Iowa City PD

9 college friends. Iowa city. U of A vs. Iowa. Danger Will Robinson. Danger

Let's be clear about one thing: I didn't break any laws the entire weekend (with the exception of speeding). However, I was definitely in the ballpark. Breaking the law, I have found, is one of those things you always want to stay at least one step away from.

As my friend David says: Don't heat sugar cubes with a lighter on a spoon and drop them into absinthe. One step away from heroin. I hear that stuff is not good.

Encounter with the law #1

Friday. 5:30 PM

81 in a 65. Red and Blue. Passengers had a few road sodas. Those of you that live in progressive states with intelligent congressmen are familiar with a little thing called the "open container law" and you may be saying to yourself, "Whaaaa, illegal!" It is not. Missouri does not have intelligent congressmen. However, having open containers is one step too close to breaking the law.

"Mr. Buchanan, can you step out of the vehicle please?"

"Yes, sir"

"This here is a Breathalyzer."

At this point, I remember the pre-game beers I had at happy hour and my heart begins to race harder than when my first girlfriend kissed my neck.

Mom and Dad- don't read this next part:

.061

Phew!

I'm feeling good. I'm feeling invincible. I figure, "Let's go for the gold."

"Officer- I am so incredibly sorry for speeding. I have been doing my best to keep it under 80 the entire drive from Saint Louis and I legitimately thought the speed limit was 70. I promise that if you let me off with a warning, I will drive like a snail for the rest of the way and I will never, ever let a girl kiss my neck again."

"You're getting a ticket son."

Whatever. There is nothing that can happen to me in the entire world that will keep me from having fun right meow.

And for the record, he did knock the speed down, the points will not go on my driving record and I get to mail in a measly payment in the next thirty days. Let's party.

Encounter with the law #2

Game day. 10:30 AM

The boys and I high-jack a tailgate spot and set up our folding table from the Mart for a little beer pong. The tailgaters who actually purchased the spot arrive.

"You guys are gonna have to move."

Next spot over. Game on.

Encounter with the law #3

11:00 AM

New tailgaters arrive.

"Strike two guys."

"How many strikes do we get officer?"

"Two. This isn't baseball."

Next spot over. Game on.

Encounter with the law #4

8:00 PM

Sam barges in our hotel room and starts pouring vodka into plastic cups while rolling his tongue loudly like a Tijuana shot girl. Most friends oblige. Brad does not. All other five guys-pretending-to-be-in-college see this and the peer-pressuring commences.

Apparently, the folks in the surrounding rooms did not appreciate 6 guys rolling their tongues loudly like Tijuana shot girls and pounding on the wall.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"You guys need to keep it down. This is your first warning."

"How many warnings do we get officer?"

"One."

Smart man.

Encounter with the law #5

11:00 PM

I lose my group. I find two Hawkeyes and begin polite conversation even though most of their comments revolved in the neighborhood of, "Sorry you had to come all the way up here to lose man" and, "You guys showed up but your football team stayed in Tucson. What's up with that?"

Maybe it was my state of mind at the moment. Maybe it was the fact that I wanted to be hanging out with the people that I came all this way with. Maybe it was really true. The fact is, these guys, at the time, seemed identical to my friends Neal and Bryant who were having their own fun at the same time in this foreign city. I proceeded to call them "Replacement Neal" and "Replacement Bryant" for the remainder of the evening. In fact, they were so much like real Neal and Bryant, that Replacement Neal and Bryant thought this was hilarious.

Replacement Neal, Replacement Bryant and I walk through the town and have a grand 'ole time. Replacement Neal's go-to pick up line was, "Hey this guy lost his friends and we are trying to show him a good time. What are you girls going to do tonight?"

While Replacement Neal and I are giving this a go and striking out for the 900th time, we misplace Replacement Bryant.

We find him. Dude's in handcuffs.

"What did he do officer?"

"Public Intoxication."

"Have a nice night."

Encounter with the law #6

Sunday. 4:00 AM

Replacement Neal was kind enough to lead me to a nice little get-together. It's too late. Cops pull this oldest trick in the book: "Party's over kids."

My California ID is real officer. I swear.

Find hotel. Sleep. Not in jail. Back to the real world tomorrow.

I love college.

This is My Nightmare

You have undoubtedly heard a story with the following elements:

1. 5 hour flight that should have been 4 hours but plane spent and extra hour on the tarmac
2. Very last row middle seat
3. 400 pound man on right taking half of passenger’s allotted space
4. Young mother with 2-year old, screaming her intestines out, spoiled rotten child on left
5. Absolutely nothing to read or do

I’m there. The question is: How in the unforgiving world did I get there?

I don’t get obsessive, picky or precise about many things, but seat selection on an airplane is one of them. Especially if I book a flight that allows your to pick your own seats for every leg of the trip. I don’t necessarily care about getting a non-stop flight (I am finding more and more people that actually will not travel if they must stop and transfer). On one of the few occasions that I happen to book a non-stopper, I end up here. I don’t really care if I must sit toward the back, but please, in the name of all things holy, give me a mother truckin’ aisle or window seat- because if you don’t, I am going to be one cranky camper.

Exception: If I am placed in the middle by a cute girl (on Southwest-pick-your-own-seat flights, I go through extensive efforts to make this happen), life could get worse. However, this does not happen to be the case. Nope. I got the Incredible Hulk elbowing me in the jejunum on one side and author of “How to Piss Your Kid Off” on the other.

My prepared entertainment of videos on my new 17” lap top is completely irrelevant due to the fact that tight confines (mainly due to Hulk) do not allow enough space for the beastly machine. I immediately regret my purchase decision, wish I had foreseen this circumstance and bought the pocket sized, 6-inch, no CD drive, miniature keyboarded, extended battery computer. All I got now is Sky Mall and no-grit, family-friendly, airline-produced magazine which I am forced to read 2 inches from my face with my armpits tucked beneath my ears.

This is my nightmare.

If I could raise my arm enough to push the flight attendant call button, I would drink enough to make it all go away. Thwarted again.

Upon booking my flight, I went through drastic measures to select appropriate seating and prevent this situation. I went through each flight and picked perfect window seats 4 rows from the front of the plane. The system did not register the first try and I had to start all over again. I checked again two weeks later, and again two weeks before the flight just to make sure because of what happened the first time I tried to book the seat.

It somehow did not work. I wanted to speak with the counter lady as soon as I booked the flight, but I was already short on time and the security line looked longer than that of Harry Potter opening night. All I can do now is piss and moan in my head, act like a pompous ass hole to anyone I encounter and shop for the world’s largest crossword puzzle in one out of my only two reading options.

