In 15 years I will be 34 years old. If all goes well, this is what I'll be doing.
6:00am: Wake Up.
I like the mornings, so I think six would be a good time. I'll get out of bed and head downstairs to cook up some breakfast. On the way downstairs I'll probably trip on a toy or a blanket or something left on the staircase by one of my kids (I don't really want to guess how many I'll have at this point, But I would like to have a big family). I'll think about cussing, but I'll probably just do it in my head to lessen the guilt and to not risk having to explain to my wife how my tape-recorder of a son or daughter learned a new word.
I'll make it to the kitchen eventually, and cook up some tasty breakfast tacos....yummmmm. I might even share the meal with my wife and kids...but I'm not certain. That's love folks.
6:10am: Sportscenter.
Its a beautiful thing. Watch the highlights, catch some breaking news, debate with analysts who can't hear me. Maybe even yell at the TV a little bit depending on what's going on. This is how I will wake up the rest of my family. Most children wake to alarm clocks or their parents gently rocking them awake. Mine will wake to the sound of their father (who will probably still be in his boxers as he sits on the couch...on a good day) yelling plays, insults, "suggestions", and other sports related jargon at the people in the television who can't hear him through the cameras and time difference...And they will love me for it.
7:00am: Get dressed.
Only because I have to. But hey, at the rate the world is going, briefs might be acceptable as "Business Casual", however if that's the case I will have to blow all my vacation time calling in sick every "Casual Friday"(see episode of "The Office" of the same title). I will then utilize my never ending water heater. I love warm showers. For washing, relaxing, singing, and pondering. During the winter I like taking long showers just because its really really warm, and tile showers have sick acoustics. Anyways, I will take as long of a shower as I want. This is starting to feel a little awkward.
8:00am: Work.
I pull up to the radio station in my car (I don't really care what, just something better than "Big Bertha"), just in time to start my mid morning sports talk radio show at KVET Austin. Where I provide in depth "unbiased" analysis on UT Sports. I'll talk about games I'm slotted to call that weekend, and just get my sports geek on. It would be chill.
12:00pm: Lunch Time:
MMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmm. I love lunch time. Where I eat my lunch will vary. If I have little kids and my wife is a stay at home mom, then I would enjoy going home for lunch. If my wife works, then I would like to go eat lunch with her. I wouldn't mind an occasional lunch-interview with Steve Young, or Tim Lincecum, or maybe even hang with Colin Cowherd or Michael Wilbon every now and then. But I think it would be cool to eat lunch with my wife.
1:00pm. Work
Now I prep for a game that upcoming weekend. I need to memorize the names and jersey numbers of every player on the Phoenix Sun's roster in preparation for calling the Spurs game that weekend. I also need to find every bad stat for the Longhorns in preparation for calling their game against USC that Saturday...Like I said, unbiased.
5:00pm. After a few phone interviews with various shows on ESPN, I get back into my car and drive home. Where is home? Somewhere in Central Texas. Somewhere in the hills with pine trees. Maybe even Bastrop, who knows?
I drive up to my house (a mid-nineteenth to early-twentieth century house with a wrap around porch and a lake out back) and walk in the door to be bombarded at the knees by little Herzogs (or, if they take after their dad, I'll be getting bombarded by a couple of 6-foot, 195 lb six-year-olds at the door). I'll take in the hyper kids, and early-evening chaos that I remember so fondly from my childhood much like a soldier adjusts to the shell-shock from an artillery bombardment on the shores of some god-forsaken beach (this is nothing against my future wife, any children with my genes will generate chaos no matter the effort their mom puts in).
After the adjustment is complete, everyone has been hugged and hello-ed, and I take in the damages the little Loganzo's have caused, I go about helping cook dinner, doing dishes (yes I would do the dishes because I will be too excited NOT to use my actual functioning dishwasher after a childhood of manual labor.) bathing the kids, and putting them to bed. I talk with my wife about how our day went
(about my future wife, I'll leave out gushy, cheesy imaginations about how she will be, I just know she will be pretty awesome.) and maybe watch a movie I got from NetFlix.(gosh I can't put my love for NetFlix into words.)
I'll agree to watch a chick-flick with her if she promises to watch part of the game I will be calling that weekend.
(Also about my wife: I want to marry someone who like sports enough to root passionately for a team once or twice a year at a game-watching party. Outside of that there are no requirements.)
8:30: De-pressurization.
I go into my home studio and just jam. I work on some new songs, maybe play some tunes for my rockin' awesome wife, and get ready to lay down some tracks for my band's new CD (and ensuing tour in support of said CD. I'm kind of a little stressed at this point because I'm still waiting on my leave-of-absence to be OK-ed). Its my perfect get-a-way.
10:00pm: Sportscenter.
I catch any latest news, final scores, highlights, and just make sure I'm still in the loop. This session is not nearly as long as my morning time (and involves a lot less yelling.) I make sure the games have been DVR-ed so I can go over them tomorrow. And then I go to bed.
I am now going to take a lesson from my future self and go to sleep.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Overheard at Wal-Mart
Guy at Wally World-"So Logan, what do you want to study in college?"
Me- "Well I was thinking Journalism"
G@WW- "Journalism huh?...that's a bit of a dying art isn't it?"
Me- "Yeah it is, but hey, guess we'll see. What is your degree in?"
G@WW- "Blacksmithing"
....?
