tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9507570834661224712024-02-21T02:07:04.411-07:00Tyler's OdditiesTy Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-64235235719402971182018-03-05T09:13:00.001-07:002018-03-05T09:58:22.982-07:00The Grand Purge<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">My greatest fear in life is being non-essential. Unimportant. Valueless in the lives of the people I care about. I've been doing a tremendous amount of thinking about this lately and I've come to the epiphanous realization that I fear these things because I've <b>felt</b> these things. Many times, from different people I care about. Especially in the last few months.</span><br />
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No one reads this blog so I'm perfectly safe in announcing to the non-world that I am getting divorced. I move out Monday the 12th and will be <i>"officially"</i> separated until the paperwork processes. To prepare for the logistical change I've begun to purge myself of unneeded and un<b><i>wanted</i></b> material things. As I prepare for a new beginning I realize that I don't want clutter. I don't want things that crowd and distract from my life. I want to be in an environment that fosters clean, efficient, powerful growth and self-improvement. I'm finding myself in an ironically similar place emotionally, specifically with relationships and friendships.</div>
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I had a memorable experience years ago during a parent-teacher conference for my middle child who was then in first grade. He has always been a bit of a spaz so I didn't know what to expect. He was smart. Just...out there. A lot like me. But the main focus of the meeting was on his social talents. His teacher called him a "bucket filler"... a term I'd not yet heard.</div>
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The idea is that everyone has an invisible bucket that carries their positive thoughts and feelings. The beautiful things in life. Some people have a bucket filled to the brim. Others have buckets that need some work. Bucket fillers walk through life, adding positivity to the world around them. By smiling, paying compliments, showing love, and helping people in need, we fill others' buckets. However, there are also those that are Bucket Dippers. These are people that may not have much in their bucket and choose to fill theirs by taking from others' buckets. They dip their imaginary ladles and remove positivity from others' lives. Unkind words, selfish acts, bullying, cheating, and being dishonest. This is how school children fill and dip from buckets.</div>
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Adults are no different. We carry buckets with us. I try my best to be a bucket filler. I think, on the whole, I do a decent job at it. I certainly know I can do better. I also know that I have chosen to bring bucket dippers into my life. People that have chosen to take from my bucket without returning anything to it. Or at least taking far more than they return.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRc30JXb9S1czDDuewVLGa0frGmAR7gUzVUwE4pkjdhTEGiHW-Z-qVvLH1Wx1GyuRge02YRrYxVuqpV4SX8SjcqF2M_drgS5DW9hZFd1AR_ZPhh3mPGf_HL8bgUiugy8CGLCxbJIHKpE/s1600/CmxZ08HUcAA00NA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRc30JXb9S1czDDuewVLGa0frGmAR7gUzVUwE4pkjdhTEGiHW-Z-qVvLH1Wx1GyuRge02YRrYxVuqpV4SX8SjcqF2M_drgS5DW9hZFd1AR_ZPhh3mPGf_HL8bgUiugy8CGLCxbJIHKpE/s200/CmxZ08HUcAA00NA.jpg" width="133" /></a>I am too resolved toward happiness and change to continue monkeying around with bucket dippers. And for me it's become the smaller things. I have lost patience and understanding for people that don't value me the way I value them. This process of divorce has been brutal. I've seen special people in my life change drastically toward me. And it's hard. It hurts. I've lost sleep. I've cried. I've worried. I've doubted myself.</div>
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A very close friend and I were recently talking about "the game." The game of life and friendships and relationships. He made a comment that "if you choose not to play the game, you choose to be lonely." I believed that. For a time. But now, after a few weeks, I disagree. I don't have to play <b>SHIT</b>. And I won't necessarily be lonely. Because the only thing worse than being alone is being with people that make you feel lonely. I will choose solitude over loneliness all...day...long, because I operate very well alone. <u>But I fall to complete shit when I'm lonely.</u></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-variant-ligatures: normal;">This close friend also said that when he met me he initially believed I get taken advantage of because I'm weak. Last week he said he was wrong. I get taken advantage of because I'm a genuinely good guy that pushes for harmony and happiness for others. That made me feel really good. But it also flipped a switch. I don't want to be taken for granted. I want to feel valued. I want to feel essential. I have let my fear of being unimportant in the lives of others cloud my vision and make me vulnerable. </span>And so today I begin the grand purge. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWs4NAc8eo9gUl26EykCQWdPghXTsSxJR0dqjvkBZbfnRYHJ55VLbX8b1FeHh1D87qH2WjYPVNFCW1fc2IKrgosgP2tpzCrn5TCeahd1tDuEersvm3XJLV2UQsPLadfjdp77iEVJbbp1Y/s1600/61hZIhtbufL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="1000" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWs4NAc8eo9gUl26EykCQWdPghXTsSxJR0dqjvkBZbfnRYHJ55VLbX8b1FeHh1D87qH2WjYPVNFCW1fc2IKrgosgP2tpzCrn5TCeahd1tDuEersvm3XJLV2UQsPLadfjdp77iEVJbbp1Y/s320/61hZIhtbufL.jpg" width="320" /></a>There is no excuse for taking others for granted. For not putting forth small efforts. Return texts. Initiate something. Compliment people. Smile. Get uncomfortable to make others feel good. Recognize kindness and return it. Let someone know they are fun, or talented, or special. Show appreciation. It doesn't take much. It's a conscious choice. All it really takes is some effort and a little time. </div>
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If you dip from my bucket without filling it back up, I have no use for you. You are non-essential. You take and don't give. You are taking me for granted and I won't have it anymore. I have friends all over this country that have been <b><i>essential</i></b> to me during my life that now fit this category. It makes me sad, but distancing myself is now necessary. It has to stop. I can't keep filling buckets anymore, just to make people feel good. I'm scaling back.</div>
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I'm taking my bucket and moving on.</div>
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Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-92091520078194973052018-01-30T14:35:00.001-07:002018-01-30T14:35:49.302-07:00Creature of Habits<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="color: #222222;">I'm a creature of habits. This is very different from being a creature of </span><i style="color: #222222;"><u>"habit"</u></i><span style="color: #222222;">, mind you. That just implies you enjoy a comfort zone in life. You like the same restaurants, the same types of movies, the same daily routine. You don't stretch outside of this comfort zone often because you feel safe in these familiar places. But no, unfortunately, I am not one of these. I am a creature of actual </span><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">habits</span></b><span style="color: #222222;">. Those often unwanted little compulsions that you feel helpless against.</span></span><br />
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I've battled habits for as long as I can remember. The first I can remember had to do with my eyes. I would constantly open them as wide as possible. There was something about the air hitting the whole eyeball that kept me doing it. I've been a chronic nail-biter. I've dealt with facial ticks of various kinds. I crack my knuckles. I flick my big toes against their neighbors anytime I'm barefoot and bored. I've compulsively abused food at night while the world slept. I'm talking full meals here. I'd always felt <b>helpless</b> against these awful, terrible habits. Until 2010, when I chose to stop biting my nails.</div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">I had just lost a ridiculous amount of weight. Like 50 lbs. And it wasn't even </span><b style="color: #222222;"><i>hard</i></b><span style="color: #222222;">. I just started watching my calorie intake and the fat melted from my body. No exercise. Just an exertion of will over food. I was on a high and thought, </span><i><span style="color: #38761d;">"Hey...I don't like these hangnails. I think I'll stop biting my nails."</span></i><span style="color: #222222;"> And I did. It wasn't even a challenge. I just...stopped.</span></div>
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Naturally, like many other well-intentioned food warriors, I fell off the wagon and gained every pound back +20. But I <b><u>never</u></b> started chewing my fingernails again. That one was conquered. It had to have been a 25-year habit and I just <b>chose</b> to end it.</div>
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I'm starting to learn that the vast majority of things that happen in life are the results of choices. Some things we can't control. Others we can. I can't control the weather. I can't control time. I can't control people. But I <b>can</b> control the way I act, react, prepare, and process them all. I can't change them. But I have full control of how I allow them to change me.</div>
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I have decided to change many things. I'm making choices to improve myself physically, mentally, and emotionally. I have seen immense change in my physical self through diet and exercise, and this is just over the past couple of weeks. I am continuously searching for ways to improve my emotional and mental state. These are <b>admittedly harder</b>, but they tie directly with the success I am seeing with my determination to get healthy and fit.</div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">I refuse to allow anything or anyone else to control </span><b style="color: #222222;">me</b><span style="color: #222222;">. I've been </span><a href="https://woundedpossum.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-fog.html" style="color: #222222;" target="_blank">lost in the fog</a><span style="color: #222222;">. I've hoarded fear. </span><a href="https://woundedpossum.blogspot.com/2018/01/octopodes-and-ostrich.html" style="color: #222222;" target="_blank">I've ostriched</a><span style="color: #222222;">. I've </span><a href="https://woundedpossum.blogspot.com/2018/01/the-best-way-out.html" style="color: #222222;" target="_blank">battled the darkness</a><span style="color: #222222;"> alone and afraid. And through it all I realize, more strongly than ever, that </span><b><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">I chose every one of them</span></i></b><span style="color: #222222;">.</span></div>
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<i>I chose them.</i> <b><i>I chose them.</i></b> <b><i><u>I chose them.</u></i></b></div>
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I have fallen in love with the feeling I get from overcoming the awful shit that bogs me down and the habits that feel out of my control. I have one very difficult nervous habit that I am committing to eradicate right now. I hate the term <i>"nervous"</i> because this habit is ever-present...not just when I'm feeling nervous or anxious.</div>
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I have an eye twitch that I actively battle every single day. I have to focus to <b><i>not</i></b> do it. It affects my eyebrows, eyelids, and eyeballs. It's about balance and pressure and airflow and if I lose focus, my entire occular area goes apeshit. Sometimes I notice that people are no longer looking <b>in</b> my eyes. They are looking <b>at</b> them. It has to make people feel uncomfortable. I'm over it. I'm fixing it. I swear, if I can conquer this thing that has plagued my face for my entire adult life, I can conquer anything at all.</div>
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I'm choosing happiness, freedom, and power. Starting with my eyes...</div>
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Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-5542940794761191902018-01-23T15:03:00.000-07:002018-01-23T15:03:18.219-07:00The Best Way Out<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjtEs8RtMTKmcxNIlL6uOQKSZlE5KX6tKYOalX4FBZLFZA9vT760eOBCyNmZMS0srnpGjcuYz44l1wOUP_3vfVYvScaKeK1Vs_uG79jYH1QxIuFFhNRmwzPMIRLQC2G5R-I_96AVG2PY/s1600/stars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="501" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjtEs8RtMTKmcxNIlL6uOQKSZlE5KX6tKYOalX4FBZLFZA9vT760eOBCyNmZMS0srnpGjcuYz44l1wOUP_3vfVYvScaKeK1Vs_uG79jYH1QxIuFFhNRmwzPMIRLQC2G5R-I_96AVG2PY/s320/stars.jpg" width="229" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">A good friend to my family passed away last week. He was just 36 years old, though I remember him as the delightfully quirky teenage kid that could wrap his feet behind his head, thread Oral-B through his schnozz and floss his sinus cavities, and give my kid brother a notion of a challenge at Mario Tennis on N64. Oh, and he taught me how to make <b><i>napalm</i></b>. I knew he was peculiar. I loved it. He fascinated me. I also knew he was teased for being different. In addition to being beautifully odd he was also thin and gangly and not remotely athletic. He and my youngest sister had a special friendship. They adored one another because they both identified as misfits or outcasts. Although misfit for very different reasons, they found support in one another. It was always platonic, though I think he wanted it to be different. There just wasn't anything there for the other party. I had no idea he suffered from severe mental illness. Crippling Bi-polar Disorder. It plagued him, even though he was a successful attorney with his own law practice. Eventually it grew too strong for him and he ended his life.</span><br />
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I am so sad. Why does it seem like depression and mental illness only claim the lives of the eclectic, artistic, imaginative, and unique among us? It's never the successful business professional in the news for cashing it in. Why Robin Williams? Why not <b><u>Trump</u></b>?</div>
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I'm quite familiar with the darkness that can claim an imaginative brain. I've experienced it. I've taken on demons. I've fought shadows. I've battled the worst parts of myself. I've been to the brink and looked over the edge and ultimately decided to stay on the ground. My brink was in a CVS parking lot in 2015. I was <b>that low</b> and I don't have <b><u>any</u></b> diagnosable illnesses outside of some treatable depression and anxiety. I can't imagine how hard it was for my friend to have soldiered on for as long as he did. I am sad and I feel it is tragic. But I understand. It's a way out. A foolproof way to not feel pain, <u>ever again</u>.</div>
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I had two friends end their lives when I was in my teens and early twenties. I still think about them from time to time.</div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b>What I'm about to say is in no way a commentary on what these friends of mine did, or on the actions of those who choose to end their lives.</b></span><span style="color: #222222;"> I am a huge proponent of individual thought and personal choice and it is not my place to criticize or question the decisions of others. I respected them then and I respect them now. I just want to talk about the ugliness I've seen and how I have found, to date, ways to go on.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3U6eXkD0-eOREsMPKx28y_JnCpyqMlz1rz_pHbLWQ4XVl9YSd78oaCMsbyXAcjH2EcNx_fuCwHX3xCIOwDm1oJN0fiPXSCTeu3fRzAHglqsEfLIfalrXaISIGnLjFl7yMkZfunZJuecM/s1600/Robert-Frost-250x240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="250" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3U6eXkD0-eOREsMPKx28y_JnCpyqMlz1rz_pHbLWQ4XVl9YSd78oaCMsbyXAcjH2EcNx_fuCwHX3xCIOwDm1oJN0fiPXSCTeu3fRzAHglqsEfLIfalrXaISIGnLjFl7yMkZfunZJuecM/s200/Robert-Frost-250x240.jpg" width="200" /></a>Robert Frost once wrote <i>"The best way out is always through."</i> That simple idea carries immense power. I know from personal experience that there <b>are</b> ways out that aren't necessarily through. You can go around. You can walk away. You can avoid. <a href="http://woundedpossum.blogspot.com/2018/01/octopodes-and-ostrich.html" target="_blank">Or you can ostrich.</a> But I can promise that the best way to get out of anything is to push through it.</div>
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There were two albums that I give credit to for helping me through my own personal low: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_See_a_Darkness" target="_blank">"I See A Darkness" by Bonnie Prince Billy</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carrie_%26_Lowell" target="_blank">"Carrie and Lowell" by Sufjan Stevens</a>. Neither of these records are fun. They are both dark, emotional, and <b><u>RAW</u></b>. I remember being questioned about why I would go to such dark music when I was already in such a dark place. Why not some Beach Boys or, God forbid, MOTAB? The best way to disperse darkness is to shine light on it, right?</div>
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I was concurrently listening to a podcast called <b><i>"The Hilarious World of Depression"</i></b> where well-known comedians, actors, and artists share their own personal experiences battling depression. <a href="https://www.apmpodcasts.org/thwod/2016/12/peter-sagal-opens-up/" target="_blank">The very first episode</a> addressed the counter-productive effect of positive, happy music on depression. Every person experiencing depression feels alone and misunderstood. When someone in that state listens to happy music, they just see <i>one more</i> person that doesn't <b><i>"get it."</i></b> Yet when you hear some dark, sad, melancholy music with visceral lyrics, it feels like there is someone else sitting next to you at the edge of the abyss. Someone who relates to how you feel. Someone that experienced it and was able to create a beautiful piece of art from it. It's a way <b><i>through</i></b> the depression. Through the pain. It's not avoiding it with distracting pop music.</div>
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I'm currently still pushing through. Sometimes it's too damn hard and I look for alternatives. Easier paths. Smooth road. Happy trails. But for me, right now, it's all about <b><i>through</i></b>. I'm going to the gym for the first time in my life. I'm watching nutrition and staying active every day. <u>This</u> is how you fight through obesity. It's not easy, but it's the best possible way. No pills. No fasts. Just massive adjustments to life. And those are NOT easy to make. I've ignored them for years, even though I know they're there.</div>
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I'm so sorry for my friend and his family. I'm sad that he had to fight such a curse through his life. But I'm happy his pain is over. And I'm grateful to have had the chance to experience his beautiful soul.</div>
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Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-82628738722225530682018-01-19T11:58:00.000-07:002018-01-19T12:04:49.068-07:00Octopodes and The Ostrich<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Did you know that the proper plural for octopus is <b>"octopuses"</b>? At least that's the most widely accepted plural. Technically, the word <i>"octopus"</i> comes from the <u>GREEK</u> word <i>"oktopus"</i> and the true plural would be</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue;"> <i><b><a href="https://youtu.be/n4PWP8uL-1o" target="_blank">"octopodes."</a></b></i></span><span style="color: #222222;"> Like awk-</span><b style="color: #222222;">TAW</b><span style="color: #222222;">-poh-deez. Which brings a mental image of an eight-armed gladiator or a pimped-out cephalopod holla'ing "awktawpoh</span><b style="color: #222222;">DEEZ NUTZ!</b><span style="color: #222222;">"</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifYGF8NpvKyqnmkVR-RISLKBGPTrYxlvV8keD7Kato_Ve3YRXoy6wGWmgZpPIjexqbPvnrc1wo5YWiFtAX1bpoufgFiqfrx347NvQ9Bb3jfrB4Sh-AwQuHYCThS0NKQPR-_H6cxX9IgBY/s1600/the_funktopus_by_robbingraves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1392" data-original-width="1260" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifYGF8NpvKyqnmkVR-RISLKBGPTrYxlvV8keD7Kato_Ve3YRXoy6wGWmgZpPIjexqbPvnrc1wo5YWiFtAX1bpoufgFiqfrx347NvQ9Bb3jfrB4Sh-AwQuHYCThS0NKQPR-_H6cxX9IgBY/s320/the_funktopus_by_robbingraves.jpg" width="288" /></a>Other fun facts about animals. Did you know that you can't get warts from touching a toad? Or that a mother bird won't abandon her chicks if a human touches them? Or, my personal favorite, that penguins don't fall backward when they look up at airplanes?! Last, and most relevant to me, ostriches don't really bury their heads in the ground to escape or hide from danger. <b>It's a total myth.</b> They do bury their eggs in the sand and peek in now and then to check on their progeny, but they never actually jam their heads into the ground for safety.</div>
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This last one blew my mind. I've long-identified with the ostrich of old. In fact I've patterned my approach to life's difficulties after its clearly effective yet apparently false strategy. <i>Just shut your eyes real tight and wait a while and the problem disappears.</i> It's like <b>magic.</b> And it works for <u>everything</u>.</div>
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Anytime a difficult conversation or conflict comes on, don't say anything you really mean or feel. Just apologize and agree with everything the other party says. Cut yourself off when you are about to say something honest and real. Bite your tongue and nod.</div>
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If there is a bill that has to be paid or a project to be done with a looming deadline, just don't think about it. There are so many more <b>positive </b>things you can put your mind to! Like TV. Or <b><i>FOOD</i></b>. Coincidentally, if you don't want to clean the kitchen or do the dishes...then don't! Just shut your eyes tight and pretend it's clean. If you wait long enough it will <b>magically</b> happen! Same thing with yard work and house cleaning. Just close your brain and wait.</div>
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You don't <b><i>really </i></b>need to return rented videos or library books. Just hold onto them. Eventually the phone calls stop and nobody will bother you again.</div>
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You don't <b><i>actually</i></b> have to register for the draft. What the hell is the point of that? The army is obviously not for me so I'll just blow it off.</div>
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If I don't want my parents to see my report card I'll just hide it in the closet. <b><i>POOF!</i></b> Problem gone.</div>
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Right?</div>
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<b><u><span style="color: #990000;">DISCLAIMER:</span></u></b><span style="color: #222222;"> If you are a fellow ostricher and happy to be so, read no further. </span><span style="color: #990000;">Spoilers ahead!</span><span style="color: #222222;"> Minds are fixin' to <b>blow</b>. Ready?</span></div>
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<b><u>The kitchen doesn't actually clean itself!</u></b> If you wait long enough, someone more responsible than you comes up behind you and cleans it. And likely resents you for it. By <i>that</i> time the alfredo sauce has cemented itself to the bottom of the pot and needs a blowtorch and chisel to come off. There is no force on earth that can get Raisin Bran flakes to detatch from a bowl if it sits long enough. <b><u>And grass doesn't cut itself.</u></b> It just grows and grows until it chokes itself out and dies.</div>
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<b><u>When people stop calling about a bill it's not because they don't want your money anymore.</u></b> It's because they've shut your account down and you're at their mercy. Good luck using that VISA that is 120 days past due. Now the financial special forces are onto your ass and your credit is fooked for life.</div>
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<b><u>Blockbuster didn't forget you owe them a rental return.</u></b> <b><u>FUN FACT:</u></b> In the "<i>olden days"</i>, people had to travel to <i>"video stores"</i> to rent movies instead of paying the $15 to buy them. You would pay money to borrow a movie for three days, then return it when you were done! Or if you failed to return it you could simply buy it. <b>For $49.</b></div>
