Dead in the Water

It was September 1999. I had been at Navy boot camp for about two weeks. We were rapidly approaching day 1-6 (first week sixth day), when we would have to take our swim test. I couldn't swim. Day 1-6 arrived, we marched to the building that held the pool. The RDCs (drill instructors) took us to the locker room and gave us some impossible time to change into our swim trunks and muster poolside. I was sweating bullets; I still couldn't swim. We all left the locker room and walked single-file to some bleachers that were to the side of the olympic sized pool. As we walked out, I naturally sucked my stomach in (as there were girls present) but realized that nearly three weeks in boot camp had done wonders for my waistline. Even though I was nearing what I was sure was my personal demise in the clear blue water, I was relived that if I died the medic would look at my lifeless body and think "man that guy had good abs." Once we were all assembled on the bleachers, some scary pool guys came over to instruct us on what we would have to do in order to pass the swim test. The test consisted of jumping from a 12 ft. platform, treading water for three minutes, and swimming around a set of three buoys three times. I was screwed. Fortunately for me, there must have been some other idiot before my time that had also joined the Navy without having even the slightest idea of how to swim and the pool guys were prepared for just such an occasion. As I was listening to the instructions, I had already resigned myself to jumping in and drowning; or at the very least jumping in, almost drowning, and being pulled to safety by some instructor and having my ass reamed for almost drowning. But as the pool guy finished his speech he issued a caveat, "if any of you can't swim, raise your hand and step to the side." Not only was I the first person to raise my hand, it was up before he had even finished his warning. All of us non-swimmers were gathered at the shallow end of the pool. We were taught how to float on our backs and use the elementary backstroke. Unfortunately for me, I picked up the floating technique and the backstroke faster than anyone. When it was discovered how fast I was catching on, I was ordered to the deep end of the pool to start my test. I tried to reason with the guy and let him know that more practice was always a good thing, but it was all for naught. I climbed to the top of the platform and waited my turn to jump. I wasn't worried about jumping; I knew I could splash my way to the side before I died. It was the treading water that scared me. I guess the shallow end guys were not communicating with the deep end guys, because the deep end guys thought that in my five minutes of training in the shallow end I should have learned how to tread water for three minutes. This was not the case. I jumped. If only they had taught me how to tread water instead of just floating on my back. Needless to say, I wasn't able to tread water for three minutes and when I reached for the side of the pool I caught hellfire from some pool guy. The punishment for failing any part of the swim test was immediate removal from the pool and sitting in a corner while holding your knees to your chest. After what the pool guys must have considered sufficient time in the corner, I was given a second chance at failing the swim test. This time we didn't have to jump from the platform but from the side of the pool. I wanted to tell the instructors "jumping from the platform is the only fun part of this process you idiots" but I refrained. I jumped in along with two other people. As I was trying my best to tread water, one of the other two recruits that jumped in with me kept inching nearer and nearer to me. One of the many rules of the swim test was that you were not allowed to touch any other person whilst you were in the pool. As the recruit kept crowding my area, one of the idiot pool guys was shouting encouragements at me like "get away from her!" and "stop touching her!" I don't know if I've ever wanted to smack someone so badly in all my life. After several failed attempts to distance myself from the flailing recruit, I finally was so fed up that I shoved her as hard as I could so that I could get some space and finish the swim test. Of course, I was immediately yanked from the pool and made to sit in the corner...again. On my third jump into the pool, the instructors had decided that I was so inept at swimming that I needed my very own Navy SEAL to accompany me in the pool (Navy SEALS and other special forces guys are constantly training at the pool and get some sort of sick thrill from swimming next to recruits and berating them). The only good thing about failing the swim test was that the requirements got easier after every failure. That last time, all I had to do was swim around the cones three times. As I rounded the second cone, I accidentally turned too sharp a corner and started heading in the direction from whence I had just come. The SEAL started yelling that I had turned the wrong way and he didn't tell me to go in that direction. Too bad for him I decided to stop listening at that point. My thought was that I would just swim around the pool doing my elementary backstroke until they forcibly removed me. SEALS be damned! The SEAL guy gave up before I did and stopped yelling when he realized I wasn't listening. At least, that's what I think happened, all I could see was the ceiling. My backstroke was going well, until I swam into the side of the pool...head first. I grabbed the side of the pool with one hand, and my head with the other. I was certain that I had split my skull in half. As I was in the charge of the SEAL guy, he was understandably concerned; what if some recruit died in the pool while he was supposed to be watching them? As I checked for blood, the SEAL accidentally lost his macho demeanor and asked in a panicked voice "are you alright man?" Thinking quickly, I reached out with my hand as if I couldn't see and said "who...who said that?" The next words out of the guys mouth were "Get out! Get out! You pass!" As I approached the table where recruits were checked off after passing the swim test, the man behind the desk asked "did you pass?" I said "yes, yes I did." I was a swimmer.

