My Experience With Violent Video Games

   I've been thinking about writing on violent video games for a while. Years, really. I probably haven't written anything because there's a bit of shame involved, but I also don't think that anecdotal experiences are very worthwhile in discussions of such enormous gravity. Still, I want to share a couple of stories from yesteryear that might inform a few opinions on the issue.
   I'm not a "gamer" in the sense that I don't spend all my time playing video games, I don't get all of the new video games, and I don't play all the major games out there. I can list off my favorite games, but the words Metroid, Smash Bros, Red Dead and Resident Evil don't mean a lot to people that aren't "gamers," even though you recognize games called Zelda and Mario, which I also adore. So let me make this a bit more accessible for those of you that don't own a console (if you don't need a primer on the basics of games, skip the next four paragraphs).

   There are, in my opinion, four main brands of violent video games: War games, zombie shooters, sci-fi shooters, and GTA. (I'm not including fighters like Street Fighter or Soul Caliber because I don't think they apply here).

   War games, the most famous being Call of Duty, involve playing through a battle scenario. They put out a new Call of Duty game pretty much every year. These games originally took place during WWII, but now have a modern-day feel fighting terrorists or Russians or whoever. They are huge sellers and everyone plays them, and lots of virtual people get killed.
   Zombie shooters have a me-against-the-world mentality, and the main game in this genre is Resident Evil. They put out a big, new RE game about once every other year, though there are lots of smaller games all over the place.
   Sci-fi shooters are like the Call of Duty games, only they involve killing aliens and people instead of just people, and don't use realistic weapons. This is the Halo genre.
   Finally, there's Grand Theft Auto. The general genre here is called "sandbox" because its an open world you explore and play in. GTA games take about 4 years to make because they are so vast and expansive. These games center on a character that the player becomes. He runs errands and completes missions, but much of the game involves stealing cars, running over strangers on the street, and killing whomever you want. The phrase "pistol whipped a prostitute to death" could be used at any time to describe a recent event, if the player so chooses.

   There's lots to explore and discuss, but I want to tell a couple of stories about violent video games and me.

   Story 1: I've never played Grand Theft Auto. I've played the wild-west version, made by the same company, called Red Dead Redemption. In high school, a friend of mine was playing GTA every free moment he had (it's a very immersive, addictive game. Lots of people play it in long streaks). He's a nice, normal guy and was a nice, normal kid. We were walking to lunch on the sidewalk one day and he looked at me and said "Wow, I've been playing so much Grand Theft Auto that I just had the urge to run to that car, pull the driver out of it, beat him up and drive off." (That happens innumerable times in the game).

   Story 2: Resident Evil 4 is one of my favorite games ever. I don't play violent games much (never played GTA, never played Call of Duty, played very little Halo). In RE4 you progress through a world killing zombies by the skin of your teeth. It is absurdly fun and immersive, to the point that one night, after having played it for hours, I came across this terrifying zombie. It was probably 1:30 in the morning. I couldn't kill it so I ran from it. I turned a corner and there was another one that started to eat my neck. I got so scared I turned off the console at that exact moment and put in a Mario game. I played it for an hour just to try and calm myself down.
   That's not the story. That just tells you how awesome this game is. I've grown up around guns and am very comfortable around them. I don't live in the country, so only ever shot them a few times a year when camping or hunting or something, but I know how to handle them and how to be safe. In college I went shooting with my dad, sister and brother. I'd been playing Resident Evil for a few weeks. As soon as I had a little .22 rifle in my hand and I saw my brother a few yards away, I had this sudden urge. My brain screamed "shoot him!"
   Seriously.
   It only happened for a split second. It's not like it affected my actions at all, or was even close to happening. I felt sick about it, in fact. I wanted to throw up just for thinking it. Only recently have I thought about that moment and not felt sick to my stomach.

   Two stories about how playing some of these games can potentially effect your brain wiring. If you were to talk to a gamer about things like this, and if they were honest with you, I bet they'd tell you that little moments and thoughts like this happen. Obviously, being two well-adjusted, grounded-in-reality, having-good-parents kids like my friend and I, it's not a big deal. But put games like RE4, Call of Duty, and Grand Theft Auto in the hands of someone unstable, isolated and angry, and, I dunno, maybe that's not a good thing?


   I write this because I hear a lot of external talk about this issue. People who haven't played or don't understand video games have conversations about them. It occurred to me that video games are so stinking new, that it's not like the whole of society can relate to them in the same way. Playing a video game is different from watching a movie or television show. As my brother can attest, when I was young and Power Rangers came out, I would get more aggressive and violent after watching it. I wanted to do karate and kick things and he was my little putty (if you get that reference, well, you probably won't admit it). I never hurt him or actually kicked him, I just liked pretending I could do those things.
   In video games, there's less pretending. In the very realistic, immersive games, you start to think like and identify with the character you become. In a game like Grand Theft Auto, the first time you beat someone up and steal a car, you feel kind of gross. Then you remind yourself "they aren't real people," and you realize this game lets you do things you wouldn't do in real life, not just things that you couldn't do like fly a spaceship or break bricks with your head. That's a dangerous combination: things you wouldn't do in the real world, done in a world that feels real.
   I'm not an expert, so don't bother citing me anywhere, but I think it's worth knowing that these things can happen. My kid won't be playing anything violent at my house for a long, long time, that's for sure.

Manhood

     There's no rite of passage to becoming a man in modern culture. We don't kill a lion or walk across a volcano. If you're Jewish you become a man when you have your Bar Mitzvah, but I am not Jewish. There's not even a set age when manhood arrives. There are stepping stones, like being able to drive at 16, fight wars at 18, drink at 21 and rent cars at 25, but all of those things are more about adulthood than manhood. And adulthood isn't exciting, manhood is.
     There are several moments and decisions throughout my life that, when I reflect upon them, I can see how they've directly impacted who or where I am today. It's a fun little game to play, and I encourage you to see if you can think of any. I had a lot of time last night/this morning to think. Really, to do nothing but think. My baby was sick, for the first time, and not handling it well. He had a high fever, wouldn't sleep for more than five minutes at a time, and he wanted to be held. I held him, walked in a circle, and thought. From about 4:00 - 5:30, my goal was to last as long as I could holding him, hoping to give my wife some much needed rest.
     Currently, my left arm is in a sling and car bear very little weight. Holding a jar of peanut-butter causes my shoulder - which was recently operated on to fix and old dislocation - to have a decent amount of pain. I was holding Wyatt with one hand (luckily I am right handed) walking around in the dark, tired and in pain, trying to last as long as I can.
     I've done this before, I remembered. I did this the night I became a man.
     (I know that last phrase is often used to mean "when I lost my virginity," but that's not the case here. What a great moment you just ruined, thinking along those lines.)

