School Supplies and an Empty Notebook.

It's safe to say I was never really a fan of school.

There are two slight exceptions to that statement, one of which being the first week or so of every year.  For some reason, one that I attribute to brief psychotic episodes, I was up and raring to go bright and early for the first week.  Every day I would wake up with plenty of time to spare, and typically get to either school itself or the bus stop very early.  I would stuff my backpack with excitement and adventure, then head off to an institute of learning, all bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to ace every test those cool new teachers threw at me.

The second week, it took my Mom 30 minutes at least to get my lazy ass out of bed.  I would stall, then trudge to the bus stop, scowling the whole way, indignant at being awoken before lunchtime.  My backpack was heavier, my old uncool teachers were ants to be squashed beneath my shoe, and every other person besides me and my friends sucked.  This was the type of malign that even a Star Crunch couldn't quell.

The other exception to my Hating Of School was my youth.  In Kindergarten and the beginning of Elementary school, you look forward to the day.  Everything is new, and you are fawned over when succeeding in learning.  You spelled "Forest"?  You, my friend, get a gold star.

A gold star!  How totally boss was a gold star?  You had the chart, and right next to your name, right there for everyone to see, was a shiny small not-worth-money-but-worth-more-than-real-gold gold star.  And it was all yours.  Why?  Because you did a Good Job.

Good Jobs were praised.  You felt good all over.  Hell, you felt good enough to share your paste with whoever might have a spoon handy.

Then you moved on to 1st grade.  During your time in 1st to 3rd or so grades, that Good Job feeling remained, but for some reason it seemed to wain somewhat.  You were happy, and you were praised, but not in that "Holy Crap You Are The Smartest Kid Ever" voice the teacher used.  Instead, these new teachers used the "Good work, but that's to be expected" voice.  There is an enormous difference here.

Then, in 4th grade, you realize you are doing Work.  You're not playing, or napping, or getting gold stars.  You're being graded.  You're doing something right, or you're doing it wrong.  There's no more, "Almost, but it's pronounced Spah-Get-Tee".   It's now, "Wrong.  Do it again, but this time, get it right or I use the text book to paper cut your face, bitch."

Harsh?  Maybe.  But also completely true.

So I didn't like school.  You know what I did like?  School supplies.  Ah!  The blog title begins to pay off, no?

The best part of school starting was going to get the new school supplies.  New clothes?  Whatever.  New shoes?  My old ones were fine.  New haircut?  Mom never did let me get the Mr. T mohawk.  But new notebooks?  New pads of paper?  New and different kinds of pens?  NEW TRAPPER KEEPER??  Cha-ching!!

I loved getting this stuff.  Early on, it was custom Trapper Keepers.  Dukes of Hazzard, Knight Rider, etc.  Then, I moved on to the blank ones and never looked back.  Why?  You could write stuff on them, therefore making the Trapper Keeper more personal to you than your own identity.

"How it that possible?" You ask with the look of passion on your face and the devil in your eyes.  Simple.  It's because it WAS your identity.  Every single piece of paper you received went into that thing.  Sure, folders held stuff too, but by the end of the school year that binder was filled so thick Geraldo could have done a special on it.  Your name was written on it twenty times in twenty different fonts.  There were pictures of lightsabers and bugs and weird faces and band names and friend's signatures and crude words scribbled out.  It was personal.  It was life.

That new pen with the four different pen colors?  You tell me you didn't love that thing like you loved your pet and I'll tell you to shut your whore mouth before God punishes you for such blasphemy.

That new mini-sack-o'-pencils?  How many of those did you loose in life-or-death Pencil Fights?  You would plead with your mother for thicker pencils.  Sure they cost more, but how else were you supposed to contend with Johnny Finkleheimerski when he was strutting around, wielding his Black Knight?

I actually got moved to the front of the bus once for pencil fighting.  That was a fun morning.

Now, as much as I loved those supplies, my favorite is and always has been the Brand New Notebook.  Whether it be one of those black and white covered journals, or one with the metal rings.  Wide ruled or college ruled.  None of it mattered.

To me, there is nothing more inviting and intriguing than an empty notebook.  It's just sitting there, waiting for you to have your way with it.  Ranging from small doodles to personal thoughts to school assignments you are planning to half ass your way through, there is some kind of magic intrinsic in it's design.  You stare at it, wondering what will come out as you put pen to page.

I have one of those journals right now, sitting in my room.  I bought it a few weeks ago, and as of yet it only has two entries in it.  One of them is about ball scratching.  I might post it sometime.  It only has two entries, but for me, that's not the point.  The point is, what it might contain.  What I might decide to put in there.  The possibilities are endless.

Hell, I might someday write the Great American Blog within those pages.

Because this one is definitely not it.

(Kind of almost but not really the) Best. Place. Ever.

   I don't get to see my friend Joe nearly as much as I should.  This is a guy I met when I was roughly 3 to 4 years old and have been friends with all my life.  This is a guy I intend to stay friends with for the rest of my life.  We grew up, for the first part of our childhood, in the same neighborhood of townhouses.  In fact, we both had end units, and we could walk to each others houses via a creek running through the neighborhood.  It was pretty sweet.

   Our childhood consisted of making up rules for the game we invented, "Supercars" (a game consisting of matchbox cars and hours of the phrase 'Let's pretend...' that kept us from actually playing at all), trading Star Wars toys, and mucking around in the creek looking for things that we did not want to touch and yet felt compelled to touch.

   He lives in White Marsh these days, while I reside in Elkridge.  This is a 30 minute drive or so, and with his normal schedule and my television crappy schedule, sometimes it's hard to find the time to get together.

   Interesting note.  We both have girlfriends named Nichole.  Except his spells it Nicole, no H.  I believe that is the more common spelling, and is used to avoid the phonetic pronunciation, "NI-CH-OLE".  I was trying to convey the "CHUH" in the middle.

   This will lead us to the Best. Place. Ever., I promise.

   Starting now.  So we made plans to hang out and go to Hersheypark last Sunday.  I had taken the day off and everything.  We were ready to ride some rides, eat some over-priced food, and revert to the children we once were.

   This, however, did not occur.  Due to unnamed complications, we were not able to go, so we planned an alternate....    plan.

   A few weeks earlier, Joe had sent me a text message while at an arcade.  Not any arcade, but 

one with a whole room full of old school arcade games from the 80's and early 90's.  None of these newfangled, 2 dollar a life games the kids are playing nowadays, where everything is a shoot-em-up or driving game.  I'm talking the old, 25 cents a pop, 2-D, side-scrolling, simple graphics, might-work-and-might-not games of my youth.  The ones they had in Playland in Ocean City, the ones they replaced with the aforementioned crappy new games that I do not

 care for, thank you very much.

   This was now our destination for our make-up play date.

   That didn't come out right.  But it stands.

   The place, as I'm sure you are now simply chomping at the bit, is called Crab Towne USA, and is located in the bustling suburb we Marylanders know and love; Glen Burnie.

   It is a local dive, basically, serving crabs and other random foodstuffs.  What follows is one of many awesome reviews Crab Towne has received:

I drove over 45 mins yesterday to have crabs and was treated veryl poorly. I have had crabs here several times in the past and was satisfied. I have never tried the all you can eat menu. Yesterday I ordered the all-u-can eat and left the restaurant very unhappy. The service was embrassing. The waitress we had left to go home and left us to another waitress. My god daughter had to go up to the register to ask if I could get more crabs, the first batch was awful, only 4 crabs could be eaten, the rest was empty and had a awful smell as though they were old. I asked for no seasons and I feel that caused a problem, because as we watch other customers be served, they were served well. I was given on beer and not aked if I would like another one, There was a motorcycle couple in there that keep crabs in front of them. There was a mixed

 couple in there and they kept crabs in front of them. THIS PLACE IS PREJUDICE. MY PERSONAL FEELINGS.

   Yes, the place is prejudiced, because a MIXED COUPLE received crabs and you did not.  Even though you AKED.  This review was copied and pasted from a website, not a word was changed.  I know.  Awesome.

 

  So we decided to go.  The allure, for me, was two-fold.  One, the games.  A whole big room of old games and old pinball machines.  All, with the exception of only a scant few, costing no more than 25 cents.  The second allure was the beer.  I could get a beer and go play the games while drinking the beer.  My excitement was palpable.

   The beer selection was minor, but who am I to complain, really?  I selected  Corona, although Joe was insistent that I drink a tall Budweiser can.  I felt I should oblige him, as the man has not had a drink for many years, but I do not like Budweiser and therefore did not.

   We didn't eat there, both because we had gone somewhere else to eat beforehand and because of the many awesome reviews.

   Walking in, you are greeted with the scent of Old Bay and the sight of at least a dozen or more

 people playing Keno and some sort of computerized horse racing game.  These people looked very, very happy to be there.  The main room has all tables and benches and all, with plenty of counter space to choose from as well.  You can pretty much just pass right by and head to the register, where we had to get quarters because the machine they have is broken.  Take an immediate right, and you're in the game room.

   First impression, you will be awed and amazed by the general disrepair of the room.  It looks kind of dirty, but that only adds to the old-timey charm.  By old-timey I of course mean the 80's.  Also, you will notice that several of the games do not work.  This is done on purpose.  Making several games not work makes the games that work that much more fun and exciting to play.

   I would be remiss if I do not mention several things specifically.  The first game I played was Dig Dug.  This is an excellent game featuring a little guy that digs holes in order to kill tiny dragons and little ball guys.  Killing these enemies is done with a pump that shoots out and attaches to them.  You hit the button repeatedly, blowing them up bigger and bigger until they pop.  It actually comes across as quite painful.  Once every enemy is done, you go on to the next level.  Make sure you head right to the top after killing the second to last enemy, because the last enemy will try to escape, robbing you of some very important points if they escape.  I believe I made it to level 8 before both getting killed and losing interest.  Just like when I was a kid!

I would be remiss yet again if I do not mention specifically by name and fuzzy picture one of the

 best side scrolling fighting games ever produced by modern man.  The picture can be found to the right and the game goes by the name of Final Fight.  This game rules.  You can choose from three players; Cody (the blonde haired street fighter), Guy (basically the Ryu character - ninja dude), or Haggar (the big wrestler dude and my favorite character to play).  The idea is to fight through each level and not die.  This is not going to happen, as they throw as many enemies as they can at you, resulting in inevitable screen lag, putting the entire melee into slow motion for a bit here or there.

There were more gems than just those two, obviously.  The original Tapper was a pleasant surprise.  When I say original, I mean the one where you are serving real beer, not root beer.  The good stuff.  The one where the little evil guy who shakes the cans is shaking cans of Budweiser, not soda.  I don't want to brag, but I got the #1 spot there.  Unfortunately I had to go with AWE as my initials, because I hit the button on A and didn't know how to take it back.  Damn shame, that.

There were so many different games, it was hard to really pick the stand-outs.  I did anyway, though, because I'm the kind of guy who likes a challenge.  Plus, I like to party.  I found two games right next to each other that garnered my interest.  The reasons might be obvious.  The Batman game is pretty cool, but the real winner is Superman.  Another good side scrolling adventure where you punch and kick your way through levels, each contact made is punctuated by a great fist-to-face sound.  There are also levels you fly through using either punches or heat ray vision.  Very, very good stuff.

On a side note:  A place such as this is bound to have the original Donkey Kong.  They did.  It's right beside this sentence.  

This is nothing unusual, but what I wanted to point out is the depiction of Mario himself.  It's pretty similar to every other picture of Mario you have seen throughout the years.  

What's really great about Mario, is that he bears a startling resemblance to our IT guy at my work.  It's gone so far as people talking like Mario when he is paged over the intercom.  It's also amusing because our IT guy is constantly Out Of The Office, as evidenced by his numerous emails pointing out his being Out Of The Office.

