Year in Review 2011

I like to take a moment each December and look back at the previous year to assess myself. I ask the important questions. Have I accomplished everything I set out to do this year? Is my life heading in the direction I want it to go? Am I married to Taylor Swift yet? Nearly all of these questions can be answered on a sliding scale of “no” to “the law still dictates that I stay 100 yards away at all times”. But 2011 hasn’t been a bad year. So I’m going to list a few highlights from the past 12 months while resisting the urge to make things up so I sound more fascinating to internet strangers.

I started a blog
You probably already knew that, because you're reading it right now. But what you don't know is that literally tens of other people read it as well, a couple of which are outside of my immediate circle of friends. According to my Blogger stats, those who aren't my friends stumble upon this blog while searching for things such as "monster truck Power Wheels", "Grapico ice cream", "Camp Anawanna", and the one I'm most proud of - "bloated milk carton". As you can imagine due to the soaring popularity, I'm currently drafting the Where It Gets Awkward sitcom to appear on CBS, as well as a Broadway adaptation starring Bo Bice and a young James Taylor.

Both of which will take turns playing me, à la the Olsen Twins.

I became an uncle

Not a real uncle. No, my brothers and I are in a competition to see who can be the last one to produce a Lee heir, and so far it’s a dead heat. But I play dirty, and what they don’t know is that I’ve signed them up for a child through an underground Cambodian adoption service.

There was a mix-up in the paperwork, though. Meet Ralph, your new bundle of joy.

Actually, it was my best friend Cameron and his wife Cassidy who had a baby, Cohen. At the risk of sounding like a terrible person, Cohen is the first baby I’ve had an emotional attachment to. Don’t get me wrong, babies are great little poop machines and all, it’s just that I’ve always thought of them more fondly when they were in another room, or possibly on television. When people show me a picture of a child, my thought process is often “Yep, that is the newborn of my species. Although it kinda looks like an alien, but I would never tell the mother that because her tone and body language suggest I should be having a different reaction than that right now.” But little Cohen is a cute kid, and I even voluntarily hold him and play with him sometimes, until he starts crying and I start panicking and I give him back to Cameron. I guess Cohen and I are both taking baby steps! Hahaha! (Note to self: Make better jokes in 2012)

I got a job

I started 2011 as a bum who spent the previous 9 months sleeping til noon, playing video games, and lounging by the pool. It was a glorious time of relaxation, the likes of which I may never experience again, but it was also a soul-crushing time of inner struggle, the likes of which I hope I never experience again. Sometimes I would wonder what I was doing with my life, and where I was going to find employment, and then other times I laughed at my goober friends who were in an office all day while I was reading at the pool and getting a tan. But I honestly grew a lot as a person, because I found out that without structure I become a lazy, spoiling sack of potatoes unless I keep myself in check. I found a new job in January in public relations, a field I enjoy. It keeps me inside most of the time, so I’m back to ghastly white, but on the plus side it came with Photoshop.

At least I'm tan on the internet.

I bought a new car

I've already written about this, but it's important enough to be on the list. Although the overwhelming consensus was that my new car is a girl's color, and that everyone misses the Saturn. My old car suited me better according to friends, and I understand what they mean. It had personality. It had flavor. It had a piece of styrofoam where a car door should have been.

"Nathan, you are truly the '99 Saturn SC2 of people" only sounds like an insult, but is, in fact, quite an honor.

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So here's to you, 2011. You were a good year. You taught me that great things can come out of adversity, that time is a priceless commodity to be used on the people and things that are most important, that babies are still pretty gross but have redeemable qualities, and that cars start to resemble their owners like pugs and ugly people. You also gave me a platform to share these life lessons and mostly ridiculous anecdotes with strangers on the internet who just wanted to find the lyrics to the Salute Your Shorts theme song. Thanks, 2011.

And to 2012, I've got a good feeling about you. With everything falling into place, I suspect a certain someone will rethink that silly ol' restraining order, come to her senses, and settle down with the man of her dre-

RALPH, YOU RAT FINK!

Things That Burn My Biscuits: “Holiday” Edition

Things That Burn My Biscuits is a series composed of trivial matters that send me into a quiet fury. Sometimes I write these matters down and post them on my Facebook, and sometimes I store them in my head and wait for strangers or friends to say the wrong thing (…"NO I’M NOT SAD THE WHITE STRIPES BROKE UP! THEY ARE TERRIBLE, JUST LIKE YOUR FACE!”) Don’t be fooled by my usually calm demeanor and glassy stare, though. Inside I’m raging about the latest Grammy nominees, or the fact that pleated pants still exist. But I digress. This edition is all about the holidays, and why I want to set them on fire. If you do not want to be encumbered by my petty ramblings, please, read no further.

