Humor

Please Support My Tweeting Ministry

It’s 2014. God has finally set a fire in my heart. I’m here to serve, we’re all here to serve, and there’s no better day than today. Amen! Hallelujah! I’ve been asking for direction: “Lord, show me a need that I can fill.”

After months of waiting, the Lord responded and I heard it clear: “Send.”

“Hit send?”

And the Lord again said, “Send”

“You want me to hit send? Tweet?”

The Lord wants me to start a tweeting ministry. Whatever sacrifices I have to make, I’ll make. So far, I’ve quit my job and left school. Praise God! It’s been hard, but when the Lord calls us into hard times, there is no choice but to trust Him and follow.

What?

is a tweeting ministry, you ask? Let me run you through it.

Step 1: Begin each day with prayer, asking God to reveal his wisdom

Step 2: Edit God’s wisdom into 140 characters or less  (more…)

Saturday Skit: Science

The following is a short skit I wrote for my playwright class. Enjoy!

SCIENCE

(Lights. A public bathroom. There are seven urinals against the wall. NARRATOR stands on the corner of the stage; he wears a suit. When men enter the restroom, their movements and talking freeze as the NARRATOR speaks.)

NARRATOR: The Three P’s of Pissing. There are three instincts every man of good character must possess inside an office washroom: Position, Poise, & Posture. Here, you will find seven urinals—ladies and gentlemen—and three washing stations. We are at Brodducks & Sons Insurance Agency, corner of Park & Granger. Ahh! Yes. Our first specimen joins us. Barry, 32, man of one wife and infant child.

(BARRY enters. He stops and surveys his urinal choices.)

Ahh. All to himself. What shall he ever choose?

(BARRY selects the first urinal in the row.)

NARRATOR: How expected. How common. That’s what we get with Barry, isn’t. Yes. That’s what we expect. Notice, if I may point out, ladies and gentlemen, Barry’s posture. He’s slumping, relaxing in his own world. No poise to speak of, no. Can you blame the man? No one else around. Go ahead, Barry. Take a load off. The first urinal in the row is always chosen by men outside the pack. Familiarity. What anthropologists call “comfortable.”

(OLD BILL BAILEY enters. He stops and surveys his urinal choices.)

NARRATOR: Here we go! Let’s see what Old Bill Bailey will choose. Ladies and Gentlemen. This is where the show begins. The second male in a washroom has the worst fate; his choice claims everything. The third and fourth male don’t matter; their urinal selections are consequential to space. But Old Bill Bailey, he can choose whatever he wants, but be careful! Ladies and Gentlemen. To choose the farthest urinal—on the other side of the room—most certainly, no man of good conscious could. And Old Bill Bailey is a man of good conscious. See, choosing the farthest urinal—on the other side of the room—suggests one of two things:  (more…)

The Conundrum of Location Shenanigans (or, A Decade Under the Influence)

The Good News for me: I got a job! The Bad News for leisure: I got a job…

Good news indeed! Yes, very much so—especially when considering my recent exploits of turning down Mr. Ponytail without another viable option. The pay is decent enough, I get to learn something new, and the establishment is conveniently close to my living quarters. It’s a store, but I wont mention the name since my employment is still technically in process. The process, you see, has become a bit of a conundrum.

The wonderful people at my (supposed) new job require a full-background check upon employment. This is fine as I have nothing to hide (my secret-agent/ninja experience was wiped clean from official transcripts). The bummer part? They want ten years of addresses.

Ten years?

I don’t know even know where I live now! Is it Rochester?

My first thought was this: Okay. I can do this. Just track back, right? Rochester, Idaho, California, Idaho… That takes care of this year… Oh Lord. I can’t do this!

I’ve definitely moved around more than the average bear; unless, of course, we’re talking carnival bears. But nevertheless, it’s been a wild ride since high-school ended. My lovely wife pointed out that, stability speaking, I’m in probably the worst ten years of my life: the first ten-years after high-school.

NOTE TO SELF: Next year is my ten-year graduation reunion. Don’t go.

My Ninja Plan of Attack

I have two weeks to complete this background thingamajoo. ASAP would be best. So here’s my plan: Calling on all friends, relatives, and enemies, if you’ve seen me, at all, in the last ten years—any where—let me know where that place* was. *Please include the zip-code. Thank you.

“Kevin, that is not a good plan—at all.”

First of all, who named you Mr. Plandsome? Secondly, yes, I know. It’s a terrible plan. So, three cheers for a new plan! I’ve ordered a credit report, hoping my many addresses will be on it. I’m also open to other suggestions*.

*I accept credit for all good ideas.

Until then, I must keep racking my brain: where the hell have I been these last ten years?

