Hamilton! Little Known Facts

As the Schuyler sisters fought for the affections of the scrappy and charming founding father Alexander Hamilton, Peggy (whose role is stunted in the final production), also threw seductive lyrics at the salacious Schuyler suitor.

Chinless

Originally to the tune of Helpless in the hit Broadway musical Hamilton!

[ELIZA AND ANGELICA]
Lookin at your neck and have to double check you're Chinless!
Wonderin where the heck your face will connect

[Peggy]
I'm lucky i don't grapple with a big adams apple
can't wear a hemlmet cause there's nothing for a strap to pull
That's when I knew, I'd never be able to fall for you
So when you walked past I could turn my head all the way through
Tried to catch your eye from the side of the ballroom
but below my lower lip I aint got enough volume

[PEGGY & WOMEN]
I'd be better off cleft but I'm bereft with what's left

[PEGGY]
I want you deep in my thought
but there's no spot
for my hand to stop

My sister made her way across the room to you
and I'm nervous thinkin bout my Double chin minus two
She fake punched your jaw and Im thinkin
I'm through
Then you look back at me and
I look down and suddenly I'm
Chinless!

[Hamilton]
Where did it go?

[PEGGY]
Oh!
Yeah, I'm just
Chinless!
I don't know

I'd nod but my bod's
got no narrow or broad


[HAMILTON]
You look down or around
and your chin is drownin in your
Neckflesh!

What if Yarn Bombing replaced actual bombing?

  

BombER ROCKS Local Market

Associated Press

November 15, 2013

Samara—13 people were delighted in the Iraqi city of Samara today when a yarn bomber went off in a crowded market. Those closest to the epicenter experienced varying critical effects with four people receiving sweaters, two with their heads covered in colorful berets, and one man fought back tears as he pulled a red and white striped alpine ski cap around his ears by the freshly knitted tassels. One woman who had been standing nearby pointed out her pink leg warmers and smiled “I am just glad I walked away with something I can show my family.” An older man, holding a tea pot cozy with a zig zag pattern, mused “I was meant to have this. It is by god’s will that I was here. I am always serving cold tea to my old friends because my teapot holds no warmth. But not after this day.” Iraqi Police are overjoyed but somewhat baffled. “While we are still gathering evidence, we definitely have found some patterns here”, said Sgt. Al-Asadi as he held up a vest pattern and several darning needles that appeared to be homemade. “We are following up on a tip from several people with mittens who reported witnessing a young boy, who had been closest to the yarn bomber, that fled the scene with a large afghan,” Al-Asadi said. Police are seeking the boy for questioning to see if he can identify the perpetrator and knit them all new beanies for the winter.

Why You Shouldn't Vote

Zombies at the polling places. A lot of your friends are going to tell you that you should go vote today, no matter what your political affiliation or opinion. It's not really true. They are secretly going to video tape you as you try to escape from the zombies at the polling place and then put the video on The Webs in fast forward with Benny Hill music playing in the background. Sure it's funny when you are running around but once it gets to the part where zombies start gnawing on your flesh and slurping up your entrails . . . well  . . . there's only so much a saxophone can do for comedy. God I hate saxophones.

I sure am exhausted from all the political ads. Here in the 21st century, I feel like I am really getting my money's worth out of my land line. It's not just the $30 a month, the various opportunities for credit card upgrades, timeshare options and donation requests from the Fraternal Order of Police (because I believe in the right to exclude the ladies from Greek style law enforcement organizations. Besides, Sororal Order just sounds stupid.) The real value of my land line, even though it is exhausting, is all the phone calls from John McCain and Accountability for America and something called the RNC (which I think is some kind of organization for sexy comic book nurses, just judging by the letters RNC and the content of the calls), to try to convince me to vote for them. I listened to the WHOLE call from John McCain and he sounds totally reasonable. He calls me his friend (which he won't do when other people are around) and tells me how important my vote is and how I shouldn't trust some guy named Carbona or Corona or Michael Crabtree because San Fran is a running team . . . wait that might be my fantasy football. Why am I taking fantasy football advice from John McCain? I don't know. I don't really remember. But my point is, I am all set to agree with McCain. My vote is set in my mind: Vote "Not Carboner" 2012. And then here comes a call FOR this Carnoma guy and they have some really good points and then I start to wonder if John McCain is really my friend and I get all stressed out and lie awake at night trying to remember the Carsonoma guy's name so I don't Flake out and mark my ballot incorrectly . . . holy crap, I just had a thought, do you even realize that ballot and ballet are only one letter apart. Gadzooks. . .  anyway, so you can see with this Qdoba guy example that every time I answer the phone, I am swinging my vote back and forth. I am tired. I am starting to feel a little fickle. I'm a swing voter. My keys are in the bowl and I am going home with the last person to call my land line. It's no way to live. I'm tired. Stressed. And probably in for some kind of mental venereal disease. Doc: "Joel, you have Crabtrees". Joel: "Oh God. I'm not even a starter in most leagues." Doc: "What the hell are you talking about?" Joel: "What the hell are YOU talking about." Don't forget, it's a mental disease.

