Celebrity Crushes

I haven't really had a celebrity crush in years. I had plenty as a kid in middle school. I think we all did. When you're young, celebrities are the hottest thing you can see. The next best thing you have to a really hot celebrity is the crush you have at school.

I remember my first celebrity crush. It was the first teen queen of the late 90's: Britney Spears. She was the hottest thing my 13 year old eyes had ever seen. I would have crazy daydreams that would involve me as one of her back up dancers in a music video. (Nevermind the fact that I knew nothing about dancing and was too white to be capable of "busting a move.") Her attraction towards me would be forbidden. I'm just a regular 13 year old boy just dancing for the love of it. (I hated dancing) She is a pop star queen. The press would have a field day, marking us down in the tabloids as the princess and the popper. I would have to do the right thing and resist her constant advances. This would presumably save our careers. (Obviously, I would not want to taint my lucrative dancing career that I had to work my way up from the streets of Harlem for. That would be silly.) But alas, our lust would be too much. I would be the new K-Fed soon. (In this case, I would be J-Dub.)

As more pop star queens came along, the more ludicrous the plots of my daydreams got. Other instances included: (but were not limited to)

1. Christina Augilera casually approaching me in the mall complementing my boyish good looks and shy middle school charm. We would have kids practically right off the bat. It would cripple her singing career, but we would be happy with our uncreatively named kids TV, Fridger, and Mattress (I made that up just now). That's what real happiness is.

2. This would easily be the most ludicrous daydream but is the most common of most middle school boys. This one would involve me rescuing Mandy Moore from a terrorist plot. In some instances, I would even foil the plot before it could hatch into the most diabolical terrorist scheme of all time. She would some how be captured, and I would either have the know-how or advanced weaponry skills to save her. Who needs the special forces or the police? They have a boy who barely reached 5 foot at the time to do all the work for them! (For free, of course. My reward was just being a good person, which she would ultimately see in the end.) After successfully saving her, it would be instant love. We would have to keep a low profile. I would continue about with my lower middle class civilian life and she would continue her busy lifestyle touring and recording albums. We would see each other on the weekends when she would fly out on her private jet from LA to Utah.

3. I don't really remember the rest of my celebrity crushes. But other scenarios included me joining the band of other pop stars on various instruments. (I didn't know how to play any instruments at the time, I also thought I knew how to sing back then. How disappointingly wrong I was.) I would get to know the pop star after months of daily touring and awkward run-ins after a show. Of course, they were always attracted to me every time. I just somehow got sucked into it.

Most of my middle school daydreams were spent like this. Instead of learning to do math and a giving a shit about my education, I was too busy fantasizing about how intensely attractive I should be and saving pop stars from certain doom. When I look back on it, it was something of an escape. I was way too shy to talk to anyone outside of my friend circle, little alone a girl. I didn't start talking to girls consistently until I was almost 17. I spent many days in school wishing more girls liked me. I would always hear rumors of how some girl liked such-and-such and what's-his-face. I was never included on those rumor lists. (Even though all my friends were) I longed to be wanted and attractive. By high school, I didn't care as much. I was more focused on playing music.

I haven't looked back on that in years. It's funny as hell now. But I would safely bet a good portion of my paycheck knowing that everyone else has had similar, if not, crazier daydreams at some point in their life.

Ah yes, that's the good stuff.

Work in the ER

When I tell strangers that I work in the ER, there is this odd sense of awe and pseudo-respect. Usually this is followed by these most common responses: "Do you like your job? That must be crazy! I'm not sure if I could handle all the gunshots and stabbings that you see."

I don't have the heart to tell them I haven't seen a legitimately critical gunshot or stab wound at my hospital in over 2 years. I hear a lot of people tell me "I think it's cool you know how to save a life. I bet you do that every day" (That's the one thing I get to help do at least once a month, if I'm lucky) I guess I know how. But usually, it's not me doing the saving. With my moderate amount of skills and responsibility, my main job is to just follow orders like a good little tool. Place the IV, put in a foley, come get me if the patient is dying. It's a team effort to save a life. Everyone has their part.

