A Door for Humans

I was delivering flowers yesterday afternoon. Nothing out of the ordinary. Actually, I was delivering a gift basket to a doctor at Two Rivers Veterinary Clinic on Old Lebanon Road on the north east side of town but that doesn't matter. The gift basket part not the Two Rivers Veterinary Clinic part. That does matter.

Hell. Lemme try that again.

So I was delivering a gift basket to a vet's office yesterday. Not a veteran's office, a veterinarian's office. You know what? I'm just gonna start drinking right now. Maybe that'll help.

Okay... Third time's a charm. Yesterday afternoon I was delivering a gift basket to a veterinary clinic (I DID IT!). I pulled up to the front door in the behemoth that is our delivery van and parked squarely in the "NO PARKING" zone. I have special privileges, that's why. I got out of the van, walked around the back of the vehicle, and opened the side door. There was the arrangement gift basket in all its glory. I picked it up, assed the door shut, and walked in.

Upon entering, I was met with a set of two doors: one to the left that read "Dogs" and one to the right that red "Cats". Seeing as that I had a basketful of edible goodies (read: not underwear), I used my quick flower delivery man thinking and deduced that of the two doors, the one that read "Cats" would be less likely to have animals in that want to eat all of the delectables that I was carrying. I also guessed that there probably was no catnip in said gift basket. Also, I had to get into the office itself.

This is the conversation that I had with the front desk administrator lady:

Me: "Hi!"

Front desk administrator lady: "Hi! OHMYGOSHTHATISGORGEOUS!"

Me: "Awesome! Yeah, this is for Dr. Schlabach."

Front desk administrator lady: "Oh, I can take it to him."

Me: "Great, thanks. I hope it's okay."

Front desk administrator lady: "You hope what's okay?"

Me: "Well, I saw a door for 'Dogs' and a door for 'Cats' but I didn't see a door that read 'Humans'. I'm not in trouble, am I?"

Front desk administrator lady: [silence]

Me: "Have a good one!"

And this was after me meeting someone at Vanderbilt Hospital named Cookie Warpool. I didn't think my day was going to get any better after that but boy was I wrong...

I got the most stuff! I won Xmas!

Every year about this time I get an email from my dad asking me what I want for Christmas. Because a large part of me is and will perpetually be eight and a half years old, I usually ask for toys. Two years ago, for example, I asked for Mario Kart Wii. My dad asked something to the effect of "What the hell is that?" I told him to simply go into Best Buy, find a dude with a blue shirt and a pair of khaki pants on, hold out your arms and pretend like your driving a steering wheel, and say "My 28 year old son wants Mario Kart Wii." Really, I just wanted the mental image of my dad doing that in a store more than anything else. By the way, Mario Kart Wii has NOT disappointed. My dad has yet to tell me whether he acted like he was driving when he asked the dude at Best Buy for help. I like to think he did.

Being a bit of a bah humbugger, I haven't cared much for Christmas for the past several years. I like getting out of town for a bit. I like cookies. I like seeing, well, some of the family. I like going downtown to The Torch and getting my annual TorchBurger and pints of Guinness for $2.75 (or whatever it is they cost now). I don't like 97.46% of Christmas music. The only two Christmas tunes that I will voluntarily listen to are "Fairytale of New York" by The Pogues (or whoever happens to be covering it) and "All I Want for Christmas is You" by Mariah Carrey. Shut your damn mouth. Don't act like you don't like that song, too. I don't like the security at the airport. I don't like the great bloody wind tunnel that is the arrivals gate of Detroit Metro Airport -- it's like they said "Hell, let's figure out a way to make it even colder." If I were interested enough, I would have made the word "colder" appear in blue letters but I'm pretty lazy at the moment and this football trivia set that I have been procrastinating on all week isn't going to write itself.

This is, however, the season of wishes and with that in mind and my dad's email hitting my inbox this afternoon, I sent him my Christmas wishlist this evening. It went something exactly like this:

Dad,

Here's my Christmas wish list:

-- A gift certificate to zappos.com -- I'd like to buy a nice pair of running shoes. Link: http://www.zappos.com/gift-certificate

-- A gift certificate to black 13 tattoo parlor here in Nashville -- Let's face it, i'm going to get tattooed anyway. Link: http://black13tattoo.zamstores.com/cat/gift-cards-479.htm

-- A bottle of fine scotch. Any reputable liquor store should be able to help you out with this one. I'm partial to anything from the Speyside region of Scotland. :)

-- A jacket that falls somewhere in between the lines of "I wanna be cool" and "I really can't be because I like 'Lord of the Rings' too much." Maybe some sort of sport coat. Black or heather grey, preferably.

-- Eric to do his rendition of this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=104cdcySpEs

-- Justin Bieber to fall off a tall building. I know you probably don't know who he is but imagine a modern Canadian version of Donny Osmond and you're in the ballpark. If you can make this happen, I don't think I'd need any of the other wishes on this list.

After that, just kind of let your imagination run wild.

See ya in a few weeks,

Stephen

I will report back to you, dear readers, with the results of my haul. Hopefully, I'll post between now and then because I know how Nick gets into such a tizzy when I don't post often enough.

Now, I bet that some of you probably glossed over that list. If you did, then you missed this gem. It's funny because the aforementioned Eric is my younger, Korean brother.

Merry Christmas, you filthy animals.

Homemade Colonoscopy

Two and a half weeks ago, I embarked on an epic journey. No, I didn't get on a flight and travel several hundreds/thousands of miles to some exotic destination although I will be visiting the lovely Detroit, Michigan, area in a few weeks for Christmas. Well, that and to see how much it really resembles The Road these days. I hear it's getting there. I really do. As long as I don't resort to cannibalism or end up getting really excited about pop (NOT Coke) , I'll probably be okay. No, this was something that I had semi-entertained the idea of doing for almost five years... From back in the days when I worked at Harpeth Financial Services, most notably during tax season. That's right. An "all natural cleanse". 'Cause what goes better with tax season than running to the bathroom 9 times a day? Nothing, that's right.

I went up to Kroger and bought the usual: toothpaste, toilet paper, Ramen noodles that won't get eaten for many months, and some fresh fruit which always gets eaten way too quickly. And, as I made my way over to the health and incontinence aisle for some cough syrup, I picked up this little guy right here:

The Mega-T Total Cleanse. I know, I know, I know what you're all thinking:

1.) That's stuff has gotta be a scam!

2.) That stuff is awesome!

Basically, it's both.

Now, according to some studies that I just made up, the human body needs to be cleansed every few months. That's why old dudes get colonoscopies. Tell me I'm wrong. I dare you. I figure that since I'm a man ahead of my time, I might as well get a jump on things 20 years before I really need one. But the image of the thin, long-legged blonde on the box jumping for joy with what must be a cleaned out intestine was enough to sell me on this so I bought it and, dear Lord, did I ever pay for it for the first few days. It was a good thing I bought all that toilet paper.

So here's my final product review:

Yes, it cleans out your intestines. Yes, as a result, you lose weight. No, it does not turn you into an exuberant athletic blonde woman.

I don't plan on doing this cleanse again anytime soon. I was happier with my 11 dollars.

An Open Letter to the TSA

Dear TSA,

The thing about airports is that you're not really sure what city (and sometimes country) you're in. It gets confusing enough when you fly from Europe and land in New York at the same time that you left. Or when you fly from New Zealand and land 8 hours before you left (but still don't have enough time to go to In N Out Burger). What's even more confusing is that sometimes you you can be in the airport in Dublin, Ireland, but technically be on US soil. That one really messed with my head.

