Juan Valdez, Shakira, Coffee and other stuff from Mexico

For the past three months, I have been working on a software implementation project at work. I am by no means a project manager. I am also by no means a software implementor. I just happen to have those skill sets. I'm just some dude who is pretty good at spreadsheets and really good at human resources. As such, I have had many early mornings at work over these past three months -- some days arriving as 3:00 in the morning.

Read that last part again. 3:00 in the morning.

I haven't had much time to blog lately as the 6 (six) of you who read this thing can tell. I'm usually pretty exhausted and my brain is pretty fried by the time that I get home from work that I eat dinner, drink a beer, and fall asleep watching hockey. It's like I'm married but without the companionship or sex. Actually... it IS like I'm married.

You may be reading this and thinking, "Wait... It's 8 something in the morning on a Thursday. Why is peanutisawesome blogging? Did he lose his job?" The answer is no, I did not. I am off for vacation for the next few days and my laundry takes time to dry. I tried to use magic on it but it didn't work.

Anyway, for the past 6 1/2 years, I haven't drank caffeine. Well, I take that back. I can count on one hand the number of times that I have drank caffeine in the past 6 1/2 years. And none of these 3:00am starts at work were among those times that I drank caffeine. I know I'm impressive.

In the world of dating (so I'm told), men often take women out for coffee as a first date. Coffee and all of those machiattoespressolattezombiemutantlibertarianintellegnsia drinks all seem to have caffeine in them. So now I'm double screwed. But what really grinds my gears is the baristas.

Wait. What?

Yes, the baristas.

Now, since I know nothing about the world of hot caffeinated beverages, I am going to make some broad, wildly sweeping generalizations across the board that are based on nothing but pure emotion and entertainment.

First of all: Look at this asshat.

Secondly, when in the hell did barista become a respected and honored occupation? I'm certainly not trying to belittle a person who has that position, I'm simply trying to belittle the position itself. And, yes, based on the list of jobs that I have held (in either a part- or full-time capacity) that I am about to list, I feel that I am fully capable of passing judgment:

- HRIS Analyst

- Freelance Sticker and Bookmark Cutter Outer

- Executive Recruiter

- Employee Resource Specialist

- Flower Delivery Driver

- Bar Trivia Question Writer & Host

- Pizza Delivery Driver

- Window Washer

- HR Administrator

- Shoe Salesman

- Taco Bell Crew Member (Employee of the Month, September 1997, Howell, Michigan)

- Pizza Restaurant Cook and Dishwasher (unrelated to the Pizza Delivery Driver position mentioned above)

I think that covers it. My point here is none of these positions has ever been revered and as well thought of as a barista. Some of them have even paid pretty well. Some of them even allowed me to, if I could afford it and if I could make it happen, take a girl out for a cup of coffee to be served to us by the aforementioned barista.

Third. Dude. It's coffee. Mexico has a shit ton of it. I know because dudes with mustaches and donkeys pick the beans and then gringos are like, "Hey, I won a contest! Give me all of the coffee beans!"Colombia is part of Mexico, right? Oh, shit! Colombia is where Shakira is from! I'm an idiot. To make it up to you, here is a picture of Shakira holding an apple while being attacked by a BabyTree.

Maybe, though, that I just don't get it. And that's usually the case.

The Return of the Give Flowers to a Single Lady in Nashville on Valentine's Day Giveway

Every year, Valentine's Day rolls around. It's like Christmas. Or Jeopardy! at 6:00pm (which I am currently watching and knocking the shit out of these college kids including some guy from Vanderbilt -- take THAT!). Or wait... That last thing is daily. What else rolls around? Marbles? Sure. Every year, Valentine's Day rolls around like marbles. How's that for a simile? And just like a room full of marbles, navigating Valentine's Day is particularly tricky. Unless, of course, you are a cast member of an ensemble romantic comedy starring everyone ever. Then things just sort of fall into place. Like marbles into marble-shaped and -sized holes.

Have I written enough about marbles yet? Maybe for today but I don't promise anything. Except...

That's right, Ladies. With a capital "L". It's just about time for my annual giveaway. That's right: Give Flowers to a Single Lady in Nashville on Valentine's Day Giveaway

Here are the rules. 'Cause what's the fun of having a contest if you can't have rules? That's the fun part, right? The rules?

1.) First of all, you won't owe me anything. You don't have to call me. You don't have to text me. You don't have to even know me all that well. We don't have to be friends on facebook (which is my FAVORITE thing on earth). I'm not even looking to celebrate the infamous Steak and BJ Day the following month.

2.) The flowers will be from A Village of Flowers. I used to work there and any chance I can get to support them, I will support them. They've been making dudes look like champs for years.

3.) I will spend up to $65. This is the approximate cost of a dozen roses. If you want roses, that's cool with me. I can think of many other flowers that I like better but these are for you and if you want a dozen roses then, damnit, you're gonna get your dozen roses.

4.) As my friend Ryan has already jokingly inquired, yes, you have to be a woman, you have to be single, and you have to live in Nashville. I'm not driving out to Lebanon after I've been at work all day. Antioch is also out of the question. Madison? Doesn't count. You get the idea.