Wish me luck as I go forward.

Thanks for your support, kind readers. You’re the best. Here’s a salute to my (and possibly your) decade under the influence:

How I’d Spend my Saturday (If I Were a Punk-Rocker)

I’ve been fairly poor lately. Staying away from specifics such as budget and purchasing power, I will mention Mac N’ Cheese has been a substantial portion of my daily diet. Mmmmmmac.

This whole “poor” thing has got me thinking existentially. What is life? What is happiness? What control does money have over myself, the individual?

I had one more thought, and it brought me here: Who is better at being poor than punk-rockers?

Punk-Rock is a music genre, scene, and way of life. The punk-mentality doesn’t need money, nor does it need an excuse. Punk-rockers just are. They walk the streets. They smoke. .. Well, who knows what they do. But it seems they get through life being poor pretty alright.

Some of my favorite friends from high-school were the punk-rockers: the mohawks, the black clothes, the best music. I’m not sure what happened to them. Some, I’m sure, looked at the holes in their jeans and turned and headed back. Others turned into philosophy graduates; others, still, traded their jeans for suits and probably work as tellers in local banks.

Regardless, I find myself today, penniless, stuck inside an apartment in Rochester, NY with a cupboard full of Marconi and Cheese and nothing else to do. But it’s Saturday, and I want to do something! Think, Kevin! Think PUNK!

Punk-Rock Saturday

Idea # 1. Demotivate 5K Runners: There’s this 5k Run in Rochester today. The route wraps around both ends of my block; I can hear the clatter and cheer as I write. I’m thinking about going to the end of the block and yelling:

“Slow down!” “You won’t make it!” “Get over yourself!” “You’re fat!”

In this vision, I also hand out tiny water cups filled of cheap vodka.

Idea #2. Celebrate the Government Shutdown with a Parade: The parade, obviously, would consist of punk-rockers walking down main street blasting Bad Religion from their 80’s boom-boxes. This vision works best when everybody has their own boom-box and plays a different song. Total anarchy.

Idea #3. Shoplift from Goodwill: My punk-rock friends used to say this: “What are they losing if they get it for free?” I’ve never been able to answer that question in full confidence. Goodwill, more like good steal!

Shoplifting in New York is trickier than it is in the West Coast. Here, almost every store has a security/loss prevention guard. What better way to exercise my beliefs against the man? (and exercise!)

Idea #4. Argue Music Selections at Record Stores: 85% of punk-rock is hanging out. What better place to do this than in a record store? Just walk in and browse, wait for someone to choose a bad record and you have something to do for fifteen minutes. Start with this, “Are you serious?”

Music establishments generally encourage this type of behavior.

Idea #5. Start a Punk Rock Band: The best punk-rock comes from having nothing to do (and no purpose to do it with!). This is me! I think I’ve realized why the Lord sent me to Rochester. Obviously, it’s to hate the man and make loud music.

And if the band doesn’t work, I’ll just start kicking people.

Any additional suggestions?

Mexican Food, Oh How I Miss Thee

My wife and I moved to Rochester, New York this Fall. We have yet to come across any good Mexican food. I’m sure it exist here in Western New York; it’s got to, right? In California, mexican food is ubiquitous. It’s a mass supply that begets demand in the most intrinsic, snobbish way. I’m damn proud of it.

Any southern Californian will tell you: Good mexican food is not created equal.

Want to know my review process for mexican restaurants? Of course you do! What else do you have going on anyway?

Kevin’s 5 Step Check Method

1. Do you remember the name of the business? In the world of Mexican dining, answering “yes” here is a bad sign. You should never, ever remember the name, only the food: “That taco truck on 4th,” or “Fatty Mexican burrito place on 7th.” If you do remember the name of the business, it’s because they’re selling you an image and a brand. Good mexican food needs neither.

2. Is the atmosphere authentic? Have you ever heard a Top 40s radio station in an ethnic restaurant? Isn’t it totally lame? Lady Gaga in a Mexican restaurant; Justin Bieber in an Italian bistro… Once, I ate at a Chinese restaurant and heard country music over the speakers (I wrote my congressman). For me, atmosphere is (almost) everything. Mariachi or bust.

3. Are you insecure when you order?  If there’s no awkwardness when your order, then it’s not authentic: “Polo… Poyo.. adob…” The menu should read in spanish, and those behind the counter should speak little or no english. Can a white man can make a good Mexican meal? Why not? But let’s be honest, who do you want making your torta, Abejundio? Or Larry?

4. How does the salsa/hot sauce/pico de gallo rate? The pico can make or break a restaurant for me; it can even upgrade a sub-par meal to “Great.” (After all, mexican food is about simplicity). A really good test for a new restaurant is to order the most basic Mexican meal ever: the bean and cheese burrito. Pour some pico or hot sauce on top and see what happens.

