Everyone and His Mother -- A Mark Manasse Blog

Fat Pants

2011-12-26T11:13:00.000-08:00

It was my first school-wide meeting, and I was looking for something profound to say, something memorable. I wanted my colleagues to remember my point...what I was fighting for. So I told everyone I worked with that I used to be fat. And that got their attention.

***

My first real memory of being outcasted because of my weight was about in third or fourth grade. Overall, I was lucky...although I was a fat-ass for my age, I was still good at sports and I was funny, so I was usually safe from the name calling or torments that many others my rotund-size weren't. When I would meet new kids in new situations and one of them would call me a "fattie" or a "lard ass," I wouldn't even have to say a word...a skinny friend of mine would tell the new kid to shut up for me.

Unfortunately, this didn't save me on a regional all-star soccer team I was on. I didn't know anyone, and I remember one kid in particular made fun of my "boobs" when we played shirts and skins. Comment after comment. Tearing me down. I got to listen to this kid talk about how much my chest jiggled when I ran.

After a few weeks of this, I "accidentally" leg tackled him during practice. He was lying on the ground, crying. I was standing over him with a smirk on my "fat face." Between his tears, he stared up at me and called me more names...but that was the last day he said anything to me about my weight. The other kids kept commenting on what a crybaby he was...and he stopped coming to practice a few weeks later.

And we were what, 10?

***

I told my colleagues that I had broken my collarbone while biking about a year prior. And as the weeks passed, I noticed that I had to go further and further to the right in my closet to find clothes that would fit my growing body. I could see in their eyes that they wanted to know what connection I was making to our students. They wanted to know what this story had to do with them.

***

I got fatter the older I got. I still played sports. My sense of humor didn't change. But as I moved into my teens, these things didn't save me anymore.

Junior High had to be the absolute worst years of my life. I recently moved to a new school and I knew zero people. Those "crimes" combined with the fact that I was about thirty pounds overweight was a daily nightmare for me. On the bus to school, skinny kids used to stick shit in my ears and make pig sounds at me. One Latino kid in particular (who, in my head, I nicknamed "Monkey Boy" because his lips were so chapped, it looked like he had monkey lips) bent my headphones -- the ones I listened to, to help me try ignore their comments -- in half one day...all because I weighed more than he did. I remember at that moment, that somewhere deep inside of me, I felt something I had never felt before. My self-pity changed into hatred....and I dreamed of ripping the shirt off of monkey boy and making him eat it. A fuse had been born. All I needed was a match.

***

I got a few laughs out of my colleagues when I mentioned that, since I couldn't exercise, I became resigned to wearing "my fat pants." And I realized one day, while I squeezed into these pants, that life was all about perspective. If the only pants I could fit into were my fat pants...then those weren't actually my fat pants at all. They were simply my pants.

***

In high school, I had to take the bus home and walk about a mile from the bus stop to my house. There was a kid from the water polo team who lived by me that had to do the same walk.

Every day we would walk home together.

And every day he would call me names for twenty minutes.

He didn't look at me as a person. He looked at me as a toy. A game: Twenty Minutes of Torment. But I respected him because at least I knew where I stood.

Some people were nice to me in front of teachers or other friends...but when we were alone, they would throw stuff at me or hit me or push me into walls when no one was looking. Even at 14 or 15, I had little respect for people who were too afraid to show their true colors in front of everyone else. It made me distrust a lot of people who were fake...who were phonies...Holden Caulfield had it right.

***

I ended my school-wide speech connecting my fat pants to our students. I told my colleagues that I didn't have fat pants. I just had pants. And we didn't have smart students, who deserved an education, and not-smart students, who deserved our pity. In fact, we just had students, and it wasn't up to us to classify them as being acceptable or unacceptable at all. The fact was they were students no matter what kind of label we tried to put on them.

***

The last day I was ever made fun of for being fat in high school was after about three months into doing that twenty-minute walk with that water polo guy. I was on the verge of losing my baby fat. I was on the verge of looking more "normal." But I wasn't there yet. One more thing had to happen.

I was turning the handle on my front door and for whatever reason, the water polo guy finally supplied me with a match. He made some comment about me being "too fat to live." He probably didn't know that my dad had recently died. My overweight dad, I should say.

I turned around, walked up to him, and got in his face. I told him to shut up and leave me alone and somewhere I heard a ticking.

He told me to shut my "fat mouth"...and I heard an alarm go off...and I hit him. Right in the eye.

He fell over.

Passed out.

And I was afraid that I killed him.

He woke up a few minutes later and went home crying. But he never bothered me again.

***

I don't fit in my fat pants anymore...at least, not right now. But my journey has taught me one thing -- never stop fighting for what you believe in no matter what anyone else says.

Twinkie the Kid

2011-11-13T11:58:00.001-08:00

Sugar, take this and breathe into it, she said.

I had done this before, and I knew, since she was asking, the news wasn't going to be good.

Just a real hard puff, honey. I found myself angry at her for no reason and noticed that the nurse was out of breath after the short walk from the waiting room to the examination room. And so was I.

She was about 5'3, probably in her mid-fifties, and to call her a "large woman" would have been a compliment. She was wearing blue spandex, and as I sulked and wheezed behind her during our seemingly marathon-distance journey, I got to watch her butt cheeks dimple and clump together, rhythmically. Too tired to make pleasant conversation, I was stuck just watching her and wondering why she chose those pants on this particular day, and if I was meant to be there, at that moment, to watch her ass bulge, during my dead-man-walk.

When she handed me the PVC-esque pipe to breathe into to gauge how messed up my lungs were, I watched her upper arms sway under her pink and blue floral blouse. A collection of fat and skin gathered where her triceps should have been, so much so, that when she put her arms at her side, her shoulders flared out like an out-of-shape and pastel-clad Incredible Hulk.

I think about all these things as a distraction while I breathe in, as much as I can, and let out a puff of air. When completed, I dutifully gaze up at my nurse looking for some sort of congratulations through my coughs: Look at me...I can take a deep breath...without passing out. I should win an award!

Instead, I am greeted by a furrowed brow and a Honey, don't be such a wuss. I know your skinny-white-ass can do better than that.

*Cough* Excuse me? *Cough* What was that?

I said, try it again, sweetie...

Challenged, I take an even deeper breath, let out an even stronger puff of air, and notice the little gauge on the PVC-esque pipe move a bit farther this time.

That's better, sugar. Now take off your shirt so I can take a closer look atcha.

Exhausted, my only response is a phlegm-filled cough as I remove my shirt so she can "listen to my lungs."

MMMMMM, you work out a lot, sugar, doncha?

Getting a little uncomfortable, I hiss out a response, as best I can. Yeah, that's why I'm here. *Cough Hack Cough* I got sick this last week and didn't stop training. *Cough Cough* I took a few days off, but I guess I should have taken a few more.

Whatchu training for, honey? What's so important to get you THIS sick? Her question hung in the air while she puffed on her stethoscope, put her right hand on my side and then, from what felt like millimeters from my ear, whispered: Relax, sugar. This is going to be a little...*pause* *pause* *pause*...cold.

"Relaxed" might be the opposite of what I felt. The cool sting of the stethoscope and the smell of syrup on her breath had me flustered, and I didn't know how to answer her question exactly. I breathed deeply so she could listen to my lungs gurgle, before replying I'm training for an Ironman and waited for the normal responses:

Is that in Hawaii?
Wow, I can't even run a mile.
I've run a 5K before!
What order do you do that in?

...some of the ones I hear the most. But the nurse didn't say any of these things. She just kept listening to my lungs and then slowly walked in front of me. She had what I can only classify as "a look" in her eyes and then asked:

Are you good?

What do you mean?

Sugar, are you any good?

Virus or Cream Filled?

And I paused, again stumped, and stared off at an evil-looking, cartooned flu virus on the wall. He had a cowboy hat and spurs, and looked to be from about 1983. It kind of reminded me of Twinkie the Kid, but with a virus-cream filling. I glossed over the tips for staying healthy before I replied: Well, I'm not going to win...but I'm pretty good for even trying, I suppose.

I suppose. Well, the doctor will be in to see you in a second. Try to get some rest...and sugar?

Yeah?

Remember why you're here.

And she closed the door behind her.

The Crazy Shit People Say

2011-07-11T12:44:00.000-07:00

While most people were hanging with family and/or BBQing on July 4th, I decided to take the opportunity to do some fundraising. I'm trying to raise nearly $9,500 for LLS cancer research, and the gf suggested we try to get donations for Mardi Gras beads.

Mardi Gras beads? I wondered. Are people going to flash us?

In retrospect...that would have been much less horrific. Overall, most people were very nice while we walked around and asked if they wanted to donate in exchange for cheap-ass beads (or cheap ass-beads, depending on the person, I guess).

On the other hand, some people had crazy shit to say in retort to our requests for donations. Here are some of my favorites, in no particular order:

My Top Ten Favorite Things People Said in Response to "Would you like to donate $1.00 for Cancer Research in Exchange for a Necklace?" (I have also added what I would have liked to have said in return.)

10. So, are you going to show me your junk?

Response: You see, you're just not certain how this works. I don't give you a necklace AND show you my junk. You either need to show me YOUR junk or you have to give me a necklace to see mine. Idiot.

9. You know. Anyone can put on a shirt and say they are raising money for cancer.

Response: You're right, dipshit. Anyone can put on pants, too.

8. You have any weed?

Response: Nope. Just necklaces. You can try smoking them if you want to, I guess.

7. Do these necklaces really cure cancer?

Response: Getting all literal on me and shit, aren't you? Basically, you give me a $1.00, and I donate it for you. Hopefully, with that money, a cure is found. But, no, brainiac...the necklaces aren't a magic elixir.

6. Do I have to show you my tits like in New Orleans?

Response: (a) No. (b) You're a guy. (c) No.

5. Do you work for the police?

Response: Yes. This is an undercover sting. And you are being arrested. For being stupid.

4. (While pulling money out of his pants) I don't have any money. I left it in my car.

Response: David Copperfield you are not!

3. Do you have an ATM machine?

Response: Yes. I carry two bags. One with necklaces. One with an ATM machine. Do you remember your PIN, moron?

2. You look familiar. Do you know my cousin, Tito. He lives in Chula Vista. Brown hair. Kind of a jerk.

Response: Do you know his SSN? That might help.

1. Yes! I would.

Response: Thank you!

Laughter Yoga, The Joke's on Me.

2011-06-29T13:54:00.000-07:00

It's true. I will try (almost) anything once. So, when it was suggested that I try something called "Laughter Yoga," that's right, "Laughter Yoga," I just couldn't resist.

I think it's really one of those things you have to experience to truly understand the depth of its absurdity, but to put it simply, it was crazy! Personally, I went in being completely ready to poke fun at the experience and internally mock everyone there. I figured if nothing else, it would give me something to write about, too. Well, I did poke fun; I mocked, but underneath it all, there was something in it...so, in a way, the joke was on me.

In sum, a group of adults get together to make fools of themselves in public, with about an hour of fake (and sometimes real) laughing in a circle...and there is absolutely no yoga involved whatsoever. If you don't believe me, look here. This is real. I promise. I did this. Willingly.

What kinds of things did I do while I was there:

I had to talk in emotional gibberish to a person who I had never met before.
I played laughter bumper cars.
I had to make crazy animal sounds.
I had to take (imaginary) laughter pills that made me say "hee" or "haw."
I had to end every exercise by doing a chant of "Very good, very good, YAY!"
I had to tell people that they were amazing...and if someone told me I was amazing, I had to say "Thank you."
And throughout it all, I had to be constantly fake laughing...this was part of the deal. Always. Hee Hee. Haw Haw. The entire time.

Here's the kicker.

There were moments when this laughter wasn't fake. Even though I felt completely out of my element, even though I felt ridiculously vulnerable because I had to take the stick out of my ass and act like a five-year-old, in public, around people I didn't know..there were these moments where I...perish the thought...let go and actually was truly and honestly laughing. And probably the most I had laughed in a really long time, too.

Would I want to invite these people over to my house for dinner? HELLLLL no. But what I thought would be a complete waste of time really wasn't.

I probably won't go back. I think it's one of those situation where it isn't you, Laughter Yoga; it's me. But I'm glad I went, though...and, if only for one hour, felt what it was like to be a kid again. A crazy, psychotic kid on acid, but a kid nevertheless.

If you need a laugh, and can stand making a fool out of yourself in front of others (a natural gift of mine), I say, give it a try.

The Day I Lost My Virginity

2011-06-20T09:52:00.001-07:00

(Please note: This blog has been slightly modified to protect the innocent [me] and to make sure that I don't get any more letters from lawyers about its veracity.)

When I was in high school, I had 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 ended going to a place I would like to deem The 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 House of the Devil.

"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 The House of the Devil. I figured it would be best if I didn't know...and I was right.

The only thing I did know I learned from the gf. 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 the gf 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 the gf 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 stoked. 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.

Poop in All the Wrong Places

2011-06-18T07:57:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when Maggie the Pug gets upset and/or vindictive, she poops in the house. Usually right in front of my bathroom because I am the one who disciplines her when she is being a naughty little puggy. It's ok...she's a dog and is merely expressing her feelings. It just sucks because sometimes I step in it (barefoot), and if it's been there a few hours, it can stink up an entire room. That little dog can pack quite a punch!

***

Two nights ago, while we were going to bed, I stopped off in my bathroom adjacent to our bedroom to wash my face. I was taken aback because our shower, which is about 3' x 3' with about a 5" lip, was completely filled with clear water.

I stuck my head out of the bathroom and said: Um, I think we have a bit of a problem, here.

T-, annoyed and tired, replies: What is it?

Me: I think there is water coming up out of our drain. Our shower is completely filled.

T-: It's probably just clogged. Don't worry about it.

Me: Hmmm...I don't know, this seems a little worse than a clog...and I just took a shower a few hours ago, and it drained fine.

T-: It's nothing. Just go to sleep.

Me: OOOOOOOkkkkk...

The next morning, the shower was empty...maybe she was right. Maybe she was...

***

Last night, we were BBQing. At one point, after about three glasses of water and multiple adult beverages and about a pound of carne asada, spanish rice, and beans, (you know, a dinner equating to like one gigantic laxative) I needed to excuse myself to use the facilities. I went back to our room, and it smelled like Maggie had gone to the bathroom.