After the…longest…5…hours…of…my…quarter…century,…thus…far…happy,….but…
looks.... to…be…taking…a…turn…for…the…worse…life, I arrive. I call my bro because he is to be arriving in our hometown the same time as I and we figure out our meeting plan. While waiting for the shuttle, he shows up on the curb next to me with a jolly greeting and coffee in hand. He obviously had a better air experience than I.

We hop on the shuttle, exchange usual “how’s life” pleasantries and after about 5 minutes, he drops the dreaded question where this exchange takes place:

Mike: How was your flight?
Me (preferring to forget about the experience and move forward): Ehhh. It was OK.
Mike: Oh Yeah? How was your back row middle seat?
Me: How the hell did you know that?

The little weasel received my confirmation email that I sent him because I was being polite and wanted to let him know travel plans, went on to American’s website, used my confirmation number and changed my seat.

You are heaping pile of monkey crap little bro. I will never forgive you.

Oh yeah…and check your bag from the trip. There, you will find the cut filets of the fish we caught on Monday. I hope it rots in your bag and you smell like cat food when you see your girlfriend’s parents. Consequently, I hope they tell their daughter that they don’t like you because you don’t wash your clothes and make jokes behind your back for the extent of your relationship because you don’t take showers. For Christmas, they buy you cologne and bar soap to hint at your stench. They decide to have an intervention with you. You try to explain that you didn’t smell like deck hand because you don't bathe, but rather because you were the victim of a practical joke. They don't believe you.

Ass.

Do You Need Anything Else?

Humans are creatures of habit and I am no exception.

I go to the same coffee shop every morning and order a large iced coffee (hot in the winter).

I have a regular rotation of lunch locations- Penn Station East Coast Subs, Saint Louis Bread Co., Qdoba, etc.

I go to the same grocery store at least once a week and generally get the same list- tuna, milk, dog food, sandwich materials, eggs and various random items.

I rob the same 7/11 every other day to pay for the above activities.

What really confuses me is why certain employees at these businesses act like they have never seen me before in their entire life.

I have been coming to this coffee shop almost every morning, including the weekends, for an entire year, and there are never more than four people in there including staff. You would think that my picture would be on the wall as the most consistent customer or something. Instead, certain baristas look at me, when I say hello, the same way they looked at the guy at the bar the previous night- "Do I know you?"

Don't get me wrong, many people at these places know me by first name, the car I drive (and the fact that I park it in front of the fire hydrant every morning), my beverage of choice and how much ice I want. Others, not so much.

The sandwich shop people much be trained to ask the same question every time they hand me my 6-inch Italian with fries: "Do you need anything else?" When I first started coming to this establishment, the question confused me.

The reason? They ask the question as if they are going to actually put something in the bag themselves, but they don't. Anything I could possibly need for my to-go order could be handled myself by the contents of the counter next to the fountain soda machine: plastic forks, knives, spoons, napkins (which were already in the bag), lemon slices, salt and pepper packets, mustard, containers of extra oil and vinegar, straws, and even individually wrapped tooth picks.

You may be thinking, "Well maybe they have that stuff behind the counter as well." They don't. The first week I ever bought my Italian from this joint, Sammy Sandwich asked if I needed anything else and I said, "Could I get some napkins?" He pointed me to the self service counter.

You may have noticed there is one KEY ingredient not listed as a part of the self service counter: Ketchup, catsup, catchop, kechup. And with those hand cut, perfectly seasoned fries, I am gonna need me some ketchup. Why is the ketchup behind the counter when everything else is readily available? Another topic for another post.

So, when Suzy Sandwich asks me if I need anything else, the only thing she can actually provide me of any substantial dining value is some ketchup. Why, in God's name, doesn't she just freaking ask me if I want some freaking ketchup? I have no idea.

Suzy and Sammy have to know me by now. They simply have to. I have been there at least 50 times in the past ten months and every time, they ask me "Do you need anything else?" And every time, I say ketchup.

Today I forgot.

Suzy put the fries in a cup, put the cup in the bag (all while acting like I was a complete stranger), handed me the bag, asked the pointlessly vague question and I said "No." I started walking out the door. What the hell was I thinking? I turned around and said, "Can I get some ketchup?"

Suzy, in the absolute most condescending and degrading tone you could ever give a customer without being too rude, said, "Well, that's why I asked if you needed anything else."

Yes, I know Suzy. That's why you asked me if I needed anything else. If you asked me if I needed some ketchup- the one service you could actually provide- we wouldn't be in this situation.

Thanks.

Faceboom

It's official: The baby boomer Facebook infiltration is complete.

In fact, I am even friends with some of my grandparents on Facebook. (As a side note, the generation before the "Baby Boomers" is apparently called the "Silent Generation." Seriously...see for yourself: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080731161621AAVLnyh)

Generation X members across America are frantically de-tagging incriminating photos and erasing inappropriate posts.

I personally love it. And I am pretty sure I am in the minority of Generation X. Facebook is not just a college social networking site anymore. It is now a true "Facebook."

My brother is fighting the losing fight by claiming he is not going to censor his facebooking practices just because the rents, aunts, uncles and cousins can now view his movements. I think he has purposefully made his messages more crude, inappropriate and politically incorrect to scare the Faceboomers away. This type of action did not occur nearly as often before the oldies joined. Just this morning, I received a message with not only the F word, but a homosexual slur- which received the obligatory "boys..." message from my mother. Now parents can voice their disapproving opinions by comments on status messages.

I also saw one of his messages inspiring my underage uncle to get "pants-sh**ing drunk" upon arriving for his freshman year of college. That's pleasant.

(Yes, I have two uncles that are younger than I am...long story.)

I will not be censoring my Facebook practices either, but I never was quite so...blunt...in the first place.

The Faceboom movement has provided much entertainment for me. Many Faceboomers (and especially Silent Generation members) find Faceboom as a convenient replacement for the US mail. If Twitter's 140 character limit applied, many of these folks would have some issues. A recent post my one of my friend's mothers on his wall (names have been changed to protect the innocent):

"Hi Josh, It's mom. I forgot to ask you on the phone last night if you were impacted at all by the whole Michael Jackson memorial service. Are you close to the Staples Center? That was quite the event! Sad ending to a sad life - he sure could entertain though! I hope to see you two sometime over the weekend if you get the chance. I would like to go see Public Enemy, maybe Sunday. It's going to be so hot here the only logical thing to do will be to sit in a nice dark, cool movie theater. Join us if you can. OK, you're going to start making fun of me again for this post so ICFN - That stands for" I'll close for now." :-) Say hi to Deborah. Love, Mom"

I cannot wait until this Faceboomer joins the future Baby Boomer Twitter infiltration and must write in all acronyms.

