Gut feeling

I have never been literally punched in the gut. For this, I'm thankful. You see, I have a feeling that my gut is probably the fragile sort and would not respond well to any sort of physical abuse. After taking one hit, said gut would probably curl up in the fetal position, praying silent prayers for its safety.

Unfortunately, I have taken figurative blows to the gut on several occasions, the most recent of which came last night when the Nebraska Cornhuskers ran past the Kansas State Wildcats on their way a 35-point victory. Through the years I've learned that the fetal position does little to help in said situations.

I have often (probably far too often) used this space to detail certain aspects of collegiate or professional teams that I root for. There have been optimistic looks at hopes for struggling baseball teams (which typically prove fruitless) and running logs of my thoughts during football games (which typically prove uninteresting to anyone that is not a future version of myself). There have been countless hours devoted to attempting to keep up with everything these teams do, even if the team is just inviting a high school recruit to come watch a game. One fact remains: these are games.

Sure, Thursday night's K-State-Nebraska came was a battle of unbeatens. It was a match-up that involved the Cornhuskers attempting to show the nation that they are certainly a Top-10 team, while the Wildcats wanted to show that they deserve a spot in the Top 25. It even served as an historic occasion, as - thanks to Nebraska's decision to ditch their Big 12 brethren for annual trips to Pennsylvania Dutch Country - it marked possibly the final time that the two programs would ever meet on a football field.

The result was one that pained those for whom purple is a permanent wardrobe fixture. Nebraska quarterback Taylor Martinez found more open field than a traveler who takes a wrong turn in Western Kansas and the K-State defenders pursuing him seemed to be reenacting every slow-motion sequence that has ever taken place in film. Nebraska scored and scored. Fans clad in red (far too many of them) cheered endlessly in the stadium named for the Wildcats' head coach, and K-State fans held their guts in disgust. (Or as the result of disgust-fueled drinking.)

The loss hurt. Most do. Thanks to the stoicism from my dad credits to our Swedish heritage, I typically maintain a pretty even keel; never excited to the point of mindless screaming (whew), but never mad to the point of turning green and yelling self-narrations like "Hulk smash!" Yet, some of the most frustrating moments of my life have come as the result of numbers on a scoreboard. My brother-in-law still insists that the angriest he has seen me was after K-State's loss to Ohio State in the Fiesta Bowl in early 2004. I was mad about the loss. I was mad about obnoxious Buckeye fans sitting next to me. I was even angry about the ignorant folks sitting behind me who apparently had never seen football before. I was peeved, miffed, fed up, steamed, et cetera. I was this worked up, all about a game.

Why can sports seem so important? There have been plenty of events in my life that have certainly been more important than anything that takes place on a field or a court, and several happenings that have served far more severe (figurative) kidney punches. Such punches are the type that can make you truthfully fear what could be ahead. They can make you wonder how life could be so cruel. They are also the moments in life that can lead one to truly being thankful and appreciative for all they have been blessed with. Such moments trump anything sports can offer. For this, I will accept no debates.

We've determined that, in the grand scheme of all that comprises life, sports don't really matter. (Yes, it apparently took seven paragraphs to reach that mind-blowing conclusion... I'm a little slow.) Why bother with sports when they can leave you curse-mutteringly mad (the author's angry state) but ultimately hold the same importance as your decision to buy one or two Crunchwrap Supremes at Taco Bell? I think I've answered my own question.

We're a society that lives for living vicariously. Through movies, television, books and video games we're largely wrapped up in the successes (Way to save the brake plant, Tommy Boy!) and failures (Stomped by Bowser again? C'mon Mario!) of others. Sports serve as a way feel like a part of that success. You can read so much about an athlete that you feel like you know him or her. You can purchase apparel to match that of your team. You can memorize stats and schedules. If you're loaded with cash, you can even purchase tickets so close to the action that an athlete might steal your popcorn. Essentially, you can get so wrapped up in a team that it honestly feels like its performance affects yours, (I know there have been days that I've gone to work with a smile solely because of the numbers on a scoreboard the night before) and yet, it really doesn't matter.

A sports fan* can be exuberant with victories and devastated with losses, but (as long as said fan is mentally stable) their lot in life is unaffected. When your favorite baseball team loses 100 games in a season, your job is still safe. When your favorite football team wins as often as a Keno player who can't count higher than five, your family still accepts you. When your favorite basketball team drops a game thanks to shooting free throws as accurately as a cross-eyed goat, life moves on. Sure, the punches hurt, but they can be forgotten.

*Please note, this refers to loyal sports fans only. Fair-weather fans cannot be invested in this sort of manner... They also don't have souls.

Do I take sports too seriously at times? Absolutely. Could I imagine things any other way? No chance. Sure, I've been reminded far too many times throughout my 20+ years as a competent* sports fan that the figurative shots to the gut hurt, but there's always hope for tomorrow (even if your head coach regularly uses phrases like very confirmed )... Plus, figuratively, I can take a beating.

*Usage of this adjective is up for debate.

Grizzly Adams did have a beard

I'm facing quite a predicament. Well, that's not entirely true. The predicament is still about a month away, but the time to seek solutions is now. You see, my employer has declared that our company should observe the rules of "no-shave November" this fall. This means that all males employed by the company are encouraged to ignore razors for the month. The thought behind it is that it's a small way to be environmentally friendly, as it would cut back on the water and/or electricity on might typically use when shaving. I suppose it also encourages all involved to embrace their inner Santa as the holiday season nears. No-shave November proves to be an issue in my world because I don't feature a face rich in follicles of the whiskular* nature.

*Whiskular: Of or relating to whiskers... Obviously.

I feel like I've been blessed with plenty in my life. I'm blessed with the sort of impeccable timing that allows me to blink approximately 49.7-percent of the time when my photo is taken. I'm blessed with the uncanny combination of optimism and poor short-term memory that makes it possible to continually root for the Kansas City Royals year after year. I'm even blessed with the opportunity to commit so many poor attempts at being entertaining to the highly sophisticated world of the Internet. Alas, I'm not blessed with the ability to grow a decent beard.

I've put much thought into the situation, and I've decided I basically have five different options of how to approach the 11th month of 2010. Please, dear reader, review the summaries below and then vote in the poll at the side of the page to help determine what November will bring for the author's mug.

1. Nothing
I know the title is a complicated one, but the premise of the "Nothing" option is that I do nothing. I'd approach November like any other month, which basically means shaving on a sporadic schedule.

Pro - Life is good. Why change?

Con - I risk being taunted by so many coworkers sporting full November beards. Noogies, wedgies, and stolen lunch money would inevitably follow.

2. The poor man's hobo
This is what I'll look like if I fully embrace the "no shave" rule. There would be a good whisker patch on my chin, but my cheeks would resemble something like barren desert with the occasional cactus.

Pro - Shaving can be a pain in both the literal and figurative sorts. This option eliminates that problem for a month, plus adds five extra minutes to my morning a few times each week. Exciting.

Con - I don't appreciate the thought of people being repulsed by my grotesque appearance.

3. Magnum P.I.
Leave the upper lip unshaven and embrace the power of the mustache.

Pro - It has, by far, the coolest name of any option.

Con - I have no intention of pursing a career in law enforcement.

4. Seriously Going Green
Step one: Buy Chia Pet.
Step two: Ditch the pet portion.
Step three: Coat cheeks/chin with water and Chia seeds.
Step four: Bathe daily.
End result: A beard that will be the envy of any greenhouse owner.

Pro - I'd be a hit in the gardening community.

Con - I'd have the "Ch-ch-chi-CHIA" jingle stuck in my head all day, everyday for a month.

5. Fear the Beard
Maintain the regular shaving routine, but wear a fake beard of the Abe Lincoln costume variety to work each day.

Pro - The shaving schedule maintains status quo, but I put forth a VERY CONVINCING facade.

Con - Applying adhesive to my face each day is about as appealing as riding to work belly-down on a skateboard.


You've read the options, now it's time to choose. Vote in the poll at the side of the page, or feel free to add a write-in as a comment below. There's a good chance it would be added to the poll, as well.

Today's brainbusters

As part of my job, I occasionally have to call up a person's account in a computer program. In doing so, I commonly ask for that person's name. Typically, the query does not prove to be a difficult one for the person on the other end; today was different. In speaking to a guy today, I asked if his middle initial was "J," as noted in our database. After a pause, he finally responded, "Well, it would have been when we ordered our tickets."

I immediately fell into a state of deep confusion. Is it common for a person's middle initial to change? Did he find out that he was actually named after a kooky grandfather who sold tainted whiskey to average citizens during the days of prohibition? I wanted to know more, but decided that curiosity can be a dangerous thing. (It needs no provocation to kill felines, after all.)

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On my ride home from work, I listened to a sports radio program. Over the air, the radio personalities discussed how the top college basketball recruit for the class of 2012, Austin Rivers, had given a commitment to play his college basketball at Duke University. In discussing the matter, one of the radio guys began a statement by saying, "Well, I don't know if this puts (Duke) back on the map..."

Luckily, I had just pulled into my apartment parking lot when this was uttered, as otherwise I might have run off the road into a sign or pedestrian. Duke won the NCAA Tournament this year. They're a favorite to win it again next year. They have the most famous coach in college basketball and they have built one of the most successful programs ever. Apparently all of those qualifications are not enough to put a school on this guy's map. The only sense I can make of the situation was that he was actually looking at a map of zoos in southern Utah... I'm pretty sure Duke isn't on that map.