Our very lucky, seldom killed prey.

     I was on my first hunting trip. I was twelve years old, and joined my dad, uncle, and dad's friend Pete. I hadn't done any hunter's safety training to get a license, so I couldn't carry a gun or shoot anything. Really, I decided last minute that I'd like to go. The family was in the car and dad was telling mom some details of the trip. I interrupted and said "Dad, can I go?" He was taken aback and said, "Well, yeah, sure, if you want to."
     He was taken aback because I had never shown any interest in hunting. Truth be told, I didn't really want to go hunting when I invited myself that day. I just knew that my dad would like it if I went. I often felt bad when I was young because I didn't like doing some of the things with my dad that he liked doing with his dad. Things like fixing cars and working in the garage and other man stuff. I didn't have video games at this time, so it's not like I was wasting my time in other areas (I played a lot of legos), I just didn't like to watch and not really know what's going on. When you're young and your dad is building something, you can't really participate. You can't measure and cut the wood and design the plans and pick materials. You just get to do things like passing a wrench or holding down one end of the wood or something. I told myself, back then, "When I am able to actually do this stuff, I'll enjoy it." I think I was a pretty smart kid, really.
     So, dad was going hunting and I was going to join. One day, I don't remember which, my uncle Roger shot a bull elk. I wasn't around for it. I didn't get to see the kill, be a part of the gutting/cleaning, or anything. In fact the rest of us waited and built a fire until Roger joined us with some meat, and then Pete and Roger went back to grab more. Eventually, the men strapped meat to their backs, we grabbed the elk's head, and started to walk to the trucks.
     It was late. So late it was early, in fact. Let's say it was 2:00 am by the time we were really heading back. The men all had enormous amounts of meat strapped to their packs, so heavy I couldn't remotely lift them. On top of that, we had a big elk's head to carry back. I looked around and saw that, literally, I wasn't carrying my own weight. They thought about giving me a small amount of meat to strap on, but it wasn't really working. So I volunteered to help carry the elk's head.

     This is not going to sound as epic as it felt. We walked a long ways in the dark and cold. It was probably 20 or 30 miles (okay, maybe 2). But for some reason, I don't know why, once we started I had a strong, clear desire: I was going to carry that head all the way to the truck. I was a small, twelve-year-old kid who had avoided real work his whole life. I could have gotten out of it. I could have helped for a while and then just followed along. But I felt the need to help. When we started, I could barely lift up my half of the head. The grip on the antlers was weird, the weight hung at an awkward angle, and I wasn't tall enough to let my arms drop - I had to bend at the elbow. The first thousand steps were hard.
     My feet were frozen, my arm was weak and hurting, I couldn't see, and I was tired. I almost quit several times. Then, at one point, I realized I am going to do this. It wasn't a proclamation of my determination, like "no matter what I will get this done," it was more of a realization of the reality. This is going to happen. I am going to do this. At that point, my arms stopped hurting, my feet warmed up, my legs had energy, and I had this newfound awareness. I was alert. I was going to do this.
     Looking back, at that moment I became a man.

     Carrying around a baby who's sick, with one arm in a sling and the other hurting, doesn't seem as intense. Especially in a warm house walking on carpet with couches always within five feet. But last night/this morning, my arms were hurting, I was exhausted, and I didn't know how long I would last. The baby was sleeping, and I needed that to last as long as it could. I remembered that I had done this before - tired, weak, carrying something for an unknown distance - under worse circumstances, and I could do it again. My pain went away, my energy returned, and I became aware again.   I was able to walk for as long as we needed to. Wyatt eventually woke up, his fever was gone and he smiled and played a bit. He was better. I am going to pretend that I did that.

     I'm sure there are all sorts of lessons and morals to pull out of this. I won't bother telling you what they are, as you've already suffered through me talking about myself at length and ad nausea. I'll just add that I had a ton of fun on the first - and all the following - hunting trips I've been on. I've never seen an animal I could legally shoot while hunting, but I've been able to skin and clean an elk, get lost and unlost in the woods, and experienced true adventure. I haven't been able to go hunting for nearly 10 years, due to school and always having a new teaching job (it's tough to take a week off at your new job in the first month, especially when you get breaks in the summers and winters and springs), but I am going to go back this year. I probably won't kill anything, but I'm sure I'll have a good time.

How To Be A Fantastic Facebooker

I use this picture for lots of things (obviously, look around). It epitomizes what I want you to think about me: relaxed, adventurous, hammock-owning, water-loving, hat-wearing. Etc. 

     I start off a lot of my blog posts with a lie. A statement along the lines of "All of you ask me all the time, how are you so great at knitting?!" and then I dive into my blog post on knitting. Of course no one has ever actually said anything like that to me.

     This one, however is not a lie. I have had a fair amount of people comment that I am a great facebooker. A friend recently told me that, by commenting on her status update, I had validated her status. Another friend, who I consider a terrific facebooker, once told me he reads everything I put on the book (Wow! What a great feeling. This must be what it feels like when you are following someone on twitter and they follow you back!!).

     I tell you this not (entirely) to boast, but to establish my credentials: I am a good facebooker. You can be a good facebooker too. Follow these important rules:

     1) This is the most important facebook rule of all time. NEVER EVER EVER POST SOLELY ABOUT THE WEATHER. Is it snowing outside? Everyone knows. Everyone else is posting about the snow. The cool kids don't have time to post about the snow because they are out playing in the snow. You look like an idiot. You can post about something you are doing in the weather. If it is sunny out, and the sun inspired you to write a classic rock song, awesome. Tell the world. If the sun is out and that is the entirety of your day, make something up.

     2) You are allowed to be too cool for punctuation. No one is too cool for proper spelling. This isn't twitter. You don't have a tight character limit, you have a keyboard or a smartphone, take the time to re-read your post. If you misspelled a word, that becomes the focus of your post instead of what a great time you had with the grils last night! Wooo! It's not worth it.

     3) Post things that make you look like a loser as well as things that make you look awesome. Too much of either is very transparent. We all know you have a lot of loser in you (how do we know this, you might ask? Because you have a facebook and you check it.) So your profile picture can be you on top of a mountain or in hawaii or something, but you can also explain that you are afraid to dive head-first into water. Find the balance.

