ALL OF A SUTTON

I figured it was inevitable that eventually I was gonna have to spill my guts about how I feel about Christmas music.  Today’s the day, and I ain’t holdin’ nothing back. 

If there’s anything in the world I’m beefin’ about, it’s Christmas music.  Now, before you tar and feather me, hear me out.  Christmas music is AIGHT. (Not alright. AIGHT. There’s a difference).  Whether you like it or not, it’s only possible to remake “O Holy Night” and “In The Bleak Midwinter” before they’ve been run so far in the ground that they pop out in China (I used to think that ish was real).  Let me say this, though, and listen good because there’s not a joking bone in my body.  Anything Christmas-related that Steven Curtis Chapman touches turns to straight gold.  I’m talkin’ Notre Dame helmet, “He went to Jared,” 24 carrot GOLD (because “carrots” are better for your eyes than “karats”). 

Some of the most underrated Christmas songs of all time are as follows:

“Go Tell it on the Mountain”-  This is for all you Patagonia wearin’, Young Life leadin’, chaco tannin’ folks out there.  WHY don’t you guys give this song more love?! I mean come on!  It’s about chillin’ on whatever oversized hill you’re instagramming from and telling OTHER hippie hikers about Da Christ Child. Pure brilliant!  Plus, it sounds like Mumford and Sons and the Lumineers wrote it together while sitting in a local outdoorsy coffee shop in some Northwest US city. What more could you ask for?! (Disclaimer: I own a patagonia shirt AND was a Young Lifer in my day.  So I got nothin but love.  AND I’ve instagrammed a sunset from the top of an oversized hill.  SUE ME). 

“God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”- To me, whoever wrote this was all like, “Hey all you guys out there, thanks for opening the car doors for your ladies. Be happy and take a nap.”  What could possibly be anymore heartwarming than that?!  What I HATE is when a super emo band like Blink 182 or Green Day does a version of this and it’s like “Ohh tidings of comfort and joy AGGHHHH I HATE YOU SUSIEEEE.”  Not cool, Green Day. We should have waited til December ended to wake you up, you busters.

Teamwork makes the dream work.  What does that have to do with Christmas? CHOIRS.  Choirs really set Christmas apart because it’s the only time that people give a dang about them.  But not handbells.  Handbells are still WEAK, no matter what time of year it is.  Sorry, grandma.  If my wife turns 50 one day and decides she wants to play the handbells, I’m gonna tell her to at least lose one of the gloves and play them Michael Jackson style.  How awesome would that be?  Everyone in the handbell choir in red sparkly MJ-style jackets wearing only one of the white gloves playing “We Are The World.”  I’m patenting that for when I’m Chris Hanchey’s “Associate Minister of Music” one day at First Baptist Podunkville, so don’t even try to steal it. 

Christmas music, ladies and gentlemen.  Love it or hate it.  But don’t EVER let me catch you singing “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” because that junk ain’t funny. 

Some people call me a hipster.  Nothing makes me angrier.  Except being tickled, but DON’T GO THERE.  Anyway, since I play music and wear slimmer jeans than the average Ruston, LA townsperson, I am all of a sudden a hipster.  This simply isn’t true.  (I did have a mild hipster-attack scare last night as I almost played a worship set with my top button buttoned.  Luckily, my roommates stopped me.  I may try it again soon though). 

A hipster, to me at least, has less to do with how someone dresses and a lot more to do with how someone thinks.  Take my friend Kyle Johnson for instance (yes, the same dude who shoved fried okra down his pants to sneak it into a movie).  Kyle IS a hipster.  Whether he agrees or not is another story, although he probably disagrees because, well, he’s a hipster.  Anyway, Kyle likes to do things that no one else is doing, but when other people start to do those things, he’s onto something else.  Let me just clarify that this is in no way a bad thing, and in fact, one of my very favorite things about Kyle.  Aside from wearing thrift-store sweaters and riding a fixie, I’m 90% sure that Kyle truly believes that he was the first person in the city of Ruston to ever own a longboard.  Once longboarding became cool, however, Kyle hung his wheels up for good.  (Also due in part to the fact that he swears he was “due” for a wreck, even though he never had one).  Anyway, that’s beside the point.  The point is that a) Kyle Johnson is awesome and one of the cooler people in the world, and b) I’m not a hipster.  So the next time you think about calling me a hipster (or tickling me), be prepared to face the consequences. 

