No Country for Old Humans

I like old people.  In fact, I like old people more than almost any group in this country (except baristas).  They tell wonderful stories. They don't care about the things you normal folk care about (clothes, iPads, smelling like humans, nalgene bottles).  They speak their mind, regardless of evidence or audience.  Best of all, oldies give great advice. But those wrinkly ones do have their faults.  They often smell weird, and have moley hands.  They shake when you talk at them.  They can barely lift a bag of granola.  And, as stated before, they speak their mind with no regard for evidence or audience.

Have you ever watched anything with someone that is 70+?  It could be a sporting event, movie, or even TV show.  If so, you've had to deal with the inevitable rant about how things used to be so much better.  Take a movie for example.  Say you're watching a great film like The Big Lebowski (which Mr. Depends will frequently ask, "What's happening?").  After all of the questions about the plot fall through an old person usually turns to brag about the movies of yore. They say things like, "In my time films had stars; actors that you just don't see anymore," (Because they're dead).  They then give you a hall-of-fame list of actors (such as: Audrey Hepburn, Marlon Brando, Charlie Chaplin, Clarke Gable, Orson Welles,  Henry Fonda, Charlton Heston, Fred Astaire, and a great number more).  After about 30 minutes they'll complete their account.  Give them a Werthers Original (actually any hard candy will do) and an hour to catch their breath before giving up on a rebuttal.  Forget that Mr. 'Mad he's going to die soon' named off the Hollywood Walk of Fame and that his 'time' covered nearly an entire century.  It doesn't matter that he pit the greatest of all time against one movie.  Facts are irrelevant with old people.  They don't want to change (mostly because by the time the process is complete they'd have about four months left).  The only thing you can do is say something like, "This [insert actor] is actually [insert famous old-time actor]'s grandson/daughter.  It will make them intrigued and allow you to watch in semi-peace.  It won't end the weird body noises or the "what'd he say"'s, but it's better than the alternative.  This process can work in almost any situation.  You can say things like, Michael Vick is Johnny Unitas' grandson.'  They can't dispute it because they don't know how to work Windows Explorer.

Let me reiterate my love for elderly individuals. I like old people a lot.  They knew a bunch of stuff and come in useful on birthdays.  So give em a break because whatever group you belong to is far from perfect (that is unless you part of Bieber-Fever Relievers).  
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Happy New Year

I hope you enjoy giving up on your new year's resolutions by February. 

I'm Not Good at Everything

Everyone thinks I'm vain.  They think that I think that I'm good at everything (most likely because they think the same too).  But I have bad news.  There are certain activities and specificities that make me look...well...more like you.  So for the Christmas (not HOLIDAY!) season I will do something I'm not very good at: admit that I'm more or less average in certain aspects of my life.  The following are the areas I struggle with:

Losing:  The saying goes, 'practice makes perfect.'  Well I don't have much practice in losing.  It's hard for me to do because it takes even more effort than winning.  It doesn't matter whether it's a sporting event, board game, or just some competitive eating contest.  When some regular person is my competition the result is an inevitably victory.  In the rare case that I do lose (usually by choice), I'm at odds at how to react.  Do I congratulate the winner?  Or do I cry?  I really don't know...good thing those awkward moments are rare.

Soccer:  For some stupid reason soccer (don't call it futbol) is gaining popularity.  This is bad news for me because I'm an awful futboler.  I'm sure that I'd be great if I wanted to, but why?  Who wants to run around acting like he/she's having fun? The alleged sport is about as unexciting as it looks. For ninety minutes two teams pretend to strategically score as few goals as possible and then the fans follow suit by masquerading as rioters in Watts.  And they call Europe civilized...

Drawing: I can't draw.  I can barely trace.  But who cares? We have cameras now.

Folding Clothes:  Once upon a time I worked at Hollister.  My main job was folding jeans in four different ways.  I quit after one shift.  Today I wish I knew how to fold anything.  It's okay though because I married this person and it's one of her strengths.