Copyright Derek D. Larson

People in your neighborhood - At the park... again

People at your neighborhood with a setting of the city park? Yes, it has been done. And, yes, the weekend was an interesting one, featuring other events that might be worthy of Writings treatment. There were storm clouds at a football game that appeared as if they had been computer-generated for a movie about the Apocalypse (and three quarters of football that seemed slightly Apocalyptic, as well). There was also the loathesome task of moving a friend out of a third-story apartment, leaving me sore in muscles that I was not aware I possessed. Nevertheless, we're headed back to the park- a public setting prime for observation.

The guy that prefers wool
As I type this, the current temperature in Manhattan, Kan., is 71-degrees. Skies are clear and anyone that argues that the weather is anything but beautiful should probably receive thorough psychiatric testing. It's hard to imagine a nicer evening, yet during my walk I crossed paths* with a couple. The male counterpart of the duo was wearing a knit sweater, the type one commonly sees accompanying the cheesiest of smiles on Christmas cards. Upon seeing the guy, I felt the urgent need to pinch my arm, thus ensuring that my nerve endings were still operating as they should and that I was not actually walking around in shorts in the midst of sub-freezing day. Alas, I felt the pinch and realized that it was, in fact, a gorgeous night.

*Meaning I walked by them. Please don't interpret the negative connotation of "crossed paths" in this instance. There were no sweater-induced fisticuffs.

So why was this guy wearing a heavy sweater? Current polling shows "his wife picked it out" as the most likely option, with "it shrunk while he was wearing it and now he can't get his head back through the neck-hole," and "he works for a sweater company and believes that showing off the product is the best way to advertise" ranking second and third, respectively.

The Mom on Speed
When I first noticed the MoS, it was actually because of her kid. Her young son, probably near two years of age, sat upright in his stroller with a grin on his face. It was the type of look one might see on the face of someone enjoying a zip down the loopiest roller coaster track. Soon after, I realized why the kid looked so excited. His mom was pushing the stroller at the average speed of a small Honda. MoS was not jogging, running, or riding any sort of motorbike, mind you; she was walking, but at an unbelievable speed. I expected to see junior fling his arms in the air and yell "oooooooooooooohhh" as if he was on the first hill of a roller coaster, but as far as I know, pictures of his ride were not available for purchase after exiting the stroller.

The Mom on Demerol
On the opposite end of the spectrum MoD pushed her young child's stroller with the zest of a severely disgruntled employee on her way to an annual evaluation. While MoS was busy setting land-speed records, MoD was preoccupied with moving so slowly that one could have confused her with a park bench. I'm fairly confident I saw her youngster turn around in his seat and check her pulse at one point.

The football players
A group of college guys tossing the pigskin around in the park. Notice I said that they were "tossing the pigskin around" rather than "playing catch." There was not a lot of catching involved, as learning that fundamental part of the game was apparently overlooked in favor of seeking out the latest in Under Armour sportswear. Nice work, guys.

The bug that flew directly into my eye
Sure, it doesn't qualify as any sort of "people," but he enjoyed the park just the same. At least he did until he decided he'd like to play chicken with my right eye. (Both sides lost.) His exploratory journey left my eye watering for the remainder of the constitutional, making it appear as if I was having the most depressing trip through the park ever. Please know, that was not the case (though I do miss the old hamster-wheel-in-a-shack playground equipment that - as far as I can tell - served mainly as the device to injure children so that their parents could have an excuse to take them home.)

Note to other bugs thinking of dive-bombing my retinas: If you want to get a glimpse of how I see the world, checking out The Writings is the recommended method. (And you don't have to touch any eyeballs in the process.)

Writer's block

This evening I realized that this blog has existed for over four years; the first post was cast into cyberspace in June 2006. It began as a way to distract myself from the fact that I was somewhat miserable when living in a town affectionately deemed Good-but-not-great Bend. The idea was that it would be a good way to provide family with a chance to keep up with my writing. (Whether they wanted to or not was anyone's guess.) Four years later, this Writing depository has become so much more. It's a way to share my thoughts on life's quirks with 3.5 readers*, a way to keep myself entertained, and ... well, I guess that's about it.

*Margin of error: 2.5 readers. 

In the course of its existence, The Writings have drawn rave reviews like "I think you just made the Internet dumber," and "Hey, I read some of your blog... I honestly couldn't tell you what it was actually about."*

*Though the first is fictional (as far as I know), the second quote is actually real, and it was uttered in the midst of a date with the author. Naturally, he was quite flattered about the fact that he had created something so forgettable.**

**The Writings: ... uhh, what were we talking about? 

The point of all this is not to brag about the wild popularity of the blog, but to pass along the fact that it is not easy to work to entertain* 0.000000012179487179-percent of the U.S. population on a multi-weekly basis. Doing things like flipping on the TV, looking around online, or actually interacting with other people in order to happen upon blog topics can be utterly exhausting. Sometimes, you have to enlist help.

*Editor's note: We realize "entertain" is used haphazardly here. Please feel free to replace with "bemuse" at your whim.

I attempted to do that very thing tonight. I sent a text message seeking input from people who - at the very least - recognize my name when it pops up on their phone. (I think.) The results of the very unscientific poll were mixed.

The first suggestion was a review of season premieres for the fall TV season. It's not a bad idea, but I feel like I have written about things the land of television a lot lately, and I'm fairly confident that I do things other than watch TV. Example: I am currently writing and listening to music... while the evening's Royals game proceeds muted on my television. Nevermind.

The next idea that came my way was and "ode to annoying sports fans who sit next to you at sporting events." Longtime readers of The Writings know that I do enjoy a good (or even mediocre) ode. Alas, I've sat in a press box for every recent sporting event I have attended, so I have no recent "annoying fan" material to use. Who would have thought that writing could keep me from writing?

Suggestion number three was an intriguing one: "sorry, I got nothin..." I considered picking the sentence apart from the grammatical perspective, but soon remembered that my goal was not to make any potential readers want to pitch their computers out of the nearest window.

After wading through ideas that would ultimately be rejected, I finally found a topic that would stick, and it was neatly summed up in one word: strippers. It was the perfect topic. How I've avoided writing about it for four-plus years, I can't be sure, but that changes now. Without further ado:

(Weather)strippers are continually working to make our planet a better place. Their work to keep warm (or cool) air in our homes may often go unappreciated, but the end result is often the same. (Weather)strippers keep folks happy.

... I'm sure that's what the person who mentioned "strippers" as a topic was referring to.

Turns out the attempt to seek blog topics was a bit of a bust, but there's always tomorrow. (Well, probably not tomorrow, but some unspecified date in the future.) Writer's block is a dangerous thing.

Quick hitters

"Dot net... N-E-T."

Yes, that's what I heard today while taking someone's e-mail address over the phone. The guy actually spelled out "net" to make sure I had it correct. Oddly, his e-mail address was not IAssumeOthersHaveTheIQofANeonSign@SenseOfSuperiority.net.

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Just heard on television: "My kids are now proud of the fact that I was in Animotion and I sang "Obsession." ... Poor kids.

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I received an e-mail today that began "Dear merge('FIRST_NAME')." Upon reading this, my attention was certainly sparked. After all, it has been years since anyone has called me "merge('FIRST_NAME')."

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The Skateboard Street League is currently airing on ESPN2. The show does not take place on any sort of street, but instead in some arena with makeshift ramps and rails set up. I'd complain about false advertising, but that would mean I would actually need to stay on this channel longer. Pass.

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Former KU football coach Mark Mangino has been hired as a consultant by the University of Minnesota. For the safety of the MLB franchise in the city, folks better quit playfully referring to the team as the "Twinkies."

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I just discovered that "Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome" features a scene where a mask-wearing giant drives a vehicle while a midget who speaks broken English and a monkey sit on his lap. The rest of my night will be spent attempting to figure out how the film did not sweep the 1985 Academy Awards.

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Star Trek: The Next Generation first appeared on television in 1987. (Thanks, Wikipedia.) That means that, for the last 23 years, I've been thoroughly convinced that LeVar Burton should have just stuck to Reading Rainbow.

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Remember that Mark Mangino joke a few paragraphs up? Looks like the Twinkie Diet isn't a bad plan... Hail, hail, hail, alma mater.

Recent lessons learned from a two-year-old

Though she's just two, my niece is by far one of the most entertaining people I have ever encountered. Along with the fact that she enjoys the spotlight when she's comfortable with her surroundings, she is also quite the teacher. Here's a few items that I've recently learned from the little gal:

- When telling a story of your gymnastics class, or a slide you played on, or a puppy you saw, pausing to take a breath is completely optional.

- Ketchup on french fries is tasty. Your french fries dipped in your uncle's ketchup - which is across the table and calls for practically crawling on top of the table to reach - make for an even better treat.

- Clowns are terrifying; so scary, in fact, that they will make you abandon the toys you were playing with and demand to be put into a crib that is not yours. Upon the exit of the aforementioned demon in face paint, proper protocol to ensure safety involves hollering at your dad to shut the door.

- When a new person is introduced to the family environment, you must move quickly to make sure that they, too, will be putty in your hands. When it's time for hugs and kisses, put the newbie first in line. When it's time to show-off a bit, always make sure they're watching. Even when you cry, turn and face the new blood, just to make sure they are still aware of you.

- When you get a temporary tattoo on your upper arm, you should pull up your shirt sleeve to show it to pretty much anyone you know. If you are not wearing sleeves, you should still act as if you are pulling up a shirtsleeve when you want to show someone the tattoo.

- Naps are for suckers, unless you're riding in a car.

