My Rant on Al Gore

Al Gore stole the show at the Oscar's this year. Undeservedly so. The same guy that is a "pioneer" on global warming, with his Oscar winning documentary, enjoys using 20 times more energy on his mansion than the average American home. So, in essence, 20 families equal one Al Gore. In fact, since his documentary, his electricity use has INCREASED.

I personally do not care. If he wants to consume that much energy and stand on a platform to tell everyone else to cut theirs down, that's something he chooses to do. That is the quickest way to lose credibility in a small world where most truth is exposed. It just makes me sick that he would be lifted up on a pedestal and paraded as a saint through the streets of Hollywood.

Advance a cause with integrity! The American public is not stupid. We generally see through most hypocrisy and can tell when someone is really sincere about a cause. Don't make someone a hero simply because he takes a position on something. Make him a hero because he takes a position and LIVES it.

If I had put together a slide show presentation that was as equally as good as his, I would be sitting at my computer, watching it on Youtube. I don't have the last name Gore, first name Al, and I'm not noticeable to the public, and I don't label myself a democrat. Hollywood would never support the other side if some average guy like me or a Republican made the exact SAME movie. Why? That would hinder their agenda, which would be the ultimate sin.

I don't know if you can convince me that Al Gore or any other Celebrity democrat is really that concerned with the environment. After all, it's almost election season, a platform needs to be raised, awareness for a certain party needs to be fought for, and attention needs to be grabbed. It all came together on one night, when a man who tells others to conserve energy yet equals the consumption of energy of twenty average American households, was praised as a representative of everything that is good in this country.

I’m not trying to advance a republican agenda. It’s the hypocrisy that makes me angry. It’s saying you believe in something, winning a prestigious award for it, making a pageantry out of it on a night where millions of Americans are watching on television, and lacking the conscious to be real about the life you really live, all in the name of subliminal politics.

There are many people who push for change and they are to be admired for that. They believe something, they live it. Al Gore, he just speaks it as I’m sure many others do. THAT should be unacceptable. That, to me, is.

the link:
http://www.tennesseepolicy.org/main/article.php?article_id=367

The Ticket Taker

Think of the most awkward moment in a movie going experience. Is it when you lean down and talk directly into that speaker, as if the ticket vendor couldn't hear you if you were standing straight up? What about each time you ask for a large drink and grimace at the thought of paying full price for it? How about walking into the theater and standing for three whole minutes until you have the adjusted vision to see the silhouettes of people and their shadowy heads while still having no idea where you sat? Any one of those things might easily be one of the most awkward, but not today.

My friend Russ and I went to see Reno 911: Miami this afternoon, which by the way wasn't what I had hoped it could be. After going through the usual routine of leaning into the little microphone to tell the ticket merchant which movie I had chosen to view and the time that I chose to view it, I began to make my way towards the movie foyer. Little did I know that in a very short time every ounce of awkwardness in the vicinity was going to seep its way to the cognitive part of my brain, converging on me and challenging my ability to maintain my composure and remain nonchalant.

Ticket in hand, I approached the ticket tearer.

He was an older man, with gray hair, who looked to be in his mid fifties. He was wearing a gray blazer, not too fashionable, but surely appropriate for a movie manager. His pose was casual, yet purposeful, as if standing and taking tickets had significance and meaning. I never caught his name, but he displayed every characteristic of a Phil or Larry.

As he reached out his left hand, I instinctively motioned to meet his hand with my ticket. It was at this point I knew something was wrong. With his left arm extended, and my ticket a half of a second away from reaching his hand, I noticed the right arm of his blazer was tucked firmly into his right coat pocket. I also noticed that his right arm was surprisingly flat, as if he had pulled his arm through his sleeve and was trying to play a trick on everyone around him, except this was no trick, his arm was missing.

My arm still had about a fourth of the way to go before I met his hand when it struck me that I was non-verbally about to ask a one armed man to take my ticket, tear it, and hand it back to me.

That's when I started to panic.

I quickly thought of scenarios in which I wouldn't feel comfortable; asking someone with one eye to read me a novel, relying on a one legged person to challenge me in hopscotch, or giving a one footed person a gift certificate to get a pedicure. How hypocritical would it be to non-verbally commit this person to the obligation of tearing my ticket?