The same mother- but posting on a wall of her son's friend (again, names have been changed):

"Hi Tommy! Thanks so much for adding me as a Facebook friend! I love this Facebook - it sorta lets you be a snoop without feeling guilty about it. Just kidding - I promise I won't be a pest on here. I will be looking at your pics though. Congrats on Law School. You have such a bright future ahead of you - be proud of yourself!! If law school doesn't work out, you could audition for the Frankie Valli part in Jersey Boys. I saw the play in Chicago and the lead looks just like you. It was uncanny, the resemblance. Josh told me you could sing so who knows?! Anyway, take care of yourself and please, I would love to see you the next time your home the same time as Josh - I'll make dinner. Take care for now. Love, Irene

I could write a book on this particular mother's messages. The Facebook Book. In fact, she wrote it already in the form of Facebook wall posts. Awesome.

Of course, both messages received "likes" from several of "Josh" and "Tommy's" friends which makes the whole situation much better.

I am very excited for the Silent Generation to get a hang of this thing and start writing even more formal and lengthy messages. Can't wait.

In the family of one of my work friends, Faceboom has become the source of conflict and argument. A new faceboomer, unfamiliar with FB etiquette, decided to tag herself in every photo that she liked and "wanted to keep in her own album"- none of which she was actually in. Grandparents also became upset when a photo was posted of a party they were not invited to. Oops. Apparently, Faceboom is the new Thanksgiving table- a wonderfully new, more polite and exciting way to get drunk and yell at Uncle Larry for buying the cousins beer.

A not so pleasant side-effect of Faceboom is the addition of younger family members to Facebook. I am definitely more scared of what a 12-year-cousin is going to see than my parents. I also don't think that they have quite caught onto the fact that everyone can see their messages.

Welcome to the brave new world everyone-where grandparents and infants alike can have their own web pages and post whatever they want without being judged. I am scared, confused, and entertained all at the same time.

GNot GNecessary

You can disagree. You can argue until you are blue in the face. You can bicker, squabble and debate but I will not give in.

"Gn" is the oddest way to start a word that the English language has to offer.

Sure, you have your "ps," "pn," "ll," "aa," "kn," "cz," "bd," and many more. But I still will not submit. GN? Nothing stranger.

Silent letters at the beginning of a word are God's way of striking an elementary school teacher for getting so much paid vacation. GN is the largest bolt there is.

It may have something to do with GNOSTICISM. A definite sign of confidence when you name your religious beliefs after a Greek word meaning knowledge- GNOSIS. I tried my best to find out what a GNOSTIC person believes, and succinctly summarize it here, but I found it confusing. See for yourself:

http://www.reference.com/browse/gnostic

Moving on.

A knot is a tree is called a GNARL. That's just mean English language maker! We couldn't just call it a knot and leave it at that. No, we had to give it a completely new name with an even more impossible silent letter. Knot=Gnarl. I give up. We could have at least called it a gnot. A tree full of GNARLS is GNARLY or GNARLED, the tree that has more knots is GNARLIER, and the tree with the most knots is the GNARLIEST.

So far, we have two examples of KN's changing to GN's. Probably just a coincidence, but interesting nonetheless.

In 2006, the song "Crazy" was released by GNARLS BARKLEY. Yes, it does make me crazy Gnarls. It makes me crazy to know that you named your band Gnarls. It makes me crazy to think that someone would be that ridiculous. I don't know how Charles feels about this, but I imagine he doesn't speak of you kindly.

Thou shalt not GNASH. Have you ever grinded (ground?) your teeth together? Well, you have committed the sin of GNASHING. One GNASHES their teeth when they are nervous or sleeping. It makes sense considering GNATHIC is "of or pertaining to the jaw." Or does it make sense? No, it absolutely does not. If the doctor to me I had a GNATHAL fracture, I might just give him one. Don't you dare tell me about my GNATH (OK, that one isn't real.)

Now, knowing that GNA___ has something to do with jaw, it makes sense that we have the word GNAW. No wait. Again, it makes no sense. Just say chew. GNAW seems to be a relatively more common word than the other examples thus far. People often refer to dogs as GNAWING on something or food as GNAWABLE...or not. Come on. Haven't you ever heard someone say, "Wow. That GNOCCHI looks GNAWABLE!!"

A blood-sucking dipterous fly, of the genus Culex, undergoing a metamorphosis in water. The females have a proboscis armed with needle like organs for penetrating the skin of animals. These are wanting in the males. I will always call a GNAT a mosquito. I don't care what you call it. But if you tell me you are a GNATCATCHER, I may go ballistic if you spell it with a G.

Is the GNAT related to the GNU?

I have attempted to resist astronomy references on this forum since my Physics-buddy Ricky called me out on a previous post about Pluto (See: "The Order of Things"), but this one is too good to pass up. Plus the word "Physics" sucks too. I will use the exact definition I found in order to prevent future scolding:

GNOMON: n. - A style or column erected perpendicularly to the horizon, formerly used in astronomical observations. Its principal use was to find the altitude of the sun by measuring the length of its shadow.

If you need further explanation, please contact Ricky. He is a Fisics guy. All I know is that if you add an "i" in Gnomon, it is an anagram for "mooning." That has something to do with astronomy right? Hehe...mooning.

If one only uses the previous examples, the "GN" is completely unnecessary. It doesn't need to exist. All of the above words can either be substituted with another, more common and useful word (gnaw=chew, gnat=mosquito, gnu=antelope) or they are so old and outdated that they can be erased from the dictionary and no one would be any worse off.

But, there is one glorious use of the GN that will not allow the above to take place:

The GNOME

The Gnome is GN's "Get Out of Jail Free" card. It is it's saving grace. All of the GN displeasure I have experienced in my life is greatly outweighed by the joys that I have received from gnomes. Gnomes are on the same rung of my awesomeness latter as ninjas. If I had three Genie wishes, I would wish for three gnome servants to wait on me for the rest of my life.

"Fetch me a spirit gnome!"

"Gnome. Change the channel to ESPN!"

"Take the day off gnome! Go sit in the garden."

I love gnomes. I love that they are small. I love that they are good with finances. I love that they waddle and I love that they are old. I love everything about gnomes.

Except that they live in GNARLS.

Wig Snap

Dear Hair Cut Lady-

When you ask me "what I want," I am polite and say "just a little bit off- same style but shorter."

Translation: I have no idea what I want. The only thing I know is if it looks good to me when you are finished. Does it look good to everyone else? Truthfully, it doesn't really matter.