    4) Don't use facebook primarily to promote your band or your blog or you art or your photography. Sure, let it seep through, because it's who you are, but when you turn the book into your personal advertising platform, your "friends" start to think they are your "demographic" and will unsubscribe.

     5) In general, don't "share" links often. Instead, go to the source, copy and paste the link and place it as your status update. People will think you found it on your own, and for some reason they think that's cool. I stumbled onto this recently. In the picture above, a friend (and sucker) credited me for sharing something "first," when really I originally saw this video on someone else's page. (Also, the video is really worth watching if you haven't already). This ties in with the next one:

     6) Don't participate in a meme unless you personally started that meme. It's just too risky. Those things have a shelf life of about 42 minutes before everyone realizes it's about to be cool to be sick of them.

     7) I will never judge anybody for the games they play. If you want to Farmville, feel free to Farmville away. But for the love of my feed do not have the game you play send me requests and invites. I don't care how many baby cows you raised today or that if I click a link I can earn you 5 gold coins. I don't care. No one cares.

     8) Limit your status updates. Maybe one or two a day. And take a day off frequently. You need to have people clamoring for more. I am constantly in a state of trying to decide which status update to post (as I always have like five floating around my brain. That's normal, right?), because some are time-sensitive and some are gold whenever. The above Coscto post? I've wanted to share it for months. (I've really been crushing it there for months, to be honest). I've let some gold updates fall through the cracks, just because I don't want to overwhelm the world.

     I'll be the first to admit that when Wyatt was born I was facebooking like crazy. Had to tone it down. It'll happen.

     9)  Comment rarely. The stuff you have to say is not very profound or important. It's just not. If you only say your unprofound thoughts rarely, they might seem a bit more important. I struggle with this one. I can't tell you how many times I have typed something and promptly deleted it. If a comment survives you thinking it over, it's worth commenting.

     10)  Follow facebook etiquette. There are a few basic rules:
            - If your post or comment is one sentence, you don't need to punctuate. If it is more, general grammar rules apply.
            - Know when to post to someone's wall and when to send them a message. If you want the world to see it, send it to their wall. If you are saying "let's hang out" or "how you doin?" then make it a message. Otherwise you look desperate.
            - If one person you know is in a conversation that comes up on your feed, and you are not a part of the conversation but want to be, check who first started the topic. If you know that person, feel free to chime in. If not, take a moment to introduce yourself and then chime in.
            - Just stop and think about who and what you are tagging before you tag it, okay?

     You see, having a facebook is all about projecting the illusion that you have a life, and important thoughts and ideas. You do have a life and important ideas, but your life and ideas aren't that cool or unique. You are not LeBron James or Mel Gibson. You certainly aren't Daniel Tosh. (In fact, since you are still reading this I can pretty safely assume you are my mom, or at least related to me. Hi mom and/or aunts!!). The illusion of cool can come from some simple, tactful facebook techniques. It's simply about supply and creating demand. If you limit the supply, over time people will find your facebooking more valuable and gravitate towards it more. Thus, you seem cool when in fact we are not.

     Not at all.

Chronicles of Rehab: Best Spring Break Ever?

     I DISLOCATED MY SHOULDER WHILE SKIING THREE YEARS AGO. I NEVER HAD SURGERY ON THE SHOULDER BECAUSE I WAS CHEAP AND I COULD LIVE WITH IT. IT WASN'T IMPACTING MY DAY TO DAY LIFE. THIS PAST AUGUST I TORE MY ACL. IT IMMEDIATELY IMPACTED MY DAY TO DAY LIFE. I DECIDED TO OPERATE ON BOTH, IN THE SAME INSURANCE YEAR, SO THAT I COULD "BUY ONE GET ONE FREE" FOR SURGERIES AND REHAB. THESE EXPERIENCES WILL LIKELY DOMINATE THIS BLOG FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE.

     Spring Break in the rest of the country seems like a warm, happy, magical time. The sun is out, there is heat radiating from the sky, and you can enjoy the end of the cold, dark winter with nine days of relaxation. In the Pacific Northwest, spring break is a stretch of nine days to continue experiencing dark, grey wet dripping from the sky. If you want sun you have to head south.
     So when I had my knee surgery the Thursday before spring break started, I had one hope: I hoped it rained for the entire break.
     When you only get sun -- real, consistently warm sun -- for four or five months a year, it's devastating to miss out on it. If I was stuck in bed or on pain killers while the world was playing and frolicking and smiling I would be miserable.

     Lucky for me, what I got was a week of couches, beds, playstation, nintendo, pain killers, march madness and being waited on hand and foot - all while the weather outside was predominately stormy and wet. It. was. wonderful.

     Things like this happened:

     This was taken right after I got home from surgery. I got in the couch and wanted to start the adventure, so I grabbed the computer and promptly fell asleep. Like and hour and a half later Cara tried to take it from me and I woke up, having not done a thing, and said "no I'm not done yet" and held on the laptop. I then promptly went back to bed.

     Once I tried to get up and about I realized the beauty of surgery:

     I get to ride scooters around stores! I have a handicapped parking permit! People get out of my way! People hold elevators for me! I think that handicapped parking permit is going to be a ridiculous luxury come june - september, when I am no longer really hobbling around. I'll try not to abuse it.

     This spring break I beat a video game I had wanted to play for over a decade (Majora's Mask if anyone cares). I didn't do an ounce of work until the Friday of spring break. I didn't feed the baby or walk it around or try to put it to sleep. I didn't make dinner or clean. People felt very sorry for me and were nice to me. I didn't go to church but slept in (I'm not saying that's a plu-- yes I am). I watched shows on Netflix and tried Hulu+ (it's awful, don't get it).

This is Wyatt on the bed with me whilest I play nintendo.  This is the dream/

     I truly hope I never have to do it again.

The Chronicles of Rehab: Interacting With Nurses

     I dislocated my shoulder while skiing three years ago (almost to the day). I never had surgery on the shoulder because I was cheap and I could live with it. It wasn't impacting my day to day life. This past August I tore my ACL. It immediately impacted my day to day life. I decided to operate on both, in the same insurance year, so that I could "buy one get one free" for surgeries and rehab. These experiences will likely dominate this blog for the foreseeable future.

