Fiction

While I was in school at UGA, I lived my sophomore through senior year in a quaint but amazing house on Pope Street that we called The Pope House.  I guess creativity was not our forte, though the ensuing post will hopefully prove otherwise.  The Pope had a rotating door and an always eclectic cast of characters through that door.  Myself, Ben Leathers, Bryan Overcarsh, and Luke McFadden were the fore [four] fathers at the Pope, but another 1-3 other people effectively lived [read: crashed] there at any point in time (Andrew Martin, Brad Alexander, Mark Vinson, Tom Hart).  The house was bequeathed to a series of awesome dudes (Justin and Jared Kimmel, William Kent, Kelsey Cox, and Clay Maloy) that we knew would carry on the traditions of awesome and randomness, and they passed it down to another series of dudes that were just as equipped for the task of keeping the Pope awesome (Ben Hoffer, Jeremy Tatro, Jackson Huckaby).  One of said dudes was Brad Rogers who had a brilliant post-collegiate idea of starting a Pope Street Alums listserv so we could keep up with each other over topics such as all things UGA, what’s wrong with our world today, politics, fishing, relationships, rock candy, Atlanta sports, etc. 

It is pretty standard for us to seek advice within this email chain of excellence, so I stirred up chatter regarding potential ideas for blog posts.  I got a variety of stellar ideas, but one in particular seemed like a unique and new challenge for me.  Luke (who rarely posts due to his recreational unavailability at the hands of his doctoral residency at UAB) suggested I write fiction and recommended I use the three sentences below to compose a short story.  The challenge was that I was responsible for coming up with some sensible tale to link the three.  I have full intentions of doing this, though I may intermittently jump back to my traditional rants about things I love or hate in the middle of the short story.  Or I may just not ever finish it at all... I don't want writing for enjoyment to feel like homework.        

-The fresh baklava had not yet finished searing the roof of my mouth when she subtly slid the pink folder across the table.

-No one knew about the snail carnival, unless of course you counted the highest rolling elites of Watkinsville's seedy underground.

-I don't know how it came to me, but I knew right then that the only thing that could save me from the stubby-armed natives and their thundering volcano's fury would be the Jonas Brothers-signed Furby tucked securely away inside my backpack.

What follows is my first ever attempt at writing fiction.  Judge delicately. 

Part One: Baklava

The fresh baklava had not yet finished searing the roof of my mouth when she subtly slid the pink folder across the table.  I noted the folder bore several of the characteristics of the filo dough that composed the creature of hate presently tattooing the roof of my mouth.  The folder, like the bubbling pastry plastered to my chops, was layered thick with what seemed to be envelopes, and coated with shrapnel of rosewater and honey flung from the jowls of the ferociously ravenous woman sitting across from me.  Her ability to consume the torturously tar-hot tart without pause or pant furthered my suspicion this woman actually may be the devil.  I began to ponder why I was even facing the mal intent of a dish traditionally served at room temperature.  All the while, my best efforts of nonchalance within this fateful rendezvous were being compromised by my flame-throwing bleats and circling arms.  For some reason I could not yet place, I felt like a vulnerable and helpless victim.

With my antics the woman became increasingly more anxious and ready to address our intended business.  As the burn finally began to subside, she spoke her first words to me.  “Mr. McWagon,” she said in a raspy voice that suited her stature and fiery red locks.  “My associate did not bring you all the way to Izmir for the baklava.”  Of this I was quite aware as the baklava was obviously reserved for those in Dante’s inner layers of hell.  “Everything you need to know regarding your immediate future can be found within the folder.”  With that the voluptuous ginger was off.  Observing her walk away I could not help but notice her pants were much too tight; her backside resembled a couple plastic bags full of wet laundry competing to be first into a washing machine.  I expected more modesty and decency from a representative of an organization enigmatic and large enough to fly me to Turkey on a chartered plane.

Not knowing the nature of the business to which I was tending, I figured it in my best interest to stay on the move before checking the contents of the folder.  I slinked away to a little coffee shop near the port and sat in a quasi private table out on the veranda- a place I deemed perfect for discovering my new life direction.  I was surprisingly at peace as the harbor water bubbled quietly against the side of the gracefully approaching cruise ships.  An enormous foghorn blast from a nearby freighter interrupted the serenity of the scene and propelled me out of my daydream and back into my present reality.  Things weren’t going to be the same for me.  One minute I was a humble, yet resourceful repo man from Savannah, and the next minute I was the newest ‘errand boy’ for what was presumably one of the world’s premier secret agencies. 

