Scout Motto: Always Be Prepared

As the NFL season approaches, I find myself thinking of the genius that is professional football. There is so much to admire. The determination, strength, agility, and fortitude. It takes a lot to triumph in the courtroom errr....football field.

The NFL teaches us all values that any of our menial jobs can't. No matter how many building exercises you may be forced to participate in, your co-workers are not your teammates. You would rather pour hot coffee on them than Gatorade. Admit it, it's ok. The NFL teaches us life lessons that prepare you for whatever may come your way. It teaches you to stare adversity in the face, and concuss that mofo because you're getting into that end zone no matter how many jiggle belly linemen try to sit on you.

Perhaps the greatest key to success that can be learned from the National Football League is preparedness. Each franchise employs a technical team that produces scouting reports, game video, tracks more statistics than Deep Blue could process, and basically puts any and every bit of information you need to know about your opponent right in front of you. No more racking your brain thinking of previous match-ups. No more confusion over schemes. You're prepared. You know your adversary.

Wouldn't it be great if you employed your own technical team? Got a big job interview? They'll tell you what happened to the person your replacing, what you should wear, and the kind of scotch the boss likes. Buying a home? What's the real reason the sellers are moving, do the annoying neighbors downstairs have any health problems, why are there stars on the ceiling? Getting into fights with your spouse? They'll recap the previous fights, analyze their topic trends, prevent you from contradicting yourself.

Just think of all the success you could be experiencing in every facet of your life if you had a scouting report for any scenario. Nothing but smooth sailing as long as your potential boss isn't Mike Shanahan, your neighbor isn't Mike Holmgren, and your significant other isn't Bill Belichick, who will cheat on you. In no time you'd be feeling as good as these guys.

I love the NFL. Necessary For Life.

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Occasionally, I will have something on my mind that will not lend itself to a whole entry, so from time to time I will briefly riff at the bottom of some posts.

- Beer Summit: All the talk was about what beers would be consumed. The President goes Bud Light, Skip Gates had a Sam Adams Lite, Sgt. Crowley goes Blue Moon. Oh, and Joe Biden had to get in there too but they only let him have Bucklers low alcohol beer. These selections are very telling.

President Obama: selects a American Icon and tried to be health conscious at the same time. Too bad Budweiser is owned by Belgium corporation InBev. A lot of people think the Pres. picked Bud because Jesse Jackson's son Yusef Jackson is president and majority owner (67%) of an Anheuser-Busch distributorship on Chicago's north and northwest sides and his brother Jonathan is VP and minority owner (23%). I think that's just people looking for something to talk about. The President drinks the King of Beers.

Skip Gates: Teaches and lives in Boston area. There's tons of ads for Sam Adams in Boston. Since the White House only stocks American beers they probably told him he couldn't have Red Stripe (which he was reported to have selected) so he just picked the first American beer that popped into his head. Also gets bonus points amongst the locals for being a wicked pissah.

Sgt. Crowley: The cops, the boys in blue. There is a lot of solidarity behind that blue curtain. Certainly he could have gone for something more macho, but he went with the Blue beer. All this racism hullabaloo can kiss his white ass. He gave them the Blue Moon.

VP Joe Biden: He wasn't even invited! He just shows up to the party because Hilary Clinton in in the news more than him. Luckily the White House was prepared for Say it Ain't So Joe when they threw him a low alcohol Bucklers. The man has the propensity to put his foot in his mouth. They were just making sure he wasn't going to wash it down with gasoline. Oh let's just play the clip.

No problem with these choices. Don't really care what they all discussed since there was no resolution. But the snacks...pretzels and peanuts. C'mon. The is the friggin' White House. I know we're kickin' it average guy style, but could you pick something a little more interesting? Where are the wings? How about Potato Skins? Gimmie something. And if you're going to have this buddy buddy beer drinking, pretzel and peanut party what's the deal with the suits? That's right. The president doesn't do jeans because he catches to much wreck for the ones he wore at the All-Star game.