Free expression tunnel, sort of

Once again, students at NCSU have failed to realize the importance of free speech. Not that NC State holds the patent on student stupidity; surely, other students at university campuses around the country are engaged in the same freedom killing behavior as well. But at NC State, a particularly disturbing incident involving the Free Expression Tunnel has recently occurred. The Tunnel, which connects the two sides of campus bisected by railroad tracks and is open to graffiti, was recently adorned with some racist remarks directed toward Barack Obama. Certainly, it's disturbing to hear about racist morons spouting their racist vitriol (whether through graffiti or some other outlet) at a place of higher education, or any place for that matter. However, this is not the disturbing incident to which I make reference. Were the remarks stupid? Yes. Immature? Certainly. Cause for students to question the value of freedom of speech? No. Enter the really disturbing incident. In response to the graffiti, university officials had the racist remarks painted over in black, with which I have no problem. The graffiti is continuously changed or removed; however, this was followed by some idiot student who painted "Freedom of speech...but at what cost?" No, seriously, a college educated adult posed that question. Following that query-straight from the pages of 1984-a student in a radio interview stated that "I don't feel safe on campus anymore..." She went on to say that she felt this way because there were racists among us. No...seriously...that was the gist of her comment. First, the comments from the interview. Based on the student's comments, I'm led to the conclusion that within the NC State student body there are students that were/are unaware of the presence of racism. Really? Either this student was incredibly sheltered growing up, or she has been completely oblivious to everything ever. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying she shouldn't feel threatened by racist remarks, and I certainly believe that students should not have to live in a climate of fear when on campus-but she just figured out that there are unsavory characters on campus after the appearance of the graffiti? If that is the case, then I would say that she learned a valuable lesson from the idiots with the spray paint. That lesson being: sometimes people will hate you because of your race, or gender, or appearance, or nationality, or religion, etc. It's not right, it might hurt, we should work to stamp out hatred, but it is a reality. It's time to eschew your Pollyannaesque view on the world for a more mature stance. I hate to break it to you but you're in college now-time to grow up. Now for the particularly jaw-dropping comment questioning the freedom of speech. I have come to the conclusion that many Americans operate under the assumption that we as a people have the right to not be offended. This is perhaps one of the biggest threats facing our nation today. Why you ask? Because it is anathema to the idea of a free society. Trust me, I've read the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and the Declaration of Independence, and nowhere in those documents is the claim made that we have the right to not be offended. In fact, a case for the opposite could be made. The first amendment states (among other things) "Congress shall make no law...abridging the freedom of speech." Yet despite this clear indisputable language, we still have numbskulls pursuing college degrees that question the efficacy of this right on a free society. If this free speech questioning imbecile had been alive during the embryonic stages of our great country, I can just imagine he would have told Patrick Henry something along the lines of, "hey you shouldn't say that, you might offend the British." What a clown. Here's a newsflash for you nerd: inoffensive language does not require protection...offensive language requires protection because of idiots like you who think that no one should have to suffer harsh words or be subjected to opinions that might be different from your own. Finally, let me close by answering the question "freedom of speech...but at what cost?" At all cost.