     Recently, I admitted to the world that I am a fainter who wets himself and then rubs his hands in his urine. It is a good thing I am already married, because a blog post like that (and a picture like the one at the bottom of this page) would never see the light of day otherwise. But it gets better. Apparently I am an embarassing ass when drugged.
     When I am in a right state of mind, I think I am a pretty friendly and entertaining person. I put forth extra effort to be relaxed and of good humor when I'm around people that usually don't interact with a lot of happy people, like cops, doctors, nurses, pharmacists, dentists, door-to-door salesmen, and customer service reps who actually try to be helpful. So when my nurse is asking me questions to get to know me and do her job, I try to ask her some too. When my anesthesiologist says "I am going to give you a shot in your groin" I reply "oh gosh, I am very nervous about my groin in general" and he laughs. When the surgeon says "surgery went well" I say "you're welcome."
     All of that sincere, genuine kindness? No good when I'm medicated.
     I don't know if this will make sense unless you have experienced and then reflected on it, but when I was coming out of my induced sleep after surgery, I was awake before I was awake. I was saying and doing things I have no recollection of doing. At some point, next thing I know I am sitting up, actually awake, and people are laughing and talking to me, but in a sort of forced, maybe-not-totally comfortable way. Looking back I see they were laughing at me, of course. But at the time, I don't know it. I was all of a sudden awake and people were having a good time and I was just loose enough to roll with it.
     So I got louder. I tried to get funnier. I playfully told my nurse I was going to give her a bad evaluation. I called another nurse by the wrong name, because that's hilarious too. After a couple of minutes of this, a nurse asks me what my job is and I say "I teach math."
     "Oh, I bet you are one of the cool teachers, huh?"
     "Definitely. The coolest. That's all I care about. I don't care if they are learning math at all, just as long as they think I am cool. In fact, I try to teach them how to be cool. Because coolness, that lasts forever."
     "Oh yeah, how do you teach them to be cool?"
     "Oh it's all about looks. Obviously. I mean as you are taking off my scrubs you can tell that I am super good looking, so I'm cool."
     "Yeah, I need to dress cooler" one nurse says.
     "No no no, you're fine."I turn to another nurse. I honestly can't remember if I complemented her or insulted her, but I think I landed on "you'd be cool if you had a different haircut."


     These are a few of the things I remember saying. Apparently I said other things too. For example, Cara saw someone in the Operating Room she knew, so they stopped and chatted. As she tells it, their conversation went like this:
     -exchange pleasantries-
     Him (pointing to Wyatt): Is that your baby?
     Cara: Yeah, this is Wyatt
     Him (pointing to me in the bed): Is that yours too?
     Cara: Yes, he's mine too.
     Me, to no one in particular: I BELONG TO NO ONE!! <throws fist in the air>


     According to my mom, who was there towards the end: When the nurse was taking off your scrubs and putting you in your clothes, you were very concerned. You kept saying things like "Should you be doing this in front of my wife? This isn't okay, it's very inappropriate." The nurse would say, "no, she's okay with it, she's right there." I would insist "she would not be okay with this, this isn't appropriate."
     Apparently the nurse then made fun of my chest hair? "Chest fuzz" is the term my mom said the nurse used. Point of the story: I'm a catch.

     Also according to Cara: She's on one side of the bed and I see her and reach out my hands to touch her face or something, but I am looking at her and grabbing at someplace far off to the left. Then, a moment later, she is on the other side of the bed. I ask "Who are you?" Cara still hasn't made it clear to me if I was being playful or if I was confused. 
     One of the nurses says "That's your wife!"
     I look her up and down and proclaim "I can do better."


     Now, you are fully aware that I am a faint-then-pee-then-stick-my-hand-in-my-pee kinda guy who looks like this and who apparently can't hold his pain meds the way mormons can't hold their liquor. I'd like to make this very clear to everyone: holy crap no I cannot do better. Cara and I got engaged 17 days after we started dating for a reason. I had to lock that down. I needed to get her married before she realized what a loser I am. Whenever someone asks me about my wife, like a coworker or someone who hasn't met her, I explain that she's a beautiful smart pharmacist who definitely married down. They tend to think I am being falsely modest (so they obviously don't know me well, false modesty is not my thing). Then one day they meet her. Later on I say "see, I wasn't kidding when I say she married down" and they politely agree.

Cara and Scout and I at Blue Pool

The Chronicles of Rehab: Accidents

     I dislocated my shoulder while skiing three years ago (almost to the day). I never had surgery on the shoulder because I was cheap and I could live with it. It wasn't impacting my day to day life. This past August I tore my ACL. It immediately impacted my day to day life. I decided to operate on both, in the same insurance year, so that I could "buy one get one free" for surgeries and rehab. These experiences will likely dominate this blog for the foreseeable future.

     Note: This post contains some pretty graphic "toilet humor" that many of you may find offensive. I am going to use blunt and uncomfortable words like "pee," "urine," "apple juice" and "framsham" to describe bodily functions. I apologize for any issue this may cause you in your life.

This is how the adventure started.

     "You see, Grant's a fainter."

     There are few things more old-timey-embarassing than fainting. It's what you see overwhelmed housewives do on black-and-white tv shows when something shocking happens. Today, my dad explained to my wife that I am "a fainter."
     Today was my ACL surgery. We scheduled the surgery the day after I gave finals so that I would have almost two weeks to recover without work. Cara and Wyatt and I drove to the orthopedics center at 6:00am, braving ice and cold. I was admitted promptly, operated on smoothly, and sent home around 10:00 am. I am currently lying on the couch with a TV remote, wireless PS3 controller, laptop, DS and a copy of The Hobbit. I chose to leave the Wii in the bedroom so that when we go to bed I can play there too.
     Moments ago, I was lying on the bathroom floor looking at the ceiling, thinking to myself "Wow I am hungry."
     At about noon I really had to pee. I had to pee so bad it woke me from my nap. I told Cara, she got my crutches ready and helped me to my feet. I crutched to the toilet, centered myself, braced myself against a wall, and urinated. As I was peeing I felt a lot of relief. Then I felt weak. Then I realized I was going to faint and had one thought: "Don't hurt your knee." So I rotated, fell back against the wall, and took a nap.
     I woke up about a minute later. Cara was nervous and asking me questions. She was sure I had concussed. Apparently she saw me just as my eyes were rolling back into my head and I was losing consciousness. I was quickly able to reassure her that I was fine, that I remember my back hitting the wall and not my head, that I was very hungry, that I had drunk some apple juice I think, that I felt fine, and that everything was okay. She called my dad to come help me up, and just be around in general. She was very shook up.
     After she had relaxed a bit she was sitting on the toilet (not using it!!) and talking with me, trying to keep me awake just to be safe. She said "You know you peed your pants, right?" I knew my shirt was wet and assumed it was sweat. I did not know I had peed my pants.
     "Yeah, I know," was my reassuring reply. "Poop!!" I thought while lying on the bathroom floor, lying to my wife. "I haven't wet myself since the last time I was in a pool! And I haven't accidentally wet my self since 2008! I really wanted to make it a whole decade for once." (sorry, I guess I should have warned you that I used the word "poop" too).