The reason I bring up hipsters is because I found something out the other day that really crushed me.  This revelation is two fold, its serious, and it revolves around the King of Hipsters, Bon Iver.

a) Bon Iver is not one single dude. Bon Iver is the name of the group.  And ALL THIS TIME I was absolutely convinced that Bon Iver was a Bad-A French dude who tore up the keys and sang (beautifully) like he had just been hit in the nads.  All of that is still true, but Bon Iver is not his name.

b) Justin Vernon.  JUSTIN VERNON.  The man, myth, and legend that I had known as Bon Iver for all this time is named JUSTIN VERNON.  Justin Vernon is only one bad Canadien accident away from being Justin Bieber.  You can’t sing like that, play like that, and carry yourself like that when your name is Justin Vernon.  You just can’t.  Maybe if you Frenched it up a little like, oh I don’t know, “Justo’n Verneuh’n” (I don’t even know how you would even pronounce that).  The point is, that just doesn’t work for me.  Pick one, the name or the swag.  Either lose the name, or lose the swag.  Don’t sing like a greek goddess with a name like Justin Vernon.  That being said Justin, don’t stop either. 

I’d like to take this portion of my blog to acknowledge Martha O’ Neal’s request for a “shout out.”  So here I am, Martha, shouting at you.  Ahhhhh.

One final thought.  Making “Your mama” jokes isn’t fair when your mom has passed away.  Because people can’t make them back to you or else they feel terrible.  But really its just funny to you.  That’s like double-thumb texting in front of someone with no thumbs.  It may not be exactly like that, but that’s the only analogy I can think of.  I mean, my grandmother passed away, so it wouldn’t be cool for me to make “Your grandma” jokes to people whose grandmas are still alive.  But I think I might do it anyway, because “your grandma” jokes are infinitely funny than “Your mama” jokes.

The other day, my friend Bayley Braddock asked me how much I made at my new job. I told him I made “A million doll hairs a month.”  I know, I know. Overused. But then I got to thinking, how much are actual DOLL HAIRS worth?? How many bald dolls would a person have to have before they paid you for DOLL HAIRS? A valid question if you ask me.  

You know the song “Butterfly Kisses” by Bob Carlisle? It’s awful, but somehow legendary.  Kinda like Joe Namath. Anyway, I never realized how hood that song actually was until Chris Hanchey was singing it to himself in my car the other day.  ”Putting little white flowers all up in her hair.” That’s an actual line from the song. “All UP IN HER HURR?!” What is this, Bon Qui Qui? More like Bob Qui Qui. If that song was sung in more of the way it was obviously written, people wouldn’t want to go Apostle Peter on each other every time they hear it. Keep it gangster, Bob Carlisle. Keep it gangster.

My friends Caleb and Tisha Smith just moved to Fort Worth to do ministry at a new church.  I’m happy for ‘em.  But they’re still on two HUGE billboards in Ruston! What kinda torture is that?! Leave us forever but then make us stare at you on our way to school/work and remind us of how sad we are that you’re gone? That’s like getting broken up with, but leaving the cute little mini-pic of you and your old squeeze tucked next to your gas gauge. Oh well, If Caleb and Tisha are gonna have to stay on the Green Clinic billboards, I guess I’ll be able to harden my heart enough to not burst into tears every single time I see them.  Miss you two goons.

Tip of the Day: To avoid waking up choking and gasping for breath, simply stop dreaming that you’re David Blaine. Now you know.