Using “Happy holidays” to not offend

I’m not coming at this from a Christian conservative viewpoint. I’m coming at this from a common sense viewpoint. What exactly do we mean when we say “happy holidays”? Is it “I hope you have an enjoyable World AIDS Day!”

No.

“How aboot that Boxing Day, eh?”

Nuh-uh. We’re talking about Christmas. You can make the case for Hanukkah and Kwanzaa, but when was the last time you ever saw a TV or print ad that said “Happy Holidays” and it wasn’t filled with decidedly Christmas imagery?

I’ll answer that for you. This is the first time.

It’s pretty clear Holidays = Christmas (and to a lesser extent New Year’s), so let’s just call it what it is. I realize it’s grown to be bigger than just a Christian holiday, and has some pagan influence in tradition. You don’t have to be a believer to enjoy the festivities. But if you wake up on December 25^th, open presents, and deal with the crushing disappointment that for the 20^th year in a row you did not receive a Power Wheels replica monster truck, then whether you want to admit it or not you’re celebrating Christmas.

I will gladly trade my Chevy Aveo for one of these.

I work in marketing and public relations, an industry designed to not offend anyone ever for any reason. If I ever tried to use the word “Christmas” in a Christmas add I would be whisked away by lawyers in the middle of the night, put in a burlap sack, and beaten with lawsuits and termination papers. But the worst case scenario in slipping “Merry Christmas” into an add is that it falls into the hands of someone who doesn’t celebrate it. Big deal. They weren’t going to shop at your store to buy Christmas presents anyway. To me, it’s just like when friends who are atheist and practice new-age philosophy say “I’m sending good vibes your way.” It’s the equivalent of their prayer. Whether I think it will do any good or not, I know that person cares about me enough to wish me well. I don’t get offended just because I don’t practice their beliefs.

“Hey there, Sally! Why yes, I am feeling better. I appreciate the virgin sacrifice, 

but maybe next time just send a get well card.”

White Christmas Lights

Okay, I don’t hate white Christmas lights. It’s just the fact that colored Christmas lights are so much awesomer in comparison that it feels a lot like hate sometimes. Every year my family decorates a Christmas tree, and every year I lobby for colored lights. The argument is that white lights are classier, more elegant. But that’s the thing, I like my Christmas trees to be the biggest, gawdiest, loudest, hillbilliest epilepsy triggers on the face of the planet. I want aliens passing by in the cosmos to know that 10 million years ago, the Lee family had the brightest, most distasteful Christmas tree ever. If it were up to me, I’d import a redwood and adorn it with hubcaps and flamethrowers.

"TOO SUBTLE! NEEDS MORE LIGHTS!" 

Cranberry sauce

Cranberry sauce is a Thanksgiving favorite here in the States and a Christmas favorite in the UK, despite the fact that it tastes like cranberries. My theory is that cranberry sauce is produced from the regurgitation of cattle that have accidentally wandered into bogs and ingested cranberries thinking they were cherries. Honest mistake, really. After all, cattle are stupid, and cherries are delicious. But I don’t understand humans who put it on their plate knowing good and well that it is a by-product of cranberries. I also don’t understand why cranberry sauce comes in two different varieties - lumpy gelatinous globules and human tissue cross section. When someone asks me which of the two types of cranberry sauce I want, all I hear them say is, “Would you like me to punch you in the face with my right hand, or punch you in the face with my left hand?” The answer is whichever is not their dominant hand, or whichever variety doesn't jiggle for as long after I poke it disapprovingly with my fork. 

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Whew! I feel better having typed all that out. I've got to keep my inner Scrooge in check. Pay no attention to my ranting and raving, because I really do love this time of year. I guess what I'm trying to say is...

Happy Holidays Merry Christmas. 

Schlock and Error

Most people have the ability to recognize their talents. It’s an ability that has been crafted from birth after years of social interaction and people telling you what you suck at, or at the very least not praising you for your ineptitude. For example, I’m in the top ten for World’s Worst Artist, so when I drew pictures as a child, I’m sure my mom dutifully hung it on the fridge and hoped company wouldn’t make a comment so she’d have to blame it on the cat again. “Oh, that’s just Mittens getting into the watercolors.” But what about the people who were never told that they suck? These were kids whose moms couldn’t bear to look at the lowly drawing of a flower (or bunny? a crime scene? possibly Spongebob? It’s so hard to tell…) and break it to them they would never be an artist. So they did the only thing they could think of and exclaimed, “Somebody call the Louvre!”

