Humor

Ode to Toast

Just shy of a month since we rolled into Rochester, our poor, packed Prius carried everything she could across the continent, leaving everything else (everyone else) behind. What have I missed most? Good question.

My toaster.

Excuse me, toaster oven.

I’ve really missed my toaster oven. You see, I’ve never been a fan of microwaves. Some people say the radiation is dangerous and that’s cool. To me, it just makes everything taste rubbery and cheap. Microwaves are convenient; I get that, but convenient at what price? Rubbery everything?

Plus, it seems obvious microwaves are constructed and mass-produced for the weak. You would never see, for instance, a ninja using a microwave.

A plain toaster is fine for bread, bagels, and english muffins, but there’s no other options. What if I want to reheat my pizza? What if I want to create my own delicious cheesy bread with pasta?

Sure. I could use the oven. This is where you chime in: “Kevin,  you don’t care for microwaves, yet you’re too impatient for ovens.”

First of all, you are rude.

Second of all, you are correct.

The toaster oven isn’t just a convenience, it’s the greatest achievement of the twentieth century. My proof? Let’s talk toast.

A toaster oven let’s you see the bread toasting! You can flip the bread if one side is too dark and the other not so much. You can toast your bread with a chunk of butter on top (and watch it deliciously melt in to every crevice of grain and gluten). Best yet, the stressful action of grabbing a butter-knife to free a trapped piece of bread has become obsolete. I mean, you COULD stick a knife in a toaster-oven if you wanted to. Your call.

Estate of Mind

It’s been a month since I’ve had toast, you understand? I’ve been quite terrible. Megan and I are short on cash (and not as heavy on credit as we used to be) so every purchase requires frugality and great purpose.

I ask you this: what greater purpose is there than toast?

Don’t worry. The issue has been solved. Estate sales, my old friend, has relieved the suffering.

We’ve been hitting estate sales like they’re dropping dead. My first stop—every time I enter a specter’s house—is the kitchen. There’s rules though, like in Zombieland, to buying a toaster oven from a dead person’s house. You can’t just buy the first one you see.

1. Never pay more than $5 for a used dead-person’s toaster oven. You can find new ones for $20.

2. There’s a difference between dirty and decrepit. It’s not CAN you clean it, but rather, do you WANT to even touch it?

3. Test it on the spot!

4. If the house shakes as you start to walk away with the toaster oven, pay quickly and run out.

The toaster oven I found passed all four purchasing rules, so I’m golden. This morning I thoroughly cleaned it, cleaned it one more time, and then prayed for God to remove any lingering entities.

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Love

It’s amazing what we take for granted. I love you toast; I’ll never leave you again.

Rochester Day 12: Rabies Scare

The only thing worse than waking up with a bat in your bedroom is the later, unwavering tension of possible rabies contraction. You know what I mean?

It was five in the morning, and I awoke to the sound of mouse-like pitter-patter and whimpering. In a daze, I grabbed my phone for the flashlight-app and shined it towards the noise. I saw face, teeth, and wings.

Dear Lord, not… I repeat, NOT a mouse.

We’ve been sleeping on an air mattress; yes, terrible for back-support, but great if you need to get your wife out of bed in a hurry; just do a quick bounce-push-1-2 and she’s gone.

The very second—and I mean second—I saw those evil, beady little eyes, and its encroaching, ominous, expanding-devil-wingspan, I bounced and pushed. Megan was off the bed on the floor, waking up—mid flight—to the sound of me yelling “RUNNNN!”

Wide-awake, Megan pulled a Jackie Chan, getting to her feet in lightning speed. We ran out of the room, both completely bewildered, and slammed the door behind us. Expecting claws to shoot through the frame like Jack’s axe in The Shining, I stared at the door in nauseated anticipation.

“What? What was it?” Megan asked, breathing heavy and terrified.

Swallowing, trying to remember basic speech and language patterns, fighting off the fog of little sleep and sheer panic, I found a word that finally made sense: “… Bat.”

Bat Crazy

The creature was after us. That’s for certain.

You could argue the bat flew into our apartment on accident, I guess. The kitchen window was left open after cooking dinner, and the kitchen window, you see, is the only window without a screen. Out for blood though, makes more sense.

Thirty minutes passed and we remained in the living room—frightened, laughing, pacing. We soon realized two things:

  1. We had no internet, and our phones were left behind in the bat-cave.
  2. Leaving our bed as we did, in a hurry in the middle of the night, meant we weren’t wearing nearly enough clothes to go outside or seek any assistance.

I’d love to tell you that I was the hero in this situation, the man. I really would. But my hand on the door-handle, hand off the door-handle masculinity got us no where; Megan beat the stereotype and went in first, snagging a pair of pants and her phone. Best yet, she escaped the man-eating death-clutch of the rabid, Hell-flying mouse and made it back in one piece. (more…)

Niagara Falls and the Speaking, Nasty Universe Pt. 1

I’m not sure if there is such a thing as a “Speaking universe,” one that tells you to stay in bed and avoid the day. Maybe it’s a cough and a dry throat at the start. Or maybe it’s an audiobook that won’t finish downloading.

