It's hip to be square

I still think it's hip to be square. Huey Lewis and the News really haven't stood the test of time and not too many people are going to say that they genuinely still like his music... unless you're one of those mustachioed d-bags who ride a tall bike and wear the band's t-shirt ironically. You know who else listened to Huey Lewis a whole bunch? Patrick Bateman, that's right. Life is all about the company you keep, folks. I will temper my hatred for hipsters with a caveat indicating that I on the rare occassion or road trip listen to the band's greatest hits. I also sometimes pretend that I'm Marty McFly. What? Like you don't yell out "88 MILES PER HOUR!" on the freeway.

I received a request yesterday from Natalie to write about my take on this article in the New York Times about how it's hip to be round these days. Seriously. Go read it. I'm gonna go see if I can get a lemonade. I'll be right back.

Okay. I'm back. No lemonade. All they had was that dietsugarfreenofun stuff.

Now, by show of hands from the ladies and gay dudes, how many of you really think a pot belly is sexy on a guy? Be honest. None of this "Oh, I like guys with a little pudge because it's good for cuddling" shit. Leave that at the door. I am going to prove to you all that Guy Trebay (writer of this New York Times article) is full of it. Completely full of it. And I'm going to use movies science to do it. Ready? Here it goes.

Example number one: Boogie Nights. This is one of the best discoveries of science movies ever made. It's funny, it's entertaining, you get to see Heather Graham as God intended her to be seen; it's got everything! What I want to focus on here is Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Betcha didn't see that one coming, did ya? You were all thinking about Marky Mark's funky bunch. Don't lie. But back to PSH for a second. He's chubby, pudgy, portly, and stout. He also dresses like he wants to be hip but fails miserably. You know what happens to him in the movie? He never gets laid and then kills himself. If there's anything that I've learned from Paul Thomas Anderson movies other than everyone in the world is somehow connected and that you should never get between Daniel Day-Lewis and his milkshake, it's that fat dudes don't really do too well with the ladies. And PTA has been nominated for three Oscars® for writing... so he knows something.

Example number two: Han Solo. The smoothest bad ass in all the galaxy. He's a space pirate that plays by his own rules, hangs out with a walking carpet, two asexual robots, and this dude that went on to sling Colt45. And look at him! Not an ounce of fat on his body! And who ends up with Princess Leia at the end of the series? Certainly not her brother pudgy Luke Skywalker. It was the lean, thin, bad mofo. Also, Han knew how to use a lightsaber. Go watch The Empire Strikes Back. It's in the beginning. Oh, and the scientification here? The ships could go light speed and somehow (although this was never explained by George Lucas) had artificial gravity in the vacuum of space. Science fiction = science fact.

Example number three: me. I used to be pretty damn fat. You know how many chicks liked me then? Zero... that I know of. You know how many chicks like me now? Probably the same amount. But I think that's because I went from Dwarf to Hobbit. That's not much of jump in terms of sexiness factor. And also because I talk about Lord of the Rings all the time. And also because I'm going to New Zealand to (among other things) visit Hobbiton. It's almost hard to believe I haven't found any ladies that want to come on this trip, isn't it? That, in science, is what we call an anomaly.

So, Mr. Guy Trebay of The New York Times, go do your research. You've pulled things from such samples as "Brooklyn" and "Brooklyn" (again). I used a dude from the 70's who works on a porn set, a space pirate that owes money to a giant green worm thing, and a guy who works three jobs and lives in Nashville who still ain't gettin' any.

I bet I could kick your ass at Jeopardy!, too.

Have you seen a Boner lately?

Bohn. I have what many people would consider to be an unfortunate-sounding last name. Not "bahn" but "bone". It's something that sort of bothered me in high school (as if being 15 years old wasn't awkward enough) and when 1000 people know you because they know your last name, life's awkward level went to 11. Most of us remember what it was like to be that age. If you are not at least 15, you should probably stop reading this blog right now. I am going to work plenty of innuendo into this entry.