There’s something about the people of Turkey.  Their olive skin and traditionally darker features make them some of the most beautiful people in the world, but they also invented the unibrow.  My waitress was no different.  She was polished and elegant and she nimbly spun between her tables with the agility and focus of a whirling dervish.  But that unibrow…  It did not matter that she had poise comparable to an Olympic diver- nothing was able to detract my attention from the wooly mammoth positioned across her brow line.  She smiled a beautiful smile as she sat my coffee on the table.  Turkish coffee, labeled as such, is not a Turkish version of coffee as we know it.  It is a separate entity altogether.  Imagine mud packed into the bottom third of a shot glass and topped with dip spit.  My ‘when in Rome’ mentality was again going to mar my oral well-being.  Once the waitress whisked away, I finally took in a deep breath and opened the folder.  Atop the many mounds of sealed envelopes was a single sheet of paper that appeared to be a cover letter.  It read:

“Duke McWagon,

Please accept the baklava from Agent Chavez as a sign of our appreciation for your travels.  (She always gets hers heated to 5000 degrees Kelvin, so I would advise giving it 5 or so minutes to cool.)

While we understand that it was not your decision to activate as an agent, we appreciate your understanding and willingness to adapt to the situation for the good of the organization and your health.  As an active agent, your identity back home has been ‘put on hold’ and you are now a conduit of our agenda.  Within this folder you will find 10 sealed envelopes, each containing a labor you must complete in order to have your life restored to the way you once knew.  In accomplishing these tasks, there are two rules:

-You must kill no human unless the labor demands it.

-You must accept no pay to complete the labor. 

Each labor can be accomplished in accordance to the rules.  Let me remind you, Mr. McWagon, we are a very powerful operation and a violation of the rules will simply result in an additional labor… or death.

You will be contacted intermittently throughout your journey, and you are to respect the confidentiality of all items in the pink folder which is to remain in your possession at all times.  No one can know our agenda. 

Safe questing,

Agent Hoover

Director of Secret Affairs

Girl Scouts of America”

I sat stunned, for when I reluctantly agreed to travel on behalf of the agency (which I, at the time, did not know to be the dangerous and manipulative Girl Scouts of America), I did so only to protect those I loved back home in Savannah.  I caught on to no clue advising me to avoid the perilous journey and inevitable failure associated with activating as an agent for the GSA.  I had been Kansas City shuffled by a simple phone call telling me to go to Gate 59 at Hartsfield Airport if I wanted my family to live.  Little did I know I would be staring death in the face- not only my death, but the death of everyone I held dear. 

Like the flipping of a switch, a resolve sparked inside me to complete these tasks and gain freedom from whatever hold the GSA had on my family.  Once my family was safe, I determined I would perform the greatest humanitarian act of our millennium and destroy the entire organization and every last calorie-packed cookie and brown slash of slavery associated with it.  But I would have to play by the rules.  I knew the breadth of power and influence of these green-vested muses and their director spanned far beyond what was visible at the surface.  I had heard rumors of the matted underbelly of their inner workings and knew that my only chance was to play the game how they wanted it played.  They would be in touch, I had no doubt.  But I also had no doubt they would have eyes and ears on my every move. 

Five or so minutes went by while I contemplated my destiny regarding likely the last to-do list I would ever have.  Alas, I had a job to do.  I didn’t want to be a hero, but here was my chance.  I was going to not only save my family, but the world.  I grabbed the envelope and ripped it open.  There it was.  The first labor?  I expected to go toe to toe with a ravenous lion or drug cartel or a government entity, yet written on an index card in beautiful red calligraphy I saw those peculiar words:

“One: Destroy Watkinsville’s Snail Carnival” 

Sorry this post lacked multimedia.  Reference the above to see a real live whirling dervish.

Fun Run?