That's weird, I didn't discipline her at all today...hmmm...

So I start looking around my room for her "gift," and couldn't find anything. I look in the bathroom, and notice that the shower is filled again. This time with brown water. Brown-shit-smelling water.

I run out of the bathroom, towards the front of the house, but feel like the smell has beaten me there. I peep my head in the other bathroom to find this:

T-, it appears, was wrong. And this is the nastiest, foulest smelling "I told you so" ever.

***

I'm relieved that Maggie is not the culprit of any of the smells eminating from the house, but a little upset that I have gallons of sewage sitting in my bathrooms. I am also a little upset because I really, really, really need to go, but we are instructed by the plumber to not use the water until he can get there (early the next morning).

That's fine, I think, I can wait until tomorrow.

***

We end up having to sleep in our living room because our bedroom smells like an asshole. At about 5:00 AM, Maggie wakes me up so SHE can go to the bathroom outside, and I have a terrible feeling. That special feeling. You know the feeling I'm talking about, in my stomach.

I try to tell myself to go back to sleep...but watching my dog go gives me this strange feeling of jealousy. That lucky bitch! She just trots outside and takes a dump, yet I'm stuck here holding it in...inside a house that smells like crap!

I come back in and start pacing around my living room. I really have to go and have the following options:

(1) Use my seemingly working toilets and flush even though I have been told not to.
(2) Use my seemingly working toilets and not flush. The entire house smells like poop anyway.
(3) Follow Maggie's lead and go outside.
(4) Just go in the bathtub.
(5) Hold it and try to go back to sleep.

Against every man instinct inside of me, I decide to just hold it in.

***

I had heard of night sweats before...but this technically was morning, and caused by not being able to go to the bathroom...so I guess I had morning-holding-my-poop-in-sweats. I just tossed and turned and tried to think of anything else that I could. The plumber was supposed to be coming first thing in the morning, and I felt like I could wait this out.

By 7:00, this wait was over. And I lost.

I decided to drive over to the Starbucks a couple miles from my house, buy some coffee, and use their facilities. Heck, I was a paying customer!

I go in, do my business, and, of course, there is no toilet paper. Awesome.

At this moment, I think we all have a little MacGyver inside of us, and I start scanning the room, What can I use...and are there any paperclips I can somehow involve?

I see a door, hobble over to it, it is thankfully unlocked, and find some supplies. Crisis averted!

***

What have I learned? A few things, I guess:

(1) When you see clear water filling up your shower, don't ignore it, even if told to do so;
(2) Don't eat tons of Mexican food and drink a lot of beer if there is even a chance your bathroom will not be working; and
(3) Sewage really doesn't smell good. At all.

The Sound of (Fart-Filled) Silence

2011-06-13T18:07:00.000-07:00

She came into the yoga studio five minutes after the class started and looked discombobulated. She was frumpy and frizzy, and wore a gray, baggy sweatshirt that hung loosely to her body, the right side descending off her shoulder. Her black sweatpants were ratted and torn and only came down to right below her knees.

Also, as I would find out later, she liked to fart. In public.

I'm sorry, this is my first time here, she confessed to the yoga instructor, who was giving her a stern look for coming into the class late.

That's ok, just quietly find a spot. There is one. Right there.

This spot was right behind me.

***

During one of our first exercises, while we were on our backs, the yoga instructor told us to stretch our hands and legs out, elongating our spines. It was at this moment that I realized that the frumpy-frizzy lady not only sat behind me, but was only inches away from my mat. As I stretched my arms beyond my head, I felt her calves and noticed that her feet were bookending my ears. Regardless of the fact that there was plenty of room NOT to be in my personal space, you would think this would have made her uncomfortable.

Well. It didn't.

I quickly retracted my arms like I had just been shocked by a light socket. She didn't move. I turned and whispered Sorry; she just slightly tilted her head up and released a dry smile.

That's not normal, I thought, and I quietly (and quickly) got up and slid my yoga mat forward. While I did, I heard a loud, sticky sound, like someone was pulling some tape off a piece of construction paper. I figured my mat had managed to become cemented to the studio floor. I was wrong.

***

Later, we were still stretching our backs. The instructor told us to pull our right knees up to our chests, and I hear a small raspberry sound, right behind my head. I ignored it. No, it couldn't be.

We were then instructed to lower our right legs back down, and pull our left legs to our chests. I heard a small raspberry sound again. Wait. Is she???

Finally, we were told to pull both legs in, and then there was no mistaking it. The frumpy-frizzy lady, whose butt was inches away from my head, let out a gigantic, cleansing, double-butt-cheek-flapping fart. In a otherwise perfectly quiet yoga studio.

Of course, it was hard to tell where this sound came from, but being so loud, everyone in the studio looked in our direction. It took every ounce of maturity in my body not to say "Seriously, it was her!!" Instead, I just froze motionless. Both knees into my chest. Trying with all my might not to burst out laughing.

***

Next, we had to get onto our hands and knees, and lower and raise our spines (cat-cow). I just kept thinking about how this lady just farted on my head, and had to feign looks of exasperation on my face so the frumpy-frizzy lady wouldn't see me laughing at her in the mirror that was in front of both of us in the studio.

But I swear, during this movement, every few seconds, I would hear little gusts of air behind me, and I just started laughing. I couldn't hold it in. Clearly, neither could she!

***

Eventually, she ran out of gas.

The class ended, and she went up to the instructor and thanked her for running a great session. She slumped her way back out of the studio. Sweatshirt still over shoulder. Black sweatpants still old and overused. Maybe even more so now.

And I wanted to thank her...for the best laugh I had had in months.

Excuse Me Miss, You Are Violating My Underwear

2011-06-12T17:21:00.000-07:00

You know those moments when time speeds around you, but all actions in your line of sight are moving in slow motion? I got to experience that while a fifty-year-old woman fingered my underwear.

No. I wasn't wearing them at the time.

I was sitting on a plane, on the way to Washington. I was buckled in, headphones on, my don't-even-think-about-asking-me-if-I-want-peanuts look on my face. We were going to take off in just a few minutes.

*nudge* *nudge-nudge*

I am awakened from my tunnel vision by the gf, who mouths something that I can't understand through my headphone-covered ears. It looks like she mouthed Isn't tits your bag?

While they are, I couldn't figure out for the life of me why she was bringing this up...so I removed my headphones.

Isn't that your bag?

Wow. That made a lot more sense...but I still didn't really understand, until I followed her gaze to the woman sitting two rows ahead of me, who was pulling my suitcase down from the overhead compartment.

I didn't say anything because I was certain, CERTAIN, that she would figure her mistake out at any moment...and, embarrassed, return my bag, and go back to her seat.

I didn't take into account that she was a fucking idiot, though. My bad.

She takes my bag all the way down to her seat, and starts to unzip it. This, I think, is a little odd.

Ma'am I query...and she ignores me through her unzipping.

Ma'am I say louder, as she reaches into my bag.

MA'AM I yell as the entire plane now watches us. I don't think that is your bag.

I am just looking for my bag and she slowly starts pulling my underwear out of my suitcase.

The flight attendant now comes over and asks me if anything was wrong. Besides the fact that some lady I had never met before was thumbing through the pee hole of my boxers in the middle of a crowded plane...no, nothing was wrong.

Ma'am, can you please put my bag back? That isn't yours, I request. She looks over, underwear dangling from her fingers, a confused look on her face, and it seems to finally click: That isn't her bag.

She takes a quick whiff of my underwear, puts them back in the bag, zips it back up, and puts it back into the overhead compartment.

NOW, this is when it starts to get weird.

The flight attendant says "Sir, you might want to check your bag. She might have put something in there." And all of the sudden I see myself getting arrested for felony drug charges as I plead, "No, seriously, that isn't my heroin. The crazy underwear lady put that in my boxers!" I guess that wouldn't go over too well.

So, I get up, bring my bag back down, and open it back up right behind her. I toss my clothes around for a few seconds, don't find anything, and exclaim, Hey, where did my $10,000 go? The entire section of the plane starts laughing...except the crazy underwear lady. She starts staring at me like I am looking in HER bag and says I don't know where they put my bag. Do you have my bag?

The flight attendant has to come over and ask her if she checked her bag, where she left it, etc...and she is clearly confused. I shit you not, moments later, they make an announcement that someone left his/her bag at the front of the plane.

I put my (and this is important) BLACK AND GRAY suitcase back into the overhead compartment while she goes to retrieve what is hopefully her suitcase. It was hers. It was also red, and looked nothing like mine! Everyone in the entire section of the plane is looking at me and mouthing "What the fuck is wrong with her?" And I mouth back "Stanford grad?"

The rest of the flight goes off without a hitch, until we land, when she once AGAIN starts to go for my bag. Luckily, the flight attendant comes over, and tells her that the suitcase is not hers.

She walked away, out of my life, never to see me, or my underwear, ever again.

My Speech at Darron's Wedding.

2011-03-26T20:44:00.000-07:00

When I told my college students I was going to my best friend’s wedding this weekend, they asked how long we had been friends. I had to stop and pause and think about the gravity of that statement. My first instinct was to say 10 years…then maybe 15…but as I thought back, I realized that it has been since 7th grade. 1988. So 23 years. Their eyes widened and I felt like we were really sharing a deep and powerful moment; a pause fell over the class…until one of my students said “Dude that is longer than I’ve been alive. You’re REALLY old.” Don’t worry…I’m going to fail his ass.

Anyway, 23 years is a long time to get to know someone, really know someone…and as Pam has already noticed, and is sure to continue to find out over the course of their marriage, there truly are two sides to Darron Evans. Let me explain.

Our first memories of meeting each other are tellingly different. I remember us meeting because our 7th grade history teacher had us exchange word searches that we created. I mistakenly forgot to put one of the words to find into the actual puzzle, so apparently he and his mom spent all night looking for something that wasn’t there. His first memory of me is in our PE class…remember, this was 1988…so we had VERY short shorts. So really, Darron’s first memory of me is of ogling my legs. So, Pam, this first memory demonstrates two things about Darron: His level of dedication and ability to forgive with the crossword puzzle…and from the PE class: his appreciation of nice legs.

A necessary attribute of a significant other, is that he/she needs to be there for you…and I think Darron does that. For example, as some of you may know there is this game called The Sims. The Sims, in short, is a game where you recreate life. You can create a character of yourself that goes to work or parties, whatever you want, and it must sleep and eats like a real person, or this character can die. It becomes a virtual representation of you. Anyway, at one point after college, I was having some serious problems with a roommate of mine; his name was Marty. Marty was a mean, nasty person, who was a drug addict, stole a bunch of my stuff, and refused to move out for a long time. When I told Darron of this issue, he, of course, did what any normal person would do. He went to his Sims game, and created a virtual pool with some virtual stairs. He then created a virtual Marty to walk into the virtual pool with the virtual stairs...and then removed the virtual stairs that led out of the virtual pool. So virtual Marty walked back and forth and back and forth until he died...and a virtual tombstone was created. So, Pam, this demonstrates Darron’s willingness to protect the honor of those he loves, which is a very important quality in a husband. Unfortunately, this may also mean he is a psychopath.

I understand that you two are going to Hawaii for your honeymoon. That’s great…and I’m positive that you two are going to have an amazing time. Just be careful if you go into the ocean while you are there…Darron seems to bring a bit of bad luck for his companions. One time, Darron and I were out in the ocean with my friend Armando, who Darron didn’t know very well at all. Unfortunately, Armando got stung in the face by a jellyfish. While we all raced to get out of the water, Darron turns to me and asks with hope in his eyes like a kid on Christmas morning “Aren’t we supposed to pee on it?” I respond “Yeah, but that’s his face…so…that’s not going to happen.” As we caught up to Armando, who is writhing in pain on the beach, and I’m about to ask him how he’s doing…Darron of course tactfully blurts out “So, did you want us to pee on it?" Oddly, he said no.

Not to mention, there was the time that Darron and I were snorkeling in Maui, looking at some sea turtles and I got stung all up and down my arm and side. I told Darron what happened and instantly swam to shore, thinking the entire time: “I’m going to punch him in the mouth if he asks to pee on it.” When I got to shore, I painfully turned around, and noticed that Darron was STILL snorkeling and thought something I never thought I would ever, ever think: “Hey…why doesn’t Darron want to pee on me?” So, Pam, these two stories demonstrate important information about Darron. First, we can interpret his actions when I got stung as showing true bravery because he was able to swim undistracted by the fear of jellyfish; not to mention, I discovered that being ignored by Darron is truly a badge of honor. Clearly, he only offers to pee on people he doesn’t really care about. On the other hand, I really think these stories could also show that Darron can be kind of an ass. I really could have died man…where were you?

This of course all leads up to Darron and me meeting you, Pam. The two of us, sitting around bored one day, looking for something to do probably after a long, crazy night of eating two-large pizzas, playing chess, and watching Lord of the Rings for the tenth time. Yes…we were some VERY eligible bachelors…and we just couldn’t understand why we didn’t have girlfriends.

So, I decided to post an ad on Craigslist looking for two ladies who wanted to hang out with me, and a vengeful psychotic, who likes to pee on people’s faces and ogle the legs of young boys. (I didn’t write that in the ad, but it was definitely implied.) Pam and a friend of hers (the infamous "Willow") responded to our ad...and the second we left that double date, Darron asked and he asked and he asked if it was ok for him to call Pam or if I wanted to. I still remember that moment as we walked back to our car…I thought to myself: “Wow, it’s like he is in love with her or something.” And I remember thinking that in all our years together, and all we had been through, I had never seen him like that.

The reason I know Pam and Darron are such a great pair is because, all jokes aside, he is by far the most intelligent, kindest, giving person I have ever known. He doesn’t talk the talk…he walks the walk…he lives a life that demonstrates a true desire for social change and equality. I think about all the lives he has touched as a teacher, and I am in awe at his passion and desire to make this world not just a better place for himself, but a fairer place for all. And what I notice about him when he is with Pam, is that she somehow takes the two sides of Darron and accentuates the positives while loving the quirks even more than I do.

