Kiss Me, I'm Irish

My wife and I hit our eight year anniversary this week. Not a very “big” anniversary but a celebration none the less. For the man these are the best anniversaries because there is far less pressure. We're two years away from our ten year and I already have sweaty palms trying to think up a creative, fun way to celebrate. Plus, apparently you are supposed to give diamonds for your 10 year anniversary. Diamonds. DIAMONDS. I need to start saving now, right? Once I actually set aside enough money to buy DIAMONDS I then have to pick out something she will cherish. It can’t be too trendy because this is a meaningful gift she’ll want to enjoy for the rest of our entire lives. That’s like (hopefully) 50 years of staying fashionable! I need to save money and purchase DIAMONDS that will still be in style in 2066. Oh wait, I also have to make sure that these never out of style DIAMONDS I purchase aren’t blood DIAMONDS. I can’t totally remember what that means but I know Leonardo DiCaprio really doesn’t want us to purchase them. It seems like it would be easier to avoid purchasing blood DIAMONDS if they had actual blood on them. Anyway, stressful is what I’m getting at.

Meanwhile the eight year anniversary simply consists of me taking my wife out to a restaurant that she won’t be out of place at wearing a dress, buying a small gift of some sort that doesn’t have etiquette rules tied to it, and limiting my belches to only once. And to just be completely candid, I let a poot slip during the date and she still considered it a smashing success. Eight year anniversaries are the best!

Despite being easy, our eight year anniversary did still force this non emoting man to reflect on his past with the dashing woman he was sharing semi fine dining with. During all this emoting I thought back to the first time I truly remember “seeing” Katherine. I know we had run across each other once or twice before then but she was a few grades below me and in high school people who are more than one grade behind you basically don’t exist. They are like the Bible version of a leper. I definitely remember giving her cousin (one of my best friends, Jon Keller) a hard time about thinking she was easy on the eyes. Those were my exact words because I was a very respectful teenager. “Jon, your ivory skinned cousin is easy on the eyes and I would immensely enjoy purchasing her a meal sometime.” Like I said, I was polite.

So, ok. Back to the time I REALLY remember seeing Kat for the first time. I was at the house of one of my other best friends, Will Hawk. Will’s dad was having a neighborhood fish fry because he is awesome and seems to oddly enjoy watching those he loves eat food that he prepares. One of 1,000 reasons I was insanely scared of his dad as a child. BACK TO THE POINT, BRANDON! I was in line to get my meal and Katherine was in front of me and she was wearing a high school sorority shirt which stated boldly on it, “Kiss Me, I’m Irish”. I distinctly remember at the same simply thinking, “ok”.  I would like to say that I boldly followed my instinct to grab her by the arm, spin her 180 degrees, wrap my arms around her, and give her that kiss that her shirt clearly wanted me to give her! We would have instantly fallen in love, spent the next 4-5 years together dating, relishing in each other’s company through our late teen years, and had an amazing story of how we fell in love.

Instead I sheepishly placed mounds of fried fish on my plate and went and stuffed my face. I spent the next two years of my life dating a girl who was a nice enough girl, but obviously not the girl I decided to spend the rest of my life with and Katherine spent the next few years being insanely attractive in my peripheral vision.

Often when I think back on this story it depresses me that I missed out on two extra years of Katherine in my life and makes me want to go back in time and Hulk Smash 19 year old Brandon. What a goob. Your wife was right in front of you and her shirt was begging you to claim her!

Instead of wallowing in all my past dumb decisions like I normally do this time I found myself being challenged by this story. Live boldly Brandon! Ok, maybe kissing Katherine wouldn’t have been that wise. I can assure you her father wouldn’t have thought it was wise! But, speaking to her would have been an appropriate amount of bold.

Because of 17 year old Katherine and her directive giving t-shirt I am challenged to not make the easy decision. Make the decisions that might be more difficult, more embarrassing, more odd than the ones I normally make.  Make the decisions that have the opportunity to flip my entire world on its axis. Make the decisions that are story worthy.

My first decision is that on my daughter’s 18^th birthday I will be purchasing her a “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” t-shirt and just wait to see which bold young man comes to claim his bride. Bad parenting? Maybe. But, at least it’s bold parenting.

The Hypothetical

If you had to write a word association list about Brandon Jones most of you would probably jot down, “Will Hawk” at some point. An annoying amount of my stories involve him so even if you don’t often hang out with the two of us together I probably mention his name a disproportionately enough that you realize we are "bros for life". If you ever do actually find yourself in a room with Will Hawk and I at the same time you need to know a few things.

• Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. William, you, and myself will be using the ball of yarn in the corner of the room,  the Yellow Pages book from 1997 on the table, and the box of matches that William for some reason has in his pockets to play the world’s most intense and competitive game imaginable which will have been invented by William in the spur of the moment. The game will become famous in Uruguay in 3 years.  If you ate poorly today just leave. There is no hope for you.
• Use the last wish from your Genie that you've been saving. You've found a Genie amongst your adventures, right? And surely you were wise enough to save a wish for a true emergency? Good. Use that wish to attain some form of bodily protection. The old school rollerblading knee/elbow/wrist pads are a good option. A suit of armor might work but could be a bit cumbersome. Possibly a hockey goalie get up. Whatever it is, you need it. Most of these games that William invents involve gruesome bodily damage. Jon Keller and I have been subjected to routine games for years that before you even begin playing you have full knowledge that some form of your body will be bleeding once the game commences. We’ve played a game simply called Box that ALWAYS results in carpet burn so bad you will bleed through your pant legs.
• Call your local Parole Officer and verify that your background is clear. Chances are you will be arrested today.
• Once we are bloodied, exhausted, and have made bail we MIGHT actually talk. Most of this discussion will be of the “would you rather…” type or some other hypothetical form of questioning. If you can’t quickly answer a question like, “If you could have a redo on one decision you made in high school what would it be?”, “Zombie Apocalypse or Werewolf Infestation?”, or “Would you rather have to communicate for the rest of your life in song to the tune of "Under the Sea" or everything you eat for the rest of your life taste like pork rinds?” then you are going to be extremely uncomfortable.

 So, that entirely too long set up was basically to allow you to understand that some of the integral parts of who I am are different because of my lifelong friendship with the World’s Best Youth Pastor. Much to the chagrin of my wife I enjoy spending much of my down time discussing the hypothetical.  Long car ride? I NEED to know if you’d rather be a mermaid or an eagle. Waitress is taking too long to bring dinner? Quick, if you had to punch either your mom or your dad in the face who would it be?

My wife despises this type of questioning and I adore it. It has caused many a mini fight. Despite this I continue to push and prod. Our marriage has taught me one question though to avoid and I actually think it’s a fairly common question people ask their spouse.

If I died, who would you want to remarry?

This is not wise friend. I know it sounds fun. It is not. If you feel completely tempted to play this game at least follow the basic rules below.

1. First of all, simply remember that your spouse is not ACTUALLY dead. Whatever you are about to say has consequences. If you pick an ex girlfriend or your spouse’s sibling your time would be better spent intentionally giving yourself splinters .
2. The question is who you would marry, not who do you think it is the hottest. Don’t be stupid. Your wife doesn't want to know which of her friends have the cutest dimple and your husband doesn't want to have confirmation that his rugged friend is actually super attractive. We are adults. Hopefully you've learned that a person’s hot factor does not necessarily equate to a happy marriage. Doing so only proves that you are a poor decision maker and that your spouse has every reason to smack you in the head.
3. Back up your decision with wise reasoning that shows how thoughtful you are. Pick a guy/girl who would help you grow as a person and be a good parent. This will show your current spouse how you can be trusted to not be a dingbat as soon as they are out of the picture which will in turn show your current spouse how you can be trusted to not be a dingbat in the present. Not being a dingbat is crucial to a successful marriage.
4. Attempt to pick someone who is similar to your current spouse. If your husband is bald don’t pick someone with long flowing locks. If your husband doesn't know how to walk into a wooded area and return with a freshly hewn kitchen table and matching chairs then don’t pick a man who knows how to do so. Your spouse wants your decision to remind them of how in love you are, they are not looking to learn about things you wish you could change. And for the love of Pete DO NOT PICK A WOMAN SMALLER THAN YOUR CURRENT WIFE. Ya dingbat!
5. You might think the wise answer would be to say, “Oh, no one, after you I could never find someone to compare”. You think your spouse will glean from this your abounding love and adoration for them. Instead they will come to the conclusion that you despise your marriage so much that you would avoid it at all costs in the future.