I've got to hand it to you. FINALLY, someone has taken some of the best parts of Las Vegas and put them in 68 airports across the United States

. No, I don't mean the slot machines. No, I don't mean Cirque de Soleil which is the only circus that I think I would like because there are no horses and the chances of a clown falling and getting injured are pretty high. And if you know anything about me, you know that I'm afraid of both horses and clowns. Ha! I can't believe I just wrote that... "If you know anything about me." You're probably spying on me reading my old blog entries right now. No, my dear TSA, you've essentially made public groping legal all throughout the airports in the US. Truly, way to use your hands to get a job well done.

[See what I did there?]

Don't worry. I'm not flying anywhere this week. I mean, I do pull down delivery boy man money and all but flying up to Michigan to see my sister or down to Florida to see my parents for Thanksgiving would cost me about $450 and that's just not the kind of coin I'm willing to drop... Especially considering that I just spent $272 for my flight up to Michigan for Christmas. That being said, no 'security agent' is going to get into a stink over me this week. And, yes, I use the ' marks properly. If it came down to brass tacks, and this is purely hypothetical, there's no way a 38 year old 240 lb woman wearing polyester pants, or a 61 year old man with a clip on tie is going to be able to run me down. I'm no Adonis but I'm in pretty good mediocre shape.

Bearing in mind the fact that I am not Adonis and the fact that they probably don't teach Greek mythology at DeVry Technical Security Groping school, let me just tell you that Adonis was the man. Go look him up. That being said because I'm not him, it's been a while since I've had a good grope.

What? This is my letter to you. I love you guys.

So here we are at a paradox. As you probably know from my wonderful blog entries, I am really for individual freedoms and personal responsibility... but being that my blog is named "Looking for Like", I'm also looking for some woman to fall hopelessly in love with my writing and then want to ravage me and my somewhat flabby physique. You, TSA, have put me in a very confusing place. The part of me that wants to defend my civil liberties hates you but the part of me (*wink) that wants some woman to look at me oh so lustfully doesn't. Well played, Big Brother. Well played.

As the saying goes, all is a game and honestly until just now I didn't know what side of the fence I was on. It's Team Civil Liberty for me! However, since you guys seem to get your jollies on sliding your hands up and down some hobbit's dude's legs I think I've got the perfect solution. Wait! Two perfect solutions!

Number one: The Dirk Diggler. Did you see the end of Boogie Nights? You didn't? Okay... Stop what you're doing right now and go watch it.

Done? Okay. Good. I'll put on a big ol' prostetehcincicncichj7299mdic [sp?], you'll feel good about yourself, I'll feel good about myself, and your body image scanners will feel good about themselves. Everyone wins.

Number two: The This is Spinal Tap moment. You know when Harry Shearer's character is

going through the security line and... well...

Take your pick, TSA, it's up to you. I'm basically throwing myself at you.

Now, alot of you TSAers might be reading this and thinking, "Who's this smart ass?" Hell, since I've made this an open letter and am posting it on my blog, most people who read this are probably thinking the same thing. That is a totally founded statement. I am a smart ass. I can deal with that. Most everyone seems to love this impish little scamp. Now that that's established and agreed upon, the next thing that you're probably thinking is "I bet he's just really uncomfortable with is body" this is what I look like in a bikini:

If that doesn't get your heart racing, I don't know what will.

So, TSA, I will see you at Christmas-time. I look forward to meeting you about half as much as you look forward to feeling me up. Until then, you'll just have to look at that picture up thurr and imagine.

Sincerely,

Stephen P Bohn

The First Ever Win a Date with Florist Shop Man contest

I like to come up with hairbrained ideas. I'm not even sure what "hairbrained" really means but I think you get the picture. Hair. On a brain. Not entirely unlike the product to the right. That's not a political statement, either.

Yesterday, while eating the best cheap nachos from the worst named restaurant in Nashville (gracias, Mr. Burrito Fresh!), RH, Dan, and I came up with an idea for next month's art walk in Hillsboro Village. I think I should make it very clear that I am not much of an artist and most of my creative energy goes into updating my blog which I don't do much any more or playing my guitar which I don't do much any more either. I got stressed just trying to figure out a place to hang my "I heart NZ" banner (really, it's a tea napkin) on my wall so much so that upon completion I rewarded myself with a three hour nap. The artist's mind is a fickle thing. Also, anything I can do to justify a three hour nap... But that's another story for another time. Back to our idea for art walk. It's a Date Booth. Not a Kissing Booth but a Date Booth.

What we're thinking is we put pictures and descriptions of ourselves next to ballot boxes wherein pretty girls (I can't stress the "pretty" part enough) leave their information including their desire to be taken out on a night on the town to include dinner (possibly probably spaghetti), a night at the opera either listening to the Nashville Symphony or the Queen record of the same name (ladies' choice!), and a carriage ride. I haven't cleared the carriage with my partners in crime yet but I'm a hopeless romantic and what screams that better than sitting mere inches away from a horse's ass? Very little that I can think of. Hell, I may even wear one of those tuxedo t-shirts. Why? 'Cause it's the kind of thing that says "I want to be formal but I'm here to party."

Being the forward thinking man that I am, I realize that while face to face contact is good and all nothing happens these days without the internet. If only I had a blog or something to prepare the Nashville area for this. Wait a second...

So if any of you stalkers hot lady readers are interested, send me a note. Or a comment. Or an email. Or take your chances at the First Ever Win a Date with a Florist Shop Man contest (catchy, in'it)?

Looking forward to the great things the Lord has in store for this one.

Blow

My friend Nick (OMG!!! He plays guitar in Stellar Kart!!!) called me out on not updating my blog in five weeks for all the world to see on the ol' facebook by telling me that certainly something interesting had to have happened in that time. Sure, I went to New Zealand. And, sure, my position at job #1 was "eliminated". And, sure, last Wednesday night our entire weekend's stock of flowers froze causing the most righteous bit of insanity I have ever encountered there. And, sure, my mom came to visit. All of these would have made great blog entries but I am far too lazy to go back and record them in written form... Luckily, I have a story from this morning already. It's not even 8 o'clock in the morning yet.

I was in the middle of a wonderful dream and, as always, my phone was on. I had an interview with a recruiter at a staffing agency for an HR position this morning and I do like the occasional/semi-frequent text message from an inebriated friend especially when it happens on a Sunday night. Right in the middle of my dream, long about when I was about to fistfight the Incredible Hulk on top of Mt. Everest while Asia played "Heat of the Moment" in the background, my phone rang. I rolled over, saw a local number on my caller ID, and answered.

Super sultry mystery voice: "Hi, Stephen?"

Me: "Yeeeeeees?"

Super sultry mystery voice: "Hi! This is Karen from Randstad staffing. I'm calling about our meeting this morning!"

Me: "Oh, great! Yeah, I went online last night and --"

Karen the super sultry recruiter: "Well, that's what I wanted to talk about. I've reviewed your resume a little further and it looks like you're overqualified for this position."

Me: "For the HR position?"

Karen the recruiter who used to be super sultry and now had merely become just some chick on the phone: "Yeah... I don't want to waste your time by bringing you in for an interview for this position if it's not going to be a good fit."

Me: "That's cool. I've got some trivia questions to write this morning anyway."

Some chick on the phone: "Trivia questions?"

Me: "Yeah... And I think I'm gonna watch a movie. It sounds like a pretty full morning, right?"

Some chick on the phone [after a moment of silence]: "Actually... Wait... What movie?"