Apparently Wyatt and I look identical after peeing on the floor: comfortable. (Picture NSFW)

     Dad arrived (after having gone to get some food. Seriously.) and nonchalantly told Cara "Grant's a fainter." You see, I have used to get "head rushes" all the time. Do you ever stand up fast - so fast that your vision fades away except a small circle, you feel dizzy and weak, and have a slight headache as everything goes back to normal. That's a head rush. I have had hundreds, most of them in high school (not when I was high).

     In college I went to see the dentist once (like, literally, I think I only went one time). They didn't give me any anesthetic or knock me out or anything, just numbed my mouth. I hadn't eaten all day (which happened quite often back then. Breakfast was a luxury.) When they finished doing whatever they were doing, they said "okay, you're good to go!" and I said "really?" I felt weak and like it was sudden. I got up, walked outside and got one of those head-rushes. This time, as it was happening I thought "Wow, this is a bad one!" Then I thought "Wow! I think I am going to faint!"
     Next thing I knew I heard two people walking up, a little girl and her mom. The daughter was very sweet and talkative. I heard her, without being able to distinguish any words, in the distance, and then thought "I am outside a dentist's office lying on my back, fainted (I still couldn't see at this point). She is going to be so nervous and hate the dentist."
     She said "Mommy he's sleeping!"
     Mommy said "No, um, honey, he's not."
     I started to sit up and look around and said "I'm fine, I'm fine, I think I fainted but I'm fine. The dentist is nice."
     The dentists and hygienists were mortified. They were very helpful and gave me some of their lunch. My mommy picked me up, bought me food and drove my home. I was fine.

     I guess now I am "a fainter." And a, I don't know, a "faint-pee-er."

     Funny conclusion: (at least I think it's funny) You know how I was more concerned about that little girl at the dentist than myself? Well, today while on the bathroom floor, I was also more concerned about Cara's than myself. She was actually in tears at some point. Apparently, when I was unconscious and relieving myself, my hand fell into a pool of urine. When I was conscious, I put my hand up to touch Cara's face or grab or hand and she - having seen the previous dip in the pool I took - was not very receptive.


Number of times I used italics in this post: 5
Number of times I used parentheses in this post: (11)
Number of pictures in this post: 2
Adam Sandler refrences in this post: none

March Drives-Me-Mad-Ness

    Clever title!!

Yet another year where I won't need to follow March Madness. Go Ducks.

     I can't bring myself to do March Madness. There are two vital, essential pieces to enjoying and participating in March Madness: You either have a team you care about in the tournament (nope), or you fill out a bracket and enter some sort of a betting pool. I can't bring myself to do the latter.
     You see, I hate being wrong. What I hate even more than being wrong is being factually, demonstrably wrong. Usually if I am wrong about something I can weasel, lie, manipulate, distort and blame to deflect my wrongness. I can't do that with a busted bracket. So I don't make brackets.
     I've tried. I've looked at them and tried to imagine how they will shake down. But I don't watch college basketball and I don't know anything except for who the powerhouse names are. So I'll have a bracket with teams like Duke, North Carolina, Kentucky, Indiana (what?!) Arizona (huh?) UConn of course, and a token SEC/Big East team make their elite eights and go from there. Of course I am wrong somewhere. I am more wrong than most other people. I hate it.
     If a team I care about is in the dance (read: Oregon), than it's almost worse. Should I play favorites and put them in the Elite Eight? Should I understand that they are never that good and knock them out in the first round? These decisions stress me out. There's two main options: 1) I put them deep into the tournament. This means I am either rooting for my team to win, knowing that when they lose I will be doubly let down, or knowing that if they go farther than I predicted I will have some amount of disappointment and can't fully enjoy their success. 2) I have them lose in the first or second round, which results in me just rooting for my favorite team to lose and that's annoying.

Ugh. What about this isn't stressful?!

     Do you see how impossible this is!?
     This is an issue with sports in general. Your team will ultimately lose, unless they win it all, and your team won't win it all. It's a guaranteed disappointment. I guess this is an issue with most of life. Louis CK does a stand-up bit about how marriage, like buying a puppy, is an investment in disappointment. When you bring a puppy home, you are telling your family "Someday soon, maybe in 3 years or 12 years, we are going to be sad!" This is how I feel with March Madness

     It causes me to miss out. I am not drawn to watch the games, because I don't have any vested interest, and the basketball isn't really that good. I didn't get to see Stephan Curry blow up 5 years ago, I generally missed out on the Butler runs, and I just avoid conversations for a couple of weeks. The rest of the world is having fun and excited and has an outlet until we hit spring, and I am just glad that no one will know how little I know about college basketball these days.
     This is honestly part of why I love math. I can do a problem and be right. There's no question as to whether or not I am right, most of the time. Additionally, it has taught me how to argue and use logic to my advantage, so when I am wrong, it is probably due to some gray area of some sort, and I can deflect.
     Also, I am a very healthy, normal person with no social issues.

Gilchrist Christmas Card

     Cara and I have taken a Christmas picture or written a Christmas card every year for the last six (we've been married four). They are always super popular with everyone! We say clever things and take great photos and everything. One year we borrowed a friend's baby (we weren't even dating).
     This year was no exception. Our Christmas Card picture was phenomenal! It is going to be staying on everyone's fridge for years.

     ... Except we didn't mail them. Not a single one. We gave a few to some family members and we made a string of them through our house, but that's it. So! Since winter here in Eugene is rapidly fading into post-winter (which is followed by half-winter-half-spring, then fake spring, and then three glorious weeks of summer before early-fall), I thought I would give you all the gift of us via the internets.

     I had to take a picture of the picture to get it onto the internets. It's the only way.

...This one has an artsy sun rising in the middle of it. 

     I can make it a bit more clear what these picture are of with some artsy closeups.

Here's two-month-old Wyatt in a cute little hoodie. It's in black and white.

There was a... uh... solar flare 

     And here it is again when the sun has risen a bit further.

     If you want one of these photos for your fridge (and they are even more charming in real life), then you have a few easy options! And one complicated option!

     Option 1) Let me know! If you give me your name and address, and a stamp and a self-addressed envelope, I will gladly send you a picture! Make sure the envelope you give me will fit the standard, Costco-printed Christmas Card form.

