My days are numbered. My existence in this dimension, on this rock commonly known as earth, is short. Twelve years of childhood, eight years of teens, fifty or sixty years of adulthood. Of course, we are assuming I am lucky and don’t manage to get myself killed before then. Death rates involving big mouths and provacative snarkiness are on the rise, so yes, I will need to be lucky to make it to 80 years of age.

After that, I’m dead. So are you and your little dog too. If you are dead, nothing else that relates to you matters much. You’re dead, gone, lights out, sleeping with the fishes if you angered the moffia…you get the idea. How much you are worth, who you know, what you have done, it all has a value of a bottle of nose-hair.

Now, if that were the end of it, I would be one apathetic, pessimistic, live-for-the-moment-because-nothing-else-matters pain in the arse. Ok, so I may be a certified pain in the arse already, but that’s completely different…really. Here is the kicker: I am not planning on staying dead. How is that possible? I know this dude-you may have heard of him-named Jesus. He made me an offer, and it was one I certainly could not refuse. He promised me that, at the end of the age when all is said and done, He is going to raise me up from the grave. He made this offer to everyone. This is the very central core of Christianity. Christ beat the curse of Death, and offers all of us the freedom from Death. Through His sacrifice, we join Christ for eternity, immortal. He is the Way, the Truth, and the LIFE, after all.

If you think that eternity will consist of strumming harps or floating around as twinkling whips of light, you are wrong. Read C.S. Lewis’ Last Battle. That is a more accurate picture. We are promised new bodies that never decay. If I have an immortal body, there is no way I am going to use just one hand to stroke a harp for the next several millennia.

The realization of my impending immortality has had two profound effects on me. First, I realize that what I do in the here and now matters. It matters a lot. Unlike in the next life, I do not have an infinite amount of time at my disposal. Christ gives us salvation for free if we accept it, but He also gave some pretty specific instructions on what we are to do here. These 80 years are all the time I have to make an impact for what I believe, and to take a stand from who I serve. I am not saying we all need to run out and be missionaries, but we should definitly be putting the gifts we have been given to a greater use than self-gratification.

Secondly, I realize-and am comforted-by the fact that this world is not it. While this world is corrupt and full of evil, eternity with Christ, I’m thinking not so much. Life can suck, it’s a fact. Really bad things happen; often they happen to good people. But this is not the end. It is the prelude, the title page, the first sentance in the opening act of our lives. There are things in our future so glorious we cannot even begin to comprehend or imagine. There is a God who loves us, and by His Son’s work, we can experience just how great the Father delights in us. In this life, we may suffer, sacrifice, and hurt. In those times of pain, remember that this is not all there is. In the next life, all debts will be paid, all wrongs will be made right. That promise if for you and me.

This is real, folks. This is not some abstract idea or theological discussion. This is as solid as…uhh, as something that’s…really very solid (it’s getting late). Actually, I suspect our life after the grave will feel much more ‘real’ then this shadow existence on earth ever will. Even so, this is our only time here. Let’s make it count, for His glory.

Hello everyone. For those of you paying attention, I’ve been absent from this site for a few weeks. For those of you not paying attention, I’ve been gone 5 minutes. First I was at a beach house for a week where there was no internet. Then my computer broke (oh the horror) and then I spent the last to days dealing with the fact that my own blog-this thing you are reading-would not let me on to write a new post. All this to say, I am back.

I would apologize for going so long without a word, but seeing the 94 replies (and that equals 94 emails, since I’m notified of every reply) on my last post, it seems some of you had quite a bit of fun in my absence. You are all lucky I’m to apathetic to excersice any type of moderation powers on your comments. I do not have much time now, but I will attempt to make a full post tonight, assuming I live through this shift.

It is nice to be back, and I thank you all for sticking around in my absense. Hopefully I will warrent your loyalty (propably not the right word) in the days-and posts-to come.

Alright, I have a mystery on my hands. I arrive at work today, and one of my fellow employees informs me with much glee that the previous evening-that would be Tuesday-a cute Brunette girl and an older woman-presumably her mother-had come into the store and asked about me. Sadly, I could not get a name, nor a more detailed description beyond cute, brunette, and thin. Oh, and a little taller than me. That did not narrow the field down much.

The only other piece of possibly useful info was that this person had, nearly three years ago, brought me a Christmas gift while I was working as a courtesy. This tidbit came from another employee who thought he recognized the girl in question. I cannot remember anyone other than my ex-girlfriend who ever brought me anything while I was at work. So either I am forgetting something big-time, or this other employee was suffering an acute case of cute-girl-confusion syndrome.