5.) The winner is picked by me. Don't feel bad if you don't win. It's not that exciting. I'm probably going to show up in dress pants and a button up shirt. I sit in front of a computer all day.

So, why am I doing this? Well, let's look at Valentine's Day. For the two weeks leading up to it, all you hear on the radio are commercials for buying that special lady in your life a diamond that looks like a piece of frozen spit from a chain

jewelry store. Or if you listen to a really awesome station, a commercial telling you to buy your sweetheart a cell phone. I shit you not, I heard that very commercial last night. I'd probably be pretty stoked if someone bought me a cell phone. I'd turn around, sell it on eBay, and then use that money to pay for these flowers that I'm getting some lady. That's a pretty cyclical argument, in'it? No, the real reason is that I feel like an ass most of the year. And as much as everyone says that they hate VD -- that's Valentine's Day, you sickos -- you, and me, and everyone else that's sitting at home all by themselves watching Muppet Treasure Island on a Friday night whilst updating their blog probably wishes that they weren't... Which will likely mirror my Valentine's Day night. I just randomly picked those last things out. Muppet Treasure Island. And Friday night. Updating their blog. By myself. My point is (and, yes, I realize how incredibly long this paragraph has become) is that I'm trying to be nice. I'm not very good at it and this about the one thing that I can do each year to do something, well, nice.

If you don't want flowers, that's cool. Don't enter. If you'd like to be in the contest, just send me a message/email/facebook thingy and let me know. The more creative the reason, the better chance you have of me showing up on your doorstep a week and a half from now with an arrangement and wearing business casual clothes and smelling like a manufacturing facility. I'm not trying to be romantic, I'm just trying to make one lady's day a little bit better

.

Fell on Black Fridays

In trying to figure out what to do with my morning, like many American men the day after Thanksgiving (colloquially known as Black Friday), I have been awake for about an hour and a half and spent almost that entire time watching the cinematic monsterpiece Santa with Muscles. The plot is, essentially, that an evil millionaire (played by Hulk Hogan) gets amnesia, forgets who he, believes himself to be Santa Claus, and then gives a bunch of gifts to people at the end of the movie including a telescope to a young girl who doesn't know how to use it and a lawnmower to a 60-year old black dude. Where are ya on that one, Roger Ebert? That's what I thought...

All that being said, I will not be going shopping today. I am not much of a Christmas gift shopper and prefer to do most of it from the comfort of my underpants and an internet connection. That sounded strange. Yes, I know it's not as personal as going to a store, picking something out, fawning over it, getting excited that you think your older sister or dad or girlfriend or whomever will really like it, and all that jazz. I don't care. Besides, I don't havemuch money right now because some 9 weeks after I stopped working for THIS DUDE (whose website has been redesigned and looks like it is now angelfire ready and is rife with spelling and grammar errors), I still have not received all of the moneys owed to me. It's a disaster. A nightmare. And I am *this* close to dissin' him on the internet, no matter what BigLegs Beyonce tells me I shouldn't do. Maybe I should say his name, say his name. And you probably didn't think you were gonna get two Destiny's Child references in one blog, did you? It's a Black Friday bonanza! Two-for-one on Destiny's Child references! These deals are on FIRE!

So back to my point... I am avoiding shopping as much as I can today. I live close to the Green Hills mall and while I haven't even ventured all the way down my hallway yet, I can only imagine what a disaster Hillsboro Pike is right now. I'm scared. Hold me. One might also think that I would be job searching all day today but let's be honest: who here, outside of the world of retail, is at work today? Not too many folks, I would imagine. And certainly no hiring managers. Which means that no new jobs have been or are being posted these past few days. I'm pretty good at interneting, you guys.

But for you rabid consumers out there and for any big box store marketers (that's a job, right?), I can hear you saying, "Why don't you just put it on your credit card and pay it off later?" Because I don't like credit cards and the only reason I have one is for an emergency. I use it only for an emergency so much so that I picked the most embarrassing design that my bank had so that I would be ashamed to use it.

Yup. Kitten in a field.

So here's my advice to specific groups of people this morning:

Former boss: PAY ME.

Shoppers: Stay home. Enjoy the day with friends and family.

Retail workers: Smile and be nice. Yes, this day sucks more than anything has ever sucked in the history of things sucking but at least you're working.

Hiring managers: Hire me.

I know I could have succinctly summed that up right at the beginning but that wouldn't have made for much an entry, now would it? And you would have missed out a picture of a kitty kcredit kcard. And some awesome alliteration.

What kind of jobs I will not do and a $10 billion guarantee*

It has been 8 weeks since I stopped working full-time. Frankly, I am amazed at how little money I have been able to survive on. And that I am able to end sentences with prepositions. And that I am able to start sentences with the word "and". And that I just started and ended a sentence with a word "and". And I did it twice in a row. Man, communicating is neat.

Of course, I haven't been doing nothing in these past 8 weeks. I have gone back and forth with my former employer about money that's owed to me; a situation that has offered all of the drama of a WWE (formerly WWF) plot line. I have worked some freelance gigs. I have worked part-time hither and yon. I have interviewed with some great companies and some not so great companies. I have explored some new opportunities outside of the world of human resources. Which leads me to the point of my blog today.

