The Luckiest

Looking back at some old pictures made me remember that I am the luckiest, because I grew up with these kids:

I mean, seriously, they're the best. I was blessed to be surrounded kids who are not only amazing people, but also incredible examples to me. I miss these days, but it's even cooler to see the awesome things everyone is doing with their lives now that we're all finally growing up. I have always been change-resistant, but I think the really cool thing about change is that it gives us all the opportunity to appreciate the parts of our life that have passed, and look forward to the things to come. We look at life through the lens of our experiences, and growing up with these people, in beautiful Florida, gives me nothing but hope for the future.

I Had a Vague Understanding of Human Anatomy as a Child

My former roommate Megan is many things. World traveler, chemistry extraordinaire, and acclaimed heartbreaker... but of all her many talents, her abilities as a poet may be the most impressive. Seriously, if you haven't heard a few Megan originals, you are missing out. We had frequent poetry jams before bed in our little dorm room, and I often reminisced on my former life as a child poetry prodigy.

This week I've spent some time sorting through and scrapbooking old schoolwork and notebooks from my glory days. Within a gel pen pad, in sparklingly multicolor on thick black paper, I discovered several little poetic gems. This is my mother's personal favorite:

Inside

Inside you is your organs.

Inside you is your blood.

Inside you is your guts and stuff.

Inside you is your love.

So I dedicate this to you, Megan. May you always distinguish the love from the guts and stuff within you. And may you always, always write poetry*.

*And sketch. Lots and lots of sketching.

Busted

So this is my bracket. It was rough year.

I could deal with the 3rd round loss of Notre Dame, and even Duke's incredibly unusual inability to make it past that Sweet Sixteen status. It was watching Jimmer and the Cougs fall apart in overtime against Florida that had me on the floor, moaning in despair. I mourned. I really did.

I love marathon sports. I'm a fair-weather observer through most of the year. But come March Madness, or the Olympics, or the World Cup, and I can be found parked on my couch for weeks at a time, shouting at crooked refs and dirty participants. It's like I become that obnoxious guy sitting in your section at every sporting event you've been to, ever.

I don't know that I can watch the finals this year without having some sort of emotional breakdown when I remember how it should be Jimmer on that court, but I'll do my best. For the game.

Nintendo Is Always Right

I made a happy discovery this week. By clicking here, you can waste countless hours of your life on the only video game I ever grew to love. I have lovely memories of car rides to Grandma's house glued to my little Gameboy Color screen, playing DKC until my head hurt.

I don't know why I liked it so much. It was challenging, but not so much that I couldn't beat it. It had miserable birds that shot rocks out of their mouth, and giant bees that buzzed over the gaps between two canyon walls, and stupid hamsters that spun atop massive stone wheels, prepared to squash poor Donkey and Diddy Kong. All stuff that should have annoyed and exhausted my little kid brain, but I played it anyway.

I have very few distinct memories of my life before I was five, but I do remember Donkey Kong Country. I remember, very clearly, watching my brother and a family friend struggling to beat one of the water levels on the Super Nintendo version one night. That friend passed away in a motorcycle accident not long after that. Whenever I get to those ridiculously difficult water levels (those little blue fish cause that much pain to a freaking gorilla? please), I think of Travis.

So much for Halo, Call of Duty, or Fallout (whatever that is). I stick to the simple, side-scrolling, double-bouncing magic of Donkey Kong Country.

Florida Oranges Are Superior To California Oranges

I had a discussion with my roommate Megan today about the superiority of Florida produce to that of California, particularly oranges. BYU's signature Creamery orange juice is made from "100% Florida Oranges" according to its label, despite its obvious proximity to the West Coast. I have always been aware of the excellence of Florida oranges, but Megan claims my beliefs are solely based on pride. So, straight outta ebtchef.com:

"California oranges are known for their good looks and Florida oranges are known for their sweet juice."

So, if you're really that vain, enjoy your California oranges. They will look fabulous as a precious center piece on you white marble table. I will happily take my sweet, superior, and perhaps a little mishapen Florida oranges.

I am destined to be an alcoholic.

Recent research/trains of thought have lead me to believe that I exhibit an almost unnatural predisposition to alcohol. I don’t understand why - neither of my parents drink, I wasn’t exposed to it all that much growing up, but my taste in music tells an almost entirely different story. A recently created playlist of my favorite songs as a child exposes the real me.

I guess I can partially blame my parents. They raised me on country music, and alcohol is a serious recurring theme in that genre. Brooks and Dunn, Kenny Chesney, and Garth Brooks filled my head with the idea of neon lights and drowning my sorrows in whiskey. Billy Joel couldn’t have helped either - “Piano Man” just made me want to hang out in bars, and “Captain Jack” was full of things I probably shouldn’t have been singing about when I was five.

Whatever it was that pulled me to those songs, it hasn’t changed. I still love country songs about gettin’ wasted. I still dream about running away to Vegas, the neon city. I wouldn’t say I’m genuinely all that interested in alcohol, but there is something about the lifestyle of a drunk that endears me. And it’s definitely not the modern-day clubbing scene that gets to me. It’s that old wood, smokey bar kind of vibe, very American, very wild wild West. And there’s nothing cooler than cowboys.

What I’m trying to say is, I’m stone cold sober, and I have every intention of staying that way. Even dropping all religious pretenses, I would never touch a bottle at this point, for fear that I really have been suppressing a raging alcoholic for the past eighteen years. I’m just drawn to it in an aesthetic sense, like how smoking looks cool because every great artist or writer you’ve ever loved has got photographs with a cigarette hanging out of their mouths. Maybe I need some new heros, or maybe I’ve just got to appease that side of my brain that wants to rebel and start abusing Red Bull, or something.