anymore. I Just Don't

So I have had a couple of weeks to sit, reflect, and mope about my shoulder, and something is bothering me. I don't have an answer about it either...all I have is time to keep wondering.

I would say I have been seriously biking for about three years...and never had a serious issue. Once it took me about 30 minutes to change a flat because my gears were jacked up (sorry, Darron)....but beyond that...nada until about one month ago when a series of unconnected? events happened one after the other. And it's killing me because I don't know if I am giving them meaning or if they have meaning in themselves.

***

Not Good: First, I went riding with my training partner, and while waiting for him at one point...my tire EXPLODES and gets a huge gash in it while I am sitting there doing NOTHING. WEIRD. Not riding. Waiting. BOOM. Tire destroyed. The ride needs to get cut short...and according to my Garmin...we do 28-ish miles or so. Result: No more riding that day.

Bad: Five days later, in the middle of riding...I get stung by a bee at about 20 miles into my ride, and can't continue riding. Result: No more riding that day.

Worse: The next day, I somehow get diagnosed with pneumonia out of nowhere. Result: No riding for a week.

Terrible: Eight days later, I somehow get flung off my bike while going about 20-25 miles/hour breaking my collarbone. No other bike or car involved....again, about 28-ish miles into the ride. I'm on my bike...then...not. Result: No riding for about three months.

***

And this is what has been eating at me. How? How is this possible?

This can't be coincidence, can it? Can it? Is this my insignificant and fragile psyche/self giving meaning to meaningless events so that I don't feel isolated and alone? Am I merely a victim of bad timing/luck? Is there nothing "bigger" going on here?

Was it meant to be? Was this my fate? Was something REALLY bad going to happen to me at my race? Was the world saving me...telling me don't do that race?

Did I influence my world and make these things happen to me? Did I subconsciously not want to race so I made my tire explode...had a bee sting me...made myself sick...and when all that didn't work...I broke me?

***

Normally, I would chalk all this up to coincidence because I'm so "educated" and "agnostic" and "in control." What I see is real, right?

But maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe I don't have it all figured out. The weeks before I broke my collarbone sucked. So have the weeks after. But my collarbone isn't the only thing broken here. So is my vision of my world. I ask again: This can't all be coincidence, can it? Can it?

I don't know anymore. I just don't.

The Lighter Side of Breaking a Collarbone (two weeks down, ten to go)

So, I should be doing my race right now...instead, I am sitting on my couch typing one handed. This got me thinking about some other things I have noticed the past two weeks:

(1) My left armpit STINKS (yes, this is a change). The combination of having a swollen elbow, arm, and ribs PLUS a sling have made any kind of ventilation to my left underarm nearly impossible. It is ALWAYS damp....and it is ALWAYS hot and drippy in there. I believe I may have created a cure for cancer in my pit...and if I have...that cure don't smell so good...unless you are into dank-three-week-old-baby-food (swirled carrots, I believe)vomit.

(2) I "got in the way of" a eighty-year-old, who huffed and puffed to walk by me on a sidewalk. He was hunched over and walked with a limp, but he had NO time for my slow-moving ass. I could only assume he was either rushing off to die or he was about to shit his pants...

(3) People who see my sling and ask me what happened, but clearly don't care, have been the norm...but one person (who shall remain nameless) had the following interaction with me:

Her: (Walking towards me) Oh no...what happened? (keeps walking towards me)

Me: I had a biking accident (I have now made a 180 to finish my sentence as she has completely walked past me.)

Her: (Five feet away from me, the back of her head strangely couldn't respond to the answer of her own question)

Me: YOU'RE FAT (ok...so, I didn't yell this at her or even think it....but that would have been funny since she only weighs 90 lbs. What kind of adult weighs less than her own body temperature. EAT something already, lady.)

(4) I received a call YESTERDAY from my doctor's office, and I shit you not, we had the following conversation (remember, this was yesterday)

Nurse: May I speak with Mark Managhiiyggd, please (really, is my name that hard to say???)

Me: This is Mark MAN-ASS-E

Nurse: Mr. Managjhsoosuigyugytdflkjs;j, this is Brenda from Doctor Marlowe's office.

Me: Yeah...

Nurse: I am calling to let you know that you have a broken left collarbone.

Me: (silent)

Nurse: Mr. Maniohiugutfsaytfyuiuhoijoihyutytd?

Me: Yeah...I know. It has been broken for a few weeks. I have been to your office to have x-rays and spoken to the doctor.

Nurse: OK...I wanted to let you know your collarbone is broken, sir. I have the x-rays right here.

Me: (I look at my arm and then the phone to make sure it is working...like by looking at, I would be able to fix it or the stupidity of the person on the other end of it. So...I try a different approach...) Thank you for letting me know????

Nurse: You are welcome, Mr. Manoihigyttsrscvnkmj. Have a nice day.


Ten more weeks. Ten more.

One Down, Eleven To Go (My Collarbone Speaks)

Hi. Most of us haven't been formally introduced. I'm Mark's collarbone, and I have a problem.

*Hi, Mark's collarbone.*

I've only been broken for about one week, but I have learned a lot in this short amount of time.

First of all, I don't like being broken. I hurt at inconvenient times for Mark, like when breathing. Breathing seems to be essential, so I wish I could be more accommodating. Also, things like coughing or sneezing really seem like a no-no right now. I have been with Mark for 33 long (and sometimes stinky) years...and I don't remember him ever saying "Ha-Choo AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" before, but it's not like I always paid attention. Not to mention, I can wake Mark up in the middle of the night very easily...sometimes with that same screaming. I have never had so much power before.

I have also discovered that people love to tell me about their broken bones when they see me. They usually ask Mark, "What happened???" and they tend to listen for about thirty seconds before saying "Yeah...I broke my __________ before. It was terrible." And then they go on and on about what happened to them. This really bothers me and so I start to really throb at these times...

People keep asking me how this happened, and I really don't know. Mark and I were riding at about 20 to 25 mph on a flat road...and the next thing I know, Mark, his head, his face, and I were sliding along the asphalt. I have never slid on asphalt before, and I don't think I want to ever again. It's a weird feeling to have small rocks seep into other parts of Mark's body. The worst experience had to be while flying through the air, right before hitting the ground. Floating, for what seemed a lifetime, waiting to hit what would not be a forgiving surface. I felt Mark's helmet hit the ground, and I had a second of paralyzing fear that this was going to be more serious than just my breaking. Oh, I knew I was broken right away, you see. I crunched into the ground with a snap, and I think Mark noticed me for the first time in his life. This is when he started to writhe and say a nasty, nasty word over and over again: FUCK, I believe it was. He also had an interesting series of thoughts:

Can I feel my legs?
Can I feel my arms?
Oh shit, my shoulder is broken.
Fuck, I can't do my triathlon.
How is my bike?
Can I ride home?
I better lie down.

And he did, for a bit.

Some nice people came to help him, too. Some gave him first aid, others just waited with him until his girlfriend came and took him to the emergency room. It's funny, he didn't think about me too much until the doctor said his CAT scan was fine. Then he was VERY concerned about me. Typical.

It appears I won't be back to normal for TWELVE weeks, and it's kind of annoying to Mark that he trained for six months only to get hurt two weeks before his race...but there will be other races.

Spring Break Part II

So last Saturday, I wrote about how my doctor said I didn't have pneumonia.

I welcome you to my voicemails that I was greeted by Thursday as I returned from my cruise:

Monday: Hi, Mark. This is Bob from Doctor Marlowe's office. Can you give us a call, please. Thank you.

Tuesday: Hi, Mark. Bob from Doctor Marlowe's office again. You really need to give me a call. I tried you yesterday....so give me a call today. It is very important.

Wednesday: Mark. Bob. YOU MUST RETURN MY CALL. I need to talk to you about your chest x-rays IMMEDIATELY. Call me as soon as you get this.

Thursday Morning: Mark, this is Angela from Doctor Marlowe's office. My associate has been trying to contact you. I don't know why you won't call us back. You need to pick up a new prescription today...another doctor reviewed your x-rays and you have pneumonia. You need to start taking your antibiotics today.

Fun.

The best part is...the only reason they found out I actually do have pneumonia is because my doctor was on vacation on Monday and her replacement relooked at my x-rays.

I love my...I love my...I love my HMO.

Maybe I SHOULD move to Canada.

Serendipity, Baby

When I was in college, I had a friend named Todd Schlenke. He was a senior when I was a freshman, but for whatever reason, we seemed to get along like we were long-time friends...even though we were only in each other's lives for about a year.

One of the things that would crack me up about Schlenke was that he would, at random times, shout out SERENDIPITY, BABY! SERENDIPITY!...even when something was not presently serendipitous. In fact, I'm not exactly sure he knew what the word meant.

We would walk into a party: SERENDIPITY, BABY. SERENDIPITY!

We would go get an El Borracho burrito from Pancho's (the best burrito in the world, by the way): SERENDIPITY, BABY! SERENDIPITY!

We would egg a local fraternity on Easter: HAPPY EASTER, ACACIA...NOW SUCK IT!!! SERENDIPITY, BABY! SERENDIPITY!

And wouldn't you know it...his little mantra has always stuck with me...even at the most precarious times.

***

I have had a tough time trying to get a bike ride in, recently. A few weeks ago, about ten miles into a sixty-mile ride, my tube not only went flat, but a hole (better yet, a GASH) was somehow punctured into my actual tire. I rode back to my car with a five-dollar bill jimmied in between my tube and the tire (Still a GREAT idea, Ryan) in an attempt to not get another flat with the tube so majorly exposed.

On the way back to my car...my tube went flat again, and luckily my riding mate let me use one of his.

I never wanted THAT to happen again.

***

The following week I was deathly ill with an upper respiratory track infection (A URI not a UTI, FYI), and missed another chance at a long bike ride.

And wouldn't you know it...right in the midst of being sick, I went out of town on a cruise, and had no real chance to do any endurance training at all. I ran on the ship, and did a spin class..but nothing that would ultimately keep my stamina up.

I got back from my cruise this morning, and was ITCHING (ha!) to get in a long bike ride NO MATTER WHAT. NOTHING was going to stand in my way.

I wanted to do about forty miles to get my legs back into it. As I was getting my stuff together at my car, I looked at the extra tire I had purchased (SO SMART, I AM)...and thought about being stuck in the middle of a long ride with ANOTHER tire problem...so I spent a good ten minutes trying to release the tire from its packaging sans scissors. I pulled, I bit, I tugged, I keyed...nothing worked. Ten minutes gone. Just gone. I threw the tire back into my car (SO SMART)...and figured I would risk it...and who cared about those ten minutes, anyway...I had TONS of time.

***

For as long as I can remember, I have been deathly allergic to peanuts....just one tiny morsel sends me into the grips of anaphylaxis and an immediate trip to the emergency room is a MUST. I know what it means to be on death's door...in the middle of nowhere...my throat slowly closing up.

***

I went out on my ride...and tried to take a slightly different route than I usually take. I got a little lost...about fifteen or so minutes out of my way....with an added GIGANTIC hill, too. Really, this extra fifteen minutes didn't really bother me at the time. I even thought: That's almost thirty minutes of time just ZAPPED out of my day. Weird. Ah well...at least I am getting this ride in, FINALLY!

***

About six weeks ago, when I went on a ride with Ryan...he had some strange allergic reaction and broke out in a pretty severe rash. I ALWAYS carry Benadryl with me...so I gave it to him. I remember thinking to myself: Why do I even bother carrying Benadryl, anyway...it's not like I am going to eat peanuts while I am riding...

***

When I ride during week days, I never wear a biking jersey. Seems like too much of a hassle to me for some reason. I just wear a normal t-shirt...but because I hadn't been riding in so long, I really wanted to have the full riding experience...I wore a biking jersey today...and only zipped it half-way up...so I could really feel the wind. I wanted to feel the rush of air as I got back into the swing of things. I am really looking forward to this I thought as I smiled and walked towards the door.

***

And wouldn't you know it...

No Benadryl

A randomly worn jersey...zipped only half way

Time taken to unsuccessfully release an extra tire because of a peculiar puncture the last time I went riding two weeks ago

Compounded with the time of my misdirected route and hill...

...BAM...

I feel a jolt of pain...on my stomach. I look to see if I somehow had a piece of fabric poking me as the pain intensifies. I pull over and lift up my shirt...and there it is...crawling on my stomach of all places. A bee, dancing around his stinger that was squarely pulsating in my flesh.

So, I did what any man would do in this situation. I SCREAMED LIKE A LITTLE GIRL...and swiped at the bee with the back of my hand as I did what I can only imagine looked like an "EWWWWWWWWWWWWW...THE NASTY LITTLE CREEPY CRAWLY TOUCHED ME" Dance.

I flicked at and subsequently plucked out the stinger. It looked like a funnel with a small, slightly curved claw at the end. I stared at it for what seemed like forever until a thought started crawling in my mind like the bee who had just been crawling on my stomach:

What if I am allergic to bees like I am to peanuts? No worries, I'll just take some Benadryl. I ALWAYS have Benadryl with me!

I go to my bike pouch: Empty. Oh yeah...I gave that to Ryan.

I look up the road to the north. No one is there.

I look to the south. No one is around.

I call Tauni. No answer.

I call again. No answer.

I take off my helmet. I sit down. I unvelcro my gloves. I remove my sunglasses.

I resign myself to something. Fate? Pain? An eerie acceptance is all over me. I think about what it will feel like to suffocate to death...and contemplate dialing 911. But I don't. I just sit there and look up into the clouds that are filling the sky.

***

As I wait...I notice something. It doesn't hurt. It isn't even itching. I expected major swelling. Hives. Vomiting. Shortness of breath. I know this drill. I have been there before...

But none of these happened. I was...absolutely fine.

***

I finally get a hold of Tauni...and she comes to get me. And as I waited for her...a thought flung into my head...and it made me LAUGH out loud:

I am one lucky son of a bitch. I am NOT allergic to bee stings.

SERENDIPITY, BABY. SERENDIPITY!!!

Spring Break

So my doctor said that excessively exercising LOWERS your immune system; it does not increase it. I actually did not know that. Maybe I'm the idiot, but I thought being healthy meant LESS of a chance of getting sick, not more.

I, for the first time ever, was wrong.

She went on to say that exercising, moderately, for thirty minutes a day is enough to be considered "healthy."

When I asked her if exercising two to four hours a day could be one of the reasons I got sick again, she chuckled...until she saw that I was serious. Then, she simply said, "that could definitely have something to do with it."

I finally asked her if I was correct in thinking that once you get sick, your immune system increases so it is very hard to get sick again. She said that is true, but if I didn't fully recover, and I was weakening my immune system by working out a lot, I was actually more likely to get sick again.

That would have been great information to have YESTERDAY....As soon as I started feeling sick again (last Saturday night), I completely took a break so I could get better. Well, after my eight-mile run and cove swim on Sunday, and Torrey Pines hill repeaters and yoga on Monday. BUT...I haven't done anything since then, so I don't know why I have been coughing and wheezing for five days now.

She also mentioned that swimming in "cold" and "bacteria-filled" water can be "bad," and have "negative consequences."

Cove swimming isn't all fun? Who knew? Sharks? 56 degree water? Sewage? Icky seaweed? FUN! FUN! FUN! FUN!

In the end, she checked to see if I had fricken pneumonia. PNEUMONIA....because "something wasn't sounding right in my lungs." I have had pneumonia once before...and it SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKS.

I don't have it now....but I still feel like crap.

Point being, it's Saturday morning. I am supposed to be doing a sixty-mile ride, four-mile run, and 1/2 mile cove swim today. Instead, I am wheezing on my couch with a concoction of vitamins sitting in front of me.

THIS is the start of my spring break.

...and all I can do is focus all my anger...ALL of it...on Mylie Cyrus.

I really think I hate her. HATE. Seriously...can someone just punch her already. I dare to find one person over 21 that doesn't find her annoying.

So....I Kind of Punched Myself in the Face.

After parking my car in a garage the other day, a very concerned woman frantically calls me over. From her actions, I think someone has died. I was right...almost.

Freakazoid: Sir. Sir. SIR! Can you come over here, Sir?!

I start reaching for my phone to call 911...she is at the point of hysteria.

Me: What's wrong?

Freakazoid: Can you save this lizard?

And I look down on the ground...and there is a five-inch long lizard lying lifeless in front of me. I stare at the lizard for about five seconds...look back up at the lady...and back down at the lizard. All I can manage to say is:

Me: Um...sure....but I think he is dead.

Freakazoid: PLEASE...SIR. SOMEONE MIGHT RUN OVER HIM. PLEEEEEEEEEEASE!!!!

And I look around to make sure no one thinks I am trying to rob her.

Me: Ok...ok...

Freakazoid: You see, sir...his tail has already been taken off. It is over there....but they can live without their tails.

This lady obviously knows a lot about lizards...and cares about them just enough to have other people save them for her.

So, I do what any man would do in such a situation. I start kicking the lizard to safety. *Kick....kick....kick*

And MAN...I am so glad I didn't bend down to pick it up...because as I start to kick the lizard (while listening to overly emotional praises for my help intermixed with another barrage of "sirs"), it ATTACKS me.

With each kick...the lizard...FANGS OUT...bites at my foot. *Kick* *Bite* *Kick* *Bite*

Me: Looks like he is still alive.

Freakazoid: Yes. Sir. They can live without their tales.