I hate running with every inch of my being.  Apparently running hates me at least as much.  The running I speak of is distance running which includes but is not limited to jogging, running laps, 5k’s, 10k’s, half marathons, full marathons, super marathons, etc.  I find no enjoyment in the activity.  At 6-5, running any long distances hurts my every joint from ankles and knees to my shoulders and even my neck.  People tell me they enjoy running because they enjoy the alone time.  I would rather be alone in my screened-in porch with the afternoon sun peeking in while I’m sipping a sweet tea.  People tell me they like being in control.  I would rather buy a hamster and force it to generate small amounts of energy by running on a wheel if I need control.  People tell me running is the best way to get in shape.  I tell them the only shapes that running gets me into are of the Greek letter ‘gamma’, a peculiarly shaped ‘A’, or a combination of the two.  There’s also the always possible shape of a horizontal line representing me lying face down on the ground.  

Not a game of hangman...

The out-of-service Avondale Middle School property backs up to our neighborhood which gives us access to a sufficient track and a full-size football field and baseball field, which our eccentric part of town has converted into a dog park.  From time to time I will venture to the track and run a mile or two around it.  I have tried the theory of running less linear and measured distances (i.e. running a crazy route around town) in an effort to trick myself into thinking the act of running isn’t so bad.  In the grand scheme of things, it may be slightly less miserable than running around a track, except that I am a ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ thinker, and a track enables me to see exactly how much more of myself I must exert before smelling the sweet aromas of victory and survival.  Furthermore, if I fall out on a track, people have a general idea what happened to me and I have a decent chance of rescue.  If I am a mile away from my house with no identification and I kick the bucket on Memorial Drive in front of Mobeta Wangs, Western Union check cashing, Annie Laura’s Country Cookin’, or Daddy D’z BBQ Joynt, the ratio of deep fryers to defibrillators is certainly skewed in the direction of heart disease.  This is all a bit ironic, right?  Me running in front of harbors for clogged arteries, surrounded by people thrice my size, and I could be the one needing resuscitation?  I’ll stick to the track.

A legitimate fear... passed out on a curb in the hood.

I recently started playing basketball in another rec league near the Highlands, and decided I better regain my cardio-pulmonary strength.  [See, I am not opposed to getting in shape or running, as long as there’s a goal and it’s short distance sprinting.]  Naturally, I did what makes the most sense and googled, “How to get in shape for basketball in 2 weeks.”  Success.  Millions of hits.  The most common answer was a combination of wind sprints and jogging, alternating days.  So I strolled to the track to give wind sprints a try and for a week ran pretty consistently.  Ask me about the worst week of my life.  For those of you who have never heard of wind sprints, it basically means that you jog at a fast pace for a while and then you sprint a predetermined distance to really get your heart rate up.  Then you do it again, and you never stop.  I did wind sprints for 2 miles where I sprinted the last 100 meters of each 400 meter lap.  And then I found out I had asthma.  I blame it on running.   Below is a list of things I would rather do than run:

1.       Get asthma.

2.       Use an anthill as a pillow.

3.       Shave a sleeping Grizzly Bear with non-oiled and running-out-of-battery clippers.

4.       Listen to Lou Holtz read anything by Dr. Seuss. 

5.       Get in a grape stomping competition with Michael Flatley (the Riverdance dude).

What is additionally mind-blowing to me is that running, particularly themed running, is becoming an increasing fad.  The like-minded majority that despises this mindless exercise is rapidly becoming the minority.  People are voluntarily signing up to run long distances, run through mud, run through wires that electrically shock them, and run a variety of other ways that aren’t sensible.  (Sensible running = from wild beasts or to get paid)  The most shocking thing is not that people sign up to run, it’s that they PAY to sign up to run.  I need to change my list now.  These are the things I would rather do than PAY to run.

1.       Get a detached retina from a mishap with a salad fork.

2.       Use an anthill as a pillow and cover up with a blanket made of poison ivy.

3.       Aforementioned #3 with variables a) while naked and b) covered in honey.

4.        Hear Lou Holtz repeat the sentence, “So, Cecilia shows off her stresslessness and sasses sixty-six serpents showing senseless possessiveness simultaneous to assessing situations with slues of solutions.”