And then some of these kids grew up and, with their ability to discern talent blown from years of undeserved praise, went into the film industry.

Here’s where I confess that I love terrible movies. Not the kind of terrible where you wish you hadn’t spent that dollar at Redbox on the new Nicolas Cage movie because you totally could’ve just watched Tangled for the 37^th time. I’m talking about the kind of terrible that leaves you laughing hysterically at the juxtaposition of how poorly written, produced, acted, and directed the movie was and how everyone involved expected to be showered with Oscars. Here’s also where I confess that I have a deep character flaw that makes me laugh uncontrollably at other people’s failures and then kick them while they’re down.

YOU… *kick*… MAKE …*kick*… TERRIBLE… *kick*… MOVIES!... *kick*

In my search for the Worst Movie Ever Made, I’ve come across some real stinkers. They produce the kind of stench that settles in a room like a thick fog that plugs your facial orifices and robs you of the ability and desire to breathe. I've watched The Room about five times. I've met the lead actor in Troll 2 and gotten a signed poster. But I've just found a new movie to add to the Hollywood Hall of Shame.

Birdemic: Shock and Terror

I watched this for the first time last night with some friends, and although my experience was aided by Rifftrax, it truly is hilariously bad on its own. The first half of the movie is about the budding romance between Rod, a cardboard cutout who was never told he gained sentience, and Nathalie, a promising lingerie model who likes her men boring and unemotive. They have all the sexual tension and chemistry of a tube of toothpaste and a lint brush. Most of their dates involve driving cautiously down the street and parking, because the director is very careful to establish how characters arrive at their destination. During some points I wasn’t sure if I was watching Birdemic or the safety videos in my tenth grade Driver’s Ed class. Not that their actual date activities are any more thrilling, as evidenced by this clip from their romantic outing at the local VFW hall.

Yes, that’s a poor man’s Luther Vandross singing about hanging out with his family while the only patrons in the entire building do such white person classics as The Snake and The Robot. The song takes an unexpected and disturbing twist when Luther stops wanting to hang out and starts wanting to hook up. Please, if you are related to this man, do not invite him to your reunions.

The second half of the movie involves kamikaze CGI birds that were rendered on an Etch-a-Sketch and added in post-production using a Lite Brite. After what I can only assume was a passionless night in a motel, Rod and Nathalie awake to birds mysteriously attacking the city. And in true kamikaze fashion, the birds explode on impact. Having ignored the basics of script writing, plot development, and computer modeling, it only makes sense for writer/producer/director/scientist James Nguyen to abandon all notions of biology and physics. Rod and Nathalie make friends with a couple in a neighboring motel room, and together they set out for…well, I’m not really sure what their plan is. They just kinda start driving around (cautiously, of course).

The two halves of the movie almost don’t match, and the setup takes so long and is so poorly orchestrated that by the time the birds arrive you are rooting for them to kill everyone and declare a new avian government. But the humans fight back, at first with coat hangers and then with AK-47’s. No poorly animated birds were harmed in the filming of this movie, though, because the gunfire is about as real as pointing your finger and yelling Bang!.  

Eventually our hero and heroine pick up some orphans whose parents were viciously killed by the birdemic, and instead of, I dunno, CALLING THE POLICE AND WAITING INDOORS WHERE THE BIRDS CAN’T GET YOU, they have a picnic in a field particularly susceptible to air raids. Along the way you find out why the birds have been attacking, and it’s just what Al Gore has been warning us about all along - global warming. The film is rife with environmental themes and guilt trips, which is all fine and dandy, but I’m pretty sure for every one person Birdemic: Shock and Terror has convinced to buy a Prius there are ten angry movie buffs who were incited to start tire fires.

At the end of the movie *SPOILER ALERT* the birds just…fly away. Into the sunset. No rhyme or reason is given, we just are left to assume that their murderous impulses are satisfied as they fly out over the ocean during a painfully long camera shot that is probably still rolling and may in fact be a live feed of the actors held at gunpoint and sedated on the beach. This sets up the possibility for a sequel, if it weren’t for the fact that James Nguyen surely learned his lesson by the thousands of movie patrons telling him how terrible his movie was and that he should try his hand at something he might be more suited for, like literally any other hobby in the world.