5. Are you afraid you might get sick? If you answered “yes,” then you are probably in the right place. Being afraid to sit down is a very, very good sign. In my experience, the more I worry about my safety and health, the better the food turns out. Here’s my advice: Find a decent middle ground to start in; you might have to build up your immune system up a bit.

What do you think? What do you look for in a good mexican restaurant? Any suggestions for Mexican food in Rochester?

Relook: The Perils of Landscaping (Kevin Claud Van Damn it!)

You know that awesome, cliché action-movie sequence where the hero jumps out of a car right before it shoots off a cliff? I’m sure you know what I mean.

I’ve always wanted to do that!

Today was going to be an easy day. You know… day off from my main job at the market, do a little side-job yard-work, get a little sunshine. I didn’t realize I’d be jumping off a riding lawnmower as it plunged downhill.

I should explain.

On Wednesdays, I landscape for a really nice lady named Lois. She lives outside of Coeur d’Alene in the “fancy home overlooking the lake on a hill” district. Every summer she rents her house (or yard I should say) for weddings.

She has a nice riding mow, and I genuinely love the job. It’s outside and beautiful and even fun. That said, every landscaper who works a riding mow will mention a turn that makes their teeth grind. My “turn,” happens to have a hill next to it that dramatically declines into wilderness. No problem.

Today, the grass was wet.

Moments

It’s funny how time seems to slow down in radical moments. Looking back, I felt like I could’ve prepped a tuna salad sandwich with the time I had before the fall, which was really only two or three seconds.

I better Titanic off of this thing!

I jumped and hit the ground, soon hearing the mower make a ‘crunch’ sound. I stood up, as slowly as I could muster, and turned my head towards the direction of the renegade-riding mower. God, I didn’t want to look.

“Oh my goodness,” I said. “It’s fine!”

There, downhill, the mower rested in a safe net of bushes. In fact, it couldn’t have had a softer landing. Laughing, I ran down the hill and jumped on the dusty mower and started the engine. I threw the gear in reverse but it wouldn’t go. It tried, I tried, the wheels turned and all, but it wouldn’t go. After a good ten minutes of this back and forth gear shifting, manually lifting the mower, and pushing and pulling in ridiculous helplessness, I rested.

Prayer

I thought about calling some friends, but everyone I knew lived roughly twenty-hours away in California. Lois was gone for a few hours, the only good thing.

“Lord,” I pleaded, “You gotta get me out of this, you gotta send me somebody!”

The hill looks bigger in person, okay?

During the summer, Lois turns her guest room into a bed and breakfast. I thought the house was empty, but I forgot about the B&B guests! Suddenly, I heard a door open.

“Hey! Hey!” I rushed up the hill to the guest’s door with my arms waving. Flustered and bewildered, the man stepped back and threw his fists into a fighting stance (protecting his wife).

“Do you… I… well…” I was out of breathe and apparently lost my vocabulary on the fall. It wasn’t helping my case that the stranger thought me a lunatic. Thankfully, his eyes looked down and saw the green on my clothes and (eventually) the mower in the bushes.

“Did you ride that down the hill?” He asked.

“No… It rolled down by itself.”

His eyes widened and he made the hand gesture of a rolling car. “It rolled?”

“Well no, it roooollllled.” I made the gesture of a smooth downward drift with my hand. I must’ve looked insane. Crazy or not, this answered prayer of a man helped me pull, push, and lift the mower out of the bushes.

It turned out this guy was a saint.

Fin.

Getting out of the bushes was only half the battle, but I will spare you the rest of that crazy story (it included ‘off roading’ further down). All in all, the mower was fine. I even got it back in the yard and finished mowing before Lois came home. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. “Hey, I took your expensive (brand new) riding mow on a joy ride to the lake.”

I didn’t say that.

My conscious got the best of me, and I did tell her. She took it great and actually laughed when I gave her the story. She felt bad for me, could you believe that?

Epilogue

What’s the moral to this tale? Hmmmmm…

Watch out for wet grass?

Don’t cut too close to the edge?

God answers prayer?

Before I left, I took one more glance at the spot where it all went down. The soft breeze was blowing and the sun was finally shining. Down the hill, the bushes were tromped and a freshly made ‘mower size’ trail existed, showing my fateful path. I stood and looked, both triumphant and stupid, gazing with astonishment, and thinking only “Man, that was bad ass.”

[NOTE: This blog post came from 7/28/2011. It has been slightly edited and reworked. I hope to get back on track next week and share some new thoughts. Until then, I hope you enjoy some of my older (odder) tales.]