- Milo and Otis is pretty much the greatest movie ever made.

- .... Unless Elmo DVDs count as movies.

- Along the same lines, the only website that matters is www.sesamestreet.org.

- One must enjoy the simple things in life. Simply holding a hose to water Grandpa's plants can be a lot of fun with the right mindset.

Copyright Derek D. Larson

That's Life - All in two blocks

Life is funny and is often taken far too seriously. For these two points, I will accept no arguments.* It's been far too long (hours, possibly even days) since we at The Writings took a deep look at some of life's foibles. It's time to right that wrong. Let's examine some of the things you can encounter over a span of 20 minutes, no further than two blocks from home.

*Note: In this usage, "Life" is not meant to refer to the board game bearing that very name. There's nothing funny about that.

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There is not much funnier in life than seeing a guy rolling down the sidewalk on a skateboard, attempting to do some sort of kick-flip, round-dealie or jump-waggle*, and nearly falling on his face. That may sound mean-spirited, but it's the truth. Mr. Skate-or-die has already made the decision that a four-wheeled board - rendered useless in the face of steady inclines - is his preferred mode of conveyance. He then determined that rolling in such a manner was not showy enough; that he needed to show his friends a bit of flash. If he's bringing that show to the center ring, he better be ready for the spotlight.

*The Writings: Where skateboard lingo is like a second language. Gnarly! Radical! Et cetera!

I witnessed a "skater" fall victim to this very course of events earlier this evening. He was rolling down the sidewalk toward me, while his cohorts - all on foot - trailed behind. After a near not-so-tender kiss of the pavement (and my own stifled laugh), Mr. RollerDerby recovered and decided that walking for a bit might not be a shabby idea. As I walked by him and his buddies, I heard him mutter to one, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news..." Unfortunately, my pace was to quick to catch the conclusion of the sentence, but I'm pretty sure it ended with something like, "... but I think I wasted $50 on this board."

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On the same jaunt, I walked by an idling car. The vehicle's radio was blasting. The song: Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time."

Remember how I said that there is little that is more humorous than a near-faceplant resulting from a failed skateboard trick?* This is one of the things that is.

*See previous section of The Writings if you have no short term memory.

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While walking back home after picking up my dinner, I noticed a flier advertising a garage sale. According to the flier, the sale will feature "Everything you can imagine and even more that you can't." At this, I was intrigued. The ad went on to describe many things the sale would feature; things like DVDs, books, clothing, and adult magazines (yes, the ad's writer was brutally honest). Alas, everything the ad mentioned fell into the realm of things I have the capacity of imagining. Thus, I'm now trying to figure out what the bargain bonanza could feature that I cannot imagine.

Here's what I've come up with so far:

- a Twilight book that I'd be interested in reading;
- an autographed photo of Ron Prince that I would want to frame and hang on my wall;
- a show on MTV that could actually be deemed "quality entertainment";
- a person that was actually interested in the recent Writing about fantasy football;
- an item of KU apparel that I would consider wearing;
- an episode of Cops that does not feature someone who is either, a) shirtless, b) wearing a wifebeater, c) sporting a mullet;
- a photo of the author from from his junior high years that does not feature an incredibly awkward-looking Derek;
- anything that can help you get the last five minutes of your life back.

TPG

Upon arriving home from work today, I noticed that a note had been slipped under my door. Naturally, I figured it was a note from an adoring fan or secret admirer. After all, who wouldn't want to spend their time writing to a mediocre, very part-time sportswriter and "author" of a practically anonymous blog?* Alas, when I picked up the note to find out how great I am, I discovered it was nothing of the sort.

*Current tally of number of fan letters and secret admirer notes the author has received in his life: One. ... I can count a note from a possibly mute neighbor requesting that I turn down my television, right?

My note was actually a menu (printed on 8.5x11, standard white, 20# paper with a half fold, not on the heavier 60# stock with a fan or letter fold*) for something called The Polynesian Grill. Thus, instead of reading prose praising my firm handle on the English language (which I definitely don't have), I was treated with the knowledge that The Polynesian Grill's dish called Wildcat Mixed Noodles is actually "stir fried noodles & veggies mixed with pride."**

*Why, yes, I did spend a portion of my college years working a part-time job where a primary duty was making copies. How could you tell?

**I'm not sure what "pride" is referring to in this sense, but I don't know that I want it mixed in with my noodles and veggies.

While I am flattered that the advertisers of TPG* thought of me specifically (They certainly would not have slipped then under every door in my apartment complex. What a crazy idea...) when marketing their apparently new restaurant, I must question their market research. After all, many of the dishes on the menu sound as if they fall on the spicy end of the spectrum**, and I enjoy hot foods about as much as a hobo enjoys being jabbed in the eye with a toothpick. (Please, don't try that at home... err, wherever you might find a hobo, kids.)

*It's what the kids are calling The Polynesian Grill. (Editor's note: False.)

**At least that's what I gather through impeccable skills of perception. Others might not come to that conclusion about a side called a "Wildcat Spicy Roll," but I have put much thought and consideration into this conclusion.

As a curious individual, I have done much reading of the menu and I must admit that some of the dishes sound pretty good. Beyond that, I'm learning plenty. Upon my first glance, I discovered that "The Polynesian Grill gets its name from the word Polynesia..."

I'll pause a moment so you can let such mind-numbing knowledge really sink in.

Wow.

Beyond that, I've learned that Polynesians apparently learn to spell from the Dan Quayle teachers' manual, adding an 'e' on the end of 'potato.'

Though it has taught me plenty, perhaps the most interesting aspect of the TPG menu is the information it withholds. I'm well versed in the dishes available at TPG. I know there's a "kids" (not kids')* menu, which is somewhat terrifying. I can even tell you what specialty drinks are available at the TPG bar. (Want to drink something that sounds like a depressed islander? Order a Blue Hawaiian.) Alas, I cannot tell you where The Polynesian Grill is located. The actual address of the finest Polynesian dining experience I have ever received a floor-bound menu for is nowhere to be found on the ad.

*The Writings: We appreciate the apostrophe.

A sticker on my menu tells me that TPG is open Monday-Saturday, 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., and 5 to 8 p.m. It's also open on Sunday from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., and both dine-in and carry-out options are available for my meal. The physical location, though, that one must travel to in order to have these options remains a mystery. The address is nowhere on the sticker, either.

At the end of the day, it seems I have in my possession a menu for some sort of eatery that is so exclusive that they cannot even advertise the address. Perhaps the ad wizards at TPG knew I'd write about it and placed it strategically under my door in order to get some free advertising out to the bevy of The Writings' faithful readers.

... Once again, they really need some new researchers in their marketing department.

Kolb!

I read or heard somewhere that "the only person that cares about your fantasy football team is you." Alas, if The Writings excel at anything, it's composing prose about things that absolutely no one else cares about. With that in mind, let's hear my fantasy football gripe of the day.

For readers unfamiliar with fantasy football, I'd like to clarify that the "fantasy" factor is in no way related to traits you see often accompanying fantasies in film. When I check the performance of one of* my fantasy football teams on any particular Sunday, the loading of the web page is not preceded by wavy vision and light piano music, as illustrated beautifully in Wayne's World. (There's also a lot less Jimi Hendrix and fewer pelvic thrusts.)

*Yes, I am once again participating in more than one fantasy football league. Reason No. 1,348 why the author is single.

As I see it, fantasy football is just a good way to make NFL games you might normally have no vested interest in a lot more interesting. (Which helps make football season more bearable when the one team you actually do have a vested in - COUGH*chiefs*COUGH - can't win more than four games in a season.) You "draft" (say that person's name in front of 13 other people and prepare for ridicule) a "team" (a list of names of people that don't know you exist) of players from around the NFL, and the performance of your "team" depends solely on how well your "drafted" players perform. Not only does it provide a person with something more to pay attention to on Sundays, but it also gives me a chance to use the "quotation mark" key on my keyboard a lot more often in Writings, since most of my interview requests for this blog are immediately turned down.*

*Fun fact: When originally brought into being, the goal of The Writings was to bring about a greater awareness of the struggles that Latvian settlers had in establishing fair trade in Northwest Canada. Unfortunately, such plans were radically changed when the author realized that he had absolutely no knowledge of any of the aforementioned topics.

Now that you, the reader, are a veritable fantasy football expert, it's time for me, the author*, to explain today's issue. To put it simply, today my quarterback was about as successful as a morbidly obese trapeze artist.

*As always, this term is used in the loosest sense possible. The Writings: Where being an "author" means that you can piece together words to make sentences that almost resemble cognitive thoughts... most of the time.

The signal caller on my squad is named Kevin Kolb (pronounced "Cobb." Why? Probably just to aggravate me even further). He's "quarterback" for the Philadelphia Eagles. In fantasy football, one hopes to have their quarterback score at least 10 points for his-or-her team. Today, Kolb scored a whopping -2 points. Yes, you read that correctly; my quarterback scored fewer than zero points. Prior to today, I was pretty sure the only way a quarterback could score negative fantasy points was by drop-kicking a puppy after pitching the ball on a toss-sweep or by sacrificing a goat to a statue of John Madden during a timeout. It turns out that throwing a football with the accuracy of a glaucoma-ridden orangutan accomplishes the same thing.

Thanks in large part to the Kolb Curse, my team is pretty much guaranteed an 0-1 start to the season. Where does it go from here? For the sake of the reader that has discovered that the opening paragraph of this Writing is all too true, hopefully nowhere but up. (Or down in such a cripplingly depressing manner that I can't bear to think about it... Hooray for football.)