I would like to cap this all off with two more examples of why Crab Towne USA is awesome.  Two pinballs machines that I thoroughly enjoyed playing, even though I won no tickets or got a high score.  Or even near a high score.  The first one was the KISS pinball machine.  I know KISS has a hand in every kind of merchandise humanly possible.  KISS toilet paper might be may favorite.  This was good too, though.  You can tell it's an oldy because of the lack of bells and whistles.  The machine still had things that made noise a lit up and sparkled and sprung and all, but it wasn't overwhelmed with different tracks and holes and levels and flippers and all.

The second was the Star Wars pinball machine.  I took a picture of this one, but it was all blurry and not worth posting.  It's unfortunate too, because many will remember this machine in that it was one of the first amped up games, at least that I recall or cared to play, I suppose.  There is a mini-death star you have to hit the ball into to blow up, a small R2D2 you can make shake around, and if you light up C3PO's eyes you get an extra ball.  Sweet ass sweet.

I know I went on far too long for such a simple subject and even simpler place.  I did not know it existed until recently, so this explains my excitement.  I don't think I had talked about it here yet, but I had - and have - an idea for an arcade bar as well.  This wouldn't be a restaurant, but a two level pub, basically.  The downstairs would be for drinking and chilling, maybe watching sports or getting your groove on on the dance floor on the off nights we get a DJ for the younger crowd.  Upstairs would be a good sized bar, and filled with the kind of games found at Crab Towne.  

I know, good idea.

So when you get the chance, and if you happen to be in the Glen Burnie area, I suggest stopping by and playing you some games.  I do not suggest getting dinner.

Inanimate Rage and You.

Alright, the title may be misleading.  It's really about Inanimate Rage and Me, but it sounded more professional and official using the word You.  At least, in my mind, which is really all that matters.

I have an anger problem.  I do not start fights with humans.  I am not that confrontational, and refrain from physical scuffles whenever possible.  I tend to attempt a verbal diffusion in fight situations, and if that doesn't work I (a) curl up into a ball and whimper, or (b) allow one of my more physically inclined and close to insane friends to take on an aggressor in my stead.  It has worked so far, as I have not been in a fight, nor do I intend to get into one.

When it comes to inanimate objects, I do not have such reserve.  Inanimate objects produce obscene rage that I end up punching walls, breaking things, hitting counter tops, kicking couches, and cursing at items bereft of ears.

My phone's external screen does not work anymore, after my phone did not act as it was designed to act and I threw it into a wall.  My radio in my car has been slugged several times when refusing to play an overly damaged CD.  When I was a child, my Nintendo controllers rattled when shook, a direct result of my slamming them into the floor after losing a life.  The closet door in my old apartment was off it's hinges after getting lightly stuck and summarily wrenched from the frame when I became angry at it's refusal to open and wrenched it open.

These are only a few small examples of my problem.  I have slammed the keyboard at work once or twice when I did not succeed in passing the 24th level of Blocky 2.  Kicked coffee tables after stubbing my toe on the coffee table, causing my toe to hurt more from the kick, which made me kick the table again.  I have also punched it after getting stopped on 4th and 2 in Madden.

Now, Traffic is not exactly an inanimate object, but taken as a whole, Traffic is not alive.  The people who cause it are alive, but Traffic itself is not a living being.  It does, however, feel my wrath.  This wrath comes in the form of unspeakably vile descriptions of premeditated homicide and insults centering on Traffic's mom.

I find many people idiotic and dumb.  There are thousands upon millions of people out there who, in some random working of the universe, were not given the gift of common sense and decent judgement.  These people would be jettisoned into space if I had the power to enact such jettisoning.  This would be done without remorse.  This is not how I am made, though.  I don't think about punching someone's face in, or kicking someone's ass.  What I do think about is how much the door is now hurt after I punched it in it's peephole.

The release felt after striking an object that has refused to do the job it was specifically made for is much like the first bite of warm pie, or the afterglow of coitus.  I like to think that the breaking of the scratched CD is directly experienced by the manufacturer of said CD, the record company executive of the band's company, and the band themselves.

I think perhaps this type of release is what keeps me from attempting bodily harm on others of my species, and helps to keep me from buying multiple firing arms and going on a Dumb Person shooting spree.  My fear of anal rape would be what makes me use paint pellets instead of bullets.

This act of aggression towards refrigerators and dryers appalls Nichole, and she frequently yells at me when witnessing such displays.  Probably because I tend to knock frames off of the walls when I punch them.  That is not a boast of my strength, but rather a critique on my carpentry.

I can't help it, though.  I get so freaking mad I lash out without thinking about it.  Still, I have never and will never do so to people, no matter how I have been pushed.

So to try and start a fight with me is futile.  I am generally a calm and rational person, and can use those traits to avoid bodily harm.  If you do choose to try it, though, watch yourself.  I am liable to kick your car and throw your keys into a wall.

It's just how I roll.

The Road To Betrothal and Beyond.

I am engaged to be married.

Now, before you ladies get all depressed and furrow-browed, allow me to add that before I became engaged you didn't have a chance anyway, and, truth be told, I am probably too good for you. So there's that.

Yes, after almost exactly two and a half years of dating (and living together for the heavy majority of that), Nichole and myself will be tying the knot. Then, after we finish with our shoes, we'll get hitched. Then, after finishing with the horse and carriage, we'll get married. Tentatively in May of 2009, but I am getting ahead of myself.

I decided to do this for two reasons. The first and foremost, I felt it was time. She, being a member of the female species, has been ready for awhile now, but I was not. Not for lack of love or enthusiasm for the idea, I just did not feel the time was right. It is now.

Or was now? Is now was? None of that sounds right.

The other reason was where we are in our relationship and in life. We have put in for a loan to buy a house. Her daughter has been referring to me as 'Stepdad' for several months, without prompting of any sort from either Nichole or I. This was something she cooked up and stuck with by herself. The opportunity just presented itself very well and the timing seemed to fit.

Plus, she told me I had to or she would go "All Lorena Bobbit on your ass, bitch."*

I must confess to not understanding that statement fully, but the look in her eyes mad me think it had something to do with severing my penis with a sharp object so I went ring shopping.

I had already decided early on that this would be a secret. Her family is made up almost entirely of women, with a few men scattered in to propagate the species. This lends to news traveling fast amongst households. For this reason, the majority of her family were to be kept in the dark until plans were finalized.

This theory was applied to her friends as well. Now, I do think her friends would have kept things quiet, but when drinks are involved, people tend to get free with their words and I wanted no hints whatsoever. Sometimes people trying to act innocent shine like a guilty shining beacon, so I made the choice to say nothing. Most of my family were unaware as well, and before the actual day I was proposing only three of my friends knew.

I have heard rumblings about my decision to keep things quiet since, and to those rumblings I say Too Bad. I did this the way I wanted to, and no one else had a choice in the matter. Just wanted to get that out there.

I enlisted the aid of one of Nichole's friends who has been her confidant in all things wedding. This was the girl she did the most marriage talking with, as this is also one of the only married friends. I, on the other hand, have none. So it was Mrs. H that I brought into the fold. I almost didn't, though, as it was the same Mrs. H who got a little tipsy at a bar and told Nichole we had talked about proposal plans. You know what I'm talking about, Mrs. H, don't you play coy.

Forgive and forget is what I never say, but in this case an exception could be made. Besides, she promised over text message to keep it silent, even from her other friends, and we all know that what is said in text is legally binding. When it was time to buy the ring, Mrs. H and my Mother were both with me.

I had shopped around a smidge with my Mom about a week beforehand, and had settled on the diamond I was purchasing, if not the setting. I did choose one, tentatively, but was having doubts. Luckily, with a suggestion from Mrs. H and some agreement from my Mom, the ring was picked. Once I'm able to get a decent picture of it, I'll add it to this post and erase this sentence.

The reason I did no more shopping was twofold. One, the diamond was awesome and affordable. Two, I had decided on the date, and it really could wait no longer.

The day I chose was February 29th. This, too, was a twofold decision. And upon saying that, I am not altogether sure I am using it correctly. Be that as it may, the meaning stands. First, she was fully expecting me to propose at a concert we were going to attend (and have since attended) on March 7th. Aside from that, she thought it might come on April 13, because the April month is number 4 - her birthday - and the day is number 13 - my birthday. Wow, right?

Second, I just thought it was cool. This is a day that only comes around every four years, much like Haley's Comet - with a 74 year or so difference. Although, according to Mrs. H, girls are supposed to ask the guys during Leap Year. Or is that just that day? Not really sure. It doesn't matter anyway, because you really just don't care. Kudos to your honesty.

I had originally planned to tape a short on-camera piece and have it air during our sports talk show Washington Post Live. I put this idea to the Producer who was to bring it to our News Director. Now, as anyone in TV can tell you, when someone is going to tell you No, they don't just say No. Instead, the SOP for this denial is to simply not tell you anything at all, and avoid you completely until it is too late.

So I had to change my plans, as they told me No by not telling me No. Instead, I chose another video route. I filmed myself proposing and posted in on her MySpace page. Not until the day of, of course.

On that Friday, I called her Mom, and let Mrs. H know she could spread the word - with the rule that no one contacts her in regards to the engagement until after 6:30pm. I wanted to give myself a decent window of opportunity because Nichole is not good at timing. By this I mean when she says she will be home in 15 minutes, it means she has yet to leave work and might be stopping somewhere first. It's a quirk I've become used to and can now plan around.

So when she got home, she went for the computer quicker than I had expected because she had something to show me. I was kind of caught with my pants down, which normally would be a good thing, but in this case was unfortunate. Reason being, I had yet to hit "Post Comment" so the video was just kind of sitting there. Luckily, she wasn't suspicious, she just thought I had done something dumb and was posting this dumb thing I did onto her page in order to spread my dumbness thing throughout the land.

Her quickness on the draw, however, did not give me time to set up the camera on the computer, which I had intended to use to catch her reaction to the actual proposal in a full-frontal angle. I did have a camera set up behind us to catch my Giving Of The Ring.

She sat down, posted the comment, and went to view it. What it began with was myself sitting there, explaining how I had just figured out how to upload videos and put them on the web. This is something that is very easy to do, but it worked as an excuse in this instance. I then went on to ask her how her day was, what she wanted to do that night, and what she wanted to do that weekend. Finally, I asked what she was doing the rest of her life and proposed.

I won't tell you what her immediate response was, but she can leave a comment here and tell you if she would like.

In the end, it was Yes.

I had arranged for all of her friends to be at a local bar that night to celebrate, so we headed that way after a brief champagne toast with some of our family.

All in all, it was successful. The ring looks great, and I sized it correctly. Now comes the wedding talk, but we have a little over a year before we plan on walking down the aisle, so hopefully we can space it out some to make it a little more stress free for both of us.

The only small thing I'm worried about is how she will feel about my already being married in 4 different countries. I mean, what happens outside the US stays outside the US, right?

*Editor's Note: This was a falsified statement used only for dramatic effect. The actual quote is much to coarse for reproduction.

Weight Loss Update.

I do not recall the last time I spoke of this, and to be quite frank with you, it may not have been on this blog.  Might have been the ol' MySpace page that I'm 30 and shouldn't have.

Well, I am down 32 pounds total so far.  Actually, that's probably at 30 or so now, as I gained a couple the other week.  Still, though, pretty good.  I still have a long way to go, but we're getting there.

This is with not being able to work out for a month, too.  Over the course of 4 weeks I was 1) sick, 102 fever; 2) Participated in the Polar Bear Plunge, which I intend to write about soon; 3) sick again, 102 fever again; 4) minor back surgery.  It was a fun run!

The back surgery was nothing bad, really.  I had two sebaceous cysts on the upper middle left-ish part of my back and had to have them drained and fixed and sewn up.  I would go into the whole draining thing and what came out, but I want to spare you in case you are reading this blog over supper as many, many people do.