Me- "Well I was thinking Journalism"
G@WW- "Journalism huh?...that's a bit of a dying art isn't it?"
Me- "Yeah it is, but hey, guess we'll see. What is your degree in?"
G@WW- "Blacksmithing"
....?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
My football career: The only thing shorter than my attention span.
I am such a sports nerd. Its almost embarrassing. I literally like have fun researching different formations and packages and such. The only other people I know who enjoy talking about it like I do are people who played the game. This normally turns into a "why the crap didn't you play football??" discussion. It's a bit of a long story, so I figured it would make an interesting blog post. Why the crap didn't I play sports in school? The story goes a little something like this:
Before I jump into high school, let me give some background information. Basically, from the time I was two, I was told by everyone that I was born to be a football player. My mother's side is full of broad shouldered, barrel-chested men, and my Dad is 6'5". I basically got the best of both worlds. Huge shoulders, a barrel chest, 6'4.25" height and even longer wingspan. It just seemed meant to be.
So as a 6 foot, 275lb 13 year old, I naturally wanted to play pop-warner. I begged and begged my mom, but she said she would have none of it. If I wanted to scramble my brains I would at least have to wait until high school. I was crushed. I counted down the days until summer training started at Apopka High School, a 6-A football powerhouse in Florida high school football.
The day finally came where I was going to achieve my dream of playing America's game in a highly competitive program. By freshman year I was 6'3", 240lbs, and expected to be one of the biggest kids trying out. I couldn't have been more wrong. I showed up to the first practice and told the coach I would like to try out for offensive lineman. He just laughed. I could NOT believe it. He told me I was too skinny to play lineman but hey, it was my funeral (this was a historic moment. I can't recall any time before or after that remark where I had been told I was too skinny for ANYTHING. It was frequently the contrary.) I walked up to where the lineman were gathering and quickly realize he was right! I was a twig! Our starting linemen that year recorded weights of 290, 295, 285, 290, 310. Remember we were freshman. 14 year old boys. Or at least thats what they told people. They looked like college players.
Needless to say that I was no match for some of these guys. I weighed less than almost every single defensive lineman as well. The coaches thought about moving me to a Wide Reciever slot, until they saw my bow-legged, flat-footed self run my 40 in about 8.5 seconds. The slowest on the team. I also had a four inch vertical jump. I was quickly returned to the linemen group.
Now this wasn't even enough to deter me. After all, I had the frame, I would just need to spend time in the weight room. The biggest physical challenge was actually my feet. I only dressed for half of the games because I kept either twisting my ankles, hyper-extending my knees, or even worse, straining my achilles tendon over and over again. Now turned ankles and constant aches and pains have always been a part of my life and I've learned to play through them, but ask anyone who has had an achilles injury, there's no playing on it. Insanely sharp pain. Thats the only way I can describe it. Your leg doesn't even allow you to try and go through it, it buckles on you before you can even try.
Another thing I realized after I joined was how intense the sport is. I was completely comfortable with giving and receiving elbows to the face and even throwing a punch or two (something I demonstrated playing Water Polo), but football was a whole 'notha level. We had the team chaplain "Pastor Brown" come in the locker room to pray with us. I think the one thing Pastor Brown liked doing more than praying was giving pep talks. Some quotes include "I love football, its the only sport where you can try to kill someone and its legal." and "Smack 'em so hard you make they mama cry!". I wasn't really into that. I didn't mind trying to hurt someone, but in order to be good at football, you either have to be incredibly athletic, or have an incredible desire to inflict harm. I didn't really fit that criteria, and that was a major turning point.
Even despite this, I moved to Texas fully expecting to join the football team and give it another go, but two major things would change my mind.
I remember when my guidance counselor signed me up for newspaper. I didn't have the prerequisite, but my teacher would give me lessons on the fly. I realized how much I loved writing about sports, without having to deal with the ticking injury time bombs below my knees. I also wanted to spend more time on my music. I told myself that if I played football again I would need to be willing to put my whole effort and all of my time into it, I soon realized that I wasn't. I miss it sometimes. But then I think about all the things I wouldn't have been able to do if I had played. I may have never discovered some things that I absolutely love to do. I would really like to coach someday, or do something to be around the sport, and I'm sure I'll have to keep on answering the same inquiries as to why I never played. At least now instead of having to repeat the same story over and over again, I can just send them the link.
Before I jump into high school, let me give some background information. Basically, from the time I was two, I was told by everyone that I was born to be a football player. My mother's side is full of broad shouldered, barrel-chested men, and my Dad is 6'5". I basically got the best of both worlds. Huge shoulders, a barrel chest, 6'4.25" height and even longer wingspan. It just seemed meant to be.
So as a 6 foot, 275lb 13 year old, I naturally wanted to play pop-warner. I begged and begged my mom, but she said she would have none of it. If I wanted to scramble my brains I would at least have to wait until high school. I was crushed. I counted down the days until summer training started at Apopka High School, a 6-A football powerhouse in Florida high school football.