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Mom <u>will</u> find your report card and you'll be grounded for the remaining two months of summer because your grades sucked <b><i>and</i></b> you hid them. </div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><b><u>Hypothetical Situation:</u></b> Let's say it's 1989 and you have a school paper to write on a famous person from history. You go to a public library and they <b>give</b> you a card that allows you to <i>"check out"</i> a book called, oh...let's say</span><span style="color: blue;"> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Joe-Louis-Brown-Bomber-Biography/dp/0213169673" target="_blank">"Joe Louis: The Brown Bomber"</a>.</span><span style="color: #222222;"> You get this book for two weeks. You read it and write your paper and get an A! Now you just need to return the book. But no one is forcing you. You didn't pay any deposit so what's the point? <b><i>Way</i></b> too much effort here. Just forget about it and pretend it doesn't exist and you'll never have to think about it again. <u>Flash Forward to 2004</u> and you want to go to the library to check out CDs to illegally copy by the dozens but you <b><u><i>can't</i></u></b> because you've still got to return The Brown Bomber and your card is frozen. You can buy the long-forgotten book for its current value that has tripled over time, or you can invent an elaborate story about how your identity was stolen and someone <b><i>else</i></b> named Peter Tyler Pearson checked out The Brown Bomber in 1989. <b><u>The latter totally worked.</u></b></span></div>
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<b><u>Oh, and it turns out that registering for Selective Service, aka <i>"The Draft"</i> wasn't optional after all.</u></b> Good luck getting <b>any</b> kind of federal loan or assistance if you failed to register. I've never been through more hoops for anything in my life.</div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">Bottom line, </span><b><u><span style="color: #990000;">DON'T OSTRICH</span></u></b><span style="color: #222222;">. It is painful. There is no sense in not just doing shit when it needs to get done. I don't think I was lazy. I think I just didn't care. There wasn't any real-time accountability. And it is the absolute <b><i>worst</i></b> practice imaginable for communication and relationships. Say what you mean. Speak what you need. Hold your ground. Know yourself and <b>respect yourself </b>enough to insist on your right to feel and think and want things. Be perfect in your speech.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">I am new to this concept. Truth and authenticity at the cost of comfortable environment is scary. But I <i>believe</i> it's crucial to a happy, healthy life. I can't just sit back and pretend my body and mind don't need work. They won't fix themselves. I have to actually <b><i>do</i></b> something about it. The concept of doing important things now or being straightforward and strong in life may seem so simple for non-ostriches. But my avian brethren get it. It <b><i>feels</i></b> complex and difficult and scary and, frankly, sometimes </span><span style="color: #990000;"><b><u>impossible</u></b></span><span style="color: #222222;">. But it's not. Difficult? Sure. Scary? Yes. But it's not complex and it's not impossible.</span></div>
Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-14381013767159858302018-01-15T10:54:00.000-07:002018-01-23T15:04:51.138-07:00It Gets Easier<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I can come off as elitist. Especially when it comes to film and music. And sometimes television. I embrace this snobbery and I actively look for new tunes, flicks, and shows to experience. The one place I’ve never really gone when it comes to entertainment is in the animated stuff. I have never seen a single episode of South Park, Family Guy, American Dad, Futurama, etc. I avoid anime like the plague. Those <a href="https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Weeaboo" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">weeaboo</span></a> scare the bajeezus out of me. I’ve done some Simpsons in the past and I laughed like an idiot, so there’s no real reason I should avoid such highly-rated, universally-loved programs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">While cruising Reddit I came across an interesting post in r/getmotivated that referenced a current animated TV program called <b><i>“Bojack Horseman.”</i></b> I thought the post was clever and I decided to give the show a try. I love Will Arnett’s humor so I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed. It is hilarious, cringy, and bizarre...just as I’d expected. What I did <b>NOT</b> expect, however, is the poignant insight into serious life issues like anxiety, depression, abandonment, usefulness, and self-worth.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bojack is not a <i>“horseman”</i> in the traditional sense of the word. He’s not a man on a horse. You’ll not see him participating in the Olympic Modern Pentathalon anytime soon. Bojack is actually an anthropomorphic horse that stands on two legs and speaks english. He is a horse...man.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOEhhqbjO0-OjgIr8YL1WmNeqnRK8zTioeZB-3STIVZsGR4-HZi4aNHe_eevf60QE4ewgmoyuGAvxEIOgYpOrj594LNI4nJswqF4xKRxXREimzv7zowBaoxELNw3bl0doed6OUmI8qU20/s1600/bojack-horseman-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOEhhqbjO0-OjgIr8YL1WmNeqnRK8zTioeZB-3STIVZsGR4-HZi4aNHe_eevf60QE4ewgmoyuGAvxEIOgYpOrj594LNI4nJswqF4xKRxXREimzv7zowBaoxELNw3bl0doed6OUmI8qU20/s320/bojack-horseman-2.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="background-color: transparent; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In the 1990s, Bojack was a wildly popular television star. The lead character in the network hit <b><i><span style="color: #783f04;">“Horsin’ Around.”</span></i></b> During his <i>hayday</i> (best pun ever?), Bojack lived it up. Parties. Women. Booze. Constant attention and fame. And the love of a media-crazed world. But now, 25 years later, Bojack struggles. He tries to maintain an outward appearance of bravado and panache, but in reality he is quite sad. He feels abandoned by the fans that once adored him. He struggles to maintain friendships. And he really struggles with self-worth.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A scene from the Season 2 finale of Bojack Horseman hit me like a freight train. Bojack is unhappy with his physical form and has decided to start exercising. So he goes out for a run. He is struggling. It’s hard. <i style="color: black;"><b>“Oh God, lungs on fire...running is terrible. Everything is the worst.”</b></i> After a short period of time he can’t go any farther and collapses on the ground, exhausted. As he’s pleading <i style="color: black;">“Oh my God, Oh my God”</i> through tight-shut eyes, a random character called <b><span style="color: #a64d79;">“Jogging Baboon”</span></b> appears over him and delivers this incredible bit of insight:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><u><span style="color: #990000;">THIS IS IT.</span></u></b> This is the secret to everything in life. I’m convinced of it. It applies not just to physical exercise, but to every other difficult aspect in life. I’ve been trying guided meditation. It’s rough. I have a hard time focusing and relaxing. <b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">But it’ll get easier.</span></b> <u>I just have to do it every day.</u> I’ve been struggling with balancing nutrition intervals. <b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">But it’ll get easier.</span></b> <u>I just have to commit to it...every day</u>. When my thoughts take me places that I don’t like, I have to just remember that pulling them back in <b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">WILL get easier</span></b><span style="color: #0b5394;">.</span> <u>I have to just commit to doing it every day.</u> That's the hard part. But it <b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">will get easier</span></b>. I am investing in myself. I am rewiring my perspective. I am re-evaluating and reframing relationships. I am relentlessly pursuing happiness and freedom. And all of these things take <b>WORK.</b> Tiny steps that need constant attention and the dedication to do them every day. That’s the hard part. But it’ll get easier. And once it becomes <b><u><i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">EASY,</span></i></u></b> I’ll be right where I want to be. <a href="https://www.instagram.com/bastardo_magnifico/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">I'm documenting my progress here.</span></a></span></div>
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Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-9227265240694654562018-01-11T13:08:00.000-07:002018-01-11T13:08:05.461-07:00The Fog<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">I've been having an out-of-body experience lately. As if an unseen hypnotist snapped his fingers and brought me out of a murky trance. I strain to recall faint details and vague emotions from a strange time. As time passes it becomes painfully clear that <b>I was the hypnotist</b>. The trance was self-imposed. And it had been going on for a very, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="color: #222222;">very long time. I call it </span><b><span style="color: #666666;"><i>The Fog</i></span></b><span style="color: #222222;">.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222;">I resent </span><b><i><span style="color: #666666;">The Fog</span></i></b><span style="color: #222222;">. It's full of ethereal apparitions that are negative versions of myself. And there are thousands of them. They represent shame, fear, laziness, sorrow, anger, helplessness, hopelessness, cowardice, and an overwhelming sense of weakness. I realize not </span><b style="color: #222222;">all</b><span style="color: #222222;"> of the past is negative. But I've sifted the good from the bad and isolated </span><b><i><span style="color: #666666;">The Fog</span></i></b><span style="color: #222222;"> for what it is. And I am determined to lift it. Pierce it. Forget it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">Recovery from extended hypnosis has significant challenges. Old habits die hard. In </span><b><i><span style="color: #666666;">The Fog</span></i></b><span style="color: #222222;">, every version of myself struggled with crippling co-dependence. I've had that issue for a really long time. Feels like forever. The target of my co-dependence has shifted to different people or things during my trance, but it was ever-present. I also became apathetic and found ways to assign blame. In </span><b><i><span style="color: #666666;">The Fog</span></i></b><span style="color: #222222;">, I am a wonderful victim. I was vapid. I was hollow. I was Lester.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">Ironically I wrote a post called </span><a href="http://woundedpossum.blogspot.com/2010/01/lester-changed-my-life.html" style="color: #222222;">Don't Be A Lester</a><span style="color: #222222;"> years ago during my parents' divorce. The whole idea was to grab life by the nutsack and live it. Don't hoard wishes. </span><b><u><span style="color: #990000;">Use them</span></u></b><span style="color: #222222;">. In an odd, creatively reframed way, I became Lester myself:</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Lester by Shel Silverstein</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lester was given a magic wish</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">By the goblin who lives in the banyan tree, </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQUUQIHIXQpuhutgdbAO2pj6ZEufZgLbQB2g-YVwofzlYz6X1sshTvrFnvWdju-Z2KFfUO3V1omC8OHXKJO486ijSbvzJJa89CBXDBlXJd8ik8cFMLYLtsBKQcrEPUrkhsuWEvJOXIlTs/s1600/goblin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="324" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQUUQIHIXQpuhutgdbAO2pj6ZEufZgLbQB2g-YVwofzlYz6X1sshTvrFnvWdju-Z2KFfUO3V1omC8OHXKJO486ijSbvzJJa89CBXDBlXJd8ik8cFMLYLtsBKQcrEPUrkhsuWEvJOXIlTs/s400/goblin.jpg" width="256" /></a><span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And with his wish he wished for two more wishes—</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">So now instead of just one wish, he cleverly had three. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And with each one of these</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">He simply wished for three more wishes, </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Which gave him three old wishes, plus nine new. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQUUQIHIXQpuhutgdbAO2pj6ZEufZgLbQB2g-YVwofzlYz6X1sshTvrFnvWdju-Z2KFfUO3V1omC8OHXKJO486ijSbvzJJa89CBXDBlXJd8ik8cFMLYLtsBKQcrEPUrkhsuWEvJOXIlTs/s1600/goblin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></a><span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And with each of these twelve</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">He slyly wished for three more wishes. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Which added up to forty-six—or is it fifty-two? </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Well anyway, he used each wish</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">To wish for wishes ‘til he had</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Five billion, seven million, eighteen thousand thirty-four. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And then he spread them on the ground</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And skipped and sang, and then sat down </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And wished for more. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And more… And more… They multiplied</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">While other people smiled and cried</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And loved and reached and touched and felt. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lester sat amid his wealth</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stacked mountain-high like stacks of gold. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sat and counted—and grew old. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And then one Thursday night they found him</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dead—with his wishes piled around him. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And they counted the lot and found that not</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A single one was missing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">All shiny and new—here, take a few</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">And think of Lester as you do. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">In a world of apples and kisses and shoes</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #373737; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">He wasted his wishes on wishing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">I didn't hoard wishes. I hoarded </span><b style="color: #222222;">fear</b><span style="color: #222222;">. Instead of apples and kisses and shoes I chose anxiety, depression, and sadness. Yes...I </span><b style="color: #222222;"><u>chose</u></b><span style="color: #222222;"> to be sad. I didn't know it at the time. </span><b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">The Fog</span></i></b><span style="color: #222222;"> does that to you. Like a funhouse mirror, it bends and contorts you into something strange and odd...but you don't feel any actual change. And over time, you just accept your reflection for what it is. I missed so much. </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #666666;">A</span></span><span style="color: #222222;">nd I chose it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">With each passing new day I am feeling stronger. More independent. </span><span style="color: #666666;"><b><i>The Fog</i></b></span><span style="color: #222222;"> is thinning. Light pierces it every so often. It won't be gone overnight, but I know what has to be done. I have to accept the fact that I was </span><b><u><span style="color: #990000;">never</span></u></b><span style="color: #222222;"> a victim of anyone but myself. I don't </span><b style="color: #222222;">need </b><span style="color: #222222;">anyone to facilitate my happiness. I </span><b style="color: #222222;">chose</b><span style="color: #222222;"> to be weak and sad. And it is just as easy to choose to be strong and happy. There are honest-to-god, scientifically proven ways to achieve happiness. If you don't like your body and the way you physically feel, there is a solution. If you don't like the way you feel emotionally, there are tools. </span><u style="color: #222222; font-weight: bold;">If you don't like lying face down in the muck, then get on your goddamn feet.</u><span style="color: #222222;"> I am perfectly confident that I will be happy, and that decision is made independently of anyone or anything but </span><b><span style="color: #990000;">ME</span></b><span style="color: #222222;">.</span></div>
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I have a plan. I have a partner and mentor. I am joining <a href="http://fitnessconnection.com/clubs/austin/">Fitness Connection</a> today after work. I am eating healthy and watching my calories. I am cutting way back on adult beverage consumption. I am playing piano and reading books. I started an open Instagram account to document and track my metamorphosis, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/bastardo_magnifico/">@bastardo_magnifico</a>. I find accountability when I involve others. And yes... I shall be one magnificent bastard. And soon.</div>
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<span style="color: #222222;">As for Tylester, he's still in </span><i style="color: #666666; font-weight: bold;">The Fog</i>, p<span style="color: #222222;">rotecting his hoard of miserable things. And he can keep 'em. He looks a lot like me. But he's <b><i><u>not</u></i></b> me. His eyes are dark and sunken. Mine are bright. And getting brighter every day.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEy1kNaWnQi8ZG-HoxyPZROGiZ5VIu6Uw40GRMRsAcXevp2qw4ujc2AbT3n9iPvPT-Dm8H2RhNaJIuxCPEhMfEdUTJBZPK5EbOSz3gnAVZzQSlayYZ-pScAGE4I0b4X1895w5BJZ5Yi8/s1600/William_Ernest_Henley_young.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="317" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEy1kNaWnQi8ZG-HoxyPZROGiZ5VIu6Uw40GRMRsAcXevp2qw4ujc2AbT3n9iPvPT-Dm8H2RhNaJIuxCPEhMfEdUTJBZPK5EbOSz3gnAVZzQSlayYZ-pScAGE4I0b4X1895w5BJZ5Yi8/s400/William_Ernest_Henley_young.jpg" width="251" /></a><div class="gmail-c-feature-sub gmail-c-feature-sub_vast" style="border: 0px; color: black; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; margin: 0px 0px 33px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="gmail-c-txt gmail-c-txt_attribution" style="border: 0px; color: #494949; display: inline-block; font-family: canada-type-gibson; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 1.4px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: large;">Invictus</span></span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="color: #494949; font-family: canada-type-gibson; font-size: 0.875rem; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 1.4px; text-transform: uppercase;">BY </span><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/william-ernest-henley" style="border: 0px; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.875rem; font-style: inherit; letter-spacing: 1.4px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY</a></div>
</div>
<div class="gmail-c-feature-bd" style="border: 0px; color: black; font-family: adobe-garamond-pro; line-height: 1.3; margin: 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<div class="gmail-o-poem gmail-isActive" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
Out of the night that covers me, </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
Black as the pit from pole to pole, </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
I thank whatever gods may be </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
For my unconquerable soul. </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
In the fell clutch of circumstance </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit;"> I have not winced nor cried aloud. </span></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
Under the bludgeonings of chance </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
My head is bloody, but unbowed. </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
Beyond this place of wrath and tears </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
Looms but the Horror of the shade, </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
And yet the menace of the years </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
Finds and shall find me unafraid. </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
It matters not how strait the gate, </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
How charged with punishments the scroll, </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
I am the master of my fate, </div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">
I am the captain of my soul. </div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-15063795564953351892017-11-15T22:14:00.002-07:002017-11-18T15:49:01.351-07:00Release the Inner Rockstar!<br />
I've always believed that every man is a rockstar, fighting to <b><i><span style="color: #0b5394;">pretend</span></i></b> to be something else. In my case I fight to be <b><u>normal</u></b>. A father and a provider and a functioning, taxpaying citizen. It's a farce, but at least I have the self-awareness to admit it. Semi-publicly.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8B2adV-PrBzjMGEqUO7U_B1d-t-ABTkBXNdUxorCLMvnPtu3PGNnPfipj5HUXK8LkFVaD1o3gLsV4XwfxD-P6eUpYxQII_guTsVh-YIX5veyDzPt50qnrcvxvpJTmH_45x6bPx7XrSgs/s1600/baby-drummer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="700" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8B2adV-PrBzjMGEqUO7U_B1d-t-ABTkBXNdUxorCLMvnPtu3PGNnPfipj5HUXK8LkFVaD1o3gLsV4XwfxD-P6eUpYxQII_guTsVh-YIX5veyDzPt50qnrcvxvpJTmH_45x6bPx7XrSgs/s320/baby-drummer.jpg" width="320" /></a>For the past several years I've had an incurable case of <i>instrument ADD</i>. I keep buying new instruments, mainly stringed, with the full intent on becoming the next Tommy Emmanuel, Vic Wooten, David Grisman, Jake Shimabukuro, or Bela Fleck. The reality is that I'll <b><span style="color: #cc0000;">never</span></b> get past the Sloth-Love-Chunk phase of any of these instruments. But I can totally pretend.<br />
<br />
That said, I'm somewhat musical. I can play a mean piana'. I dabble in a few other things. Just enough to fill my minstrel bucket. I've been musically putting my littles to bed for years now. I did the storybook thing and it was fun, but singing them to sleep is an experience unlike any other. I just love it.<br />
<br />
I've lately had this bee in my bonnet to make sure these songs and experiences are documented. So I record them. Some video. Some audio. And lately I found the coolest little app that allows me to record multiple tracks of a song on video. I've had a lot of fun with it. And I think my kids will one day cherish them.<br />
<br />
I'm no singer. Period. I can carry a tune, but the bucket has its work cut out for it. Yet I am entirely over my apprehension and self doubt. <b>I'm 40 and <u><i>grizzled</i></u> and proud to be me. </b> So check me out. I have so many ideas swirling for future songs. It's just too fun.<br />
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<br />Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-38839469181539505302017-11-04T13:21:00.000-06:002017-11-04T13:29:16.066-06:00The New Gig<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoEJwr1vHjF15U8c4Q9j9hJ2w-e-0m-5qdA63zNdhtaxTEcLXVs2Gsyp2DASYJodr4Ojx66Z-HgI7Rou-8i080ddE8-UAzWthQJ2rHu2MQkVlM8ZK1youGKShGbT0OPxG_IiT-3mVBcVU/s1600/Mx-Logo-590x150.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="590" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoEJwr1vHjF15U8c4Q9j9hJ2w-e-0m-5qdA63zNdhtaxTEcLXVs2Gsyp2DASYJodr4Ojx66Z-HgI7Rou-8i080ddE8-UAzWthQJ2rHu2MQkVlM8ZK1youGKShGbT0OPxG_IiT-3mVBcVU/s320/Mx-Logo-590x150.png" width="320" /></a></div>
I started a new job last week as a sales associate for a
company called M<span style="color: #e69138;">X</span>Toolbox. <b><span style="color: #351c75;">I’m digging
it.</span></b> I’ve been talking to a number of
friends and family that are asking how the <b><i>“new gig is going”</i></b> and I’m learning
pretty quickly that everyone has a preconceived notion of what a sales person
at a company called <i><b>“M<span style="color: #e69138;">X</span>Toolbox”</b></i> might be selling. One dear friend and former colleague thought
I was selling <u>actual tool boxes</u>. A buddy of mine
asked if I was selling tools door to door.
He figured I was a SnapOn competitor.