Yes, I have known the two sides of Darron for longer than many of my students have been alive. This is true. But time is relative and we should keep in mind the old Japanese proverb that states “When 95% of the journey is over, you are only half way there.” So I, for one, am excited to see Pam and Darron continue to grow together, even grow older together no matter where they are in their journey with just a small a piece of advice… Never, ever get stung by a jellyfish when sea turtles are around...because he might leave you to die.

Cheers to Darron and Pam!

Can A Guy Just Get a Normal Massage for Once?

2011-03-06T15:31:00.000-08:00

We left dinner and the flashing lights to our left got our attention.

MASSAGE it blinked. MASSAGE it flashed with rainbow colors. Who were we to argue?

We went in, and surprisingly, they had instant openings? At 7? On a Saturday night? I guess we just got lucky...

They put us in a couple's room. Asked us to remove our clothes...and then the female Japanese manager asked as she slowly closed the door...

"You rike-a hard massag-e? Media' massag-e? O' sof' massag-e?"

That's an odd question I think as I respond "Hard, I guess?"

And then the fun began.

***

When we first got into the room, I got on my table and noticed that the headrest was too low for my neck and completely not adjustable. T's table was more well-suited for my body type.

"You want to switch?" as she rolls her eyes. She knows that I have massage issues, and she knew my dislike of the headrest was a little bit of my crazy coming out.

"Is that ok?"

So we switch tables, and I try to adjust my headrest that was working just fine for T.

I adjust it. It falls.

I adjust it. It falls.

I adjust it. CLANK! A huge screw falls out of the headrest and onto the floor. I look over at T in absolute fear as I have just broken the fucking massage table headrest! I am already having a slight mental breakdown because I really don't like massages and the fact that I have just broken the table is doing NOTHING to calm my fears.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH is her retort.

"Thanks!" I scowl as I find the screw, and hurriedly try to insert it back into the table as I fear the masseuses will be coming in any moment. CLANK!!!! again.

BAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAAH is all I hear as I fumble around, panicking, looking for the damn screw.

I pick the screw back up and shove it back into the headrest. The screw stays in this time, but the headrest falls limply along the table. The instructions are attached to the headrest still...and I feel a moment of relief.

Directions! I'll just follow the directions! I can do this!

But my moment of relief is taken away from me as I get to step three, the final step, and the headrest still lies limply on its side.

"Did you BAHAHAHHAHAHAH want to BAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA switch back?"

The broken and battered headrest in hand and my tail between my legs, I respond, again, "Is that ok?"

We scurry our half-naked bodies back across the room, and as soon as we get under the covers...KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. The masseuses come in and T straight lies to them:

"Um, there seems to be something wrong with this headrest. It's not working for some reason."

The two girls try to work on it for a moment...and then go get the Japanese manager. She works on it for a few minutes, too...and emphatically apologizes and asks if we would be ok with a new room.

We tell them its ok...and the "massage" begins.

***

I found a number of things odd about this massage. Here they are in no particular order:

(1) My masseuse was wearing a lot of beads on her shirt, so every time she would lean over to do something, her beads would bang into my eyes or drop into my mouth. Not very relaxing.

(2) It wasn't hard..unless you count the part where my masseuse was at the head of the massage table and kept ramming my head. RAMMING my head with her pelvis. For some reason, I think she found it relaxing? to massage my lower back from four feet away...rendering my cranium the only way she could reach her area of desire.

(3) Speaking of desire, did I mention she tried to rape me yet? Oh. I didn't? Because that bitch fucking tried to rape me.

(4) You know when you get yourself in those situations where hypothetically your mom was supposed to say "At least he was wearing clean underwear when X?" Well, I had not planned to be at a massage parlour, so I was wearing my snow-flaked-ladened Family Guy underwear that has a gigantic "I've Been Naughty" quote on them. Excellent.

(5) Did I not fully explain number 3 yet? Oh, I didn't? Let me explain. In any massage I've ever had, the masseuse tends to not touch my boxers in anyway, shape or form. This seems to be qualified as a "no touch" zone. For all the reasons I dislike massage, the "no touch zone" at least gives me some semblance of security. This lady, at various points during the massage, seemed to look at my boxers as some sort of wrapping paper. She pulled my boxes down past my crack, while, at other times, shoved my boxers INTO my crack so she could have at it. I have never had anyone, ever, shove my underwear INTO my ass before. So relaxing...

(6) Did I mention she kept grazing my junk yet? Cuz she did. I wondered, initially, if she kept thinking whatever the translation for "Whoops" is in Japanese in her mind...because I hadn't had my balls handled so much since the last time my doctor checked me for a hernia. After about the fourth "accidental" swipe, and working my way through the fear that she might accidentally slip a digit in my butt with the wayward movement of her hands...I figured this was one of "those" places.

(7) I don't need to go into the biology of what happened when she eventually had me flip over to my front...but as a normal male, if someone is caressing and jostling your upper inner thighs...never quite touching...but oh-so-close-to-touching Broadway...most men (I would assume) would have some sort of physical reaction. I had said reaction. The masseuse then ensued to massage AROUND this "protruding" area, never TOUCHING but, instead, using the shape of a spade with her hands (her forefingers and thumbs touching together). I felt safer, though, because I was no longer in danger of having a digit in my rear and because T was just a few inches away from me.

***

There was no happy ending, literally or metaphorically. As we got dressed, I confided in T what had happened, hoping that she would not be angry at my reaction to the massage.

While lying on her back, she put her hand under her sheet by her stomach and pointed at the ceiling.

"Was it like this? BAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH"

"Shut it"

And then she said "My God. I was worried that lady was going to slip a digit in the entire time!"

So it wasn't only me!

We were basically both sexually assaulted, but we broke their property, too.

I guess it all evens out in the end.

Stuck in the Middle with Me

2011-01-06T16:30:00.001-08:00

There are many, many things I don't like about traveling. First of all, most people are dickheads. I have never understood the race to get ON the plane. It isn't going anywhere. And why does every flight have at least two people who try to shove a bag the size of an elephant into the overhead? They spin and spin their bag around, but guess what, it doesn't fit, jerkoff.

I'm also not a fan of stripping down to go through security. Is there a more reactionary profession than airline security? Shoe bomb? Take your shoes off! Liquids bombs? No more water! Eventually, some dude is going to make a bomb mold, wrap it around his wang, and then we are going to have to nude up. I don't know how many more years of airline travel we have left, but during one of the last flights, I say they live on the edge and let everyone on WITH un-removed shoes and a big bottle of "outside" water. I appreciate the security precautions...I understand them...but they still suck.

Regardless, this blog has nothing to do with any of my traveling neurosis (riiiiight). This blog has to do with how I got totally screwed over on my flight back from New Orleans. T- and I got our seats separated somehow, so I ended up sitting in the middle by two people I didn't know. Normally, not a huge deal. But this was not a normal day.

Of all the people on the entire plane, you know who they put next to me? To my right: The buffest weightlifter dude I have seen in person in my life. As an added bonus, he was wearing short sleeves and he had arms that would have had Robin Williams saying "Dude...that shit's hairy!" He couldn't help but take up the entire armrest, and whenever he leaned to the right, I'm not positive, but I think the plane tilted to the side just a bit. This dude was HUGE (and hairy).

To my left, and I know you won't believe me: The tallest dude on the fucking plane. I shit you not, this guy was 6'10" and sitting in economy? Either play basketball and get a private jet or walk, man. Seriously, I think this guy could have blown himself his legs were so jammed up against the seat in front of him. He, too, could not help but take up the entire armrest.

Then, there was me. Stuck. In the middle. If you don't know me well, I have a thing about being touched (you know what I mean). I have an imaginary bubble that surrounds my skin, my aura, and my aura's afro (FYI, my aura is black). Point being, I like A LOT of personal space. A lot of personal space I didn't get. For hours. If I leaned to my right, I was attacked by thick, black, sweaty, forearm hair. If I leaned to my left, I was almost certainly going to get kneed in the face by Sir Legs-a-Lot.

But my torture didn't end here.

One of the things I love most in life is fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. LOVE THEM. On Frontier Airlines, you know what they do...they come around and PASS SOME OUT FOR FREE! OH YEAH. I was soooooooo happy...I was imagining just a few moments of blissful solitude alone with my cookie. No Steroid McGee. No Manute Bol. Just me. Eyes closed. Fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie in hand. HEAVEN!

Just one little hoop to jump through.

"Excuse me, are these cookies nut free?"

"Nut free?"

"Yeah. Nut free. I have a peanut allergy...and it would be kind of bad to have an allergic reaction on a plane." And as I stuck out my hand and relived my cookie-eating fantasy while waiting for her "Get out of here....of course there are no nuts, you big goof!" she, instead, did the worst thing possible:

"Hmmm...I'm not sure. I don't think so."

My arm (yes, my arm) went flaccid. And I was brought back to reality. I felt Hulk Hogan's hair on me...and I swear to god I could see down into Wilt Chamberlain's crotch..."You don't think so???"

"Yeah...I'm not sure."

If you don't have a peanut allergy, you have no idea how demoralizing this statement is. "Yes, it has peanuts" is very easy to handle. If I eat X, I die. No problem...I won't eat it. But "I don't think so" messes with your mind. Because then you have a choice. Do I want to risk it? is always the first thought that comes to mind...but then you have to deal with the agony of psychosomatic turmoil. Well, at least I do.

"That's ok" I'll just go back to my own personal Hell while I silently hate you.

And yes, in case you were curious, both my row-mates ate their cookies...I can still see the crumbs on Cousin It's forearms in my mind.

You Make Me Want to Poop

2011-01-03T12:59:00.000-08:00

When I was in New Orleans, MANY people suggested I get a voodoo reading done. As a special gift for these assholes, I now bring you my experience...to the lyrics of Salt-N-Pepa's "Shoop."

I, of course, have renamed my version "Poop."

Play the song in the background while you read for an added bonus (it takes two seconds...just do it.) FYI, just in case you were wondering, never attempt to write over lyrics to a Salt-N-Pepa song. NOT easy...and I have now listened to "Shoop" about 1000 more times than I ever thought I would.

Mark Gets Screwed Over Song

Hey, yeah - I wanna poop, baby

[Oooo, how you doin', idiot?
No, not you.
You, the white-faced one, (ha-ha) yeah
What's your name?
Damn, Mark? You sound gullible.]

Here I go,
Here I go,
Here I go again (again?)
Readers, what's my weakness?
(Trying stupid shit!)
Ok then,

Stumblin', bumblin',
Drinkin' Jack Daniels(word)
Yo, D-, I looked around,
And I couldn't believe this

I swear, a voodoo lounge,
T- is my witness
The shack had it goin' on
I was feeling capricious

I'm stupid, stupid (oooo) -
Had to try it
I'm not shy
So I asked for a ticket

A chump? Yeah,
That what it make me
Like a colonic,
Slip slide and your ass is painfully

Felt it in my gut when you dipped into your bag of tricks then a coin that you flipped for a karmic tip made me lose my grip

Shoulda smacked you
Like a bastard-ass should be smacked
Came to my senses
And I chilled for a bit

Don't know how you do the "voodoo" that you do
Just try, but it's a lie, bye, you make me wanna poop poop poop

Poop poop ba-duped
Poop ba-duped
Poop I was duped ba-duped ba-duped
Poop ba-duped
Poop ba-duped
Poop I was duped ba-duped ba-duped

"Ummm, Here's a card and another. This one has a birdy.
Brother, see this kitty? That's important. Take my word on that.

Can I give some advice my white-faced boobie?
For five more bucks, I'll predict your thoughts on Scooby-Doobie

You're a smarty- (HA!) What's up, Mr. Johnson?
He woulda gotta away it...if not for these meddling kids!

I digress, time's up, hold up, Mr. Stupid
Like 976 that's $2.99 for an ansa'

Well-a, I like 'em real bumpkin, Gomer Pyle-style, you a retard-child?
Ew, a rectangular card should get you riled

Bright as the sun, Girls just wanna have fun!"
Did you just quote a Cyndi Lauper song-song?

You're a trip, I'm a dip, can I get a scoop? (please)
Maybe, I was just totally duped, you make me wanna...

Poop poop ba-duped (Baby, hey)
Poop ba-duped
Poop ba-duped ba-duped ba-duped
Poop Poop ba-duped(Don't you know I wanna poop, baby)
Poop ba-duped
Poop ba-duped ba-duped ba-duped

I Now Know the Definition of Awkward

2010-12-28T21:02:00.000-08:00

You remember that show "Kids Say the Darndest Things?" Bill Cosby would ask some kid a simple question like "How old is your Mom?" and the kid would reply something like "Oh...mommy is really old. Like 13." So cute. So cute.

You know what isn't cute? Kids don't only SAY the darndest things. They do the darndest things, too.

Case in point, when I was at my sister's on Christmas Eve, my five-year-old nephew wanted to show me some of his new "karate moves," complete with WAHHHHHH sound effects. No problem with that! He was air kicking and air punching his heart away. Ahhhhh, I think to myself. What a doll. He really is a sweet, innocent, little kid. LOVE HIM!

After a few minutes, he got a little tired of the air, and he got this crazed look in his eye. "Let me see your knee for a second, Uncle Mark." Hmmm. My knee? You want to kick me in my knee? That isn't very sweet OR innocent. Combine this with the fact that I have no idea if getting kicked in my knee by a five-year-old would hurt or not, I politely declined the request.

"That's ok. Want to punch my hand?"

"I'm not going to do anything." Snicker. Snicker. "Just let me see your knee for a second." Laugh. Laugh. Laugh.

"Want to punch both my hands?"

"NOOOOOooo, Uncle Mark. Just let me see your knee. I PROMISE I don't want to kick it" (as he gets in the ready-to-kick-position.)

Clearly outwitted, I figure I will try to distract him another way. This was a stupid, stupid mistake. I ever-so-slowly air kick what I think is going to be BY him, hoping this will distract him long enough so I can convince him to go back to (a) air kicking or (b) punching my hand. But, this being me, I, of course, misjudge what I am doing, and I end up grazing the outside of his pants. By his thigh. His upper thigh. His center, upper thigh. Sigh.

He pauses. And my nephew, my sweet, innocent, five-year-old nephew exclaims: "You just kicked me in my penis!"

