Avoid conversations that start like this

So, where were you last night?

Could you step in here for a minute?

Now, I'm only going to say this once.

Dude, I want my money right now.

There's no good way to say this,
so I'm just going to come right out with it.

You son-of-a-bitch!

There comes a time in every man's life when...

I swear it wasn't my fault.

So exactly how much have you had
to drink tonight, Mr. McNicholsmanson?

Okay, please don't be mad at me.

Can you feed my parakeet while I'm in the Army?

And you must be the boyfriend?

You seem like the kind of guy that recognizes
a good business opportunity when you see one.

#495312976

I don't know who originally said it, but there's an old adage that if everyone stood in a circle, threw all their problems into the middle, and had to take the same number back out, most everyone would be pretty content to take their own problems back and leave quietly.

I guess the point is that somebody always has it worse than you. But just out of curiosity, I wonder where I would rank?

a child will lead them

I've been thinking a lot lately about all the things I've learned from my younger friends. All the worlds opened to me. My shy and bashful eyes reveling in it all. My youthful masters play tour guide to all that exists, and without knowing, all that might exist within me. That makes me feel good. Innocent and a little ashamed of myself. But good.

I wonder if it's because youth keeps us young. Still, we age. But we pick up so many pieces of art, humor, technology and culture from our juniors. It's an all-you-can-eat buffet of stuff we didn't know about. Everyone should have the pleasure of wising up to the fact that they're not as wise as they thought. I highly recommend it. I feel sorry for the people who don't. I think they're missing out. It stings for a bit, but the upside is tremendous.

I do know this. I know it's not because people love feeling ancient. In fact, I'd venture a guess that most people who are ancient are only glad to be ancient because of the alternative.

We find ourselves in a conversation about music. We don't know the band and we feel old. Everyone wants to go to another bar. We want to take a handful of Advil and go to bed. We won't turn down sex. But sleep sounds pretty good, too, if it's really late. It's funny how it all works. It's happens. To most everyone.

We age and our opinions and habits age right along with us. We get stuck in our ways. And that's okay a lot of the time. But let's not let ourselves get to a point where it's easier to shake our heads than ask questions. It's been said that you're only as old as you feel. Maybe it's that you're only as smart as your pride.

The weekend

drink
table
fix
mower
yard
dog
car
computer
drink
write
cook
thai
movie
hurricane
sleep
nice
coffee
phone
paper
cat
mulch
clean
go
work
guitar
dead

So what?

Seems many of my tasks as of late have me searching for answers to that question. My job, my life, my relationships. Everything and everyone requires an answer to the ever-burning question - so what?

Just to make sure we're all together on this, "so what?" can have a variety of interpretations. But, basically it's a confounding mix of "Why should I care?" and "What's in it for me?"

Having said that, I'm as happy as a first date to officially announce that, after much searching, I have the answer.

In my head, I can imagine everyone gathered around in a big circle, waiting to hear. Everyone pulls their chairs in closer, all the while maintaining an eerie silence. You'd be able to hear a pin drop. It'd be almost spiritual. One of life's greatest mysteries is finally solved.

People from all over would travel to see it. They'd come with enthusiasm and a sense of relief. Of course, everyone would get there early and complain about it being general admission. We'd have to bring in a bunch of those Johnny on the Spot Where We Finally Found Out toilets to accomodate them all. There would be collector's edition T-shirts and concessions with snow cones and cotton candy. It would be quite the event. Quite the event, indeed.

But, I don't know.

The light blue plastic astronaut

When a was a little kid, my parents used to go to lots of garage sales. Not necessarily for the thrill of the hunt. Or because they were convinced they would find the matching bowling pin lamp that was broken in one of those regrettable “don’t play ball in the house” incidents. But rather, because we were poor. My parents constantly reminded us that the people holding the garage sales were actually fools. They were getting rid of stuff just as it was entering that perfect “broken in” period.

Anyway, one day we were at some sale in the country. Way far out in the country. I found a box of trinkets. Everything in the box was a penny. I took a particular liking to this light blue plastic astronaut. I was certain my parents had okayed the purchase and had pooled their money to the delight of their only son. We all piled in the car and headed back into town. As I
played space lord in the back seat window, my parents yelled from the front seat, “where the hell to you get that light blue plastic astronaut?” I said, “What do you mean? I got it from the garage sale. I thought you paid for it.” My father slammed on the brakes. Our brown station-wagon with faux wood grain paneling clawed its way to a stop. The white gravel was forced ahead, sending the jackrabbits scurrying for cover.

My father yelled, “Hell, no. I didn’t buy that piece of crap astronaut. You stole it.” Even though I hadn’t, my father was convinced to teach me a lesson. He drove the family straight back to that garage sale and parked at the bottom of the long drive way. He looked at me angrily and said, “Now, you get up there and tell those nice people what you did.” I was terribly
embarrassed, but began my trek up the driveway to the curious glances of the garage sale onlookers.

Once I’d gotten up to the garage and began my apologetic speech, I heard my father scream from the country road, “That will teach you to...” His last words trailed off as he sped away into town never to be seen again. The nice people at the garage sale took me in and raised me as one of their own until I was old enough to go to college. I could never understand why they were so nice, even eager, to take me in. Now, years later, I think maybe they were just really glad to get that light blue plastic astronaut back.

The end.

What is this? What am I doing?

It's my basic contention that blogs, and all writing really, are only as good, clever, innovative, fun or interesting as their authors.

In my case, I can be some or none of these things within the course of a couple of sentences. I'd average about two of the five on any given day. Because of this, I expect little to no readership of this blog. The point is that in writing this, I'm not only fully aware that that no one else gives a shit. I'm nearly counting on it.

For me, this is an exercise in discipline. While I write at work all day long, I write very little for myself outside of work. This is an effort to change that. A little place to go, clear my head and just write. Just for me. About anything. And maybe a little of everything. A collection of daily thoughts, jokes and stories. Things I just learned. Things I wish I hadn't. You know — stuff.

Basically, I'm practicing.

Although this way of writing seems light years away from more traditional diaries, essays and columns, in the end it's just a glorified pen and paper, right? It's a journal. A notebook. A doodle in class. It's a note to a girl that you never sent.

Here's an example. I wrote something silly at work today and my friend says to me, "You should put this on the blog." I thought "This is just silly. Stupid even. Why would I put it on the blog?"

Later, I thought, "That's why."