The Home-Buyer's Chronicles - Part... I don't even know anymore

October 1.

October 1.

October 1.

No, I am not going through my collection of One-Day-a-Year calendars, I'm soothingly reminding myself that my life may once again resemble something normal on October 1. On that date, I'll have been in my new home for two weeks, allowing time to complete some light painting, quick handy-work*, and generally make the new (and by "new" I mean "very old") house mine. October 1 will also mean that my busiest season at work is complete and that the sort of heat that even islanders despise will be a thing of the past. C'mon, unaptly named 10th month of the year!

*Note to self: Learn how to be handy.

Until October 1, I'll continue wondering how hectic my work days might end up, pondering whether I'm going to be notified that I need to move out of my apartment as soon as possible, contemplating how much of a pain scraping old paint off my home is going to be, and speculating where my next unexpected home expense might pop up. On top of that, I'll regretfully probably continue treating my blog like my George Foreman grill: enjoying it when I actually take the time to make the most of it, but neglecting it far too much... This worries me, as I'm not really sure where the grease drained from the blog ends up.

Oh dear.

When I was 29

I woke up this morning with a song in my head. Strange, no doubt. Stranger still was the fact that said song was "Goin' Down the Bayou" from the animated Disney film "The Princess and the Frog." That's right, my 30th year on this planet began with a song from one of my niece's favorite films. As a result, I'm not really sure what to expect in the coming months.*

*I should probably take a quick moment to explain the "Princess and the Frog" thing. Believe it or not, the DVD does not sit on my shelf. Instead, it lies on the hard drive of my parents' Dish DVR. As a result, my niece suggests watching it nearly every time she's at the home of Grandpa Kevin and Grandma Mary. Naturally, by "suggests" I mean "insists on." I'm not saying that she has her uncle wrapped around her finger, but I've watched the motion picture with her approximately 418 times, including twice in one day on multiple occasions. If I ever craft a Writing concerning the correlation between Voodoo magic and frog prevalence, you know I've officially lost my mind. Please send help.

It's true. Today is the anniversary of my birth. (Or so I'm told... I don't really remember the event.) I've officially been around for 29 years- a fact that may surprise many who probably feel that no one could put up with me for that long. (My family is - thankfully - very patient.) The number 29 doesn't mean much in regard to age, other than the fact that it means I'm starting my 30th year. On Aug. 20, 2012, I'll officially be in my 30s.

Yikes.

With such an idea in mind, it seems obvious that I should have really celebrated today, making it quite the party, one that all might envy.

Then again, partying is a lot of work, and - as I've already proven with solid, unbudging numbers - I'm old.

Instead of revelry or party games, my day began (once I'd cleared all Disney songs from my mind) with a trip to Waldenbooks. The bookstore chain is going out of business and, as a result, all books are currently discounted 40-60% off normal prices. That's right: thriftiness seems to be an inherent trait once one turns 29.

Eight books and an awkward conversation with the 60-year-old clerk later, I was out of the store and well on my way to the next adventure: buying toiletries at Target. (Wooooo!) Think of your most nondescript trip to Target... This one mirrored it. The closest thing to an interesting observation that came out of this turn as a consumer was the fact that the clerk who manned the check out counter said "See ya later," as I departed. I nearly turned around and asked him "Will you really?", but fought off such notions... I do hope he wasn't serious, though. I can't afford a stalker.

After Target, I ate lunch at Sonic (where the employee did not note which stall I had ordered from, leading a poor carhop to tote my Sonic burger combo from one vehicle to another, asking if said driver has ordered it... Mmmm. Cold tater tots) and then walked from my apartment down through Aggieville to get a quick taste of the choas that is the first weekend of the summer that all students are back to campus. (Cars and people everywhere... Despite my courtesy wave, I was almost run down while crossing at a crosswalk in the shopping district... Yes, I'm ready to be a small-towner again.)8

*Please free to use this description of a day's events as a sleep aid in the future.

This evening brought K-State's fan appreciation event (there's a reason that schools don't sell tickets to practices) and dinner with two great family members who are gracious enough to tolerate my pointless observations. Now, I sit on my couch with the Royals one television. No, it has not been a day of anything resembling wild parties, but it has been a pretty nice little birthday. I like 29.

Looking back, I've realized that the last month has been about as eventful as any in my life. I've searched for a house, found a house, agreed to buy a house, signed 486 papers relating to said house, been curious about the future of my company, been curious about the future of my job, been acquired - along with my company - by a much larger company, been working long days with no lunch breaks, been picking up more freelance work than I've ever done before, been enjoying the company of friends and family on a basis more frequent than any time since I graduated from college, been seconds away from a head-on collision and perhaps inches away from rolling my car as a result, been fortunate enough to have my health and great people around me, and now... now I'm officially older.

What will life as a 29er bring?

Beyond a new home, new bosses, and new awkward encounters each and every day (guaranteed), I really have no clue.

That said, I'm looking forward to finding out.*

*A decent football season would be a nice start.

The Home-Buyer's Chronicles - Part Three

"The waiting is the hardest part." - Tom Petty (and/or Heartbreakers)

If there's one thing I've learned throughout the home-buying process, it's that you should never offer to pay for a home with your baseball card collection. If there's a second thing I've learned, it's that attempting to buy a home involves an awful lot of waiting.

That's been the theme since my last Writing: waiting. We knocked out the official home inspection; then it was time to wait for results. (Official verdict: not bad.) We then waited longer for results from the radon test. (Official result: not great.) Now, we wait for the official report from the official appraiser. Said report was supposed to be completed today so that I could officially make a post-inspection response, but I was informed upon meeting with the realtor that the report is officially not done. As a result, I'm officially waiting even longer. This is officially painstaking.

Nonetheless, the waiting has not been a completely horrible thing. After all - as previously mentioned in this depository of written thought - August tends to be the busiest time of year around my office. (Now you realize why I did not date much in college*; Timing is not my thing.) Beyond that, I've had a chance recently to pick up some more freelance work (yes, I realize that the idea of people using things I write to actually generate money is absurd). This all means that my line of thinking cannot afford to be 100-percent consumed by all that's involved with buying a home, which means that the waiting cannot drive me completely insane and the lack of activity has allowed me to maintain my current status as a competent employee. (Note: "Competent" is a relative term.)

*Clarification: That's one (of many) reason(s) I did not date much in college that doesn't involved NCAA Football on the Gamecube.

As things currently stand, I wait to hear what the appraiser thinks of the place. From there, it's time to jump back into more meetings, more negotiation, and - potentially - more waiting.

Hmmm. Now I guess I know what it feels like when people wait for me to actually post some new content. D'oh.

"Ah, the waiting game sucks! Let's play Hungry, Hungry Hippos." - Homer Simpson

The Home-Buyer's Chronicles - Part Two

Note to self: Next time you decide to cannonball into the pool of obligation that is house-hunting, make sure that you are not in the midst of your busiest season at work. You'll thank me later.

When we last left our story's hero, he was fending off the advances of women who wanted him for his home-purchasing power*. Since that time, his life has been consumed by meetings. Lots and lots of meetings.

*Raise your hand if you just responded, "Take what you can get."

First, there was a meeting to be preapproved for a loan. As far as meetings go, this one was fairly painless. One simply listens to the bank employee explain things, provides financial information, and then learns what sort of loan he-or-she might be preapproved for. Ah yes, there's also a short period of silent-prayer that one takes part in when the man behind the desk checks one's credit.