I somewhat wish I had the balls to say, "I do save lives every day, with these healing hands." I would then clap my hands and then flicker my fingers about, as if to imply magical healing sparkles emanated from them that enable me to instantly heal any medical problem. I would probably get a lot of weird looks, but it would be worth it.

My patients almost always don't need our help. Coming in for colds, stubbed toes, headaches, hang nails, and a bed to just sleep in. Most of the time, I feel like I'm a bell boy at a hotel full of people who are somehow incapable of getting off their ass or pity wagon to take care of themselves. I'm not insensitive...........Or perhaps [probably] I am. Some days it's worth it, some days I wish I would have chosen a career where my only job was to eat food, become socially acceptably obese, play video games, and some how command the respect of a job force. (I would also consider other careers such as a pirate, a communist, a writer, a pet store janitor, a mechanic, a hippy, a musician, an entitled journalist who firmly believes their opinions matter and change lives.)

Beto's

Beto's is a local fast food Mexican restaurant that has somehow gained significant popularity throughout the state. Although it sounds like I'm a dissatisfied customer, I can't help but going back for seconds of their proverbial "colon cancer pie." A doctor I work with occasionally, always insists we get burritos from there when he works the nights. It's been quite the popular tradition.

Every time we eat there, I forget how gut-busting their food is. Not gut-bustingly delicious. But gut-bustingly bloated. I try to look on the positive side of eating there by rationalizing "Eh, I was tired of traditional laxatives anyway." Or even "I haven't had food poisoning in a while. I guess I'm due."

Just like thee last time, I'm re-learning that these burritos are immune to logical reasoning and the strongest antacid available. (I'm actually under the impression that I didn't eat the burrito, the burrito is actually decomposing me from the inside out.) Yet, I cannot complain. The food was delicious. The price was decent. I have no physical proof that bodily excrement was cleverly hidden in my food. Aside from the fact that my acid reflux is currently eroding my esophagus, I feel happy knowing that I have the challenge of attempting to sleep while my chest feels like it's on fire. I love a good challenge.

This chimichanga (although it looks harmless and delicious) actually has the ability to hate people. It's the only emotion it's capable of expressing. How do I know this? It's currently beating the hell out of my abdominal region with extreme prejudice. I half expect it to jump out of my stomach like the movie "Alien" and scurry out the door to start a new life as a travelling salesman selling the latest in antacids and anti-diarrhea therapies.

[such cruel irony]

New Game

This game is absolutely genius. I can't put the thing down. Even though it's for the Wii, you play it like it's old school original Nintendo. It fills me with all kinds of nostalgic feelings. From being a kid playing the original game till I beat 10-40 times, to my most recent adventure with Mario Bros, at the apartment with Brennon.

That was way back in the day. When I was young and full of life. (Before the weight of the world crushed my ambition and need for excercise) Living on my own with my 2 best friends. Brennon and I had made it our quest to beat Mario Bros 3 without skipping any levels. Day after day we would wake up, eat deep fried pizza pockets, drink copious amounts of beer, and relentlessly try to beat that game. Fun was had by all. (Except those watching us. They didn't find it half as amusing that we were trying to beat the game half drunk, stewing in our own filth.)

Aside from that, if you don't have a life and need something to fill that void with, this game should fix that for about a week. 2 weeks if you're terrible at video games. You will not be disappointed in the time and effort you put into this.............Actually you might be disappointed. Depressingly disappointed if you put a lot of thought into it. But I don't feel that way. It's a worthy quest to beat this game.....Unless of course you have more "important" quests such as love, success and a healthy social attitude. (Video games tend to decrease your social skills and ability to efficiently communicate with the opposite sex) But if you are unsuccessful with those "important" quests or have no need for them currently, then I guess you could use this game as something of a life quest.