I couldn't back down. I couldn't pull my arm back once I figured out he was a uni-arm. I had to commit. I knew what followed would be awkward. I knew that an expression on my face would be present. I knew that the only thing I could do at that point was to hope for the best, to transfer all my mental energy into the task, with the hope that it would be a quick and smooth encounter. I didn't want to think about all of the possibilities of him failing. I didn't want to have to say "oh, I got it", I didn't want to imply that I was more capable of producing a perfect tear along the perforated middle than he was.

I couldn't help but feel awkward the whole time. It was like asking a person with no legs to bring me a ladder. I felt like I should be the one tearing it or that the ticket shouldn't have been torn in the first place.

He grabbed my ticket and took full advantage of the perforation. He tore it as if he had done it before and was willing to do it again. He tore with the same enthusiasm that you have when you open a fortune cookie and take out the fortune, but he did it with one hand. Right arm need not apply.

For those few minutes, he defined equal opportunity employer. He reestablished the purpose of fingers, of perforation, and single-handedly redefined the ticket tearer position. True, it was probably one of the most awkward moments of my entire life (and believe me it was), but we got through it together. That's the American dream.

Deodorant Smelling Rooms

I sometimes get excited about little things. As much as I hate running out of deodorant, toothpaste, or soap, I also get that excited. Yes, the little things. The joy of picking out a new scent or flavor really pumps me up. Why? Because I don't like monotony, unless of course I find something I really, really like, which is rare, finding a new scent or flavor breaks that up. It reinvigorates me. Kind of like the big word I just used.

However, shopping for deodorant can sometimes be a hassle. I put a lot of pressure on myself. It's a difficult thing to stand in an aisle, staring at the various deodorants, and not think that this can make or break the next few months. I know that my choice of deodorant will probably last me a while. I don't know how long, but I would be willing to bet around 2 1/2 to 3 months. I could be way off, I'm not sure. Anyway, because of the length of time that I won't need to buy more deodorant, I always feel that I have to make the most out of my deodorant choice.

I want to smell good. I want my arms to think that every day I place a waterfall in the pit. I want them to think there is a whispering cloud that is raining in the fresh, spring air. I want them to question me, as to why I put scented candles under my arm. I'm sure you get the point.

I stand there in the deodorant aisle, with a very important decision to make. I think the only other great decision in life is the cereal decision. Maybe that's because there are way too many choices when you're standing in the cereal aisle, and because the cereals of my past stare me down and will never completely let me out of their grasp. Boo Berry, Fruity Pebbles, Lucky Charms, Apple Jacks, Frosted Mini Wheat’s, oh my, back to deodorant.

I'm not loyal to deodorant. I think it's because every couple of months there is a new scent out and we all know that newer sometimes equals better. As a result of my non-loyalty, I stand there, looking at every single stick of deodorant until something catches my eye. I try to make sure that I am the only one in the aisle. I don't want them to notice how long it takes me to pick out a deodorant. That could cause me to rush, which would increase the likelihood of me settling for a scent that I have worn in the past or something that smells similar to the deer urine that hunters use. I don't need that.

Someone else in the aisle not only increases stress levels, it also increases my feelings of stupidity. Because of my fondness for new scents and my need to make the best deodorant decision possible, I tend to smell the deodorants. After all, I don't want active sport to smell like active ass, simply because I didn't take the time to see what it smells like. So yes, I smell them. I remember what cereal tastes like, I don't remember deodorant smells very often. But anyway, that's why I wrote this blog. I believe that stores need to have a separate room for deodorants, like a deodorant smelling room.

I don't know if it's normal to stand there and smell different deodorants before making a decision on which one you want to buy. In fact, I've personally never seen anyone do it so maybe that's why I'm always real hesitant to smell them when other people are around. I don't know if I'm breaking deodorant aisle etiquette. What the heck is deodorant aisle etiquette anyway? Do you simply take off the deodorant cap, but not the little plastic cover and smell or is it permissible to remove the cap AND the plastic cover before smelling? Do you just try to smell the outside and hope that it's a proper representation of what's on the inside? Do you not smell at all?