I’m a little guy.  I know this.  I’ve wrestled with it, and I’m okay with it.  I REALIZE that my bucket list item of getting into and winning a REAL fist fight may never get crossed off.  Am I okay with that? Absolutely.  But is there a little part of me that really wants to knock someone’s block off one day and then turn around and walk away like it didn’t even hurt? Absolutely.  I’ve never gotten into a real fight, but good gosh have I been close.  Two times.  Two stories.  Here we go.

Once during little league baseball practice, there was this real douche-ish kid on our team who always liked to pick on me.  He thought he was real big and bad, but in reality it was his own insecurities that led him to belittle me simply because I was the smallest and therefore easiest target to publicly humiliate with no further consequence.  I would learn that much later in a little diddy I like to call PSYCH 102.  Must have been one of the days I stayed awake.  Anyway, douche-ish kid decided that he was going to move one of those floppy rubber orange bases (you know what I’m talking about) over a giant hole in the ground.  So me, being the straight up SPEEEDSTER that I was, rounded first base for what was sure to be a stand-up-triple, causing me to collapse the previously mentioned base thus plummeting me into the previously mentioned hole.  Ankle torn in half.  (Really it was just a sprain, but torn in half sounds better).  After letting out a fearsome and blood-curdling yelp, I came up swinging.  Someone was going to feel this wrath.  I was ready to launch all 88 pounds of me into a tasmanian devilish fury and land it on someone’s left jaw.  Obviously it didn’t happen, and all I ended up doing was swinging aimlessly so hard that I made myself fall down.  So Plan B was to just lay there and pretend to be unconscious.  When I realized the absurdity of THAT after 6 seconds, I limped over to the dugout and gave EVERYBODY the silent treatment for the rest of the day.  Served them right.  No one even had my back! Not even a “Whoa, bro, that wasn’t cool.” Nothing!  Just stood there watching me hurt my physical and emotional beings all at once.  Real cool, guys.  I attribute me quitting baseball to you, so thanks for taking this SUREFIRE left-handed pitcher prodigy and throwing him in the trash.  But I’m over it.

The other story is even better.  Actually, that was subjective.  If you like the other one better, that’s cool too.  Do you.

I’ve always known I had a weird name.  Ever since I can remember, I’ve been (popping my collar) spelling it out for people every single time I meet someone new or put in an order at a restaurant.  One particular time, I was at a restaurant that I won’t embarass, and they asked for my name.  “Sutton,” I said, “S-U-T-” the guy cut me off.  “I got it, I got it,” he said. My boy, I thought. This dude’s got his STUFF together.  Boy was I wrong.  Minutes pass and then the words that sent me into yet another tasmanian devilish fury.

“Order for Satan?”

The place went completely silent.  My ears started to get warm.  I couldn’t hold it in any longer. 

“Hold up, hold up, WHAT?!” I literally screamed from across the room.  “Order for WHO?!”  I didn’t give him time to correct himself.  “You honestly think that two parents who were acid-free and in their right minds would name their kid SATAN?!” I don’t care if you WORSHIP satan, you don’t name ya KID Satan!” My name is SUTTON!” This is SUTTON’s order! SATAN doesn’t eat at Canes! (oops)  Satan eats at Captain D’s!”

**Note: I have been known to exaggerate, so take this as a grain of salt. I really probably said, “It’s Sutton, bro” and moved on.  But I thought all of this, so good enough right?**

Needless to say, I almost got into another fight there.  But no real fights under my belt as of yet.  DONT BE THE FIRST.

Movie snacks are one of the most retarted things anyone could ever buy.  WHY would you pay 4.50 for a box of Raisinets?  You shouldn’t even eat FREE Raisinets.  Same goes for Sno-Caps, Milk Duds, and Whoppers.  They’re all TERRIBLE.  People always talk about sneaking their own candy in, but let me raise you one.  One time my friend Kyle Johnson didn’t wanna pay for crappy movie candy or ANY candy for that matter, so he bought a pound of fried okra from the deli at Walmart, shoved the bag down the front of his shorts, and he and his bulge both got in without getting caught.  Now that’s a movie snack.  Be inspired, my children.  Be inspired.

My roommates are interesting dudes.  