Are you enjoying your goopy cottage cheese?

Right, so as a result of having two rows of stitches in my back, I wasn't able to hit the gym for two weeks.  Although during my fever weekends, I lost a total of 8 pounds.  Doing so by sweating, shivering, and not eating is not the ideal course.

I am just now getting back into the exercise routine, and am hoping being off of it for this long will shock my body into some more quicker weight loss.  Nothing drastic, just to help me crack that 200 lb mark.  I am currently chilling at 208 lbs, with a starting weight of 242 back in October.  I figure, in 4 more months I should be right around where I want to be.

When the time comes, you will know.  I will have been found dead of Massive Acute Pastryitis, lying in my dirty underwear surrounded by 14 boxes of Entenmenn's Raspberry Danish Twist.

God I love that stuff.

Why Do They Do The Things They Do?

A few days ago, I went to Safeway for dinner as I did not bring any with me to work.  Man's gotta eat.  Even a dieting man.

The Safeway near my work seems to be a vortex.  Now, there are several definitions of a vortex, but dictionary.com has two I would like to share:

5.	something regarded as drawing into its powerful current everything that surrounds it: the vortex of war.

6.	(in Cartesian philosophy) a rapid rotatory movement of cosmic matter about a center, regarded as accounting for the origin or phenomena of bodies or systems of bodies in space.

In the case of this Safeway, it is a vortex of Odd.  My first instinct is to apply it to the word Stupidity, but that would just be rude to my fellow shoppers.  The better word is Odd.

So there I was, in line with my goods, in the process of mulling over which rag mag I was not intending to buy, when a lady got in line behind me.  She had a total of 3 items, although I cannot recall exactly what the said items were.  This being a 15 Items Or Less line, this was in no way unusual.  What was unusual, in my eyes and in the eyes of anyone with eyes to view the unusual, was that she had a cart.  A shopping cart.  A whole shopping cart.  For 3 items.

"Wait!" you shout accusingly, glaring at me with lover's eyes, "Maybe those items were heavy!  Charcoal is heavy!  Maybe she didn't want to carry the charcoal!  For God's sake man, the charcoal!!!!"

The simple reply is to point out that although I do not remember the specific items being purchased, I do recall that each one was small and could be carried by hand.  At the most, a small shopping basket.  The convoluted reply would involve cursing, berating, and an eventual trip to the nut house for all the charcoal talk.  So, I go with the simple.

She was pushing around a cart with 3 items.  This woman was not handicapped.  She was not limping, wheezing, gasping, or having a hard time pushing the cart.  It would have made perfect sense to pick up a small green Safeway basket and carry her items around.  It would have made even more sense to just carry them by hand, because they were easily small enough and light enough to do just that.  It did not make any sense to push around a large cart with three tiny pieces of grocery.

This is one example of the vortex at work.  It pulls the Odd like moths to a moth orgy.  Like inbreds to their moms.  Other examples I have spoke of before.  There was the guy who bought 15 yogurts and nothing else.  That was Odd.  The other day, they were letting the down-syndrome having youth learn stuff on the register while customers were starting to back up.  That was Odd.  Hey, the guy is free to learn stuff, but pick your battles.  There was the old lady a long time ago that freaked out when her groceries began to move along the black moving along thing we call put our stuff onto every time we check out of any grocery store.  Seriously.  She yelled at the cashier, blaming him for it.  Amazing.

Now that I have my little notebook, which you'll of course recall me mentioning in a previous post, namely this one, I'm looking forward to my next visit.  I might just forget to bring my dinner on Sunday.

See?  It draws me in, too.

The Return and Maturing, for better or for worse.

First, an explanation and apology.  An apology to myself, more than anyone else.  I apologize for taking so long to come back.  I have not posted a post since December of last year, after keeping an erratic yet normal writing schedule.  I did not write all the time, but neither did I let it get to be so long before reigniting the flame of passion I carry within myself for unimportant and derivative opinions vomited onto the internet.

I don't know why I let it get to be so.  I have said before that I am lazy, and that definitely has something to do with it, but I cannot cast all the blame on such a personality trait.  I think I was also blocked, like I would not let myself get back to one of the things I enjoy so well; the crafting of sentences, the turn of a phrase, the attempting to use large words to add ambiguity and uncertainty to my scripture, the subtle Use Of Capitalization to further my already obvious and uplifting point of view, the unadulterated wit that flows forth from my psyche only to cause undermining jealousy to those that view such art.

No, it really was just being damn lazy.  I'm kind of worthless in that way.

So I have decided to return.  I bought a small notebook to jot things down in when I come across them, such things that would lend to excellent blog fodder.  Things that are meaningless in the bigger picture of life but touch me in a way that makes me want to scream, "What the hell is happening to the human species?!?" and "Who do I have to hump to get some agreement that Darth Vader is the awesomest villain ever created, including the Devil himself?!?"

I am also trying this new font size.  I usually go with "Small," but I've ventured into "Normal" territory, as I feel perhaps my previous font size was a bit smaller than the normal person would prefer to gaze upon.  Upon incorporating this new text size into my post, my mind at first recoiled, reminding me that it was not in my nature to care what font size the normal person would prefer to gaze upon, and moreover, screw them.

However, as I referred to in my post title, I am maturing.  Growing wiser.  Bolder.  Better.  Better than ever.  Better than Ezra.  I am getting more grey hairs, and have reached the point in my life where I do not look like an 18 year old anymore.  I could easily be pushing 22.  It's annoying, that.  But one good look into my eyes lets you see the years behind them, the experiences, mistakes, triumphs, and masturbatory fantasies.  

So here we begin anew.  New font.  New topics.   New adventures, and misadventures!

Speaking of maturing, I got engaged last week.  More on that later.

Time Flies When You're Knee Deep In Nog.

I love the Christmas season.

It is easily my favorite time of year.  There are things to be said about summer and spring and fall and all, but when it comes down to it, gimme some winter action anytime.

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy some warm weather.  It is definitely nice to head on outside for a pick-up basketball game in some shorts and a t-shirt, rocking those new sneaks you just bought and need to break in.  Well, I'm told it's nice.  I haven't played a pick-up basketball game since birth, and I'm not really sure how one goes about picking one up anyway.  It was kind of supposed to be a metaphor.  Or something.

Here's another that I relate to better:  It's definitely nice to head on over to the pool when it's bright and sunny and hot out, head right on up to the water, turn around, and let yourself fall back into the water.  Now there's something I can deal with.  While I'm swimming around, I like to catch me a quick pick-up water polo game.

In the spring, I can enjoy the warming weather, blooming foliage, and everything that comes with nature's awakening from a deep winter's sleep.  In the fall, I can relish in the cooling weather, bountiful colors, and everything that comes with nature's death for a few months.

But winter... winter it where it's at.  First of all, winter is the time when football is getting even better.  Playoffs are coming, teams are in win-or-go-home situations, and sometimes your team isn't 4-11.  Secondly, the weather is nice a cold.  Perfect to strap on a sweatshirt, throw a jacket over that, rock out the knit cap, and hit the town.  Third?  Snow.  Now, it only snowed once so far, but I'm expecting some more to come.  Probably in March.

And lastly, the main reason I like winter the best?  Christmas.  I think I started to say that earlier.  These things tend to get away from me.  It is one day a year, and I look forward to it the whole time leading up to it.  Sure, it will stress me out in terms of money, and it will stress others out even more which will lead to them stressing others out, which will lead to a general disgust with all others hidden under the guise of Christmas Cheer.

"Cheer up, it's almost Christmas!" people will exclaim with much exclaim.  "Die!" you will wish to heartily retort.

But it's true.  It is almost Christmas.  Actually, it was three days ago, but I'm trying to convey a mood here, people.  For me, I think it stems from enjoying the gift-giving, plus it's the one time a year I see all of my family.  Well, most.  My Dad's side has a lot of people scattered around Maryland, from Baltimore to Towson to Columbia to Gaithersburg to Virginia (which is not in Maryland but shut your whore mouth) to Elkridge to Somewhere Else.  Once a year they all converge on my parents house in Columbia to share in good-hearted ribbing and not-good-for-your-hearted food.

There are, of course, the Secret Santa gifts to give out.  Also, it's a chance to see the kids I never get to see.  I have at least 7 kids to see, with new ones popping up at random intervals.  Seriously, sometimes I think we just let them in as they walk by.  Watching them open presents kind of brings you back to when you were young and all that mattered was getting those ready-to-rip packages in your hands and hoping they are not all filled with clothes because what kind of heartless hum-bug bastard only gets a kid clothes when what they really want is a brand-new just-released 1985 GI Joe jail set.

Rest in peace, Aunt Sue.

Anyways.  I know some people who aren't really fond of this season, obviously.  There are people out there who just don't care that much, and that's fine.  I'm not just talking about Jewish people, now.  I think a lot of Jewish people love Christmas.  The restaurants and movie theaters are barren.  I can understand why some may not enjoy the season.  Maybe it's the crowds, the falling-slowly-into-madness mentality of the Christmas mob, the drunken Santa's leering at your child in his lap, the Little Person attacking your child for repeatedly referring to him as an "Angry Elf."  Some just were not cut out for the season.

I am not one of these people.  In fact, if I saw one of these people, I would probably say something along the lines of, "Hey!  Cheer up!  It's almost Christmas!"   knowing full well I am subjecting myself to possible bodily harm and/or slow, painful death.  I can't help it.  My parents were and are very big with Christmas - the family side of it, not so much the church going, god fearing side - so it rubbed off onto me.  I'm a pretty good gifter, and my stocking stuffing skills are matched only by my father, and that man had many years to perfect it before I started to myself.  I mean, the guy wraps each individual thing in my Mom's stocking.  Seriously, I'm talking Chapstick.  Chapstick gets wrapped.  Awesome.

My only gripe?  It's too short.  In that way, I kind of envy the Hanukkah crowd.  They get 8 days.  We get one.  Albeit, ours is shoved viciously into the face of Joe Consumer before Halloween has passed.  So it's almost like Christmas gets two whole months.  I don't look at that side, myself.  I don't let myself think of it until Thanksgiving is over.  To me, Christmas is kind of one and a half days.  Christmas Eve, where you finish (or in my case, start) wrapping all your gifts, then light a fire, turn on the tree lights, and watch a couple Christmas movies before bed.

It's exhausting, all told.  But still too short.  It doesn't help when you have to go to work the next day, either.  I'm thinking next year I'm going to attempt to take off at least the day before and after Christmas.  This way, I can soak it in a little more before I have to go into my 364 day mental slumber until the next year.

Until then, "Cheer up!  It's almost Christmas if you really suspend disbelief and refuse to acknowledge a calendar!"

The Perils Of Drinking.

I just returned from Ocean City, MD today after a 3 day excursion with my girlfriend, her cousin, and her cousin's fiance. Nichole and I go to OCMD at least once during the off-season, as it is an excellent place to relax without dealing with any and all of the normal crowds that tend to swarm the peninsula come summer.

When we go, we stay at a place called The Haven Hotel, located on 1st street. A nice little hotel, very good off-season prices. Also, there's a jacuzzi in the room. Not in the bathroom, but in the room. It's awesome. We bring bubble bath.

So a few blocks down from the Haven is the world famous Purple Moose Saloon. By world famous, I of course mean not world famous, but some people know of it. I have developed good feelings towards the Moose, as it has served me well in the Drunk Department the last two times we have enjoyed the off-season.

The previous visit resulted in a $90 bar tab between myself and Nichole. At some point during the night, she had the idea to start doing shots, which probably contributed to the rest of the night. We began at 6pm, and around 10pm or so, a wedding party came in. I don't remember much of this, but apparently I was very congratulatory to the point of annoyance. We left the bar and stumbled to 7-11, where I almost knocked over an entire chip display in my rush to acquire another six pack, something I desperately needed.