A separate room means that I wouldn't have to find out the answer to these questions. I wouldn't have to feel stupid at the thought of someone seeing me in the aisle smelling deodorants. I wouldn't feel rushed when I'm in the middle of a sniff and I hear someone about the pass the aisle. S.I.P. Sniff in peace. That's really all I'm asking for. No pressures, no embarrassment, just a really solid decision making process with as little outside interference as possible. Heck, the room should even be sound proof so that when I find the one I want I can yell "YEAH! THIS ONE'S IT!” That's what we need more of in this country, not more McDonald’s or plastic surgery. Deodorant smelling rooms; Vote for me this election season, I'll make it happen.

Relativity and a Lazy Eye

We learn the theory of relativity at an early age. Most of us hear about it from our high school physics teacher, others of us are lucky enough to be able to wait until college before we skim over it in some half written notes or a book, a book that was never really read. In a world where many things are relative to one another, a lazy eye is in no way relative to the average lazy American, and physiology, or God, is to thank for that.

I don’t have a lazy eye, but I have known people that have had one. As a kid, I envied the boy who made his eye wander about his mystical eye socket. He had the attention of everyone at the party. I wasn’t envious of the attention, I was envious of his ability to make his eye float from me to a friend, a friend that was standing on the completely other side of him, and then back again. I needed a cool trick to do. I had never learned how to gleek, roll my tongue, make very good armpit noises with my hand, or anything else that most kids at that age were able to pull out of their “bag of odd things they could do with their anatomy”. But what if a lazy eye was relative to being a fat, lazy American? My whole perspective would have changed and the eye floating trick would have never been the same.

To be lazy in America means a couple of things. It means that you sleep until 12, make routine trips to fast food chains, take clear advantage of the express lane at grocery stores, and wait 3 to 4 weeks before doing a load of laundry. All things being relative, a lazy eye would sort of mean the same thing.

Imagine waking up one morning to the sound of an annoying alarm clock. As you crawl out of your warm, pleasurable bed you make a trip to the bathroom. You turn on the light, grab your toothbrush, and look into the mirror. In a state of horror, you realize that your left eye is still closed. You’re thinking of all the reasons why your eye is closed when you suddenly realize that your left eye is….lazy. It won’t arise any time soon. It’s still asleep. At that moment it’s non-productive. It sleeps when it wants for however long it wants. It functions on a totally different system that the other eye, with completely different genetics. You’re right eye is wide awake, your left eye wide shut.

With feelings of embarrassment, you think about the previous night and wonder how long this eye, with a mind of its own, stayed up watching TV. You hope your eye will wake up, like the rest of your body, and you hope it’s before you go to class or to your very important job interview. It doesn’t, and all you can do is point to your lazy eye and say to others, “sorry, this one’s a little lazy, he’ll get up around noon.”

Luckily, being lazy and having a lazy eye aren’t relative to one another. Consequently, the floating eye trick still amazes me. If you see me around, I’m always down for seeing it.

Time and God

I had an interesting conversation the other day with a friend. The topic was something that everyone wonders about at one point. We were discussing some of the things that are confusing about God and how our finite minds are incapable of fully understanding an infinite God. The question arose: What was before God? And this was my response, for what it was worth.

We, as humans, have one understanding and it’s that we are limited by time. We are born, on average, at a particular stage of our mother’s pregnancy. If you stay inside the womb longer than the supposed due date, then doctors sometimes need to induce labor, because even though you have no idea what life is like outside of the womb, it’s time for you to be born. So, as soon as we are conceived we have this thing called time looming over our head. We grow up, but time is always constant. You have a time to eat, a time to get ready for school, a time to go to school, and a time to be picked up. You have a general time for dinner, a time for leisure, and a time to get ready to go to bed. Although these times are different for everybody, you probably get the idea.

When you stop and consider it, time, second to breathing, is the nature of life. But, when considering your own questions of God, you have to remember that God is the creator of time. No creator is limited by His creation. And if that’s the case, God was right when he said that He was “the beginning and the end.” You have to ask yourself, the beginning of what? If there was a beginning then what was before that? What was before God?

