Needle, Meet Haystack

You guys may not know this, but between growing up in the suburbs (Phoenix is pretty much all suburbs, folks) and going to college in Tulsa, Oklahoma, I’m pretty okay with the concept of Walmart.

That sound you’re hearing now is the sound of my 5 subscribers unsubscribing and the few dozen people who followed the link from Twitter throwing their heads back in anguish and screaming.  Or maybe it’s one of these.

If you’re still reading, please keep in mind I said the concept of Walmart, not the people.

At any rate, Walmart is great if you’re looking for a bunch of random stuff and don’t feel like shopping around.  Or if you want cheap stuff.  Or both.  Like, let’s say that you want some headphones that you’ll feel okay about leaving in the office in case the night cleaning crew decides to steal them.  And maybe also some travel-sized toothpaste for that trip you’ve got coming up.  And some Gatorade.  And some shorts.  And a banana.

Because apparently, Walmart found out that if you buy 6 random items or less, there’s something like a 20% chance that one of those items will be bananas.  Which is why Walmart has bananas all over.  Like by the hardware section, the sporting goods, and toys.  Yet, strangely, not by most of the other produce.

See?  Walmart teaches you things!

So, let’s back up before the bananas to the shorts.  Because I stopped buying or wearing shorts (besides swimming trunks) about 7 or 8 years ago when I realized that people think you’re more grown up and professional if you wear any sort of full leg covering, and I spend most of my time around air conditioning or heating, so what does it matter anyway.  But I’ve recently planned to go to a few places that may require being outside for longer with humid/uncomfortable climates during the hotter parts of the day.

Don’t judge me; it’s like 115 degrees Fahrenheit here on a nice day.

Anyway, I was looking around for some shorts that would be socially appropriate (Jeremy and I had a discussion about this a while back on Twitter), when I realized that none of the shorts were small enough for me.  Because thanks to my gigantic bootay, I’ve had the same pants size regardless of my actual waist for coming up on ten years now (in about two years).

So here I am, feeling pleased as punch, especially given the discussion about weight and all that somewhat serious stuff a few weeks ago, when I realize that Holy guacamole, I actually need shorts and they are not in my size! So maybe they run big or something, right?

Frantically searching for a sales associate to help me find the best pair of partial leg coverings available (besides, you know, this).  And the nice thing is that most of said items are less than the price of some value meals at certain fast food establishments.  But!  I’m willing to spend a bit more on quality.

So I find a middle-aged woman with a permanent scowl and librarian glasses that aren’t the sexy Tina Fey-type library glasses, but the Roz from Monsters Inc. type, and start telling her that I would like to find some shorts in my size and do they sell them at Walmart because I don’t think that I’m that much thinner-waisted than the average American, but if I am, that’s okay, because I wear a belt so that should help, right?

Then Roz tells me that they kinda have more than one rack of shorts at Walmart.

And it turns out that their sizes run a bit small anyway.

So I got my shorts for about the price of the complete series DVD collection of Birds of Prey, along with a few other things that I wanted to get.  But I skipped the bananas.  Because Walmart shouldn’t trick people into thinking that they’re skinny.  Or that there’s only one rack of shorts in the whole dang store.

We’ve all got one – the story we’ve told over and over again so many times that it’s like second nature.  The one that all of our friends and family know, and the one that we feel helps to illustrate something about us.  We all share these stories with new friends.  Sometimes they’re funny, sometimes they’re sad, and sometimes, they’re just odd.  This one is mine.

It was a Saturday in mid-August, and I was wandering around a local mall, basking in the air conditioned joy that one only truly experiences when living in the desert in August.  I stopped to look at a sign in front of a video game shop advertising a new console, when I heard a young voice shout, “It’s YOU!”

Before I had time to fully assess the situation, I found myself crowded by a half-dozen small children, the oldest of whom must have been eight or nine.  All of them had big grins on their faces, looking at me with wide-eyed wonder.  Finally, one of them, missing her two front teeth and with her hair in braided pigtails, spoke up.  ”Where’s your owl?”

I had no idea what she was talking about, and was about to tell her as much.  ”I, uh, don’t have an owl–” Then, I saw that behind the kids, there was a small army of their mothers, staring intently at me.  One of them made the universal sign for Play Along, while another shot me the look of death.  So I did the only thing I could do.

I lied.

“–here.  My owl is at home.”