I let Beck use my car to go see his lady in Shreveport, which I was glad to do (cause Da Sentra gets the best gas mileage, and gas mileage is a direct reflection of manhood.  So all you Prius owners: shake the haters off).  So I was driving his Chevy Silverado around today.  After using a fairly large step-stool to get in the drivers seat, I started looking for some tunes.  So I grabbed the first “Mix CD” off the top of the pile in the center console, and skipped a few tracks until I came to Carrie Underwood’s “How Great Thou Art.”  Aight, I thought.  I can dig this.  After verse 12 of that storied hymn, however, it was time to skip to the next track.  And when I did, the dichotomy nearly blew my hair back.  ”Like a G-6.”  Let that resonate for a second.  ”How Great Thou Art” followed by “Like a G-6.”  A Lil Jesus, lil bump grindin.  I can dig that, too.

Speaking of music and roommates, Zach and I were listening to “Some Nights” by FUN. (It’s awkward now cause it seems I’m starting a new sentence, but I’m not, cause that’s just how you actually spell the name of the band “FUN.”  There it went again).  Anyway, Zach made the comment that it sounded a little “George of the Jungle-ish,” which I couldn’t argue with, cause it does.  Then Zach preceded to describe how each part of the song fit in perfectly with the movie Tarzan.  (During a big part of the song): “Now he’s swinging through the jungle.”  (During a slow part): “Now, he’s having a moment by a river.”  (Song speeds back up): “Now he’s swinging again!” I was laughing.  It was “FUN.”

Kevin. Welp, Kevin’s eating some pre-packaged macaroni salad from Wal-Mart as I type this, so it’s a good thing I sleep on the top bunk, otherwise I’d be getting yakked on tonight.  And that’s happened to me before.

One time, at student council camp (closest thing to hell this side of the pavement), the dude I was sharing a room with had some rogue Pizza Hut for supper, then puked on me and my blanket from the top bunk at 2 am.  I had only packed one blanket.  We fought.  Also, he did a front flip off of the top bunk and projectile vomited in the sink across the room directly after that.  So you could say that I won in the end.  

Couple things about myself that have always been and will always be:

1) Lines always form behind me.  I’m talking no one in line, I walk up, turn around in 2 minutes and there’s 48 people snaking around the corner at World Market.  It’s an acquired skill.

2) Anytime I want to show a friend a Youtube video that I’ve been talking up for hours, it never loads.  Usually, its when I’ve caused that person to stop what they’re doing, put all their attention onto the video, and then watch it buffer for five minutes before I’m ultimately forced to mutter “forget it,” and then we’re BOTH in bad moods. It’s a vicious cycle.  

Finally, I’ve decided to do a full blown, full scale dissection of the lyrics of three country songs of my choosing.  Right now, the leaders are: “Chicks Dig It,” “What I Love About Sunday,” and “Nineteen Seventy-Somethin.”  I’m trying to see what these guys were REALLY saying when they wrote these gems (bricks of coal).  Results to come. 

So a few posts ago, I addressed the fact that I considered us to all be Olympic champion swimmers on account of the fact that as sperm, we each beat out about 17 gazillion other sperm and won the gold medal that we know more commonly as life.  Remember that? If not, go read it.  

After consulting some friends (Including, but not limited to: Phoebe Thomas, Chase Borden, and Taylor Kaufman), I have a new theory.  The race that sperm endure in order to be that lucky one who gets to actually turn into the baby is a lot LESS like the Olympics, and a lot MORE like the Hunger Games.  I mean, let’s think about this for a second.  In the Olympics, if you don’t win, you just dry off, go back to the Olympic village and mack on some honeys.  In the Hunger games, much like the battle of the sperm, you suffer one of two fates: Win or die.  As a sperm, you either get the chance to become a person, or you put your tail between your legs (see what I did there, since sperm have tails), and die.  DIE. Again, I realize this is probably completely flawed, but don’t you tell me how to perceive sperm and egg fertilization.  Hear me?!  If I ever become a biology teacher (which is less likely to happen than me becoming a world champion body builder, which is less likely to happen than me owning a truck of any kind, which is less likely to happen than me having 20/20 vision), you better believe I’m gonna teach my students about “The Hunger Games: Birth Edition.”  