I was successful. We ventured out onto the beach to sit under the stars, listen to the waves, and drink a beer or two. You know, real romantical type stuff. This didn't work out quite the way I had planned. After a few deep coughs, I turned my head to lean off of the blanket and promptly blew chunks all over the beach. Slight redemption came my way when I buried it with sand to keep it from the sight of my girlfriend. My girlfriend who seemed to be suddenly overcome with laughter for no reason whatsoever. We went in shortly after that, where I attempted to drink another beer. It's just so good when it hits your lips!

That was then. This is now. We headed over to the Moose after deciding not to head over to the bus stop and take a trip uptown. Why travel when you can drink at home? Or near it, anyways. So we ventured. It was barely crowded, maybe a good pack of 13 or so people, including us four. We got some beers, played some pool, did some shots. Eventually, the room began to spin on its own accord, much to my chagrin. Our tab reached the $100+ mark, which was a signal to us that it was time to leave. I do not recall much of what happened afterwards. I know we went out on the beach for a bit. The parts I do not remember are going to the same 7-11 as last time, where I was making loud jokes about Magnum condoms. On the walk back to the apartment, I tried to climb into and onto a construction site - unbeknownst to Sober Matt.

So, what have we learned so far? That I cannot handle my liquor? Correct. I cannot, nor have I been able to for a long time. I don't really like liquor, not a fan of doing shots, and rarely ever drink anything foo-foo-ish. I normally drink beer and beer only. The Moose just seems to get me. Thinking of my recent partial black-out and past inebriation adventure, it reminds me of the worst experience with The Drink I have ever had. I call it The Blackout. It is the reason I will not and cannot stomach Jagermeister. It is one reason I do not like doing shots anymore. It is one reason I have decided to believe in a Higher Power of some sort, even though I will never be a regular church goer or anything.

The Blackout

It was on the occasion of my 22nd birthday. I was living in Ocean City with two friends of mine, Ian and Joe. That night, we met up at a local bar whose name escapes me now. Atlantic Something Or Other. This was our hangout that summer. We went other places, but this was our main spot. We got to know the bartender, got some deals here and there, you know how it goes when you're awesome.

So that day, August 13th, whatever year, we headed on over to the bar. Joe met me out there from work, I had the day off to reflect on things that needed reflecting. That night, they had a special going on frozen Long Island Ice Teas. If you do not know what that is, go here. Then go order one.

As many of you know, it seems to take a long time to get drunk when drinking frozen drinks. It feels like you could drink 10 of them and barely feel buzzed. The truth is, that's a lie. I think it just takes longer to hit you. So while you pile them on, they are slowly gathering forces to attack.

So we were piling them on. On top of that, we thought it would be just the coolest to do shots of Jager too. I mean, it was my birthday and all, why not do it up? Thing become more hazy as the evening progresses, and the last thing I remember is a short sequence of events: Joe and I ordering two frozen Long Islands, and two more shots of Jager. The bartender brought us the shots, then made our drinks. He gave us the drinks, and we immediately ordered two more shots of Jager. Seriously, I remember nothing after.

That night, I had a dream. One of those dreams that just seem so realistic it feels like your actually there. It was early morning, and I was in water. I didn't necessarily want to be in the water, but there I was. There was a pier of some sort there, with ropes hanging off and stuff. I was trying to pull myself out but it wasn't working very well. Very frustrating. I wasn't scared, it was more of an annoyance than anything. Then, I woke up.

I woke up in my bed, with nothing on but the ol' skivvies. I had some little cuts all over my hands and forearms, and my left foot's big toe hurt like hell. So did my head. I looked closer at my foot and there was some green stuff under the toenail, packed in there like packed things get packed into packable things. I got out of bed, limping on my green toe, and looked around for my clothes. I found my pants in the living room, soaking wet. My shirt was on the bathroom floor, soaking wet. The only shoe I could find was soaking wet. I could not find the button down shirt I was wearing the night before, but I assume it was soaking wet, and might still be.

I was pretty confused, but upon inspection of my toe again, it hit me. I was slow that morning. The green stuff in my toenail looked like the kind of gooey, wet moss that grows on the submerged wood of a pier. Which meant my shoe had come off in some water, and my toenail became flush with green stuff as I was using my feet to attempt to get out of the water. It had not been a dream.

I had, somehow, fallen or jumped into the bay. I lost my shoe, my shirt, but nothing else. More exploring of the house.

Drying puke on the toilet and a little on the floor. I could only assume that was me. I cleaned up a bit, tried to get some of the toenail moss out of my foot, and brushed my teeth. Downed a few aspirin, then wrote a note.

My note went something like this:

Hey Joe, I blacked out and fell in the bay. What the hell happened last night?

I left the note in a noticeable position and went back to sleep, hoping to not dream of anything wet. Yes, not even that.

I woke up later when Joe stumbled in and went to sleep on the bottom bunk. Yes, we were a couple of 22 year old guys in bunk beds. Not our idea, it was only a one-bedroom place with three dudes. Before passing out, Joe had replied to my note:

I don't know, I blacked out too.

Not his exact response, but close enough.

Between the two of us, our roommate, a dude we knew, and a couple girls we knew we were able to piece together some of what happened the night before.

Joe remembered paying our tab and leaving the bar. From there, we headed over to a late night taco joint called Matteo's. It's not there anymore, but when it was... it was good. While we were there we ran into a guy we knew, who I apparently repeatedly high-fived.

From there, things get speculative. At some point in the night, it rained pretty hard. Somehow, Joe and me became separated. He stopped by an apartment rented by some girls we knew and fell into a bush. I fell into the bay. To this day, I do not know how I got out of the water. If there is some random fisherman who helped me out that morning, I thank you kindly.

According to Ian, my other roommate who left earlier than Joe and I and therefore did not almost die, around 9am Joe and I walked (trundled) through the door, holding each other up. We were somewhat incomprehensible. I basically stripped down to the drawers, threw up in and on the bathroom, and passed out. Joe grabbed his toothpaste, toothbrush, and a pack of crackers and headed to work after getting a phone call saying he was supposed to be there. I feel bad for the man. He spent the day puking in the work bathroom.

Around 3pm that day, I attempted to eat. I was successful. There was a little gyro stand near our apartment that was great for Next Day meals. I lost my shoe, shirt, and a silver figaro bracelet that night. My money was gone, but everything else in my wallet was whole. I had my car keys, which was a nice thing to see.

Finally, there is a nice scar on the inside of my left wrist to remind me that Jager = Bad.

So that was The Blackout. Kind of scary when you think about it. I mean, there is about a 6 hour gap where time seems missing. I don't know what happened, and neither does Joe. Did I spend 5 of those hours in the bay? Besides a few scratches and a green toe, I was no worse for wear. Didn't get sick or anything. Did I pass out somewhere for awhile? How did Joe and I reunite and make our way back to the room?

I have tried not to get out of hand like that since, and for the most part, I have succeeded. The other night was the first time since that I have actually lost a portion of the night before. I had others to babysit me, so maybe that was a bit of a catalyst. I knew I didn't have to drive anywhere, so that helped, too.

Either way, drinking is perilous. I think that was the point of this whole thing. Also, don't drink near a bay.

Not too much, at least.

A Case Study: Blue Thunder vs. Airwolf

Back in the 80's, the years 1983 and 1984 to be specific, the youth of America was treated to the emergence of a new, cool vehicle not given it's due in years before. We were exposed to the coolness of the helicopter. We had seen planes, trains, and automobiles, but before this time the helicopter was more of an after-thought. The grown-ups of this time knew of them, sure, but only in a traffic-copter or rescue-copter capacity. We of the younger generation, though, knew more about fire engines and jet planes. We were content with that.

Then, along came the helicopter. Not just the Red Cross Rescue Helicopter, I'm talking helicopters with weapons. In 1983, a movie was released by the name of Blue Thunder. This was about a high-tech military helicopter piloted by one Roy Scheider, he of Jaws fame. He plays a LAPD helicopter pilot who is selected to pilot this new, super advanced badass helicopter called Blue Thunder. There is an evil plot, plenty of helicopter action, and in the end, they destroy the helicopter.

Sorry for the spoiler, but it was made in 1983 and if you haven't seen it already, you aren't going to see it just because I'm currently over-thinking it's significance.

One of the things I had forgotten about the TV series spin-off was it's awesome cast. A few of the cast highlights? Dana Carvey, Bubba Smith, and Dick Butkus. Yes, that's correct. He had been in the Pro Football Hall of Fame for four years before this TV series even showed up on the boob tube.

Day in and day out they used Blue Thunder to thwart a wide assortment of threats. It was a dusty blue, and had all sorts of guns and missiles and things poking out of it, really a military look to the whole thing.

No doubt somewhat inspired by the attention given to the film Blue Thunder, but also supposedly coming from an idea found within an episode of Magnum P.I. (same producer), the TV series Airwolf made it's debut in the year 1984. This helicopter was different, though.

Still military in origin, this was a stream-lined, sleek looking helicopter that kicked as much ass as Blue Thunder without looking like it was hastily thrown together. Airwolf is explained as a "supersonic" helicopter, and had an impressive array of weaponry that would be released from hidden panels. Things slide out of the way, something shoots out, then things slide back into place.

The lead character's name was Stringfellow Hawke. I put that in bold type because his name was Stringfellow Hawke. I haven't met many Stringfellows, but I want to very badly. He was played by Jan-Michael Vincent, who you have seen before in some other movie he did where he was in it and you saw him there. Along for the ride was his friend, mentor, and all around great guy, Ernest Borgnine. His name is in bold because he is Ernest Borgnine.

This show started out with cloak and dagger type of plots, with spy organizations and covert activities. It devolved, some would say, into more of a straight action kind of show with more pedestrian overtones. Of course, in each episode, Airwolf was needed to set things right, the setting of which typically happened in the air, and many times against other helicopters. Apparently, helicopters are the choice of vehicle for most mid-air fights. Top Gun was way off.

Some would say Airwolf loses points for their stingy use of the helicopter itself. Airwolf was covert, as I may have mentioned earlier, so it wasn't like they could just hop the the ol' 'Wolf and get them some McDonald's. There was no kitten-in-tree usage of Airwolf, it was strictly Go Get 'Em situations. So we saw the helicopter in the beginning, sometimes a little in the middle, and in the Final Battle. Otherwise, it was kept in the defunct volcano that served as Airwolf HQ.

Blue Thunder was somewhat different, as it was not a secret helicopter. So these guys could ride around in it, maybe get some chinese food and catch a Drive-In. Not that Dana would let that kind of thing happen, I'm just saying, you know, they could.

The Blue Thunder TV series totalled a total of 11 episodes total. Plus the movie. Airwolf ran from 1984-1987, completing three seasons and a fake fourth one. I say fake because it featured an all-new all-different cast and became worse production-wise. It's like when Bo and Luke were replaced by Coy and Vance. We just like to pretend the Duke boys didn't exist for that short time. Blue Thunder was cancelled because the network executives were not willing to try and compete with the Airwolf series, which sported a superior opening theme. So in that respect, Airwolf wins.

Where Airwolf loses is in use of the helicopter itself. There was not enough In General use, in my opinion, and most of the show was spent waiting for them to suit up and load them guns. Point: Blue Thunder.

Airwolf, though, just looked so much cooler. It was like the KITT of the sky, without the talking, jumping sounds, or Hasselhoff. It was sleek, had this black and white scheme going, and the coolest thing - in my 7 year old opinion - was the lack of skids (you know, they ski looking metal landing gear), and the use of wheels. Such a simple thing, but it made Airwolf look that much cooler, flying around with the landing gear tucked away made it look even sleeker, and it was already really sleek, so this was just extra sleekness.