Yeah. You said that already. I end up kicking the lizard a good ten feet...his fangs flying at me accompanied with loud hissing. *HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS* I presume I saved his life...or prolonged its agony...who knows.

It was at this point I realized why this lady cared so much about this lizard in the first place. It was in the way of her getting into her car. Problem solved, she gave me a Thank you, sir. Thank you. Thank you, sir. And drove away to the sound of hissing in the background.



***

I was walking to La Jolla cove the other day, my swim bag on my shoulder. It was heavy because it had a towel and my wetsuit inside of it. Two men were playing Frisbee and kept throwing it high into the air. Very, very high.

This combination of me watching this high-thrown Frisbee and the weight of my bag was a bad combination. I tried to move the strap on my shoulder and got distracted...

BAM

My hand slid away from my strap, and my fist punched myself directly in my jaw.

I staggered. I heard a ringing. Blood started coming out of my mouth. I seriously landed a hard right...ON MYSELF.

As my teeth throbbed, I stumbled on my way.

Thinking...Man...I can really take a punch!

Who can make lemonade out of lemons?

THIS GUY!

Tuck You

A day in the life of a guy who is still not as skinny as he should be.

By Mark Manasse


Mid morning:

I went to the dentist today. The dental assistant, Lisa, was having some issues putting the film in my mouth to take X-Rays. I have never met this person before. Alas, she still says, and I quote:

"Go figure, such a big guy with such a little, narrow mouth."

Interesting. Interesting. Way to "get to know me," Lisa. If I may retort.

Clearly, not only do men have to have a complex about how tall they are, how big their feet are, and how big their dong is...now I have to worry if my mouth is big enough? What the heck am I going to stick in there? I can't imagine the girth of anything bigger than the present width of my mouth that needs to be inserted into my "narrow" passage way. Nope. Not one thing. Not one.

On top of that..."Such a big guy." Seriously. "Such a big guy." Lisa, I'm not sure if you have looked in the mirror lately, but you were REALLY filling out your pink scrubs. I may not be a thin man, but your butt was still rubbing up against me as you left the room to protect yourself from the X-rays.

You know what I want, Lisa? I want to see a tiny guy with a really big fucking mouth. Just a midget with Andre the Giant's head. That's what I want to see. Would THAT make you happy?

"Such a big guy."

Jesus.

But...maybe she said this for a reason.

Early Morning:

One thing fat people do when they start to lose weight is they start wearing clothes in ways they shouldn't be wearing them yet. For example, I tucked my shirt in this morning. I have lost over thirty pounds the past few months, so I got all cocky....and thought I was ready for the tuck. I even asked Tauni before I left if I looked like a "fat, obese lard" with my shirt tucked in or only "kind of a fat, obese lard."

Of course, since I know where she sleeps, she is obligated to say "You look fine. Tuck your shirt in. No one will even notice." With this confidence instilled in me...I go off to the dentist.

"Go figure, such a big guy with such a little, narrow mouth" ensues.

But that wasn't the worst of it.


Early Afternoon:

On Tuesdays, I teach an advanced ESOL class. These people can fully communicate in English, but they have some lingering grammar problems, and they don't know all the words to use in all situations.

For example, during the middle of an activity I was walking around and helping people. This group of three students in the middle of the room keeps looking at me, then whispering, then looking at me again. Eventually, I say "Do you guys have a question?"

The two Asian girls get very shy and look away. Not the Latino guy, though. He starts pushing his hand down in front of his shirt mimicking a "tucking" action and asks "What do you call it when you put your shirt inside your pants?"

I say "Tuck?"

He says "Yes. Tuck. You tuck your shirt today."

I say "Wow. Yeah. I did tuck my shirt in today. I can't believe you noticed."

Then one of the Asian girls pipes up "Yeah. It looks very weird."

Thanks, sweetheart. It will look even weirder next semester when I flunk your ass.

And Tauni, you lying sack of poo, when someone asks you to distinguish between "fat and obese" and just "kind of fat and obese" don't go off script. Just pick one of the choices given to you.

More Things I Don't Like

I don't like...

When I go to a restaurant, at night, and my waitress says, "I need to go on my lunch break. So-and-so is going to take over for me." Bitch....lunch was over 10 hours ago.

That my TV pretends I have a choice when it comes to cable. I get to see commercials from many different cable providers...but because of these LOCALIZED MONOPOLIES (aren't they illegal by the way), I really have no options. I wish the commercials would just end with a funny line to at least make me feel better like "Didn't that look like a good plan...too bad you can't have it, Mark." I would at least feel special they mentioned my name on TV.

Mustard.

Turning clocks forward and back. I really think we should just pick a time and go with it. I really believe we only do this shit to mess with people anyway...and to see who doesn't watch the news for a week or speak to any other human being for days on end. I mean, we get one million warnings...and there are still people walking around Sunday AND MONDAY that have no idea they are an hour off. I call these people stanFUrd grads. Really? That was this weekend? Yes, moron. Try not masturbating in your basement with a bucket of chicken for a week so you can keep up with world events (that was just for you, Chris).

Watching a big, blue penis for three hours. Seriously...Watchmen was cool and all...and I liked that it had something called "a plot" (you don't get a lot of those these days), but I walked out of the movie wondering if it was really necessary to see a flaccid penis for the equivalent of 1/8th of my day. Hard is one thing...but nobody likes a limp wienie. Nobody. Not even Mark S. Manasse.

Heroes anymore. That show blows. I especially hate it because I keep watching it because I keep thinking it is going to be good again. But it isn't. And every week I watch it again with the same hope. I wish my hero power were to cancel that damn show already...

The Prince of Nigeria. How many times are you going to ask me to send you a check, buddy? I'm just not going to do it. Your scam isn't working on me. Just give it the hell up. I'm not even sure how you got my email...and I doubt you're royalty. Leave me the fuck alone.

Some Firsts In Awhiles

I have often been proud of my ability not to puke. Seriously. I just don't do it. Now, I don't mean when I have been drinking or have eaten peanuts...these are instances when I must throw up.

In fact, I think my HUGE allergy to peanuts has actually made my immune system stronger in a way...like God closing a door and opening a window kind of thing....and you know how religious I am!

But my streak ended a few weeks ago. For the first time since I was a kid...I actually threw up when there was no alcohol and no peanuts involved. I actually had such TERRIBLE heartburn that BOOM...my stomach literally exploded. I had never felt such a burning sensation before, and hopefully never again...but the streak...alas...it is over.

***

In an unrelated bit of illness, I called in sick to work today...and am actually sick. I believe this is only my second time calling in sick in all my years of teaching. I feel this tremendous guilt when not showing up to school...unlike when I worked in law firms where I used my sick days as extra vacation days. As I sulked around this morning, Tauni said: "If it makes you feel any better, I loved going to school and seeing the note on the door that my class was cancelled." I used to love that, too...but now I just figure my students' days are ruined when they don't get to see me. Ha.

The past few days I have gone to work and probably shouldn't have been there. It's hard teaching a class when you can't speak loudly...and any kind of laughter makes you go into a coughing fit. I have also enjoyed having my voice crack like I was going through puberty. Finally! I'm a man!

***

We are watching someone else's pet for the first time in awhile. This time...it isn't a dog. It's a cat. And Maggie has been all over her...begging the cat to play.

Unfortunately, this cat HATES Maggie. The innocent little kitty has smacked Maggie in the face about 10 times the past hour...luckily she is declawed, or Maggie wouldn't have eyes anymore.

At least I have something to entertain me while I sit here and practice not talking.

Dear Idiot

Besides using this blog just to stalk (Happy, Middento?) random individuals (like Mark S. Manasse, Coach Steve, Ciara Mumford, and Eva Longoria)...I have decided to open the mailbag and respond to some of my readership. So, today, I start a new series of blogs entitled Dear Idiot.

Question Number 1:

Mark,

I was wondering about some of your thoughts on Facebook. I notice that you joined it recently, and I wanted to get your take on it....and if you would be my friend.

John from Boston.

Dear Idiot:

No. I don't know you, and if you ask idiotic questions like that, I don't want to know you. From your question, I presume the following about you:

(1) You most likely watch (and like) Tyler Perry movies.
(2) You still wear acid-washed jeans.


In case you couldn't tell, these are things an idiot would do.

In fact, I bet you are like a lot of other idiots out there who think people somehow now magically remember their birthday. THEY DON'T. You aren't special, John. You see, Facebook actually sends out a reminder to everyone that your birthday is coming. I swear, if one more person comments or acts surprised that so many people wished them a fricken happy birthday on Facebook...I am going to personally fly out to Boston and kick YOUR ass.

Question #2:

Mark,

Have you ever been bi-curious?

Sean

Dear Idiot:

Of course. For example, just today while writing this blog, I wondered about (a) How dumb you could possibly be and (2) How many times you have tried to shove your entire fist into your own mouth.

You see, I was curious about two things at once...bi fricken curious.

Question #3

Mark,

From reading your blog, I see that you are an English professor. What is your least favorite word?

Samantha S.

Dear Idiot:

That actually isn't that bad of a question, but since I am trying to stay within a certain motif here, I have to lump you in with John and Steve. Sorry.

Until recently, my least favorite word was loaf. That word has always bothered me for some reason. A few weeks ago, while walking through the store, I noticed they were selling something called niblets. What the F is a niblet? It's corn. That's it. If you want to get tricky...how about cornlets. Just because people have the ability to create words, doesn't mean they have to. I suggest we strike the word "niblet" from the English language....no one is going to miss it anyway.

That's it for today. Keep the questions coming, Idiots. It helps me have something to write about.

Coach Steve: The Love Affair Continues

You know what true love is? You probably THINK you know how to define it, but I bet you don't. I realized what true love is this morning, at about 7:45 AM. In a pool.

There are many things I could say I admire about Coach Steve. I could say that I admire that he used the word "nooner" during a conversation with me today without cracking a smile. That is admirable.

Of course, Coach Steve was mentioning that he coached at NOON on Tuesdays when I asked which other days he taught. Only for a moment, did I hope for something more...more...nooner-ish.

I could also say I appreciate that he offered for me to come see him in the afternoons while he taught "his kids." I only imagine that he would have to "give me some pointers" in between telling little Johnny not to pee in the pool...and for Lucus, a seven-year-old hooligan, to "stop flashing his penis." I appreciated the offer. What a nice guy!

I could say that it made me ecstatic today that I was doing my fastest laps ever because of his hands-on tutelage. No man has ever taken such an interest in my hips and how I go about turning them. But his watchful eye made me ecstatic as I completed my first 57-second lap ever. In my life.

But all the ecstatic feelings, admiration, and appreciation in the world don't necessarily equal love.

So I ask again, do you know what love is?

While I stared up at Coach Steve this morning, while he towered over me, while I floated in a pool, while he gave me timeless advice...he had gigantic boogies in his nose, and they didn't even make me want to puke.

THAT is love, my friends. That is love.

I...Have Made...My Hips Rotate

You know that scene in Cast Away where Tom Hanks pounds his chest after he made fire and then struts around like a chicken hawk?

If not, here it is in German (this made me laugh out loud for about 2 minutes).

That was me today during my morning swim (minus the German)....after about a year-and-half of coach after coach saying:

Mark (you fucking idiot), rotate your hips. Just rotate them. This will make swimming so much easier...

Yet not one of them took the time to explain what that meant or HOW one goes about doing it. Until today. Today I met Coach Steve...and I think I want to blow him.

***

Coach Steve is a new instructor at the YMCA Masters Swim in Mission Valley and normally instructs little kids. Maybe this is why he was able to explain it to me...because when it comes to swimming, I have the maturity level of a thirteen-year-old boy after watching his first porno...I'm all excited...and I know what I want to do in theory...but there is no way I can make it happen. Did I also mention Coach Steve is dreamy? Because he is.

(By the way, I know Darron is going to try and find him, but since he is new, he isn't on their website yet. I checked.)

Anyway, as I finished a set of 400 yards after everyone else had been done for over a minute (a long time in the swimming world, you see), I called Coach Steve over and coyly asked him to "watch my form" and to "give me some pointers on my technique." He was more than happy to oblige...and he told me to "do a few laps for him."

Anything for Coach Steve.

So I swam up and back and completed 50 yards while Coach Steve watched my every move, and as I returned, Coach Steve told me to...get this...USE MY LEGS. The thing was, he finally used an analogy that I could understand...my legs, said Coach Steve, should be like loose poles and they should move at my hips, while my ankles were to remain soft.

Loose poles? Hips? Soft body parts? He was talking my language!

Honestly, I don't know why this particular way of explaining what to do worked...but work it did....and the next thing I knew...I was swimming up and back with general ease and MY HIPS WERE ROTATING BY THEMSELVES...just for Coach Steve.

I cannot possibly explain how cool it is to actually improve at this damn sport after just not getting it day after day. But there I was...three days into my Masters Swim training...and BAM.

I am totally dreading that the next time I go swimming that I won't be able to do it again...but if nothing else...for one day...I made my hips rotate...and Coach Steve was there to see every gyration.

What Makes a Writer?

I write stuff, and have written stuff, other than the crud I put on this blog....so I think to myself that means "I'm a writer"

But am I?

I was at my writing group today, and I said the following to one of my co-groupers:

"This chapter is good. It has a consistent voice and the story naturally flows...while your previous chapter seems like there is an author trying to write a story."

And it stung me to say that because then I wondered...does my writing do that, too? Which led to: Does my writing suck? Is it even good?

I have story upon story "finished" (whatever that means), edited...and seemingly not terrible, yet I won't submit anything to anyone...and for the life of me, I can't figure out why.

Is it because I don't want to know that, in actuality, my idea of being a writer is a person trying to be an author who is trying to write a story? I don't even care if someone else publishes or even likes what I write, as long as it seems right to me...but what makes a writer?

When I think of who I am and what I want to be...it seems like being a writer is inside of my core...but I can't even define what that means for myself. I've been published before in some low budget collection...but that didn't seem to do it...and I was almost (whatever that means) published in The New Yorker...but that didn't do it either.

And for years now...I write, and have written, story after story, and they sit on my computer in a folder called "writing."

But what does that mean?

My ultimate goal, from the time I was younger than all the students who I today try to help, has always been to write one thing that changed one person's life in such a way...that they would never forget the piece. Not me. The piece. I want to give someone I don't even know this "ah ha" moment...one that I can't seem to forge for myself.

I don't know what a writer is...but I seriously know what it isn't. And at this point...it isn't me.

Numbers

Weight lost in the last four weeks: 21 lbs. Once again proving that I am good at two things in life -- both gaining and losing weight.

Rank on Google when searching for Mark Manasse: 3rd and 8th (but has been as high as number 1 -- take THAT Mark S. Manasse)

Time to finish Carlsbad Half Marathon: 2 hours and 11 Minutes. Not so bad for a fatty.

How many good episodes of The Office there have been this season: 0. That show fricken sucks now...and man does Pam look haggard.

Weeks Andrew Bynum is out: 8 to 12. Stupid MCL.

Minutes until class starts: 10. I gotta go!

2009 Races

Here is my racing schedule for the year:

Carlsbad Half Marathon: Sunday, January 25th (Yes, that is this Sunday. No, I am not ready)

La Jolla Half Marathon: Sunday, April 26th

Wildflower Half Ironman: Saturday, May 2nd

America's Most Beautiful Ride (Century Ride): Sunday, June 7th

San Diego International Triathlon: Sunday, June 28th

Vineman Half Ironman: Sunday, July 19th

AFC Half Marathon: Sunday, August 16th

Hmmm...this seems a wee bit overly ambitious.

Thousand Island Dreaming (on such a winter's day)

If you're like me (and I pray, for your sake, that you aren't), you probably have noticed the lack of fine dining establishments serving Thousand Island dressing these days.

This sucks.

Why would restaurants not serve THE BEST type of salad dressing ever made? A salad dressing so superior to other lame-ass dressings that McDonalds even enlisted the services of the dressing and deemed it "special sauce." Do others dressings have such a rating?

Don't get my wrong. I understand and appreciate you second-rate ranch dressing lovers. You like to "play it safe" and "go with the flow." You are basically a Nazi, in other words. FOR SHAME!

I won't even go into other dressings because if you're some sort of freak who enjoys balsamic, or oil and vinegar, or blue cheese, or French, or Catalina you probably lack the ability to read and understand this blog in the first place, so why should I even bother entertaining your side of the argument? Anyone pretending to enjoy these crap dressings should simply be embarrassed and on some sort of list. A Crappy Salad Dressing Lover List. If need be, I may start such a list...watch me. I'll do it!

Anyway, back to my previous point. Why are so many places NOT serving Thousand Island dressing? In the past week, I have gone to three places, none of which have had it:

Islands
Woodstock's Pizza and
A third place in San Clemente with some weird name that I can't remember right now.

Regardless, I want to know why. Has the ranch dressing industry been paying off establishments to undermine its main rival? Have too many French people moved to California? Has one of the Islands sunk and renaming the dressing to Nine Hundred and Ninety-Nine Island dressing not yet been marketed?

I don't know...but I will continue to investigate on which restaurants carry this dressing...and which ones might as well be serving prison food.

My Dog, The Sexual Deviant

She's not yet three years old, but I am seeing the signs. No, she doesn't kill small animals, but Maggie, the famed Pug, does have a few other habits that make me wonder about her sanity:

First: She can't get enough of her own crotch.