What kind of jobs I will not do.

It's easier for me to start with the negative. On Saturday, someone told me that I need to be more optimistic but that can wait a bit. Besides, I'm going to use the proximity effect on this blog. You'll come away feeling all romantic and thinking about how much you love me and would want to hire me. Especially if you're a lady.

Okay... Number one job I would not do:

-- Waiter. Seriously. Can any of you guys see me as a waiter? A surly bartender perhaps but no

t as a waiter. Unless it was at a place like Dick's or Applebee's where the servers are paid to be jackholes to you. I'm not above the food service industry by any stretch of the imagination (I used to work in a pizza joint and at Taco Bell when I was in high school) and I don't think that I was particularly good at either of those jobs.

-- Computer Salesman. I actually interviewed about two and a half years ago for this very position but it turns out that the company wanted me to telemarket ink and toner cartridges. That doesn't sound like fun at all. I know, I know... Work is called "work" and not "super adventure puppy time" for a reason but I don't think I'd be very good at this either. Unless (and this is a BIG unless) Charlton Heston was my boss and I was only pretending to be a computer salesman. Then I'd be willing to listen. If the U.S. government happens to be reading this, give me a call. If Dell happens to be reading this and wants to speak with me about an inside sales role, I must politely decline.

-- Male Escort. Although, I guess I could parlay my experiences into writing a book. What?! You mean it's already been done?! Okay... Definitely throw that out the window. By the way, when googling "male escort service nashville" you don't get many quality results. I can help with that. I understand search engine optimization a bit.

Pretty much everything else is fair game.

I'm finding it hard, though, to fill the days. I spend lots of time networking online, applying for positions, doing phone and in-person interviews but haven't landed just yet. And, let's be honest, there's only so many jobs available and so many jobs posted online. So I've got to fill my days somehow. For instance, I have spent this morning looking for jobs (FIRST THING I DID!!!), blogging, and have progressed regressed to watching Twilight: Vampire Hugs in my underpants:

If that doesn't get your hearts racing, hiring managers of the world, I don't know what will.

So, in closing, if you are looking for someone who understands human resources, recruiting, social media as something that is actually useful and (simultaneously) totally ridiculous, search engine optimization (if you guys link to my blog, I guarantee that you will get $10 billion*), content creation, floral delivery, kicking ass at Jeopardy!, and a whole host of other things, get at me. I'm all about engaging. Especially the engaging that's done at the end of this Twilight: Vampire Hugs movie.

Did I just gave away the ending? Oh, well.

Job leads are appreciated.

*10 billion guarantee not guaranteed.

Working

Holy cow... A whole heap has happened in the past whenever it has been since I updated my blog.

- That Kardashian (What's her name? Kitty?) got divorced.

- Ben Gibbard and Zoey Deschacan'tsing got divorced.

- I got divorced from my job.

What? I know, I know. I think that if it weren't for bad luck, I wouldn't have no luck at all. But at least I'd have burritos.

So, in mid-September, I lost my job. This is due to the fact that I hadn't been paid by said job in several weeks and had begun looking for new opportunities with companies that were going to, what's it called, pay me on time. This got back to the owner of the company and out I was, lickety split. How many times do you think you're going to read "lickety split" on the internet today? Probably not many. And for those of you wondering, I have still not been paid money owed to me. I know that in the midst of a job search, you're not supposed to speak badly about a former employer and I haven't mentioned that company's name once. But you get the point.

So, over the course of the past six weeks, I went on tour with my roommates' band (and their new single called itun.es/iBZ98d">"Better Life" is available on itunes today), I went on some interviews, and I went running most every day. And, frankly, I'm surprised on how

little money I've been able to survive on.

I've also ended a few sentences with prepositions. I live on the edge. But

not like Steven Tyler. That dude lives at the hospital... With all of the falling that he does.

What? He does.

So, after interviewing with a few companies thus far, I am asking you, the internet, to help me find a job. What am I looking for? Well, I'm glad you asked:

- A company that will pay me on time. This means a company that says "We will pay you on the 15th and 30th of every month" and then actually do it. If it's a company that says "I/We promise to pay you just as soon as we can" then they can kiss my Irish backside. I'm 31 years old and I'm, well, too old for that.

- A non-family owned company. I don't want to meet the owner's/owners' kids. I don't care about their soccer practice. I don't care if they got a new bike for their birthday. I'm happy to chat with you about those things for just a second or two but not much more. The company is paying me to do a job, not talk about Umbros. Those are soccer shorts, by the way.

- Growth. I don't want a job that wants to move me just to move me. I worked for a company like that once. It wasn't awesome.

- An open environment. If you want me to just hang out in my office all day, I'm probably going to be bored. If you want me to bounce ideas off of people, we can talk.

- A non-sales position. I don't want to sell life insurance. What man grows up to think, "Man, I'd really like to get my Series Whateverit'scalled License so I can sell insurance"? No one awesome. Except for that Bill Porter guy (portrayed by William H Macy) in that one TNTBS movie. He was pretty awesome.

We can talk about salary later.

