Live in the moment . . . or don't.

Let's pretend you have an ex-mormon, gay, buddhist therapist that occasionally falls asleep when you are talking to him. He's a good guy. You like him. He's only suggested you read one book and when you tell him the reason you go to therapy is so you don't have to read a book, he concedes and says you don't have to read it. He's perceptive, honest and keeps changing his office location, further and further away from your house. But like I said, you like him. He's a good guy. He really wants to help. Then he says something he can't take back, he says, "You know [you], what you need to do is live in the moment. Stop thinking about things that you can't change." He even says that, when you get stressed, "you need to take off your shoes, go outside and stand in grass or something. So you are in contact with earth." That sounded neat.

And pretend it works. A little. But you could take it too far. Easily. I'll explain in a moment. Just not this moment. Try not to think about it while you wait. As a matter of fact, if you can just take off your shoes and go stand in the grass while you read this blog (even though you shouldn't even be reading this blog because the first rule of this blog is do not read this blog), you will probably succeed in not thinking about it. Good luck.

Now, let's say you are talking to, oh, I don't know, your father. And you are just shooting the breeze with your old man, talking about life in general and he says, "You know, [you], you know what you need to do? You need to live in the moment. Be in the now."

So, think to yourself for a moment (this moment). Is this a coincidence? Two people observing you and making the same conclusion? Or is this a kind of truth?

I am going to assume that you are now done thinking to yourself and I am going to move on to the next moment. I'm kinda like your moment to moment guide right now. Stay with me. You don't want to get lost in then or if.

One final pretending. Let's pretend that the person you spend the most time with one person, be it your spouse, your significant someone, your best friend or even your cat and that person says "You know, [you], you should stop worrying so much. Let go. Live in the moment," or "Meow, [you], meow."

Trifecta coincidence? Trifincidence? The hat trick? What the heck is going on here? Maybe this is advice that you should take. Take that person outside with you. Take off your shoes, step into the grass and while you are standing there, toes in the cool green grass, soft earth molding to your heels, right before the ants swarm, say to that person, "Say that again." or "Meow." See what happens.

Okay, so I did say I would talk about taking it too far. That's going to happen pretty much now. And it also totally, openly, misses the point of living in the now, but if you are going to live in the now, you have to think about how it is going to affect you so you can be prepared. I mean, if you take any one of these scenarios and imagine yourself saying "Oops, I was living in the moment," it probably won't do you much good. But this is the part that all those people that tell you to live in the moment aren't going to tell you. Just be thankful that something brought you here, to this moment where you can learn some valuable lessons about living in the moment. If you don't want to know, head the advice of rule one.

What follows is a short and totally comprehensive list of times when it is inappropriate to live in the moment (TOTALLY comprehensive):

When you are planning your retirement.

When you are considering a career.

When you are at a bar and you need to drive home.

Considering when you will have time to go to the bathroom.

When you are walking towards the Grand Canyon.

Getting ready for a trip.

Putting on your seat belt.

Buying a car.

Brushing your teeth.

Eating broccoli.

Wearing white clothes.

Buying an umbrella.

Recycling.

Buying a TiVo.

Eating a hive full of killer bees.

Taking dance lessons.

Deciding between Trojan or generic.

Selecting curtains.

Wearing leggings as pants.

Telling someone you love them before you leave the house.

Getting your ears pierced.

Waxing anything.

Term or Whole life?

Pretending everything that other people tell you to pretend.

There you have it. A complete and exhaustive list of all the things you will need to do before you can live in the moment. Once you do all those things, you are ready to seize the day and live for now. Of course, by the time you finish doing all those things, you may very well be dead.

Or you may have preserved yourself quite well and be standing at the precipice of a new adventure.

Either way, you can stop pretending about what your therapist, father and cat are doing and take their pretend advice and prepare to live in the moment. Tomorrow.

Dear Coffee . . .an open dear john letter

Dear Coffee,

We need to talk. No doubt that I feel good when we are together. I'm a little giddy. I miss you when you are not around. I think about you a lot. Right after we're together, my heart beats so hard, I think people standing near me can hear it.

I love the way you smell.

You are beautiful in everything you wear. And when you wear those see-through little Starbucks numbers - whoah!

And then we fight.

You burn me. From the inside. We've tried taking it slow. We've tried rushing things. Hot or cold. Sweet or straight. It always ends the same. My heart races. I crash. Crash and burn.

