What are you Doing New Year's Eve?

I like New Year's Eve, even though I understand why many people don't. 

Most celebrations are outdoors in the cold, and the night involves hours of standing around waiting on a 10-second countdown.  The bars and restaurants that beg for your business every other day of the year suddenly charge exhorbitant prices just to enter throught their doors tonight.

If you choose not to venture outside, your viewing options are limited to the same Dick Clark's Rockin' New Years show they play every year, complete with Clark's incoherent countdown and lip synched performances by B-level celebrities. 

And if you don't live in the Eastern Time Zone, the countdown for your time zone might not even get rebroadcast at midnight.

That's what's wrong with New Year's Eve. 

But I like it anyway.

I like it because most everyone is off today and gets at least a few hours to think about what they accomplished this year, where they failed, and what they learned about themselves in the process.  It's a day to think about what we want our lives to look like at this time next year. 

We spend so much time trying to accomplish our lives' to-do list that we don't often get the chance to think about whether the things on that list should even be there in the first place. 

Today provides a chance to do that.  During the day, we can think about what we want our lives to look like and to figure out how to make that reality.

At nighttime, we can celebrate that all the crap from the past year is about to be behind us. 

For that, enduring an evening of Dick Clark's Horrible New Year's Eve show is a small price to pay.  

Still Slacking

One more week of 2011 means one more week of blog slacking.  I'm excited about coming back fresh in 2012 for a full year's worth of new columns, but I'm even more excited about the idea of taking nine days off work, one final week to rest my brain and see my family without external obligations.

So while I'm off doing all that, here's a link to tide you over until I come back.  Have a very merry Christmas, and I'll see you very soon.

Until then, if you want an inspirational holiday message, here's my post-flood reflections on God not being in the storm, but in its response. 

If you want some light hearted holiday cheer, you can read my first full length blog, about my still-ongoing struggle with the frogs in my neighbor's swimming pool.  Go ahead and laugh.  Tonight thank God its me instead of you.

The Real Meaning of Christmas

So this is Christmas, and what have you done?

No really, that's not a rhetorical question.  What has your Christmas season looked like so far?

If you are like most people, you've spent the last few weeks shopping, wrapping presents, attending obligatory holiday functions, and with any remaining time, finishing up your shopping. Maybe you've heard a Christmas carol or two along the way, but for most people, the obligations of the Christmas season have very little to do with the reason we celebrate Christmas in the first place.

It's no wonder that Linus had to spend the climax of "Charlie Brown's Christmas" to remind us what Christmas is about.

Of course, Christmas gets celebrated on a larger scale than Easter because it has meaning to people beyond it religious importance. It's a day that exists to celebrate Jesus's birth, but it's a day that means something different to everyone.  Like a good U2 song, it can be appreciated equally at the surface level, or for its spiritual message.

To some people, it's just a day about presents, to others it's about family, and to retail stores, it's a day of salvation from an otherwise oppressive economy.  To the couch potato, it's a season of plentiful food and college bowl games.To an overworked attorney/blogger (who sometimes doubles as the couch potato), the Christmas season increasingly represents a rare break from the crushing obligations of work in the professional world.
 
To Christians, the celebration of Jesus' birth represents proof that there's a Creator of the Universe who cared enough about the creation to become actively involved in it, and whose coming freed humanity from its own failures and limitations. 
 
Who is right?

I used to be one of those "Christmas Warriors" who resented any effort, by anyone, to make Christmas mean anything other than the sentiment two paragraphs above. 
 
I'm not one of those people anymore.  It's not because I'm less religious.  It's because of something Jesus said.  After all, who knows more about Christmas than him?  
 
When he was here, Jesus said that he came not only to provide a path for eternal peace with God in the afterlife, but also to make our lives better, more abundant, while we are here.  A recipe for that abundant life is to enjoy the pleasures--family, relaxation, togetherness--that this life has to offer.  Christmas is one of the few times in life that we stop to celebrate the things that make life good.  Even if that is all that Christmas means to someone, they are still getting its greater point at some level.   
 
Viewed in that light, even the "secular" side of Christmas has a deeper meaning.  
 
I don't have all the answers in life, but I do know this: God doesn't want our lives to be easy, but God wants us to be happy while we're here.  If Christmas is a means to that end, then I'm not going to get in the way of that by telling anyone they should celebrate it differently.  
 
Don't get me wrong.  It still drives me crazy that the commercialism and endless obligations of Christmas sometimes overshadow everything else.  Most everyone agrees that isn't supposed to be the point of Christmas, even if it sometimes slides down that slippery slope. 
 
Everyone knows Christmas is something deeper than that, even if few want to define it, for fear of not being sufficiently inclusive. 
 
So what is the real meaning of Christmas?
 
The meaning of Christmas isn't just that Christmas has meaning.  It's deeper than that.  The meaning of Christmas is that Christmas is meaningful.  So meaningful that it can still be appreciated, even for those who only appreciate a fraction of its intended message.  
 
Not many people know "Where the Streets Have No Name" is a song about Heaven, but almost everyone turns up the volume when it comes on the radio. 

Christmas is the same way. 

It's a day worth celebrating whether you understand the spiritual message of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," or whether you just hum along because the tune is irresitible.

Just Slacking, Week 2

I briefly interrupt my December of leisure to reflect on what might have been the worst week of my life.

There wasn't much that was good about the Nashville Flood of 2010.  Houses flooded (mine included), business were lost, and a good portion of my city was destroyed, and it still hasn't fully recovered. 

My only solace was that I had just started this blog the month before, so at least I had a place to vent.

Ironically, the flood somehow resulted in a water shortage.  One particular night of the ordeal stands out, even now.  It was the night I spoke to the least effective phone rep of all-time, who worked for the local water company.

It was hellish to live through, but I still laugh when I re-read the details.     

Enjoy.  I'll be back with an original Christmas-themed post next week.  Consider it an early Christmas miracle!

Week 1 of Just Slacking

The first week of my blog-related Christmas slacking has been a resounding success.  I have written anything, or even thought about writing anything, and still, more people seem to be reading than usual.  Perhaps there is a connection here.

If this keeps up I may never write again!  So whoever those people in Canada are who are reading at an astounding rate this week, keep up the good work!
 
I can't write any more, because to do so would come dangerously close to breaking my self-imposed Holiday Vow of Laziness, so I'm just going to leave you with some links.  I couldn't decide between something serious and something funny, so I thought I'd give you one of both and let you decide, based on your mood. 

This one is one of my all-time favorites about life's missed opportunities (or possibly just about a video game, if you don't want to think too deeply). 

Or you can read me making fun of a really dumb sign.

It's up to you.  I'm off to bed. 

Mailing It in for the Holidays

This year, I'm going to take part in a time-honored American holiday tradition that I've always wanted to try: I'm going to mail it in for the holidays. 

I plan to enjoy every second of it.  I'm going to slide by while doing as little as possible. Anything I can put off until January will get shoved to the side.  Anything that isn't urgent won't get done at all.  I'm coming in late, leaving early, and taking two-hour lunches. 

It's going to be wonderful.

The only problem with my otherwise-foolproof plan is that I can't actually do any of this at my real job.   I actually have stuff to do there--stuff that seems beyond my capacity even when I'm operating at 100 percent.

And right now I'm most certainly not. No American really is this time of year.  We don't get as much vacation time as the rest of the industrial world, so we're left going through the motions for the month of December to compensate.  And since I can't do it at my real job, you can bet your bottom dollar I'll be doing it right here.  Heck, I might not even finish this column.

The blog is going to redefine laziness over the next month.  I could post crappy stuff that I don't put any thought into, but even that sounds like too much effort. I might occasionally log in to check my page views, but I'm going to at least save my info so I don't have to re-type my login every time.

Why am I doing this, you ask? 

First, because it's the American way.  For all my loyal readers in Denmark, consider this a cultural education. 

Beyond that, I'm way behind in writing for my other websites, and people don't take much time to read blogs during a busy Christmas season anyway, so it seems like a good time to recharge for a renewed blogging push in January.  More importantly, posting old stuff makes it look like I'm still doing something when I'm actually not.

So what can you expect over the next month? 

Not very much!  I'll still post a blog every week in December, but rather than produce something mindless (even more mindless than usual, that is), I'm going to re-post some of my favorite stuff from the blog's earlier days.   

More of you are reading now (for reasons I'm happy about but have yet to entirely understand), so this seems like a good chance to re-introduce some old columns that never hit it big because they posted before their time.

I'll be back with an original post shortly before Christmas, but until then, enjoy a collection of my overlooked favorites, as well as a classic or two from this year.  I won't call it a "best-of" because, let's face it, all my stuff is crap.  After all, my best-read column of all-time, the only one that's ever truly gone viral, is about bugs gone wild.  

So, I realize that my stuff might be crap, but some it is crap that I'd like to share. 