Please, cut it however you want. Just don't make me look stupid. You are a girl. You and your kind care far more about what it looks like than I do. Even if I did know what I want, I wouldn't know how to verbalize that to you people. Because, here's the thing: I give that same answer every time I sit down in the spinny chair and it looks different every time I walk out the door.

When you ask me, "So just scissors then?," I say yes.

Translation: What the hell is the difference? If you were to say, "So just clippers then?," I would say yes as well. I do not care. Just please get me out of here as soon as humanly possible without a shaved head or a fohawk.

When you ask me if I "use product in my hair," I give an answer like, "sometimes."

Translation: If I get up early enough in the morning to do anything but brush my teeth and throw some clothes on, it is a miracle. On those few days (usually the weekend), I may throw some random stuff on my quaf.

When you ask me if I "want it washed," I will say yes.

Translation: What is that supposed to mean? Do I need it washed? Nevermind. I know I need it washed. I am not trying to impress you. Just cut my hair.

When you try to make small talk to me, I will respond and be polite.

Translation: Oh my God. Stop talking to me. I didn't come here to hear about why you just moved from Portland to be a hair dresser. I really don't care that your dog peed on the floor last night and how much it costs to rent a steam cleaner. It seriously makes no difference to me that your child just started Kindergarten and the teacher has the same hair as I do.

When you ask me if "that is the right length," I will usually say yes.

Translation: Shoot, that's too long. I am going to have to come back in two weeks. Whatever, let's get out of here.

When you ask me if I "want anything in my hair before I go home," I will say no.

Translation: If you do that, I am just going to run my hands through it as soon as I get out of your sight. And I'm definitely going to shower as soon as possible so I don't have hair under my collar for the rest of the day. No need for fancy creams.

When you ask me if I "want any product to take home," I will say "no thank you."

Translation: Do you guys sell two dollar Suave or bar soap here? If not, then no, I have no need for any 20 dollar shampoo or 13 dollar pomade. Who do I look like? Uncle Jessie?

Here's your 20 percent tip. Thanks for the snap. Have a nice day. Hope the dog pee comes off the rug.

Tweet Me

I did it. I fell into the fiery Twitter abyss.

I learned my lesson about things like this when I resisted Facebook for my four years of college. U of A was one of the first universities to test Facebook and I simply did not get it. By senior year, I had already established that I was too cool to join and would have received quite the load of grief from facebooking friends if I did. I found myself stealing friend's passwords to see what other friends were up to, or see if the cute girl I met at the bar that night was "in a relationship." Yes, somewhat stalker. But, definitely a good way to prevent further embarrassment when ,upon asking her out, receiving the "I have a boyfriend" line. It does prevent a problem, however, when you ask her out and she says "no" even when you know she doesn't have a boyfriend.

I digress.

Twitter was not going to play me like that. I am not a 90-year-old unsure of whether I need to call the cable company because of the digital conversion. No. I am still young. I embrace technology. Old ladies at work always ask me to fix their computers even though I have no idea what I'm doing. But the fact that I know how to attach an email, or connect a keyboard makes me Bill freaking Gates.

Following my brother's lead on the eve of one of golf's four major championships, I saddled up on the Twitter horse.

I could not live with Mike seeing what Ian Poulter (http://twitpic.com/aix78) or John Daly (http://twitpic.com/aiypx) were wearing in the first round of the Open before me.


I will never again be able to live without Shawne Merriman's (of the Chargers) grammatically incorrect, every-5-minute updates on his daily activities.

"@shawnemerriman: im still up because i had a VERVE at midnight..what you think?"

"@shwanemerriman: and i didnt get the pic of kobe yall wanted got stuck in a crowd of people and had to get out of there before i gave somebody the lightsOut!"

How could I survive without knowing that Chad Ochocinco is starting his own Twitter fantasy football league??!! (On a side note, I had no idea a football player would actually start his own league. Is that even allowed?)

"@ochoNFLcinco85: it says somthin about you have to wait 1 hour after the league fills up for the draft to start,but if it dont work out im startin a new 1!"

Davis Love and Boo Weekly are eating together after round one?! I like to eat after golf too! Pro golfers watch cricket?! Maybe I should watch cricket!

"@Love3d: Eating dinner with boo watching cricket, life is good at THE Open!"

No way- Stewart Cink changes his own spikes?!

"@stewartcink: Do it yourself spike changing...in locker room at Turnberry. I use the ones on the back row. May take some home to resupply too!! http ..."

Lance-freaking-Armstrong commenting on every pedal of the Tour de France? Can't get enough!!

"@lancearmstrong: St13 done. Wet and cold. And slightly boring. Can't remember a day this cold in the TdF. Ever. Team was solid and controlled things well."

About amonth ago, Kevin Love of the Minnesota Timberwolves broke the story on Twitter that his head coach, Kevin McHale, was fired and would not be returning next year. I repeat: he BROKE THE STORY. Not ESPN, not FOX, not even TMZ. An actual player on the team was the first one to report to the public that his own coach was fired via his Twitter account. The journalist middle man is being pushed out of society slowly but surely. Why do I need to hear an anchor say something that I can just hear straight from the source?

Although satire, it is a matter of time before our society turns into this:

P.S. This online show is hilarious - especially if you ever watch ESPN. Watch more episodes if you get the chance.

Tweet me: @blakebuchanan

Inviting Spam

It's always a matter of time before cool things become popular and uncool. I am not trying to sound like the guy that listened to "The All-American Rejects" before they sold out or watched "Family Guy" before it was cancelled and came back because it became trendy to watch old episodes. No, I am speaking purely on the fact that once something gets to the point where it attracts a massive audience, advertisers pounce on it like a thirteen-year-old girl at boy scout camp.

Awesome Internet sites are the latest victim of invasion from capitalist conglomerates. Ebay used to be cool. Remember when Ebay was only independent individuals buying and selling their useless garage-sale-worthy trinkets? Now, if you search for "Ray-Ban Sunglasses," for instance, you will find hundreds of products from Sun-Glass Hut, Sun Shade and Surf Shops.



I didn't come to Ebay to find new, normally priced sunglasses! I want cheap, second hand, chipped up, used shades.

My latest experience of this phenomenon came from a different source. The Major League Baseball All Star Game is in Saint Louis this week and I realllllly wanted to go but definitely did not want to spend $400. I dropped by the cyber garage sale that is Craig's List.

Craig's List followed Ebay and used the nifty tactic of having a 1980's interface and limited advertising in order to scare the private businesses away. It didn't work. Search for All-Star game tickets and you will see messages like this:

"It's going to rain tonight and I had someone give their ticket up. I need to get rid of it! Send me a message if you want it for less than face. I will meet you at the stadium."