The day finally came where I was going to achieve my dream of playing America's game in a highly competitive program. By freshman year I was 6'3", 240lbs, and expected to be one of the biggest kids trying out. I couldn't have been more wrong. I showed up to the first practice and told the coach I would like to try out for offensive lineman. He just laughed. I could NOT believe it. He told me I was too skinny to play lineman but hey, it was my funeral (this was a historic moment. I can't recall any time before or after that remark where I had been told I was too skinny for ANYTHING. It was frequently the contrary.) I walked up to where the lineman were gathering and quickly realize he was right! I was a twig! Our starting linemen that year recorded weights of 290, 295, 285, 290, 310. Remember we were freshman. 14 year old boys. Or at least thats what they told people. They looked like college players.
Needless to say that I was no match for some of these guys. I weighed less than almost every single defensive lineman as well. The coaches thought about moving me to a Wide Reciever slot, until they saw my bow-legged, flat-footed self run my 40 in about 8.5 seconds. The slowest on the team. I also had a four inch vertical jump. I was quickly returned to the linemen group.
Now this wasn't even enough to deter me. After all, I had the frame, I would just need to spend time in the weight room. The biggest physical challenge was actually my feet. I only dressed for half of the games because I kept either twisting my ankles, hyper-extending my knees, or even worse, straining my achilles tendon over and over again. Now turned ankles and constant aches and pains have always been a part of my life and I've learned to play through them, but ask anyone who has had an achilles injury, there's no playing on it. Insanely sharp pain. Thats the only way I can describe it. Your leg doesn't even allow you to try and go through it, it buckles on you before you can even try.
Another thing I realized after I joined was how intense the sport is. I was completely comfortable with giving and receiving elbows to the face and even throwing a punch or two (something I demonstrated playing Water Polo), but football was a whole 'notha level. We had the team chaplain "Pastor Brown" come in the locker room to pray with us. I think the one thing Pastor Brown liked doing more than praying was giving pep talks. Some quotes include "I love football, its the only sport where you can try to kill someone and its legal." and "Smack 'em so hard you make they mama cry!". I wasn't really into that. I didn't mind trying to hurt someone, but in order to be good at football, you either have to be incredibly athletic, or have an incredible desire to inflict harm. I didn't really fit that criteria, and that was a major turning point.
Even despite this, I moved to Texas fully expecting to join the football team and give it another go, but two major things would change my mind.
I remember when my guidance counselor signed me up for newspaper. I didn't have the prerequisite, but my teacher would give me lessons on the fly. I realized how much I loved writing about sports, without having to deal with the ticking injury time bombs below my knees. I also wanted to spend more time on my music. I told myself that if I played football again I would need to be willing to put my whole effort and all of my time into it, I soon realized that I wasn't. I miss it sometimes. But then I think about all the things I wouldn't have been able to do if I had played. I may have never discovered some things that I absolutely love to do. I would really like to coach someday, or do something to be around the sport, and I'm sure I'll have to keep on answering the same inquiries as to why I never played. At least now instead of having to repeat the same story over and over again, I can just send them the link.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
The Four Pillars of Terrible Christmas Music
I love Christmas. I love the weather. I love how people are in a good mood. I love the extra focus I have on Christ as I celebrate his birth. My favorite way to celebrate the season is through music. I absolutely LOVE Christmas hymns.I am the first to bust out my MOTAB Christmas albums every November. I would seriously sing them year round if people didn't yell things at me. I don't understand how some people get mad when they have to listen to the hymns about Christmas longer than they think is necessary. However notice this whole time I've been using the term "Hymns". You see I have a somewhat picky taste in Christmas music. I also like the cute traditional, secular (for lack of a better term) Christmas songs, but there are four types of Christmas songs that just totally bring out the Scrooge in me. Such as:
4. The depressing Christmas song.
"Christmas Shoes" falls into this category. I feel like a bad person for saying this, but I DO NOT like that song. Is it "touching"? I suppose you could say that. But is it necessary? I don't think so. Some may say its a reminder for us to reach out to the less fortunate during the Christmas season, which I have absolutely nothing against. But man, every time I hear that song I feel wayyyy more sad than any Christmas song should make me feel. The greatest motivation to reach out to the less fortunate for me is the spirit I feel when I hear songs about the savior, not necessarily "Christmas shoes". Please feel free to throw rocks at me. I probably deserve them.
Now to begin work on my next post titled "I Have No Heart". Just kidding....kinda.
1. Any song sung by "The Chipmunks".
I hate to burst your bubble. But they aren't real. Its really just a bunch of strange people singing Christmas songs then dubbing their voices to sound ridiculously high. I just think its dumb, and it literally hurts my ears when songs are sung so high that only my Great Danes can fully understand what is being said.
2. Any song that involves a romantic relationship with Santa Clause.
I think songs like "Santa Baby" and "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause" are incredibly creepy. Maintaining the innocence of an elderly man who sneaks in through everyone's chimney to leave gifts for little children requested through the post service is difficult enough in this world, so now we decide to add some love affair? I don't understand. Santa is supposed to be a symbol of the spirit of giving. Now he's sneaking into homes to make out with another man's wife? Just hearing those songs make me feel more inclined to meet Santa at the chimney with a double barreled shotgun, NOT cookies and warm milk (which is totally gross btw).
