There is a certain tranquil sensation to driving. It is a soothing experience. It provides me with the chance to alleviate my woes and explore my thoughts. These thoughts may correlate into ideas for blogs, or they may just delve into my psyche. Lately, I have depended on these thoughts for post ideas. As I drove the long black roads back to my house, I forced my brain to churn butter thoughts (better thoughts).
Butter…When I was younger the word butterface was an accusation thrown at females. I remember asking what butter had to do with faces. Did she have a fat face? Was she one step away from being a cookie? Could I slather her face across my toast? Was she one step past milk? What was it that made her face butter? Then I was informed. It meant everything about her was alluring but her face (butterface). It made sense. I was able to follow their thought crumbs and come to a similar conclusion. I then wandered naively to butterfingers. Did that mean that these people will never have careers in hand modeling? I even questioned butter knives. After all, if you really look at a butter knife, they are fat and lack the cutting potential other knives have. They are unattractive knives. Then there are buttermilk pancakes. Whoa…Wait just a tick. Buttermilk pancakes are delicious. This theory is flawed!
There must have been a bump in the road and I must have struck it. I was jarred into song. For the next thirty minutes I sung. There was no music and it was not multiple songs. I drove thirty minutes singing the theme song from Married with Children. It was a song coma, but I was completely satisfied. I a cappella’d the crap out of it.
Then, a light came on and my attention pulled. It was not one of those exquisite animated moments where a lightbulb pops up overhead. This light came from the dashboard of my car and read “Low Fuel.” Gahh! I was too ingrained into my singing stupor that I forgot to get gas. To make matters worse I was entering a stretch of road that lacked any appeasement. Remember when I proclaimed that driving was a serene experience? It can quickly go from serene, serendipitous, to misfortune. I am happily driving (serene). The low fuel light turns on. I see the only gas station (serendipitous). There is road work being done on the off-ramp and it is closed (misfortune). While driving is a calming feeling; running out of gas is one of the worst. Fortunately I was able to chug another fifteen to twenty miles to a gas station. The tension that arose in me subdued and I was able to continue my brainstorming. Unfortunately, the forecast predicted no brain-rain. It was clear and dry brain-weather the rest of the way home.
Today, people do everything with their cell phone. People become hysterical if their battery dies or they are left without a phone. It is has become an essential body attachment for most. To be so obsessed with an object, it has to embody who you are as a person to some degree. That is why I believe the iPhone’s Home Screen can tell a lot about a person. If I were to analyze what apps one has, the structure of one’s apps, the wallpaper one displays, and the condition of one’s phone I would probably be able to identify a rough guesstimation on what type of person that individual was.
This is my iPhone’s Home Screen (folders and locked screen):
The folder on the left contains the apps I use on a consistent basis. Every morning I usually check the weather (old man status, I know, but it is so accessible). I am horrible with directions so AroundMe and Maps guide me to my destination. Notes and Camera help document the interesting things I see (my blog material). The dictionary’s word of the day keeps my vocabulary growing. And most importantly, the clock is my alarm and keeps me on schedule. (I use settings a lot too, but who doesn’t? Also the Reminder app was a good idea, but I never remember to look at the reminder.)
On the right is my information folder. It is where I get my fix of social media and news. It serves as my Info-On-The-Go. My WordPress app lets me catch up on blogs. TwitBird Pro allows me to Tweet, which I do not do very often anymore. My passion for Twitter has subdued. The Chive is good for a chuckle or two. Youtube allows me to listen to any song. ScoreCenter, KFAN, and Vikings News help me keep up to date on the latest information surrounding the Minnesota Vikings. AP Mobile, eh. The Stock app has grown to be one of my favorite. IMDB, Digg, and Flixster help me solve problems and locate trivial info.
(Note: The wallpaper pictures are taken by a friend of mine. She is an amazing photographer. If you are interested, you can check her out HERE.)
Another day; another blog. That kind of insinuates that I write blogs everyday, which I do not. This is not to say that I could not, but that I have not, will not, and do not. With all these (k)nots, something must be congested. (Side Note: Wordplay can be hard to use via text.) The assumption is correct. I am congested. Congested with ideas. So let me cough up some phlegm and spread some germs.
I recently bought a pair of TOMS shoes. If you are unaware of TOMS policy it is “One for one.” Meaning that for every pair of shoes I buy they will give an Ethiopian child a pair of shoes. It is a good policy, and one that tempted me into buying TOMS. People may wonder what one pair of shoes for one child is going to do. Well, it is not just helping one child. Due to the high death rate, those shoes will be passed to another kid in six months. Which makes me question if they would be a hand-me-down…or a give-me-up? A bit morbid, but these jokes are deadly.
When I was ordering my TOMS I also looked at the return policy. It stated that if the shoes were the wrong size or I did not find them compelling in any fashion (pun intended) then I would be allowed to return or exchange. This is a standard policy, but then I started thinking what if I bought TOMS, did not like them and returned them. Does TOMS go to poor little Kelile and say, “Hey, I know we just bettered your life with a new pair of shoes and all, but the person who gave you these shoes, returned theirs. So we are going to need the shoes back. This is not just a ‘for one’ type deal.”