The trick got me at least four times. I would get all excited, send a message to the standard Craig's List anonymous email address and get responses like this (actual response):

"Yes, you can get my ticket now in http://speedy-tickets.com/ResultsTicket.aspx?evtid=884175&event=2009+MLB+Run+Derby
All details of my tickets are in the link, nice meting you."

So much for picking it up at the stadium. Guess you are not a real person. Damn.

I am sure there was a time that people could post their resume on MONSTER.COM and receive actual emails from actual employers who wanted to pay someone to do an actual job. Now, 90% of the responses are like this:

"Earn $2000 a day by sitting on your ass from home! All you need is a telephone and a computer. Mary did it: 'I used to go to work everyday for 9 hours and make $1000 dollars a week. Now, after 6 short months working from home, I'm a multi-millionaire!' "

What's next? I am not looking forward to the day that a guy posts his profile on MATCH.COM, finds cutie: "Sarah, a paralegal who lives downtown and is just looking for someone to hang out with," finds the courage deep down to send her a message, sits at his computer anxiously awaiting a response, and receives this two hours later in his inbox:

"It looks like you are in need of a companion. Try a pet! Stop by the Pet Connection on your way home and pick up a furry friend! We can make your match today for $19.99."

Not exactly the Sarah I was looking for.

That's Alarming

Think about the first tone that you hear everyday. The sound that rips you from the soothing clutches of you covers each morning. The absolute first sensation that you experience every...single...day.

Is it an annoying split second "ehhh...ehhhh...ehhh...ehhh?" Because if it is, I can't imagine that it puts you in the best mood and I do not envy your co-workers. There was a time in my life when I woke up to that sound - the same sound they play in horror movies when the killer is about to shank some chick in the shower. It made me want to...well...hit something, if not shank someone.

I am, most certainly, not a morning person, so this sound is extra important for me. I have tried many different sounds, and they have all had different effects on my daily routines.

The Steve Miller Days

My first college roommate would do the radio-alarm-clock-wake-up on a daily basis. Since we were in a dorm room, I would be required to share his routine, and he mine. We both had ridiculous snoozing habits at the time (mine has yet to desist) and on his days, we would wake up 7 different times to 7 different classic rocks songs.

Using this method is extremely risky. You see, radio stations have an exorbitant amount of time where there is not actual music playing, especially in the morning. I didn't mind waking up to a song, but I didn't care for the days that Pete and I woke up to some dude talking about breast implants, or the traffic situation on I-10.

One day, we randomly woke up to Steve Miller's "Joker" and I look back on it as the greatest waking up experience of my life. We didn't press snooze, we didn't sit in bed for an extra ten minutes staring at the ceiling and we didn't get ready in complete silence. We woke up energized, excited and ready for the day.

After moving out of the dorm and reflecting on this wake up situation, I thought it would be a good idea to program the "Joker" to my phone and wake up to the song everyday.

That got old really fast.

I quickly got tired of being the space cowboy and accidentally introducing myself to people as Maurice. And the worst part about waking up to a popular song is that you shutter every time you hear it during everyday activities, which for this song, was a freaking lot.

The Female Vocalist Days

Norah Jones and Vanessa Carlton each made an appearance on my alarm tone list. At the time, I thought it would nice to hear a gentle female voice for the first sound each morning. As soon as I began lighting candles, buying potpourri and peeing sitting down, I made a switch.

The Allman Brothers Days

My second classic rock addition to the list was "Ramblin' Man" by the Allman brothers.

The guitar riff at the beginning of the song did a wonderful job at getting me up in the morning. Unfortnuately, when guitar hero became increasingly popular, the song followed and I just got sick...of...it. I started making new words in my head when 6:30 hit:

"Lord, I awoke a tired mannnnn-an...

Tryin' to hit the snooze and reachin' as far as I can...

I really like to slee-eep in...

and I hope you understand....

Lord I awoke a tired man."

The Classical Music Days

Since then, I have done away with lyrics all together. If you told me there is a person on this earth that I can listen to, singing OR talking, every morning, I would not believe you. Especially if they say the same thing every time.

So, I moved on to music sans vocals and classical was the first genre I hit. I must be honest that this actaully worked longer than any other song. However, I eventually became increasingly more aware of, for instance, the background music in romantic movies, which made me hate cinema. There is more classical music in your everyday life than you would like to believe.

The Current Torturous Sound

...is "The Entertainer" by Scott Joplin. If you do not immediately recognize this song, I assure you would if you heard it. It is the go-to song for many mediocre piano players and is actually quite annoying. I thought, for sure, I would throw my phone against the wall the first morning, but it has worked for a good 5 months now.

If you want to see a cool trick, come to my house and play "The Entertainer" on our out-of-tune piano. I will instantly grow sleep-eye, have to pee and be pissed.

It's like Pavlov's Dog.

The Order of Things

Yesterday was 07/08/09, 7-8-9. Reading my friend Eric's status message, I was notified that at 12:34 and 56 seconds yesterday, the time was 123456789. This got me thinking about the general order of things around this world, any and all.

The Chicken and The Egg

I scarcely remember a time when I was a small child, barely able to walk, and I was toddling around the San Diego Zoo with my family. To this day, I am extremely confused why there happened to be a flock (band? brood? colony? goggle?) of chickens walking in the pedestrian area of the zoo. I couldn't have been more than 2 years old, so I decided to play with one of the baby chicks and the mother hen did not appreciate this. She pecked my fat little baby legs and I wailed to the high heavens. My mother hen did not appreciate that.

Order of Operations

Please Excuse Me....for using this lame math reference.

MVEMSUN...P?

Back when I was your age kid, Pluto was a planet. You see, we now classify Pluto as a dwarf planet, in Neptunian orbit for 20 years out of its rotation. Pluto's rotation period is the same as its satellite Charon and while this is not uncommon for a planet, it is uncommon to rotate synchronously with the satellite's orbit causing the two bodies to face each other throughout rotation.

Pluto is also a cartoon dog.

Drill Sergeant Orders

Although not all orders, this is a perfect medium for a few military movie quotes from superiors:

Forrest Gump:
Drill Sergeant: Gump! What's your sole purpose in this army?
Forrest Gump: To do whatever you tell me, drill sergeant!
Drill Sergeant: God d*** it, Gump! You're a god d*** genius! This is the most outstanding answer I have ever heard. You must have a godd*** I.Q. of 160. You are godd*** gifted, Private Gump. Listen up, people...

