Or let’s say you’re still trying to write that post, but you realize you need to file a report for one of your jobs, so you get that cranked out in record time before realizing that you still haven’t made any headway on the post.

You could even have had an entire morning full of productivity: running errands, sorting laundry, exercising, researching upcoming events, looking into fun classes to take, sending birthday notes to friends and so on, and yet the post just sits there, empty.

So you get your full focus on, turning your muse into your bitch, and then you end up writing something so awesome, so amazing that you realize it has nothing whatsoever to do with a blog post, and is instead a part of the third chapter of that novel idea that’s been bouncing around in the back of your brain.

Maybe a nap will help!  You lay your head down and proceed to doze off for about 30 minutes.  You wake up feeling refreshed, but your brain is still a blank canvas, the “Add New Post” page on the WordPress back-end of your blog even more so.

Now, you’re feeling a bit panicked.  It’s well after noon, so the post is already late.  Maybe you can just put up some filler pictures – but then you remember that you wasted those a few weeks ago when you had a busy evening.  Or you could make up a list – but the only list you can think of is which restaurants you want to go to for restaurant week.

So you find a smooth section of the wall in your room, and proceed to bonk your head against it for the next three minutes, chanting “Think, think, think!”  Then your dog stops by, looks at you quizzically, and walks out.  So now you resort to stress-eating, pulling out a few chocolates left over from a baking expedition last weekend.  You stuff your face with a couple of them, then feel instant regret, since you haven’t had an actual lunch yet today, making the sugary, confectionery delight a Trojan Horse of unhealthiness seeping its way to your tummy.

Depressed and dejected, you slump your shoulders and shuffle back to your waiting laptop and begin to write about how you couldn’t think of anything to talk about today.  How cliché!  How overused!  How terrible!  You hate yourself more and more with each keystroke, cursing your feeble brain and hoping and praying that the results will be somehow acceptable.

Man, that sucks when it happens, huh?  Good thing I don’t have that problem.

My parents leave their answering machine blinking for weeks.  One of my best friends since preschool changed his greeting to, “TEXT ME.”  I can’t get a hold of an ex-roommate  because he hasn’t checked his messages in almost two months.

It’s quite frustrating.  So not too long ago, I decided to have fun with it.

Thanks to inventions like caller ID, phone number playback, and recognizable phone voices, the actual content of the message, unless it’s something rather pressing or serious, doesn’t need to be much.  After all, most voicemail messages boil down to one thing: “call me back.”  So with that being the implied content of every message, there’s no way to stick to the script.  So in the past, I’ve left messages as:

• A GI JOE sleep-away camp counselor warning parents about a possible COBRA spy
• A guy who thought that his bad date went really well
• An old man who keeps randomly pressing the buttons on the phone because he thinks he’s ordering his prescription refills
• A monkey with terrible gas
• A phone-in game show host who was offering fabulous prizes, like a pair of used flip-flops
• A representative of the financial aid department of a university that discovered that they had moved the zero one decimal place to the left on a report that they sent
• A pocket-dialer telling secrets about the recipients to their friends
• A faith healer who heals people over the phone
• A person who thinks they’re getting great signal reception, but it keeps cutting out

There are lots more, but the problem is that by the time most people listen to the messages, they’re just confused.  So while it might be funny right away, or even a couple of days later, once it passes the one-week mark, the message just seems out of place.  However, it does lead to some great calls back.  And I’ve noticed that I get quicker replies these days, too…

The movie did not disappoint.  If you like good movies, you should see it.**

The one thing I wasn’t sure if I would like, though, was the music.  The eponymous character inhabits a world in which there are a good number of bands (including his own).  Turns out I didn’t have anything to worry about, since there are some great tunes in the flick, from performers and groups like Beck, Broken Social Scene, Frank Black, and Metric.

The soundtrack is pretty rad.  If you like music, you should get it.**

The reason I’m bringing all of this up is because I get songs stuck in my head.  Frequently.  And my usual practices of song-stuck-in-my-head-removingness have failed.  In fact, three songs have been stuck in my head: “Invisible Gurlz,” a so-odd-it-works mashup of Katy Perry’s “California Gurlz” and Genesis’ “Invisible Touch,”  the horrible and crazy “Caramelldansen,” and most loudly, Scott Pilgrim‘s own “Threshold,” performed by movie band Sex Bob-Omb.