(Disclaimer: do not take my rambling and nearly incoherent advice. May result in "anti-social" behavior.)

Comics Are Still Cool

Isn't this thing a real work of art? This is one of the coolest things to happen to me this month. Being featured in a comic that was practically just made up on the spot. The character with the steel wool for hair is me. The character with the long hair is a nurse I work with named Kristin. The bald figure, is a tech I work with named Chad. Essentially this comic portrays a real event that happened.

I was sitting there eating popcorn, watching a crazy patient sleep, and minding my own business. Kristin gets wheeled around in the chair she sits in, at least once a shift every Friday by Chad. As she is wheeled around towards me, she sticks her fist straight out. I was innocently unassuming the worst, cheerfully eating popcorn thinking about how great life is......When suddenly, I heard the wheels squeel towards my direction. I looked behind me only to see an angry bald man pushing a giddy small nurse with her fist locked straight out. I tried to escape, but alas, I was too late. I took a "fist of destiny," to my back. Chad and Kristin both laughed hard after the event. Apparently, I made the most priceless look of horror, which is accurately illustrated in the last panel.

I love the comic dearly. It's one of those things that just can't be recreated. Good times at work. Good times.

I promised Kristin, I would post this on my blog. It's a good story that can't be forgotten. Never forger 2/13/10: Fist of Destiny Night.

Grammar Police

I was an English major for quite some time in my life. Like most English majors, I hate bad grammar............except when it comes to my own informal writing, such as this. In papers, and my own attempts at stories I try to be as critical as possible. With blogs and journals, I forget commas, periods, and capitalization all the time. So for all the grammar freaks out there who feel it might somehow be their business to tell me I forgot a comma.....thanks, but no thanks. I'm acutely aware of my laziness and feel no need to correct it unless it's a blatant error that disrupts the sentence fluency.

I used to be one of those people. I used to be part of the "Grammar Police." (As it turns out you have no real authority, no badge, your boss is probably an English teacher, and carrying a gun or any sort of weapon in the name of Grammar Police is seen as illegal. What a waste of time!) I used to correct papers and casual speech all the time. I never realized how obnoxious that was until someone who was a bigger grammar geek than I, started correcting me. Rather than strangling this person, then hauling off to Canada to live a new life as Paul Canuk, I took the high road and stopped talking to them. I backed off on my "policing" a little. But this person took it two steps too far and started correcting old myspace bulletins and sometimes facebook posts. My basic (and most abused) right to be severely lazy in a grammatical fashion was being infringed upon. No, I don't care if that's a run-on sentence. No, I don't care that a comma has to go there. No, I don't care that I accidentally forgot a word in a sentence that I can't go back and fix. No, I most certainly do not care that type of thing bothers you, because for some crazy reason, my life does not revolve around making grammatically pleasing sentences just for your sake. I reserve the right to be lazy in casual texting, blogging, and social networking commenting. All that matters is that when I do have to be grammatically formal, I do it well and correctly.

It was then, I had turned in my proverbial Grammar Police badge. It was too much of a hassle to give a crap about something so minor. I have better and bigger things to be worried about than if someone knows how to spell or knows proper sentence structure.

In the back of my mind, I had wondered what it would have been like to resign from an actual Grammar Police force. I would walk into a building full of people correcting papers and website errors. Calls coming in, complaining about grammar problems that are out of civilian hands to handle. I would walk in to the chiefs office in a pair of old khaki pants and a coffee stained white button up shirt. My shoulder holster carrying my gun would be visible. But I would have an ankle holster full of correcting pens that would not be visible to violators. Should the need arise for me to use them, I could pretend I'm tying my shoe, then whip out my favorite red pen and yell "Grammar Police! Nobody moves or I'll scribble on your precious work. You rotten bastards have been evading us all week! I'll do it! I'm crazy!" Anyway, back to my main point. I would walk into the chief's office, who would presumably be a surly African-American man with a hairstyle that had never left the 70's.

