New Year Endeavors

This past year was, in many ways, one of the best in my life. While I had no profound epiphanies, transformations, or adventures, I did make small discoveries, which allowed me to grow as a person and become a more efficient communicator. In and of itself, I suppose this is a rather significant accomplishment, however, the results were entirely unintentional; so I’m not really sure I can start patting myself on the back. I will however, celebrate in some fashion, preferably with profuse libation and dancing in the streets. There may or may not be singing. I can’t make any promises because I find that the acoustics in the shower are a little deceiving….

As we bid adieu to 2010, and reflect nostalgically on all of our successes and failures, we inevitably welcome a new one. In doing so, we attempt to dedicate ourselves to fulfilling a specific set of resolves, or determinations intended to improve the quality of our lives. These “resolutions”, as we so affectionately call them, not only occupy quite a bit of our energies, but can even fuel sales in certain industries. Furthermore, they are often the source of much worry when there is already sufficient stress surrounding the beginning of a new year. Generally, I don’t like to get involved with setting myself up for failure, so I’ve concluded to comprise a list of “endeavors” for the new year instead of resolutions. I like to think of them more as general compass directions instead of affirmations I’ve vowed to fulfill in this life or the next. Here is a list of a few endeavors I’d like to see come to fruition; naturally, sans stress:

1.     Write more on this blog

2.     Write in my journal

3.     Write more poetry

4.     Write short stories

5.     Write more letters

6.     Write a novel

7.     Write a children’s book

8.     Eat more flan

9.     Write about eating flan

10.   Pay closer attention to patterns and reoccurring themes in my life

11.   Grad School

As you can see, I intend to take this writing thing by the horns, (wait, am I even still a Taurus?) and really attempt to hone my craft. Regardless of my astrological association, I feel that it’s time I ignored the voices voice in my head warning me of complete and utter failure, and fully committed to writing. It’s about time I regained my focus, determination, and aspire to fulfill my literary destiny. I mean seriously, it’s not like I’m operating or anything. Hmmm…operating, I do like the sound of that...

Helplessly Romantic

I sincerely hope that you all had a blessed and fulfilling holiday. I realize that it has been a little while since our last correspondence, so I figured it would be best to start the New Year on the right foot. Particularly, since the left is not nearly as handsome and veers slightly to the left. Nonetheless, we generally don’t talk about it as he is still loved.

As you all know, I come from a magical place that manufactures perfect shades of brown skin. Being a genetic benefactor of such awesome power also comes with other rewards, such as the proficiency to shout eloquent strings of expletives in another language, the ability to dance, and the capacity to consume copious amounts of flan. Communicating in multiple languages does have its obvious benefits, but it also has its nuances as well. For instance, my phone isn’t capable of typing the Spanish letter Ñ. This is paramount in order to distinguish the difference between the regular sounding “N” in Spanish, as in the word NO, and the accentuated “Ñ” found in the word AÑO, which means year. This “Ñ”, creates more of an “enyeeah” sound, making the word AÑO pronounced “Ah-nee-yo”.

I know what most of you are thinking, not a big deal. For the most part, the majority of you are correct. Whilst speaking, this creates no real obstacles for effective communication to occur. However, in writing, this little guy here ~, means the difference between conveying the word year, or the word anus. Needless to say, for the past few days I have been wishing all of my Spanish speaking brethren, and family, to have a Happy New Anus instead of a Happy New Year. And here you thought Spanish was so romantic. 

Still Smiling

I hate my new toothbrush. If it weren't utterly disgusting too late, I'd fish my old one out of the trash. Besides...dirty dishes, empty ice cream containers, and sulking in a bathrobe all morning, are tall tale signs that my roommate is on her period. Saying that I would be wary of retrieving the Holy Grail from the bathroom trash bin at this point would be an understatement.

One of the things I hate about it the most, the new toothbrush that is, is that it has a raised, braille-like pattern on the back of the brush head, presumably for raking debris and bacteria off your tongue. This annoying feature is not only handy for preventing halitosis, but is equally advantageous for scraping the inside of your cheeks into a soft fleshy pulp as you brush. Yaaay.