Allow me to clarify for all just <b><u>exactly</u></b> what M<span style="color: #e69138;">X</span>Toolbox does.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZWa4YdVL2uR4OwgNfiCyBxv7oS5jmsRhx9e0oGtJZyJUnDjFxelBQiWd58-RIn5XJFPtJroJNzLpmdw9XFabgKvHpFmIb48YMH1w5Ih09-XiEr_pYRgnPimnMzQNHJ65ZylAZ9lImfoY/s1600/confused-math-clipart-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1015" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZWa4YdVL2uR4OwgNfiCyBxv7oS5jmsRhx9e0oGtJZyJUnDjFxelBQiWd58-RIn5XJFPtJroJNzLpmdw9XFabgKvHpFmIb48YMH1w5Ih09-XiEr_pYRgnPimnMzQNHJ65ZylAZ9lImfoY/s320/confused-math-clipart-1.jpg" width="248" /></a>M<span style="color: #e69138;">X</span>Toolbox is a suite of email monitoring and diagnostic
tools that utilize technologies like SPF, DMARC, and DKIM to identify
blacklists (i.e. SORBS) and improve email deliverability and reputation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b><span style="color: #783f04;">Clear a</span></b><span style="color: #783f04;"><b>s MUD? </b></span>I get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m just
now getting to a point where <u><b>I</b></u> understand these technical concepts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here's an analogy that should add clarity;</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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You are a bank teller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You are the first person there in the morning and you need to get into
the vault right away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In order to get
there you have to pass a number of security measures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, you need a key to the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once you get inside the building you will
need to disable the alarm system by keying in a code of some kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once that’s done you’ll need to get to use
<i>another</i> key to get to the vault door and <b><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">FINALLY</span></i></b> enter in the combination to
get into the vault to access your cash. You can't just walk into the vault and take the money. The bank would be vulnerable to all sorts of up-to-no-good folk.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Each of these security measures has two sides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, the door locks are expecting very
specific keys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If there are any
discrepancies to those keys, the locks won’t respond and <span style="background-color: white;"><b>you’re stuck
outside</b>.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The alarm system is expecting a
very specific code.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anything other than
the correct code will set off an alarm and law enforcement will make <b>sure</b> you
don’t get to that vault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And finally,
the vault itself is waiting for the exact combination to bypass its ironclad
security to get to the cash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As it turns out, email has a similar process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The recipient is expecting very specific security
items from the sender. If they don't line up, <b>your email can get stuck outside</b>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Let’s say you run a small business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lawn Care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’ve determined the absolute best way to communicate with your
customers and market to your prospects is through email.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In order for you to get messages from your
outbox to your target’s inbox, you have to pass a number of security measures
to get it there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, the recipient’s
email provider is going to require a key (a whole bunch of numbers and
characters) <a href="https://mxtoolbox.com/spf.aspx">that verifies you are who you say you are.</a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s checking to make sure you aren’t an
imposter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it’s going to check again by comparing
your email’s <a href="https://mxtoolbox.com/dkim.aspx">digital signature</a> (more numbers and characters) to make sure it
looks the same. Once it’s determined you are
authentic and in alignment, it will allow your email to pass through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it fails, the email may never be delivered
or end up in your Spam folder, then likely turn up on one of over 100
email blacklists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once you are on a blacklist, it’s hard to get
off.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The whole purpose of this is to battle punk-ass companies and nefarious bastards <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
that are <b><span style="color: red;">phishing</span></b> and spoofing (pretending to be someone they aren’t)
and from sending awful emails with instructions on how to add inches to your johnson. By the way, what's the deal with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phish">one of my favorite bands</a> on the planet having to compete with such a negative modern term?!</div>
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But what if you <b><u style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #38761d;">aren't</span></u></b> one of those evil entities?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re legit but your email isn't getting to your customers or it's automatically going to Spam? What do you do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could maybe
call an expensive IT consultant to diagnose and fix.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b><i>Or</i></b> you could go to <b>M</b><span style="color: #e69138; font-weight: bold;">X</span><b>Toolbox.com.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoE0UbUlQfWFMQrmgXk6c0M3nA-KKl711o25jvxUqKAEvKFjZqCeVfHqSajUHmY8kcT-HcllrZXxZClWeT35NoS9VksuN5BzE57NFxfv3Dicp4x5kDwlwu09A52Yy5gSnSHeX-s9a57vY/s1600/6a00d834516a5769e200e54f35590c8834-800wi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoE0UbUlQfWFMQrmgXk6c0M3nA-KKl711o25jvxUqKAEvKFjZqCeVfHqSajUHmY8kcT-HcllrZXxZClWeT35NoS9VksuN5BzE57NFxfv3Dicp4x5kDwlwu09A52Yy5gSnSHeX-s9a57vY/s1600/6a00d834516a5769e200e54f35590c8834-800wi.jpg" /></a>My company provides tools that will alert you if your email
authentication is failing or you have somehow ended up on a blacklist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b>It’s that simple.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It monitors your business’ email reputation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes it’s just a simple mistake on your
end that needs to be tweaked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To go back
to the bank analogy, maybe your key to the door is bent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or the button on the alarm keypad is
sticking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>M<span style="color: #e69138;">X</span>Toolbox diagnostic tools
will be able to tell you exactly what the problem is so you can fix it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><u>We
don’t fix anything.</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We just help you figure out what's broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most companies live and die by their email
capabilities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><u><span style="color: #990000;"><b>If you can’t get your
information to your targets your business will die.</b></span></u><o:p></o:p></div>
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I feel fortunate to have found this very cool company full of
innovative <b>SMART</b> people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m surrounded
by engineers and developers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a
really neat environment where people focus on who you are and what you can do
and couldn’t care less about how you <b><i>look</i></b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is no air of superiority anywhere in the building that I have seen
so far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we have <a href="http://www.tacodeli.com/menus/best-breakfast-tacos/">the most nectar breakfast tacos in Austin</a> every Thursday morning and beers at the bar next door every
Thursday night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m really happy to be
there.<br />
<br />
If you are a business owner or if your business has issues
with email deliverability and blacklisting, check us out. More and more companies are really beefing up their email security. In fact, Homeland Security recently put out a <a href="https://cyber.dhs.gov/assets/report/bod-18-01.pdf">Binding Operational Directive </a> that requires all government agencies to set email authentication policies. If you do business with the government at all, you'd better get compliant. Business should be a-boomin'.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-71660721112257445792017-10-26T21:41:00.000-06:002017-10-26T21:41:26.003-06:00Choosing My Path<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZAY3PxXJbwXnz9cal0BwZFTLG1ly1ZWeO-leKpO0D75T8T2zGpV024WVepIxR9g2SxODHJ8SguNPb8YmE_Hp3fIKr2Je5P06m8ek3b_yumkK2FVVpYIeIAXAmWJMf8Uf9zG3DPe7QTw/s1600/31628.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZAY3PxXJbwXnz9cal0BwZFTLG1ly1ZWeO-leKpO0D75T8T2zGpV024WVepIxR9g2SxODHJ8SguNPb8YmE_Hp3fIKr2Je5P06m8ek3b_yumkK2FVVpYIeIAXAmWJMf8Uf9zG3DPe7QTw/s320/31628.jpg" width="320" /></a>Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a problem with
authority.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not that I mind rules,
which I think are important, with one
caveat…I have to buy in to the rule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have to <b>believe </b>in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A double yellow
line might as well be a brick wall dividing lanes in the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll never cross them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I’ll smuggle food and beverages of all
types into a theater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See, I respect the
traffic rule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I think $9 for popcorn that costs me $.50
to pop and smuggle is insulting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
respect dress codes until they are enforced by authoritative d-bags, then I’ll
push the envelope as hard as I can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
just freaking <b>hate</b> being told what to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grew up in the <a href="https://www.lds.org/?lang=eng">Latter Day Saint</a> faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t consider myself Mormon anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve debated whether or not to share my faith journey on some public level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve never really
been one to publicly riff on my personal beliefs in any detail..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t generally like social media debates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They tend to be self-serving and rarely to
the point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But for some reason I feel
that giving my faith journey life through writing will somehow complete it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or at least be an integral part in my
continuing life saga. And I partly want to repay those whose own stories have strengthened me personally.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t remember being able to <i>comfortably</i> testify of the
truthfulness of any religious principle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m confident God, or something god-like, exists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the only thing that currently makes
sense in my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But beyond that I just
don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I really don’t care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This doesn’t mean I haven’t testified of the
truthfulness of LDS doctrine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
certainly have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it always felt like
it was a duty and not a self-guided action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I chose to serve a mission.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had
life experiences that led me there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
forever grateful for the mission experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But even there, surrounded by strangers, I never fully knew that what I
was testifying of was actually true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
embarrassed by this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m embarrassed
that I didn’t have the guts to accept my own self-awareness as reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m embarrassed that I misled people by
promising them fact when I didn’t really know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I was young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brain hadn’t
fully formed yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I was doing the
best I could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was doing what everyone
else around me was doing so passionately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was play ball or go home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I chose to play.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve come to understand that the most talented liars believe
their own lies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They believe they aren’t
actually lying because they have forced their minds to be OK with untruth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s some fundamental
rationalization that I believe truly imaginative or hyper-focused humans can’t
control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s basic instinct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Emotional survival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started to become cognoscente of my own untruth shortly after
my move to Austin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really <b>liked</b>
the church here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It felt far more real
than any Utah ward environment I’d been in, with the exception of that beloved
West Jordan ward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People thought
differently out here and were more accepting of fringe ideas and even faith
crises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found through conversation
that there were others like me that were starting to recognize the motions they
were going through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Robotic
tradition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember playing piano in
primary and thinking <i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>“these kids won't think for themselves because
we are implanting their thoughts and beliefs here and now.”</b></span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRP2bLbD5ZN9YtRdixucomWQuKifRsTeHP3BLEtV62nQw_b7dfAmJA7h0TsmMad0ZPtdx4pZDhzGhVI8b8dSdbA4pRmaotA_OV_0_mX6BwVBTq35qAJSjdIfKvSozns1srSgvIOKCRXI/s1600/AkPxVt8CQAIiIqW.png-large.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="378" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRP2bLbD5ZN9YtRdixucomWQuKifRsTeHP3BLEtV62nQw_b7dfAmJA7h0TsmMad0ZPtdx4pZDhzGhVI8b8dSdbA4pRmaotA_OV_0_mX6BwVBTq35qAJSjdIfKvSozns1srSgvIOKCRXI/s320/AkPxVt8CQAIiIqW.png-large.png" width="225" /></a>I didn’t know how to confront it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where do I start?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is scary territory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The LDS faith is not easily abandoned and leaving
has <i><b>“eternal consequences”</b></i> not just for you but for your family as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t comfortable accepting terms like
<i><b>“fell away”</b></i> when it came to my faith journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wasn’t <i><b>falling </b></i>from anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was finally moving forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My subconscious
mind still hadn’t grown the balls to admit serious, basic doctrinal issues and
church history that I secretly hated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It went to the easy things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Disgusting inexcusable polygamy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Shameful barring of the blacks from the priesthood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aggressive action against gay marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And finally the use of shame and guilt to
manipulate young people into towing the moral line as interpreted by the church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took my four issues to the bishop in 2011.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That bishop is an amazing man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We met frequently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Weekly in his office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We read from the scriptures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We prayed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I read and prayed on my own as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He assigned study topics that we later discussed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it was this bishop that helped me see
that my core issues weren’t polygamy, priesthood racism, gay marriage, or
shame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My core issues were whether or
not there was a <b>GOD</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Jesus was
real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Joseph Smith was a hero or a
cad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mind's ear heard the record scratch
and we course corrected toward basic gospel principles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We moved to the Dallas area in 2013.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b><u>What a soulless place that was.</u></b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only bright spots of the move were our
neighbors, the schools, and the bishop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I continued conversations with this bishop almost immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d come grab me out of whatever class we
were in and we’d chill in his office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’d hang his suit coat up and sit in a normal chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No behind-the-desk positioning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just two dudes talking casually about
existential stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept praying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d stopped reading scriptures by this point
outside of family scripture time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For 18
months we talked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worked through some
insanely difficult personal issues and I never once felt judged or patronized
by him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a great guy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We moved back to Austin at the end of 2014 and immediately started working with another bishop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Same issues, mixed in with personal and family difficulties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t envy that job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admire them for taking the job and doing
their best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was called to teach the 14
and 15-year-old youth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were 26 of
them in one class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My <i>“team teacher”</i>
hardly ever showed so I handled that mob on my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were some great kids in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there were three or four that will end up
in prison because <b><u>they suck as humans</u></b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I don't care if that's unfair because they're young. They're horrible people already. </span>As time passed I found myself less and less comfortable teaching gospel
principles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pre-existence,
resurrection(s), millennium, judgment, and kingdom placement just sounded so
foreign and preposterous to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d been
rationalizing teaching the youth from a <i>“curriculum”</i> that wasn’t my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t have to actually <i><b>testify</b></i> of anything, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just had to deliver a curriculum to the
class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Should be easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Yet a</span>fter several months I could no longer teach
that class in good conscience so I asked to be released. Concurrently I had experience with people that met the criteria for exaltation, i.e. ordinances, but proved to be wholly disgusting, vile, black-hearted people. And I finally vocalized my #1 hang-up with Mormonism...the concept of a <b style="font-style: italic;">"checklist God." </b>I know too many incredible, giving, loving, beautiful people that hold different, myriad beliefs. I can't imagine an eternity where they are barred from entry to God's presence because they failed to be baptized by the right guy, marry in the right building, and belong to the right church. Yet people that have filthy, repulsive souls that manage to check those boxes while hiding behind facades of service and commitment get in. Nope. Not in my world. If that's heaven then give me <b><span style="color: #cc0000;">HELL</span></b>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a couple very close friends that were transitioning or
had transitioned out of the church that were recommending resources for people like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was the first time I’d heard of any <i>“essays”</i> or a <i>“CES Letter”</i> or
<i>“Mormon Stories.”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But at my core I was <b>still</b> resistant
to any kind of authority steering me in any direction that I wasn’t choosing
for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My whole life I was told to
only read certain things or accept certain ideas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wasn’t going to let any other agenda dictate the future of my mind and
soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I stuck to the things that I
knew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tested the claims of the LDS
church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put <a href="https://www.lds.org/ensign/1994/04/moronis-promise.p10?lang=eng">Moroni’s Promise</a> to the
test (which I’d shared countless times in the mission field) and you know what
I got?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b>SILENCE.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It wasn’t because I didn’t study hard enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or pray long enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was because there was nothing on the other
side confirming anything to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Period.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And at this point I decided to <i>“leave”</i> the
church.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My wife and I talked about it for dozens of hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We discussed it with our therapist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And finally came to a joint conclusion that
leaving was the only <b>authentic</b> choice to make.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We gathered the kids and told them about my journey and my
decision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They each reacted differently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> There were tears from some and instant acceptance from others. </span>But at the end of the conversation, they all
threw their arms around me and told me how much they loved me and that I was
the <b><u><span style="color: #351c75;">BEST DAD EVER.</span></u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5n1DUkEgRygPPJVl30s7bDiZOUMEdwFgTGJbt6BtCpK17vdDWV_nCgO89tqqGjCp8ydKc_x5PYO54SRiLzskSumz5aNc_J158bXisKIVv3kPV8uYJhnHJqoafw0Jrx_sKjmLmRAhiUsM/s1600/two-important-family-decisions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="714" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5n1DUkEgRygPPJVl30s7bDiZOUMEdwFgTGJbt6BtCpK17vdDWV_nCgO89tqqGjCp8ydKc_x5PYO54SRiLzskSumz5aNc_J158bXisKIVv3kPV8uYJhnHJqoafw0Jrx_sKjmLmRAhiUsM/s400/two-important-family-decisions.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Navigating the transition has been hard at times and weird always.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of a sudden there were rules that I’d
subscribed to and, on some level, <i>“bought in on”</i> my entire life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And magically they were no longer there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could drink bourbon and beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could wear black undies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could shop on Sunday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it was all initially weird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Sherri was a rockstar and the kids were
outstanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We navigated it all the
best we could and we continue to do so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am proud of the way I transitioned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used my own brain and my own soul to put