Again, I must reiterate my belief that you should simply avoid this conversation at all costs. If your wife asks this question just get up out of your chair and walk away. If she follows you, trip her and start running. If she chases you and you realize there is no escape then and only then follow my above rules or you can steal my automatic perfect answer. It’s the only answer that will please your spouse and not leave them wondering if you are planning an elaborate elopement with the person you mentioned. 

The perfect get out of jail free card is to answer with either your pastor if you are a female or the pastor’s wife if you are a male. None of the above matters if you use this as your answer. Even if your pastor runs marathons, has dreadlocks, and is the creator of Pinterest you are still safe. You’ve picked the Godliest person you and your spouse know. This is like answering, “Jesus” in Sunday School. Even if it isn't the right answer they have to smile and accept it.

Maybe next time I’ll discuss how to handle when your spouse asks the hypothetical question of what one thing you would change about them.

Who Can I Blame?

Alright, this one requires that we all agree on one basic truth. Marriage is hard. If you are one of those weirdos who pictures marriage as doves landing on your shoulder as the couple sings duets then move on, this one is not for you. Marriage is hard and we all at numerous points in the marriage get to a place where we have to start asking some questions. The questions are probably varied from one marriage to another, but I think we can all agree that they basically take one of two paths.

Path One is the easiest and certainly makes you feel real peachy about yourself at the time. Path One is simply putting all blame on your spouse.  “My wife says I don’t do enough to help around the house, but last week I washed my pop tart dish one time. How come she didn’t notice that, huh?” This path is simple. Short term it feels awesome because it allows you to feel right and blame your jerk of a spouse for everything. Long term it’s no good because it either leads to divorce or the worst life of all time.

Path Two is hard on the ego but awesome on the marriage. Obviously it’s just the reverse of Path One. When there is an issue in the marriage you look for ways that you can improve. This requires choosing daily to love your spouse more than yourself. It’s the path that all the marriages you are jealous of take, but holy moly it’s hard. It means you must not only accept that your spouse isn’t supposed to be perfect but also accept that you need to be the one to change. Bleh.

So, Path One only works for those who really enjoy paying lawyers to take away half of your possessions and give them to the person you now hate most on the earth. Path Two requires admitting that your spouse has lots and lots of faults, but actively choosing to love them anyway. Path One sucks, but Path Two seems really difficult.

This is why I’ve come up with Path Three. In Path Three you don’t blame yourself or your spouse. Path Three is, blame someone else. This could really be anyone and it might not actually fix anything but it also at least focuses your distaste for your life of you and your spouse and onto to some other poor, innocent sap. This person can really be anyone. Good options would be one or all of your parents, another couple that grate on both of your nerves but you inexplicably continue to hang out with, or your boss who just won’t let you catch a break.

So, who did I pick for my scapegoat along this Path?

Batman.

Yes, Batman.

Much like most boys, I grew up enamored with the awesomeness that was Batman. He was a detective, who had amazing toys, dressed like a boss, constantly had beautiful women interested in him, knew how to beat up people who knew karate, lived in an a mansion with a secret hideout cave underneath, and had Scrooge McDuck levels of money. If the creators of Superman cheated by giving Superman all the powers then the creators of Batman cheated by giving him all of the cool.

There wasn’t a moment that I decided that I wished I was Batman. I think it was just a given and slowly became part of my being. I wasn’t the kind of kid who wore Batman shirts at all times and plastered my walls with Batman posters because that is the exact opposite of what Batman would have done! Seven year old Batman would have beaten up the teenage bully across the street, swiped a pack of Camels out of the bully’s pocket, and smoked the whole pack while he did his daily routine of 100 sit ups and 100 push ups.

Somewhere along the way my brain decided that this exactly what a women would want. If Batman is the very definition of awesome then I need to be as much like Batman as possible. Now, I can’t exactly afford a Batmobile, I have no idea how a grappling gun works, I can’t afford a mansion, I don’t think there are any caves in my area, and mysteries are hard.

So I had to focus on Batman’s attributes that I could attain and I wasn’t even very good at those. In my mind a real man is a loner, speaks rarely, doesn’t deal well with his emotions or with past hurts,  and mostly shows his feelings physically. If Batman doesn’t like you he doesn’t say much to you and then he punches you. If Batman does like then he doesn’t say much to you and then he makes the sweet, costumed love to you.

You can see where this became an issue once married. Girls in comics might like the dark and mysterious guy who thinks emotions and talking are overrated but real girls don’t go for this. I mean, it might work great for picking girls up in the bar but not once you actually are living life with a person. Wives don’t dress in cat themed clothing while fighting crime at night and they also don’t like to be ignored.

So, I’ve decided Batman is my scapegoat. I could take Path B and try and admit that I need to really focus and pray through engaging my wife’s heart more often. I could take Path B and look at each individual situation and assess how I can better love my wife. I could take Path B and pursue my wife even harder than I did when we were dating.

But that’s all really hard and it’s just way easier to blame Batman and move on. Maybe I need a new role model. I always thought Ferris Bueller was pretty cool as a kid, I bet he’d be perfect!

Why I Don't Trust Single People For Health Advice

As American custom demands, I have been reevaluating my life with the New Year. The one thing all Americans who range from slightly overweight to morbidly obese agree on is that January 1^st is a wonderful time to try and lose 10-250 pounds. Sadly the company I work for decides to hold an annual meeting each and every MLK weekend, this means that every MLK weekend I find myself in a place like Miami or San Diego. It’s sad on two fronts. Firstly, it is sad because I end up at these amazing restaurants and force myself to order the healthy options instead of the 20 oz steak grilled to that perfect slightly warm temperature that results in the beautiful red color that oozes out of the meat and onto my plate and mixes with the yellow béarnaise that simply makes my mouth water. More importantly, it’s sad because it creates a memory in my mind. A memory of year after year I end up at this meeting trying to make wise decisions and I weigh the EXACT same thing I weighed five years ago at my first meeting! What am I doing with my life?

So, that is my preface to basically knowingly admitting that while this post is about me trying to better myself in relation to eating I realize that I will end up giving up at some point. In a month or two I’ll find myself two knuckles deep in a jar of Jif Extra Crunchy Peanut Butter and with a gut the exact same size it was in December. I get it. If I can’t break my habit of biting my fingernails after 30 years I certainly am not going to suddenly rise up and conquer a Five Guys burger. I’ve heard a stat that says we all put on one pound for every year we are alive, so I guess I’ll just take pride in the fact that I’m sitting steady at my weight and move on. But, I can’t simply move on and never try and diet or work out again. Those few months of inspiration and determination are what allow me to temporarily lose weight so I stay at my normal weight long term instead of gradually ballooning in to the even fatter version of myself. By the way if that stat were true and I simply lived to the age of 75 they would have to stuff my 240 lb corpse into my casket built for a slim 175 pound frame. (Yes I already bought my casket and yes I bought it with my goal weight in mind) (Yes, I’m lying)

I tell you all of this so you’ll understand why I have been reading nutrition articles and books lately. I’ve learned lots of valuable information that I’m sure I’ll take to heart for about 26 days and then claim amnesia one night as I plow through a box of Kripsy Kreme donuts. But, one piece of information that I will NOT forget is this.

IF YOU ARE MARRIED, DO NOT TAKE WEIGHT LOSS ADVICE FROM A SINGLE PERSON.

This is a vital piece of information people. If you are married and especially if you have children you simply cannot take health advice from a single person. It will not only lead to failure but most likely to a mild form of depression and a severe form of aggression towards the person giving you advice. Being married and taking health advice from a single person is similar to building a pine wood derby car for Boy Scouts and calling Jeff Gordon for advice. Yes, your goals are the same but you aren’t playing by the same rules.

So, why am I so adamant about this?

1.      Money

Single people start at an advantage to married people when trying to lose weight simply from the fact that they have more disposable income than us in relation to food. I have to feed four mouths off my income, they have to feed one mouth. None of those mouths are growing boys. My boy is 22 months old and he already sounds like an asthmatic gorilla when he eats. Every meal ends with him saying, “mess” because during the eating process he is so focused on getting the food into his mouth as quickly as possible that precision loses all meaning.

