Monthly Archives: May 2012

You’re Absolutely Left

It is said that roughly ten percent of the world population is left-handed. I am proud to be part of that ten percent (I would really love to be in the one percent economically speaking). I take pride in my left-handed ability. Why not? It is rare and has a multitude of advantages.

1)      Lefties have high IQs (Although didn’t Rainman score 87 on IQ? So much for knowledge.)

2)      Lefties make more money than righties. (If only…right?)

3)      Lefties have better underwater vision. (I am not sure if I believe this one…)

4)      Lefties are better at multitasking. (Not to be sexist, but I believe this is a gender thing.)

5)      Lefties tend to have better memories. (What was this blog about again?)

6)      Lefties are better at video games. (There we go! Agree.)

7)      Lefties recover better from strokes. (That is always comforting.)

8)      Lefties are more visual and artistic (Concur. We are amazing.)

9)      Lefties learn to drive quicker. (Sure, why not. I’ll take it.)

It is not always  convivial and merry. There are certain impediments to the left-handed gift. I will not reverberate case records that document the benefits and encumbrances of handedness. That would be too logical and time consuming. Instead, I will share a serving of my own experiences; my personal discrepancies.

As a young lad, I wore a lot of cowboy boots. That was all I wore until I was about five. My style was impeccable. I was blonde, with big heavy glasses, a blue shirt (with awesome marshmallow art on it), grey sweatpants, and cowboy boots. Not only was my style impeccable, I was the epitome of IT. Now, I did not know then what I know now. I stuck with cowboy boots to avoid tying shoes. I was horrible at it. My parents would teach me the tricks. A bunny here a hole there, a loopity loop here and a flick of the wrist there, and we have a knot. Yeah. I was not getting it. Then my grandma, who is also left-handed, taught me and I learned. Now, I am not sure how the right and left handed ways differ, but there is something to it. I know I am knot retarded.

Then there are scissors. Arts and crafts turned out like sharts and laughs. My cutting lines were jagged, if existing at all. Cheap right-handed scissors and left hand precision cutting was an evil combination. I have received my fair share of  strange looks in school by asking my neighbor to cut my design out for me. They just do not understand. There is a positive to this though. I learned that if you have a left-handed suicidal friend, and they are attempting to end their life with scissors, they are not serious about dying because those things won’t cut.

There is one true way to spot a left-hander (when they aren’t involved in handed activities). Check the side of their palm for ink or lead smears. I mention this as a hindrance because some left-handers hate turning in smeared papers. Not me. I believe it gives the paper some flare. A three-dimensional look if you will. It is also a reminder that left-handers push and right-handers pull. While right-handers are constantly pulling through life, left-handers are pushing on through to the other side.

Albeit our pushing does not produce award winning calligraphy. That is a problem, but it is not our fault. Do you see what we write on? Have you seen a left-handed desk? What’s going on there? Are only oompa loompas and munchkins left-handed? It is as if they ran out of supplies and used scrap material to piece these tiny rickety desks together. They figure it looks functional, and hell, only ten percent of the world is left handed. This has restricted our penmanship to penboyship.

I recognize my left-handedness as a unique trait and something that separates me from others. I do have one confession though. I am not a complete left-hander. I play sports and guitar right-handed. I believe I naturally developed that instinct in sports, but I was told to switch with guitar. I always imagine how much better I could have been. Nevertheless I still consider myself left-handed. I have overcome the trials and tribulations. We are not only different, we are better. We are never wrong. Left-handers are right! Wait a tic…Oh, well. Left-Handers Unite!

Original Facebook Status:

Are left handed people generally shorter? Left handed desks are so much smaller than right handed desks.

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Stuck In My Head

I have had this song stuck in my head. So much so that I recorded myself singing it. Yeah, I am setting myself up for ridicule, but that’s a bloggers life.

The song is called The Girl and it is by City and Colour. I was unaware of this group until a friend of mine informed me of them last year. They are  an awesome group/person and have a nice acoustic sound. I am not as talented, but as Dane Cook would say…I did my best! I did my best…

Here is my version:

Here is the original:

Paper or Plastic?

Barbie is not the only one to live a life of plastic. Currently I carry no currency. It is much more manageable and applicable for me to use my debit or credit card. It has gotten to the point that I often question why my wallet has an opening at the top. Is that so I can store old receipts I’ll never need and coupons I’ll never use? I think so.