So anyway, as I am weighing all of this valuable input (I don't know if you've seen any of these, but some of these kind of phone calls are being made into commercials, too), I wonder if maybe I should make up my own mind.

So there's this Branco Bammers guy who has a fun rodeo clown name, but doesn't look much like a rodeo clown. Maybe the ears. Then there's Fifties Sunday School Cartoon Dad. Let's say that your Sunday school teacher gives you a coloring book page with a modern 1950's family and you see that Hominy Cartoon Dad there. What color are you going to use first? Here's another thing I heard about that guy: He's not even going by his real first name! He dropped his first name, Oven, when he got into politics and the slogan, "Without an Oven Mitt, You Will Get Burned.". Just went by the initial. O. Mitt Hominy. He dropped the "O" when people started taking his name off the ballot.

Anyways, both of them make me feel like an unintended panhandler. They keep offering me change. I don't want any change. I like things just the way they are. I just got my first big screen TV and I want to watch at least one superbowl on it before society crumbles just because some politician wants to go and make "change". Like letting all the zombies out of the polling places. Then we suddenly have a zombie apocalypse and there's no more Starbucks or women's lingerie. All the signs of a stable society are out the window. And worse, you just know zombies are going to chase people with big heads first. It's like my neck has a a great big giant heavy target painted on it and I am wearing a button up shirt that says, "Eat Me First."

So because Leslie Knope is not on the ballot, I decided it's not worth it. That way I could avoid the "going to vote" thing like your so called friends are trying to get you to do. I do not belong at a zombie infested polling place with my giant, delicious temptation of a head bobbing around. Maybe some of you small headed people, if you are nimble enough, might be able to get away with it. And you'll get your sticker that says, I didn't get the plaugue today (you don't get a sticker if the zombies get you). But I am staying home with a shotgun in my lap and I am going to protect my new TV. I suggest you do the same. I respect your opinion and your right to choose (I don't really but you're probably going to do what you want anyway), but if you go vote and get eaten by a zombie, you are stupid. Stupid as a Sororal Order of Police.

In conclusion, don't vote. Zombies will eat you and you will get a mental venereal disease and it will look like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zRT-LvJUuQ

Post Script Pun:


Panhandler: "Hey man, can you spare some change?"
Candidate: "No Sir. I am giving all of mine to 'Merica."

So Roben's teacher wants parents to write a letter to their kid for a family history paper. Well . . . I couldn't lie . . .

Dear Roben,

Because it’s all made up anyway, I might as well just tell you: You were never born.

We made you. Compelled by some irretrievable impulse for having something we made together, we settled on a robot child. A little insight here: I had said, “Can’t we just do a puzzle or something? I mean, with all the misery and suffering in the world, wouldn’t we just be contributing to a shortage of resources?” Your mother, as she always does, had the perfect answer: ”You mean, like your tears are a waste of water? Stop crying and get your keys. We’re going to the robot store.” You come from a long line of strong women: Your aunt was a death row prison guard. Your great great grandmother was an arm wrestling champion and, if the record is accurate, you are related to the only grizzly bear on the Mayflower.

So we gathered parts. Talked of infusing you with family history, whether it would matter and ultimately decided it would happen organically. We are who we are: It would all come down to instinct and the negotiation over who would work on what. Armed with modest salaries and a good old American impulse to own something, we filled our cart full of dreams and discounted hardware. If the receipt can serve as genealogical record, your skeletal structure consists primarily of 300 year old English beechwood and your innards, crafted from fiberglass insulation, were derived from Italian stained glass. And, as you know, bag pipes without the drones and stocks serve as your lungs, providing the basis for your ability to so intuitively imitate a Scottish accent.