Think of a time line. We’ll start with the creation of the earth. We’ll call that zero. At that point (zero) was the creation of time. “On the first day God created…..” Time was established. God wasn’t established, time was. It’s a weird concept. It’s too profound to understand. You’re probably thinking, well what was God doing before the creation of the earth? Just sitting there? Wasting time? Well remember, time had not been established yet. There wasn’t a zero on the timeline. So if there is no such thing as time then there must have been nothing before God because the word before or after had no relevance. God then becomes infinite.

Our major problem with finite thinking is that we have the limited understanding as a creation to apply the things we know to something bigger than the actual creation itself. Applying time to God would then only be logical if I was the creator of both time and God. Since I am not, it is not. It becomes illogical, something that cannot be done. We can’t fathom anything outside of our solar system or the possibility of an infinite, omniscient creator, when we can’t understand a life outside of time.

For the Last Time...

I'm about to say something unpopular to males ages 16-28. I DO NOT care about Lindsay Lohan. In fact, I don't even know if I spelled her name right. Furthermore, I'm not even going to check, because if she doesn't spell it that way then I think that's how you should spell it. I don't know who started this, the selection of one person to follow the rest of their lives, but it's flawed. Paris Hilton? She's got money, I get that, but so do so many others who look two times as good and are ten times smarter. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe the press decides to go after the easy, foolish ones. After all, isn't it always the dumb fish that get pulled into the fisherman's boat?

Maybe it's just a product of me watching too much TV, but I have a hard time understanding why anyone cares so much. From what I hear, she was in a movie called Mean Girls. I didn't see it. Is there anything else that would or could contribute to America's fascination with her? There's the drinking problem, the AA, ok, but so many other celebrities have those problems too, correct? Ah, could it be the panty-less pictures? Seems like playboy has been around for a long time, sorry for being unoriginal.

I just never got it. I don't understand why an above average looking girl would be on the cover of every tabloid, insanely popular with adolescent boys, and the object of stranger’s affections.

It's like waking up one day with a stranger in your room.
What the heck are you doing?
Who in the world are you?
Why should I even care?

And what do you want with me?

That's exactly how I feel about Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, and the absolute detest I have with arrogance, elitists, and other "socialites". I don't know you, I don't care to know you, and if I did meet you I probably wouldn't like you.

The ripple effect is seen around the country, even in Wichita Falls, Tx. Girls see this behavior and think that this is something desirable. And you know what? It may be, to that one guy who doesn't respect anything that's not superficial, the same guy that will talk to you for a week before disposing you for another girl, the one who is acting more "in style" and "chic" than you are, the guy that will always view relationships and girls as a never ending competition, rather than a desirable companionship between a boy and a girl. To the rest of us, you appear to be a toy poodle, the fake, plastic desert used as a decorative item at a restaurant. Yes, that saddens me.

At best, it's unfortunate. At worst, it's disgusting. Show me something worthwhile Lindsay Lohan, give me some substance. Let me know that you're intelligent enough to carry on a conversation that doesn't have anything to do with partying, alcohol, drugs, or sex. And then maybe, just maybe, I might have a little more understanding as to why people should pour an ounce of their energy into checking to see if they spelled your name right.

Gallagher the Great

Every time I have made the comment “I don’t know if I have lived yet,” it is usually connected with some sort of crazy reference, I’m not always serious. That all changed when I saw him on a Thursday night at Buffalo Wild Wings. He rolled in with a tank, oxygen hooked up to his nose, and a confidence that I one day can only hope to experience. He is an older man, around his early seventies, with slicked back gray hair, and a slight slouch to his posture. And he is my new hero.

I’ve seen him before. I think it was at Toby’s, quite possibly one of the smokiest bars in Wichita Falls, although I haven’t been to many on the other side of town. I saw his tank, filled with oxygen, and I couldn’t help but wonder what this guy was all about.

I only have one grandpa who is still alive (unless you want to count my step-grandfather), however, he is particularly young, closing in on 60. I don’t think I’d ever see him at any bar, much less see him awake past the hour of 11 o’clock. Something about seeing someone so old out in the condition that he was in baffled me. It was a beer commercial in the making. Nothing was going to stop this guy from living life to what he considered the fullest, not even contaminated oxygen.