Me: "Blow. It's about cocaine. "

A part of me wonders why I'm not working today.

The Wonder Years

I was at 3Crow on Friday night. This is in no way unusual but since my evening started on a rather sour note I figured that an Octoberfest or two would have to cheer me up at least a bit. What? You've never had an Octoberfest?! If it weren't before 8 in the morning, I'd implore you all to walk up to the nearest pub, plop yourself down, and order one. It's what really defines autumn for me. That and the respite from southern heat.

But the Octoberfest more so.

Let me set the scene for you... There's me, Pickering Penguin, Karen, Timmy, Cori and Cori's friend Kris. Kris is the catalyst to the story. And if any of my blog readers happen to be from the 'greater' Jonesboro, Arkansas, area you may recognize her as part of the on air broadcasting talent of KAIT's local news team. Being on television on a, well, daily basis, one might expect her to act with a little more tact in regards to this story.

We were sitting next to one of the open bay garage door windows; our table. Kris, who at this point in the evening was drunk on a turkey on rye sandwich, must really have been enjoying her visit to Nashville. She kept talking about how all the guys in Nashville were "soooo hot!" and how I was "soooo funny!" A younger me would have been pretty stoked about these phrases but I was waiting for the dreaded "boyfriend" word which reared its ugly head about an hour into the evening -- thankfully, I hadn't ordered her an Octoberfest yet leaving more for me and saving me from the inevitable sinking stomach feeling. That's planning right there, kids.

A guy in his mid- to late-30s walked on the sidewalk past our open window. Kris, rather loudly, stated "Hey! That looks like somebody famous!" I don't know if that turkey and rye sandwich was 80 proof or if she had never been out in a city larger than Jonesboro, Arkansas, before... Whatever it was, when a really good looking woman whom you assume may be single and has used the words "hot!" and "funny!" you at least act interested in what she has to say. Unfortunately, (you and) I live in a world where the word "famous" still means something when talking about people.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that I had had a few Octoberfests by this point in the evening. So, when I heard the word "famous" and being the helluva guy that I am and trying to be genuinely interested in the conversation, I turned and looked. I scanned the sidewalk and expected to see... Oh... I don't know... Robert Plant. He's been known to come into 3Crow from time to time. All I saw was that same guy in his mid- to late-30s outside. I turned back to Kris and asked "Which guy? That guy?" Kris was utterly convinced that it was someone of significance and/or importance. I was not.

This wouldn't be a great story unless I put at least one foot in my mouth. It wouldn't be an even greater story if I confused the hell out of someone in it. So here goes...

I turned my head back out towards the sidewalk and scanned. I turned back to the table... "That guy there? He looks like Wayne from The Wonder Years." In my year of writing trivia questions and my many long years of watching TV (especially classic shows) I've got quite the laundry list of TV actors names imprinted in my brain. Jason Hervey is no exception for better or for worse.

Damnit. Not a few seconds later, a hand reached through the open garage window. "Hi! I'm Jason Hervey." Now, barring the extremely unlikely event that a Jason Hervey look-a-like with an encyclopedic knowledge of TV shows from 20 years ago was in Nashville and knew who the hell Jason Hervey is, I had to take him at his word. There was no other way to play this one. Here's a guy who's made more money in his life by playing a jerk [HE'S LIVED THE DREAM!] calling me out on calling him out for being a has-been. What do I respond with? "Nice to meet ya. I'm Peanut."

If there's any way to stop someone dead in their tracks, that's the way to do it. And that's the way I did it. At least he didn't get mad. Hell, he didn't even, as the song puts it, stand up and walk out on me.

If only I could have met Winnie Cooper instead:

But I'll take the taste of shoe... Sometimes that's the way it is.

Heidi Montakingherclothesoff

I wish I understood how people can sleep in. Anytime that I make it past six in the morning is a major accomplishment for me. I feel like I'm missing something in life if I'm asleep much past then. Also, waking up early gives me a really good chance to get an awesome free wi-fi signal from one of my neighbors. It just works better in the early hours. I don't know how. I'm not a scientist. Or a guy who shows up late to install your cable.

This morning, obviously, is no exception. There was, however, a catalyst to me being awake this early. That catalyst, of course, was Prince's Hot Chicken. It's heaven on the way in but burns like hell on the way out. Sometimes it burns for 45 minutes straight. And by "sometimes" I mean "all the time".

As I'm sitting in bed, patiently waiting for what's sure to be the next get-up-and-run-to-the-bathroom-moment-of-the-morning, I decided to find out what's going on in the world. With my semi-legally acquired internet signal, I hopped on over to google and one of the lead stories is Heidi Montag's sex tape. See how I got from uncontrollable bowel movements to a hot blonde in one [crap... gotta run to the bathroom real quick] paragraph? I think that's pretty good. And yet every time I apply for a writing gig/job, I'm told that my style doesn't really match what they're looking for. Or maybe it's because I start sentences with words like "and" and then end them with words like "for". Who knows?

So back to the sex tape.

Wait... You don't know who Heidi Montag is? Let me spare you the trouble. She was on this reality show on MTV called The Hills and it was cut scene of traffic after cut scene of traffic and then some 'drama' involving some really good-looking people laying on a beach talking about who they hooked up with the night before. Actually, that sounds an awful lot like a relationship I was in about 4 years ago. Minus the beach. Needless to say that if she and I couldn't make it, what with her hooking up with other dudes on a relatively regular basis, what hope is there if cameras are involved? Which brings us to the present.

Heidi and her ex-cro-magnon-husband (some guy named Spencer) apparently made a sex tape that she doesn't want released to the public. Heidi may be the dumbest person alive. Darlin'... you need to keep yourself in the spotlight. The only reason that you're famous is because you're famous. You're not talented, you probably smell like a vodka and regret, and you look like you ate Gwen Stefani. If you want to keep the lifestyle that you've got going, you might want to make a few more of these puppies... Maybe develop a coke habit. Hell, you could hire someone to carve your face onto the side of Mt. Rushmore for all eternity. And those are just ideas off the top of my head after 4 hours of sleep, pre-dancing in the shower (where most of my good ideas come from), and after Pickering Activity Penguin suggested that another shot of whiskey was a good idea at 11:30 last night.

Heidi, you've got the whole world watching you. Get naked. It's party time.

I know that the Lord of the Rings movies have been out for several years now. I still love them as much as I did when I first saw them. I hope New Zealand is as magical as I have made it out to be in my head.

New Zealand Fun Bucks

When I went to Ireland a few years ago, I ordered Euro from my bank about 3 weeks in advance. I needed to have some (obviously) when I was over there and I wasn't about to pay the exorbitant exchange rates at the airport to do it. Of course, I sort of blew through what little cash I brought with me about 2/3rds of the way through the trip and ended up having to make an ATM withdrawal that cost me eleventy bajillion dollars in service fees. Oh, and the Euro that I ordered from my bank took just over two weeks to get to me. Who knew?

So, in preparation for next month's trip, I decided to order my money a month in advance. "Hell," I thought "New Zealand is twice as far away as Ireland is... It'll take twice as long for the money to get here." Yes, I really am 30 years old, and yes, this is really how I think. I ordered my currency yesterday and I got a phone call this morning saying that it was in. Now THAT'S service! Way to go, SunTrust Bank!

I got the same teller (Erin) that I got yesterday and as she was filling out my currency form, she stopped and the following conversation between Erin, Mary (another teller) and me occurred:

Erin: "Hey, Mary... What is the currency of New Zealand called?"

Mary: "Oh, gosh... I forget."

Erin: "Craaaaaap."
Me (interjecting): "They're called 'dollars'."