So, I’m gonna try to pass them all off on you, Internet readers!  Click the videos below and prepare to have music stream in through your ear-holes and never leave. Hum the songs in public places like a crazy person!

“Threshold”

“Invisible Gurlz”

“Caramelldansen”

Sorry about this, guys.  It’s like that part in The Ring when what’s-her-face makes all the duplicates of the tape to save herself and her family…

* I also went to see The Expendables, but that doesn’t really apply to this story.  They both are good movies, though!

** Unpaid endorsements, I swear.

After several days in Kingston, I was planning to leave at the crack of 5:00 AM to take a flight back to Toronto to take another flight back to Phoenix.  While the previous three days were filled with a lot of drinking, rabblerousing and general tomfoolery, the last had been a time for lazing about, doing some bits of work and just enjoying myself.  Lunch at a local favorite had been stellar, though the room service meal I’d decided on was a poor showing.  Nevertheless, the day had been filled with walking around town and across a bit of Lake Ontario, checking out the local scene and writing.  It was fairly exhausting.

And yet I couldn’t fall asleep.

I tell people that I have morning amnesia – I wake up and am a bit unaware of my surroundings, the date, the time, or (on occasion) how long I’ve been asleep.  This was especially fun for one particular ex-girlfriend, who made the mistake of falling asleep on my arm.  But that’s another story.

The thing I don’t tell people is that I can get evening amnesia, too.  If I’m up for too long, my mind will enter a drunk-like state, where I’ll still be fairly lucid, but will sometimes black out and wake up the next morning with no clear indication of what I’d done.  Usually, my evening amnesia-addled mind does stuff that I’ve been holding off on, to mixed results.

So at 1:15 AM, I had the last moment of lucidity before I woke up at 4:15 to get ready for the flights back.  I took a quick glance at my laptop, and apparently, there were several pages of notes scribbled down about a new site idea that I’d had, and my Gmail page open to a receipt showing that I’d bought a domain for the site.  I don’t remember any of this.

But the notes were solid, and the domain is a good one.  So I guess that I’m all right with this sort of behavior…for now.  But what happens when my evening amnesia starts to take on ambien-like properties?  Will I wake up one morning to find myself in another country, married to a woman who I’ve never seen before?  Will I have a stack of pancakes made and waiting for my consumption?  Will I have decided to run for public office?

There’s something strange going on in my head, and I don’t know where it’s going to lead.  All I can do is try to get a little more sleep time in, so I don’t wind up doing anything stupid, like buying a massage table on eBay.

Oh, wait.  I did that six years ago when I was in a similar state.  Shit.  This is worse than I thought.

When we’re sitting around, anticipating the arrival of anything, from a sandwich and coffee to a plane coming in, we engage in certain behaviors that are unique to each and every one of us.

Some people prefer the traditional toe tap.

Others will fall asleep.

Some will run around, screaming and being chased (these are usually toddlers).

There are those who paint a look of annoyance and grumpiness on their faces.

Many will zone out to do work, not even conscious of what they’re waiting for.

The occasional person will walk to and fro, looking for things to do to pass the time.

And some people stuff their faces with as much food and drink as possible during the interim, loudly chomping, spraying bits of partially-chewed detritus all over.

These patterns say something about us: how we deal with stress and excitement, how we control our anticipation, and how we focus.  Waiting styles are small vignettes that can tell us stories about other people, where they came from, and what they’re like.

And as for my waiting style?  I just tried to get some work done while staying away from the airport bars.

Enter one of my favorite sites when I happen to need it because a track is stuck in my head and I have no idea if they’re singing “The algebra has a devil for a sidekick eeeeeeeeee….” or “Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me…”*, I go to the Archive of Misheard lyrics, otherwise known as KissThisGuy.com.

I was explaining this site to a friend of mine the other day while we were waiting for a concert to start.  The site’s name is taken from the misheard lyric to Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze.” When the master of badass guitar riffs and other awesomeness sings, “Excuse me while I kiss the sky,” some people hear, “Excuse me while I kiss this guy.”  Kinda changes the meaning for the song, huh?

So as soon as I say the bad lyric (“kiss this guy”), some dude walks up to his buddy standing near us and says, “This guy?  THIS guy?!”

Okay, maybe you had to be there.  But it was pretty funny.  Then again, so is “Steak and a knife.”

*Of course I know this one.  It’s Bohemian Rhapsody, for goodness’ sake.  But when my friends and I broke out into song last week, some of them didn’t, and made that mistake.

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.

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

“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.

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?