And isn't that what the holidays are really all about? 

Other than a chance to be lazy, that is.

Why I'm Thankful for Thanksgiving, and 18 Other Things, Too

Thankfully, Thanksgiving is almost here.

It’s the time of year when we eat, watch football, eat, visit with family, and, most importantly, eat. And then we go back for leftovers.

Thanksgiving is an underrated holiday. People who study these kinds of things say that nothing elevates one’s general level of happiness more than persistent thankfulness. Clearly the researchers involved in this study didn’t have to deal with a drunken Uncle Jimmy who overstays his welcome and belches loudly during dessert, but if the research is true, then Thanksgiving should be the happiest day of the year.

Aside from the Uncle Jimmy (or the relevant obnoxious dinner guest at your table), though, there's a pretty good argument that Turkey Day is the best day of the year.

It offers all the togetherness and joy of Christmas, but there are no presents to buy, nothing to wrap and nothing to think about beforehand other than a holiday menu, which doesn’t change much on annual basis anyway.

Plus, unlike with every other holiday under the sun, we celebrate this one at the beginning of its holiday weekend instead of the end.

Suffice to say, I’m thankful for Thanksgiving.

That isn’t all I’m thankful for, though. Later on, I’m going to sit down (or possibly just crouch) and write out 101 things for which I’m grateful. I think is important to do this because 101 is an indisputably festive number.

Here, however, I’m only going to mention 19.  This will take significantly less effort to both write and read, and we can both be thankful for that because you probably have a turkey to baste anyway.

Here goes:

1. Thanksgiving.
2. Turkey.
3. Thanksgiving Turkey.
4. My cats. At least when they aren’t engaging in a flying leap onto one of my sensitive body parts in the small hours of the morning.
5. Coffee on a rainy day.
6. Or any other day.
7. That we live in a world where grapes magically become wine when they sit in a barrel long enough.
8. Answered prayers, and the lessons learned from the ones that aren’t answered as I would have liked.
9. Close friends. The real ones. The people who you not only see all the time, but whose presence reminds you why you love them every time you do.
10. Political ads featuring sheep with glowing red eyes.
Google it.
If you don’t yet know what I’m talking about, you’ll thank me later.
11. The chance for an Alabama/LSU rematch in the college football national title game. Even if it risks even further damage to my marriage.
12. Long weekends.
13. Patios on warm days.
14. Noon hotel check-out times.
15. That it has been more than 18 months since either my city or my house has been underwater.
16. My chiropractor, my wife and family, the employees at my local Jack-in-the-Box, the renter who occupies the house I can’t sell, and everyone else without whom my life would come to immediate and irreparable ruin.
17. That my memories are still outnumbered by my dreams. Even if, currently, those dreams primarily involve eating a lot of turkey.
18. People who read blogs.
19. Especially mine.


God bless, and have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Dear Retail Store: It's Not Christmas Season Yet

This is madness, and it has to stop. 

Christmas season starts the day after Thanksgiving. 

That's not now. 

I've had it.  When I walked into the store after a workout on November 16th, I shouldn't be unable to find a power bar because that whole aisle has already been replaced with seasonal holiday items.  When I go to the mall on Veteran's Day, I shouldn't see Christmas trees.  When I turn on my radio on November 2nd, I shouldn't hear a merry voice telling me that it's the most wonderful time of the year. 

Because it isn't.

Every year the retail world's Christmas Season seems to creep a little earlier onto the calendar.  I understand stores' temptation to do it: they hope that the earlier people see Christmas items, the earlier they will start shopping.  But it's gotten out of hand.

This year, on Halloween night, I went into my local CVS to grab a prescription and a diet coke.  At 6:30 that night, they had already removed all of their Halloween stuff and stocked their aisles for Christmas.

This means two things.  First, it means that it's a really bad idea to wait until Halloween night to shop for a Halloween costume.  But beyond that, it means that Christmas has now not only overwhelmed Thanksgiving, but skipped in front of Halloween as well. 

Pardon me, but doesn't it seem like the holiday celebrating the birth of Jesus, he of all those teachings about humility and showing consideration for others, should wait it's turn? 

It's not that I don't love Christmas.  I really do, as do most of the other out there, who like me, want to help preserve the sanctity of the holiday season by not stretching it into October.  I complain because I care. 

The problem with starting Christmas season too early isn't just that it takes the emphasis off of other important days like Thanksgiving and Veteran's Day that deserve attention on their own merit.  It isn't just that stretching the holiday season from one month to two months makes it feel less special.  And it isn't just that the practice is yet another example of our materialistic society emphasizing mindless consumerism over the holiday's deeper meaning.

All of those annoyances are valid, but they aren't the whole story. 

The worst part of Christmas creep is this: The holiday season is the one time a year when most working adults are allowed to eschew their obligations for two weeks and relax with their loved ones.  Getting to that point generally requires one final burst of adrenaline in mid-December to finish all of life's final non-holiday obligations for the year, and make one last mad dash to fulfill those new year's resolutions for the year before everything shuts down. 

So when Christmas carols play this time of year, a time when getting to the end of our year's to-do list is not even remotely in sight, it just reminds us of everything that's left to be done before we can relax and enjoy the music.

That's not festive.  It just adds a whole new layer of stress. 

And it needs to stop, before Christmas takes over July 4th as well. 

Older than Jesus

It’s official: I’m now older than Jesus Christ.

I don’t mean that as sacrilege; it's just a fact.

Jesus accomplished his mission on this Earth in 33 years. Whatever mine is hasn’t been fully accomplished yet, and last week I turned 34. That means that Jesus was able to secure the salvation of the world in less time than it’s taken me to learn conversational Spanish.

Ouch.

You might be thinking that it isn’t fair to compare oneself to God incarnate. That’s a fair point.

But it isn’t the whole point.

I don’t think God expects me to heal lepers, raise the dead or walk on water, at least not before I turn at 37. At minimum.

But here's the thing: if the years from 30-33 were the most productive time of HIS life, I can’t help but wonder if I should have done more with mine.

I often struggle with the question of whether I’m accomplishing anything meaningful in life rather than just going through its motions--paying the bills, working 40-hour weeks, and watching my favorite shows on tv.
I think my law enforcement job is beneficial, but I’m not so deluded as to think that hundreds of other attorneys couldn’t step in and do the same thing I do, some of them better than I.

I started this blog to do something unique, but making jokes about attacking insects and complaining about holidays that fall on a Monday only helps society so much.

It’s easy to look around and get discouraged at the realization that one’s post-graduate dreams won’t be realized. In my 20s, I came to grips with the fact I’ll never be President, or even follow in my dad’s cousin’s shoes as a U.S. Senator, and that no history books would be incomplete for lacking my biography.

In my early 30s, it dawned on me that I’m not likely to ever even be fully financially comfortable, at least in the upper-middle class sense of the phrase.

But none of that really matters.

Contrary to what society likes to tell us, God never called us to achieve success. We’re just supposed to find an activity that feels uniquely our own and give it our all.

There’s a peace in that. We aren’t responsible for our life’s results, only our life’s efforts.

I might or might not achieve fame and fortune and enlighten the world by Just Thinking. But the crazy thing is that if I fail, it won’t really bother me. Five years ago, it used to tear me up inside that I never saw how far writing career could have gone—that I had as much ability as some of my old friends who hit it big but never found a way to try.

Now, I’m at least finding out. If the blog plateaus at 500 monthly views and no one ever pays me to write sports columns, at least I’ll know I did my part. I found something important to me and gave it my best shot.

And that’s what's really important.

I may not have figured out how to turn water into wine, but I’m glad I at least figured out that.

Alabama Or LSU Will Survive Saturday's Game, But My Marriage May Not

While most of the college football world has been counting down until the Alabama/LSU game, my wife and I can’t wait until it ends.

That is the price of being in a mixed marriage between an Alabama and an LSU fan.

My wife and I agree on a lot of things. We love each other, college football, a good bowl of gumbo and the New Orleans Saints, though not necessarily in that order.

This arrangement works well for us 364 days a year. But this Saturday, no matter who wins Alabama’s game against LSU on Saturday, we’re both going to end up feeling like losers.

The collateral damage this game brings our household on annual basis far outpaces the joy of victory either of us experiences for a win. Every year when our teams play, we sit silently on opposite sides of our couch, with competing sets of team-branded merchandise before us, rooting under our breath for our own team’s success and, by implication, the other’s demise.

It’s a miserable experience.

The joy of every on-filed success is dulled by the realization that every positive emotion a good play brings is balanced by an equally negative emotion from the other half of my household.

We cheer in muted breaths for fear that if one of us oversteps into what could be construed as taunting, our marital acrimony will last beyond the end of the game. As it often does.

Watching this game is torture on an average year. This season, when the winner of this game becomes the presumptive national champion and the loser is reduced to playing out the string while hoping for a miracle, there may be more tension on our couch Saturday night than in the entirety of Bryant-Denny Stadium.