I turn BEET red, and say: "NO I DID NOT! I hit your leg"

"No! That was my penis!"

"OK. OK. I'm sorry!"

My nephew doesn't believe in such empty words, I guess. He clearly believes in revenge. An eye-for-an-eye type kid. So, he charges at me. CHARGES at me. My sweet, innocent, little nephew CHARGES at me and starts trying to PUNCH me in the crotch!

I dodge him, and tell him to stop. And he does. For a second. Until he charges me again, full on SWINGING for my nuts with as much strength as his little five-year-old arms can muster.

At this point, I'm simply wishing I would have let the kid kick my damn knee. I tell him to stop. And this time he does. He really does. But I obviously didn't know who I was dealing with. This kid is just too darn smart for me.

As he appears to be fully under control, I turn 90 degrees to the right. A simple turn. To the right. I start to ask my sister a question, and...

WHAMO!!!!

I get a straight punch to the nuts from my nephew followed by HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHHAHAAH. And you know who was laughing? TAUNI! As I hunch over in pain, Tauni just laughs and laughs and laughs. I really want to say something to my nephew, but I can't get a word out because he and Tauni are now both laughing too hard. My sister, who has been watching this entire interchange, finally says:

"We don't hit people in the penis, M-."

You know, I'm not a parent, but I really wish that was a life lesson he would have learned about five minutes earlier.

Sweet and innocent, my ass.

What I Didn't Want For Christmas

2010-12-26T11:22:00.000-08:00

Here is our couch. On its side. Box spring, pulled from the bedroom. Our belongings, thrown into the middle of the living room. We were robbed on Christmas. On Christmas! And it happened WHILE we were home.

But how did this happen? How did this start? Well, while my back was to the main part of the house, I was talking to Tauni and two of our friends. In mid-sentence, Tauni's face goes pale, her eyes go blank while looking at something behind me, and she let's out a PIERCING SCREAM, which I find a little odd because she doesn't normally do this in the middle of a conversation. So, I am more than a bit perplexed. Then, Tauni's scream is combined with her friend Nina screaming, and finally Nina's boyfriend Barrett screams, too (louder than the two girls combined).

Time always slows in instances like this, and as I turn my head to see what has them all so frightened, I feel like I'm going to see (a) a man with a gun (b) a ghost or (c) a screening of Jennifer Aniston's next film. Each thought clearly more terrifying than the last.

I didn't see any of these things, though. What I did see was a foot-long rat running from our Christmas tree into one of our bedrooms. And then the real fun began.

We go into the guest room to try and scare it out of the house. At this point, we don't want to kill the rat, we simply want to shoo it out of the bedroom, through the living room, and out the front door. We get some flashlights, and start poking around, and notice there is some poop on top of a suitcase in our closet. So, we all get some jobs to do:

My Job: Search in the closet for the rat with Sir Spanks A Lot (my trusty hobby horse).

Barrett's Job: Stand behind me with a broom.

Tauni's Job: Stand behind Barrett with another broom.

Nina's Job: Make sure the top of the kitchen table is ok in the dining room.

Pugs' Job: Be completely oblivious.

I pull out the suitcase, and the rat LEAPS AT ME and then darts under the bed. It's hilarious (now) how my scream led to Barrett's scream, which led to Tauni's scream, which led to Nina's scream (in the other room).

We then pull the mattress off the bed, and investigate one of the split box springs. This box spring has its lining still intact. Nope, not in there! We lift up the next box spring which we discover has no lining, and we watch the rat run around upside down (Inception style) INSIDE the box spring. This is accompanied by Tauni now screaming KILL IT! KILL IT! and Nina going into what I assume is the fetal position on the table in the next room. Don't get me wrong, I am not super stoked to be doing any of this either, but the reactions were CRACKING me up!

We eventually chase the rat into the living room and for the first time in the evening, one of the pugs, Maggie, actually starts to notice: Hey. Something odd is going on here, huh? as she playfully runs after the rat from the bedroom to under the couch (upright at this time) in the living room. Morrie, on the other hand, still has no idea what the Hell is going on. He is just wandering from room to room and periodically looks up at Nina who is living on the kitchen table.

In fact, throughout all our yelling and screaming to get the rat out, neither pug was any help AT ALL. The only thing they chased the entire night? The light from the flashlight. That's it. Basically, they ignored the rat, but we were VERY protected from the evil flashlight light. Thanks, guys!

Anyway, now the rat is in the living room, so we start setting up barricades to force it to go outside. We have a desk blocking our kitchen off, and the box spring blocking the back hallway off. We force it out from under the couch by tipping the couch over, but instead of running OUTSIDE to the free world...it decides to run through our barricade into the kitchen and behind our fridge.

SHIT!

So we get "smarter."

We set up an even BIGGER barricade and now we all get more SPECIFIC jobs to do.

My Job: I get to lunge at the rat with a flashlight and Sir Spanks A Lot and force it towards Barrett.

Barrett's Job: Use a broom to force it through our newly reinforced and barricaded path towards the front door.

Tauni's Job: Say "Kill it! Kill it!" as soon as it runs out.

Nina's Job: Stay on top of the kitchen table.

Pugs' Job: Chase the flashlight light.

We are all set. All the pieces are put into motion; I lunge at the rat, and chase it right towards Barrett. But the rat gets by Barrett and scurries INTO the Christmas tree, to which Tauni exclaims GOD DAMN IT, BARRETT! THAT WAS YOUR ONLY JOB! Classic.

SHIT! again.

So now we get even "smarter!"

We of course make an even BIGGER barricade which now includes multiple boxes, more pieces of turned-over furniture, shoes, etc. You name it....it was part of our impenetrable wall that was guaranteed to force this rat outside through the front door. There was nowhere for it to go once we got it out of the tree. We were SO SURE!

So again, we get more jobs:

My job: I get to take Sir Spanks A Lot and shake the tree and break some ornaments.

Barrett's Job: Stand on a chair and shake the top of the tree and break a curtain rod.

Tauni's Job: Glare at Barrett and me and scream KILL IT! KILL IT!

Nina's Job: Protect the top of the kitchen table.

Pugs' Job: Eat some dinner.

So, I shake the tree, the rat again LEAPS out....jumps onto Barrett (he screams), darts past Tauni (who completed her task of screaming KILL IT! KILL IT!...and even threw in some FUCKING KILL ITs for good measure) and under the kitchen table where a silent Nina was grappling with reality. At this point, she was just rocking. Silently rocking.

But somehow, someway, the rat found a HOLE in our "impenetrable barricade" and runs BACK into the hall instead of running outside....and ends up in our very well-loved (and not well-cleaned) office. Now we are truly fucked. We look around for it, and chase it around a bit, but there is no way we can get it for a number of reasons:

(1) We clearly suck at making barricades.

(2) We have failed at getting this thing out of our house for over an hour and now it is in our most cluttered room of our house.

(3) We are fucking idiots.

So, at about midnight on Christmas evening, Tauni and I make a sorrowful trek to a 24 hour CVS to buy a mousetrap. We don't want to do this...but at this point, Tauni is ready to sleep in her car. We get some peanut butter (which could kill me AND the rat), set a couple of traps, close the door, and figure he'll be dead by morning.

WRONG!

The only thing we find in the morning are two unsprung traps sans peanut butter. This rat is WAY too smart for us.

SHIT yet again!

Alas, I wish I could say this story ends well for our rat friend. But it doesn't. We ended up buying some better traps...and well, you can use your imagination.

But we were indeed robbed on Christmas, maybe even held hostage. For about twenty hours our dignity was taken away by a foot-long rat who taught me a couple very valuable lessons: I have no idea how to make a real barricade and I am NOTHING without my hobby horse.

My Bike's new name is....

2010-12-18T17:05:00.000-08:00

Clearly, this was a tough decision. There were 88 entries....which once again proves that people will do anything for a Starbuck's gift card (you whores). I am going to discuss my top ten favorites...but a complete list of all suggestions (in alphabetical order) is below.

10. Laurie C.'s Lycaenid Butterfly: This made my top ten because I actually had to look up what the fuck it meant. Also, it is so the opposite of anything I would ever name my bike, which I thought was VERY funny. Laurie didn't come right out and call me a wuss, she did so with style. That is a top ten name!

9. Laura L.'s Eva Longoria: The thought of riding around for hours on end with my ass on Eva Longoria's face seems oh-so-right. What a great name for a bike...and definitely a top ten suggestion!

8. Jody W.'s Barrio Star: This restaurant is my sworn enemy. They also don't know how to make ice tea. My deep hatred for it gets it in the top ten! (BOOOOOO BARRIO STAR!)

7. Darron E.'s Blue Job: I would love to live out Darron's fantasy of accepting (the name/a) "Blue Job" from him. A top ten name...but just a little too much teeth. Keep practicing!

6. Corrine H.'s Blue Steel: LOVE, LOVE, LOVE this name. The Zoolander reference is spot on. If only I rode to get more Orange...Mocha...Frapuccino's, this would have won!

5. Chris M.'s Darron: In my heart, I know this is a winning name. Just think about every time I sat on Darron, or put my keys in Darron's saddle bag, or clipped in to Darron, or got into aero position on Darron, or put Darron in my trunk, or lubed and oiled Darron....wow. TOO MUCH sexual tension. I just can't handle it.

4. Darron E.'s Bi-keurious: Defintely very, very clever. And true. This name hit just a little too close to home. And I told you this in confidence, Darron.

3. Kris C.'s Mark's Bike: In my opinion, the FUNNIEST entry. Simple. Love it.

2. Jason G.'s Collarboner: I have thought about this for about a day...and I have been going back and forth on Collarboner vs. The Manasse Chassis. Collarboner is relevant (I was on this bike when I crashed and broke my collarbone) and it has the word "boner." I mean...it seems so perfect. I would get to say "boner" so much more often!!! Very, very close to winning. But collarboner lost by a head (tee hee).

1. Jeff M's The Manasse Chassis: It rhymes. It's sassy (which also rhymes). It has my name in it. Clearly, Jeff M. knows me well enough to realize how completely egocentric I am: He included my name in the bike's name. Winner and the new owner of a $10 gift card to Starbucks!

Thank you for all the entries!

(Golden) Rod-rage
10 Cent Whore
Ball buster
Barrio Star
Barry Manilow
Bee magnet
Bi-keurious
Birth Control
Blue Job
Blue Steel
Blue Thunder
Collarboner
Crotch Rocket
da' brat
Dagger
Darron
Dirty Sanchez
Double cups
Draft Dodger
Dulcinea
El Guapo
EL PITUFÓN
Espeedy Gonzalez
Eva Longoria
Ex-lax
Farty Pants
Future Source of Impotency
Grave Digger
Green Machine
Grover
Ha Nguyen
Happy Ending
Hayward Djabloumie
Highway Star
Jen-nay
Kevin Bacon
Le schtroumpf
Lycaenid butterfly
Mandy
Mark's Bike
Maxi
Meat Grinder
Mistress Nutcrusher
Mom's Taxi
Mr. Yang
Mufassa
My Private Jet Plane
Not Tauni
Nut cracker
Nuts McGee
Old Bluer
Olga
On your Mark
Pam
Peanut
Pedal Power
Pee-Wee's Big Adventure
Poor Yorick
Queef Latifah
Road Warrior
Roadie McBikerson
Rusty Trombone
Rusty
Saddle Sack
Sexy Beast
Silky Skids
Smurf
Speed Chafer
Speedy McGee
Stuart Pantinkton
The Beast
The Blue Streak
The Hog
The Lance Armstrong Smashed Dong Two-Wheeled Get-Along
The Manasse Chassis
The Other Woman
The Pug Wagon
The Pussy Wagon
The Satllion
The Smurf
The Strawberry Shortcake
The Train
Toll Troll
Totes
Underdog
Wheels of Fury
Yasmin
Zenyatta

Bike Naming Contest

2010-12-16T06:59:00.001-08:00

The Purpose: I have been riding my Specialized Tarmac for 2.5 years...and I have never named it/her/him.

Contest: Come up with a name for my bike, and you win a $10 gift card to Starbuck's (unless you HATE Starbuck's). You can enter as many times as you want. The contest ends at 5:00 PM, Friday, December 17th. You can put your suggestions here or on Facebook.

There have already been MANY excellent entries already. Good Luck!

I Hate Eva Longoria...Revisited

2010-12-04T13:50:00.000-08:00

Little did I know on August 16th, 2007, when I posted a brief blog about my distaste for (then) Eva Longoria-Parker , that I would be creating one of my most popular blogs of all time. I didn't have Google Analytics then...but I do now.

I installed this web tracking device this past summer (when I was procrastinating from swimming)...and COMPLETELY forgot about that until today (while procrastinating from swimming). And according to my blog's stats...the blog: "I hate Eva Longoria" (written over THREE years ago) is one of my top ten blogs THIS MONTH. Interesting.

But what does this mean? Let's investigate:

(1) Clearly, there are a lot of people (and bots) that hate Eva Longoria. So much so...that typing "I hate Eva Longoria" into Google is actually getting my blog tons of hits! (My blog is the number one hit on Google for such a search. Hurray?) If we keep this in perspective...how many people are typing "I hate Mark S. Manasse" into a search engine? Besides me...maybe only what...ten to twenty other people? (Just kidding Mark...we all love you and your similar looking name and face).

(2) The number of people who know I jokingly hate her is actually quite large. When the news broke about her getting a divorce, I received multiple emails, texts, and phone calls making sure that I had heard about it...even from people that I rarely talk to! This is crazy to me. The amount of people who know I have a pretend-hatred for some movie star I have never met probably outweighs the number of people who know how many siblings I have (hint: the answer is under two) or how many nipples I have (hint: the answer is over one).

(3) You can blast a big-time movie star and NOT get sued (until now?)....but you write a little blog about being anally raped during a colonic...and the lawyerly letters come FLYING in.

(4) The irony of re-writing about "hating Eva Longoria" is not lost on me. Maybe this will now become my most popular blog? Oh...the suspense is just killing me...

Google Analytics is cool...I have to admit. It is really neat to see how many people waste their time reading the crap I write. But what does it mean that Eva Longoria is one of my blog's main attractions? Is THAT not a slap in the face to me?