3. Any other kind of Christmas love song.
There are exceptions to this rule I'm sure, I'm just not sure if I can think of any. Most songs of this nature are cheesy and lack originality. If I have to hear another song about only wanting "you" for Christmas, or using the weather as leverage in the debate over whether to stay the night (yes I'm talking to YOU Barry Manilow), I just might throw coal at someone
4. The depressing Christmas song.
"Christmas Shoes" falls into this category. I feel like a bad person for saying this, but I DO NOT like that song. Is it "touching"? I suppose you could say that. But is it necessary? I don't think so. Some may say its a reminder for us to reach out to the less fortunate during the Christmas season, which I have absolutely nothing against. But man, every time I hear that song I feel wayyyy more sad than any Christmas song should make me feel. The greatest motivation to reach out to the less fortunate for me is the spirit I feel when I hear songs about the savior, not necessarily "Christmas shoes". Please feel free to throw rocks at me. I probably deserve them.
Now to begin work on my next post titled "I Have No Heart". Just kidding....kinda.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Movember
I think the idea of "no-shave-november" is the worst ever. Not because I dislike the idea of having some excuse to grow out facial hair, but because I am unable to do so. Movember is simply a month born to taunt me and my baby face. For me to celebrate Movember would be like the Colonists losing the Revolutionary War, but still deciding to celebrate Independence Day with tea and crumpets. I'm not in the business of celebrating failures, unless it has to do with sports, then all bets are off.
My younger brothers love Movember. Their ill-advised attempts at beards actually turn out better than mine because they are actually visible. The world would be able to see my sad attempts as well, however my facial hair grows more on one side than the other, and is bleach blonde to the point of almost being transparent. You can only see it if the light reflects perfectly, and then you will still be disappointed. Its such an ego blow. My younger brothers, the ones who use straighteners every morning and fight over who gets to wear the Gucci female sunglasses every day pick fun at my masculinity because they can grow better beards than I. I tell them gay men grow out their facial hair all the time, and it doesn't make them any less gay, but alas, the damage is done. I'm just grateful Movember is over. Now I can have peace of mind as I christmas shop for my brothers at Victoria's Secret.
My younger brothers love Movember. Their ill-advised attempts at beards actually turn out better than mine because they are actually visible. The world would be able to see my sad attempts as well, however my facial hair grows more on one side than the other, and is bleach blonde to the point of almost being transparent. You can only see it if the light reflects perfectly, and then you will still be disappointed. Its such an ego blow. My younger brothers, the ones who use straighteners every morning and fight over who gets to wear the Gucci female sunglasses every day pick fun at my masculinity because they can grow better beards than I. I tell them gay men grow out their facial hair all the time, and it doesn't make them any less gay, but alas, the damage is done. I'm just grateful Movember is over. Now I can have peace of mind as I christmas shop for my brothers at Victoria's Secret.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sunbeam Quote of the Week
Me: "So kids, how do we know what Jesus wants us to do?"
Kid: "HE TEXTS US!"
I need that phone number!
Kid: "HE TEXTS US!"
I need that phone number!
Your friendly neighborhood Wal-Mart
Wal-Mart. Its a very interesting place to say the least. I'm supposed to be working in the online department, but in my first two weeks I have already unloaded a couple trucks, worked as a door greeter, logged endless hours on a register, and even helped stock groceries. Its good work and decent hours so I can't complain, but I must say working there is interesting.
Lets use last night for example. I was helping the people in the grocery department "downstack" freight. What is "downstacking" you ask? Picture this. Its the worlds largest game of Jenga, except in reverse, and if the Jenga tower collapses, you will die. No pressure right? Apparently not. If I were in charge I would be hiring a contractor to determine the load-bearing boxes and such before I touched anything, yet the people who work in the back will grab boxes off the bottom all the time without a thought or care. Perhaps they've all made their peace with the prospect of death, whether by a case of mayonnaise or a giant can of yams. It wouldn't surprise me if that were the case, the back room has a very gloomy and even morbid look about it. No windows, no air circulation, and there are hundreds of full outfits hanging from the ceiling awaiting transport to the apparel section , reminding me of the unfortunate ending to countless Nazi Resistance movies. Morbid I know. Perhaps everyone else is OK with the irony of being crushed by the world's largest case of throw pillows, but if the last thing I see in life is the back room of the Bastrop Wal-Mart, I will consider my life a major FAIL.
There are always strange characters showing up to our friendly neighborhood Wally World at all hours, but there is an incredible disparity between those that show up at night and those that show up during the day. Think of the kind of fish you will find in the shallow warm waters of a coral reef, then think about the kind of fish you would find living in the bottom of the Mariana's Trench. That's the difference between daytime customers and night-time. You have the sick, the afflicted, the insane, the just plain unfortunate looking, the heavily intoxicated (I would venture to say that after midnight, 25% of customers fall into this category), and the soon-to-be-heavily-intoxicated (buying three cases of beer at 1am). Please understand I'm not necessarily judging the character of these people. I do not consider myself a looker by any means, and most everyone who comes in at night are very friendly (by natural or synthetic means) and I do not have any disdain for these people, if anything I'm grateful for something to write about.
I also had the opportunity to push carts last night with perhaps the most interesting character I've met so far. "Shopping-cart Dundee". He takes his job VERY seriously. Decked out in a hunting hat and full camo gear (I realize that camo does not blend into concrete, but still, when working in a place full of moving cars and questionable drivers, I would exclude camo on principle.) and hunting boots, he looks much like the love-able reptile wrastler we all know and love, just add patchy facial hair and subtract the Aussie charm. I worked with Dundee for an hour that I will never forget. He kept commenting on my natural ability to line carts up, and complemented my obvious instinct on the cart pusher. Apparently, I did excellent for a first-timer. So if anyone needs things lined up or pushed call me, I'm like the Chosen One dude. I'll definitely be putting "knack for cart-pushing" on my resume.