church practices to the test and came away confident in my decision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the exception of a handful of months, I
was fully worthy to go to the temple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m not proud of the time when I wasn’t, but I <b>am</b> proud that I ended in
good standing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My daughter turned eight
during the middle of this journey. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
didn’t know how my journey was going to end with the church so, after
discussing at length with the bishop and people I trust and admire, I decided
to baptize her myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A temple recommend was
needed to confirm her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was temple
worthy but didn’t hold a recommend…and didn’t want one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t comfortable interviewing to enter
the temple so spiritually conflicted, so I arranged to have her uncle
fly in and confirm her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m proud of
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am happy that I didn’t let
emotionally difficult scenarios influence my authenticity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead I talked to my daughter as frankly
and honestly as possible and she was totally fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> She was ecstatic</span> to have Uncle Derall come out and
confirm her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People I have loved for years have left the church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of my favorite mission companions on the
planet was excommunicated for refusing to stop posting his views on same sex
policy to social media that conflicted with official church stances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qwmkxc_9kTY">His was the first Mormon Stories episode I watched.</a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slowly started to inform myself with the
church essays, CES Letter, and personal accounts of others that have transitioned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m happy I waited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My spark would have ignited into a brushfire
if I’d gone there early on and I wouldn’t have so thoroughly tried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now they are simply supporting materials that
validate some of my fundamental struggles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What the church labeled as <b><i><span style="color: red;">“anti-Mormon”</span></i></b> literature is largely just
information and opinion that differs from core teachings and doctrine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s certainly some inflammatory and ugly
stuff out there, which I categorically avoid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But there’s also some incredibly intelligent, well-researched
information.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not angry at the church.
Some social and cultural policies drive me bat-shit crazy, but I don’t
take it <u><i><b>personally</b>.</i></u> I’m not picketing
conference or tongue-slapping church leadership. I can genuinely look back on aspects of church
membership fondly. The community, for the
most part, has been unreal. I fully
support my children being brought up in the church. If they choose that path then I will support
them and wish them happiness. I
sincerely hope they will examine their beliefs early in life instead of waiting
until they are 33 years old and terrified, then choose whatever path works for them.
I still go to primary programs and church functions and have dear
friends that are <b>all in</b>. Two of my closest,
most respected and intelligent friends are <b><span style="color: #0b5394;">true believers.</span></b> I don’t think anything less of them for
buying in and they don’t think less of me for choosing my own way. Life is a series of decisions. We all do the best we can with the information and
instincts we have.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t really care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m happier for sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m in no rush to replace a lifelong religion
with a new one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have work to do on
myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Physical, emotional, maybe even spiritual. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe in <a href="https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Cosmos">The Cosmos</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It reciprocates</span> what you put into
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe in kindness and love and
full acceptance of others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I have to
believe that whatever God exists will appreciate that, smile, and welcome me
home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or maybe blackness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Either way I’m good.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy7fYQqgw5kZMcu4VxldbxQi7IWjQOX2zmkz1-q08aIfdh6sOukvfaEE7qFc3kqmHrr4efxs138JSaAqROHK2PlnVxKuYRCB6S4M6j0LtNhRxqfaxH4goR_2ZZsNWjQ_x3KdyMz0f02Lc/s1600/124579998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="347" data-original-width="612" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy7fYQqgw5kZMcu4VxldbxQi7IWjQOX2zmkz1-q08aIfdh6sOukvfaEE7qFc3kqmHrr4efxs138JSaAqROHK2PlnVxKuYRCB6S4M6j0LtNhRxqfaxH4goR_2ZZsNWjQ_x3KdyMz0f02Lc/s320/124579998.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-12567663012760687322016-04-20T03:53:00.000-06:002016-04-20T03:53:01.096-06:00Broken Wheel<br />
In the immortal words of the mighty Snoop <strike>Dogg</strike> Lion, "<i>Guess who's back in the mutha####in' HEYOUSE!" </i>I figure five years is an adequate hiatus from putting pen to parchment. Time to knock off the dust, settle in, buckle up, and drop phat subjects and predicates. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0vVEs3VtTnsi-nQkT13rlGXxG_gv-pkjPUAPZhxkFgv7sJ_EEcEJ51Gfcx-qe5NiLkVp8_n7YMs271g7P845sha__HROR2TTVIYL-MB4EWRWHpm29DEzHPkErl6E9B3yqGOlWvIYInvQ/s1600/Hipster+Frog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0vVEs3VtTnsi-nQkT13rlGXxG_gv-pkjPUAPZhxkFgv7sJ_EEcEJ51Gfcx-qe5NiLkVp8_n7YMs271g7P845sha__HROR2TTVIYL-MB4EWRWHpm29DEzHPkErl6E9B3yqGOlWvIYInvQ/s200/Hipster+Frog.jpg" width="200" /></a>The reason for the absence is impossible to explain. It started out as one thing then became another thing and ended as a different thing. A melange of life experiences. But through the process I lost the drive to write. I forgot about the blissful catharsis that writing can bring. I tried reinventing in different ways. I tried my hand at art, beginning with watercolor and fizzling with acrylics. I tried music, but my chronic instrument ADHD got in the way of much progress with anything. Coincidentally, if anyone is in the market for a guitarist, bassist, ukeist, banjoist, mandolinist, pianist, or harmonickest for a I/IV/V band that only plays in C and never strays from that pocket then <b><u>I'm your guy</u></b>. But eventually I came to the inevitable conclusion that writing is the standalone way for me to clear my emotional mechanism. </div>
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So many years have passed that I'm confident this blog is forgotten and lost beneath the dust. Are blogs even a thing anymore? But this is good. One of my many reasons for the pause was the fear of putting my thoughts on a page. Somehow it gives them life. It makes them real. In my head I can mull things around, work and churn them, then toss them aside with no one being the wiser. But as soon as they are documented then they become real and thus harder to confront. A troll is easy to ignore if it's in my imagination. Less so if it's given life, standing in front of me swinging a tree stump at my face.</div>
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But I'm beginning to think the troll needs to be fought. </div>
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There is an old Italian proverb, <i>"l'aqua chieta rovina i ponti."</i> Translation, <i>"still water ruins bridges."</i> The idea is that the surface of the water may be still and calm, suggesting there is no danger, but below the surface there is corrosion, sediment, and various ecological processes that are literally destroying that bridge from below. I am exploring the concept that idle thoughts unwritten can destroy the mind. At least if I grant them life I can confront them. </div>
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And so we begin. Back in the saddle. Standing.</div>
Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-81325776413791853822011-12-05T17:57:00.000-07:002011-12-05T17:57:07.446-07:00A Certain Bromance<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2QSi88Tkdujc5fitNEVIieeFSBERgMVejQcZEIYZNsQT1pFDY9FNG3sFVRPQGMVTVCv4rFhNPXkfwrhYq5iGfhgCG9OTtoVORDSqwLH6e2lo9WtGBbTdM_njcUBbkKTSVz3bvj9w-je4/s1600/San+Antonio+Race.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2QSi88Tkdujc5fitNEVIieeFSBERgMVejQcZEIYZNsQT1pFDY9FNG3sFVRPQGMVTVCv4rFhNPXkfwrhYq5iGfhgCG9OTtoVORDSqwLH6e2lo9WtGBbTdM_njcUBbkKTSVz3bvj9w-je4/s320/San+Antonio+Race.jpg" width="320" /></a>I’d always been mystified as to why combat veterans rarely talk about their experiences in war.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Veterans that had been psychologically affected by what they heard and saw should benefit by speaking about it, right?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Call it catharsis. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Those that weren’t adversely affected should love talking about the incredible, intense things they did and witnessed.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">No?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span><b style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;">NO.</span></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With all due respect to veterans, I think I get it. On a <b>much </b>smaller level I finally get it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A number of months ago I made a lofty goal to run a half marathon. 13.1 miles. It had been <b><u>many</u></b> years since I’d traded my sneakers for slippers and tennis balls for hot pockets. The last time I did anything active I was 40 lbs lighter and George W edged Al Gore thanks to the hanging chad. I was going from 0 to 60, but I was going dammit. I was determined. I talked my good friend Steve into running it with me and we started our training.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was humbled quickly. I didn’t have proper respect for the process and the process brought me to my knees. I tried running two miles my first time out. I walked the final three quarters and could hardly move for several days afterward. But I quickly repented, invested in some gear, and started again. <b>Slowly.</b> Three weeks into training, a second friend decided to join Steve and me. Jayd laced up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My sister <st1:personname w:st="on">Ashley</st1:personname> has always said <i>“everyone that runs a marathon has a story.”</i> You don’t simply say, <i>“Sure, I’ll run 13-26 miles. Sounds like fun.”</i> Because it’s <b>not.</b>. Important, yes. Invigorating, yes. But <b><u>fun?</u></b> No. It hurts. It’s exhausting. Shins splint, toe nails turn black and fall off, blisters form, groins chafe, nipples bleed. The process is punishing. But the payoff is pure. You learn things about yourself during training. You push yourself beyond your perceived limits and find strength you never knew you had. Some mornings you have to literally force yourself outside, just to hobble through three miles of hell.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When race day arrived we all felt ready. We’d handled our final long run with ease, banging out 11.5 and feeling good afterward. We weaved our way through the 35,000 people participating in the San Antonio Rock ‘n Roll events and found our corrals. It was an odd morning…abnormally warm and balmy, but overcast. The throng of people was overwhelming. It was shoulder to shoulder as we waited for the gun. And then we were <b>OFF.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbKG_4DcyUP3DI9KkifF2wl2vAgrbII5WruS4Q-BEN5KfA_pQbUCfMUXnQh1gv7i0pnVJWgmqvg_PKtqqV0zvcAB4U9uMgiL9qoEc2eamTWIpIiGGRw6nSokcdS9VT9IBwwB3mjnJYV5s/s1600/San+Antonio+Corrals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbKG_4DcyUP3DI9KkifF2wl2vAgrbII5WruS4Q-BEN5KfA_pQbUCfMUXnQh1gv7i0pnVJWgmqvg_PKtqqV0zvcAB4U9uMgiL9qoEc2eamTWIpIiGGRw6nSokcdS9VT9IBwwB3mjnJYV5s/s200/San+Antonio+Corrals.jpg" width="200" /></a>I was immediately frustrated by the sheer mass of runners, walkers, and waddlers. Everyone was pacing dramatically slower than their corrals represented and I was constantly dodging slower runners. There was a ton of lateral movement as I cut around, through, and sometimes <b>over</b> the cattle. I ran up hills, on curbs, over sidewalks, on grass. I bumped into people. It was literally impossible to pick a lane and establish a rhythm. There were just too many freaking people.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jayd and I ran together (within 10 yards of one another) for the first eight miles. I hydrated at mile five and dropped a few shot bloks at mile seven. I saw Jayd grab some water at mile six.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At mile eight, Jayd started to pull away. In training I was typically 15-30 seconds per mile faster than Jayd, so I maintained the pace that I was able to manage, figuring Jayd would eventually flame out. He didn’t. He continued to weave and dodge obstacles and limping fat people at an impressive pace and at mile 10 I decided I needed to kick it up a notch. <b>No way</b> was I going to allow this guy to finish before me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I caught up to him at about 10.5 and made some snide comment like, <i>“hey dude, I’ll give you $10 if you carry me the rest of the way.”</i> He didn’t respond. Jayd was in a <b>zone.</b> He was focused and he meant business. After a few hundred yards of running together, Jayd pulled away yet again. <i>“No way” </i>I thought to myself. But I was really feeling it now in my legs and I had no ability to keep up with him. I fell back and ran at my own pace. At 11.75 I started to see bright bursts of light. The sun had been out for 30 minutes and the combination of extreme fatigue, 97% humidity, and 80 degree temperature was besting my Spaniard. I knew I was in trouble. I stopped and rested against a metal fence separating the halfers from the marathoners. When the bright lights stopped, I walked until mile 12 and started running again. I was determined to finish this race running. And I did! I finished with a somewhat disappointing time of 2:19.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17-bCZdySNmp8TPmAX24fexXwz6wH2rR7ZgSC3bW6ICNnZ_lGRb5jJhKPftwzqfTO9f8F9xNpnN0LcHgwSOVHAbpRWFGu9DJflwpBWSBdaAFNViorH1IVbhiUnjf8OAex907IrxeBghs/s1600/Finished.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17-bCZdySNmp8TPmAX24fexXwz6wH2rR7ZgSC3bW6ICNnZ_lGRb5jJhKPftwzqfTO9f8F9xNpnN0LcHgwSOVHAbpRWFGu9DJflwpBWSBdaAFNViorH1IVbhiUnjf8OAex907IrxeBghs/s320/Finished.JPG" width="320" /></a>After I got my munchies and fluids I worked my way through the craziness to get my stuff at gear check. There were a number of missed texts, one of which informing me that Jayd had collapsed just after 13.0 and was hauled off in a stretcher.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><u>WHAT?!</u></b> No way. With 1/10 of a mile left, Jayd went down. He was rushed to the hospital. And it was serious.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was admitted with a temperature of 106 and a heart rate of 170. He was not responding and had had seizures. We got a call from his wife, Tauni, telling us to get to the hospital ASAP. Jayd needed a blessing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am an elder in my church, and with that title comes certain responsibilities and authority. One of which is to administer to the sick and afflicted through the laying on of hands, otherwise known as <i>“a blessing.”</i> I sprinted from the parking lot to the ER</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ll never forget what I saw when they drew that curtain. There lay Jayd, stark naked minus a small towel to hide his junk, with wires and electrodes all over his body. He was a sickly pale yellow color and his arms and legs were bound with leather restraints. I was looking at someone that appeared to be on death’s door. That is no exaggeration. I was petrified.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have a lot of respect for Jayd’s wife, Tauni. She is a very “collected” person. Quite analytical, never emotional, and very understated. But she is <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #990000;"><u><b>intense</b>.</u></span> Not in an overt, frightening way. It’s subtle and small. But very real. When I looked at Tauni she was straight-faced and stoic. She was somehow managing the situation with quiet grace, but her intensity was still there. She told me she’d been asking doctor-after-doctor and nurse-after-nurse if he was going to be “ok.” Naturally she got no straight answers…just “medispeak.” I get it of course. No medical professional is going to go out on a limb and say, “suuuuure honey, he’ll be just fine” when there’s a solid chance that he’s brain-dead at best. After a brief rundown of what was going on there was a moment of silence. She looked at me and asked, <i>“Ty, he’s going to be ok, right?”</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t know what to say. The God’s truth is that I did <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">not</span></b> think he was going to be ok. How could anyone think that pasty, yellow man hooked up to all the machines could possibly be ok? But Tauni’s typically intense, smoldering eyes had a hint of panic in them. So I said, <i>“Yes Tauni. He’s going to be ok.”</i> I didn’t believe it, but I felt I had to roll the dice and say it. I could actually see a physical change in her posture and a softening in her face. It was as if she just needed to hear it from someone….anyone. She looked stronger. I felt good.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I positioned myself behind Jayd’s bed and took a few deep breaths. I was terrified. It was hard to swallow. Just as I was timidly placing my shaking hands on his head, a nurse walked in and looked at me like I was a mafia hit man about to ice an informant with a pillow. Tauni assured her that I was going to give him a blessing. After casting me a sideways glance she reluctantly left.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The circumstance was not ideal for performing a priesthood ordinance. The ER was bustling with runners and other odd folk that day. There was the sound of curtains being drawn/closed and loud voices. Machines were blipping and beeping like an epic game of multiplayer Pac man. But I was confident that I could filter out any distraction and blaze a trail for divine inspiration. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #134f5c;"><b>I was wrong.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When my hands met Jayd’s head I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. I felt no inspiration. I had no vibe…positive or negative. The floodgates of Heaven were not opening….and I was scared. I needed some time to gather my thoughts, so I took it. My mind raced while I paused. What do I do now?! I didn’t want to put off any kind of negative energy. That was the last thing Tauni needed at this point in time. Finally I decided to start with simply citing the things I know about Jayd and building on those things.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-n5sQWz6IYZ_B9CWKG1OTZF5mmv_RWShN2HGxVIUiQsNf9h5CmPEdzByckV6VBpYcf-83PSj6T0_wSJTphtf3qxJ_AbVa4YXGawA38DaZju1CQe3YF66oTM5RHOvZh57UnPJd0RISxoY/s1600/San+Antonio+Medals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-n5sQWz6IYZ_B9CWKG1OTZF5mmv_RWShN2HGxVIUiQsNf9h5CmPEdzByckV6VBpYcf-83PSj6T0_wSJTphtf3qxJ_AbVa4YXGawA38DaZju1CQe3YF66oTM5RHOvZh57UnPJd0RISxoY/s200/San+Antonio+Medals.jpg" width="200" /></a>I let Jayd know that his Father in Heaven loves him. I know that’s true. I believe that with all my heart. I am confident that God loves <b>all</b> His children. I told Jayd that his family loves him and needs him. And they do. He is a stellar father and a genuinely great person. I confidently spoke to Jayd’s great faith and how that faith is what would make him whole. If there’s one thing we know from the Bible it is that people were healed through a combination of Christ’s power and <b>their <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3d85c6;">faith</span>.</b> Whatever Jayd’s spiritual shortcomings may be, faith is not one of them. We’ve had many conversations over the past couple of years that have had religious undertones, and Jayd is legit. He is a believer. He is a man of faith.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then it came time for me to flex my own paltry faith and go out on my own brittle limb. Without any specific divine direction, I blessed Jayd with a peaceful mind and a still heart. I asked God, and blessed Jayd, that he would wake up quickly. I prayed for the doctors and nurses to perform their duties with inspiration and intelligence. And finally I told Jayd that one day soon we would be able to look back on this experience and laugh. Because that’s what Jayd and I do. We banter and laugh. Then I quietly ended my blessing and removed my hands.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stayed in Jayd’s curtained space for about 15 minutes speaking with Tauni. During that time he woke up a handful of times as we visited, but there was <b><u>nothing</u></b> behind his eyes. I believe his basic primal instincts were taking over. All he knew was that he was in a bad situation and his body was restrained. Every ounce of energy he had was being routed to his need to get out of those restraints. I was dumbfounded at how STRONG he was as Tauni and I tried to get him back onto the bed. After a few of these fits I elected to go wait outside and leave the two of them alone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The only place I could find to sit was in the hallway just outside the ER waiting area. I was sitting, collecting my thoughts, analyzing what I’d just witnessed when a woman in her early fifties approached me with what appeared to be her husband and two grown children. <i>“Excuse me, could you tell me where I could get some information?”</i> she asked. “Information about what?” <i>“About one of the runners that would have been brought here from the marathon.”</i> “Oh, you can just go ask at the ER desk around the corner.” She thanked me and they casually walked around the corner. About two minutes later, a hospital staff member brought them back to where I was and knocked on the door directly in front of me. The door opened and the family went inside. And then came the screams. I’ll never, ever forget the sound of those screams. Their runner, a 32-year old super-fit military man, collapsed after he finished and was rushed to this hospital where he was pronounced dead on arrival. DEAD.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As we got the vans situated to get Tauni’s kids home so she could stay in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">San Antonio</st1:place></st1:city> my cell phone rang. It was Tauni. “Jayd just woke up” she said. <b><u>WHAT?!</u></b> It had been less than an hour since the blessing and he was already awake. She told me the first words that came out of his mouth were <i>“I know who you are.”</i> The next words were <i>“Did I finish the race?”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After myriad tests and scans and probes and who-knows-what, the mystified doctors discharged Jayd after four days in the hospital, two of which were spent in ICU. He’s home now, with a new lease on life.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think about this experience a lot. Many times daily. For a few solid days it haunted my thoughts, even while I slept. Words cannot do justice to what I heard and saw in that San Antonio ER on November 13th, 2011. And this is why I identify (on a microscopic level) with the combat vet. It’s a useless story to tell to someone that wasn’t there. You may get it on some level. You might have even gone through a similarly traumatic experience in your life. But you weren’t there. It’s the ultimate “guess you had to be there” scenario. You didn’t see the horrors or hear the screams. It was a singularly unique experience to you and the people you fought with. <b>Those</b> are the only people that truly “get it.” I can see through the hollow nods and vacant “wow”s that I get from people I tell the story to. It’s a story worth telling and it needs to be told, but I bloody-well hate telling it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m very grateful. The honest truth is that I don’t know what I would have done if something had happened to Jayd. He’s a crucial friend that I value and admire tremendously. Kind of like Art Garfunkel’s harmonies. The world is better with him in it. It’s a bromance. I’m stoked to have him back. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div> My magic blessing worked you know. His mind was calmed, his heart was stilled, he woke up quickly, and now we’re able to look back on the experience with some degree of whimsy. No jokes yet. But they’ll come. It’s just a matter of time. And that’s ok. Time we have.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYjL0j6tYTr6B8Jb7gANicXA5TuH1EklnCe2qSpTH2oemrPfBBEri8DxEDEa2AQyav_gPfc4Y1Sqc0bbsUIrYQpL-iZGOeCUEY3mAw7VUHlVM3zmLCZOhbgI-PVWQzOoGcW1T392K3BE0/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYjL0j6tYTr6B8Jb7gANicXA5TuH1EklnCe2qSpTH2oemrPfBBEri8DxEDEa2AQyav_gPfc4Y1Sqc0bbsUIrYQpL-iZGOeCUEY3mAw7VUHlVM3zmLCZOhbgI-PVWQzOoGcW1T392K3BE0/s400/photo+3.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Left to Right) Ty, Jayd, Steve</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-80145148614430100982011-06-22T12:03:00.000-06:002011-06-22T12:03:04.812-06:0018% Gay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyVBFIVklfKMCDPsTWsPEnpTNgBZB_m-is-UJZV_uQWGy5mvu9F8ob8DVTJG7v7J2bT2v0z5ahEliUcI0OZ4cYR3nKpgMtbHHG_flklLxHNNwtzYqO-JQ8BbgtHoI4nxjlipA6rYUApQ/s1600/RainbowFlagEdit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQyVBFIVklfKMCDPsTWsPEnpTNgBZB_m-is-UJZV_uQWGy5mvu9F8ob8DVTJG7v7J2bT2v0z5ahEliUcI0OZ4cYR3nKpgMtbHHG_flklLxHNNwtzYqO-JQ8BbgtHoI4nxjlipA6rYUApQ/s320/RainbowFlagEdit.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
