The gradual return to normalcy

The Gradual Return to Normalcy

Playing with AI Image creators. Easy way to waste an entire evening.

    I want to give an update on the new status quo. I have been back at a nine to five for several weeks now, and its actually been a welcome change. Some people can work from home. Millions manage it every day with no problem. I envy those people. Self discipline has always been something I possess in limited supply. Sticking to a work agenda in the same room as my PS5 turned out to be an insurmountable task for yours truly.

    Back at work however, my days are occupied, so my nights become more valuable. The writing projects I've been meaning to get done turned from something i could pick up and do anytime i wanted (which means i would never get to them) to something that I need to set specific times for (like right now).

    I can't really understand why, but I get more done with less free time than i did with infinite free time.  Plus I'm using my paychecks to do something truly awesome: publishing my book.

50+ agent queries. Not a single one even bothered to read it.

    It's official, I'm publishing it myself. My goal is to have it released before my birthday.(40. are you fucking kidding me? 40?) But that is rapidly approaching, and these things take time, so we'll see. I want to be able to say that my first book came out before I turned 40. You can tune in here for periodic updates, or you can follow my book page on Facebook HERE.

    So, what's the job I've got that will be the source of my soon to be stardom?(refer to my last blog entry for my infallible plan) I am a sanitarian with the county. Sanitarian is the new fancy word they've pasted on the job that used to be Health Inspector. That's right, I'm the guy that gets to go to all the restaurants in town and lay the smack-down on anyone who dares to challenge my authority.

    I've been preparing for this job my whole life. I was raised by a woman who lived and breathed food safety, and most of my time in college was spent learning about microbes and how to kill the little bastards. It's a good gig, and a lot more intensive than i ever would have thought. I sometimes really do have to be the bad guy, but one thing I've already learned is that you do not fuck around with food safety. 

    In 99%+ cases of food disease, you just shit your brains out for a few days. But, there are some truly horrifying diseases out there that happen every year, all around the world. For example,DON'T CLICK THIS LINK (warning: leads to one of those image searches that everyone warns you not to google, but you do anyway, and then you need eye bleach for a year)

    So, I'm back at work, not just my day to day, but I'm working on my writing again. I've got big plans and aspirations. With luck, half of them will come to pass. In the mean time, thanks for reading, see you again soon.

Priorities, priorities

Priorities, priorities

If this is the state of things in Flavortown, imagine how much worse we all have it.

    Nothing rearranges your priorities like a good crisis. Recently my plans have encountered, not so much a speed bump in the road, more like a full train derailment. I should clarify, this was not that well thought out a plan in the beginning. It really only consisted of three steps:

1, Write book.

2. Celebrity interviews, mass book signings, general uproar at the fantasticalness that is said book

3. Retire to the Bahamas

    As you can see, the plan had all the kinks ironed out beforehand. What could go wrong? 

    Its been months since I last updated this blog, and now i will try to explain why. A year and a half ago, when I sat down to ramble out my first blog on this site, I declared my unending desire, my long time dream of becoming a writer. I was wrong.

    These past few months have revealed that I don't want to be a writer. I want (what I always wanted) is to be a novelist. Someone who writes something every few years and spends the intervening time reaping the rewards of fame and fortune. Writers, real writers, are the people that put out new content every day, weekly at the least. I have new found respect and admiration for the people who can create articles everyday. Columnists, reporters, hell even cartoonists, you all have my eternal praise for what you are able to do.

    I started this blog thinking I could do a weekly anecdote, like i had my own column in the paper. Those guys do it right? I didn't make it two months at that pace. By week 4 I was out of ideas. By week 8 writing something new was like trying to squeeze out toothpaste from an empty tube. I was writing like crap and I knew it. What started as a hobby had become a job I dreaded doing.

Nope.

Yep.

    So, that's why the blog has taken the sideline in my priorities. But what of the book? Surely the novel I spent years writing hasn't been shunted aside?! Unfortunately, it has. Something I had never anticipated was just how difficult (read: nearly fucking impossible) it is to get someone to read a book. I have pushed this book on to just about everyone I know. Very few of those people have actually read the book. I have family members, people that have been my close friend for over 30 years that cant finish the prologue. And trying to get an agent to read it is just out of the damn question.

     I have spent the last 20 months diligently querying agents from all across the globe. I have a tracker that carefully follows every submission I make, and the date of every rejection letter. I have kept a dozen open queries since February of last year, and the second I received a rejection letter, I sent another query. In all that time, with all those sent queries, I have not had a single request for more material.