Meeting Other Couples: I am not one who excels at being fake, or disingenuous.  Unfortunately those are the two prerequisites for successful encounters with couples that are not immediate friends.  I'm usually confused about whether or not I should go for a hug or handshake (If either of them go for a cheek kiss or pound I immediately vacate the county).  The worst part is that the two humans rarely talk to me or about me.  I then have to ask about their boring lives in hopes that they return the favor.  And then once they discover me it's a minimum of three straight hours of my stories and experiences.  Shoot me now....

Other things I am not best at: Dealing with bros, eating sushi, dropping the ball, and taking a backseat.

Scissors and Aqua Net

I was in the middle of my first of three 100 push-up sets when I was approached by a stocky fellow.  As I got ready to shake his hand and explain that I had little time for autographs he blurted, "I like your hair.  What do you do?"

I've received that compliment a lot, but never has anyone asked how it's done.  So I answered the dullard, "Scissors and Aqua Net."  I then told him to make like his hair and split (get it?).  However, the idiot got me to thinking... how is it that guys and gals can dish out Hamiltons for hair.  It grows naturally (if it doesn't please visit Bosley). Why spend hundreds of dollars annually on haircuts and gel/mousse when all one needs is a standard set of scissors and a canister of Aqua Net.

Seriously, walk through the 'beauty' section (which is ironically littered with oversized and unalluring characters) and gander at the amount of product that promises beautiful hair.  Will the Vidal Sassoon trick anyone into thinking you're anything but a ginger?  Do you really think that Mousse will make your grade-school bangs look any better? (also a woman of your stature should avoid products that so easily conjure up images of large mammals.)

The truth is that you can't buy beauty (ask Heidi Montag) nor can you get beautiful hair from creams, shampoos, conditioners, or annoying stylists.  "But Mr. Chris Mr. Chris! I am confused...what do you do?"

I thought we went over this already.  Scissors cut hair.  If you cut your own hair (which I do) you can save money (some haircuts can cost thousands!  See: idiot haircut).  Not to mention you can bypass the the health risks involved from breathing in beauty salon chemicals.  Best of all you don't have to sit through stories from the stylist/barber; those are the worst.  (Unless you're black.  I've always wanted to talk turkey and fried chicken while getting my fade fixed)

Next purchase Aqua Net (I prefer unscented).  A can runs about 2.99 at your local grocer.  With those two items you can be the bell of the ball and save enough money for a splurge at Applebees.

"But what about the environmental effects of aerosol cans?  You're killing the Earth!"  Again, your idiocy is revolting. Now let's consider the effect you halfwit hair mongers have.  First of all I wash my hair with shampoo about once every four months.  One bottle of V05 lasts me about 5 years.  Secondly, I NEVER use conditioner or dye my hair.  The negative effects from the bottles and boxes your poodle perm requires far outweigh the the minimal effects that stems from a few sprays of Aqua Net.  Also, I have no use of hairdryers, straighteners, crimpers, or curlers; therefore I use FAR less energy than you.

So there we have it...I save money, the environment, and time while the masses continue to buy into the commercials that promise (but don't deliver) beauty.  Take a look in the mirror and then look at me.  I win every time.

(Sea weed is also an inexpensive way to get great hair...not to mention it is environmentally friendly)

I am the King of Dance. I am the Dancing Queen.

I watch Dancing with The Stars.  You probably do too, but for different reasons.  Originally I was defiant towards allowing my eyes to be rotted by the sexuality and smut that plagues the series; but it has grown on me (I'm open-minded unlike you).    Anyways, When I sit on my couch observing the B-listers foxtrot their way to the next round I become more than a simple viewer.  I'm looking at the footwork, at the hands, the musicality and most importantly the lack of talent that most of them possess.  I do it because I am one of the top 100 dancers in the entire world.  I'm not formally trained and I have never been in a dance studio.  The way I look at it is that associating myself with novice dancers would only bring me down.  I'm a natural, and unlike the food world, natural tastes better.