I am using innocent victims who have no kismet to respond to this blog. The sad thing is, even if they were connected to the internet via magic; they still would not read my blog. So I take comfort in knowing that I am hating on them consciously, while they are hating on me subconsciously. It works.
The people I do not hate on are those with Alzheimer’s. While relatives and friends may be frustrated from their loved ones lack of memory, I revel in it. Being the wannabe comedian that I am, I love when people laugh at my jokes. Sometimes it is problematic to develop new material. Nobody wants to hear the same joke twice. That is not true for Alzheimer patients. The joke is just as funny the twenty-eighth time as it was the first. All you need is one funny joke. Unlike your audience, it never gets old. You aren’t a joke-teller, tell a story. Not a storyteller, tell an interesting fact. Not a fun-fact person…really? You do not have ONE fun fact? Want to know a fun fact? There is a significant chance of you getting some form of dementia. So there is a significant chance I may be telling you this fun fact for a long time.
I could smoothly segue into a new idea. I prefer to do it jaggedly.
I have dabbled in retail for awhile. Store standards are always set on having everything faced and shelved appropriately so that there is no glaring lacuna. Being the marketing connoisseur that I am I have noticed many people spend a preponderant amount of time looking down at the ground. My idea consists of creating a store that markets to this idea. Everything is going to be on the floor. It works for Ross and Wal-Mart and theirs is not even deliberate. The store will be a shoe and clothing store. It will be called Shoegazers. To add a bit of wit, the store will only play shoegazing music. M83 anyone? This idea is money. If implemented, I will own the sky. Catch the reference? I know someone did.
The real title:
Planes, Trains, and Automobiles
There is a certain nagging behind this blog. It is in high demand by low people. Or is it in low demand by high people? I vote for both. In any case I have been urged to continue documenting the grandiose spectacle that is my percipience. Often, in my self-doubting state of mind, I have come to the realization that my ideas may be enervated. There are even those who cannot be pleased with the plethora of wonders that I have already contributed to this earthly domain and so I have taken upon myself to satisfy ones urge, at least in one aspect of life, at this very moment. I am here to prove that I am still capable. So sit down, enjoy an icy beverage on a cold day and let me titillate your brain from its prefrontal cortex down to its medulla oblongata.
I’ve have grown erect and cum through. I suppose a better way of phrasing that would be: I have risen to the occasion and completed my undergraduate work at Sacramento State University. It has been four and a half years since I began this junket, and a junket it has been. This does not pertain to what I will be discussing in this blog, but I wanted, nay, needed to bring it up so that all those who gaze upon my extravagance will know. I have my bachelors in History…Yay. Or to add comedic humor and emphasis to the subject matter at hand…Fuck Yay.
Watson is what I named my laptop. I name everything. After I am done using Watson I place him on a stand. I call it Stan the stand. Original; I know. After which, Watson, with his inner heated combustion, makes Stan hot. It is not what you think though. The relationship is purely platonic and symbiotic; I can’t say the same about Felipe the phone charger and Alberta the outlet. Talk about some intense double pronged action…
On my way to work today I started to think about cars. Let me first inform you that my knowledge of cars is unwaveringly inferior to many. And by many, I mean most. So allow me to shine some light on the matter that matters. Windows. All cars have windows. Well, all street legal cars have windows. On several cars the side windows have a main front piece and a small wing or panel. I understand at one point back when dinosaurs lived in shoes…Wait, that is a current situation, but is another story all to itself…Let’s say somewhere before shoe dinosaurs and somewhere after the creation of the Model-T (Model-K sounds better, but I guess I could see why not. Put three of those on the road and one could pave the road black. o-u-c-h-i-e…Poor joke. I know.) these side window wings provided an air vent of some sort. But in examining my own 1997 car I have tried to establish its purpose. There is only one possible explanation for such maddening techniques. Burglary. When someone breaks into a car, and they do not possess the quick pick lock skill set, they bust windows. Instead of busting the entire window, they just smash that wing piece and have easy access to the car’s interior accessories. So my theory on it is that people are essentially saying, “Be kind burglar, break my small window.” Being that America is a capitalistic beast, those side windows are being removed and people are going to have to replace entire windows. Can someone say money, money, money, money…money! (NOTE: If the smaller window is more expensive capitalism will have prevailed early on. Also, my theory will be mute.) Now personally, if I am going to be taking out windows, I am going big. The purpose of a window initially is to shield. I’m taking out the biggest shielder of wind they have. Front windshield. Or maybe I would put little chips all throughout their windows and leave a Woody the Woodpecker toy. Then the next morning when they walk out to their car it will be like, “THIS IS MADDN…Oh a Woody the Woodpecker…ESS!” Hilarity ensues.
Okay; so you know how I was going on about titillating your brain teats? Forget it. I have taken an idea that I did not even deem Facebook worthy, scratch that, Twitter worthy and expanded it into a blog. The result: A sensational attempt at a mediocre idea. Perhaps I need to commit myself to saving my ideas for a more ostentatious display. Perhaps I need to not write after completing my last final and give my mind the proper recoup period. Perhaps I do need a muse. Perhaps, possibly, maybe…I hear these terms a lot. They are shades of gray. I suppose if that is ones favorite color, then that is a comfortable place to be. As with my writing. I’ll robot hamster it out.
Now and forever more; I do what I do when I do what I do.