Buffalo Wild Wings on a Thursday night is kind of crazy. There are a numerous amount of college aged kids out, a majority of whom are drunk or at least on the one way train to getting there. Karaoke blares over the sports bar, with people trying to yell over it just to carry on conversation, needless to say, it’s loud. But just when you think that this scene is too wild for a man who looks like he once wrote its definition, he arrives, wheeling in his oxygen tank, with a subtle, yet steady aura circulating around his aged frame.

He comes in by himself, but it doesn’t always stay that way. If social hierarchy had an administration, he’d be in it. Seventy years of life will do that to you. He knows how to work a crowd, in the same way that good waiters and waitresses work their tables. He’s smooth, funny, and doesn’t bring dullness to a conversation.

I don’t feel sorry for him like I used to. He’s shown me, through my observations, that he is way cooler than I am. He talks to more ladies, carries an oxygen tank, drinks beer like he is 25, and on top of that still has the balls to grab the mic and dazzle everybody with his karaoke skills. This past Thursday he just got even a little bit cooler. I found out that he was a magician.

Some friends and I had heard that he did magic tricks. We didn’t know for sure, but we caught him as he was walking by. “I’ll be back, I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” he told us. A few minutes later he returned and said that he needed to get his deck of cards from his table and that he would be back. He went to his table and sat down, for around 15 minutes. We didn’t think he was coming back, until he finally did.

He had a magic trick for each of us, making us all feel equally stupid when he picked the right card or pulled a coin from behind our ears. His stories matched his magic skills and for those five minutes I felt like I didn’t know what the concept of reality was. I had been a sucker for his illusions, feeling baffled because I couldn’t catch him in his sleight of hands.

“What’s your name,” I asked. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card. “I’m Gallagher the Great. If you ever have any parties or small get togethers give me a call, I do shows. If you don’t get your monies worth, you don’t have to pay me.” With that we thanked him for the few tricks he showed us and he went on his way. I then began to think of all the parties that I could have, just to see this guy do some more magic. I would party like 8 times a month, with this guy being the headline each and every time, and I wouldn’t be sorry for it. Then, and only then would I almost be able to say that I was close to being as cool as Gallagher, but no where nearly as great.

So if you see ol’ Gallagher out buy him a beer, heck, buy him two, and then have him pull some change from behind your ears so you can pay for it.

Mt. Everest

I was watching TV this afternoon and there was this commercial for a show that will be on the Discovery Times channel sometime this week or next about a bunch of people who attempted to climb Mt. Everest. I obviously don't know if they made it or not because I haven't seen the show. They showed scenes of a guy who was being medically treated on the mountain, and of gusts of snowy winds. I thought about it for a second, maybe half a second. Why in the HECK would you subject yourself to death to climb a mountain full of snow and ice when there's nothing at the top but a peak and some clouds???

There are toes and fingers to lose, much less arms and legs. If I ever lose an extremity it better be in a heroic brawl with a lion or shark [and I better come out victorious]. If it's freezing cold outside I don't want to climb anything unless it has some sort of prize at the top. I'm talking about a real prize, like a resort of some sort, with a warm freaking hot tub, a resort with a few million dollars waiting for me on my bedroom pillow. But for these guys, there's NOTHING but bragging rights.

What do you do when you reach the top? Look around? It's nothing you probably couldn't see three fourths of the way up, or maybe even halfway. How long do you stay at the top? Long enough to get a picture? I doubt digital cameras work in extreme weather. I doubt you could hit the button with those big gloves.

If I was dumb enough to climb the mountain and I just so happened to die going up, I'd have my friends take me to the top and let me chill there so that it would freak every other person out who reaches it. I'd have them put a sign in my hands that said "Yeah, bad idea to climb a snowy mountain." Hopefully, then people would want to go to the top, to see me. That would be the prize, to see the guy with the funny sign who didn't make it up and down the cold mountain. I'd even grow a mustache so make it worthwhile. See you at the top.

Door to Door

Every once in a while I will get a strange knock on my door. A knock that is unfamiliar, one that prompts everyone in the house to look at each other as if each one of us was wondering who was the one expecting a guest. Usually it’s just a friend, an adolescent trying to sell us a subscription to the local newspaper, an unemployed artist and self-employed curb painter asking to paint our house number on the curb, or the local meth addict who asks if she can mow our grass or do something else around the house, each time providing a different reason why she is trying to earn the money.