I should probably point out that this occurred in 2000, before the films had come out.  I’d skipped the books, having skimmed a bit of the first and not enjoying it that much.  So it took me a while to catch on.

“Where’s your wand?” A boy in a Kermit shirt asked.

I waffled.  ”It’s at home, with the owl.”  The mothers were all glaring now.

“But shouldn’t a wizard always have his wand?”

“Well, usually, I guess so, but I’m on vacation, so it’s okay.”

“Don’t you spend your summers with your aunt and uncle?  In their basement?”

“They let me out.”

Another boy chimed in.  ”That doesn’t sound right…”

The glares were becoming quite intense now.

“Erm…I used a spell to get out of the house for a bit.”

“Don’t you need a wand for that?  And where’s your scar?”

And then I realized what was happening.

The kids thought that I was Harry Potter.

With the full power of a half-dozen mothers glaring at me viciously, I proceeded to badly mumble my way through about ten more minutes of questions.  And I must have done a pretty good job, since the kids asked me for autographs when it was all done.

It’s at this point that someone questions how much I looked like young Mr. Potter, so I show them my old license photo, taken a few years later. So, here’s my old license photo, taken a few years later.

After the kids and their moms (who stopped glaring some time around when I was answering questions about Hagrid) had left, I realized two things: I needed a haircut, and I might have been better off with contacts.  But that’s another story.

And years later, when I still tell the tale of how I had been a fictional character for about 15 minutes, I think of the best part: there’s around a half-dozen guys and girls who are probably in college now that have autographs from Harry Potter.

Every month, I get hundreds upon hundreds of spam comments that are caught in my blog’s spam filter. Sometimes they’re philosophical, sometimes they’ve got a funny sense of irony…what will they have today?  Now with commentary!

“TL;DR; but you have great pictures.” -Cheap Home Loans, on Do You Have a Life?

Man, when the spam says it skipped through your post, that’s just harsh.

“EXACTLY what I’ve been looking for! Thanks so much!” -Women’s Shoes, on Teams Are for Suckers

“Thanks for this useful article.” -Cheap MBA, on The Great Idea Garage Sale

“My cousin recommended this blog and she was totally right keep up the fantastic work!” -Forex Robot, on Something’s Gotta Give

That’s better.  Cheap Home Loans, flattery is always the better option.  Even though you’re all spam.

“Good dispatch and this fill someone in on helped me alot[sic] in my college assignement[sic]. Thank you as your information.” -iPod Hacks, on Friends I’ve Never Met by Ashley Campbell

Good job, Ashley!  You helped a spam post with its college assignement!

“Fascinating Information…This site disagrees with you though…” -LCD TV, on I Don’t Give a Damn About My Reputation

“Great site…This site says the same…” -LCD TV, on I Don’t Give a Damn About My Reputation

Make up your mind, dude. [Please note, they forgot to include links to said sites]

“I caught myself. Biting my lip I leaned aid, easing the [censored] into my neck joint, and I felt myself shaking with orgasm. I rammed my [censored] into the palisade in my necessity, riding the [censored] behind me for all it was worth. It felt as notwithstanding I was being [censored] in two and I felt myself inadequate to on again and again. Bracing myself on the reverse barrier, I reached privately, gripping the [censored] as it [censored] me, belief it go in and extinguished of my [censored] and I squeezed my cheek. Disappointing to be [censored] so unluckily, I grabbed and kneaded my [censored] frantically. Slamming into the [censored], it looked like an earthquake was hitting the restroom as the stalls swayed backside and forth to my [censored]. Pounding my [censored], I stuck my fingers into my [censored], [censored]ing myself. My [censored] rubbed against my [censored] as I did so, and I screamed. [censored] me you [censored]! I heard him catch a breath from behind the wall, and I renewed my pace as I felt him [censored] me, help me in my quest to make him [censored]. Flexing my [censored] to bleed him deeper, I withdrew to the [censored], in front of slamming endorse down.” -Physician’s Assistant, on The Beard Paradox

Physician’s Assistant, I don’t think most of that is anatomically possible.  Shouldn’t you, as a physician’s assistant, know that? I did get to turn it into censored Mad Libs, so thanks for that.

“Pretty nice post. I just stumbled upon your blog and wanted to say that I have really enjoyed browsing your blog posts. In any case I’ll be subscribing to your feed and I hope you write again soon!” -Bestiality Porn, on What’s the Point of Reruns?

Oh, COME ON.

Well, guys, I think it’s safe to say that I’m getting Jamie and Nicole’s spam now.