Lets use last night for example. I was helping the people in the grocery department "downstack" freight. What is "downstacking" you ask? Picture this. Its the worlds largest game of Jenga, except in reverse, and if the Jenga tower collapses, you will die. No pressure right? Apparently not. If I were in charge I would be hiring a contractor to determine the load-bearing boxes and such before I touched anything, yet the people who work in the back will grab boxes off the bottom all the time without a thought or care. Perhaps they've all made their peace with the prospect of death, whether by a case of mayonnaise or a giant can of yams. It wouldn't surprise me if that were the case, the back room has a very gloomy and even morbid look about it. No windows, no air circulation, and there are hundreds of full outfits hanging from the ceiling awaiting transport to the apparel section , reminding me of the unfortunate ending to countless Nazi Resistance movies. Morbid I know. Perhaps everyone else is OK with the irony of being crushed by the world's largest case of throw pillows, but if the last thing I see in life is the back room of the Bastrop Wal-Mart, I will consider my life a major FAIL.
There are always strange characters showing up to our friendly neighborhood Wally World at all hours, but there is an incredible disparity between those that show up at night and those that show up during the day. Think of the kind of fish you will find in the shallow warm waters of a coral reef, then think about the kind of fish you would find living in the bottom of the Mariana's Trench. That's the difference between daytime customers and night-time. You have the sick, the afflicted, the insane, the just plain unfortunate looking, the heavily intoxicated (I would venture to say that after midnight, 25% of customers fall into this category), and the soon-to-be-heavily-intoxicated (buying three cases of beer at 1am). Please understand I'm not necessarily judging the character of these people. I do not consider myself a looker by any means, and most everyone who comes in at night are very friendly (by natural or synthetic means) and I do not have any disdain for these people, if anything I'm grateful for something to write about.
I also had the opportunity to push carts last night with perhaps the most interesting character I've met so far. "Shopping-cart Dundee". He takes his job VERY seriously. Decked out in a hunting hat and full camo gear (I realize that camo does not blend into concrete, but still, when working in a place full of moving cars and questionable drivers, I would exclude camo on principle.) and hunting boots, he looks much like the love-able reptile wrastler we all know and love, just add patchy facial hair and subtract the Aussie charm. I worked with Dundee for an hour that I will never forget. He kept commenting on my natural ability to line carts up, and complemented my obvious instinct on the cart pusher. Apparently, I did excellent for a first-timer. So if anyone needs things lined up or pushed call me, I'm like the Chosen One dude. I'll definitely be putting "knack for cart-pushing" on my resume.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Dear....
Dear....Sidney the transvestite manager.
I'm sorry for hesitating before I called you "sir". It was not to offend, I was only trying to figure out if you preferred "ma'am" or "sir".
Dear....Walmart bagging station.
Why are you so SHORT??? My back was sore after the first hour from doubling over each time I had to bag an item!! Was Sam Walton a midget???
Dear...Cleavage Lady
You insisted on telling me all about the weight you put on after menopause, and how it makes you self conscious, all the while wearing an incredibly revealing top that made me want to puke. That made me INCREDIBLY uncomfortable.
Dear....Little girl buying candy
Thanks for leaving without paying the full amount before I realized it. Your cute little act was pretty convincing I must admit, but still, not cool. BTW you owe me eight cents.
Dear...Hot Dog barcode.
Of all days for you to refuse to scan, you chose the super sale???? I had to type in your barcode number over twenty times!!!
Dear....Trojan dude.
The triumphant head nod you gave me when I scanned three boxes of condoms was pretty funny, but still, gross.
That is all. I shall be posting again tomorrow!
I'm sorry for hesitating before I called you "sir". It was not to offend, I was only trying to figure out if you preferred "ma'am" or "sir".
Dear....Walmart bagging station.
Why are you so SHORT??? My back was sore after the first hour from doubling over each time I had to bag an item!! Was Sam Walton a midget???
Dear...Cleavage Lady
You insisted on telling me all about the weight you put on after menopause, and how it makes you self conscious, all the while wearing an incredibly revealing top that made me want to puke. That made me INCREDIBLY uncomfortable.
Dear....Little girl buying candy
Thanks for leaving without paying the full amount before I realized it. Your cute little act was pretty convincing I must admit, but still, not cool. BTW you owe me eight cents.
Dear...Hot Dog barcode.
Of all days for you to refuse to scan, you chose the super sale???? I had to type in your barcode number over twenty times!!!
Dear....Trojan dude.
The triumphant head nod you gave me when I scanned three boxes of condoms was pretty funny, but still, gross.
That is all. I shall be posting again tomorrow!
Monday, November 15, 2010
Eight Is Really Enough
Growing up in a big family is a very cool but very unique experience. There are things you learn while growing up with five siblings constantly surrounding you that you cannot learn anywhere else. I will always be grateful for my parents willingness to have a big family, because its had everything to do with the person I've become. Here some things I have learned being a part of an anything-but-typical family.
1.First and foremost, looking out for number one will leave you looking out of one.....eye I mean. Its not tolerated. If your parents don't get to you first, your siblings will let you know how they think about selfishness in a much less civil way.
