What's Wrong with how I'm Making your Drink?

She ordered a tea.

And four years of practice came into play during one very integral moment.  I reached down to open the drawer.  

Searched ferociously for Japanese Sencha.  Tapped each container top with the spoon like I played drums.

Grabbed hold of the loose leaf tea bag.

And then life seemed to end for this lonely lady standing on the other side of the bar.  

"Wait wait.  Before you proceed can you please wash your hands."

Strange.  But whatever.  I'll do it.  

"Then can you get a new bag for the tea and start over again."

Well.  I guess so.  But really?  What's so wrong with how I'm making your drink?  It's the same way I always make tea.  

I didn't think about it much at the time.  I merely joked with Mike and Haley about it.  I don't think we even waited for her to sit down.  We just looked at each other.  You know that look.  The one where you just catch each others eyes.  No.  Not in any sexy way.  But in that way like, "Woah, did she really say that?  Really?"

And yes.  I met the female version of Bill Murray from What About Bob.  17 years after seeing that movie and I actually found someone who fits the definition of a "germ freak."  Plenty of us joke about being such freaks and shy away from the five second rule, but I think we're all just playing up those fears of being the .001 percent to contract longwinded diseases.  The ones that only House embarks to cure.  Like Blepharitis (infestation of the eyelash follicle by a mite) or Tinea unguium (ringworm of the nails) or Pediculosis (lice) or any other martian infestation.

Leaving aside alien diseases that obviously will somehow find a way to symbiotically attach themselves to the tea bag through my money grubbing hands, I think there are more dangerous germs to possibly freak out about.   It's not even that we should be freaking out.  But let's just think about some things.

What if germs aren't merely the microorganisms soap commercials claim to 99.9% kill?  What if those microorganisms aren't so miniature and that more harm can come by whatever is consumed in life?

Haven't you all heard the saying, "you're eyes are the window to your soul"?  There is truth to that statement whether I use it as a pick-up line or not.  I'm not trying to pick you up here but make you recognize the surrounding world.

The dusty germs on the cafeteria floor are the same germs permeating your life.  These germs might not come in the form of dust or any visible particles, but they're in the f#*@s and the sh*@s and the God^&@*s.  But maybe you don't believe this actually affects you.

Okay.  What movies did you watch recently?  How about next time an HBO Special's on you count the number of sex scenes?  Don't forget to watch it with your mom.  Wait.  You don't do that anymore.  You're your own person now.  A grown up.  An adult.  Someone who's been able to think for herself since age 13.  But maybe you still don't believe this actually affects you.

Well.  Drinking?  Oh those nights of going to the pub, having one too many and then feeling the full affect rushing like a deluge from deep within your bowels.  Classic nights, right?  And I bet you still really don't believe this actually affects you.

Even after you see the literal effects of your day's foraging, puddled up on any and all surface area within reach.  

It's tough to deny that what goes in you will at some point come out.  Most likely that's because it's the natural process of your body excreting all possible poisons.  Well, maybe you don't oppose profanity, drinking, or being that creepy guy in the corner of the room intently viewing fornication.  

But think about it, where is the five second rule when that sex scene plays during a date movie?  Oh yeah, that's the infamous awkward moment.

Don't let life be awkward anymore.  Realize everything comes round full circle.  And what goes in you will come out in some form.

Nonexistent

Dostoyevsky makes the claim that we need to acknowledge a person in order for her to exist.  Well, in that case most of 21st century America does not exist to one another.  You don't even exist to me because these are just words on a screen.  (I can't hear you man.  Speak up.)

So I'm sitting here with my earbuds in and the music blasting all sense from my brain.  I'm jammin' brotha.  (What did you say again?)

I do not actually exist.  I just don't.  You wouldn't even answer me back when I said "hey."  You didn't even give me the whole "hay is for horses" line.  You said nothing.  Therefore, I don't exist.

So I'll stare at the blue skies.  Cotton ball clouds.  And hope the brisk winds make me feel alive.  Since it is one of those days: divinely ordained.

 

As with God, I question life when I look around and see crowds of people.  I usually question everything anyways, but it's more the idea that we're living separate of one another in every possible way.  Just count the number of people commuting through daily routine plugged into iPods or Zunes as if to say, "leave me alone."  Really, how can we be sitting on the same couch but not notice each other? 

 

Well, you may notice his poor attire or those ugly Crocs, that horrible hair cut or that too much happening graphic tee.  But that's about it.   