His lesson not learned is my gain.

As a movie meant to be art, Birdemic: Shock and Terror fails miserably. It is awarded a zero on every scale imaginable and creates a black hole that won't allow a positive number to ever escape. But as a movie meant to entertain by any means necessary, it is a triumph. A true crapterpiece of bad writing, bad acting, and bad directing. I thoroughly enjoyed it, so that leads to the question, "Is Birdemic a success?" Also, "should I feel bad for deriding everyone involved in a movie that I gained pleasure from?" I'll leave these questions for the birds.

The birds say, "Yes."

The Big Two-Six

“Twenty-six.”

Go ahead, say it out loud. It rolls off the tongue like a deflated basketball that makes a sploink sound when you try to dribble it. It’s just so…so…close to thirty. Sure, it's only a number, but it's a terrible, stupid number that should be twice as feared as thirteen. I could round down to twenty when I was twenty-five, because the basic principles of math are easy to ignore when they don’t suit your needs, but twenty-six? That’s boarding the train to Thirtyville, next stop Responsibilityhood, layover in Metamuciltown.

Okay, so twenty-six isn’t actually old in the scheme of things, but it can feel that way sometimes. Many people may not know this, but single Mormon males age faster than your average white protestant, much like dogs. It’s true. For example, in Mormon years I am very close to being lit on fire and set adrift on an ice flow into the Arctic Ocean. Wait, maybe that’s the Eskimos. Or the Vikings.

Anyway, I’ve decided to give twenty-six a chance. I mean really get to know it. Buy it dinner, have awkward conversation. Maybe invite it back to my place to show it my Magic: The Gathering card collection before it feigns a phone call and jumps out of my second-story window.

“Third time this month. I’ve really got to start buying stronger windows…”

And in order to become at peace with twenty-six, I’ve done some introspection. Am I at a good spot in my life? Have I grown as a person? Did I watch enough television? Possibly too much? For this reason I’ve decided to let 16 year-old Nathan interview me, 26 year-old Nathan. I don’t have time to think of a good set up for how this could feasibly happen.

 Okay, fine. I built a time traveling Delorean out of Legos. Happy?

....................................................................................................................

16 Year-Old Nathan: Dude, whatsup? Ha, nice hair.

26 Year-Old Nathan: Hey, man. Not much. Nice Linkin Park shirt! *snicker*

16: What?

26: Nothing, nothing. Anyway, you want to ask me stuff about the future you…the current me?

16: Yeah, so…you’re a rock star by now, right?

26: No.

16: Professional skateboarder?

26: No.

16: Dang…Are you at least a bear wrestler?

26: No. I work in public relations.

16: I don’t even know what that means.

26: It’s a job that allows you to write and do graphic design, two things you will realize later in life that you really enjoy doing. It will not pay a whole lot, it does not come with groupies, and it rarely requires you to wrestle bears.

16: …Oh. Okay. So, umm do you still have the same friends?

26: No. I mean, I still know all your current friends. I keep track of them through Facebook.

16: Facebook? What’s that?

26: It’s like AOL Instant Messenger, except more potent and injected straight into your veins.

16: Oh…kay.

26: Your old friends will always be a part of your life. Friendships will change, though. People come and go, except for Cameron. Cameron will always be there, and according to my recent interview with 36 Year-Old Nathan, you will eventually end up living in his basement, only coming out at night to drink his milk straight from the carton while in your underpants.

16: I always kinda figured that’s how it would be.

26: The new friends you make in your twenties will be awesome, though. They will come to your 26^th birthday party at Cracker Barrel and watch you drown your sorrows at the bottom of a pile of pancakes.

16: I was hoping I would still love pancakes.

26: Your love of pancakes still borders on unnatural, yes.

16: So, am I married by then?

26: Yes, you are married. Married…to the streets!

16: Um…

26: Don’t hate the player, hate the game.

16: Those are just rap clichés. They don’t even answer my q-

26: Put your hands in the air if you feel fine.

16: …

26: Okay, so I’m not married, but that hasn’t exactly been high up on the ol’ list of things to do. There are still several Zelda games I have yet to beat, and I still have priorities.

16: Ah, well that’s understandable. So from what I gather, you’ve got a job you enjoy, friends who care about you, and you still have time to play video games?

26: Uhh, yes that’s pretty much how it is.

16: So what the heck are you griping about?

26: Excuse me?

16: You’ve got it good! Why are you complaining?