You win this round, Eva. I was just wondering, can I have your Spurs tickets? I assume you won't be needing them anymore (too soon?).

Novembeard

2010-11-29T18:29:00.000-08:00

As you can see, I grew a beard so voluminous this month, that I became unable to fully smile due to its weight. To combat this issue, I decided to get a professional barber shave for the first time in my life...and went in expecting it not to go well.

My history of getting massages and colonics has been well documented and is not pretty. I have been sexually assaulted repeatedly by people in the "service industry" and simply have to live with that fact (while I quietly cry myself to sleep at night). So, going into a situation where I would be exposing my neck to a barber with a very sharp razor had catastrophe written all over it. Somehow. Someway. I was going to end up with my pants off and my penis cut. I just knew it.

(To save anyone reading this the agony of the payoff...my penis was not harmed in any way, shape, or form...I will not be commenting on the location of my pants).

Overall, I did have a very pleasant experience getting my first "real shave." There were so many steps, I can't recount them all, but there were numerous hot towels, multiple types of lotions and oils, shoulder and face massages, and the barber didn't make stupid chit chat. In fact, she (yes, she), barely talked at all! So let me get this straight, you are female, can handle a blade, like to remove body/facial hair, and are very quiet...if she had liked Cal Football, I may have found my new best friend!

This being me, there were a few moments of awkwardness, truth be told. First of all, the blade tickled the right side of my neck. Not the left side. Just the right. The sharp-ass, could-easily-kill-me, don't-make-any-sudden-movements-or-your-tongue-will-be-sticking-out-of-your-neck blade TICKLED my neck. What the shit is that? Who the Hell would be tickled by a razor???? So while she scraped-scraped-scraped hair off that side, I was paralyzed in agonizing fear. All I wanted to do was turn my neck away from the blade, but I HAD to sit still and take the tickling. Absolute torture!

I also found the face massages a bit weird. Every time she would put a hot towel on my face, she would remove it by doing some sensual rubbing of my cheeks, temples, and chin. This was all well and good after the first hot towel...but as we got to towel three to four, I just really didn't want my face rubbed anymore. If nothing else, I learned something about myself today...it IS possible to have your face rubbed one too many times. And THAT is a very valuable lesson.

Novembeard is finally over...and I can now go back to shaving and rubbing my own head....just in time for Decemporn.

Maggie: Her Inner Bitch, Revealed

2010-11-21T15:03:00.000-08:00

We have stereotypes in our society. I'm not saying I buy into them. Endorse them. Or even fully understand them. But there is something I know for sure:

Morrie (my male pug) can run circles around Maggie (my female pug).

As the differences in their athletic abilities have become more and more pronounced, I have noticed a shift in Maggie. Slowly. In time. What used to be good natured play has turned into a mini-rivalry. And sometimes. Sometimes. When Maggie is in a bad mood, she'll play dirty. So I know for a fact what Maggie did yesterday was not out of love nor fairness...and it wasn't an accident.

Maggie laid Morrie out with a Troy Polamalu-esque blow. And she'd do it again.

***

Let's take a step back and really investigate how Maggie's deep hatred for Morrie's energy and athletic ability started.

We have about a ten-yard span from our front door to our back-kitchen door, and when both are open, the dogs can run in a huge circle from the back-kitchen door out the front door, through our yard and return into the back-kitchen door (about a total forty-yard run).

When Morrie gets excited, he'll run and run and run this forty-yard loop, yelping, smiling, tail wagging. Maggie, on the other hand, will run the loop once (maybe twice), and then do something very interesting: She'll run to the front door with Morrie, and then as he runs the thirty yards around the outside of the house, Maggie will walk the ten yards directly to the back door and wait for him. When he returns, she'll then bite the shit out of him through the living room and once again stop at the front door. Morrie will then run all the way around again....and she'll walk back to the back-kitchen door.

She is a lazy, fat-assed cheat on the one hand. Or, she is a plotting, vindictive bitch on the other. Either choice...not so good.

***

We went to the park yesterday, and Morrie was AMPED. The park has a good fifty-yard length right next to a busy road, and he was running up and back, up and back, up and back, chasing every car that went by. Maggie tried to keep up. For about two minutes. And then, I saw her get an idea.

While Morrie ran up fifty yards and back fifty yards...she went and stood in the middle of the park. She waited. SHE WAITED. And when he was mid-sprint and looking up at a car...our little, friendly, loving, female pug went into action.

In a full sprint, she TACKLED THE PISS out of Morrie, flung him UP into the air, and slammed him into the dog-park fence. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure I heard her say as she hovered over him:

"Who's running now, bitch?"

Morrie, got up, wiped himself off, and went back to running up and back...but he wasn't quite as carefree. He was hearing footsteps. Little, female, puggy footsteps, in the back of his mind.

Mission accomplished, Maggie. Mission Accomplished. That one was for women everywhere!

Five Feet of Crazy

2010-11-15T18:10:00.000-08:00

A few weekends ago, I went to a conference in LA. I got up at 5 AM. Three other people met me at my house by 6. On a Saturday. Our plan was to be in LA by 8:30 when the conference started...and return back at 3:30 when the conference ended.

4 hours of driving
6 hours of conference
1 hour of lunch

This blog has nothing to do with the conference. This blog is about how I could have been murdered.

***

During the morning, she came into one of the sessions I attended. I noticed her because she was wearing a grey muumuu. With a belt. And red shoes. Her hair was salt and pepper...and she was short. Very short. About five feet of short. What I noticed most about her were her eyes. They darted and wouldn't focus. They would look at you without looking. She made me feel uncomfortable...so I didn't talk to her. Yet.

***

After driving all morning and having no break, by the time lunch came around, I was HUNGRY. I was in a courtyard, distracted by thirst, by hunger...refilling my ice tea (why did I need more ice tea???) when I felt her. I could feel those darting eyes looking at me and they made me stop...I shit you not, her eyes made me stop walking. Dead. In my tracks.

Her muumuu flowed in the light breeze of the afternoon as she quickly shuffled her little red shoes toward me. Our eyes were locked, I couldn't move, and I found myself being more thankful for a belt than I had ever been in my entire life. Without her belt...and that steady breeze....shudder.

She only came up to my nipples. And her darting eyes looked up at me as we spoke for the first time in our lives:

"Are you from San Diego?" she oddly asked.

I didn't know, then, why she was asking. Like I said...I had never spoken to this person before in my life. In our morning session, we did have to introduce ourselves...and I instantly tried to remember Did I say I was from San Diego...or is this crazy-ass lady stalking me? What did I say? What do I do? This is really odd.

But all I managed was "Yes."

Before I could even get to the "S," in "Yes," she had asked me...and my mind swirled:

Who is this lady? Do I know her? That is an hour from here! There is something not right about her. Why do these things always...always happen to me?

But all I managed again was "Yes" in retort to her request: "I live in Irvine. Can you give me a ride home?"

I think what frightened me the most was how much she was not frightened of me. How many women walk up to some guy at a conference and ask if he can drive them an hour south? So this started to get me worried Maybe she isn't scared of me because she is going to kill me??? Rape me??? Steal my car??? Never trust a little old lady in a muumuu (with a belt)!!! So there I was...a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier...and I felt totally nervous. So I did the only thing I could do to protect myself, pass the buck onto my friends:

"Oh, you know...I actually have three other women with me in my car. We should check with them first."

And I walked her over to my carmates, and introduced her as the person we could be driving to Irvine (unless anyone had an issue of being overcrowded)...but my hopes for one of them to put up a stink failed. They all smiled as she walked away...and I was asked where I met my new girlfriend in the grey muumuu, belt, and red shoes.

"I...uh...well...I was getting ice tea...and...well...she...so...I..."

So. I drove her home.

***

When we got to my car, I suggested everyone put all their bags in the trunk...mostly because I didn't want any secret knives, guns, ropes, or other muumuus in my backseat.

Then the story telling began...and what a story teller she was. She wanted to know if we knew a student who she used to know...who now lives and works in TJ. All of us said no...but she told us about him for thirty minutes...ten of which were her trying to spell his name: "His last name is S...A...E...N...Z...Do you know him....no...wait...it's S...A...I...N...Z...have you read his columns...no...wait..." On and on she went.

During the ride, it came out that her husband had dropped her off, but didn't want to stay...so she would just find her way home...somehow...from LA...to Irvine. True love there....what would have happened if I didn't get that second ice tea?

When we got to her exit, she suggested I just drop her off on the freeway...and she would walk the rest of the way. I joked that I wouldn't even slow all the way down, and should just push her out. All my other carmates laughed. She did not. Through the rearview mirror...I felt those eyes. And she just stared through the laughs.

I didn't speak again.

***

I have been afraid to type this blog...wondering if she knows who I am...what my last name is...and is checking in on me and my San Diego dwelling.

So if I end up dead...and you see tiny, little footprints next to my body...please let Seinze or Sainz or Sienz know. He will tell my story...maybe in Spanish, it will make more sense.

Yes. I am This McPathetic.

2010-11-12T15:14:00.000-08:00

It was like stars aligning:

(A) I hadn't been to McDonald's in about a year-ish;
(B) Someone had given me a coupon for free Medium Fries;
(C) I had another coupon for a free Onion and Cheddar McChicken Sandwich; and
(D) The McRib is out right now (and I love the McRib, btw).

And when the stars speak, I listen.

So, the following is a (mostly) true conversation on how I coerced my way into eating like shit...for free. I bring you, The Mind Fuck:

McHigh School Drive-thru Guy: Welcome to McDonald's.

Me: Yeah...you guys have the McRib right now, right?

MHSDTG: Yup.

Me: Can I get one of those. I LOVE them. The are so McRib-y.

MHSDTG: Um...oooooook. The meal?

Me: (Pishaw...the meal...he doesn't know about my coupons.) No...but I do have a couple of coupons I would like to use.

MHSDTG: OK

Me: I have one for a free McChicken with cheddar and onions...and one for a free medium fries.

MHSDTG: How many people are in the car with you, sir?

Me: What?

MHSDTG: How many people are in the car with you? You can only use one coupon per person.

Me: (uh oh) Well...it's just me.

MHSDTG: You are going to have to pick one coupon or the other, then.

Me: (Hmmm...but I just want to use the coupons...I don't even care about the food...I know. I will reason with him.) No.

MHSDTG: What do you mean "No"?

Me: I mean, I would like to use both.

MHSDTG: I understand that...but I can't let you do that.

Me: (OK...he wants to dance. Let's dance.) What if I drove through twice?

MHSDTG: We wouldn't let you do that, sir.

Me: But how would you know? What if I just did it without saying I was going to do it?

MHSDTG: We would know. We would ask you to come back later.

Me: (So...he wants to be like that) But it would be later.

MHSDTG: OK...well, we would ask you to go to a different McDonald's.

Me: (I'm not THAT pathetic...driving to another McDonald's is out of the question. I am only pathetic enough to argue.) What if I ordered one in the drive-thru and one inside?

MHSDTG: We wouldn't let you do that.

Me: You wouldn't let me? I'm trying to save an extra $1.00 here...you wouldn't let me do that?

MHSDTG: No, sir.

Me: (Time to pull out the big guns) OK...what if I said there actually ARE two people in the car.

MHSDTG: Well, then, that would be ok!

Me: OK...there are two people in the car. I hope my friend is still in the car by the time I get up to your window.

MHSDTG: Sir?

Me: He likes to jump out of my car a lot.

MHSDTG: HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Me: (OK...I got him to laugh! I'm in) Look..can't you just pretend I have another person in the car with me? I really want to use these coupons.

MHSDTG: Hold on.

And off he went...I got "permission" to use my two coupons...and I ate my McRib, a McChicken (with cheddar and onions), and medium fries.

I presently feel like shit...does this mean I won? And I wonder how much they spit on my sandwich, too? Was it like a lot of spit or mostly just dropped on the floor?

Sigh.

Raisin Ideas

2010-10-23T09:48:00.000-07:00

Raisins. I hate them. I can't tell you why, but the boxes of dried fruit make me cringe worse than the upcoming movie How to Make A Guy Vomit in Ten Seconds combining "the talents" of Katherine Heigle, Jennifer Aniston, and Kate Hudson. Even the Sun Maid maid and those stupid California Dancing Raisins induce an intermixed fight or flight reflex inside of me. Oddly, the reflexes are ultimately felt in my ass a few hours later. But I digress.

Now, you may be thinking, But Mark, who has such a violent reaction to raisins? I mean, this sounds a bit neurotic. To that I have two responses:

(1) Yes. I'm neurotic. Big newsflash there. I bet you also know that there were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, but there probably are now since we imperialized the area. I bet you also know that the cigarette and alcohol lobbies are the main reasons why we can't get marijuana legalized on a large scale. You are a genius, aren't you?

and

(2) Fuck you.

(on a side note, I have really thought about not "cursing" in my blog anymore since that seems a bit juvenile and too much of an easy laugh, but here we are. I just liked the crafting of a politicized response juxtaposed against a blatant, low-brow one.)

I won't go as far as saying I dislike raisins more than peanuts because...well...peanuts literally kill me. I will say that trailmixes that marry the two would be like combining Bridezillas with Real Housewives of (fill in the city). Clearly, some marriages are just cruel and unusual...and should just never happen.

Anyway, why am I telling you all this?

This morning, while at Starbucks reading papers that were attempting to explain justice and inequality in society, I was becoming increasingly distracted by what I first thought was nausea from what I was reading (If any of my students are reading this, I am being sarcastic...please do not take offense). Luckily, that was not the case! It was just hunger pangs (and maybe a little nausea at what I was reading.)

I walk up to the counter and was bombarded by all the sugary treats that Starbucks now offers. Donuts, muffins, crack cocaine, it was all there for the picking. But I'm trying to be healthier these days, and while I would love to eat a giant chocolate-chip-cookie-brownie-bear-claw sandwich...I noticed that they also had bagels. Bagels. That is healthy...er

As I was about to order, my eyes dropped to another section of the case, and I saw that not only did they have bagels...but they had multigrain bagels, too! Multigrain. That seems healthy...er...ER!

"I'll take a multigrain bagel, please!" And I proudly saunter back to my seat. I'm such a good decision maker!