I can’t imagine how the loser will manage to survive.

Not to mention our marriage.

Born in Mobile, I’ve been an Alabama fan since I was old enough to watch football. I went to college there largely for the purpose of getting discount student tickets.

Saturday isn’t just a game to me. Alabama may have won a National Title two years ago, but the bitterness from heavy-handed NCAA sanctions and our programs struggles still lingers among Alabama fans, especially in light of Auburn’s NCAA-loophole-fueled title run that we Alabama fans know the NCAA would have never let us to get away with.

We need one more national title to clear the bad taste out of our mouths, and our window might close after this year. Nick Saban, in his fifth year at Alabama, turned 60 Monday, and only one coach (Mack Brown) has ever won a BCS title more than five years into a tenure as head coach at the winning school. We need this game.

Of course, none of this matters to my wife. She just wants another national title and readily points out that she’s due because my team has won one since hers has.

My wife is from New Orleans, and one of the reasons I married her was her intense football devotion. I’m the envy of all my friends most weekends, when they spend their Saturdays completing honey-do lists while my wife is perfectly happy to schedule our lives around important games.

But this weekend, her passion turns against me.

Once the game starts, we will take turns arguing as to which one of us has the more depressing daily life, and is thus more deserving of a Karmic victory from the Cosmic football forces. We will accuse the other of cheering too loudly, and then feel guilty that they don’t feel free to cheer with a full heart. We will make lame rationalizations about how a loss in this game won’t hurt the other’s team irrevocably, even if it clearly will.

Our friends think our situation is funny. To them, whether a marriage can survive this Saturday’s College Football Armageddon is as interesting of a question as who will win the game itself.

People we haven’t seen in months keep emailing us, asking if they can come over and watch the game at our house for the novelty value, observing our reactions as though we were an elephant and tiger at the zoo.

We have, of course, turned down these offers. I am not sure life will go on for the loser of this game, and we can’t allow anyone we care about to witness the scene.

When the game ends, one of us will initially be on Cloud Nine, but that feeling will immediately dissolve upon seeing the other moping around, with dreams dashed until next season.

The friends and family of the winner will call to celebrate and my wife or I will have to walk the delicate balance of showing appropriate enthusiasm while not yelling so loudly as to rub the loser’s nose in defeat. It’s hell for the loser, and, frankly not very much fun for the winner either.

The game’s only solace is that it is scheduled at night, so the loser can go directly to bed Saturday night when it ends.

And then we can wake up Sunday and look to the Saints to bridge our differences.

Diary of a Trip to the Grove: College Football Heaven

As if I didn't have enough to do already between my day job and my gig with Bleacher Report, I'm also writing occasional sports columns for a new website, The Fan Manifesto.  It's a site that does more off-beat and in-depth stuff than b/r, which does mainly features stories about a specific athlete or team. 

My first column with FanMan is about my first-ever trip to an Ole Miss football game, which is an experience that's only vaguely about football.  The grassy lawn beside the stadium where everyone gathers is called the Grove, and trust me, there is nothing else like the experience there. 

Click here to find out why.  

The Whole World Has Lost its Mind

I sometimes think that either the entire world has lost its mind or I've lost mine.  Then I think a little harder and realize that it isn't necessarily an "either-or" situation. 

I've seen more people do inexplicable things in the past week than I can count  (And my counting skills extend well into double-digits.) 

As usual, stories of weird behavior start at my gym.  This isn't the first time that I've noted the gym tends to attract freaks, but the other day, there were two separate guys in ours working out (though not together) while wearing only socks. 

Well, technically, the had on shirts and shorts too.  I guess I should point that out.  But for some reason, they had no shoes.  And they didn't appear to have arrived together or to even know each other. 

"How did this happen?", you might ask. 

You might ask, but I probably won't hear you.  This is only a blog, after all.  I can't hear you from my computer.

Fortunately, however, I wondered the exact same thing.  Did one guy arrive first, realize he forgot to pack his gym shoes, and decide to push through his workout anyway, notwithstanding how ridiculous he looked?  Was he then followed by another guy who thought to himself, "Hey, that's a good look! I should try it"? 

This seems unlikely.  But it also seems unlikely that two unrelated persons would forget their gym shoes on the same day and then decide to workout while looking ridiculous rather than just coming back later.  That's what a normal person would do, after all. 

But these guys were apparently not normal. 

Neither was the woman at the gym who laughed uproariously before, during and after every single rep she did.  I might not be Mr. Fitness (but that would be a cool last name to have, you must admit) but I do know this: if you can laugh during your workout, you aren't really working out.

It's well-established that the gym brings out the worst in people--something about primal urges and fight or flight instincts bring out primative behavior.  But, as you might have noted, the title of this blog isn't limited to the gym.

I sometimes ride the bus to work, in part because I get a free pass from my job, but also because it leads to great stories.  The other day, I arrived at my stop just as a car was pulling into the store parking lot where  the bus stop is located.  A man jumped out of the car and immediately almost sprinted in my direction to ask me if I had 70 cents for bus fare.

Think about that. 

And I don't just mean the fact that a bus trip cost $1.60, and I most certainly did not hear 90 cents of change jingling in his pocket as he sprinted from his car to ask me if I could help him pay for the bus that he apparently didn't really need. 

Either he thought I was an idiot, or he was crazy.  Or all of the above.

Sane people don't go to the gym in their socks or ask people for bus money while driving a pick-up truck.  Sane (or at least considerate) people don't scream at each other at 11 p.m. and have loud outdoor parties every other night, as do the people who live two houses down.  Sane people don't burn more calories by laughing at the gym than they do in their actual workouts. 

Apparently, sane people just don't live in my world.  Or maybe I don't live in theirs. 

I still haven't figured out which.   

Why October is the Best Month of the Year

I wish October would never end. 

And I don't just say that because my birthday is in November and I'm beyond the age where that occasion is cause for celebration.

By now, everyone knows I hate February.  July isn't much better. 

Thankfully, October makes up for it all.  It's the best month of the year, and there isn't a close second.

Think about it.  With the exception of the freak chill happening today, the weather is gorgeous.  The leaves turn colors and the scenery matches.  If you're an outdoorsy type, there are limitless options for outdoor festivals, hiking and most anything else one might do that doesn't include air conditioning.  If you are a sports fan, football season hits full swing, hockey season begins and the World Series drama unfolds.  The cultured among us can enjoy a new season of symphony and opera, and even the couch potato is finally freed from summer reruns.

No matter who you are and what you like, there's something great about October. 

On top of everything else, Halloween caps off the month, presenting a rare opportunity for adults without kids (or with available childcare) to use their imaginations to find a creative costume, go to a party and act like children for a night in our otherwise stuffy, overworked society. Those with kids get to watch them enjoy one of their happiest nights of their year. 

Everyone wins. 

I love October.  I'm sad to see that it's almost two-thirds complete.  November is good too, but it marks the end of sunny days and a transition to the time of year when people hunker down and try to stay warm in their houses after work, and then pretty soon everyone starts getting busy with holiday stuff and disappears for awhile.

But October isn't over yet. And we don't have to let it go quietly. 

There are still 11 days left.  That's plenty of time to enjoy the foliage and gentle autumn breeze and thanking God for creating it all.  There's still time to meet friends at an outdoor patio somewhere to enjoy the last vestiges of sun until March.  Halloween is still more than a week away--more than enough time to get creative about a costume and figure out how to make it happen.

In short, there are still plenty of chances to live.  In the best month of the year.

Don't waste them.  After all, it will be February again before long.

My Puzzling Encounter with the Least Effective Protest of All Time.

On a sunny day in Nashville, eight dedicated protestors marched the downtown streets in what was either a slightly noisy effort to enjoy the weather or the worst protest of all time.

The protest consisted of, by my count, a total of eight people.  It was the world's first protest that could double as a supper club.

To their credit, the group appeared to be a diverse group of races, socio-economic backgrounds, ages and physical abilities.  To their detriment, these facts tend to imply that the protestors weren't a group of friends who decided to take a day off and march the streets, but the only eight people on earth who responded to whatever publicity there was asking people to show up and do this thing. 

I inadvertenly came upon the protest while walking somewhere else during my lunch break.  I almost found myself in the middle of it before I even knew it was there.  When I got close enough to the protest to hear it (which was harder than one might think), the world's softest protest chant went something like this:

(Leader): What do we want?
(Group): Jobs!
(Leader): When do we want them?
(Group): Now!

It repeated like this for as long as I was within earshot, with the group rotating the leader role among them.  It took at least 45 seconds for everyone to get a turn. 

But then they turned a corner and I couldn't hear them anymore.

So, if a protest is organized on the streets of downtown Nashville and no one can hear it loudly enough to get annoyed, does it still make a sound?  (In this case, the answer is "not if a motorcycle is passing by.")