Things you now know - K-State 1-0

Thanks to a 31-22 victory over the UCLA Bruins on Saturday, K-State is 1-0 and their streak of victories in season openers is still intact. Let's review what we learned (or were reminded of) in the victory.

Daniel Thomas may not be human.
Thomas carried the ball (a career-high) 28 times. He ran for (a career-high) 234 yards. He took more hits than a blind cage fighter. He even touched the ball on eight-of-12 plays on K-State's opening scoring drive. A mere mortal would have collapsed in a heap of muscles and ligaments. Thomas, on the other hand, broke free for a 35-yard score on his final carry of the day. Some might suggest that he should be tested for every performance enhancer imaginable. Me? I'm not sure how one tests if a running back is actually a cyborg. See if he responds positively to pictures of female robots?

Thomas' backup is not to shabby, either
UCLA defenders might have assumed they'd get a bit of a break when Thomas left the field on Saturday. If so, they though wrong. Senior running back William Powell helped ensure that the Wildcat running game did not miss a beat when Thomas left the field, gaining 72 yards on just six carries. What answer is there when two opposing backs combine for 305 yards against you? I'm somewhat surprised UCLA defenders did not begin casually approaching Thomas and Powell and - rather than attempting to tackle them - attempt to convince them that they were headed the wrong direction.
"You'll have to forgive my friend. He's a little slow... Your end zone is back THAT way."

Running back is a team strength, but quarterback is not
To Carson Coffman's credit, he looked fairly strong on his first four passes of the day (all of which he completed) and the final 11-completions-16-attempts line is not bad... Unfortunately, Coffman seemed to react to a pass rush in the same sort of manner that the teenage iteration of the author reacted around females that showed any interest in him whatsoever: flustered and completely clueless of what to do. (Luckily, the author was never crushed by a 300-pound lineman as a result of his misgivings.) The Bruins sacked Coffman five times and the quarterback missed a wide-open Brodrick Smith on a layup of a pass that would have meant a sure six points. Coffman left the game for a few minutes with cramps and backup Collin Klein did nothing to show that he should have been playing instead.

Coach Bill Snyder knows what he's doing*
What do you do when your quarterback play is rough, but your running back is one of the best in the nation? You run. You run again. Then, you run some more. When you pass the ball, you keep the routes short and try to keep the reads easy. You're looking at precisely what was done on Saturday.

*Hello, Obvious. My name is Derek. Pleasure to meet you.

Defensive end Brandon Harold is a difference-maker
As a freshman in 2008, Harold tallied 10.5 tackles for loss on his way to being named a Freshman All-American by multiple publications. Last season, the Wildcats were hoping for a similar performance. Instead, injuries limited Harold to just one game. In his stead, K-State was forced to improvise in attempt to create a pass rush. Such improve included moving a 4th-string quarterback and a safety to defensive end in passing situations. The results were about as encouraging as a pep talk from Debbie Downer. Harold returned to the K-State starting lineup on Saturday. Though he registered just one sack, he pressured the quarterback on several occasions and helped cause the mess that was Kevin Princes 9-completions/26-attempts/2-interceptions line.

UCLA's receivers need to invest in Stick-um... or crazy glue... or a pot of honey...
When Harold wasn't haunting Prince's dreams, the Bruin QB did not receive a lot of help from his receivers. If you were counting their dropped passes, I hope you had a calculator handy. 

This season could be a fun one
The game against UCLA was certainly no gimme. K-State was far from perfect, but they showed they have what it takes to overcome some adversity and pick up victories... That's certainly more than some folks down the road to the east can say.

Things You Should Know - 2010 Kansas State Football Season Opener Edition

When Kansas State's 2010 football season kicks off on Saturday, there will be plenty of boisterous excitement, booze-fueled craziness, water-fueled craziness, and unbridled optimism. There will also be a lot of utterances of "okay, who the heck is that guy" as can often be the case for a very casual fan when a season begins. If you are a very casual fan (or even if you're not... I'm not about to discriminate against readers) you're in luck (or out of it, depending of your opinion of the author), as my interest goes slightly beyond that point. With that in mind, The Writings present things you should know about the 2010 Wildcats just in time for the season opener. Here's hoping these details can keep you up to speed with the football talk you might hear leading into Saturday... If not, here's hoping these details are at least seen as more insightful than tales of Burger King employees.*

*Don't worry, BK fans. I'm sure the local eatery will provide some material again someday soon.

- Carson Coffman will start at quarterback for Kansas State. He's the son of Paul and brother of Chase, retired and current NFL players, respectively. Coffman began last season as the Wildcats' starter, but after failing to impress lost the job to Grant Gregory, who may or may not have been playing with a severe shoulder injury for the majority of the season. This year, Coffman beat out Colin Klein - who played wide receiver in 2009 - and Sammuel Lamur - who earned the team's 2009 Scout Team Player of the Year award, but whom never was a full-time starter in junior college - for the starting spot. Don't be surprised to see turnover at the spot if turnovers are an issue.

- At running back and wide receiver, the Wildcats may have as much collective talent as the team has seen since the first Snyder era. Alas, much of said talent is also unproven. The proven end of it comes from Daniel Thomas, the running back who led the Big 12 in rushing in 2009. Lead blocking for Thomas is Braden Wilson, a sophomore fullback who seems to seek contact whenever he can. At wide receiver, K-State will feature a slew of talent, even if there aren't staggering stat lines to back them up. Broderick Smith and Chris Harper - transfers from Minnesota and Oregon, respectively - bring sheer athleticism to the position. Harper graduated from a Wichita high school and was the first Oregon player to score passing, rushing, and receiving touchdowns in the same season. Meanwhile, Tramaine Thompson - at 5-foot-7 - will do nothing if he does not remind you of Brandon Banks. Aubrey Quarles returns at WR after missing last season due to injury... He's the only receiver mentioned that has actually caught a pass for the Wildcats in an actual game.

- Defensive tackle Prizell Brown came to K-State as a tight end weighing around 260-pounds. He now weighs 290 and will start at defensive tackle. How did he gain all that weight? Peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches, milkshakes, and weight training. I kid you not. I believe some young, talented* recently wrote a feature story on this very subject for a K-State specialty publication. You should probably go buy it. (It's been awhile since I've had a good, shameless plug. It feels so right.)

*The Writings: Where "talented" is used in place of "delusional" on a regular basis.

- The Wildcats lost last year's top cornerback, Josh Moore, to the NFL's Chicago Bears. They'll replace him this season with a young man named Terrance Sweeney, whom coaches call the fastest player on the team.

- K-State features a pair of true freshmen on the season-opening depth chart: linebacker Tre Walker and safety Ty Zimmerman - a Junction City graduate.

- The Wildcat with the best chance of a long NFL career might be the long-snapper, Corey Adams. That's no real knock against the rest of the team. He's just rather good at what he does, and it's an NFL position where specialized talent if really appreciated.

- There will be no Power Towels anywhere near most seats at Bill Snyder Family Stadium. Thank goodness.

People in Your Neighborhood - On the Road Again

As detailed in previous Writings and in academic journals throughout the nation (I assume), I recently returned from a four-day tour of the Midwest. The task at hand? Checking to make sure that seats are installed in correct locations at different college football stadiums. Yes, to some this probably sounds about as exciting as reading the ingredients on a bag of peanut M&M's (Yellow 5 and Red 40? Hello, flavor country!), but I actually enjoyed the trip. For someone who has been known to watch more college football on a Saturday than any person should attempt, it was a great opportunity to check out four college football stadiums that I'd never been to. Sure, the only action witnessed on said fields was some stretching cheerleaders in Ames and wedding pictures in Champaign*, but I still won't complain. I also enjoy the notion of a road trip, in part because there are so many new people to encounter. In the spirit of reader interaction, I urge you to insert your own clever segue into this edition of People in Your Neighborhood here. Just don't actually write it on your computer screen; that doesn't turn out well.

*Luckily, the two events were hundreds of miles and a couple days apart. I imagine wedding pictures might not go well if the groom was gawking as the cheer squad worked to loosen up their hamstrings.

The lunchlady-looking Maid Rite employee with supersonic hearing
I hope, dear reader, that you have seen the Saturday Night Live sketch where Adam Sandler sings "Lunch Lady Land" as Chris Farley plays the role of the song's protagonist. If not, you will just have to imagine a hefty man dressed up in an apron, wearing a brunette wig and a hairnet; that's the lunchlady. Now, picture this lunchlady 20 years later and you have the woman behind the counter at Maid Rite*. The woman actually kind of reminded me of mother of the criminal family in "The Goonies." She also approached her job with the zest of someone performing court-ordered community service.

*Fun fact: Maid Rite does not offer maid service, nor does it serve any flavor of Rite soda... The Writings: We're here to educate.
 
Lunchlady Doris took our orders* then went back to prepare the food (apparently Maid Rite is all about multitasking). After what seemed to be 45 minutes, but was probably closer to 9 (though, in Maid Rite's spirit of multitasking, she may have run out to change the oil in her car while the food cooked), she returned with our food. As my coworkers and I walked toward the door, one realized that we might need ketchup. Under his breath, he joked that we should just take one of the restaurant's ketchup bottles. It was a very quiet remark. So quiet, in fact, that I had to be filled in on what he said later on. Nevertheless, the queen of the fryer - now back behind the counter and 25 feet away - yelled our way "I put ketchup packets with your fries." Sure, it was probably a case of impeccable timing, rather than an exhibition of the type of hearing that any being would be jealous of, but I was not about to whisper anything in order to test it.