     Option 2) Right click one of these pictures, and "Save As" to your desktop. Then, all you have to do is print the picture, or load it up to your favorite store's printing website, print it up and go pick it up. Easy and convenient.

     Option 3) Come on over to my house and grab one! I am not going to post my address online, so you can email/call/write me a letter if you want.

      Option 4) Head down to the corner of 5th and Broadway. There's a guy. Tell the guy that you want the package. Make sure you say it just like that. You don't want "a package" or "the thing." The guy (his name is Lenny but don't tell him you know his name) will invite you in through the side door. He's going to give you directions on a map. Flip the map over. There will be five words that form a jumble. Actually, I am pretty sure that it's just that day's jumble. Ask Lenny (don't say his name!) what the answer to the jumble is. He'll give you the answer. The answer is "He wanted to jump over it." Oh crap I shouldn't have told you that. I guess now you can skip like the first five steps. Anyways, something something, mailbox, underneath it, another clue, something happens, you get a Christmas Card.

     If you can think of any other way to get our Christmas Card that doesn't involve me actually writing down a bunch of addresses, stamping and mailing them, I'd be all for it. Just let me know!

    

Lady Music

I feel odd having this picture, as well as this
mostly-embarassing-admission on something with my name on it.

     I recently admitted to a certain fondness for The Dixie Chicks. There were roots to that fondness that I had no control over, so I could admit it more freely. It was a coping mechanism during a period of my life where I had no control. If I didn't like The Dixie Chicks I would have gone crazy. In general, I am not terribly fond of music performed by women. Not because they are women, but because my favorite genres aren't populated by many females. Carol King, Norah Jones and No Doubt all appear on my ipod, but beyond that I am a guy-and-his-guitar guy.
     Well, I've recently become pretty attached to Adele and her breakups. In fact, her albums are poised to be the first music I will purchase in like four years. (Now that I wrote that, I've stopped and thought about it. I bought a Pink Martini album about two years ago, and that is my only music purchase since my freshman year of college, methinks). I can't get enough Adele, which is surprising because I listen to the radio, where it's impossible to go 4 blocks without hearing one of her songs.
     I think my manhood can survive some classy taste in music. So I'll admit that beyond Adele I am pretty obsessed with the Wicked soundtrack. What my manhood can't survive is Glee.

     I don't love Glee. I don't even like Glee. The wife used to watch it occasionally, and sometimes they'd play a song I liked. But now that New Girl is a staple of our weekly TV watching, and since Glee is on before New Girl, I find those annoying "teenagers" and their problems on my screen more and more.
     The show is annoying.
     The music is often boring.
     This might have been the best two and a half minutes of television I've seen in years:

     The wife actually walked in to tell me something halfway through the song when it was on TV, and I shshed her and said "Wait, listen. This is really impressive." You might not find it as enjoyable as I do if you don't listen to Adele. Is this embarrassing? Probably. But I am married and no longer need to attract a mate, so I can wear transition lenses and cut my own hair and admit to embarrassing things more freely now.

     I don't honestly know where my addiction to things like Adele, Wicked and some of these YouTube clips come from. I have probably listened to the above clip over a dozen times (I treat YouTube like a jukebox so I can listen to songs that I don't actually want to buy while I do work).
     One thing that I have learned is that I don't listen to lyrics much. I can sing along with pretty much any song I have heard more than twice, but I never really think about it. So when Adele is Chasing Pavements over and over, I have no idea what that means or why she is wondering if she should keep doing it, I just sing along. It's not like the message of Adele that resonates with so many women is resonating with me. I can just claim to like good music, I suppose.

     Why am I telling you this? I don't know, why are you still reading it?

     What, you're not? Oh. I'll make sure to post some manly, look-at-what-a-badass-I-am stuff soon to regain my street cred.

Criticism

     "Can I just say, you can be a real ass."

     I haven't been the best teacher this term. I've noticed that my energy and patience are much lower than usual. I respond less frequently to emails. I am finishing my grading more slowly, and have made a lot more mistakes in grading (and while teaching) than I am comfortable with. This hasn't sat well with me, as the term has wore on, but I haven't really dealt with it either.
     The day I gave my first test in one of my classes, about three weeks ago now, I got a note from a student (which stated it was written on behalf of at least a couple of students). These students felt that I moved too quickly when teaching, and that I needed to give more time on the test I had them take. I considered their arguments (I feel that I often do move too quickly), but in that scenario there were extenuating circumstances.

     Today, however, I was approached in back-to-back classes. In my math 65 course, a student told me about how he was struggling. He was a very frank, honest and mature person. He told me he thought I was a fine teacher and that if I taught anything but math he'd be "all about" my class, but that he needs more hand-holding and coddling in math (his words). I get this from students a lot. I think all teachers of entry-level math do. Students come in with such a fear of the subject, and a history of frustration, that we are both losing the battle before class starts.
     He explained that he didn't find me approachable. That it took him a lot of nerve to talk to me after class. And that he didn't think he was the only one that felt that way. Okay.

     A couple of weeks ago, in another class, a student did very poorly on her test. She talked to me after I returned the graded tests and asked if she could retake it. I asked her why she thought she would do better the next time, and she told me she met with a tutor (after the test) and understands things better now. I told her she could re-work the test, and if she did improve I'd give her a retake. She didn't improve. I think she felt that I was being dismissive of her (which, in all honesty, at that point I was). I asked her what she was in school for, and she wants to be an elementary school teacher.
    About a week later I tried to talk with her again about her plans and her future. I was trying to get a read on the sort of help she needed, or if it was worth an investment of my time. (It's kind of hard to view someone as "worthy" of extra help, but it happens). She told me she was going to have to quit school after this term because of her baby that was coming soon.
     Well, today in her class I gave a quiz. She finished last, and as she finished she said, to no one in particular, "Math takes me a while, but I'm not stupid at math." I had made no suggestion of impatience or frustration that I was aware of, so I said "Oh yeah, I understand." She followed with "Can I just say, you can be a real ass."
     I wish I could say I was caught off guard.
     "I apologize, that's not my intention. Can you help me? I don't want to be an ass to you or anyone else, so can you tell me what I did that made you feel that way?"
     "When we had that conversation, you made me feel retarded."
     "I'm sorry, I would never try to make you feel retarded, and I don't think you are retarded. Which conversation was it? Was it the one about the test?"
     "No, the one after that."
     I assume she is referring to the one I described above, where I was trying to determine if I should be helping her more. I've run it through my mind several times, and I thought I was being understanding and genuine and showing concern. Apparently I was not coming across that way.