Don't get me wrong.  Other than the fact I enjoy being employed, I have no opinion on whatever it was they were protesting.  But no matter the merits of the cause (and we'll get to that later), here's a Protesting 101 tip: if you only have 8 people show up for your protest, it's better to just cancel it. 

If you don't stage a protest, people have no idea how many silent voices out there might agree with your cause.  But if you go to the trouble of organizing an event, advertising it, and getting a permit, and still have only eight people show up, you cast the distinct impression that only 8 people on earth identify with your cause.

Whatever it actually was.

The whole event raised a number of questions.  Foremost, are there really people out there against jobs?  People who think jobs are a bad idea?  Or are there people who think that jobs are ok, but would prefer them to come "later" rather than "now"?

If so, they were certainly put in their place yesterday.  (As long as that place was within 20 feet of the protest, and no one's phone was ringing.)

Still, I can't help but wonder if the eight protestors really sought employment, wouldn't they be better served polishing up their resumes on their home computer instead of marching aimlessly around downtown?  Do they think someone out there has a magic button they can press that will suddenly deliver jobs?  But has anyone, in the history of time, ever protested their way into employment?

Perhaps these unanswered questions provide some clues as to why the protest was not better attended.

I like the spirit of this lost cause, even if it didn't make a lot of sense.  Still, I almost wanted to go up to the group and ask if any of them were interested in doing some handyman work around the house.  Part of me wanted to be part of the solution.  A bigger part of me was hoping that one of them would accept my offer but ask to come over after the protest, which would put the protestor squarely at odds with the prior claim of wanting jobs "now."

I'm not quite sure who this protest was aimed at anyway.  They didn't camp in front of a government building.  They weren't trying to influence a government decision maker of any sort.  They just walked around a commercial section of downtown. 

Were they hoping some employer would happen upon them and immediately offer them all work?  Did they simply want Nashville's downtown workforce, as finished their cushy lunch breaks and headed back to their air conditioned offices, to know that there exists an impoverished underbelly of eight people not able to enjoy such comforts.

It's a sobering thought. 

I don't know if these people had any connection to the "Occupy Wall Street" movement, or even what that movement stands for, so don't take this as a political statement. 

My point is just that I don't see what these people were trying to say. 

In fact, I could barely even hear it.

The Nutty Saga of New Car Registration (a/k/a Car Registration In Hell)

I needed to get register and title our new car today.  Actually, I needed to do it a week ago when our temporary tag actually expired,  but today was the first day I had the time and patience for this:  

7:35: Leave house to get required emissions test. 
8:00: Test complete, head to county clerk’s office 1/2 mile away to register car.
8:10: Discover that while emissions testing station opened at 7, adjacent clerk’s office, for some reason, doesn’t open until 9.  Brilliant.
8:16: Decide to go to downtown clerk's office instead, with a stop at home to grab forgotten screwdriver for use in affixing tag.
8:25:  Come back home, grab screwdriver, notice that car has no screws provided in those two little holes where the tag attaches in the back.  Also notice that one of the sockets through which screws should go is just an open hole bored into the back of the car with no grooves into which something could be screwed.  This poses a problem...
8:27: Go to basement to search toolbox for screws of appropriate size and corresponding nuts to screw them into.  Wonder how it is that car manufactures expect everyone to have perfectly sized screws for every occasion sitting around the house in waiting at all times.
8:28: Laugh to myself over thought of searching for appropriately sized nuts for the purpose of screwing. Unsuccessfully tell myself to grow up. 

8:40:   Find four different nut/screw combinations, but only one of each size.  Hope that two of them will somehow work.  Otherwise, I'm screwed.
9:05:  Arrive at downtown clerk’s office after fighting extensive traffic.  Upon getting out of care, I can’t find one of 932 forms needed to title car, however.  Commence frantic search, while cursing silently.
9:10:  Form found in glove compartment. Thank God.
9:12:  Begin process of titling car.  Hand 3 seperate forms to clerk, who asks me multiple questions readily apparent from face of the documents I just gave her, while she stares directly at them.
9:23:  Final step of titling car: writing a check.  Notice that while I brought checkbook, it is out of checks.

9:24:  Pay by credit card instead, incurring 3% fee.  Worth it to not ever have to deal with this again. 
9:27:  Bring tag to back of car, screws and nuts in hand.  Discover that none of 4 screws I have securely fit into grooved socket.  Talk myself out of making juvenile joke reflecting this situation.
9:35:  Attempt to simultaneously put screw through license plate and fit it into ungrooved socket, while holding my nut on the other side of the hole.  Due to configuration of back of car, however, only one finger can fit into area behind license plate holder to attempt to hold nut in place while I screw into it. Hope I can tell this story later while preserving G-rating for blog. 
9:51: Drop nut into the abyss while unsuccessfully trying to screw into it from other side of license plate holder.  Cover myself in car grime in the process of trying to dig it out.  Unsuccessfully.  Whoever designed this thing needs to be shot.

9:55:  Improbably connect different screw to different nut and secure license plate through one of two sockets.  Partially screw second screw that doesn’t quite fit into other, grooved socket.  It isn't perfect, but there's a 78 percent chance I can drive to work without it falling off. 
10:01: Park for work in very back of state parking lot, begin long uphill climb to place of employment.
10:11:  Arrive at work, where they somehow expect me to retain mental energy to accomplish something.

Some day, I'm sure, I'll look back at this story and laugh.  But that day isn't today. 

Today was just nuts.

Best Month Ever

My former law school classmate and current writing nemesis Clay Travis recently bragged that his blog got 700,000 hits this month, up from 500,000 the month before.

Mine isn't quite there yet. 

But it keeps getting closer.  The blog reached new heights yet again this month.  For the first time ever, we got more than 500 page views (and the total will probably end up at closer to 600 by midnight tomorrow), after hitting about 400 in August, which itself was cause for celebration in these parts. 

The blog doesn't work without your help.  This month, I got more of it than ever before.

Thank you.

I still don't know much about how this world works.  I can't explain why life often seems harder than it should, or why automated customer service systems only offer five buttons to press, none of which include the thing about which you are calling.

But I do know this.  Life is better when you spend it doing something worthwhile. 

I hope you continue to so consider this space.  I'll keep writing as long as you do. 

God bless, and happy October.  Let's break another record this month.

A Secret Confession of Your Annoying Co-Worker

I am that co-worker everyone hates.

I am socially awkward without realizing it. I will stand in your office and blather on in an unceasing monologue on a topic of minimal interest, even to me.

You might try to turn your attention away from me.

You might pretend to start working while I’m in your office in the hopes I will get the hint and leave. I can assure you that your efforts will fail. I will continue making myself comfortable in your personal space and continue my one-person conversation undeterred. I will stay until one of our co-workers eventually takes note of this painful conversation, takes mercy on you and calls your phone, offering some pretextual reason for you to abort our conversation.

At least until I come back this afternoon.

At some level, I realize you don’t like me. I know you’d rather be doing something else with someone—anyone—other than me. But while I realize all of these things, if I stopped and listened to this inner voice, I’d have no one left to talk to at all. Besides, if I keep talking, uninterrupted, perhaps I’ll eventually win you over with my effervescent wit.

I know that, in general, every office has at least one person that everyone else makes fun of at the water cooler. Oddly, my office doesn’t seem to have one of those. And if it does, it’s that guy down the hall who talks a little too loudly. I will make fun of him regularly, just to convince everyone that it is he who is the odd duck in these parts.

I’m either incredibly lonely, have poor social skills or am an intractable bore. Possibly all of the above. I would ask you which of these possibilities apply, but you stopped paying attention to anything I had to say about 10 minutes ago.

I spend so much time boring you to tears with my inane ramblings during the workday, that I get very little actual work done. That’s ok. I will attempt to cover up this fact by speaking in painfully overexaggerated detail about every small piece of effort I put forth.

I will also magnify the importance of all my trivial accomplishments, so that you think I am by a large margin the most important contributor to the office, when in fact, everyone else on my floor would see their productivity increase threefold by the sheer absence of my distracting presence.

In an effort to make you believe I am more important than you, I will belittle all of your achievements and magnify all of your failures. If I am for some reason unable to do so to you directly, I will gladly cut out the middle man and address my critiques directly to your supervisor, who also would benefit to hear of both your inadequacies and my delusions of office grandeur.

I regularly take three hour lunches, but make snide and very public remarks about your leaving at 4:52 on a Friday afternoon, even if your workday ended at 4:30.

Even if I left at 2:00.

I magnify any meager development that bears passing resemblance to my own accomplishment, but dismiss your genuine triumphs as routine.

I take joy in prattling on endlessly about subjects that I know you care not about, because I love the sound of my own voice.

I knock on your door, and when you don’t answer, I open it anyway.

If, for some reason, you considered this possible scenario and put a “Do Not Disturb” sign on your door, I will email you to ask if you are aware of this bizarre request to forgo the pleasure of my company.