I would say Maggie is licking, smelling, or looking at her own pee hole 22.7 hours/day. I don't think I'm speaking out of jealousy here (right), but that is just a little too much. I know dogs lick themselves, but obsess much? I've watched her (oh, how I've watched her) spend a good thirty minutes straight intently licking her own nether regions before, and have tried to put a stop to it:

Maggie...STOP THAT

And all she'll do is look up at me, wag her little tail, bat her innocent little Pug eyes, and go right back to her rhythmic tongue cleansing of love.

Second: She can't get enough of our crotches.

Heaven forbid either Tauni or I don't directly put our underwear into the hamper. If we just drop them on the bathroom floor or NEAR the laundry, you will hear the following throughout the house:

SNIFF...SNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIF...SNIFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

As Maggie buries her face in them...picks them up in her mouth, and tries to make off with them so she can "be alone" (her words).

I'm going to chalk this up to CREEPY, Darron-like actions.

Third: Her porn collection.

Now, I'm not sure how she was approved for a credit card in the first place, but why she would use it for such movies as:

Puggie Star Whores

Puggie Does Dallas

and, my favorite

Barely Legal Puggies

I just really don't know.

I have asked Tauni (as her mother), to talk to Maggie about safe sex as well as her sexuality, but she just hasn't done it yet.

I am just getting a little concerned because I looked at Maggie's credit card statement, and she is expecting Single White Pug in the mail any day now.

Scary.

Browns Tailgater Cited For Driving Motorized Couch

I read that quote in ESPN The Magazine, and laughed out loud a couple of mornings ago. Not only is the vision it creates absolutely hilarious to me (because, seriously, where can I get a motorized couch, god damn it?), but it made me think of my Christmas Eve.

***

Tauni and I are not the best Christmas shoppers. We both mean well, but the past few years, we haven't made it to the store to do Christmas shopping until 12/24. We have even started giving each other pictures of the things that are "coming in the mail" because we both procrastinated too long.

As you can imagine, stores are a little...um, what's the word...CROWDED on Christmas Eve. And let me tell you...there is NOT much Christmas spirit to be found.

You see, people who are part of this Christmas-Shopping-At-The-Last-Minute-Fraternity all have something in common, I believe...we fucking hate shopping. We would create a secret handshake to make our club official, we just haven't gotten to it yet. Someone create an arbitrary deadline, would ya?

So anyway, Tauni and I get to Fashion Valley Mall on Christmas Eve at about 2:00 PM...and this place is a madhouse. They have parking attendants with red jackets, cones, and it appears maybe even the National Guard to help people navigate. God Bless America (and our tax dollars), indeed.

We get into the parking lot, and within thirty seconds, wouldn't you know it...a man up in the distance, say 20 feet, points to me, points to his spot, and gives me the "I'm leaving and you can have my spot because I need to get the Hell out of this madness" look. I give him the ol' cheesy grin and thumbs up...and I felt a warm, holiday cheer come over me.

How nice, I think. Maybe this won't be so bad, after all.

Off in the distance, another car, sees this man leaving, and speeds up to cut me off (in the parking lot), so that they can have his spot. I find this to be slightly odd behavior, so I then position my car in such a way that this interloper cannot get in front of me and take the spot.

So now imagine, if you even can, the verbal tirade that I am receiving from this other parking spot seeker. I can see him, in his car, yelling and gesticulating in a way that would make a Baptist preacher proud.

I pull into the now-vacant spot, and my competition pulls up behind me and waits. And waits. And waits for me to get out of my car.

I get out, walk towards him...and he really gives me a piece of his mind:

Mr. Christmas Spirit: You know, there is only one word for a person like you.

Me: Yeah?

Mr. Christmas Spirit: Yeah. It's stupid. You're just stupid.

Me: And a Merry Christmas to you, too, sir.

And I walk off, and hope that my tires and windows are all intact upon my return from increasing my credit card debt.

***

So, when I read about driving the motorized couch, it made me think of this guy and how I wished I could have been driving a couch...because I could have then retorted:

Yeah, well, I may be stupid, but at least I own a motorized couch.

I have no idea why my mind made this connection...but it did...and so here we are...

Thank you for wasting two-to-three minutes of your life reading about the random connections my mind makes.

Things I Hate About Mark S. Manasse

That's it. I'm tired of playing the nice guy...and the gloves are coming off. For years now, this...this...this "guy" has been the colonic to my ass...the chicken bone to my throat...the anal leakage to my leg...and I won't stand for this one second longer.

I introduce to you, my doppelganger, Mark S. Manasse:















And here I am:















Scary, isn't it.

I don't know this man, but I am DONE with his Google dominance. I am sure he and all his Microsoft cronies will now "spam me" or "hack me" or whatever it is computer geeks do when their backs are against the wall...but I don't care. No man who plays in a band named STD...that's right...ST mother f'in D, should have Google dominance over me. Ewww, look at me...I was in the first band to perform live on the internet. Suck me, Mark S. Manasse.

***

In 2009, Mark S. Manasse will know no fury like that of a Mark A. Manasse scorned.

The gauntlet has been thrown, "sir."

YOUR MOVE.

It's Time to Make It Reality.

So I freaked out today as I hit "submit" for the second time in the past few weeks.

I have, for some reason, decided that the olympic-sized triathlons that I have done haven't been "long enough." So, I have done and gone did it....and officially signed up for two, half ironmans. What does that mean? Well...that means I will be swimming about 1.2 miles, then biking 56 miles, then running 13.1 miles..IN ONE DAY. I think I just peed a little bit into my pants.

Alas...that is not all I have committed to.

Committed is the perfect word...because I feel like that is what should happen to me for what I said I would do with these people. They look like sweet, innocent, kind folks, don't they?

But don't let them fool you. They are evil. Pure evil.

These two TRICKED me into agreeing to do an ironman with them in 2010, which means I will be swimming over 2 miles, riding 112 miles, then running a marathon...

It's still 2008, but the idea of doing this makes my stomach hurt like I have been kicked you know where. I still don't understand how an ironman is physically possible...

They also tricked me into agreeing to one other thing....and I will give the person who comes up the funniest guess at what it is $1.00....that's right...$1.00.

(You can only win once...but multiple comments are fine.)

My Favorite Song Du Jour

Do you like Star Wars? Do you like people talking really, really quickly? Do you like people talking really, really quickly about Star Wars?

Then this song is for you:

MC Chris Fett's Vette

(I recommend reading the lyrics while you listen to the song for the full comedic experience.)

Cruisin' Mos Espa
In my Delorean
War's over
I'm a peacetime mandalorian

My story has stumped
Star Wars historians
Deep in debate,
Buffet plate at Bennigan's

Rhyme renegade
Sure to penetrate
First and second offense
I won't hesitate

Got a job to do
And Darth's the guy that delegates
Got something against Skywalker
Someone he really hates

I don't give a fuck
I'm after Solo
For all I care
He could be hidin' at Yoda's dojo

Gotta make the money
Credit's no good
When the jawas runin' shop
In your neighborhood

Think you can cook
I got a grappling hook
Let's make this quick
'Cause I'm really booked

I'm a devious degenerate
Defender of the devil
Shut down all the trash compactors
On the detention level

chorus
My backpack's got jets
Well I'm Boba the Fett
Well I bounty hunt for Jabba Hutt
To finance my 'Vette

wicky wicky woo

Well I chill in deep space
A mask is over my face
Well I deliver the prize
But I still narrow my eyes
'Cause my time
I don't like to waste.

Get down

I'm a question
Wrapped inside an enigma
Get inside the slave one
Find your homing signal

From Endor to Hoth
Ripley to Spock
I'll find what you want
But there's gonna be a cost

See, my name is Boba Fett
I know my shit is tight
Start not actin'right
You're frozen in carbonite

Got telescopic sight
Flame throwers on my wrist
You still don't get the gist
Spiked boots are made to kick

Targets are made to hit
You think I give a shit
Yo mama is a bitch
I see you in the Sarlaac Pit

You just flipped my switch
Integrity been dissed
You scratchin' on my itch
You know I shoot to get

Got bambinas at cantinas
Waitin' to lick my lusty lips
So I'll let you get back inside
Your little space ship

Give you a head start
'Cause I'm the sportin' kind
Consider the starting line
The sneaky smile I hide inside

Hope you have hyper drive (drive)
pray to stay alive ('live)
Don't try to slip me a five
'Cause I never take a bribe

To the beat of a different drummer
Bad ass bounty hunter
Let no man put asunder
Or else they be put under

As in six feet
Got an imperial fleet
Backin' me up, gonna blow up
Any attempt to defeat

They gotta death star
Got four payments on my car
Hand it over to hammer head
At Mos Eisley bar

He used to carjack
Now he's a barback
Just goes to show how you can
Get back on the right track

As for me that's not an option
Can't say that with more clarity
Me going legit would be like
Jar Jar on speech therapy

Chorus
My backpack's got jets
Well I'm Boba the Fett
Well I bounty hunt for Jabba Hutt
To finance my 'Vette

wicky wicky woo

Well I chill in deep space
A mask is over my face
Well I deliver the prize
But I still narrow my eyes
'Cause my time
I don't like to waste.

Get down

Slice you open like a Taun Taun
Faster than the Autobahn
Or a motorbike in Tron
Do the deed and then I'm gone

Jaba has a hissyfit
Contact Calrissian
Over a colt, the plan unfolds
No politic is legit

Back in the day
When I was a slave
Living life in the fast lane
Like in a pod race

My mean streak tweaked
I became a basket case
So this space ace
Split that place, poste haste

Took up a noble cause
Called the Clone Wars
'Cause life's not all about
Girls and cars

Getting fucked up
In fucked up bars
See, I'm not a retard
Or gay like de Barge

I'm large and in charge
With a face so scarred
A cold black heart
That's been torn apart

The Sith wish that they
Had a dick so hard
'Cause it's long long ago
In a pussy far far

Call me master, 'cause I'm faster
Than Pryor on fire
I no longer have to hot wire

I'm a hunter for hire
With no plans to retire
And all the sucka MCs
Can call me sire

Chorus
My backpack's got jets! (jets jets jets)

Well I'm Boba the Fett! (the Fett the Fett)

Well I bounty hunt for Jabba Hutt, (Jabba Hutt Jabba Hutt Jabba Hutt)

...To finance my 'Vette (my 'Vette my 'Vette my 'Vette my 'Vette)

Things I Wonder About

I am off from school all week...and while most people look forward to these kind of situations, it actually makes me go a little crazy. Here are some of my thoughts from the past three days:

If someone took an IQ test then watched 24 straight hours of TBS's Tyler Perry's House of Payne and Frank TV (evenly split, of course), and then retook the IQ test...would his/her score actually go down?

Mylie Cyrus is only 16, and I am already sick of her. Let's just say she gets into drugs and doesn't reach her full life expectancy...and only lives until 66. That means I have 50 more years of wishing her dead. Why does that depress me so much?

How is it possible that at every second of every day there is at least one CSI AND one Law and Order playing on TV.

Why are my dog's nipples sagging? She is only two...and I didn't know that this happened to dogs AND humans. Man, it really is tough being a woman.

Does canned whipped cream expire?

I think I have asked this question before, but...Why DO I grow hair on my ears? Are they cold? Did this somehow keep my ancestors alive? I don't get this at all.

Why do they decaffeinate coffee? You either want caffeine or you don't. Yeah, yeah, yeah...I KNOW there is still caffeine in decaffeinated coffee. Why don't they just call it "less caffeinated coffee" or "O'Doul's" or something.

If I started texting while my students talked to me as a form of spiteful "How do you like it," would I get fired?

Why are gas prices under $2.00 now? Did they find more gas? Seriously...it was $5.00 a few months ago...I'm not an economist or anything, but this just seems odd to me.

If I put together all commonly themed stories I have written into something called a "book," and this "book" were made into a "movie" and Kate Hudson were to play my character...would she make my hips look fat?

When will my Google hits ever surpass "Mark S. Manasse?" I will give someone a dollar if they can make this happen.

Chicken Bones Jonesin

This is a weird thing to say, but for the past 36 hours or so, I have had a chicken bone lodged in my throat.

No. This isn't comfortable.

No. It's not an entire wing, nor leg.

It's a small bone. Bite sized. Big enough to swallow, half-way.

The internet is a great place. I have learned about numerous remedies because, as I have found, there are many other idiots in this world that have also gotten chicken bones lodged in their throats. My brothers!

Yes, I have tried "eating a lump of boiled rice." In fact, I attempted to eat many lumps. That bone wouldn't budge.

Yes, I have tried eating "balls of bread." Strike two!

Yes, I have even tried eating bananas...the bone is still there...but man, I'm fucking full after all the rice, bread, and bananas.

And yes, I have to admit...I even tried gargling vinegar. I don't recommend it. It tastes like vinegar.

And yes, I also went on the look out for some "Root of Clematis," but this stuff is hard to come by...and is too close in spelling to Mark Clemens, a close friend of mine, that I don't like imagining ingesting.

***

The best part about having something incredibly stupid like this happen to you, is all the other advice you get:

Have you tried swallowing it? No...I didn't think of that. Hey, you seem to be quite the "out of the box" kind of thinker. Any financial advice for me?

You should drink lots of water. Just tilt your head back while you drink. Great. Now I'm choking AND have a stupid chicken bone lodged in my throat.

Try "loosening up" your throat. You try loosening up YOUR throat, you idiot.

Stop using your teeth. Sorry...that's a different conversation.

So...it's just a waiting game now. Best case scenario...I get to poke a hole in my trachea. I have always wanted to do that.

Things People Do That Annoy Me

It annoys me when...

A movie comes out based on, derived from, or adapted out of a novel, and every time that movie is mentioned, a person says: I really LOVED that book. Oh, they made a movie about it? I had no idea... Really? Then why have I heard you say that ten times? We all think you are very well read...now shut the fuck up.

Someone says or (better yet) writes: That being said... What the fuck does that mean? Who is that? What is that? Try making sense while wasting my time...

Upon finding out that I am deathly allergic to peanuts, I am asked if I have ever eaten a Snicker's bar. No, you idiot...what does "deathly" mean to you? *In a Joe Pesci Voice* What? I'm scary how? Like a ghost? Am I here to haunt you?

Students ask after missing a day of class: Did I miss anything? Nope...nope...we shut down school when you aren't here...so we did absolutely nothing during your absence. I'm just glad you came back to class today...otherwise, we all would have gotten REALLY far behind.

People can't remember my last name, and guess at it with such absurdities as Mr. Manassass or Mr. McNassass, or my personal favorite Mr. Smith.

I have to watch a game with bad announcers who clearly just copy what they have heard other announcers say. It's like a modern day version of playing telephone, except I have tapped the line, and have to listen to a bunch of retards over and over again. Normally, I would pay to listen to retards...but not during Laker games...Laker time is retard-free time, by law.

People say "...And I thought you were an English Professor..." at the stupidest times...like after I make a text messaging or IMing typo. Who are you? Better yet, what are you? I feel like retorting: Yeah, and I thought you were a fucking normal person, but...eek...guess I'm as good at judging personalities as I am at constructing complex and error-free ideas such as "Thx..c u 2 nite" via my cell phone. I'll be sure not to leave out any pertinent information in the future so that you can see the thematic undertones of my IMs if you are going to become a literary critic over every single one of them. How about this, Faulkner, why don't you learn what a fucking indefinite third-person singular pronoun is and how to use one before you comment on the fact that I left out a vowel during my drunk text last Saturday at midnight.

And finally...

Hollywood makes fifteen fucking wedding movies/year in a not so veiled attempt to glamorize the institution for young women, so that they only become terribly disappointed later when the "love of their life" realizes that they only got married because they were "supposed to" not necessarily because they wanted to.

Case in point, there is this movie coming out soon called "Bride Wars." Yeah, that's right, "Bride Wars." Want to know the complex intricacies of this brain buster? Here is what I got from Rottentomatoes.com:

Anyone who has seen BRIDEZILLAS or known their (uh-oh, there's that indefinite pronoun mistake...and I thought you were a movie synopsiser) own frantic fiancée understands that weddings can bring out the worst in people. This comedy stars Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson as two brides-to-be who become former friends and new rivals when they schedule their weddings on the same day..

Rivals? They actually fuck with each other for what I guess is about one hour. If my calculations are correct (and you know they are), they will have about a twenty-minute build up where we get to see how close they were as friends, then the one hour of "hilarity" ensues (from the previews, it appears that rascal Kate Hudson tricks Anne Hathaway into becoming orange during a tanning session...what a goof! Then, Anne Hathaway, not to be out done, tricks Kate Hudson into dyeing her hair blue...And you know how women feel about their hair! Yes, true comedy here, folks), followed by about another fifteen minutes of resolution where we learn the moral: This is a stupid fucking movie....and you just wasted 1.5 hours of your life and about $12.00. But golly, those two girls sure are cute!

Seriously. This is a movie? (And if someone tells me they read the book...) What the hell is this telling the 16-year-olds who are going to see this shit? (a) I must get married (b) It must be lavish (c) I am going to fuck with anyone who stands in my way. Super....

I remember after my buddy Chris and I watched How to Lose A Guy in Ten Days (strangely, also with Kate Hudson)in the theatre (don't ask...) we both wanted to punch each other in the balls. There were these two teen-age chicks sitting behind us who APPLAUDED...APPLAUDED after the movie was over...so we both simultaneously, and without planning, STOOD UP AND GLARED AT THEM...how bad does a movie have to be to actually physically move and give someone the stink eye? We were later arrested for "Bullying After Shitty Movies" (This is actually called The Kate Hudson Law)...