As I grew bigger, I became more comfortable in my own skin. The "Bohner" nickname didn't phase me at all and by the time I got done with high school, no one called me that any more. It was a blessing to have finally shed that moniker which had saddled me for so long. Every once in a while an acquaintance from school will contact me on facebook and greet me with said name. Through the past, darkly, as it were. It doesn't happen very often but it's a trip down memory lane when it does. The "Bohner" nickname... I just can't hide it like I was smuggling something in the waistband of my sweatpants.

We are still in the midst of the Winter Olympics, still chanting "USA! USA! USA!" when ice dancing [how the hell this is a sport is beyond me - Vic probably likes it, though, just like he likes the biathlon] is on. We are all captivated by the dudes who wear blue jeans and are called athletes when all they want to do is smoke weed, eat Honey Nut Cheerios, and talk about the latest (oh, what the devil do punk rock kids listen to these days?) Forever the Sickest Kids record snowboarders and their sick Supersquirrel move. Yes, that really is a move. 'Cause nothing quite says "spirit of the games" like a Supersquirrel. But snowboarding terminology aside, we've got a bit of a mess on our hands. We're missing a Boner.

That's right, Andrew Koenig, 'star' of TV's Growing Pains in the late 80's and early 90's is missing from his recent jaunt to the Olympics in Vancouver. In all honesty, I didn't even know who he was until I went to Google's News page this morning and saw Boner's story sprayed all over the web page. If you do an image search for this guy, you're gonna get a dude that looks like this:

This guy reminds me of a dude who probably still likes watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoons. So, not entirely unlike myself except for he has a sweet hairline. I doubt, though, that anyone is going to put up roadblocks looking for this dude. Frankly, if it weren't for his character's unfortunate name, I probably wouldn't remember who he was is and neither would you.

Is this what the media has come to: writing stories abouit bit players on bit tv shows from 20 years ago? It's like what would we do if we all suddenly discovered that Alex Cord who played Archangel on Airwolf had become a recluse and gone into hiding. We'd probably start humming the theme song and go watch some episodes online. At least that's what I'd do.

In the annals of secondary TV characters, Boner really leaves us stranded on second base. I concede, though, that some of the headlines (especially this one from today's USA Today) are exceptionally funny... if a bit misleading. If Boner is missing in Vancouver, well, then, you know he's in Vancouver. I've got a feeling Boner will pop back up sooner or later though. And besides, it's not like the world has lost Shawn Harrison who portrayed Waldo Geraldo Faldo on Family Matters all those years ago. Can you just imagine the headline and subsequent website for what I am sure would be a world wide manhunt?! Wait... you say there's already something called "Where's Waldo?" Aw... crap.

Mr. Koenig, if you happen to be reading this (and according to the analytics enterprise I use about 2% of my readership comes from Canada so it is entirely possible), please come out of hiding. You seem like a nice and talented member of the community. I don't know if you're sad or lonely or depressed or whatever the case may be but there are plenty of women in the world who would love to meet Boner. I'm convinced of it. And if they want to meet you, they should certainly want to meet this Bohner -- at least with me they know they're not gonna get some fading star who has run away to Canada.

The Miracle on Ice

The end of "The Miracle on Ice" which is routinely voted as the greatest moment in sports history:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aRALJyv86eY

I will probably never see anything this amazing in my life in the sports world... But last night's USA hockey win over Canada was pretty epic and one of the ten best games I have ever seen.

I've Lent my bad judgment out for 40 days

I attended Detroit Catholic Central High School some umpteen years ago. The Royal Blue and White Shamrocks have been educating young men and having the priests provide a swift kick in the ass for corrective action for 80 odd years now and I was one of the educated. Driving in each day from little nowheresville into Detroit soon became old hat and my 3 hours of commuting each day didn't even phase me after a while. That's just the way it was. We all do remember high school of course with the minutia that seemed to matter so much then ultimately didn't matter at all: the girls on the bus from the sister school down the street that wouldn't talk to you; the math test that you bombed; being one of a dozen non-Catholics in a sea of a thousand or so; the fact that you couldn't eat meat on Fridays during Lent.