Lt. Dan: "Two standing orders in this platoon: One, take good care of your feet, Two, try not to do anything stupid, like getting yourself killed."
Forrest Gump: "I sure hope I don't let him down."

Full Metal Jacket:
Gunnery Sergeant Hartman: If you ladies leave my island, if you survive recruit training, you will be a weapon. You will be a minister of death praying for war. But until that day you are pukes. You are the lowest form of life on Earth. You are not even human, f***ing beings. You are nothing but unorganized grabastic pieces of amphibian s***. Because I am hard you will not like me. But the more you hate me the more you will learn. I am hard but I am fair. There is no racial bigotry here. I do not look down on n-s, k-s, w-s or g-s. Here you are all equally worthless. And my orders are to weed out all non-hackers who do not pack the gear to serve in my beloved Corps. Do you maggots understand that?

In the Army Now:
1st Sgt. Brandon T. Williams: Have my words fallen upon deaf ears?
Bones: Yes, Sergeant! I mean No, Sergeant!
1st Sgt. Brandon T. Williams: Don't you know that I'm your First Seargent?
Bones: I really wish you were my First Sergeant, but I already had a couple ones already.

Confederation's Cup, World Cup

The world just witnessed the United States almost pull off a miracle in the Confederation's Cup a few weeks ago. This soccer tournament, as I understand, is a tune-up in the country that will host the World Cup the following year (you can criticize my soccer knowledge. I am sure that is somehow wrong).

The news came out yesterday that South African laborers are going on strike and this may cause a delay in the World Cup timeline because the stadiums are not finished being built or renovated. At the risk of analyzing this politically, a couple of thoughts come to mind:

1. The laborers now earn an average of $1.75 per hour and are looking for a 13 percent increase. The difference of life in Africa versus America is...well...different.

2. It reminds me of the scene in "Ocean's Thirteen" where the Mexican laborers go on strike. Clooney and gang write a $40,000 check to get it figured out. It seems to me that this is relatively little money and some rich, soccer happy nation is quietly going to get this under wraps.

3. Seems a little late to be trying to get this figured out. Especially since that is what the Confed cup, host site approval process and previous three years of preparation are for. FIFA officials all presented a confident front after the tournament was over and now this. Plan ahead.

Order Edentata

Or, toothless mammals. Three families of mammals get by without teeth: Dasypodidae (armadillos), Bradypodidae (sloths), and Myrmecophagidae (hairy anteaters).

Just for clarification, hairy and non-hairy anteaters are in different families of animals? Do you think you could tell the difference between a hairy and non-hairy anteater? Just look for the hair right? It just can't be that simple...

ABC

Its easy as 1-2-3. RIP Mike.

Computational Complexity Theory

AKA order of computation, describes complexity or scalability in computational complexity theory and Big O notation.

I definitely don't know what this is but I found it on Wikipedia. Someone much smarter than me could probably explain it to you.

Fraternal Orders

There comes a time in the life of many college-aged men where he must walk through a sorority house naked. He must find thousands of skittles at the bottom of a swimming pool, bring them to the surface, and organize by color...blindfolded. He must hit his friends with a paddle and sample an entire can of wet dog food. He must suffer for days from lack of sleep, wrestle in a plastic swimming pool full of wet noodles with homeless men and drink water until they regurgitate.

If further bonding is needed, alcohol provides a necessary cognitive release, whereas the fraternity member can pass out on a couch and be marked with Sharpie, duck-taped to a wheelbarrow and be left in the middle of campus. He can also sing "Blinded by the Light," or "Don't Stop Believing" at the top of his lungs with his comrades at 2 o'clock in the morning.

Thankfully, I am past that time.

I have moved on to "Living on a Prayer."

Hors d'oeuvres

Kinda sounds like order.

Past, Present, Future

For an interesting observation on this order, take a look at Disneyland's "Tomorrow Land." Granted, it may have changed since I have been there, but all I saw were rides made in the 1960's like "Space Mountain" and the "People Mover" that looked like they were made in the 1980's. Tomorrow Land looks like the yesterday before yesterday's land.

Also, check out George Orwell's novel "1984." It seems, at times, that we may be getting closer to this society, but we definitely weren't there in 1984. Interesting to see people's version of the future after that time has passed...past....eh ....futured...um...presented.

Disorder

is way more fun than order.

End The.

Post-Game Meal

Still feeling the effects from the 4th of July, I am definitely not pleased with my ability to contact the golf ball this afternoon, but the torture is over. Time for the post-game meal- the time honored tradition where golfers can reenact every shot they made no more than one hour ago.

"Yeah, we all remember when you skulled the nine iron on fifteen." "Dude, that was an awesome approach on seven. Too bad you missed the putt."

Its my first trip to a little place called GC Food and Brewery out in the suburbs. Food? Better than Decent. Prices? Reasonable if you order the right thing. Atmosphere?

Ummmm. Somewhat difficult to explain.

GC has the same problem as a fourteen-year old boy trying to find his identity- "Should I be punk, goth, nerd or jock?"

"Should I be a fine dine, sports bar, unique micro brew, or family eatery?"

"I think I'm a fancy, nose in the air, napkin in your lap before the server arrives kind of joint. My monotonous, bland, brown walls suggest that I am class with a capital "C." I have plants that require special instruments to water hanging from the top of the ceiling and several dishes on my menu that exceed $25. When the food arrives, it takes four people to deliver and it is served on plates that look like this:"

"OK scratch that. I'm a sports bar. My friendly neighborhood locale invites athletic viewers to stop in and see some grid-iron or hard-court action. I got burgers. I got wraps. Yeah, I'm super casual, situated in a Dierberg's shopping center with a Fantastic Sam's next door. You would feel comfortable walking in here in a Ram's jersey. 46" plasma screens litter my walls and there is no need to ask me to change the channel because all the best events are already on."

"Eh. No. There are already too many of those. I'm a unique micro-brew. Come in and try my one-of-a-kind libations. I've got your stout. I've got your Lager. And I've got your IPA. My serving staff can talk your ear off about what goes into each creation. Check out the sweet pint glasses. Take a walk through our back room-where the magic happens. I mix hops, yeast, water and ferment. Taste the rainbow. Mmmmmm...beer."

"Wait. Wait. Wait. I can't be identified solely on alcohol. I might as well be a strip club. I am, after all, in Suburbia. I'm a fun, family friendly spot that you can bring the kids to on Sunday after church. My large booths allow little Timmy to whine loudly about dessert and little Sarah to climb on the walls without distracting other guests. I got grilled cheese. I got chicken fingers and I'll make a PB & J even though it's not on the menu. Warm milk? Sure. If I were anymore family-accessible, I would have mechanical horsey rides outside for a quarter and places to change diapers and breast-feed."