Me: Mick, I'm quittin'. I'm leaving the Grammar Police racket.

Chief: Damn it, Walker! You're a loose cannon! You just can't up and leave like that. You're the best grammar cop that ever corrected these streets.

Me: I know. But I'm tired. Tired of the action. Tired of being shot at. Tired of being yelled at. I'm tired of taking in every scumbag who can't tell the difference between you're and your. These old bones can't do it anymore. Grammar Police, is a young mans game.

Chief: Well it's too bad. I've seen a lot of good cops like you go off the deep end like this. What are you going to do now? Freelance?

Me: No. I thought this lifestyle was once for me. I'll do something more simple with my life. Something where I don't have to worry about being stabbed with a pen. Or a typewriter being thrown at me. I'm just going to retire.

Chief: You're only 23. You'll be back. People like you always come back. You'll miss the pretentious thrill of correcting people.

Me: I hope you're wrong, Mick. I hope you're wrong.

Then I toss my badge on his desk and dramatically walk out of the office.

Sigh...... if only. If only.......

New Guitar Blog! (You knew this was coming)

Yes, I finally got a guitar of my own at long last. However it was a grueling process just getting one.
This was my first one. It took me forever to choose this one. I had been playing four other guitars trying to get the best feel for what I wanted. After almost 2 hours of playing, I bought it. Everyone seemed impressed by it. I was excited to see what my guitar instructor would say about it. He was impressed by it initially. Once he to to the smallest string and started playing by the base of the guitar he said "Whoa, this thing is broken! You better take this back ASAP." In the the back of my head I was yelling "Damn it, I can't catch a break!" Thanks to the help of my friend Kyle, I was able to choose another. I was sad to let the other one go. I loved how it sounded so.
The one I ended up getting is great. I still miss my old one. But it's still fun to play and I'm sure it will serve me well for a while. (or at least it better, I can't afford these things.) So far, no problems. I worry that my guitar teacher will play it and tell me another thing is broken. That would just put the icing on the cake.

That is my pointless story regarding my uneventful guitar adventure :)

Two Favorite Pictures of Mine

Yeah, that's right.


Don't you forget it.

A Blog With Pictures For Once!

It was another crazy stressful day full of bills and dealing with the last of Weber's crap (I hope) It's been a pain in the ass. I got very little sleep and had to try to fit everything I needed to do in one day. As I was driving home, I saw my old elementary school. I paused for a second. A flood of memories swept me away. For the past 6 months I had been having odd dreams that involved this elementary school. Nothing creepy you immature bastards. But somehow, in some way, I've had several dreams about revisiting the place. I pulled into the parking lot and walked towards the doors. The place seemed so much bigger when I was younger.
A flood of smells and sights assaulted my memory banks. Sights and memories long forgotten. Old faces I hadn't bothered to remember. Teachers who have likely retired or passed away. I walked around the school. Nothing is what it seemed to be. I've never had a reason to return before, really. Who really goes back to visit their old elementary school? I wanted so badly to walk in and roam the halls. But probably just as well that I didn't. They don't really look too fondly on random 23 year olds who randomly decide to roam in an elementary school for no real reason. Pretty sure they would just think I was just some psychotic creep if I told them "Oh I used to go here. I've been having weird dreams about this place, so I decided to pay homage and wonder the halls." Nonetheless, I was happy with the results of just being able to walk around the place.
This field seemed like it stretched on for ages as a kid. I spent most of my time playing football in the spring here or building snow forts. It's still a large field for an elementary school. But it seemed so much bigger back then.These basketball hoops were old even when I was a kid. From 4th grade to 6th grade, I spent almost every waking moment on this court. I had always played basketball when I was young. My friends would beg me to play with them or hang out with the girls they were hanging out with. I was too scared of girls to care about that. I was happy playing basketball poorly and being outdoors. I could remember many games on those courts. Slipping and falling on pebbles. Scrapes. Cheating. Arch rivalries. Going there in the summer because it was a "real" basketball court.