I know many people who live this same lifestyle. It is a life without physical monetary funds. Well, some of them do not have any monetary funds, and that is a whole different lifestyle. For the purpose of this blog we will not be discussing people who Hobo Baggins-it, but those who Captain PiCARD it up. It is gradually becoming an acceptable lifestyle, but there are still situations where only a Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Grant, or Benjamin can bail me out. If I ever call on you pay my collateral please bring a Cleveland, McKinley, Madison, or Chase; I’ll keep the change.

One of the worst places to be without money is at a bar. Yes, many of them accept cards, but there is still a collection of dive bars that deal in money only ventures. This I know through first-hand (left hand too) experience. I was at a little dive bar and I had just ordered some drinks. One by one they were placed in front of me. When all was accounted for, I scooped them up and walked away. As I did, I heard a sharp tone ring from the lips of the bartender, “Hey, you still need to pay!” I turned around, my eyes flashing on the CASH ONLY sign. Damn. I did the only thing I could to get out of this conundrum. I chuckled lightly and said, “All I have are fives…And they are all high.”

Another incident occurred when I was crossing the Bay Bridge. I was new to traveling the area and I was unaware of the toll troll. As I came upon the bridge I began to see signs for CASH or FASTRAK. Where were the signs for neither? Now the logical thing would be to turn around and go get money, but a bridge only has one exit, and I would not need money there. I pulled up to the window that read CASH on its electronic screen. I was hoping that the “/CREDIT”-part had burnt out.. I handed the man two dollars and thirty-seven cents in change. I thought I would receive The Rock-brow raise, but I was just waived on through (Yeah, wordplay). Either the employees at the toll booth care little about their job, or are horrible with math. All I know is it saved me a thirty dollar fine, which I would have paid for with my credit card.

So yes, monetary forms of all types are needed, but you know what, I’ll keep to my cards. It makes for an experience.

Original Facebook Status Update:

I was getting drinks and the bartender said I still needed to pay. I said all I had was fives and they were all high.  

Medical Emergency

CLEAR!

Distant Whispers. “We’re losing him! 700 volts!”

CLEAR!

I don’t know what I am writing. Is 700 volts too much? I get my medical education from House, so I am only familiar with illnesses that affect one in a billion. Beyond that I am not a medical whiz by any standard. Yes, I do have my CPR certification, but breaking a person’s ribs can only cure so much. I am more like the Fonz in that sense. If it can be healed by punching, allow me to offer up my services.

I am no threat to the nursing or medical practitioner field.  I have heard tales from nurses and EMT’s. Bottles in anuses is not my glass of milk. I am good off those experiences. I know it has even managed to ruin apple juice for one person. Apple juice people! A sweet yumified drink. Ruined because its pigmentation is too close to urine. The only thing worse would probably be some hot apple cider. The warmth brings forth reality, if you know what I mean. Let’s hope cranberry juice does not suffer the same fate.

I am not even the person you want to call in case of an emergency.I deal in WORDS not WOUNDS. So give me a phone, I can call 9-1-1, but you better hope the ambulance is quicker than your blood. If the person is yelling on the ground for help, I’ll just look over and whisper, “Sorry, I’m on the phone.” I’ll give that curtsy smile, scrunch of the face, shrug of the shoulders, and point at the phone that is commonly motioned to in this situation. Someone has to call 9-1-1 right? Hopefully my future wife will be experienced in this field or else our children will be in pickle (which a delicious and underappreciated fruit and also a troubling situation).

While I stay clear of the medical field, I do have one regret. I have a deep passion for helping people. If you know me, you know that I am one of the most empathizing beings you will ever encounter. I am heavily invested in helping people who suffer from somnambulism. This is more commonly referred to as sleep walking. Unfortunately, I fear that I will never have the opportunity to work with these individuals. If I was given such an opportunity, I would cherish it…I would be going human tipping all night.

Original Facebook Status Update:

I would love to work at a medical center for sleep walkers. I’d be going human tipping aallll night.

King of the Forest

I have been using old Facebook status updates and transforming them into blogs. So far, two of my previous blogs have been subjected to this change. From now on, if a blog is going through these transformations I will make note of it at the end of my blog and provide the original status update that inspired the blog. Since I previously did not do so in my first two, I will state those now.