So if any of my friends have leads, let me know. I look good in a suit and know how to match my socks. If either of those helps.

The thing about Adele is...

Quick. Stop and think about the most divisive thing that you can think about. There are likely to be several standard answers:

Religion

Money

Whether or not it's okay to drink alcohol (it is)

Politics

Politics 2: Obama Bugaloo

The list could go on and on. And on. And on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on.

There's a movie that came out years ago called What About Bob?. It's sheer piece of genius and

was released before we all realized how awesome of an actor Bill Murray really is. In that movie, Bob Wiley (Bill Murray's character) says a line akin to the following:

"There are two kinds of people in this world: Those who love Neil Diamond and those who don't. My ex-wife loved him."

Okay, so not akin. That's exactly what he says.

But it's true. And the more someone hangs out in Nashville (because all I do is hang out everywhere all the time sit at home in my shorts) the more likely they are to get infuriated with someone else's musical tastes. By the way, my musical tastes pretty much suck so I can make claims like this. I mean, at what point in time does genuinely liking Air Supply no longer not count as a guilty pleasure and just become genuinely liking Air Supply? Whatever that point is... that's where I am.

Bearing all of the above in mind (especially the GIF of the Prez dancing), I submit to the three of you who read this that Bob Wiley was really onto something. But in order to raise my readership from three to perhaps four or even five (*gasp!) people, I'm gonna bring this shit up-to-speed. Ladies and gentlemen (but especially ladies because all of you dames seem to like her), I submit to you the most divisive, polarizing, splitting-uppiest figure in music today:

Adele. If you don't feel like watching the video, turn on your radio and wait about 20 minutes. You'll hear the song.

Now before you ladies guys hang me let me say that this broad can WAIL. Seriously. Pipes for days. A voice we haven't heard since... dare I say it? Aretha Franklin.

But let's dissect this song for a second. Or two. Or however long it takes me to finish writing.

Chick meets boy, boy dumps chick, chick pines for boy for the next four minutes of the song.

That's it. Actually, that was pretty quick.

What pisses me off about this song, and Adele in general, is that every single one of her songs is exactly the same. It's like a remix CD of that "Macaroni" song or whatever it's called... You know... The one with the dancing and shit? But beyond the theme of her latest record I'd like to think that Adele is probably some murderous stalker. I used strikethrough so I can't get in trouble for libel. It's true. Look it up.

Follow me the analysis of the chorus:

"Never mind I'll find someone like you." = "I've done this before."

"I wish nothing but the best for you, too." = "I hate you and I'm gonna kill you while you sleep."

"Don't forget me, I begged, I remember what you said." = "I recall everything you did, every trip we took, every date we went on, every time we talked about soccer football and even have a doll made out of your hair that I keep in a shrine that I made for you in my closet."

"Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead" = "Remember 6 seconds ago when I sang about killing you? I'm still going to do it and it's not going to feel very good... MUCH LIKE WHAT YOU DID TO MY HEART YOU DUMB STUPID MAN!"

And that's just her current hit single. Can you imagine what the rest of the album including the deep cuts (see what I did there?) sound like? Yes, you can. Because they all sound like that.

I don't know anything about the music industry. I don't know how to make money in/off it but I never really tried to in my defense. I don't know anything about writing a hit song except for that the I-VI-IV-V chord progression still sounds really good. Hell, I don't even know if I have clean socks to wear today.

So, in closing, I hope we have learned that dating Adele would probably be a bad idea because if you break up with her she may shoot you out of a cannon. She's got money. She can probably afford to do that sort of thing. I heard that she is also moving to Nashville. I'm staying away.

Man, I want some pancakes.

Best of Nashville

It's a slow week at work for me. I would be losing my mind due to boredom if itweren't for the fact that I am largely occupied with my move to Warfield (it's in Green Hills where I think I'll really fit in) and watching Six Feet Under (which has made me throw up twice in the past two nights). I also tend to get stoked about the little things. Shiny objects, clean socks, seeing Chewbacca play a harmonica. You know how it is. By the way, I just downloaded that song and will be singing it for the rest of the day. I hope you will, too. Why? Well, because that's what friends are for.

But back to the little things.

The Best of Nashville poll-thing-buyyourvoteswithkissesandhugs is now available. And, like any good, decent, red-blooded, American

male, I went and voted. If you don't vote, you can't complain. That's my theory. And I am one hell of a complainer. Of course, this is also coming from the man who wrote himself in for Sheriff of Wayne County, Michigan, back in 2004. I received exactly one vote. And with me being perpetually 12 years old (I'm the person that couldn't order a Large Banana Shake from Sonic last Monday night without laughing), I decided that in order to cover all of my bases today by blocking out the boredom, voting, and personally amusement, I would make the Nashville Scene my victim. That makes me sound like a serial killer. It shouldn't but it does. English is a tricky language. I know. I've been speaking it for a while now. So, on to my results for this year's Nashville Scene Best of Whatever I felt Like Voting for... In picture form. Because everyone likes pictures. Except for Chewbacca playing the harmonica. Don't be an ass. He's blind.

And those, friends, are the highlights of this year's Best of Nashville Scene poll.