*Note for all: The Maid Rite menu is a deceiving one. At no point does the menu list details on what a Maid Rite sandwich actually is. The author assumed it was a hamburger, and when the lunchlady asked if I'd like ketchup, mustard, pickle and onion on it, I was nearly sure that was the case. Naturally, I was pretty surprised when I hopped back in the rented Jeep, and unwrapped my sandwich only to find a glorified sloppy joe. Such culinary works are not exactly ideal for road travel.


The fight crowd, plus the one girl who had sense
Saturday night, my cohorts and I wandered to a Champaign eatery. Once there, we discovered it was fight night. A UFC pay-per-view event was taking place at that very time, and this locale was a hot spot for fight fans. It turned out that we were about the only three folks in the place that had not come specifically to watch punches, kicks, and chokeholds. I'm still not sure that watching a guy's face bleed makes for great dinner entertainment, but it seemed on Saturday that such views were definitely in the minority. Every single television in the place was tuned to the UFC event; there was not a baseball game or even live coverage of a Canasta tournament to be found. When one fighter took another down with a leg-sweep, the folks rooted like they had just seen a 99-yard touchdown. When blood dripped inside the UFC octagon, the viewers cheered as if their winning Powerball numbers had just been read. And when one competitor was forced to tap out because another had contorted him in a way that would make Gumby cry, nearly everyone in the joint roared as if their favorite team had just won the Olympics, Super Bowl and World Series all at once. It was intense.

The crowd was a diverse one. I saw buzzcuts and tattoos, mullets and tattoos, braided beards and tattoos, and motorcycle jackets and tattoos. Oh yeah, and there I sat in my polo shirt and cargo shorts. I fit in about as well as the guy allergic to body paint at the tryouts for the Blue Man Group.*

*The Writings: Where else can you go for references that actually make it seem like the Blue Man Group is worth paying attention to?

I soon noticed, however, that I was not the only square peg in the room. One table over, a young woman sat, head resting on her arm with a glazed look in her eyes and a "how the hell did I end up here" look adorning her face. It was the type of body language typically reserved for college-level accounting classes. While the rest of her table hooted and hollered intelligent things like "Whoa" and "You see that?" this girl looked like she might soon attempt to see how close she could come to jabbing her fork into her retina.

Luckily for all involved, the girl with sense did not follow such urges. After all, knowing the crowd in the place, the violence probably would have been met with applause.

Notes from the road

After 1,400 miles and thousands of stadium steps all completed in a four-day span, the author's mind is a bit scattered and his body is a bit worn (plus lightly roasted). We'll hit a lot of highlights from the road trip in upcoming Writings, but I'd be doing you - the reader - a disservice if I tried to get them all right now.*

*This is what we in the blogging business call "an excuse for being lazy."

Though I will hold off on dishing out the meat-and-potatoes of the notes from the trip*, I will provide one lesson from the road that I just learned today: The western Illinois portion of U.S. Highway 36 has to be PETA's least favorite stretch of road in the nation. The four-lane traffic way was pasted with more roadkill than a hillbilly Thanksgiving spread. If you ever find yourself on this stretch of road, please, bring a shovel.

*Yes, I take notes about things I'd like to write about later while on trips... Don't worry. I've identified the problem and I'm seeking help. 

Oh Deer

As I drove the highway leading from Riley to Manhattan tonight, I thought to myself "Wow, it would be unfortunate if a deer would materialize out of seemingly nowhere, run in front of my car, and ultimately end up as a new fixture in my grill. After all, I need to get home and pack for a work trip, plus, I don't really condone the slaughter of wildlife with motorized vehicles. Plus, the deer probably would not be fond of the whole predicament either... And let's not even begin to think about the PETA backlash"*

*Yes, my thoughts while driving ramble in much the same way as my thoughts while writing.

Not more than 4.376 seconds after completing this thought in my head, a deer darted across the road. Had it not been for my trusty breaks (thanks, Chevy*), said deer would be - at the very least - one very sore mammal right now. As things stand, I was able to avoid hitting it by about 10 feet.

*Look, motor companies, free advertising to the 3.5 people that read this blog. That could be you; just give me a car... Think about it.

I write this blog (while I should be packing) not to relate a pointless story of the near-demise of a deer, but to clear up one thing: though it may sound like it, I cannot control things with my mind. Sure, I thought of not wanting a deer to parade in front of my vehicle like a drunk with no sense of direction and then a deer did just that, but the situation was a coincidence. Nothing more.

How do I know?

Minutes later, I thought to myself "Wow, it would be unfortunate if a woolly mammoth would materialize out of seemingly nowhere, and run in front of my car, meaning I would ultimately end up as a new fixture in its hindquarters. After all, I need to get home and pack for a work trip, plus, I don't really condone striking beasts thought to be extinct with motorized vehicles. Plus, the mammoth probably would not be fond of the whole predicament either... And let's not even begin to think about the Smithsonian backlash."

I saw no woolly mammoths on the drive.

I rest my case, and I'm glad I could clear that up for everyone.

They say it's your birthday...

Since Friday, I've been a part of more birthday action than most pizza-place-owning animatronic mice could imagine possible. I guess that's what happens when one hits a milestone like turning 28.

(Waiting for realization that turning 28 is about as notable as eating a cheese sandwich... There it is. Let's move on.)

The birthday shenanigans started up on Friday, when (on the actual anniversary of the blog author's birth) I decided I would pick up some donuts and take them to work to share. Little did I know that one of my customer service staffers would bring in brownies and another coworker would trot in with cookies. Feeding a sugar craving at work is never a bad thing, however there was enough glucose there to put Willy Wonka into a diabetic coma. I left work that day with the feeling an eight-year-old has after too much Halloween candy, plus a plateful of leftovers. (Let my dentist rejoice.)

Friday night, the party moved to my parents' home, where our family enjoyed a quiet evening of insightful conversation... with a good mix of my two-year-old niece's brand of celebrating mixed in. I'm not sure I could name the last time I'd listened to "The Wheels on the Bus" as a way to ring in my birthday, but I wouldn't change it if I could.

On Saturday, there was an actual milestone to celebrate, as it marked my grandpa's 95th birthday. The party brought more time with family and more toddler mayhem. The company was good and the occasion was great. Though he can't get around like he used to, it was undeniably enjoyable seeing my grandfather have the chance to interact a bit with his great-grandchildren, just as he did 20-plus years ago when his grandkids were young.

Saturday night, I helped a friend (who happened to be born the day after me in the hospital room next to mine) celebrate his birthday. Today, there were no official birthday celebrations, but I brought home a leftover slab of ice cream cake roughly the size of a Honda Accord and had to figure out how to fit it into my freezer. The task is now complete, though I'm a little worried about being crushed by a falling chunk of DQ's finest the next time I open my freezer door.

The birthday weekend is now complete, and it was one that was truly enjoyable thanks to contributions from family and friends. With that in mind, we close this Writing with some words of wisdom about birthdays.

- Without family and friends, a birthday celebrates little more than the fact that you have yet to be hit by a bus.

- Without family and friends, "birthday" is nothing but an eight-letter word that rhymes with girth-ray.

- Without family and friends, birthday party photos prove to be more depressing than the draft history of the Kansas City Royals.

- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that (age here) years ago, people actually thought you were cute.

- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that (age here) years ago, people actually thought you had potential.

- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that people will try to profit from anything; even from copyrighting the birthday song.

- Without family and friends, The Writings entry on birthdays would have been composed of nothing but transcriptions of the lyrics to The Beatles' "Birthday" repeated over and over until I reached 2,000 words.

I think we're all thankful for family and friends now.

Gotta get back in time

Recently, I purchased the 1985 World Series on DVD. For someone like me*, the buy was a no-brainer. I now have the chance to relive the only World Series championship in Royals history. Not only does the DVD set commemorate the last time the Royals were in the Series, but also the last time they were in the playoffs.** Now, like Marty McFly, I'm heading back to 1985. (Though I'm not wearing one of those weird life-jacket-type vests while doing it.)

*This is a very heavy statement, but in this occurrence it refers to someone who pays way too much attention to the game of baseball and has been hopelessly optimistic about the Kansas City Royals for as long as he can remember.

**And, some might argue, the last time they were relevant.

I was just a chubby (... okay, hefty) three-year-old when all this excitement actually took place in Kansas City. As a result, I have no memories of the historic occasion. (I'm told I was probably too busy crying about wanting more donuts to pay attention to baseball.) With that in mind, I'm going to enjoy the opportunity to take in all 17-hours of action contained in the DVD set. (What do you mean I should do something more productive with my time? I'm multitasking right now.)

I fit Game One of the series in last night, and I'm moving on to Game Two tonight. Even though I know the results of every game already, for someone like me (there's that phrase again) watching it all is a lot of fun. Along with the results, I also know the following...

In 1985, facial hair was prevalent in the world of baseball, and it was not worn for shock value or comic relief. It was just the thing to do. Bored? Grow a mustache to look like a state trooper from Rhode Island. Really bored? Go for the full Grizzly Adams beard. There's more facial hair in this series than at most hobo conventions.*

*Do hobos have conventions? Looks like it... I'd rag on their website, but I don't know that there are many folks fluent in web coding in the hobo community.

In 1985, if the image they just showed was accurate, Japanese broadcasters were welcome at the World Series, but they were forced to broadcast from a linen closet. Cameras just showed four Japanese broadcaster crammed into a space about the size of your average Easy Bake oven. Those on the other side of the world probably wondered why there were so many players named "Wow, this discomfort is like something I have never experienced" in American baseball.