    Simple truth is that as a first time writer with no fan base and no professional referral, no agent will ever take a chance on my work. The futility of what I was hoping to achieve had finally hit home, and it was a very bitter pill to swallow. I had to face the facts: it was time to go back to work.

    I had left my job thinking my three step, foolproof plan was well on its way to completion. But with my complete and total failure to reach step two of the plan, I started to see how that perfect plan just might not be working out. My hobby had become work, my attempts to get it into print had flopped on its face, and what's more, I had become a world-class couch potato.

    I always knew I liked TV, movies, and video games more than was strictly healthy for me, but having no job while writing less and less lead to a straight up sinful amount of time spent binging Netflix and doing video game marathons. I put on at least 20 pounds and lord knows what my cholesterol looks like.

    Hopefully i got the hotfix started. I'm back at work, real work. Hopefully I can kick my ass back in gear and get healthy. And with writing back to being just a hobby, maybe I'll finally enjoy it again.

    I hope to write again soon. Stay happy out there.

    

    

It's EVO Baby!

 This last weekend,in fabulous Las Vegas, a myriad of combatants will clash in a test of fists and wills. Fists and feet will fly, tears will be shed, and many an enthusiastic fan will scream himself hoarse.

A fabulous shot of the champion getting embraced by the man he beat in Grand Finals.

I’m not talking about the next UFC cage match (though there probably is one of those happening too), I’m talking about Evo. The only esports event that I follow closely. There are some other events I'll tune into, GDQ (games done quick) is always a fun watch, and the LCS (league championship series) draws a massive crowd. But for me, it has to be Evo.

The Evolution Championship series (Evo) is the biggest fighting game tournament in the world (there are over 7000 competitors this year, and a grand prize of ten thousand dollars.  People travel from all over the world to compete at games that basically breaks down to PUNCH THE GUY IN THE FACE!

I don’t know what it is about these games that appeals to me so much (particularly because I play them so terribly), but I’m happy as a pig in shit to just sit and play for hours, then go online to watch videos of other people playing that same game.

It really is like watching a sport. There are sponsoring labels, and players who Don that merchandise as proudly as any NASCAR driver.

Ravenous, I dig through the back pages of back pages, constantly on the hunt for some new combo or piece of tech to get the slightest edge over the competition.  I’m slightly ashamed to admit I know more about the frontrunner of the is years Evo than the current state of the Seattle Mariners.(Long time reader(s?) will know that I’m a big Mariners fan too.)

What brought me to this lowly state?  Well, 20 years ago next month, I met a man who would eventually set me down this path. A man named Hello Pájaro (As always, names have been altered protect those who claim to be innocent).

He was one of the very first people I met when I spent my disastrous freshmen year of college at MSU (for more on that flavorful experience click here.) And we became fast friends. We of course lost touch when I set fire to my college career, but to our mutual surprise, we ended up working together at the same store.

By the end of his first week, he was my favorite person to see at work. The one buddy that makes working retail not only bearable, but even occasionally enjoyable. By the end of his first month, we were hanging out outside of work. Twenty years later, he is like an uncle to my children. (The weird, distant uncle, but still)

At evo this year, there was a blind entrant. And he won several matches.

One fateful night, early into the bromance, he asked me if I ever played fight games.

“Oh yeah”, I scoffed. “I don’t like to brag, but I’m pretty good.”

This, dear reader, was a lie in two parts. Firstly, I love to brag (just ask my wife about any time I’ve been proven right), and secondly, as I quickly discovered, I’m not as good as I thought.

I invited him to play one evening after work. Food and fight games we declared. I invited this man into my home, I fed him. And how was my hospitality repaid? He kicked my ass. Beat me like a red-headed stepchild. Completely wiped the floor with me. He’s never really stopped wiping the floor with me. No matter what I try, no matter how much time and effort I put into training, I can never get more that the occasional win over Hello Pájaro.

I think that is what my entire obsession boils down to at this point. I don’t want to be a world champion. I don’t expect to win against every opponent I face. But just once, I want to wipe the floor with Hello Pájaro.

Monkey see, Monkey do.

Get those tasty grubs!

    Next time you find yourself at the zoo, or perhaps watching a nature documentary of some kind (FYI - The David Attenborough fan club has over 387k members), watch how the animals interact with others of their own kind. It doesn't have to be wild or exotic animals either, if you have multiple cats, or dogs, watch them long enough, and you will see some form of grooming happening. At some point, Mr. Fluffypants will lick down Zazzles, or perhaps you'll see a monkey pluck a juicy grub from off his mom's back and chow down. 