My advice? Next time make it a pool party. After all, it's Joe Biden's real hair. Some sun, brews, BBQ. Man cook meat with fire. Guarantee we would have gotten a resolution then. Who wants to party with this guy?

Don't Mind Me. I'm a Shopper.

Behold the mighty consumer. The savior of the economy and purchaser of things practical and frivolous. With so many places to choose from, have you ever looked up and thought to yourself, "What am I doing here?"

I have often found myself in a store knowing I don't belong. The first time I felt this way was in a J.Crew store. But why some place as innocuous as a J.Crew? I think it just reminds me of high school, being surrounded by people who dress like they came from that catalog and them never having been particularly accepting of me or my interests. It's a land of bizarre preppiness that makes it ok to wear little spouting whales on your shorts and consider not wearing socks with shoes. It's pretty much the same discomfort you may have felt when every Thom, Dick, and Preston was popping the collars on their polo shirts. There is a cringe factor involved upon sight that just gives me the irks. It's mutual. We both don't get each other. I just happen to be on their home turf, and that makes me the awkward one. For the record, up until my honeymoon I hadn't worn a pair of khakis in eight years. I am strangely proud of that for some reason.

But getting back to discomfort. I think this uncomfortableness can best be described as shoppers paranoia. In reality, the store employees do not care that you are there. If you need help, they will usually help you. If not, you are on your own and no one gets hurt. The shoppers discomfort about being in the store is fueling this awkwardness. When I was in J.Crew, I felt like I was in high school again, but there are other reasons for discomfort besides association.

Welcome to Home Depot. What the heck are you doing here? I would like to think I have more business being here than ever before since I am now a home owner, but I can't name 80% of the things in here, let alone tell you what they are used for. Home Depot seems like a real guy place. A nose to the grindstone, complain about your wife, and throw on your best darn denim shirt brotherhood. Or you could just be picking out paint. Home Depot is one of the places you're most inclined to feel like your man card is about to be revoked along with your impact driver. Usually upon needing something at Home Depot, I find myself wandering the cavernous isles pretending like I'm there, you know, just lookin' for stuff I ran out of. Ahh, QEP 1-1/4 In. 8lb. cement board screws with high-low threads. I'm go through these things like water. I do not consider myself a mister fix it, but I am glacially becoming more able. Still, Home Depot is s world of mystery. The only thing that makes me feel less of a guy than going to Home Depot is talking about cars.

Another great "what am I doing here" place is anywhere with a woman's dressing room. It's pretty obvious what you are doing here, but it doesn't make it any less awkward. I actually do not mind shopping with my wife and maybe that makes me an odd bird. The weirdness comes when your significant woman is in the changing room. In one situation you are left waiting outside the area last shopped. There you are, hanging out amidst the blouses. Making matters worse is the absence of any chairs to sit it. So you are left to meander in this three foot area you've built yourself into, giving an awkward hello to the middle aged cashier as she waits for customers. The other situation is that your lady has you stationed in a little waiting area outside the dressing room in case she wants you to see how a potential purchase looks on her. That's cool. I'll just be sitting here with the other moms and not acknowledge the other guy in there that doesn't want to be acknowledged. These are the times I wonder why I haven't purchased a smart phone. Even if the service is down, you've always got some games on there. You know what I do? Pretend to be reading something important on my phone, or fain some texting. It's pretty lame, but it's what I'm working with. Tangentially Victoria's Secret is the worst place to wait while a dressing room stop is being made. No one thinks you're there for any good reason. You're not the good boyfriend or husband, your just the perverted guy in the lingerie store. Why don't you go to Foot Locker or buy a pretzel or something? Good idea!

There are many times you may feel weird, lost, or unaccepted, but during shopping is a conundrum. As I've mentioned, you're the one with the power. The customer is always right. Shopping is very telling though. You're letting people know what you value and what you are chosing to spend your money on. Impressions are being formed on you, no matter how fleeing, as soon as you step into a store. You shouldn't care, and maybe the really confident people don't. Image is king. There are just some places that make you feel like a court jester. They may laugh at you, but they're glad you are around. Just shake it off. Or at least get a smart phone.