It was odd visiting the place. Remembering old crushes. Old friends. Learning hard lessons. I remembered hundreds of memories just by stepping foot on the ground. How friendships were forged. How I met some kids who influenced my life greatly. Just simply walking around to clear my mind. Old games like kickball, four square, jump rope (I only did jump rope to get close to a girl I liked but was too afraid to admit it to anyone.) Spying on girls to learn their plans. Adventures in bushes and rolling down hills when we weren't supposed to.

For the first time in years, I remembered what it was like to be a kid. Knowing some things and yet not knowing anything at all. The naivety, perhaps even arrogance. Not seeing the world through shades of bureaucracy and politically correct statements, but seeing the world as colorful adventure full of endless possibilities. A world where everything was supposed to make sense. The only exception to anything not making sense was how adults treated you like a kid even though you insisted you were so much older. Not making many of your own decisions. Not worrying about the opposite sex or money. All you needed was your friends and for adults to grant you privileges that made you feel older. Believing what people told you because trust wasn't an issue. The level of innocence to have the ability to forgive for big things but hold big grudges for little things.

It was strange to feel this way. I felt old walking the grounds. Making the equipment appear tiny and the fields not so vast and endless. In a way, I wish I hadn't walked around there so I could preserve a piece of youth that has always been glorified in my mind. A sense of youth that hasn't seemed so distant, as if being in elementary school had only happened a few years ago. In another sense, it was nice to walk around and see how far I have come. It opened my eyes to how far I still have to go in life. In a more quantum theory way, it made me wonder if my ten year old self would approve of what I have become now. Would I be disappointed?

Dear Self

Dear Self:

This week I have been punched in the face by a kid who was so high, he quite literally shit himself. Also, I have hit a deer with my car which caused substantial damage. As a result I did not go to two of my classes this week.

Please cease and desist from this activity, as I do not enjoy said activities. They are painful and attract attention in a more negative context. Furthermore, please get off your ass and work out. Your waddling ass is unsightly and gives people pimples every time they look at it. (Not yet a scientific fact.)

If these demands are not met in a reasonably quick fashion, punishment will be brutal. You will be forced to eat at Taco Bell or Betos twice in one day! This will result in severe diarrhea and self-loathing that may last for up to a week. If you do not somehow learn your lesson by this point, your ass will grow larger. As a result, no one will believe you when you tell seemingly false tales about how skinny you used to be.

More letters will follow as more unfortunate events unfold.


Sincerely,

Johnny E. Walker II

Laughter

For as long as I can remember I have always loved to make people laugh. My Mom's side of the family saw to that. They live to have fun and make people laugh. But I'm not completely like that. I can't just make anyone laugh. It's slightly discriminatory. I'm way too shy to attempt to be funny around strangers. I just end up sounding awkward. Realizing this handicap, I made it a goal sometime back in elementary school to make people I knew laugh really hard at least once. I don't know why but that has been a goal I have carried with me for years.

I think everyone likes to feel like they are funny. I get a natural high bringing a smile to people's faces. If I was somewhat original, I think I would attempt to be a comedian. I could picture it all now. I would do stand-up across the country, party hard, have floozies following me like a cult, then die at the age of 38 of some sort of drug overdose. That's the way all good comedians go. I think it's a universal law that anyone too funny can't live that long (With only a few notable exceptions ie, Carlin, Pryor, Candy) I'm not sure if I would be that good of a comedian that I would die before I was 40, but damn it I would try.

It's been one of my goals lately to be less awkward, and not try too hard to be funny. (not that I try hard anyway, I hate people like that.) Perhaps switch to a type of funny that sacrifices my dignity and well-being. Maybe I'll let people smack me around for fun. Perhaps even place rakes in strategic places that I step on when people are around that will knock my crotch back to the middle ages. Everyone loves a good crotch shot.

Yes, yes. Life is finally coming together again.