5.       Be the 'spotter' for the woman in the video below in a grape stomping competition (an oldie but a goodie) ((On second thought, I may actually be interested in this))

Side lesson: Cheaters never win.

I would much rather participate in a run where I have a goal bigger than to simply finish or not get shocked or not die.  It takes something big for me to be coerced into running.  I am not motivated by hoisting a theoretical ‘pride trophy’.   Go down to the dog track and you’ll find even greyhounds are coerced into running laps by a tantalizing faux bunny (a lure).  I appreciate the runs themed around supporting a good cause.  I obviously still prefer not to run, but to give of my time or my money instead.  Yesterday, I was informed of one such run designed to stir up support for an incredible cause I want to share.

A buddy at church announced a Ribbon run 5K on Saturday May 4^th at 8 am.  The Ribbon Run raises funding for the Atlanta Dream Center which is an Atlanta based ministry designed to break the generational cycle of poverty, isolation, and prostitution in Atlanta.  If you’re like me, you may not want to run, but it’s worth seeing if you can volunteer or give in another way.    

PS: Did you know Atlanta ranks in the top 20 cities in the world for prevalence of sex trafficking of teenagers?  Some reports say around #13.  In Atlanta alone, an alleged 400 children are bought and sold for sex each month.  Many statistics say around 90% of runaway girls in Atlanta become victims of the sex trade.  It’s baffling this amazing city can have such a repulsive and filthy underbelly. 

One organization putting its foot down against sex trafficking in Atlanta and doing awesome things to help rehabilitate the women who have been marginalized is BeLoved Atlanta.  A friend of ours is one of the cofounders and I’m sure she’d appreciate y’all checking out their website.  They find ways to help women escape the oppressive life as a slave and assimilate back into society.  I am confident they would love to be flooded with questions of how to get involved in helping these women experience restoration in their lives.

A final organization that needs some attention when they're not already meriting said attention by parading the country in their underroos is Cupid's Undie Run.  It was started by my college roommate's older brother, Chad Leathers and several of his friends who had an amazing and hysterical idea of a way to raise money for the Children's Tumor Foundation.  Another run, this time in your underwear?  Now we're bordering insanity.  But this has worked and been an amazing fundraiser as these guys and gals have raised over 1 million dollars to benefit the CTF.  The race is appropriately run on Valentine's Day weekend.  Chad and the gang have received a lot of national press as of late.  Check them out on CNN and other news outlets.   

I know it probably threw some folks off guard to see me get all serious and whatnot, but I wanted to express my appreciation via shout-out to some folks who dedicate so much of themselves to positively impact the community and the lives of others.  I couldn’t spend the whole post just whining about my knees.  Y’all go check them out and find some way to give back.  Gotta run…  

Me exercising... the right to ruin someone's evening. 

The Upper Room

Take a minute and compose a list.  Look into the depths of your soul and think of the people in the public eye that bother you the most.  Now think about open-palm slapping them right in the face.  I’m not talking about the Hollywood style, silent-film-playboy-tries-to-sneak-in-a-kiss-before-girl-boards-a-plane-and-gets-slapped slap (as in the below slap compilation), or even the Looney-Tunes glove slap. 

What I’m talking about is the open-hand-face-palm:angry-the-dye-turned-my-hair-a-shade-of-blonde-that-would-make-Snooki-prematurely-birth-her-bad-idea-belly-biscuit:furious-the-cameras-caught-me-in-my-blackie-tighties:standing-6-feet-5-inches-tall-with-an-HGH-cocktail-induced-misplaced-machismo:grew-up-without-a-mama:no-sensitive-side:your-nose-is-a-basketball-to-me slap.  Now go read that sentence again.  **Disclaimer** This paragraph will make no sense if you do not watch the below video.  **Double Disclaimer** Sasquatch drops an H-E-double hockey sticks in the video, so sensitive ears take caution.    