I hope everyone sees this for what it is. <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Satire.</span></b> Stereotypes will abound and, hopefully, so will the chortles. We need to be able to laugh at ourselves.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I believe that you are either born gay, or born straight. That’s a controversial opinion, given my theological and political circles, but I believe it nonetheless. That said, I believe that straight dudes are at least a little gay and gay guys are partially straight. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The following is a list of 30 yes/no questions with assigned point values. Straight folks tally your princess points. To my gay homies, count up your butch points. Ask yourselves each question and find out how gay you are. Or straight. Sorry for excluding you ladies, but I’m simply not qualified to make any list from a female perspective. I’ve placed an asterisk next to my own princess points.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #a64d79;">Princess Points</span><o:p></o:p></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUcwnb0bSf-6G-aDZzjAIaC-FYhZ8l8LJr2cr03Q9-QigIgItbxryEkebOwheydNtTiY33JiZJV1qkcajqvSTSdatcfSaxyeG89P1Ak9FXA0yy1ArwdolmXas_q7HLlO1es9YOBtTU5XU/s1600/Cats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUcwnb0bSf-6G-aDZzjAIaC-FYhZ8l8LJr2cr03Q9-QigIgItbxryEkebOwheydNtTiY33JiZJV1qkcajqvSTSdatcfSaxyeG89P1Ak9FXA0yy1ArwdolmXas_q7HLlO1es9YOBtTU5XU/s200/Cats.jpg" width="200" /></a>Can you tell the difference between yellow and “sunflower?” +1*</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you seen <a href="http://www.catsthemusical.com/">Cats</a> more than once? +2*</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you maintain your cuticles? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you apply Chap Stick on a regular basis? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever watched Dirty Dancing by yourself, or without a female present? +5*</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever read <i>Little Women</i> or <i>Pride and Prejudice</i>? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you know who <a href="http://jeromerobbins.org/">Jerome Robbins</a> is? +2*</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can you identify <a href="http://www.ibdb.com/person.php?id=4563">Bob Fosse</a> choreography? +2*</div><div class="MsoNormal">Did you cry at any time during <i>Steel Magnolias</i>? +1*</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever paid more than $300 for eyeglass frames or sunglasses? +1*</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can you bake any pastry or bread item without the help of a recipe? +2*</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever made freezer jam alone or with another guy? +3</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you apply lotion every day? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you own a Liza Minnelli album? +5</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you tweeze your eyebrows? +2 (Extreme uni-brows are exempt)</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you consider a scarf an “accessory?” +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Does your belt buckle have to match your watch? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever watched a bodybuilding competition? +3</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever worn a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvHm56QR1GBfg1nIsZwzKt_zVwWBCvvoI8_fSxNcczy-9_uAczxkFS1dcSREfco2U4SBUiYyZt9iRnbckKkdQf1qfXnpu8_MKPQsyK9WSj36MBA_ktiBvtUntOsCscY4RFtvLnXs4l8w8/s1600/cravat.jpg">cravat</a>? +5</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you watch “Real Housewives of _____?” +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can you name at least 4 of the men chosen as “The Bachelor?” +1*</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever filed your feet? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you think Matthew McConaughey is a good actor? +5</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can you properly fold a napkin? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can you tell the difference between a dessert fork, dinner fork, and salad fork? +1*</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you check a bag for a trip of three days or less? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you own a <a href="http://images.wikia.com/swfanon/images/2/20/Jamba.JPG">dinner jacket</a>? +3</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you shave your chest? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you pay more than $17 for a haircut? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever bought furniture at Pottery Barn? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0b5394;">Butch Points</span><o:p></o:p></u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you ever tear your toenails instead of clipping them? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever worn brown shoes with a black belt? +3</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you own less than 3 pair of black shoes? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you deer hunt? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you fish? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you own any garment made by Carhartt? +3</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you drive a truck that runs on diesel fuel? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Would you like a BBQ-scented Yankee Candle burning regularly in your home? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you think the Blue Collar Comedy Tour is funny? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you follow NASCAR? +3</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever worn a <a href="http://www.tuxedostation.net/images/902_lariat.jpg">bolo tie</a>? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you own duck waders? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you have <a href="http://s7ondemand1.scene7.com/is/image/MoosejawMB/10047523x1010977_zm?$product475$">chums</a> attached to your sunglasses? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can you change the oil in your own car? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you snort and swallow instead of blowing your nose? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you own an official jersey of your favorite NFL, NBA, or Baseball team? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you like <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000314/">Charles Bronson</a> movies? +3</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can you wear a shirt in public that has an obvious stain on it? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you insist on grilling over charcoal? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRHg0wdfyUVv3lAF3N8PTFSLE3glyiyqlfd7Ed5TPGthFmameT-jd2LPQXSGb4FhyzFZMs2Gujkdpnx-eAvamb-LcguZypOaPQDFMZgETABWlfMJLCYjB5vcIuk4jPIY8DrWjomZB7SQ/s1600/Mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWRHg0wdfyUVv3lAF3N8PTFSLE3glyiyqlfd7Ed5TPGthFmameT-jd2LPQXSGb4FhyzFZMs2Gujkdpnx-eAvamb-LcguZypOaPQDFMZgETABWlfMJLCYjB5vcIuk4jPIY8DrWjomZB7SQ/s200/Mug.jpg" width="172" /></a>Do you own and fill a “ghetto mug” with a beverage from a service station? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Would you shop at K-Mart with coupons? +3</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can you name 3 John Wayne movies? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Would you skin and gut an animal that someone else killed? +5</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you know what <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hitting_for_the_cycle">“hitting for the cycle”</a> means? +3</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you play violent shooter-type video games? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can you name two albums by <b><i>Rush</i></b>? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you arm-wrestled more than 5 times in your life? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you own more than two different types of hammers? +2</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you polish off a T Bone steak by picking it up with your hands and gnawing the remaining meat off the bone? +4</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you ever served a store-bought cheese ball? +1</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Add it up folks. Report!</div>Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-88562346521401004872010-11-22T07:11:00.000-07:002010-11-22T07:11:23.956-07:00The Slow Death of Innocence<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinOSFpQrPjxcgyYCMadVxSKi6cAh0WIcVR_K-zTocUO8YMrsB4BXVcZvufPBDdWZnLpi0vRXAXb7mRtoKnlsnaSC56EotlYLm1KNL8GCcqNpgrOgLVnYC0InwJVgYHN7Ac_An7fQ3bMFg/s1600/Yay+Yay+Dad2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinOSFpQrPjxcgyYCMadVxSKi6cAh0WIcVR_K-zTocUO8YMrsB4BXVcZvufPBDdWZnLpi0vRXAXb7mRtoKnlsnaSC56EotlYLm1KNL8GCcqNpgrOgLVnYC0InwJVgYHN7Ac_An7fQ3bMFg/s320/Yay+Yay+Dad2.jpg" width="256" /></a>I believe that children are born innocent. <b>Completely</b> innocent. I also believe that as they grow up, that innocence is slowly and methodically destroyed until they die cynical and bitter. The culprit? Knowledge. Knowledge is to innocence, what water is to rock. A seemingly-innocent, yet corrosive element that leaves nothing but destruction in its wake. They both contribute to creation, yet they both destroy ruthlessly and without prejudice. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As children grow up they are introduced to various experiences and facts about life that shake their little cores. A child will never be the same after he kills his first animal. I don’t mean snails or worms or spiders, but actual relatable animals. Like a bird or a squirrel. Some may enjoy it. Others may be horrified by it. But regardless, that kid will never…ever be the same after extinguishing that life. A little bit of innocence dies.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Similarly, kids are never the same after they learn the truth about Mr. Claus, P. Rabbit, and leprechauns. Those are beautiful, magical things that add an element of happiness and fantasy to life. The destruction of those fantasies can be brutal for some and perfectly logical and normal for others. Yet in either case, knowledge kills the magic and innocence dies. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Chief among such learning experiences is the true nature of birds and bees. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My 8-year old came to me a number of months ago after taking a bath and said, <i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;">“Dad, what are my balls for?”</span></span></i> Naturally my answer was,<i><span class="Apple-style-span"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">“they’re for warming your hands on the sideline while the defense is on the field.”</span></span></i> His quizzical look let me know he didn’t know what a sideline was, or a defense for that matter, but I shrugged it off with the standard,<i> <span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span> A few months later the question came again. This time <i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">“go ask your mother”</span></span></i> bought some time and gave temporary relief. VERY temporary. Minutes later he was right back at it. <span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">“I’ll tell you when you’re older. Like 22.”</span></i></span> I knew this could only go on so long. Finally, weeks after he came at me again,<span class="Apple-style-span"><i> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;">“Dad, what are my balls for? It’s <b>my</b> body and it’s <b>my</b> right to know.”</span></i></span> How in the holy freaking hell can a 9-year-old be that wise in his question phrasing? Is he <b>really</b> mature enough to have this conversation? So I tested the water… <i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">“Buddy, tell me what you know about how babies are made.”</span></span></i> I was fully expecting an answer like <span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;">“Well dad, everyone knows that rays of magic sunshine mix with unicorn laughter to make the baby and then the flamingo delivers it to mommy’s tummy.”</span></i></span> Which is only half wrong, since there <b>IS</b> magic and there <b>IS</b> laughter involved in the baby-making process. Unfortunately, his answer was smart and linear and logical. Completely wrong, but quite clear and a plausible alternative for the actual method. Bloody hell. <b><span class="Apple-style-span">He was ready…</span></b> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSZOaGPN4xMkANuc5U7BZcURmro77evgdLt9MaJdueFibJVo2dVvHLe5HOy4zyY66r22AL4AKucLF6rlouYexAmPnlpCIo7GY2DOe7AnnR1wIcfi0qNMRHwAWr-1aox3yX6Uz2m-E3lxU/s1600/2850684694_bde6c76814_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSZOaGPN4xMkANuc5U7BZcURmro77evgdLt9MaJdueFibJVo2dVvHLe5HOy4zyY66r22AL4AKucLF6rlouYexAmPnlpCIo7GY2DOe7AnnR1wIcfi0qNMRHwAWr-1aox3yX6Uz2m-E3lxU/s400/2850684694_bde6c76814_z.jpg" width="400" /></a>Yeah, well I <b><i>wasn't</i></b>. Dude is in third grade! If he could just hold on for two more years then I could allow the government to teach him courtesy of the <a href="http://www.standard.net/topics/schools/2010/04/02/mother-upset-over-explicit-maturation-program-5th-graders">“maturation program”</a> and I could just pick up the pieces with a dry and scientific Q&A. What are we paying these useless teachers for anyhow? With any real luck I could put it off until 8<sup>th</sup> grade when he gets to watch that revolting video in health class with the detailed description of an erection, complete with thermal imagery. I’ll never forget the afterbirth from that video. Talk about death to innocence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Alas, it was not to be. It was time. One calm, sunny day coming home from the grocery store, Talmage and I had <i>“the talk.”</i> I have to give him credit. He was pretty calm, albeit shocked. He was having a hard time grasping the fact that <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3333ff;">it</span></span></span></b> could go <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc33cc;">there</span></span></span></b> and cause <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">that</span></b> to happen. I held nothing back. We covered all aspects of “Teh Seks.” The physical. The emotional. The spiritual. I was very detailed in my description and positive in my delivery. We covered parameters and rules. We talked about the importance of it in God’s plan. I have no delusions….that innocence is dead, and that’s a healthy chunk of innocence, but the damage was minimal. It was a clean cut, not the gruesome tear that it could have been. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My favorite of his myriad questions was,<i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;">“Dad, how long do you have to sex for?”</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;"> "</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">Well bud, if you’re lucky about 12 seconds. But sometimes it can take hours.”</span></span></i> <i><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>“Ooooo, gross.”</b></span></i> Just wait young buddy. Just wait.</div>Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-26829861591101325182010-10-13T01:07:00.001-06:002010-10-13T10:12:27.944-06:00Revenge of the NerdsOnline social networking has been a fascinating and highly entertaining experience for me for a variety of reasons. First, it’s interactive. It isn’t <i>“read only.”</i> I can actually speak with or share things with people I know. Or knew. Or figure I <b>should</b> know since we share 85 friends but can’t remember who the hell they actually are. Secondly, it exposes people’s nuances, intricacies, weaknesses, and talents. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin78W0oMy_nmXgfcT3s86myYJCuUW8QSkKAh7h-YgIqiTF__-gEcFgQq-R4ELG3sCFi4Wq3SbfOv0wFLw9xC_mgsoIv-35D5sT47luNYKCdgyo_xCSmA8TFa-7H-PlwJDxi1W3IAoiSLE/s1600/fathertime.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin78W0oMy_nmXgfcT3s86myYJCuUW8QSkKAh7h-YgIqiTF__-gEcFgQq-R4ELG3sCFi4Wq3SbfOv0wFLw9xC_mgsoIv-35D5sT47luNYKCdgyo_xCSmA8TFa-7H-PlwJDxi1W3IAoiSLE/s320/fathertime.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527553155412516194" /></a>I never knew I had so many friends that were brilliant artists, gifted writers, angry activists, and political soapboxers. I know who is grammatically challenged. Some have aged well. Others have done something to piss off Father Time. I have a bone to pick with that grey-bearded bastard.<br /><br />More than anything, though, I think online networking gives insight into the nature of karma and/or the chaotic, natural flow of life. Let’s face it….we are all pinballs in the wizard’s game, knocked hither, thither, and yon. Where we end up is pure chance. Or luck. Or is it? Is there some element of karma involved? Are hard work, perseverance, and difficult patience through formative years rewarded with glory, riches, and love later in life? On the other side, have the cruel and indifferent been punished with misery and woe?<br /><br />Throughout time there have been legendary battles between fierce rivals. Palestine and Israel. Green Bay and Minnesota. Fire and Rain. Cake and Pie. Age and Cher. Plastic Surgery and Kenny Rogers. Hippies and Metalheads. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVi7rAUxwbOriIliIynm0Yr-_CPRrtL_jWKmsmScoL0XWkihsQG5BlvgvFHw8a0N1p3x6ssvyL_jBZmk6l5KyNmaoO399Wtk3xcUZXFxkv6FqH3i0JnVXKwJewA6BA01demLh3WNK8_k/s1600/Kenny-Rogers.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 168px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVi7rAUxwbOriIliIynm0Yr-_CPRrtL_jWKmsmScoL0XWkihsQG5BlvgvFHw8a0N1p3x6ssvyL_jBZmk6l5KyNmaoO399Wtk3xcUZXFxkv6FqH3i0JnVXKwJewA6BA01demLh3WNK8_k/s200/Kenny-Rogers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527554049493964834" /></a>Jocks and Nerds. Some rage on, i.e. Palestine and Israel. Others have been tragically but emphatically decided, i.e. poor Kenny Rogers. And lately the Jocks suffered a crushing blow, much like Kenny’s face, which ended their war. The Nerds have prevailed, courtesy of Fantasy Football.<br /><br />Look, I’m a sports guy. I’ve played several sports and was pretty decent at a few of them, so I can identify with the jocks. I’ve also bumped pocket protectors with the nerds. Hell, I have <a href="http://db.etree.org/pearsontye">hundreds Phish concerts on CD</a>, meticulously labeled and cataloged chronologically on Japanese-only compact discs, stored such that no man or child could possibly reach or damage them. I played EverQuest for years, spending hours of my day as Rutherforrd Gnarlyarmour….barbarian warrior in Norrath. THAT is nerdy. But, my friends, nothing I have ever done in my life on earth has been as nerdy as playing fantasy football this year.<br /><br />My neighbor Jeb invited me to play Fanasy Football with him and some of his friends. I was loathe to do it, but I saw myself slowly (through little fault of my own) becoming “that guy”….the one that always has an excuse to not participate in anything he’s invited to do. I like Jeb so I reluctantly agreed. How involved could it be, right? I just get a few players and let them rack up points for playing well. No? <span class="Apple-style-span"><b><i>HELL</i></b></span>-tutha-no.<br /><br />I knew I was in trouble when I went to Jeb’s brother’s house for “draft day” and we sat around in a group of 12 with spreadsheets and expert forecasts as to who would be the best players to pick. We went through 16 individual rounds of a draft. By pick #9 or so I’d had it. My butt was sore from sitting and I had no clue who the remaining players were. We rushed through the last hour, taking the total to <b>THREE</b>, and finally finished the draft.<br /><br />That was the easy part.<br /><br />There’s no sitting on your laurels in fantasy football. Each week you have to look at projections, compare stats, and manage your lineup. There are complex algorithms involved in calculating points after a performance. <span class="Apple-style-span"><b>(Catches+Receiving Yards) – Dropped Balls / Yards After Contact x Touchdowns.</b></span><b> </b> Or some nonsense.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl0jdyhdRZDphc_xLBQVt4UTl5talLm83BzvKDpS7yKNZ15O7ls3VPPTD-h-Ys6RVIMUDSujHu0SdZvbe_3EAK0uEgg43e5fEQMRzgGCSZ9qnt95m9CGDS_yujr3EHYqnAYg-eHC-Dhcg/s1600/Sheldon+Coooper.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl0jdyhdRZDphc_xLBQVt4UTl5talLm83BzvKDpS7yKNZ15O7ls3VPPTD-h-Ys6RVIMUDSujHu0SdZvbe_3EAK0uEgg43e5fEQMRzgGCSZ9qnt95m9CGDS_yujr3EHYqnAYg-eHC-Dhcg/s320/Sheldon+Coooper.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527554941682713170" /></a>Did you see that, jocks? I just said <i>“calculating”</i> and <i>“algorithm”</i> in a paragraph that is talking about <b>YOU</b>. You all have triumphantly <b>BECOME</b> the <b>NERDS!</b><br /><br />Memo to FF-playing jocks. You are nerdy. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gn1dKUE8zI">Professional cup stackers</a> think you are nerds. Anime manga collectors wouldn’t be seen with you in public. Star Trek conventions would ban you from the premises. You can retire the jersey and don the hammer pants because you are <b><i>nerds</i></b>. Sheldon Cooper is jealous. And he can build Tesla Coils and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8WWd19Ok1c">speak </a><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8WWd19Ok1c">KLINGON</a></b>. And I don’t want to hear, <i><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>“it’s not even the same dude, we’re talking about sports!”</b></span></i> No you’re not. You’re talking about <b>MATH</b>. True football fans are the ones that lock themselves in their man caves and violently cheer for their team to beat the bloody hell out of whoever dares line up across the ball from them. They don’t cheer for Brett Favre to throw touchdowns just because he is on their fantasy team. They know he’s a filthy loser and want him to throw countless interceptions before having his knee folded back by Julius Peppers. Hoping enemy players do well goes against the grain of logic and is foreign to the lifeblood of the true sports fan. Bottom line, the word <i>“fantasy”</i> should clue you in that you are in nerd territory. Do you know what lives in fantasy? Hobbits. Dragons. Unicorns. Spiderman. The Easter Bunny. Beautiful women in fur bikinis that fan you with palm fronds and grill a mean steak. And <b>YOU</b> if you think you are anything but a nerd. A true fantasy team would have Juggernaut at tailback, Legolas and The Flash at receiver, a Minotaur kicker, Darth Vader at tight end, an offensive line of Golems, and Moses under center.<br /><br />The circle is now complete. <div><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-style-span"><b><i>Nerds-1</i></b></span> \\\///<b>Jocks-DONE</b><br /><br /></div>Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-73835275473296616342010-09-07T02:21:00.001-06:002010-09-07T09:56:35.009-06:00Why the Fear?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_jpJyn6l_SJJKNGl3aIZV9EMgeCqSLU9ezdU4xXlp5g0TTEzjMXlquHHNBO1uHTkOi3GKKPWSBRY0kZIS_BUTjZ1OzLiDOk9_LPzPMeYTzdJ1zXdeclv7i1cdOpZSdEhWKy6_1ccU_UQ/s1600/Head+in+the+sand.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_jpJyn6l_SJJKNGl3aIZV9EMgeCqSLU9ezdU4xXlp5g0TTEzjMXlquHHNBO1uHTkOi3GKKPWSBRY0kZIS_BUTjZ1OzLiDOk9_LPzPMeYTzdJ1zXdeclv7i1cdOpZSdEhWKy6_1ccU_UQ/s320/Head+in+the+sand.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514195159482890674" border="0" /></a>For someone that professes political ambiguity and general indifference, I sure do write about politics a lot. As stated in other posts, I’m largely <span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://woundedpossum.blogspot.com/2008/06/little-blue-spruce.html">confused and torn</a></span> politically. I consider myself a conservative and I consider myself a liberal but I <span style="font-weight: bold;">don’t</span> consider myself a moderate…if that’s even possible. Maybe it’s just easier to incessantly bitch about things when you’re that uncommitted. And I guess it’s a general feeling of helplessness and disdain that motivates me to think and write politically. And right now I feel both.<br /><br />I’ve been overly sensitive to Facebook Prophets as of late. Those soap-boxers that use FB as a vehicle to vilify Obama or Glenn Beck. Thank God for the “hide” function. I’m routinely astounded at how narrow-minded and silly people can be. Obama is not the anti-Christ. Beck is not the hate-mongering harbinger of death. Liberals have an agenda and they use media to promote it, i.e. Bill Maher and John Stewart (who is brilliant by the way.) Conservatives also use media to promote <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">their</span> agenda, i.e. Glenn Beck and Sean Hannity. Each side can be valid and each side can go full retard. What hurts me is the chaos that is created by such clashing. It is dark and it is ugly. We Americans have lost respect for the system and its offices and I blame the partisan media.<br /><br />Yesterday my two boys brought home permission forms from school, demanding parental consent for them to watch an upcoming presidential address to American students on the importance of education. You actually had to sign it to allow your child to participate. Not to decline it, but to <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-family:lucida grande;" >allow</span> it. In other words, the district’s default position was to keep the kids away from the address unless otherwise stated by their parents. I was dumbfounded.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkxiefkZ_YOt2Ne9u1S5FWKwFI-o2Nk-w_r7WtNhkE8f4oBF0QYhEB3arf-vKBShMIzPlBF_Aiqn4L1JdzBhoeJaYXQ7gscvzDkxQFzTpa3rXQcLCZOWo-zibUjqBaGs-naQuveyWVkdI/s1600/Obama+Letter.