I was enjoying my day off on Monday afternoon, sitting on my bed, with my laptop in my lap, probably doing something with myspace, when my sister walked into my room. She held in her laughter as she said, “Hey go answer the door, there is a Chinese lady walking up the sidewalk and I don’t want to answer it.” “Where’s Josh,” I replied. “He’s outside talking to Laci (his ex gf and current I don’t know what).” Usually, I try to avoid door Mongols and the awkwardness that comes with them by deferring them to my brother. We even argue over who is going to pay the pizza man.

I don’t know where this social phobia originated because it’s not like we’re shy. Ok, yes I do know. See, we don’t always have the money to tip the pizza guy so sometimes our tips consist of some change that we find lying around on a table or some other change gathering location. Neither of us want to experience awkwardness or embarrassment of actually handing the dollar in quarters over to him or her so we do our best to stay out of the picture entirely. Somehow that has translated into answering the door when a stranger is present.

“You go answer the door.” “No Justin, YOU, she is going to try and sale something.” “How do you know,” I asked. “Because she is pulling a rolling suitcase,” Kaili responded. We both started laughing. I knew what was coming; I could visualize the situation in its entirety. “Fine.” I walked into the living room, hoping to get a peek of what I was up against when I heard the hollow thumping of our thin front door. My dogs came crashing to the front, like they always do, nearly taking the legs out from under me. I knew that if I couldn’t get them back I’d be forced to face this sales lady on her own turf. I would break rule number one.

Rule number one when dealing with door to door sales persons is to stay on your own turf. You can’t meet them on the porch or let them have the super advantage of coming inside. It’s sort of like keeping your distance from the over-aggressive alpha male at the bar. You need a table, a bar, a friend, something in between you and the aggressor. That way, they won’t ever feel comfortable, allowing you easier access to bail out at any moment.

I tried my best to chill the dogs out, but I knew that if I opened the door they’d go flying out and the following five minutes of my time would be spent trying to corral them all in. A second knock in just a few seconds time caused me to give up trying to get the dogs back. I knew I’d be forced to break rule number one.

I opened the door, expecting to find the Chinese lady my sister was talking about, but to my surprise she wasn’t Chinese at all. I wasn’t sure of her ethnic background, but if I were to guess I’d say that she was 40% Filipino and 60% black. Regardless, she was good. I tried to poke my head out and pretend I had no idea what was going on, but so did my dogs. I met her on the porch, taking her head on.

I’ve found that when people come to the house they always ask for the head of the household. Being that my dad owns the house, but lives in Addison, I guess the head of the household would be me. My brother lives with me, but I’m five years older and by default I’ve always been in charge. “Hi, may I speak with the head of the household please,” the suitcase roller asked, with a confident voice. “Uhhh, well he’s not here right now.” “When do you expect him to be back?” “Well, he lives in Dallas so he comes home periodically.” I always try to deflect the head of the household question on my dad. At this point, I didn’t know what this woman wanted. If she was a saleslady, I didn’t know what she was selling. Two disadvantages for me, while I try to field and deflect questions that tell me she is obviously trying to get somewhere. “So, do you live here,” she continued. “Yes, I do.”

As she reached down into her strolling piece of luggage, she quickly asked me if I knew Francis, our next door neighbor. “Yes, I do,” I reluctantly answered, not knowing where she was going with this. She came back up with a self-laminated menu, a spray bottle, and a rag. She handed me the menu. “Well I just left her house and she ordered one of these 32 oz. bottles of all purpose cleaner.” In mid-sentence she walked over to the window on my front porch and sprayed some of the content in her spray bottle on one of the window panes.

I try my hardest not to be rude. I try not to cut people off mid-sentence, even if it’s a telemarketer. I wait until they get to a stopping point and I tell them I’m not interested. But this lady was good. She had her product out and was on the fly before I could even think of a polite way to say that I wasn’t interested. I knew that the next five minutes would be spent trying to think of a way out, as her rhetoric effortlessly passed through one side of my head and out the other.

In my head I was laughing. I couldn’t help but think of my sister. She was inside, on the couch, watching TV. She didn’t have to deal with a sales pitch, the awkwardness of holding some sort of menu that I had no idea what to do with, or pretend to be interested. A smile crept onto my face as I admitted to myself that I had let this go too far. But little did I know that I would let it go even further.