Now that you know the genre of slap I am referencing, get back to your list.  I am interested in the top 5 people you would be interested in open palm slapping.  Still can’t picture yourself the kind of person to let somebody sniff your palm?  Let me establish another thing.  You’re able to do this hanging out of a second story window with absolutely no legal repercussions.  Shut the cap on your moral compass and consider this a benefit to society.  It’s not like you’re eradicating their existence… you’re just bringing them back down to earth.  To keep us grounded in this exercise (and to prevent a hypothetical world in which everyone is walking around slapping everyone just because) I propose this idea with a second story window or upper room so there is still the chance the person can get you, but you have a significant competitive advantage (like Ray Lewis drinking deer antler spray) ((read today’s news if that doesn’t make sense to you)).  All that being said I have compiled my list and the justification thereof below.   This list is not in order.  Kudos if you are able to appropriately order your list; I could not.

Why Toby is how Toby is.

      1.        Toby Keith:  The only thing I have in common with Toby Keith is that we both love America and country music.  But Toby Keith is one of the prominent reasons that country-haters loathe country music.  With songs about frat parties and freedom, Toby has had the most successful career in the business recycling themes in the most redneck manner possible.  And it’s safe, because if you don’t like Toby Keith, you must not like America (dripping with sarcasm).  Furthermore, when Toby sings there is a guttural/throat-manufactured vibrato that makes me want to… well… open palm slap him across the mouth.

     

Paul's Koala Impression

      2.       Kevin Garnett/Paul Pierce:  This duo has been haunting my sports world in an unforgivable way since 2008.  When my beloved Atlanta Hawks met the Boston Celtics in the first round of the NBA playoffs in 2008, so was born my deep disdain for these 2 clowns.  A quick youtube search for KG reveals his antics as every other video contains the words ‘cheap shot’.  He looks like a 7 foot tall billy goat, and I may have to utilize a third story window to slap him in the face.  I cannot argue against the skill level of either of these 2 dudes, so I spend time whining about the way they execute their game.  On that note, Paul Pierce is unreasonably clutch, but I want to injure him because he believes his every drive to the basket merits him a foul call.  Seriously Paul, should I get a trophy every time I step foot on a little league baseball field?  POW!!!  Right in the kissa…

Ew...

      3.       Nicki Minaj:  What is this creature?  I would appreciate descriptors on the following: gender, race (not even black or white, but human or marsian), religion (as she [it] makes it very clear what religion she [it] is not, and asexuality.  Perhaps most important is the last, because the future of our society may hinge on this critter necessitating the sexual attraction of another.  We can hang our hats on this not occurring.  If asexual, our existence may depend on Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones, Will smith and the “Up yours, alien a-hole” guy from Independence Day, or Sigourney Weaver.  Even with these players, I don’t like our odds.   

   

Uncanny.

      4.     [Disbelieving] Joe Biden:  Political preferences aside, I’ve never felt more like I was being swindled by a used car salesman than when watching Joe Biden debate Paul Ryan.  Not even when I was once swindled by a used car salesman.  The Joe Biden of the majority of the year, the one who looks mad as a hornet, does not merit a slap in the mouth in my opinion.  The Joe Biden mid debate, when caught in the disbelief of even having to square off with someone as sexy as Paul Ryan, deserves said slap in the face complete with follow through.  And he looks like Jack Nicholson as the Joker in Batman… 

Fraudulent girlfriend, fraudulent respect.

      5.  Manti Te'o:  This may have not been the case a few short weeks ago.  As the story unfolds of Manti and his imaginary girlfriend, I am increasingly irritated by the mere mentioning of his name.  I am partly biased because I do believe Manti's tall tale was a direct influence in his earning various awards when there were more deserving dawgs (Alec Ogletree and Jarvis Jones).  Similarly, I think Alabama exposed Te'o for what he truly is... (cue Arnold voice) a girly man... a choir boy...  So whatever the reason may be, whether his bullfrog look, his always being lei'd, or the way he says "Far from it...", Te'o made the list. 

Hobby Lobby

I have always wanted to have a cool hobby.  You know… something that gives people a reason to put me in a box, but is just rare enough to render those people incapable of putting me in a box.  Most hobbies change other people’s perceptions of the hobbyist.  If I told you I play guitar, a series of things would go through your head.  First, you would probably think, “Everyone and their grandma plays guitar” which would be an accurate assessment.  Then you would probably think, “What a romantic.  I bet he used to get all the ladies” which is also correct [not correct, and lying does not count as a ‘cool’ hobby].  Irregard, the point is that virtually every hobby invokes a set of preexisting stereotypes or thoughts that are something other than, “Man… that is a cool hobby.”  So I want one of those. 