So, I purchased an electrical toothbrush and although I like it better than the medieval mutilating torture device that preceded it, I'm still not entirely enamored. Sure, it may do a better job at cleaning my teeth, and perhaps that should be reason enough to keep using it, but it's difficult to get over the feeling that I'm brushing with a vibrator. Not to mention, I haven't quite mastered the trick of not drooling all over myself during the process.

Moreover, the mechanical humming too closely resembles the drills that orthodontists use. Honestly, if I wanted to reenact the sensation of going to the loathed, depressive, suicide-inducing dentist, I would just book an appointment, or submerge my balls in a vat of boiling oil. I'm just saying, no me gusta el dentista.

Atonement

I figure the best thing to do in this scenario is just to be honest. I suppose you can’t hide from yourself forever. Eventually, your reflection stops believing your lies. The truth is…..I have an addiction. That’s right, it’s finally out. I can breathe now.  The secret no longer needs to be tucked away in tiny envelopes and buried deep in the cavernous bowels of my subconscious.

The thing that gets me the most about the manifestation of this disease is that I should have seen it coming. I should have seen it as easily as one sees the dark ominous clouds that fill the sky prior to the unleashing of a powerful twister. It also should have been obvious given my genetic proclivities. It runs in the family. Invariably, it has found its way to me. It was embedded in my DNA, lying dormant, biding time. I no longer try to deny its existence, but simply attempt to keep its ravenous appetite subdued. Much easier accomplished in theory than in practice I assure you. Idle hands are truly the Devil’s workshop, and spare time only fuels the desire that consumes me. Recently, I’ve begun perusing the dark recesses of the internet in search of my fix. I am addicted….I am addicted I say….My name is Brown a.k.a Mr. Poopie (after my bright disposition) and I am addicted to crossword puzzles.

I don’t rightly know what sparked the fire that is now an uncontrollable blaze. All I know is that I can’t get enough of them. I subscribed to a local newspaper under the pretense that I wanted to be informed. Truthfully, I only wanted it for the puzzles. I wake up each morning, like a giddy child on Christmas day looking forward to opening presents. In diner’s, I excitedly await a patron to finish with his or her newspaper before rifling through it to uncover my prize. I keep a vigilant eye on park benches, coffee shop tables, and store counter tops for evidence of an abandoned newspaper. Just the other day, I did the unimaginable. I absconded with one from a bathroom stall. I’m thinking about joining a support group. I think I may need help.

Buckets For the Cure

As summer turns the corner into the final stretch, we say good-bye to one of the most ironic and paradoxical fund raising campaigns known to man. As you all undoubtedly know, I have a healthy adoration for breasts and will go to great lengths to defend them in their plight against breast cancer (or any other adversary for that matter). However, upon discovering that Susan G. Komen was joining forces with Kentucky Fried Chicken in order to raise money and awareness for breast cancer, I had to do a double take. I mean, it’s one thing to support breasts by eating a delicious Peppridge Farm Cookie, but it’s entirely another to consume a fried lard bucket of arteriosclerosis.

Breast cancer awareness is a theme that is inherently supported by a concept of health and wellness. It isn’t enough just to tell people that there is a silent killer among women and that if you’re 40 you need to get a mammogram. Breast cancer awareness is a component of overall health, one that includes exercise, an antioxidant rich and balanced diet, and a cognizance of one’s own health and possible genetic proclivities. All of these ideas are vehemently incongruent with what Kentucky Fried Chicken represents. Besides, I always thought the Colonel was more of ass man anyway.

Now, I’m not like some of these radical opposers of this partnership because I think that fried chicken causes cancer. I mean, it is possible that there is a link between obesity and cancer, but I’m not ready to say that a bucket or two will get you there. Ultimately, people make their own choices and if artery clogging, cholesterol saturated, fatty deliciousness is something you enjoy, then by all means, just do so in moderation (I must admit they are tasty). In the future though, I’d like to see Komen be a tad more judicious with her partnerships. 

In the end, however, I suppose a tango with a heart attack is totally worth saving a breast or two. After all, it does add a completely new meaning to getting a bucket-o-breast….Eh, if breasts are your thing anyway. Personally, I side with the Colonel on this one.

Toy Story 3

Okay, so if you haven’t seen Toy Story 3 yet, you need to work that out. It’s worth the 60 15 dollars. I think, dare I say it, that it is the best one of the series. Don’t get me wrong, I do think the first one was incredible, but it is very possible that the third installment is either as good, or even better than its predecessors! Poppycock, you may be thinking, but I assure you it is quite the stellar film.