Point being, I'm sick of this. No more wedding movies. No more cop buddy movies. No movies about cars going really, really fast.

That being said (tee hee), can we just get some original thought...how about a movie about cop buddies getting married inside a really, really fast car.

I am Once Again Underwhelmed by Sprint

One time, Darron sent me a transcript of a series of emails he had with a bookstore after I blogged about not being able to get a discount card.

Ultimately, after the customer service rep tried to end the conversation with "I hope I answered your questions." Darron replied with something to the effect of: "While you did answer a question, you didn't answer MY question."

That was running through my mind during this wonderful exchange with Kassandra from Sprint. It sounded like such a promising name, too: Kassandra. Sexy. Kinky. Kassandra.

Nope.

On the bright side...I didn't have to recreate this ridiculous conversation...technology has made it so I can literally just cut and paste idiocracy! Thanks, technolgy!

***

System Kassandra has joined this session!

System Connected with Kassandra

Kassandra: Thank you for contacting Sprint. My name is Kassandra. How may I assist you today?

Me: (yes...that's such a cool name. This should go well) Hey Kassandra, I have two questions

Kassandra: I'd be glad to assist you today. For account verification, may I please have the 6-10 digit pin number on the account or could you please answer your security question for me?

Me: (Yes, very well) Security question, please

I wait two minutes.

Me: (hmmm) What's the question?

I wait two more minutes. She asks me…and I immediately answer.

Kassandra: Thank you. Please give me a moment while I access your account.

I wait five minutes

Me: (very...well???) Still accessing?

Kassandra: You may go ahead with your question.

(So, in sum, ten minutes into the time saving "online chat" feature of Sprint.com, I get to ask my questions. This is not going as planned.)

***

Me: OK, I have two questions. (1) I am trying to activate a new phone I bought, and the codes I am entering on the website are not working...so I need help with that. (2) How do I make sure my contacts from my old phone make it onto my new phone...

Kassandra: Great. We can set you up on the wireless back up feature if you'd like. This is $2.00/month. It backs your contacts up onto a web site, because both of your phones are compatible with this service. If you are interested, that is. Allow me to send you the site.

Kassandra: Kassandra pushes page, http://www.sprint.com/wirelessbackup

Me: No thanks. (They are not going to get me with another charge!!!) How do I personally get the numbers from one phone to another??

Kassandra: Otherwise, you can enter them manually or the Sprint store can back up the contacts for you. This is also a good feature in case your phone is stolen or lost.

Me: Great...but how can I just transfer them from one phone to another by myself? This is my question.

Kassandra: If you use the wireless back up feature, you can.

Me: Can this be a one-time two dollar charge?

Kassandra: No, this is a monthly charge. The Wireless Back Up feature is the only way you can, yourself, get the contacts to the new phone. Or you can enter them manually, or the Sprint store can do this for you at no cost.

Me: So I have to go to a Sprint Store...I can't do this for myself for free unless I do it manually?

Kassandra: If you would like for them to transfer your contacts from the old phone to the new phone, yes. You would be required to have both phones.

Me: I see

Then I get this canned message:

Kassandra: It is my job to ensure that I have fully resolved the issues that prompted you to chat with me. Have I resolved that issue and do you have any additional questions or issues today?

Me: I am curious, why can the Sprint Store do it automatically for free but I need to do it manually or for $2.00/month

Kassandra: You pay a monthly fee because you have your contacts backed up in case your phone is lost or stolen.

Then I get the canned response again.

Kassandra: It is my job to ensure that I have fully resolved the issues that prompted you to chat with me. Have I resolved that issue and do you have any additional questions or issues today?

Me: You haven't really answered my question, to be honest with you, but that's fine. I appreciate your help anyway.

Kassandra: The Sprint store does not charge you because you are switching the contacts from one phone to another, just once. The wireless back up feature holds your contacts for you in case anything is to happen to your phone so you do not lose all of your contacts.

Me: I totally get that...I just don't see why I can't do it myself "just once" without having to go to the Sprint Store.

Kassandra: I apologize.

Me: Oh, no worries. It just seems like a waste of their time and my time. I know it has nothing to do with you. Anyway, thanks for your help. I'll just go to the store.

Kassandra: I understand. You're welcome.

And we part with another canned message:

Kassandra: Thank you for contacting Sprint. Our goal is to make your chat experience a great one. There will be a survey after this chat that you may fill out to advise us of how we are doing. Please disable all popup blockers before this chat session ends to ensure you are afforded the opportunity to participate. Should you have any additional feedback or comments you would like to provide regarding your chat or chat agent, please send us an email at:

So I once again learned that Sprint is just not logical. I want to NOT bother them and do something for myself....but I can't. My choices are (1) paying $2.00/month for something I need to have happen one time or (2) inputting all the phone numbers manually or (3) going to the Sprint Store so THEY can transfer the numbers...when that's all I want to do for myself.

An Intervention

My dog, Maggie, the famed Pug, has a problem. I should have seen the warning signs, but maybe I didn't want to see them. As with any family member...I love her to a fault...I love my crackhead dog.

The Signs:

Hunger. When there's food around, she doesn't notice me anymore. It's like I'm not even there. What I mistook for stupidity was actually munchidity. Here she is seen after eating an ENTIRE cake.

Non-Responsive. When I ask her how her day went, she doesn't respond. I thought this might because she's a dog...and dogs don't talk...but no. I was wrong. It was the drugs.

Secretive. I should have been more curious about her hanging out, alone, in her room. I never thought to look under the bed...I wanted to respect her privacy. Every kid has his/her "porn" collection...but when I found bag after bag of Del Taco that she had stolen out of our garbage, I should have known.

Manic. She races around and around for hours at a time...usually after being in her room. I thought this was excitement. I thought she was happy to see us. I never put the crashes together with the bursts of energy. I did notice the extremes, but she's just a dog...my baby. How could a eighteen-pound teenager have a problem?

Vacant: The lights are on, but nobody is home. If you haven't seen it, here is a video of her during a drug-filled haze.

So, I'm an idiot. I never put all the signs together. It took a slap in the face to wake me up.

***

Three Nights Ago:

Maggie wanted to play and she kept doing lap after lap after lap around the house. Girlish exuberance, I thought...but when she stopped for a second, and let me pet her, her heart was racing...like a cocaine addict's. Tauni keeps her Coke out of sight, so Maggie can't get into it...but I knew something wasn't right.

When Tauni came home, I mention Maggie's odd behavior...and she looks in Maggie's room and looks over her stash.

Coke is still in there, so that's not it, she screams with relief.

She has some in celebration.

On further examination, though...we found the actual source of Maggie's problem. Maggie had gotten into Tauni's other addiction: Sports Beans, and was high as a kite off the caffeine.

This stuff is much harsher than Tauni's nose candy-like substance, so I don't even touch it. Tauni needs that extra high, though. She's on the edge. A Coke-Sports Bean edge. I never stopped to think what kind of example this set for our dog...Maggie was simply following in her mom's footsteps.

Caffeinated off the Sports Beans, Maggie didn't sleep the rest of the night. Neither did Tauni.

Me, the drug free one, slept like a baby.

***

Two Nights Ago:

I notice Maggie is acting strangely again...she is speeding around our house, and her heart is racing. More Sports Beans??? Tauni and I search her room, and we find nothing. We had taken away all her drugs...so we couldn't figure it out. We looked her in the eyes and asked her:

Maggie, do you have a problem?

She just stared at us, with her big puppy eyes. She refused to answer...so we took her silence as a "no." What a mistake!

***

Yesterday Morning:

We are getting ready to leave for work. This is normally a time of anxiety for Maggie. She usually starts to tug on our pants or socks to make us stay. Not this day, though...she seemed like she was finding another way to cope....she seemed distant, yet peaceful.

As I am about to walk out the door, Maggie walks by with something in her mouth. She is looking for a place to be alone. Tauni and I follow her and our worst fears come tumbling out of Maggie's mouth. We yell at her to drop whatever she has...and she begrudgingly does. With remorse in her eyes, she walks away...and we find MORE SPORTS BEANS.

Our Pug had hidden then around the house so that when she needed a quick fix, she could take some more. Mom/Dad are leaving -- Sports Beans. They won't take me to the park -- Sports Beans. They haven't cleaned up my poop mat for a day -- SPORTS BEANS. What an addict doesn't understand is that escaping from the problem isn't an answer...it's just a way of ignoring the real issue.

The severity of her problem was now very, very clear. She KNEW this was something she shouldn't be doing. She KNEW we would take them away from her. She KNEW that she might want the high again...so she HID the Sports Beans from us....and she took them out during a time of great need, when we would be leaving.

***

We talked it out with Maggie...and Tauni knew what she had to do. She vowed never to do Coke again...and to be more careful with her Sports Beans. Maggie has been going through withdrawals, but I know we will make it through...together.

Whitney Houston Is an Idiot

Today was an in-class writing day. My students had two hours to respond to a prompt we had been working on for a few class sessions. Before we started, I thought it might be good idea to remind them about time-management...so I wrote the following on the board:

Time Management -- You have two hours total

Pre-writing ______ minutes

Writing ______ minutes

Editing ______ minutes

Total 120 minutes.

I then asked them to take out a piece of paper, and create their own time management plan.

I then wait...figuring this may take a minute or two to think about and accomplish.

I wait.

I wait.

It appeared some of them were still not done for some reason. Wow...they are really putting a lot of thought into this, I think, proudly.

After about five minutes, one of my students raises his hand...and asks:

"Did you want us to fill out the chart, too?"

Sigh.

And I was reminded at that moment about patience and perspective. I didn't laugh. I didn't smile. I didn't give any inclination that I wanted to jump out of my skin.

I simply walked over to the chart I had written on the board...pointed to the blank spaces and said: "Yes. Yes. I think that would be an excellent idea."

Our future...

Halloweened

In the emergency room, the triage nurse calmly asked me questions, but it was hard for me to answer. The combination of Benadryl and drug-addict speak going on behind me made my responses muddled in my own mind.

The nurse wanted to know how much pain I was in...and all I could hear was moaning...thankfully, this time, it wasn't mine. Are you having trouble breathing?

Kind of...I want to laugh.

***

The woman behind me grunts as responses...and hasn't bathed in days. I can smell the Old Crow. She wants medication because her hip hurts....but she won't confess to how many drugs she has had. When cornered, she pretends she doesn't understand English, and then is told she won't receive any medication unless she answers the questions. Her moaning and ESL-ness stop. She drinks a lot, she confesses, but no drugs. Then the moaning starts again. It's so fake...but she won't quit. She keeps this moaning up for over an hour.

I'm quiet...and trying to keep my dinner down.

***

The wannabe patient at the triage window is arguing with her cane. Yes. Her cane. It is, to my knowledge, not a magic cane...nor is it capable of speaking. But she argued with this cane to get off the ledge of the window that separated the haves in the treatment center and the have-nots...those waiting to get in.

I been bit by a spider! She proclaimed to her cane. I know it, too. I'm black...VERY black...and where I be bit...it's all red.

Her cane didn't believe her...and the receptionist asked her to sit down. Majority rules. Two to one. She sat down.

***

My intestines start to turn inside out. I don't know how else to explain it. They just do. My body doesn't like peanuts...and they seem to invert my insides. This is how I feel when I am asked to return to the waiting room. My throat didn't close up this time...I got to the Benadryl in time. My mouth, filled with over-salivating spit, gets a cup and a seat. I'm fine with that. The "I'm going to die" feeling is gone.

Upon my return to the waiting room, I am surrounded by the moaning hip lady, waiting for her meds, and the spider woman. She sees a pincher bug on the ground. She leaves her cane out of this one:

OK, everyone. Everyone, LISTEN UP! I don't want you to think I'm retarded, but I am afraid of bugs. I am going to kill this one!!! And she stomps and stomps and stomps on the pincher bug. It doesn't die. Both the spider lady and her cane find this to be an omen. They move to a different seat in the waiting room.

I really want to puke...my reaction is getting worse. I try to think of anything but my swollen body...and the nausea.

***

It is Halloween, so there are drunk idiots there...two seem to be about 18. One is named Bitch the other named Ho. I know this because they have the following conversation:

Bitch, you better hope yer foot aint broken.

Ho, it's fine.

Bitch, you fuckin' lame.

Ho, you graduate from college with that mouth?

Bitch, fuck you. I graduated from high school. Now, I wanna burrito.

Ho, I can't fucking walk.

Bitch, you such a bitch. I'm hungry, bitch. I don't care 'bout yer fuckin' foot.

Ho, seriously, you a ho.

Bitch, you a bitch. I'm gonna tell 'em we'll be back.

Ho, OK, but I can't fucking walk.

Bitch, it's ok...you can limp to the taco shop. I needs a burrito up in here.

And they left....limping and cursing all the way.

***

I was under observation for over an hour...and this time, I was lucky. I got the Benadryl in my system before the hives, and the throat, and the vomit.

I imagine how it would feel to die from this allergy...and I think that it would suck. Itching and puking and suffocating to death.

No, I tell the fifth person of the night, I don't have my EpiPen on me...they look so upset...like I'm the stupidest person they have seen all night.

Man, that hurt most of all.

Anticipation Denied

He has small, beady eyes...and thick glasses. Real thick. Very thick. Block of cheese thick. They pull on his face, making his head tilt down. I imagine he has neck problems. I'm glad.

His head is shiny, and it appears he must shave his scalp every morning because he never has stubble. Ever. Not even at the end of the day. Perhaps he touches it up during lunch break when people refuse to talk to him, or to be seen with him. I don't know.

On the wall, there are pictures of jousting and the mock swords he owns and brandishes. His suit of armor looks polished and well-loved. There is a picture from a cruise that he took with his wife (I guess) from 1999 on the wall. Huh, that's almost ten years ago. Somebody has loved this guy?

He talks through his nose, and when he yells at me, via overnight phone calls, it sounds like his must have the flu:

"...so, Professor Manasse, we need at least 24 hours to return your copy request....24 hours from when we open it...not when you send it, and..."

This doesn't make sense to me. Why is he yelling? Why can I hear the snot bubbling in his throat? Why is this message five minutes long? Does he have a script? He has said this before...this sounds too rehearsed.

***

I need to see him...I need to go in there...and I know that he hates me, and he hates his job. I ask him to do what he was hired for. That's a mistake.

I work up the courage for hours. I'm lying. It's days. I put it off as long as I can. I walk in and wait for the comments.

His horizontally-lined shirt is overly tucked in, as usual. His stomach is round. There is a drip stain on the belly and another one on the chest. They are both brown and look set in. The lights spotlight his pink, smooth, and freshly waxed head. I notice the drops of sweat that easily roll down the sides of his temples. He tilts his head back, firing those overly exerted neck muscles...his short, pint-sized fingers push his glasses up in the middle. He is taking a real good look at me. He is out of breath and suffocating again.

I smile. I wait. What did I do wrong this time? I spent all week waiting for this moment...I cursed the pictures in my head. I already had played the scene in my mind...I would watch them as he undressed me for something I didn't do. I would say something this time. I had rehearsed something, too. I knew how to joust.

It speaks:

"Evening Professor Manasse...How are you tonight? What can I do for you?"

My anxiety-filled anticipation. Denied.

No One Likes Blogs About Work

But that's too bad...you are getting one.

I used to bitch about my job because it was stupid...I didn't want to be there...and basically, I didn't give a flying fuck about it. I always did my best...but my heart wasn't there. That's when I was a paralegal. Legal derived from the Latin, "law" and "para" meaning "you are someone's bitch and do the work a monkey could do for the"

That job sucked in ways I can't possibly describe. I got paid thousands and thousands of dollars to photocopy, put papers in binders, and look at court calendars.

Once-in-awhile, when things were tough, I had to do this all in one day.

And don't even get me started on PowerPoint presentations or Excel spreadsheets. Man...I could merge a document like a mother fucker, too.

God...I hated that shit.

But...when I left work every day, you know what I thought about...NOT WORK. I didn't think about being a failure...I didn't think about not reaching people...and I didn't think about how I could make a difference in a life. Sometimes, I did think about where I might go to lunch the next day...and the lists, man. The lists! The "which attorney would I bone" lists. Those were priceless....especially since I only worked with male attorneys. I'm just kidding. No...I am. Really...now I have denied it too much.

But now, today, this week, this semester...something is creeping into my mind. It started as a tickle and a passing thought when I left work. Then it grew. I would think about it after class...then before...and now...now I think about it during:

I am a failure.

When you wake up and dread going to work because you know that you would prefer a kick in the balls to sitting in a chair all day and pretending like you do care...it's hard to fail.

When you wake up every day and wonder if this is the day your one student, who hasn't been able to write a complete sentence all semester, is going to stop smoking pot long enough to come to class without wake and baking...it's hard to succeed.

And it is killing me.

I want to peel back some of my students' skulls, spoon an ounce of vision into their psyches...and let them see what they are doing. How can a 22 year old not write a paragraph? And how could he not care?

So when I send out emails like this:

From: Mark Manasse
Subject: RE: English Meeting

So we reviewed 238 paragraphs on Friday, and 104 were considered "passing." That is a 44% pass rate. Ouch.


And I get this as a response:

From:
Subject: RE: English Meeting

I don't think you should feel bad about the pass rate at mid-semester. My glass-half-full perspective is that we have almost half of the students passing with 7 weeks to work on the rest. (Well, 6 and a half; but who's counting?) I also think that it's possible the prompt didn't elicit the best work from some students.