   In my own pack, I am subjected to this construct as well. Every few days my wife, the lovely Princess Consuela Bananahammock, will pin me down and search me head to toe for any little blemish or mark and ruthlessly scour it from my body. Only once she is satisfied am I allowed free, pink and sore. I have always hated these little moments of hers, and fought to avoid them. Only recently have I learned to accept them as a sign of love, and not a malicious intention to cause me physical harm.

    So the other day, whilst sitting on my wooden porch stairs, I attempted to scoot three inches to one side to let my daughter pass. The resultant scooch left me with half a dozen splinters in my butt cheeks. Princess Consuela's spidey sense went wild, and before I could make a break for it, I found myself bare assed on my own front porch.

    Now, I live in Montana, I don't have many neighbors, and we all sort of keep to ourselves. But I still think that the sight of a digging intently at her husband's ass crack out on the porch just might be a subject of gossip.

    But every cry of "Can't we do this inside?" and "DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS NOW?!" fell upon deaf ears. She was in the zone, completely enthralled, happy as a pig in shit. I was told to shut up and man up.

    Ten minutes I stood there as she poked, prodded and scraped loose each and every one of the eight slivers she managed to find, soaking up lots of sun where the sun isn't supposed to shine. After double and triple checking her work, she seemed to come out of a sort of trance. 

    Standing up and heading inside at last she asked, "Do you think any of the neighbors saw?"

    "Well," I replied, "if they did, I'm sure we'll see it on YouTube."

    

Otto 'Bud' Smith

 

My grandpa Bud (left) and my dad (right)

    No new episode today, but I should have one out tomorrow. I've heard a few comments from readers on this little story, so glad you are enjoying it, and I'll work on making updates more regularly. Most of my time has been spent on the second revision of my novel, but thankfully that is nearing completion. I'll be sure to let you know how that goes.

    

    Today I want to share another humorous anecdote from my life, and this one is about the fellow pictured up above. My grandpa Bud died several years ago, and during his funeral I saw something that gave me a chuckle and I thought I'd share.

    But first, a little about the man himself. Otto Smith was born just before Christmas in 1921. He was the youngest of 12 (twelve!) children born on a family farm outside of Helena, Montana. Growing up on the farm, it was nice to have that many people around to help with the chores, I'm told. (I asked my father recently if they were catholic. nope. just very prolific)

    As a young boy, Otto decided that he wasn't too fond of the name his parents had given him. He took a pencil and some paper and wrote down all of the nicknames he could think of, and picked his favorite. From that moment on, he'd decided he would be called Bud. For the rest of his life, he introduced himself as Bud, and that's what he went by.

   

    About the time he was picking out his new name, Bud fell ill with Rheumatic Fever. It's one of those diseases that is easily treated these days, but in the 1920s, could be easily fatal. Bud was bed-ridden for a year with it. In the end, he pulled through, but his long childhood illness made him ineligible for the military when WW2 came around in 1939.

    

You can still find this brand if you look hard enough.

    Instead, when the war started, Bud found himself working as a baker at Eddy's bakery, a job the government declared as 'necessary'. Because it was a necessary occupation, he wasn't allowed to quit. And because he wasn't allowed to quit, he was paid a pittance for his work, a dollar a day.

    After the war,  the now twentysomething Bud and his wife Clara moved to California in pursuit of better paying jobs. He might have succeeded too, if every man returning from the war hadn't had the same idea. After several months of living in hotels while looking for an affordable home, Bud gave up and moved back to Montana. (good thing too, or I would have had a very different life to be sure)

    Bud went back to work as a baker, but after a couple of years doing this, he developed an allergy to flour. As you can imagine, a baker being allergic to flour created a bit of a work conflict. My dad tells stories of how Bud would come home at the end of the day with his hand looking like ground hamburger, cracked and bleeding all over. Bud moved from the bakery to the delivery truck. He spent years on a delivery route, putting hundreds of miles a day in behind the wheel. 

    Eventually though, his flour allergy progressed to the point that he couldn't even drive the truck any more, and he was forced to move on to other jobs. But Bud never lost his love for the open road. Bud was a car guy through and through, and it wasn't unheard of for Bud to drive several hundred miles in a day, just to drive. (Bud liked speed too, when I got my first car, a 1966 Chevy Impala, Bud told me you have to make sure to get it up over 100 mph once in a while to blow out the carbon build up. My dad vehemently denied that was necessary.)

    Old age and a condition called macular degeneration eventually took Bud's eyesight and put an end to the roadtrips. But til the day he died, Bud  said that one day, one day they will come up with a cure for his blindness, and he was going to buy a new truck. (I can just picture my 95 year old grandpa in a one ton diesel that he can't see over the steering wheel of tearing down the interstate at 90 miles an hour.) 