Say Cheese

I am a big fan of cheese. Always have been. I've had smoked cheeses, mild cheeses, cheeses from around the world, and cheeses courtesy of goats. One variety that has always eluded and intrigued me though is government cheese.

If you've never heard of this particular variety, it's basically a combination of cheeses like cheddar and Colby mixed with cheese curd or granular cheese. It is made of surplus cheese obtained by the government. If this description hasn't whetted your appetite yet, our government endorses it's quality stating, "it slices and melts well." Mmmmmm.

I was completely ignorant of government cheese until one fateful day I was flipping the channels and vaguely remember Joey Lawrence rolling a giant wheel of the stuff into the living room. This of course occurred on the Nell Carter vehicle, "Gimme a Break!" I don't recall the circumstanced that befell Nell and Young Whoa! (I like calling him that) that they required government intervention for sustenance, but I was mesmerized by the thought that our government would give you a giant wheel of cheese if you were starving.

Dairily beloved, that is a lot of cheese. But why did the government pick cheese? You would think Jimmy Carter, who started the program, would be vehemently pushed for government peanuts. After all, as George Washington Carver proved, a lot can be done with a peanut.

I suppose I should consider myself blessed to have never had gov Gouda touch my lips. I have been cheese spoiled. Still, it can't stop me from being curious right?

Plus, it was shaped like a wheel. Perhaps the greatest invention of mankind, combine that with cheese and the results have to cause a tear in the dimensional cortex. Or vortex. Whatever you prefer.

I don't think I will be sampling government cheese any time soon as the program seems to have sadly ended. Just give me a call if you ever hear of a government peanut butter program. It's never too late Jimmy!

The Sock Awakening.

Whites and Darks.

Necessary when doing laundry, divide and conquer your load. Laundry is one of the few things in society that has made little progress in segregation reform. Was Dexter Holland right? Do you got to keep 'em separated.

I was doing some laundry today when I noticed something. All socks are not created equal. In one corner of the hamper; functional, thick, and pale (in comparison), I present to you the Athletic Sock. In the other corner of the hamper; smooth, vibrant, and stylish, the Dress Casuals. Two titans of toe topping, these practitioners of podiatric pleasure got your back by covering your feet. This is a war. But I didn't realize the implications.

For years too embarrassingly long to count, I was a white sock guy. I didn't do it out of irony or because I admired David Letterman, I just really never thought about socks. These white socks were comfortable, so I'll just go with these. Besides, you wear dark colored socks with suits and polishable shoes. They were too thin and flimsy to be comfortable. They were something for a school uniform. So I was king cotton and apparently always ready for an impromptu game of 1-on-1.

I wore white socks. Tube socks, crew socks, ankle socks, socks that went half way up my shins. White socks. Crisp and clean.

Wore them as a kid. Wore them as a teenager. Wore them in college. Wore holes in them.

I thought it pretty regular a practice for a guy to wear white socks so I never second guessed my choice. I was in a blissful ignorance. You may find this hard to fathom, but I never noticed a male peer of mine not wearing white socks until I was a 19 year old college student. That was the first year I roomed with my friend Dave.

Dave only wore white socks when the particular athletic function called for it. Really? I don't think Dave owned more than three or four pairs of white socks. No, he had solids in deep hues, classic stripes, and some of brighter varieties. There were probably some other patterns thrown in there too, but I didn't spend my hours procrastinating looking at my roommate's feet.

It was an epiphany. Not as dramatic as I make it sound, but definitely eye-opening. It didn't change the world as I knew it, but it was definitely a "hmmm" moment. These socks didn't have to be the thin and dainty dress socks I had lumped all non-whites in with. There was a colorful world out there, a world that called for a starkless sock.

Soon, room was made in the drawer for some new socks. The familiar white socks remained, but they now mingled with many other shades. No longer a uniform mass, a new chromatic cornucopia commenced.