Next up, I checked out a house and met with a realtor. Taking full advantage of my multitasking (/lazy) nature, I combined my realtor meet-and-greet with my first home viewing. Did things go well? I'd like to think so. Was the experience endlessly awkward? I can confirm that to be true. You see, when it comes to spur-of-the-moment questions, I'm pretty horrible at generating them. It's for this reason that I'm a horrible reporter, a horrible first date, and a horrible house-hunter. Are there an abundance of questions that one should ask when viewing a potential home for the first time? Absolutely. Did my mind generate any of those questions? Certainly not. Luckily for me, I had backup. Like a rich-beyond-comprehension rapper, I showed up to the house-viewing with a posse in tow: my parents, my brother, and his wife. The realtor may have thought we were a lost tour group at first, but she was soon answering questions from all members of the party. Whew.

Days after checking it out, I decided it would be worthwhile to make an offer on the home. Enter: another meeting. This time around, I had the chance to practice my signature... Plenty of chances to do so, in fact. Like a professional athlete at a trading card show, I jotted the letters that comprise my name endlessly. There were papers to make the offer, papers to seek a warranty, and papers to choose a pest inspector. At some point I went cross-eyed and my signature began to resemble little more than two horizontal lines. I attempted to keep up with all the sheets of paper that the realtor explained as I was signing, but the task proved to be a bit like driving while building a medieval castle out of toothpicks. Can I be certain that I did not sign anything that might donate my first born to the Malevolent Order of Slack-Jawed Yokels? No. No I can't.

Once the seller had my offer, negotiations ensued. He demanded I pay more money. I demanded that a Mercedes come with the home. (I drive a hard bargain.) He demanded that I send chocolate cupcakes every Thursday of the Lenten season. I demanded that a professional wrestler perform a puppet show in the backyard on closing day. The game went back and forth, but eventually a deal was struck. We were in agreement. Once I made the offer official, I'd be that much closer to owning a home. Alas, you know what that meant: more meetings, more signatures. And I'm only just beginning.

The Home-Buyer's Chronicles - Part 1

When you're looking to buy a home, everyone wants to help. Such is the lesson I learned recently.

As I mentioned a couple weeks back, I've decided to enter the housing market for the first time in my near-29 years. It's a fairly big decision, but after 10 years of paying rent/housing fees for dorms, apartments, and condemned structures that a "landlord" attempts to pass of as an apartment*, it's time to own. It's time to have a yard to mow, home projects to think about, and solicitors to turn away. It's time.

*If you read ill-will in that statement, dear reader, congratulations, you're perceptive! Here's a lesson kids: don't sublease for an old friend if the building looks like it might fall over as the result of an ill-timed sneeze.

In attempt to share the news that I now consider myself a prospective home-buyer, I recently posted something about it* to Twitter (and, thanks to the wonder of importing, Facebook). I didn't really expect much of a response. Naturally, my best guess was wrong. Within minutes of posting, I had comments wishing me luck, telling me to enjoy house-hunting, and offering tips on homes to check out. Alas, the strangest response was yet to come.

*Odds are strong that I deemed the comment clever, as I often set that as criteria for anything I post to Twitter... Odds are also strong that - since it came from my head - it really wasn't clever at all.

When I checked Twitter that afternoon, I noticed that a follower had sent me a comment. A female follower.

An admirer?

Not exactly.

The comment was from a girl I once went on a date with. Said date lives in infamy as the strangest I've been on. You see, we met for ice cream and shared awkward conversation (an area of which I'm well-experienced). I did not feel as if things were proceeding horribly (aside from the fact that she mentioned that she had read this very blog, but then outright admitted that she could not even remember the subject of the post she'd read), but after just 45 minutes, she not-so-subtly mentioned that she had to leave soon to let out some hounds that she was dog-sitting. "Soon" can be a relative term, so I figured she might mean after another 20 or 30 minutes... Not five minutes later, she was thanking me for a dish of overpriced ice cream and bolting for the door. Being the gentleman that I am, I caught up and walked her to her car, wading through a stream of confusion with each step. Had I said something offensive? Did these dogs really exist, and - if so - did they suffer from night-blindness? Had I forgotten to wear pants? Was I simply repulsive?

I chose to give her the benefit of the doubt and emailed the date later that week. A response never came. It was a strange turn of events, but there's little about dating that I might deem "normal" or "expected." I've used the situation as an anecdote of dates gone awry since that time.

And now? Well, now she's offered her realty services in helping me find a home.

The moral? Guys, women are only interested in you for your ability to net them commission on the sale of a small home in a rural area.

What, no good? Offensive? Dang it.

Okay, let's try this:

When you're looking to buy a home, EVERYONE wants to help. MOST of it is appreciated.

The Writings' Summer Sports Update

Introductions are overrated... Okay, maybe they aren't, but still... Whatever the case, whether people actually read intros word-for-word or if they just skim them in order to get to the meat of a Writing, I think we can all agree on one thing: This particular introduction has been fairly pointless thus far. Yet, you're still reading it... Weird. Anyway, my lackadaisical attitude toward writing this summer has led me to neglect covering sports on the whole. That's completely unfair to those who rely on The Writings for their sports news (we call those people "the lost"). It's time to catch up. Here's a quick look at the areas of sports that truly matter (Royals, Chiefs, and Wildcats, of course) and what's ahead...

The Royals
Where we're at:
In the cellar. The Royals currently sit in last place in the American League Central, trailing the division leading Detroit Tigers by 11 games.

What you've missed:
Though the record may not paint a clear picture of it, this team is improved. The major talking point coming into the season was talent at the minor league level. Now a handful of those top prospects have ascended to the Majors. Results have been mixed, but each youngster has at least shown a flash or two of the promise that helped them build such hype. First baseman Eric Hosmer, despite being barely of legal drinking age, already looks like one of the team's top hitters (he leads the squad in game-winning RBI) and exhibits Gold Glove-caliber defense on a nightly basis. On the opposite side of the diamond, Mike Moustakas has seen big struggles at the plate - recently suffering through an 0-19 slump - but has strung together some quality games recently. At shortstop, Alcides Escobar - a piece of Zack Greinke trade - has proven to be one of the most exciting defensive players in all of baseball. The second-year player has yet to throw out a baserunner by kicking the ball soccer style, but he has seemingly made every other play imaginable.

What's ahead:
Look for trades and more prospects. KC is out of the race this season, but is attempting to piece together a contending team for 2012. Don't be surprised to see and outfielder or two jettisoned, along with some pitchers hitting the road. Don't get me wrong, the games this year matter... Just not for typical reasons. Sure, it may sound like my typical hokey optimism (Go Royals!), but there's hope ahead.


The Chiefs
Where we're at:
The NFL lockout ended just one day ago, meaning most Chiefs have to put down their nachos and attempt to remember how to get back to KC. Vacation time is over.

What you've missed:
Constant discussions on television and sports radio about labor negotations between the NFL owners and the players. Yes, it was mind-numbingly boring. So boring that I actually dozed off typing that last sentence.

What's ahead:
A frenzied period of action where teams try to fit five months of off-season free-agent negotiations and transactions into about two weeks. Frankly, I'm not sure how it can all work, what with the legal details that go into NFL contracts. Will the Chiefs sign a player with a contract written on a bar napkin at 1 a.m.? Hey, it's possible. Look for KC to try to sign a linebacker, a speedy wide receiver, and help along both the offensive and defensive lines. And hope that the locked out players did more training during the lockout than building their own dynasty on Madden football.