Remember that time you were all like, "Let's give it another shot." And I was like, "I've heard that one before." And you were all, "No. No. Look, I'm clean. Decaffed. You can handle this." But it wasn't long before I was curled up in a ball with those shooting pains in my veins and you just sat there and said, "Wuss."

Then you were like, "Take me back. I've changed. I'm gentler. Smoother. I was made for you." I was all like "What do you mean? Is that some kind of soul mate, marketing thing? You know I don't buy that crap." And you kept at it with, "Just give me another chance. It won't be like it was."

I wake up, pounding on my chest with a fist full of crushed Tums and I am hitting the stuff like it's Pixie sticks.

You even tried to make me think it was all my fault. You were all, "You're so cheap, you know that? I mean, you have to drop a little cash to get quality. You get what you pay for. You wonder why you get hurt."

You've even started showing up everywhere. Man that's awkward. I can't go get a donut. I can't go get breakfast at McDonald's. I can't even go to Paradise Bakery. I mean there you were, all fancied up, just chilling, looking all sweet, but did you even look at yourself? That giant straw made you look like a whore.

I know I sound bitter, but you're the one who's bitter and I'll be honest, I like that a little bit. A little sweet and a little bitter. What's not to love? But you're acidic. You are corrosive to me.

I know it shouldn't go on like this but I know I am weak. I mean, it's just like at Paradise the other day. I could just get a smoothie. I know it would be better for me. But there you are. Looking so cool and sweet and ready to go. What am I supposed to do? You were right about me. I am a wuss. I know my heart will burn from you. Everytime. And I'll be back. I like the rush. The thrill. The bitter sweet hell of your warming charge.

You'll be the death of me.

Want to go for a drink?

Other People Having Fun While You Are Not

I've been told by old people (and that's anyone over the age of 37) that it used to be a form of torture to have to look at someone else's vacation pictures. Out comes the slide projector. Out go the lights and here comes the "look how much better my life is than yours" speech. So if you are here, willingly reading a blog entitled "Do Not Read This!", keep in mind that you brought this on yourself and you probably deserve it.

My end of the deal would be to at least make this entertaining, unless of course I want you to be tortured. My recommendation to avoid seeing this as a form of torture would be to just imagine yourself on the beach. Unless of course seeing beach photos of someone else having the time of their life is your idea of bliss, in which case (and remember, these photos include me), please feel free to bliss out.

Here's the premise:

Rob and I seek "adventure" road tripping to the coast and "catching some waves" (this is, and I now feel quite qualified to say so, surfer lingo for successful surfing. This lingo must be spoken at a very moderate pace, preferably uttered while under the influence of inhaleable herbs while wearing a woven poncho, hood up or down is fine).

Public service announcement: Please don't stereo type surfers, they are all individuals.

Stocked with trail mix, beef jerky, chex mix, gatorade and water (yes mom, lots and lots of water unless we became stranded in the desert and were forced to survive by eating people that had crossed the border illegally -- you know, the ones sneaking right past John McCain who stands on a tower peering through a sniper scope saying "My friends I see no aliens, just a bunch of thirsty Mexican people. The fence is working. Oh look, an endangered jaguar." BANG) Rob and I made the trek to San Diego, which is a word of German origin, with a definition made famous by Ron Burgandy and Pinocchio, okay maybe not exactly Pinocchio. I also want to point out that I did not take the "wrong" freeway, just a "different" freeway. Roben is a VERY GOOD navigator.

We traveled to Encinitas, actually north of San Diego, and got a room at the Portofino Inn. Here is a picture along with a picture of Rob coming out of the hotel room.













It was quaint, cheep, and less than a mile from the beach. I highly recommend you do not stay there because then it will become popular and not cheap. Find your own bargain.

Here is a picture of the trailer park right next to our hotel where I do not currently live. Feel free to buy me a trailer in this trailer park and stay at the Portofino Inn all you want.Austin drove down from LA (THANKS AUSTIN!), and we walked across the whole town in search of Swami's - a semi hipster, mostly republican vegetarian joint. Then we walked to the "No dogs allowed beach" with Austin's dog Dexter, who likes to bark at skaters almost as much as Roben. With the soothing sounds of waves cresting below, we considered disguising Dexter with a hat, but without a hooded skater poncho, he might have stood out a bit much. After some "fro-yo" (*punches own face*), Austin took Dexter home to LA where he is more appreciated by Leif Garrett, who does not wear skater ponchos but does do drugs.