This is what ultimately gives Airwolf the crown, in my opinion. It looks cooler, the pilot looks grimmer, and they have a Volcano Base. The theme song rocks in that catchy synthesizer way, and when it hits near the end of the episode you know the Bad Helicopter is going to take a dirt nap. I had both toys, but Airwolf got the most play.

So, in conclusion to this amazingly uplifting and informative thesis, I must listen to the 7-10 year old inside me and announce Airwolf as the winner in this, the first of several Case Studies I intend to enthrall you with.

Congratulations Airwolf. Go Get 'Em.

Life Never Ceases To Amaze.

On July 17, 2007, I posted a blog with an opening line about a commercial I saw the night before. Instead of writing about that commercial, I put up a bunch of pictures of He-Man figures I used to own. I'm not sure why I did this, but I did. So there you go.

I have decided it is now time to talk about the commercial. I said in that blog, the commercial made me think, People will buy anything. I was correct in this assumption.

The commercial's intensity follows in the footsteps of Girls Gone Wild and available DVD's such as those. It does not, however, match the content. Instead, this DVD series is about....



....





....wait for it....





....Trains.



It was a commercial for a DVD series called Lots & Lots of Trains. The announcer comes in with something asking if you love trains and here comes Lots & Lots of Trains. Along with this scintillating talk comes an MTV-style montage of train footage. Big trains, small trains, fast trains, slow trains, red fish, blue fish, one fish, fish trains.

It captivated me like how captivating things captivate other people. I was in awe. Not of the trains, mind you, but because someone had made and was selling DVD's featuring many different kinds of trains riding along their tracks. Now, I have seen a lot of porn. I mean, a lot. I have never seen a train fetish, though, so I can only assume these videos were not made for train enthusiasts to masturbate to.

Which means, they are serious. This is not a joke. I thought maybe, Hmm... someone must be messing with people's minds here. Maybe, just maybe, the Powers That Be decided they would mess with those of us watching A&E at 3am. At least, I hoped that was the case. But alas, it is not a joke.

Not only is Lots & Lots of Trains an actual DVD, but there is a Volume 2. If you loved Lots & Lots of Trains, you'll vomit for Lots & Lots of Trains: Volume 2!!! And if you vomited for Lots & Lots of Trains: Volume 2, you'll anally bleed for when we come out with Lots & Lots of Trains: Volume 3 for some reason!!!!

I just don't get it, as I don't get many other things. How did they sell enough of Volume One to make Volume Two a necessity? On Amazon.com, they have Katey Sagal and James Garner listed as 'Actors.' How the hell did they get Peggy Bundy, much less James Garner??

This rant doesn't exactly have much of a point, obviously, aside from putting a voice to my bewilderment. It amazes me that things like this exist, and moreover that people buy this stuff. Now, to be fair, the two reviews I read explained how much the reviewers' kids liked Lots & Lots of Trains. In that respect, I can understand why the video exists. Even so, enough parents bought this for their kids to warrant a Volume Two? Really?

Shouldn't there be a lot more train engineers? I have never met someone whose occupation dealt with the driving of trains.

If I did, though, I would buy them this movie. I'm thinking of buying it anyway, just to say I have it.

I can't wait for Lots & Lots of Mopeds.

Pulling My Weight. To Lose Said Weight.

As of today, I will have been a member of Weight Watchers for nine days. This may have been the longest commitment to a healthy activity I have ever not quit.

I have told myself before, "I'm definitely gonna start working out," as I started the second quarter of an important football game... on Madden... on PlayStation. "I need to eat better," while finishing off that pesky last bit of the half a DiGiorno pizza I just demolished. "I'm going to start going to the gym," which is similar to the first quote, which is something I said while passing an apartment complex gym while heading out to pick up the Chinese I just ordered so I can chow down while watching the movie I picked up from Hollywood video that I plan to watch while I eat that Chinese food. The food I ordered enough of to feed two people. The food that will be eaten only by myself.

I'm actually drooling now.

So I was warned by a friend of mine that when starting a diet and while maintaining said diet, you will think of food constantly. This, I have found, was not a lie. There are times when I don't think about it. When I was driving to work today, I found myself not thinking about food. I noticed this, then immediately dreamed up a deep-fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich with pastrami. OOH! And jalapenos.

What?

As I was saying, food seems to be foremost on my mind now. It's not that I'm sitting around thinking about what I can't have anymore, like half a pizza or a drippy cheesesteak sub with onions and hots and a side of jalapeno poppers, it's more along the lines of what I can have. What I can eat, and how it equates to the point system I'm working with. For example, one beer equals 3 points. I haven't had a beer yet since I've been on the diet, so that might have not been the best example, but still. I guess I'm thinking about beer. That's normal, though.

I think about what I can make that will be both filling enough, healthy enough, and taste good. There is plenty to choose from, I've found, which makes it even easier to sit around and think about. Right now, I have several fillets of catfish in my freezer. We (Nichole is on the diet as well) are planning on having that on Thursday. Here it is, Tuesday, and I have already thought about a couple different ways to cook it. I'm leaning more towards lemon-pepper. Something lemon-peppery.

Then I go into the veggies. I can eat almost as much as I'd like when it comes to vegetables, but the problem there is the small amount of vegetables I actually like. Carrots. I like carrots. There are others, but they require some doctoring for me to enjoy them. I can do broccoli, but I only like it drenched in some kind of dip. Blue cheese, preferably. "Cucumbers?" you ask for no real reason at all. No, don't like 'em.

I can do squash and zucchini, but I need to fancy them up. I can only use a little bit of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter - which, by the way, I can now believe - so that's out. We do have in our spice cabinet something called Garlic and Wine Seasoning which is most good, but too much of a good thing is probably against the rules somehow.

When all is said and done, though, I have lost over 5 pounds already. I am eating healthier, drinking a lot more water, urinating more often, and keeping myself from snagging the errant cookie from our Green Room or the leftover pizza Kelsey had for lunch that day. I have started a workout program, 2 times a week for only about 15 minutes or so. 3 days a week I do some sort of cardio, both of these I can do in my living room while watching TV. I do some squats, push-ups, leg lift type things and some exercise where I lie on my side and lift myself up with my elbow. Hard to explain.

So far, I'm committed. Part of that comes from venturing into the Diet World not alone, but with Nichole. The other part is the $65 I spent on 3 months worth of Weight Watchers membership. It will take me longer than that to get where I want to be, so in the end I will have shelled out a lot more than that, but if I'm actually spending money on something I am inclined to make use of it. I mean, I pay for my car and use that every day.

Seeing it work is the biggest incentive, of course. Before, I would half-ass it and wonder why I couldn't lose weight. This time, I'm following all the rules and it is actually paying off.

Stick with it, it might just pay off. Who knew?

It's Not Easy Being Purple.

Yes, Kermit enthusiasts, I realize he sings about being green. I love the song, too.

I have commandeered the chorus of the song for my own purposes because every Sunday (and the occasional Monday) is a challenge, when it really shouldn't be. I am speaking, of course, of the fan support I offer up to the Baltimore Ravens.

I love football season. I will watch the Orioles or pause on a Wizards game, and even tolerate a Caps game if the bar has it on. I will kind of almost follow the World Series, and tune in during March Madness to watch some college b-ball (having money on a pick 'em pool doesn't hurt). I'll tune in to the Olympics for curling. None of these comes close to football, for me. And I'm not referring to college ball, but the National Football League.

I don't even know what it is about it that puts it at the top. Is it the game itself? Is it because it's only once a week, which makes every game count? Perhaps part of the appeal is in the intensity or violence of it all. Even now I've stopped twice to watch some of the Dallas-Patriots game.

For whatever reason, I love me some football.

Being born in Baltimore, raised close by, and raised by a man who was born and raised in Baltimore and Towson, I am a Baltimore fan. I can very vaguely remember the Colts being here, but for the most part I grew up without a football team in town for which to root. I remember kind of liking the 49'ers, back in the Montana days. I think I was okay with the Raiders at one point, because of the whole skull and crossbones kind of thing. I mean, I had a Raiders Starter jacket in middle school. Hell, Ice Cube had one, and I was hard too, right? As far as rooting for the Redskins... no can do. Somewhere in my childhood development, a No Redskins sign was implanted into my brain by my Dad, so I couldn't go there for a team. Although, I don't have the irrational hatred of that team as many of their fans have for the Ravens (most of which makes no sense, because the kids growing up with the Redskins now have no past prejudices towards any other team which to me makes their disdain of the Ravens completely idiotic. Maybe they're pissy because of our Superbowl win. Who knows?). I actually think a Ravens-Redskins Superbowl would be awesome.

We'd crush 'em.

So when it was finalized, when the announcement was made that Baltimore would once again have a team, it was like an awakening for me. I didn't really care about watching sports until then. They showed up, and I was an automatic fan.

Going through hard seasons, great ones, and decent ones, it seems like the Ravens M.O. consists of seating their fans on the edge every single game. It's never easy, is how it feels. Today we played the 0-5 St. Louis Rams and won 22-3, which to most would seem like a great win, good job, nice work outta you, etc. Not for the Ravens. We had Kyle Boller at quarterback. This alone will make every single Ravens fan cringe when the ball is snapped. Our DB's are suspect now, especially after giving up beig leads late in the game. McNair is looking old and, at times, damn confused. Billick seems to throw any game plan he might have developed as soon as he gets into the red zone. And this is after a 13-3 record from last year.

Even during the Superbowl year, we had to suffer through five games without a touchdown. It almost seems like the only easy game we had was the Superbowl game. We won that game 34-7, essentially ripping the Giants apart without breaking a sweat.

So why O why is it so freaking hard now? I know I am the same as any fan in the frustration I feel for my team. But Lord Above we should be taking these teams apart. Coming from the way we played last year, most of us fans feel like we shouldn't even have a loss at this point. Our schedule after the bye week is the farthest thing from ideal, and we are floundering against lesser echelon teams and pulling wins out of our ass.

Sorry for the vent. I'm just frustrated. We beat the Rams handily today, but they were 0-5. We beat the 49'ers last week at San Francisco, but we only beat them by 2 and scored no touchdowns. We won against Arizona in week 3, but we gave up the lead and got lucky to win by 3 points. There is always a BUT thrown in there. It can never be We Done Good Today. There is always something.

It makes my hair grey.

I tune in, every week. I will continue to tune in every week. I will keep wearing purple jerseys and purple visors and shirts with the Ravens' logo. I will go to games and yell myself hoarse. And I will curse the ground they play on during every bad performance.

I love football.

New Mexico. Cow Creek Ranch.

Cow Creek Ranch is located right outside of a small New Mexico town called Pecos. I don't think there is a stop-light in the entire town. There is a few stop signs, I know that much. Also, they take credit cards. I know this because I bought beer right before heading to the ranch. Can't fish without beer. Seriously, it's in the Fishing By-Laws. That I made up.

When heading to the ranch from Pecos, you drive up to a dirt road, onto the dirt road, and follow it for about 45 minutes through the mountains up to the ranch. Even once you pass the Cow Creek gate, you still have about 10 minutes of dirt road to traverse. It is an enjoyable ride, but make sure you're rolling with 4 wheel drive because there are some serious divots to work around. A few scenic moments when you hit the top and work your way down, but mainly it's just a lot of forest and several sequestered houses that you will wish you owned because it would be awesome to live in the woods and not have anyone bother you with things like work and bills and as long as I'm dreaming I'd like a pony.

The ranch house is essentially one large building divided into sections. The main part of the house has the dining room, a nice living room area to hang out in, and a good sized back porch for relaxation and night-time cigar smoking/beer drinking. Which we enjoyed each of the nights.