I'm not asking you to inquire of his personal life.  But do you even notice her sitting next to you, that other girl?  How about that man across the way who always stops in to get his coffee?  You know, the one with the thick glasses crossing his legs and feverishly trying to hide his shaking the paper.  

No.  No you probably don't notice that man; that's not how life is nowadays.  Looks like we just don't care.  I guess we're too busy.  Or we've got our own problems to worry about.  Like still writing out the grocery list.  Thinking of that certain someone back in London.  Altogether trying to figure out the meaning of life in a five minute span.

 

What if next time I said "hi" to you, would you return the favor?  But wait, you have your earbuds in.  Guess I just made a fool of myself by yelling and screaming and jumping and clapping and going all charismatic-style for life.  Yeah, you didn't even see me.  

Don't get me wrong, I think we all need that sound track for our own life, but should we always stand right next to the PA?  Doesn't that bother you sometimes?  I mean, all that noise drowning out the world spinning around you?

And to think, you wouldn't even look at me.  Oh well.  I'm smiling.  Making the most of life.  And listening to my favorite songs.  Today is divinely ordained because I actually exist to someone even if no one acknowledges me.  

The Limit to Your Love

Some day I will cook her dinner.  The table will be set as elegant as can be.  The pop of the wine bottle cork will usher us into a night of candle light vigils for a love we found years before.  And once all has finished, I will simply look at her.  Smile.  And in my heart know I love her with all I have.  

But right now, I wait patiently for her.  

Valentine's Day.  You know, last year I spent that day with two ladies.  Yes.  Two ladies and both from California to make my claim that much more enticing.  Not only was I with two ladies, I spent it in London.  What better place to spend such a day of love?  Okay, maybe Paris, but I'm thinking Shakespeare here.  And I'm a poet-type of guy.  Perfection in my eyes.

But really.  We just went out to this side street cafe - Cafe Mode.  The low lighting.  The red drapery.  The candle chimneys in the brick walls.  And best of all, couches with pillows for the most relaxing and romantic Italian dinner ever.  It all made for a memorable night.  One spent with friends not stressing over love.  I mean, really, I won't be finding love on Valentines day and if I do, then God is predictable and I am more creative.

Honestly.  I dream about love every day.  I wait for that special girl like the sun waits for the moon (compliments of Hallmark).  And one day, it will all happen how it's meant to happen.  But I won't just love on Valentine's Day; that's restricting.  How can love be confined to one day?  You know that true love we all search for, how can that be expressed for only one day?  It's like waiting for Punksatony Phil to pop his little furry head out of that little hole in the ground and tell us whether we'll see months more of winter or if spring will come early.

Love for me will not be a valentine.  It will not be a dinner cooked for my beloved.  And it will not be contained to a day.  It will not be a dozen roses.  It won't be a box of chocolates and it won't be that simple kiss.  

It will be a steadfast love.  A love that always holds true.  A love that asks for my own surrender, where I am my beloveds and she is mine.  A love that would lay everything on the line for another.  A deluge of emotion and of time and of silence and prayer.  

This love is a love that will never die because it has overcome death.  

Valentine's Day is only a holiday that fails at showing the full extent of love.  For love is so much more than all of us fathom.  And it's something we learn along the way.

Fashion: Chic Pocket Change Necessities?

I am a walking billboard advertising rich America.  I walk through today's rains flipping my $229 list priced phone, wearing my 30 quid (about $60) MUJI jacket, my $39 Bullhead jeans along with some ridiculously priced tee shirt under a slick EXPRESS collared shirt with shoes I don't want to even recall the money spent.  And all of this, I do with ease.  If the phone drops, I buy another.  If the jacket gets wine spilled on it for a third time, I bring it to the cleaners for the proportionally cheap fix of 10 bucks or so.  And if the shirt stains, the mom has a brilliant way of getting them out for no cost at all.  The shoes, well, I cherish the laziness of slip-ons and try not to tread through the mud.  The question is, when will I buy another pair of shoes?  A month maybe.  Perhaps later today.  I'm not sure, but I'll walk with the rain and see where the day leads.

So here's my dilemma: money.  That's it.  It's not like I'm wicked hard-pressed for cash.  I'm not living on the streets.  I always have the kitchen to tear through when I'm hungry.  I have it all.  And that's my problem.

I don't know why I struggle with the clothes I wear and the money I spend.  Maybe it's because I don't know the origins of these clothes.  Maybe it's because I know my money could be better spent.  Or maybe it's for the simple fact that I'm a poor college student who shouldn't step foot into malls or any sort of shopping areas.