Well maybe I don't want to be the guy in a suit made of horns...  I once thought I wanted to build wood boats, but I lack carpentry as a skill set, I don’t live next to a lake, and I don’t have a spare garage.  But if I built wood boats, you would have to have more respect for me.  (Does anyone know if I am supposed to use ‘wooden’ as an adjective to modify the boat or is it just ‘wood’?  Not the first time I’ve run across this, believe it or not.)  A series of other hobbies for which I have no preconceptions include playing polo, owning a bizarre or unique pet {See Note 1}, racing legend cars, and oenophilia.  Furthermore, I am not fond of horses which rules out polo.  I have never owned a pet mantis shrimp (but this was not for lack of trying).  I nearly got a chance to drive a Ferrari around the Monte Carlo Grand Prix track in Monaco, but I didn’t.  And I don’t much care for wine.  What is this direct correlation with being wealthy and having hobbies I think are cool, anyway?  Additionally, why did I just negate my whole argument by assuming one must be rich to have all these as hobbies?  

So I guess I need to embrace the somewhat mundaneness of my hobbies and make them sound awesome.  I began to contemplate which of my hobbies I would chronicle.  Sports may be my biggest hobby as I (to my own emotional detriment) am a massive fan of all Atlanta sports teams and the Georgia Bulldogs.  However, I have been very intentional not to post about athletics and sports despite the amazing availability over the past week from the Falcons RISE UP to the Falcons DEMISE UP to Manti Te’o’s imaginary girlfriend (which I may be morally obligated to address at a later date).  It is a strategic move as I don’t want to lose any prospective followers who misinterpret my blog as a rant about the tragedy of loving Atlanta sports.  Thus, I came to something everyone seems to enjoy- travel.  Maybe I should’ve been a travel writer ala Rick Steves, but traveling is another hobby that necessitates a good deal of money.  Despite the traditional financial demands of world travel, I was blessed to spend a season of my life working on a cruise ship during which time I unearthed my love for writing about my travels.  Recently, i was fortunate enough to vacate in Mexico, and you're fortunate enough to get to hear about it.  

 Sometime in November of last year I wrote off for vacation the week of December 16th without having any idea of where we would go.  For whatever reason, deciding where to go was the most challenging decision we had faced in our marriage.  Think: "What are you feeling for dinner tonight?" on steroids.  We tossed out everything from San Diego and Costa Rica to NYC and Chicago.  I have been to Chicago in February so you would think I would know better than to go to Chicago in December.  Perhaps blinded by the idea of the Magnificent Mile decked out with Christmas decor, the scale was certainly leaning toward the windy city.  One afternoon around Thanksgiving, I was on the phone with one of my soul mates, Justin Kimmel, (yes... I have multiple soul mates) and we discovered Justin and I had the same vacation week.  Two people in the world have the persuasive power to talk me into doing something I had not planned or have no intention/desire to do, [like tear a bunny in half or engage in fisticuffs with a gaggle of nuns] and those two people are Justin Kimmel and Luke McFadden (another college roomie).  The next thing I knew, I was trying to talk my wife into going to Cancun with the Kimmels.  She obliged.  And when Amanda decides on something where money must be spent, she gets on board.  I am not certain, but I am marginally confident the country of Mexico paid us to vacation there because of the deals Amanda found online.  



This is another of my college roommates, B.O,
dancing so hard his knees began to sweat.  This
image is special as it documents the setting of the
bar.  You aren't hot unless your knees are sweating.



 So December 16th rolled around and we boarded Wing-and-a-Prayer Airlines on our all expense already paid, all-inclusive vacation.  We somehow made it safely.  Better yet, we only spent $10 the entire time we were down in Mexico.  We gave a 5 to the driver for getting us to the resort and not selling us to the cartel, and we gave another 5 to the driver for getting us back to the airport with the same conditions.  The resort we stayed at was Dreams Riviera Cancun and it was the most beautiful resort I have been to of the two resorts I have been to.  Amanda and I went to an all-inclusive resort in Jamaica on our honeymoon in May, and it was so humid my knees sweat.  (It takes a lot to make one's knees sweat.)  But the weather in Cancun in December was flawless.  Highs in the high 80s and lows in the low 70s.