The annual rebuilding, where we discarded small and worn parts, taught us the most about you. When I saw a worn knee, I couldn’t help but smile thinking of all the basketball we played over the past year and how paying for a replacement part was totally worth it. And you would learn about me too when I would say, “Well, I’ll just have to replace the leg next year, so I might as well replace the knee and leg this year while I have the thing apart.” When you got over the frustration of having one leg longer than than the other, mostly by discovering the pivot advantage, you could see what a practical man I am. You come from a long line of practical men: Your grandfather saved enough money to actually retire comfortably. Your great great uncle was the first to diagram buffalo meat and convinced Lewis and Clark to eat it. And, if the veterinary log is correct, you are related to the only man aboard the Mayflower who argued against the impracticality of bringing along a grizzly bear.

Being a practical man, or as your mom would say “boring”, I took the time one day to make this calculation about your day to day life:
9 hours of sleep/shutdown/battery charge
7 hours of school
3 hours of homework (your teacher is reading this, right?)
5 hours with Mom and Dad

This data suggests no matter how hard we try, our coding as your “parents” is smaller than the whole program of your life. And each year, as you made friends, got involved in sports and even somehow managed to find girlfriends accepting of your robocity, our coding contribution shrank. This can be hard on your creators, and believe me, your mom put in a lot of labor. I say this not as a lament or guilt trip, but to drive the point you know so well: you made you, too, and have done so exceptionally.

So, if you ever decide, God help you, to make your own child, I will tell you this one thing I have learned: There is no such thing as too much love or too much affection, but there is such a thing as too little, even for a robot.

Love,

Dad

Aurora Night,
The one who laughs all the time,
Burns right through eyelids
Haloes right through walls --
A shiny thing distraction:
Nothing gets done.

Bouyant, coffee'd, hamock ease

magnetic glow electricities

charged and polar
libraries.

High window sun
unblonded freckles
stare at walls
'till yellow speckles.
Can I be in on every joke you're laughing at?

The obvious is obvious --
isn't it obvious?
Unless the light is yellow,
everywhere,
and I can't see:
Aurora Night,
eyelid vein roadmap:
followed to nowhere.

Cops, Cow Farts and Angry Birds

Cow flatulence contribute between 4 - 9% of methane, a troublemaker in the world of climate change. You know who else contributes? Policeman sitting with the engine running outside the gym. The whole time. I don't get it. CO2 is also a pretty naughty Nellie when it comes to climate change. And that's mostly human caused.

All this talk about climate change really makes you think of the budget brawl - a metaphorical midget wrestling match complete with chairs, easily distracted refs and a bunch of people watching, some of them not even knowing if it's real or not.

Let's start with climate change. Mother Nature is moody. Climate goes through cycles. An ice age here. A drought there. Thrown in a few volcanos, meteors and El Ninos and weather is hard to predict. The one thing you can observe is a trend. You can watch the trends and make generalizations. So let's say there was no industrialization, mostly just cow farts and the resulting tornados. And lets say you were, somehow, with your complete lack of technological advancement (resulting from a lack of industrialization), you managed to observe and calculate (with your hand-whittled abacus) that temperatures were trending higher and that the ice on top of mountains in Pakistan was going to melt, raise the oceans and mess up the oceanic currents that assist in tempering climate. You would think two things: When that ice melts, it will make it a lot easier for the Pakistani government to go in and finally take out the Yeti. Second, you would think: holy crap, how can we stop this? And your answer would be, well, it's completely out of my control. I guess I just have to accept that significant portions of the population will be lost or displaced. Then a meteor that you didn't calculate for on your hand-whittled abacus (because you were SO busy with climate change) would crash into your house instantly killing you, your dog, Bruce Willis, and incinerating your precious wood-beaded calculator. Dang.

Okay, a slightly less depressing scenario, you learn that the heat trend will melt some of the ice in Pakistan, cause some waters to rise, will be really inconvenient for some trade routes, but for the most part, it looks like everything is going to get really close to total devastation, but you are going to be able to weather it (see what I did there). A meteor does come crashing into your neighborhood but it is so eroded by its travels through your atmosphere, that it ends up a small rock that bounces off the dog house in your yard, and Bruce Willis, your little Jack Russell terrier, picks it up in his mouth and buries it in the yard.