     In the span of about two hours, from two extremely different personalities and backgrounds, I had been told I was an unapproachable ass. Not the qualities of great teachers.

     I have been less approachable this term. I am a bit more - how do I say this - myself this term than I normally let myself be in front of the class. It's not like I am trying to be less approachable, but I am not putting forth the effort that I used to to make it clear that I am happy to help people and take any question. Like I said, I haven't been the best teacher this term. So I guess these two students have confirmed what I have been feeling for a while.
     But here's where I struggle: those tests that my students complained about? This class averages were 74% (good) and 80% (great!) - and I don't give easy tests. I have lots of students in all my classes that ask lots of questions. I crack jokes and they laugh, they crack jokes and I laugh. I am connecting with a strong majority of my students. That's a good thing. I used to work to connect with the others, and this term I am not. That's a problem.
   
     The term is now half over. Five weeks down, five to go. I am going to work at being more energetic, approachable, and not-assy. I think I can do better.

Winning The Lottery

     Cara comes home one day and asks: "Are we ever going to win the lottery?"
     I reply: "No."
     "Why not?"
     "Because we never buy lottery tickets."

     She had probably driven by the big lottery billboard on I-5 that haunts everyone that passes through Eugene. 40 million Megabucks and 200 million Powerball - I believe them's are the winnings at the moment. That's a combined fifteen zeros. I drive by the sign twice a week, typically, and always figure I might as well buy a ticket and see what happens.
     The thing is, I am an incredibly lucky person. I pretty much expect things to work out in my favor - all the time - because history has taught me that they will, regardless or the effort or skill I put forth. I am constantly winning tiny little lotteries.

     Today was another example of a little lottery I have won in life: the office mate lottery.
     I was hired at LCC (win!) at a time when their enrollment was soaring high. It still is, really, so the fact that I teach "part time" at the college doesn't really matter because there are so many classes for me to teach each term (win!). But it does mean that there is very little office space to go around. I learned that I would be sharing an office with two other people: a husband and wife named Don and Inga Cataldo.
     They are the best office mates in the United States of America.
     I walked in and they immediately started clearing space for me and offered me the computer in the office. Forever. They bring their laptops and don't need it. We're off to a good start. Inga is from Ukraine. She and Don got married ten years ago when she came to the states. She has a daughter my age back home. As soon as I walked in the door on that first day, she asks me my age and I told her 25. She says "That's my daughter's age." She asks me some questions about myself. After knowing me for perhaps 12 minutes she declares "You are like son to me." She will bring me food to the office and any errand she runs for her husband (which is pretty much every chore in the office: getting copies, picking up mail, heating up lunch) she will offer to do for me.
     This fall we had a math-department meeting before the term began. We went around and said our names and something about ourselves. In typical Russian-accent-cadence, Inga says "Hello I am Inga I am married to Don and share office with Grant. He is super-handsome." She then sits down.
   
     A week ago the three of us are in our office. It's a crowded little room, and each of us face a different wall. I was getting up to leave for class and said "Oh, um, would you guys like to have dinner with Cara and Wyatt and I sometime soon?" Inga bolted in her chair and looked at Don and I in flash as soon as the "din" in "dinner" was uttered. She says "Uhh, yes. Saturday. You have baby, so you bring baby and I'll make dinner at our house. What do you like?" I said "Everything." She excitedly goes about her work again and I head out the door. She calls out to me "Don't eat anything between now and then!"
     We had dinner with them tonight. Just a few hours ago. I cannot describe the feast she threw our way. It was absurdly delicious. It was incredibly huge. She made enough food for a dozen people, when only four of us were eating people food. She made three desserts, just to make sure she found one we liked.

     These are the leftovers she sent home with us, to give you some idea.

The box of scones at the top-left she bought off a
fundraiser but didn't want, so she gave them to me. Jackpot.

     Again, I'd like to stress the word leftover, as that easily makes an entire meal. There was at least four times as much food at dinner, and lots of dishes that weren't sent home. She actually forgot to bring out an entire dish, but was okay with that because she felt it was too dry anyways.
     I was cleaning the table at the end of the night and she says "We always have leftovers. I won't eat leftovers and I won't give them to Don. We have no dog so I just throw it away." I said "Inga you can feel free to treat me like your dog," and she lit up and said from now on she will bring leftovers to the office.

     All of this post has been about Inga, but Don is wonderful too. He and I spend a lot of time in the office together. We talk politics or sports or news or, best of all, nothing at all. He is in the office a lot because he and Inga work pretty separate hours, so one is usually waiting around for the other. So he'll play freecell on his Ipad or take a nap. It's very relieving to have an office mate who is comfortable taking a nap with you around, as I feel like I can do the same.

     I should probably play the lottery, because I bet I'd win it. I would pit my luck against anyone else's and probably come out looking good. I am thankful for this and hope that it never changes. For what it's worth, I truly believe that I have such wonderful fortune because I obey God and His commandments, but if you would like to explain it a different way that's fine.
     I am going to go fulfill my role as Inga's son/dog and go eat that leftover fish.

Found This Little Gem Today

While looking through my facebook timeline (yeah, I do that, so what?!), I came across this conversation I had with my brother, 5 years ago.

The scene: He's 16 living at home, I am 21 in college at my awful, crappy college house. This house had 7 people, 5 rooms, two showers, one toilet. It was a lot of fun but it was disgusting, in retrospect.

From facebook:

A conversation I had with my 16-year old brother online:

Him: Hey, do you guys need any toilet paper?

Me: Yeah, I guess so

Him: Okay
My car got tp'ed last night

Me: Oh, well, are we getting rolls?

Him: I think there is one roll

Me: Well we don't need just a big wad of toilet paper

Him: Yeah, it's a big wad
But, its 3-ply soft...
...
...
...
...
...
Me: Okay, yeah, bring it over and we'll check it out

Cereal Review: Frosted Toast Crunch

     The cereal aisle is not what it once was. Where there used to be dozens of brightly colored boxes vying for my attention like peacocks, there are now only several different types of the same brand. Sugar is being replaced by more grains and fruit. Taste is being sacrificed for perceived health.
     Let's not kid ourselves though: breakfast cereal is not healthy. Cheerios and Raisin Bran aren't not healthy, but they have to advertise as being "part of this nutritious breakfast" with fruit, orange juice, wheat grass, dietary supplements and an a PX-90 video for a reason. So if I am going to have cereal, I want it to taste good. Otherwise, if I wanted to be healthy, I wouldn't eat anything at all ever, it seems.