In 1985, the Royals were freakishly good on the mound, on defense, and on the basepaths. Considering that they won the World Series, that probably should not be any surprise, but if you've seen any Royals games over the last, well, 15 years, you realize that great fundamentals are not always on display. (Cue video montage of Royals dropping pop flies, running into each other in the outfield, running into each other in the infield, getting hit in the back by cutoff throws, and getting thrown out at home by 13 feet... Feel free to play appropriate Benny Hill music during said montage, if you prefer.)

In 1985, the phrase "super slow-mo" was oft used to describe instant replays. The footage on said replays was as blurry as video recorded through a frosted submarine periscope, but the slow-mo was super nonetheless.

In 1985, perms were big. Wow.

In 1985, the "ultimate toy," according to broadcaster Al Michaels, was the satellite dish. In 2010, they're the ultimate lawn art.

In 1985, sporting glasses (glasses so large that one would need to do daily neck exercises just to wear them) while playing competitive sports was not uncommon. If an announcer ever said such a player had a "good head on his shoulders" he probably meant that it was astounding that the player's head could support such frames.

In 1985, proper spelling of Cardinals was not required to get your sign shown on national television. Isn't that right, fans with the "Cardnials" sign?

In 1985, again according to Al Michaels, MacGyver was "America's newest hero." In honor of MacGyver, I've pieced this Writing together from a paperclip, a plastic comb, and a cassette tape of Journey's greatest hits.

In 1985, the Royals fell behind in the World Series, two games to none... For some reason I have a good feeling about things. Call me crazy, but I think the Royals will take it in seven.

Lesson of the weekend

My weekend was an enlightening one. I learned all sorts of valuable life lessons; things like: the winds of a microburst are crazy strong* and it's probably not really smart to be outside while such an element of nature is occurring. I also learned that if a person hooks up jumper cables in incorrect fashion, they can make smoke appear out of nowhere. (It's like a magic trick that makes you think, but also leaves you terrified that your car is going to explode... TaDAAAA.) On top of those lessons, I also learned that a very determined two-year-old (no matter how tired she might be) can stay up as long as she likes as long as she keeps finding new ways to entertain herself (and her easily amused uncle).

*Note: I don't mean "strong like a crazy person," mostly because I've never witnessed the strength of the mentally unstable. Instead, I just mean "absurdly strong."

Alas, all of these lessons are trumped by the most recent. I happened upon this bit of knowledge earlier today, and I have not yet figured out what the proper response is. Perhaps I should leave it to the reader(s) to decided.

The top lesson of the weekend is: One can find The Writings on the second page of a Google search for the words "frank solich pregnant cheerleader."

Should one be encouraged when they discover that the all-mighty eyes of an online search engine view their blog as one of the top 20 repositories of knowledge relating to former University of Nebraska football coaches and knocked-up cheer squad members? I'm fairly confident that I've mentioned Mr. Solich once prior to this Writing and that was in regard to the way he was hosed and canned after winning nine games. Oh well.

Congratulations?

Note to self: Don't be that guy

Let's begin by clarifying one thing: I am the last person that should be giving relationship advice. It's obvious. Such wisdom is even scripted in the Book of Blatantly Obvious, chapter 1, verse 2.*

*What wisdom is contained in chapter 1, verse 1?  If you're watching anything with Vin Diesel in it, you have too much time on your hands.

That said, I know this much. I would never pull this move:

That's right, with a baseball flying directly at his girlfriend from 300+ feet away, Bo chose to dive away and leave the lady to fend for herself. It's a move that takes any sort of chivalric movement and mashes it to Dippin' Dots-sized bits. After watching the clip, one might guess that Bo is not the freshest beer in the fridge, yet, this girl could apparently tolerate him for more than two minutes at a time. His way of showing his appreciation? Avoiding her (like he's avoided book-learning) when imminent danger presents itself. After the ball nails his girlfriend in the arm, Bo breaks into the type of laughter usually reserved for the audiences at celebrity roasts.* Bravo.

*Please note the correlation here: Your girlfriend getting his by an object flying 90-miles-per-hour when you could have done something about it: not funny. 98% of sentences uttered at a celebrity roast: not funny.... Thank you for your time.

The spectacle that some might deem "The Dodge of the D-Bag," occurred earlier this week, but the fallout has been quick-hitting. The couple appeared on "The Early Show" this morning and relived the story.*

*If you take the time to watch the clip of "The Early Show" appearance, you're in for a treat. Not only does Harry Smith basically call Bo a giant cotton-headed ninny-muggins, but he carries on with a tangent about how Bo should have caught the ball. When Harry mentions the carnival, I thought for sure he was going to say, "And if a carnie attacks your lady, you grab him by the braided mullet and fight right back." ... Wish you had come through on that one, Harry.

It also turns out that the young couple may not be heading to any more cripplingly depressing Astros game as a pair. They announced, on national television, that they've split. Per the young lady "it's not because of the ball." That may be true, but I'm guessing it may have come up while the two were arguing about who seemed like more of a cliched version of America's young generation while being interviewed during the game. (While I have no doubt that both members of the former couple are quite skilled at putting together thoughtful, intelligent arguments, I'm sure this one was a tie.)

Note to self: Please never wear a ballcap in a fashion so askew, either. You are not now, nor have you ever been, a 90s hip-hop artist.

Smelt ya later

Nearly a week has passed since the last post here at The Writings. In that time, plenty has occurred, but nothing has been commented on. With that in mind, you may be asking yourself:

"Did the author recently fall prey to an unfortunate smelting incident through which he lost use of all fingers that he typically uses to type, and, if so, when and why did he begin smelting? (After all, smelting seems to be a specialized process and not the type of activity one might take up as a hobby. Plus, the author has never written of any sort of interest in smelting, or even of metals in general in the past... This is a guy that has written about a duck with political aspirations, for goodness sakes, surely he'd at least figure out a way to mention extractive metallurgy in some way if he actually had any interest in the subject. Seriously, what's up with the smelting?)"

With that in mind, I'd like to crush any such rumors of my interest in smelting. Such does not exist, and any rumors one hears to the contrary are probably being spoon-fed to the mainstream media by members of the Hair Club For Men looking to overrun this blog for reasons yet unknown.


... That, or I haven't updated in awhile because I haven't been hit by any good ideas, forcing me to craft a completely fictional excuse for not updating in nearly a week. I'm not sure which is more believable.

The rhymeless rapper over there

In news that can only be classified as the good sort, it seems that my old next-door neighbor has moved away. The lad, affectionately deemed DJ Dingus or Mixmaster MustGo by the author, left without even dropping a farewell rhyme. Now, I must attempt to cope with the departure. I'll do it in the way he would've wanted: by putting together some horrible rhymes (set to the tune of the theme to Fresh Prince of Bel-air, for those who enjoy dated 90s sitcoms).

The Rhymeless Rapper Over there

Now this is the story all about how,

My neighbor had less lyrical talent than an emphysematic cow.

And I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there,

I'll tell you all about the rhymeless rapper over there.

One door to the east, he moved in,

About a year ago, the situation was definitely no win,

For me, because he thought he was cool

Attempting to rap but sounding like a fool,

His dreams were misguided, ‘cause he was no good,

Why he carried on every night I never understood.

His rambling, pointless lyrics carried through my paper-thin wall,

Why must every sentence end with “yeah-uhh” and begin with “y’all”?

The only thing louder was his lady, who was, frankly, no peach,

Why’d she call her parents every night just to scream and screech?

On my long list of neighbors, he's right at the crest,

Of those I hoped would move. I’d gladly take the rest.

Walking down the hall today I noticed his place was cleaned out,

The utter joy I felt made we want to shout.

Now in my home, earmuffs I don’t have to wear,

'cause I no longer hear the rhymeless rapper over there.

You must be dreaming

In the midst of my slumber last night, I had a dream that I was in line at a sub sandwich eatery. It was the sort of place where you place your order and then travel along a lengthy counter, detailing how you prefer your sandwich be dressed to an employee on the other side as if he or she is your personal assistant.*

*"I'll have lettuce, tomato, pickle and mayonnaise... And don't forget to pick up the dry-cleaning and take Sparky for a walk."

In the dream, I had yet to have the opportunity to go on the enchanting journey of dressing selection. I held my spot in line like a limestone fence post while others in front of my heehawed over the toppings of choice. Suddenly, a young man who looked as if he was mad at the world* walked into the restaurant. 

*Note: By saying "mad at the world" I do not mean that he strolled in yelling "Die Earth, Die!" while spraying two aerosol cans. I also do not mean that he held a personal grudge against former NBA player World B. Free.

The kid was dressed like me*, but rather than getting in line, he zipped over to the employee side of the counter.

*Note: By saying this guy was "dressed like me" I don't mean to convey the idea that he was wearing the exact same apparel as me... I also don't mean that he was wearing very similar clothing with a color scheme opposite of mine, which might imply that he was my evil twin or a Bizarro Derek. It wasn't THAT weird of a dream.

Though he did not don the garb of a sub shop employee, the new guy starting tossing dressings on sandwiches with the speed and gusto of a Japanese steakhouse chef. He was a whirlwind of lettuce, bell peppers and mustard. The exhibition of sandwich mastery continued and the line began moving more quickly. But, as suddenly as the show began, it ended. The shop's manager, apparently alerted by someone that actually was employed at the place, came out and pulled the kid aside.