Well, I’m sure some people care about your fat ass.  And they definitely care about your phat ass.  Heck, I like to think that some people care about my fat ass.  But one thing that I hope no one cares about is my fat gut.

I’ve become a little obsessed with my weight lately, with four generations’ worth of Diabetes in the family, as well as heart disease and other fun ailments fueling my paranoia.  Over the years, I’ve done everything from trying crash diets to daily 3-hour gym sessions to binging on sugary, fatty crap as I tried to assure myself that it wouldn’t happen to me yet.  Every pound I put on is a small defeat in a war I see no end of.

This guy needs to shut the heck up, you’re saying to yourself.  So what if he’s got a spare tire or something?  I saw that video he did a while back, and he looks okay to me. To which I would reply, “You hear about skinny fat people?  Yes, that’s a thing.  And yes, I might be one of them.”

We hear commentators all the time espousing on how the advertising and entertainment industries give people a poor body image.  And while I don’t necessarily agree with that sentiment, it seems like they’re missing the overarching issue: having too much extra weight isn’t healthy.  And I’m deathly afraid of ballooning up like, well, a fat-filled balloon.

Last week, I was in Vegas (that explains where the NSS went then, huh?), lounging at the pool with some of my friends, when I realized that I had left my wallet up at the room.  So, with the kind of thinking that only comes with drinking two or three 32-ounce mojitos, I toweled off, grabbed my room key card, slid on my sandals, and proceeded to head back up to the room.  Sans shirt.

It was only after I’d arrived at the room that I realized what had happened.  And while I’m pretty sure a lot of it had to do with my not walking on the casino floor, no one I passed batted an eye or made any mention of how I looked.  They just didn’t care about my fat ass.

So maybe I’m blowing this whole thing out of proportion.  I mean, it’s a good idea to eat healthy and exercise, but the rare twinkie or occasional cookie isn’t the worst thing in the world.  And as long as I stay in decent shape (instead of becoming a shape), there’s no reason to really stress out about it too much.  But it is my responsibility.

After all, if I don’t care about my fat ass, who will?

Due to some unforeseen circumstances, NSS is cancelled this week.  Reports indicate that the Twitter Fail Whale  may be involved, as an onlooker took this photograph shortly after the incident.

Police are currently investigating.  Detective NotAnActualPerson had this to say:

“We have no idea what’s going on, or if the whale is involved.  Maybe the guy just took a weekend off and decided to come up with a BS excuse and filler.  We’re looking at all the angles here.”

Neither Andrew nor the Fail Whale have issued statements at this time.

“About a month ago, I got a cactus, and a week later, it died. I got really depressed because I was like, damn, I am less nurturing than a desert.” -Demetri Martin

On the list of things that I don’t do very well, gardening and plant care is pretty high up there.  I’m fine with animals (kept a goldfish I won at a carnival alive for over three years, plus my dog is in great health despite being the dog-years equivalent of Betty White’s older sister), but I just fail with plants.

I’ve tried everything from herbs (basil and thyme) to fruit (strawberries and oranges) to generic plants (ferns and assorted small succulents), but they all seem to die on me.  Hell, the cacti I bought during college kicked the bucket when I forgot to turn off the heat to the apartment over Winter Break.  And you only need to really check in on a cactus once a week.

So the problem turned into a question: is there any plant I can successfully not kill?  And given that I wanted to spruce up my desk at work, is there any that would be fine getting fluorescent light and recycled air that I can successfully not kill?

Enter lucky bamboo.

It’s quite possibly the lowest-maintenance thing ever.  No soil needed, water whenever the levels are low, and that’s it.  So far, it’s been over three months, and it’s doing fine.  So maybe it was a question of finding a plant that can keep up with my clumsy care versus trying to increase my horticultural abilities.

But seriously, I killed a friggin’ cactus.  That might count as a demerit on my future application for a parenting license.

I swear, you guys, I almost called this one If You Say I’m Nice or Smart, I Will Straight Up Punch You in the Mouth.  And now I feel that that requires some explanation.

Back in the early days of elementary school, we would have a yearly Valentine’s Day thing where everyone would pick up a box or two of character-branded valentines, some mini candies, and would then proceed to write little notes to each other.  We’d wind up giving the cards to everyone in class, each with a school-mandated compliment.  Every year, almost all of the ones I received said something like “You’re nice,” or “You’re smart.”