    The last time I saw Bud was not a happy visit, and it's not the way I prefer to remember him. Bud had dementia, the result of a stroke he'd had. Bud (bit of a hardhead too as it turned out) didn't got to the hospital for several days after his stroke, and by then of course, the damage was done.

    When Bud did finally pass, his funeral was a small affair. He'd managed to outlive all his friends and his 11 siblings. It was decided that instead of a formal funeral, we'd have a small gathering of his kids and grandkids.

    Bud was cremated, and was set to be buried next to his wife, Clara, the love of his life who had predeceased him by a nearly 30 years. We stood around Clara's grave and shared stories of the two of them for about an hour.

    When they time came, my uncle Wayne opened the box that Bud had been placed in and that was when I saw it. Something was stuck to the bottom of Bud's urn. Something that is instantly recognizable to anyone in America. A small, golden oval.

Made in China

I couldn't help it, I started laughing. Here I was at a funeral, trying to stop myself laughing while we all take turns trying to peel off the little sticker. (you know how sometimes they just wont come off) Bud always had a good sense of humor, and I like to think that would have given him one last grin, despite the fact that he was laid to rest with little clumps of cheap adhesive stuck to his underside for the rest of eternity. 

Happy 2023 - Tales from the kiddos

    No new episode for now, this post I want to instead share some updates and a story or two from the family. It has been one year this month since I left the work force to (heavy air quotes) "become a professional writer". 

    In that time, not only did I fail to get published, I've actually gone backwards. I went from having a finished manuscript actively seeking agents, to having a jumbled mess of partially completed computer files, all at different stages of completion. I have been doing a massive re-write that rethink several of the major characters. I am just past the halfway point on the redo, and I don't know if I could drag my feet any harder.

    

A lot of my writing lately has been like this. Staring at the keyboard, blank page.

    So, here we are on January first, first day of the year, time for resolutions. My new years resolution is the same exact thing it has been for the last 3 years - FINISH YOUR BOOK!!! For the last month I've even been doing that trick from 'The Secret'. Every morning, while I'm stumbling about the kitchen preparing my first cup of coffee, I take a pen and paper and write those words. FINISH YOUR BOOK!!! all caps, three exclamation points.(so far this has only been the secret to making myself feel bad.) Here's hoping that I get it done right this time, and a Happy 2023 to all of you.

    So what exactly have I been doing with all my time if not getting the book done? I've been a professional dad. I have discovered a new understanding and respect for my mother (hi mom!). She kept a cleaner house, cooked healthier meals, and got less gray hairs than the experience has given me, all while working a full time job. I have no idea how she managed it all without killing the three of us, but mad props to mom.

   I've picked a story from one of my little gremlins that I want to share in this post, because even though I love them with all my heart, that doesn't mean I haven't had to remind myself  that murder is illegal, and my wife still expects two children when we go to bed at night.

How Canadians punish their toddlers.

    My son, Ricardo Shilley-Shalley, (As always, names have been changed to protect those who are not innocent) has played hockey for the last few years. This year we had to cut the season short because the my entire household has been sick since October, but there are still plenty of highlights from his hockey career to choose from. 

    This particular event happened during the last game of the year last season. Have you ever shared a bit of trivia, some obscure fact that doesn't usually mean anything, with someone who shouldn't have that information? Maybe you let slip who your secret Santa was, maybe you inadvertently spoiled the end of a movie one time. Whenever I have one of these slips, my thinking is always the same: 

1)Oops.

2)Shit.

3)Maybe he didn't hear me?

4)Damage control.

    Such was the case toward the end of last hockey season. I was watching an NHL game with Ricardo and after a particularly nasty cross-check penalty, I said, "Did you know that its okay to hit people in hockey, so long as you do it right?"

    My mind immediately went through the first 3 steps above. My then 6 year old son, who can still hardly keep upright on skates, definitely didn't need to start checking people on the ice. But a look of pure joy was already spreading across his face. Step 4 - damage control.  I explained (vainly) that checking wasn't allowed in kids' hockey, that his coaches would teach him how when the time was right. 

    Didn't matter, of course. The very next practice, his coach had to pull me aside to tell me that he had been knocking down his teammates whenever one was in arm's reach. Luckily, the season was almost over, only one tournament left, and then the sweet sweet reprieve that comes when you know you don't have to cart them around for the next few weeks.

    By the time that game day came, Ricardo had become quite familiar with the concept of the penalty box. (his coaches would make him serve the penalties he racked up throughout practices) Each time I helped him suit up, I would remind him of the rules, and tell him he was not allowed to to push, hit, trip, knock down, tackle, strike, smack, hook, pound, slam or touch any of the other players. It was like telling a bird it wasn't allowed to fly.