I am not a fan of sand.  I like the idea of the sand and the sun, but generally speaking I would be content at the beach if AstroTurf disappeared into the water and I didn't have to get coated with a layer of gritty particulate on my way back to refuge.  This resort had a beach, then a boardwalk, then a 'rinse off' area, then the poolside, and I could have gone the full week without ever getting sand on my feet.  No doubt an upper tier of paradise.  I spent a good portion of the week under the shade of an umbrella doing a crossword puzzle.  I fancy myself a renaissance man and may have been the only cruciverbalist to finish a crossword and follow it up with a mojito at the swim up bar.  And then I converted Justin who, since vacation, has sent me pictures of at least 2 crossword books he has either purchased or was given at Christmas.   



This is the swim up bar at which I spent
most of my time exposed to the sun and probably
ingested the Crackenseed in a daiquiri.



I couldn't have imagined a more relaxing and enjoyable vacation.  It was awesome being there with another couple, and we often spied envious looks from silly honeymooners wishing they could have booked dinner for 4 rather than 2.  And speaking of dinner... The food at this joint was divine.  There was one marginal hiccup in my perfect vacation where I must have consumed ice or water implanted with a Crackenseed that implanted in my belly, released, and woke me up at 5 in the morning forcing me to call on the help of Lord Pepto intermittently for the last half of the week.  I consumed a lot of quality bread, bottled water, tums, and humility and eventually kicked the little Montezuma hate-baby inside me.  But the resort and vacation was just that good that I was able to mentally overcome and have an incredible week.  Things I would endorse following this vacation include: Cancun in December, Dreams Riviera Cancun, pools, French cuisine, not drinking the water, Immodium AD.           



{Notes:}

1.  In college, the boys and I had a fuzzy caterpillar named Ratzinger that lived in our colander.  The last time we saw Ratzinger was the first time we went to make spaghetti, but I guess that counts as having owned a unique pet. 

Baby Ben Roethlisberger

I promised sports.  I promised controversy.  I promised current events.  Well ladies and gentlemen, I bring you all three in a single photograph.  If a picture is worth a thousand words, this picture accompanied by a thousand words ought be worth a thousand dollars.  The world needs to see this.  For those of you who have not yet graced us with your presence, I'll supply the back story.  Amanda (my wife) ((this is the last time I'll mention that Amanda is my wife, so if you don't know me personally, try to follow along)) and I bought a house in Avondale Estates, GA.  For those of you who don't know Avondale, it is just east of Decatur and credited as the oldest planned community in America.

We bought our house from a couple spectacularly nice gentlemen whom (for the sake of identity protection) we'll call Basil and Sage.  They were originally from Boston, but moved to AE for Basil's work.  It so happened that Basil was a lumberjack who traveled a great deal to the Pacific Northwest or somewhere overrun with hardwoods.  Meanwhile, Sage occupied his time by staying home and doing ruggedly masculine tasks around the house like sanding things down to virtual nonexistence and recreating them with wood filler and homemade paint mixed of spit, sweat, and armpit hair.  At some point, Sage returned home from a horseback trip to Smith's Ace Hardware and noticed that Basil (temporarily home from lumberjacking yet still clad in flannel and Wranglers) had framed out a section of the wall of the master bedroom with left over trim and began painting the masterpiece below directly onto the wall!  (This is written in bold letters because I simply can't stress enough that the painting is seemingly forever plastered to the wall like hieroglyphics in the burial room of an Egyptian pyramid.)  Basil understands, much like myself, that the true way to a woman's heart is with the arts like painting, writing, and chocolate.  Sage however, did not appreciate the explicit nature of Basil's nude beauty and requested that he do something to cover her 'are[ol]a'.  I can't say for sure as I only received this story second-hand from Sage on a trip to my soon-to-be house to get last minute instruction on the landscape lighting (not a euphemism), but it seems the opposition gave Basil the greatest inspiration.  Basil decided to appease Sage by bringing in a reference to the NFL, but their hometown leader Tom Brady was simply too feminine.  Basil went to sleep to brainstorm.  When Basil awoke, inspired by the cold steel of his pillow case, he begin the chef d'oeuvre that would develop into Baby Ben Roethlisberger.      