Yes, Best Local Men. I am large. I contain multitudes. That's Hemmingway.

The Jean Situation

I know how pissed you guys get (NICK!) when I don't update my blog on a regular basis. The reason why is that I'm busy. I have things to do. Like update my twitter. And travel across the country.

At any rate, I got a text yesterday evening from my friend JT. JT is tall and can wear dark jeans. I, however, am short and anytime I try to do the dark jeans look, or the white tennis shoes look (I tried it one time, shut up), or the - God

forbid - sports look (this would be all encompassing of things related to sports: basketball shirts, football jerseys, baseball jerseys, and the ever douchey MMA apparel), I fail. Miserably. And I don't mean like the internet tells you how things fail. I mean for real fail. And failing at wearing wearing MMA style apparel in the vein of Ed Hardy is saying something. I mean, just look at the shirts to the right here. It looks like the walls of a tattoo parlor vomited cotton that informs us that "LOVE KILLS SLOWLY". As a marketing idea to myself, maybe I should inform Ed Hardy that while love may indeed kill slowly, bullets do not, which is what I think of when I think of MMA dudes. "Oh, I'm big and strong and can kick your ass with an ancient Brazilian fighting technique." Yeah but can you stop a bullet? Nope. Didn't think so.

What was I talking about here?

Oh, yeah. Jeans and fashion. That's right.

Now those of you who know me in real life know that if I were to make a list of my passions and interests, fashion would not be on there. I'm sorry. I'm just not very good at it. So imagine my reaction when JT said that there was this super secret bar called The Citizen that he was going and that I should join him. Something I want The Citizen to know: I'm sorry in advance if you guys get a bunch of calls saying "Hey... I wanna be in on this super awesome secret bar" because of my blog. I get dozens (literally DOZENS) of blog readers. And anytime I have to go to a restaurant or bar that requires that I wear pants, I immediately become skeptical. No, you dummy, I'm not gonna show up in my underpants (not like that's an option anyway) but if it's ten hundred degrees outside, you can bet your ass I'm going to want to wear shorts.

So as I was getting ready to leave my home yesterday evening and as I was desperately looking for the one pair of blue jeans that I own (I know, Sara, I know...) which I eventually found somewhere near the bottom of a pile of other stuff, I got to thinking, "Man, I really should buy another pair of jeans." But what kind?

There's the kicker.

- As we've discussed, dark jeans are a no go.

- Similarly, I'd say that white jeans are out. Unless, of course, I went back to The Citizen and Lionel Richie were to be there and then I could be like "Lionel! My man! Nice fuckin' pants!" Apparently, he has been known to hang out there. I'm not kidding about any part of this bullet point.

- Tight jeans are out. I don't want to be re-rackin' all night. Guys, you know what I mean.

As you can clearly see, I have but a few options. A fashion challenged individual who doesn't like fashion very much and is a big fan of comfort. What to do, what to do. Do I end that sentence with a question mark? Actually, that's not really a sentence. No subject.

Crap.

As a result of having worked until almost 7 each night so far this week, which I will not be doing this evening, I haven't had the time to remedy this situation. The jeans situation. Actually, I'm gonna call it The Jean Situation. Throw some capital letters into that sucker. Now it sounds like something that would appear on the nightly news. "Tonight... A young man ignited a furious skirmish in the escalating Jean Situation." Either that or it makesme sound like an idiot from the cast of Jersey Shore who, when you look at them, kinda look like they are a combination of orange, the aforementioned Ed Hardy, and regret. The beauty of having unfettered internet access at work and the boss taking a three-and-a-half day weekend allowed me to make a little headway into The Jean Situation.

And guess what I came across. That's right. The single greatest idea in the history of mankind. This is better than scotch, better than the designated hitter in baseball, better than the time Lisa 'Left Eye' Lopez burned down Andre Rison's house.

It's Pajama Jeans. Seriously. Watch this commercial and then after you stop laughing and start thinking objectively you'll realize what a truly brilliant idea this is:

Stylish? Check.

Comfy? Check.

Fits every figure perfectly? Check.

Two easy payments of $19.95? BIG CHECK.

If they make these for dudes, I am set for life. C'mon, internet... Don't let me down!

Craigslist and career searchers

You know what's sexy about my job? Everything. Really. Stop and think about it. I have my own office. I work half days on Fridays. I get emails in the middle of the night that I am expected to respond to first thing in the morning when I wake up and I steal my neighbor's internet signal while sitting in my underpants (today my underpants are Homer Simpson with a Duff beer) and watching Scarface. I don't think I'm allowed to 'get' this movie because I'm not a hiphop artist and it is no longer 1983. By the way, when I did a google image search for Scarface, I came across a piece of fan-art that was the Scarface movie poster but it had Homer Simpson on it instead. I think that might have been a bit too on the nose for this entry.

One of the tenfinity projects that I am working on right now is a temp-to-perm telemarketing position. See, I told you my job was sexy. Recruiting and hiring telemarketers? You bet! If you've ever tried to hire a high volume position, you know that if you can get the applicant to show up for the interview and they don't drive their car through the front of your office building then chances are they are going to get the job. That's not a knock on the applicant, just a knock on the job. I wouldn't want to do telemarketing. You probably wouldn't either. I am going to let you in on a little secret: the best way to get applicants for a high volume position is to run an ad on craigslist. And, oh, the emails you will get.