The NBA
Where we're at:
The NBA players are locked out. Unlike the work stoppage in the NFL, all indications are that the NBA's labor issues will result in an abbreviated season.

What you've missed:
Nothing, really.

What's ahead:
Nothing, really. Maybe we'll at least get some decent commercials out of the whole deal. Remember the last lockout?

K-State Basketball
Where we're at:
It's the off-season. We're reading Tweets about Coach Frank Martin missing connecting flights. Hurry, November. Hurry.

What you've missed:
Jacob Pullen - the Wildcats' all-time leading scorer - did not get drafted into the NBA and has signed to play in Italy. I have yet to discover whether Italians fear beards in the same manner that we do stateside. Wally Judge, the former McDonalds' All-American who left the squad in the midst of last season, transferred to Rutgers. Guard Nick Russell has also transferred, with Southern Methodist his destination.

What's ahead:
God only knows. The Cats enter 2011-2012 short Pullen and fellow departed senior Curtis Kelly. Junior Rodney McGruder and sophomore Will Spradling will be relied upon to play major roles. Where will the rest of the points come from? An optimist would start by pointing to senior Jamar Samuels, saying that he will find consistency this season. The pessimist would say that the Wildcats will average 45 points per game. Good thing I'm an optimist.


K-State Football
Where we're at:
Close, oh so close, to the start of fall practice. Coach Bill Snyder spoke at Big 12 Media Day earlier and inside sources say that Wildcat Cushion (comfy and waterproof... Wow!) leases are on pace to eclipse last year's total. (The Writings: Your home for shameless shills.)

What you've missed:
K-State's Wagner Field has new turf, meaning that folks catching games on television will no longer wonder why K-State plays it's home games on a black rubber mat that has been hastily painted green.

What's ahead:
A season where the Wildcats may very well be a better team that the 2010 version, but sport a worse record. K-State will feature some new big-time talent on the field, beginning with linebacker Arthur Brown and running back Bryce Brown. Are they brothers? No.... Yessssss! (The Writings: Your source to references to somewhat obscure films based on Saturday Night Live sketches.) Alas, while the talent may be greater, the competition will be, as well. With Nebraska and Colorado having left the conference, this season marks the first that will involve each Big 12(-2) school playing a round-robin regular season schedule. Gone are the days where the Wildcats might avoid a match up against Oklahoma or Texas A&M. Now there's no hiding for anyone in the league. This could be interesting. With my history of having the accuracy of Robin Hood's glaucoma-ridden third-cousin when it comes to predictions, I'm laying off the temptation to predict how the Wildcats might fare this season. Instead, I'll leave you with this...
Happy thoughts.

Of Potter, Princesses, and Procrastination

Apologies to those who read the title of this Writing and immediately assumed that I had undertaken a hybrid fantasy story involving wizardry, royalty, and doing-little-ry. That epic tale must wait for another day. (Spoiler: in the end, it was all the dream of a coma-ridden marmoset.) Instead, the aforementioned title covers a bit of my life as of late, and the lessons to be learned from such things.
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As recently as a couple years ago, I refused to acknowledge anything involving the world of Harry Potter. I would not read the books, I shunned the films, and I strayed far from any conversations about quidditch, Hogwarts, or persons who shall not be named.  Most of my family and many close friends had embraced the fictional world like the great aunt who hugs for awkwardly long periods of time, so why did I harbor such an aversion? Honestly, I'm not sure of the reason. Perhaps I did it to be different, but I think writing lengthy soliloquies about the folks one encounters as Wal-Mart probably covered that. Whatever the case, I have since moved beyond such faults. In the two weeks leading up to the release of the seventh movie of the series, I watched the first six on DVD. I've now read the first two books of the series and on Saturday went with friends and family to see the final movie about the bespectacled wizard. Long story short, all things Potter are pretty entertaining. No, I don't think the series is the greatest thing ever (rest easy, Tecmo Super Bowl), but I fully intend to read the rest of the books and the films are no waste of time.

Moral: Be open to trying new things (... unless that new thing involves Twilight. Vampires and werewolves should not be wrapped up in sappy love stories.)
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Saturday also brought the celebration of my niece's third birthday. Yes, it's been three years since the toddler formerly known as "Niecephew" came into the world and - among other things - gave the author of this blog an awful lot of great (and cute) material. The third birthday was no exception. Though she's just turning three, the little girl is already one of the world's most knowledgeable experts in the field of Disney princesses, and her gift-wrap dismantling marathon certainly reflected her interest. There were princess toys, princess books, and princess shoes, and each gift was met with a similar exclamation: "It's a Jasmine toy!", "It's princess shoes! There's Belle! And Snow White! And..." Not all of these gifts will be appreciated in the same manner in a week. Not all of these gifts will even be remembered tomorrow. Yet, the initial excitement about each and every item unwrapped was accompanied by the sort of joy one typically sees on a Publisher's Clearing House commercial. The excitement carried throughout the evening, from watching an 18-year-old video from a Disney trip (That's Mickey Mouse!) to an impromptu, music-less dance party as the evening wrapped up.

Moral: Enjoy life and all that comes with it. Sure, hollering excitedly about everything that goes your way might be extreme, but it's that sort of mindset that keeps one from taking things for granted.
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The summer has been a lazy one around The Writings, and that's something I want to absolve. There's plenty I can, and should*, write about in this space, but I've been ignoring some and pushing back others. Things have gotten so lax around here that I'm fairly certain that the cyberspace equivalent of cobwebs may not be seen on each corner of my blog.

*Arguments that I cannot write and should never do it are duly noted.

It's time to return to a blogging routine that involves more than one update a week. After all, I enjoy writing. I should probably do it.

Moral: You have talents; make the most of them.
... Unless your talents somehow involve prolonging this summer. If that's the case, I recommend you find a nice book to read. Can I recommend Harry Potter? 

Always anti-summer

Here's a tip for everyone: name-dropping is never a good idea. The idea of using the reputation of a person whom you are not to attempt to gain something for yourself is an absurd one. More often than not, if you attempt to name-drop, you'll accomplish little more than sounding arrogant or pompous, and quite possibly coming off like an ass. Furthermore, if you attempt to drop a name that is obscure enough that the listening party has no clue of whom you are referring... well, then you will come off like an ass.

Now that we have the public service announcement out of the way, I'd like to provide a little breaking news: it's hot outside.

I'm fairly certain that I've written of my dislike of the summer's triple-digit temperatures every year of The Writings' existence, but this summer Mother Nature seems to getting a bit carried away. The term Excessive Heat Warning has become a routine part of my day, as if I'm reading that oxygen will be readily available or that I'll encounter road construction in Manhattan. I've tried to handle the heat with a smile on my face, utilizing more "How hot is it?" jokes than any person should ever attempt to conjure. I'm fairly certain that my sense of humor is now suffering from heat exhaustion as a result.

It's hot.

How hot is it?

So hot that folks everywhere are setting bonfires in order to cool down.

Ugh... That hurt.

Yes, you're safe in betting that my anti-summer stance is still very firm. As a result, I'm left dreaming of falling leaves (which is as boring as it sounds) and attempting to find ways to take my mind off the mind-melting heat. Alas, the two things at the forefront of thought parade at the moment - baseball and eventually buying a home - both steer my mind back to summer. Yes, even my brain is betraying me.