Attached to the house is a long building, shaped like an L. It is where the rooms are found, ten of them in all, I believe. Some of them are one double bed, some have a couple singles, some are two doubles. Some share a bathroom, some have their own. There is no small fridge or anything like you would find in a hotel room, but the main house has a fridge for your stuff, plus they provide small coolers to keep the brew outside of your room. Handy.

Across the way from the main house are the stables and a smaller house occupied by the employees of the ranch. Some of them stay there the whole summer, with occasional trips to civilization, I'm sure. Otherwise they could have a serious All Work And No Play problem on their hands.

Surrounding the ranch, mountains. Looking at them, you get the feeling that something is not right, though. Something seems missing, or there should be more. And you would be correct. Sometime in the year 2000, there were massive forest fires throughout the range. The damage then must have been spectacular, because the area is definitely still recovering and will be for quite a while. Many of the trees are barren, and many still hold the burnt scars from the fire. Apparently, the ranch began larger as there was another house behind it, which was consumed by the fire.

Still, it didn't take away from the view, but rather augmented it somewhat. Like if you were looking at what was and thinking of what it would be.

The ranch is run by a lady by the name of Lenier. If I am not spelling that right, you don't know the difference so just go with it and stop complaining. She is almost 30. Yes, that's correct. 30 years old. Did you know I'm 30 too? And did you also know that I do not own a ranch in New Mexico? Nope, not even a shack. Actually, her father still owns it, she just runs the place. But still, one day she will own it.

And when that day comes, I will win it from her in a game of sabacc.

She will later betray me to the Empire. She won't have a choice, though, they will have arrived just before I did.

The ranch provides almost everything. It's awesome. If you don't have fishing gear, they have plenty of stuff you can use. Why you wouldn't have any fishing gear when going on a fishing trip is beyond me, but there you go. I've been over the meals, but there is always something to snack on if the need hits. In the main house, they have a small bar area where they will keep your beer or liquor with a little name tag so as to avoid any confusion when three people all bring six packs of PBR.

The little outside fire pit is great. We all pulled up chairs, fired up the cigars and cracked open the brews. Definitely the highlight of the night after a long day of fishing.

The best part of the trip might have to be the company. It was great how everything worked out. The group was made up of:

Dad, Myself

Dave and his dad George

Chris and his dad Tom

The cool thing about this is the connection here. My parents moved into our first house when I was a couple months old. I think we were the first of the group. Soon after, Dave and his family moved into the neighborhood and I think Chris's family was next. I know I met Dave when I was 11 months and he was 8 months old. Roughly. I'm not sure when I met Chris exactly, but I don't remember ever not knowing him, so there you go. These are the folks we go Christmas tree hunting with every year. We do a chili night after that where we eat chili and exchange gifts. Dave's Mom babysat me more than any of my relatives did. So basically, I got to go to New Mexico with part of my extended family.

Real male bonding, and we didn't even need strippers. We did need beer, but not strippers. Also, there was an exorbitant amount of flatulence. Since we were wearing waders, the farts would kind of get trapped in them, so when we went to take off the waders you kind of got a second blast. If you timed it right, you could let that second blast out right around another guy and let him enjoy the ride, too.

Sorry about the last part, but this blog was way too straight-forward and semi-serious. It didn't have many joke moments, so I felt a light hearted adolescent jaunt through the beauty of a good fart would help bring me back down to the level I usually occupy.

So ends my New Mexican blogs. I'll be back to the mindless drivel I know and love soon enough. Thanks for listening, and if you get the chance to head out there someday, buy me a ticket too. I'll roll with.

New Mexico. The Fishing.

The tranquility of the water. The early bird chirping of the early bird. The sun peeking over the horizon, slowly warming the ground and casting off the fog floating lazily across the land. The half open eyelids and groggy plodding towards the fishing ground to hopefully catch a large slimy fish and unhook a metal hook from its mouth in triumph.

This is early morning fishing.

We fished later in the day, too, though. The area provided to fish was enormous. The ranch had 7 small lakes, each stocked with trout. There were rainbow trout, brook trout, brownies... I also caught an awesome 2" brook trout, which is pictured here. There was also a river running the length of the property and beyond, with small pools set up at different intervals along the stream. So you could fish a small patch of the river, or spend a little time at your own personal pool trying your luck.

They really split everything up well, dividing the different areas up by room. At dinner the night before, you would draw a number. After every room had picked, you would go in order and select which station you would like to fish. Any one of the 12 stations along the river, or you could pick a lake. This kept it open enough that you wouldn't have three rooms worth of people trying to fish the same patch of river.

At lunch, you could sign up for another spot of water, without the burden of trying to remember the number you picked. We weren't here to think. We were here to fish.

Any station left open could be fished by anyone. Since we had three rooms in our group, we were able to arrange our choices in line with each other. So we would pick, say, Lake 4 and 5 and station 6 on the river, or something. That way, we could all switch around as we liked.

My personal favorite was fishing the river. The third day of fishing, we all chose sections 10, 11, and 12 on the river. That put us as far upstream you could get and still be fishing within the stocked areas of the river. The further up you went, the less man-made the areas became. So when you kept going past 12, as my Dad and I did several times, it got a little harder to traverse but a lot more fun to fish. At one point I found a small little natural pool in a river and caught 4 fish within a 5 minute span (I hooked about 7 but only managed to reel in the 4).

To me, that is fishing. There is definitely something to be said for fishing in a lake; it is calmer, there are more fish around, and very relaxing. But to me, the real fun comes from treading through the river, making my way through high grass and all sorts of branches and rocks and knee deep water and ankle deep water all to find that one little spot where you can catch a really nice fish. A lake is almost too easy - although I will say that I caught more in the little streams than the lake, but I think it might have been a technique problem or something.

We used several different types of flies, no live bait. Fly fishing has great names for their lures. Wooly Boogers would be my favorite. It is also the majority of what I used, at least in the lakes. Going up the river, both my Dad and I were using small dry flies (looked kind of like fat mosquitoes), with a small fake worm trailing behind. The dry fly would stay mostly on top of the water while the worm would sink a little. Everything was made out of yarn, these are not rubbery or plastic as regular fishing lures tend to be.

As this ranch was strictly catch-and-release, all the barbs on the hooks needed to be removed or smushed down as to not really harm the fish (aside from getting a hole in its lip). This works out better as a whole, because there would be nothing you could do with the fish anyway aside from sitting it in a cooler for a few days until you left. Trust me, I don't think you'd want it after that.

You know what's fun? Losing flies. I must have lost at least three for every time we went out. When you lose one, you just have to tie another one, but my oh my is it frustrating. I once lost two in the span of about ten minutes. I lost the first one under the water. So I sat down for a bit and tied another on, went to cast, and immediately tangled it up in some branches roughly 10 feet above my head. After subjecting the tree to many a scathing insult and cursing the Great Lord Of The Fish for a couple minutes, I angrily sat down to tie yet another fly with only a modicum of grumbling and scorn.

Fly fishing is almost the polar opposite of regular casting, which I think is referred to as spin casting. The only thing that keeps it from officially being the polar opposite is that you are still trying to catch fish either way. Normally, you would use the reel the whole time, both in the casting of the lure and retrieval. You hold the line, cast it out from the reel. Then, you slowly bring the line back in, again using the reel. With fly fishing, the reel is really only used to hold the line somewhere. When you get ready to fly fish, first you pull as much line as you need from the reel, letting it settle around your feet, essentially. One hand holding the rod, the other holding the line, you cast the rod back quickly so that the line goes taught, then bring it forward. At the end of the forward cast, the hand holding the line lets some go. Doing this a few times back and forth is called a false cast. Now, when I say you cast the rod back, I'm not speaking as you would when spin casting. You don't flick your wrist back. You move your forearm. The wrist stays straight, there is not bending. If you get into the bending of your wrist, the cast will be nowhere near what you would have liked it to be.

Upon re-reading that, the part of me that is pretending to not know how to do it is kind of cocking its head to the side and saying, "Huh? Why not just write it in spanish, douche?"

I mean, you can kind of tell what I'm saying, but you also can kind of not. So here. A link to a website called www.flyandspincasting.com. I am convinced they will do a better job than I did. Take note of that, it's not the type of thing I will usually admit.

Here we come to the advertising portion of this blog. I recommend to anyone who is a fan of fishing to try out fly fishing. I liked it so much better than spin casting, and I really didn't think I would. It's frustrating to get a feel for at times, but once you get a good rhythm going it's great. You have more control over the line. Reeling in the fish is easier because you are using your hands to pull in the line, plus you can decide exactly how much line you want to cast. You can change direction mid-cast if you see a fish pop up over there. Good stuff.

Plus, and this is the kicker, when you do it right - you look totally awesome doing it. Like a real pro.

Or, if you will a reel pro.

See what I did there?

New Mexico. Robin Hood. Ish.

I'm not sure why the Powers That Be decided to schedule the extra-curricular activites right after lunch each day. The day before we went horseback riding immediately after lunch. Today, archery. Immediately after lunch.

It's New Mexico, in the middle of the mountains, and I'm about to go shoot stuff with arrows. Time to stop whining.

I've archered before. I was a Boy Scout in my youth, even though many of the lessons didn't quite stick. I do remember something about being trustworthy, which I feel that I am. I was not always, but I am now. I remember getting an archery badge at a Boy Scout camp, and I recall a similar activity in high school, too. So I'm familiar with it, I know what to expect, and I'm pretty sure I will excell as usual.

We met with our guide, Katie, a little while after the aforementioned lunch. I had a huge hamburger covered in green chilis, but that's not important right now. Besides, I covered that in the food blog. I just wanted to establish that I was very, very full.

Katie, it seemed, was not an archery expert, but more of an employee who was given the archery assignment for the summer, therefore she was the Archery Guide. Enough to explain everything and go over safety procedures, like what to do when pierced by an arrow by a fellow vacationer in the middle of the woods, or how to position the arrow correctly. She was very nice, though. She has a MySpace page.

Shooting today would be myself and Dave, plus four other guests of the ranch. This was quite a turnout, considering the guest list for the horseback riding had been only Dave and I. The others were each from Texas, two couples - although one of the ladies did not arch, just watched and cheered on her hubby, who I soundly trounced.

I know I trounced him because we kept score. I'll get to that.

We started out shooting at some pillow targets. Two large pillows with five small targets were strung up in the woods. After applying our wrist guards, we each took turns taking some practice shots before getting down with the real hunt.

The real hunt is where we kept score. There were seven different foam animals placed around the woods for us to take a shot at. Actually, we each had two shots at each fanimal. That's my shorthand for fake animal. On these lucky fanimals were sections with different point values. A general body shot was 5 points, but if you got within the kill zone circle area type place, you were awarded 10 points. If you completely missed the animal, you were awarded no points and made an object of ridicule.

Not really.

The order of the animals went as follows: Deer, Warthog, Rabid Pig, Maniacal Wild Turkey, Evil Groundhog, Deer Number Two, and lastly, Cute Bear Cub That You Want To Kill.

The only one I didn't hit at least once was the Evil Groundhog. Missed him completely. I hit the turkey twice, and I think I hit the pig twice as well. My best shot was the second shot on the first deer. It looked like I only whiffed it, but we couldn't be sure until we went to collect the arrows. Turns out I had completely shot it's ear off. I argued for more points, but Katie was firm in her charting.


I ended up with 40 points and a second place finish. I was beat by four by some guy named Scott from Texas, who started slow but came on strong in the end. I later hooked Texas Scott with a fly-line by "mistake," then made out with his wife.

Ironically, but not really, Texas Scott was also the winner of the Long-Cast Competition we had later that night at the fish fry. His partner was my Dad, so I couldn't fault him for that. Plus, my Dad actually had the longest cast, Texas Scott was just his partner.

I still slashed his tires that morning.

New Mexico. Brokeback Style.