It makes me angry...so I write this:

From: Mark Manasse
Subject: RE: English Meeting

So, I thought about the pass rate some more, and you know what, I do feel bad!!!! After our grading session on Friday, I was pissed off the rest of the day. I didn't sleep that night. Half-empty...half-full...half-way through the semester or not, a 44% pass rate is atrocious. We need to think about why this happened instead of just chalking this up to a prompt or when they wrote it.

Last semester, there was a 60% pass rate for English --. 60%. Think about that. Four out of every ten students in your class right now...NOT PASSING. How does that feel?

Something needs to change. Something has to change. Be it our methods, our rubric, our training, our prompt, our student preparation...something.

Maybe feeling bad is a necessary step...I hope it is because I feel TERRIBLE.

M


And I come home...think about how things used to be...and search deep within my soul and wonder why the Hell I prefer the emotional turmoil to mindless grunt work. Because I am not a perfect person. I do want it not to hurt. I want it to be easy. I miss that monkey suit and monkey job from time-to-time.

I miss being endlessly infallible.

I miss my "bone" list.

But there's something to the wake and bake guy. I can see it. I can see that he can do it. I can see it even if he can't.

And I refuse to let him be a monkey.

I will not be his law firm.

Mexico City...an Educational Experience

My trip to Mexico City started much the way I want all my future trips to start: at a Greyhound Bus Station.

To say this was an odd place, would be like saying it isn't fun being fingered and then writing about it so everyone you know constantly brings it up...

...it would be an understatement.

The Downtown San Diego Greyhound Bus Station has linoleum floors that are oddly overly glowing by the bathrooms. The entrance was guarded by a Latino man and a Latina woman, who could not agree if I could bring my suitcase on the bus or not. They also checked my ticket, but not my ID...so this felt like a very secure procedure in which to cross the border. While I waited for my bus to take me to Tijuana so I could then fly to Mexico City, I was accompanied by a young African American man on a poster recommending that if I were a runaway, and wanted to return home, that I could call the runaway hotline. I didn't know such a hotline existed. Education!

In the end, though, the glowing bathroom, fighting ticket checkers, and runaway poster were no match, NO MATCH, for a man I will call The Texan.

The Texan made up in repetition what he lacked in stature. He was on his way to Guadalajara. He wore a gigantic cowboy hat, and had had his suitcase lost a few times by Greyhound, a point he was sure to let everyone in earshot know again and again and again. He also had a "broke" back..which he would tell people as they walked by him or within ten feet of him. It was almost his way of greeting: Yeah. Hi. My back is broke...and Greyhound WILL NOT lose my bags again. I don't know if he couldn't remember that he had told me about his bags and his back four times, but four times he did, and each time I pretended like it was the first time The Texan had told me. It was a relationship. My first bus station relationship. Perhaps, my last. I'll explain.

The bus ride to TJ was interesting because I got to watch TWO...that's right TWO people pick their noses and eat it within the span of five minutes. What I really liked was the difference in technique. Man number one was an index finger guy. He also was very, very thorough. He would work his nostrils around and around in a clockwise motion...and not until he was done would he go for the goods. The woman who sat painstakingly close to my left, she had what I considered a much more unusual technique. She used her ring finger to go at it. I do believe what she lost in dexterity, she did gain in depth. She was really able to get at angles index finger guy just couldn't reach. Why do I know this? Why would I watch? People don't mind talking to you while picking their noses. I found this out during this trip. More education!

This nastiness combined with the smell of diaper and mold and warm cheese made me kind of like The Texan's mantra I could still hear ever-so-faintly from the back of the bus: My back is broke...and Greyhound WILL NOT lose my bags again. It gave me something to focus on.

*****

At the border, I was once again reintroduced to the fact that there will always be jobs for people...they just need to find their niche.

At the border, we were forced to get off the bus, remove our bags from the under carriage (it was finally concluded that I should put my suitcase here by the ticket takers at the bus station), and walk them five feet, FIVE FEET to the right. I'm not kidding. Five fucking feet. At this point, two men took our bags and then put them back under the bus. I didn't get it at first. I thought this was a very strange anti-terrorism measure.

Nope.

We then got back on the bus...and the two men followed us, asking for tips.

No, I didn't tip them.

*****

Why was I on my way to Mexico City via a Greyhound Bus you may be wondering? Well, I was going to teach a class on Second Language Acquisition, a job I got through USD. They paid for everything...the hotel, the trip...and it just happened to be cheaper to fly via TJ to Mexico City than SD. In retrospect, I'm glad I took the bus to TJ because it REALLY makes me appreciate the fact that I have a car and that I haven't picked my nose and eaten it since sixth grade.

*****

While in downtown Mexico City, I saw some crazy shit. I got to see these crazy guys climb to the top of a forty foot or so pole, and swing down upside down by rope while spinning around and around. They then asked for money. Everyone in Mexico asks for money. This was the one time I felt bad though...I really should have given these guys money for swinging to what could have been their deaths. Karma paid ME back, though.

I happened to be in town the same weekend that these tribes from other parts of the country come to town....or maybe they are there constantly??? I couldn't really understand...either way, the men and women from these tribes line the streets and sing and dance all day. Naked. I bet you didn't know that Indians from these tribes aren't very hairy. I do. Now. I didn't take this pic, by the way...my mind is burned with much worse images. Although not hairy...many of them are extremely well fed.

Lastly, I got to see this woman dressed head to toe in a black and white skeleton outfit. She moved in ultra slow motion while begging for cash. She was very Dia De Los Muertos-y...and very friendly. This three-hundred pound woman enjoyed holding my hands and making kissing sounds and faces at me while begging for money.

I didn't give her money either.

Man...writing this blog makes me feel cheap.

All and all, it was a wonderful trip. I learned many things about culture and language...and backs and noses.

You gotta love education.

The Villain

Not a great picture, but here is the person who raped me. Check out her profile:

Ciara Mumford Manager and Cleansing Specialist

Ciara Mumford, a third generation Entero-Hydro therapist and Electro Lymphatic therapist, has worked in the family business for as long as she can remember, developing a broad skill base over the years. A strong and knowledgeable leader, she is currently the manager and lead therapist in our San Diego office, which she opened in January 2007. Ciara holds certifications as a Colon Hydrotherapist and Electro Lymphatic therapist and can capably administer any of our modalities. In addition to her dedicated, hands-on work with clients, Ciara serves as Living Water Rejuvenation Centers' Head of Marketing, Sales, and Development.

My favorite line has to be "In addition to her dedicated, hands-on work with clients..."

Yes...she did put her hands on everything...this is true.

Honestly, I have heard from a number of people that my colonic was a little out of the ordinary...things like Ciara fingering my anus and using a vibrator on my stomach seem to be "unprofessional" in the world of "Poop Release Specialists."

So, let's take a poll: Why do YOU think Ciara sexually assaulted me?

The Day I Lost My Virginity

When I was in high school, I dated this girl named Anne. She was my first "serious" girlfriend...and I haven't spoken to her in about 15 years...But her existence has made a certain part of my life slightly...confusing.

In college, when topics turned to sex, and who had had sex and how many times this sex had been had...my response was always a little off. I was uncertain if I was still a virgin or not. This led to many conversations about what virginity meant...and how a man loses his virginity.

Does losing your virginity mean "oral" or "vaginal" sex?

Does losing your virginity mean "inserting" your phallus into another person?

Or

Does losing your virginity mean you have to "finish," as it were, what you started?

******

Today, I fulfilled my end of a bargain. I agreed, as some of you well know, to accept a dare from the person (or people) that donated the most money to my LLS fund. The dare that I ended up having to fulfill was having a colonic.

I went here: House of the Devil.

And from the moment I entered the doors...something didn't smell right.

******

You have to finish!

No...you just have to insert.

Dude, don't be an idiot. It isn't sex if you don't cum.

******

I was greeted with a "Hey, Bob, how are you?" by the owner and/or manager of the Living Water Rejuvenating Center.

"I'm Mark" I astutely retorted.

"No, you're Bob." the manager replies.

And wouldn't you know it...because of my nerves, I actually had to think about if maybe she was right. Am I Bob? I briefly think. Nope...

"Sorry...I'm Mark. I'm here for my 11 AM appointment."

"Have you been here before?"

"No."

"We haven't met?"

And again...this makes me think about things I know can't possibly be true. Was I living a Fight Club-esque alter ego? Did I go by the name Bob in a subconscious stupor and get weekly colonics without even knowing it??? "No. We have never met."

"I must be looking at the wrong day on my calendar." And she leaves to go check her appointment book. The second she leaves, the office doors open behind me, and a 6'5" BEHEMOTH enters the room.

This, I think, is Bob.

Bob sits down across the room...and he won't stop looking at me....and this is getting uncomfortable. I try to ignore him.

"Wow."

That's all he says. He says "Wow."

WTF is going on in here? I now acknowledge that he is looking at me.

"This is the first time I have ever seen another guy in here."

Bob is clearly in his mid to late 40s, weighs about 300 lbs, and is balding. I now hate the manager. "Really?"

As I say this, the manager enters the room. "Ohhhhhhhhh, Mark, here's Bob."

Yeah, lady, I know. I have already been introduced to Andre the Giant, fuck you very much.

"Mark, thanks for making me feel normal" states Bob as he walks off to go have poop flushed from his ass. I think about his statement as I stare at a questionnaire asking how many times a day I have a bowel movement.

"No problem, Bob."

A feeling of hate starts crawling into my mind for the people who donated the most to my cause. I feeling of hate and revenge.

*****

Is a woman still a virgin if she doesn't cum?

No...that's stupid.

So, it's different for a guy?

Well...

******

I didn't know much about colonics before I went into "Living Water" (God, that name grosses me out). I figured it would be best if I didn't know...and I was right.

The only thing I did know I learned from Tauni. She said it was all very private. There is a curtain between you and the "Poop Releaser Person" (not the official title). Also, you "insert" the "small" "device" "into" yourself.

Of all the things I learned today...one of the most important is that I discovered Tauni is a sick and twisted liar.

*****

So, he's still a virgin.

No...he's not.

*****

I am told to go into the bathroom, remove my clothes, and put on a green hospital-like gown. I don't know what to expect when I go into the "Poop Release Room" (again, not the official title)...but I assumed that the woman that would do the "procedure" would be old, fat, and have a strange affection for poo.

I was wrong.

I go into the "Poop Release Room" and I am greeted by a HOT and YOUNG model. This is the type of woman who, if you saw her on the street, would make you stop in your tracks. She is visually stunning. She is young, slender, and has a strange affection for poo. I really know how to call 'em!

She asks me to get up on to a table and turn to my side. She wants me to bend my legs into the fetal position so that she can insert the "device" into me.

I think back to what Tauni said. "Don't I insert it myself?"

"Well, you can put your fingers on it...but I need to 'guide it in'"

"Ummm..."

"Some people find this part..." as she reaches for some KY "to be a little uncomfortable.

"You don't say."

"Once I insert it into your rectum...I need to get it past your sphincter muscle..."

Why am I having a conversation that involves the words "rectum" and "sphincter"

"...you really are going to have to just relax the best you can. Just breathe and relax."

"Ummm..."

"So go ahead and turn over on your side. Just breathe and relax."

And I do it. I don't know why I do it. But I did. I turned to my side. She takes her hands and separates my butt cheeks. Seriously...this drop-dead gorgeous woman is separating my butt cheeks...I should be stolked. This should be hot.

But the cold, cold KY Jelly that she fingers onto my butt hole somehow detracts from the moment for some reason.

"OK" she sounds like she is gloating "BREATHE"

And she put it in. It kept going and going. Luckily, already in the fetal position, my body had nowhere to go. I was helpless.

"You're a little tight. Try to relax."

Relax? Relax? It seemed like she was shoving "the device" into my butt for an hour. Did she not use enough KY? If I cough, will this thing come out of my mouth?

And just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, she says "OK...now, roll onto your back....SLOWLY."

I have been connected to "the machine."

She turns it on and it starts to drip water into my bowels. And it felt HORRIBLE. Like when you are in public, and you feel like you have to pass gas, but you train yourself to hold it in. Even worse, think about those times when it feels like you need a bathroom THAT SECOND...imagine feeling that way, constantly, for over half an hour...

"That feeling is just gas" she is beaming. "It's normal."

To make matters worse, this chick keeps rubbing my stomach to help move the water around. Constantly inches away from my penis....but...I don't find this sexual at all.

When the pressure gets too high, meaning that there is so much water inside my bowels that I feel like I am going to burst, I have her release the water through "the device" and into "the machine." At this point, you get to watch everything that is flushing out of you. The "Poop Girl" is mesmerized by "the machine." She keeps commenting on the color, density, and amount of "fecal" matter that is streaming by. Freaky. She is hot....but freaky.

She then, and I shit you not...this is true, she takes out a hand-held, vibrating massager and starts rubbing my stomach with that, too. She switches back and forth from massaging me with her hands and massaging me this vibrator. To top this off, the vibrator does periodically keep hitting you know what.

So, let me recap: I am almost completely naked. This chick is amazingly gorgeous. She has put her hands all over my butt and stomach. And now, she is using a vibrator that is occasionally stimulating my privates.

And I was nowhere NEAR turned on. All I wanted to do was poop.

*****

Guys...guys. Do you even know what sex is?

*****

What was supposed to be an hour session, ended early. I couldn't take the ebb and flow of the water into and out of my colon any longer. I let her know that I wanted to finish a little early...and a glow came over her.

"OK...no problem. That is completely natural the first time. We just have to take 'the device' back out. Take a deep breath."

And my life flashed before my eyes. She kept pulling...and pulling...and I let out a YELP as "the device" finally left my body.

I went to the bathroom and "fully released" the rest of "the fluid" into a toilet, like a normal person. I got my clothes on, went back into the "Poop Release Room" and she was gone.

The woman who had taken my virginity had left. For lunch.

Nothing like a little fecal matter to really get that appetite going.

*****

It may have taken my 32 years, but I now know for sure. It doesn't have to do with cumming. It doesn't have to do with "breaking a plane." It has to do with intent.

I lost my virginity in high school. I was simply raped today.

Something Funny Happened on the Way to (and from) The Nation's Triathlon

This will be long. Don't let the length frighten you (Evans, 2005).

I can't explain all the strange happenings leading up to and following my last triathlon. Most of it is seems somewhat unbelievable even to me, the guy it happened to. But, I swear that none of the following is a lie (although I do tend to exaggerate from time to time).

***

One Week Before the Race

I like to think of myself as a smart guy...and that I have my shit together, but my world came tumbling down one week before I left for Washington DC to partake in the Nation's Triathlon. I was sitting in a lawn chair, still damp from a just completed two-mile swim in La Jolla Cove. I was feeling pretty accomplished and ready to take on the world. I was listening to my coordinator talk about the following week's trip...but the weirdest thing kept happening...she kept mentioning this word...this strange word....that word was Sunday.

Tauni and I booked our trip to Washington DC months and months before hand...flying in on Thursday and returning on Sunday afternoon at 12:35...a day after the Saturday triathlon. That would give me plenty of time to not only recover but party with my team Saturday night!

Why then, one week before the race, did my coordinator keep saying the race was going to be on Sunday...and stranger yet, why did the booklet, with all the race information, I was holding in my hands agree with her. In a moment of agony, I realized that I made a mistake, and scheduled to fly back from DC when I would still be AT the race.

Not good.

Luckily, Tauni had some extra airline miles, and we were able to switch the flight to Sunday night. I wish this was the end of this day's BS, but alas...

With the sting of non-perfection still dripping off me, I decided the best course of action would be to go drinking. I ended up finding myself about five beers deep into something called "The Darkness" and was completely drunk on this over 10% alcohol concoction. This is especially not a good idea when wearing flip flops on a wooden stool. In the middle of laughing at one point, I stupidly banged my foot on the wooden cross beam and felt a JOLT of pain run up my leg.

By the next morning, my foot was completely black and blue and I couldn't put a shoe on...and had to wear my shoe with very loose laces throughout the week.

Sweet...I broke the top of my foot a week before my triathlon! Just an added bonus.

***

A Few Days Before The Race

I'm in Washington DC, limping around on a swollen foot in unseasonably warm weather. Tauni and I are on a corner about three blocks from our hotel, and a man walks by us with a straw in his mouth. He appears to be homeless.

When he gets right next to me, I notice that he is starting to move towards me..and in what I can only say was a Karate move that would have made Bruce Lee proud, he sweeps his hand in a couple of circles while saying "WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH." He then takes the straw out of his mouth and pretends to stab me in the stomach with it. I think this is one of the funniest things I have ever seen in my life and instantly start cracking up, while Tauni has grabbed onto my arm so tightly, I am losing circulation in my fingers. The "gentleman" inquires "What is so fucking funny?"

And while I would love to respond:

"You just pretended to stab me with a straw while making Karate-like noises, for starters."

I decide to leave well enough alone.

***

Two Nights Before The Race

I go out on the town with an old friend from high school, Mark Clemens. He brings his girlfriend and another friend of his.

The odd thing about this friend is the drunker he got, the more he seemed to not care that he was hitting on my girlfriend right in front of me. Touching her...winking at her...creepy stuff.