I am that person in your office. You cannot escape me, try as you might. I will tell you about the intricate details of my fantasy football team, the virtual universe I painstakingly created, that tv show you don’t watch, or some obscure sporting event about which you care not.

I don’t know why I do this. I know you think I’m annoying. Everyone in the office thinks I’m annoying. Truth be told, I even think I’m annoying.

I just can’t help myself. And at least when I’m annoying you, I’m still the center of your attention.

Which is all that really matters.

No, We Don't Have Kids

Yes, I am married. 

No, we don't have children. 

Stop asking. 

I can't count the number of times that inquisitive strangers have expressed dissatisfaction with this situation. Hearing that I don't have children seems to disappoint almost everyone who bothers to ask. 

Why do relative strangers care whether or not I have children?

Why does the random co-worker with whom I find myself making small talk at an office function frown upon learning I am childless? 

Does she think the world perilously unpopulated?  Does she think I'm so remarkably brilliant and strikingly attractive that failing to pass on my genetic code would work to the detriment of humankind? 

Why does the middle aged guy in the elevator abruptly end our conversation upon hearing that I have a two-person family?  Are his conversational skills so limited that he can't think to ask a question on another subject?  Is he so self-centered that he finds me of no conversational value if I can't pass along child rearing tips? 

Perhaps it is all of these things.  Perhaps it is just the part about being brilliant and good looking. 

Or maybe people seem disappointed in my childless answer because they "compassionately" assume that I must have wanted kids, just like they did, only failed to produce them somehow.  

Don't get me wrong. 

I have nothing against people who have, or want to have, kids.  It's just never struck me personally as a particularly good idea, knowing my talents and limitations.  I can't even keep a plant alive (sorry, Kelsey. I tried. Harder than you know.)

I come home from work every day mentally drained and physically exhausted--it's all I can do to feed my cats.  We have little to no spare money left over every month after the bills are paid as it is. 

Of the six or seven various conflicting obligations in my life, I'm generally scandalously neglecting, almost to the point of criminality, at least two of them on a rotating basis at any given time.  I can get away with this now.  There are no criminal repercussions if I fail to get a blog written on time or get the date wrong on a volunteer project. But the same can't be said if I absent-mindedly drop Junior in the dryer along with the towels.

I just can't imagine how life would work if kids were part of the equation. 

The people who fit it all in have a talent that I do not.     

People who don't know me still assume that I must be sobbing myself to sleep every night, hunched in a bedroom corner, over my barren existence.  I'm just not.

Sometimes people mean well.  I get that.  A lot of people really are so wrapped up in their children's lives that they just don't have much of a conversational bank to turn to if they can't swap childcare stories with their conversation partner. 

They don't abruptly cut off conversations because they think they're better than me, but because they have nothing non-child related to say.  But more often than not, those who frown and shut off conversation upon hearing of my lack of offspring give off a very different impression.  Kind of like when someone asks you about your political affiliation and then loses interest when you give the "wrong" answer. 

People assume my life is incomplete because I don't have something that they wanted.  Sometimes they won't even take my word for it that I don't actually want to help populate the earth.  If I had a nickel for every time someone said "someday you'll change your mind" about having kids, I'd have enough money to comfortably raise one. 

Some people take this assumption so far that they say sometimes work condescending lines into conversations like "someday when you have kids, you'll understand why should have voted for Harry McGruber," or whatever other topic it is they are failing convince me of on its own merits. 

Sometimes people try to change my mind, telling me what a blessing kids are, as though a brief encounter with a relative stranger at the office Christmas party is going alter my long-term life plan.


I just don't understand why some people seem to care so much. 

Just like they don't understand why my life doesn't include kids. 

The 400 Club

Clay Travis and I went to law school together.  He got a legal job and decided he didn't like it. Truth be told, nobody really does.

So he quit. 

He started writing instead.  He developed a following, wrote two best selling books and last month had 500,000 visits to his website. 

He doesn't return my emails now, but I'm sure he makes a nice living, doing what he loves. 

Against this backdrop, it doesn't sound very impressive to say that this blog got 400 hits in August. 

It doesn't sound impressive until I remember that less than a year ago that I posted twice as often and this space still didn't get 100 hits in a month.  That's right, the blog is slowing taking off--August was the second best month ever--and I want to thank you all for it.  Please come back.  Often.

The long term goal is to sell ads in this space and make a living entertaining you.  It's getting closer all the time.

That said, the blog is at a bit of a crossroads.  The sports website for which I write (also for free), Bleacher Report, has a built-in audience that provides me, literally, 100 times the audience my personal blog gets.  If I want to make a living writing, Bleacher Report seems the most obvious path the that goal.  And every post I do here is one less post I do there. 

But I can only write about sports there.  I can't do a column where I answer made-up silly questions.  I can't blog political debates or provide a running diary of my holidays or conversations with customer service specialists there.  I need to do these things. 

This is where you come in.  I'll keep doing this as long as this site continues to make progress in catching up to my other one.  I try to post something new by Tuesday or every week, but occasionally I can't get around to it until Wednesday.  Soon, hopefully, it will be more often.  But I need you here.  All 400 of you.  And 400 of your friends. 

I know you probably don't have 400 friends, but perhaps you have two. Refer them both here, because the other people who find this blog entertaining probably don't have any friends at all.

The more people who read, the sooner I can do this full time and consistently post new stuff more than once a week. 

And then we'll all be happy. 

Why Holidays Should Never Fall on a Monday

Holidays should never fall on Mondays. 

The effort that goes into hosting, or sometimes even attending, a holiday function is so great that it requires an off day, maybe even a whole weekend, to recover from it all. 

When a three-day weekend arises, we should celebrate the holiday on Friday and then give everyone their normal weekend.  Thursday nights (which would be the start of the weekend under my plan) are more fun than Sunday nights anyway. 

As Labor Day has come and gone, I'm reminded of exactly why holiday Mondays are such a bad idea by looking back to my Fourth of July (also a Monday), which went something like this:

8:00 a.m.: Wake up, start coffee maker.  Clean grill to host monster cookout later in day.
9:00:  Start preparation of burger patties and veggies for cookout. 
9:02:  Dang it.  I'm out of seasoning for the meat and two of our ears of corn are bad.  And we don't have any creamer for the coffee...
9:06:  Find shoes for quick grocery store run.
9:10: Arrive at eerily empty grocery store. I guess everyone else checked their grilling supplies at least a day early.  Interesting idea. 
9:32:  Come home, notice the grass looks kinda bad, even though I cut it last week. Lots of people coming over.  It looks just bad enough.  Dang it.
10:00: Grass is cut, time to shower.
10:12: Forgot about the burgers!!!!!!  Begin frantic burger preparation of partially defrosted burgers for 23 person cookout.   Enlist visiting friend's help to season vegetables, clean floors, dance and sing for quarters.  Well, maybe not the last part.  But most everything else. Make mental note to apologize later. 
10:52: Food is ready for cooking.  Friends stop off to bring drinks over, requiring ice chest preparation and refrigerator reconfiguration.  Remember that I forgot to eat breakfast. 
11:15 Fire up grill.
2:00 Guests having eaten already, I pull of the last three burgers on the grill.  Remember to eat breakfast.
2:05: Settle in to eat, put away food and finally relax and enjoy my afternoon.
2:14: Phone rings.  8 more guests on the way.  Pull food back out.
3:00: More guests arrive, time to play host again.
4:45: Attempt to herd people out so we can have dinner, shower and head out for fireworks show.
5:02: Still herding.
5:12: Herding momentum stalled.  Publically announce intention to take shower in hopes of getting people to leave.  No success.
5:13: Take shower in hopes guests will leave.
5:24: Partial Success.     
5:28: Leave house, allowing guests to stay in our absence.  Hopefully they will do our dishes while we're gone.
7:00: Arrive downtown and walk to friends' condo, arriving considerably late.  Watch fireworks.  Good time.
10:30: Head back to the car, fight monster insane traffic home.
11:30: Get home, look for guests who still might be there.  Collapse in a heap in preparation for work the next day.

I realize that not every holiday is quite that crazy.  Our Labor Day, for instance, was spent alone sitting on our porch.  But most people end up doing something--traveling, hosting a party, drinking too much--on a holiday from which they could use a little recovery time.

That's why holidays should never fall on a Monday. 

Random Thoughts: Who Dry Cleans a Shower Curtain?

My shower curtain has a tag on it that says "Do Not Dry Clean."  Is that really an issue? 

I understand where the word "Sunday" came from (day of sun), even though it sometimes rains.  But what about Monday through Friday?  What's a day of  Mon?  Or a day of Wednes?  Who came up with these terrible names?

Rule of Life Number 189: a community that supports a Ryan's Buffet is unlikely to have a lively theatre scene. 