It's has been many years since. Now I have a home that I share with my beautiful wife. An idyllic existence you would assume. I'm sorry to say that all is not right though. No longer is my sock drawer the utopia it once was. On the north side of the room in the high dresser and nestled next to the boxer shorts reside the colored socks. On the south side of the room in the low dresser next to the undershirts rest the white socks.

I didn't realize what I had done until today. Not while separating the loads before heading downstairs. Not when they were ushered into their respective washers. Not while folding my freshly clean wares. It wasn't until I was putting my socks away that I noticed. That is why I am writing this. For so many years I blindly felt one way, until college changed that. In the years that followed, I thought I had become a different person. But today I find myself confused. Has all progress ceased? Has Plessy vs. Ferguson reared it's ugly head in my laundry basket? What now? What moved me to separate the two? So many questions.

It may sound silly, but if you look deep enough society is reflected in all we do. Am I being extreme? Perhaps. While I tend to doubt that I express my prejudices in the sorting and storage of my clothing, it is interesting to realize how comfortable we become in our beliefs, blindly accepting things as we always have. I was unaware about my socks. Maybe you are unaware about your bus stop or your country club. Maybe we should all be more aware and put our best socked foot forward.

Like You, Like Everybody Else

"I wanna be a mutha f'n gangsta, ya betta aks somebody."

So said a young Snoop Dogg to Mr.Buttworth on the Doggystyle album, when asked what he would like to be when he grew up.

As long as rap has been around, young and old have claimed to be certain things. Bad, dope, fresh, you name it, rappers have claimed it. It's a natural tendency to assert your superiority over those you feel inferior to your talent or respect level. What would rap be without bravado? That would be like country without the pick-up or blues without the infidelity. It's just a natural combination.

The problem with rap music though, is everyone claims the same. We go through these cycles where everyone is this or that. Now, I think it's safe to say that everyone wants to put some credibility behind their brand. And let's face it, music is all about brand building these days. There is no money in just getting by on talent. I just wish everyone didn't jump on the same brand. Imagine if all cereal decided it wanted to be whole grain or every American corporation was claiming to be green? Moving on.

My point is, why do rap artists feel the intrinsic need to homogenize their appeal?

Who is gangsta? Remember when EVERYONE and EVERYTHING was gangsta? Rappers have been gangsta since the early 90's reaching it's apex between 95-98, and yes, some jiggy come latelys are still crip walking on that claim.

Just out of curiosity, I did a "Gangsta" search on iTunes and there are 62 unique songs by different artists called "Gangsta." I'm not including any of the 88 other songs that have variations or "Gangsta" in their title. It seems outrageous, but I expected more.

Over the last year and a half though a seismic shift has rippled through the rap industry. Any rapper worth his Dickies or Dom P has come to embody a new aesthetic. If you aren't talking "Swagga," you might as well sell your neckpieces on Cash4Gold. If you don't have swagga prepare to get your lunch taken. If you don't have swagga, you better go to church (Chuch!) and pray for some.

Doing the same iTunes search, 47 rappers have "Swagga" and if there aren't claiming it, they are accusing you of stealing. Who among us would ever question the swagga of Akapello, Beeda Weeda, G May, Iceman, Kyss Major, Percy-leon or Uckdaddy. Not me. I'm an admitted swagga lacka. If you have swagga in a forest and no one hears you, what becomes of it?

I guess we will move on to a new boastful buzzword once Webster's puts it in the dictionary. Until then I will sit in reverence of Verbal KENT's "Gangsta Swag" and bid my time cold chillin'. I just wish sometimes I was def.

The Lonely Road

I recently lost someone who I've known for close to eleven years. I didn't know if you had heard. They tried everything, but nothing worked. So this past May we said goodbye. We pulled the starter solenoid and finally...rest.

I left my parents house that night, never to see you again. The next time I returned, I couldn't find you in front of the tree. You were not there underneath it's canopy. I felt lonely. The whiteness, highlighted with inflections of oxidized auburn. The smooth burgundy of your velour. Sitting in the sun, no more.