At the end of the night, we leave the bar we were at, and he stumbles over to Tauni and asks RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME "Where are we (implying he and Tauni) going now?" I hadn't said anything all night about his...friendliness...but this was too much...

I respond "WE (implying Tauni and I) are going back to OUR hotel room"

I then made a Karate-like sound and pretended to stab him with my finger...

...the student had become the teacher...

***

The Morning of the Race

The morning of the race I wake up at 4 AM and know that I am going to struggle with some of a triathlete's life necessities.

First of all, I need to eat to start fueling for the race....but I am NOT hungry at 4 AM.

Second of all, I need to poop so I don't have to during the race....but I can't poop at 4 AM.

Lastly, I need to make sure that I don't repeat the previous blunder of not putting on enough protection against chaffing...so I dutifully put Vaseline EVERYWHERE YOU CAN POSSIBLY IMAGINE...keep imagining...keep going...yes, even there.

We leave the hotel room at about 4:45, and I still haven't really eaten, I certainly haven't pooped, but man, every possible connection point on my body is frictionless.

At about 5:15, we hop on our shuttle to the race, and I am still not hungry, getting very worried about not being able to poo, and am squishing around in areas of my pants that aren't typically squishy.

Getting off the bus at the event, I almost trip, and see my life and teeth flash before my eyes as I manage to catch myself on the handrail. Hardly recovered, I go to pick up my timing chip, and I am instructed to "instantly put it on so that [I] don't lose it."

No, I didn't listen.

I walk over to "body marking" and drop my drawers in front of a young woman who has to get down on her knees to write my race number, 303, on my upper thighs. I ask Tauni if this seems at all sexual to her; she says no.

I think she's lying.

I start to walk to my transition station and I realize...I lost my timing chip some time during the "non-sexual" body marking (doesn't "body marking" just sound like a porno waiting to happen?). If I don't have this chip, there is no way to prove I was even at this race (besides the gently etched numbers on my upper thighs). I retrace my few steps that I have taken, and it's just gone.

Tail between my legs, I return to the chip station and let out a big sigh...

"So, I kind of lost my chip...what do I do?"

Luck is on my side...someone had already returned it! And yes, this time I instantly put it on my ankle!

6:30, about 30 minutes before the race...I am able to get down a Clif Bar...and decide it is time to start pushing. I go to a port-o-potty, and did a little pre-race warm up. My quads were BURNING as I awaited and prayed to whomever that I do my business. And finally...it happened, and I can't tell you what a load off of me that was (pun, what pun?).

And honestly, then, and until now, I believe the Vaseline was the only reason this was able to happen. I may have created a new constipation remedy!

***

During the Race

I missed my goal time a wee bit, but mostly because it was freakin hot. It was about 95 degrees plus humidity. My swim was where I thought it would be: 42 minutes. My bike was a personal record: 1 hour and 16 minutes...alas, the run...the run took me a WHOPPING 1 hour and 12 minutes....about 17 minutes over my projected time.

All and all, I did it in 3 hours and 17 minutes when my goal was 3 hours and 5 minutes. I am proud of this time regardless. Those conditions sucked my Vaseline- ladened ass.

***

After the Race

I finish and man, am I tired. Lucky me..they have free massages for participants. I switch into my after race clothes and hop onto the massage table. My masseuse flips my legs up. He flips them wide. He has my legs spread all over the place. I didn't care...it felt AWESOME...and a little breezy for some reason.

About an hour later, I realized something not so good. My crotch, the one that the masseuse had been spreading all over the place, the one that was facing toward the fifty other people waiting in line, the one that wasn't being covered by any underwear...had a HUGE HOLE in it. So...basically...my balls were completely there for the world to see.

Good times. I had been wondered why they gave ME a tip...

***

Shipping the Bike

Later, after just dropping my bike off at the shipping station, I was in heaven. I was all done! My bike was set to go...I was feeling G-O-O...OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

Some other person accidentally RAMMED his bike into my hand as we walked by each other. I instantly clench it into a fist and have to take a knee as he apologies. I wonder if all my appendages were meant to be broken during this weekend.

Things couldn't get much weirder, right?

***

The Way Home

On the way to the airport, I of course get the most talkative Pakistani cab driver in the history of the world who tells me his life story, including his concept of marriage and why I should be married to Tauni already. He tells me that he had never even spoken to his wife before they got married. He saw her at a wedding, and three months later they were together. Now, 50 years later, they are still married and very happy. He kept pushing me to see his metaphor. "Do you understand? Do you understand?" He kept asking in his thick, thick Pakistani accent...

So I say, "Sure! I should go to a wedding so I can meet my future wife?"

He laughed. Tauni slapped.

***

At the Airport

But the best part of the entire weekend had to be this. While waiting second in line at the airport to use the facilities, the oddest thing happened.

This guy walks up behind me and laughs. I think he is laughing because "Ha Ha...line in the GUY'S bathroom...no way."

I was wrong.

After about thirty seconds, he says in the most pitiful voice I have ever heard in my life to the guy in front of me:

"Excuse me...excuse me, sir? Do you mind if I cut in front of you? I gotta go real, real bad."

I about lose it. What is the guy in the front of the line gonna do? Say no? "No...I'm sorry...you have to suffer while I take my time in there..." So he HAS TO say yes...which is of little relief to the guy behind me. He goes into a meditative state...puts his arms up on the wall...and keeps breathing. Deeply breathing.

I decide I can wait...

...my Vaseline had worn off anyway.

It's Time For The Nation's Tri

It's almost 11:00 PM EST, and I need to wake up in about five hours to start getting ready for my "culminating" race of the summer. This is a bitter sweet end for me.

Where I thought I would be physically, and where I actually am, don't exactly match. Although I feel relatively recovered from hurting my back earlier this summer, I have not exactly recovered to where I initially thought I would be:

In April, my race time was 3 hours and 9 minutes, or something like that.

My goal time for this race was going to be between 2 hours and 55 and 2 hours and 59 min.

Now, I am shooting for 3 hours and 5 min.

These may seem like insignificant differences, but they aren't, and the line I now feel between "Wow, I can't believe I do triathlons" and "Wow, I feel like I am a complete failure because I don't do these as fast as I perhaps should (whatever that means)" is becoming increasingly more and more blurry.

I guess never being happy with results is what keeps people pushing to improve, but the mental anguish I sometimes feel at not being able to push myself to my absolute limits weighs on me.

I am so amazed at some of the things I have learned about myself via doing triathlons: commitment as well as mental and physical strength, to name a few.

But I know there is more...and I haven't tapped into where this journey is taking me yet...

...and that really bothers me.

Mechanically Declined

My final triathlon of the summer is coming up next week in Washington DC. I barely reached my fundraising goal of $1900...but through a little nudging of my friends, I got over the final "hump."

As usual, I had a fundraising contest...and whoever donated the most to my Leukemia and Lymphoma Society account got to challenge me to one wild and crazy dare. To get the final few hundred dollars, I let a few of my friends pool their money together to motivate them to donate. We'll call them the Phallus-less Foursome.

Donate they did...combining to donate $251...a full $1.00 more than my highest donator (sorry, Led). The cocky little bastards then started to taunt me with how horrible their dare was going to be. No hints. Just smirks and laughs at my upcoming fate. That just wouldn't do!

So, in a moment of brilliance, Tauni decided to donate another $175 to put her total donation amount to $275. A complete facial...Tauni loves those.

In the end, though, Tauni decided to accept the Phallus-Less Foursome's dare...so, within one week after the triathlon I have to get an enema/colonic.

Yum.

Thank you Phallus-less Foursome! I'll be sure to send you guys the pictures.

***

Since this triathlon is rather far away, we had to ship our bikes last Saturday so that they would be in DC by race time. This meant we had to use these things called "tools" to do something called "disassemble" our bikes. As soon as I realized this was going to happen, I got a little nervous.

For whatever reason, I'm not super good with my hands, as it were...especially things that are all metal. Why? I don't know! Cars, bikes, weapons of mass destruction...you name it...if it's all metal, I'm all thumbs!

So I showed up early to our bike disassembling party so I wouldn't be the last one done. Considering half the people taking their bikes apart were going to be women...I felt an additional sense of pressure not to be horrendously slow.

Even though I had a head start, everyone else finished unscrewing and dismantling and packing their bikes up MUCH faster than I did. I had to keep looking at what other people were doing and double and triple checking that I wasn't doing mine wrong. I just have no confidence with this type of thing and had this illogical fear that my bike was somehow going to explode if I turned the wrong screw or removed the wrong thingamabobber.

LLS folk are not like my other friends, though. Not one comment was made about me being a girl or gay or lame or stupid because I was very slow at getting my bike apart and into the shipping box. It's weird being surrounded by supportive people and not constantly ridiculed over every slight discrepancy that might show that I'm not perfect or not "a man."

What a great feeling! I can't wait to repay these pussies by blowing their slow-asses out of the water during the race. What a bunch of pansies!

More of Less

The following is a list of things that I would really like less (or fewer) of:

Hooter Hiders

Lady, I don't care if you think it is natural; I don't want to be in a restaurant with you while your kid is slurping on your nipple. Don't glare at me, either, because if you like it or not, you are a distraction. I'm not trying to "cop a look" at your food bank...but no matter what floral design you have on your tit tent, it is something that draws attention. If you don't want people to stare...how about doing that shit at home...

...or sharing.

Mylie Cyrus

This chick is the next Eva Longoria in my book. I'm sick of hearing about her struggles separating from her alter ego Hannah Montana, her daddy taking sexual pics of her....but most of all, I'm sick of seeing her ugly mug on every backpack sold in America. Remember the last chick that got this much attention who started out on The Disney Channel? How well is Britney Spears doing these days?

Use of the words Event and Catastrophe

I am tired of every TV show every week being labeled as an event. An event is something special...but if every TV show is an event, that in fact turns them into the opposite, an everyday occurrence. Regardless, I'm not sure the two-hour season premier of Grey's Anatomy truly is an event anyway you look at it. What would be an event is if that show actually had a point.

Next, the media really needs to stop calling everything a catastrophe. Again, if EVERYTHING is a catastrophe...in fact, the word loses meaning...and so does the catastrophic air. And are you like me...do you think the media is loving every second of a hurricane heading towards New Orleans. They have been waiting for this moment for what, four years? Every news station is creaming itself right now at what they hope is the destruction of people's homes and lives.

Washcloth-big (or small) Skirts

I admit it...it's distracting. I don't like it when my students are wearing clothes so small, that turning on the AC means there is a chance I might see the Va-J-J. I understand it's the style right now, and I understand we don't have a dress code at my school...but come on. These guys have a hard enough time learning without upper thigh in their face.

How about some manasseworld pulse checking...what do YOU want more of less of?

Garage: Sixth and Market, Floor: 2L, Spot: 151

This last Saturday was the Third Annual Del Mar Track Day. A day known for betting on horses, cooking some good steaks for ourselves at the Turf Supper Club, and heading to an Indian Casino to finish off the night.

(Well, the past two years, people have stupidly flaked out on the casino gambling and decided to stay in downtown SD to go to a bar to go find girls or something. Nothing like walking into a bar with a group of nine guys who have been drinking and smoking cigars all day to get a girl's juices flowing. Next year, I am going to the casino by myself if I have to.)

Why am I so bitter about the third part of the day falling apart again this year? I'll tell you why: Sixth and Market.

After dinner, "we" decided to go downtown and meet up near sixth and market to do some bar hopping. I had to borrow Tauni's car for the day because mine was having some issues. We parked Tauni's car in a garage, and had the foresight to write down the streets, the floor, and the spot of where we parked in a book of matches: Garage: Sixth and Market, Floor: 2L, Spot: 151

God, the three of us in the car who wrote this info down felt so freakin' smart. We were the same three who, earlier in the day at the track, strategically parked by the exit at Del Mar so we could easily leave. We spoke glowing about ourselves multiple times throughout the day and night about our parking prowess...Seriously, were were the Three (Parking) Amigos.

We leave the garage, meet up with our six other friends, and end up going to a couple of bars downtown...one of which took us literally 20 minutes to find. Everyone was pissed by the time we got there...we stayed for one beer and it was time to go home at about 1:00 AM.

Well, almost time to go home.

We pull out the matches, our treasure map, to go find where we had left the car. We beeline it over to the garage and get up to the second floor, which is now oddly marked as "Floor 2" not "2L."

Shit, we are in the wrong garage.

We walk around the block, trying to retrace our steps from earlier in the evening, go into another parking garage (so we think) and go to the second floor: "Floor 2"

Shit, we had gone in a circle and found the same incorrect garage AGAIN.

Now I start to get a little worried. First of all, I haven't lost MY car...it's my girlfriend's. To top that off, she has a 1/2 marathon to run in about five hours...and I need to get to this by the finish. I am already imagining the following conversation in the morning:

"Sorry I couldn't make it to your race."

"That's ok, what happened?"

"I don't know where your car is."

"So, you didn't come to my 1/2 marathon AND you don't know where my car is?"

"Kind of....I thought maybe you would want to run home after your race????"

No way I sliced it was this going to turn out well for me. I needed to find that damn car. But not to fear, we were the Three (Parking) Amigos, after all!

(Flash forward 30 Minutes)

The Three (Parking) Amigos now hate each other. Walking around downtown San Diego at night wearing flip flops, smelling of stale beer, and having newly chafed thighs has a way of breaking down even the most amigo-est of relationships. What started out as:

"Did you try this street?"

"No, not yet, bestest bud. I bet we find that car real soon."

"Me, too."

"Me, three."

*group laugh*

Had turned into:

"Did you fucking check that street, bitch?"

"Why don't you go fuck yourself, asshole."

"Hey, YOU'RE the one who wrote down the WRONG location, dickhead."

"Yeah, and you wanted to go to that STUPID bar."

"Why don't you two shut the fuck up?"

*no group laugh*

We eventually do manage to retrace our steps, and discovered that while writing down the correct floor and spot of a car is nice...getting the streets wrong by four blocks has a way making the car slightly hard to find.

Crisis over. I make it home and have enough time to sleep for a few hours...wake up...and manage to see Tauni finish her race...and I even remembered where I parked.

Another Del Mar day labeled a success, and another valuable lesson learned: You mess with the parking karma gods, and your upper thighs are bound to get burned.

I Got Curves

I don't drink nearly as much as I used to...what used to be a four-day-a-week hobby, has slowly become a once-every-few-months special occasion.

Last weekend, inspired by my newly-healed back...and return to full triathlon training, I had some steam to blow off. I went out with a friend of mine to get ONE beer.

We ended up getting a pitcher.

We had nothing to do...so, eh...why not, one more.

Then Tauni called and she wanted to come join us...what's one more pitcher?

Phone call...Tauni's friend wanted to come get a drink...so we needed, you guessed it, one more!

Between this fourth and eventual fifth pitcher, I noticed that I was getting a little drunk. Weird how that creeps up on you after a beer or ten.

It was at this point of revelation that Tauni's friend mentioned that she didn't like beer. We asked her (politely) to try just a sip of the lovely and tasty Newcastle in which we were all partaking.

She took one little sip and pursed her lips like perhaps a few dozen lemons doused in lighter fluid and scrambled with horseshit had crossed her lips. And she said the words every guy who loves beer DOESN'T want to hear:

Eww...that's too bitter...I'll just have a PEAR CIDER.

Pear cider, in case you didn't know, is for pussies or for people who like to say the following: Pear cider has more alcohol than beer, anyway.

I swear, I have never, Ever, EVER been around someone who drinks pear cider that has not said these EXACT words. Anyway, Tauni's friend isn't a pussy...so I will let you guess what she said/did.

So I of course did what any logical person would do when listening to such blasphemy while in a slightly intoxicated state: I challenged her pansy-ass to a dare.

I requested that the waitress bring me a straw, and upon receipt of said straw, stuck it in the half-finished fourth pitcher of beer and after much debate decided the following...Lily-Livered-Cider-Lover had 15 minutes to finish said pitcher with a straw. If she succeeded, I would go to Curves (the gym created just for women) in my tri shorts and demand a membership.

This was really a win-win for me. And worth every second of humiliation coming my way. So I make a fool of myself...again. Gives me something to blog about...and I got to torture a beer hater on the way.

Bittersweet, some might say.

Brilliant Idiocracy

You know that forwarded email that comes around once-a-year or so about "those funny things that kids will say" like:

Falling in love is harder than my fourth grade class -- Jack age 10

or

Kissing makes me pee my pants -- Darron age 10...20...and 30

or whatever it is that is so cute and adorable that we just have to laugh at how simultaneously pathetic yet endearing the notion is.

Oh...they just don't know. They are kids. So innocent.

Would we still think it was funny if a college student was still saying:

"When falling in love, I think you're supposed to get shot with an arrow or something, but the rest of it isn't supposed to be so painful." -- Tammy, age 22???

When does it stop being funny, and when does innocence turn into not having logical assertions?

***

At the end of every semester, I am now in charge of running a grading session for a pre-college writing class. The final piece to this particular class is that the students have to write a five-paragraph essay in seventy-five minutes. They don't know the exact prompt before hand, but they get two readings that SHOULD tell them what the topic will be since one reading is always clearly pro while the other is clearly con the topic in question. They get these readings one-to-two weeks before the essay is written.

This past session, the topic was Mandatory National Service...and students had to write a paper whether they were for or against this topic.

***

Here are the quotes from this session that struck me. I have cleaned up the wording, spelling, and grammar...but have kept the ideas intact:

The Poet: The word "mandatory" and "volunteering" go together like mayo on apple pie.