Unveiling the identity of this person consumed my mind the entire shift, but I could not come to any definite conclusion. I think I have too many cute brunettes in my life (not that I’m complaining, mind you). All I ask is that, if it was you who came into Safeway looking for me yesterday, please please please leave me a note on this site and ease the stress on my already muddled brain.

Like they always say, if you haven’t got a firmly established list of your cute brunette friends, you haven’t got anything.

That is an adapted quote from my favorite web comic: Order of the Stick (http://www.giantitp.com/cgi-bin/GiantITP/ootscript) I don’t really believe that it is true, outside of D&D, that is. However, romantic love is a huge factor of daily life. Either you have it, you’re pursuing it, or you’re hiding from it. Regardless, if you are a young adult, it dominates your thoughts, whether you like it or not, end of story. Of course, being a guy I just had to start analyzing things better left alone. In this case, I came to the realization that I have no idea what ‘romance’ really is, and why it’s so stinking important to the female species.

If you are a guy, I suspect you know what I am talking about. Romance is that dangerous prize we try to achieve without having the foggiest idea what we are after. All we are sure of is that this ‘romance’ must be attained at all costs for that special lady in our life, lest she realize that we are not Prince Charming but the smelly cave-dwellers we really are. It does not matter if you follow the ‘51% relationship theory’ or the ‘whipped boyfriend’ theory, romance is crucial to keeping that lovely lady from PMS’ing on your butt. Because remember, a woman who is swooning in delight cannot have a deathgrip on your balls.

But what is the essence of this ‘romance’? Is it even permissible to display in the rough-hued stone of definitions that which resides so intimately within the human heart? It is said that a sunset on the beach can be romantic. This would imply that beauty can stir feelings of romance. A candle-lit dinner is also romantic (or so I am told). Perhaps that implies that intimacy with a special someone is romantic. Even movies are known as romantic, although these have always eluded me. The images of love in others can apparently birth feelings of romance within ourselves.

It would seem that romance is an emotional churning. It is the recognition of what is good and beautiful, and with that the desire to share it with someone close to your heart. It can be an atmosphere that we create with each other, wherein everything takes on a unique hue. To be romantic is to recognize the love in someone else, and accept it with open arms.

This may be why us guys have so much trouble with this whole sappy thing. It’s all about the emotions, the intimacy, and the recognition of beauty. Last time I checked I’m 0 for 3 on the above. So perhaps this whole thing is just a scheme perpetrated by women, getting males to run around in desperate attempts to make the woman happy.

It’s working.

I finally saw my most anticipated movie of the summer. I couldn’t see it on opening day because of work, then spent nearly a week trying to go with my best friend, but our schedules seemed hell-bent on not meshing at all. Thus a week after it’s smashing release, I finally drag myself into a theatre, suffer through some trailers which were about as lame as a one-legged cow, and prepare myself for the worst.

You see, I was aware of the reviews the movie had received. To say they were mixed would be an understatement on par with saying the Osborns aren’t Amish. There is a great site, http://www.rottentomatoes.com, that compiles hundreds of movie reviews and makes a percentage showing who approved of the movie and who thought it unmitigated crap. This makes more sense if you go to the site, so I’m not going to bother writing down the nitty-gritty details for you; figure it out yourself. My point is (or was, or will be) that Pirates got a 51% approval rating. That’s not so good. Critics claimed the movie was too long, it dragged, it dredged up old jokes for constant re-use, it lacked direction or resolution, yada yada yada. So it was with great trepidation that I watched the opening act to Pirates 2.

150 minutes later-give or take a few-I left the theatre with a five-star smile on my face. It was the smile of someone who had just been joyously entertained by a movie for the first time this summer. For all the pirate-haters out there: shut up and sit down. If you’re a critic, this movie is not for you. Go work over some retardedly ‘deep’ psychologically-tripped out movie like Vanilla Sky-a movie I left wondering who stuck my brain in a blender and hit ‘liquify’-where you can babble on about the artistry and professional acting and all those things that turn you high-browed ‘defenders of culture’ on. Do not waste my time with your drivel. Pirates was a movie for the people. It had plot, the acting was beyond good, the effects were lovely, and the fight scenes were creative. It did not take itself seriously, and yet had more substance than any of the ’serious’ action movies that have exploded across the screens this summer. Even though it is pure entertainment, do not turn your brain off; you will likely miss many a joke and more than one important plot-point. The pace is fast, furious, and roaring drunk (there are a lot of rum jokes).
I do no want to ‘professionally’ review this movie. That is what I’m arguing against. Go see this movie with an open mind. Be aware it is the second installment of a trilogy. Be ready to laugh at the absurdity of Jack Sparrow and sigh at the romance of Will and Elizabeth. This is what summer movies are all about. This is fun stuff, pure and simple. Go see it and have a good time, and if you see a critic sitting near you, kick him in the balls for me. His ilk nearly ruined the best movie of the summer for me.