I’ve seen some strange billboards in my day, but one that I saw today really befuddled me.  Depicted was a perfectly happy looking family.  Mom, dad, couple kids.  You know how families work.  Anyway, that wasn’t the weird part.  Printed above the picture of the family were the words “Breastfeeding… It does a family good.”  I’m sorry? Is this some kind of sick and twisted “Got Milk” ad? I’m all for shock advertising, but this seems a bit ridiculous.  I have no doubts that breastfeeding is a healthy way to feed a baby.  But a family?  Not a chance. Feed the rest of those kids Easy Mac. I’ll leave that one alone there.

Speaking of advertising, can you believe jingles these days? They’re awful.  I’ve always said I wanted to make a career out of music.  Maybe jingle-writing is my calling.  Cause I promise I can put out better stuff than “Suddenlink, you’re connected.” Oh am I? Good thing, cause youre an INTERNET provider.  We gotta start thinking outside the box, people.  How bout “Suddenlink: Our service is sketchy at best, but we listen to Lil Jon on the reg.”  Now that’s internet I’m subscribing to.  I’ll keep my options open.

Easy Mac > Breastmilk

I don’t eat all that good.  It’s something I’ve come to terms with, and something I’m not super focused on correcting.  The only person I know who eats worse than I do is my buddy Eric Lawrence, and just yesterday he ate Popeyes, McDonalds, and Taco Bell for all three meals.  And I know what you’re thinking: “That dude ate Popeyes for breakfast?!”  The answer to that is no.  Obviously you forgot to take the FourthMeal into consideration, thus inferring that Eric obviously doesn’t eat breakfast, thus adding to the fact that Eric is the unhealthiest eater I know.  But let’s not make Eric the victim here, this is about my poor habits.

The reason I bring up my unhealthy eating habits is because I don’t think I’m gonna live all that long.  Part of me is serious, but the other part of me is trying to reverse-jinx myself, defy the laws of bodily function, and live to be 100.

If I do somehow live to be 100, you can bet I’m going to refer to myself as a “Centurion” for those few extra months, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

That got me thinking, how terrible is life as a 100 year old when all your friends croaked 30 years earlier? It’s not like you can just jet pack over to your buddy’s house, because more than likely your buddy ate Popeyes, McDonalds, and Taco Bell every day as a college student and left you hanging a long time ago.  Not trying to sound super morbid or anything, these are just legitimate thoughts I’ve been having. 

Speaking of years into the future, I kinda hope I’m dead before we run out of all those natural resources everyone threatens us with all the time.  I don’t want my car to run on popcorn butter.  I like the way things work now.  Plus, judging by movie theaters these days, popcorn butter is probably going to cost about 14 bucks a gallon.  And I’m not down with that.  So, in light of this new energy-conservation spree that I’m on here for at least the next few minutes, I think I’m going to start being better about turning off lights before I leave the house.

My roommate Beck has been on me ever since we started living together about leaving lights on when I leave.  I dont ENJOY wasting energy, I just get ADD and forget about them.  So here’s my solution: I’ve started thinking of lights as people who are running non-stop and don’t get to rest unless you turn them off.  Let’s be real.  Unless you’re the re-incarnation of Hannibal Lector, how could anyone actually be okay with letting these “people” run incessantly with no rest?!  I ran cross country in high school, and I KNOW the pain and misery that comes with running even THREE miles, much less INFINITE miles.  *Note: This only works when you ACTUALLY visualize the people in your head. I’m talking faces of exhaustion, drenched in sweat, limbs falling off.*  I’m going to make this part of Obamacare, whatever that is, and educate our coming generations on the important of turning off lights. 

Mark this down as my most scattered, but possibly most informational blog to date. 

I’m gonna go pour some gas on my popcorn for flavor and see what it tastes like.