Mr. Paranoia: National Service will lead into Communist systems like the Neighborhood Watch program. For example, my cousin got arrested by San Diego SWAT for accidentally selling half-a-joint to an undercover cop.

The Nutritionist: The United States has too many overweight people to have mandatory national service. If we make these people serve in the military, most likely we are in trouble.

The Surfer: Community service rocks, so make it mandatory, dude!

The Philosopher: I became a volunteer at a nursing home because I wanted to learn how to become old.

The Politician: Mandatory national service should be an optional obligation.

***

The day of the grading session, about three hours deep, the levity of these comments made me laugh.

Five days removed..I just don't think they are so cute anymore...only 64% of the students passed this exam this summer. That's up 12% from the spring....

A 52% passing rate.

That is not endearing. That is not innocence. That's just scary.

Triathlon: Fear, Pain, and a Little Philosophy

It's the "English Geek" in me that sits around and thinks about how to describe what exactly "fear" and "pain" are. I'm not going to get all Derrida-y on you and deconstruct the language and get into why we call a chair "a chair" and what the literary and philosophical ramifications are of those signifiers too much...but "fear" and "pain" really are words trying to "get at" sensations that can only be described in metaphorical terms. For example:

For three weeks, my back hurt like a mother fucker.

You see, right there, I am trying to give you a point of reference to understand exactly how my back feels. I could also give you a number on a scale to try to make it clearer, too:

On a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 meaning I can bend in such a way as to fellate myself and 10 meaning that I feel like a chimney sweep was left to simmer over an open flame for an hour until the blue of the fire married itself with the red-glowing blackness of the fleur-de-lis-shaped handle into a new cosmic color we shall deem as "ass poking aqua" and said handle now resides permanently in my anal region so that when I walk I look like Fred Sanford after a brutal rape reminiscent of the one Tim Robbins most likely took from the Sisters in Shawshank Redemption...I have probably been at a 7 for about three weeks.

But I took a month off from training...and the last week was the week that really got to me.

I understand injury. Like Derrida would argue, I can't have athletics without an implied lack of athletics (in this case, injury)...so really, being athletic also means that at some point I will become injured, whether I like it or not.

But does that mean I have to fear it? Do I have to fear re-injury to the point that for one week, I do not exercise, not for the actual pain, but for the desire that it not return?

So I thought about this again and again today as I returned to training: a ten-mile bike ride followed by a three-mile run while over analyzing every twinge and every move. Was that my back? Are my hips tightening up? Is my back going to spasm again and leave me stranded in the middle of Mission Bay so that an 85-year-old retiree beats me around the lake?

I can't describe the fear in terms that are tangible to you...nor can I really describe the pain and how it has felt not to be able to sleep, stand, teach, and shower let alone swim, bike, or run without feeling a constant dull and throbbing tingling warning me that if I am not careful my back will seize up at any moment.

I can't describe that fear...that perhaps is more paralyzing than the pain itself.

But I would have made Derrida happy today because I can't talk to you about fear without implying something about courage. And today I was also pretty disappointed by my lack of mental and physical acuity after just one month off, which I guess means I was proud of myself, too.

Cujo

It's "finals" week at my school, so one of my classes got out a little early today. With the extra time, I was able to come home and spend some quality time with the famed pug: Maggie.

I know at this point everyone is well aware of Maggie's antics. Yes, yes...she poops out of spite, she leaks fluids out of comfort, and she attacks unsuspecting little girls out of PURE RAGE?

What-what-what?

OK...she has never even come close to attacking anyone...human. But the funniest thing I might have ever seen in my life happened today during our walk. I felt so bad to actually laugh out loud at a little girl, but man, she had it coming.

***

Maggie LOVES walks. She loves them. She is admittedly one of the dumbest dogs I have ever met, but if you mention the words "walk" or "park" she will instantly PERK UP and shake her butt so fast, that she has actually been contacted to be in numerous rap videos. Yeah. THAT fast.

With time to kill, I ask her the magic words: "Maggie, wanna go for a walk???" And then spend the next five minutes trying to calm her down enough to get a leash on her. Finally under control, we go outside...and she does her normal:

Five minutes of sniffing

Human-Sized Poop

Sniff Three Minutes

A gallon of pee

Sniff Sniff Sniff

Realizes she has more -- Poops Again

Sniff Sniff

Oh yeah -- Pees again.

Seriously...this is like a full day (or half day) for me...and she does it all in ten minutes. But wouldn't you know it...the second I turn us around to get us back home, a mom and her two children come up behind us. I seriously don't want to deal with them...so I pull Maggie, and try to get her to hurry up so she doesn't go over and play and/or bark at the kids.

Me: Come on, Maggie. Let's go!!!

Mere seconds away from not having to answer the same fucking questions I always get asked, she stops to pee AGAIN. Great. The mom and kids catch up to us.

Mom: What kind of dog is he?

Me: SHE'S a pug.

Mom: He's cute (Why do people always say "he" when I clearly say "she?" SHE is wearing a pink collar, too). Have you seen...what's that movie??? You know...with Will...

Me: Men in Black?

Mom: Yeah...have you seen the dog in that mov...

Me: Yeah...yeah. I've seen it.

And I am almost...almost out of this conversation when the three-year-old boy stops playing with himself (literally) just long enough to notice there is a dog right in front of him.

Little Boy: DOGGIE!!!!!

Now...this is going to go one of two ways. Maggie is going to get scared and bark her head off, or she is going to get all cute and cuddly and want to play. Surprisingly, she goes for the latter. She starts wagging her tail and slowly walking up to the boy...SUPER friendly like. He is just about to pet her when:

MOMMY...MOMMY...NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. MOMMY...WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The six or seven year-old-girl who is in a stroller (why, I don't know...at that age, you gotta fucking walk, honey), literally FREAKS OUT like I have never ever, EVER seen someone freak out before. She STANDS UP in the stroller, climbs ON her mom's back...and continues to SCREAM bloody murder:

MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMY.... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO... WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH... MO-O-O-O-OMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

Of course, Maggie continues to stare at the little boy while wagging her tail like nothing is happening. She is very good at ignoring people...requests...commands.

I look up at the mom...and start to say sorry, but she interrupts me with the understatement of the fucking year:

Mom: Sorry. My daughter. She's a little afraid of dogs.

Me: BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH (on the inside)

Me: Oh really? (on the outside)

I pull Maggie away from the nearly catatonic girl...who continues to SCREAM as we cross the street, and continues to scream as we are one block away, and continues to scream, while we are TWO blocks away.

Now, I don't like to think of myself as a bad person...and obviously, this little girl has a serious phobia or has been bitten by a dog or something...but I just couldn't help laughing....and laughing...and laughing at how some girl could scream at a dog like this:

What The Heck Was Bothering Me In September 2003?

I've been dipping into previous writings a lot recently, and I am doing so again.

I found this ?poem? I wrote FIVE years while cleaning my room last week. It was a little surprising to say the least. Me, clean my room?

No, I mean that I would write something THIS dark. Whatchagonnado, though?

Try not fling yourself off a bridge after you read this.



Weather Forecast

Rain.
Rain.
Rain hitting my door.
Thinking thoughts of no more.

Thoughts are invading
Palms start their bating
Mind is evading,
today.

Fist is still clenching.
Mind is still wrenching.
Body escaping,
away.

Closing my door,
Nobody cares.
Not anymore.
Fire away at my bland-crusted door.

I don’t want anymore.
Of the games.
Of the score.
My plans are escaping
Body, lifeless-traipsing
Click.
Erasing this pain.

Triggers are pulling
Mind, thoughts pooling
Craniums flying
Mind, slowly-dying
Why hold on to this pain?

Head, open canvas
Blood, stop this madness
Eternal, constant sadness
Blandness, all blandness
Finally all going away.

Pulling stops pulling
Pooling, the pooling
Drooling starts drooling
My crueling stops crueling
Today is finally the day.

And one less dark bastard
Needs no more master,
Thank you.
Sits still and plastered
Faster, please faster.

Mind still evading
Pain, knowledge fading
Drain, won’t stop draining
Carpet is staining
WHY AREN’T MY THOUGHTS FUCKING GOING AWAY?

Failing at death
And scraped from the floor,
Failing at death
Swung ‘way from death’s door.

Why are they crying
Yells, “Shots firing?”
Sirens start whining
Still I keep trying

To escape from this place
If not by will then by face
Hung from a wall
I will. I’ll show them all.

I will.

I will show them all.

Limp like a thought.
That has never been thought.
In peace, I am caught.

No more running from pain.

Tomorrow,

no rain.

Post Number 200: Anya -- You Idiot

OK...that's SARCASM, and I don't mean it. Anya happens to be one of my most favorite people in the world. One of those people I met and instantly knew I would get along with for years to come.

Anya was my mentee last summer at SDSU. She was going through a teacher training program, and I got to learn her in my class in the afternoons. And learn her, I did. Unlike most people passing through my life, I actually kept in touch with her...and we even went out for drinks the other day.

It was at this meeting that I discovered Anya does not understand sarcasm in written form. I made a passing comment about my Mom and she oddly responded:

Yeah, [your mom] is a little whacky, isn't she?

Now although this is true, if not an understatement, I could not for the life of me figure out how a person who I had not seen in about a year, nor had ever spoken to about my mother before would make such a comment.

My curiosity piqued, I inquired...

Why would you say that?

Not mean. Not judgemental...I was honestly just curious.

Oh, you know...how she said that Eva Longoria was a piece of ass and you blogged about it... and how she left you some crazy message pretending to be your friend and you blogged about that, too.

And it struck me...she did not realize that these were jokes...sarcastic, hyperbolic jokes.

But humor is in the eye of the beholder. All things being equal, Anya really doesn't know me (or my mom) that well, so I guess these intended-to-be-humorous moments COULD be seen as true. Who knows. (But seriously...you think my mom would say these things???)

What I do have to thank Anya for is that this conversation made me think about my days working as a member of THE Casual Critics. What...you didn't know I was a certified, bona-fide, fill-in-the-blank-i-fide food/retail store critic? Well, you, my friends, have missed out!

And so I bring you one of my favorite pieces of writing of all time from CasualCritics.com.

Now keep in mind (Anya), some things I write about below and on this site are real while some are SARCASTIC. It is up to YOU to decide which is which. As a little background, my friend Darron and I would actually go to restaurants and/or retail stores, take notes, and then write about them later.


Tomodachi Sushi Bistro

24123 Hesperian Blvd
Hayward, CA 94545
(510) 940-3800
Tomodachi.com
Casually criticized: 6/19/04

Why we went there

This is a very special Casual Critic Review. Why? you may ask. Is it because we actually got some real training on how to critique food? Is it because we are the best IMers in the entire country? Is it because Darron went on a date last week? We say "No" to all of these reasons. This is a very special Casual Critic Review because the woman who sprung Mark from her loins joined us with our review. No...not Elizabeth Taylor or Joan Rivers...but Mark's Mom, Yvonne. She added some deep insights into this evening's festivities...so many, that we have a new section in our review called "Mark's Mom's Gems." It should be noted that Mark's mom had no idea that Darron and Mark are THE Casual Critics. She obviously doesn't get out much.

So why are we telling you this? Well, we went to Tomodachi's Sushi Bistro (Yes, a sushi bistro in Hayward, California...right next to a junk yard) because Mark's mom felt like "having fish" and Red Lobster was just too damn far. (Darron and Mark have tried for months to critique Red Lobster...but they always come home so full off their Cheddar Bay Biscuits, that they pass out. Check back "soon" for a critique.) Mark, after driving by the sushi bistro for months, and being awed by its presence in Hayward...couldn't resist bringing his mother there. What better way to see how dangerous a restaurant can be...than having it mother-tested and approved. Kix be damned.

Food

Upon being seated at the sushi bistro, we were served piping hot tea and edamame, which confounded Darron and Mark's mom. "What are these little green things?" They questioned. "Mark, how do we eat these?" they begged.

Mark could not hold back his laughter, as both Darron and Mark's Mother asked these questions while the soy bean pods were in their mouths, and they were trying to chew through the tough exterior, unable to figure out how to release the beany goodness that awaited inside. So instead of telling them how to eat the edamame correctly, he let them continue to eat the covering. Good fiber, he thought...as he quietly chewed the beans sans pod.

We all ordered a wide variety of dishes, with Darron choosing the Beef Sukiyaki, Mark the Sushi & Roll Combo, and Mark's Mother the Salmon Teriyaki. For an appetizer, they ordered the Hawaiian Poke.

Mark found the Sushi and Roll Combo to be interestingly served without rolls. He did not complain as he was served a more expensive dish with sashimi that he got at a reduced price. The fish was tasty...and he felt there was only a slim chance of getting food poisoning. There was a plethora of fish given to Mark on his combo from salmon to squid, all extremely fresh and delicious.

Darron's Beef Sukiyaki ended up being a beef soup of some sort. Because of the soup-like quality of his dish, our server, Cindy Wu, had the unfortunate task of letting Darron know that while both Mark and Mark's mother received a miso soup with their dinner, that Darron would be unable to have such a treat. When he questioned why, her response was "The Beef Sukiyaki IS soup. Your dinner is soup. SO...huh huh huh...no soup for you...or salad." When Darron asked why his dinner would also not have a salad, Cindy Wu replied "There will be salad in your Beef Sukiyaki." It seemed that much like God, the Beef Sukiyaki was all things and everywhere...and does not come with a soup appetizer. The soup contained thinly sliced beef, silky tofu, large fungi, and sickly-sweet broth. Too much suki, not enough yaki.

Mark's mother initially wanted to order the Seafood Stirfry...but only after she was able to ask what seafood the stirfry would contain. Upon hearing that the seafood contents did indeed come from the sea, she decided that the seafood stirfry was not for her. So instead...she ordered the salmon teriyaki which she deemed appropriately sea-worthy for her fish dinner.

The appetizer was the Hawaiian Poke which was a sweet and spicy mixture of raw fish and onions (not an Hawaiian sexual position as Darron had hoped); it was very fresh and uncooked. If you desire large, pink, and fleshy, this is the appetizer for you.

The tea served at dinner was too hot for Mark's young, feminine, and delicate hands to hold. Darron had no problem with the temperature of the tea, and had to regurgitate the tea into Mark's mouth for him. This was awkward for the wait staff, but they grew used to it after awhile...and were actually seen doing the same in the back room by the end of dinner. Mark's mom beamed with pride.

Service

Do you like speaking English to your wait staff? Do you like to understand what is being said to you? If so, Tomodachi Sushi Bistro is not the place for you. Mark had an odd understanding of the waitress's feeble attempts to converse with our table, which left Darron impressed and begging for more sukiyaki. Let's just say he didn't get anymore sukiyaki...but his begging for more never stops.

The staff was quick to refill water and Venus-temperature tea, which Darron help to cool by spooning some out for Mark while blowing cool, motherly air on it and making "choo-choo" sounds for him.

The staff was quite concerned if "everything was alright," which they asked repeatedly during the last fifteen minutes of our stay. Darron felt that this may have been their new English catch phrase for the night...but Mark thought it may have been because they asked Darron this while he was choking on some poky during dinner. He almost died.

Fun Factor

Darron felt the lack of attractive women hindered his digestion. Not very fun. Using chopsticks is always a blast...so that is pretty cool, and there were even private rooms for authentic sushi bistro dining. It is also neat to burn your hands on tea. Of course, and all you Navy folk know this, when Mark's Mom is around...FUN isn't too far behind (don't worry, she'll never read this).

Bang for Your Buck

As far as Sushi Bistros go...this was relatively cheap. For Hayward standards, this place was the Ritz Carlton. Tomodachi promises lots of interesting dishes...but it doesn't promise that you'll leave for under $50.00.

Mark's Mom's Gems

As with any mother. sometimes special treats come out when they decide to talk or complain about anything. This is no different with Mark's Mom...and so we bring you...her gems for the evening.

(1) While walking into the restaurant, Mark let both Darron and Mark's mother know that sushi would be on the menu. He knew that both of them weren't exactly sushi fanatics, so Mark thought it would be gentlemanly to make them aware. Mark's Mom's knee-jerk reaction to hearing about this monstrosity was "Sushi...I don't want to be up all night." Mark, obviously confused, replied..."Yes, the caffeine-like qualities of sushi are world renown." Mark's mom chuckled at this...but you could still see in her eyes that she would be on the look out for any sushi products...insomnia hung in the balance.

(2) When Darron went to the bathroom, our soup and salad were served. Although there were three of us, we were only given two soups and one salad. Mark's Mom looked longingly at the soups and said "Well, this soup may be Darron's, but I'm going to eat it anyway." She then greedily downed the soup. And even when Darron questioned where his soup was, Mark's Mother innocently stated in passing, "I thought this salad was yours." Lying is such an awful habit.

(3) While eating Darron's soup, Mark's Mom asked Mark if the white blocks in the soup were "Toofoo," Mark replied "No, but they are tofu."

(4) After ordering our dinners, Cindy Wu repeated our orders back to us. Mark's Mom was convinced that Cindy had stated that Mark's Mom had ordered the Salmon Sukiyaki...when Mark's Mother had clearly stated that she wanted the Salmon Teriyaki. After a few tension-filled moments and a stare down between Mark's Mom and Cindy Wu...it was clear that teri and not sukiyaki would come from the chef's door. Mark's mother doesn't joke around about two things in this life...her favorite low-carb light beer and sukiyaki.