The last time I actually rode a horse was probably back in Boy Scouts. Maybe at a fair somewhere as a child, taking a wild ride on a stoned and tethered horse walking in a circle. Holding tight on the reins in fear of the horse going wild and taking off through the cotton candy laden crowd. Or perhaps I was The Lone Ranger, trekking through the wild west in search of fortune and fame and a town to call my own.

**insert The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly wah-wah-wah theme here**

So it's somewhat understandable that I approached my horse-riding activity (one of some of the other activities they offer during your stay at the Cow Creek Ranch) with some trepidation and wariness. Will my beer-gut be the catalyst to finally break this horse's spine? Will my manly-man-scent be enough to drive the steed into a frenzy of jealous hatred and buck me off? Am I just a few minutes from living out my life as the former Superman had to live his? What if I hurt my junk on the saddle?

All these were important questions at the time. Upon seeing the horses, tethered and docile with very little interest in either myself or Dave as we walked toward them, the rational part of my took hold and gently said, "Man up, bitch." Words of wisdom, I would say.

Our Riding Guide was running a bit late, which gave Dave and I an opportunity to run through a slew of jokes pertaining to our coming ride. I can't really remember them now, but I'm positive they were hilarious.

Our Riding Guide, Gene, showed up and got us ready to head out. After, of course, we each signed a release form. You know, in case the thing with my manly-man-scent happened, or perhaps we were mistaken for large Elk on horseback. These things occur, and always when you least expected it. If you sign a waiver, though, then it won't happen. So pass the pen.

He assigned us our horses. Dave, being a black guy, was immediately given a black horse. I wasn't offended though, because that meant if a crazed killer suddenly lunged out of the woods with an axe and attacked us, they would both die first. I've seen movies. I know how this stuff works. His horse, naturally, was named Blackjack. I assume it was one word, because I thought Black Jack would just be too politically incorrect.

My horse was next. I found out his name was Reno after the ride. During the ride, I referred to him as One-Eyed Willy. From Goonies? Geez, go rent it already. I referred to him in such a way because he only had one eye. I was about to go on the first horsey ride in many, many years and was given the horse with one eye. Yippie-kay-yay. Also, I got the feeling he wasn't thrilled to have my bulk weighing on his spine. I got this feeling because when I got on, his spine snapped.

So after two rolls of duct tape and some quick thinking by Gene, we were on our way. Our hike was to be about an hour or so, and took us up a trail into the mountains. The trail began nice and wide, car-width, and eventually shrunk down into a regular in-the-woods trail. The terrain was grass and dirt for the most part, but in some spots it became very rocky and loose. This is where it got a little scary.

Because Willy had only one eye, he would turn his head to the side every now and then to get a better read on where the other horses were, as well as what part of the trail was forthcoming. All of the horses were used to this walk, as they offer the activity to everyone at the ranch, so it really shouldn't have had me wary. Still, you expect a horse to go in the direction it's head is pointing, typically. So to have it walk straight when it's looking the other way is unnerving, even taking into account it was not looking the other way. It just has one eye. So it almost feels like it's not even looking where it's going.

I'm sorry, I keep saying it. He. Reno. Willy. Ol' One Eye. Whatever.

On top of that, Willy liked to walk slower. So he would fall back a ways, notice that he had done so, then trot up to the other horses. This part was not fun. It was kind of neat at first, "Check me out, I'm on a trotting horse." The fourth time or so began to get old. Plus, all the bouncing made me worry I would come down hard on the fellas, if you catch my meaning. Ol' Willy though, he liked to trot. One might say he was hot to trot. So he would walk slow, turn his head sideways to check out how far back he was, then trot right on up behind Dave's horse who would immediately fart.

All of these drawbacks make it seem as if I did not enjoy the ride. Quite the contrary, I very much enjoyed it. I was a bit nervous here and there, but there was plenty of good as well. We were walking through the woods, after all, so it was scenic. Saw some elk, and there were great views of the surrounding mountains. Before turning back, we stopped in a large clearing with a great panoramic look at the mountains and the small valley we found ourselves in. All around us were almost-dead trees that were a result of a huge forest fire in 2000. Gene was telling us about how close the actual ranch itself came from being completely destroyed, and even had an entire separate building that was burned down only 50 or so yards from the main house. It was odd to see thousands of near-dead trees or scorched bark, then a grown pine tree with no damage right in between. There were some trees that were cleared of needles or leaves on one side, only to be flush on another. I saw one burnt out husk of a tree trunk, blackened and charred with a completely untouched branch sprouting from the side. A true testament to nature's perseverence in the face of natural disaster. Both fascinating and inspiring, in a way.

Enough with the deep stuff. Back to the ride on the lucky one-eyed horse named Reno.

On the journey back, we took a slightly different route which had us crossing the stream at no less than 4 separate areas. This had thoughts of the horse breaking it's leg, falling over, and trapping my leg underneath it running through my head. I was imagining how they would get an ambulance out there, and thinking of the bumpy journey back to Pecos, where there may or may not have been a doctor's office much less a hospital. I know, how thoroughly optimistic.

I didn't think these thoughts at first. It was after crossing the first stream and actually feeling through my ass on the saddle the rocks shifting underneath Willy's hooves. I've never gripped something so hard in my life. Well, not since my membership to Mr. Skin ran out. I do love me some naked celebs.

We got back to the ranch, got me a pic while still saddled on Reno, then dismounted. While dismounting the pocket of my shirt caught on the saddle and ripped off a button. Nice. We thanked Gene then headed back over to the ranch, walking just a bit gingerly.

Definitely worth it, and I would recommend a nice horsey ride to anyone. It's pretty relaxing when your horse has two eyes, and it's just Something Different. Always a good thing.

But, as Dr. Egon Spengler told us, "Don't Cross The Streams."

New Mexico. The Grub.

I enjoy some Mexican food as much as the next red-blooded American male who likes to fart. I love me some chili con queso, a good taco, sizzlin' fajitas, etc. There is, however, a stopping point. There is such thing as too much, although I have at least two friends who would disagree with me.

When we arrived in New Mexico, we drove to Santa Fe to our hotel. From there, we found ourselves the first of several brew pubs and sat down for a beer while we waited for another of our party to show up. Chris, the guilty one, lives in Colorado and was driving to meet us and had not arrived just yet. So, the rest of us decided to enjoy our wait by downing some New Mexico beer and appetizers. We had nachos and chips with dips and some quesadillas.

When we met up with Chris, we all went to a fly-fishing shop where I bought a $75 fly-fishing hat, then headed out to dinner. Finding another brew pub, we sat down for a nice meal. A nice, Mexican food meal. I had shrimp fajitas this time around, and they were damn good.

To the left is a whole lot of New Mexico chilis. There are green ones and red ones, just like you see there, unless you are colorblind and are seeing what you think is yellow and maroon.

They eat these with everything. Not like you see them there, but chopped and roasted and stuff. They came with the quesadilla and nachos. There was a side of them with the fajitas. We went for ice cream one night and there was a shot glass worth of them at the bottom of the cone. My beer had them floating in it. Hell, they were stuffed inside of the mint on my pillow.

Now, I am prone to exaggeration at times, but I am almost not exaggerating here.

You can get red or green with your food. The green lends itself to a bit more heat, so I went with the green while we were there because I like to party.

After those two places, we headed out the next day to Pecos, New Mexico, where we would then go off the beaten path onto a not-as-beaten path into the mountains. Before we hit that dirt trail, we stopped at a general store in Pecos to get a few things. Mainly to get beer, as this place is BYOB. They fridge it up for you and everything and you can get to it at any time, they just don't provide it. Which is a good idea, when you think about it. You are playing with hooks the entire time, so it behooves them to not provide you with the alcohol.

Across the street from the general store was a small adobe packed restaurant, the name of which escapes me and is not entirely important. What is important is that my meal was Mexican food smothered in green chilis. So this is the third complete Mexican meal I have had in two days. I could feel my colon sneering at me, but whatever I had really tasted good. It was beef and cheese inside of some light Mexican pastry. Also, with the chilis option, they included with most dishes an awesome concoction consisting of zuchini and squash and onions and melted cheese. Very tasty.

From there it was on to the ranch itself. Cow Creek Ranch, for those that have already forgotten. In the main house is the dining room, where every group had their own table. We were a group of six, so we had our own six-seater right there waiting for us. This place does breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and there are plenty of snacks available if you are wont for something to gnosh. Also sodas and bottled water.

We arrived around 2pm or so, a little before our actual check-in time, but they let us check in earlier than usual. We did some fishing, then it was dinner time. As a change of pace, they were serving Mexican food! And lo and behold, there was a dish of green chilis for topping! On top of that, at least two of the dishes contained the same. Do not take this perfectly executed sarcasm as complaining, though, because it was absolutely delicious. The chef at the ranch is a gourmet, and everything he made was awesome.

There was some sort of chicken and cheese and chilis dish. Sliced steak with onions and peppers for fajitas. Some sort of corn-bread-chilis in a corn leaf wrap. Another one like that with pork. I know I am forgetting some stuff, but at that point I was a little overwhelmed with Mexican cuisine. Like I said though, it was really freaking good. I think desert was green chili cheesecake but I can't recall.

The next day, we were done with the Mexican food. Four full Mexican meals in two days is plenty enough, thank you. You know how you go to the bathroom several times a day to urinate? Right, well take that several times a day thing and associate it with what the kids like to call, Number Two.

For breakfast was normal fare; eggs, sausage, bacon, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, crepes, waffles, etc. Normal breakfast stuff, very tasty. For lunch that day we had a choice of pork sandwich or chicken caesar salad. Nice light lunch to get you ready for some afternoon fish hunting.

I like to call it fish hunting. 'Fishing' just doesn't portray a picture as manly as Fish Hunting does. Hunting implies danger. And these fish were dangerous. They have little tiny small mini-teeth that could cause you some serious slight wincing.

Dinner that night was my favorite of the bunch. We had some nice medium-rare sirloin accompanied by a couple huge king crab legs. I forget exactly what the side dish was, but it really doesn't matter. The steak was cooked perfectly and the crab legs - pre-sliced - were packed full of meat. For some reason, I don't like regular crabs - which is odd because I loved them as a kid and grew up in Maryland near Baltimore - but I do love some king crab. Or snow crab. Those are good too.

The next day's breakfast was the same, pretty much. I went with some cereal, then fresh yogurt with granola.

Lunch was another example of the chef being awesome. We had a choice between some sort of chicken thing, another thing, and a hamburger. I got the hamburger. Topped with what, you ask? Green chilis. Cooked perfect, a little over an inch thick, delicious. My friend Dave and I went horseback riding afterwards, which was a little uncomfortable after a very full stomach. More on that in another post.

That night was the fish fry. Outside, within walking distance to the ranch but still out in the middle of the woods. They have a nice size fire set up and some chairs around it, plus a few picnic tables with log benches to sit on. The choices there were freshly fried-on-the-grill trout (if I remember I'll post the recipe up), grilled sausages, home-made potato salad, some kind of asparagus salad that I stayed away from because I don't like asparagus and I hear it makes your pee smell funny, some of that cheese-squash stuff, different kind of potatoes, and something else that I can't think of again.

That was the last of the ranch food, although they did pack us a to-go lunch for the ride out of there.

We drove back to Santa Fe and dropped Chris off at his car, then proceeded on to Albuquerque. That night, we found us a brew pub, the Chama River Brewing Company- the Fathers on the trip seemed to have a knack for that - and had us a nice dinner. I went with fish and chips, which were quite tasty, as was the brew itself.

The next day, after breakfast at the hotel, we did some sight-seeing and souvineer buying, then ended up eating at a local place in Albuquerque's Old Town called the High Noon Restaurant & Saloon. I believe I went with a salad, as I was starting to feel bloated having not yet digested the previously described fourth Mexican meal from a few days ago. We drank some there, too.