Single people will stress the importance of replacing breads and grains (how much grains they insist you cut out is a direct relation to how crazy they are) with meat, fruit, and vegetables. Hmm…bread and grains are kind of the cheapest part of my meal, but OK I want to lose weight and that requires sacrifice. Then they will insist that all of these meats, veggies, and fruits are clean organic foods and grown locally. Oooo, sounds yummy. Let me just run to the store and….OH MY GOSH! CAN I DO LAY AWAY ON THIS LOCALLY GROWN CHARD?

Yeah, look. Eating organic and local sounds awesome and I’m sure it really will make me healthier but I can’t spend 50% of my income on food. I already spaz out a little bit if my kids eat strawberries twice in one day.

Married people can’t afford to eat like single people.

2.      TIME

As a working, married man I have to wake up at 5:05am every morning to get to the gym. This allows me about one hour to work out and then a mad dash to return home, get cleaned up and dressed for work, eat breakfast, and if I’m super lucky I’ll have a few minutes for my devotional. Sometimes, even getting up at 5:05am still finds me a little late for work and my beard not quite as clean cut as it should be. Returning from work I come home to three people that missed me and desire my attention, a dinner (prepared by my wife) that needs to be eaten, dishes that require washing, kids that need a dip in the bath, kid’s teeth to be brushed, book to be read, bible to read, prayer to be said, songs to be sung, kisses to be kissed, lights to be turned off. And….it’s 8:45pm.

Now, this isn’t complaining. I LOVE every stinking moment of my life. I love the gym, I love my job, I love every moment I get with my wife and kids even if it’s spent changing a poop explosion. LOVE IT.

But, what it does mean is that this single person giving me advice can take his advice and shove it up his……ahem. It means this single person giving me advice needs to reexamine our lifestyles. I do not have time to work out twice a day. I do not have time to prepare fresh grilled meats and veggies for my lunch each day. I do not have time to go for a 50 mile bike ride every Sunday. I mean, I could make time I guess. But, while my health is important I have other things that are just as important if not more important. I know this is true because when I go on a business trip without my family I find myself with more freedom to make healthier eating choices, more time to work out at night, less temptation to swing by an ice cream shop.

I simply have a different lifestyle than most single people, and my time is taking up by the needs of four people instead of one.

3.      MOTIVES

Lastly, and most importantly, we have vastly different goals. Typically it seems that all single people (especially single men) have one goal for losing weight. DAT SEX! They want to be hotter than their friends so the girl they are interested in will choose his abs to cut butter with (people do that, right?). Single guys seem to have no other goal than sex.

I do have to also say, that sometimes it seems that sex in itself doesn’t seem to be the ultimate goal but more so simply having MORE sex than their friends. I think the video game guys have it all figured out. They all have no sex, and so they are all even and can simply be friends without all the rivalry undertones.

Meanwhile, us married people have sex on the lock down. My wife is contractually obligated to sleep with me regardless of how much Chef Boyardee’s tomato sauce is dried onto shirt and caked in beard. And she could eat ALL THE CAKE and I’d still be annoyingly touchy when she walks by me. All of us married people want to look good for our spouse, but it’s not enough motivation. If I eat so much that my back hurts and my wife doesn’t leave me, then guess what. Motivation is out the window.

A married person’s motivation is more tied into death. I now have these people in my life who I love dearly and who just based on age and gender have a much longer life expectancy than me. I want to see as much of these people’s lives as possible. So, while I’m not worried about how gigantic my delts can get, I am very worried about not dying of coronary heart failure. I just want to live! Stay away from the light Brandon! The raging pecs are just a byproduct of my desire to not die of a food coma. (I am not implying that my pecs actually do much raging.)

So, me and ol Dwayne (this is the name I picture this single guy giving me advice) have totally different requirements of our money, demands on our time, and motivations. When I take advice from Dwayne I find myself what to speak up every time he says something. He thinks I’m just making excuses, I think he is crazy. Eventually this leads to me calling him a sex crazed, self obsessed jerk and him calling me a lazy, self obsessed jerk. These words are hurtful. They are best to be avoided.

My new theory is I only take health advice from people who have a more difficult job than I do that also pays less and they must have at least 2 more kids than I do. I essentially only take advice from overworked Mormons and a even a few of them seem a bit too interested in keeping killer abs in case a hot potential second wife comes along.

The Crippling Effect of the Humblebrag

Urban Dictionary took a break from defining the most grotesque words in the English language to define a useful one. They define “humblebrag” as subtly letting others now about how fantastic your life is while undercutting it with a bit of self-effacing humor or "woe is me" gloss. It’s a popular enough trend that someone wrote a book about it. I pray that book didn’t make much money, but if you take into account that Paris Hilton wrote a book that seemed to sell quite a few copies then I’m sure it sold wonderfully. I’m sure the book is funny, but any book that is just a collection of twitter updates should maybe be defined as something other than a “book”.

We all see humblebragging all the time but twitter and facebook helped it to explode. One especially perfect example of a humblebrag is this tweet by some random dude.

"Why is it that every time I have a softball game someone walks up to me and says , are you on roids ! Hahaha dude I don't even lift weights"

See what he did there. He is attempting to be humble because he doesn’t lift weights but he is in reality just attempting to tell you that his muscles are flippin’ huge. Roid huge. This dude once beat up the Ultimate Warrior. But he wasn’t even trying…so you shouldn’t be impressed?!

Humblebragging is fine. We all do it. We all complain about how we hate going to the gym, run so slow, have kids that are smarter/cuter than us, don’t deserve our spouse, etc.

I just ran 500 miles, but now I have a blister on my toe.

I just got accepted to MIT, can’t believe they accepted me despite my 4.16 GPA.

My 3 year old daughter just passed the bar exam, no idea where she gets it. I’m so dumb!

Again, we all do it. We are all proud of our accomplishments but you can’t just walk up to someone and start listing of facts about why they should be impressed. The problem isn’t the humblebrag. The problem is when we become too aware of the humblebrag. We suddenly become paralyzed in our conversation. Our convenient way of bragging without bragging has been taken away and we become super conscious of how much of what we say could be constituted as a humblebrag,

My wife and I recently completed a Warrior Dash. A 5k with 13 army type obstacles. This was our first time doing an adventure race and was an “accomplishment” for us. We were excited that we gathered the courage to do it, proud we were able to finish it, and honestly just had a blast. After it was all over I was surprised that it was a really, really easy race. This is probably what a person in Somalia has to go through just to get a bucket of water. We completely over trained for it and could have completed it without any training at all. Any of you could.

This event set me up perfect for a humblebrag. Just cool enough to impress most people but just enough to throw in some humility. And honestly I was rather excited to share that we did it.

But….the word humblebrag popped into my head. I can see through my ruse then everyone else can too! What’s a man to do?

Do I just quit sharing all events that take place in my life that aren’t horrible? Do I preface all statements with, “not to brag”. Do I just ignore it and move on?

Forget that. Life is too short to worry about all that. I’m going old school and taking the humble out of the humblebrag. I am now just going to brag….non stop….all the time…about everything.

So next time I see you in public if I walk up to you, slap you across the face, spit at you, and then say something like, “MY MUSCLES ARE MORE HUGER THAN HULK HOGAN’S” just understand that it is my attempt to avoid the internet fueled trap of humblebragging.

*Yes, I realize that this entire post could be construed as just one big attempt to humblebrag about my Warrior Dash. So in the words of the new Brandon, “I DID A WARRIOR DASH AND IT MEANS I AM MORE AWESOME THAN BEAR GRYLLS AND YOU PROBABLY JUST ATE ARBY’S WHILE I WAS DOING IT….PUNK”.

Doritos Locos Taco: Or Why I Hate Zac Brown

It's time again that I critique lyrics to a song. Obviously everyone remembers my much publicized blog post on Escape. It was epic, Dear Abby called me and congratulated me on what it meant for modern relationships. James Dobson wrote me a note thanking me for saving marriages and families across the country. My friends boosted me on their shoulders and chanted Rudy, Rudy, Rudy. So I figured it was time to again lambaste an artist for writing inane lyrics. While I was about 30 years past the release date of Escape when I gave it a good ribbing, I am only about four years behind on this one.