But are people who choose to:

(a) Combine getting colonics with
(b) Writing about said colonics publically with
(c) Posting pictures about the owner's daughter on their blogs

usually good decision makers?

No.

So, this is where my problem began.

My multigrain bagel is brought to me in a white, little bag, like I am sort of king. I think about digging in between reading about the ideas of real ones, via Martin Luther King Jr and Machiavelli, but the student's ideas are married together in trailmix-esque fashion: Sigh...that is just not jelling.

My stomach gurgles as I open the all white bag...and I pull out my bagel...What the F? Raisins? What are F'in raisins doing in a multigrain bagel????

This is when it gets weird.

I return to the counter which is the home of two registers...and as I speak to my barista: Can I order a plain bagel instead...I hate raisins.

The woman six inches away from me simultaneously says to her barista:...and I would like a multigrain bagel.

I stop...turn to my fellow costumer...and do what I think is just! Hey...I haven't even touched this bagel. I hate raisins. Do you want it?

Her response: --

Literally, she did not respond. Zip. Not a word. She simply turned back away from me..looked right at her barista and continued her order. SHE WANTED TO PAY FOR A NEW BAGEL...WHEN I OFFERED HER EXACTLY WHAT SHE WAS ORDERING FOR FREE.

I thought maybe she didn't hear me. So I said:
Look, I know this is a little weird...but I'm serious. I JUST ordered this, and I didn't touch it. I just don't like raisins. You can have it.

This time, she didn't even look at me...and both the baristas were looking at her like...Just Take The Damn Bagel Lady...followed by a LONG silence. The coffee shop seemed to jolt completely quiet...like someone hit the record player and it screeched to a halt.

My barista says: Yeah...I HATE Raisins...I totally understand.

Her barista says: Really? I love raisins.

The customer says NOTHING.

After another three-to-five second pause...the sound returned Starbucks. And we all pretended the conversation never happened. They took AND THREW OUT my multigrain bagel. The other customer ordered and paid for a new one. I went back to my seat and just shook my head as I read another line about injustice in the world that hadn't been clearly thought through.

I tried to eat my plain bagel quietly, but my neurosis made me so nausea that I had to throw it out.

Stupid raisins. Stupid Machiavelli. Stupid Kate Hudson.

And I laughed because no better sequence of thoughts had ever come to my mind before..and this blog simply tried to do them justice.

The Me Inside of Me Smells of Day Old Fish and Miley Cyrus

2010-09-11T08:27:00.000-07:00

"Online Mark is different than Work Mark" crept out of my mouth as I cringed. Deep in my mind, I wondered...Why?...

Maybe it's because I'm not willing to seek out Miley Cyrus and tell her...to her face..."Please, for the love of God...just shut up. Just shut up. SHUT IT...No one cares. No one. Shhhh. SHHHHHHHHHHH. Shh." For example, here is the first news hit for her on Google around 9:00 AM Miley Got a Third Tattoo...Oh, and By the Way It's 9/11. Seriously. No. One. Cares.

Maybe it's because I'm not going to tell a restaurant owner that the food sucks, the place sucks, and I would prefer drinking donkey pee than going there again. They might not find this "funny" or "entertaining," but Online Mark does. So I Yelp away...but the owners Yelp, too...so they email me back and offer me food, excuses, and compliments to get me to shut up. To just shut up. Like I'm their Miley Cyrus...

Maybe In-Person Mark finds himself in conversations that morph into talking about online moments: "Did you see what [fill in the blank] posted on Facebook? I know...what an idiot, right?" melding the world of the real? to...to what...the unreal? So people care? About what?

This all comes to a head when talking to me in person and referencing an Online Mark moment. How odd I feel that my tongue-and-cheek crassness was read, referenced, and flung out into the middle of a live conversation...leaving the In-Person (and arguably Stick-Up-His-Ass) Mark momentarily confused. What are you talking ab...oh...you saw that?

I have written so much and thrown so much out there, I get people talking to me about stuff that I don't even remember writing...and find myself saying "Sorry"...In-Person Mark embarrassed by Online Mark's antics.

It's scary. It's powerful. It has changed how I write online. I used to be able to blast whomever I wanted without fear of repercussion...because who was going to care? It's all for fun...and no one reads this...

...but that's not true. I need to rethink about an audience? My audience? Do I have an audience? Do they want me to shut up? And how many of them have lawyers?

Maybe Online Mark is different than Work Mark. Maybe not. Both of us think Miley Cyrus is lame...so we at least have things in common.

The 300th Blog: Dedicated to My Dad

2010-08-19T18:27:00.001-07:00

When I was younger, my dad would often regale me with his "wit" by saying such things as:

Dad: How tall are you again?

Me: 5' 8". Why?

My Dad: I didn't know they stacked shit THAT high.

or

Me: Are we going to breakfast?

My Dad: Who's "we?" You got a mouse in your pocket?

When he died, it was those moments, the stupid throwaway ones, that stuck with me the most.

***

It's odd to think about missing him, seeing as he died almost twenty years ago now. He is more of an idea than a person. "My dad" is something I often don't say...but more of a phrase I contemplate about. I mean, I don't have much of a reason to ever say the two words together. Painful to think about, but it's true.

I do see him. In my mind. Always the fashion guru, he would pull his socks up too high, almost to his knees. His short shorts, and thick and smudged glasses awaited my playful eye rolls, and I remember how his stomach felt when I would try to hug him. Bulging and curving in a too-tight, horizontally-lined shirt, his belly was an obstacle to be reckoned with when I would stretch and stretch my arms around him to complete an incompletable hug.

I remember him as being the smartest person I knew...but I'll never know if that's true. I don't know what's real and what my mind has made up. Crazy to think that I have created in my mind the person that actually created me. There were lessons and methods and real parenting going on, that I know for sure. He made me feel looked after. And safe. And a bit lost when he left. I still feel that way today.

***

I know there are some who believe he is with me. He was there. He was there. Maybe he is. Maybe he was. I don't know. If ever a soul lived on...why not his?

There is much I want to ask him...but life isn't fair. I'm ok with that. But it's the moments...those throwaway moments...that I've missed. The ones I didn't create. The ones that I know in my heart to be true:

My Dad: You should probably have a point.

Me: So?

My Dad: So? So what? Sew buttons?

So, maybe there isn't always a so what. Maybe there isn't always a truth. Maybe there are just moments in my mind and in yours. Floating from time to time. And we try to reach them. Catch them. But we can't.

Sometimes, you just can't complete your hug. No matter how hard you try. It's just a moment. And you will never throw that moment away.

UCSD is Stupid

2010-08-18T08:17:00.000-07:00

I was taking a class at UCSD this summer...and every day, as I walked through the campus, I would look up at to see the names, faces, and accomplishments of famous graduates they were honoring. Writers. Scientists. Etc.

But then I would get to this one picture every morning and every morning I would stop and think: Dude...that's just stupid.

Why? Because the sign was touting that UCSD was the 7th best public university in the nation. According to UCSD News, this is true (as of 2009):

U.S. News & World Report ranks UC San Diego as the 7th best public university in the nation, and 35th among the nation’s top 262 universities. Also, in its 2009 survey of graduate programs, U.S. News ranks the School of Medicine 6th among the nation’s public medical schools and the Jacobs School of Engineering 6th among the nation’s public engineering schools. U.S. News also ranks UC San Diego 15th among national universities in the category of “Up and Coming Schools.”

Seriously? I understand that RELATIVELY that is awesome...but in the grand scheme of things, do people ever go around and chant "WE'RE NUMBER 7! WE'RE NUMBER 7!" It's hilarious to me to have a sign right in the middle of campus...proudly displaying that every student on campus should feel inferior to six other campuses:

Thanks for your 30K (out-of-staters)...you could have been getting a better education somewhere else! And we used your money to make a sign to remind you! SUCKERS!

So I would continue on my walk and chuckle...because UCSD is stupid....and I knew the sign would be there the next day, and I would get to chuckle all over again.

(no thought about the fact that I was paying to go there, too)

Juice Fast Day #3: We Survived

2010-08-04T20:01:00.000-07:00

Had a bit of a problem with the juicer during the last meal. It started like "not working" and stuff. We did a bit of praying...and cussing...and it started working again. Now, how smart are we to watch Man vs. Food and Top Chef during our last few hours? NOT VERY!

Breakfast:

1/2 of a pineapple
1 Fuji apple
1 handful of grapes

Lunch:

2 tomatoes
3 carrots
3 stalks of celery
1/2 clove of elephant garlic
1 clove garlic
Ginger

Dinner:

1 1/2 beets
2 1/2 carrots
Swiss Chard
2 stalks of celery
1 tomato
2 cloves of garlic
Ginger

Mark Manasse's Foolproof Way to be a Successful Triathlete

2010-08-04T07:26:00.000-07:00

Like many things in life, it's all about the preparation. There is no way one could be successful at doing a race like Vineman Half Ironman unless properly trained and motivated. The following is my foolproof way to be ready by any race-day morning.

(1) Put an anti-chaffing substance EVERYWHERE humanly possible. Yes. Even there.

Personally, I'm a BodyGlide man, but whoever you are...you absolutely most cake every inch of your body...or suffer the consequences. On the other hand, you truly haven't lived until you have been chaffed:

A. Between your Butt cheeks, and/or

B. That area under your...well, you know...between your butt and balls (on men or very, very special women), and/or

C. ON the penis maximus (that is the Latin for it).

I use BodyGlide AND Vaseline on my privies. Works like a charm.

(2) Learn How to Self-Urinate

I think anyone who has ever gone swimming has probably warmed the area with last night's milk...but there is something to be said for being able to release your fury while on a bike or when running...Huh?

I mean...you have to learn to piss yourself during every aspect of the race. I'm serious. Why wait in line? This past race was the first time I was able to do this during the run...and while trying to undo countless years of potty training is hard, thinking about running water and having absolutely NO shame seemed to do the trick for me.

Finally...that "no shame" thing has a benefit!

(3) Push...If You Have To

The morning of the race, it is very, Very, VERY important to make sure you have gone #2 as much as possible. This is difficult when you are trying to eat higher quantities of food, water, and salt leading up to race day. During Vineman, I actually started getting stomach pains during the ride, and I thought I was going to have an alien push its way through my stomach. Turns out...I just really needed to go to the bathroom. I ignored this, and it kind of went away (kind of)...but one of the best ways to be a good triathlete, in my experience, is having good bowel movements BEFORE the race.

(4) Go Ahead. Freak Out! Be an Asshole! BEFORE the Race.

In general, I feel like I am a pretty calm person...but the two days leading up to Vineman, I found myself contemplating life, God, and my ability to move to Canada within the next 24 hours. This is normal. I say, let your inner asshole out. If someone cuts you off while you're driving the day before the race, why not run him off the road? Normally, this kind of reaction would seem petty, but not leading up to race day. That person deserved to be run off the road...in fact, he wanted to be! Why else would he cut you off?

Just don't be an ass during the race. No matter how fast (or slow) you are at something, there is someone faster (or slower). So don't be the guy who yells out "On your left means MOVE THE FUCK OVER." Nobody likes that guy or his small penis.

(5) Realize It's Supposed to be Difficult -- Literally and Metaphorically.

It wasn't until training this year that I got over the fact that swimming, biking, and running will never be easy. I had it in the back of my mind that one day, magically, it would all just feel like taking a nap. Like I was skipping along. Clearly, I was wrong AND an idiot.

This shit is hard. Very hard. And once I realized that...it ironically did get easier. There is this wave of energy that goes through me, and I assume everyone else too, and you ride that wave until it leaves you...it will come back. Seeing as I am not a professional athlete, my wave is probably relatively short, and that is ok. One mantra I kept telling myself is "I am where I am." I wasn't going "slow." In fact, many times during the race I tried to slow myself down.

Triathlons are such a wonderful microcosm for life. They are very, very challenging; there is always something to learn; there is always someone better than you at something; and you are constantly caked in stinky, yellow pee.

If that isn't life, I don't know what is.

Juice Fast Day #2

2010-08-03T18:26:00.000-07:00

Generally easier today...except for that bacon smell that was haunting me in Hillcrest. What is it with me, meat, and Hillcrest??

Breakfast:

2 Fuji apples
6 strawberries
1 handful of grapes

Lunch:

2 large tomatoes
2 small cucumbers
1 1/2 carrots
2 celery stalks
1 clove of elephant garlic
Ginger

Snack:

12 ounces of OJ

Dinner (THIS WAS AMAZING!):

3 1/2 oranges
1 Fuji apple
5 strawberries
1 1/2 small cucumbers
Ginger

Juice Fast: Day 1

2010-08-02T17:29:00.000-07:00

Getting the normal side effects: Headache, lack of energy, weird mouth taste. If my toilet could talk....

Morning:

1/2 of one large beet
1/2 of clove of elephant garlic
Swiss chard
1 cucumber
2 white carrots
1 handful of cherry tomatoes

Afternoon:

1/2 of an apple
2 small oranges
2 1/2 pears

Dinner:

2 small cucumbers
1 handful of cherry tomatoes
1/2 clove of elephant garlic
Ginger
2 orange carrots
2 stalks of celery
Kale

By Special Request

2010-07-22T21:17:00.000-07:00

(I just added some new buttons to each posting page...very exciting indeed. Feel free to click on them...or ignore them.)

I wrote a brief piece about my friend's dog...I read it to her, and she liked it, and asked me to blog about it. So...here it is:

***

Disco Jr. is a small Chihuahua-mix. My friend, Jen, rescued him after he was found under a freeway overpass, malnourished and with a busted leg. Soon after, Jen went on vacation for three weeks (no connection, I'm sure), and asked if we would watch her "innocent, little baby."

"Sure, why not."

We are now no longer friends.

From the beginning, it was clear that Disco Jr. was full of life, energy, and most importantly, pee. Although fully potty trained, Disco Jr. would decide to pee in certain areas of the house when it suited him best, and I would find his toothless gaze and gimpy gate increasingly less endearing when I would pick up a pair of recently-soaked pants that I purposely hung on a chair away from his never ending fountain of fun. At times, he would stare at me while he went, and through my yells.