I have been given varying compliments about my rhythmic movement and all of them are accurate.  For example, these phrases were tossed at me at a few weddings over the summer.

"Whoa!"

"I've heard of cutting a rug, but your movement cut my soul." (Obviously in a good way)

"I guess it doesn't take two to tango."

"Ive never seen a successful Sundance at night.  You've opened my eyes and made me whole."

"What's your name?  Your Samba is sensational.  Forgive me for inquiring, but did you attend Julliard on a full scholarship?"

No, I didn't attend Julliard; I don't need to listen to a bunch of hack dance professors to be great.  I just listen to the music and express myself via body movement....it's not that hard. Dance is simple for the talented and difficult for the dull.  My secret:  If you work hard and put your mind to it you can accomplish some things, not anything.  If you want to be as good as me, the only thing you can do is pray, because what I have is God-given. 

I think I am to dance what Cappuccinos are to hot beverages.  I may not be the most popular, but when given the choice between my froth and flavor and a regular cup of coffee the only holdup is the price.  If you could afford me everyday, I'd be waltzing my way into your heart on a Monday through Friday basis (weekends are full of book signings and appearances in children's hospitals).

So when Dancing with the Stars comes calling, you all will be able to see Kari Ann Inaba give me 10's even if my partner falls.

Below I have given you a visual lesson. 


I teach Children and Cowboys tape me

The Ladies flock

I look great no matter what

Even black humans know about my skills

I tend to draw a crowd

Through my dance I have gained 100s of followers.

Basketball--DON'T PISS ME OFF!

I stopped by the rec center for a quick game of a sport that white kids like me aren't supposed to be good at: basketball.  I put on my tight Nikes (they are fashionably 'tight' and they fit tight).  I walk in and half the players in there already knew me.  I am somewhat of an unforgettable person.  Anyways, the newbs in there didn't think much of my potential.  I was wearing shorter shorts (not John Stockton nutters) and an old generic jersey.  Also, being of Irish descent and having fluffy hair isn't always the best way to get street cred.

So I get picked up as an afterthought on a team full of wannabe ballers.  The first few possessions go through the other guys...they missed a three, airballed a mid-range jumper, and botched two layups.  I had touched the ball once in those four possessions.

Needless to say I was getting a little annoyed.  We were down 3-0 and I really hate losing (people usually hate the unknown).  Seeing as how these clowns were pretty much worthless I demanded the ball.  I go down hit a pull-up three (3's are worth 2 and everything else is worth 1...it's the way it is) and then steal the inbound pass and scored a layup to tie the game.  The next time down I drove the lane and kicked it to tard face (I don't know his name, but he was extremely tard face-ish) for a wide open three and he proceeded to hit the top of the backboard.  That would be the last time I let him touch the ball.

The other team went on a 2-0 run to make it 5-3 and I was starting to realize that there are no players on my team.  I came to a point where I had to decide...do I let these guys keep shooting, or do I win the game on my own?  I decided to be nice and take over the game.

I hit 4 more threes and made three layups to bring our score to 14 (games are played to 15).  The score was knotted at 14s and I could tell the guys were looking for me to win the game.  But my humility swelled and I thought that the best thing for me to do was allow one of these humans to repay me by making the game-winning shot.  I set it up perfectly (as I usually do) and gave one of my teammates a wide open shot at the top of the key.  He didn't hesitate, and shot a perfectly awful airball (as he usually does).  I snatched it in the air and hit a layup to win the game.

I didn't celebrate or even smile.  Why would I?  Do you get all excited every time you pee?  Do you celebrate normal everyday activities?  NO!  So why would I get all hyped up about scoring every single point in a game winning effort?  It's not like I was playing Kobe Bryant (Although one of the guys on the other team was wearing a Kobe jersey).  These kids were nothing but average, and that doesn't cut it against elite players such as myself.