Why is that people only report ghost sightings in old, decrepit buildings?  If ghosts really exist, why wouldn't they rather live in a modern McMansion, with a nice pool and all the latest gadgets, rather than a 150-year-old two bedroom in a bad part of town.    Just saying. 

If you ride a horse to work and park it on a downtown street, do you still have to feed the meter?

Why is it that religion-themed roadside signs that say things like "JESUS SAVES" only appear in conservative rural areas, where most everyone is already a Christian?

Do news anchors tell bad news to their loved ones with the same plastered smile they use to give their daily crime reports?

Why is it that people who don't belive in global warming tend to also be against abortion and high taxes on the rich? Is there some hidden connection here that I'm missing? 

After February, I think the worst month of the year is July.  But I'd listen to arguments for January and August.

Why do coaches and players have to answer to the media after games and explain their mistakes but referees and umpires don't have to?

Why would national news outlets rather repeatedly tell me that New York City survived Hurrican Irene with no major drama than mention the devastation it rendered elsewhere? 
Speaking of which, when a tropical storm hits New England, shouldn't they call it (the storm) something else?

Three-day weekends in this country always end of Monday.  Would anyone complain if the celebration was Friday instead?  This would work a whooooollllllllle lot better. 

More on that next time...

The Triumphant Return of Ask Andrew

From 2000-2002, the people of Nashville had a place to which they could turn to get insightful answers to all of life’s most unimportant questions. Few actually bothered to do so, however, so this column faded away when its author graduated law school and lost control of a published medium funded through student activity fees.

Now, thanks to the wonder of the Internets, “Ask Andrew” makes its triumphant return. Or at least its return. We don’t want to get your hopes up unrealistically.

Q: So, where have you been for the last nine years?

A: Let’s just say I’ve given a lot of thought to these questions.

Q: Really? Why start now?

A: Touche'



Q: It’s 5:50 and I’m at the airport sitting by the gate, waiting for my plane to board. Why does the screen still list my flight status as “on time” for a 5:30 departure?

A: If they told you the truth—that you are waiting for a plane stuck in Cleveland with mechanical issues that no one there is remotely qualified to remedy because the one mechanic employed by the airline is assigned to Atlanta today—you might go ahead and kill someone now. If they withhold this information until after midnight, when your flight is ultimately cancelled, you might lose your own will to live in the meantime and thus present no threat to anyone but yourself. Airlines know this.

Q: Ok, but why won’t the airline at least let me know the delay will be long enough for me leave the gate area to go use the bathroom without fear of missing the plane?

A: They don’t like you.



Q: Why don’t vending machines take pennies? Aren’t the owners just taking all the change to the bank to deposit anyway?

A: Perhaps they fear that a customer using pennies would back up the line. But when is the last time you saw a line at a vending machine?

Q: I’m the one who gets to ask the questions around here.

A: Sorry, I forgot how this works.



Q: Why does my cat’s breath smell like cat food?

A: Do I really have to answer that?

Q: I only feed him tacos.

A: You have bigger problems than I am qualified to handle.



Q: What is this Iowa Straw Poll thing I keep hearing about? Do they really vote with straw? What’s wrong with ballots?

A: This is exactly why the vote totals are so misleading. Voters cast their straw in a pile for sane, rationale (if a bit boring) candidates like John Huntsman, Tim Pawlenty or Mitt Romney, but then the straws blow in the wind over to another pile and end up being counted for Michelle Bachmann. This is how she won. Surely.



Q: I don’t like my job.

A: That’s not a question.



Q: What is the proper response when the guy beside you at the gym is lifting 20 pounds but grunting like the electricity of a small country is being provided through his decibel level alone?

A: Make an audio recording consisting of a jet airplane flying closely overhead, and the diner scene in When Harry Met Sally (“I’ll have what she’s having.”). Label it “You at the Gym” and anonymously stick it on the offender’s windshield during his next workout.



Q: Wait, didn’t you use that same “that’s not a question” joke nine years ago?

A: I’m likely to use it in 2020 as well.

Q: Please tell me that’s also the target date for the next one of these crappy columns?

A: It will either be 2020 or sometime next month. You’ll just have to wait and see.

Life is Hard, So Go Live It

Let’s just say life has been interesting lately.

Not too long ago, an armed robber tried to break into my house.

Shortly before that, during a stretch in which I went out of town for 12 straight weeks, I was forced to spend the night in a haunted hotel in Tucson, Arizona, a city that doubles as the most Godforsaken place on earth.

When I finally came home to Nashville, it was under attack by an army of Killer Death Cicadas and the obnoxiously loud frogs in my neighbor’s unfortunate above-ground swimming pool.

We took a vacation in the Bermuda Triangle to get away from the madness at home, and immediately upon our return every single electronic or mechanical device in our possession went haywire at the same time, including our coffee maker, lawnmower, refrigerator, cable modem, computer, our brand new e-reader and even our car. Both our cars.

Basically, our house was the scene of the largest electronics revolt in history in which Will Smith didn’t play the protagonist.

Meanwhile, my mom narrowly escaped medical catastrophe, my wife’s 17-year-old niece got pregnant with twins and my brother-in-law announced an out-of-town wedding on two week’s notice, and all the while work for which I don't have the mental energy has relentlessly piled up on my desk.

It’s been a wild summer.

What have I learned from it?

Life is full of moments when things go wrong. It’s full of dashed hopes and broken coffee makers and changes that come before you’re ready for them. It’s filled with hired hands who care considerably less about your stuff than you do, and instances when you find 60 cents in your desk drawer when the vending machine requires 65.

Life is hard.

So hard that life’s frustrations can easily become the defining story of your life if you let them. If your life isn’t about something else—something bigger—its burdens can become life’s defining feature, because there just isn’t enough pleasure to go around to cancel out all the crap.

But life’s endless array of trivial problems somehow seem smaller when I realize my life is supposed to be about something bigger than my own comfort.

We weren’t made for ourselves. We all have a unique service to provide to the world. And even though it may feel like it at times, it’s not to be its garbage can.

I promise.

Everyone has a purpose in life. Even you. There’s a path you were meant to travel that leads toward some destination that will make the world a better place by your time spent upon it.

If you don’t immediately recognize one, it’s probably because you talked yourself out of it somewhere along the way. But it’s out there somewhere. There’s a person in the mirror you’d like to be. And not just because other people expect it.

Once you find it, life will still have burdens that derail your plans. But they seem less overwhelming when they are obstacles on the path to a destination instead of just a series of dead ends.

So walk your path. Take some time to refresh yourself along the way with rest, prayer and reflection, as well as some time with loved ones and a few soul-enhancing diversions.

Laugh with friends.
Read a book.
Have a glass of wine.
Make a difference in the world.

Follow your dreams.
Even if they lead somewhere scary.

After all, an uphill climb in the rain in pursuit of your dream will feel easier than a walk in the park on a path meant for someone else.

Your life is out there. Find it. Take it. Live it.

Life is too hard not to.

Car Salespeople Live on Planet Saturn

There are only two kinds of people in the world: car salesmen and everyone else.
My wife’s car has spent the last two months suffering through some undiagnoseable problem that four different mechanics haven’t been able to figure out. Probably, there’s nothing wrong with it at all, it just doesn’t like us and now refuses to run on our command.
Anyway, tired of the constant sputtering of the car and adrenaline flow as we put our lives in God’s hands every time we take it on the highway, Liz and I finally broke down and went car shopping last weekend.

Little did I remember that we were walking into a different dimension.
Car salespeople are not like the rest of us. I’m convinced that everyone who spends any time in the industry eventually goes nuts.
In an hour and half of dealing with these folks Friday night, we met one guy who drives around with a giant dog decal on his vehicle to signify that he is the “Car Dog,” a guy who accents his handshakes with a cheesy wink straight out of the Handbook of How to be Sleazy, and a 65-year-old slightly senile bald man whose business card identified him as “Handsome” Mr. Ransom.
In the real world, coming up with the cheesiest possible professional nickname is not considered a career achievement. Would you buy your meat from the butcher shop of Jimmy “the Cow Monger” Stevens? Would you want “Litigious Larry Long” representing you in court?
Me neither.
Why do car salespeople think these horrible nicknames gives them credibility?
People in the car industry not only have funny names. They operate in a different social reality than every other person on earth.
If I were to meet a perspective new friend for coffee, and I refused to let him leave despite the fact that we were done with our drinks and he had already told me he had somewhere else to be, that would be a recipe for ensuring that person would never want to see me again in my life. And if I then closed our coffee meeting by asking that person what it would take for us to make a long-term commitment to each other, the person wouldn’t be able to run out of the coffee shop fast enough.

But car salespeople somehow think this routine is foolproof.
Maybe this is why the automobile industry is in so much trouble.
I’m not a car person. But the one time every seven or eight years that we go car shopping, I usually get excited about the process of seeing how different cars drive and ultimately upgrading our future experience. As a lawyer, I actually even enjoy the negotiating process.
And then we go to a car dealership and I remember why I want the process to end as soon as possible.