    Hockey tournaments are designed so that the kids get to play as much hockey as can be crammed into a weekend. This particular tournament saw Ricardo playing four games in one day. He played the first three games with little incident, he didn't do anything to send him to the penalty box anyway. But by game number four, he was spent, tired, and touchy. (think any kid who really needs a nap) Game four, he didn't even make it through warmups. 

    For about 10 minutes before gametime, the kids just mill about on the ice, passing and shooting at empty nets, just basic stuff. I was watching Ricardo warm up (as parents do, where's my kid, what's he doing, and whatnot) and I saw him fall on the ice, no one to blame but himself mind you, just slipped on the ice and went sprawling. From his position, spread eagle, face down on the ice, I watched as he extended his stick out as far as he could, to snag and trip one of the kids from the other team.

    Oh, it was on. Ricardo had managed to trip a kid who was just like him. The two spent the rest of warmups chasing around the ice, tripping each other. I was annoyed, thinking that I'd have to repeat the list of no-nos again after the game, but not worried about much else. Warmups ended, and I figured he'd get on with the game.

    Wrong again. Ricardo seemed only slightly aware that a game was happening around him as he played head hunter on the ice. Rather than chase after the puck like everyone else (if you've ever watched a young kids' hockey or soccer game you've seen how this goes), he went from player to player peering into the helmets to see if it was the same kid that had tripped him during warmups.

    For most of the game the two never saw the ice during the same shift. But I know my son, and my anxiety only grew as I watched him stalking the ice for this kid. It didn't happen until the third period. Long enough that I was starting to get that false sense of hope (maybe it wont happen after all!) But finally he saw the face he'd been looking for. The two saw each other from across the ice. All of the rest of the players were huddled in a corner, fighting over control of the puck. The rest of the rink was completely empty, save these two kids, rushing at each other like bulls charging.

    It was the warmups all over again. Each kid would trip or tackle the other, then make a wild escape, trying to make sure they got the last say. Except this time they were doing it out on open ice with no hustle and bustle to mask their little war. Ricardo's coach ended up having to go out on the ice, pick him up, and carry him to the penalty box.

    I got to hear it from the coach again after the game. Ricardo got to hear it again from me. I never did find out who the other kid was, for which I'm grateful. The last thing I needed was to hear it from another parent, but hey, maybe they were just as embarrassed as I was.

Happy New Year. Keep to your resolutions, I'm certainly going to try.

    

The Great American Pastime

     Not another episode of my mini-series right now, but there is one forthcoming, I promise. I write a lot of blogs about my nerdy hobbies and favorite books and movies and the whole slew of nerd pop culture. But, I'm also a big sports fan. (thanks mostly to my father being in control of the TV remote my entire childhood.)

    I've lamented before on here about how I have never been an exceptional athlete, but I never let that stop me from enjoying the professionals at work. In face, I think knowing how much I suck makes me appreciate all the more the level of skill on display. Next time your team's kicker shanks a field goal, go out side, measure out 30 yards and try to kick a ball that far. (no uprights, no aiming, just try to make it 30 yards. You cant do it.)

    Baseball is one of those sports that's fun to play, but not so fun to watch on TV. Watching games live, however,  with a hotdog in one hand and a beer in the other, the crowd cheering and chanting, is one of my favorite things on the planet. I love the fellowship and the camaraderie you can form with perfect strangers sitting around you.

T-Mobile Park was sold out. 

    Last weekend, I had the privilege of being one of the fans that witnessed the first post-season home game for the Seattle Mariners in over twenty years. I am proud to be one of the long-suffering Mariners fans. A true die-hard, resigned to the constant rebuilds and losing seasons without once ever wavering in my love for my team.

    The ol' M's put a lot of hurt on us fans in that time. They not only had the longest playoff drought of any team in any American professional sport, (seriously, there are plenty of people old enough to drink that hadn't even been born the last time the Mariners made the playoffs.) but they had three 99+ loss seasons during that time. They made trades that made me pull out my hair. (A small part of me died when they traded Ichiro to the Yankees) They put ever lasting faith in bad players just because they cost so much. (every single one of the aging stars they bought underperformed spectacularly, and I still facepalm in dismay every time I think of Rodney taking the mound in the ninth with a slim lead)

    But as I said earlier, Mariners fans are long-suffering. Our woes extend well before this playoff drought began. Not going into long Seattle history, even just my own there are tales of Father-Son slugging duos that fell short of capturing the title, Hall of fame rookies abandoning the team early in their stellar careers, and perfect-game pitchers that won the world series with other teams.