In my blog post on Escape I basically took a few thousand words to say that finding out that someone likes walks on the beach, making love, and eating junk food is no reason to marry that person. Everyone likes these things. If you and I had a discussion and you were to find out that I like these all you would have discovered is that I also, much like you, am a human. That's it! Don't propose to me just because I like worldly pleasures!

Anyway.

Zac Brown has basically taken the formula that ol' Ruperts Holmes discovered back in the 70's and countrified it. Holmes discovered that if you can write a song that is essentially just a list of things all human beings like and set it to a fun little melody you have basically just invented the musical version of the Doritos Locos Taco. Everyone likes tacos and everyone likes Doritos....so if you simply mash the two together and advertise.....you are rich! Anyone who stops and thinks for a moment about the Doritos Locos Taco realizes that Taco Bell simply discovered that people like fattening foods, don't mind if you are unoriginal and simply combine different fattening foods together, and despite watching hours upon hours of Food Network don't really care if an Iron Chef doesn't prepare their food.

Zac Brown took the same basic idea that Rupert Holmes and Taco Bell played on and wrote these life changing lyrics.

"You know I like my chicken fried

A cold beer on a Friday night

A pair of jeans that fit just right

And the radio up"

Time out. This guy likes the meat that is eaten the highest quantities in America, he likes beer and he likes it cold, he likes Friday nights, denim that doesn't bunch up in the crotch, and his radio loud. Notice he also subliminally gets you to turn your radio up when his song comes on! Pure genius. I dare you to not be singing along after the first four lines.

"Well, I was raised up

Beneath the shade of a Georgia pine

And that's home you know

Sweet tea, pecan pie and homemade wine

Where the peaches grow"

So this is the point in the song that Zac takes a moment to appeal to his base. Much like a politician has to occasionally step back from the broadened appeal and instead focus on the core constituency to make sure they are still on board, this is what he is doing here. "Hey all you people that typically listen to country music. I also was born in the south, like sweet tea, pecan pie, and peaches."  Notice that he mentions homemade wine, this is where he focuses in on the really hardcore base. Kind of like when a politician is forced to say something just wacky, like making a joke about Obama's birth certificate or calling a republican a racist. You just have to throw a bone every once in a while to the wack-a-doodles. No one with all of their teeth actually drink homemade wine. But...there are those few guys out there you gotta shout out to.

"And my house it's not much to talk about

But it's filled with love

That's grown in southern ground"

Alright, back to the broad approach. Anyone who would ever be caught dead listening to country music either grew up in a modest home or currently lives in one. People in the Hamptons or Orange Beach might not relate to these lyrics, but they aren't listening anyway. One more quick appeal to the base with the "southern ground" lyrics and you are on your way.

"Well, I've seen the sunrise

See the love in my woman's eyes

Feel the touch of a precious child

And I know a mother's love

It's funny how it's the little things in life

That mean the most

Not where you live or what you drive

Or the price tag on your clothes

There's no dollar sign on a piece of mind

This I've come to know

So if you agree, have a drink with me

Raise your glasses for a toast"

I've also seen the sunrise! I've also been in love! I've also held a child! I also have a mother! The small things in life also matter to me! Ooo, drinking alcohol again! Yaa hoo for liver disease!

"I thank God for my life

And for the stars and stripes

May freedom forever fly

Let it ring

Salute the ones who died

The ones that give their lives

So we don't have to sacrifice

All the things we love"

Woo hoo God! Woo hoo American flag! Woo hoo freedom! Woo hoo ...... Liberty Bell....? Solemn thanks to any soldiers who lost their lives. Woo hoo things we love in general!

And then we hear the chorus two more times and we are out.

There is literally no way you can live in America and make less than $250,000 a year and not have sung along to this song at least once. 

So in closing I will just sum up with one statement. 

Zac Brown IS our generations musical Doritos Locos Taco. Both appeal to everyone, make no one better, and might cause rectal bleeding.

Giant Leaps In Logic, Small Steps In Parenting

If you google “best traits in a man” the first link that will pull up is a poll that Men’s Health did of 1,000 American women. The top ten traits that didn’t have anything to do with physical looks or skills were faithfulness, dependability, kindness, moral integrity, fatherliness, sense of humor, intelligence, passion, confidence, and generosity. I’m going to guess that most women end up marrying a man who portrays about 4 of those attributes, and those 4 he only portrays haphazardly. We aren’t exactly an amazing sex these days.

There is one attribute that all 1,000 of these women soon found that their husband did perform rather nicely. Day in and day out their actions showed that this was one of their controlling personality traits.

And NO, I’m not talking about anything sexual. Ya pervert.

The one attribute that we all seem to share is a tendency towards selfishness. Self seeking is obviously a character flaw in most people, but tends to show more in men. We are the ones who want the hottest girl possible to be on our arm. We are the ones who spend beyond our means to get that dream car. We are the ones have trouble settling down and committing. We are the ones who consistently make cut throat business decisions. We are the ones who make war. We chase what we want, and avoid what we don’t.

If you’ve never noticed, I myself am a man. Sadly I had a realization about myself and my selfishness the other night. When I had this realization I was doing something that would seem the very opposite of selfish.

It was 3 in the morning on a work night. I was wide awake sitting on the couch feeding my 4 week old baby a bottle and taking extra care to routinely burp him so that he would not be kept awake by gas. My wife was sound asleep. My daughter was sound asleep. Most of Columbus was sound asleep. Heck, even the baby kept falling asleep.

If this was a movie it would be the scene that was filmed to show the tenderness of the main character. It would be that sweet moment used to show the protagonists gentleness.

I’ve even got to admit that I use situations like this to remind my wife why I am such a catch. Do most husbands do all night feedings? Doubtful. Are most husbands so caring that they leave the bedroom with the baby to avoid waking up said wife? Doubtful. Do most husbands burp their child like it is an art form passed down from generations passed? Doubtful.

Ok, that last paragraph sheds a little light on  my narcissism, but let’s stay focused more on the selfishness. I can only beat myself up so much in one day.

So, as I sat there feeding my boy I realized something. I am one selfish jerk. All of these things that I was doing weren’t based out of love. I wasn’t feeding him, burping him, and changing his diaper at 3am because I love him. I was doing it all so that he would stop crying so I could go to sleep.

I wasn’t burping him carefully because I didn’t want him to be in pain later. I was burping him carefully because if I didn’t he would wake up and cry and wake me up.

Dang. Thanks God for that 3am wake up call on myself and how much I suck.

This got me thinking further. I could go through this whole parenting stage of life and probably parent rather decent and raise decent kids, but with the wrong motive the entire way.

I could raise children that were obedient because I selfishly want to impress other people and because it is just easier if your kid isn’t pitching fits all the time. I could raise kids who do well in school again to impress others and also because it would make me feel smart to have smart kids. I could raise kids who love the outdoors, because if they don’t love the outdoors I’ll probably personally have less time outdoors. I could raise kids who eat their veggies, because it would make me feel weak to not be able to pick up my eight year old.

Yeah, I could raise some decent kids and never once base a decision out of self sacrifice or love. Their food would be eaten, their teeth brushed, their bodies washed, their books read, the prayers said…..all so they will be happy and leave me alone long enough to watch the game on TV.

And that is what makes parenting so hard! It’s not just the things you do but the reasons you do them. Does it matter? If my baby gets fed, burped, changed, and put back to bed does it matter what my reasons are? Does my heart matter?

Of course it does! Looking a head in life I may teach him to be obedient and stay out of trouble, but what happens when no one is watching or when he is older and there is no one to be obedient to? Crack cocaine…that’s what!

I may force my children to be giving of their time, skills, and finances. But what happens if I don’t teach them the heart behind those actions? Crack cocaine….that’s what!

Yep. Crack cocaine. I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense. I don’t care if it’s not the eighties anymore. That MUST be my conclusion. It is the only thing that will wake me up enough to not be selfish!

My nature may lead to me being selfish and self seeking…..but even I am not so selfish that I would let my kids fall into crack cocaine!

So, when you are making decisions in parenting make sure you are basing them out of love and out of a desire to turn their hearts toward Christ…..or else they’ll definitely try crack cocaine next time you aren’t looking.