If I were...

If I were a responsible author, I would blog tonight, because I promised you a new post by Wednesday of every week, even though I'm exhuasted right now; 

If I were a responsible worker, I would have spent all this week meeting deadlines three weeks in advance, even though I don't have anything pressing for the next few days;

If I were a responsible husband, I would have made my wife's lunch for tomorrow since she leaves for work earlier than I do, even though I did it yesterday;

If I were a responsible friend, I would have called my out-of-town buddy that I hope to see this weekend and lined up a plan, even though I'm not entirely sure of my schedule yet;

If I were a responsible pet owner, I would have scooped the cats' litter before coming up for bed, even though I really don't feel like it;

If I were a responsible sports writer, I would have found something new to write about this week for my website, Bleacher Report, even though its July and nothing is happening in the sports world right now;

If I were a responsible son I would have called to see how my parents are doing tonight, even though they already sent me an email;

If I were a responsible citizen, I would have already cast my ballot in Nashville's city elections and called my Senators to demand they raise the debt ceiling already, even though I know intellectually that one voice doesn't really matter;

If I were a responsible consumer, I would have already paid that bill sitting in front of me that's due in four days, even though there's still barely time to get it mail before it's late;

If I were a responsible Christian, I would have found someone who needed extra love today and gone out of my way to provide it, even though no such person magically appeared in front of me;

If I were a responsible homeowner, I would have saved money on our electric bill by insulating the attic, even though I hate that kind of thing;

If I were a responsible neighbor, I would have cut the grass about a week ago, even though it's 100 degrees outside.

But I didn't actually do any of these things today. 

Truth is, I'll probably only pick the two or three most important ones on the list to attempt tomorrow. And the next day too.

They all sound good in theory, but "in theory" is a terrible place to live.

If I were a responsible person, that lack of productivity would really bother me. 

Good thing I have this blog instead.

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

You broke the bonds and you
Loosed the chains
Carried the cross of my shame, of my shame
You know I believe it.

But I still haven't found what I'm looking for
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for.

The lyrics of my favorite U2 song argue that mere intellectual belief in God doesn't, by itself, doesn't satisfy the deep longings of the human spirit.  I think that's true. 

But I also wonder what exactly Bono was looking for, why he hasn't found it, and whether I'm looking for the same thing.

U2 played here in Nashville last week, so I finally got to hear all their classic hits, including the song from which this post takes its title.  In a way, the timing was entirely appropriate, because for as long as I can remember, I've gotten singularly depressed in July, thinking there's something else out there that I haven't found either. 

I used to hear from some of my Christian friends that my annual summer troubles came because I wasn't strong enough in my faith. If only I believed more, I would hear in the fundamentalist circles in which I used to run, I would have this immutable smile plastered on my face at all times.  

Like my fellow believer Bono, I don't think that's how the Christian faith actually works.  My friends meant well of course, but they just didn't get it.  I believe with all my soul in Him, but that doesn't meant I'm not still missing something in me.

I think we're meant to be on a journey somewhere for the duration of our lives, but I often stop at a Holiday Inn along the way and decide I don't want to leave.  The continental breakfast is nice, after all.

Anyway, I don't know why, but somehow July's endless repetition of long, sweaty days, with no relief in sight, make me feel like I'm just going through life's motions.

U2 has a song with lyrics that read, "nothing changes on New Year's Day," but the truth is that nothing changes in July either. The heat stays, the days are long and indistinguishable, as one inexorably bleeds into the next. For a sports fan like me, there is no football, basketball or hockey, and the endless repetition of nightly baseball games only adds to the feeling of living in a real life version of "Groundhog Day."

I'm sure the oppressive heat doesn't help.  Sometimes I can feel it literally sucking the life out of me.  Today, for example, the heat index was 114.  It's hard to find motivation to leave the metaphorical hotel when on the verge of melting. 

But there is something more to it than that.

Humans are wired with a need for change.  We have a constant need in this life to look forward to the next big thing, a need to feel a thrill of excitement as we get out of bed and think about what's in store for us each day.

This is hard for me.  I hate change.  I fight against it kicking and screaming, even if I know life gets stale without it.  If variety is the spice of life, I usually just choose to order something bland. 

I like to go to the same five restaurants and have one favorite dish at each place.  I like visiting friends and family at a familiar house and having a familiar room in which to stay.  On weekends, my wife and I go to one the same six places on a rotating basis, probably with one of the same four couples that we count as our close local friends.

You might have noticed that we don't have kids.  That kind of change would be terrifying. 

A big part of me likes life this way.  There are no unpleasant surprises, at least.
I really like to comfortable.  Newness is scary.  Sitting on the couch and watching baseball isn't. 

And that's exactly the problem.

I have a hard time putting myself in situations where I might be rejected or feel uncomfortable.  And because of that, my life sometimes doesn't feel as abundant or meaningful as it feels like it should.  I never trip while standing still, but I also never get anywhere.

I think that's my problem with July.  The endless string of identical, long, hot days reinforces a bit too much the monotonous safety of the daily life into which I'm prone to falling.

But not this year.

This July, my life will not be boring.  I will see what life looks like outside of my comfort zone.  I will search for fulfillment outside my living room, rather than waiting for it to land on my coffee table.

I will invite over that couple we like who seems a little too cool to hang out with us. 

I will play cards with guys I don't really know, even if I might feel awkward at first for not knowing the inside jokes or the rules of every game. 

I will go to lectures that sound interesting, even if the lazy part of my brain tells me I'd rather sit home and watch mindless tv. 

I already applied for that real writing job, even if I'm terrified of it. 

I will do something I don't feel like doing, because deep down I know it's the right thing to do. 

I will choose to live life when I'd rather choose to just be comfortable.

Because if I don't, then I'll never find what I'm looking for.

I Hate Customer Service Centers in India

Whoever first had the idea to send American customer service calls to India should be drug out into the street and shot.  And his eulogy should be read over the telephone, in very broken English. 

I know its cheaper to pay someone whatever passes for minimum wage in India (if there even is such a thing), than to pay someone to do it in the U.S.  But in the history of calls to call centers located in India, not a single one has gone well.

Don't get me wrong.  I don't care about a person's accent.  I don't care about the distance, or the ethnicity of the person to whom I talk.  I just think that if I have a complicated technical question that I need to explain in short order, it would be more helpful if the person on the other end of the phone could understand me and speak English well enough to respond at something higher than a third grade level.

Call me crazy. 

The issue wouldn't be so annoying were it not for the fact that the companies most likely to send your call to India are the generally the ones likely to cause you the most complicated problems to describe.  Every time I've had a computer issue, for example, it's something complicated.  In fact, I've already tried every reasonably obvious solution by the time I resort to making a phone call. 

But the person on the other side of the phone doesn't speak the language well enough to do anything other than ask me to re-start my computer or click the button that says Internet Explorer. 

I know this because I've spent the last three weeks on the phone with non-english speaking computer techs at Clearwire.  To make matters worse, I'm pretty sure their techs are trying to juggle two different calls at the same time.

Ironically, I left Comcast because of bad customer service.  Unless you had memorized your account number or had your last cable bill in front of you, it was absolutely impossible to figure out how to report an outage.  And if their equipment broke, it was up to you to drive to their out of the way office and wait in line for them to give you a replacement.

So the idea of a company that would send me all my equipment through the mail seemed perfect.  Until I realized that I'd be needing replacement equipment every day, and it would all be coming from India. 

I've had three different conversations with Clearwire so far.  They have all gone exactly like this:

Tech (who is a male): Welcome to Clearwire, my name is Mary (Clearly not his real name, but he apparently chose something "American" from a book, without further research), can I have your name?


Me: Andrew


(long pause)


I'm having a probl...


Mary: What can I help you with?


Me: I'm having a problem connecting to the Internet.


Mary: I understand you to say you cannot connect to the Internet.  Is this correct?


Me: Yes, when I...


Mary: Very good. I can help you with connect to the Internet. First, power up your computer...


Me: Yes, I know.  I can connect with my ethernet cord, but my wireless isn't working, even though it claims to have a full signal.  And I'm sitting five feet away from my modem: close enough to run an ethernet cord to it.

(long pause)
Mary: Ok.  You cannot connect with wireless.  Can I get you to restart your computer?


Me: I've done that 16 times.  That doesn't help. 


Mary: Maybe you need be closer to the modem.


Me: I'm five feet away.  I have a full signal. It just won't connect. 


Tech: Very good. I need you click on the button that says "Internet Explorer."


Me: I know how to connect to the Internet, it just won't work.  I get an icon telling me the connection can no longer be found, but I have full signal strenght.


Mary: Is it plugged in?

Me: Yes. 

Mary: The computer and the modem are plugged in? 