I went into this whole blog rebirth thing telling myself I would post every Tuesday and Friday.  And I still plan to do that, but this post was delayed because of an incredibly good, but busy weekend.  So I plan to get back on schedule soon.  That being said…

One thing that really chaps my backside is when people say cliches that literally don’t make sense.  We’ve all heard these things said millions of times, but for some reason, and maybe that reason is ADD, I always over-analyze these cliches and, when all is said and done, they just don’t make sense.  Need some examples?  I got some.

1.  “I could care less about that”

Then do it! If you can care SO much less, then we would all like to know exactly how much less you care.  “I could care less about that test,” “I could care less who he/she dates,” “I could care less about the NHL” (take it back).  Like I said, PROVE IT.  Talk is cheap, you know?  Don’t tease me with telling me all about how much less you COULD care without not actually elaborating.  You’re killing me, Petey.

2.  “The best thing since sliced bread”

I just would have honestly like to have been around when sliced bread was first invented.  You know what, no, you can’t INVENT the slicing of bread.  You just DID it, and it was good.  That’s not a big deal.  How about “The best thing since Neapolitan Ice Cream” or “The best thing since the little sensors that tell you when you’re about to back into something.”  See what I’m saying?  Sliced bread is a dime a dozen (there’s another one).  Hoagie roll eaters unite!  Down with sliced bread!  (Don’t hold me to that, cause I literally ate a ham sandwich 30 minutes ago, and it was the best thing since boxer briefs).

3.  “I’ve gotta take my hat off to them”

Do you? Because unless the “them” is God or the founding fathers of America, you keep that hat on.  Especially if you’re balding/have had brain surgery at some point.  Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those circumstances.  It happens.  I hear this one all the time in post-game sports press conferences, and it drives me insane. “We just really have to take our hats off to that team, man, they just really ‘played their hearts out.’”  You know I guess it WOULD be appropriate in that situation to remove your cap because if the other team “played their hearts out” that means they DIED. So yeah, give ‘em a moment of silence.  I’m telling you, dumb cliches RULE us and we don’t even realize it.  Keep your hats on people!

4.  “You can’t judge a book by its cover”

I get the principle here, I really do.  But the saying is dumb.  You can ABSOLUTELY judge a book by its cover.  And lets get this straight, I am talking about actual books at this point, not people.  A lot of folks give me crap because I’ve never read any Harry Potters, Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, Hunger Games, etc.  Now I know why.  The covers of those books are lame! The books I used to get down on were “The Bailey School Kids,” “The Hardy Boys,” and the Matt Christopher books.  Why?  Because the covers of those books were DOPE.  Now did I ever finish even one of those books? No. Also because of ADD. But the point is, I gave ‘em a chance.  Which is what the principle of this dumb saying refers to in the first place.  And besides, if the front cover’s not doing it for you, read the BACK cover and it literally tells you the entire book.  So point being, YES, youcan judge a BOOK (not a person) by its cover.  Because people don’t have covers. 

Something I wonder about often is what is actually said during the production meetings between today’s Top 40 artists and their record labels. Hate if you must, but I have actually given a good listen to the new Bieber album recently, and here’s what I think was said during the early stages of that album’s production.

Bieber: “Yeah guys so for this album I was really planning on sticking to lame, lovey-dovey lyrics with mediocre song structure.  If that’s cool with you guys, of course.

DEF JAM: “Yeah, Justin, see here’s the deal.  You don’t get to call the shots here, BIG DOG.  We do.  So we’ve decided you have to put at LEAST one dubstep song on the new record, and maybe more depending on how we’re feeling.  We’ll call it “As Long as you Love Me.”  Here are the words and music.  You get no say because you don’t know music.  Neither do we, of course, but you know way less than us.  Keep up the good work!”

Bieber: “I would fight back but I don’t know anything about music so I’ll go sing some mediocre tracks and you guys pitch correct me ridiculous amounts.  Sound like a plan, Stan?”

DEF JAM: “We could care less, kid.”