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkxiefkZ_YOt2Ne9u1S5FWKwFI-o2Nk-w_r7WtNhkE8f4oBF0QYhEB3arf-vKBShMIzPlBF_Aiqn4L1JdzBhoeJaYXQ7gscvzDkxQFzTpa3rXQcLCZOWo-zibUjqBaGs-naQuveyWVkdI/s400/Obama+Letter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514193051021311810" border="0" /></a><br />I cannot believe we have come to live in such a fearful society. What in the hell are we afraid of? Do we think that Obama is going to use this opportunity to brainwash our children into supporting gay marriage or immigration reform? Is he going to subliminally command them to <span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wleJmrlbsMc">kill the prime minister of Malaysia</a></span>? Why the fear?!<br /><br />When I was a child I was taught that the president of the United States of America held an important, almost sacred office. Not because it was Regan, but because he was the leader of the free world. The office stood for freedom and justice. Not the <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">man</span></span>. The <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">OFFICE</span>. Regan had issues. Bush had issues. Clinton had issues. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ijz1CdUj5fg">The other Bush had issues</a>. Obama has issues. But he holds the most important office on the planet and it is our duty to listen to what he has to say, then use our God-given judgment to discern what we believe to be right or wrong, true or false. I believe that he, at his core, stands for freedom and justice…just as Regan did. I am not an Obama guy. Some of his ideas scare me. But I believe his intentions and motivations with regards to my children’s education are pure.<br /><br />Bottom line, this is an address on the importance of education. I don’t care if it’s the president, Glenn Beck, or Charles freaking Manson speaking. Any help in strengthening the importance of education in the minds of my children is quite welcome. It doesn't matter if the office is held by a democrat, republican, libertarian, or whig. My children will grow up to respect that office and hopefully aspire to it.Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-67698298685753292232010-08-29T19:57:00.007-06:002010-08-29T20:49:17.254-06:00Come Fly the Not-So-Friendly Skies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSK29k6C5SKlIrDpC49FYWEEOd_dua1B9S-Ax-8JU3lNvvZIgBZNv6W9LMXuGy-wIcz5supRq-cZGN3wkUxElG7Bp8RBngJBAiTy71dhhfQOn5R3MPEtwSJ-4zVwJa-F0hfDn3WTxa0VY/s1600/crying+baby.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSK29k6C5SKlIrDpC49FYWEEOd_dua1B9S-Ax-8JU3lNvvZIgBZNv6W9LMXuGy-wIcz5supRq-cZGN3wkUxElG7Bp8RBngJBAiTy71dhhfQOn5R3MPEtwSJ-4zVwJa-F0hfDn3WTxa0VY/s320/crying+baby.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511017387229544962" /></a>I caught <a href="http://www.usatoday.com/travel/flights/2010-08-25-familyflying26_ST_N.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">this story</span></a> in USA Today where over 2,000 airline passengers were polled to see if they would prefer a “family section” on flights. Nearly 60% said yes. In addition, 20% said they would prefer <b>child-free</b> flights. The survey came on the heels of a law suit filed by a 67-year-old American that sued an Australian airline after a 3-year-old child screamed on her flight causing pain in her ear.<br /><br />To be fair, most of the 60% that favored family sections or kidless flights didn’t have children of their own, so there is <b><i>some</i></b> disconnect and lack of empathy there. But I don’t care. They are all idiots.<br /><br />Have these people never been around children? Unless they are <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_People_Under_the_Stairs"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">People Under the Stairs</span></a> or haters of innocence and purity, I don’t understand how these tools could want to ban families from flying. Or quarantine them. Can a crying baby be obnoxious? Certainly. But so can you elitist bastards with your noise-cancelling headphones and iPads. I realize that you are a “business professional” and that you work exceptionally hard, but you are not working any harder than the dad that busted ass for three years to afford the magical Disneyland vacation for his young family. Not everyone works to luxuriate in snooty opulence, sipping red wine and stroking lap dogs while listening to Haydn. That child’s trip from point A to point B is every bit as valid as yours. You can deal with a little discomfort for a few hours. And if you are flying Southwest then you are exposing even more of your idiocy. Southwest is a bus in the sky. The only thing missing are livestock and chickens milling about the passengers to have a complete third-world charter.<br /><br />What a silly survey. It doesn’t even make business sense to do such a thing. The airline industry lives and dies by ticket sales. There is no chance in hell they would risk losing seat sales by blocking off designated areas for families or children.<br /><br /><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">Designated areas.</span></i></b> Doesn’t that just sound terrible? It screams of segregation to me. Hey…I know…let’s designate areas for fat people like <a href="http://woundedpossum.blogspot.com/2010/08/fine-diningat-taco-cabana.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Taco Cabana Lady</span></a>. Do they know how horrible it is to sit next to someone whose lard is spilling 10” over the armrest? Trust me, I know. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumYnNEdhYeHQlJrpzI-vOsOJ19tiPAPFa9jT4XwU_7jd9rs40HqwnbbgH_M1y8s_gG5UdVS4aHfCf8x2dEOq2n1EJqJ5NKcHjCXHGnWIhq7tX6q7Aq7sBaRfetnwDwbNyi3JZkFJqico/s1600/fat+traveler.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjumYnNEdhYeHQlJrpzI-vOsOJ19tiPAPFa9jT4XwU_7jd9rs40HqwnbbgH_M1y8s_gG5UdVS4aHfCf8x2dEOq2n1EJqJ5NKcHjCXHGnWIhq7tX6q7Aq7sBaRfetnwDwbNyi3JZkFJqico/s200/fat+traveler.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511019182612182898" /></a>People <b><i>glare</i></b> at me when they see they drew the short straw with a seat adjacent to mine. Let’s stick anyone over 250 lbs. in the back of the plane. In fact, if you are over three bills then you aren’t allowed onboard, period. And Asian people smell funny, so let’s have an Asian section too. And old people annoy the hell out of me. They had their time to fly when they were young and actually <b>WORTH</b> something. But that ship has sailed Get your mothballed turtle asses back home and watch your programs in your wicker furniture-filled, wood-paneled parlors.<br /><br />Now I believe that people <i>should</i> exercise common sense and human courtesy. I believe that families with small children <i>should</i> move toward the back of the airplane as a courtesy to other travelers. I believe they <i>should</i> try very hard to keep them quiet and calm. I also believe that very young children <i>should</i> <i>not</i> sit in first class. That is one area where business travelers can pay a premium to fly in peace. If you want to offer designated seating for families with discounted pricing or kidless sections at added premiums, then fine. That could be an option. However, I do <b>NOT</b> believe that anyone has the right to demand where people sit. Rosa Parks wasn’t down. Why would I be?Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-74313304367046614462010-08-28T12:51:00.004-06:002010-08-28T13:20:36.028-06:00Fine Dining....at Taco Cabana?!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUo7g5UJWq62fTy1bTR7KuPP2D-iKaUOko5ohhofVub_EFXhYT6k9q6jiEw5KZemqTIHMsX8qoy8_ZAOqgZDyRmWpeh4t2PJ1OF3EnErZzAcj6GomfTe2mqixN_l_5tNQVXhMtHI0xZCs/s1600/Taco+Cabana.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUo7g5UJWq62fTy1bTR7KuPP2D-iKaUOko5ohhofVub_EFXhYT6k9q6jiEw5KZemqTIHMsX8qoy8_ZAOqgZDyRmWpeh4t2PJ1OF3EnErZzAcj6GomfTe2mqixN_l_5tNQVXhMtHI0xZCs/s320/Taco+Cabana.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510538400605170786" /></a>I recently took my family to <a href="http://www.tacocabana.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Taco Cabana</span></a> here in Austin. On a side note, I believe it is physically impossible to <b>NOT</b> sing <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#990000;">“Her name was Lola….”</span></i> when driving past The Cabana. It was our first time through the Cabana doors and I was kind of excited. I figured I knew what I was getting myself into. This was not <a href="http://www.pappasitos.com/home/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">atmospheric</span></a> Mexican food with waiters, menus, and glass cups. Nor was this <a href="http://utah.citysearch.com/profile/10392978/salt_lake_city_ut/rancherito_s_mexican_food.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Ghetto Mex</span></a>, i.e. authentic Mexican grub served big, fast, and cheap. This was full-on fast food Mexican…a direct competitor with Taco Bell. It would be perfect for the kids and a pleasant change from a typical border run…outside the bun.<br /><br />The décor was quite cute. The tables were decorated with different beer logos and each had an umbrella overhead. The menu was interesting and inventive and the family fajitas immediately drew my attention. There is a full salsa bar dedicated to different types of sauces, jalapenos, and various condiments. I ordered our food, we found our tables, and started setting up camp. Only two other tables in the entire restaurant were taken. There was an older, fat couple at one table and what appeared to be a father and teenage son at another.<br /><br />I have a two-year-old daughter. She is equal parts diva, princess, and mermaid. She has attitude oozing from her body and the most emotive little personality you’d ever see in a munchkin so lovely. When she speaks, you hear. You might not listen, but I guaran-ass-tee you that you’ll hear her. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBrY-aHQh7V8wsLkPfEttODM0x-liGhK4Cq6ilTR5IVDUhInoJ0HODVutYSIcwvw7rh6i5m9bUxqtxHHKQ_FbvjLC4R_VWVnZUOZvqIOHA2aw_L2tf9oRpCRCGOKMnjrAyOuyfpSwNMMc/s1600/Maidie.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBrY-aHQh7V8wsLkPfEttODM0x-liGhK4Cq6ilTR5IVDUhInoJ0HODVutYSIcwvw7rh6i5m9bUxqtxHHKQ_FbvjLC4R_VWVnZUOZvqIOHA2aw_L2tf9oRpCRCGOKMnjrAyOuyfpSwNMMc/s200/Maidie.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510538545747441362" /></a>It’s impossible not to. She’s got this little high-pitched squeal that will sound angry or happy, depending on the situation. She was excited to be at The Cabana and she wanted the world to know.<br /><br />Less than 10 minutes (and 3 squeals) into our meal I noticed that the fat old lady at the other table had managed to rise to her bulbous feet to make her way over to our table. I just assumed she was going to compliment us on our darling little children that were so full of energy and excitement. Quite the contrary. About five feet from our table, as she approached, she cupped her puffy hands to her ears and hissed <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993300;">“she is too loud.”</span> Sherri was dumbfounded. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">“I’m sorry, this is a public restaurant”</span> Sherri said. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993300;">“Yes, but she doesn’t need to scream”</span> replied the wrinkled mass of flesh. Then Sherri and I started in on her at the same time.<i> “She’s a CHILD.”</i> <i>“She’s only<b> TWO.</b>”</i> <b>“This is</b> <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">TACO CABANA.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">”</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span> Defeated and dejected, The Jelly Thing turned and waddled back to her table. Her husband hung his head and said nothing…probably dreaming of his “happy place” where he was married to a woman that didn’t require him to grease her down and toss a Twinkie through the door to get her in the house.<br /><br />Are you kidding me? Had this woman actually complained about my daughter’s shrill-but-happy sounds interfering with her joyous snarfing of $9.00 worth of barely mediocre burrito? Memo to Hog Lady: If you are interested in a romantic, quiet dinner with your unfortunate mate, do NOT roll into the Taco <b>FREAKING</b> Cabana. Taco Cabana is not a haunt for the Austin elite. You will find children. You will find teenagers. You will find the occasional transient that scored a few bucks under the viaduct. But you will also find mass quantities of beans, meat, and cheese (for pennies), so I can understand why you would want to squeeze yourself in there. Just adjust your expectations, mkay?Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-19181120515678624752010-08-24T00:34:00.002-06:002010-08-25T08:26:33.010-06:00Caller ID - The Bane of Initiative and ProprietyI believe that Caller ID is to blame for the general laziness of society. In fact, I think you can basically follow the (de)evolution of telephone technology for a brilliant timeline into the world's descent into pitiful lethargy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifG7WPCA-jbnKapoN7Vjo7YpnCXf1WkRULswZP-EdmkNAnQdCz2WwtG718K2R8vqFlkcWakBjllyBUGBVYT7B_ubz59N5jt9n2ghequBezFjEgvsxLzge_6vMvQ3iGErr-qkijOljqPUs/s1600/telephone+1950s.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifG7WPCA-jbnKapoN7Vjo7YpnCXf1WkRULswZP-EdmkNAnQdCz2WwtG718K2R8vqFlkcWakBjllyBUGBVYT7B_ubz59N5jt9n2ghequBezFjEgvsxLzge_6vMvQ3iGErr-qkijOljqPUs/s320/telephone+1950s.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509056805245751938" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#990000;">"Mr. Watson, come here. I want to see you."</span></i> Those were the first words uttered electrically by Alexander Graham Bell in 1876. The full history of telephone technology is lengthy and terribly tedious reading, so we'll skip ahead to the 1950s to begin our slippery timeline of laziness. In the 1950s, telephones were heavy. They were bulky. They sat down in a specific, permanent spot and took up obnoxious amounts of space. They were generally located near a desk or a countertop, where messages could easily be written.<br /><br />When the phone rang, it actually rang. I mean there was a sound emanating from the thing that sounded like an actual bell ringing. When the phone rang you had to answer it to know who was calling on the other line. It was a complete mystery...until you picked up. It could be a bill collector or it could be old Ed McMahon with Publisher's Clearing house informing you that you'd won the million. And yes, Ed was old...even in the 50s.<br /><br />Further, most telephone lines belonged to multiple families. You could pick up the receiver to make a phone call and your neighbor could be rapping on the phone with a friend. I'm sure it made for lovely eavesdropping.<br /><br />Dialing a phone number in the 1950s took an eternity to accomplish. There were no magic buttons to push. You had to stick your finger in the hole on the rotary dial that corresponded with the desired number and you had to spin the wheel clockwise....then wait while the wheel "click-click-clickity-clicked" counter-clockwise to its original position. Luckily there were fewer numbers to dial back then. My dad's phone number was simply 2596 when he was a lad.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQunqPyWTJ3SSWVHI_WcWDSTm0zfgqSl0cpTP4XsnRpnUF5oNGLvhJOpJk3M9mN3qIB9yUm7FEXCwF-YVcaf4pdm1lIhC5tAhHEFdTaQTj7gB4mzITYAEv565Vt1FXVezUiqG4EGlYrw/s1600/Telephone+1960s.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQunqPyWTJ3SSWVHI_WcWDSTm0zfgqSl0cpTP4XsnRpnUF5oNGLvhJOpJk3M9mN3qIB9yUm7FEXCwF-YVcaf4pdm1lIhC5tAhHEFdTaQTj7gB4mzITYAEv565Vt1FXVezUiqG4EGlYrw/s200/Telephone+1960s.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509057443452627618" /></a><b>The 1960s</b><br />Toward the end of the 1950s, wall-mounted telephones were invented. They were slimmed down, reworked versions of the same device...just designed to hang on a wall. This did nothing more than clear desk space. You were still forced to rise, walk, pick up, and speak into the receiver.<br /><br />In 1964 the world was introduced to the "Touch Tone" telephone. No more annoying time-waster of a dial to turn. Now you simply had to push a button for the number you wanted, easily shaving 15 seconds from your dialing! People got a little bit lazier.<br /><br />While phone units continued to get smaller and lighter, no other real advances were made in telephone technology.<br /><br /><b>The 1970s</b><br />Technology held firm in the 70s. A "Picturephone" was released where video was transmitted (a snapshot every 2 seconds) but it went over like a lead balloon. It was bulky and insanely expensive.<br /><br />More than anything else, the 1970s were about <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#006600;"><i>STYLE</i></span></b>. Phones were manufactured in all sorts of groovy shapes and far out colors. Want a translucent phone that glows next to your lava lamp? No problem. One that mounts in the center of your black light poster? No sweat. The sound changed too! You could get a cool robotic, electric sounding ring instead of the actual bell.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxwpfb9EysN8XKwBAh3U7UNCZnpiTgBs1DZxlfNwfqPuMBMscKpfr1w7BOho2WEbd2FKYAo3YLM45VpaSgn6H0BE0DmPq21GxuEC_cUdNzQIX6kXrf17Kp07bgXUbe5RGQCxpOWG_CR8/s1600/mobilefirst_5.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 143px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxwpfb9EysN8XKwBAh3U7UNCZnpiTgBs1DZxlfNwfqPuMBMscKpfr1w7BOho2WEbd2FKYAo3YLM45VpaSgn6H0BE0DmPq21GxuEC_cUdNzQIX6kXrf17Kp07bgXUbe5RGQCxpOWG_CR8/s200/mobilefirst_5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509059310668270818" /></a>In 1973, a company called Motorola invented the first cellular portable telephone to be commercialized. The technology had existed and had been used by the military and such, but this was the first time said technology was released for commercial consumption. It was a true beast of a machine, but it could be carried with you and used anywhere you received cell reception.<br /><br /><b>The 1980s</b><br />This is the decade where things started to really change and the descent into laziness went supersonic.<br /><br />Right around 1980 the first cordless phone hit the market. All of a sudden, you didn't need to get up from the couch to walk to the wall or the telephone desk to answer the phone. You could fire it up right in the middle of MASH without missing a witty Hawkeye line or Klinger outfit. Granted, the 27MHz frequency and limited range made it sound like you were standing in the eye of a hurricane, but quality was a fair trade-off for the massive amounts of energy saved from having to rise to your feet and walk across the room. The low frequency, however, made it so that people that were talking on cordless phones in the same vicinity could hear each other and even speak to each other. This was more annoying to the phone company than to the consumer. People were able to have free 3-way calling adventures. Free is bad. In 1986, a cordless phone with a 49 MHz frequency was released to combat the 3-way calling issue.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzdnpl7f3jwH0r3iCFeZ13GRamXim8CwA2fsmgI_89S_M6O2EiOuh6U2o1FSIFrUsHU6KJAyyzqXQHN-YKsfqrhtenGQeJVePUGnyM60nTVZYEIlzB_PGOuC7b6V0h0rrgqV8j88q5mwk/s1600/Caller+ID.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzdnpl7f3jwH0r3iCFeZ13GRamXim8CwA2fsmgI_89S_M6O2EiOuh6U2o1FSIFrUsHU6KJAyyzqXQHN-YKsfqrhtenGQeJVePUGnyM60nTVZYEIlzB_PGOuC7b6V0h0rrgqV8j88q5mwk/s200/Caller+ID.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509060051969457346" /></a>In 1984, a market trial for a new device was held by Bell Atlantic in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. For the past 15 years, technology was being developed to allow identification information from the call originator to be transmitted and displayed to the recipient. This was the effective birth of "Caller ID." And the death of American initiative. Based on this market trial and others in the late 1980s, Caller ID became a mainstream hit and massive revenue stream for all major telecommunications companies by the mid-1990s. Suddenly it was possible to pick and choose which calls you wanted to answer based on who was calling. People, again, got a little bit lazier.<br /><br />Constant advancements were also made to cellular technology. Networks were expanded and devices were improved, getting smaller and more powerful.<br /><br /><b>The 1990s</b><br />Cordless phones owned the 90s. In 1990 a 900 MHz phone was released, allowing you to go further from the base unit than ever before while speaking with a newfound clarity. Further advancements were made in 1994, 1996, and finally in 1998 with the release of a 2.4 GHz phone. Now you could walk around the freaking block on a non-cellular telephone with corded-phone clarity.<br /><br />In 1995, Type II Caller ID was released and spread to the masses. This new technology allowed you to actually see caller information while you were already on the telephone. Caller ID displays were now being built onto actual cordless handsets, eliminating the need for older Caller ID boxes. Now you can screen and ignore calls without walking to look at the box. Another foot into the lazy river of laziness.<br /><br />Cellular technology continued to improve. Now we have devices that are not just functional telephones, but also planners, calendars, and small computers.<br /><br /><b>The 2000s - Today</b><br />Having a telephone device entirely independent of wires or "bases" apparently wasn't enough. In 2001, the first "bluetooth" headset was released, allowing the user to actually speak on a cellular telephone without holding the damned thing to his ear.<br /><br />Cellular technology is no longer its own technology...it's simply a small piece in a larger unit that we now call iPhones, Androids, and Blackberries.<br /><br />Many American families have absolutely no need for "land line" telephones due to the cost-effectiveness and pervasiveness of mobile phones, but advancements are still made to said land lines.<br /><br />Commonly, people consider advancements in technology to be improvements to life. Things get smaller, cheaper, smarter, faster, and more available. Technology allows professionals to be more "plugged in." But there is always a side effect.<br /><br />In the 1950s people were compelled to answer their phone to know who was calling. People were <b>forced</b> to deal with salespeople or talk to that pesky mother in law that has nothing but evil to speak. They had to confront those annoyances head on, and I guarantee that lessons were learned in the process. Today I don't need to move a muscle to know who is calling. I don't even need to move my eyeballs. I barely have to pause my DVR to read the name and number of the person calling which is now displayed on the freaking television screen that I can't peel myself away from, courtesy of AT&T U-Verse. If my eyeballs are too tired then I need but listen to the ridiculous "Microsoft Sam"ish voice emanating from my 5-handset 6 GHz landline unit that tells me who is calling. I can literally and completely ignore you without expending a single joul of energy.<br /><br />Is that healthy? No. Is there any bleed-through effect in life? I think so. Just like ignoring your annoying-ass phone call, I find it too easy to ignore those other annoyances in life. We're a lazy people and I'm your chief. Prime offender. I know people that won't answer or return phone calls. <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">"If you want to talk to me, text me.</span></i>" How 'tarded is that?<br /><br />Cell phones and mobile devices have thrown propriety completely out the door. I see people texting and even talking on cell phones during movies. I see <a href="http://woundedpossum.blogspot.com/2009/04/lobot-lame.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Lobots</span></a> wearing bluetooth headsets in church. I see idiots texting behind the wheel. I see women speeding through school zones talking on their phones. I even have kids that play around with iPhone apps during Sunday School lessons, oblivious to the fact that an adult is trying to teach them about baby Jesus. I can't imagine how hard it is to be a teacher in this day and age. These devices have made lazy, disrespectful lamers of kids and adults alike.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1LVDRy2lnqrRFJp6bPe7T0ztYMuhyw_aaUfIAYRwrW0KxfcVQHtq76NwIr6VVuGxTg5Zt9Vyqqa7om_yn21LnDlr8ysa6_jduCz4luC2xOUE9lcSWDtzRgsIvRmWtmVCRAHP9Ibs6TE/s1600/don-t-text-and-drive.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 333px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1LVDRy2lnqrRFJp6bPe7T0ztYMuhyw_aaUfIAYRwrW0KxfcVQHtq76NwIr6VVuGxTg5Zt9Vyqqa7om_yn21LnDlr8ysa6_jduCz4luC2xOUE9lcSWDtzRgsIvRmWtmVCRAHP9Ibs6TE/s400/don-t-text-and-drive.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509061618855078658" /></a><br />Technology has made it all-too-easy to avoid building real relationships. We are becoming robotic. In my last job I was able to manage accounts as a salesperson without ever having to meet or speak to someone. From initial contact to RFP to completed sale to daily management, I could handle everything from a Blackberry without even using it is a phone. Is that a good way to build a relationship?<br /><br />So, in a personal effort to <b>DO</b> more and <b>CRY</b> less, I'm going to take the following action:<br /><br />- I will answer the phone when it rings, regardless of who is calling.<br />- I will make an effort to not look at Caller ID or listen to Sam.<br />- I will leave the phone in the kitchen and go to it when it rings.<br /><br />Will this instantly make me a die-hard go-getter in life? Probably not. Will it make me less of a lazy sofa-dweller? I sure as hell hope so. Those stairs are murder.Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-59628954554002119802010-08-19T14:26:00.008-06:002010-08-19T15:09:21.476-06:00Back in the Saddle Again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbnRsUNgpbFhnf2PJl3FYaF53d2RXjuCRhZwAx1ejsGKMh9BbZVE1eGFggula_cBg4oZA_LCjN3wfQt4DeSb5-niyk907prMq7p7akN0qODql_PdspJi1VwMHL1sqQ1IpSJ-PLHbePEnI/s1600/aerosmith.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbnRsUNgpbFhnf2PJl3FYaF53d2RXjuCRhZwAx1ejsGKMh9BbZVE1eGFggula_cBg4oZA_LCjN3wfQt4DeSb5-niyk907prMq7p7akN0qODql_PdspJi1VwMHL1sqQ1IpSJ-PLHbePEnI/s200/aerosmith.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507224636887440114" /></a>I bought an Aerosmith CD when I was 15 years old at the behest of a youth leader I had named Doug Havens. I had and have always admired Doug and he was the first person I ever knew whose passion poured out of him like liquid hot magma when he talked about music. It was an early compilation of "greatest hits" with standards like "Walk This Way", "Dream On", and "Sweet Emotion." The real gem on that album was a track called <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YUIQSy2_0Dg&feature=search">"Kings and Queens."