Wait. What? No meat? You guys know my stance on vegetarianism, right? I'm against it. Obviously. I think that the best way that someone explained the 'no meat on Friday's thing' (what else am I going to call it, really?) to me was that it, like anything given up during Lent, was a sign of sacrifice, humility, tradition, and rememberance. I'm okay with all of those things. I've got no moral qualms against any of them. I'm not really that good at any of them but that's neither here nor there. So, I went with it. Sort of. I still brought pepperoni pizza with me from my job at Gus' Carryout in Howell for lunch on Fridays. I still had to explain to my lunchmates that I wasn't Catholic.

In all honesty, I have never given up anything for Lent. I think that the idea of giving up something just because a religious tradition [hang on] tells you to is ridiculous. I am for traditions. I am against traditions that have no doctrinal basis. I know... Jesus went and hung out in the desert for 40 days without something or other and prayed and fasted. That's not to make light of the situation but I have failed to read any part of the Bible where it says "Go without cheeseburgers on Fridays for a month and a half." It might be in there, though... Somewhere in the back, maybe?

I was sitting at my desk at job #1 on Tuesday when the woman who sits across from me popped her head up over our shared wall and asked me what I was giving up for Lent. This is strange because I never talk about religion at job #1. Before we knew what had happened, our entire department was standing up and talking about what they were going to give up for Lent. Guess what card I drew:

Alcohol. All of it. And all of it because I let slip that I write questions and occasionally host shows for Better Trivia of Nashville which are hosted in bars across our fair city (Sam's, Monday, 7:30; 3Stones, Thursday, 7:30). And I'm doing it. Not because I think Lent is a nice tradition (it is) but because I want to lovingly spite my co-workers who don't think I can do it.

So how do I fill this void the void that is now in my life with the lack of delcious pints of Guinness and Speyside on the rocks for the next 39 days? I've got to fill it with something. That something for today and probably the rest of the week is candy which the man who sits next to me had given up. It just so happened that he had a large bag of bite size York Peppermint pieces that he gave to me. I was insulted upon reading the back of the bag of candy. Listen here, Hershey Company, if I am trading one vice for another, I have no intentions whatsoever of sharing them "...with family & friends!" as your clever marketing indicates that I should. I know my photography skills aren't rivaling Josh Marx [hire him!] or Eden Frangipane [hire her, too!] but I swear that's what the back of the bag reads. And if I have a hard time doing what the Bible says I should do, what chance do you, bag of candy, really have? Not much.

I delved into the bag this morning. Wonder of wonders, the candy pieces come in two colors: Royal Blue and White. It's almost hard to believe this circle, isn't it?

Lent, you are a clever tradition. You've managed to circle around after all those years from high school and give me a swift kick in the ass for not observing you since I am, as Father Donoher put it on more than one occassion, "The perfect example of a fine Catholic young man." All these years later Catholic Central is still kicking my ass. Touche', my Basillian priest friends. Touche'.

Skeletons of fun

The games of the XXI Olympic Winter Games have begun. A time when a bunch of pale skinned [genuine vanilla faces, even!], fair haired, blue eyed men and women from all over the northern hemisphere and parts of Australia get together and play in the snow for weeks on end. I don't think that accurately describes the Games, however, as my friends and I used to do the same things. We called it "January". It was not as exciting as it sounds.

The caveat to the physical stereotype is, of course, the Jamaican bobsled team. We've all seen Cool Runnings. Don't lie. You know you love it. Besides, what's not to believe about John Candy playing a character who at one time was a world class athlete? Aside from everything.

I unabashedly love watching the Olympics. I like rooting for the good ol' USA. I like cheering for the underdog mixed doubles curing team from Lithuania. I like seeing the pure confusion on my friends' faces when I explain the difference between an Axle and a Toe Loop when we're all watching the figure skating competition.
What? Like you don't watch figure skating with your friends?
What? Like you're amazed that I know the difference in figure skating jumps?
What? Like you didn't know I used to take figure skating lessons as a child?
This hole is getting pretty deep. I better stop for a second.