You were unloved when I found you, but you had a home with me. I spent money on you, lavishing you with the finest factory aromas, new shoes, and even some body work. When strangers attacked you, they stole your song, your light, and shattered not only your outside but tore out your insides. I put you back together. I comforted you, and slowly you emerged as strong as ever. I was there.

We had been spending so much time apart. I would be gone for days, but still you always waited for me. You always took me in from the cold and made me feel safe. You kept me warm all year round (for better or worse). But, we had become distant.

I knew things were bad the time I came home and you were down. You were deflated and you couldn't go on. We were reunited a few days later, but things were never the same. You were no longer happy to see me. You ignored me and stopped mid conversation. You would not budge. I tried everything. I pampered you. I showered you with gifts. I held out hope. But it was over. The energy missing. The spark was gone.

You left me that day without saying goodbye.

I am sorry for the way I treated you. If I hurt you in any way, I did not mean it. We had some wonderful times together. Moments I will never forget. I can not believe you are gone, but I know now it was time. I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for getting me here and there. And everywhere.

This entry is dedicated to the memory of my 1990 Mercury Sable, Mercadon. Thank you for all you gave. You will be missed.

Save Me Thomas

If you were born in the early 80s like me, chances are that you owned a Nintendo Entertainment System. Unless your parents didn't love you. (Are you still carrying that around?)

One of the first games I owned was Kung-Fu. It was one of the 18 games Nintendo released simultaneously, so I'm guessing there were plenty of copies at the Toys R' Us where my parents probably purchased my NES. I don't particularly remember asking for Kung-Fu, so maybe they got a good deal.

Nintendo used 8-Bit games, but it's hard to believe this was any more than 4-Bit. But six-year-olds back then didn't really sweat the graphics if you got to chop and kick things. In Kung-Fu, that's all you did. Over and over and over again.

I'm not saying Kung-Fu wasn't fun, because it was. It's just that I found many things curious about the game.

Why did the main character's name have to be Thomas?
You're a kick ass martial artist on a mission to save you girl from the evil Mr. X. I'm sorry, but the name Thomas just didn't cut it for me. I was used to cartoon characters with names like Starscream, Panthro, and Hordak. "It's time to kick butt Thomas!" Maybe after I fold my laundry.

Why do these bad guys suck?
Kung-Fu was filled with bad guys called Grippers. The grippers pretty much hugged you and that drained your energy. They didn't attack you, just hugged. Maybe Thomas had touching issues. Other silly bad guys included Tom Toms or midget kung-fu guys that either hugged your leg or did monkey flips on your head before proceeding forward. The dagger throwers are pretty lame, but at least I'm buying that daggers will hurt you. Other things that can hurt you are pots that explode into dragons or tiny snakes, and exploding balls that drop from the ceiling. The five bosses are a tad better because they either have weapons (a stick, a boomerang) are really big (i.e. Giant Black Guy that tries to kick you aka Deebo!), practice black magic (featuring heads you can keep knocking off) and finally Mr. X who does some Kung-Fu moves.

*An aside on Mr. X.
Do you remember food commercials that compared one fancy brand with Brand X? Well for some reason we had these pretzels in my house that came in a generic black and white bag, and I always considered them Brand X. Those Brand X pretzels were awesome. I seem to vaguely remember making a connection between Mr. X and Brand X and about Mr. X stealing Thomas' girlfriend and then eating some pretzels.

How busy is Thomas that his girlfriend repeatedly gets kidnapped?
Spoiler Alert After you beat Mr. X, you get to play the game over again. Rinse, repeat, and again. Supposedly the game gets incrementally harder but that's besides the point. "Thomas, you've just rescued your girlfriend from a bunch of huggers and midgets, but guess what? Mr. X has just captured her again. Watch out for that dangerous pottery." Maybe he loves her, but she's really a pain in the neck. If he doesn't want to keep track of her for one minute after he rescues her, maybe it's time to move on. Let Mr. X keep her and maybe they find a spark over some delicious salted snack food. (Note: I keep referring to the damsel in distress as "girlfriend" because it sounds a lot better than Sylvia. Really? Thomas & Sylvia? Shouldn't they be with the rest of the octogenarians in Boca?)