  1. And Their Off! – A spider keeps forming a web across the entrance to the door. I hate spiders, but I like this one because everytime I walk out the door I can feel myself break through the web and it makes me feel like a “casual walking marathon winner”.
  2. Lies… – People always said, “White lies are ok.” I think that is why there are so many black people in prison; apparently their lies are not.

At the end I will state the original status behind this blog too.

Now, to the blog.

The Wizard of Oz is a classic film. We have a normal girl, a scarecrow without a brain, a tin man without a heart, and a lion without courage. They wander through a world of technicolor bricks and crystal meth castles. There are small wizards, waterless witches, and Planet of the Ape monkeys who are not only in the wrong movie, but have wings. Was there some hidden Accipitridae-Ceboidea affection during the Planet of the Apes saga that I missed, or is this a prelude? Regardless, the movie is an epic adventure of mystical proportions.

There are, however, misconceptions about this film. I am not talking about the midget hanging from the tree at the end of the tin man’s sequence or scenes of Dorothy not rocking the ruby reds. Those are well documented hindrances to the magnificence of this film. The one I will be discussing today is the lion’s role in the film. I believe it to be a hoax. The lion has always been my least favorite of the three, but that is not why I am singling him out. I can accept that the scarecrow is brainless and the tin man without a heart, but I will not capitulate to the fact that the lion lacks courage. That part seems humuhumunukunukuapuaay to me…Or should I say, a bit fishy.

I have partaken in the liberty to assert my own opinions on this topic and have come to a particular conclusion. The lion is manipulating the audience and characters into postulating that he is in fact without courage. He is a conniving feline, but I am onto him. He is just trying to extend his monarchic system through sympathy. He is already King of the Jungle, now he wants the forest? Come on Lion…Take the bow out of your hair and go back to the jungle.

For the record this is solely my opinion.  You may fall into the traps of the lions ploy, but not I.

That is another saying of interest, “for the record.” A friend of mine brought to my attention this so-called record that we have documented a plethora of items on. Now I too am curious; where is this record? It has to be ginormous. Hopefully it is all digitalized now, if not, that has to account for a significant portion of deforestation in Zimbabwe. I blame the lion. So for the record and I would like to go on record and record my spiel on records and record it via my blog. Technically this is my friends spiel, but I am stealing the idea. I am crediting her to lessen my theft charges. But what if I didn’t give her credit at all? I could deny that I had stolen the idea. I could claim it as my own…Hmm…Stop! Robo-Hamster time.

Original Facebook status update:

  1. The lion in the Wizard of Oz wanted to be King of the Forest. We are supposed to have sympathy for his lack of courage, but in reality he was trying to extend his monarchic system to the forest. He is already King of the Jungle. Selfish bastard.

(Additional Information not pertaining to the blog topic: This has been a good, but busy week. I met some new friends and met up with others. The best day by far was Tuesday night. The Tues pulls through again. The Tues and the rest of the week are the events that have prolonged my blogging this past week. So there you have it. I just wanted to add this update because it would not fit in any other post.)

Lies…

Lies…

The foundation of many establishments; be it physical or mental. It is an act in which we all partake in. There are those that are skilled in the trade, and those who are hesitant and lack true conviction in their approach. It is not taught in an educational environment (Law School would be the closest substitute) and it will not be. Lying is a technique that is intrinsic. One either possesses it or does not.

A decent majority of individuals would state that lying is perverse and should not be practiced. This is a logical statement, and I concur with these folks, in a sense. It can be exercised in negative manner that could lead to eventual misguided and ill-construed consequences. It can also be positive. People lie to hide the truth because it would reveal unnecessary pain.

The  only acceptable lies are white lies. I think that is why the prisoner population consists mostly of blacks; their lies are not.

I suggest sticking with the grey lies. Or what is more commonly referred to as half truths. You also avoid the racial tensions that are involved in the color coded scheme of lies.

Here is one of my favorite songs about lying. It’s a fun country jingle.