Why PBR is the worst beer ever

PBR...egh. The three letters in the English alphabet that strike horror in the hearts of all. There are a lot of bad beers out there: Busch Light, "Natty" Light, Bud Light, Ice House, Fat Tire. But the beer that climbs to the bottom and craps all over the trophy of worst beer ever is P...B...R. But why PBR? Because, not only is PBR a truly horrid product made from the cheapest nastiest ingredients, it also has become the official beer of hipsters. Double Whammy! Leave it to hipsters to adopt a simultaneously sickening sweet and vomit inducing swill as their drink du jour. Of course, what can be expected of guys who wear skinny jeans, rock 70s style molestaches, and ride all over town on rusty single-speed bicycles? Look, far be it from me to tell someone what to drink, but the hipsters (through their ability to miraculously swig PBR night after night without being admitted to the poison control center) have spurred the proliferation of PBR to new lows. Reputable bars are actually serving this crap next to six dollar a glass micro-brews! Grocery stores have moved the PBR to the beer aisle and away from its rightful place on the bottom shelf next to the damaged boxes of discount laundry detergent! Still not convinced that PBR is the new Plague? Ask yourself this my friend; have you ever wondered what the initials PBR actually stand for? Puke, Barf, Ralph. Coincidence, or a highly covert disclaimer woven into the name of a product that should have gone the way of the dodo bird many years ago? It's time to take back our streets! It's time to tell PBR that it can no longer hide behind the proud colors of the American flag! Stand up for freedom loving, man-jeans wearing, multi-gear bike riding, anti-porno star-face-lettuce-rocking men that don't back down from a beer that's actually darker in color than a hipsters urine after a night of prepping for the next May Day celebration. The next time you find yourself in the beer aisle, leave the PBR for the commies and pick a beer that won't compromise your dignity...and knock over the stack of PBR 12 packs while you're at it...trust me, no one with a job will care.

Attention Coffee House Customers

I've spent the last five and a half years working at a coffee shop. I'll wait while your laughter subsides...In that half decade of wiping crusty milk off of steam wands and cleaning up after homeless people that take hobo-baths in our restroom, I've got some things that have to be said to the coffee buying people of America. While I understand that complaints from people in the retail/food service world are ubiquitous, this is my take on the topic.

1) I am not a babysitter. Control your crotch-critters. Kids should not walk on tables, steal milk from the drink case or throw food on the ground. Despite what Dr. Phil tells you, smacking your kid upside the head every now and then is actually a good thing.

2) Your drink is not a novelty. If I had a nickel for every time some overly perfumed clown with a smirk on their face looked at me and said "you're gonna need to write this down" when I asked for their order, I wouldn't have to work at a coffee shop anymore. Just give me your order nerd.

3) It's called a tip jar, not a spare-change-so-you-don't-have-to-break-a-five-jar. The only acceptable time to take money from the tip jar is when you are TIPPING. For example: if you want to leave a buck but have only a five-spot. Then you may put the five in and take four out...under my supervision. Otherwise, keep your grubby hands outta there.

4) The line "they do it at the other store" is never an acceptable comment. Just because some moron at a coffee shop three counties over is willing to add exactly 37 pieces of ice to your coffee to cool it down does not mean I'm going to. Here's a thought: if the baristas at the "other store" are so willing to honor all of your ridiculous requests...GO TO THE OTHER STORE!

5) Don't tell me how to make drinks. I'm not talking about special orders either. I don't have a problem with people who want to customize their drinks. When you want a drink straight off of the menu, however, don't tell me how it "usually comes." I already know how it "usually comes." That's why I'm the guy wearing an apron and you're the guy holding "meetings" at a coffee shop with a blackberry and macbook. Do me a favor-you stick to driving your BMW and I'll stick to heating up milk-damn.

6) Please, for the love of God and country, get off of your freaking cell phone! For the past year or so I've stopped greeting people that are on the phone. I just stare at them blankly until they get the hint. Here's a news flash for you; people that are so important that they don't have to talk to the person making their drinks, don't order their own drinks in the first place. They have assistants for that. While we're on the subject, stop apologizing to the person on the line for having to talk to me. Instead, tell them "hey let me call you back, I'm ordering coffee and I don't want to be that jerk-off that can't remove his crackberry from his noggin long enough to speak with a person who is right in front of my face."