And get.

And get.

And get.

I've been emailing back and forth with one candidate over the past two days; most of the time it has been while I'm wearing clothes. This morning, however, that was not the case. And what kind of email would prompt a response from me in pure underpantsian bliss? One that read the following:

"Stephen, I don't have a resume. I'd probably just quit the job anyway. Thank you, Miranda."

The first part doesn't bother me too much. Not as much as, say, Cher sitting on a battleship. I've talked to plenty of executives who don't have a resume. The second part [remember when she wrote "I'd probably just quit the job anyway."?!?!?!?!?!?!] probably won't inspire me to reach out to this candidate any further. And to think that she was merely a didn't-crash-her-car-through-our-front-office away from getting hired.

By the way, what the hell is Robert Loggia doing in Scarface anyway? His real name is Salvatore and he's Italian-American. He's about as Hispanic as I am. Repeat that previous statement and insert just about anyone else's name: F. Murray Abraham, Al Pacino, Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, etc... and the effect remains the same. It's like Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves with the lack of British actors. Screw you, Sean Connery is Scottish.

I know that times are tough. The economy has been swirling the toilet for a few years now. I know that people are having a hard time finding a job. I also know that if the only requirement for getting a job was not crashing a car through an office window, which in the case of finding a few telemarketers to work on the north side of Nashville it pretty much is, it should be pretty easy to find a job. As a professional recruiter (and judging from the tone of this entry, you can tell how fuckin' profesh I am), I would recommend not communicating to a recruiter or hiring manager that you would probably just quit. Not the smartest move. The only thing it's going to make them want to do is just roll over and go back to sleep in their underpants. Trust me. I'm an expert on these things.

I'm not going to reference that R.E.M song

Ever since I saw Roland Emmerich's disaster film (that description works on multiple levels) 2012 about this time last year, I have been afraid of three things:

#1.) Horses. If there's anything scarier to me in the world than horses, I don't want to meet it. If someone discovers dragons living underneath a caldera in Yellowstone, I bet that would be scarier. But we're talkin' real life here, folks.

#2.) Clowns. I don't know why anyone thinks clowns are great. Think about it. When I was you're the class clown, I you always got get in trouble. When you go to the circus, people don't want to see clowns, they want to see some chick get shot out of a cannon. When you see clowns piled into a Volkswagon Beetle, I'm willing to bet that I'm not the only one who hopes that the doors have the child safety lock engaged. I know, car nuts, that VW Beetles don't have a child safety lock, but it's my fantasy where clowns get stuck and those Germans engineers can figure out how to do pretty much anything. If you look directly to

the right you will see a picture of me if I went back in time and how scared I was. I'm willing to bet that if that picture was actually me, I would need to have my diaper changed. I look cute in overalls, though.

#3.) The end of the world.

Many of you who, God only knows why, read this blog know that I don't have much fear of anything; death and the apocalypse being way down on the list. Somewhere in the mid-triple

digits for inquiring minds. Way past "asking a girl out". Way past "cleaning my room". Way past "the first 90% of Signs." So it is with much bemusement that I find myself writing about the apocalypse today.

Living in the buckle of the Bible belt - hey! it looks like a belt buckle and it's in the Bible belt. I totally get that now! - I have seen several billboards in Nashville informing me that this coming Saturday is the end of the world. I'll save you the time of reading their really long article (I know you won't anyway) and just tell you that it's just based on some really crazy, fanatical Christian math. Or something. Christian math is cool. I won an award in sixth grade for it. It wasn't Christian math. Like, the questions weren't "If you have 7 paintings of Jesus and I have 9 paintings of Jesus and Joey has 12 paintings of Jesus, how many Jesus paintings do the three of us have altogether?" There are two answers to the question:

#1.) The mathematical answer: 28

#2.) Beat up Joey, split up the 12 Jesus paintings between us and sell them outside of a gas station. What makes him think he's so good, anyway?

No... not that kind of Christian math. I meant Christian math in the way that I went to math contests with students from other Christian schools and then beat their brains out in algebra competitions.

You know what that got me in the end? It got me into a really hard math class my freshman year of high school. It didn't get me chicks, which was hard enough to do given that I went to an all-boys prep school. It didn't earn me the respect of anyone in college. All it dead did was let me make a reference to Dead Man on Campus when I'm in my 30s.

So, ladies... What have you got going on later? If you believe in this weekend's upcoming apocalypse, I hope it's every worldly indulgence and I hope it's with me. A man can dream...

But, before you (dear hot single lady reader type) and I cover ourselves in green Jello and run naked through the streets because that would be both fun and sexy, we'd have to go do one thing on Fridate Friday afternoon. And that one thing? That's right... Go see Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides. That's right, this blog was just a crummy commercial. Just kidding. You know what... Scratch that idea. No afternoon matinee. It's on me. That's right: PRIME TIME. You, me, and a full price movie - my treat. Well, you'll think I've paid full price, when in reality I'll buy the tickets in advance on fandango.com, indicate that they're for children and pay half price. Apparently, fandango is more about ticket sales then they are worrying about what kids are doing with their parents credit card and shopping online. And, out of the 20 or so times that I have done this very trick, it has only backfired on me once. The lady at Opry Mills called me out on it once. Her reprimand to me: "Don't do that again."