So I’ve been thinking about something lately in light of the Olympics. There was a time in a certain stage of all of our lives, (or I guess it would be more of the pre-life/still gotta tail stage) where we all won Olympic gold medals in swimming. I mean let’s be real, each and every one of us outswam 111 million other sperm to get to that egg, at what was undoubtedly womb-record pace, which in turn landed us a spot at the top of the podium, or in other words, the arms of our loving mothers while we all screamed for joy Michael Phelps style at the top of our just-developed lungs. 5 commas in that run-on sentence. You know what, no. Olympic spirit. SPRINT-on sentence. So go ahead and pat yourselves on the backs all you little Missy Franklins out there, cause you’re all champions. Even you, Glen “Big Baby” Davis.

Here is a list of things that I believe I could win Olympic gold in:

1. Highest metabolism ever

2. Wasting money on Goodwill clothes that I never wear

3. Leaving every light on when I leave the house

4. Fender benders

5.  Starting books but quitting after 5 pages

6.  Most awkward patch of chest hair

This list is still under construction

When I was in preschool, and I still remember this by the way, our teacher went around the room and asked us what all of our dads did for a living. “My dad’s in jail,” I said. He wasn’t. The best part about it though, was that my teacher knew what my dad did for a living, but I guarantee you that at least a few little bones in her body HAD to have wondered if maybe, perhaps, my dad had landed himself in the slammer.  I like to think I got a major kick out of that as a four year old sitting there on my name on the “circle rug.”  She moved on to the next kid. “Ryan, (that was really his name), what does your dad do?” “My dad’s in jail,” he said.  Set the trend, walk away.

I just got home from vacation a few days ago, and when I pulled into the driveway of our tiny little shack that we call home, it was like frigging MTV cribs.  Three trucks (two being of the “souped-up” variety), 2 cars, a go cart, three lawn mowers, and a trampoline.  I’m sorry, WHAT? When the deuce did we get a trampoline?  I literally almost crapped my pants.  See, my brother and I weren’t allowed to have a trampoline when we were kids because when my mom was a little girl, she got double bounced and both her knee caps blew straight out of her legs. Swear. I think that’s why we weren’t allowed to have TV’s in our rooms, or maybe that’s because we were Republican.  Needless to say, I anticipate many broken bones and barf stains on that tramp in the future. 

I’ve always been pretty terrible at school.  Like I mentioned in my last post, I can’t do simple math.  But let me tell you what I can do: SPELL. I need to add spelling to the list of things I think I could win a gold medal in.  In fifth grade, I was in a spelling bee at “Artbreak,” which was this really BAD-A art festival in Shreveport, LA where all the best 4^th and 5^th grade Picassos got their paintings of fish and ish displayed for all the world to see.  Why was there a spelling bee in Artbreak? Trick question. Because spelling is absolutely an art.  Don’t even try to hate on one of the most underrated disciplines in all of educational history.  Anyway, Artbreak spelling bee.  I remember I made it to the final two.  So when I stepped up for my word and the guy said “well made,” I knew I had the thing won.  Chalk another one up for the Ryan Lochte of spelling, right? Wrong. I got eliminated because apparently there’s a hyphen in the word(s) “well made” and I didn’t SAY “hyphen” between the words?  Are you kidding me?  I felt like ripping off my clip-on tie and doing SOMETHING violent.  So the other chick stands up, spells “Chrysanthemum” (easy) and wins.  Still bitter about it.  So I’m here by boycotting hyphens forever.  Take that Misty May Treanor AND Kerri Walsh Jennings.  Now you guys just look like you LIKE saying your full names all the time.  The only people who do that are people who kill presidents.  And “May” and “Walsh” are sucky middle names anyway.

Sorry if that sounded snarky.