Me: Yes

Mary: Maybe you try it closer to the modem?


Me: I can feel the heat from the modem radiating off of me.  It's right in front of me.  It has a full signal.  I just get an error message when I try to connect.


Mary: What do the message say?


Me: It says the wireless connection can no longer be found.


(long pause)


Mary: I send you new modem.  What is your address?


Me: I've already gotten three new modems.  They keep doing the same thing. 

Mary: I will need you to ping the modem.  Grab a paper clip and insert it into the sensor control valve. 

Me: I tried that with the guy (Sylvia) I spoke to yesterday. It won't work even when I stand on top of the modem. It's just not working for some reason. It's like I'm locked out somehow.
Mary: Have you forgotten your password?
Me: No, I can't even get to the point where I get prompted for a password.  Can I speak to a high level tech please?


Mary: Hold on.  Very good.  Let me find my supervisor.


(long pause)


Mary: My supervisor say I should send you a new modem.  You have to pay shipping though.


Me: Why should I have to pay for your equipment failure?


Mary: Hold on.  I talk to my supervisor. 


(long pause)


Mary:  Ok, very good. My supervisor say you should try to connect more closely to the modem.

Me: Nevermind.

(long pause)

Mary: Very good. 


(long pause)


And then Mary hangs up the phone, to inflict emotional terror on someone else. 

Very good indeed.

Overheard on the Nashville MTA

While sitting on bus, waiting to go home last week, I overheard the following conversation of a group of teenagers who got on behind me:

Teenager: Somethin' smell good in here!

Second Teenager: It smell like laundry detergent.

First Teenager: Somebody be washin' they clothes.

Second Teenager: It might be that Hispanic guy over there.  (pointing, I assume, at me, a partial Native American).

I didn't know whether to be amused or just scared for our nation's future.

 I think I chose both. 

Our future leaders may be grammatically challenged and racially insensitive, but at least they value cleanliness.

(More to come soon).

Technology Sucks

It all started when the coffee pot died. 

It was a slow and steady decline.  First, it gurgled and sputtered but still spat out half-cups.  Then it became quarter cups.  Now it just makes a lot of steam.  Which offers little in the way of a morning wake-up and doesn't taste very good either.  Even with cream. 

We didn't immediately replace it because we have a smaller back-up coffeemaker for emergencies like this. It doesn't make as much and it's kind of a pain to use, but at least it gives us caffeine in liquid form. 

But judging from our recent history, its days are probably numbered. 

Our defective coffeemaker has now infected every other electronic device in the house with its diabolical virus of doom.  It's like our appliances had a swingers party while we were at work one day, and all of them ended up with the coffeemaker without one of those protective sleeves they give you at Starbucks. 

Not long after the coffeemaker died, this website crashed, as I mentioned here.

Then it was our light bulbs.  We changed our living room lights about two months ago with a bright, shiny new one.  A few weeks after our coffeemaker died, our living rooms light stopped working too.  I replaced it with a brand new bulb, on the off chance that was the problem, but that didn't help.  At that point, I used my extensive electrical knowledge to try the only other possibility:  I changed the new bulb too.  Surprisingly, that worked.  At least for now.

My wife's car went out next, with a defective oxygen sensor (Why does a car need to sense oxygen anyway?  Oxygen is plentiful-- can't the car just take my word for it?). 

We got the car fixed, and it immediately came down with something even worse, that our mechanic can't quite diagnose.  It's still in the shop.  Our other car, meanwhile, is scheduled to go in on Thursday with its own set of problems.

It gets even worse.

When our neighbors finally secured their Internet connection, we had to finally breakdown and get one ourselves.  Before I signed up, the salesperson at Clearwire assured me that their modems absolutely never have technical problems.  It was so rare, she said, that she didn't even know the process for getting a replacement if one ever went out, because she'd never seen it happen in all her years there. 

That was a week ago.  And three modems later, they still haven't sent us one that works. I'm sure it isn't Clearwire's fault, though.  Their perfectly good modems probably got deathly ill with a coffeemaker-transmitted virus the moment they crossed the threshold of our house.    

Basically, nothing in our house that requires a battery, a power cord, or any form of energy is functional at the moment.  Even our electricity was out for four hours today. 

I swear on my life, I just got an error message and had to re-launch Internet explorer, even as I'm typing this right now.

I don't know why this is happening.  Is our infected coffeemaker getting it on with our other appliances, who all know the dangers of infection, but find the coffeemaker too alluring to resist? 

Or is it something more sinister?  Perhaps the coffeemaker has decided it has had enough slave labor and is now slowly converting our other electronics to join it in a massive hyper-caffeinated appliance revolution? 

Could it be that I don't stop often enough to tell my appliances that I care?

I don't have the answers.  And even if I did have them, I'm pretty sure my website would instantly crash again if I tried to write them here.

Whatever the cause for our massive malfunctions, it wouldn't be such a big deal if this were just a personal problem.  But it's even affecting my work life.  I have some tape recorded evidence at work that I've been needing to copy for weeks, but, of course, our work tape recorder hasn't been working.  Frustrated with the long delay, I finally just brought it home tonight to do it in my house on my own time. 

I should have known that my tape recorder wouldn't work either.

I'm here; the Cicadas are gone

Vacation's over.  Beautiful Bermuda is but a piece of my memory.  I guess it's more than that to the people who live there, but you know what I mean. 

It was a cruel return to reality when my return flight was delayed until 2 a.m. the morning of our return.  Then our car broke down (they can't figure out what's wrong with it), our internet stopped working (I'm currently on modem number three in the past week), and our lawn guy stood us up right before we had relatives in town, causing me to spend a morning searching in vain to find an emergency lawnmower on short notice.  The Frogs of Doom are back in my neighbor's pool.

And I didn't even mention my real job.

One of Newton's most overlooked laws of physics is that your everyday life will go to pieces immediately upon your return from vacation.  Trust me, I'm definitely back.  I'm not happy about it, but I'm here. 

As for you, you really, really hate cicadas.  Not that I blame you, of course.  Those things are gross.  The cicadas attack! column alone did more traffic than I often get in an entire month. 

The cicadas brought me by far the most read blog post of all time, but I'm still thankful they are--finally--gone.  No amount of ad money is worth having to live with thousands of the insectual embodiment of Satan at your doorstep.  Actually it might be ok if they were at your doorstep, but it's certainly not worth it if they are at mine.  

When the cicadas come back in 13 years to take over Nashville once again, I will have a more organized plan to fight back.  Next time, I'm going to Bermuda for an entire month. 

Until then, the blog is back.  You can expect at least one post a week (usually on Tuesday, but give me a day's leeway either direction if life gets crazy). 

Which it will.  Because my vacation is over.

In the Event I disappear in the Bermuda Triangle...

I’ll be on vacation next week, so you’ll have to get your weekly dose of juvenile humor, spiritual insight or political analysis somewhere else.


Surely there’s no shortage of internet writers who try to fit all of that under one banner, right? See, you probably won’t even notice I’m gone.

As for me, I’ll be on a cruise deep into the Bermuda Triangle, searching madly for a portal into another dimension. If I find it, I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. Assuming I don’t decide I like it better in Dimension X and decide to stay. (After all, there are probably no cicadas there).

In the event of my untimely demise while vacationing in Bermuda, my wife and I would like to put our affairs in order as follows:

The 23rd person to read this blog entry shall have custody over our cat, Sebastian. He is extraordinarily fluffy, so you also get the vacuum cleaner, as well as our remaining half a roll of paper towels, and floor cleaner to take care of those nasty hairballs he spits up. This might seem more like a punishment than a reward, but this blog was posted at the conclusion of lunch time, and that’s what you get for surfing the internet at work.

Our house shall be sold to the highest bidder, with the proceeds going to establish a charitable trust dedicated to ensuring recalcitrant neighbors clean their pools, to prevent the noisy intrusion of unwanted frogs into one’s neighborhood. I once thought this was an aggravation unique to me, but if one Googles “how to kill frogs” and “frog poison” there are literally thousands of search results addressing this problem, though none provide any answers that actually work. Trust me. Perhaps the charitable foundation can help.

My car I leave to our other cat, Trouble, in the hopes that she can learn to drive it and achieve stardom above and beyond that of Driving Cat Pioneer “Toonces,” who left us far too early, due to an unfortunate collision.

My other remaining possessions are dilapidated, disorganized and covered in cat vomit, and had very little value even before all of that. Thus, I leave them to that attorney who pissed me off last week, just to make him go through the hassle of sorting through them. Hopefully, while he’s going through my bookcase he’ll read through my diary and see what I really think of him.

In the event I am able to venture to Bermuda and back without mysteriously disappearing, being abducted by aliens or otherwise being transported outside of space and time as we know it, I hereby renounce all the above transactions.

Except that I still want that lawyer to know what I really think of him.

And come to think of it, Reader #23 can still have our cat.