Now let's pretend that you were in Scenario #2 above, but you are in an industrialized world in which the industrialization contributes to a slight degradation of the atmosphere. If that's hard for you to imagine, picture you are in a world just like ours but try to believe, just for a minute, that CO2, produced by industrialization, really does contribute to degradation of the atmosphere. Got it?

Okay, so here you are with Bruce Willis and an automatic dog ball thrower by your side. You are on your tablet computer (oh let's just say its an iPad since no one knows what the eff a tablet computer is but they know what an iPad is), and you use it to observe and calculate trends in weather and see that over the past 200 years, you are trending back towards some pretty heavy duty climate change only this time its slightly more accelerated than the past. This may not seem feasible to calculate, but remember, you're using an iPad, it's "magical". You realize that if you can just curb a little bit of the CO2, you have a shot at preventing scenario #1 above and are willing to settle for scenario #2. You explain it to Bruce Willis saying "Bark!", which roughly translates "It's like having a glass of water with room for about 2 more ounces before it spills over. Mother nature is going to add one more ounce, no matter what, so we are going to have a very full glass. But our freakin' CO2 is another 2 ounces of water. Maybe if we can just use 1 ounce of water, we'll at least be good till the next cycle, whenever that is." Bruce Willis responds with "Bark", which bowowly translates to "I could really go for a meteor right now."

Easy enough to understand, right? Republicans get this concept. Like with the budget.

Before I say to much more, let me be out with something. I am a socialist. That's why I voted for Obama. Of course that was before I knew the only thing he wanted was to steal all of our white women and use them to populate his secret service and call them the Amazonian Guard. Oh wait, that's Gaddafi. Wouldn't it be funny if, instead of the Amazonian Guard, they were called the "Muammar Effers"? I know, right?

Okay fine, I'm not a socialist. But I'm not a raging capitalist either. Just kinda goin with the flow. Ideologies are for chumps.

SO back to the budget. Republicans totally get the 2 ounce more concept. No tax increases. They are sitting there with their "tablet" computers, looking at economic trends of the past 150 years and saying, bigger taxes is like CO2. The economy goes in boom and bust cycles. That's capitalism. But if someone doesn't stand up and protect the revenue generation of lower taxes, it will take us to Scenario #1, a scenario from which the wealthy would not recover. Unfortunately, this wasn't a calculation made on actual data trends but rather there ability to get three stars on varying levels of angry birds in which pig outsourcing was used to build cheap, easily destroyed wooden structures. But hey, three stars is three stars.

The concept is the same though. And that's why Republicans are so soundly united on the Fix Climate Change and No Tax Increase ideologies.

Wait a minute. No. No. I'm pretty sure that's right.

A Chemical Overanalysis of Catching Grenades

I had the fortuity Monday morning to find the power button on the radio in my bedroom (without looking - booya) and hear a little tune called "Grenade" by Bruno Mars, released last October for those scolding me for being behind the times. The lyrics caught my morning-subdued attention:

I'd catch a grenade for ya

Throw my hand on a blade for ya

I'd jump in front of a train for ya

You know I'd do anything for ya

I would go through all this pain

Take a bullet straight through my brain . . .

--Lyrics pinched from "Metrolyrics.com", which really should be an "enough said" situation, but that's not really my thing.

While modern society provides few opportunities for exhibitions of such formidable self sacrifice, this is basically a tune about dying for a chick (or whomever may be the current love interest of Bruno). If you think I'm jumping to conclusions about the songs meaning, here is one previously omitted lyric "Yes, I would die for you, baby/ But you won't do the same". Sadly, it appears, these violent, self destructive tributes are unrequited.

I'm concerned a bit for Bruno, his proclamations and his ability to carry them out. I've run this question by several people: Should Bruno really make these kinds of promises?

There are few available avenues where promises such as "I'd catch a grenade for ya" can be cemented. It's true there are several conflicts and wars raging at this very moment throughout the globe, but Bruno is unlikely to find himself in any of them. Fulfillment of this promise would be two fold: Given a situation in which a grenade, hurled at the lover of Bruno Mars (for whatever reason we can only speculate), Bruno would need to be there to intercept and have the fortitude, in that moment, to make a life altering (and most likely one time only) decision to do so. It's easy to say I would intercept a grenade for someone, but put in that exact situation (which the presence of all of my limbs and a lack of tissue filled shrapnel can attest I have not been in), who is to say I wouldn't cross my arms over my head and scream "Holy crap, something like a rock is flying right towards us."