The correlation between baseball and summer seems pretty obvious. Despite the fact that the Major League season begins in April and ends in November, baseball is widely considered a summer sport. Perhaps I should just blame all the Royals' woes over the last 20 years on warmth of the season. Is that a valid excuse for, at times, comically bad baseball?

The other notion currently running laps in my head involves home ownership. I've lived in my current apartment for over four years, and my encounters with neighbors have been fairly well documented courtesy The Writings - from the neighbor who fancied himself the second-coming of Busta Rhymes to the kid with boxes upon boxes of skateboard magazines. This apartment has served me well, and I'd recommend it to anyone (and will, if I end up needing a subleaser... Interested?), but the truth is that I'm getting a little old for life in an apartment next to a university. I no longer work next door, I no longer feel the need to live in Manhattan, and I no longer can consider asking a neighbor out without feeling like the creepy old guy. It may be time to move on.

Alas, bundled with the idea of buying a house is the idea of having to move... again. I've moved five times in my 28 years and that already seems like far too many. I consider few things to be greater hindrances that the process of moving. From sorting and packing (and wondering why in the world you would want to move item X to your new place) to unsorting and unpacking (and realizing that you moved item X to your new place for no good reason), moving is painstaking. It's horrible. It's almost as bad as oppressive heat. (Yes, we've come full-circle, friends.)

What's the time line for the house-hunting process? Honestly, if I had one-third of a clue I'd be far more knowledgeable than I am now. Whatever happens, it will be interesting. It may be exciting. And it will most certainly provide some good blog material.

Are you free to help me move? What if I drop the name of a mutual acquaintance?
(Nevermind. NOW we've come full-circle.)

Quick Thoughts - The July 12 Rendition

The Major League Baseball All Star Game is taking place tonight, meaning that my evening contains little more than sitting on my couch and watching baseball... Yes, this is a situation that I'm somewhat familiar with. The Royals have just one representative in the game - relief pitcher Aaron Crow - and word is that he won't pitch due to illness. Crow's specific ailment has not been divulged, but many Royals fans are set to assume that it's the fault of Kyle Davies and his 1-win, 8-loss record. Yes, it's been that sort of season for Davies.

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The phrase "Fear the Beard" is tossed around often, but I think I am actually legitimately afraid of the one that Giants' reliever Brian Wilson sports. It looks like some combination of a costume beard and hair from King Kong's left elbow. If I saw him walking toward me, I think I'd take a defensive stance upon first sight of that beard. 

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The journalism school at my alma mater sends out a short magazine called "Update" to its alums on a quarterly basis. As an intelligent reader might guess (and I know all my readers are of the intelligent variety*), the publication contains articles on events around the school of journalism and feature stories about alumni. Unfortunately, the most recent issue also features a typo on the magazine's cover. Yes, that's right... The magazine published by the School of Journalism has a typo. Worse yet, the typo lies in the name of the University's mascot. Oh well. You win some, you lose some. Go Wlidcats!

*Suck up to readers... Check!

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Some folks say that a person should make lemonade when life hands them lemons. My thought: ask life how it suddenly has hands, plus ready access to lemon trees.

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Have you noticed that whenever someone asks how old a child is, they always follow the answer to said question with "Oh, that's a fun age"? Am I wrong to wish to someday hear someone respond by saying "Oh mercy, I'm sorry. That age is horrendous"?

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Yes, my good friend "Dear Daryl" is still MIA. He mentioned something about not writing until he has adequate material to work with, but I think he's holding out for better pay. Who knew that seven kernels of corn and a crippled mule might be deemed subpar wages in 2011? Thus if you have a chance, send a question... Or some kernels of corn.

Time flies

Time flies.

No, this is not the punch line to some horrible joke involving news magazines and airplanes. It’s the simple, figurative truth; truth that was hammered home over the weekend when celebrating my 10-year high school reunion.
 
Ten years… that’s a daunting number. I’ve officially been a high school graduate for over 1/3 of my life. My days eating cafeteria food? Long gone. My afternoons spent imitating a very life-like tackling dummy on the practice football field? Nothing but memories. My time spent composing immature school newspaper writings that would ultimately be read by few people? Well, cross out “school newspaper” and you still have an accurate depiction of my life, but I think you’re getting the point. High school was long ago, yet when talking to a number of my former classmates on Saturday it seemed like little more than a day had gone by since our post-RCHS days began.
 
Sure, a few classmates had picked up some extra pounds over the years; a few had seen their hairlines recede like a beach’s low tide; several had begun families of their own. Yes, most everyone’s lives had seen some dramatic changes over the last 10 years, but – once the necessary “catching up” questions* were out of the way – conversations trended back to reminiscing about old classes and classmates. I entered the weekend braced for the sort of awkwardness only witnessed in Ben Stiller movies (and every first date I’ve been on), but – beyond the afternoon’s first five minutes – the event did not approach such heights.

*I’ve never asked “Where are you at now?” so many times in my life. Not only was I mindlessly repetitive with the question, but I constructed it in a horrible manner; a manner that made it sound like I was checking to see if they were recently concussed. I really wish someone would have answered me by saying “I’m here talking to you, moron.”

Time flies.
 
Yes, observant readers, you are picking up on a theme. After all, if the last ten years have seemed to transpire in quick fashion, it seems to make logical sense that the year 2011 would have seemed to move forward in similar quick fashion. (Please don’t get used to things proceeding in logical fashion here at The Writings… That’s a lofty assumption to live up to.)

Though I’m fairly certain that I was setting unrealistic April 1 expectations for the 2011 Kansas City Royals no more than a week ago, it seems that our nation (assuming you are reading this Writing on American soil) celebrated its birthday over the weekend. July 4 has come and gone, yet I’m still occasionally writing 2010 on checks.
 
The holiday brought some quality time with friends and family. It also brought some time to truly ponder what “independence” means. After all, if America was not a free country, it’s highly likely that some of the plus-sized folks I saw in downtown Wamego would not have been able to declare independence from their apparently stifling shirts. Though it may not been my first thought upon seeing those bulbous bellies, they actually provided a good representation of our freedom. (No, that’s not an America-has-a-weight-problem joke… Well, unless you find that funny. I’ll take what I can get.)

Beyond the opportunity to provide rather disturbing physical representation of the effect “The Whopper Diet” can have on a shirtless, middle-aged man, July 4 also gives us a chance to celebrate our freedom through the wonder of parades. Sure, it’s a little strange to celebrate something by sitting uninvited in a neighbor’s yard to watch cars, tractors and horses idle down the street. Sure, I could probably set a lawn chair next to a busy street and have a similar experience. And, sure, it’s weird to suddenly encourage small children to run into the street and accept candy from strangers, but – again – such things represent the freedom that many great folks have fought for and the freedom that makes our country great. We, as Americans, are free to spend insane amounts of money on tattoos and iPhone apps and then complain about the price of gasoline. We’re free to eat foods that can clog arteries via osmosis. We’re even free to pass along hundreds of horrible attempts at jokes in our blogs.
 
Did I say bad jokes?

What’s the biggest worry when having a picnic inside a grandfather clock?

Time flies.

… I told you there were no jokes involving magazines and airplanes.