Yeah, I really learned my lesson.

Anyway, when Friday rolls around, what else would you rather do than go see that movie or worrying about what you're going to wear when Jesus shows up the next day? If you paid attention and have an adventurous spirit, you and I will be adorned in the aforementioned green Jello.

So here's the trailer of the new P.O.T.C. film. Michael Bolton is in it. Or something. And I guess it's got some Jewish dudes in it, too.

See ya on Friday. And the day after that. And the day after that.

An open letter to Jeff Miller of the OC Register

I love hockey. I love watching it. I love playing it (even though I'm pretty bad). I figure out ways to get to friend's homes or to the pub to watch it. I'm fairly resourceful. That being said I am not, nor will I likely ever be, a Predators fan. I just have a hard time rooting for 'em. They're in the same division as my beloved Detroit Red Wings. I do love the city of Nashville and when I came across this article which was 'written' by some asshat named Jeff Miller who, apparently, gets paid to be a jerk, I was upset. While as delightful as that sounds and if someone would pay me to do it, I would, too, I can't let things slide.

In defense of the city in which I live, I fired a slapshot right on back. If you feel so inclined, his email address is jmiller@ocregister.com.

Jeff,

I'm going to preface my email with this: I'm a Detroit Red Wings fan. Born and raised in Detroit. Why is this important? You'll see...

I don't spend much time on the internet. I know I'm way late on this whole "Trashville" article that has quite a few of my fellow Nashvillians up in arms, even a week later. In 2005, I decided that I wanted to move to Nashville, TN. As a relatively recent college graduate, Michigan's struggling economy (which, let's face it, everyone knows to be a euphemism), and the infatuation that I had developed for this fine Middle Tennessee town over the course of visiting it for the previous few years, I up and moved. I put everything I owned in the back of a Ryder truck, hitched my Ford Escort to the back of it and drove 550 miles south to Nashville. I'm not married, never have been, and was young and impetuous enough to agree to live in a friends' already full apartment. I could've moved anywhere in the world and I willingly picked Nashville. Willingly.

I'm not much of a musician and I know almost nothing about the record industry. I'm not slinging pints of lager in the hopes that I might meet a record label guy that is going to get a copy of my demos in his head and hands and sign me to a huge deal. I'm not an athlete and didn't move here in the hopes of pulling a Vince Papale and scoring a random tryout with the Titans. I know that's a Philadelphia Eagles thing but you get the idea. I'm not a doctor and didn't move here to work for one of the many healthcare organizations in the area. I'm not a typical Nashvillian other than, like so many other young professionals who live here, I wasn't born and raised here. But you know something, Jim? I choose to stay here. And it's not because I love "Hee Haw" (I've seen it) and it's not because I love The Grand Ole Opry (I don't even like country music).

In coming across your terribly degrading piece on this fair city which I call "home" I can say that my jaw hit the floor when I read it. The proverbial "Athens of the South" and "Music City, USA" is more than the "Trashville" you tried to portray it as. It's a place home to such learning institutions as Vanderbilt, Belmont, Lipscomb, Meharry, and Tennessee State; a place where the world's first piece of airmail was delivered; a place devastated by the Civil War only to rebuild itself; a place devastated by a major flood last year only to be in the process of rebuilding itself once again; a place that after last year's flood didn't get mad because it took several days for the federal government to respond -- the royal we took time off of work to cleanup the city, to hike to neighbor's homes to make sure that they were okay, to put on benefit after benefit after benefit to raise what money we could to get our friends and neighbors back on their feet. It's a place of education, renaissance, arts and entertainment. And your article is a desecration of all of it.

I'm still relatively young. I'm still full of far too much piss and vinegar. I'm still in love with living in Nashville. And I'm still a Detroit Red Wings fan. It's hard to turn your back on a team that you watched grow from the days of Paul Ysabaert, Petr Kilma, and Bob Probert that couldn't make the playoffs to an organization that prides itself on winning. Sure, the Predators probably won't ever be a storied franchise like my beloved Red Wings. The Ducks probably won't either. But there's something special about this town. It's got a vitality and a spirit to it. You should check it out sometime. Sure, the accent may take some getting used to. Sure, all the honky tonks on lower Broadway make us locals roll our eyes because we only go there when our friends and family come to visit and want the 'authentic' Nashville experience. But there's so much more to explore than what CMT (that's Country Music Television, by the way) would lead you to believe.

Preds in 6,

Stephen P Bohn

Oh MAI Gosh

I am now going to list my five favorite things about dancing in public:
1.) Not dancing in public.
2.) Not dancing, well, at all.
3.) Going home from a place where people have been trying unsuccessfully to get me out on the dance floor [which, I'm frankly surprised to find out is two words] the whole evening.
4.) Wondering why the hell everyone seems to be drinking Ketel One and Redbulls.
5.) A bunch of Cougars going "Wooooo!!!!"