We own two pugs, Maggie and Morrie, and they liked to gang up on poor Disco Jr. To defend himself, he would snarl his gums at them, which only interested them more. So, in retaliation, Disco Jr. would snap, but instead of a clanking of teeth, all we would hear was a bumping of gums. This really made me laugh. Out loud. In fact, I am laughing at him again right now.

So maybe, peeing all over my clothes wasn't a sign of stupidity after all, but instead, a form of doggy karma. As I laughed at Disco Jr.'s misfortune...he would bide his time and give a toothless smile as he stumbled upon something I own. A "who's laughing now, bitch" grin all over his face.

Knock, Knock, Knocking on 300

2010-06-17T08:17:00.000-07:00

In the movie 300, a bunch of naked Spartans prance around while a naked Persian guy tries to seduce/conquer them (this is the CliffsNotes version).

Very similarly, my blog nears 300 entries, and I am currently prancing around naked.

OK...OK...that isn't true...I'm not prancing.

Point being, I should come up with something spectacular for this occasion. I mean, who would have imagined I would have spent so much time writing so many things that so many people don't read. NOT ME!

With about nine blogs to go before I get there...I need to think of something that is equal parts meaningful, thought provoking, libelous, self-deprecating, and crude. Something like Hemingway meets Daniel Tosh.

Until then, I'm going to try to contact Gerard Butler and see if I can get him to make a special blog appearance saying something like "THIS...IS...MARK'S BLOG!!" Prancing/clothes optional.

Learning My ABCs

2010-06-04T14:10:00.000-07:00

When you're neurotic, like me, you tend to over think things...especially when these things involve other people. Mundane tasks like changing lanes, buying groceries, and walking past people in the hall have to be done the right way to ensure that:

(a) They are done correctly [because there is a correct way to do these things, right?];
(b) They are done politely; and
(c) They are done discreetly.

This formula might not seem to hard to accomplish, but when trying to get a+b+c to = perfection every second of every day...some amount of added life stress comes into play.

Luckily, I find myself to be utterly ridiculous...so I don't get overly consumed. I often just laugh when I find myself spiraling down a rabbit hole of:

Did I say "Hi" at the right time and with enough clarity to sound friendly but not like I want to get into a conversation? You're an idiot...stop worrying about that...shit...did he see me talking to myself...now I look unfriendly...ok...walk normally...not too fast...SLOW DOWN...how can you walk too fast...this is stupid...I'm stupid...oh...BOOBS...What was I thinking about...Oh yeah...that was a good "Hi." Probably the best "Hi" that dude every heard before. *chuckle* I really am insane."

On the other end of the spectrum...there are douchebags that could care less about other people's feelings. I encountered one this morning in the YMCA's hot tub. Clearly, he is illiterate....He does not know my ABCs.

***

First of all, there are two hot tubs at the Y. When I walked up, there was an even number of people in both areas...so I was not going to look like I was picking a side that already had too many people in it (a perfect ABC) although I was going to disturb the balance of tub-to-person ratio going on (substandard A).

Next, I entered my tub of choice, giving the gentleman who was already in the tub plenty of room, without splashing him at all, and without making any odd half-naked-man-eye-contact (Another ABC accomplished...I was on a role...and ecstatic with my performance to that point.) On the other hand, wile he did have plenty of room, I was sitting on the same side of the hot tub with him so I could be in some shade (Bad B...and borderline A).

As I mentioned, at this point, I was happy to find myself under an umbrella that gave me some shade, and I had left room for other shade-wanting-hot-tub-guests (ABC). I did start to wonder if the other guy in my tub knew I was trying to leave room for others to enjoy the shade, though (This completely ruined my C...and I tried to take up even less room).

And there I sat. Content. Shaded. No other person bothered as much as possible. I'm sure everyone was very impressed with my ability to get into the hot tub in such a professional manner....

***

This sense of ease did not last long. The "gentleman" who was sharing the hot tub with me decided to MOVE THE UMBRELLA so that the shade it offered was no longer on me...but only him and the rest of the hot tub. I didn't know what to do. I figure a normal person would request that the umbrella stay in place...but, as I have established, I am anything but normal. I didn't want to disturb his actions of wanting to change the angle of the umbrella (ABC), but I was also left in a hot tub in the sun...

I tried to talk my way through this:

Maybe he doesn't realize that the entire hot tub is covered in shade now EXCEPT where I am sitting. I should politely ask him to return it...no...no...I can't ask...I should tell...Yeah...telling is the right play here...but, he might not speak English. It looks like he may speak Spanish. How do I say this in Spanish? Por favor puede...puede...Move-o....it isn't move-o you idiot...what is the word for move? Is it volver? I think that is turn, not move. Shit, what is the word for umbrella? Did I ever know that word? Why can't I ever remember anything...Damn it...he already sat down. I think I waited too long. Now if I say something, he has to get back up to move the umbrella. Umbrella? Umbrella? What is the Spanish for umbrella? It is so fucking hot in here...I really should have said something...*Looking over at the other hot tub* BOOBS!

So I did what any sane person would do...I got out of the hot tub because it was too hot in the sun. I chalked this entire situation up to the fact that he must just be oblivious...and it was coincidence that the only place that ended up NOT having shade was exactly where I was sitting.

I thought this for about five seconds...until he watched me dry off...and put the umbrella back the second I walked through the door and back into the Y.

I wonder what the Spanish is for "You are a rude piece of shit?"

***

By the time I got to the locker room...all I could do was laugh at how ridiculous he was and I was and the entire situation was...but not for long...I was then down another rabbit hole because the Y is infamous for old men walking around with their wangs out...which seems very rude to me...and I had to get into my "Correct way to not look at other people's wangs without making it look like I am not looking at other people's wangs" (ABC) routine...and didn't have time to worry about the umbrella incident any longer.

Fake Orgies and The People They F Over

2010-04-23T09:30:00.000-07:00

I have often thought taking me seriously makes as much sense as a fat homeless person. But in today's blog-centric, Google-driven world...it seems things have changed.

For every light-hearted blog (mine, for example), you get idiots who use the internet to post fake-orgy ads when feuding with a neighbor (I couldn't make this shit up if I tried).

Words, of course, have power, and the thin veil of the internet allows millions of people to voice their ideas, often quite rudely, and often without fear of repercussion. I mean, how much more likely is a person to comment on a blog "I hate you, you f'ing, asshole," than say those words to a person's face? I have done the math. It is much more likely. Like at least three times more likely squared.

What gets me, though, is satire gone wrong...or should I say, satire misinterpreted.

Case in point, I was actually legally threatened this year because of my blog. I got "a letter" from "a lawyer" who demanded I "cease and desist" my "libelous" and "slanderous" accusations regarding "his client."

Are you fucking kidding me? Have you read this blog? A blog in which I claim Eva Longoria is ugly. A blog in which I discuss, in depth mind you, the defecation habits of my dogs. A blog where if my tongue were any further in cheek, I might look like this guy:

The thing is, with the growing "popularity" (if that is even the right word) of this blog, and the ability to easily find content on the internet...I have fallen victim to the cyber plague of the 21st Century:

People are chicken shits.

They hide behind lawyers, HOAs, HR reps, agents, assistants, in fact, any middleman to do their dirty work.

The internet has not only shielded these chicken shits, it has propagated the issue to such an extreme, that some people have lost the ability to have face-to-face discussions about even the slightest disagreement.

Too many one-way, asynchronous conversations have people believing that "to talk something through" is taboo. I'll just have my lawyer take care of that for me has removed the ability for some people to look another person in the eye and say, with conviction, "Hey...asshole...you suck."

Let's keep things in perspective, here. There is a dramatic difference between calling for a "gang-bang on a bored soccer mom" and claiming "Mylie Cyrus sucks."

If anyone has an issue with this, let's talk about it...

Thinking About Thinking

2010-04-21T16:58:00.000-07:00

Something interesting happens when in the middle of an endurance sport. You are alone. With your thoughts. And your thoughts. Well, they are alone. With you.

Now, normally, this isn't such a bad thing. Many times into a three-hour ride, I finally figure out what the heck I am going to do with one of my classes...two years from now....cuz, that's important. Hmm...

I have to say, though, "what do you think about" is almost one of my favorite questions when asked about training for triathlons. Some other common (and not nearly as interesting) questions are:

Doesn't your butt start to hurt?

What is a triathlon?

Is that the Ironman?

What order are the events in?

Is that like that thing like in Hawaii?

and

How far is it?

(These, again, are the most common questions. Please don't confuse these with the most common statements: "I could/would never do that" or "I lose my breath walking up stairs" [sometimes heard as "around the block" or "down the street"] or "You are crazy.")

***

Honestly, the real question here isn't "WHAT do I think about?" The more pertinent question is "WHY do I think about the things I think about?" For example, many times when over an hour into swimming/biking/running, I start singing JLO songs. I'm not kidding. JLO.

WAITING FOR TONIGHT. OHHHHHHHHHH

BAM...again and again and again. Now the what in this instance is clearly gay and embarrassing...but the why...the WHY is what gets me.

Why am I singing a JLO song?
Why am I singing THIS JLO song?
Why am I changing the words of the song from:

Waiting for tonight, oh
When you would be here in my arms
Waiting for tonight, oh
I've dreamed of this love for so long

to

Waiting to take a poo, oh
It will be there in the bowl.
Waiting to take a poo, oh
I've dreamed of this poo for so long

Clearly, this is not normal, but something about the rhythm of the song and the word "poo" (which always makes me laugh), keeps me going. I guess that's my why?

Another song that I am apt to sing is the California Drinking Song Now the why here is tricky.

Part of me thinks I sing this song because it's long, and I can never remember all the words. Consequently, I sing it again and again in my head, taking up gobs of time...berating myself for my lack of memory...and completely forgetting about what I'm doing.

I also think that maybe, deep within my brain, I start burning off some cells from when I used to be an alcoholic in college..and as these cells die...they sing me a little song in tribute. You never know.

***

So, it seems, some of my why's are for comic relief, some are for distraction, and others are clearly more scientific in nature.

I also may just have some sort of deep passion for JLO and drinking.

And, of course, I guess I also could be gay.

I'll keep thinking about it...perhaps tonight...with a beer...ohhhhh

Motorists: An Open Letter

2010-04-17T14:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Motorists (meaning all motorists, not just certain minorities or certain genders that are sometimes certainly stereotyped as "bad drivers"):

Now, I know that you may realize this...you are very smart after all, but a bike tis not a car. Keeping this pertinent info in mind, please refrain from the following:

(1) Do NOT honk at me...EVER. You see, no matter who is right or who is wrong in a particular situation when you may want to honk...if you refer back to the premise of my argument (the aforementioned a bike is not a car), honking does absolutely nothing but make a bad situation much, much worse.

For example, let's say we are "sharing" (did you notice the quotes there? I am quoting that because you are indeed supposed to share the road with me...but alas, usually, you do not) the road...and I run out of shoulder to ride upon. If I then leave a nonexistent bike lane and "share" a lane with you, I realize that you may want to honk to (a) let me know you are there (b) make me move over or (c) request me to speed up...whatever the case may be...do you remember the premise? Do you? I am not a car...and so I can do none of these things...and while you may scoff at my very existence..honking only makes bikers nervous and SWERVE...maybe MORE into your lane.

So...no honking.

(2) While you may very well be some sort of fashion consultant...Hell, you may be the Tim Gunn of Del Mar...that still gives you no right to comment on my attire...I mean, do you see me lean over at a red light and say "Nice sweatpants...is that velour? My...you look quite gay in those" to you? I'm sorry if my biking shorts (designed for both speed and comfort) somehow offend you...but I can tell you, wearing biking shorts does not a gay man make. Maybe it's the sight of a non-fat ass that is threatening to you...I don't know. Point being...shut it.

(3) We all love a good laugh. I know I do...I mean..look at your wife. I kid. I kid. You see...joking is part of everyone's life. But you know what isn't funny? Yelling out your car window things like:

-Hey buddy, you dropped your water bottle!

or

-You're going the wrong way!

or

-Can't you go any faster??!?!?!?!?.

You are not original. More to the point, you are not funny. I have heard these same things time and time again. If you were to come up with some NEW material, and wanted to try it out...then by all means...go for yours. Until then...no more yelling rehashed jokes.

(4) I gotta say...I don't understand parking and/or driving in the bike lane...this "stumps" me...but the glass? Why do you constantly throw glass bottles into my lane? Again...I am assuming that you are smart...and that you realize that when you throw a glass bottle out of your car...it will...what's the word I am looking for...BREAK. Yeah...it breaks! So why don't you keep all your glass, food, and used condoms IN YOUR CAR.

This is really all I had to say at the moment. I hope you understand my position. Let's work together on this...and way to go with those used condoms! You the man!

Sincerely:

Mark Manasse

...and I was the only non-high person at the KFC

2010-04-17T12:02:00.000-07:00

I think what initially got me was the countdown. A countdown? For food? That's...that's...well that's genius!!

And as the day drew nigh, I knew that not only would I buy, but that I would love the new KFC Double Down.

For me, though, it ended up that the sandwich wasn't even half the story. You see, I had no idea that at 9:45 PM on a Wednesday night was when KFCs turned into some sort of quasi-reality...like a mix of Tim Burton and David Lynch films.

***

The Extras

The first thing I noticed upon entering the pit of despair was rhythmic chewing and scooping.

Dazed look...chew...chew...scoop...dazed look...chew...chew...scoop.

Each table's occupant was a little more...um...portly? than the last...and there were no smiles. None to be seen. Just scooping. And chewing. Mashed potatoes looked popular, though.

Bollywood Leads

As I made my way to the front of the restaurant, I was halted by two Indian men who were trying to complete their orders. I was amazed by them for two very important reasons:

(1) They were clearly at the KFC together when I thought this was a no-friend zone. The other patrons would look up from time-to-time confused at sounds that appeared unwelcomed or maybe just unusual to them...the sounds were of interpersonal communication.

(2) And I hope this doesn't sound rude, but I think I can use my personal experience as an ESOL instructor to comment upon this...these two guys had THE WORST ACCENTS I had ever heard in my life. The more normal of the two cashiers gave it a go...but this got a little old:

Yes..I wut likea pis of chikin plis.

Um...what?

Chikin plis

OK...how many pieces?

Are der wery meny en abuckeet?