26: Don’t you get that tone with me, young man! I’ll call your father and tell him you’ve been driving the Blazer to Birmingham and that’s why the gas tank is always empty!

16: Look, all I’m saying is that life hasn’t turned out the way you planned it – wrestling bears in an illegal underground bear wrestling ring while playing stadium arena rock concerts on the weekends to sustain your bear wrestling habit. But it’s still a good life.

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I hate it when I’m right! Things are pretty good right now. I think I will actually enjoy twenty six. I’ll reassess my life when I’m thirty.

Thirty will require at least this many pancakes.

You Never Read This, Because I Never Wrote It

Dear Internet,

You are often used as an anonymous land where people show their true selves. We can’t be ourselves in the real world, because the real world is full of judgment and police. You are a platform to put aside the airs we give society, and to let out the waistband of shamefulness on our sweatpants of scorn. For example, many commenters at Youtube reveal that they are functionally illiterate, while still many others reveal that they are racist crapweasels. Some anonymous commenters go the extra mile and reveal that they are functionally illiterate racist crapweasels who deserve a very public beating.

 Pictured: Youtube comments section

But not me. I choose to use you, the internet, to reveal what I secretly want for my birthday. However, I will also accept these presents on other holidays, such as Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Arbor Day, Flag Day, and garbage day.

The same rules that apply to Youtube commenters apply to this blog, though. If you saw a Youtube commenter out on the street and mentioned, “Hey, I saw that comment you posted on my video with the cute kittens pawing at yarn. I disagree that Obama is actually an evil Marxist robot, and I question the authenticity of the lascivious claims you’ve leveled against my mother,” the commenter will immediately deny he ever said these things. “Sir, I am an upstanding citizen! I’m a third grade teacher who volunteers at the animal shelter; I would never slander someone like that!”

If you see me out in the world and mention this blog post to me, I will start acting bewildered and make my way to incredulous. If that doesn’t work, I will hurl deflective insults at you. If that still doesn’t work, I will throw a chair through the nearest window and run away holding my ears and yelling, “LALALA I CAN’T HEAAAR YOUUUU!” I don’t have a plan for after that, because that option has never not worked. The best way to give me these presents would be to break into my apartment while I’m not there and leave them on my bed. The less interaction the better, because:

I want a Pillow Pet.

But, it’s normal for a grown man to want one of these, right? RIGHT?...Of course it isn’t, Internet. That’s why you’ve got to keep this secret for me. But seriously look at this thing and tell me you don’t want to take a nap on it knowing that every dream you have will take place in Candyland, and that you’ll be hanging out with the Care Bears.

This turtle whispers words of encouragement in your ear as you sleep

Now look at how stupid and ugly your regular pillow is, with its stupid, ugly rectangular shape and ugly, stupid striped pillowcase. The thing doesn’t even have a smile on it. It doesn’t love you!

70% cotton, 100% love and giggles

I’ve thought about buying one for myself, but then I thought about how awkward checking out at Wal-Mart would be.

Me: “THIS IS FOR MY SISTER!”

Cashier: “Um, that’s nice, sir. Would you li-“

Me: “SHE’S SEVEN!”

Cashier: “Sir, you really don’t have to yell. You are scaring the cust-“

Me: “LADYBUGS!”

Cashier: “I’m sorry, sir. Ladybugs? What does that have to do with anyth-“

Me: “SHE LOVES LADYBUGS! MY SISTER! THE ONE THAT THIS PILLOW PET IS FOR!”

“SHE ALSO LOVES GIRAFFES AND PLATYPUSES! SHUT UP AND CHECK ME OUT!”

Cashier: “That’s wonderful, sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to stop yelling. There are other people in line.”

Me: “I’M SORRY IT’S JUST THAT I GET NERVOUS BUYING SOMETHING AS RIDICULOUS AS THIS FOR MYSE-“

*Our eyes meet. Wal-mart falls silent*

Me (quietly):……”sister. I meant ‘for my sister.’”

*I break down crying as security guards take me away*

And even if I did buy myself a Pillow Pet without having to register my address with the state, I’d have to hide it when guests come over. Which begs the question, “How many Pillow Pets do I actually own that people don’t know about yet?”

You’d be surprised at how many of these you can fit into a crawlspace

So now you see why I can only talk about this anonymously. Thanks for listening, Internet. You're always there for me.

Anonymously yours,

Nathan

The Effects of Time on Milk - A Scholarly Discourse

Excerpts from the journals of Dr. Nathaniel Gregor Leevinski - mad scientist, affable slob.