Whatever or wherever “Signs” come from, well, this last Wednesday morning I ignored them all.

The plan was Niagara Falls. Megan and I would pack a lunch, hop in the car, and drive for an hour and a half to the State Park. Since we moved to Rochester, Niagara has been on our radar—mine especially, incessantly nagging at my curiosity to come visit.

“Stay in bed!” said the Universe. Instead, I threw a liquified shot of Emergen-C powder into my dry throat and headed out the door.

Highway 490, Revisited

About 30 minutes outside of Rochester we heard a funny noise below our car. It was just for a second. Like a… well… as if something fell out. But the car was handling great, and there were no warning signs. So we kept driving.

Five minutes later, that warning sign showed up. If any of you readers drive a Prius, then you’re aware of just how scary the big red exclamation point is. We took the first exit we could (paid a toll) and stopped at the nearest gas station for a gander.

We landed in a town called Batavia, and it was there that we learned we had a major oil leak. I knew this because I bought a fresh quart, emptied it into my car, to which my car—as if in protest—urinated it back onto the gas-station concrete.

Roadside ASSistance

Instead of an in-depth analysis, here’s a quick play-by-play of everything that went wrong soon after.

  1. After calling Allstate Roadside, the tow truck guy called me and said we were “Right around the corner,” from the Toyota dealer and that we could make it if we tried, and we’d save an hour.
  2. I disregarded my wife’s advice to wait, and had her plug in the Toyota dealership address into our GPS. Under five-minutes away.
  3. Megan accidentally chose South Main instead of West Main on the GPS.
  4. Five minutes later, we ended up on a country road, surrounded by large fields and spread-out houses. This was where our car finally jilted us to the side of the road and drove us no more.

(more…)

My Name is Kevin and I’m a Phone Addict

I have a love/hate relationship with my iPhone: I love it and I hate that I love it. In other words, I’m completely addicted. My life, my eyes, my attention—this little gadget has taken it all.

I used to make fun of phone drones, before my iPhone, that is. It was a pastime. The human race was declining, absorbing into their phones, but not me; I felt pretty good about myself. A distant judgement, sure, most likely rooted in bitterness since, well… my phone could barely turn on, let alone surf.

Here’s a handy, step-by-step guide I created for phone dependency:

The Phone Drone Fun Chart

1: Moderate. They take pictures or check e-mail. Causal tweeting exists here. Maybe they’re old and just don’t care.

2: Gateway. Instagram is new and they fight the urge to continually check it. Angry Birds exists here. Flirting with addiction is, potentially, the game.

3: Junkie. They check Facebook (or Instagram, or Twitter) once an hour to hold off diarrhea. They do it to feel “normal.”

4: Clueless. Reality, and the world around them, is gone. You’ve enjoyed waving your hand in front of their face at dinner.

5: The Walking Dead. These people run into telephone poles on the sidewalk. They also drool in waiting rooms.

My iPhone arrived last Christmas morning. Like any new toy under the tree, I ripped open the package and played for hours. Then for days. And days. Then six months went by and I’m playing with it still. You could say, my iPhone was probably the most successful Christmas present of all time.

My addiction level recently jumped up notch. Shortly after arriving at the Grand Canyon last week, my phone died. Within hours I began scratching my skin.

The cold-turkey technique, though effective and great for addiction diagnostics, is terrible for skin.

At the Canyon, there was only one place to charge my phone—the campground bathroom. So yes, I took my phone into the smelly Grand Canyon campground bathroom so Mother Electricity could do her thing. Fearing a stolen phone, I stood by the sink to watch it charge. Every few minutes someone would fart and I’d look towards the ceiling. It was awkward and weird.

This has got to be a sign. (fart) I’ve got to get out of here.

Here were the two lies I was telling myself:

1. I needed my phone to feel normal

2. I needed to share the experience to make it worth it

In other words, I had to brag to feel normal. This is big time Level 3 stuff; I’m totally a phone junkie. DANNGGG IT. Worst yet, I wasn’t present for my wife and my friend when I should’ve been. I let them down and disappointed myself.

I hear Step One is admitting the problem; so, this blog is my confession. I should probably set some boundaries before I run into a telephone pole.

What’s your level of phone dependency? Any tips on detoxing? Any feedback is greatly appreciated! 

Fumbling Through the Brouhaha (My 100th Post)

Today marks a very special occasion for me. My 100th blog post!!! Booya. Someone call WIllard Scott.

Warning: This post is highly self-indulgent.

I began blogging almost three years ago. I’d fit it in where I could (usually between music, school, and church). My creative spurts functioned like runners in a game of Red Light/Green Light; sometimes I’d post weekly, other times monthly.

Considering the quality of my early work, I am forever grateful for the encouragement received from friends and family. Looking back, I now see their kindess; my early work really is quite atrocious. The term wordy doesn’t do justice—maybe, blob job?

IMG_1947Last October, I committed myself to a schedule: post three times a week, and stay under 500 words each time, 400 if possible.