---
On a final note, I’m feeling nostalgic. No, I don’t plan on digging out a fanny pack or sporting a bowl cut, but I do plan on bringing an old “Riley Rumor” high school newspaper shtick to the Writings for (most likely) one time only. It’s called “Dear Daryl,” and it’s basically a spoof on Ann Landers, Dear Abby, and any other advice column where common sense is extolled in print.
You can help this happen. I need advice-seeking questions. Get creative and send some my way. Remember, “Dear Daryl” is here to help.*

*Legal disclaimer: “Dear Daryl” is not here to help. He is not a licensed psychologist, psychiatrist, or bus driver. His advice is not meant to be taken seriously in any way, shape, or form. The Writings accept no responsibility for any consequences or side effects that result from following his “advice”; consequences may include: headaches, nausea, disowning by family, the breakup of your Men At Work cover band, onset of scurvy, repeated hedgehog attacks, achy breaky pelvis, hallucinations involving Emmanuel Lewis, an inability to recall the starting lineup for the 1983 Montreal Expos, gingivitis, struggles with parallel parking, severe intolerance of anything involving Barry Manilow, and tennis elbow.

Gone Country

The weekend came and went (as most tend to do) and I managed to neglect writing the Country Stampede-themed blog I promised. I’d like to blame something rational for such an omission (I did spend 10 minutes at a drive-thru on Saturday… Where does the time go?), but it’s much more entertaining for me to fabricate an absurd excuse. Thus, I didn’t get any writing in over the weekend because I was called away at the last minute to attend a meeting of the secret society that dictates which greetings are considered cool. (Spoiler alert: the three-step-handshake/man-hug will soon give way to the double-wet-willie… Be prepared.)

With my 10-year high school reunion set for Saturday, I decided that I should look back at my experience working at the Country Stampede; the only job from my high school life that did not involve a lawnmower or weeds. Let’s hope this is more entertaining than pulling said weeds.

The decision to join the Stampede labor force came about as an effort to raise funds for a high school class trip to New York. Each student in our Entrepreneurship class was tasked with raising a certain amount of funds to make said trip. As an awkward high school junior-to-be, my most marketable skills were serving as a tackling dummy during football practice and stammering around cute girls. Oddly, such traits did not translate well to fundraising efforts. (Alas, if it had been six years later, I probably could have had Michael Cera’s acting career.)

Because folks weren’t willing to pay good money to see how quickly I could avert my gaze after making eye contact with someone, I was forced to pursue jobs that actually “existed.” Through one route or another, I wound up filling out an application to work as a Country Stampede laborer. At the time, I despised country music and had never been to the event. Frankly, the only real knowledge I had about the boot-scootin’ blowout was that a fatal stabbing had occurred during the inaugural concert. Win-win, this was not.

I arrived for my “orientation” session at the Stampede grounds a few days before the event began. Embracing my introverted nature, I’m not sure that I spoke more the four words the entire time. Instead, I just listened as a nondescript* middle-aged man explained my duty as an “ice runner.”

*Writer’s code for: It was 12 years ago and I respect you far too much to attempt to fictionalize this guy’s appearance.

Luckily, my job involved no actual running. Luckily, my job involved repeated trips into a refrigerated semi-trailer (to retrieve bags of ice) during one of the hottest stretches of the summer. Luckily, fellow ice runner and I got to cruise the Stampede grounds in a road-ready Gator vehicle

Unluckily, as I quickly learned, the Country Stampede brings thousands of people to Tuttle Creek Park, and many of them, when inebriated, are as kind and accommodating and pit bulls.

Backed with a soundtrack that my ears found quite grating, my days involved loading 20-pound bags of ice onto the gator, toting them to various concession locations around the grounds, and continually being cursed at by Stampede-folk because I would not compromise my integrity and rob my employer to give them free ice. Had I been an exchange student working on picking up the language of the American Midwest, I probably would have gathered that the “f-bomb” was the most versatile word in the vernacular. (I also might have assumed that the natural accent of folks from the area involved slurred speech.)

Granted, the Stampede was/is more than cursing drunks. I was witness to an all-out wrestling match in a pit of mud. I regularly participated in recreational people-watching. (Yes, some people do have their entire backs covered by tattoos of the Confederate flag.) I saw plenty of cute girls (with whom I, naturally, avoided eye contact). And, from what I understand, there was even some good music played. Imagine that… Some folks actually attend for the music.

The People's Blog

What’s a guy to do when he’s been struggling for blog topics? Naturally, he seeks the opinion of the people.

I put out a call for topic ideas today via Twitter and Facebook. My faithfully devoted followers and friends (read: people who tolerate me, I assume because they are being paid off by someone) responded quickly and in quality fashion. Below you’ll find the topic ideas provided, with my immediate reactions, as well. Yes, we will be revisiting some of these ideas in the future.

Cheese
Behold the power of cheese. I’ll admit, I’m a fan of most varieties (even in cake form). Alas, I’m not I can bring a new take on the dairy product. I assume the cheese stands alone for good reason.

Lace Dunn
As far as I know, this is referring to the former Baylor basketball player and not anything with doilies. At Baylor, Dunn was best known for being one heck of a scorer, but also for taking the sort of shots that made one wonder if he’d forgotten that passing the ball was legal… Oh yeah, and he was allegedly involved in a domestic dispute that resulted in his girlfriend’s broken jaw. At this point, I’m afraid to write anything that might be considered a joke.

Niles
The dachshund belonging to a couple good friends. Deemed my “godson” years ago. His favorite hobby? Barking to wake up their toddler. 

Benjamin
The toddler. A joyful tike who has recently become exceedingly mobile. Seemingly a big fan of mine… I assume this is because we have similar mental capacities.

Milky Cabana
A pretty funny mispronunciation for current Royal Melky Cabrera. A suggestion for a blog covering the best names in sports? This has potential…

High school reunions
My 10-year reunion is just over one week away. This is a disturbing fact, but it remains true. I hope we hand out awards. I think I’m a shoo-in for best-looking “Derek L.” in attendance.

Country Stampede
An event that brings hordes of inebriated wannabe cowboys to my neighborhood? Yes, this will be covered.

Getting a dog
Does watching that new “Wilfred” show that stars Frodo count?

Best/worst college courses
This would take some careful consideration. By “careful consideration” I mean that I’ll actually have to attempt to remember what classes I took in college.

Best/worst bible school memories
The idea of a “worst” bible school memory seems like it could be sacrilegious.

Best/worst 4-H memories
For me, the idea of a “best” 4-H memory might also be sacrilegious.

Fashion commentary
Yes, I do need to bring back “Things I don’t understand.” Duly noted.

Most boring sports
Definite potential here.

Best vacations
Note to self: take a vacation.


We have some good ideas here, but where to begin?

What's that you say, out-of-towners who have never seen a traffic roundabout? You want more booze and you've been wearing the same shirt for three days?

Country Stampede, it is.

Good news, better news

There's good news and there's better news.

The good news is that Saturday evening's wedding and reception ended up being as near to picture-perfect as a person can expect. The ceremony was very nice. There were no on-the-job meltdowns from either the flower girl or the ring bearer. I avoided using my handkerchief to wipe sweat from my brow through the entire ceremony, and no cameras were broken despite the fact that I was involved in more pictures than most Hollywood stars. Also, despite ominous reports of impending storms earlier in the day, foul weather steered clear of Vintage Gardens*. Beyond all that, my family still avoided scaring off my brother's bride-to-be, meaning I have a new sister. Life is good.