Day 138

My study on the exciting potential of spoiled milk as a new, world-changing biofuel has come to an end. It is with a sad heart that I must confess my failure, and it is with a gas tank full of chunky sour cream that I wish I had tested on animals first. I only hope that my research can go on to inspire other scientists to try every substance on the planet one by one until we find a new and renewable energy source. For example, I hear that researchers in Switzerland are making great strides in studying ferret secretions.

Picture taken right before they were jammed inside the gas tank of an F-150.

Although I have given up hope for a biofuel, I plan on continuing my research and experiments on the effects of time on milk. I started all this because I was too lazy to throw away my expired jugs, and, frankly, I'm not feeling any friskier. I'm now hoping for a new type of cheese or possibly a paint remover.

Day 142

The contents of the jugs have all separated into a yellowy liquid with hunks of gelatinous, white solids swimming around. It looks oddly similar to the results of my previous study, "The Effects of Urine on Mouse Buoyancy". I thought the semi-solid might make for a good sandwich spread, so, hoping for a tastier alternative to mayonnaise, I slathered some on a sandwich. It was the worst thing I'd ever eaten, except for mayonnaise. At first I considered this a success, but my super-refined palate corrupted my data, and if I wanted to mass market this spread as "Milk of Mayonesia" I needed to find out what the general public thought. I made a sandwich tray with my new spread and brought it to my friend's party for testing. I didn't tell anyone of the change as to not sway their judgment, and I asked them what they thought of the sandwich as they took their first bite. It was hard to tell what their gurgling meant, and I eagerly await the day when they get out of the hospital so I can clarify their response and politely ask them to drop their many, many lawsuits.

Day 157 

I have found a new direction in my research. The gallon of milk that expired April 5th has taken on a bloated and frightening shape. This can only be due to a gaseous buildup, probably of that cow methane I hear so much about. I'm afraid to open the jug myself, but I have dreams of harnessing and utilizing the heinous gas as an agent of bio warfare. I've got calls in to some interested countries, mostly ones we are technically at war with. To be fair, I did give the US right of first refusal.

They'll see. They'll all see. BWAHAHAHA!

Day 164

This morning I noticed that one of the jugs had taken on an orangish hue and a citrus scent. Confused by this strange occurrence, I tested the pH balance and came to a stunning conclusion - that wasn't a jug of milk at all! Apparently the only thing living in my fridge that is grosser than my gallons of milk is my roommate's orange juice. It had globules of slimy mold floating around in it. Seriously, it looked like a gallon of egg drop soup. Sure, I have three gallons of milk old enough to start attending pre-school, but orange juice? I mean, even I've got standards. If only being a mad scientist paid enough to get my own apartment...

Mmmmmm......pulp!

Day 180 

I've reached the end of my rope. I can't find a single use for these gallons of clotted milk, and I've tried almost everything. It makes for a terrible denture adhesive, according to those surprisingly rude folks at the senior citizen home. It actually was a pretty effective hair gel, but I don't think people would buy a product with the advertised side effects of "overnight alopecia and scalp lesions". There's only one thing left to try. I didn't want to do this, but...

            

                 *******************************************************************************************************

I awoke feeling groggy on the kitchen floor. Zach was standing over me.

"Dude, wake up."

"What? Oh man, I had the strangest dream," I said as I stood up and held my throbbing head. "I was a crazy scientist studying milk that had expired almost 6 months ago. Who would have that in their fridge? Hahaha! I mean, half a year! Isn't that weird?"

Zach stroked his thick, manly beard and squinted his eyes.

"You would."

Confused, I turned around and beheld my three gallons of milk and Zach's gallon of orange juice.

"We were cleaning our kitchen and you opened that disgusting milk jug. You must have inhaled too many fumes."

Sheepishly, I gathered the jugs and put them in a trash bag, and we made the grueling, exhausting, and possibly 50 yard trip to our apartment's garbage bin. Dr. Leevinski would have been proud.

"I've learned a valuable lesson here, Zach."

Zach squinted his eyes again, his beard bristling in the wind.

"And what is that? Being lazy isn't a rewarding way to live, and that with just a little more effort our place can be kept in compliance with at least the health code regulations enforced by hot dog carts?"

"Heavens no!" I chuckled, jealous of his beard. "I should start buying half gallons."

Long and ridiculous story short - we cleaned our kitchen.