Rob and I biked to the beach that night. There were bonfires.

The next morning, Roben slept in and I went to the beach again. Here is a picture I took.

I, unlike most people, really like the beach.

As proof that most people do not like the beach, here is a picture from the last time Roben went to the beach a few weeks ago.Please note how unhappy these people are. See how many people are unlike me? This second picture is from Pacific Beach so we drove there to surf.

So I have this weird fear of sharks. Especially like the one looking at you in this picture, because to them a surfer looks like a seal when you are a shark looking up from below.

I know this is completely unreasonable, so please feel free to shut up about it. As luck would have it, the hotel had cable and it was shark week. My compliments to the Discovery Channel. Nevertheless, assured by statistics and reason, Rob and I rented surfboards and wetsuits and headed out to the water. Now I had this top notch reality TV show crew following us around, expecting that they would take all the video of us surfing, but while we were out "catching waves", the TV crew heard that the Situation and Snooki were on a west coast tour where they were both flashing people out on the pier. I know what a Situation is, but I am still a little baffled considering I am pretty sure that a Snooki is either a robe you wear backwards or it's what you call it when you are dumpster diving behind a restaurant and find someone has dumped ice cream and a pie-sized chocolate chip cookie in the garbage. When I tried to give the film crew a hard time about this, they said, "Cuz (and the guy was not my cousin), even if that's what a Snooki was, it would still be more interesting to film than you surfing." This is what surfers call "Trash talking".

Public service announcement: Even my s*#&&@ puns are better than Jersey Shore. This is also what the surfers call "trash talking".

So here are some pictures Rob and I took when we dropped off our boards and wet suits.

Surfing is really hard, no matter how easy Patrick Swayze and Keanu Reeves make it look. "Nobody puts Ted in a corner." You have to paddle a lot, wait for a wave, turn your fat a%& around and pull your doughy white suburban body up onto a teetering, floating piece of fiberglass. I managed to achieve this about four times for sure. Two times I was still on my left knee and the other two times I fell off right away. Mostly I just paddled around. Roben said that's his favorite part. He would have enjoyed himself way more if he were me. If you still think you can do better, remember that the surfing you are doing right now consists of moving your mouse and clicking.

We pool hopped at a coast hotel, lunched at Ralph's grocery and stopped at a store called Pangea, where they had these. Lot's and lot's of these. We bought a monkey one for Heather.

Then we headed to Harbor Village for fresh fish tacos. You don't know it, but you are very jealous. We considered renting a boat because, as Roben said, we could say "I'm on a boat." There was also an unfortunately ugly lady there that Roben couldn't stand to look at. There was also a scrawny little gal that could easily lift a bucket full of ice over her head. We ordered deep fried OREOs. My arteries swelled up like Snooki after botox.

Next morning was the beach again. It is habit forming. We took pictures. I tried to get pictures of Sand Pipers, but they kept flying away. Here are some that stayed.









I found a pair of sunglasses that likely belonged to someone who was carried off by the tide. It seemed to me that whoever it was lived their life like a candle in the wind. I put them on and was not carried out to sea.



We also took pictures of each other looking contemplative as the waves went about their business of never stopping.











Waves make a soothing noise. They actually sell machines that attempt to replicate it but these will ultimately pale in comparison to the real thing. I believe the surfer term for this noise is "Whoah."

We toured the town on our bikes and found the oddly random little girl statue right below the rail station and the boss mural of whales and other sea life. This would be a terrible time to call to mind the German definition of San Diego.


You can easily see how much fun Roben was having in these pictures. What could be more fun than taking pictures by sea murals and a statue of a little girl?


We headed down to Swami beach to check out the tidepools. There were crabs, anemones, sea slugs and Roben's shoes got soaked. I took pictures but they all sucked. Trust me, it was cool.

I swam and took one last picture. We went to Juanita's tacos, got hunormous sodas and basically peed the whole way home. El Centro. Yuma. A rest stop. A special thanks to Manchester Orchestra, Muse, Tom Petty and R.E.M. for the soundtrack of our trip. If you would like to hear a sample or own the soundtrack, buy the songs off of iTunes yourself or something. Feel free to create a playlist called Roben and Joel's West Coast Adventure.