**Side note:  Every time you see a guy wearing an NBA Jersey there is a 93% chance that he has no idea how to play basketball.  He will call every foul possible and completely misunderstand what constitutes traveling.  

So what I am getting at is do not mis-underestimate me.  It makes me mad and when I am mad I get angry.  To quote the Great Double-J Jeff Jarrett, "Don't piss me off!"  Follow that rule and your life will improve.

(Below: Jeff Jarrett) 

All in all I gained three new followers.

Trivia--another thing that makes me great.

Some people are really good at bowling.  Other humans are fine artists, able to draw or paint anything.  And many persons have beautiful voices.  I have all of those talents and more.  But with so much ability I sometimes forget all the greatness that has been endowed upon my head. But thankfully God gives me little reminders all the time.

Last week I was hanging with my friend Kyle out at the 'Blue Coyote.'  We had some food and a beverage,  but for some reason that wasn't good enough for him.  He picked up some clunky device and challenged me to this Buzztime game that was on one of the TVs.  Bad idea for him.

I am most likely the most knowledgeable person he has ever met.  I hadn't played any trivia games in a while, but I wasn't too concerned with this challenge of his. 

We began with a topic we both felt comfortable with: sports.  The game is simple...answer the multiple choice question correctly to earn points.  The quicker the response, the higher potential score.

The game began with not much notice from the peasants enjoying their lunch as they were completely unaware of the free show I was about to give them.

Question 1:  Blah blah blah (not the Ke$ha song) blah blah blah.
Answer: A.
Points awarded--Chris: 1,000  Kyle--167. 

Kyle looks to me and dares to claim that I had a lucky guess (he's not good with losing, and he's even worse with trivia).

I earned another 1,000 points on the next question, and the trend continued through the lunch.  After the first round the score was something like 6,500 (me) to 2,100 (Kyle). 

After that showing I wanted to end the game because I knew how much this whooping would hurt his reputation, but he asked me to play again...this time 'Lunchtime Trivia.'

I hesitantly agreed.  I didn't want to make Kyle look stupid, but I also didn't want him to miss out on seeing my amazing aptitude for random and semi-unimportant information. 

Lunchtime trivia was much of the same, except the Blue Coyote patrons started to take notice.  I overheard whispers of these white kids at a table.  They said something like, "Man, that guy is killing it.  I want to know him."  Another table thought I was cheating because according to them, "Nobody knows that."  Wrong.  I do.

Some frat guys wanted me to be their leader, but I declined.  I've haven't been a fan of Greeks since the Socrates incident.

Kyle, to his credit, took everything well.  I think he liked having a crowd watch him.  It can be compared to a JV girls basketball team facing the Lakers at Staples Center.  Sure the competition wouldn't be great, but what a stage for those little girls.

I won round two 6,700 to 3,100.

Kyle, not wanting to let this opportunity pass him by, wanted more.  I accepted...it was the least I could do for him.

This time around I was a bit distracted.  The news of my intelligence traveled all the way to the pub's manager.  He came and sat next to me and asked, "Can you play and talk at the same time?"  I said, "Can a cripple get sympathy?"  (I didn't really say that, I just nodded).

The Blue Coyote is hosting an acoustic set from Erin Mclaughlin and Switchfoot's Drew Shirley and the manager wanted my input on how the place should look.  I had one eye on the scoreboard (I was winning) and the other on the set.  I told him he could put a few things up to make the wall less bare.  I also suggested that he fill the sides with something to give it a more comfortable vibe.  He agreed and gave me his card.  I think he wants me to be a consultant.

Anyways, I destroyed Kyle again and this time he had to go.  The crowd diminished after they saw how little I cared about the game.  I didn't really win anything but a few new followers for my performance.

It was cool, I guess. 


Kyle and I below