    But that's sports. You can gripe about past seasons for the rest of your life (and we love to, don't we?), but all that history is forgotten when the team puts on a good show.  That is precisely what we got that Saturday night in Seattle. 

    Game 3 of the ALDS series ended in Seattle with the Mariners losing 0-1 in the 18th inning. That's 17 full innings with no score, and a solo homerun in the top of the 18th that finally ended the game. 6 and a half hours of baseball, two full games. And I sat through it all, with a 7 year old and a 10 year old along for the game (they actually behaved better than I could have ever hoped). The game tied the record for longest post-season game, and set a new record for most strikeouts in a post-season game. How many strikeouts? Forty-two. That's enough strikeouts for 14 straight innings where every batter strikes out.

    Boy did it feel like it toward the end. By the thirteenth inning, my wife and kids were asking me how much longer. By the fifteenth inning, they (not me) were beyond caring who hit the ball, just someone please hit the damn ball. By the time the solo HR came in the top of the 18th, even I was past the point of caring overmuch. 

    I did everything I could. I shouted myself horse cheering and jeering. I booed and heckled the Astros in the outfield near me. I wore my hat inside out, I even pulled off my shoe and put it on my head, which worked so well to rally the bats in the wild card series. But, having never been signed to the team, my contributions were minimal.

When I showed this picture to my sister she said (in her best deadpan serious voice) "Wow. I cant believe that didn't work." 

    And thus did the season end. As T.S. Elliot said, "Not with a bang, but with a whimper". When that ball landed just over the fence in left center field, The air went out of the crowd like a popped balloon. It was dead silent for a split second, before a lone Astros fan, sitting three or four rows behind me began screaming his joy to the heavens. I was truly concerned for his safety as everyone, myself included, stared daggers at him.

    The longest, most drawn-out pitching duel I've ever witnessed. 6 1/2 hours of nothing. 10 hour drive each way, and the price of the tickets meant no Christmas or Birthday presents for yours truly. Still worth it. May they not take another 22 years to make it this far again.

The Jury's Still Out

    Today I experienced a new first. Today was my first time I was called in for jury duty. I left the house full of pride for doing my civic duty. I was eager to see the American justice system at work,  and to experience for myself just what it is about jury duty that so many comedians over the years hated so much.

    Really, there isn't much to tell. I didn't make it through the jury selection process, in fact, they didn't even get to me before they had selected all the jurors they needed. It wasn't a criminal trial either, just a civil suit. So I wasn't privy to any enticing crime scene photos or stories of crimes of passion. In fact I'm sure I could post every detail I know about the case and not a single reader would care. (I'm not going to, that's like, super illegal)

This is what I thought jury duty would be like. TV has misled me again.

    I swear there is something about people waiting on you that causes you to want to make them wait some more. Think of every appointment you've ever had scheduled. Think of every plane you've ever flown on. Has a single one of them started on time? My experience has been no. But, I digress and will return to the jury duty story.

    I was informed (in the official summons they send) that my failure to appear on time could be considered contempt of court. So, I showed up fifteen minutes early for jury selection. Then, I waited for nearly an hour while the teams of lawyers, the judge, and a couple of aides milled around (in no big hurry mind you) setting things up.

    When they did start addressing the juror pool, I thought (with relief) that the waiting was over, but instead it just turned out to be waiting without my phone. (which we all know is much worse) I don't know how large a typical juror pool is, but there were 80 of us all put in the same room. We were numbered randomly, and told that only 23 people would be tentatively selected. (quick break-down: 12 people sit on a jury, 1 serves as an alternate. each team of lawyers gets to nix 5 jurors without giving any reason. 12+1+5+5=23)

    

That bench looks so much more comfortable than the folding chair I got.

    I was 'potential juror #59'. So, that meant 36 people had to be determined to be unsuitable jurors before my services would be needed. (the math gets a little difficult here: 59-23=36) So my experience with jury selection was sitting in a gymnasium (they cited COVID as the reason they were holding it in such a large room) for four and a half hours watching other people answer questions from the lawyers. 

    It was boring. It was tedious. But let me share a thought that the judge opened with (I'm paraphrasing here, I don't remember his exact wording): It is a vast privilege to be living in a country in which the common man has a part in the justice process. There are too many places in the world where the fates of the accused are decided by a handful of those in power.

    So I didn't have to serve as a juror in a full trial. (not yet anyway, my name is still in the pool for another 11 months) But I get to say that I did my civic duty, and that comes with a (ever so small) feeling of achievement, despite the fact that I sat on my ass all damn day.