</a> And there was one track that was utter rubbish called "Back in the Saddle Again." Unfortunate as it may be, that's the song that is permalooping in my head right now as I write this post. It's been a long time since I've written, but I'm determined to be back in the saddle again. I'm committing to write at least one post per week. And in my 30-something wisdom I've discovered that I really dislike Aerosmith. Sorry Doug.<br /><br />To catch up, here are 10 things I've thought about the past few months....blitzkrieg style:<br /><br />1) Prop 8 was overturned in California. I'm a conservative former Utahn who belongs to a strict Christian faith whose stance is clear and firm on the matter. But I have friends that I love very much and it is very important to me that they are afforded the same rights, freedoms, and understanding as a committed gay couple that Sherri and I likely take for granted as married folk. The rest is semantics. Openness, tolerance, and education never hurt anyone and I don't understand why we fear it.<br /><br />2) The most effective tool for educating against (or curing) intolerance is watching and re-watching West Side Story. We learn that hatred and misunderstanding can easily be defeated with Sondheim lyrics and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMBtrZE9ZBM&feature=search">Jerome Robbins choreography.</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65i7XTClCf9D9lZvY26Ni8OEZnVlKaE6YStlLtPp8f9OKyUWCcPc35g7FHOJQ0NFI5xYCHLpPB8jglCbGdj4H0I__84kcYT7IvJRhqUUGAEmw5PXr0rPPYZ2kZ0k9faqkEgJ6NrJmo-I/s1600/Favre.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 140px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65i7XTClCf9D9lZvY26Ni8OEZnVlKaE6YStlLtPp8f9OKyUWCcPc35g7FHOJQ0NFI5xYCHLpPB8jglCbGdj4H0I__84kcYT7IvJRhqUUGAEmw5PXr0rPPYZ2kZ0k9faqkEgJ6NrJmo-I/s200/Favre.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507225187322398786" /></a>3) Brett Favre finally retired. Buuuahahahaha! I'll believe that when I see, nay <b>FEEL</b>, his stone cold corpse in his coffin. Even then I'd say there's a 70% chance that he'll rise from the dead to demand his starting position back because death, much like life, just isn't the same without football. But hey...he's not MY freaking problem anymore. When he wore green <a href="http://woundedpossum.blogspot.com/2008/03/my-hero-retires.html">he was a hero of mine</a>, and I'm sure he will be again someday. But as long as he wears purple he is the enemy and I wish him nothing but pain and sorrow.<br /><br />4) I'm not designed to live alone. Sherri and the kids flew the coop to Utah for a 4-week vacation with friends and family and I joined them for the final 10 days, but there were 18 days when I was home alone. At first I was stoked. I just knew that the first few days would be bachelor heaven where I could consume all the wife-disapproved food, beverages, and movies I ever wanted. In reality it was a nightmare. The first night I started talking to myself while preparing my nachos. I realized I was in trouble when I actually <b>answered</b> myself. I did nothing productive and blew through 4 bags of tortilla chips, 20 avocados, 5 rotisserie chickens, and an entire block of cheese in the blink of an eye. I missed my fam.<br /><br />5) Texas is home. While I enjoyed my time in Utah and loved seeing my friends and family, I was not devastated to leave.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiN5VNoFDxYIolkEVdl6RqHBMIVQ9TE5A9_XhHz-LpAonTmM2BPKZJw3kRFQSK9gIk8EUREhH1PoDac7Uyh1q9eBucAKykjmEyPBJPaP5ne0RZntufhLPvRMmWk6k-B6pNalPYfiFHQTY/s1600/weatherman.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiN5VNoFDxYIolkEVdl6RqHBMIVQ9TE5A9_XhHz-LpAonTmM2BPKZJw3kRFQSK9gIk8EUREhH1PoDac7Uyh1q9eBucAKykjmEyPBJPaP5ne0RZntufhLPvRMmWk6k-B6pNalPYfiFHQTY/s200/weatherman.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507225681222853410" /></a>6) "Bachelor Pad" is great television. Finally we have an honest portrayal of Bachelorette and Bachelor rejects. It exposes the stupidity, deceit, vanity, insecurity, and general ridiculousness that The Bachelor sweeps under the rug in an effort to make us believe in the "legitimate" prospect of finding love on the show. And as far as I'm concerned, Weatherman should have his own show.<br /><br />7) Reality TV talent competitions learned a lesson with Sanjaya from his season on American Idol. If you believe the producers of billion dollar shows like AI, SYTYCD, and AGT truly allow America to choose its favorite contestants to advance then I'm sending Tommy to hit you in the head with a tack hammer because <b>YOU ARE A RETARD</b>. These shows are big business. Viewership is king. Lineups are carefully selected and protected to secure key demographics. Winners are chosen by producers, not voted for by you and me in our living rooms.<br /><br />8) Dr. Laura is throwing in the towel after who-knows-how-many centuries of verbally abusing people on the radio. Now I think the good doctor has some fine ideas and some wonderful advice, especially for relationships, but her no-nonsense delivery of said advice is a poorly-constructed shill for her true sadistic need to flog people over public radio. Memo to Laura: you can NOT drop an N-Bomb on the radio. You certainly can't do it multiple times in the same segment. You will get crucified every time. And please don't say that by leaving you are exercising your first amendment rights to free speech. How about an innate commitment to common freaking sense. If you drop that bomb on the air there <b>will</b> be outcries of hate, there <b>will</b> be offense, and there <b>will</b> be consequences. There are some terms that even the constitution can't protect against, and "ni**er" is one of them. Just don't say it. Good riddance.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixHWHXOEHCK_KNnn3370YIRIg0a66wJ1FQ2MVJKqO3gq4VCFhDgIioXH9WPHCJWbC1BxaVoWnBoKTywpDNHXD1YFM3I_JPVerYVs2lLwVVS7sK6TFSJQD01W5-hxcR8s6UB1dhmKjj7oI/s1600/miranda.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixHWHXOEHCK_KNnn3370YIRIg0a66wJ1FQ2MVJKqO3gq4VCFhDgIioXH9WPHCJWbC1BxaVoWnBoKTywpDNHXD1YFM3I_JPVerYVs2lLwVVS7sK6TFSJQD01W5-hxcR8s6UB1dhmKjj7oI/s200/miranda.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507226309546108706" /></a>9) Firefly was a brilliant TV series. It is a crime that it was cancelled after a single season. At least we got Nathan Fillion from it. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NN3eBvZvUXk&feature=search">"Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-long Blog"</a> alone is worth the Firefly sacrifice I guess.<br /><br />10) Did you know that the little sprite from iCarly makes $180k per episode? She's like 10, and she rakes in more dough in 30 minutes than I can sweat for in years. It's appropriate though. That show is brilliant. It's like Glee for kids.<br /><br />That does it for now. I've already got an idea for my next post, so stay tuned. I'm back in the saddle again. Sans leopard print jumpsuit.Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-91240997839184100662010-05-12T18:11:00.006-06:002010-05-12T18:33:36.381-06:00Hailstorm - House Band of Valhalla<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC6600;">And somewhere…in some mead hall in the highest citadel of Asgard, the great Odin smiled.</span></b></div><br />Three years ago <a href="http://woundedpossum.blogspot.com/2008/07/mid-life-crisis-at-30.html">I bought a drum set.</a> I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps it was my mini-midlife crisis splurge. Maybe I was subconsciously angry with my wife and thought I’d exact my revenge through assaults of thundering sonic blasts. Or maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t quite yet given up that pipe dream of being a rock star.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJHWvsIHH8vBBKp_oaFdsXEIojF_ja2MejEWk50bP8DXwJho97YgqobTGNZ2pfDV1VvQQrSKuaQv53IdIZp8OzQVtg1uIdRAQdcPtmwUexy-2OOC1Fdv1OnGyqM2Dza-eBGQoDCp43cU8/s1600/Hailstorm+Groupie.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJHWvsIHH8vBBKp_oaFdsXEIojF_ja2MejEWk50bP8DXwJho97YgqobTGNZ2pfDV1VvQQrSKuaQv53IdIZp8OzQVtg1uIdRAQdcPtmwUexy-2OOC1Fdv1OnGyqM2Dza-eBGQoDCp43cU8/s320/Hailstorm+Groupie.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470541437652723586" /></a>When I moved to Texas I had a fleeting encounter with reality. “What the <b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#990000;">hell</span></i></b> am I going to do with a drum set in <b>TEXAS</b>?!” I didn’t know anyone here to jam with. I couldn’t fit it on the moving truck. And I doubted there would be a place for it in my new home. My wife loathed the thing and I could really use some “points” since I was displacing her from all that she held dear. I allowed my heart to be reasoned by my head and I quickly sold it for peanuts.<br /><br />Weeks into my stay in Texas I was introduced to <a href="http://acrblog.tumblr.com/">Jayd</a>…a dude that shares my passion for sonic bliss and puts me to shame in knowledge of the note. He plays guitar. Then I meet Josh…another music fan. He plays anything that can make sound. Next is Steve, another guy cut from the proper musical cloth that is also quickly mastering the bass. Then Barry….guitar. And Randy….guitar and wicked vocals. All that was missing was a drummer. <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">CURSE YOU, HEAD!</span></b> I should always follow my freaking overly sensitive bleeding heart.<br /><br />Sometime in April, Jayd was approached to put a band together for a church activity. It was the second “Swapapalooza” festival and would be “Hailstorm’s” second time taking the stage as musical entertainment. Let me expound a bit on those two terms:<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;"><b>“Swapapalooza”</b></span> is a neighborhood swap. Thanks to overly creative minds like my friend and colleague Ben Martin’s, some further clarity is required here. There is no fish bowl at the door with a note taped to it with the word "KEYS" scrawled on the note. No random-wild-unabashed-monkeysex going on at THIS church function. Rather, this swap is more like a giant free garage sale or swap meet. Thanks to yet another friend and colleague, Roger Church, the details of the event require some delicate explanation. For instance, <i>“Swapapalooza is where people in the neighborhood bring all their used unwanted crap to the event and people can trade for other people’s used unwanted crap, saving a trip to Good Will.”</i> After hearing that explanation, Roger’s suggestion was to change the title from “Swapapalooza” to <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">"S</span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">crew the Needy."</span></b> A better explanation would have been, <i>“Swapapalooza is an opportunity for local families and children to exchange gently used necessities or longed-for luxuries that they would otherwise be unable to justify.”</i> I digress.<br /><br /><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC6600;">“Hailstorm”</span></b> is the name of the band, thus titled since its debut came on the heels of the gnarly Austin hail storm of last year.<br /><br />Jayd obliged and came to me, asking if I would be willing to pound the skins for the band. But alas, I had no drum set. <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC0000;">Freaking head.</span></b> Incredibly, Josh had been in negotiations to trade some gear for a drum set and we were simply days from having the kit in hand. We started to noodle through ideas for a setlist, and when the kit arrived we met to jam.<br /><br />It was quite remarkable how quickly we gelled. I felt a bit overwhelmed, not having an instrument at home to practice on, but I listened to the songs and imagined in my head what it would be like to play them. After 5 rehearsals, Hailstorm was ready to take the stage.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">We fully embraced the Norse feel of the band’s name and appropriately adopted rad stage names. Ranvald, Magnus, Thor, Stiv, Lars, and Juror #5. Jayd and I designed a logo and we all made tee shirts for the gig. Some of our groupies wore similar tees.</div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ZSlt-4ttOlewKkP_tK9EuQU2OA1aHVuZsyR0kXU9K3DbPQHKqWQrNAY3rTsLrAPR0dVBxIlnkQiqAqaVl9cKw6xxUAXckzfLmUDz9juLDy4ppqio8S_ADSsEDFsM3LpIYuFrSzW-6Og/s1600/Hailstorm2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ZSlt-4ttOlewKkP_tK9EuQU2OA1aHVuZsyR0kXU9K3DbPQHKqWQrNAY3rTsLrAPR0dVBxIlnkQiqAqaVl9cKw6xxUAXckzfLmUDz9juLDy4ppqio8S_ADSsEDFsM3LpIYuFrSzW-6Og/s400/Hailstorm2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470542094604330610" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663333;">I’ve never had more fun in my entire life.</span></b></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixepb0st0kw-C3ERWFEpxTVVkNlmkoUgTzWWdKctw7uTM418DVNYGuQROV1Gb4SRrEC9eXbOjeH9pqG_88yNB8gok6cLIU43Cg6DjdVcdMSE6axHL-fzDD3Pjmn4oxArcZFVFxogQjnJE/s1600/Hailstorm.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixepb0st0kw-C3ERWFEpxTVVkNlmkoUgTzWWdKctw7uTM418DVNYGuQROV1Gb4SRrEC9eXbOjeH9pqG_88yNB8gok6cLIU43Cg6DjdVcdMSE6axHL-fzDD3Pjmn4oxArcZFVFxogQjnJE/s400/Hailstorm.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470542408336992514" /></a><br />This experience was less about sound and more about style. We never took ourselves seriously but were all proud with what we accomplished. We played 15 songs in our set, covering everything from Beatles to Weezer to Michael Jackson.<br /><br /><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=11200925&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=11200925&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/11200925">Let's Go</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user1594308">Tyler Pearson</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</p><br />The crowd and groupies loved it and I’m confident that Hailstorm will once again be called upon to gently rock the house, sending praises to Tyr and to Thor and to Loki. Odin the wise shall smile once again.Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-20112422346727484392010-04-03T10:09:00.010-06:002010-04-03T13:55:41.304-06:00Duggars and Degeneri and Dogs. Oh my....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOW0kLV_csIOR626JxUQTpvkC32MBrsgMyIK86D1-cgZ9nY_JX0Xpk2Cbi6mc9u2pNRbIHNAxHjWyDpF0CBGBtQrwkNnlGXkNVzB-CBCtlEIxplWqUc-wpZ3p03bgUX3D9k0sCGoToV8U/s1600/Duggars.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOW0kLV_csIOR626JxUQTpvkC32MBrsgMyIK86D1-cgZ9nY_JX0Xpk2Cbi6mc9u2pNRbIHNAxHjWyDpF0CBGBtQrwkNnlGXkNVzB-CBCtlEIxplWqUc-wpZ3p03bgUX3D9k0sCGoToV8U/s320/Duggars.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456000048097214482" /></a>Sherri wants to be a Duggar. A <i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#660000;">what</span></b></i>, you ask? A Duggar can be any one of the 21 stars of the hit TLC program “19 Kinds and Counting” featuring the Duggar Family. There’s Jim Bob and Michelle, then a whole slew of kids named J____. Josie, Joe Jack, Jarvis, Jezebel, Jiminy Cricket, etc. I hate the show. I detest it. Since I love my wife (and value my life) I won’t share my full opinion with you, other than to say that I wish they’d stop squeezing out kids and start acting responsibly. When your mindless procreation starts producing 1 lb. babies it’s time to stop. And they’re running out of J names. I’m starting a petition to change the name of the show to “19 Kids and Satisfied.”<br /><br />I want to be a Chapman. Have you seen “Dog the Bounty Hunter?” This dude is like a bastardized hybrid of Geronimo and Thor. “Dog” Duane Chapman, together with his team, busts fugitives that jump their bond or fail to appear in court in the states of Hawaii and Colorado. The cat is bizarre. He is a former soldier for a motorcycle gang who was convicted on a murder 1 charge in his early 20s. After doing two years, he turned to the life of bail bondsman and has been wtfpwning bad guys’ souls ever since.<br /><br />I love the show and the guy, faults notwithstanding. First off he smokes 6 packs of cigarettes per day. Let’s do some math. There are 20 cigarettes in a pack. That’s 120 cigarettes a day. Let’s assume he’s an ambitious man and is awake from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. That is 16 hours per day where he could potentially be smoking. There are 60 minutes in an hour, so he is awake 840 minutes per day. The number of minutes awake divided by the number of cigarettes available in six packs is seven. Dog Chapman smokes one cigarette every 7 minutes for 14 hours straight. Every day. No wonder his skin is bright freaking red. The smoke has got to be trying to escape through the pores of his skin.<br /><br />More math. A pack of brand name cigarettes in Austin is about $6.95 per pack. Hawaii is generally more expensive than anywhere else on the planet, so let’s bump that to $7.50 including sales tax. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhURyHdgsYGEQH-z7OSTSCsTJPycD_JEP5sUM7QMDIYN_67S41Q1ReAuILUesuxJztOxYCxmyJ9rys4vQIxaVEg48SxMhGCbvvlv_R5Li7O6h7R5g-hoE9WJPR4PYn0gcMJLdgCd2Z5Q3Q/s1600/Dog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 93px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhURyHdgsYGEQH-z7OSTSCsTJPycD_JEP5sUM7QMDIYN_67S41Q1ReAuILUesuxJztOxYCxmyJ9rys4vQIxaVEg48SxMhGCbvvlv_R5Li7O6h7R5g-hoE9WJPR4PYn0gcMJLdgCd2Z5Q3Q/s320/Dog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455998671045313746" /></a>Six packs per day at $7.50 per pack is $45 per day, $315 per week, $1260 per month. No wonder Dog is so ferocious when hunting down fugitives. He’s got an entire mortgage caught up in poison that he huffs into his lungs.<br /><br />But I can look past the chimney and lobster-red skin. Behind those rad Oakleys is a soft, compassionate, trusting dude that genuinely cares about the people he puts in jail. “Find ‘em and Fix ‘em” is his motto. He and his team regularly pray together in a circle before and/or after a hunt, and I like that. He is also an obvious family man. His interactions with his wife and kids are sweet and entirely genuine. He had one major screw up with the racial slur thing, but he owned it and apologized like a true man. No written statements, no publicists. Just Dog on camera humbly begging the forgiveness of an entire racial community at every opportunity. He actually met with leaders of that community and received their blessing to keep his show on the air.<br /><br />The characters are compelling and strong, the message is clear and concise, and there’s nothing more entertaining than watching a 5’8” bulldog of a Norse Cherokee kicking doors down with 4” heeled, gold-capped boots, screaming <i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000099;">“on the floor mother &%$ker!”</span></b></i><br /><br />American Idol is slipping. Simon Cowell looks incredibly annoyed, clearly showing that he wants off the show. All three judges that matter are constantly contradicting themselves, telling the contestants to be original and inventive, yet crucifying them when they try. Degeneres has NO business giving any criticism on anything remotely related to music. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFaauiGePLY2iyJBH_kdPQF_UkSJxPa4ixFPM4FIrV3ZeL3ZNTMsXh_4opYP8IrIw2DZ6EjtunnPsk6sO_Pispys_yjoQWv6Mq9vOhYo_EDa6GJgkuhv8JK0o7kic4IZ1Qw1cC6zugzl0/s1600/Idol.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFaauiGePLY2iyJBH_kdPQF_UkSJxPa4ixFPM4FIrV3ZeL3ZNTMsXh_4opYP8IrIw2DZ6EjtunnPsk6sO_Pispys_yjoQWv6Mq9vOhYo_EDa6GJgkuhv8JK0o7kic4IZ1Qw1cC6zugzl0/s200/Idol.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455999713360253538" /></a>Memo to Ellen: If you want to comment on their hair, or their shoes, or their showmanship, then please…by all means, do. But in all matters of the sonic wave, you need to stfu and keep your unqualified opinions to yourself. Until you establish your merit in that industry you should just sit there and be funny. You are to AI what Dennis Miller was to MNF…a sideshow. A distraction. A clown to failingly entertain during awkward silences after qualified men speak. And you’re not doing enough of that, either. Stop trying to be serious. No one takes you seriously. Start being funny.<br /><br />And what the hell happened to Seacrest? He used to walk that thin line between geekily awkward and refreshingly cool. Now he’s neither. His jokes are bad and his mannerisms are odd. Back to the radio you go son. I say we bring back the Dunkleman, or give the gig to Conan. He’s probably bored.Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-35818777227855375932010-02-20T10:22:00.009-07:002010-02-20T10:47:27.638-07:00Bruce Lee vs. Eazy E<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVQTukVVUERuWswWFxWba3tuAF3l54I9wnCb0Wuf4KlrKSw1CvsMSdcIG1NgxhHJ48HGuTAU_G9pGKZr8YRfGJndhNHwQ4tn5M1uKhneyBuVVdW7KxQNmcTO51ypp6eBwvSa4_YLoIuWs/s1600-h/michael_bolton1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVQTukVVUERuWswWFxWba3tuAF3l54I9wnCb0Wuf4KlrKSw1CvsMSdcIG1NgxhHJ48HGuTAU_G9pGKZr8YRfGJndhNHwQ4tn5M1uKhneyBuVVdW7KxQNmcTO51ypp6eBwvSa4_YLoIuWs/s320/michael_bolton1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440380965690427202" /></a>Did you ever see Office Space? It’s a classic film of wit and irony. One of my favorite characters is that of Michael Bolton…an IT guy at Initech that had the misfortune of being named, well, ...Michael Bolton. The real irony is that he loves hard core gangster rap music. A snow white nerdy IT guy named Michael Bolton that jams Ghetto Rap in his ride. I feel compelled to cut in some Office Space dialogue:<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663300;"><b>Samir:</b> No one in this country can ever pronounce my name right. It's not that hard: Na-ee-ana-jaad. Nayanajaad.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333300;"><b>Michael Bolton:</b> Yeah, well at least your name isn't Michael Bolton.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663300;"><b>Samir:</b> You know there's nothing wrong with that name.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333300;"><b>Michael Bolton:</b> There <b>was</b> nothing wrong with it... until that no-talent ass clown became famous and started winning Grammys.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663300;"><b>Samir:</b> Hmm... well why don't you just go by Mike instead of Michael?</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333300;"><b>Michael Bolton:</b> No way! Why should I change? <b>He's</b> the one who sucks.</span><br /><br />My own personal irony is that I was, once upon a time, that guy. The snow white nerdy/preppie kid rocking a white IZOD sweater with my cuordoroy shorts, listening to Dre in my car.<br /><br />I went through a rap phase. I’m not sure if I really ever bought into it. I certainly never looked like it, but that’s largely because I detest people that dress their scene and kind of always have. I tried it to an extent in my Grateful Dead days, but I always felt like I was betraying myself. There’s just simply no need for the marriage of image and music. Anyhow, I thumped with the best of ‘em. And this was pre-“hip hop.” This was RAP baby.<br /><br />So the question I ask myself today is this. Did I dig rap because my friends did and I wanted to fit in or did I genuinely like it? And what does “like it” mean? It’s not necessarily musical. I suppose it’s lyrically intricate but I wouldn’t call it lyrically “pleasing.” Ultimately I think that I like(d) rap because of the emotional effect that it has on my soul. It’s the only redeeming quality that I can find. It made me “feel” something. What I felt was generally angry or intense or rebellious, but teenagers need that kind of thing. The follow-up question is whether or not the emotional response is right or wrong, good or bad.<br /><br />I was a junior in high school and right in the thick of my rap phase. Cypress Hill, Snoop, Dr. Dre, and Eazy E were taking turns in rotation in my Discman. I knew my parents (staunch and strict) wouldn’t approve of the music (which I guess answers question #2 in a sense) so I hid the CDs in a cupboard in my bedroom. My sleuthy mother naturally found them and took me to task.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;">“Ty, what are these CDs that say ‘Explicit Lyrics?’”</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993300;">“Oh, uh yeah, mom *ahem* those are Lance’s. I’m just holding them for him.”</span><br /><b>*soul-probing stare through my eyes with her Manson lamps*</b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;">“I want them out of my house right now. Take them to Lance’s house and I don’t ever want to see them again. Does Lance’s mother know he listens to that? Is Lance a good kid? Does Lance do drugs? Does Lance believe in Jesus?”</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#993399;"><br /></span>Talk about your all-time under-the-bus-chuckings. Sorry Hud.<br /><br />So, I took them back to Lance’s…i.e. a much better, impossibly hard to find hiding place in my room.<br /><br />It was a Friday afternoon and my fingernails had been bitten down to bleeders. It was parent-teacher conference. I was toast and I knew it. This time, my old man was going…and he was taking me with him. I had to deal with the embarrassment of having all those other parents there sans kids staring at me like a leprous midget at a Lakers tryout. That’s in addition to the agony of sitting through Mr. Player telling my dad that he hasn’t seen me in his class for 10 days or Duignan hadn’t seen an assignment turned in all quarter. I was hosed. The minutes seemed like hours….the hours, years. I was so distracted (still biting my nails) that I failed to notice my old man slip a CD in his Clarion system as we pulled out of the driveway.<br /><br />At first I didn’t recognize the low bass of Eazy-E’s <i>“Real Mutha__ckin’ Gs”</i> piping through dad’s surprisingly strong stock speakers at unnaturally high volume. I did, however, catch on when I heard Eazy’s harsh whisper of <i>“Ahhhhhh, real mutha__ckin’ Gs.”</i> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7gRMqh8WR5nvhPNXngh5gk3tssI4VOGyTrrvf5VP0QcyAEQNj3SAcvLWJ5TC_Z002fLaZcbImKRUGbdY07qr7RRBWCP8qiKM4YfKx8Bt5Eyjk6gN0fIRULIQOPYlHDZ8r7L8ASWlCTBg/s1600-h/BruceLee.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 186px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7gRMqh8WR5nvhPNXngh5gk3tssI4VOGyTrrvf5VP0QcyAEQNj3SAcvLWJ5TC_Z002fLaZcbImKRUGbdY07qr7RRBWCP8qiKM4YfKx8Bt5Eyjk6gN0fIRULIQOPYlHDZ8r7L8ASWlCTBg/s200/BruceLee.