In this third Pixar adventure, Andy is going off to college and obviously no longer plays with his toys. Woody, Buzz, and the gang, are forced to deal with having to go into preservation mode and presumably wait in the attic until the day they are called upon to bring joy to Andy’s children. His mother has tasked him with packing what he wants to take to school, putting in the attic what he’d like to keep, and either donating or throwing away what he doesn’t want. Of course, there’s a mix up, and Andy’s toys end up on the curb, under the impression that Andy no longer cares for them and was throwing them away.

The toys end up at a day care center that isn’t exactly what it appears, a toy’s paradise of infinite adoration and endless playtime. The toys have to try and figure out how to get back to Andy’s before he goes off to college. They have a battle of will and wit with an unlikely villain, and face their most perilous mission yet. Tom Hanks, Tim Allen, and Joan Cusack all reprise their roles as the three main characters, and one of my personal favorites, Michael Keaton, joins the cast as Ken (Keaton’s one of my favorites, not the Ken doll).

This movie is exceptionally well thought out. The Pixar group stays with the formula that made the first one such a success. The plot is a suspenseful and entertaining rocket ride, sparked by unbelievable imagination that makes this movie soar. You will definitely laugh, maybe even cry, but you will undoubtedly enjoy Toy Story 3. "To infinity......and beyond!"

Sudden Impact

You know how in the movies when different law enforcement agencies fight over jurisdiction and the overseeing of a particular crime scene? Well, I’ve finally discovered why this happens.

I was on my way home from work the other day when I witnessed a particularly hair rising incident. I was driving by a elderly cyclist, when she suddenly started wobbling and losing control. I continued to watch her in my rear view mirror, and sure enough, she toppled over, falling on her right side as she made contact with the unrelenting cement. Her body awkwardly absorbed the impact as she collapsed. Her unprotected head, obediently complying with the laws of inertia, collided with the sidewalk with a bone-crushing thud.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I pulled over, flicked on my hazards, and double-timed it to the woman to make sure that she was okay. When I reached her, she was sitting up with her hand lightly palpating the area of her head from which blood was gushing forth. Not necessarily, a Grey’s Anatomy geyser of spewing death, but more like a UFC knee to the forehead gash that would undoubtedly require a few stitches.  I asked her a few questions like whether she needed me to call an ambulance, and if she was okay, as I contemplated running back to the car for my first aid kit. By then, another motorist had approached and handed me a towel, which I was going to put on the wound and apply pressure. Before I could use the towel and ask the other Samaritan, who was holding his cell phone to call 911, an off duty, hot shot, fire-house paramedic couple came barreling in. The guy told us to step back as he snatched the towel, applied it to the lady’s head, while the girl knelt in front of the slightly disoriented woman and began to hurl a barrage of questions at her.

Now, I’m by no means a doctor, nurse, paramedic, or even a flight attendant , but applying first aid and CPR is not outside my scope of practice. In fact, I have to certify in both in order to keep my National Certification and local licensing current, as well as to remain eligible to work for my employer. I’m not inept at applying basic first aid. Thank you fucking power ranger paramedics, because God only knows how I may have let this lady bleed out had you not swooped in and held a towel to her head as you verbally assaulted her with questions in such rapid succession that she barely had time to respond. Questions are supposed to help you assess the degree of head trauma, not induce unconsciousness.

Eventually, the woman’s husband, who was a couple hundred meters in the rear, showed up and answered the paramedic’s questions concerning his wife’s medical history and how she fell. They also asked the owner of the towel to describe what had happened. I, however, the one who was essentially right next to her when she fell, and who saw everything unfold, was completely ignored. Of course, ignore the brown man.

After realizing that I was not needed, I jogged back to my car and joined the highway’s drove of homebound commuters. 

It was not until I began reflecting on the event, going over all of my action’s and thought processes did I realize how upset I was about how the paramedics handled the situation. I understand the importance of immediate medical response, but of equal and sometimes even more significance, is the necessity to gather vital information prior to jumping into action. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad they showed up, but they should have immediately identified who they were and assessed the scene prior to playing hero. Unless you’re Derek Shepherd, or Captain James T. Kirk, you need to slow your roll.