2. Socks are like currency. Theres a myth that each sock has an identical twin. Do not believe this. It is a lie.
3. When dad brings home the good cereal (meaning the sweet stuff that was on sale), it has an estimated survival time of under ten minutes. You better be fast, or you WILL be eating Great Value Toasted Oats for breakfast.
4. You might become a legal adult when you are 18, but you become self reliant eight years earlier. Like it or not. By the time you are 10 you will be doing your own laundry, making your own breakfast and lunch (except for Saturdays when dad cooks breakfast), and you will be required to do the dishes (most likely without a functioning dishwasher).
5. 3 pairs of jeans, a pair of dress pants, two pairs of shorts, and you've got it made. But remember this: you can NEVER have enough pairs of underwear/undershirts.
6. Taking more than three minutes in the shower on a Sunday morning will earn you a trip to the ER. God hath no fury like the wrath of three women who had to take cold showers.
7. That cute little plot on TV where the older sibling threatens the younger one into agreeing not to rat him out to his parents NEVER works. The younger ones are tough and won't be afraid of you.
8. The scenario where the mom cooks, cleans, does laundry, makes your bed, cleans your room, ya it doesn't exist either. Probably for the best.
9. The fight over who gets to be "player 1" on the playstation will create more casualties than D-day.
10. Older siblings are actually only half sibling/half parent. You look two siblings up the chain from you and you are looking at someone who has changed your diaper and spent half of their social life in high school babysitting you for free. Thus giving them the ability to create the ultimate guilt trip.
11. Everyone has at least one near death experience, often created by another sibling. Whenever there are guests you all go into story telling mode, where everyone talks about their worst injury or something of the sort.
12. Bathroom humor happens at the dinner table all the time, but mention the word "sex" and everyone immediately turns crimson red and changes the subject.
13. You will grow up thinking every family in the world has a rotating chore calendar. Its not true. You are the only one.
14. NEVER get stuck grocery shopping with your parents. Feeding eight people requires on average 3 hours of grocery shopping per trip.
15. Road trips bring out the worst in people. Invest in your future and buy an mp3 player. Death by boredom (or the bored person sitting next to or behind you) occurs frequently though poorly documented.
16. Every family has a legendary flu story. Its part of the family lore. Ours was Christmas of '98. Known by my family as "The Barf Christmas". 30 cousins, aunts, uncles, siblings, parents, etc suffered the stomach flu while spending the holidays at my grandparents house. I still have nightmares.
17. You will develop the ability to ignore ANYTHING! You will impress your friends as they come over and witness you go about daily life full of crashing pots and pans, yelling and screaming siblings running around, and dogs barking, without hearing a SINGLE thing. Turns out people at school notice your skill as well.
18. Your first car will be able to seat AT LEAST six people. It will probably be a van or the most uncool suburban. Great for hauling your guitars and drums to a gig, not so great for impressing dates on say, Prom Night.
19. "Leftover Nights" are either full of masterpieces, or some of the most inedible creations ever consumed by a human being. It all depends on the skill of the artist.
20. No matter how you got along with each other, you will miss each person as they begin to move out. One of the strangest transitions in life will be going from the house that never slept to the quiet house. The solution? Pick up a couple guitars and a drum-set and start a band with the remaining siblings. Because a quiet house is a very boring one.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Kids say the darndest things!
On Wednesday nights I teach the eight-year-old Cub Scouts. On Sunday's I help teach the three-year-old's. These kids in both groups are absolutely freakin hilarious! These kids make my day twice a week! It's amazing what little kids will think to say.
*Disclaimer: The identities of these kids will be revealed only by nicknames of my choosing. I will refrain from using any real names.*
There is this boy in my Cub Scout Den that looks a lot like Calvin from "Calvin and Hobbes". On my first day, "Calvin" felt obligated to repeatedly inform me that he had a "sexy butt". I told him I did not care about his butt, however I would be happy to kick it should he continue to teach the rest of the boys a new word. When he refused to stop, I asked him if he even knew what sexy meant. Before Calvin could answer, another boy in the group chimed "it means he's got NATURAL CURVES!!". What has this world come to?
My first day teaching the 3-year-olds was no less eventful. I began by going around the room asking each kid their name and age (i knew their age, but I enjoyed watching them trying to figure out how many fingers they needed to put up...i'm such a kind man.). As I was making my way around the room, one of the boys stood up and introduced himself as "Tony Stark, Stark Industries. But at night when my mommy and daddy go to bed, I'm IRON MAN!!!." Five minutes later, when I finally stopped laughing, every other kid decided that they were a super hero as well. I was totally fine with referring to them as Spiderman, Superman, Hulk, Wonderwoman, Catwoman, etc. I even got into it (I was Jason, The Red Power Ranger). However I had to tell the kid who wanted to be Jesus Christ that he would have to pick someone else. Talk about ego issues!
