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."