Luckily, at this point in the dream, I was close enough that I could hear what the middle-aged woman, who appeared to have enjoyed a free sub or two in her time there, said to the youngster: "Now do you remember what we spoke about last time? We decided that you're talents would be better utilized making Big Macs right now. I'm sorry."

---

Now, dear reader, I'm relying on you to tell me what this dream could possibly mean. Interpret this for me. I will pay heed to your wisdom, as you must have a better take on it than I do. After all, my only thought is that it means that I'm now becoming a smart ass even in my sleep.  

Have you ever noticed.... - July 29 thought

Have you ever noticed that the people that spell "moron" with the m-o-r-a-n letter sequence also seem to publish thoughts with that word more often than most folks in a public forum?

I've never been an expert in irony - especially since Alanis Morissette's song has a skewed view on the subject - but it seems that this phenomenon may be reeking of it. 

People in Your Neighborhood - The Concert Edition

On Friday night, I had the opportunity to see Ben Folds in concert for the second time. The show was excellent. The people were prime subjects for examination. Join me, won't you, as look into the cast of characters one might meet up with at a concert.

The Vulture
In the wild, vultures fly circles around dead or dying animals in anticipation of a fly-caked feast. At a concert, the vulture drives circles around the City Market where the concert is taking place, stopping their truck in the middle of the street to ask pedestrians who is actually performing in the concert that night. Upon hearing the name "Ben Folds" the vulture will provide a quizzical look - the type one might see on the face of someone attempting to set up their cell phone while using instructions written in Latin - and reply back in the most southern of twangs "Band Folds?"

I don't think the vulture ended up buying a ticket.


The bargain shopper
Just outside the gate to get into the concert, as it is with most events, there were folks in bulk working to purchase tickets and folks looking to sell. One particular buyer did not seem to have a convincing purchasing pitch. As others just spoke of wanting tickets for the chance to get in, this hopeful buyer hollered out that he wanted to "get a cheap ticket." Note to buyer: if I'm looking to sell my car and I know that there are several potential buyers, I'm not going to be sucked in by the guy who calls me saying that he wants to buy a car for cheap. The same goes for you and your ticket purchase.


The hippie lady who likes giving directions
While navigating the crowd to find the best locale for our concert viewing, we zipped in front of some folks and behind others. The band prior to Ben Folds played music slightly more rockish* than the featured artist, and some folks found such rhythms fit to dance to. Hippie Lady, with her braided hair and tie-dyed outfit, swayed to the music as if she were a shirt on a clothesline drifting in the breeze. As we approached Hippie Lady, she stopped her dancing, and - with an annoyed look gracing her face - went into air traffic controller mode. She waved for us to cross in front of her with the urgency of Dwight Schrute trying to get his office mates away from a fire. At no point did she ever shout "Have you ever seen a burn victim?" but it may have been coming if we hadn't hustled. After we had passed by, Hippie Lady went back to dancing in a manner that may have been last seen in 1969.


The guys with the funny-looking pipe
Maybe this one doesn't need examination. We better leave it alone.

One of the kids had an awful cough, though.


The Sleeper
Attending a "rock fest" takes a lot out of a person. In fact, for some, it's all they can do to stay awake for the 5.5 hours the show goes on. As you may have guessed, the sleeper didn't make it to the end. Instead he lay flat on his back on the City Market sidewalk, just feet away from the edge of the concert crowd and used the brick wall of a storefront as his pillow. Though the sounds of Mr. Folds' piano were quite amplified for all in attendance, The Sleeper snoozed as though he'd ingested a double-dose of Ambien.

Odds that he had ingested just far too much of something alcoholic by nature? Pretty strong.



The best way to end this Writing? With Mr. Folds' own clsing, of course. (Please note that the camera-work is not mine; just uploaded from YouTube. My cellphone video looks more like something filmed from a neighboring town and the sound features more static than a transmission from space.)

Ben Folds closing song

Words to live by

In response to a customer service e-mail the other day, I received the following reply:

"I'm not sure how I screwed up, but I appreciate the cooperation."

Someday, if I am married, I will have this sentenced printed on a 3x5-inch card and have it laminated so that I can read it out loud whenever an argument occurs.

The Writings: We're sensitive.

Weather or Not

I watched the film "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs"* recently. While the film is a fictional story (I think it's fictional anyway), it brings an interesting thought regarding weather. In the story, a scientist invents a machine that affects the weather in a manner that delectable meals will fall from the sky. Want to treat your entire town to cheeseburgers? Tell the scientist. Boom, quarter-pound patties dressed in cheddar for all. Been craving sweets? Track down Dr. Foodcrafter and you'll be riding a brownie sled down a sundae hill tomorrow afternoon. The scientist became a celebrity and everyone was thrilled with the weather... Until the food mutated into massive proportions that crushed homes and ruined people's lives, then folks weren't so happy.

*One might be saying to him-or-herself, "I wonder who this guy watched a movie intended for children like this one with." The answer to such a pondering? Surely not by myself via Netflix streaming online service... Boy, would that be embarrassing. (Insert nervous laugh here.) Follow up response: Why do you refer to me as "this guy" anyway? C'mon, my name is in the URL of this blog. (No, my name isn't Blog Spot.)

Frankly, the film is extremely far-fetched, though not for the reasons you think. Raining meatballs? I think such a weather anomaly is far more likely than the truly tall tale in this story: the fact that everyone feels the same way about the weather.

As I type this, the weather outside my apartment is - in my opinion - disgusting. With the near-triple-digit heat and humidity that rivals most aquarium habitats, a simple walk to my car is akin to walking face-first into a giant sponge that has been toasting in the oven. I'd rather encounter nearly any other sort of weather (aside from natural disasters, which are stricken from this discussion, since we're assuming that all people actually have souls) when offered the choice. And yet, on a drive by the park I'll see people out walking or jogging and enjoying themselves. I'll see kids having a blast at the pool. I'll even see folks motoring by with their car windows down and looking comfortable. It seems unbelievable to me, but some folks do actually enjoy this weather.

When you sit down and really examine it*, the weather is a lot like a political issue. You're never going to have consensus. Some people hate the rain. When my area had a run several consecutive days with precipitation a few weeks back, there were grumblers all over the place.

*Or even if you stand up and sort of examine it.

"Oh, I wish the sun would come out."

"The clouds are so gloomy."

"This rain really sucks."

... and so forth. Frankly, I love the rain. It may be the result of some sort of mental imbalance, but I find a rain shower to be relaxing. I just like to hear the drops littering a window, or a roof, or a sidewalk. Weird? Most definitely, but I'd choose a rainy day over one like today every chance I could. (Sorry potential future wife that I have yet to meet that potentially wants a sunny, outdoor wedding.)*

*Now we're really getting far-fetched.

In winter, there's snow. Kids love snow. College students who attend universities whose presidents love to call for snow days love snow. Folks with towing and/or plow businesses love snow. Unfortunately, those that have to go out and shovel their sidewalks and driveways are so fond. Same goes for the folks that never learned how to actually drive in the snow and fishtail on the road more than the entrees at a Japanese restaurant.

Whatever weather situation your mind can conjure (again, barring the natural disasters), I'm confident you'll find folks on either side of the fence. It's a beautiful Spring day? Not for some folks with seasonal allergies. Isn't the fall breeze wonderful? Not if you're the one raking those leaves. It's the weather, and it's a subject for which there will never be consensus.

... Though there should be. The heat/humidity combo is an ache that hinders the summer and I'm sweating just thinking about it.*

*No, shouts of "Captain Sweaty" my direction are not appreciated.

Summer hoops, summer not

It's a Thursday night and I've already polished off the critically-acclaimed film "The Hurt Locker." (Verdict: Not bad, but it's no Highlander.) I'm now faced with hours left in my evening and nothing to fill them. Sure, I could do the dishes that are piling up in my sink or do some ironing, but it's a Thursday and that seems sacrilegious on such a day.* Besides, how could I do any sort of housework when I have the chance to watch a couple top draft picks, a collection of NBA hangers-on, and a whopping handful of guys that have as much chance on suiting up for an NBA squad next year as I do. It's the NBA Summer League and it's Faaaaaaantastic! On to the highlights...

*No, I have nothing to support such a claim. Nothing. (The Writings: Make less sense than usual since July 2010.)

- Cartier Martin, a member of The Writings' All-Time Favorites K-State Basketball team* has put together quite a game for the Washington Wizards' summer league squad. He has 23 points so far. No joke here, just some purple pride.

*Who makes up the five man roster? Thanks for not asking. (Note: I'm not exactly an old man. I don't remember K-State hoops prior to 1988 and this obviously sways the judging.)... G- Jacob Pullen; G- Askia Jones; F- Mitch Richmond; F- Cartier Martin; F- Michael Beasley

- The 2010 top pick in the NBA Draft - John Wall - is playing for the summer Wizards*. The kid is faster than most animals in the Serengeti, leaps like a spider monkey, and apparently skipped the ESPYs last night to show his devotion to the team... Hey, I skipped the ESPYs, too; where's my recognition?

*That name sounds like some horrible band that does nothing but Harry Potter tribute songs, no?

- The coach of Washington's squad is Sam Cassel. You probably know Sam for one of two things: 1. He won two NBA championships with the Houston Rockets in the 90s; 2. He kind of looks like an alien.

- The Dallas Mavericks' summer league roster features three guys I recognize and a load of players that may or may not be vacuum salesmen during the winter. Honestly, the rest of the team could very well be the cast of High School Musical and I wouldn't know any different. (Although if they broke into song after a missed layup I might grow suspicious.)