*No, this area was not full of well-aged (read: dead) plants, though the name might suggest it. It was actually about the perfect area for a wedding reception on a not-blazing-hot day.

The better news is that I no long have to attempt to live up to any titles that contain the word "best." I performed my duties during the wedding*, and even avoided sprinting away in terror when it was time to give my toast. It's like a weight off one's shoulders, knowing he can go back to being referred to as "anything but the best man."**

*A couple people told me I did a good job with my ceremonial duties, which basically involved standing next to my brother and breaking in my ridiculously uncomfortable shoes. My response? "Thanks. I'm pretty good when it comes to standing around and not talking."

**Truth: I have never actually been called "anything but the best man"... to my face, anyway.

Was my toast any good? If "good" can be judged by the fact that I did not - at any point - fall to the ground and curl up in the fetal position, then yes. If "good" takes into account the actual content and delivery of the speech, then I really have no idea. I did get some compliments from folks afterward, but I'm never one to discount the value of pity.*

*Note to self: learn how to take a compliment.

Whatever the case, a couple of family members asked me to give the written form of the toast a home here, so I've reproduced it to the best of my ability below. (I actually made it through the speech without having to look at my notes once... Apparently there is something to that whole "practice" idea. Luckily for my car, I will no longer best testing how many times I can recite the speech on a drive from Manhattan to Riley.)


----------

For those that don't know, I'm Derek; Jared's brother and the best they could do at short notice.

It’s great to see so many people here tonight. I know that some of you traveled miles and miles; some even traveled across the country, just to be here. I think that says quite a bit about these two. Of course, the thing it probably says the loudest is that apparently it‘s pretty hard to imagine a Larson finding a girl willing to put up with him. As the last single Larson male standing, I have to say that’s not very encouraging... but I'm getting off topic.

Jared and Michaela, I went through a lot of ideas when trying to find a topic for this toast; most were bad. Many involved inside jokes that few would understand. Inside jokes involving things like
- “special friends”
- “bringing some excitement to the Larson family”
- Jared nearly setting my car battery on fire
- and Michaela making my niece cry the first time she met her.

Through all the bad ideas, one thing kept coming back to mind. It was a text message that Jared sent to me early in the relationship. Now, before I get to what the text actually said, I better explain something:

Whether Jared likes to admit it or not, we’re an awful lot alike.

- We read the same books.
- We quote the same movies.
- We are both undeniably handsome ---[After laughter... perhaps too much laughter] Good, people are paying attention.
- We both love K-State.
- Thanks to some incredible influences, we both know the true value of faith, family and friends.
- And, finally, we’re stoic.

Typical reactions when encountering and exciting situation usually involve some combination of jumping up and down, yelling, high fives and hugs. The typical Larson male reaction, on the other hand, involves one of us saying “Oh, really? That’s good.”

I bring this point up because Jared’s text message that night seemed to advance a bit beyond the typical stoic Larsonese. I asked him how date #2 went. His reply?

“She might be around for awhile.”

That may not sound like much to some folks, but in the stoic Larson vernacular, it’s high, high praise. It was then that I knew that the relationship might be something special.

“She might be around for awhile.”

Jared, I think I speak for everyone here when I say, I’m glad you were right.

Michaela, Welcome to the family.

----------

There you have it. Good or bad, that's not for me to decide. Mostly, I'm just glad that I was able to be a part of things... And I'm also glad that it's over.

That's good news.

LeBron was right

When I woke up this morning, I came to a frightening realization: my life was the same as it was the day before… LeBron was right! (Cue dramatic music.)

You see, following Sunday night’s game six of the NBA Finals – a game in which the Dallas Mavericks secured their spot in NBA history as champions, and the Miami Heat secured its spot in NBA history as… well, a basketball team that was once on TV – Miami’s LeBron James said the following in response to a question about folks that were rooting against his team:

 “All the people that were rooting on me to fail, at the end of the day, they have to wake up tomorrow and have the same life that they had before they woke up today. They have the same personal problems they had today. I’m going to continue to live the way I want to live and continue to do the things that I want to do with me and my family and be happy with that. They can get a few days or a few months or whatever the case may be on being happy about not only myself, but the Miami Heat not accomplishing their goal. But they have to get back to the real world at some point.”

Response to LeBron’s comment has already run rampant, and it seems that each person who encounters the diatribe interprets it in one of two ways.

Translation 1 (LeBron’s a regular guy):
“It’s unfortunate that some folks find happiness by rooting for people to fail at their chosen professions; cheering for folks to miss out on their lifelong dreams. Alas, anyone who might do such a thing probably has worries greater than basketball in the grand scheme of things*. While my detractors may feel good now, problems don’t typically disappear. I wish them all the best in making the most of life. God bless.”

*So, I shouldn’t have bought a Bucknell t-shirt in 2005? Whoops… Sorry, Jayhawks.**

**Note: I’m not really sorry.

Translation 2 (LeBron’s an elitist):
 “Sure, my team lost, but I still have money… oodles and oodles of money. Once I’m done talking to you yokels, I’m going to drive my Benz home and watch movies in my home theater, which – by the way - is larger than your house. Oh yeah, good luck with your mortgage payment, let alone feeding your homely children. Later this week I might take a private jet to some exotic location where folks will wait on me hand-and-foot. Don’t people say “happiness is buying whatever you want”? No? You say that sounds pretty arrogant? Oh well, they SHOULD say it. At no point during the next few months that these putzes are celebrating a championship (that they did nothing to earn) will I even consider mowing a lawn or washing a dish. Did I mention that I get paid absurd amounts of money to PLAY A GAME? Ka-CHING!”


The translations may or may not have merit. The only thing we can really be sure of is that LeBron should practice that whole “think before you speak” thing. While I can’t be sure of his true intentions with the comment, I would like to offer up my own guess…

If we’re really going to sit back and examine things, I have to admit that the waking realization that my life is the same as it was yesterday was not frightening. After all, I enjoy my life and all the awkward stories that come with it. The frightening part comes from the fact that LeBron predicted the future: my life didn’t change overnight! His nickname – pushed by his teams, the NBA, and even James himself – has been “King James*” to this point in his career; however, after the wisdom he spewed last night, I think “The Oracle” may be more fitting. 

*Note to self: Did LeBron translate the Bible? Research this.

What do I think? I think LeBron is already thinking about life after basketball. What career will he move on to? …Fortune telling of the so-obvious-it’s-stupid variety. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t seen a commercial featuring fortune-teller Miss Cleo in a long time. LeBron can fill the void. In fact, I have a strong desire to call Mr. Bron right now for my free psychic reading. Can I expect a free meal in the future? Should I let sleeping dogs lie? Will I wake up to the same life tomorrow as I did today?

To date, LeBron is 100-percent on predicting my future.

Here's to some semblance of intelligent thought

In just over one week, my brother is getting married. It’s an exciting time and it’s an event that provides my family with plenty to think about. How many people will show up? Will it rain? How will Derek respond to countless mentions that he’s nearly the last single guy left standing in all of his extended family? Whatever the answers to those questions may be*, it’s bound to be a great evening. Well, except for maybe one part…

*My best guesses: 1. Plenty; 2. No rain; 3. An awkward combination of fidgeting, saying “some day” and attempting to change the subject. (Beautiful evening, isn’t it?)