Shaggy Hair, A&F Cologne, and Plaid

Working in business I am often plagued by a specific question that eventually comes up in all business circles. “So, do you play golf”. I am torn because I have two options when asked this question.

The first option is a simple no. No, I do not play golf.

This option typically leads to aghast looks from my business counterparts. Working for one of the local big boy corporations, or at a bank, or as a salesman, or as a doctor makes days on the course a necessity. It isn’t a choice, everyone does it. Working at Subway I am just enough not a typical business person that golf never arises as a work outing. I suppose I could get aggressive with my answer to keep the aghast looks at bay. But that seems uncalled for. I could go off on a rant about how anything that not only allows but almost demands alcohol consumption during cannot be a sport. But I do not.

The other option that I am always tempted to go with but would only garner looks even more confused from my counterparts is that yes, I used to play golf every weekend at the  Northern Little League baseball complex and I once got a hole in one on Rick’s Lung.

That answer requires a back story and back stories are not good for short conversations with business counterparts. But you know what they are good for? They are good for minimally read blogs!

There are different friends that come in and out of this story but the one who was there throughout the entire experience was Jon Keller. I honestly don’t know why we began this tradition but somehow we did and it is such a pure, beautiful memory it almost seems like it took place in a Wes Anderson movie.

Northern Little League baseball field’s became our clubhouse. We discovered that on Sunday mornings from about 10:30am until noon the place was deserted. No little kids running around crying while their dad’s screamed their disappointment at them, no somewhat scary girls playing softball, no umpires to chase us away, and sadly no sweet smells of chicken fingers and popcorn.

Just an empty baseball complex and us.

This could have been fun enough. We could have played homerun derby, or wiffle ball, or wall ball over on the concession stand. But somehow this became our golf course. The Northern Little League Golf Course.

This little club took some serious devotion for college students. Annoyingly we were not allowed by our parents to simply skip church and play our little game with a good nights rest (looking back, good call parents, thank you!). So we as 19 and 20 year old boys had to plan ahead. We had to go to bed at a decent hour, probably 3 am instead of our typical 4am, so that we could get up at 8:30 in time to make it to the 9 o’clock church service.

Most guys our age dressed rather casual to church. Not us. We had a golf outing at the prestigious Northern Little League to attend after. We would get dressed up in our khakis or plaid pants, loafers, and pastel colored button down polos, and after we would throw on a visor for effect.

So, this took work! 

Church would end and off we went. We would arrive at Northern Little League Golf Course around 10:15 and begin our round of golf. Jon Keller, myself, and a ragtag of friends like William Hawk, Matt Phillips, Brian Howard, and Jeff Brannan would pile out of my Xterra. A horrible clash of plaids,stripes, and shaggy hair. Once lugging our golf bags out of the back of the SUV we would stop and look around us. Taking in the surroundings. The beautiful blue skies with wisps of clouds floating by, the tall pines standing proud and rightly so as there soil was red Georgia clay, the smell of the spring air and a bit too much of Abercrombie & Fitch cologne. It was a perfect day for golf.

Now, at a baseball field they don’t typically dig 18 round holes strategically throughout the complex so we had to get inventive. Trees, baseball bases, boulders, and buildings became our “holes”. Old remnants of a bonfire became a hole known as Rick’s Lung (named after William’s dad who had a penchant for smoking a few hundred cigarettes a day). After a few hours on our golf course we would head to Wendy’s and grab some burgers and head to the pool. A pretty nice day if I do say so myself.

So, yes fellow businessmen, I do play golf. But my answer to that question is long, confusing, and childish. So I typically just hang my head in shame and answer, “No, no I do not play golf”.

Widespread Panic, Sadly Not About the Band

“It really is a love affair, your relationship with your kids. It’s powerful and frustrating because there is no real consummation. No finish line. The closest you get are the moments when you can share in your child’s triumphs – as when watching them in the field of play – though even those successes are tinted with sadness because every accomplishment only pulls them further away from you, toward an adulthood all their own.” Chuck Hogan

Panic. We all occasionally panic. Every single one of us. No exceptions. Well, except those of you who are better than the rest of us. And I hope people like that don’t read my blog, because being judged is about as fun as having a root canal performed on you by a dentist with Parkinson’s. Okay, that was a cruel joke….but it got the point across. If you don’t panic then please immediately stop reading my blog and go back to what you normally do with your time. Like feeding the homeless or carefully removing ducks from discarded Coca Cola 6 pack rings.

Anyways. Recently my wife and I found out we were having a baby boy and panic immediately ensued, at least for me. I was comfortable having our first girl, and I would have been comfortable having another. With a girl I basically just have to love her in a way that lets her understand how God loves her and how she should desire to be loved by another man in the future. Sure, there is the whole teen pregnancy thing that most men freak out about….but I figured I’ve got at least 13 years until that is even possible and if I do a good job with the whole love thing then maybe it won’t be an issue. But with a boy. Well, let’s just say I had a major onset of panic. But, that is a story for another today.

With our baby girl we did eventually panic. We didn’t panic when we found out we were pregnant. We didn’t panic when she found out she would be a girl. I wouldn’t even say we panicked when she came 3 months early. But, eventually we realized that this little baby was going to one day turn into a girl, and that girl would one day turn into a woman. And that girl would behave in a similar manner that my wife and I do. My wife and I are not exactly overly impressed with ourselves so this was a disappointing discovery.

We thought about allowing a family who we were impressed with to raise our children. Families with the last names Harrison and Cash were discussed as possible Godparents….but without the whole us dying part. But, then we remembered that even though we didn’t feel up to the task of parenting that we did in fact love our baby and weren’t overly fond of giving her up. (at this point my wife would like me to remind everyone that my blog is meant to be an exaggeration of real life, obviously we do kind of like ourselves and love the idea of raising our daughter)

We thought about trying to do “community living” with a few close friends so our daughter could glean some useful skills and habits from other adults. But then we realized that that is way too many people having to use the restroom in one house. Oh yeah, and we realized that it would be crazy. Not fun crazy, but insane crazy.

So, with the realization that we were all our daughter had we came to the conclusion that we had to plan and change how we behaved. Hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours (probably still not enough hours for my talkative wife, but more than enough hours for me) of conversation took place about who we wanted our daughter to become and what we needed to change about ourselves to help her get to said destination.

One thing we decided was that one of our main goals with our daughter was that we would remain cognizant of the fact that we were raising her to one day be her own adult person. Not just our child but an adult who could and should function outside of us. WHATEVER that meant as long as she was pursuing God we had to be okay with. We did not want to have too many goals for what God had in store for adulthood. Our plan could not get in the way of who God was calling her to be and where God was calling her to. If God called her to pass on college, move to Zaire, be a missionary who helps fend off rabid tigers, and never fly home to let us see our grandkids then we HAVE to be okay with that. Our desires could not get in the way of His desires for her.

And then our daughter became part of the family, she became not just a baby who I loved, but my daughter who I LOVED. She won my heart and continues to win it day after day. I came to know her heart. Yes I know she is only two but I assure you I know her heart and it is unbelievably kind, filled with empathy for others, incredibly sweet natured, and loving.

Sometimes when I look at her my heart breaks from missing her even though she is right in front of me! I realized how simple our goal was to say and how difficult it was going to be to live out. More than anything though I realized that my wife and I need to really focus on putting away more money in savings. I mean, plane tickets to Zaire have got to be pretty pricy!

Forget Superman, I’ll take Tomorrow Man

I recently read Chuck Hogan’s book, “Devils In Exile”.  I am not very good at offering up reviews of books, movies, or albums. My typical description of said items usually can be summed up by either, “Me Like” or “Me No Like”. So, my review of this book is, “Me Like”, but I would like to add that even though this book had a lot to offer in plot and action sequences my favorite part was actually the philosophy aspects. In a few parts of the book the guns take a break to cool down and Hogan’s characters are offered a chance to share their views on life and how it works. The following is offered up near the beginning of the book:

“The Tomorrow Man theory. It’s pretty basic. Today, right here, you are who you are. Tomorrow, you will be who you will be. Each and every night, we lie down to die, and each morning we arise, reborn. Now, those who are in good spirits, with strong mental health, they look out for their Tomorrow Man. They eat right today, they drink right today, they go to sleep early today – all so that Tomorrow Man, when he awakes in his bed reborn as Today Man, thanks Yesterday Man. He looks upon him fondly as a child might a good parent. He knows that someone – himself – was looking out for him. He feels cared for, and respected. Loved, in a word. And now he has a legacy to pass on to subsequent selves.

