religion

That last blog post i created was the first one i did in some time. Not since i started working, coincidentally.

To save you the click, here's all it said:

i blogthereforei'm spam

Can you tell how much effort i put into it?

Anywho, i have a tendency to over-edit myself, which has been holding me back from getting anything posted; that and the fact that all i wanna do is nothing once i come home from using my brain all day long.

So during this nothingness, i was coasting Facebook and noticed one of my "friends" posted the following: "if you want to increase your page views, tag your blog post with the keyword religion!"

i was intrigued. But in order to attempt the experiment, i would first need to post something. Anything! But it's been just so hard to post even anything. So hard to have my own thoughts after cranking out work thoughts all day. And twice as hard to edit those thoughts to the point where they actually communicate and entertain.

But for some reason, I really wanted to tag my blogpost religion. So I just did it. I threw caution to the wind. I barely even edited! I just up and posted that five-word sentence! Like Marc Zuckerberg!

The next day, I checked the stats. My Facebook friend was right: In a 24-hour period, I got my second highest page views ever. Granted, everyone who viewed it hated it, but that's not the point, is it?

Anyway, this blog has been tagged with the keyword religion.

i posted

i blog
therefore
i'm spam

The Fried Pig Belly Sandwich

My wife is trying to train me to share restaurant food with her. She wants us to start splitting everything, apparently in some sort of fairytale effort to make me eat less, save money, shed cholesterol, and learn about the widespread benefits of sharing in general.

She formally proposed the idea about three weeks back. “Honey,” she said while looking over the menu. “Let’s split a salad, an app, and an entrée?” Then she got all excited, like it was the best idea she ever had: “Yep! That’s the plan. Every time we go out!”

At first, per usual, I thought she was out of her mind, and told her so. Splitting meals? What kind of a man splits a meal? Not a proud American man like myself.

I ordered a steak. And I ate the fat.

Obviously, that wouldn’t be the last time we talked Sharing. Oh no, it’s in her head now. But she’s wizened up since that first attempt. She’s refined her strategy. She’s put those other sharing benefits on the backburner and placed all her guilt-laden emphasis on the one sharing virtue I can readily buy into: saving money.

Saving money is stellar, I’m naturally cheap. But in AdPock’s World, saving money shouldn’t come at the cost of keeping the restaurant dining experience special. No, if dining-out ceases to remain special, then I will have become spoiled. And I want very badly to remain fresh.

So when I’m out, I like to order special food. Out food. And I like to not think about anything unspecial, like cholesterol. Since my wife knows I remain steadfast on this point, and since she really wants us to Share, she’s temporarily giving up trying to get me to give up ordering rich food and has merely focused on the money saving benefits.

Or at least that’s how she pitched it last night when we went out to eat. Being an open-minded guy, I agreed to give her sharing idea a try, with one bona fide caveat. “I’ll share,” I said, “if you let me order whatever fatty dishes my saintly heart desires.”

Which she happily and readily agreed to. And as the meal went on, I realized that sharing’s great! Instead of just one dish, I get three! I get to try more savory tastes and get all the choice bites and mmm… warm spinach salad with bacon… mmm… mac n’ cheese with chorizo… mmmm… fried pig belly sandwich… mmm.

And all of it was delicious. I had shared. And it was good.

But of course, she hated it. All the food was far too rich for her dainty stomach. It ruined her meal. Which subsequently ruined mine!

Me trying to make her happy, by sharing, and her trying to make me happy, by letting me order what I wanted, made neither one of us happy. 

I'm not sure what that says about happiness, or about sharing in general, but hot damn that pig belly sandwich was good!

The Big Picture

After finally finishing a painting I’d been working on for weeks, I proudly displayed my handy-work to my wife. “Well,” I said, “Wife, what do you think?”

Wife looked over said painting for all of two seconds before she decided, unequivocally, she was unimpressed. “Eh,” she said.

I was shocked. How could she not like it? My hard work and ingenuity created it. It is me. I am it. We are one. If she didn’t like it, then she didn’t like me. And if she didn’t like me, who would? She’s supposed to be my biggest fan and all. Right?

“Maybe I don’t have to like it.” Said Wife, rationally, like it didn’t matter in the slightest. Then she went back to doing whatever it is she does and I painted over my painting with thick black paint.