Kung-Fu isn't a bad game. Maybe it is. But I got to chop and kick. I think it's important to remember the good things, the simple things. You don't need too much more in a game than that. So I salute you Kung-Fu. Your action was lame, your graphics lacked, and your plot could be memorized by a goldfish, and unlike gnats you served your purpose.

Chopping.

Kicking.

Kung-Fu.

Bathroom Break

"uhsorrascuseme"

I bet you've said that.

You're on your way to the office bathroom when someone unexpectedly opens the door just as you are about to push it open. You're so focused on the bathroom that you haven't fathomed the possibility of an impromptu interaction. What are the chances that someone also uses the restroom?

You take that awkward stutter step because you no longer have the anticipated weight of the door to brace you, and pull off a nifty slide move to avoid the freshly relieved co-worker. (Remember always spin away, front on front passes are even more awkward!) But where are your manners? That's when your skills as a communication worthy human being cease to exist. That's when you say,

"uhsorrascuseme"

I use the word "say" loosely, because when you say something it is usually a word. What you've managed to marble out is the most politely garbled phrase your restroom paralyzed brain can come up with. The only thing worse is that you've managed to say it at quite possibly the lowest decibel level possible. A cross between a whisper and a secret, it's already left your lips by the time you realize what you are attempting to do.

Listen, it's not your fault. You've been caught off guard, you're trying not to fall over, not crash into someone, and not to do that awkward dance where you and the other person go right to left until someone makes a decision about which direction to go. Plus, you're trying to be courteous.

My advice. Plan ahead. That's how you don't get taken by surprise. Think of something you can say to shift the onus onto the person leaving the bathroom. Some suggestions:

1- "High Five"...risky because of hand washing, but fun because you'll probably shock them into giving you one.

2- "Free Candy" - everyone at the office likes free candy. By 4pm, all the coffee buzz has completely worn off and it's officially zombie land. The amusing part about saying, "Free candy," is the elated look on that other person's face. Bonus amusement is picturing how sad that person will look when they realize that there is, in fact, no free candy.

3- Hold the door - This is the strangest approach because 95% of the time, there is no point to it. The only really good time to attempt this is when everyone is about to leave for the day, a time when you are pretty much guaranteed a few people in the loo. The execution is simple. Just pull the door towards you for five seconds (this only works with non-swivel doors) and hold it closed. Anything more is kind of stupid. The point of holding the door plays on the fact that most people don't linger in the bathroom, especially when they can leave for home. So, if you hold the door and you block the person briskly attempting to leave, they get jammed up. The person briskly trying to leave behind them gets jammed up. It's like dominoes. They crash into each other. Now that's awkward. When they finally get the door open, play it off like you thought it was a pull door. No one is going to think you held the door closed on purpose. But you did. You jerk.

So take this advice and never get caught in an, "uhsorrascuseme" moment again.

High Five!

Salvo

Greetings.

My job is a job. My job is how I make my money. Money is how I get to not type this is Starbucks, but in my own house on my wife's computer.

If you have a job, you do not have a career. If you have a job, you probably don't have hope either. If you don't have a job, you may not like me.

This is not a disgruntled employee blog. Though some entries may be elicited from things I encounter at work, that will not be the central subject matter. This blog is my anti-job. It is a respite. I like to write. At some point I thought I may have a career in it, be either advertising, print, web, television. Aside from a smattering of inspired moments (a workshop here, a class there) I have done little to shatter my self-imposed glass ceiling.

I am starting this blog today because I want to discover why it was that I loved writing so much. How do you do that? Write I guess. Write a lot. Write about something. Write about nothing. Write about the mundane and make it interesting. Write about the interesting and make it engrossing.

I want to be a writer. I am a grown up and I want a career. You can take this job and shove it (hypothetically, since I would like to be able to support myself until I start this career).

This is The Opine. I'm writing. Again.

p.s. I will be contributing to my other irregularly scheduled blogs. Sorry I've been negligent. Practice is practical.