A what?

Buckeet.

A bucket?

Yes, a buckeet.

Although only third in a line at a fast food place, I didn't get to order for about twenty minutes. This made me wery, wery, irritated.

Bill and Ted...Bundy

I already mentioned the more normal of the two cashiers, which actually is saying something. This "normal" guy was HIGH as a kite...higher than the two Indian guys...and higher than the scooper-chompers at the tables. His eyes were like a couple of bloody marys floating on his shit-eating-grin-of-a-face. But this guy was nothing...NOTHING...because about ten minutes into my time at KFC...I locked eyes (or eye) with Marty Feldman's grandson..and this guy didn't stop mad dogging me the rest of my stay.

Here's Mark...here's one of Marty's eyes. There's Mark...there's one of Marty's eyes.

Creepy...creepy stuff.

Will Somebody Please Think about the Children

But my favorite part of this entire evening had to be when the future McPoyle Brothers from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia came in with their mom??? and insisted on saying things such as the following:

Are you Mexican? to cashier #1

EWWWW, whoa to cashier #2

I want a BURRITOOOOOOOOOOOOOO to everyone?

Do you have hot sauce? How hot? Is it hot hot or just hot? I don't like hot hot...but I like hot. Mr., what's wrong with your eye?

And while clearly at least ten-years-old...and on amphetamines...their mom??? simply ignored them. To the best of my knowledge, she was deaf.

The Climax

After about fifteen minutes of sitting around and, I presume, someone going out back and slaughtering my chicken for me, I got my Double Down. What I thought would be a nice, little five-minute stop, ended up taking well over thirty minutes...

So, I walked out the door...slowly...while watched by an eye...and listening to some odd mashup of how wery gut the chicken wings were and cheese is good...CHEESE IS GOOD...CHEEEEEESE IS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD.

...and I was the only non-high person at the KFC

Ideas that Might Sound Good...but Actually Aren't

2010-04-09T15:06:00.000-07:00

Combining the shows Survivor and Who Wants to be a Millionaire into: Who Wants to be a Survivor? filmed on location in Haiti.

Spending a ton of research money blindfolding dogs, putting an orange under their noses, but feeding them apples...and then asking them what they just ate: an orange or an apple? Dogs can't fucking talk. Duh.

Going to the wake of an old archenemy...walking up to the coffin and gently whispering in the corpse's ear "You're dead to me."

Playing the "My Dad Can Beat Up Your Dad" game with the son of a trained assassin.

Ever saying "He wasn't THAT bad, was he?" when talking about Hitler to a Holocaust survivor.

Before the basketball season starts, opening a savings account labeled "LA Clippers Playoff Ticket Fund"

Bringing a knife to a gunfight. In fact, bringing a knife anywhere. They are sharp and might hurt someone.

Answering "Your mother's vagina" when asked "Where do babies come from?"

Answering "Your mother's vagina" when asked "Where's Daddy?"

Answering "Your mother's vagina" when asked "What's that smell?"

In fact, the phrase "Your mother's vagina" should be used sparingly, if at all.

A Tale of Two Puggies?

2010-04-02T10:18:00.000-07:00

All apologies aside, the lack of blogging really has been YOUR fault...if you think about it.

But, seeing as how I am in the final moments of spring break, I believe it may be seen as some kind of "travesty" or "calamity" if I don't at least do one blog post this week.

So. Here I am.

And, as I type, I have a black pug leaning on my arm, lap, leg, doing whatever he can to nudge ever closer -- trying with all his might to somehow, someway be physically closer to me.

His name is Morrie.

***

Morrie is our third dog, but the second one who has been deemed lucky enough to live with us. Oh TJ, the bitch-ass Cavalier, didn't last long in the Manasse household. His fearing of life, his peeing at the sight of exercise balls, and his living under the couch when I would enter the room did him in. I wish I could say we did something awful to him...seeing as we lived in an emotional prison while he lived with us...but I can't. TJ got to go live on Coronado Island. Living the good life that I wish I could live...except I don't have 5 mil to buy a condo. Fucking TJ.

But Morrie...Morrie is different. He is our second Pug, and very different than Maggie, who I have written about time and time again. I find it hard to believe that these two are the same breed, considering how differently they act.

Morrie, who is now sleeping next to me as I type, snoring louder than a fighter jet, loves me in a way that I cannot fully encapsulate. At least, I assume his desire to step, lie, or pounce on my balls is some kind of love. He doesn't do this on purpose, I don't think, by his ability to have a homing device for my testicles is like nothing I have ever seen (or felt). I hope Tauni is reading this (KIDDING).

His head. It's too big for his body...and his tongue...it's too big for his mouth. I'm not sure how his mother birthed him, but I am assuming she didn't walk right for a few months after he was squeezed out....which is what makes his tongue that much more remarkable. I imagine it takes up about half his body weight, and while at rest, it hangs a few inches past his teeth. If there were such a thing as Puggy Porn...he would be the John Holmes of his kind.

While usually quiet and unassuming at home, he won't shut the hell up on trips to the park. Whining. Crying. Yelping. Dying? Time spent with Morrie in a car might be better spent having a root canal or prostrate exam. It's painful. His wide eyes and long tongue rhythmically bouncing as his sirens grow louder and louder the closer we get. He doesn't seem to understand "Morrie, be quiet." or "Morrie, SHHHHH" or "Morrie, SHUT THE HELL UP BEFORE I FUCKING RIP YOUR FACE OFF." Or maybe he does...but he just doesn't care.

It's hard to watch TV with him because he reacts to any dog on the screen with reckless abandon. He'll fly at the TV and try to meet his canine counterpart...and the fact that this 2D brethren ignores him, sends him into an even greater fury. Onto his hind legs he'll go, begging and talking to the screen...front paws dancing in time to his futile attempts to make a friend who doesn't know he is there. Such is life for Morrie, who spends most of his time walking on his rear legs when even the least bit excited. Is he the missing link? Does he contain the genetic code that will bridge the canine and human worlds? Or is he simply a spastic munchkin who is unable to bundle up his Puggy energy...so it bursts forth from his front legs, as they do a breast stroke while apparently dancing to YMCA? We call it "Swimming," as in "Morrie is swimming at the TV again," but we are really being nice...because it makes him look like a retard, as in "Morrie looks like a retard...AGAIN." Well, that and his tongue do. Man. He has a long-ass tongue.

I have said it many times while living with our new Pug. "Morrie, you make it hard to love you." He is like nothing I have ever experienced before...because he is his own man. I don't think he cares much for Maggie. And he loves Tauni...when she feeds him. But as I turn to my right, and look at him as I struggle to type, he leans on my arm, his tongue hanging out his mouth, his snores vibrating the couch, and I think to myself how lucky I am to have such a dog with such a deep capacity to love.

So I lean back into him...and type with my left hand. Letting him sleep on my right.

I don't want to disturb him. And I don't want him stepping on my balls.

And I want him to know...that I love him, too.

Beets: The World's Most Dangerous Food

2010-02-03T19:26:00.000-08:00

Being part of a CSA is an interesting experience to say the least. I honestly feel like I am doing my small part to help the environment...and when the environment needs help, you know I am the first guy on its list.

The downside of having a box full of veggies that I may or may not want to eat every week...is the guilt. I feel compelled to finish every leaf of lettuce...every ounce of greens...and every single purple, wrinkled, dirt-filled, disease-having (not yet confirmed) beet.

Now if you're like me (until recently), maybe you've never seen a fresh beet before. Let me tell you...they are ugly. U G L Y, they aint got no alibi, they're ugly. (Can beets sue?)

So week after week, box after box, we refused to eat them. And so, much like humping rabbits, they multiplied, and before we knew it...we had A WHOOOOOOOOOOOLE lot of beets. My guilt...it could take no more.

Enter the crusher of cucumbers...the assaulter of apples...the raper of radishes: The Jack Lalanne Juicer. I was ready to juice, juice, juice my guilt away!

On a lark (yes, a lark), I decided to look up a beet juice recipe instead of just going for it. And boy...am I glad I did.

Did you know that you should never drink beet juice by itself? Pure beet juice can temporarily paralyze your vocal chords, make you break out in hives, increase your heart rate, cause chills or even a fever!!! Beets? WTF?

Also, beets cause you're poop and pee to turn red!!! One site had this advice:

Beets are probably one of the most powerful vegetables available. Beets are known for causing both stools and urine to turn red and if this happens, don't be surprised.

Surprised isn't the right word. F'in' FREAKED OUT is more like it...and I can only imagine how quickly I would have driven to the doctor if I didn't read that before I drank my beet juice.

I do admit...while beets ARE clearly the world's most dangerous food and fricken ugly, it was tasty to mix them with apples and cucumber. And now I can die knowing what magical colors my excrement can be! Win-win!

Dear Idiot III

2010-01-18T15:34:00.000-08:00

Time to go into the mailbag again. As usual, I took my three favorite emails from the past few months. "Favorite" used loosely, of course.

Stupid Question #1:

Mark,

Do you think you are selling out by posting your blog on Facebook.

J-Money

Dear Idiot,

Of course. Totally. I am selling out because I somehow make money by connecting my blog to Facebook or improve my social standing? In case you were not fully aware of the definition of "a sell out," please, let me enlighten you:

"Selling out" refers to the compromising of one's integrity, morality and principles in exchange for money, success or other personal gain. It especially refers to the attempt to increase social appeal or acceptability through this compromising. The person who acts in this way is referred to as a sell out.

I guess I consider myself a sell out this moment because I got this definition off of Wikipedia, but besides that, no. I discovered a long time ago that I have no social appeal...I think it is your turn to do the same! By the way, do you consider yourself a sell out because you finally learned how to read? Seriously, I hate when people think they have learned a word, but they are on 3/4s of the way there. Do me a favor, J-Money, use the word "ironic" in a sentence for me. If you do so correctly, THAT would be ironic.

Stupid Question #2:

Mark:

Why do you say such mean things to the people who take the time read your blog and write to you? I think you are funny most of the time, but some of your "Dear Idiots" seem a little rude. Can you be a little nicer?

Nancy

Dear Idiot:

This is actually a common question from the mailbag...but I chose yours, Nancy, because it seemed especially meek and whiny.

Let me spell this out for you. My blog, it isn't real. It 99% satire...so if I say my best friend is gay or that someone sexually assaulted me, it is a joke. For example, if I were to call you a moron for writing me such a pathetic email, you have two choices:

(1) You could choose to see the humor in my response by understanding that I have never met you and know nothing about you except you have time enough to read my blog and then write me emails telling me that I need to be nicer.

or

(2) You could choose to get offended and take what I am saying at face value. Of course, that means you would have to take everything in my blog as real...which probably means I have had sex with my dog. Repeatedly. For years. And she likes it.

Stupid Question #3:

Mark,

Why don't you write about Eva Longoria anymore? That shit was HILARIOUS!

Big Bob from Boise (Go Broncos!)

Dear Idiot:

Actually a GOOD question....and I have gotten a lot of emails about this over the past year. I don't know, really. She really bugged me for awhile, but then I stopped seeing her every three seconds. I guess when you suck, you stop being in movies? I also haven't seen any Spurs games recently...I don't know if she is still in the crowd or what. Point being...she isn't on my radar. I got into Mylie Cyrus for awhile...but I stopped noticing her, too. Maybe I need to watch more TV or something.

Do you have any suggestions on who I should ridicule next? I am pretty open.

That's it from the mailbag. Until next time!

The Top Ten Things I Learned (not necessarily did) on New Year's Eve (or close thereto)

2010-01-05T11:46:00.000-08:00

10: Sleeping in your own bed with sheets and blankets is so 2009. Sleeping on an expensive new couch that isn't yours in your own vomit, now THAT is 2010!

9: Walking around a parking lot trying to break into hot tubs for thirty minutes is stupid. Doing it while walking around naked is stupid and cold.

8: When wandering in a gated-off park that is not set to open for for a few months with signs every few feet which state "No Trespassing," one should only pick the freshest lemons off of all the lemon trees for the consumption of lemonade the next day (note: if the lemonade is actually made or not is of no importance).

7: Women squatting and peeing on the sidewalk is more common than you would think.

6: Actually trying to commit a felony, such as kidnapping, can be thwarted by a "teacher look" and a well-written note when packing tape is available.

5: A fast way to solve any lingering and underlying race issues is to tell an Afghani cab driver, at least three times, Sorry for what we are doing to your country, man! while giving a "bro-tap" on the back of the shoulder.

4: Some C.M.s find my sense of humor hilarious (Chris Macabuhay). Others (he/she who shall not be named), not so much.

3: Wearing nasty-ass-printed-ruffle-dresses is "in" in the OC, and people who wear such dresses are not actually deaf when one yells (repeatedly) "Why are so many chicks wearing nasty-ass-printed-ruffle-dresses...they are so UGLY!"

2: It is possible to puke and poop simultaneously.

and the #1 thing I learned on New Year's Eve

1: New Orleans 2011 is happening.

The Right to Bear a Hobby Horse

2009-11-05T17:41:00.000-08:00

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!)

2009-11-02T16:26:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-23T17:38:00.001-07:00

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?"

2009-10-18T17:24:00.001-07:00

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)

2009-10-03T18:17:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-27T09:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-16T16:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-09T21:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-07T18:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-30T12:10:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-21T21:27:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-08-15T22:40:00.001-07:00

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

2009-07-13T22:45:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-13T16:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-08T22:32:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-06T16:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-01T21:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-29T08:10:00.001-07:00

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...

2009-06-25T19:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-24T16:26:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-06-22T18:33:00.000-07:00

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?)

2009-06-13T08:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-09T13:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-03T16:09:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-02T14:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-01T13:44:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-05-30T18:32:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-05-22T07:15:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-16T08:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-11T21:12:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-05-08T15:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-05T19:47:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-05-02T07:01:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-04-26T08:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-10T21:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-09T17:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-04T07:20:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-31T21:50:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-24T20:42:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-09T22:33:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-05T07:53:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-21T16:04:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-19T20:35:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-12T19:05:00.001-08:00

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?

2009-02-06T15:41:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-03T10:44:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-20T21:36:00.000-08:00

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)

2009-01-12T22:42:00.000-08:00

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.