Of course I disagreed with her at the time, as my instincts usually tell me to, but after six weeks of deliberating, I’ve decided that actually, against all odds, I’m wrong, and she’s right: she doesn’t have to like the painting.

Because, as shocking as this is to swallow, not everything I try is going to be great. It can’t be. There’s only so much greatness in the world, and if everything is great, then nothing can really be all that great. This is a very liberating lesson to learn, because if everything doesn’t have to be great, then I’m much more free to try everything.

No, she doesn’t have to love every little thing I do. She doesn’t have to love every meal I attempt to cook. She doesn’t have to love my Supercuts’ haircut. She doesn’t have to love the way I rearranged the furniture. And she doesn’t have to love every picture I paint. Just the big picture.

Appropriate Adpock?

AdPock spent hours on end, trying to put himself in Binky’s shoes. But Binky didn’t wear shoes.

AdPock Thought...

The Rivalry

My wife and I play tennis. It’s our thing. If you don’t have a thing with your wife, I highly recommend you get one, otherwise you may find yourself without a wife. And I don’t know about you, but that would seriously disrupt how well I eat.

Anywho, I really enjoy this tennis thing for a number of reasons, foremost being because I get to compete with my wife. But while competition is a healthy part of any marriage, I don’t believe it can be the main part. Most of marriage should be about teamwork.

If you can’t get your competition out on the tennis court, odds are it will come out in a battle for space. Or more appropriately, for boundaries – the walls which protect our space.  

I used to let my wife win a game or two, to help with her self-confidence. Then, one day when I was particularly hungover, she took advantage and won four games! She pushed it to a series of deuces at 4-4 before I finally resorted to hitting nothing but drop shots, which her bad ankles don’t let her properly defend, at least not without a great deal of pain.

But it wasn’t that she had me on the ropes that had me so concerned. No, that was fine. I think I actually liked that because it made me play my best to win, which is the most fun you can have on a tennis court. No, it was that after she took those four games, she got all flippin’ mouthy. Just yap yap yapping away to all our friends: “Did AdPock tell you I almost beat him at tennis the other day?” “Did AdPock tell you I took four games?”

No, AdPock failed to mention that. And I haven’t given her a game since. She’s earned a few, which is what’s so great about our “rivalry”, but she hasn’t come close to winning since.

Now it’s personal. No more points where I let up a bit just to make sure she’s enjoying herself. No more wimpy first serves. Nothing easy.

See, I can’t let up. Or she will beat me. Because I know, in my Jewish athlete’s heart, that she’s good enough to beat me. Especially if she learns how to take advantage of my gentle psyche and starts talking a little trash. 

But if she does beat me, then that’ll probably spell the end of not just our tennis, but our marriage. My ego just couldn’t take it.

Or at least I keep telling her that, just to give her something to think about, in case it’s ever her match point.

AdPock Thought...

Love and Sandwiches

I love everyone. And I love that I love everyone. I pride myself on my open-mindedness almost as much as my ability to slap da bass in a dirty-song band.

When my fraternity brother came out of the closet about ten years ago, I reacted by hugging him and telling him, “Mazel Tov!” Though I found out a moment later that’s not really something he considered congrats-worthy, I was still pretty impressed with how easily I accepted the news. It was a true test of my homophobia, and I passed with rainbow colors.

I guess it’s one of the reasons I moved to Los Angeles in the first place: to be in a wonderfully diverse community. I live here because I love everyone, and because most everyone here seems to love me. We feed off that love to create a more beautiful world. 

But when you throw around a word like love as easily as I do, you’re liable to get yourself in trouble. Because I also love Chic-fil-A. And apparently, from what I read in the New York Times, Chic-fil-A doesn’t love gays.

Again, I’m not just throwing that word around. I fucking love Chic-fil-A. Like when I go there, I don’t take anything to read, as I normally would, because I like to look at my food and ponder its glory as I chew.

Sometimes, on days it’s prepared just right, I’ll even have a little love talk with my sandwich. I’ll say, “How’d you get to be so good?” And she’ll say nothing at all. Looking plump and tender and moist.

And I’ll say, “You know, you make me want to be a better man.” And she’ll just sit there, steaming. And for a minute, I’ll believe there may be such a thing as a Mormon higher power.

Then I’ll give her a look that says, “Let’s go.” And I’ll chew my bite, nice n’ slow.