So last night, in the interest of me being a good sport, I went to a place called MAI which claims it's in the Gulch. First of all, it's not. It's across the street from 12th and Porter and until last night I had never heard of anyone claiming that that part of town is the Gulch. It's near the Gulch. But that's like saying I live at Opry Mills because it's down the street. See how I'm not a liar, MAI?

We (the A Village of Flowers family, that is) were celebrating Dora who is moving to New York City soonishly and will be missed dearly and since she wanted to go to MAI, we went to MAI. I'm not sure if that's how it's supposed to be written or if that's just how it's stylized but I'm already one-third of the way through the blog and I'm not going to change it. I mean, if everyone came out to 3Crow for my birthday party that I don't really remember last year, the very least that I can do is reciprocate. Why? 'Cause I'm a hell of a guy, that's why.

I convinced my roommate Josiah* to come with me. He's been to MAI before and if I happened to be the only person there that I knew, I didn't want to be attacked by Cougars who are trained to pounce on young looking single prey. Come on. One dude against a pack of wild Cougars? No chance. At all. Thankfully, everyone else showed up. And when I say "everyone" I mean "EVERYONE". The place went from dead empty to tenfinity people in the span of about 20 minutes. And all tenfinity people were big fans of dressing way nicer than me and I was wearing my nice long sleeve henley shirt, too. Basically, this was my first real dance club experience. Not too shabby at the age of 30 that I had managed to avoid it for that long.

Keeping in mind my lack of dancing skills ability enjoyment, I told everyone that if I had nine more glasses of whiskey, I would get out on the dance floor. Everyone knew this wasn't going to happen so I was safe. The lack of drinks, however, did not stop Andy.

Maybe it was the sweet leather jacket? Doubtful. Maybe it was the beanie cap? Unlikely. Maybe he pregamed? That's probably it.

What's the point of this here blog entry? It's ultimately a review of MAI from the perspective of someone who doesn't like to dance or get attacked by the Pre-Post-Menopausal crowd. If you're not into either one of those things or, in the interest of full disclosure, spending $8.50 for a pour of whiskey, I can sum it up in one word:

DON'T

Then again, go for it. You might just like it. Like Andy.

*Josiah - enjoy the fame that comes with this shout out. The rewards are great, my friend. Great.

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.

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.

The Great Nashville Weather Penis of 2010, part 2

I have seen some amazing things in my life. This weekend (and, yes, I am counting it as one 'thing') is another one. I was out and about yesterday because I had to see the rest of Nashville for myself. My house stayed mostly dry, 'cept for the basement which had a few inches of water in it. Some other friends and neighbors were not so lucky. I was able to make it out and about yesterday evening and take some pictures of the city although I, stupidly, only brought my iPhone with me. Some of the pictures are not very good quality but you get the idea. I've been reading reports that between Saturday and Sunday, Nashville got 13.5 inches of rain.

If you've got the time, help bail out (literally) this city. If you live in another state and want to help out, please go here to donate to the Salvation Army and please be sure to donate your funds to Nashville by typing it in the comments box.

I've posted my pictures to my facebook for your viewing pleasure.



And, yes, major media outlets... Something else in the world is happening other than a fucking bomb that did not go off in Times Square.

The Great Nashville Weather Penis of 2010

I'm sure by now you all know what is happening in Nashville in terms of the weather. This is honestly the most insane weather I have ever experienced... And this is coming from someone who once endured 17 inches of snow in 4 hours. The official rainfall amount at Nashville's airport (BNA) yesterday was 6.32 inches. I've heard reports and read rumors that as much as 10 inches of rain had fallen in some parts of Tennessee. And, at 5:30 this morning, I was awoken by the storm siren a few miles from my house indicating that this shit ain't over yet: I've been reading on internet that Nashville can expect another 2 to 5 inches of rain today.

The worst part about it for me? Well, there are two things. Number one is that my knees and ankles feel like they're the size of volleyballs. All this moisture is making them very sore. Number two is that I almost killed some guy on I40 east late yesterday after making an (I kid you not) "emergency corsage" delivery out to Briley and Elm Hill Pike. Some dude in an SUV thought that doing 75 on the freeway in this torrential downpour was a good idea... Apparently no one ever told him that switching lanes rapidly and putting your car on its side and then slamming into a guardrail while just missing hitting the most talented weekend flower delivery of all time's van wasn't the smartest idea in the world. I know this picture doesn't show it too well, but that is the Broadway-West End split that was pretty well flooded. This was taken from the inside of the shop delivery van which is gigantically awesome!

You guys remember the end of O, Brother, Where Art Thou? Yeah... This is a bit like that. This is I24 at Bell Rd on the southeast side of town. Yes, that is a building. Yes, those are semi-trucks.

And, if for some reason you can't view the video (it's acting a bit wonky for me), click here and watch it directly on youtube.

Of course, there is some humor to be found in all of this. There usually is. "What could possibly be funny about this?" you ask. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Great Nashville Weather Penis of 2010:
New Zealand really better be worth this. I mean... REALLY.



Friends, stay safe out there...