But just for a second.

I understand how a sport becomes an Olympic event. What I don't understand is how a sport continues to be an Olympic event. Biathlon, I'm looking at you. Up for grabs today? You guessed it: 50 Stephen Bohn McFun Bucks if you can tell me, without cheating [I'm looking at you, Patrick Copeland], who the best biathlete in the world is. I'm assuming that you know what the biathlon is. The correct answer is, of course, Tim Burke.

What the hell kind of sport is that? Skiing and shooting a gun? Sounds like an action sequence from The Living Daylights to me. It sounds nothing like a sport. How in the world someone decided those two things should be mashed together, televised (albeit at 2:15 a.m. on MSNBCMOUSE), and then the winners of the event should be given pieces of precious metals for the efforts is completely beyond me. I understand the biathlon less than I understand the words "next date" and that's saying something. For all my cynicism, I'd still probably watch the event if I had cable.

The shoot n' snow event (I've renamed it] not withstanding, there's no reason why you shouldn't watch these games. Go and cheer for an underdog. Go root for the skeletoner... skeletonite... dude who participates in the the skeleton event who is from Denmark whose only competing with his sled Rusty SpeedCryer [writer's note: apparently Danish dudes who participate in the skeleton event name their sleds as though they were stereotypical Native Americans] and the song in his heart. Or, let me come over and watch it at your house because I don't have cable.

I'll bring the McDonald's and we can act just like the athletes in the Olympic village do: eating McNuggets until we burst. 'Cause the commercials tell us that's what all good athletes eat. If that's the case, I've got a Big Mac Attack some serious training to do.

USA! USA! USA!

Free flowers! Ladies, inquire within! (Act 2)

...And I thought tax season was brutal. Back in the days of working at Harpeth Financial, I would regularly work seven days a week during tax season. It wasn't so much intense as it was long and boring. Kinda like Dances with Wolves. If you've never endured (and, really, that's the only way to describe it) Love Day by working at a florist, than you really haven't endured much of anything. Deliveries here, deliveries over there, deliveries and delusions of grandeur everywhere! I, strangely, really enjoyed myself despite the loopiness that eventually ensued.

If you'll notice the previous blog entry I was ready to make some single lady's dream come true on Valentine's Day. I promised them free flowers in exchange for, umm... not being alone on Valentine's Day night. Yeah. That'll work.

Oh, the reposts! Oh, the retweets! Oh, the text messages from friends saying "I showed this to everyone in my office!" And do you know how many direct responses I got from ladies who said, "Yeah. He's kinda cute. Short, but kinda cute. I'll let him bring me a boquet/arrangement/whateverit'scalled. Hell, I may even let him buy me a drink."

Zero. That's how many. Not one. None. At all.

What kind of world do we live in where a woman who, let's face it, has got to be almost as perpetually single as I am can't even say "Yeah, I don't dislike this guy enough where I'll let him bring me flowers." An arrangement that looks as magnificent as this:

If that doesn't just induce feelings of lust and desire, I don't know what will.

Ladies, I'm gonna be honest here: You are missing out on one hell of a prize. Clearly that prize is not me. I tried that. The prize now involves food. And drink. And a sweet ride. I'm now going to up the ante'. In addition to a free arrangement for you, I will throw in the following:
-- One free dinner to the restaurant of your choosing that doesn't involve the word(s) "King", "Castle", "Wendy's" or "Crazy Expensive". Clearly a meal here is not an option. Sorry.
-- Almost all the alcohol you can handle. I don't want to end up being your drunk makeout session this month.
-- Valet parking (if it's available). This is a big deal.
-- An evening of elegance and style riding around in a 2007 Ford Escape. It's a bitchin' ride. Trust me.

I have really raised the stakes, I know.

Let's try this again, ladies. How can you resist?

Be sure to tune in for the exciting conclusion of this trilogy wherein I still get no response and offer, hell, I don't know... ballroom dancing lessons and half a dozen or so Titleist golf balls into the mix.

Free flowers! Ladies, inquire within.