(5)Mark's mom let Mark and Darron know that Mark's sister had new braces. Darron asked if they were the metal kind or the invisible kind. She said "I think they were the invisible kind because I noticed them."

(6)While waiting for our food to come out, Mark's Mother indignantly picked up some chopsticks and then slammed them back down onto the table while loudly protesting, "Do THEY expect me to eat with THESE?"

(7) On the way home, Mark's mom stated that tomorrow is Father's Day. She then asked Darron "Are you expecting any cards in the mail?" The humor here is that Darron is not married, has no girlfriend, has no kids, and has not had sex since Clinton was in office. Mark's Mom got a good ZING in there. Mark's Mom 1 point...Darron 0.

Miscellaneous

Darron started to wheeze and grow very tired shortly after ingesting his mushrooms and sukiyaki. Little did Darron know that "Sukiyaki" is Japanese for "Poisonous and estrogen-filled dessert for little girls." Cindy Wu could hardly contain herself when Darron requested this dish usually reserved for pre-pubescent female children.

A nice restaurant in Hayward. Come while you can. It will be turned into a Taqueria by September.

They have wood-flavored toothpicks.

Right before we left, one of the waitresses ran from the kitchen crying. We couldn't figure out why, but we assumed it was something Darron did.

Overall

Mark: 4 out of 5 women's open-toed shoes

This was by far one of the best (of the oh-so-many) restaurants that we have critiqued. The fish was spectacular and I didn't order anything made for a little girl. I was stuffed when we left, and I didn't get into one fight with my Mom. This was quite a success if you ask me. Tomodachi Sushi Bistro...go for the sushi, stay for the third-degree burns from the tea.

Darron: 2 out of 5 Hawaiian shirts

I did not like it. I'm wheezy and sleepy. I feel like I'm drunk now...there's something in that sukiyaki.

The Name Game Gone Awry

So I run these teacher training sessions from time-to-time. Sometimes these sessions involve Americans trying to get a certificate so they can teach English, but other times, other times I am teaching foreign instructors how to teach English better back home in their countries. These are ALWAYS interesting classes.

You might not have known this, but there was a recent law passed in Korea that from now on, all English instruction now has to be in English...meaning they can no longer tell little Seoung Me Kim what a past participle is in Korean; they now must tell her in English. No easy task, to be sure.

So Korea is spending thousands and thousands of dollars to send their teachers to the US so they can learn how to do this for kids back home that don't know how to speak English in the first place, let alone how to understand while being taught in English. Hurray!

The best part about my job is when we get Korean teachers that have been teaching for 20 to 30 years, and THEY could care less about how to teach English using English.

I introduce to you Mr. Daeyoung. He is such a teacher.

One activity I use during teacher training is a very simple game that has a lot of grammatical applications. I won't go into the grammar here because I know you don't care, nor do I want you to know how much English grammar you know nothing about. Ha!

Regardless, this game is called "The Name Game." Here are the VERY simple rules:

Say your first name and something you like that starts with the same letter as your first name. The next person says the previous person's name and like; then, "does" him/herself. The third person, "does" the previous two, them him/herself, etc

For example:

Person #1 My name is Mark and I like milk.

Person #2 His name is Mark and he likes milk. My name is Darron and I like Donkey Dick

Person #3. His name is Mark and he likes milk. His name is Darron and he likes Donkey Dick. My name is Tauni and I like Titties.

That's it. As I said, it's a very simple game.

When it's Daeyoung's turn (he happens to go fifth in a class of 15 people), he dutifully gets the previous four names correct, and then says the following:

Daeyoung: And my name is Daeyoung and I like young men.

Me: Well....that's very...interesting Daeyoung, but you aren't really following the rules of the game. You see, you need to say something that starts with "D."

Daeyoung: daeYOUNG and YOUNG. This match.

Me: Um...well...you see Daeyoung...the rules...

Daeyoung: I understand direction...DAEYOUNG LIKES YOUNG MEN.

Me: OK...ok...you like young men.

And for the next 10 minutes, I get to listen to every other student say "And his name is Daeyoung and he likes young men."

Good times...good times....

Online Dating -- It Aint Always Fun

My friend Ryan and I got into a tiff about online dating about a week ago...one of the outcomes of that discussion was that I told him I would post some online dating horror stories. So...from March 5th, 2006, I submit the following (you're welcome, Ryan)


***

So I’m 30, and single. That doesn’t make me a bad person, and in many ways it might make me smarter than you! But, if the past few weeks of my life have taught me anything…it has taught me how pathetic it is being single, at times.

I broke up with my girlfriend about six weeks ago now…and while you may think that wound is still fresh, a person being a complete bitch to me has a way of sealing up wounds quickly…and let’s just say, I aint got no wounds. So, into the world of Yahoo Personals I went. I have tried online dating before, and in fact, met my previous girlfriend on Craigslist. Seeing as how that ended up with her being a nutcase, I thought I would try something different.

I have learned a few things the past week….most of them not good. I have learned that women, in my dating life at least, are just a wee bit selective about what they tell you…and when they tell you it. For example:

Girl #1: “Average” Body-Type Girl.

I’m not superficial. I’m not. But girl #1 and I chatted for about a week online before we met up. She had three pictures of herself on her profile, each one cuter than the last. In one pic, she is even holding a skydiving certificate, and I must say, is looking pretty hot in her jumpsuit. Additionally, in all her pics, she looks about 25 even though her age clearly stated 34 on her profile. Ah…she just looks young for her age I think. She wouldn’t lie about her looks with super old pictures…I mean, I might eventually meet her.

But lie, my friends, she did.

The friendly banter and flirting built up to our first date. I show up the restaurant first, and I am pretty nervous. I haven’t gone out with anyone new in a very long time. I was used to the ex and I either (a) going out with each other or (b) fighting and not going out at all. SO…my hands were even sweating. I was really excited…this hot and fun girl, who picked me out of all these other lucky guys, was coming to meet me. I was stolked about how short my dating period was going to be to find a new girlfriend. I had it all figured out!

The place we decided to meet happened to have valet parking, so I decided to wait in front near the attendants, about ten feet away from where people drop off their cars. I was sitting on the curb. At about 6:05, about five minutes late, I notice this blonde in a car. This must be her I think. That looks like her, at least. But when the valet opens the door, this woman, who appears to be at least 50 pounds heavier than the pictures I have been daydreaming about, rolls out of the car. As I am sitting on the curb, I don’t even get up because I convince myself That CAN’T be her…the girl from Yahoo is MUCH thinner than this and has a self-proclaimed "‘Average’ body type.” As she waddled over to me, I realized that this was her, and I was going to have to spend the next few hours telling myself that it is ok that I was lied to. I don’t care that she was heavy…I care that she misrepresented herself.

But man, during drinks, she really had some fabulous quotes. Some of my favorites were It may not look like it, but I really like to eat. I shit you not, she said this. She actually said this. And another one of my favorites had to be I literally pigged out at a buffet earlier today…I can really eat when I want to. Followed up with Although I am trying to be healthier…but it was a buffet after all. I was also let in on a little secret during our time together…and something she neglected to tell me before…"Average Body Type Girl" didn’t have a job…I guess this unfortunate turn of events combined with her weekly food allowance made it necessary for her to find some means of financial backing. I mean “She really likes to eat” after all.

NEXT!


Girl #2 – Claw Girl

Claw Girl dropped a double whammy on me the night we met. Her profile picture on her site did nothing for me, but she seemed really, really cool, so I thought I would give it a go.

As she walked up, she had a very different body than Average Body-Type Girl. She looked hot. She swaggered up to me with long, brown, flowing hair, and had a really nice glow about her. She had a beautiful smile, and her eyes really lit up when the lights from the coffee shop flickered off of them when she got within hand shaking distance. Hand…shaking…distance.

When I stuck out my hand to shake her hand hello, I noticed something odd about Claw Girl. I noticed that her hands/arms didn’t really work. Didn’t work? you ask. What do you mean, ‘Didn’t work’? Well, she had to use the back of both her hands in an attempt to clutch my hand. And to shake my hand, she somewhat moved her shoulders up and down in a shrug-like motion. Are you kidding me? I thought. Again, I didn’t care that this chick had a handicap….but you think she might have mentioned this under the “About me” section or the “Do all your appendages work?” one.

So we go in and get some coffee…and we chat. About 30 minutes into our conversation, Claw Girl drops bomb number 1.

CG: “Blah…Blah…Blah…My husband…Blah…Blah…Blah”

Me: “I’m sorry….did you just say ‘husband’?”

CG: “Oh yeah…I’m married…but we’re separated….so it’s not like I am really married.”

Me: “I see….so am I supposed to be like the mistress…and you are going to keep telling me that you are going to leave your husband…but it just isn’t the right time yet???”

She actually laughed at this although I was being serious. But we carried on the conversation…when she dropped “bomb” #2: I don’t know if you noticed opined Claw Girl, but I have a slight handicap with my arms and hands. And I held in a laugh. I’m not sure if Claw Girl didn’t think I noticed our awkward handshake, the fact that she had to pick up her coffee with the back of her hands, or that she used her feet to dig through her purse…but I decided to play along.

Me: Really? You do?

CG: Yes…I usually don’t tell people about it…

Well, that’s good Claw Girl. Having a slight physical abnormality isn’t something you should share with people you are going to meet from the internet…I was certainly glad when she let her little ruse come to an end. Needless to say…I won’t be asking Claw Girl for her hand in marriage anytime soon. OK…that was bad.

NEXT!


Girl #3: The Sieve

Kind of disgruntled by Average-Body and Claw Girls…I still had hope. The Sieve had been emailing me all week…and I must say, looked very cute in her profile pic, and was very mellow in her emails…nothing was a big deal…and we even talked on the phone a bit, I gotta say, she made me laugh. A few hours before we are going to meet up…she called me…almost in a panic: You realize I smoke, right? My profile says I do, but some people don’t notice that. Now, I don’t like smokers, but I really appreciated her honesty. I thought this was very different than Claw and Average Body Girls…and I respected her for being so forthright about it.

No problem. I tell her. Thank you for letting me know. Little did I realize at that time that she meant she smoked like a fucking bull moose…

Anyway, she ends up picking me up…and the second I see The Sieve…I realize something isn’t right. She, too, doesn’t look like her pictures….I mean, she does, except with the added bonus that it looked like she just got out of a three-hour bath and came directly over to my house…and, along the way, she also decided to slather her eyeballs with yellow dye. This chick was a walking tobacco factory…and looked AT LEAST 15 years older than her true age…28. But, if you recall…her nickname is the Sieve…NOT Joe Camel. So there must be more to this story…

We go to a bar and hang out…and she is very cool, I have to admit. I enjoyed talking with her, but I notice she is sucking down beers faster than I am…and although she looks more worn out than a 50-year-old throw rug…she does have a very smoking hot body. She is probably about 5’2” and maybe weighs about 100 lbs or so.

Four pints into the night…I’m feeling a little tipsy, and I ask her if she is going to be ok to drive. She tells me I don’t usually like showing people how much I can drink, especially on the first date…but I can really handle my liquor.

OK…I think…we’ll be fine…and we decide to head over to another bar before we go home. When we hit the next bar, she switches from beer to wine, and from sanity to insanity. She starts stumbling all over herself, and in the course of an hour, finishes her second pack of cigarettes. Granted, I am not very attracted to this person, but she HAD been fun to talk to until this point…and this point passed when she could no longer walk anymore.

I inquired about how I could get her home because not only had she smoked enough to influence the tobacco trade on Wall Street on our first date…but she had also ssssttttartted sllllurrring herrrr wwwwwwordsssss...along with walking into walls. When I suggest that I drive her home…she gets irritated with me and says: Fine…I’ll just take a cab

What’s the problem? I say

If you don’t want to spend the night with me…that’s fine.

OK…well…let’s just get out of here and worry about it later. I have no intention of sleeping with this girl…but we need to get out of this bar….and I need to get her to her home.

*Flash Forward a Bit*

By no means am I completely sober at this point…I have had about 6 pints of beer…but I am straight as an arrow compared to The Sieve, who is telling me….sorry, screaming at me…I CAN DRIVE...I CAN DRIVE...as we walk back to her car.

I wrestle the keys away from her, and I tell her that I will take care of the driving as I am actually pretty sober at this point. I start the car, and start driving home, which is literally five minutes away…I get two feet out of the spot…when The Sieve lets me in on a little secret. Why is it all these people have little secrets?

You can’t get pulled over. I kind of have a DUI…and if you get pulled over and I am drunk in my car…I am going to jail.

Um…oooooooooook I say…and am wondering how often she does this kind of thing.

And for the next few minutes she is CONSTANTLY…and I mean CONSTANTLY telling me to speed up or slow down or I cant get pulled over or Is that a cop? over and over again. I think these are things The Sieve should have thought about before pounding more than her weight in beer…but I digress.

We get back to my place…and this is not made up. She starts randomly asking me:

Do you work in a big town or in a town that is big?

I’m sorry?

Do you work in a big town or in a town that is big?

I’m not sure what you mean

It’s a yes/no question damn it! Do you work in a big town or in a town that is big?”

Well I frighteningly respond San Diego is a big town…so I guess I work in a big town?

Ahh…I see…so you are a policeman, then?

I’m sorry? I’m not following. I start wondering if my knives are locked up.

So, you’re a policeman.

Look, I really don’t know what you are talking about.

Mark, you have totally ruined the moment. Totally.

I’ve done what now?

You’ve ruined the moment.

Gee…I’m sorry.

And at this point, I am actually fearful for my life…I have no idea how nuts this chick really is…I end up sleeping in my living room with one eye open, keeping an eye out for any sort of policeman-like split personalities.

NEXT!

***

So, Ryan. There you have it. These are ALL true stories...and an example of why J-Date became an option.

ESPN The Magazine and Writing "Teachnique"

I posted this rant about ESPN the Magazine on my fantasy baseball message board. Most of those guys are too busy pretending not to be gay to even understand it.

So, I thought I would repost it here.


I hate this fucking magazine. For some reason, I let my subscription to SI run out...and now I am stuck with hip-hop nation, all happening to center around upcoming ESPN events. Weird.

Have any of you ever read an article by Stephen A Smith? God...and we wonder (or I wonder) why kids can't write correctly. His "inner city voice" is so "edgy." Fuck him.

And no more Dan Patrick...but now I get to read about golf stories from Rick Reilly. Fuck Rick Reilly. Go back to SI, you fuck. Maybe if I were 50, or retired, I would find him somewhat interesting. But I'm not. So, I don't. Has he ever written an article that wasn't about golf, his dad, or playing golf with his dad? Has he?

The only good thing about the magazine is Bill Simmons....and my complimentary "ESPN.com Insider Pass."

But, is it worth it? It is worth shitting on the toilet and reading about The X-Games every week just so later that day I can look at the "rumor" section on ESPN.com?

I don't know...

It's funny because I look at the content, and since the audience I am writing for in my fantasy league is very "sports savvy," and "real-man (ha) laden" I know THEY know who the heck I am talking about.

Then, we have the people who read my blog...and I know who most of you are...and I know most of you won't have a damn clue who/what I am talking about...or why I am using the "f-word" so much.

On a purely "writing technique" level, this is an interesting investigation into "knowing your audience."

Would teaching this technique then become a "teachnique?"

Fuck if I know.

Boobs, Moobs, And The People Who Have Them

The back, she is still not better. So, after putting it off for as long as I could...I went to go get a massage. Why wait? Well, my last massage experience was not much fun.

This time was different, though. This time, I had a plan.

Tauni and I made an appointment, and we specifically asked for a FEMALE masseuse. Couple that with my direct instructions of "not rolling over" at any point, and I felt good to go. I wasn't going to give my neck to anyone!!!!!(previous blog reference)

AND IT WENT WELL. The chick, all 90 lbs of her, contorted herself all on, over, and what felt like THROUGH my back. She was also good for some interesting quotes such as:

Massage Lady: I used to be a ballerina while sticking her elbow directly into my side.

Me: Oh yeah?

Massage Lady: Yeah, but what good does it do me to be able to lift my leg over my head?

Me: Biting my tongue and not responding.

Massage Lady: I mean, I guess I could do it at parties.

Me: Needing to respond if she was going to keep talking about her special gift...I guess you could get some free beer out of it?

In the end, maybe it was the imagery, maybe it was the scented candles, maybe it was her sticking her fingers around my spine and yanking it out of my body...but I did feel pretty loose when I left. Not lift-my-leg-over-my-head loose, but looser nevertheless.

***

I am itching to do some training. In the brief time I have been off, I haven't changed my eating habits, and I am already putting on weight. My pecs...which I did finally have...are gone. Where they went? Back behind some lovely moobs. I prefer the term "moob" to "man boob" by the way. I'm not really sure why.

Something needs to change, though. I either need to go on a diet or get back to swimming, biking, and running every day.

If you were me, what you do?

(a) Diet
(b) Swim, bike, run through the pain
(c) Buy a manssiere and/or bro

or

(d) Respond with your own "witty" response where you cleverly make fun of my sexuality and/or my a-cup beauties?

I'll Answer You and Your Stupid Questions

I've been getting some queries (don't get excited, Darron...I wrote QUERIES) about why I have been writing so much more. You beg and you plead...but as soon as I do it, you question why. People are never happy, I tells ya.

The reason I have been writing more is because I have had to stop training/exerc