Please note no actual Snooki's were injured in the making of this blog. All the damage done to Snooki she did on her own. Also, here is a picture of a Snooki in the wild. A surfer word for Snooki would be "Skank".

Con-Fusion

What if I got warm,

a heater box,

a generator,

my atoms vibrated,

I radiated.

What if I could power your car,

your little apartment,

your whole building,

the security door.

What if I didn't cool down,

expanded brilliantly

gave you my energy

an illuminated city.

What if I were sound,

waves,

tidal power overcast,

sand dragging under your feet.

What if you could feel it,

the networking current,

the regenerating fusion,

what if you could see me from space.

And what if I went nuclear.

Melted the whole place

burned everything in range

and devistated everyone.

What if I stay inside the core,

where the electromagnet hangs on tight

and nothing can be pulled apart.

Another solution brought to you by me.

Seeing as how 2 out of the three branches of government can't figure out how to solve the US unemployment problem immediately (and I'm not including the judicial because their latest ruling on campaign finance should just about secure every lobbyist job and every lobbyist related job - and I know right now as you're reading this Judge Alito, you're saying to yourself "not true", but at least the justices are taking the economy into their own hands), it guess it's up to me.

So let's look at the evidence: 20% to 50% of employers check facebook before hiring you. That can mean "you" specifically or the general "you". I know you already have a job Justice Alito. This data can lead to only one conclusion: Facebook is responsible for the high unemployment. You can't ignore data. But you can spin and skew it if necessary. If you couldn't, you wouldn't have Bill Maher or Glen Beck (as a sidenote, if you type "smug" into google and click "I'm feeling lucky", a picture of Bill Maher comes up. Also note, if you make a typo and type "Smoug" and click "I'm feeling lucky", Glen Beck will show up at your house wearing only a sweater and a Speedo. I recommend aiming your arrow at the missing stitch in the soft underbelly of his sweater. Or just don't make the typo - it's in your hands).

Anyway, Facebook is obviously responsible for the unemployment rate exceeding 9% because people are always putting douchey things on their Facebook page like "Dude, got totally blitzed last night. Fell asleep between two hookers and when I woke up my unemployment check was gone." or "Had an interview today. Boy that guy was a total idiot." Or "Committed murder again tonight. Stupid cops. I just keep ignoring their friend requests."

Because employers aren't going to stop disrespecting our privacy any time soon, and because some people don't understand how to make posts visible to only friends or to just NOT put damning posts on Facebook while they are looking for a job, I have invented a new Job Seeker's Facebook Post Generator.

For the low price of just $500 . . . wait . . . $2,000 a month, you can send me your name, age, gender and employment history and my generator does the rest.

Here are a few examples of Facebook Posts, created by my generator, that have already started helping people get back to work.

"Had a job interview today. I have great respect and admiration for this company. The interviewers struck me as shrewd, hard working, friendly but professional."

or

"What I didn't do last night was get drunk so I have no pictures to post of me naked on the lawn of that place where I interviewed yesterday."

or

"Yesterday, just as a learning experience, I, a casual bystander in Miami, successfully negotiated the deal that will bring LeBron James to Miami with enough of a pay cut that Penny Hardaway may come out of retirement." (This may not work in Cleveland)

or

"Last night, I was at a restaurant, not drunk, and this older gentleman had symptoms of a heart attack. Though I don't have a lot of medical training, I was a quick, detail oriented learner and performed a triple bypass. I'm no doctor, but I bet this kind of capability would come in handy as an office manager."

These are all actual cases that have helped people get real jobs. If you want to start a franchise of your own Job Seeker's Facebook Post Generator company, stop trying to steal my ideas. This is America, the land of opportunity. Quit trying to take my opportunity. Or buy me a pony. Then maybe we'll talk.

Froyo? Oh no.

Maybe it was just the overall experience of the cleverly named "Yogurtland". Maybe it was because I mixed too many flavors (chocolate, vanilla and coffee, plus whatever chocolate flavored candy stuff I could find). Or maybe it was the bright pastel colors and hipster something kind of atmosphere. Or maybe it was the "dude" that shuffled in with his wavy blonde hair, Right-Said-Fred-one-size-too-small white polo and salmon colored shorts (with watchband to match). Or maybe it was because the scale was in hundredths of a pound but the price was in ounces; if it was that hip, it should have all been in grams (note - semi-colon). Or maybe it was the fact that they had a tip jar. Yes. A tip jar at a SELF-SERVE establishment. Do they not know how miserly I am? The poor vacant kid at the register did ask if we wanted a receipt, but is that really worthy of a tip? What the crap are you tipping for? "Nice job converting pounds to ounces - you're a champ. Here's 1/8th of a ten dollar bill."