That is all I have about lying. Now if you will excuse me I am going to take a nap. That is a lie. I am not going to nap…But oh how I wish I was…

In the Poem of My Hand

Writing is a tool of expression. I can write whatever comes to mind and it is easy. That is how I use to approach poems. That is the way of the past. For me, writing a poem is difficult. I want the structure and elegance that I see portrayed in the various poems I read, and yet, it takes more from me to achieve that then it does with writing. A blog may take an hour to write and edit. With a poem I continuously debate its progression. The final production could come a week or two later.

So, I tested myself. I placed ten minutes on the clock and challenged myself to write a poem. I had no subject matter in mind. Whatever happened happened. Here is the result:

To me poems are like the blues. They are meant to be demonstrations of anguish. It is easier to express pain and agony in a poem. Blissful poems are difficult for me to write for this reason. So judge as you may, think what you will, and do what you do. This is my ten minute poem.

And They’re Off!

Yesterday was the Preakness. I placed five dollars on I’ll Have Another to Win/Place/Show and I placed a fiver on Cozzetti to win for my longshot. Since I am writing this in advance I would like to assume I am the winner, but as of my time the victor and the defeated have yet to be determined. It is almost as if I am a late night talk show host; except not. . .

Recently I attended the Golden Gate Fields Horse Racing in Berkeley, California. I arrived with forty dollars; I left with six and some change. After successfully choosing the winner (Perfect Feat), my luck diminished. Out of the next eight races, only one of my horses managed to finish above fourth place. Too bad horse racing does not offer a booby prize, because many of my choices managed to finish dead last. Alas, you cannot be too disappointed with your losses when there are dollar beers and hot dogs only feet away. Horse racing has never increased my blood flow, but I have to say, attending a horse racing event did preak my interest. To me, it is all about the naming of a horse. If I had a horse it would be named On Paste to Race or Tomorrows Glue.

My general concern with racing has decreased immensely in current years. I use to be an avid NASCAR fan. I started as a fan of Ernie Irvin, switched to Dale Jarrett, and since then I have been in limbo as to where my allegiance lies. What makes matters worse is that the drivers are constantly changing sponsors and numbers. I cannot keep pace with the cars. Am I going for the Viagra car? It seems to driving hard and fitting through the holes. Am I the Jack Daniels car this week? (Remember, drinking and driving is unsafe, but thinking about drinking while driving is completely fine.) Or am I 5 Hour Energy? Hopefully 5 Hour Energy, because given the length of these races, I am going to need it.

Lately I have been focused on more personal races. I size up an individual on the sidewalk and the race begins. I always win. Yes, this may be contingent on the fact that they are not aware they are in a race, but that does not minimize the strength of my furious power-walking. I have a Dale Earnhardt mentality when I race too. I bump people off the sidewalk, slow down in front of them and prevent them from walking by, and on rare occasions I barely hit something and die. Too soon?

I not only race mammals, but I also challenge arachnids. I hate those eight-legged freaks, and will optimize any opportunity given to atomize them. There is a spider on my backyard gate that is resilient in its approach to spinning a web in that particular region. So the race amounts to: can it spin faster than I can destroy? Sometimes I will let it spin an entire web and then I will open up the gate and break through it like I just reached the finish line of a casual walking race. Yep. Sometimes it’s the small things in life.

Resurrecting a Wave of Ideas

I started writing blogs on Myspace back in 2006. It was an efficient platform for my purposes. I wanted to mutter ideas and only be heard by those contiguous to me. Myspace even had a section for blogs; it worked perfect.

Then Facebook materialized.

Unlike many, I was hesitant to board another social networking ship. I felt comfortable shooting the shit on the poop deck of Myspace. I turned an eye-patch to the sinking of my vessel, but could not shut my eye to the Facebook voyage. One by one I saw life boats drop and people row to the safety that Facebook could provide. I recognized my ideas were falling on deaf ears. No really, I would drop a manuscript of ideas on a deaf person’s head while they slept. It was becoming obviously evident that I needed to abandon ship. And so I did.

Facebook lifted my life boat from the choppy waves of the social networking world and gave me a simplistic, but comforting lifestyle. I was given the basics, which is all one truly needs. That is, unless you blog. Joining Facebook became one of the prevalent hindrances in my blogging succession. I wasted ingenious thought on one status update for a meager chuckle.