The second fold in the origami of Bruno's grenade-centered libretto is this: you have one chance to make that catch. True, it's close to the size of a baseball. But you don't have a glove. It's not coming towards you, exactly, but instead a lover, who, by Bruno's account, won't be too close by considering the implied indifference. And, you haven't had the chance to warm up at all. Finally, what if the sun is in your eyes. And, not to put to fine a point on it, but if you successfully catch the grenade, assumably in your hand, does your hand really have the bulwark or stopping mass at all to prevent the intended target from meeting with lethal harm?

Consider also, the rhyme pairing of the chorus provided above. Ya is rhymed with Ya. Several times. The Ya rhyming has an unhealthy degree of rhyme saturation. The formula for determining verse saturation (similar to Carbon-Hydrogen saturation) is:

Cn + Rn

in which C is Couplets and R is the number of Rhymes and n is the number of couplets.

So you can imagine if you have 4 couplets you will have 4 rhymes. C4 + R4

Here is a structural diagram:

*This use of C4 is just a coincidence and not an attempt to continue the explosive themes started by the grenade.

A typical song will keep with this formula, though some will push a more saturated formula (typically rap) in which multiple rhymes will occur within a couplet. The formula for that is

Cn + Rxn

in which x stands for the number of rhymes within a line.

So you can imagine if you have 4 couplets, each containing 2 additional rhymes (x=2), you will have C4 + R(2)4 = C4 + R8 providing increased stability and unity throughout.

Bruno Mars has here, has initiated an unstable synthesis by rhyming the same word times itself, repeatedly. The dangerously unstable rhyme formula, based on 12 lines all rhyming with the same word, is

C6 + R1

What a mess! The diagram is completely reversed. Not since Charlie Sheen's acoustic cover of Rebecca Black's "Friday" have we seen such instability. You'll recall that "Friday" is a catchy little tune sticks with you with it's eclectic lyrics such as:

Partyin Partyin yea

Partyin Partyin yea

Fun

Fun

Fun

Fun

Lyrics pinched from RepetitivelyricsRepetitivelyrics.com

I'm not even going to try to write the formula for that one. And we all remember the last time rhyming this dense was used, which I suspect has the same perpetrators. You'll notice that the writing of "Friday" has the John-Hancock-style-signature of it's authors --Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons. Recall some of their other lyric endeavors:

I wanna rock and roll all nite

and party ever day

(repeat)

Lyrics pinched from excess skin around the neck of Gene Simmons.

My final critique comes from the sound of Bruno Mars voice, which I think sounds like Foreigner. If you don't know who Foreigner is, you're in pretty good shape. If you do and you just got one of their songs in your head, I'm terribly sorry! But if you don't know what Foreigner sounds like, you'll have to imagine Don Henley (formerly of the Eagles), stretched back in a giant, human-sized slingshot, kicked in the groin and launched and asked to sing while in the air. That's Foreigner. Full disclosure:

Bruno Mars seems like a nice, talented young man.

I hate Foreigner. They are from the '70s.

I leave you with the conspiratorial scale coincidence of an album cover, from a seemingly unrelated musical venture. This final image could easily be used for Bruno's song, which lends to this criticism the validity of a Glen Beck chalk board (and also loosely describes Glen Beck):

Grenade. Caught.

Discontensity

You are a kind of fiction

With coconutted, blistered red

Chlorine soothed, aloe fed

Bare shoulders.

My imagination overhears you,

The crunch of summered citrus blooms

Dried out in the roomless rooms,

Your mythic soul, sandpaper smooth.

I invent your thoughts of me,

A spider web, a branching tree,

Artificial passion fashioned,

Not controlled or maturely rationed

With measuring spoon reality.

You smuggling tunnel, you border fence

You're existence verses common sense

Is suppressed, sequestered in dream suspense.

Backed up against the yellow wall

There never was a chance at all.

As summer burns off one more year

Baked with coast-less, top-up, "Here"

In soundless waves and sand veneer

By reasons force, you disappear.

Liturgically Dominated Synapses misfirings.

