Monday, May 18, 2009


It actually got hot yesterday. For the first time in 7 months, the sun shined, the birds chirped, and the sound of the lawn mowers could be heard for two blocks. Summer is finally here. Granted, I spend the bulk portion of my Sunday cleaning the house and working around the yard, but I still appreciated the need to utilize the oscillating floor fan and a swamp cooler running on about it's last leg. Summertime has the unequivocal capability of making things seem a little less shitty and a little more hopeful. Through the years I've seen different summers, in different towns, with different people; and through the years I've come to notice that each summer, though timelessly familiar as it may seem, is unique every time it comes. Summertime as a child is a time to run, and laugh, and get hurt, and apply fresh stains to church pants while trying to figure out how your dog Puddles has the ability to lay under the cool protection of the deck without being scared of spiders. When we hit 13 years old the summer becomes a time when you can stay awake later because your parents allow you circumstantial curfew amnesty against the standard bed time due to the sun's presence throughout the evening. After 18, summer tends to remain loosely defined as the time when you wish you had done more jogging in the winter and less baking. This is also the time when women of all ages blossom from their parkas, break out the skimpy shorts and tank tops, and make the men of the world rejoice after months of taxing deliberation and patience waiting for the sun to melt away the layered ensembles of winter. It's amazing how deceivingly sexy some women can be with a swim suit on.

So now, I roll into my 25th year of season changes, in Carson City, NV. As I wade out of a winter filled with financial struggles, relationship tribulation, and identity crisis, I can only hope the sun has the sterilizing ability to lift the spirits of, not only the blooming annuals, but myself as well.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

How things are (n't)

I was sitting at my desk today and I had a thought. It's the thought that makes its way into all of our minds at one point or another. It's a thought the makes even the most absent minded of people stop and think about what really matters in life. Death: It's the eternal fraternity of the inevitably demised. What happens when we die? Where do we go? Are "We" even "We" anymore and does it matter if that matters? The idea of endless time and our inability to render a foreseeable image of our life's inescapable impending culmination. This simple yet complex thought that ninja'd its way into my cerebellum, mixed with caffeine and a strong sense of moral unrest and social depreciation brought me to my senses. Life is short. We all die. We don't know what happens when we die. Why do things you don't LOVE while you are here, while having some sense of control over your response to the stimuli you have readily available to you in this life. Why let the ice cream melt in your hand? Why would we simply sit back and wait for the undoubted ending that is the only thing in this world that we cannot control. Is the fear of change such a damper to our motivation and desires that it has the ability to kennel us into unhappy versions of what we never wanted to be when we grew up? Is the desire to please and the fear of uncertainty something to let debilitate us as an individual? I think not. So go get what you want; go change what you can; don't let the fear of the unknown the defeatist attitude of those around you stamp out your ability to become someone you'll be proud to be on your death bed. I'm done sitting around waiting for life to change; I'm done wondering if things will get better when I don't have the initiative to get out and make MY life worth living. I'm 25 years old and I'm just waking up to the fact that death isn't something we should be afraid of, but rather a competitive finish line that makes you want to do your goddamn best at everything you can so that when you finish, you finish strong.

Monday, February 2, 2009

When I Played In The Super Bowl

Seeing as this years Super Bowl didn't exactly end how I wanted it to, I've decided to reminisce my way back to the most memorable Super Bowl I've had in my life: Super Bowl XXXVII.

I had been awake all night as it had been a rough Saturday for the entire fraternity. I elegantly stumbled my way into Denny's somewhere in Southern California and began to browse the menu. Two brothers had followed me in and went straight for the bathroom, and while I couldn't recall what we had eaten the night before, upon their return to the booth I could smell the remnants of what can only be described as bacon and vinegar. The menu was unique, almost avant garde; I dare say it was the Jackson Pollock of entre literature; until I turned it right side up. After ordering an array of transfats, MSG, and regret, I proceeded to lay back in the booth, stare at the ceiling, and imagine how one person's brain could withstand the amount of pressure produced by alcohol. My eyes burned, my stomach wrenched, and the smell of the two men sitting across from me was so offensive I debated suffocating myself with the 47 year old dessert menu sitting on the table by my face. Ignoring my senses and going into a primal state of recuperation, I began to close my eyes. At that very moment Darrick busted into the Denny's, stormed up to the booth, slammed his hands onto the table, looked the three of us in the eye and said, "Get up bitches, it's time to go."

The van seated 7 comfortably, and 13 awkwardly, but as we bombed down the California coast I couldn't help but feel uplifted by the camaraderie of the crew; the unification of our squad, bonded by a collective blood alcohol level that would rival a Nick Nolte sneeze. We were the Dirty Baker's Dozen. We stopped about an hour outside of Santa Barbara for a bite and beer only to see that the Super Bowl XXXVII pre-game show was on, which meant we only had a few hours left. After a handful of Bloody Marys, Boilermakers, and Fancy Kathys, we were back on the road, packed shoulder to shoulder blasting the only tape Russel thought to bring. The haze of the night and the snicker of morning combined into a blissful daydream that made ever the worst mix tape bearable.

I awoke an hour later, sprawled across the bench seat, soaked to the bone. I couldn't tell if someone had doused me with water or if my wardrobe has somehow procured tear ducts and was reacting to my body odor. I had no idea where I was, the van had stopped, and the only comfort I found was seeing Fish Sticks sleeping on the bench seat in front of me. He looked about like I did: bloodshot eyes, shoes off, and he had apparently slept through the same hurricane I had as his one remaining sock was still dripping a mysterious fluid. I stepped out the open door of the van onto a dirt field that seemed suspiciously dry for February. It looked as if Mother Nature had tried watering the soil in an effort to spring life but had simply been shot down like a peg legged fat girl at cheer leading tryouts. As my eye lids peeled apart, I could see the outlines of 11 men running through the dust, a familiar pattern being formed in the sunlight, and it was only then I realized what this was. This was the Super Bowl. Our Super Bowl. My attention was rederected as Fish Sticks tripped on the freshly emptied bucket of water lying next to the front right tire of the rented green van. He gazed at the 12 of us and with a smirk on his face and shouted, "I've gotta shit, then it's on fuckers!!". I turned back to the group of men standing before me in the afternoon sun, pulled my shirt off, cracked a beer, and proceeded to be pummeled to death for the next 3 hours by a bunch of men I had met the night before.

The drive home was an epic masterpiece of karaoke, debauchery, and wound cleansing. And though I didn't end up joining that fraternity, I always looked back on that day as a day of brotherhood, acceptance, and bonding; the way a really Super Bowl Sunday should be.

I later found out the Patriots had also won that day.