There is an aspect of the supermarket world unknown to those outside its deceptively friendly and well-stocked walls. Customers do not realize that the time they spend wandering the isles is really time spent in a certifiable sanitarium. This is because all supermarket employees are nut jobs, a few fries short of a happy meal, our wheel’s spinning but the hampster’s dead, 100% loco. Most people don’t come to supermarket jobs crazy-some do, I’m sure-but once you’re inside, it’s all over. There are several key factors on our road to dementia, and I will explain them as best as my addled brain will allow.

First, there is the existence of a race of beings of great power. These beings not only command us, but we must serve them with false smiles and forced courtesy. Did I mention these creatures are extremely stupid? I speak, of course, of the customer. They are the reason for our existence as supermarket clerks, but they are our bane as well. We fear them, because at their displeasure we can lose our jobs. Yet we resent them, because they mess up our displays, treat us like bond-slaves, ask us where corn is when they are literally standing on it, and cause us no end of trouble. Supermarkets must be visited often, so we are never free of these fools; they just keep coming back for more, knowing in their evil little hearts that we must again kiss up to them or face the consequences.

Next, we have the radio ads. In between songs, there are store-specific ads that run over the speakers. All the ads are done by the same jovial male voice, and during a normal shift, my ears are assaulted by these abominable marketing ploys again and again and again and…well, you get the idea. All I have to say is that if I ever find the bozo who voiced these ads, death via Chinese torture would not compensate for the pain he has inflicted on me. These ads try to be clever, but the best they get away with is insulting my intelligence. For those of you who know me, you have to stoop pretty low to insult my intelligent, but these people pull it off every time. By the end of the day, I find myself talking out loud to this announcer person, muttering at him to shut up, lest I climb up onto the ceiling and rip out every speaker with my teeth. I have asked around, and my feelings on this subject are shared by everyone with whom I work.

Finally, we come to the greatest factor in employee insanity at grocery stores: soft rock. If you have ever had the misfortune to listen to what music actually plays at more supermarkets, you will quickly realize it is a collection of the sappiest, crappiest love song drivel from the 80’s and 90’s. Think Celin Dion, but one hundred times worse. Then just recently, someone decided that we needed some modern music as well. The solution: add a bunch of Brittney Spears, Backstreet Boys, and Avril Lavigne. Oh the inhumanity. If you think it would be irritating listening to this for a few minutes, just imagine the horror I experience every day, subjugated to this unmitigated crap for eight hours straight. Like a subliminal form of mind control, the music errodes your defences, until your brain has come to resemble week-old potato salad. There is no escape; the music is everywhere, and it takes no prisoners.

As you can see, all these factors add up to one case of seriously demented employee syndrome. Every employee suffers from it, to one degree or another. You might not see it behind our practiced smiles, but it lurks there, that maniac gleam in our eyes, growing ever brighter as that music plays and that vile man spouts his jolly drivel about cherries on sale. If I were not already lost to the madness, I would never go to a supermarket again. The danger of infection is just to great. Flee, I tell you! Flee for the hills!

(Sweet, if they actually listen to me, that’ll be a few less customers…muha-ha-ha-ha…then I shall have peace at last…and maybe get that bloody apple table finished!)

So I was just sitting here, trying to write a post (which I haven’t done for a long time, for which I apologize) and all off a sudden *bloop!* WordPress crashs, and there goes my nearly finished post, lost in the vast currents of cyber-space. It was mildly disheartening. So instead of the funny post I had going, this is all I have to offer before I must head off again to work. I promise, however, to redo that post I had tonight, so you may all enjoy it tomorrow. Am I a nice guy or what? Thank you all for reading, and I hope you check in regularly, now that I have more of a normal schedule again.

Until we meet again, remember this: I’m smarter than you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Well, I suppose you could kill me…or ship me off to some desert in Africa…or tell the Feds I haven’t paid taxes in 3 years…ok, so there is a lot you can do about it. But you won’t, because I’m prettier than you too, and pretty people always win. Hollywood told me so.

I went to see Superman last Friday night. That was my first mistake. Friday night is not a good night to go to a theatre, unless you’re a fan of crowds and sloppy make-outs. See, Friday night is when all the couples come out and go to the movies for a date. I would go off on how inherently stupid that is, but I trust that anyone reading this is smart enough to figure out why movies make lousy dates. Regardless, the place was packed, even though the theatre we ended up in was only half full…go figure.