As I pretended to be looking at this do-it-yourself, cheaply laminated menu, she continued on with her presentation. I looked up in time to hear her say, “You might use Windex to clean your windows, but with this all purpose cleaner you can do a lot more.” She wiped down the window pane, looked at me and stated, “With this product there are no streaks, smears, or smudges.” This line turned out to be one that she would repeat, sort of like a funny guy’s punch line.

I looked over to my brother, wondering if he was laughing at me from a distance. Laci was leaving and he was on his way back up the sidewalk, to my house. I looked at him and smiled, wondering if he was going to bypass me and the solution selling leech or if he would stop and experience the moment’s awkwardness. He got to the porch and smiled back, he was going to stay for this.

I wasn’t really paying much attention to the suitcase rolling expert, but she kept rambling. She mentioned something about a degreaser and looked at my car. “Another product that I have is also a degreaser. Is this your car?” She walked around the bush that sits in front of my porch and kneeled down near my front wheel. My brother and I stayed on the porch. It was at this point that I was tempted to bail out, to just walk inside and leave her out there. It would have been pretty funny, but fairly mean. I let the laughter settle in my head and chose to stay. After all, I knew it would probably end up as a blog, and I needed something new to write about. I couldn’t help but smile, this time a little bigger.

After a few minutes and a couple of more examples of how this all purpose miracle solution could change my life, she returned to my porch. It was the finale of her presentation and time for me to be the killjoy. She expounded on how if I bought each cleaner separately it would be three times the price of what she was going to sell it to me for. I felt like laughing out loud. I don’t know why. I guess because my brother had been suckered into the situation and it was awkward for not only me, but him too. I did my best to keep a straight face, to try not to be rude. My lips quivered and I kept looking down at the menu. It was a personal infomercial. But this time, I knew what to say.

“Well, this all sounds nice, but I don’t really have the money right now. I just finished paying all my bills.” “Well, how do you usually pay your bills, check or cash?” “Umm, cash.”

I don’t think the general public has paid their bills in cash since the 1970’s. I even felt stupid telling her that that was my means for paying my bills, however, I knew that if I had said that I pay my bills with a check she’d tell me that she could take it and hold it until I had money, which would cause me to make up some other excuse as to why I was trying to dismiss her to the next house.

Great salespeople always have ways to get you to be able to pay for their products; flex-pays, layaway, and magic credit are all a means to the end. You just have to know which methods of payment aren’t acceptable and then go with that.

“How often do you come around,” I asked, trying to sound sincere and attempting to make up for the smirky smiles that occasionally crept onto my face, ones of which she may or may not have noticed. “About once a year.” “Aw, well that sucks. Maybe you’ll catch me at a good time next year.” With those words, and a brief salutation, I had slayed the dragon. I went inside, with my head up, feeling good that the task was over. No more awkwardness. No more pretending to care. I could enjoy the rest of my Monday, and get back to what I was doing.

I had thought the days of door to door salespeople were gone. I had thought that there was nothing to sell, at least nothing that couldn’t possibly be found on QVC, ShopNBC, or Ebay, but apparently I was mistaken. Fire breathing salespeople still roam the earth, knock on doors, and try to convince you that their product is the greatest thing in the world. But what I have learned is to never answer the door for anyone who dons a secondhand name tag and wheels around a portable suitcase. At least, for anyone who does not carry a pizza delivery box.

Bundled DVD's

I wouldn’t say that I have the largest DVD collection in the world, but I will say that I have substituted quantity with quality. Having said that, I am real hesitant to introduce my dvd shelf to anything of or related to crap. If you add to that my ability to see through marketing strategies combined with my determination to never fall for their tricks and/or illusions, then it’s probably easy to understand the obvious problem I have with bundled DVD’s. It’s my uncompromising nature that keeps me from buying a great movie with a poor one, a classic with a dud, Silence of the Lambs with Red Dragon. I will never settle.

It’s easy to fix, my stubbornness. I could easily buy the bundled set, sell or trade the crappier DVD for something I want, and then have two movies that I want in my collection instead of just one, but that’s not the point. I will never buy crappy bundled DVD’s because I’m not going to let that particular store think they are fooling me with their piggyback DVD scheme. If I want to buy Robocop it doesn’t mean that I enjoyed Robocop 2. Maybe I only wanted to see one cop, the beginning, how he got robotized. I don’t need any more robo after that.