No longer will that be. I am going to attempt to clear that despicable damnation from my record. I have a list of antiquated status updates that I am going to flip into blogs. Not knowing the full length of my thought during these intervals of time in which I created said status update, I will still try to piece together my initial intuition on the subject matter and strike gold in its wake. In other words, I will take my one-two sentence status update and turn it into a 300+ word blog. I have a list of twenty-five that I will be using. I might use all twenty-five, I may not. What is important is that I have ideas and they will be here shortly. This is just the introduction. So I hope you are looking forward to my past. It’s on the horizon.

Going to the Beach Where I Belong

I grew up in Monterey County. That’s right, I’m reppin’ the first true capital of California.  The United States had to FreMonterey from them Mexicans and Polk our flag into the soil. They had Armstronged them, I mean, strong armed them into defeat. By 1848 the United States Hidalgoed the Guadalupe out of the Mexicans in what became known as the Mexican-American War. By September 9, 1850, California became the thirty-first state. It was as good as gold. Upon entrance into the Union, Monterey lost its capital title, but it has not lost what it is most famous for: its enchanting oceanic landscape.

Although I spent the majority of my life in Monterey County surrounded with beach front property, it was not until I vacated the area that I began actively participating in the festivities of the beach. Now, when I go back to visit family and friends I will go to the beach. The funny part is that the beach I frequent is not in the Monterey County area; it is a two hour trip south to a little beach town called Avila.

You may be asking yourself: “Why travel two hours when famous beaches are within shooting distance?” (A little joke for us Salinasians)

I want the adventure.

A trip to Avila is a day long trip. There is a core group of three that go, but tagalongs come occasionally (And no, not those delicious Girl Scout cookies). The trip usually follows a certain itinerary. Allow me to break it down for you ‘fella.

  1.  Time of Arrival and Departure. The decision to attend Avila is a spontaneous action. It is never planned out one week in advance; more like the night before. Once everyone has agreed to attend the extravaganza, we establish a departure time. Everyone usually agrees on waking up at 8 am and being on the road by 9 am. This is code for waking up at 9:45 am and being on the road by 10 am. We are not morning people.
  1.  Once on the road, certain forms of entertainment are established. This is where I have identified that there are two varieties of automotive travelers.

A)     Chatters

B)      Musical listeners.

These two do not belong together. If they are forced to ride together, they will have to compromise, but the pleasantries in the process are anything but pleasant.  It is like a woman’s legs after the second day of not shaving; things can get a bit bumpy. And unless you are blind or read braille, the added texture is unwanted.

Everyone who attends Avila is a musical listener. So it is a mute issue for us. I dock my fat iPod and we blast some jams. Two hours of extreme musical variation and our attempt to mimic the vocal intensity displayed in the recorded session. It is awesome.

  1. Arrive at Avila. We do not sit on the beach, we boogie board. And we do it in wet suits. We look smooth as we walk out on the beach. Our slick wet suits clinging to our form, a boogie board held at our sides and a blue steel look gazed upon the waves. This is a close up shot. If you widen the lens, there little kids who are in the water boogie boarding without wet suits, chiseled guys playing Frisbee on the beach, and sexy girls who are not giving us a second look. Okay, so we do not look that smooth.

There are good days and bad days at Avila. There are days where it is wave on wave. Some get eaten by the waves and others catch a beast and ride it in. There are also days where Jesus walking on water does not seem farfetched. The water is so still that I have thoughts of grandeur in attempting the same feat.

  1. We boot scoot and boogie for about four hours and then head back home. A long exhausting day at this point. Usually we stop for food at In-N-Out. Our eyes, now heavy shades of red from the salt water, and our appetites at maximum potential for lack of food. I am sure it is difficult to tell if we are gone on ganja or just tired from a day at the beach. After we consume our food we finish the drive back to Monterey County. One of us always takes a nap, and naps that whole way back. I usually drive. That means napping for me would not prove to be beneficial for anyone.

On the way back, I often forget to fuel up. My low fuel light pops on in the middle of nowhere. We end up stopping in a little weird town called San Ardo. It’s no good.

Another hour from San Ardo and we are back home. The trip home consists of more conversation. The excitement has worn down. We try to make plans for the night, but by the time we are back rest is the best option.

That is a basic trip to Avila. A day trip of fun in the sun. I did not delve into on the topics we discuss or even the miniscule things that happen along the way, but they all accumulate into a fantastic experience. If you are looking for that information and more, let me know…Maybe you can join us next time.