I Hit a Deer

So I hit an animal with my car for the first time in my life. It really sucked. Not so much for the animal. But for my car and damages. It all started really early this morning. I had fallen asleep in my book attempting to study, when I was rudely awakened by my acid reflux. I got up to take an antacid only to find I was completely out. Since I had fallen asleep in my regular clothes, I felt it was time to take a jaunt to a gas station by my house to pick up those antacids. When I reached the gas station they didn't have the ones, I wanted. (Curses!) I decided it was time to expand my journey, quest if you will, to the Walmart up the street. As I drove to the Walmart, I noticed at the corner of my eye there was a deer running along the side of the road. I started to slow down. Suddenly, the damn thing just ran in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes but it was too late. I must have hit it around 5-10 mph. The deer got up and trotted across the street towards the Walmart casually. I got out to survey the damage of my car. The right side of my car absorbed most of the damage. My headlight was cracked. My hood was off. My bumper was slightly torn off. It was really the last thing I needed. (Come to speak of it, why do people verbalize when something bad happens that it's the last thing they need? Obviously it wouldn't be high up on the list of actual needed things. It's clearly implied in the bad event that it's completely unnecessary and would not qualify to even be on the bottom of anyone's needs list.)

A deer in a fairly big city crossing the street to presumably get to Walmart raises some serious questions. I have concocted such a serious list of questions for you to ponder.

1. What business does a deer have at Walmart at 4 in the morning?
a. Does Walmart have deer food that can actually be purchased by deer?
b. If it could be purchased by deer, would the deer pay in feces or runt children? I only ask this as it would be super absurd if the deer was capable of paying in American currency. As if to imply it had a job.
c. What if it payed in Euros? What business does a deer have in carrying foreign currency?

2. If the deer in fact had business at Walmart that had nothing to do with gourmet deer food, would the deer actually be purchasing cigarettes? Not to smoke though. That would be stupid. But to eat them.
a. If the deer purchased cigarettes to consume them, would the deer be addicted to nicotine? Would tobacco chew be a better alternative?
b. If the deer was intending to eat them, why? Because it's some sort of delicacy? To get a nicotine high? To "relax" after a stressful day full of avoiding predators and pooping on public hiking trails?

3. Was the deer going to Walmart at all? It may have been attempting to visit other locations in that mini mall.
a. If the deer was not going to Walmart, was it heading towards Cafe Rio or Panda Express with false hopes that they might be open 24/7?
b. If it wasn't food the deer was interested in, was it home supplies at every day low prices at the Lowes next door?

Now that I've ruined your faith in my abilities to think critically, I believe it is time for this ridiculous blog to end. Good day to you.

Boosh!

Well so far school is tedious and ridiculous. Nutrition is the most boring class of all time. It tends to just drag on and on and on and on..........and so forth. My teacher, who is although very nice, cannot pronounce a single scientific term correctly. This astounds me. She has been teaching for so many years but yet cannot say many basic biology terms correctly. (And no, she isn't foreign. That's the first question anybody asks when I tell them about this) It's like nails on a chalkboard to me. I've also taken into account there might be some sort of speech disorder at work. But no, all other words that are normally pronounced incorrectly with R's and L's are pronounced correctly. It's just science terms that are consistently pronounced incorrectly. It's not a hard class though. It's just mind numbing. Math sucks too. But I know I actually have to go to that class in order to advance to other classes. My teacher isn't bad either. She is nice and decent at the job. I love my guitar class so far. I love learning the new instrument. The sound of it. The technique. It's been a lot of fun.

Aside from that, I've just been workin for the Man. Getting paid moderately while having bills to pay above my general means. Such is the life of the modern American I suppose. At this point, I'm just rambling on about nothing. I had something to write about this week that might have been a lot more entertaining than this. But I failed to remember it and the idea is gone now. Sucks for you all the readers in reader-land. Perhaps I will remember it another day when it's not 5 in the morning and I have nothing else better to do than write down my musings.

Boosh.