Irony: i-ro-ny [ahy-ruh-nee, ahy-er-] –noun, plural -nies.
1. the use of words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of its literal meaning: The irony of her reply, “How nice!” when I said I had to work all weekend.

This is one of my favorite literary devices. Indeed it is. That and, as always, assonance. There are so many wonderful and fun ways to use it: to make fun of people, to make fun of situations, to make fun of people in situations. Um... Basically that would be it but that is the basis of humor and I'm not clever enough to think of new jokes or ways to use the old ones. I stick with what I know and it's lead me to the a life of fame, glory, and sleeping on top of a pile of money with many beautiful ladies each and every night. See? Irony. Right there.

For those of you who don't know, there aren't many holidays that I enjoy. Christmas, Worksgiving Thanksgiving, Easter, Valentine's Day: these are all days I can do without. Don't get me wrong, I think that the meaning behind them is fantastic but dropping some cash on chocolates or flowers for your sweetie just because the world says you should and if you don't you're going to be sleeping on the couch next to your 60 pound boxer who would be more than willing to make sweet love on you all night long... that's just wrong By the way, I did a Google image search for "boxer" and found yonder image. The url associated with it ended with "Boxers at play". Check it out for yourself. I don't know what kinda play that is... This is where I'd make a joke about David Carradine or Roman Polanski but I don't have one for either off of the top of my head.

So, guys, you kinda hafta buy something for your sweetheart this weekend. Otherwise it'll be you, a bottle of Fireball whiskey, and your entire collection of Pirates of the Caribbean movies trying to make it through the next few days. Actually, that sounds like a pretty good weekend if you ask me. And, fellas, quit asking me for discounts. I think I may have done used 'em up. "May have done used 'em up"? Good God.

The personal irony for me is that in addition to loathing Valentine's Day is that I work at a florist on the weekends; a job which I adore on a day that I decidedly do not. For the next two-ish days, I will be driving around the greater Nashville area delivering love (hehehe). To see the reaction on women's faces (and probably some dudes', too) when I hand them their bouquet and then have them immediately run over and hug/kiss/makeoutwith their significant other while I'm standing there with my clipboard in my hand waiting for her or him to come back to the front door and sign it all the while freezing my ass off on what may very well be my least favorite day of the the year... Well, that's irony.

To the ladies who are reading this (and I know there are at least three or four of you), don't feel bummed if you ain't got nobody just like David Lee Roth in his song "Just a Gigolo". I don't either. And maybe, just maybe mind you, I'll make your Valentine's Day by swinging by your place after I'm done working and give you a flower or two. Goodness knows what happens when I give flowers out to women: Someone else comes along and gives her a bigger arrangement and she starts gushing about that one. Which may or may not have happened in real life within the past week to me.

Has anyone seen my pride? If so, can I have it back?

So ladies who may be interested in free flowers, get at me. Leave me a comment. Tell me why you deserve free flowers from me: charming, funny, bearded, handsome me. Make sure I've got your phone number. Wear something skimpy when I show up. You know the drill.

"Do you hate my boyfriend?"

"Do you hate my boyfriend?"

I was sitting at my desk at Job #1 [attn: Josiah's sister - This is where I would have used strike thru on the name of Job #1 and then followed it up with some clever text but I'm not sure at how good the internets and the computerers are at finding the name of the company and I've already got into a spot of trouble for it. Know, however, I was thinking of you when I wrote that. You've now achieved infamy and immortality via a Stephen P. Bohn blog shout-out. May your days be golden.] yesterday when I got an IM from a friend of mine. Why, yes, I do stay signed into G-chat all day long. Why, yes, I do have my AIM linked to it. Why, yes, I would like a glass of pink lemonade.

"Do you hate my boyfriend?"