Also, I'm lactose intolerant. It happens when you get older. There, I said it. But I have pills for that. But apparently I'm hipster intolerant too, though I'm not sure the affects are similar (for example, I don't think Ivy Caps, mutton chops and black plastic frames make my stomach gurgle - but I'm not ruling it out). But that probably happens when you get older, too. "You darn young-uns and your kitsch. Back in my day we called kitschy 'contemporary' and it was all new and young and we did it just to piss off old people."

So if I could just lasso in the tangent for a second, I think I went in for frozen yogurt, with the wrong idea (never saying "froyo" again for fear I might just start punching myself in the face to make it stop). It's supposed to be kinda healthy, right? Vanilla. Fruit. Done. Maybe peach yogurt with some nuts. In which case, I have an idea for a tip: a folded up piece of paper with these words of advice "Do NOT try to trick me with chocolate. Know who you are. If froyo (punch, punch) is supposed to be an alternative, do this: yogurt. fruits. nuts. and if you must, lychee. But for the love of God, do not insult me by faking chocolate yogurt. Leave that to ice cream." Or maybe a ransom style note that says, "Arm-wrestling contest. Parking lot. 10 o'clock." And then leave a note in the tip jar at Cold Stone that says "Arm-wrestling contest. Parking lot of Yogurtland. 10 o-clock. Bring the thunder." And then when the scrawny hipster waddles into the parking lot, the Pop-eye fore-armed, basketball shoed, baseball cap wearing chic from Cold Stone pop's off froyo's ivy cap, twists him into a headlock and demonstrates the "Mix-in" technique with blood and teeth and unflattering use of a waffle bowl.

Decision 2010

Decision 2010 - Where will LeBron Joel go?

It's the question on everyone's mind, so I decided to host a one hour special from the nearly completed bathroom of my house where I will finally announce my decision about several things a lot of you have been asking about, like, where will he end up in the fall? What does this mean for his hometown? And then there's the brownie question.

What degree will leBron Joel go for? I know there's a lot of speculation out there. Will Lebron Joel head towards one of the sciences? Some have been reporting a lot of buzz around Molecular Biology lately due to a report of a downloaded program of study on his desktop. But after all the big talk and flirting with calculus and chemistry, you have to wonder if that was all just a bunch of hype, or if there was really something to it. Will he stay with his "degree of convenience", Wildlife Ecology and Restoration, just because the degree is easier to get? And what about the little bird in the ear that said something about psychology and work on autism? Where is that going? Or will he drop a huge bombshell and revisit teaching so he can have summers off to hit the beach?

What job will LeBron Joel take? A lot of speculation here, too. There's the "just stay at storage" crowd, or as I like to call them, the people who don't exist. Then there's the, take the mail room job and get back your girlish figure and embrace your love for physical labor. The biggest contender is the ILL job. Sure, you can bid for that, but do they really have the salary room to bring in LeBron Joel full time? Do they even want LeBron Joel full time? Aren't there plenty of other qualified all-stars? Can all the all stars really work together at ILL or it will be a fractious, spotlight hogging juggernaut that collapses under its own weight? Will LeBron Joel throw off everyone and play for the Clippers? Or even less likely, head back to Bowne? Or will LeBron Joel leave it all behind, drop off the radar and live out of his truck on the coast, selling used books to tourists from a hot dog cart on the beach?

Then there's the brownie thing. One co-worker refusing to make brownies until LeBron Joel comes out with a cross dressing Lady Gaga video and another agreeing to make brownies but then "washing her hands of the whole thing". Will LeBron Joel suck it up and make his own brownies or will he just keep gnawing away at the fudge and 56 oz bag of dark chocolate M&Ms?

Tune in this evening for Decision 2010 to found out the answer to all these questions and more, like when the heck will that bathroom get finished and when will he stop whining about his back and get back on the court.

Tonight's most likely outcome: Joel will say, "I just need a little more time. Can I just have a little more time to think about this?" After which, he will promptly shut the bathroom door and turn on the fan.