When trying to teach little kids, leverage is vital. Kids are not dumb, as I learned quickly. I am sad to say that I have been manipulated and outwitted by a child who still wears pull ups and has yet to step into a pre-school. I was once persuaded to allow the little ones to have their snack ten minutes early. Instead of appreciating the gracious reward, they decided that after their animal crackers had been consumed, they would begin removing their clothing and streak across the classroom. When I asked one of the "ringleaders" to put his clothes back on, he asked "u more ammal crakuhs?" I told him I had no more. He then laughed at me and resumed his streaking. Thus we see that even before they are completely potty trained, children understand leverage, and WILL use it against you.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Singin' Til My Voice Is Gone
I love music. Like everything about it. Its so versatile. It can be used to convey any emotion on the planet. I absolutely love the power of words and language, however I think words can be over rated. Music makes us FEEL. If you listen to someone speak, you may get a lot out of it, you may get nothing. It all depends on your knowledge of the words the person is speaking and your ability to discern what the person means by their words. Music is so much simpler. A small child can listen to a complex piece such as "Pathetique" and feel its haunting intensity.
The beautiful thing about music is that it causes you to feel, without requiring anything from you. If music is playing and you have functioning ears, you will hear the music, without giving any kind of effort. Sure that aspect can be used for good or for ill, but when used properly it is an incredible gift. A very unselfish gift.
From the time I was two, I've loved music. I knew all the primary songs by heart (and after teaching sunbeams for the past few months I've realized I still do), I knew every word to every Garth Brooks song in my dad's CD collection. I would run around the house (sometimes clothed, sometimes not) with an oversized plastic baseball bat as my guitar, pretending to be Travis Tritt. Its always been in my blood, but it took a few more years to realize it.
By the time I turned 11, puberty took its toll on my singing voice. I'd never felt like I was much of a singer in the first place, but a changing voice really makes singing that much more difficult and awkward, so I decided that music just wasn't going to be for me, and I gave up.
Then came June. For my dad's birthday we bought him a classical acoustic guitar from the pawn shop for him to learn on. My dad, a HUGE fan of the guitar, loved the gift, but his busy traveling schedule forced him to put the guitar aside and focus on providing for the family instead. When he was gone on business, I would go into his closet and pluck the strings, trying to find my way around the fret board. It was right then and there that I fell in love.
I wrote my first song when I was about 12. I was in love. At least as much in love as a sappy 12 year old boy can possibly be. I re-wrote the lyrics to one of my favorite songs, dedicating it to the girl who I was so crazy for at the time. I can't imagine how weirded out the poor girl must have been when I gave her the lyrics, confession my undying affection in the creepy and awkward way only a pre-teen could. But thankfully she was a very kind girl, graciously accepting the paper and even encouraging me on my writing.
The year I moved to TX was the year I truly began writing on an everyday basis. It was a very emotionally draining time. Lots of sadness from leaving my friends, but also so much excitement from making new ones and looking forward to what the future held for me.
Writing took away from other things however. Looking in my shoebox full of old lyrics sheets the other day I realized over half of the lyrics were written on the backs of homework worksheets I probably should have turned in rather than using them as scratch paper. I always seem to have inspiration at the most inopportune times.
I feel extremely comfortable playing in front of crowds. I'm not much of a singer, but I feel more confident now that I can at least carry a tune. I would love to go on tour and play my music for people. Even if I got that opportunity I would think about it very carefully. I want to have a family, and growing up with my dad on the road, I've seen the challenges that presents. On the off chance I ever got chosen to go on any kind of tour, I would make sure I put my family first. But maybe I'll find a girl who would enjoy it as much as I would. Maybe I'll find a Tarah to go with my Bryce Avery?
One can hope at least. As for right now, I'm enjoying the audience of my bedroom walls.
The beautiful thing about music is that it causes you to feel, without requiring anything from you. If music is playing and you have functioning ears, you will hear the music, without giving any kind of effort. Sure that aspect can be used for good or for ill, but when used properly it is an incredible gift. A very unselfish gift.
From the time I was two, I've loved music. I knew all the primary songs by heart (and after teaching sunbeams for the past few months I've realized I still do), I knew every word to every Garth Brooks song in my dad's CD collection. I would run around the house (sometimes clothed, sometimes not) with an oversized plastic baseball bat as my guitar, pretending to be Travis Tritt. Its always been in my blood, but it took a few more years to realize it.
By the time I turned 11, puberty took its toll on my singing voice. I'd never felt like I was much of a singer in the first place, but a changing voice really makes singing that much more difficult and awkward, so I decided that music just wasn't going to be for me, and I gave up.
Then came June. For my dad's birthday we bought him a classical acoustic guitar from the pawn shop for him to learn on. My dad, a HUGE fan of the guitar, loved the gift, but his busy traveling schedule forced him to put the guitar aside and focus on providing for the family instead. When he was gone on business, I would go into his closet and pluck the strings, trying to find my way around the fret board. It was right then and there that I fell in love.
I wrote my first song when I was about 12. I was in love. At least as much in love as a sappy 12 year old boy can possibly be. I re-wrote the lyrics to one of my favorite songs, dedicating it to the girl who I was so crazy for at the time. I can't imagine how weirded out the poor girl must have been when I gave her the lyrics, confession my undying affection in the creepy and awkward way only a pre-teen could. But thankfully she was a very kind girl, graciously accepting the paper and even encouraging me on my writing.
The year I moved to TX was the year I truly began writing on an everyday basis. It was a very emotionally draining time. Lots of sadness from leaving my friends, but also so much excitement from making new ones and looking forward to what the future held for me.
Writing took away from other things however. Looking in my shoebox full of old lyrics sheets the other day I realized over half of the lyrics were written on the backs of homework worksheets I probably should have turned in rather than using them as scratch paper. I always seem to have inspiration at the most inopportune times.