Erin (looking up from the stack of notes that read 'New Zealand' and 'Dollars' on them): "That's not right, is it?"

Me: "Trust me. It's right."

Erin: "Mary... Can you look up the New Zealand currency name for me?"

Me: "Seriously. They're called dollars."

Erin: "Really?"

Me: "Yeah. Or if you want to write 'New Zealand Fun Bucks' on your form that's cool with me."

Steven Slater

Steven Slater. Sounds like he could be the brother of semi-masculine A.C. Slater from Saved by the Bell. But he's not. If you've been paying attention to the news the past few days, you've undoubtedly heard of the JetBlue flight attendant / steward / whateverthey'recalled and his amazing grab a beer and run out the airplane quit. That's the best saying that I could come up with for it? Ah, crap.

I've followed this story with a decent amount of interest the past few days and I have to say that I disagree with Steven Slater. 99%.

First of all, I have to say that we've all dreamed of quitting a job like that. Grabbing a beer, swearing at everybody, and then exiting out the emergency slide. What? Your place of business doesn't have an emergency slide? That part is pretty awesome and that's where the 1% of agreement comes from.

Here's why I disagree with him 99%, though.

Dude... SS... Your job is hospitality. You are paid to be nice to people. You are paid to give out Pepsi and pretzels and according to salary.com, you get paid about $38,000 a year to do it. Do you know that I work 60 hours a week at three jobs and don't make much more than that? Someone has to get paid to do it and that someone isn't me. Do you know why? Because I am not very nice. Even if someone paid me to be nice, I probably wouldn't last very long. Certainly not long enough to do it for as many years as you did. I'd last maybe a flight. Maybe. And that's only if I had access to the beverage cart.

Everywhere I read about online keeps talking about how great this guy is. I just don't see it. All he managed to do was a live reenactment of that scene from Half Baked where Scareface quits his job. That's pretty funny and all, I suppose, but if I wanna watch Half Baked, I'm gonna watch Half Baked. And there's no way that Steven Slater is half as funny as Dave Chappelle. Hell, he's not even half as funny as Jim Breuer, who I'm pretty sure is a highly functional autistic.

But the real reason why I have no sympathy for Steven Slater? It's because he works for an airline. I don't care that you don't like it when people get on their cell phones when the plane lands. I don't care that you don't like it when people jump up to get their bags from the overhead compartment. Let 'em. That's right. Let 'em pull out their phones. Let 'em get their luggage from the overhead bin. What do you care if they get ear cancer or get knocked unconscious by their Samsonite bag? That'd teach them a thing or two. It's an airline. The enemy.

In my life, I've been on 20 individual flights. Do you know how many delays and or cancelled flights I've endured? 6. That's 30% of the flights that I've taken that have been wrong. Do you know what would happen if I got, say, company payroll right only 70% of the time? That's right, I'd be looking for work, just like Steven Slater. And air hosts and air hostesses wonder why travelers are pissed off.

Don't support this guy. He's not a hero. He's not a chump. He's just some dude.

Piranha 3D

Have you guys seen this Mad Men show? Judging by the fact that no single episode has ever had more than 1 million viewers and that it's on basic cable, I'm going to say that you probably haven't. It seems to be semi-wildly popular with people my age-ish but I don't really know because I don't really watch TV 'cept for sports and when LOST was on. Anyway, let me give you a very academic breakdown of what I believe the last 3 seasons and change have yielded based on me seeing two and a half episodes and from what Patrick Copeland has told me:

Some dude named Dick or Don [MYSTERY!] went to war, stole his dead buddy's identity, went to New York, worked at a wildly successful advertising agency, quit, started his own (so-far) floundering advertising agency, has hooked up with every special guest star actress, all while within arm's reach of a bottle of Speyside or Glenlivet depending on his mood. There. I just saved you one hundred F-bomb and topless-less hours because the show is on basic cable. This sounds strangely similar to The Prince and the Pauper and (perhaps more culturally important) the episode of The Simpsons when the town finds out that Principal Seymour Skinner is really named Armin Tanzarian. What? You've seen it.

All in all, though, Mad Men is not a bad show. Especially during the last commercial break of this Sunday's episode. WHAAAAAAT?!

That's right folks. After an evening at Rumours East (go Mint Juleps, go!) I went over to the Burleson house (along with the McCopelands) to watch this week's episode. And, during the last commercial break of the evening, I saw the preview for what is sure to be the blockbuster film of the summer. Yes, that includes Inception which could have been better only if the studio execs could have figured out a way to cross over the film with an episode of Pimp My Ride. Imagine the revenue! Is that still a show? Bah. No matter. Oh, and making the Christopher Nolan mindbender about 4 seconds longer just so that I could prove to everyone that my theory on the ending is right.

Now, as you all know, I love movies. Generally, the worse or better the movie is, the more I'll like it. It's sort of a reverse bell curve with me. That's education, homies. Some films in my stable include MEGASNAKE, Teenage Caveman and the special edition dvd of Snakes on a Plane just to give you an idea of where I'm coming from. Ladies and gentlemen... I present you with what is guaranteed to be the single best film you will see this year. More visually stunning than Giant Athletic Smurfs with Helicopters and Slingshots Avatar. More mindbending than the aforementioned Xzibit-free Inception. Folks... Prepare yourselves:

What a brilliant an original concept for a film! Vicious attacking fish with awesome teeth prey upon really good looking people at the beach in 3D. Wait... what? You say it's already been made? You say it starred Dennis Quaid? YOU SAY IT'S NOT ORIGINAL? Damnit, Jaws 3D. You are ruining my life (and my argument) right now. I don't care. I'm still going to go see it.

I can see this becomming huge. Huge enough for the Discovery channel to give Piranha their own week on that station. I'm actually still wondering why they don't have Puppy Week. Or Kitten Week. Or Fried Chicken Week. I guess that's why I'm not in television production. Well, that and my Xzibit-DiCaprio crossover idea. And that I live in Nashville. And don't know anything about television production.

Folks, next Friday it is. Rush to your local cineplex. Buy your tickets early online at Fandango*. Camp out. Steal your grandma's VCR and pawn it. Do whatever it is you have to do to see this movie.



*Fandango: I expect a portion of the proceeds for the tickets you sell. You're welcome.

This ain't no Vietnam

I walked out the door of Jackson's in Hillsboro Village last night and had the following conversation.
- Homeless guy: "Can you spare some change for a homeless vet?"
- Me: "What war were you in?"
- Homeless guy: "Uh... I was in.. uhh..."
- Me: "Nope."

Storm the F%$@ing Kastle

This DiamondSnake band is horrible.

And it has Moby in it.

Pedal boards: Life in the awesome

If I were any sort of normal person, I would be asleep right now. However, since we all know that I’m really not, I am sitting in my room watching Super Troopers for the second time tonight. Actually, that’s a half-truth. I am sitting in my room unsuccessfully trying to steal internet access from my neighbors who think that setting up a Comcast account was (or is, rather) an excellent idea. As a result of their recent foray into the world of hell Comcast, using their internet signal is increasingly difficult as I can’t seem to get around the Comcast firewall login page thingy. I’m very good with these sorts of technical terms.

So, in my frustration to read about which In N Out Burger is the closest to LAX as I will be in that area in a mere two months and change and everyone keeps telling me “Oh, you have to go to In N Out Burger!” since I’ve never been… I decided to check out twitter [Follow me: @peanutisawesome] one last time for the evening on my iPhone (translation: I’m better than you because I have an awesome phone) before falling asleep with my television on for the seventh night out of the last eight. Birthday night doesn’t count. I don’t remember it. Someone told me today that I poked myself in the eyeball inadvertently with a straw on multiple attempts to drink water. Either I had a really good time or I’ve turned into Superman. Hell, it might even be both. Anyway… back to twitter.