That night was the last in New Mexico. So after taking a short nap at the hotel after a vigorous walk around Old Town and a little workout on the credit card, we all hopped in the rental and made our way to the Texas Land & Cattle Steakhouse. When you're in New Mexico, come to the Texas Land & Cattle!!! It kind of seemed almost like they didn't want to go with an Outback, so they renamed it and redecorated it. Still good though. Had me a big ol' steak.

That concludes the food portion of this epidode of the New Mexico blog. I recommend to any and all to head on out west... or north... or south... or wherever the hell direction it is to New Mexico from where you live and enjoy you some of their fine cuisine.

Go with the green chilis. Be sure to make time for trips to the restroom.

New Mexico. The State And Its Awesomeness.

New Mexico is awesome.

Like many of our mid-west to west-west states, it has a very open feel to it. The skies are huge, because the land is so flat. Not entirely, of course, because all that flat land leads right up to a mountain. You can see so much more of the sky, it's incredible. The clouds look enormous. They are basically the same clouds I can see out my window now, but because everything is so open you don't just see the cloud above, you see the whole cloud. I put that in italics because it is important that you focus on those words.

I've heard that some people have a sense of claustrophobia when viewing such skies. For them I suppose it feels like the sky is almost pressing down on the earth. I don't really understand it, but I thought I'd bring it up because I jotted something down about it on the little notepad I was working with and it seems like a disservice to my New Mexican self to not diligently report everything I decided to distract myself with.

The landscape is somewhere in between desert and not quite desert. I didn't see any tumbleweeds, but I'm sure they were somewhere. Lots of sand, with thousands of small brushes scattered throughout. They looked like pine bushes, but there was no way to tell as I was traveling in the car and my Dad had the child-locks on. Son of a bitch.

Passing by on the highway, I got a good look at the houses and neighborhoods we drove by, and I gotta say, I love the architecture. I know it's a big word for me, but I really did. I believe the houses were made with adobe for the most part, which is added over the built wooden frame. I deduced this after seeing an empty wooden frame. So each house looks kind of like a rancher with adobe all over it. Large, bold squares attached to rectangles all over the place. Maybe it's the simplicity I liked. Not really sure. All I know is if I ever live in New Mexico, I''m getting one of those bad boys.

It was nice rolling through the countryside, seeing all this space and in the distance, a mountain. Pretty much on all sides, no matter where you looked there was something mountainous in the background. Taking pictures out of a fast moving car isn't ideal, but we were all tired of being cooped up in the airplane and then the car, so I didn't want to bother to stop. Besides, we'd look like tourists.

We had a Texas license plate on our rental. Odd.

Living in Columbia, I was privy to all kinds of weird street names. I lived on Wild Lilac, there's a Smooth Meadow, stuff about blowing leaves and scented what-not and on and on. The Powers That Be decided to take phrases and the like from random poetry to name their streets. So I'm used to odd names. The ones in New Mexico were kind of similar, and yet completely different. There was Cerillos Ave, Avenida de Las Americas, Vegas Verdes, Zafarano Dr., etc. By the way, there was a Panda Express on Zafarano Dr. Real Mexican Asian cuisine. General Tso's in a tortilla. Magnifique.

There was also a Richards Dr.

The speed limit on all the highways was 75 mph. Very nice. Made for a quick drive wherever we went. Well, besides the dirt road through the mountains. But being that there was a sign near Albuquerque that read Albuquerque Next 19 Exits, it seemed very expedient to have a fast highway.

All the overpasses were the same beige color as the adobe houses, except each had a turquoise strip running it's length. The small touches such as this really helped to cement one's whereabouts. When I'm driving to Towson and go under the overpasses, I could be anywhere. It's the small things that give you the feeling of really being there.

Even though being there gives you the feeling of being there, too. When you're there, as opposed to not being there when you might go there before you get back.

What?

I haven't really come back yet, sorry.

By the way, two days before I left I stopped shaving and didn't shave the whole time I was there. It really itched.

New Mexico. The Intro and Airplane Excitement.

I don't mind flying.

I really don't. I've flown to Florida a few times, Texas, Hawaii, Ireland. Maybe a smattering of others when I was real young. It's nothing new to me, and it's not something that scares me. As Superman said, "Statistically speaking, it's still the safest way to travel."

Even so, there is a small, back-of-the-mind thought that I believe goes through every single person who steps on a plane's head. This Could Be It. I believe that one hundred percent. I refuse to believe there is anybody (awake) flying at this moment in time who is not thinking that somewhere in their head. It popped up in mind as we took off, landed, experienced turbulence, and ate some peanuts. This Could Be My Last Peanut. Now This One Could Be My Last Peanut. These Two Could Be My Last Two Peanuts. Etc.

It's a very helpless feeling, or thought. There's nothing to be done. You're sitting in a giant, airborne tube, 35,000 feet in the air. Ish. You sit there, waiting for the inevitable deuce to be dropped in the 1 foot by 2 feet bathroom that will find it's way into the recycled air and think, Is the float-ability of my seat cushion really going to matter?

In a car, you are in control, for the most part. A boat? At least it's open air and feels safe. Plus, you have life jackets and are only about a small jump into the water. A train? At least it's on the ground. Flying? No control. Even the most experienced flier must at some point have The Thought pass through.

Security doesn't help matters. Before it was, What if the plane crashes? Now, What if someone has plastique shoes?

It was in this frame of mind that I began my trip to New Mexico.

We arrived at the airport at about 7:00am ET, Nichole and Kelsey dropped me off at BWI. We flew Southwest.

But wait. I have neglected to preface this with the whole reason for New Mexico in the first place. My Dad and I were going to a fly-fishing ranch in New Mexico called Cow Creek Ranch. Fishing, drinking beer, relaxing in the middle of a mountain range with no cellphone signal to speak of. I know. Nice.

We flew Southwest. Upon checking our bags, the first thing we did was head for the gate to see if Tom was there. Tom is the father of one of my friends, Chris. They are also going to the ranch, but Chris lives out in Colorado so he's meeting us in Santa Fe. Also joining us is my friend Dave and his dad, George. We have all known each other since we were very, very young. These are the families we do a Christmas Tree Hunting Trip with every year, as well as a chili-night and present-exchange. So it's a whole Father-Son-Long-Time-Friends-Guy-Fishing-Beer-Trip-Thing. Pretty cool.

We met Tom at the gate, which was nice because he was already first in the A group line. This meant the five of us were going to be the first ones on the plane. Being first-come-first-serve seating, this is a clear advantage and I fought the urge to flex the guns at the other passengers as the wait to board went on.

So Dad and I got some breakfast at one of the food places, and tiredly ate our not-as-delicious-as-we-would-have-liked breakfast sandwiches. Dave and George came through, and we all adjourned to the gate. Tom had already become fast friends with a couple from our area who were also on their way to New Mexico. Apparently, he had also endeared himself to the Gate Guy, for when it came time to load, the Gate Guy told everyone waiting that a bunch of fisherman were boarding to go fly-fishing in New Mexico. Exactly the type of thing people care about when about to board a plane at 8:15am.

Then he told a joke. What do you call a fish with no eye? A fsh.

Some chuckled, some groaned. I stabbed him with the pen knife I snuck through security in my anus, then told the joke to a dozen other people over the course of the trip with a follow up regarding how I first came up with the awesome joke all by myself.

We were all very casual and relaxed clothing-wise. Tom was wearing a New Mexico shirt. You're wearing the shirt of the state you're going to visit? Don't be that guy. I had on a Ravens t-shirt, as I intended on fully representing my hood on the west side of the country.

We sat by the emergency exit, as there was more leg room and we could all bask in the responsibility we had placed upon ourselves in providing a safe exit to all other passengers in the event we improbably survived an unscheduled and problematic landing. The flight attendant explained this to us importantly, and we importantly confirmed that we all were up to the task.

There was no lunch on this flight. We had a stop-over in Austin, TX and El Paso, TX where we had to sit and wait as people got off and others got on. We didn't get off at all, and there was no lunch. Know what we got? A small bag of trail mix, and small bag of cookies, and a small pack of crackers. Oh, and the peanuts. Would a lunch-able be too much to ask for?

On a side note. Then again, this whole thing seems like a lengthy side note. What happened to Sexy Stewardesses? I see movies, so I know they used to exist. You know what we get now? Effeminate men. Men that seem to be on the bubble. Now, I could care less if someone's gay or straight or into hot monkey love. It doesn't matter to me one way or another. But I do know what I'd rather see while stuck in an airborne tube full of floating seat cushions. Sexy Stewardesses.

I got about 3 hours sleep the night before I left. I can't sleep on a plane. It's impossible for me. I don't know why, but I can't sleep on planes, in cars, and I'm assuming the same goes for trains. A boat I could probably do. It's annoying, especially on long flights. So you take the no-sleep thing, multiply it by the 3 or 4 hours to Austin, then sitting there not even moving, then about 1 hour or so to El Paso, then sitting there not even moving, then another 45 minutes to Albuquerque. Fun stuff.

The Albuquerque airport was awesome. Very nice. Not like BWI or Dulles, where everything is kind of sterile and monochrome and plainly functional. This airport had life. It represented it's state. Things were very desert-ish and culturally stylish. There was artwork all over the walls, murals, and it allowed you to get a sense of how things would be just by walking through. Commendable. When we left New Mexico at the end of the trip, it was a little more toned down, but that was mainly because our departing flight left at 6:40am, so we arrived at the airport at 5am. I think things are toned down everywhere at 5am.

When we left at 6:40am, there was a stop in Houston where we had to switch planes and had a 2 hour layover. Apparently I can't sleep on a plane or in an airport. I got more sleep the night before but I was already exhausted from the vacation so that trip was even more fun.

One last thing before I mercifully wrap this up. When we stopped at Austin, some guy got on and sat in the row my Dad was in. There were three seats; my Dad had the window, The Guy sat on the end. The Guy put some of his stuff in the seat between them, the reason I assumed was to get his stuff arranged, then he would clear the seat for another passenger as the flight was pretty full and it was first-come-first-serve, as we both know I mentioned before.

The Guy, however, did not remove his stuff. What's more, every time someone would pass by looking for a seat or a flight attendant would do an overview of the empty seats, he would duck his head down and pretend to be adjusting his shoes or his carry-on bag. The Guy did this at least ten times. I had to physically restrain myself from tapping a flight attendant on the shoulder and alerting them to the unoccupied seat. The only reason I didn't was because my Dad had some room to move with no one next to him, which is always nice. So I bit my tongue. Hard.

My Dad told me later that someone had asked if the seat was open and The Guy kind of mumbled and made a big show of moving his stuff out of the way, so the dude who asked just found another seat.

Hey The Guy! If you by any chance in hell read this, you're a douche! You will be now known not as The Guy, but The Douche.

So The Douche, when we landed in Albuquerque, was one of the first ones out of his seat and heading down the aisle as fast as he could, cutting off other passengers that were just getting up to get their bags. Apparently, The Douche is important. Who knew The Douche was so important? What made me laugh out loud was that he got about 3 rows before being stopped cold and had to wait with the rest of us heathens to debark. Then, when the 5 of us got to baggage claim, there he was! Just walking up! Quickly! Maybe The Douche got lost. As soon as he could, he quickly grabbed his bags and swiftly walked out of the airport, where I can only assume he was hit by a slow-moving truck.

One last thing. I promise. When we got to our rent-a-car, some guy next to us was getting into his rent-a-car. A neon green mustang. I like to think of that guy as The Other Douche.

That was our trip there and back, in a nutshell. Soon to come will be other parts of the trip, which I know you are impatiently not waiting for so I will be sure to try and keep them coming in a timely fashion. And the next time you fly, remember, it's completely normal to think about crashing.

Just counter-balance it with the proud responsibility of sitting in an exit row.