Now, I don’t mean to be a stickler about what a third-grader defines as a compliment, but I don’t really think that either of those qualify.  To me, seeing those words on the cards was about the same as seeing something like, “You have hair on your head,” or “Your name is Andrew.”  They didn’t mean anything, because they didn’t say anything.  One could argue that smart and nice are compliments, but they came across as statements, or noting characteristics.

I think this is why I have a hard time taking any sort of real compliment.

When one of my first girlfriends told me that she thought I was attractive, I didn’t buy it, so I had to awkwardly accept it and pretend that I did.  When someone says that they think I’m a good writer, I don’t really believe it.  Then again, it could be because I’m not auditory-based.

I’ll probably go into more detail about this in another post, but there are three types of feeling-based comments, and people respond to one more than the other two:

• Auditory – best respond to things described in words; they will use the terms “sounds” or “hear” more often
• Visual – keyed into visual and seen cues; use words like “see” or “look”
• Tactile – need to feel, physically or emotionally; use words like “get” or “feel”

I love words and language; hell, I wouldn’t have a blog if I didn’t.  But I respond to tactile (or kinesthetic) stimuli.  So if you tell me you like something, I won’t take it as much.  But if you tell me why you like it, or how it makes you feel, or even offer constructive criticism on how you think it could be better, that I will appreciate.

Think about what comments and discussions you appreciate most.  You’ll probably notice a theme that runs through them in how they’re worded.  By discovering this pattern, you can learn how to connect with others, and how to get the most out of your own interactions.  I’ve gotten around this quasi-barrier by mentally editing things that people say to me into a kinesthetic sense; it helps me to understand them better.  And while we’re not talking in different languages, this translation makes communication a lot easier.

Still, when it comes to giving compliments, receiving compliments, staying in touch with people, leaving comments on blogs and so on, it can be hard for me to deal with if it’s a simple message with no weight behind it.  Because to me, that’s just a statement.  It’s as bland and powerless as “smart” or “nice.”

Not that I don’t appreciate it.  And if it comes on a little card with candy, I’ll definitely take it.

In my early college days, I spent a lot of my free time writing short stories and essays.  Here’s one of the first ones I did, which still seems to hold up pretty well, especially as a quick weekend read.

My dad has this old typewriter that was made years before I was a twinkle in his eye. It’s a heavy, lumbering brick of a machine, a metal monstrosity that drags your arm down when you grab hold of the handle on its cover and take it anywhere. The thing is large and unwieldy; you have to pound the keys so hard that it makes your fingertips hurt after just a line. There’s an old ribbon of ink that’s probably older than me. I wonder if they even make those ribbons for it anymore.

When you try to type on it, you have to be careful. If you tap too soft, nothing comes out on the page. Too hard and you tear through the paper. None of the letters seem quite level with each other, and when the bell dings and it’s time for the next line, the spacing seems to vary. I look at this thing and think about the laptop on my desk and wonder how Dad ever made it through college without being able to correct his mistakes before he printed, much less without the Internet.

I remember when I hadn’t even thought of heading off from home, more concerned with a book report and trying to do stuff with my friends on the weekend, when he showed it to me. “I bought this before I started college. It was top of the line,” he said. “All the newspaper reporters used it. You haul it anywhere, and you just needed some paper to make it go.”

We didn’t have a computer back then, but we had a more recent model with two fonts and built-in white-out. It was the size of a small briefcase and roared with power. Thinking of this, I gave him this weird look and said, “We’ve got an electric one. Why would I bother to use this one?”

He looked at me with that look that dads give you when they’re about to impart some great advice or wisdom. “Sometimes, you can’t get to electricity.”

Dad went to college a long time ago. Or what seems like that to me. He told me stories of his youth, back when so much of what’s now the buildings and streets of civilization were still nature, just a wide open space ripe for exploring. He’d speak of adventures beyond the border of the country over long weekends with friends, before the world became close-knit. They would explore. Go on adventures. This was a time when there was still a world to explore, unknowns all around if one just knows where to look.

He spent summer days working at a ranch that’s now an upper-middle class shopping center. Long roads once surrounded by nature are now blocked up with houses so high that they spill onto the mountains. He’d always say to me, “I remember when there was nothing here, when you could find a perfect view of the sunset no matter which way you looked.” He remembers climbing around in ruins before the government made people stand and look at them from a distance.