As the “best* man” in the ceremony, I’m tasked with giving a toast at the wedding reception. It is an honor to have the opportunity and there’s no shortage of good things to say about the new couple… It’s just that I have established a pretty solid reputation of despising public speaking. I’m not really sure where or when this aversion began, but I know that it certainly evolved over time. What began as simple nerves became a fear of actually being nervous ABOUT being nervous.**

*Term used as loosely as possible. I tried to get them to list it as “Best We Could Do On Short Notice” in the program, but to no avail.

**Which makes about as much sense as devouring three-pounds of fudge in attempt to mask depression after you realize you’ve gained a couple pounds.

Truth told, I know I’ll be nervous when dropping my profound wisdom (translation: jokes recited from Laffy Taffy wrappers) on those in attendance, but I’ve learned that such things are not worth dwelling. The content of my toast, however, is. This is my chance to share my thoughts of what a successful marriage involves*, relay embarrassing stories about my brother**, or to hone my stand-up comedy act comprised completely of chicken jokes that don’t really make sense.***

*Two televisions. 

**No chance, as I’d be opening myself up to ridiculous ridicule some day in the future. Tales of my donut-induced tantrums have no place at wedding receptions.

***Why did the chicken cross the road? Because the road had it coming.

By this point, the speech has a pretty good foundation, meaning there have been plenty of ideas that have been tossed aside. In the spirit of transparency, I think it’s only fair that I share the ideas that won’t make it into the toast.

-    Interpretive dance.
-    A mimed reenactment of the family’s reaction to news of the engagement.
-    A diorama of the basement where my brother and I staged many epic battles in the NES classic Baseball Stars 2.
-    Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me”
-    A reception-wide staring contest.
-    An attempt to see how many times I can utter “dude” in two minutes.
-    A surprise appearance by a guy who used to cut former K-State basketball coach Tom Asbury’s hair.
-    Live updates from the Royals-Cardinals game that evening.
-    An auction for my autographed photo of Bob Barker. (This item is priceless.)
-    Any semblance of intelligent thought.*

*Actually, I’m still working on fitting this in. Good luck, Derek.

Being Derek Larson

What's it like to be a 20-something male with no particular plans on a summer Saturday? Peek through this secret doorway for a look at my morning.

After sleeping in until 8:30 a.m., consuming more coffee than the Folgers family and completing an abundance of important work online (translation: checking fantasy baseball lineups and reading up on new movies) I determine that it's time to actually be productive. Alas, my own incompetence attempts to halt things. When dressing after my shower (please note: I do dress after my shower, not before or during... I find that lifestyle choice to be an important one) a grab a pair of socks, only to discover that said pair does not match. It seems that, on occasion, the tedious nature of matching socks renders my mind to a barely-functional state. Thus, I end up with socks paired despite their non-matching nature. I am not yet worried about this boredom-inspired brain flubbing, however I might grow concerned if such carelessness carries into the realm of walking down long flights of stairs or driving on straight roads. 

The first stopping after leaving my apartment is the ATM just outside. For some reason, I feel compelled to have cash in my pocket today. It's as if my conscience really wants to have something to frighteningly rip out of my pocket if I get mugged on the mean streets of MHK... That or I'll consider stopping by a friendly garage sale if I happen upon one. The ATM sits next to a laundromat, where I have to circle around a group of six middle-aged women sitting just outside the door. A normal person might assume that these ladies are simply waiting for their laundry to wash and/or dry and decided to enjoy the not-yet-blistering temperatures of this Saturday morning. On the other hand, as I punch in my pin number at the ATM I wonder to myself whether these women are actually in some sort of Oprah-inspired gang. I know her show is now off the air, but did she start some sort of movement among the moms of the world as she signed off? Am I going to be beaten with hardbound editions of her favorite books once I get my cash? Not even Dr. Phil's hokey advice can help me at this point.

I escape from the threatening horde of women with no injuries and make it to my car. It's at this point that I'm reminded about a quirk with my vehicle that has become all too apparent lately. You see, when it rains, the rear door on the passenger side of my car literally holds water, which later drips out of the door at the pace of some sort of water-torture device. It's an odd experience to open my car door after a rain storm and hear water sloshing as if Big Van Vader had just belly-flopped into my bathtub.

My destination, after setting off in the SS Minnow, is Best Buy. It's there that I am privileged to take part in the standard conversation one always falls into when they are shopping for nothing in particular.
Employee: Hi. How are you?
Derek: I'm fine. How are you doing?
Employee: Good. Can I help you find anything.
Derek: Nope. Just looking around.
Employee: Okay. Well let me know if I can help.
Derek: You bet.
This one-act play is not an unusual one. Again, it's one I take part in nearly every time I go to Best Buy. What made today different was that I played the role of Derek* three different times, each with the same overanxious employee opposite me. Whether this guy considered the first two interactions rehearsals for the grand finale, I'll never know. I do know, however, that I should have decided to mess with the guy a bit by the third time. "Yes, you can help. Where's the Betamax section?"

*I do a pretty stellar imitation of myself.

I walk away from the electronics store with nothing new to my name, as I've become rather good at talking myself out of impulse purchases in recent years. Yes, Blazing Saddles is a classic film, but the fact that I already own it on DVD probably means I don't need to add it to my Blu-Ray library. With my watch reading 11:30 and my stomach rumbling (apparently coffee and vitamins are not a complete breakfast... weird) I decide to check out a Chinese restaurant that opened recently. The restaurant features "Express" as part of it's name, so I figure that the drive-thru might be the way to go, meaning I can then eat my lunch at the park. Alas, I soon discover that this eatery must be train-themed on the inside, as the drive-thru service certainly does not bring the word express to mind. As I wait, and wait, and wait for my food, I begin to wonder whether my food is actually being delivered from China. Whatever the case, it arrives and I head to the park, where I intend to eat in my pirate ship of a car with the windows rolled down.

I don't know about you, but when I eat Chinese food, I avoid chopsticks and stick to a fork. Alas, those who prepped my order did not include a fork when they passed it through the drive-thru window. Time for chopsticks. I can probably handle the chunks of sweet-and-sour pork with them. Unfortunately, chopsticks aren't included, either. There's no fork, no spoon, no spork, no knife, no chopsticks, nothing but a napkin. Being the absent-minded person I am, I forgot to shove any cutlery or flatware into my pockets as I left my apartment, meaning I am face with the choice of eating with my hands in the middle of the public park or driving home to eat in a civilized fashion.* With fear of being arrested for public indecency (I would have made that much of a mess), I choose the latter.

*Term used loosely. I'm not sure eating on my couch while watching ESPNews can be considered civilized by many.

As I prepare to eat, I realize that this restaurant already has two strikes against it: slow service and inability to provide utensils essential to the eating process. If the food is no good, the place has struck out. Luckily, the pork comes through. It's good. Very good. Sure, there are too many onions included, but I've become quite accustomed to picking around those in several dishes. I eat my fill, stuffing myself to the point where I'm unsure that I can move off my couch. At that point, it's fortune cookie time.

My fortune: Good ideas will spring forth naturally from your mind in the coming week.

... I think there might be something to that fortune. I did fit in a nap this afternoon, after all.