Madonna with Child (not the singer)

As I'm no art history buff, I will spare y'all my critique.  I am really impressed by the painting and several other paintings Basil left us.  In fact, Basil left us four beautiful paintings above the fireplace as a 'housewarming' present.  In doing this, Basil effectively saved me dozens of hours of driving around town to various Kirklands and Homegoods stores trying to find what exactly to put up in that space.  Subsequently, Basil saved me another 10 hours of trying to hang whatever we found, $400 for that and a ladder, and about $7 for the bottle of Ibuprofen I would need to shield my synapses from the pain of my broken ankle and the shame of falling off said ladder.  See below for a photo of the aforementioned paintings.  

The Four Seasons

In case you were wondering, I'm keeping the painting even though the breastfeeding Madonna casts a gaze across my bed while I slumber.  It's an original piece of art, people!

Exordium

For at least 5 years of my life people have been telling me I missed my calling and I should have been a writer.  Frankly, I may have teetered with the idea more thoroughly if I was aware of the avenues of income for people who write and aren't under the [inter]national eye.  Honestly, I consider myself a humble wordsmith- a communicator capable of twisting words and phrases to get my point across.  Thus, I write very much like I talk.  **Disclaimer** Scholars beware.  You will certainly hate me in 2 blogs +/- 1.  Mrs. Wozniak (my high school English teacher), if you ever read this, it's not your fault.  If any of you who are reading this have never talked to me or read my writing, it may prove offensive.  Below I list a few additional explanations of my literary quirks in an attempt to prepare you for what you may be entering into ('into' is a preposition and prepositions are not words to end sentences with). 

Style:  I tend to carry on in a non-traditional grammatical structure shades of Cormac McCarthy with much disdain for standard and proper punctuation.  Frequently (as you probably noticed above) I use disclaimers.  These generally allow me to escape the confines of simple thought and reach out for the deeper significance within an argument.  They will often prevent you, the reader, from thinking into a tangent and going awry from my communicative intent.  Sometimes my writing reads like a complex algorithm.  Read enough posts and you'll understand.  I love using parentheses to interject ideas within a sentence, and it is not uncommon for me to use double parentheses to modify what was in the previous parentheses.  Follow?  I also overuse ellipses...  Enough about grammar.  I'll just try to keep things interesting with hopes you'll come back for more. 

Rating:  My intent is to keep this blog at a steady PG to PG-13 rating.  I will try to keep my highly offensive substitute letters and marginally inappropriate hyperbolic similes/metaphors to a minimum.  Occasionally I will push the envelope to keep things fresh, and because (as my wife Amanda will tell you) I have no filter.  I would simply argue if it were an air filter for your home furnace, it would be the Sam's Club generic brand, $20 filter pack of 50 rather than the $15 each 3M antimicrobial, bug zapping, dust stopping kind that catches your pet hair, stretches it out, weaves it, and donates it to Locks of Love.  Just think... you're getting more for your money (where time=money). 

Themes:  Much like this initial post establishing the background, framework, and reason for this blog, it will likely have a tendency to transcend all genres.  Topics may include but are not limited to sports, metapolitics, faith, quasi politics, Care Bears, life, dog ownership, BM's, how Nickelodeon is not what it used to be, how to hold the media accountable, current events, marriage, Georgia Bulldogs, work incidents, magic tricks, manliness, how clowns should be outlawed if guns are outlawed, and other various rants.  I will occasionally be serious and I will mostly be satirical. 

A few suggestions: 

1.  I disbosom- you may see me use the dictionary.com word of the day in a post.  I request you be couthie and not advert to challenge the breadth of my vocabulary.  A new word a day keeps the rebro[a]bate[d].  <---Mind. Blown.   

2.  Leave me feedback.  The last time I did any extensive writing in my specific [grammatically abusive] tone was when I worked on a cruise ship and travelled the Mighty Med.  Feedback kept me going and inspired me for more posts.  You are more than welcome to leave me suggestions of things you would like to see me ponder. 

I have no idea with what frequency I'll be able to keep this up, but I look forward to it nonetheless.  I hope you all enjoy.