On to the movie itself. It was really pretty good. Brian Singer, the director, is amazing with comic book adaptions, and really seems to have pleased the superman crowd. Don’t be deceived, though, because this is not solely and action movie, so don’t expect explosions at every turn. Heck, its worth seeing just to watch Kevin Spacey do his creepy evil madman thing. The movie does have a heart, and does move emotions, if one allows it.

However, it has not been my favorite movie of the summer by far. Even though Brian Singer did a much better job with the first two X-men movies, I preferred the third X-men not directed by him to his Superman. Why? Because the X-men-and Spiderman, Batman too-are better characters that Superman. The very character of Superman is fatally flawed.

Superman is invincible, super fast, super strong, shoots lasers from his eyes, doesn’t need air, can make a blizzard with his breath, and is completely altruistic (a.k.a a complete good guy with no dark side). His only weakness is Kryptonite and sadness for not being able to save everyone all the time. As a character, that profile is extremely limiting. The only conflict that can happen will either involve Kryptonite, or someone important to Superman being in danger. That is it. If Kryptonite isn’t involved, Superman might get beat up, but he can’t die. There is no dark side of himself to wrestle with like some of the X-men characters. There is no conflict living two lives; Superman doesn’t even wear a mask to hid his identity. (Superman’s alter ego is quite happy sitting on the sidelines, existing only when Superman isn’t needed). There is no conflict with the interaction with others, because everyone but Lex Luthor loves Superman (the X-men are feared by mankind, the papers are always against Spiderman). Thus every story with him is terribly predictable. There is only so much you can do with this character before he gets really old. Sure, he’s deeper and more likable than the Hulk, but come on…he’s invincible, he’s perfect, he’s confident with his role in this world. Kinda hard to get a gripping tale out of that one.

Still, if you’re not as cynical as myself, go see the movie. There is a good chance you will enjoy it, if you’re willing to overlook a few bendings of the laws of physics. But hey, its a superhero movie. That comes with the turf.

I’m sitting in the break room at work (where else would one sit?) and a female coworker-I’ve known her for a month-sits down next to me. I ask her how she is doing-because I’m a nice guy like that-and she turns, looks at me, and opens her mouth to start speaking. Before any sound has actually escaped her lips, I am deeply regretting my current geographical position. The look of icy indignation that congealed in her eyes told me all too well that I had marked myself as a target for a vent of epic female proportions. Thus, at that moment, I wanted nothing more to be far away, preferably somewhere in Cambodia, for added security.

You see, there is a common attitude I’ve discovered among females my age. That attitude states, in no uncertain terms, that ‘I am nice and innocent and perfect, and any who go against my will shall always be the guilty party who persecutes me unrelentingly.’ Of course, ‘going against my will’ can be anything from telling her off to simply existing. This attitude is especially dangerous because most every female has it, and it clashes with itself whenever more than one is occupying the same general vicinity. This means that girls don’t like each other that much, and explains why they are so catty to each other.

See, guys are all cool about this. We like someone until they give us reasons to dislike them, and then we simply voice our opinion loudly, and possibly punch each other. At that point, there’s nothing left to do. The opposing parties might even become friends. But not girls…oh no. They hold onto percieved slights for years, simmering away on the back burners of their vengeful minds. It boggles my mind, but most of these female fiends can’t even consider the concept of letting something go. No concept of letting it roll of like water off a duck’s back. No concept of the fact that everyone else is a thinking, feeling human too, and they are not the only ones so easily hurt. Life is not only unfair and cold to them.

When I saw all this preping behind my co-worker’s eyes, I knew it was too late. And I was right, or course (if I wasn’t, this blog entry would not exist). So there she is, for 15 minutes, going off on how the year 2006 is the worst of her already miserable life and how everything is about her, and everyone she doesn’t like is a snobby jerk. And there I am, forced to smile and nod, smile and nod. Because come on, what am I going to say? “I’m sorry, but it seems to me that you’re a complete female dog (insert proper term for that at own discretion) and even though your life is not perfect, neither are you. Plus, it would be a whole lot better if you didn’t let half this crap get to you, because it is really not all about you, so it doesn’t matter at all in the grand scheme of things.” Of course I couldn’t say that, but I really wanted to.

This observation of mine may seem harsh, perhaps a gross over-generalization, but I’ve seen this way too many times to dismiss its existence. Many girls my age just cannot understand that they are not the only victims in this world. Wouldn’t you be happier if you allowed things to pass if it meant getting along with your fellow woman? I swear…guys may have macho egos, but girls have constant PMS.