But those who are in a bad way, with poor mental health, they constantly leave these messes for Tomorrow Man to clean up. They eat whatever they want, drink like the night will never end, and then fall asleep to forget. They don’t respect Tomorrow Man because they don’t think through the fact that Tomorrow Man will be them. So then they wake up, new Today Man, groaning at the disrespect Yesterday Man showed them. Wondering why does that guy – myself – keep punishing me? But they never learn and instead come to settle for that behavior, eventually learning to ask and expect nothing of themselves. They pass along these same bad habits tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, and it becomes psychologically genetic, like a curse.” – Chuck Hogan

Okay. So, when you sit down to read a book about an army vet who joins a group of other veterans to sabotage drug deals and steal the money but ruin the drugs, you aren’t typically looking for words that will catch you off guard to the point that you stay up at night thinking about the words you read.

Since then I have found myself finishing up yard work that I would usually put of until tomorrow,  staying up a few minutes extra to put away the dishes that would normally wait until the next day, making hard decisions that I had been dreading for a long long time, and even occasionally putting down the ice cream scoop a few scoops quicker than usual.

This book was priced at $7.99 and was 70% thanks to Borders going under. So for around $2.50 I received words that in my mind have played a small part in pretty dramatically altering the course of my life.

So, I must say that if you are at the book store anytime soon and notice this book just remember that Brandon HIGHLY, HIGHLY recommends NOT buying it. Think of Tomorrow Man! You could use that $7.99 for something way cooler tomorrow!

JONATHAN KELLER Is Dumb, or Why I Refuse To Ride Motorcycles

I have a friend who shall remain nameless, but let's just say that he is tall, lanky, loves anything fun, has an awesome mom and a just as awesome wife, and is named JONATHAN KELLER. This friend whose name I cannot say shall from herein be referred to as JONATHAN KELLER.

I don't have an astounding amount of friends. If you take a look at my Facebook page it would lead you to believe that I have 637 friends. Most of these 637 friends are actually current acquaintances, former acquaintances, childhood friends, or something even less like a friend. I typically don't make enemies. I would say the few closest things I have to an enemy are a few ex-girlfriends but even they aren't enemies, more just people who are incredibly awkward to be around.

All that to say that I don't have tons of "friends". In the best friend department I have more than the average person though! In my mind I almost have to quantify which level of "best friend" a person falls into because once I really get to know a person, I love that person deeply and they are no longer just an acquaintance or friend but are a "best friend". That is confusing though because I can't just lump some guy I've known for six months in with a friend I've had since I was six.

Anyways, the previous few paragraphs simply provide further proof that I over think really odd parts of life. Back on track.

JONATHAN KELLER is in my top tier of best friends and here are a few reasons:

• Longevity 
• He has been one of my best friends since my freshman year of high school
• This makes him my second longest lasting "best friend", I apparently had a bad habit of running them off earlier in life
• Experiences
• He was there when I learned to drive
• Saw DMB and Widespread Panic for the first time with him
• Actually probably about 80% of my concert experiences are with him
• Numerous beach trips, Helen, Chattanooga, Vegas, so many Subway Christmas parties that the managers thought I was gay, Okefenokee, Bonnaroo, etc.
•  Lazy college days by the pool
• Other
• Made many of the dumbest decisions of my life with him by my side, but he was also right there with me when we realized that said decisions were dumb and it was time to grow up
• Introduced me to my beautiful wife and I can trust him around her at all times because they are cousins
• Was one of the two best men in his wedding even though he wasn't mine. Had to go with my dad. Sorry Hawk and Keller
• Picked a girl to marry who I now share a love/hate relationship with which is actually really really fun. Honestly, she is super sweet and I love that he brought her into our group
• Even if we grow to hate each other we will still be in each other's lives thanks to the annual family Easter Egg Hunt

So, JONATHAN KELLER recently bought a motorcycle. He was very excited to show his new purchase off to the guys and when he finally did we did what any group of guys would do and made as much fun of him as possible. It was rather easy because he is about as lanky as they come and being the frugal man that he is he bought a modestly sized bike. He did not however purchase a modestly sized helmet. He climbs on this bike wearing shorts and Chacos, his knees come up to his chin, his elbows splay out to the sides, and his head wobbles back and forth due to the weight.

Eventually the guys stopped poking fun and began to help him work on the bike and even took turns riding the bike. I however have held steady to my skepticism, mean spirited humor, and aloofness to his purchase. I have even made a habit of informing him every time I see a motorcycle accident and tease him that he could be next.

From the outside looking in it would appear that I am simply a giant jerk and one would wonder why JONATHAN KELLER would choose to maintain a friendship with me. It is because he knows that I actually do not typically make fun of people that often and that the reason I won't let the motorcycle humor drop is because I love him. I'd take a bullet for him, nay, I'd take a nuclear bomb for him, I'd let his wife and him live in our guest bedroom if needed, I'd loan him money no questions asked, I'd raise his kids if he and his wife ever died (which I might need to since he owns a motorcycle), heck I'd even let him kiss my wife! But, only so that I could then refer to both of them as Kissin Cousins for the rest of our lives.

So when I see him get on his motorcycle my heart aches because it is simply an idiotic decision.

My Opinion

• When you sit down in a car, your first action is to strap on your seatbelt. Motorcycles don't have seatbelts. 
• It is no longer legal to ride in the bed of a truck, but it is legal to ride a motorcycle. WHAT?
• Helmets are great, but as humans we also have torsos, arms, legs, and bottoms!
• Deer, rabbits, dogs, cats, possums, zombies, and blind people! 
•  Most operators of cars are dumb and don't pay attention. I used to read a book everyday while driving to school in college. Do you really want to ride by a person doing that?
• We live two minutes from Alabama, so if you think most drivers are bad then you don't know the half of it.

Actual facts

• According to the U.S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, in 2006, 13.10 cars of of 100,000 ended up in fatal crashes. The rate for motorcycles is 72.34 per 100,000 registered motorcycles.
• Motorcycles rider deaths were nearly 30 times more than drivers of other vehicles.
• Motorcycle riders aged below 40 (JONATHAN KELLER) are 36 times more likely to be killed than other vehicle operators of the same age.

I HATE motorcycles. Not being funny or humorous. I HATE them. They are incredibly dangerous for the rider and many of the riders create dangerous situations for other vehicles. There are still blood stains in my wife's Xterra from picking up a friend who had a motorcycle accident almost 5 year ago!

Motorcycle enthusiasts love to preach that car drivers need to watch out for motorcycles. And I agree, partially. They really should watch out better, but I only partly agree  because the motorcyclist is the one putting his life in the hands of others. And he isn't even putting his hands in the way of the best and brightest in the world, just any old joe that happens to drive by him. I hope that drivers are always paying attention and that I could in theory go crawling down the road without someone overlooking me and running me over. But, I'm not going to try it!

I hear that most sharks won't bite unless provoked but I'm not going to swim with one!

Motorcyclists arguments are flimsy is all I'm saying. If you are on one and a car cuts you off or hits you then sure you can and should be mad. We as a car driving populace need to be more careful. But really, at least half the blame is on you, right? You got on the motorcycle knowing that most people are careless drivers, knowing that the fatality rate is shockingly higher on a motorcycle than in a car, and since most motorcycle owners own a car in addition to a motorcycle you are riding that motorcycle solely for fun.

In closing. JONATHAN KELLER Is Dumb.

Welcome To My Nightmare

In my last blog I covered how boring it is to listen to another person describe their dreams. So, in a true effort to run off my few listeners I decided to tell you of three dreams that I have that are re-occurring. It would be amazing if one of my readers would be the Daniel to my King Nebuchadnezzar and interpret my dream. And yes, for those who know the story of Daniel, that is a direct threat of your life if you fail to interpret my dreams!
DREAM ONE:
My first dream has been with me since I was a child, but is now the rarest of the three, and I am pretty sure it was spawned on by this Ghostbusters figurine.

“Okay, in retrospect he looks pretty silly but I was five years old and it was scary, okay!”