Quick observation - June 1

In recent months I have developed a bit of a Twitter addiction. What’s not to love about the web phenomenon, after all? (Well, other than the name… And the 140-character limit per tweet… And the folks that tweet things like “Just went to Wal-Mart. Tired.”) In an age where seemingly everyone has some sort of device that can access the Internet (“What? Janie sneezed? Let’s check WebMD… Just let me access the web browser on my Chapstick tube), it’s a great way to keep up with news as it is very literally happening. (Granted, I have yet to see a tweet tweeted in the midst of someone’s fall down the stairs, but it’s probably coming soon.) Case in point, I knew that Eric Hosmer had earned a promotion to the Major Leagues two minutes before it was first mentioned on the radio. Thanks Twitter.

Alas, there’s a current Twitter trend out there that I can’t commit to. Whether through their own volition or automated pedometer-like devices, folks tweet the distance they run and the amount of time it takes them. I understand that this could serve as motivation for some, but for me, well, it mostly feeds my cynical side. I’m thisclose to continually tweeting things like “Considered running two miles… then fell into a fit of deep laughter. Time: 00:00:17.”

Twitter: Feeding my desire to make smartass remarks each and every day.

People in your neighborhood - The No One Edition

When one lives just two blocks from a bar district in a college town, he learns to appreciate the sort of tranquility that comes with silence. With that in mind, I stray from the norm today, writing an edition of People In Your Neighborhood about my neighborhood sans people.

Here it is, May 29, and a large chunk of the collegiate population that inhabits this town for 10 months each year has left with the speed of a first-timer in a fire drill. As a result, the streets are empty, lines are short, and I can actually hear the birds outside my window as I type (rather than the continual drone of motors on Anderson Ave).

Do I sound antisocial to be taking such joy in the fact that there are fewer people to drive behind, scoot around, or painstakingly listen to on a daily basis over the summer? Perhaps. Then again, I might not be conditioned in such a manner if folks gave courtesy waves at crosswalks* and refrained from horrible attempts at freestyle rapping at all hours of the day.

*Note to any kid preparing for college. The courtesy wave is your friend. Consider: there's a two-ton vehicle bearing down the street at 33-mph. It skids to a stop, all because it sees you standing at the side of the road, next to a path of white stripes. Had the driver of said vehicle not taken note of you, you might be enjoying the finest dining that a tube can offer for months. You want to at least lift your arm in some sort of manner to acknowledge said driver? I thought so.

Gone from town are the packs of fraternity folks making their nightly journeys to Aggieville, seemingly thinking that "Woooooooo! I'm wasted!" is a good conversation starter. Gone are the folks that have been in town for 10 months, but still don't know how to properly navigate a roundabout. (COUNTERclockwise? What?) And gone are the neighbors who refuse to acknowledge you, know matter how many times you hold a door open for them. (Speaking from experience? Me?)

It's true, Manhattan would not be Manhattan without K-State and the energy that the students bring. That said, I can live with calling the town New Boston for a couple months each year. Now excuse me. I have some silence to enjoy.

Void

Well, my poor blog has become the picture of neglect over the past month. For this, I apologize. I also realize that if things proceed in this fashion for too long, said blog will soon be shown on commercials that feature the sort of music that makes a person begin to tear up immediately and that ask for donations to benefit those less fortunate.

I can't let that happen.

I won't let that happen.

While I work on getting back to a more regular (read: sporadic) posting schedule, you should probably check out www.thescoopmanhattan.com in the mean time. It's a great site, and I hear that some ruggedly handsome, semi-writer has posts over there on occasion.

The Writings: Your home for the author's shameless self-promotion.

Salinity Now

This just in: I don’t drink the saline solution that one typically stores contact lenses in.

Nor do I bathe in it, nor swim in it in recreational fashion.

I also refrain from using it to create very hygienic dioramas of ocean life.

Alas, none of this seems to matter to the young woman who gathered my contact lens materials at the eye doctor yesterday. She sent me home with a back packed so full of bottles of contact solution that – had I been sporting red clothes and a white beard – people might have been wondering if Santa Claus had finally lost his bearings and forgotten how to read a calendar. As I stumbled through the door, lugging the bag like a toddler carrying a bowling ball, I realized that a visit to the optometrist’s office is a situation that this blog needs to delve into. Read on… Feel free to cover your right eye while you do so.

 The waiting is the hardest part… - Tom Petty, with or without accompanying heartbreakers
If you have ever heard any 1980’s stand-up comedy, you are familiar with the notion that waiting rooms of doctors’ offices tend to feature outdated magazines. The optometrist does not disappoint in the aspect, providing me with a Sports Illustrated from six months ago.  While it’s true that I do enjoy reading through back issues of SI (my old bedroom at my parents’ home is littered with them as if they hold clues for surviving the Apocalypse), I don’t necessarily the old woman staring me down from across the way. Via my peripheral vision, I notice that the senior is looking at me as if I have been leading a mole immigration effort that ends in her yard. Uncomfortable. Luckily, her attempts to telepathically cripple my mind end when my name is called. 

Ow, my eye! I’m not supposed to get pudding in it! – Lenny Leonard
As a sports fan, many of the tests I’m put through at an annual eye exam seem like drills at the NFL Draft Combine.
“Quickly, cover one eye and read the bottom row.”
“A, R, T, G, S, L, 8”
“Good.” (brings up a different line on chart.) “Now cover the other eye and read the bottom line.”
“O, P, S, D, M, Egyptian hieroglyph that looks like a bird, Pepsi logo, and drawing of an obese hamster.”
“Uhh… good…”
Yes, I am one of those people that will try to guess what a letter on the eye chart is rather than simply admitting that I can’t read it. Weird? Absolutely, since the eye-loving folks are just trying to ensure that my vision is as sharp as possible, but apparently the childhood fear of drawing poor marks in school has transcended to the world of eye exams… At least I’ve never been in the position of having to test said personally quirk in a sobriety test. Slapping oneself in the forehead whilst trying to touch one’s nose and then attempting to convince an officer of the law that you meant to do it probably wouldn’t go over well.

I have many leather-bound books and my home smells of rich mahogany. – Ron Burgandy
Events at the optometrist reach a climax when my actual eye doctor enters the exam room. Doc (name omitted to protect the innocent) has been dealing with my peepers for about 18 years, so it’s fair to say that we have crossed paths a few times. That said, for some reason I’m always surprised when he remembers that I write part-time. After all, judging by the (lack of) frequency of updates to The Writings recently, I have a difficult time remembering that I write part-time. I’m not saying that my writing seems insignificant at times, but… well… my writing seems insignificant at times.
Enough about me, back to the doc. His fingers deftly speed through switches and dials while attempting to correctly prescribe the correct lenses for my eyes, all while carrying an all-too-familiar refrain, “One… or two… or one…. Three … or four…) If it was not for my indecision and lack of trust in my own judgment (“Wait, was six really better than seven? Can we rewind?”) I think the examination would last approximately two minutes and nine seconds. Even the blinding attempts to peer into my eye with a microscope and flash light (personally, I think it would be a lot cooler if they wore miners’ helmets for this) go by in a jiffy. Before I know it, I have a new contact lens prescription (each eye “bumped up a quarter” whatever that might mean… I’m fairly certain that no Washington-adorned currency was actually involved), a free pair of sunglasses (which are slightly more stylish than wrapping my head in tinted film and provide enough pressure that my medulla may shoot out my nose), and a bag packed with so many fluid filled bottles that I’m surprised it didn’t come loaded on an oxen-pulled wagon. 

A day at the optometrist is an eventful one, indeed.

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a lifetime supply of contact solution to attempt to sell on eBay.