So maybe it's the organic chemistry or boredom or maybe it's the thrill of 2012, all I know is I sat there thinking, doing my level best to stop, but my brain had other ideas. Several at once. Jumping around like I had nothing better to do. Sometimes I wonder if our brain is like a room full of unruly toddlers, all in potential danger, not heeding anything you say and all going in different directions. But for some reason, amongst the varied thoughts of: my O-Chem lab partner becoming the next Chemistry professor @ ASU, a loosely formulated plan to hike (yardwork) on South Mountain, wondering whether or not (I need new shoes) to get a coffee, contemplating SN1 and ("Friday, Friday" by Rebecca Black sounds like "Baby, Baby" by everybody's favorite Beiber) SN2 reactions and considering if it was too early to (chocolate muffin) return a phone call; the following thought occurred to me: if you say "get a coffee", as opposed to, say "get some coffee", you are probably going to get a foo-foo drink. Think about it, “I'm gonna get some coffee.” Your going to just have coffee. But if you say "Let's go get a coffee", you have a little more specific aim.

Okay, that's actually not the thought I was having at all. I mean it was, but not the one I was talking about in the first place.

The thought was, if I can remember it: In cultures in which reincarnation is prevalent, there is also a caste system. You are stuck (I just googled for like 20 minutes and then came back to this spot) for your whole life. Hope is that you will come back in a higher level of the caste next time. Contrast that with a culture like the United States where there is a concept that all are equal at birth, but can achieve hierarchical success through one's own skills, talents and pursuits (whether you believe this idea is exactly true or not is up to you). This is the same culture that produced the church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints. Make your own conclusions.

Unamended Christianity, or at least sects of Christianity old enough to be witness to the genesis of America, have similar concepts of one’s personal skills and pursuits affecting the afterlife outcome (save Calvinistic branches - which could be seen as a bridge between the previously stated Christianity cultural impacts and the ramifications of reincarnation religions in caste systems). This leaves me with a "chicken v egg" conundrum.

You can easily suppose that the various religions and cultures work to reinforce and evolve each other, in some cases the religion propagating cultural concepts and in other cases, the evolution of the culture giving birth to the religion (ie., LDS). One could certainly see the ideals of Christianity in the US Constitution: "All men are created equal" trumping the early Jewish notion that the sins of ancestors have a direct and proportional affect on the life and afterlife of the present generation. As ideologies sanctified by (or less condescendingly put "advocated by") the Republican party self-perpetuate notions that one’s lot is caste solely by their own action, you can see the reinforcement of the Christian ideals. One could also imagine, as human society left to this Christian/Darwinian ideology will inevitably develop its own hierarchy, that a religion born and steeped in this culture would emphasize its connotations into its own framework. Here I return to LDS which supposes an afterlife hierarchy otherwise missing from the Christian canon (or at least not so prominently featured).

In conclusion, I would like to say: coffee is delicious. I hate O-Chem. And I like turtles. Anybody want to go hiking?

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.

It's the "You can suck it Earth Day" song.

Hey Earth Day, you can suck it. Oh Earth Day, you can chuck it. If I could think of another rhyming word, that would apply to you too, oh I would. Oh, Earth Day.

Say Earth, with your ashes and volcanos and your earthquakes, you probably think you're pretty awesome right now. With your shaking and your spewing and your killing lots of people. Oh Earth day. It's like a birth day.

Yeah. Yeah.

You probably think you deserve your day. And maybe a cake with green frosting. CAUSE green is the color of stuff that grows right out of the earth. BUUUT most of the actual earth is brown. But please don't frown. It's your special day, oh earth.

Oh shoobie doo whop, shoobie doo whop.

Oh earth day, if I had an SUV I would drive all over your exposed little Grand Canyon. Oh Earth Day! You want the freon, take the freon, freakin freon eating earth day. Oh Freon is the whipped topping on the can of whoop axis that I think someone needs to crack open on you. Shoobie doo whop. Shoobie doo whop.

I hope and hope and hope my old air conditioner takes a thousand years to decompose and you feel it like a hemroid, every time you rotate. Earth day. Tree hugger mirth day. I'd rather celebrate Colin Firth day even though he's kind of a pansy British romantic comedy guy whose name rhymes with Earth and MIIIIIIRTH.

[GUITAR SOLO]

Oh earth, you can take your day, and stick it on a sleigh and drive it all away and that's where you can stay where rich people alieviate their guilt by singing to themselves "hey, i have a whole crapload of money, why don't I just buy the 16 seer and get the tax credit AND rebate while the lazy low income slobs . . .

[Big finish, bring out the dancing girls]

PAAAY . . .

FUUUULLL . . .

PRIIIIIIIIIICE!"

(oh man, I think that note is out of my voice range. I think I pulled something . . . I mean besides all the stops.)