- The Washington roster also features a young big man by the name of JaVale McGee. Mr. McGee's mom played in the WNBA. Now, Mr. McGee's mom is being interviewed during this NBA summer league game shown only on NBATV. Am I wrong to think the crowd seeing her tonight is still bigger than any that saw her on television during her playing days?

- After the game, McGee says that his mom gives him tips of "things he didn't realize" after the games, like "go for the rebound." Being that he is an NBA player, let's hope JaVale realizes this one on his own before long.

What can we learn from commercials? Lesson #1

#1 - Driving a Kia is decidely better than being a hamster attempting to drive a toaster.

The Dating Handbook

If you know me (and since you're reading this, odds are pretty good that you do. (Good to see you. It's been a long time. How are the kids/dogs/televisions?)), you probably laughed when you read the title of this Writing. After all, I've never been confused for any sort of ladies' man. Generally, I go on dates about as often as someone says "That was a great way to spend two hours," after watching "Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny." Nevertheless, The Writings have given advice on subjects like child-rearing and stress-relief in previous entries even though I have never fathered/adopted a child nor do I live an insanely stressful life. (Though it can be tough deciding which frozen dinners I'd like to purchase at the market.) With that in mind, one has to figure I'm at least somewhat qualified to breakdown different options for entertaining a date. (After all, you can only go watch a bear drive around in a tiny car so many times.*)

*Note: If you did not understand this reference, you should really make a concentrated effort to see more episodes of The Simpsons. Watch them all and it will almost be like we're speaking the same language.

Though I've never lived in a larger city, I have to imagine dating options might be more diverse in locations where one can find some sort of live entertainment any night of the week. Keep in mind that this guide is written for an area where "supporting the arts" might mean going to watch a school rendition of "A Very Snoopy Musical."

Dinner and a movie
The good - It's a dating classic. When one hears the term "date night" this combo is likely the first thought to come to mind. (Unless one is a really big fan of dried figs.) There's much to like about this combination. Who likes dinner? Everyone. Who like moves? Nearly everyone. (Perhaps not the Amish.)

The bad - Scheduling can be tricky. If you plan to see a 7 p.m. show but restaurant service is slow, you're looking at a pressure situation, and even facing the possibility of missing the preview for the next M. Night Shyamalan film that no one understands.
There's also the rare (though terrifying) chance that the chef at the eatery will be someone who holds a grudge against you for declining a birthday party invitation in fourth grade. You didn't eat the birthday cake then, but you might be eating something that tastes like it's been sitting out for 17 years now.

Walk in the park
The good - It's scenic. You can enjoy the outdoors. You get exercise. The walks can even present new topics for conversation if you're struggling for ideas. (Or if you really just enjoy observation humor... Not speaking from experience or anything here.)

The bad - If you're prone to perspiring in the face more than the average person (again, certainly not speaking from experience), said feature may look like you've been steaming in a sauna after just a quarter of a lap.
If your date falls on the Attention Deficit side of the fence, your nice stroll might turn into 20 minutes spent chasing a squirrel.
Parks are public. That's not a bad thing, but the fact that old men wearing clothing that puts the "short" in "shorts" might be walking ahead of you puts forth an interesting date environment.

Concert
The good - Who doesn't love live music? (Other than the Grinch when Whos are involved... and I suppose those that can't hear are probably indifferent.)

The bad - If it's a popular act your going to see, you're going to pay good money and you'll have to deal with horrible traffic. If it's not a popular act, the concert might be free, but you might end up hearing a curse-filled song about Wal-Mart. (In hindsight, that would be pretty funny, but your date might be offended at the time.)
If your idea of going to a concert is sitting in the hallway outside your neighbor's apartment to listen to his horrible attempts at rapping, you won't have to worry about many more dates.

Putt-putt golf/Bowling
The good - There's nothing wrong with a little friendly competition. In fact, it can be an excellent way to break any (figurative) ice that might be present.

The bad - There can be something wrong with competition if you're a sore loser. Serious accusations that your date stepped over the foul line or didn't count a golf stroke, though they may seem relevant at the time, might ultimately have you viewed as "insane" or "unstable."
If you are genuinely horrible at either "sport" true embarrassment could be encountered. Sure, you're date will probably be civil, but it's never good when 7-year-old in the next lane over is laughing at the 89 you rolled.

Watching live sports
The good - There's action and there are an endless amount of conversation topics, from the play of your team's point guard to the fact that the chubby cheerleader looks like she's going to eat floor every time she does a backflip.

The bad - There's the chance your team will lose (If you have the author's luck, they almost certainly will) leading to an awkward close to the date when you say, "I had a really good time tonight... except for the fact that we can't make a freaking free throw! That was unbelievable! My niece's Elmo toy could shoot 48-percent from the line!"
 

With that, we've run through the most basic of date options. If you can think of any that I've missed that you would like analyzed, feel free to comment. Due to the fact that many females seem to have unfortunate allergic reactions that cause them to leave the area when I'm near, you probably don't need to worry about having any such date ideas stolen.

I thought the real king was on those Burger King commercials...

The internet was abuzz today when, after much wait and speculation, basketball star LeBron James… joined Twitter.
Yes, you read that correctly. The biggest NBA free agent in years had reporters scrambling to type up stories all because he joined a social networking site. (As of 6:37 p.m. CT, Google News shows 1,731 articles related to the topic of his enlistment in the Twitter army.) I think a large headline reading “Slow News Day” would have been more worthwhile.

Whatever the case, LeBron is a tweeter. His account has beenverified by the good folks (or super-intelligent birds… think about it) at Twitter, so you know it’s really him.* Though he’s had a profile on the site for less than one Earth-day, he already has 150,000 followers. My assumption is that these 150,000+ folks signed up to follow Mr. James as quickly as they could, thinking that he might potentially announce the team he will sign with via that very medium. Thus, they’ll get the news 3.2 seconds faster than everyone else on Earth. Good for them.

*I’ve been on Twitter for awhile now. (@dereklarson… This ends my shameless plug.) Why haven’t they ever wanted to verify my
account? Are you telling me that there are not people out there that might want to pretend to be Derek Larson?**

**Yes. That is what you are saying.

One intriguing part of this whole “story” is James’ account name, which seems to embrace royal bloodlines. You can find his feed by
looking up @kingjames on Twitter. His first tweet was even “Hello World*, the Real King James is in the Building 'Finally'...”

*Am I the only one who wishes that he would have followed "Hello World" with "there's a song that we're singin'..."? (The Writings: Your one-stop resource for references to 1970s/80s television shows about singing families that ride around in technicolor buses.)

I hope you all realize the importance of LeBron's first tweet. If he's the "Real King James" that means he's the author of the King James Version of the bible and he's actually much older than the 25 listed on his nba.com player profile. Thank goodness he clear all of that up and put all of the poser King Jameses in their place. 

Few realize it, but I think his first tweet ever (to soon be etched into stone and preserved in the Smithsonian) actually spills the beans on his free agency destination. After all, there’s a certain team in Sacramento with a royal feel to it, and how can someone call himself a "Real King" if he doesn't play for said team?

Do what you need to do, LeBron. Sign with the Kings.*

*I’m looking for my Blog Approval Ratings to really skyrocket in northern California after this Writing.

It was your birthday, USA, and all you got was this lousy blog

How does one celebrate a country's birthday? This weekend, I encountered a number of methods, from the practical to the ridiculous. (Actually, most are pretty ridiculous.) It's time we examine a few such party games.

In the small town of Randolph on Saturday, I took in a car show. Along with V8s and chrome, I also had the chance to see plenty of folks in sleeveless t-shirts at the vehicular exhibition. It was here that I was reminded of one simple lesson: sleeves are for suckers.

Just down the road from the car show, a large group of folks celebrated the nation's birth with an extremely patriotic activity: trying to run a four-wheeler through a pit full of mud. The event, known as the Mud Bog, is one that is known for it's complicated scoring rubric and abundance of sophisticated rules... That, or it involves nothing more than, again, running a four-wheeler at full speed and trying to drive through a mud-filled bog. (... I'm not sure why it's called the Mud Bog. It's a mystery.) There was quite a large gathering of folks watching young men drive into the ditch only to get caked in mud and be forced to have their four-wheelers towed out by a tractor. It's interesting; the event is no more a sport than when a person's 1980 Impala with bald tires gets stuck in the snow, yet people love it. Happy birthday, America.

Another staple in the celebration of America's independence is, naturally, eating as much greasy food as one can fit in their face. It's time for funnel cakes and deep-fried pork rinds. Why, one might ask, is overeating such an important part of celebrating America? The answer is one you'll find between two pieces of fried chicken posing as sandwich bread. Overeating is such a staple in our society that we have Competitive Eating competitions. In America, the person who eats the most hot dogs on the 4th gets a championship belt. In other countries, competitive eating refers to actually fighting for food in order to, you know, live.

The main way we celebrate Independence Day is the most subtle one imaginable: we blow things up. We're free... It's time for bottle rockets! We have the right to say whatever we want and practice religion as we please... Toss me an M-80 and a couple G.I. Joe figures, would you?

I joke about some of the idiosyncrasies that result from being a free country, but I'd be remiss (and no one wants to be remiss) if I didn't mention how much such freedom is actually worth. It's undeniably important to be thankful each and every day for the rights we do have. After all, without freedom to express ourselves, The Writings would not exist. Then how happy would you really be?

... On second thought, don't answer that.