A simple connection between this trio of maybes is the frugality not afforded to my life.  I mean, I claim a faith who's told to take only what is needed into the world.  A faith that tells me not to worry on such fashion whims, but to trust in the LORDs provision.  Now it's not like I'm going to walk around naked or anything.  You are talking to the kid who got Best Dressed in highschool. 

But you know, this rain's got me thinking.  Why such mundane precipitation gathers my thoughts, I once again can't say.  I guess it's that connection between two expanses.  And it's got me focused on all that's around.  My clothes, my overly-priced fashion, my necessity?  

If you take nothing else from these rains take that the world is connected all the way over.  

You see, I'm meant to give to the poor and needy.  I'm meant to help someone when I see them beaten on the side of the road.  I'm meant to be the way you'd wish someone to act towards you.  In a way, we're connected, you and me.

All of us.  

Next time you have the urge to buy some new clothes, do it.  And do it again and again till you're satisfied.  But just try to think of others who might be in need.  Any.  Sort.  Of.  Need.  Because sometimes it's only a simple smile someone needs to cheer them up.  And if you're looking quite suave putting on that smile of yours, they might even call you a "sexy beast."

And this is why I stand in the rain.  Drenched.  Soaking wet without a care for my net worth.  Because I feel God in the rain.  And I've just made you smile by saying "sexy beast." 

What to do After a Failed Super Bowl

Yeah.  So.  I don't even know where to really begin.  Honestly.  

Well.  I guess I should just get on with life.  The Super Bowl, it's behind me now.  The commercials, I don't think they'll ever be as good as the Budweiser Frog days.  Yeah, those were the days.  The days when Super Bowl parties were one of the main events during the year.  Getting to stay up late.  And that might even hold the hope of playing hookey from school come morning.  Oh yeah, and there's no way I can forget to tell you of the plethora of Dorito-filled bowls, the liters of Cokes, Sprites and all that makes a little kids diet filling the living room like heaven on earth-until 2 am when you were bowing to the toilet, puking your brains out.

So last night, it didn't hold the same aura of childhood memories.  Heaven never fell.  I sat in a low-ceilinged room, among beer bottles and straight-up friends; no one drunk or buzzed or high, just in low despairs from such an off day.  All that hype about an overwhelming Giant defeat and nothing to show.  Nothing.  But the commercials.

I did laugh.  And I laughed with friends.  And I laughed when no one else laughed at all.  And I oggled when the ladies of the room weren't paying attention to Carmen Electra.  And I high-fived the guys of the room when Victoria's secret asked us to "play the real game."  And I cried like a man when our last hail Mary hope overshot the moon.  

And with that, I got taxied home.  I went to bed.  And thought nothing of the day.

If you are reading this with the same depression all of New England faces then go out and buy yourself a Taco Fiesta.  Go out and buy a clown after raking it in from the stock market.  Just don't underestimate the creepiness of said clowns chillin' in your room.  I mean, really, a 24/7 live clown entertainment at your disposal, what could be better than that?  How about a life-sized mouse spearing you from a hole the size of, well, a mouse hole.  Just like the Coolaid man.  "OOO, Yeah."

 

Anyone?  Really?  Anyone?

And if none of that tickles your fancy, buy a car on a whim.  But make sure you have multiple plans.  One such idea might be to bring a head-shrinking witch doctor as a buddy of yours.  The consequences?  There really aren't any.  A few shrunken heads.  A new car and you're golden.

Okay.  A car, that's great.  But a Pepsi (even though I'm a Coke drinker) might be the better choice.  I mean, you'll twist off that cap, plug in those codes and go through the tedious extremely annoying process of gathering your under-the-cap prize.  That's all.  Nothing to it.  Really.  You twist.  You sip.  And your prize will apparently be dragged closer and closer to you.  Justin Timberlake might even end up at your pool party.  Unfortunately, I'm not a well-endowed bikini type of girl.  I'm not even a girl.  Maybe I'll stick with my Coke since I can't win any heart throbbing prize while drinking a drink I don't even enjoy drinking.  Oh well.

This year, heaven on earth will have to wait for another Sunday.  Life will go on just as it always has.  And God will remain a Patriots fan because the first will be last and the last will be first.  So it's all good.  The world is just as it's meant to be.  And all you Patriots fans can walk with your heads held high because in the end, we really won.