I’m not saying that I don’t understand it. I think it’s a great way to sell dvd’s that normally wouldn’t be sold at the level that they are sold at when bundled with a more popular, new dvd. However, like everything else, an inch turns into a mile. You have bundle conglomeraters, that’s what we’ll call them [the people that choose which DVD’s to bundle], that stretch the limits of what should be bundled. Kill Bill 1 and 2 makes sense, Ace Ventura/Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls make sense, but Big Momma’s House/Juwanna Man crosses the line. It’s like the bc’s [for short] start looking for common denominators, such as:

Bc 1: “wait, rewind it, see that guy in the background? Smoking that cigarette?”

Bc 2: “snap, yeah.”

Bc 1: “he has the same chili bowl as the oracle in the matrix.”

Bc 2: “the oracle didn’t have a chili bowl haircut.”

Bc 1: “no, but she was mixing something in a bowl and it looks like the bowl might have fit on his head.”

Bc 2: “you’re a genius.”

Bc 1&2: “The Matrix/Grease bundled set.”

The proceeding scenario is exactly the kind of power that bc’s have when consumers enable them by settling and buying a B movie just because you get a good deal on movie A. As a result, when I see a bundled movie I refuse to buy it. I won’t be fooled and I won’t enable, unless of course it’s a boxed set, in which case everything I said prior to this goes out the window, that’s a completely different circumstance.

The Dark Side of Belief

We live in a culture where we make choices on a daily basis about the things we believe to be true. Did I get the right toothpaste? Do I trust it to fight gingivitis? Does gingivitis even exist or is that just toothpaste company propaganda? Do they just tell us that so that so that we can make uninformed decisions about toothpaste a little bit easier? Few people really believe in a particular brand of toothpaste, we just know that it gives us confidence and sustains the whiteness of our teeth.

But more often than not, in America, we have lost the necessity to really believe in something. I’m not talking about a belief in the same capacity that little children believe in Santa Claus or the way a gambler believes in his lucky numbers, the belief I speak of is much greater than that. It’s life changing belief, the belief that transitions you from apathy to enthusiasm and from idleness to liveliness. The kind that helped establish this country, the beliefs in freedom and liberty, those were life changing beliefs.

News is important to me. I like to be informed of what is going on in this world. I don’t want to be naïve, uneducated, or clueless, whether it is politics or world events. I look at the world we live in now, the fights, the protests, the disagreements, the riots over cartoons of the prophet Mohammed (in eastern cultures) and it is apparent what happens when a powerful belief in something goes terribly wrong, when belief manifests itself into fanaticism, when logic turns into a primitive form of survival.

We don’t get that here. We live in a country that is continuing to learn how to accept people from different heritages, cultures, and beliefs. We live in a country where Muslims can go on lunch breaks with Christians, without the need for roadside bombs or heat seeking missiles, where a Muslim and a Jew can coexist at a Marilyn Manson concert, all because fanaticism is frowned upon here (unless you’re the Philly fanatic, the loveable mascot for the Philadelphia Phillies, a major league baseball team).

Fanaticism will be the destroyer of this earth, the way that Nazism was the destroyer of an era of Jews. It leaves no capacity for good, and opens all doors for evil. All around the world the evidence is becoming insurmountable. Witness the civil wars in Sudan, the extremism in Iraq, the fanaticism of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the leader of Iran, all the symptoms of a sincere belief in something, gone terribly wrong.

It’s difficult to understand because Americans live in a world where our beliefs are too often unchallenged, our attention constantly competed for, and our lifestyles considered one of a sediment nature if we have more than two hours of spare time a day. I could live my life without ever having to truly believe in something that is life changing. I could live with the belief that my toaster will toast my bread, that my newspaper will continue to arrive if I keep my subscription, and that milk does the body good. As a society we are on the right side of fanaticism, but on the left side of a willingness to really believe something and live it out. We are lukewarm, at best. Yet, in moments of disaster we come together like no other country in the world and we finally believe in something. And in those moments, we get some sort of glimpse into what the world was supposed to look like. We believe.