The Vortex of Arterial Doom

Blues Traveler and I set out for Atlanta last Friday evening. No, I’m not on tour with John Popper and his 10,000 harmonicas, but “Blues Traveler” is the name I’ve given my car until something better comes along (honorable mentions: Blue’s Clues; Blue Man Group; You My Boy, Blue; One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish). After picking up Aaron, our first stop was The Vortex in Little Five Points.

Little Five Points is a lot like Birmingham’s Five Points if you took everything that makes the area unique and cranked it to eleven. Little Five Points’ shops are more eclectic, its hipsters are hipsterier, and its hobos are hoboier. It is a melting pot of fringe cultures, and I love it. It’s hard to walk through Little Five Points without strangers talking to you, though. The last time I was there, I was attacked by a hippie. Not a physical attack, mind you. He was trying to get me to donate to some worthy cause I wasn’t interested in. As he heaped on the guilt, no doubt noticing the Futurama action figure I had just purchased instead of donating to his non-profit, I kept thinking “Darn, how do I get away from this hippie without feeling like a terrible person?” Then I realized that we looked very similar, right down to the hair and beard. Apparently the only things that separate me from a hippie are sandals and a petition clipboard. I walked away feeling like a terrible person.

Anyway, back to The Vortex. It’s a very chic/grungy/hip/trendy restaurant and bar that specializes in giant hamburgers designed to mock the plight of third world countries. They serve something they call The Triple Coronary Bypass, which is also the name I’m going to give my horse if I ever enter the Kentucky Derby. It consists of two half-pound beef patties, two fried eggs, eight slices of cheese, ten slices of bacon, a half-gallon of Crisco, and a small suckling pig. I only made up those last two. But the kicker – and this part I’m not making up – is that instead of buns, they use grilled cheese sandwiches! Three in total. I opted for something more health conscious and ordered the regular Coronary Bypass.

You don't just eat at The Vortex, The Vortex eats you.

The next day Aaron and I went to Underground Atlanta to do some loitering before our scheduled tour of Atlanta’s old rail system. The shops in Underground Atlanta mostly sell Obama t-shirts and fake jewelry, so we passed the majority of our time in a dollar store that sells items deemed too cheap and poorly made for shanty town flea markets. Every toy had packaging with hilariously awkward sentences and misspelled words.

Laser Soung Gun with real laser soungs! It make happy play time!

Our tour started in the early afternoon, and we walked all over downtown Atlanta learning about old buildings and how the railroad industry shaped the city. The tour guide was bursting with bits of Atlanta trivia. The most interesting story was how Atlanta got its name. It was originally called Terminus, but then citizens adopted the name Marthasville. Realizing that this name sounded like a borough of San Francisco, a train engineer hung up a sign by the rail station that said “Atlanta”. Just like that, the name stuck. Now that I know all you have to do to change a city’s name is hang a sign up on the edge of town, I plan on getting some poster board and Sharpies and renaming Birmingham as New Nathantown. The original Nathantown was created in SimCity back in 1994, but was ultimately destroyed by my brutal tax oppression and Bowser.

When the tour ended we headed over to Turner field and watched the Braves beat the Mets. After the game there was a special concert by Styx, best known for their 1977 hit “That One Song” and also “That Other Song They Sing”. I was actually impressed by their performance. All the members of Styx are about 60 years old, but they are still spry and rocking out on stage. The keyboardist was especially mobile, jumping up on his piano and gyrating wildly. I can only hope I’m doing the same thing when I’m his age. I also hope no one says, “Sir, please get down from there. This is your granddaughter’s piano recital, and you are scaring the children.”

"Buzzkill."

We met up with Aaron’s girlfriend, Caitlin, after the concert and went to a restaurant to play trivia. Aaron and Caitlin are both very good at trivia, and I really only contributed to questions concerning my two specialties - Lay’s Potato Chips and the television series 7^th Heaven. I’ve played Aaron in trivial pursuit dozens of times, and I’ve never won. Since he’s older than me, my plan is to play him again when he goes senile first.

"Eat it, Aaron!"

I bid adieu to Atlanta after attending sacrament service at the North Point YSA Ward on Sunday. Blues Traveler and I made the drive back home while listening to Atlanta’s awesome 80’s and 90’s radio station. Like the chorus to my favorite songs, I’m eagerly awaiting my next trip to Atlanta. Because the hook brings you back.

Rock of Ages 18 - 30

"Everyday I'm shufflin'."