From an early age I was scared of the fantastical and unafraid of the logical. I never imagined a scary child rapist outside of my window, instead I would imagine that there was a critter from the movie Critters inside of the toilet and due to that I was scared to sit on the toilet.

The dream is always the same and it is always brief….and by brief I mean I end up peeing in my boxer briefs. I am running through an old cemetery and the fog is mega heavy. A real life werewolf is chasing me and he is closing in quickly when I stumble upon a greenhouse. This makes sense because ALL cemeteries have greenhouses, right? So anyways, I run into this completely glass greenhouse and shut the door behind me just in time for the werewolf to slam into the door and then I wake up. I wake up at the exact point every single time without fail and I find myself longing to have this dream again just so that I can find out what happens after that point!

I guess it is obvious that  the dream might mean I am running from something? But what?! I started having this dream when I was five, so what stresses did I have at that age? What could I be figuratively running from? Kindergarten?  Swim lessons?

I fear I may never learn what this dream means, but I my bigger fear is that my wife may leave me if she has to change our wet sheets another time!

DREAM TWO:

This dream I call my Shooting Blanks dream and it started in high school but became more prevalent once I married. In the dream someone or a group of someones break into my home. No worries, I grab my trusty gun from my bed side table and lay into the fool or group of fools. My aim is sure. The gun shots angry blasts of flame from my hand and nothing happens. The someone or someones keep coming at me to do harm to me and my family.

Super.

No recovering from that kind of dream. Katherine now has to change our sheets and hold me as I weep into her arms.

DREAM THREE:

If my other dreams were nightmares then Dream Three is a night terror. I have had it since very early on in my marriage and it is truly frightening. The dream finds me no longer married to Kat but instead leaving her and choosing to marry one of my long term ex girlfriends. You may wonder at this point why I would share this dream because it would clearly anger Kat. But the caveat is that even IN the dream I am terrified of what I am doing. Even in the dream I am crying and losing control of my bladder because I don’t want to be with my ex and I deeply want to be with my wife. Even in the dream I am counting the ways I love my wife.

When I wake from this dream Kat truly has a workload ahead of her. Wet sheets, a sobbing husbands, and vomit covered walls. No good.

But the upside is when I do have this dream I am super nice to Kat for at least 48 hours after because I am in a constant reminder state of what my life could have been and just how awesome Kat is.

So, I may never be able to interpret these dreams but Dream Three just makes me thankful that I have a wife who is willing to love me through my oddness. I can then forget about the jacked up stuff that happens when my eyes shut and focus on the jacked up stuff that happens while my eyes are open.

Follow Your Tamest Dreams

"If you trust in yourself and believe in your dreams and follow your star you'll still get beaten by people who spent their time working hard and learning things and weren't so lazy." ~Terry Pratchett

One of the things Kat and I enjoy most in the world is visiting America’s National Parks. We have had the great fortune to see Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Glacier, Teton, and of course Smoky Mountain. Later this summer we are going to visit Yosemite. We often take the time on these trips to do a guided rafting trip, kayak, or horseback ride.

Obviously the beauty, the wild, and the sheer bigness that surrounds you on one of those trips inspires whimsical thoughts of what life could have been like if only. Man has always been enthralled with the wild which is exactly why our best President ever, Mr. Teddy “I Killed Bears With My Bare Hands” Roosevelt” created the first National Park. When you get away from “life” it makes you understand how much better the simple life is.

One other thing about these trips that always sends me down “hypothetical alternate life road” other than the wilderness is the people who guide these tours. Sometimes they are 20-something kids taking a break after college, sometimes they are hippies who somehow managed to find the one job in America they have the capacity to keep, and sometimes they are just crazy ladies with awkwardly long hair. But they all have two things in common.

1. They make you feel incredibly bad for being a part of typical American society and not doing what you really enjoy. 2. They are poor. I’m talking communal living in a tent kind of poor.

I’ll admit I always leave these rafting/kayaking/horseback riding trips feeling sad that I didn’t chase my dreams. Now, let me say here that I am not complaining. I actually feel that I did follow one of my dreams. Working with my dad and brother for a company my parents own and getting to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner for our incredible community is an amazing blessing and it was one of my dreams. But, it was my “tame” dream not my “wiId” dream. All of us of our “wild” dreams. Travel the world, take part in the Running of the Bulls, hit a grand slam in the World Series, eat at every single Cheesecake Factory in the entire world. So, if I had felt one of my “wild” dreams was possible would have I chosen my “tame” dream?

Doubtful.

So, why do most of us chose our “tame” dream? Two reasons. First is money. While I would love to raise wolves for a living I also love things like food, water, clothing, shelter, and even love. Often our wildest dreams don’t involve making much scratch and scratch is needed to survive and truthfully it makes being happier a tad bit easier.

People often try and get on their high horse and say that money doesn’t matter, but it does. We can’t all follow our wildest dreams. If so there would be no food, because not many people dream of doing back breaking work all day while farming. There would be no medical care because people become doctors at least partly for the cash or else our trips to the doctor would be a lot less expensive.

We can’t all follow our dreams. Money matters.

But maybe that is just an excuse. Maybe we can’t ALL follow our dreams, but I can. Then there comes the issue of maybe we aren’t all capable of achieving our dreams. Dreams take more than a go get ‘em attitude. All the little boys in America can’t grow up to play basketball in the NBA. Why not? Because the average height in America for men is 5’10”. All the little girls can’t grow up to be actresses or Pop stars. Why not? Around 31% of American kids are obese.

So, even if I decided that money doesn’t matter and I should follow my WILDEST dream I am still in a world of hurt because my wildest dream happens to be to become a famous author. You don’t become a famous author because you want it really bad or because you sit through some creative writing workshops. You become a famous author because you have natural talent, work to to hone that talent, happen to come up with a new and fresh idea for a book, and then get lucky.

Let’s just pretend that I am not a shallow person and money didn’t matter at all to me and I was willing to live a life being a “starving artist” before I finally broke it big with the next American classic. The issue then becomes just because I am willing to do something doesn’t mean I am able. I am going to leave you with an excerpt for the Dennis Lehane novel “Gone Baby Gone” and the from one of my blog posts entitled, “Nutz” and I think this will be better prove than the rest of my article on why some of us should not follow our wildest dreams.

“Nothing smells so clean and cold and promising as quarry water. I’m not sure why this is, because it’s merely decades of rain piled up between walls of granite and fed and freshened by underground springs, but the moment the scent found my nostrils, I was sixteen again and I could feel the plunge in my chest as I jumped over the edge of Heaven’s Peak, a seventy-foot cliff in Swingle’s Quarry saw the light-green water yawn open below me like a waiting hand, felt the weightless and bodiless and pure spirit hanging in the empty, awesome air around me. The I dropped, and the air turned into a tornado shooting straight up from the advancing pool of green, and the graffiti exploded from the shelves and walls and cliffs around me, burst forth in reds and blacks and golds and blues, and I could smell that clean, cold, and suddenly frightening odor of a century’s raindrops just before I hit the water, toes pointed down, wrists tucked tight against my hips, dropped deep below the surface where the cars and the refrigerators and the bodies lay.” Dennis Lehane

VS.

“Movies come out every week that contain a female baring her breasts to anyone willing to go to the local theater and spend a small fortune on a ticket and popcorn. When a movie decides to include a nude man the media acts like they are killing babies in the film. Look up Forgetting Sarah Marshall controversy on google, it's all about the male goods. Borat was known for being a jew hating racist, but most of the controversy for the film came from the male nudity. Eastern Promises was one of the best films to come out in 2007 but was often referred to as "The Weiner Fight movie" Male genitalia is offensive, plain and simple. Nutz serve no purpose, make the driver look like a tool, and offend everyone except other tool bags.” Brandon Jones

The Dreaming Hawk

There are probably 4-5 people in my life that I would consider my “best friend”. Some are related to me and some are not. I won’t mention names because if that one guy I meet once at soccer camp realizes I don’t consider him my best friend it might hurt his feelings.

Recently I had an experience that made me realize* that my affection for one of these best friends goes beyond mere deep affection and in to the “true love” category. This friend is William Hawk. How did I realize that I love him you ask?