So you see, it’s a bit of a love affair. It’s one of my longest-standing relationships. And here I am, caught in a vicious love triangle. Because, I also love gays. So does my love for Chic-fil-A prevent me from truly loving my gay friends? Do I really have to choose? 

Sold Out

Never talk to the Girl Scouts. Nothing good can come of it. You either get fat or you’re a jerk.

Is it my fault they sold out of Thin Mints? I understand they’re trying to make a buck for a good cause, but don’t the laws of supply and demand still hold? If you’re out, you’re out. I shouldn’t be made to feel guilty because I don’t like your Tagalongs with the same sort of worth-the-calories abandon that I feel for the mints.

It’s your fault. Not mine, Girl Scout. So back off with your over-salesmanship, and give me some goddamned consumer space!

AdPock Thought...

Sure, AdPock was a bit saddened that his therapist chose to let him go. But in a way, it was mutual; she was looking for someone to agree with her, and he was looking for someone much more enabling.

Cherubic Mike

Check out day 24 of my main man Mike Krum’s effort to record and post one video a day during the month of February:

To hear Mikey sing is to love him. Honestly, I have no idea what his lyrics are ever actually talking about, except I know he makes really good, groovy sense.

His songs are scary and glorious, all at once. There are a million ways to really hear him. He’s mad. He’s channeling the universal. He’s breaking down. He’s totally correct. He’s misled. He’s wayward. He’s ideal. However you hear him, the results are different each time. But emotional payoff is always insured.

It’s one of the reason’s I love Mikey’s songs. There’s so very much to him. There’s so much that makes no sense, and yet, at the end of each song, you’re sure he’s onto something. Something vital. Something necessarily human. Something so good. 

The Outsider

I was a Nugget’s fan first. A Syracuse Orange man second. I remain a Carmelo Anthony fan.

Watching Carmelo guide my lowly Orange to Championship Land was as good as basketball gets for a 5’4” whiteboy who can’t dunk a Nerf.

And Carmelo almost did the same thing for the Nugs two years ago. It was the most relevant the Nuggets have been since the 80’s.

And even though the Nugs were terribly disappointing last season, I was still proud of Melo’s efforts. In the playoffs, as we were getting unceremoniously trounced by a lesser team, the only player who didn’t suck was Melo.

It’s hard for me to bag on the guy, since he’s always been so fun to watch, and since he remains the ultimate Orangeman. Unfortunately, now I won’t be watching him as a fan. He jumped ship. He’s playing for the other team now. I’ll be forced to admire him from afar.

As a nearly-native son, I wish Melo liked Denver better. But I get it. It’s Denver. It’s a cow town. At heart, it always will be. And cow towns can be unsettling places for outsiders. Unfortunately, that’s what Melo is to me now. 

Hot Shot

Check out the following YouTube clip of a frat boy doing a flaming shot for the camera:

He’s obviously reached the point of the night where if he drinks another shot he’ll likely die. But he's got a shot in front of him, so what choice does he have? 

Not only does he give it the 'ol college try, he lights it on fire first. But since he's super-saturated, he does what any good frat guy would do in that situation: he pours it all over his face -- like a man.

Unfortunately, he forgot to blow out the drink first. Yeah. He burns. It’s hilarious. His face catches fire, and then, as he’s trying to pat it out, the rest of him goes up like The Human Torch.

Hilarious.

But what’s even better is that’s the last of this guy’s 15 seconds of fame. He used it all up. And believe me girls and boys, you don’t get 15 minutes these days. Not no more. What with the interweb and all this text messaging and what have you. People just don't have long enough attention spans.

So I guess the lesson here is to make sure, when it’s your time to go viral, you’re doing something as awesome as this guy.  

Too Much?

I feel like my wife loves me a bit too much. She’s totally supportive and believes in me 100 percent, when perhaps, only 75 percent is really merited.

Support is great; I’d certainly fall without it. But she shouldn’t tell me I’d be a great professional poker player, just because I tell her I’m thinking about it. Sure she’s being positive and supportive, but helpful? Probably not.

Of course, she’s in a tough boat. I don’t like to be told what to do. But I’m also at a place where I don’t know what to do. So what should she do?

I guess I’d rather have a girl who believes I can do anything. Now I just have to figure out how to prove her right.