     Let's categorize and rank the best cereals before I tell you how utterly forgettable Frosted Toast Crunch is. In my mind the hierarchy is as such:

Oh man, can't you just feel the 90's all over this thing?

     The Legendary Limited Time Only Cereals: Disclaimer: all of these cereals might actually not be any good. But I had them so long ago, and never since, that they have stuck with me. I'd trade stock in Google for a bowl of Cinna-Crunch Pebbles, a Flintstones-themed combination of Cinnamon Toast Crunch (CTC) and Fruity Pebbles. I still long for French Toast Crunch, the syrupy version of CTC where the cereal was in the shape of little pieces of toast. French Toast Crunch came out every spring break-ish when I was in highschool, and it marked my holiday every time. Finally, Waffle Crisp may actually be my favorite cereal ever, I just don't know for sure because I can't find it anywhere even though the internet tells me it's still out there.

     The Cinnamon Toast Crunch Level: Yes, Cinnamon Toast Crunch is the greatest achievement in the history of mankind. There, that's settled. However, its immortal status at the top of every day cereals has lead to aspiring young champions as well, specifically Cinnamon Life. (If you are noticing a certain theme, well, then you're not an idiot I guess.) Special K with Red Berries and Waffle Crisp (if it does in fact still exist) have reached these heights as well.

     Foundational Cereals: These are the cereals that are fine on their own, but you would never eat them plain. Fruit, sugar, cinnamon, honey, other cereals and tabasco can all be mixed in to form a new taste sensation every morning. We're looking at Special K at the top, but Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes (discontinued but it should be) Cheerios and - if you're feeling adventurous - Life all fit the bill.

     Second-Tier Delicious Cereals: Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Trix, Lucky Charms, Capn Crunch (peanut butter over berries), Fruit Loops. Each of those cereals has its own quirk. I think a bowl of Trix smells like a gas station when I open it up. I love it. Whereas Fruit Loops reminds me of a construction site, don't ask me why. Both Trix and Capn Crunch will shred the roof of your mouth if you aren't careful.  RPBC is delicious, but not eat-it-every-day-every-meal delicious like CTC.

     Third Tier Delicious Cereals: AKA The Tasty Air Group: Honeycomb, Pops. I'll throw Golden Grahams in here because it needs to be mentioned.
 
          So now, the reason you are here, I assume. Frosted Toast Crunch recently hit store shelves, and the verdict isn't pretty.

Helping People Move Like Jesus

     Have you ever heard of the notion that it is impossible to do a truly selfless act? The idea is, whatever you do to help someone else will inevitably help you somehow too. Maybe it makes you feel good, or someone owes you a favor, or you get a reward of some kind. For example. if we give food to the homeless on the street we ease our guilt about there being homeless people on the street.
     Apparently it was the French philosopher Jacques Derrida (read as JACKwah Da-ree-dah with your nose up in the air) who first proposed this heartwarming nugget of truth. He went on, if the internets are to be believed, to state the only way completely selfless acts are possible is to give your life to something (or for someone), and that Jesus himself performed that act.

     Well, I thought I'd found something that disproved his theory: helping people move. I hate helping people move. It's boring, it takes an eternity to complete, the job is never finished, it is frustrating trying to move couches through doorways, and nothing ever has a handle to grab. You move stuff from the house to the truck, then from the truck back to another house. You might get rewarded with pizza.
     I will help friends move, and do it with a smile on my face, because they are friends. Friends helped me move. I understand that's how it works. But one time I was called by my friend John to help a stranger move. Someone I'd never met before, who went to a different church and wasn't really in need of help (he was moving things to his summer home in SunRiver -- just hire some movers!).
     I hadn't seen John in a while, had nothing going on that day, and figured I should help. John said "It should just be a couple of hours," which of course means it will take three days. We picked up the UHaul, drove the 45 minutes to his house on the McKenzie river, and got started. Yes, it took us over an hour just to start moving. Start to finish it took us about 7 hours of work. He ended up paying us some fair amount.
     But there was a moment inbetween the starting and the realizing we were going to get paid where I turned to John and said "You know John, I hate helping people move. It's probably the chore in life I enjoy the least. I would rather go to the dentist. But I just realized that by helping this stranger move, who I don't know and won't get any reward for, I am doing quite possibly the most selfless act I could do. This is quite literally when I am most like Jesus."
     Which I promptly followed with "Isn't that pathetic?"

     Ha! I was in the process of performing an act that gave me no tangible reward, no emotional reward, and really no feeling of satisfaction, despite the fact that I did not enjoy the act itself at all. At that moment, I had proven that uppity jerk Jackwa wrong. I tell you this long, boring story to give you hope.
     Then I got paid. And bought a pizza. And realized that I had proven that uppity jerk wrong, and realizing that made me happy. Now, when I go to help someone move, I enjoy it a bit more because I can think about what a great person I am.
     For example, yesterday I helped a friend move from his apartment to his new house. He and his wife had just recieved their keys to their first home and I was happy to help (even volunteered!). Cody and his brother are strong dudes who run their own little moving company, so it went by lightning quick. There's nothing quite as emasculating as seeing two guys move a big couch around a few corners and doorways, and - while holding the couch - ask me to grab the cushions. (I did, however, move his 5, 10 and 15 pound weights all by myself. In three trips.) I enjoyed the move, because the whole time I could take satisfaction in doing something selfless. I was selfishly seeking selflessness, which really undermines the whole premise that I can help people move in a purely selfless way. Ugh, that bastard Jackwa has beaten me.
     (Also, sometimes helping people move can be fun, if they have to move embarrassing stuff. Cody had two hula hoops. Hula hoops!! He can claim they are his wife's but I don't believe him - his hips are too well defined. We also threw his kitchen table off the balcony. And he had like seven toaster-ovens that he moved as well. He did decide to give his brother his old Space Jam poster, however. All but one of the above things are true.)

Is it embarrassing that Bugs Bunny is listed before Michael Jordan?  Maybe. Is it embarrassing that my wife was like "you should put a picture of Space Jam on the blog" as she read and then said "one with Shaquille O'Neal on it." ?? Yes. That is embarrassing.

     I wonder: if I hadn't been aware of this truly-selfish-acts-are-impossible conundrum, if I ever performed one (shy of dying), would it count? The only thing that ruins my helping-people-move theory is knowing that it makes a good argument against that conundrum. I don't know. You don't care. Let's call it quits.

     But first: admit it. Based on the title, you thought this post was going to be about a Christian Dance Party I was throwing (which I have done), or maybe a dance-rehab-class, or a Maroon 5 Moves Like Jagger remix or something, didn't you. Sucker.