Did I hold him in my arms after a horrible car crash? One hand cradling his head and the other holding his intestines inside of his stomach? One single tear sliding down my check and landing on his lips as he breathed his last breath and used it to say MY name?

No.

Did I watch him perform an emergency delivery of his third child on my kitchen floor? With both hands cradling his baby to his chest as he looks me in the eyes and says, “His name is Brandon"?

No.

Did I lean my head on his shoulder as we slow danced to “our” song and he clasped his hands together at the small of my back? Did he slowly lean into me and just before his lips touched mine he breathed my name gently, “Brandon”?

No. Thank God No.

In truth it was nothing that intimate and he probably didn’t even say my name. It was something much more simple. After not seeing each other for over a week he excitedly told me that he recently had a crazy dream and he just had to tell me about it.

Dreams are an odd thing because the experience for the re-teller and the listener are completely opposite experiences. The person who had the dream and is retelling it thinks it is the most amazing thing in the entire world. The person listening to the dream grows to hate the re-teller more and more with each passing second. We all hate to hear other people’s dreams, in fact we don’t even totally pay attention when someone tells us one. Yet we ALL push that memory aside when we have a dream to tell.

So, typically when someone tells me they have a dream to tell me I silently groan and grit my teeth as I endure the most boring 4 minutes of my life.

“So it was you and me, and all of our friends and we were on a steam boat and there a was a party on the boat and we were all in tuxes and bridesmaid dresses. But the steamboat was on land in the middle of a forest and the paddle was just ripping up the land as it propelled us forward. Two monkeys came swooping through the trees, one in a tux and one in a wedding dress. That’s when I realized we were at a wedding for the two monkeys! Instead of kissing they ate one banana until they met in the middle. And then for some reason we were on a football field and the football players were actual footballs but with arms and legs"………

Okay, dreams don’t make sense. That is part of what makes it so fun when you are in dream world. But unless you are going to slip me some acid before hand it is not interesting to hear about!

Back to William. So he begins telling me his dream which I don’t even remember but I’m sure it had something to do with war because all of his dreams deal with war. At this point I should have been ripping my eyes out through my nostrils but instead I listened. I listened not because I had to but because I wanted to.

I can assure you I didn’t listen because his dream was more interesting than yours. I listened because William was excited to tell me his dream. His eyes lit up. His voice rose an octave. He talked with his hands. He generally enjoyed telling me about his dream. He didn’t simply enjoy sharing his dream because he wanted to tell someone. He enjoyed it because he wanted to share it with me. Our dreams are somehow important to us and he found joy in sharing it with me.

I didn’t realize that I love him simply because he found joy in telling me his dream. I realized I love him because I found joy in being part of his joy. I realized I will listen to his dreams for the rest of our lives and that I am fine with that. God willing one day we will both be in our eighties and William will tell me about how he had a dream about fighting the zombies that rose in 2022 (that isn’t part of the dream, the zombies are really coming in 2022) and I’ll be happy to hear it.

* Just to keep this blog honest I realized that I loved Will long, long ago. This was more of a reminder. I don’t even know when I first realized it. Was it when I first met him and he was hanging out with a kid in the neighborhood who ran around in his underwear while wearing a cape? Was it when he got in a fist fight with a kid twice his size during a backyard (actually frontyard) football game? Was it as teenagers when we would lay in a hammock together and talk about God, girls, and super heroes? I don’t know, my love for him is just part of who I am. It’s like a love for your mother. It just IS.

My Doomed Relationship

Some relationships are doomed from the beginning. Everyone can see it except the two people in the relationship. There are many reasons why a relationship would be set on a course for disaster from the very beginning but one main reason is that the two are in it for the wrong reasons.

I once dated a girl simply because she could drive and I couldn't. A girl once tried to date me simply because I had tickets to a concert she wanted. I am pretty sure my wife only agreed to date me because we lived in the same neighborhood and it was convenient. I can think of no other reason, she is hawt and I spell hot, hawt. Clearly she could have done better.

We all have friends who begin dating and we can see it just won't work. I am in a similar situation. I have had an on again off again love relationship with Running. The problem is I abhor running. There are a list of crybaby reasons why I hate running. The ground is too hard and hurts my knees, my entire body chafes, I have asthma, it takes too much time. So, you would think I would realize that running is the bane of my existence and move on to something less trying like table tennis or water aerobics for my exercise.

But, I am a love struck moron. I look past those things I hate about Running and crush on the things that I think I will love about running. I ignore that I am an asthmatic, bad kneed, lazy, cry baby and focus on a few great things about Running.

Sometimes this works in a relationship. I am sure my wife had to push aside the fact that I had similar table manners to a three year old, that my ultimate dream was to see a werewolf fight an armored mass of zombies, and that I had spent enough money on concerts and CD's to buy a pretty legit car. She forced her brain to ignore these things and instead focused on the fact that.........okay, so I'm not real sure what she focused on....once I got second place in a tennis tournament because another team defaulted, maybe that was it.......

Okay, back on course. The point is she was able to ignore my bad traits and love my good traits and it all seems to have worked out for the good. For that to work though, you must focus on actual good qualities. If you consider the fact that a guy is loaded or a girl is built like Scarlett Johansson the good qualities to focus on you are in for failure.

I am in a similar position with Running. I don't focus on things like my weight, my cardiovascular health, or even the runner's high (We all know that the "runner's high" is just when the runner stops to shoot up out of boredom, right?). Instead I focus on 3 things about Running that my brain perceives as good but really do not promote a long lasting relationship.

REASON ONE: THE CLOTHES

I am vein. It is sad, but true. The clothes don’t make the man, but they sure make the man feel more confident. Rock stars may be confident guys regardless, but you never see one of them walk on stage in a pair of sweat pant shorts and a t-shirt with food stains on it. We can argue it all day long, but clothes kind of sorta maybe make the man. Nike and Under Armor are no slouches and they realize that deep down we all know this and they don’t even typically bother advertising about how their clothes make running easier. They used to. I bought my Nike Pumps in 5th grade because I literally thought they would make me jump higher. But, now they have learned that simply showing an artsy video of people running with their clothes on, or showing a video with lots of quick cuts of a guy working out make us want their clothes. Most of us know we will never play basketball like Lebron or football like Reggie Bush, but maybe, just maybe we could look freakin’ awesome while we run 2 miles an hour around the neighborhood.

REASON TWO: GATORADE

I don’t drink Gatorade on a normal basis. It is expensive and really sugary. Our budget can’t afford it and if I have to choose between a sugary drink and Dunkin Donuts donut, the donut will win every time. I don’t really watch my calories, but I do watch them enough to make sure I spend them on the best tasting options. Gatorade is delicious though. Last week I helped a friend move. As always with moving, it kinda sucked. Heavy things are not fun to pick up and stairs are not fun to climb. Towards the end of the move the friend busted out some Gatorade. I downed 32 ounces of that sweet nectar and I was ready to move furniture for another few hours as long as it meant there was more Gatorade at the end of the day. Sadly, while Gatorade is fantastic while being drunk….drank….dranken…….drinkin? Yes, while Gatorade is fantastic while being drinkin it is not much of a motivator on mile 2 of a mile 5 run.

REASON THREE: ICE CREAM

I have heard story after story of people who run long distance and not only can eat whatever they want but NEED to eat fattening foods to replenish their body. As an out of shape lover of fattening food this sounds like paradise. As I sit on the couch reading yet another article about this phenomenon I think to myself, “Dude, I can totally run 5 miles a day if I can eat a bowl of ice cream after!”. This is a lie. The ice cream is enough positive enforcement to keep me excited as I tie up my running shoes, turn my iPod on, and walk out the door, heck even for the first few minutes of running I feel great. But, inevitably I get to the huge, long, slow rising hill in my neighborhood and all of my excitement drains. My 5 mile run turns into a 2 mile run/walk and my bowl of ice cream turns in to 2 bowls of ice cream…..and a few cookies.

Surprisingly clothing, Gatorade, and ice cream are not the best reasons to take up Running and thus my affair with Running is always short lived. We have a few lustful days of bliss followed by months of ignoring each other. I should learn my lesson. Running never treats me right, she lures me in and treats me horribly. I despise her, but whenever I see a thin person dressed in Under Armor eating Gatorade flavored ice cream (happens ALL THE TIME!) I find my self lacing up my shoes one more time.