The Eternal Quest for Comfort

     It seems to me that the entirety of human civilization has been spent in search of comfort. Biologically we have built in desire to avoid uncomfortable feelings. (Too hungry? I've got to eat something. Too close to the fire? Better back up quickly.) Ever since man has evolved past the point of subsistence farming and hunting and gathering, we've spent our efforts on technologies that make our lives more comfortable.

    Because, if we are really being honest about it, it is frequently uncomfortable being human. I am at the very beginning of what most consider 'middle age' and though I'm still young, I have started to notice the random soreness and stiff joints that come with an aging human body.

Ryan Reynolds is 45. I pray I look half that good in seven years.

    My personal definition of comfort is 'the least amount of pain I can manage to feel in this meat sack I'm forced to exist in'. So often times preferred activity is to just sit in my ridiculously massive and comfy  armchair and play video games. So it is safe to say that I've experienced more comfort than most, to the point its starting to be really harmful.

        I've become so sedentary that my body is malfunctioning out of pure sloth. For example, last year I was diagnosed with gout (you would not believe how much one single toe can hurt) and it is massively uncomfortable to live with. (I want to say that it was right here during the writing of this entry that I saved my work and went for a two mile walk)

    In this aging, ever expanding meat sack, I have reached the point were I now need to change my lifestyle to stay in that sweet comfort zone. (really I reached that point years ago) It takes a lot of willpower and self-discipline to entirely change every habit you have. Two areas I am sad to say I am lacking in.

Save room for dessert. Also, there will be no dessert.

 

    I can at least say I've been working on it. I have tried many times, many different diets. But it's a lethal (and I mean that literally,  this is slowly killing me) combination, being addicted to fast food and video games at the same time. 

More work to be done. In other news, it's almost back to school time, and I've never been looking forward to my kids being gone this much. Hopefully once I'm back on a regular routine I'll be writing more often.

Until then, eat healthy, and I'll try to also.

    

A Trip to the Farm

     So it's been a while since I've made an entry, for that I apologize. I've had a pretty serious bout of writer's block where it came to this blog. My main sources of inspiration for these entries, my dog ,the Dude and my son, Ricardo Shilley-Shalley have been behaving themselves for the last few weeks.

   But, as a part of our celebrations for the 4th of July, we took the dogs and the kids to my in-law's ranch in rural Montana. The ranch is a pretty quiet place these days. My in-laws have retired from full-on ranching, so now they only have 5-6 cattle and a couple of old horses that they adopted from other ranches when it came time to put them out to pasture. The ranch is a nice place to take the kids when they really need to unplug.

    And boy do they need to unplug more often.

    I live in Montana. It's a great place, full of wide open spaces, few crowds, and short bouts of pleasant weather. But despite our natural rural habitat, my children have become shockingly whiny about all things outdoors.

"Now I would like you to say, 'Big Floppy Donkey Dick' "

 

    While this totally proves they have my genes, it can be a bit much to handle. Every bug that nears them leads to a hysterical fit and any mud that they come across leads to a crying jag. I don't know where they got that particular reaction, because both of their parents grew up spending a whole lot of time playing outdoors. (Though my mother would surely declare that I would only do so when forced out of the house by her.)

    The Dude, however, had the time of his tiny little life. Half Chihuahua and half Pomeranian, a big dog he is not. When he stands on his hind legs, Dude can almost reach my knee, he's that small. In his mind, however, Dude is the proud descendant of the mighty wolf. He is just as fierce as a rottweiler, and don't you forget it.

Yeah, that's right ladies, I've got like 1,800 followers on TikTok. I'm kind of a big deal.

    This attitude of Dude's has gotten him into trouble several times now. When he comes face to face with larger doggos, his mouth tends to write checks his body cant cash. There was one memorable night when I was taking him out one last time before bed, and I didn't have Dude on a leash. (foolishly I thought 'how much trouble can he get into, he's so tiny) This particular night as was walking, a nearby door opened, and out came a black lab whose head was larger than Dude's entire body. Fearing Dude might do something rash, I moved to pick up Dude, only to find that he was already halfway toward this new dog, yipping like mad. Dude did not realize how foolhardy his actions were until he was inside Rocco's mouth. (I assume the lab's name was Rocco based on the screams from the young woman now trying to save Dude's life) I remember plainly seeing when the realization hit on Dude's face (about seven inches from Rocco's mouth) when he finally realized that he is not, in fact, the great ancient wolf or a Rottweiler.