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440382354862135106" /></a>My hand, quick as lightning, shot for the eject button. My old man, faster than lightning, slapped my hand away. I tried again. My hand, again, was knocked harmlessly away. My father was Bruce-freaking-Lee, instinctually blocking my attempts to get at that eject button as if he saw my moves long before I even thought of them, one after the other.<br /><br />By now we were at the first verse,<i> “Hey yo docta’ here’s another proper track and it’s phat, watch the sniper…time to pay the piper…”</i> My spirit sunk. Dad, however, slid back in his seat like an OG homie, body cocked a bit to the side with his left wrist casually on the wheel, bobbing his head along with the beat, thwarting my maneuvers for the eject button with his other hand like Neo. I was fully panic-stricken at this point. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#990000;">“Don’t touch that button, beotch. This is good $hiz!”</span> We drove along, bumping The Eaze for at least 2 minutes…dad bangin’ in the drivers seat. I was crying at this point. I tried one last time to get the disc out of the player and this time he let me pass his guard, pulling the car over as I took the disc and broke it in half. Silently he handed me the other discs that my bloodhound mother had unearthed. I snapped each of them in turn.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999900;">“Ty, what are you doing listening to this music? This is terrible music. It’s offensive and wrong.”</span> I quietly cried. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999900;">“Please stop listening to it. Never bring it into our home again. Deal?”</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#336666;">“Deal”</span>, I squeaked. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999900;">“Ok. Let’s go to your school.”</span><br /><br />Now parent teacher conference didn’t seem like such a big deal. It was trivial when compared to bumping Eazy E together with your sainted father. When we returned from the meetings, he and my mother went through all of my CDs and confiscated those that they thought had the remotest potential of being “evil.” To their credit, they previewed each of them and actually returned a few. That said, I still lost copies of “Porno for Pyros” (I’m sure they didn’t want me mixed up in either of those two things) and my “Meat Puppets – Too High to Die” album, which was totally lame because it was the furthest thing from offensive.<br /><br />Naturally, I bought replacement copies of all those discs and still own them today.<br /><br />I guess that if I had to be completely honest with myself, true to my soul, I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye and say that Eazy E or Dre or Snoop or Cypress Hill is good to listen to. It’s probably offensive to the spirit and creates negative energy. I generally try to steer clear of complete and total honesty with self though. I dig the spice of life and brutal personal honesty creates blandness. It’s not an ignorance is bliss thing. It’s more of a “drink a Pepsi and try not to think about it” thing. Without rap, we’d have never been given Public Enemy’s “Fear of a Black Planet” and Vanilla’s “To the Extreme” which are both works of poetic genius. Art gets a free pass. Usually.<br /><br />But most importantly, I need to tap into my inner Michael Bolton from time to time.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWns6vhGSNLdkmigzmEKK-3TTX9tDpa5K9Ns-I9rt89ORTheR_pPNu7gA2_1QQQn90kGEJewCfUwN8cATDl4tKJ2miVb0Mt7z-SIjf3aKSasw8icLdu65gzNuq0Xwa14T7DcFFR7XAj4/s1600-h/EazyE.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 241px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWns6vhGSNLdkmigzmEKK-3TTX9tDpa5K9Ns-I9rt89ORTheR_pPNu7gA2_1QQQn90kGEJewCfUwN8cATDl4tKJ2miVb0Mt7z-SIjf3aKSasw8icLdu65gzNuq0Xwa14T7DcFFR7XAj4/s320/EazyE.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440382749206314658" /></a>Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-91454023655307119702010-01-31T23:08:00.004-07:002010-01-31T23:49:07.541-07:00"Lester" Changed My Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtg9Hq3MWjSz2TETnST3IkhqPEL49WDvxAnpTRyxkCGZB2g4HjnC9Vei254dD0q_WSyzjjJB47QyhfGQvInagI_lWw53ICnu_TOuaDKWioNZHu2gcmsDGWFP2uJ4KK0v2QjIWP89Kqh6I/s1600-h/shel.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtg9Hq3MWjSz2TETnST3IkhqPEL49WDvxAnpTRyxkCGZB2g4HjnC9Vei254dD0q_WSyzjjJB47QyhfGQvInagI_lWw53ICnu_TOuaDKWioNZHu2gcmsDGWFP2uJ4KK0v2QjIWP89Kqh6I/s320/shel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433163219324011090" /></a>I'm a fan of good literature. Nothing fluxes my capacitor like a well-written essay, clever poem, or insightful novel. I've read a few things in my short tenure on earth that have changed my life. The first was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Of_mice_and_men">"Of Mice and Men"</a> which I read when I was 13. I cried and cried and cried some more. The next was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jonathan_Livingston_Seagull">"Jonathan Livingston Seagull"</a> which I read when I was 18. There have been a few things I've picked up over the years that have impacted me for better or worse, unless you subscribe to the "there's no such thing as a bad experience" ideology, which I typically do. Unless the experience is ultra-painful. I recently read <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Road">"The Road"</a> by Cormac McCarthy which will haunt me for the rest of my life. I'd still recommend it to anyone and everyone.<br /><br />But tonight I had the absolute life-altering pleasure of reading Shel Silverstein to my boys before bed. I love this author. He gave us <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Giving_Tree">"The Giving Tree"</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Uncle-Shelbys-ABZ-Book-Primer/dp/067121148X">"Uncle Shelby's ABZs"</a>, which is likely the sharpest, most disturbed satire ever written. But tonight, while reading from<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Where_the_Sidewalk_Ends_(book)"> "Where the Sidewalk Ends"</a> I stumbled across "Lester."<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663300;"><b>Lester</b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663300;">, by </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663300;"><b>Shel Silverstein</b></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#663300;"><br /><br />Lester was given a magic wish<br />By the goblin who lives in the banyan tree,<br />And with his wish he wished for two more wishes-<br />So now instead of just one wish, he cleverly had three.<br />And with each one of these<br />He simply wished for three more wishes,<br />Which gave him three old wishes, plus nine new.<br />And with each of these twelve<br />He slyly wished for three more wishes,<br />Which added up to forty-six -- or is it fifty-two?<br />Well anyway, he used each wish<br />To wish for wishes 'til he had<br />Five billion, seven million, eighteen thousand thirty-four.<br />And then he spread them on the ground<br />And clapped his hands and danced around<br />And skipped and sang, and then sat down<br />And wished for more.<br />And more...and more...they multiplied<br />While other people smiled and cried<br />And loved and reached and touched and felt.<br />Lester sat amid his wealth<br />Stacked mountain-high like stacks of gold,<br />Sat and counted -- and grew old.<br />And then one Thursday night they found him<br />Dead -- with his wishes piled around him.<br />And they counted the lot and found that not<br />A single one was missing.<br />All shiny and new -- here, take a few<br />And think of Lester as you do.<br />In a world of apples and kisses and shoes<br />He wasted his wishes on wishing.<br /></span><br />Ladies and gents, don't be a Lester. I know too many of them. There are Lesters that I love very much. I find it fascinating that Silverstein uses apples, kisses, and shoes to represent important things that were missed in Lester's world. On the surface they seem so simple, but how profound they are! I'll take a good, sweet, crisp apple over a Texas T-Bone any day. And there is nothing lovelier than daddy kisses from my children.<br /><br />Wishes, to me, are symbolic as well. How many of us focus so much energy on our work, school, or other projects that we fail to bask in the glow of life? I believe the story here is also partly that we should avoid things that dominate our time, control our thoughts, and overpoweringly influence our decisions. There is more than one dimension...don't be one-dimensional. As the great <a href="http://www.harrychapin.com/music/flowers.shtml">Harry Chapin sang</a>, <i>"There are so many colors in the rainbow, so many colors in the morning sun, so many colors in the flower, and I see every one."</i><br /><br />Shel Silverstein, you were the ultimate dreamer. An icon for wayward-thinking fools and bards like me. Thank you for sharing your mind.Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-52044199325592580332010-01-28T21:45:00.002-07:002010-01-29T10:35:00.049-07:00"Latoya", the Craigslist PestMy wife worked for a short period of time as a server at <a href="http://www.joemorleys.com/">Joe Morley’s BBQ</a> in Salt Lake City. She enjoyed it for the most part and came away from it with a new-found respect and sympathy for servers everywhere. She now insists on tipping well for fine service. She also, however, has zero tolerance for BAD service and has no problem speaking to a manager or tipping accordingly.<br /><br />Similarly, I have a soft spot for door-to-door salespeople and even telemarketers. Are they annoying? Lord yes. Would the world be better off without them? I think so. Would I like to tell them to go die in a fire when they call at 9:00 at night when Maidie is screaming with an ear infection and the boys are fighting bed time, or the doorbell rings at 11:00 on a Saturday morning when I actually get some time to be with the fam? <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHm7_9FQco07dSA7cKvPolUBUFLTWh-9tfbhb35Nj6WhZ26WZ_xV-B2u8YE8E4BAHWZ11fr6YXRruyPqJqqBqeu0lr5v59jqWs3-xwq2tMPgmMAGBbfH4mE8WC2izNkPUzlj0lsPEsleQ/s1600-h/shamwow.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 312px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHm7_9FQco07dSA7cKvPolUBUFLTWh-9tfbhb35Nj6WhZ26WZ_xV-B2u8YE8E4BAHWZ11fr6YXRruyPqJqqBqeu0lr5v59jqWs3-xwq2tMPgmMAGBbfH4mE8WC2izNkPUzlj0lsPEsleQ/s320/shamwow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432215613456294802" /></a>You bet your sweet ass I would. But I won’t. At the end of it all, these people are just doing their jobs. I wish they’d have chosen different career paths, but I know what it’s like to talk to a stranger and face the prospect of harsh, cold rejection. So I patiently listen, kindly smile, and politely decline. Until a few weeks ago.<br /><br />It was a Tuesday…the day after we all arrived to Austin to make our new home. The place was a disaster with boxes and furniture strewn every which way. The doorbell rang at about 4:00 and we were greeted by a darling little African American gal with a huge pearly smile and energy visibly crackling all around her. My wife answered the door first, and based on the enthusiastic conversation at the door I assumed it would be a new neighbor welcoming us to the neighborhood. Nope. It was Latoya.<br /><br />I had no idea what she wanted. She wasn’t holding anything in her hand that would suggest she was selling something. In fact, when I came to the door she actually said that Sherri had ordered her for me on Craig’s List. No lie. She must use that one as an ice breaker, but the rim shot was pretty distant and faint with us.<br /><br />She did let us know early on though that she was indeed a sales person. She was quite effective in her speech. She was warm, happy, and eloquent. She looked us both in the eye and held herself with poise and dignity. She let us know that she was part of an inner city organization and she was going door to door trying to better her situation, not through donation but through hard work and dedication. She wanted to avoid the welfare route and preferred to provide for her two babies through more dignified means. I instantly knew that I would probably buy whatever she was selling….if she’d ever get to the point.<br /><br />Before she got there, however, she stopped to ask us how we would rate her so far on a scale from 1 to 10. I instantly recognized it as an interesting method for inserting a hook. This Latoya chick was good. She was in the middle of a lengthy, detailed, well-crafted pitch that would set us up for the kill. I mean, how can I NOT buy this lady’s wares after I’ve given her a full 10 on her presentation?<br /><br />I was growing impatient though. We’d been at the door nearly 5 minutes and I still had no idea what Latoya was pushing. In my 14 years of sales experience (two of which were door to door) I learned that if I didn’t come correct early on in the process I was cooked. So I interrupted her. <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">“Latoya, is it? This is all great information, but I really don’t understand what it is you are doing here.”</span> At this point in time she reached behind her and pulled out a rolled up folder from somewhere. At first I thought it was a magic trick, producing something from thin air, but then I realized it must have been rolled up and stuck in the waist of her jeans.<br /><br />They were magazine subscriptions. I was bombarded with imagery of Orlando Jones in Office Space and the <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/08/17/AR2005081700684.html">Dateline specials</a> warning us about these people. I felt a little betrayed, but I wasn’t ready to pull the plug just yet on Latoya. But before she would show us the magazines she was offering, she insisted on us seeing a multi-page list of people in the neighborhood that had bought from her and had left comments as to how wonderful she was. I was growing tired. I didn’t really want Latoya’s junk anymore.<br /><br />Finally she got around to the magazines. She didn’t carry anything I wanted but did have some kids magazines available…for $40. It was just too much. “Latoya, you’ve done a fine job, but I don’t think there’s anything in there that we would want.”<br /><br />All of a sudden, sweet/kind/poised Latoya got less sweet, kind, and poised.<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"> “Obviously I haven’t done my job sir. This isn’t about magazines. I’m selling myself here, as a person that wants to better her situation for her children.”</span> She suggested I buy the magazines and give them as gifts. Or just throw them away. Suddenly I’m not tired. Now I’m annoyed. <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">“Latoya, you can’t expect people to buy products they don’t want or can’t use simply because they like you.”</span> She was astounded. <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">“It’s not about the magazines sir; it’s about you investing in my future.”</span><br /><br />Look, I’ve sold some shyte products. I was a sales consultant at QWEST…the most unholy and evil organization in the history of commerce. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGQaKVg9_jGbOVg7WtokwlC0Mn8DKEPlW-O-QU6lD5PeNZ3gK4qlAxuxuZrDoT9qkCqgGmxiY-P9nng-3aGFxWYPLoZUkeoHWMEFVM-1bgDoXgGcD7Ie60lYr2rttH-1fPSRTbW7Yaf2Q/s1600-h/qwest.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGQaKVg9_jGbOVg7WtokwlC0Mn8DKEPlW-O-QU6lD5PeNZ3gK4qlAxuxuZrDoT9qkCqgGmxiY-P9nng-3aGFxWYPLoZUkeoHWMEFVM-1bgDoXgGcD7Ie60lYr2rttH-1fPSRTbW7Yaf2Q/s320/qwest.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432214127443410738" border="0" /></a>But I’ve never once asked someone to buy my crap because I’m a likeable guy. I can’t imagine walking into an insurance office and saying, <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">“Folks, it isn’t about the glass. It doesn’t matter that you don’t want it, can’t use it, or you get a better deal elsewhere. It’s about investing in my financial well-being.”</span> They’d laugh in my face and send me out the door…Texas style, at gunpoint.<br /><br />It is the responsibility of a salesperson to <span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153); font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >SELL HER PRODUCTS.</span> If I am handed an ignited lunch sack full of cow dung to sell, then it is my job to sell the features and benefits of flaming bull shit. <span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">“Sir, it can keep you warm if you are stranded on the side of the road in a blizzard.” “Ma’am, this burning sack of crap will keep coyotes away from your children at night.”</span> It was Latoya’s responsibility to address my concerns and resolve them. She could have gone into detail about the product. She could have commented on how Texas cuisine is uber fattening and it’s only a matter of time before I lose my chiseled abs, hence my need for Muscle Madness Magazine or Healthy Living. Or compliment me on my nonexistent fashion sense and suggest I roll with GQ. She could have used humor or flattery. But instead she went to the forget-the-product-and-buy-ME card. I was livid.<br /><br />Latoya, the only differences between you and the guy on the corner of Burnet is that he has the decency to not bother me at home and he’s never stuck a folder in my face that he pulled from the crack of his ass. At least that guy is honest. He’s not holding a sign that says, “Screw the magazines. Invest in my future.” His “Visions of a Cheeseburger” sign is infinitely more inventive and dignified than your lameassedness. Either start selling legitimate products to the public, redesign your magazine scam to be more product-driven, or continue to sell yourself…without the magazines. I suggest 6th street for that.Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-950757083466122471.post-51621215595545047462009-12-05T10:44:00.006-07:002009-12-05T12:28:12.611-07:00Things I Miss (And Don't) About Utah. A List.I was rather surprised at my feelings when my plane touched down last week in Salt Lake City on my trip "home" for Thanksgiving. I didn't feel like I was going home. I felt, rather, that I was visiting family away from home. It gave cause to reflect on why I would feel that way. I've since been doing an inventory on the things I miss, and don't, about Utah:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kE0iS7-iRpVTN_gxP-GFlNj-4oWX09swvodN4NMXw8CuTvoi8gtRqrLqIzhMU3eVT6X7X5maeu2puHSoN7xKWvNTglPTUcZOV7yK0L0zHG-0eZ5iTxpP9inRgy9pRsPNZMQ7BH9kj_I/s1600-h/CampusUtah.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411831545343706562" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 162px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kE0iS7-iRpVTN_gxP-GFlNj-4oWX09swvodN4NMXw8CuTvoi8gtRqrLqIzhMU3eVT6X7X5maeu2puHSoN7xKWvNTglPTUcZOV7yK0L0zHG-0eZ5iTxpP9inRgy9pRsPNZMQ7BH9kj_I/s320/CampusUtah.jpg" border="0" /></a>I miss the mountains. Not only are they beautiful and I wish that I'd spent time in them, but they are also my reference point for knowing where the hell I am at any given time. I could be bludgeoned with a tire iron, hauled into some remote field, and left for dead, and I'd still know exactly where I was, based on my relative position to the mountains. In Austin I have no clue where I am. Ever. If it weren't for my Garmin I'd be lost and starved by now. Incidentally I've named my Garmin "Stella." It makes sense that when she leads me astray or can't acquire satellites that I yell <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1A0p0F_iH8">"STELLLAAAAAAAA!"</a> It's poetic.<br /><br />I miss seasons. In Utah we have four very distinct seasons. Hot dry summers, brisk beautiful autumns, butt cold snowy winters, and breezy lovely springs. In Austin we have insufferably hot summers and eight months of something else.<br /><br />I don't miss shoveling snow.<br /><br />I don't miss the religious separation of classes. This exists whether we understand it or not, whether we choose it or not. On some level, subconscious or conscious, there is a theological and societal wedge placed between the LDS and the non. I have done my best to bridge that gap and dissolve that line, and I consider myself an open-minded believer, but there will always be residual thoughts. "I wonder what that guy sipping the wine at Carver's story is. Was he born Momo? What changed?" In Texas I never <strong>ever</strong> <strong><em>EVER</em></strong> think along those lines. It is refreshing and healthy. I am elated that my kids will have an opportunity to grow up in this environment. I most definitely do not miss the religious zealots that alienate good people based on their beliefs or lack of conviction. Similarly I do not miss the narrow-minded, hard-hearted, jaded folk that form negative feelings and actions for an entire religion based on a handful of bad experiences with said zealots. If I followed that approach and formed opinions based on the way I've been treated outside the Momo-bubble, I'd hate half the free world by now.<br /><br />I miss our monthly dinners and game nights with Spencer and Shane. Lots of laughs, great friends, and I can now braid a scarf with style.<br /><br />I miss having my family and good friends no more than 30 minutes away at any given time. They are support when I'm sad, cheerleaders when I succeed, advisors when I'm conflicted, and always there to love me.<br /><br />To a much lesser degree, however, I feel it important that I am not close to them....for a time. I am counting on this experience of distance being vital to the happiness and closeness of my immediate family. When your cheerleaders, advisors, and supporters are thousands of miles away, you are forced to create new solutions...hopefully within your own immediate family and newfound friends. I really believe this.<br /><br />I don't miss The Holy War.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJogaLceGMFxRS1UzpJCiY8eHgCzUXlna0y5EFz2pJ3UvlTJsR7TgskYB8O_U5AwA6k54dNKfUYj1IqgNVVONItsQiDulgV1DTsQT-FpCUWSZdYt2CJEuCzNo6Q5OjWxKplw0G8R0rrA/s1600-h/Show+Group.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411831880838447842" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 134px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJogaLceGMFxRS1UzpJCiY8eHgCzUXlna0y5EFz2pJ3UvlTJsR7TgskYB8O_U5AwA6k54dNKfUYj1IqgNVVONItsQiDulgV1DTsQT-FpCUWSZdYt2CJEuCzNo6Q5OjWxKplw0G8R0rrA/s200/Show+Group.jpg" border="0" /></a>I miss going to concerts with my short-lived show group. We saw some incredible shows...Wilco and Ray Lamontagne were my highlights. The weekly Gallivan shows were always fun and something to look forward to.<br /><br />I don't miss the crowds at the Gallivan shows. Whether it be the many thousands of preteen girls onsite to catch that one moderately decent song Iron and Wine had on the Twilight soundtrack, or the throngs of drunken frat boys looking for something to do besides shoot pool or watch MMA, that blessed event has gotten completely out of control. Three years ago I'd take my kids and we would dance on the lawn while the bands played. Now you can't even SEE the lawn, let alone sit or dance on it. People are crammed into that space like twitchy sardines too big for their aluminum prison. They either need to start charging at the gate or move venue. Or, my personal favorite, they should have a 10 question survey about the band(s) playing that night at the gate. If you pass with 70% or better then you can go in. Otherwise you fail and are sent to the E Centre to see Poison and Styx.<br /><br />I miss a road and highway system that makes sense. Salt Lake's grid system is brilliantly designed. That's something we take for granted. It might not be the most creative system in the country, but it's sure logical. This Austin system of parralel freeways, tollways, and feeder roads, is a living nightmare.<br /><br />I miss Utah traffic. Comparitively speaking, it is NOT traffic. It's a few cars on a dirt road. Try the parking lot Austinites know as I-35 at 3:00 in the afternoon. It's actually a great time to get some emails done.<br /><br />I don't miss Utah drivers. In SLC, being cut off or not signaling before a turn is nigh unto an act of treason against the crown. All those drivers think they have a halo of 20 feet considered "safe space" around their car. Anyone that breeches that space is a mother %&@*ing piece of $[-]1T and deserves to be drawn and quartered in public along with their entire family. Circumstances mean nothing. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKuDI5JRCFKSW4uloI-w5_DJoN252D64QMvy1PJLMqhmfxBxH2rbmCt_5vARmIjyUFSWOz-zznZmVFVyyCXkrCW7hLmAk2RRivVJVSIYI-YWctvE90MDz7WPB1q5vZ9od9cXhu0O7auco/s1600-h/Menzoberranzan.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411832880660430146" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKuDI5JRCFKSW4uloI-w5_DJoN252D64QMvy1PJLMqhmfxBxH2rbmCt_5vARmIjyUFSWOz-zznZmVFVyyCXkrCW7hLmAk2RRivVJVSIYI-YWctvE90MDz7WPB1q5vZ9od9cXhu0O7auco/s320/Menzoberranzan.bmp" border="0" /></a>There could be a woman giving birth in the back seat, or an undercover FBI agent chasing the spawn of Jack the Ripper, but if that safe space is invaded, you can count on some bald-headed dude with a goatee in a Hurley hoodie getting out of his '96 F-150 ready to beat your ass with a crowbar. Or at least throwt a bird and an F Bomb.<br /><br />In Austin, people understand that the road is a matter of survival of the fittest. It's a Top Gun dog fight. It's like the Drow of Menzoberranzan and their unspoken code of treachery and deceit. All that matters is you don't get caught assassinating competing Drow families in the Underdark. Otherwise all bets are off. Just like the streets of Austin...deft maneuvers and jockeying of position is applauded. Just as long as you don't kill anyone or wreck the ride.<br /><br />Mostly I miss my wife and kids. Ultimately home is where they are. If they are in Utah, then that's my home. If they are on Mars, let me be Martian. But I can't wait for December 27th when they can finally be here with me in Austin and we can make our home here.<br /><br />I am grateful to the great state of Utah for giving me so much over the past three decades. By and large it is a lovely place to be. But I am also thrilled at the opportunity to make new memories and have new adventures in the great state of Texas. I guess life itself is an adventure, cliche as that might sound. Might as well embrace it.<br /><br />Kindergarten Cop is on TV. Time to go.Ty Pearsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15299592346843024187noreply@blogger.com2