Finally, let me close on this note: the next time you find yourself in a coffee shop, because swigging caffeine-laced beverages is the only way you can make it through your day, give some credit to the person behind the counter. From people stealing our tips and merchandise, to trying to run some stupid scam, using our bathroom as a narcotics handoff spot, placing their scrotum on our counter (that guy seemed to be unaware of his pants zipper malfunction), and asking if we want to make pornographic films (that guy seemed to be unaware that he was the creepiest person in the world), we've seen it all (fortunately, I was in the back room when the guy plopped his junk on the counter, and I was not one of the baristas asked to be filmed). So be respectful and don't talk to us like four year-olds, and your day will be that much better.

Brett Favre is ruining my summer, again

Yesterday, the sports world kicked off the festival that has become an annual tradition. Brett Favre announced his retirement from the "game he loves," and today, he subsequently declared that he will in fact play if he is "healthy." This leads me to my first question; why does anyone give this guy a microphone during the off-season? We all know what's going to happen. During the first stage of the Favre Retirement Tour (sponsored by Wrangler Real. Comfortable. Jeans. tm.) Brett will step to a podium somewhere in Mississippi and, while holding back tears, announce that he has made the difficult decision to step away from "the game I love and have given 87 years of my life to. (tm)." The second stage of the Favre Retirement Tour (sponsored by Wrangler Real. Comfortable. Jeans. tm.) will feature a news leak that Favre will play if he is "healthy" and feels like he is in "playing condition." This leak will, of course, be accompanied by video of Favre throwing passes to high school football players somewhere in Mississippi while wearing his Real. Comfortable. Jeans. (tm). I propose that we institute a new stage in the Favre Retirement Tour (sponsored by Wrangler Real. Comfortable. Jeans. tm.) It could be called the "We could not care less about your retirement." During this stage we could gather at a park (somewhere in Mississippi while wearing our Real. Comfortable. Jeans. tm.) and tell Brett emphatically that we will no longer be listening to his idiotic ramblings about "how much he loves the game of football," and "how much he has given to the game of football," and "what a difficult decision it has been to walk away from the game of football," and "how much he wants to just spend time with his family away from the game of football." Take a lesson from Barry Sanders, Brett; when you are ready to retire, and you've stopped changing your mind like a stoner standing in front of the frozen burrito freezer case... skip the 24 hour a day seven days a week updates and just ride into the sunset wearing your Real. Comfortable. Jeans. (tm).

Poopin lady upstages bears, Grand Canyon

There are a few situations in life when a person feels genuine alarm. The unexpected bowel movement is one of those situations. On Friday July 16, as I and my traveling companions made our way from Flagstaff AZ to the Grand Canyon, we encountered an odd site as we approached the Bearizona drive-through nature park that is located just south of the canyon. Actually, it wasn't odd so much as mind-blowing, disturbing, and completely amazing. Pulled over on the side of the road was a car (nothing out of the ordinary about that) and about 15 feet past the car was a lady with her pants pulled down around her ankles in a squatting position taking a dump. She wasn’t near any sort of coverage at all…awesome! Roadside occurrences like this are witnessed by a precious few motorists and when I saw that dumping lady I knew I was watching greatness. Having an inquisitive mind, however, I was curious as to why someone would bear their nether regions for all travelers on a busy road. My thoughts progressed through several rapid fire stages as I tried to comprehend why the dumping lady would be so compelled to pop a squat 20 feet from a busy road in the middle of the day without even attempting to take cover. At first I thought that maybe the lady had to go so badly that she didn't have time to make it from the car to the tree line in time. I quickly dismissed that scenario. When faced with the prospect of being caught with your pants down (literally) and running a few extra feet to save your dignity every person is going to make the extra effort. After contemplating several other explanations, I finally hit on one that made sense; being so close to Bearizona, the lady was obviously afraid that she would be attacked by a grizzly whilst cleaning her pipes. As her car screeched to a stop on the side of the road, I can imagine she was picturing the possible headlines and eternal shame that would be hers as she scrambled out of her vehicle "Women killed by bear while taking a dump." Faced with this possibility she made the only logical decision; squat 15 feet from the road facing traffic and bury her head in her lap. Who can blame her? Her fear of being mauled by a grizzly with her pants down was greater than her fear of facing countless camera toting tourists on the way to the Grand Canyon. If you think about it, this lady and her gastrointestinal malfunctions managed to pull off quite a feat; by dropping her pants and facing traffic she completely upstaged not only tons of bears but the whole freaking Grand Canyon. For the rest of our lives, all of us that were privileged to see that amazing spectacle will begin the story of our trip to the world’s most spectacular geological site with the sentence “did I ever tell you about the time I saw that lady crapping on the way to the Grand Canyon?” For that reason, I would like to say from the bottom of my heart…thank you crapping lady.