I feel extremely comfortable playing in front of crowds. I'm not much of a singer, but I feel more confident now that I can at least carry a tune. I would love to go on tour and play my music for people. Even if I got that opportunity I would think about it very carefully. I want to have a family, and growing up with my dad on the road, I've seen the challenges that presents. On the off chance I ever got chosen to go on any kind of tour, I would make sure I put my family first. But maybe I'll find a girl who would enjoy it as much as I would. Maybe I'll find a Tarah to go with my Bryce Avery?
One can hope at least. As for right now, I'm enjoying the audience of my bedroom walls.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Thinking
I've realized how much time I sit and think. I used to think of myself as an incredibly social person who did not like being alone ever, for any amount of time. But now I realize just how much time I spend lost in my thoughts.
There is this park in downtown Bastrop that I love going to. It's right on the river, with tons of tree's and nice green grass and a couple of short trails. I love going there. I'll shoot some hoops for a while, but then, like today, I'll sometimes go walk down the trail to a quiet sand bar along the bank and just sit there for a couple of hours. I just sit and think. Sometimes about lyrics or music I'm trying to write, or about God, about girls, about anything really. I can sit there for hours and not get bored at all.
It feels really good just to get away from the worries of the world. I used to think that was just cliche, but its become incredibly therapeutic for me to just sit there in peace and quiet away from anything that could possibly bring me stress.
Is this healthy? To a certain degree I'm sure, whether hours spent each day hiding from your worries would be healthy long term is another story, but for now, its pretty nice.
El Numero Uno: An Introduction?
Hello there, my name is Logan. I'm gonna skip the usual introductions and such because I figure if you are reading this then you probably know me at least a little bit. If not then I'd be a little creeped out, but kinda flattered....I guess. I'm not exactly sure where to begin. I'll begin by writing random facts about myself and maybe that will lead into something?
I am 19 years old. I am 6' 4.25" tall, and will need to somehow pass the 6'5" barrier or my pops will never let me live it down.
I am a goofball in every sense of the word. I laugh at myself a lot. If I didn't I would be the most depressed person on the planet! I can't imagine doing all the clumsy and ditzy things I do every day without being able to laugh them off. It just wouldn't work out for me.
I feel like there are times and places where one has to take a stand and possibly make enemies in order to do the right thing. Outside of those times and places, I thoroughly enjoy getting along with people. I just like everyone in general. Sure there are exceptions (my older sister's ex-boyfriend...I wouldn't be sad if I "accidentally" ran him over with my huge van), but people can surprise you. Even if they don't, they still have something to give.
I really hate mayonnaise. I despise it. On the dislike scale its above "Getting Shots" but below Nancy Pelosi.
I am pretty conservative, but I'm really not a party person. The republicans have been pretty lame lately, but they represent my views a little better than the democrats do.
When I grow up I want to either be a sports broadcaster, or a Director of Public Relations for a sports organization or college athletic department. I wouldn't mind going on tour as a songwriter either, but I'd settle for one of the first two.
Optimism is a beautiful thing. There is ALWAYS a silver lining. Trust me.
I love Norman Rockwell paintings. Especially his material from WWII and after.
I try to never let the trial at hand influence the way I perceive the quality of my life. Just as metal must be heated, melted and pounded in order to be purified, sometimes we must go through similar procedures in order to better ourselves.
I Love Ramen Noodles! Not in the "omg i love anime and want to be japanese so i am going to buy fake japanese noodles and eat them like my favorite characters." sort of way, more like in the "omg I just filled my stomach and only paid 12 cents which is awesome because I'm broke."sort of way. And just admit it, you know they taste good too.
I am 19 years old. I am 6' 4.25" tall, and will need to somehow pass the 6'5" barrier or my pops will never let me live it down.
I am a goofball in every sense of the word. I laugh at myself a lot. If I didn't I would be the most depressed person on the planet! I can't imagine doing all the clumsy and ditzy things I do every day without being able to laugh them off. It just wouldn't work out for me.
I feel like there are times and places where one has to take a stand and possibly make enemies in order to do the right thing. Outside of those times and places, I thoroughly enjoy getting along with people. I just like everyone in general. Sure there are exceptions (my older sister's ex-boyfriend...I wouldn't be sad if I "accidentally" ran him over with my huge van), but people can surprise you. Even if they don't, they still have something to give.
I really hate mayonnaise. I despise it. On the dislike scale its above "Getting Shots" but below Nancy Pelosi.
I am pretty conservative, but I'm really not a party person. The republicans have been pretty lame lately, but they represent my views a little better than the democrats do.
When I grow up I want to either be a sports broadcaster, or a Director of Public Relations for a sports organization or college athletic department. I wouldn't mind going on tour as a songwriter either, but I'd settle for one of the first two.
Optimism is a beautiful thing. There is ALWAYS a silver lining. Trust me.
I love Norman Rockwell paintings. Especially his material from WWII and after.
I try to never let the trial at hand influence the way I perceive the quality of my life. Just as metal must be heated, melted and pounded in order to be purified, sometimes we must go through similar procedures in order to better ourselves.
I Love Ramen Noodles! Not in the "omg i love anime and want to be japanese so i am going to buy fake japanese noodles and eat them like my favorite characters." sort of way, more like in the "omg I just filled my stomach and only paid 12 cents which is awesome because I'm broke."sort of way. And just admit it, you know they taste good too.
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