My friend Nick [Follow him: @nickbaumhardt] has successfully parlayed his ability to play and record music into a career. He’s played with such bands as The Class of 98 and Thousand Foot Krutch… Currently, he’s recording and producing and playing for some lady that until recent Googling (you call it “stalking”, I call it “researching”), I had never heard of. Suffice it to say, the dude can play. Also, most of you who know me know that I may be the very worst guitar player in Nashville to trick people into thinking that I can actually play guitar. Seriously, if you just learn how to throw your guitar, stand on a bass drum from time to time, and get into the occasional scuffle before a show, people in this town will respect your on-stage abilities, as non-existent as they may be. As a couple of added bonuses, they will also come to respect your ability to use the hyphen and apparently chicks will dig you more… or so I’m told about the last part.

Nick also writes a blog that he updates on a relatively regular basis that gets a good amount of web traffic. He doesn’t have to rely on funny stories of adventures gone wrong to get people to go to his site because he’s actually making a go of it in the real world and offers advice and insight on the musical world, whereas I just write about how Justin Beiber sucks and how Kelly Clarkson comes into A Village of Flowers on a relatively regular basis these days. We think she’s stalking real-life Googling one of the designers. Wait a second… Strikethrough? Link to a website? Recalling two earlier jokes from the same blog entry? Hot damn! That’s talent! But back to it…

In Nick’s latest blog entry, he writes at length about pedal boards. You know those little metal and plastic boxes that guitar players kick with their feet (What the hell else are they gonna kick it with? Their ass?) that change the sound of their guitar… Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. It’s a good read. But, since he called me out personally in his entry (it’s near the end, trust me) asking for a response, I figured I better do it. And since I’m still wide awake and watching the “Car RamRod” scene was funny the first time and much less so the second, I figured I better own up to it.

In my years of pissing people off (let’s face it, it’s kind of a hobby of mine), when I built my first and only pedal board some four and a half years ago, I decided to have a little fun with it. Sure, I have rubber feet on it, and handles, and carpet… but I bet I’m the only person in Nashville that can play with Matchbox cars next to his tuning pedal while navigating a cityscape. You know, for the life of me, I can’t figure out why I don’t have a record deal.

I don’t know what Nick will have to say about the psychology of my pedal board but it will probably be met with some sort shocked look and then an, “Oh, man!” I get that a lot here in Nashville.

I have however managed to make my guitars sound like the end of the world. I just turn everything up really loudly and play. If anyone wants that on an upcoming record, let me know. I’ve got the time… as long as it doesn’t interfere with what has become an apparent obsession with Super Troopers.

Worlds Apart

I went to an all-ages, all-locals show at Rocketown a few days ago. It's the first all-ages, all-locals show that I've been to in close to three years. The first show with a bunch of local scene bands that I've been to in a long time. And why? Well for two reasons:
#1.) Two of my roommates (I'll let you guess which two) are in the band Worker, they are awesome dudes, and I wanted to see them play.
#2.) I don't really care about the scene.

Recently, I read a blog from a local here in Nashville about how the hardcore scene was dead (or at the least, dying). Immediately, upon finishing reading it, I realized how little I cared. Maybe it's age, maybe it's the fact that music styles change as quickly as the seasons (especially in Nashville), maybe it's because there will always be an underground music scene. Whatever the reason is, I've scene seen enough scenes, played enough shows, sold enough merch, and been bounced around enough vans to know that they're pretty much all the same. Nashville, Williamsburg, Austin, Portland, Louisville. Hell, when people ask me if I know "so-and-so from Atlanta... hardcore dude, plugs in his ears, tattoos, hangs out with the whateverbandfromAtlantaishotatthemoment all the time" I usually say "no". Because I don't. And because it doesn't matter if I do or not. And all this coming from someone who used to go to most every show at the Local during my more formative years [side note: how The Swellers and Chiodos became huge out of that place, I will never know, as the only thing I seem to recall about those bands is walking outside and giving my ears a rest when they played because they were so awful].

The point is that I'm getting too old to care about shows. I go to the shows that I want to go to and see the bands that I want to see. And any 18 year old that thinks he has earned the right to tell me or you or anyone else that they have to support the scene needs a quick kick to the crotch.

Listen to the music that you want to listen to. Make the music that you want to make. Who cares if it's popular? Who cares if you're playing to 400 kids or to a bartender and your girlfriends? Who cares if you're into the latest Haste the Day (they're still around, right?) record or not?

I think, though, that the dudes in ... And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead put it best (caution: Song is NSFW):



I'm stepping off my soapbox for now on this one.

SUPER EDWARD CULLEN SPARKLE FACE DAY

So today marks the big day. That's right. THE DAY. For women the country over, I don't even have to mention what day it is. For men, I probably do. That's right... it's SUPER EDWARD CULLEN SPARKLE FACE DAY!

Dudes the world over just went, "Huh?"

That's right... Today marks the release of Twilight: What the Hell Book Movie are We on Now? [HTML, to the rescue!] in theaters nationwide. I have trouble supporting the world of Harry Potter -- let's face it, they spend 700 pages talking about how they can't talk about Voldemort then the Hogwart's gang fights him at the end of the book only to have the match end in a stalemate, thus perpetuating the next year of magic school and subsequent book(s) in the adventure. I'm sorry. I lost it somewhere during year five and walked away. The thing is, by all accounts, J.K. Rowling is fairly good writer whereas this Stephenie Meyer chick is quite awful. To quote Stephen King:

The real difference [between Rowling and Meyer] is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer, and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a damn. She's not very good... People are attracted by the stories, by the pace and in the case of Stephenie Meyer, it's very clear that she's writing to a whole generation of girls and opening up kind of a safe joining of love and sex in those books. It's exciting and it's thrilling and it's not particularly threatening because it's not overtly sexual.

In all honesty, I did see the second Twilight film. I was hanging out with Michelle and Brian and Michelle really wanted to see it. And, if you know anything about me, you'll know that I'll watch pretty much any movie you put in front of me. I also own Mega Snake on DVD, so take my opinion on films rather lightly. So, for you unfortunate fellows who will invariably dragged kicking and screaming by your lady to SUPER EDWARD CULLEN SPARKLE FACE DAY, let me give you a quick run down of what has happened so far in the world of teenage vampire lust books:

Edward is a really good-looking, 110 year old vampire who hangs out at high schools. Bella is some chick who goes to high school. Then some guy named Jacob turns into a werewolf. No one makes out. Edward goes to Mexico (or some place). Bella cries for months in her room and goes cliff diving. No one makes out. Edward comes back and looks like a fuckin' Lite Brite in the sunshine. No one makes out. A couple characters go to Italy (or some other place) and fight some other vampires. Then there is a proposal. There. I just saved you four boobless hours of not watching the first two movies.

Here's the thing, though, about SUPER EDWARD CULLEN SPARKLE FACE DAY that I have a real problem with: it makes girls and women the world over think that dudes that look like SUPER EDWARD CULLEN SPARKLE FACE are interested in girls like Bella. You think the best-looking star of a high school wants to date the nerdy chick that listens to indie rock and lives with her dad? Nope. Me neither. Besides... I seem to recall this story coming out a few years ago:

And She's All That has better acting, too. It is this humble blogger's opinion that if your acting is worse than that of Freddie Prinze, Jr., you need to cut that shit out. Immediately.