No such thing as old rock stars

Paul Mccartney recently said "Some people don't believe in climate warming-like those who don't believe there was a holocaust." Now, before you stop reading, let me allay your fears and assure you that this is not a post about global warming. There are enough unread/unreadable political blogs out there, and I for one am not going to add to that cyber-heap. I'm going to add to the cyber-heap of unread/unreadable non-political blogs. It seems like every ten minutes or so, some celebrity makes some ridiculous statement about a political issue that leaves me scratching my head, and inevitably I ask myself; why do people from the entertainment industry feel like they have something valuable to say about political issues? You'll be happy to know that I have discovered an answer to that question. In most cases, celebrities like Mccartney have been fawned over their entire adult life, therefore they think everything they say is important-even if they are completely clueless. When they're at the height of their careers, all of their creative abilities are funneled into their art. When their artistic abilities start to diminish, they funnel their efforts into other areas. Usually, the further the celebrity is from their success the more asinine and frequent their mind-numbing comments. Hence, the stupid comment from Sir Paul. Mccartney hasn't contributed anything valuable to music in decades. Actually, that's not entirely true. He did have that ridiculous Zoolanderesque picture from the album he released a few years ago. You remember...the album that Apple and Starbucks tried to cram down the throats of unwitting Americans? It's ok if you don't remember the album-Mccartney doesn't remember it either. I'm not naive enough to think that Mccartney's comment will be the last (after all, Bono and Sean Penn are still lurking out there somewhere), or that other has-beens won't join him in the choir of I-used-to-be-someone...really. However, I feel obligated to deliver a message to all the washed-up celebrities out there who are contemplating saying anything in front of a microphone: We really appreciate what you gave us when you were good; however, those days are long gone and they are never coming back. When I was a teenager, I had a thirty inch vertical. Now it's probably not even half of that. Guess what? I'm not on a basketball court trying to dunk and my life is still satisfying. The fact of the matter is, we do not care about your political views. Sing your songs, play your guitar, dunk the ball, throw the touchdown, and when you can't do those things anymore go away. I promise you we won't hold it against you...we might like you even more.

Kerouac vs. Me

In anticipation of my upcoming cross-country trip, I read Kerouac's On The Road. That got me thinking (what's that burning smell?), who wins in a head to head battle of cross country trips...me or Kerouac? 1)Transport: While I don't object to flying through the heartland on the back of a flat-bed shared with various hobos, I'm pretty sure my wife would. If I and my fellow raodtrippers were to gather our vehicles and choose the best option for driving across a continent, we would be facing the possibility of two weeks with five people crammed into a '99 Honda Accord. Did you know that renting a car for two weeks is surprisingly affordable? 2)Food: Kerouac routinely went without eating and sometimes resorted to stealing sustinence. My group and I have planned almost the entire trip around restaurants where we will be stopping. 3)American spirit: Did you know Kerouac's parents were so called French Canadians? Not mine. Let's review the categories. 1)Transport: Hitchhiking and stealing gas and cars vs. renting a car with ac-I win. 2)Food: Not knowing where your next meal will come from vs. begrudgingly leaving a 15% tip because the waitress only filled your coffee cup three times instead of four-I win. 3)American spirit: What kind of name is Kerouac anyway-I win. So if your keeping score, and you're not a filthy cheater like the refs in the World Cup who have routinely screwed the American team out of goals (good thing soccer isn't a real sport), I clearly win. Sorry Jack.