It was a strange thing to start a conversation with, right? Not as strange as, say, going up to a stripper and saying "Hey, baby... Wanna go make out in my limo?" but I guess that works for some dudes. Especially if you look like either a magician or a gender ambiguous villian from a James Bond movie. What's even more strange is how this dude to the left (his name is Erik by the way) used to play Dungeons and Dragons as a kid and considered himself a "late bloomer". If there is any sort of parallel between him and me, I'm gonna take my 10 point Magic Quarterstaff of Destiny and slay me a whole bunch of 'em. Yup. The adianoeta there? A quarterstaff is made of wood and well... you get the idea. It was a sex joke. There. Also, I feel pretty proud of myself for making a sex joke right next to the word "adianoeta".

Anyway... back to real life. 'Cause that's where I try to live occasionally. Her question threw me off: "Do you hate my boyfriend?" I told her I didn't. It's pretty difficult for me hate somebody if I don't know them although, in all honesty, that really hasn't stopped me before. I hate Peyton Manning and I've never met him. Really, though, what's not to hate about him? He gets up to the line of scrimmage, yells for a bit, runs a play, loses a game (or, more importantly in the annals of football, the Heisman Trophy to Charles Woodson), and then cries about it. How can you respect a man who cries when he loses a game? I cried when my grandparents died and when I get hit in the nuts but that's about it. And only every time maybe at the end of The Return of the King. But that's it. Not because I lost a game.

After re-confirming with my friend that I didn't hate her boyfriend, she proceeded to tell me that he thinks that I give him the evil eye on the occassions that I've met him. This may or may not be true but it certainly isn't intentional. I told her that on both the occasions that I have met him, I thought I had been civil enough, even if I didn't care enough to remember his name.

Turns out this dude is named Leeroy.

Naturally, this caused me to both yell out and type the "Leeroy Jenkins" battle-cry:

Yes, said battle cry brought some strange looks from the majority of my co-workers at Job #1. I'm one of those 'square pegs' here.

What? I like the internet and I alluded to the fact that I really like thought D&D was okay. Yeah, I know that's a World of Warcraft clip.

Good heavens... I just turned off my entire readership with my knowledge of RPGs. Oh, well... It's not like I have an image to worry about because women aren't going out with me very often either way. If I'm gonna be single, I might as well be single and happy as opposed to single and wearing a t-shirt / vest combination like most of my East Nashville counterparts.

So, friend who may or may not read this blog: I don't hate your boyfriend. But give it time because I very well could in the future. Who knows what tomorrow holds!?

You don't bring me flowers anymore except for when you do

Last night I had a very several conversations with a friend of mine. One in particular stuck out in my mind if only because I was exceptionally honest and forthcoming... And maybe because the instant that it was over I knew that I had to write it in to something at some point in time for (at the very least) posterity's sake.

As many of you know, I work at a florist on Saturdays an occassionally get free flowers that I give away. I now know all of 4 kinda of flowers now so lookout world! I walked out the door shortly after 6 yesterday evening and decided to drop off some flowers at my friend's house. I don't know why but I thought that not only could she use them but that they would suit her personality. She's a beautiful woman inside and out: caring, charming, incredibly artistic, the definition of grace (despite her clumsiness), and has got a good heart to boot. And, if you haven't been paying attention, you may know notice that this blog is called "Looking for Like" and not either of the two other dreadedly annoying four letter words. So, with no intentions of hope or (for that matter) surrender to the seeds of romanticism of my youthful days, I drove over to her house and gave her these flowers. All because I'm just trying to be a solid dude and I know that I've fucked up on far too many other things in my life that I should be trying to atone for them. Karma. Giving back. Whatever.

Honestly there were no intentions. And I can't even fake that.

To give you a bit of background on the previous coversations, she and I were talking about intelligence. I consider myself to be a pretty smart guy. As a matter of fact I know it. We were talking about IQ tests and high scores. We were talking about cognitive ability. And she was talking about how she thought I was all of those things and possesed all of those or whatever the proper verb tenses and item correlations there are with those things. It's 7:27 am on a Sunday, I'm at the laundrymat and I'm typing this on my phone. Don't expect Dickens.

Our conversation went like this:
Her: You're so smart. Why are you hanging out with me?
Me: 'Cause I like you.