I down my burger, pay the check and walk outside. My hair is blown back like I just got caught in a windstorm and I am exhausted.

It's tiring going to four restaurants for one meal.

How Rude!

"HI. WE ARE TRYING TO RECRUIT.......jerk."

Please. If you encounter someone handing out flyers while you are walking by, do them a favor and take it. They probably don't care what you do with it. Take it out of their hand, say thank you and throw it away. Is it that hard?

One of my favorite comedians, Mitch Hedberg (may he rest in peace) said:

“Whenever I walk, people try to hand me out flyers. And when someone tries to hand me out a flyer, it’s kinda like they’re saying, ‘Here—you throw this away.’”

Yes, funny. But very, very true. People that hand out flyers are still people. Unless they are completely oblivious, they understand that they are being invasive to your right to walk on the sidewalk and get where you are going.

My job requires me to occasionally attend events to recruit volunteers for our programs. I am not in charge of recruiting (God, no) but events like the concert last night require some extra man-power. Of the ten percent of people that would let me get my opening line out of my mouth, I had some hysterical responses.

Blake: Hi. We are trying to recruit volunteers to work in the Saint Louis Public Schools and help children with their reading and math.
Elderly Lady: Oh, I'm too old.

Huh?

Blake: Hi. We are trying to recruit...
Elderly Lady 2: Oh, is that in the city?
Blake: (biting my sarcastic tongue.) Yes, the Saint Louis Public Schools.
Elderly Lady 2: Oh, we don't go to the city.
Blake: What do you mean?
Elderly Lady 2: We live in Kirkwood.

Noooooo kidding? Seriously??? I couldn't tell by all the signs that say, "Welcome to Kirkwood." Hey guys, we should go. Did you know we are in Kirkwood? We have to be, hmmm, I would say...8-10 minutes away from Saint Louis.

Blake: Hi, we are trying to recruit...
Man: Ha! You want ME to mentor a child.
Lady standing next to him: Hahaha. He can't even mentor his own children.

Guess I'm the idiot.

Blake: Hi, we are trying to recruit...
Dude with a drink: How much do I get paid?
Blake: Oh, it is just a volunteer service opportunity.
Dude: Oh, forget that.

VOL-UN-TEEEEEER.

I spend about an hour and a half as a lesser-being to rich white folk and meander my way back over to our sign up table. 2 people have signed their information. TWO. Our volunteer recruiter, David, later says to me, "If those two people eventually become mentors or tutors, that's time well spent."

Seriously? I do not envy that guy.

I make my way back to the car, feet tired, shoulders slumped to the ground and glance over to the trash can. Dozens of 4" x 3" "MENTORS AND TUTORS NEEDED!" flyers piled on top of empty beer bottles and burrito wrappers.

Hopefully they said thank you.

Who's on First?

Free seats 20 rows behind home plate. We're not in the nosebleeds anymore, Toto.

Neel (a Cubs fan), me (an Angels fan) and Liz (a "So You Think You Can Dance" fan) were not in a hurry to get to the game before the first pitch. Turns out this is blasphemy in the temple that is the "behind the net" section in Cardinal Nation. These are definitely not "roll into your seat in the third inning" seats and super fans sitting around us seem slightly agitated. Whatever- go Halos.

The situation further escalates when I snag the nearest beer vendor and patrons in my row are forced to relay the ID, the beer and the cash back and forth. God forbid they may miss one tossing of the rosin bag or one readjustment of the batting gloves. But, now that its over, the baseball viewing may commence.

The people sitting in front of us are not your typical residents of $125 seats. Saint Louis is situated within 45 minutes of dozens of podunk towns and Cardinal fans will often encounter -what my brother likes to refer to as- "Whiskey Tangos" at the ballpark. For those of you that are not familiar with the term, Urban Dictionary defines "Whiskey Tango" as:

"An abstract spoken method to point out the presence of white trash to friends while still remaining unoffensive. Based on the NATO code for the letters W and T."

Now, I happen to disagree with the assertion that it remains unoffensive to use this term. However, there is simply no better way to describe this mom and son pair.

Let me explain that my label of Whiskey Tangoness does not imply that the person doesn't have money, is in a certain social class or is unintelligent. Not at all. In fact, these people obviously had a lot of money. More than me. And they wanted you to know it. Everyone in the section knew it.

At the end of the eighth, Mama Tango came back after being gone for 20 minutes (son left unsupervised) with an awesome new garment for Mini Tango. A brand new National League All-Star jersey with "Pikey 6" embroidered on the back. Not ironed on. Embroidered.

Wanna know how much it costs?

I asked Mini Tango, "Is it your birthday?" It was the third present I had seen him receive. Mama Tango replied, "Everyday." My group continued to comment on how cool it was. Mama Tango then leans over behind Mini Tango and says, "normal voice This was really expensive. This (pointing to the embroidering) costs mouthing inaudibly sixty-nine dollars. normal voice And this (pointing to the jersey fabric) costs whispering so everyone could hear sixty dollars." Oh. Sweet.

I didn't ask, but I wonder if "Pikey" is his real name or a sweet Whiskey Tango nickname.

Mama Tango had an awesome camera. Look at the picture from my phone and the picture that she had taken on her camera actually looks clearer than the rest of the picture. That's how awesome her camera was. It makes that small part of the picture from my camera clear. Its like when you see commercials for HD TV's on your black and white 9" screen. Supposedly, they want to show you how clear, colorful and dynamic this awesome TV is going to be if you buy it, but I am sitting here watching it on my POS. Still looks awful.

I consider myself a pretty knowledgeable baseball fan and let me just say that Mini Tango had an amazing baseball IQ for a ten-year-old. Lets go over a couple of our interactions:

Situation: 9th Inning. 1-1 Game. Cards Starting pitcher has 110 pitches and gives up a lead-off single.

Blake: They're going to pull him.

Mini Tango: This will be his last inning.

Blake: He's not going to make it through the inning. They have people warming up, he is tired and he just gave up a hit in a close game.

Result: Pitcher shuts down three straight batters to go to the bottom of the ninth.

Situation: Cards end the ninth. Top of tenth about to start with Giants hitting.

Mini Tango: They are going to bring in Franklin.

Blake: No they won't. Hes the closer. They don't have a lead. Plus, Reyes is warming up in the bullpen.

Result: Franklin comes in and shuts down 1-2-3

Shut up kid.

The game? It was awesome. 1-1. Bottom of the tenth. Young Cardinal sensation Colby Rasmus at the plate. Full count. Nobody on. Crack..........Get back baby, get back!