It’s been tough to keep up. I often find my desires for blogging bested by bowls of Cheetos and Netflix, fantasy football losses, calculus crazed mental breakdowns, or sad attempts at yoga.

I read some books that helped. Michael Hyatt’s Platform was instrumental to my journey. He has a saying, regarding consistent output, that I really like: “Readers lead and leaders read.”

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Herman Hesse, Michael Crichton, and the various writers of the Bible. WordPress itself is another deep well to draw from: Tony from A Way With Words, Nate from Breaking the Silence, Adeline from Dancing In The Storm, to name a few.

Making it to 100 is very special. It’s strange, but a new confidence exists within me. I no longer covet other blogger’s writing styles and their followers. Instead, I’ve come to appreciate honest work on all ends of the spectrum. One could say, I’ve fumbled through the brouhaha and found myself on the other side; I found a voice within me that is all my own.

From here I grow, I learn, I contribute. If I’m lucky, I’ll make a big splash someday.

Looking Back, It’s Not All Bad

Consumer Zombies on Record Store Day

5 Reasons to Stay a Christian

Internet Fasting: My Googless Week

Little Wins

Fly Fishing: The First Outing

8-Bits of Frustration: None I Tend to Let Go

Thanks be to God for teaching and giving grace. Thanks to every reader for the comments, likes, and shares. Without your feedback, I would’ve quit long ago.

Onward_thumb_1

Consumer Zombies on Record Store Day

picstitchRecord Store Day. I participated this last weekend—April 20th, 2013; it was great. My fourth year partaking, this “holiday” has become quite the tradition for me.

I walked away with an Avett Brothers/Randy Travis single, and just barely got my hands on a Bowie 7-inch; that sounds dirty.

What’s that? You don’t know what Record Store Day is? (loser). Let me explain.

It’s a one-day celebration of local record stores. Artists release exclusive, limited vinyls and CDs that can only be sold at mom and pop-local shops. SUCK IT iTunes.

Kids like me eat this stuff up.

We get there early. We line around the block and talk to each other about music. We rush inside and spend way more money than we ever normally would. Our wives make fun of us…

You get the gist.

Record Sales

I didn’t get everything I wanted. In fact, I barely got anything I wanted. This year was insane. Since I’m in San Luis Obispo this year, I lined up at the famous Boo Boo Records. The last few years were in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho; people there are just getting around to iPods so you couldn’t expect much from their shops.

Simply, RSD isn’t as big of a deal in Idaho. A few collectors maybe show up. Not many.

Down here, people care about this stuff. Boo Boos gets almost one of every release. That’s unheard of!

My wife dropped me off early so I could get a good spot in line. She left for a Breakfast Buzz Burrito, and I squatted. RSD is kind of more, my thing. Shortly after, the line inflated. People wrapped down the block and curved beyond my line of sight. Luckily, all behind me.

Good timing, I thought. That White Stripes LP rerelease is mine!

Record Hells

Oh what’s that? They’re letting everyone in at the same time? RUN!!!!!

Don’t worry, I thought, maybe they’ll spread the records throughout the store to keep people from swarming in one small area. This should be easy, in and out. 

Nope. Definitely not easy. Almost died.

There was one little bin of records for three hundred little hands. Standing in line was absolutely pointless. I could’ve arrived last and elbowed my way to the front. Before I knew it, I was completely surrounded in hipster hell.

photoHands, elbows, knees, eye-glasses, beards. People yelling. “Give me one of those, bro.” “HAND ME, ME, DUDE.” I looked  behind me to see my wife, white eyed, backing away slowly. I hope to see her again, I thought.

People pushed and pushed. The crowd became bigger and more intense. Worst yet, there was nothing in my hands. White Stripes was gone, duh. The LPs, the good ones, they go fast. What did I want? What was my back up? 

Get your hands in there, I thought. So I pushed back and reached in. The singles, I thought. Go for the singles. I pulled out two that were on my list. The crowd was getting worse. The pressure grew higher. The air tighter. The people. Pushing. Screaming. Fingers reaching. Are these people going to eat me? 

I have got to get out of here!

Good thing too, because I couldn’t. Boo Boo Records has one of the largest shops I’ve ever seen; yet, they placed all their exclusive albums in one small bin near a corner in the back. Thanks guys. There was no way out.

If I knew I was going to be trapped, I would’ve brought a snack. Also, a good thing, these people all were magically sweaty in a matter of minutes.  

The Walking Sales

Needless to say, I lived. Boo Boos could’ve planned the day a little better, but they did give donuts out to those who waiting in line. All is forgiven.

This day made me think a lot about consumerism. I remember being in the middle of that giant crowd and thinking, I don’t really need any of this. It’s not really fun when it gets cut-throat.

Am I just getting older and growing out of the whole “consumerism” thing?

Maybe I’m just a poor sport and need to bring snacks next year. And spike studded shoulder pads. roadwarriors_zps7fc9c0c4

Did anyone else partake in Record Store Day? I’d love to hear some other stories of crazed consumerism.