If I looked like SUPER EDWARD CULLEN SPARKLE FACE, I'd probably have things a bit easier in life. I'd have multiple visible ab muscles instead of this round thing in their place. I'd have mussed, spiky hair that doesn't smell like pizza (note to self: wash hair today). I'd be 6 foot something and not look like a Leprechaun. I'm also confident that I could at least make out with a chick that's better looking than Bella. Hell, I do that now... from time to time. Or at least I'd have you believe that. See, it's all about confidence... And... Hell... Lost my train of thought.

Fellas who are going to see this film this week(end), I salute you. You're much better at being your gal's man than I think I could ever be. Besides... I think I hear Mega Snake calling my name.





You've got to give credit to Stephenie Meyer, though. She knows how to market her writing to the ladies. Maybe I should hang out with her... Get my readership up.

Craigslist

There's a problem with craigslist. No, not that you can't sell anything on there because you can but the problem lies in that everything on there involves, well, selling. Stay with me on this.

In the great job search of 2010, I've been on every job board. Yes, State of Tennessee, this includes your completely awkward and wholly unnavigable website only to be able to tell my 'employment counselor' that, "Yes, I went on the state's website" and that I won't have to lie about it. But back to craigslist. Some of you may recall, I wrote a missed connection last year [I saved it in my facebook notes for posterity's sake]. I got a flood of emails from people asking if "that really happened" and, yes, it did.

So as a wholly qualified individual sitting in bed watching my Arrested Development DVDs on a... what day is this? Tuesday? morning, I have turned to craigslist again for job searching / entertaining the idea of buying a scooter. It's too bad I'm a capitalist that hates sales, otherwise this job board would be awesome.

About a year and a half ago, I found this blog called "Confessions of a Car Salesman" and if you have an hour or so to kill, I highly suggest reading the whole thing. Now, my car buying experience 4 years ago was much easier: I walked in, test drove the car, told the salesman what price (not monthly payment) I was going to pay and that was that... But the experience documented in "Confessions..." is fairly endemic of all sales professions. Last spring, I went on an interview with a tech company who suggested that the best way to get business was to go through the online yellow pages and start picking out places to sell the service. Being an HR professional and understanding how to read job descriptions and what they really mean, I've LOLed [look, ma! I know how to use interweb speak!] more than a time or two at some of these job descriptions, especially when it comes to the compensation part.

"UNLIMITED CEILING"
"150K+"
"NO LIMIT!!!11!"

Who knew that craigslist was such a haven for all of these six figure positions?! How have I missed this all this time?! Man, I'm gonna get right over there and apply immediately! To everything. Be still my heart! Actually, I'll probably just go over there and look at the scooters.

So, craigslist job posters, don't tell me that the job has "UNCAPPED POTENTIAL" when it comes to earnings. That doesn't make me want to apply. That makes me want to go to 3 Crow and get a beer. But it's far too early for that.

Soccer. Continued.

I railed pretty hard against soccer on Tuesday. Landon Donavan, I owe you an apology. I was in the flower shop van listening to the game and nearly lost my mind.

My suggestions still stand though. Especially the one about land mines.

It's nice to see a little passion about the sport here in the states.

FIFA World Cup suggestions, Or Why I Almost Always Fall Asleep the Game is on

Soccer is not the most interesting sport. Zero-zero ties? Phh... Hardly.

My critics will argue that it's "the glorious game". I'll argue that argument. Ties are about as exciting as a full price weeknight at the bar. Tell me I'm wrong. I dare you. So, in order to jazz up the game, I've come up with a few ideas.

#1.) Land mines. Can you imagine how little hooting and hollering and rolling around on the ground like a little crybaby there would be if there was the imminent danger of explosion? I can only imagine that it would all be but eliminated. Besides, when was the last time you saw a hockey player doing that acting after taking a check that didn't involve unconsciousness or losing teeth? Go getchu on some google and let me know what you find. Yeah... that's what I thought.

#2.) Make the nets bigger. This is an easy and obvious suggestion. Some of you might argue for the removal of goalies but since most of these world class athletes aren't ever close to putting the ball near the net, I'd so the goalies are second on this list. If fans want to see THREE goals in a game by one side, we could do both of these things but let's not confuse the South Americans and Europeans too much just yet.

#3.) Halftime shows. This works like Gang Busters here in the States. For example, at the Super Bowl a few months ago, we (The U.S.A., that is) had The Who play. That merited talk on both sports and entertainment shows -- that's free advertising, folks. Also, nothing quite screams "American sports!" quite like a bunch of 60-something dudes from England. I know that sounds like I'm killing my argument but remember how long people were talking about Bruce Springsteen's crotch slide into the camera or the infamous "wardrobe malfunction" of 2004? Yeah... think about that, FIFA.

#4.) More Keira Knightley. She could sell tons of tickets and would instantly cease my complaining. She made Bend it like Beckham tolerable.

#5.) Speaking of Beckham... More of that Posh Spice chick.

#6.) Jetpacks. This would instantly make the game more like The Rocketeer. I fail to see a flaw with this plan at all. I've yet to meet a problem that Jennifer Connelly can't solve.

See? All that, and I haven't even broken a sweat. Just like those dudes jogging on the grass and playing kickball. Okay, some of them do... but only because they look like hippies and don't know how to grow a beard but just that little stubbly looking thing that's so fashionable these days.

So, soccer, get with it. Be progressive. Change the rules. Take my suggestions. Maybe add those land mines.

Welcome Home

Hey, who am I and what do I care? I'm just an apparition to poke fun at; sleeping dream to dream and driving state to state so someone with bigger and better aspirations can come and pick up where I left off. Let's just pray their imitation is better than mine

Jim Joyce

Two blogs in one day? What year is this? 2001?

Jim Joyce just blew the most obvious call in professional sports in the past 17 years -- since Chris Webber's traveling violation in the waning seconds of the NCAA championship came against North Carolina. Armando Galarraga threw the first 28 out perfect game in MLB history tonight.

ESPN won't let me embed the video of the controversial play so I've posted the link instead.

Jim Joyce, I just wanted to let you know that when my Detroit Tigers lost the 2006 World Series, I cried at Red Door East. I sat in complete shock at the bar for about an hour and a half after they lost to the Minnesota Twins in the play-off play-in game last year. I don't get much Tigers coverage here in the south and, damnit, I didn't want it this way. This coming on the heels of the passing of Ernie Harwell; one of the games greatest announcers. We Tigers fans have had it pretty rough the past several years.

I know there are going to be a few apologists (Peter King of Sports Illustrated, I'm looking at you) who say that we should forgive and forget Joyce's blown call but let's look at this from a business perspective for a second. We have to. If Peter King were to somehow come across this blog (let's face it, stranger things have happened) he can't really argue the point that it's because the business of sports that he has a job. It's a fact.

Let's say that it's Saturday afternoon and I'm at the flower shop. Let's say that I've had a really kick ass day of deliveries and I'm just on my game. I've been out to Bellevue, Brentwood, East Nashville and, oh, Vanderbilt's campus. I've made three women cry tears of joy when they receive their arrangement. And, for argument's sake, let's just say the boss comes up to me at says "I've got three more deliveries for you and they're all within walking distance of the shop. you don't need to drive and once they're done, you can go home and eat a burrito." Sounds pretty good, right?