Whiskey Tangos and super fans alike go wild!

Rack 'em.

Petrol Please

"Check Gage (you stupid idiot)"

If my friend Eric is out there somewhere, he will distinctly remember the hot summer day that we were on our way to a tee time (with visions of 65 in our heads) when our plans were put to an abrupt halt because my car puttered out on the toll road due to lack of fuel. We had to walk a mile in our colorful polo shirts and pleated shorts to the petroleum oasis. Check Gage (you stupid idiot).

If my ex-girlfriend Natalie is out there, she will remember having to drive 15 miles- a week after we broke up- to bring me gas because my cell phone had died and she was the only number that I could remember off the top of my head. Check Gage (you stupid idiot).

Last night, this stupid idiot, once again, forgot to check the gage.

I should clarify. It's not that I forget to check the gage. It's for two other reasons that this quandary continues to appear in my life:

1. I detest getting gas. Therefore, I put it off as long as humanly possible. Obviously, a little too long at times. It is not any fun to spend 40 dollars and waste 10 minutes of my life at the filthy, god-forsaken location that is a gas station.

2. My car tells me the exact mileage I can drive until the tank is parched. The common thought is that this would be helpful to person with my unique deficiency. Wrong. If I know I have "2 MILES TO EMPTY," you can bet your house I am going to try and make 3. The problem is that sometimes my car is a dirty, rotten liar. It tricks me. "2" often (apparently) means two-tenths.

Running out of gas is far less embarrassing when you do it by yourself in the car. Unfortunately, that's not the way it went down this time. My friends Liz and Neel jump in the car at 11:55 at night very excited to get home and go sleep before the next day's work and vroo........vrooooooo...vroooooppppsssssmmmmm....rattlle..rattle.... $%@*^!!!!!!!!

That walk was fun. Neel got the opportunity to repay me for every single time I have called him an idiot and he enjoyed every second of it.

Let's pause for a second and re-live this gem:
Neel: Hey man- did I leave my putter on the last hole?
Blake: It's in your hand you f-ing moron.
Neel: I guess I deserved that.

And Liz? Oh yeah...she got to do this no less than a month ago. I swear I don't do it that much. It just happens at really bad times. But, is there a good time to run out of gas?

Portable gas canisters at your local gas stations are the ultimate example of supply and demand. You are out of gas. Your car is a considerable distance away from the gas dispenser. You need to bring the precious nectar to your automobile. What the hell else are you going to do? Carry it in a milk carton? I am quite sure that is illegal for good reason. They could charge $95 dollars for those 2 gallon containers and I would have no choice but to pull out the plastic. I have probably spent close to 60 dollars on those cans during my time as a license holder.

Yet again, I am asking the attendant where those beautiful red containers are located and making my way sheepishly back to my car with $2.46 cents worth of gas. As I pour, the annoying, drunk, female bar patron sitting outside next to my car says, "Ewww, that gas smells awful," in an annoying, drunk, female bar patron voice and I want to crawl into a hole. Not only am I showing the Central West End that I ran out of gas, I am spilling it all over the ground and my hands because the expensive canister is most definitely malfunctioning.

I get home, exit my car that now smells like a putrid combination of gas and fish (see: Fishing on a Monday), and walk inside. My roommate, Mike, says, "Dude, you smell awful. What happened?"

Piss off.

Fishing on a Monday

It's Monday afternoon. I imagine most young, urban professionals go home after work, cook dinner, have a drink, watch an hour of TV or so, and go to sleep. What do I do? Go fishing.

I like doing random activities on Mondays- golf, go see a movie, go to the casino, etc. If I do something fun at the beginning of the week, it makes Friday come faster. Today, I realize that I haven't been fishing since the winter has seized, and stop in at my local bait and tackle shop. Right when I walk in the door, I know I am going to spend fifty dollars. Fishing is supposed to be inexpensive, right? Wrong. Car mechanics, home depot employees, black jack dealers and bait and tackle dudes are the only four people that can get me to spend money with reckless abandon. If an auto mechanic told me that I needed to join a pyramid scheme or else my car would stop running the next time I tried to take a right, I would probably do it. Similarly, if a bait and tackle dude tells me that the only way to catch the local catfish is to hook a cotton ball and season it with lemon juice, I will ask how much? Sure enough, he loads my bag with a whole bunch of useless crap and I get out of there after $45.93. A bargain for the delicious 4 pound bass that is waiting for me in that lake.

I drive home, ice some beer, throw on some shorts, grab my dog and I'm off. I've had Magic for about 6 months now and I absolutely love it. For some reason, bringing her to do stuff like this makes me feel like a man. I stare at people as I walk out of the car with my gear wrapped around me and my dog at my feet- "That's right, I have a dog. I'm going fishin'." I unfold my chair, crack my first cold one, and start riggin' my lines. I decide to use one line to just sit in the water while I use the other to fish around the brush with a lure. I would much rather catch a fish with a lure because it's more fun, but I figure I will let one sit there with a bobber and a minnow and see what happens. The bait and tackle dude sold me these girly, bright orange bobbers. I would have chosen a different color myself, but he's the boss- what he says, I do. I throw it in, walk about fifty feet down the shore with my lure line and get to work.

Magic is loving life. She's walking up and down the beach smelling crap, rolling around in crap, eating crap and being a dog- doing dog stuff. She loves doing it and I love watching her do it. It's pretty hot and she occasionally dips her feet in the water. She's a lab and I know she loves to swim, but it takes her a second to get acclimated. I have a feeling she will eventually get in there and go for it which probably won't do wonders for my fish catching prospects, but whatever.

She continually gets braver and braver and finally goes all in. Now I will for sure have to move spots because I cannot imagine how utterly stupid a fish would have to be to take my bait while this is going on. But I decide to keep fishing until Magic comes in because, hey, what else am I going to do?

In the midst of all this awesomeness, I see a problem. Magic is going on a bee line toward the damn bobber. Shoot. She, most definitely, thinks that thing is for her. I am committing a fishing cardinal sin by yelling, but if she grabs that thing and swims who knows where, it could be a fishing disaster. Too late.

Magic grabs the girly bobber like it is a rare filet and swims like she just escaped Alcatraz. I drop my lure line and sprint over to the pole that just caught my dog (the only thing I catch all day) because it is now going into the lake. She exits the lake where she entered and sees me running which she translates into, "Oh, he must be playing a game." Bobber still in mouth, Magic runs down the shore and tangles the line over every blade of grass and branch she passes. She runs up to me, tail wagging victoriously, drops the bobber at my feet and shakes off all the water over me, my fishing stuff and my dignity.

At least she knows how to fetch- that's cool.