That monotone voice and the beat behind it will not leave my brain. I went to a YSA (Young Single Adult, in Mormon lingo) conference this weekend in Huntsville, and the theme was Rock: A Sure Foundation. The theme song was LMFAO's "Party Rock Anthem". If you are unfamiliar with that song, for the love of all things holy don't click on that link, unless you want to be shuffle dancing to that tune in your head all week while your co-workers stare at you in horror. If you feel even the slightest compulsion to click on it, I suggest shutting your computer off right now and backing away slowly.

I did have a really good time at this conference, though. It started Friday night with a dance at the church. It's hard to explain a YSA dance to those who haven't been to one before, but it's very similar to the dances you went to in middle school, except that most everyone is in their twenties. The awkwardness, punch made with Sprite, dancing very far apart, Cotton Eye Joe - they're all there. I imagine to an outsider that it would be very surreal, like dances or clubs in the movies where the background characters are gently swaying and rocking with room for several football games between them, and not at all like real life clubs that are a free-for-all wrestling match where you can only use your hips.

After the dance a few of us went to IHOP, where we made friends with a drunken, homeless man who was eating people's leftovers. He never said his name, but he looked like a Dwayne. Anyway, a high school kid saw that Dwayne was eating scraps, and gave the waitress $10 to buy him a real dinner, but he refused and said he was okay with what he had scrounged. He had been talking to us intermittently throughout his dinner, and at one point he turned serious and asked us, "Right before you die, what would make you the happiest?" I was caught off guard by the depth of Dwayne's query. Here was this man, liquored up and contently eating Brett's hashbrowns, and he was searching for answers. In my mind I created a backstory for what lead him to this discussion. Maybe he had a wife and several little Dwaynelets somewhere. Maybe he wanted off the streets but was caught in a vicious cycle of hard living that he could not escape. He motioned for me to answer first, and after a moment of thinking I replied, "Family and friends." He asked each person at the table the same question, and most gave the same answer as I did. Finally, we turned the question on him.

"You know what would make me the happiest?"

I waited for his sad story, for some insight to how he got where he was in life.

"A giant rainbow," he said, his hands cupped and his arms outlining an arch, " and Nickelback playing like a #$@%!*(expletive redacted)!"

We all burst out laughing. Dwayne might have his deep days where he longs for a better life and for friends to be by his side, but that night at IHOP all he wanted was to see his favorite band playing underneath a rainbow.

For you, Dwayne. For you.

That would not be my last encounter with drunken homeless people this weekend, though. The next morning we gathered for a service project with this organization, and we drove out into the outskirts of Huntsville to a small building on a dillapidated street. A man came out and told us we would be cleaning up camps. "Ooo like a scout camp!" I thought. 

Nope. Hobo camps.

Over 100 homeless people live in tents underneath the interstates in Huntsville. We helped clean up the sites that had been abandoned as groups of homeless people watched and chatted with each other. Again, I felt bad and wondered what had led them here to live in squallor. I'm sure everyone has their own unique story, but as we cleaned out bottle after bottle of whiskey I began to understand. 

On a lighter and yet more terrifying note, while walking to another camp site I saw the absolute biggest spider I have ever seen in real life. It was just walking down the street, probably hungry and looking for stray dogs or unattended toddlers. I'm serious, this spider was friggin' huge. I would have tried to squish it, but if I succeeded I would've drowned in the resultant tide of spider guts, and if I failed I would have been punished with eight roundhouse kicks to the face. If Hannibal had known about these spiders, he would have used them instead of elephants to cross the Alps. Partially out of fear and partially out of respect, I tossed it my wallet and car keys.

Ok, so now that you've seen the photo you may think I was over-exaggerating. But what if I told you that the hand in the picture belongs to a giant who can palm bowling balls like a bunch of grapes? Well it's not, it's Art's hand, and he's of average height and hand size. The point is - that spider was big, and I don't like spiders.

The last activity of the conference was a tour of Cathedral Caverns in Woodville. It holds four world records for caves as mentioned on its website here. The caverns are sprawling and beautiful, and they make you feel small and insignificant. Our tour guide had the thickest natural Southern accent, the kind Northerners use when they're making fun of us, and she had something funny to say about each formation and landmark she pointed out. She would make a great female lead in the next Larry the Cable Guy summer blockbuster.

After the cave a few of us drove to Dreamland for some barbecue and to unwind. This was one of the best YSA conferences I've been to in a while. Awkward dancing, gargantuan spiders, and caves - what more could a man ask for? But really, seeing so many people this weekend who were down and in a dark place made me very grateful for a roof over my head and food on my table. And friends to shuffle with.

"Shake that."