And for at least a split second I felt like it was the most honest thing I had said in years. Yes, I'm still kind if a jackass and, no, I don't think that'll ever go away. And, yes, I got the flowers for free but if I would have kept them they'd probably be laying next to the empty Little Ceasar's Hot and Ready box on my bedroom floor right now. If we can all look past that, we'll be okay.

So, to all of other my lady friends (not "ladyfriends") who read this: I might bring you flowers some day, too. Just 'cause I think you could use them.

I am inspirational

My friend RCC3 had a great blog entry about the state of Nashville's music. It's true, it has become watered down. The artists in both the country and pop worlds that have made it sound exactly like every other artist that has made it or will make it from most anywhere else. They start to blend in with the scenery and before you know it, you don't even know what you're listening to or looking at. You know what? I'll give you FIFTY Stephen Bohn McFun Bucks if you can tell me what American Music Award winning country-pop artist is pictured here to the right. Yes, they are major award winners. Yes, they have fauxhawks. Yes, they play acoustic mandoguitars. No, I don't care about them and, really, neither should you.

"But why shouldn't I care about them, oh, mighty blogger?" you ask. Well, it's not because they're not nice people (I'm sure they are) and it's not 'cause they buy American (you guys know we suck at making blue jeans, right?). It's because they don't have a song about me.

That's right. I really am that shallow.

Point #1: Ke$ha. As some of you may know, she is from Nashville and she and are I well acquainted. I wouldn't say that we are "friends" because we haven't talked in quite a while but her friend tried to make out with me once during her birthday week and almost fell off the Sweet-T porch. Also, we are friends on facebook... So, I guess maybe we are. It's the facebook thing that I want to focus on for a second. I received a message on the ol' FB a month or so ago from this dude from Brazil.

If you can't read it goes a little something like this:
"stephen .. kesha wants to know why u wont call her .. she likes ur beardlove dilio"

The first thing that ran through my head was "Do I know this guy? Who the hell is he? This isn't Ke$ha's friend that tried to make out with me 5 years ago who has suddenly turned into a 16 year old Brazillian boy, is it? 'Cause if it is, I am living in a world of confusion." Suffice to say, I had no idea what this dude was talking about because I had yet to illegally download buy Ke$ha's record yet in order to discover that there is a song called "Stephen" (why, that's my name!) and it's about some dude not calling her (which I have not done in several years). As far as I know, the song isn't about me.

Point #2: Taylor Swift. The darling of the Grammy® Awards. The darling of Nashville. The darling of being anyone but Kanye West (remember how much that doesn't matter?!). If you haven't heard her record Fearless, you are probably living under a rock. I used the qualifier "probably" for a reason. I myself have never heard it but Wikipedia told me that she won a whole bunch of awards for that record the other night so I checked it (the Wikipedia article not the record) out... and wouldn't you know who has a song called "Hey, Stephen"... That's right! Now, the closest that I think I've ever come to Taylor Swift is our Monday-Friday delivery driver at the shop has brought her flowers before. I still haven't heard the song but I can imagine it goes something like this:

"Hey, Stephen / You should have brought me flowers / Not the regular delivery guy / I love all your magical powers"

I'm sure it's a hit song.

Point #3: Jewel. As you may recall, she filmed a video at the flower shop a few weeks ago. The song doesn't have anything to do with me but it was filmed at the shop I work at. If I can't convince you to listen to the song at least watch the video because Jewel is incredibly good-looking. And make sure you stay until the end of the video and notice how clean the floor looks as she heads toward the backdoor. That was my handiwork. Also, I like math.

How are all these Nashville lady musicians obsessed with me? How do I have to have to find out all third-hand-like that I am their muse? You'd think that they'd just come up to me and say "You're a really great guy. I like you. I want to leave my coked out / really tall and handsome / professional bullrider (respectively) man friend and go out with you. Maybe go ride some go-karts." Shit? Is that what people do on dates? Ride go-karts? That's pathetic that that's the best that I could come up with.

I'm a hopeful man.

Oh, and by the way... the band in the first picture is called Gloriana. I still don't know who they are. Why? No song about me.