When I was eleven, we went to one of these places. “Do you know why today is special?” he asked me. “They’re letting people walk around in the ruins again. Just like I did when I was a kid. You’ll probably never get a chance like this again.” I don’t remember much about that day, but I remember my sneakers smearing the dusty earth with an imprint, and wondering if it would still be there years from now. The aged walls of the building seemed to speak to Dad. It was like he was remembering what it was like when he walked through them years ago, taking the same steps that he had in his memories.

After a few months at the university, I thought that I had a good grasp of what college life was like. The underage drinking, the tight clothes of the sorority girls, the sleeping in and missing early classes, the pranks. I wondered why Dad never said anything about all of this. This was the fun stuff that made it interesting. The small details of partying and debauchery that I had never thought would exist. I wondered if there was a mental reset button that hits people when they leave college that makes them forget about how much fun it can be. How wild and crazy and free you can feel.

It wasn’t long before I started feeling that reset button coming on. Bouts with alcohol poisoning, bad hook-ups, worse grades, and security reports began to take their toll. I wondered if I was missing something from the experience. Everything around me was so urbanized. There was no place to explore. Capitalism and progress had pushed forward so much since my father’s day that there were no unknowns. The mystery of life seemed to disappear.

While home over the summer, I found the old typewriter again, holding onto its last ribbon, sturdy and faithful as ever. When no one was home, I took off the green shell that covered the keys and put in a piece of paper. I pressed the keys, at first too soft, then too hard. It took me a while to get it right, but once I realized how the letters fit together, how the small rods darted out and pressed ink to the page, it started to make sense. This typewriter wasn’t a tool for my father during college, it was college. Like it is for me.

There are common experiences that we all share in our youth, but over time, the lessons we learn from them are all that remain, not the stories behind them. The tales we tell are from our friends, from once-in-a-lifetime chances that pass by if you blink. They’re a chance to see a sunset, or leave a footprint in the dirt. There are still adventures among the unknown and mysterious, but sometimes they’re harder to see than just looking around an open space.

And sometimes they’re right in front of you.

Every month, I get hundreds upon hundreds of spam comments that are caught in my blog’s spam filter.  Last month, the results were surprisingly philosophical; some of them seemed like they could have been written by real people with unfortunate commenter names.  This month?  Not so much…

“Nice content. Thank you for your information.” -Free Keylogger, on The Great Idea Garage Sale

“Hello, I’ve browsed most of your posts on this blog. This post is probably where I got the most useful information! Thanks” -Porno, on The Undomesticated Bachelorette by Elisa Doucette

“My wifes personal computer had been taken over due to pop ups fortunately I discovered this helpful help and advice on how to stop pop ups. I strongly recommend it for everybody having difficulties from unwelcome pop up ads.” -Nursing Schools, on The Top 9 Blogs of 2009 (That Aren’t This One)

“My cousin recommended this blog and she was totally right keep up the fantastic work!” -Gucci Shoes, on Non-Sequitur Saturday: Why I Blog

“According to reports, China National Highway 050 line is southwest passage to the sea, once the accident caused traffic disruption in this important, to 6 pm the same day the traffic resumed.” -Air Jordan Sale Crazy Low Prices, on Non-Sequitur Saturday: Notes from the Spam Filter

“I searched for something completely different, but found your website! And have to say thanks. Nice read. Will come back.” -Ed Hardy Wines by the Case, on Why Don’t Gen-Y Bloggers Talk About Deadmau5?

“Hi and bye.” -Chanel no. 4 Secret Perfume Limited Time Only, on Val Kilmer and The Power of Groups

Maybe the spam filters are getting smarter.  Or at least someone is teaching Air Jordan Sale Crazy Low Prices about how to have a sense of humor.

A few years ago, I figured out this awesome method for determining if you should go to bed.  Please understand that the caveat is that this is rendered null by the inclusion of alcohol or other chemical enhancements.

All you need to do is say the word “spoon” as slowly as you can.  If you laugh, you’re tired and should go to bed.  If you don’t, you’re good to go.

I have no idea where this came from, other than the knowledge that the word “spoon” is intrinsically humorous.  But when one becomes tired or exhausted, its powers grow exponentially.

The Tired Test, as it has come to be known, has been tested the world over (20 countries on 5 continents!) and has been proven effective over 90% of the time.  So if you’re debating going out after that 11:45 PM text about a house party, or looking for an excuse to check out of a lame get-together early, tell ‘em you used the Tired Test.

And if they ask you to explain, just say “spooooooon” – chances are, they might need a nap too.