Well, let's say that I take these arrangements and instead of doing my job, I decide that I'm gonna go throw them out in the dumpster on my way to my car so I can go get that burrito. That's the only possible explanation that I can think of as to why Jim Joyce blew that call. He was preoccupied on noms. And I don't write in internet speak very often. Because it's ridiculous, that's why.

You know what else would happen, internetland? I'd probably get in trouble for not, you know, doing my job. I could apologize a hundred times but I'd still get in trouble. And that's the way it should be. If you don't do your job, you get reprimanded. And that's where we are with Jim Joyce right now.

Now, Peter King, who I've never been a fan of, says that we should forgive Joyce and let it go. It's not like the guy ran over my dog (Sammy is a very good boy, by the way) and it's not like I'm going to lose sleep over it. And if I do, I can always make up for it tomorrow 'cause I'm not working. It's not like I have any need to forgive the guy. I just want Joyce to be professionally disciplined for what he did. And maybe shave that mustache. Only a man can have facial hair and I'm not sure his man card should be in good standing anytime soon.

Expedia dot fail

8:00 is my happy time. No singing birds (as they've gotten that out of their system by 5something). No "aroooorooooroooo" of Noel the dog (usually). Usually I'm watching reruns of Futurama. 'Cause there's nothing funnier than that. And I've seen every episode about 14 times so I don't feel bad if I fall asleep before reawaking [I know that's not a word] in a rush to get out the door if I need to.

8:01, however, is something completely different. It is the time when business are allowed to call their customers. So, when 8:01 rolled around this morning, I received a call from an "877" number and, of course, didn't answer. A few thoughts went through my head:
"Okay, I'm not behind on any of my bills."
"That certainly isn't the phone number for any place that I've applied to recently and if it is, they wouldn't be calling this early about my resume."
"Man, this is really a funny show."
So I let it go to voice mail. And that voice mail went a little something like this:
"HithismessageisforStephenPhillipBohn.ThisisNameGarbledwithExpediaandwehavesomesignificantchangestoyourflightitinerarypleasecallusbackatTelephoneNumberIndescernable."

I know I can speak pretty quickly but this was like AmazingRoboSpeak. Since I have purchased a grand total of one thing in my life through Expedia which is my ticket to and from New Zealand, I knew that this is exactly what it was about. So I went online to find Expedia's dedicated customer service line (it's 404-728-8787, by the way). And wouldn't you know it, it went into a queue. I defy you to find one person who enjoys queues. Well, maybe efficiency managers but they're only concerned with net promoter scores and not customer experience. I can say that with full confidence because I used to do HR at a call center and if you have ever had to wait for a CSR then you probably know what I'm talking about.

And so I waited. And waited. And waited.

A CSR finally got on the line. He informed me that because my layover on my return trip when I'm at LAX is now less than two hours BY ALL OF FIVE MINUTES, I would need to rebook because that's their policy. I am very serious. I told him that my dates are set, I'm traveling with a friend, that I bought my ticket almost 5 months ago and I'm not rebooking anything. Guess who went back on hold while the CSR went to get in touch with American Airlines who initiated the change?

That's right. This dude.

After wandering around the house shirtless and opening my fridge in the hopes that a leftover burrito would magically appear (it didn't) for a while, the CSR came back on the line and said that he was "having trouble getting in touch with his help desk to get the flight changed." I told him that "I don't want my flights changed at all and that I don't think that 5 minutes is going to make all that much of a difference. I don't screw around. I'm an expert traveler." For future reference, that joke will be met with silence by Expedia CSRs.

Back into the queue.

Ten minutes later, my CSR came back on the line: "Good news, Mr. Bohn! I've rebooked your flight... You'll be --"
"Wait a minute. I just said that I DON'T want my flight rebooked. I don't care about the two hour policy. Can't we just leave it as it is?"
"Well, Mr. Bohn, the policy is that we have to have two hours between flights when you're arriving from an international destination."
"Oh, so I can get my luggage and and go through customs and all that?" I asked.
"That's right, Mr. Bohn!" he replied.
"And do you really think that takes two hours? 'Cause I've done it in about 35 minutes everytime I've traveled."

This was met with about 30 seconds of silence.

Then... "Well, like I said, Mr. Bohn, the good news is that I was able to rebook your flight and we'll be sending you through Chicago on your way back to Nashville."
No mention of upgrading my seat. No mention of some sort of food or drink voucher. No 'thank you for being so accomodating'.
That's not customer service folks.

But the real crime with all of this, is that my flight for Chicago (which is where I'll be connecting once I leave L.A.) leaves with just too short of time to head into L.A. to finally try this In-N-Out Burger that everyone tells me that a cheeseburger connoisseur like myself should try. You wanna talk about all-time crimes? That's one of 'em. Like Crosby scoring the gold medal winning goal. Or like getting dumped by text message. Or like Friends being on the air for ten seasons.

Oh, well. I'm sure I can get me an eye opener beforehand. And, really, that's all I need. A microbrew.

My total phone call lasted over 45 minutes. That's two reruns of Futurama I could have been watching. This is in inauspicious start to my day already.

The Karate Kid

So the remake for The Karate Kid comes out in a few weeks. I will not be seeing this film. The original version of The Karate Kid is one of my favorite films ever. Everything after that in the series kinda sucked.

Now, aside from normal ranting and raving about things I don't like, I might have let this one slide... Until big brother facebook decided to link my like of The Karate Kid to a damned Justin Beiber song. Let me tell you something, facebook: Johnny, Dutch, Tommy, Kreese, and the rest of the Cobra Kai would knocked the shit out of Justin Beiber and Jaden Smith.

That's it. I'm not even posting a link to the video.



Strike first, strike hard, no mercy.

Paul McCartney and The Quest for Nashville's Money

The title of this blog sounds quite a bit like an adventure film. I wish it were. I'd be interested in seeing it.

So it appears that the Nashville social media universe is all abuzz [which I am shocked to find is actually a word] with the news that Sir Paul McCartney is playing at the Bridgestone Arena this summer. Why Nashville seems to care is beyond me.

That's right.

When I was 15 years old, right about the time I got the nickname with which I have been saddled for these past, well, 15 years, I discovered Rubber Soul. It all... you know... just made so much sense. Especially the track "Drive My Car"... because it was a euphemism for one thing but I thought it was actually about something else. Ah, to be young again. Which, if I had my druthers, is what Paul is probably thinking, too.

Just like every other high schooler in the past 50 years, I adored The Fab Four. Followed by stints of loving The Doors and then trying really hard to get into The Grateful Dead but then realizing that just because you have long hair and 9 1/2 fingers doesn't necessarily make you a good musician. Maybe I'm just latently jealous that I have all ten fingers, short hair, and the closest I ever got to music immortality is my entry in the allmusic guide. At least three people know that I'm on there now. Don't get me wrong, I understand why I liked The Beatles and why I still do. What I don't understand about The Beatles is why people liked anything that they did or have done since 1970.

There. I just said what you were all thinking.

My insanely talented friend Rachel Briggs has already started the Ram argument. It's pretty good but am I going to lose my mind about it? Definitely not. Besides... Dude went on to form Wings and be a vegetarian, so that's pretty much an automatic disqualification. Listen, Paul, if you're going to form a band called Wings, which I can only assume was inspired by the culinary delight and then become a vegetarian... that's automatic grounds for me taking all of your records and smashing them in the name of Jesus just like I was encouraged to do with all of my secular albums by my youth group leader when I was in high school. Oh, and he wrote "Love Take Me Down" which is an abomination in and of itself.