    Dude had another bout of these illusions of grandeur at the farm, and surprisingly, he came away from this one unscathed. My in-laws have sold their herd, and are retired from ranching. They still keep a few cows around as pets, though. One of the kid's favorite things to do at the ranch is visit the cow pen and pet the huge docile animals.

    The second we opened the door at the cow pen, Dude shot out of the car like a bullet. The 6 pound chihuahua had it in his mind that he was going to round up 6 half-ton heifers. Dude yipped out his mighty warcry as his mother screamed bloody murder. She was concerned, you see, because much much much larger dogs than this one had received injuries from these cows. One misstep and Dude would be squished like a grape tomato.

    Would you believe they ran? Not only did they run, but they ran like the devil was on their heels, for surely this must be some demonic rodent of unusual size we had set upon them. Dude had chased them around the pen three times before he finally heeded the frantic calls from Princess Consuela. He positively strutted back to us, chest puffed out proudly.

And then he rolled in a fresh cow pie.

    

    

Esports - the dream profession of many a nerd

     I have written before about how much video games have changed from their inception. But there is another whole new kind of beast that is really just starting to make a splash in mainstream America, and that is Esports. 

    Video games have evolved with our culture. They've gone from vector graphic quarter-eaters that could only be found at arcades and pizza joints to something easily accessible in nearly every American household. Located in the pocket of every smart-phone owning citizen.   

    With this evolution came something that used to bore the pants off of me. Watching other people play video games.

One of Several Major Fighting Game Tournaments - Capcom Cup - draws a huge crowd, and only the top 32 players worldwide win a chance to play.

    Used to be a sort of personal hell, standing in line at the arcade, or waiting for my older brother to finish his turn so I could get my chance to get Luigi through those side-scrolling obstacle courses. (I was the younger brother, by default I was always P2) Video games were always boring to watch. But now, it's like watching a sport on TV that you used to play in your prime. And just like watching sports on TV, the more you understand about the game, the more you can appreciate the skills of the really talented players.

    I've played a lot (a lot a lot) of video games. But there were only two games that I have ever played that I would consider myself competitive in. The first was a game called Quake (released by Id software in 1996) but as I was maybe 14 when I peaked at that game, I don't have much to tell. I was a painfully awkward,  light-shunning gamer that stayed in my basement racking up frags and cursing LPBs that haunted my favorite servers. Less revealed about this time in history, the better.

    The other game I played competitively (though truthfully not very well) was Street Fighter 4. The street fighter series has a long popular history dating all the way back to the Super Nintendo Entertainment System. I remember playing a lot of Street Fighter with neighborhood kids back in Kindergarten. That's over 30 years ago.

    I had stopped playing Street Fighter in grade school. But I was reintroduced to the game by a friend I met in college. This friend, Ken Masters (as always names have been changed to protect those who claim to be innocent), played street fighter at a level I truly didn't know existed, the Esports level.

    

Ken looking good after college

    It's a game where you try to punch the other guy more than he punches you. How competitive could it be right? As it turns out, very very competitive. There is a mountain of information to sift through once you decide to look very close at these games. To really play Street Fighter the way it's intended, you cant even use a standard controller, you need a fight stick. (kind of like the setup you see on arcade cabinets sized down to fit on your lap) And then you need to study frame info, spacing, throw tech strategies, negative inputs, counter hits, and a bunch of other stuff I cant even remember anymore. 

    The professional players in this game have memorized mountains of data and probably do more math than half of NASA.

    I learned what I could and reached a level that I was able to keep up with most of the other players in my play group. And one fateful winter, Ken and I decided it was time to go play in a tournament. We decided to take a road trip to Calgary to participate in Canada's largest fighting game tournament, the Canada Cup.

    The good news is that we got to explore another country and had a blast doing it. The bad news is we played Street Fighter. We were destroyed. I mean still-to-this-day-embarrassingly blown out of the water. There is even a YouTube clip on the internet (which I will not link or give any hints as to how to find) of our team getting pwnt by a semi-pro Canadian player while the commentators talked about how god-awful we are at this game.

    Going back to the High School sports analogy, it was like going from playing on the junior varsity team straight the Olympic Trials. We got owned that hard.

    I stopped playing Street Fighter shortly after my daughter was born. That was a pretty good reason to spend less than 7 hours a day practicing face punch, but mostly it was an excuse to get out. I was never all that good, and I was waaaaaay overly competitive. I rage quit a ton and I had a tendency to throw things and scream at people when I lost. Sad to say, I burned a lot of bridges and ruined a lot of friendships over this game.

    To everyone I've ever played with, know that I mean this sincerely:

    Sorry for what I said while playing Street Fighter.