Before I let you go, here’s something I’ve gotta admit.  I’m a coke addict. No, not a COKE addict.  A COKE addict.  I’m not good at admitting things like this, but today I reached a crossroads.  I’m strictly a Dr. Pepper and Coca Cola Classic kinda guy, but today there arose such a clatter that I had to have SOMETHING to satisfy the craving.  Thing is, all I could find at work was DIET coke, and I kid you not I said these exact words out loud: “Ehh, it’ll get the job done.” GET THE JOB DONE?! Could there BE a bigger sign that you’re an addict?! “Ehh, don’t have any oxycotton, but this heroine will get the job done.”  See what I’m saying? It wasn’t a proud moment.  But I’m all about airing out dirty laundry, so that’s what that was.  Right now, my kidney stones are building and building and one day I’m gonna be able to pave a kidney stone road with them.  It’s like a cobblestone road but hurts worse to walk on and/or pee out.  Now you know!

It’s been a while, yeah?

Last time I updated this thing was when school was letting out for summer. Now schools about to start. If my math’s correct, which I wouldn’t bank on (Mrs. Terry Sermons, you know who you are) I’d say that equals a whole summer with no blogging.

Side story: I haven’t taken a math class since high school, and even then was exceptionally awful at it. So it should come as no surprise that when I volunteered to help tutor a 6th grade kid last year in the mornings and he pulled out like pre-pre-geometry, I had no freaking clue. I remember realizing instantly that it wasn’t happening, but I wasn’t letting this kid know that. So I stared at this paper for a good thirty seconds, occasionally raising my index finger and going “ahh” as if I had found the key to factoring inequalities, but I hadn’t. Eventually, I had to admit to my dude that I was “more of a social studies guy.” He graciously let me off the hook.

I digress.
Wait what did I digress from? Oh well.

I just spent a week with my family on vacation in Pittsburgh, PA. Go ahead, chuckle and rib your buddies while saying “Who takes a family vacation to Pittsburgh?” But let me ask you, captain underpants, (terrible books by the way) how fun has it been pulling sand outta your crack after realizing you’ve spent everyday alternating between John Grisham and The Inquirer in the hot sun for a week? Pittsburgh sounding better now? Mmmmhhhmmm.

Sorry if that came off as snarky.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania is the Davison family’s Mecca. And as un-Muslim as we are, we make our yearly journey back to those hallowed grounds to pay homage to the greatest sports city in America. And don’t fight me on that.

One night, as Layne and I sat outside of PNC Park near the end a Pirates game that we desperately wished we had tickets for, people began to file out of the seats early during what was a relatively good game. I sorta felt like a homeless guy watching other people throw away their perfectly good shrimp po-boys. Only you cant dig in the trash for seats to see your favorite team. So we bought tickets. And that’s that whole story.

Still with me?

I drove through some new states I’d never been to before on this trip, and here is the run down on each of them, as well as what celebrity I would compare each of them to most.

1) Ohio — Promising at first, but around the Cincinnati area, things go quickly downhill. Then comes Columbus, Ohio, home to THE worst roads in America, and if you’ve never watched Monday Night Football you don’t get that joke. Soon enough, we got hungry, so we went to a gas station somewhere near Dayton that claimed to have “Pizza Hut” attached, only to find one spinning rack of cold pizza (because simply warming pizza with lamps doesn’t work) on the check out counter. I was glad to see the end of Ohio.

Celebrity Moniker: Dana Carvey.
Good as G.W. Bush on SNL, but that’s about it. And “Master of Disguise” was just weird. Not quite missing ol’ D-Carv, though I’m sure he’s a great guy.

2) West Virginia — Knocked it before I tried it. Always thought WV was easily one of the most boring states in America. Kinda like the Seattle Seahawks in the NFL. But boy was i wrong (about WV, not the Seahawks). That place was gorgeous. Lots a rolling hills, gorges, rivers, and minimal blood-thirsty hillbillies. I was pleasantly surprised.

Celeb Moniker: Pitbull. Could potentially be off base with this one, but the guy is actually KINDA tight. And really good at pretending to be Spanish.

3) Virginia — Literally nothing happened.

Celeb Moniker: The chick from all the Twilight movies. You know what, no. The Twilight movies THEMSELVES.

That’s the new state update for today.

I’m ending this post knowing deep down that I’ve probably been using the word “moniker” wrong this whole time, on account of the fact that I don’t actually know what it means.