It's interesting to me that an artist that hasn't released something worthwhile since the Nixon administration and who has released such turds as such as "No More Lonely Nights" and "Jet" is getting to play an arena. Notice how I didn't say that I was surprised that he does, though. Why? Because those Jonas Brothers are getting to. Because Miley Cyrus gets nominated for Golden Globes. Because that "According to You" song is huge. Because maybe, just maybe, Paul was on to something naming his post-Beatles band after a food item 'cause he knew Americans would eat it up. See what I did there? Pretty good, huh?

So, for both of you wondering, I will not be attending Sir Paul's concert in July here in Nashville. It's not because the tickets are likely to be $75. It's not because I don't care about his music much anymore. It's not because all the auto-tune in the world ain't gonna help him out these days. It's because he hasn't been relevant since my parents were teenagers... Name me one other thing from the 1960's that you still get excited about.

I'm gonna go get a drink. I'll give you a minute to think about that.

Okay. Back.

Yeah, I didn't think so.

So, Sir Paul, that's cool that you're playing Nashville for the first time ever. I just don't think I care, though. As a matter of fact, I know I don't.

Lost -- The End

LOST

That's right. In bold. Where do I begin? I guess I should start at the start.

In fall of 2004, I wasn't doing much with my life. I recently graduated college, I was working for Atlas Home Improvements and The Window Doctor, I ate way too many burritos and drank far too many cans of Pepsi. And I watched TV all the time. I mean, all the time. I.refuse.to.do.that.thing.with.the.period.after.every.word. That makes you look like an idiot. Ah, crap.

Now, if you know me or if you've been following/stalking my blog for a while, you know that I am obsessed with a few things: my forthcoming New Zealand adventure and The Lord of the Rings. I can see you all rolling your eyes now and thinking, "Here he goes with that shit again." Too bad. But because, I was/am obsessed with the world of Tolkien and anything that had anything to do with it, I followed the rabbit trail into the world of LOST because of Dominic Monaghan. He was a hobbit. Shut up.

Ladies, you still interested? Good. I thought so.

In the past day (and few hours) the LOST series has ended and has ended with a *poof*. People were expecting a *BANG* but when was the last time a TV series ended with one of those? Remember how pissed off everyone was when Seinfeld ended with a lousy clip show and they all went to prison or something? That was 200 episodes of nothing. A show that didn't make you think and didn't make you pay attention except for the The Betrayal episode that was essentially run backward. It was like Memento but funnier... and Jewish. If that offended anyone, I apologize. I have no idea if Leonard Shelby celebrates Hanukkah, but I'm going with my gut and saying that he doesn't.

I'm glad that LOST ended the exact way it began: literally and figuratively: with Jack in the bamboo forest by himself. It's your own fault if you haven't seen the finale yet.

Now my good friend Nick has got a blog up about how much he disliked "The End" of LOST. We have watched the finale together twice since it has aired and neither of our opinions have changed. He wanted answers. I wanted resolution.

In these past six years, I've come to sympathize with almost all of the characters on one level or another at some point in time or another. Some of the characters I thought were just annoying, like Ana Lucia portrayed by the drunk driving Michelle Rodriguez. Yes, some of the characters just annoyed the shit out of me. Some of them I felt instant sympathy for/with. But, I think that the biggest reason that I liked it is that, as Nick so pointed out, the details didn't matter.

Funny how that works out, in'it?

In the past few years, I have been on more job interviews than I can shake a stick at. One of the questions that I seemingly always get asked (and one that really has no bearing on my ability to do a job and is really just flat out annoying -- take note fellow HR and Talent Acquisition gurus) is "How did you end up here?" The answer that I want to say is, "It couldn't matter less." What someone seems to want is a 20 second answer to an answer that would take years to answer: from the adventures that I had in Michigan, to the end of those adventures, to the first real heartbreak that I had in Nashville, to the first girl that I dated in Nashville which lead to the first real heartbreak I had in Nashville, to the trip across the Atlantic, to my job being eliminated, to the trip across the country, to being financially at rock bottom when the job with the new position you've accepted tells you that they don't have the money to pay you, to how you ended up delivering flowers, to everything in between. Really, does that sound like a clear and concise answer that can be summed up in two or three sentences? No. And I think that's why I liked it so much. It's that the details that got you to wherever you are in life don't matter as much as where you ended up. Sometimes, things don't make sense, even after you've after you've analyzed them to death. Like why you got your heart broken or why you really got your heart broken. Or why your job was eliminated "in order to create efficiencies". Or why the girl who works at the shop next door keeps calling you "one of her best guy friends". Or... You know... All the other minutia of life.

So really, it (life, LOST, whatever) comes down to one thing: what did you do with the time you were given? Did you make your world, your reality a bit of a better place? Did you run over everyone? Did you even know what was going on? Did you live the life you imagined? And that, my dear readers, is what matters. Are you living the live you've imagined? I don't mean doing what you want professionally. That doesn't mean a drop in the bucket compared to making sure your friends have beer during a flood; that doesn't matter compared a really good book you read; that doesn't matter compared to the road trip to the beach you took your sophomore year of college. It's the adventures that you have and the characters on your journey that you encounter that shape who you are and the story you are on.

And so, LOST, I want to thank you for being a small part of the past 6 years of my life. I think it's fair to say that quite a bit has changed in my life in that time. Yes, the girls. Yes, the trips. Yes, the jobs. Yes, the everything. Yes, the complete and total monopoly you've had on my one weeknight each Tuesday or Wednesday or whatever night you aired. But you were worth it.

LOST, In six years, you've lasted longer than any relationship I've had by 5 years and 5 months... I'm just glad I don't have to give you half my stuff. 'Cause really all that would be would be my collection of LOST and Futurama DVDs. And my Lord of the Rings things.

Thank you for the epic journey. It was worth it.

Conan's Final Words

"Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard, and you're kind, amazing things will happen. I'm telling you, amazing things will happen."

Conan O'Brien

Trevor and Hilary's Wedding Weekend

Here's a video of Trevor and Hilary Delling's wedding weekend. Youtube made me murder my director's cut but all in all, it's not too shabby.

Enjoy!

Costanza

The past week and a half have not been kind to me:

-- Nashville flooded it's little heart out. 14 inches of rain in two days has lead to almost $2 billion worth of damage and 30 people dead. Those figures are expected to climb. The only things I lost were a desk (meh?), a pair of antique speakers (big bummer) and, as of last night, an SWR bass amp which I thought I could salvage but as it turns out, water and electronics don't mix as well as I thought that they would.

-- Since the great deluge of last weekend, I have had one day off. That was Sunday, May 2. For those of you keeping score at home, I worked 71 hours last week.

-- Speaking of work and the flood together, one of the pubs that I wrote trivia questions for is closed until further notice. Not that I depend on writing trivia questions for my wild and extravagant lifestyle but every little bit helps. Especially considering...

-- I found out by running one of my nightly reports here at job #1 that I did not receive one of the two open positions for which I have applied. I have tried to talk to my boss on Friday, Monday, and now today about the situation and he is "really focused on some things right now" when I've asked for 5 minutes of his time. Folks, this is not how you manage people. In what may be effective as soon as Friday, I will be without job #1. This means, however, that I can write the name of the company in my blog as many times as I want. 'Cause this is America. This also means that I may be able to work at A Village of Flowers a whole lot more. So it's not the worst thing in the world. I had an interview a week and a half ago with a company and I have an interview with another company a little later this afternoon. Things could be worse on that front, I suppose, but I have no concrete job offers as of yet.

-- I had someone ask me out on Facebook. This was confusing and while I am flattered, I don't really think I can handle that right now.



On the plus side of things, I did win free Qdoba today.