Today I found myself wondering about what would be one of the worst jobs of all time. There are of course some of the usual candidates that come up, such as flipping burgers at McDonald's, being a Wal-Mart greeter, or perhaps resident pooper scooper for the city parks.

But another job that I often fail to consider would be one that involves stake outs. How boring would it be to have to watch something constantly, waiting and waiting for something to happen.

Imagine telling someone what you do for a career. "Umm, I, uh, watch things." That would probably be the generic answer you would be forced to give, considering how much confidentiality would more than likely be involved.

You probably couldn't even tell your own mother what you do. And try to fathom what that would mean for a relationship. If nothing else spelled doom, this probably would. Don't believe me? Picture this conversation:

Man: "Well, I'm off to work, honey."
Woman: "Have a good day. What time will you be home?"
Man: "I have no idea."
Woman: "Well, will you be far?"
Man: "I'm afraid I can't answer that question."
Woman: "Well, how about a guess."
Man: "Um, your guess is as good as mine."
Woman: "You're awfully good at dodging questions."
Man: "Yeah, well, that's what I'm paid for."
Woman: "Well, enjoy the money. And the couch."

Or something to that effect. And I'm sure that, at the end of the day, there would be very little to report. "I sat in the car all day and stared at the world going by. Thrill city."

And of course, you can't have such a career and not having a yellow notepad to write down all your notes. The notes would be meant to be important, however boredom would most likely elicit strange doodles and random notes about cars you want to buy, and perhaps the alley cat that expertly caught that bird on the wall.

Yes indeed, it would be a glamorous career, to be sure. I have recently encountered someone in real life who does this. That's right, it's the Mysterious Mustache Man!

The next chapter of the story, as it turns out, is the final chapter. The Mysterious Mustache Man, in all his mustache and fuzzy sweater glory, is no longer visiting the area. His work is done.

So what was that whole business, you're asking yourself. The answer is that he was not stalking anyone, and so said creepy label has been removed. A certain neighbor in the area had been subpoenaed, or summoned by the courts, or something to that effect, and had ignored it. This is a big no-no.

The price you pay for this is the Mysterious Mustache Man paying you a visit, waiting at your house for days at a time in order to deliver you the message personally, and warn you that if you fail to comply, you'll find yourself in big, big trouble.

So look out, and next time you find that some random guy in a fuzzy sweater with a thick coffee mug and binoculars (thanks for the description, Dani!), looking exactly like a Mysterious Mustache Man should, you'll know what's going on.

Given my recent post, and consequently my "incorporeal blogger" status, I've been thinking about the whole deal, and my thoughts turned to ghosts.

Growing up, I did not have much fascination with ghost stories, and unlike many kids my age, I was not into Goosebumps. I consider myself as having a fairly vivid imagination, however the typical scary stories were not my cup of tea. It was not a matter of being freaked out, just a lack of interest.

However, I eventually came to learn of other ghost stories, ones that seemed far more real. These were the stories of legends and tales told in communities and families. In New Mexico, there is of course La Llorona, a story I became familiar with at a young age despite the fact that the culture in which I was raised did not tell the story to children for its most common purpose: encouraging good behavior and wise decisions. I did hear it told as a story, though.

The stories I find myself most absorbed in are those that are actual rumors of ghosts, told by people who see them during their everyday lives. New Mexico has its share of such stories, and some towns are even well known for them. Madrid, a tiny town on the east side of the Sandia mountains (opposite Albuquerque), is an old mining town that has its own tales. Santa Fe, the state capitol, also has a few local ghosts who are famous. I am not familiar with these particular ones.

The ones I have heard more about are those on campus at my school. Many staff people around the school have reported seeing ghosts. The two most famous are these:

1. In one of the classroom buildings, which used to be an old dormitory, there is a ghost of a football player. He has been seen in the basement, near the bathrooms and elevators. Story has it that he was a successful player, but somewhat of a partyer. One night he had had a tad too much to drink, and was impatiently waiting for the elevator. He decided to take matters into his own hands, opening up the doors and peering up the elevator shaft to see where it was. The answer was "almost there" as it descended directly upon him. Though the year is not known for sure, it seems this happened about 70 years ago, or thereabouts.

2. The biggest library on campus spans seven stories. From ground level, it rises four stories. The rest of the building is in basement space. The first basement level is nice, and overall is a pleasant environment. The next two basement levels are much different. You can feel how far below the ground you are by the musty air about the place. It is in the lower basements where I ghost is said to live, a former librarian. She hangs around and wanders the shelves and the stacks.

Usually, every year around Halloween, someone or other sponsors a ghost hunt, and gathers a group of people to wander campus in search of them. These folks are a bit kooky, to say the least, and there methods of searching are questionable, to say the least. Most of the "sightings" they seem to have are random, and they lead you around to certain spots only to emerge where you started, and to suddenly spot the ghost.

I am not very interested in the hunts themselves, or seeing for myself any of these ghosts I've heard about. I enjoy these stories because they remind me of the not-so-distant past. And when I think about them, I am reminded just how much things change in a short time.

This one's for you, Javacat.

Phil entered this world on January 12. The son of two loving parents and some ungrateful yet fun siblings, he grew up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, the place of his birth.

He received a public school education for twelve years before graduating high school and moving on to college. Phil was often described as extremely friendly, and was always known for making others lighten up.

Growing up, Phil was known for day-dreaming and for having quite an imagination. Though he always appeared mature on the outside, inside Phil was a child at heart, forever looking for new ways to challenge the definition of "fun." Phil was also known for being extremely laid back, and was content to take the everyday troubles of life with a shrug.

Albuquerque, NM -- Phil, a college student and 2006 Bloggy Nominee, died on this seventh day of March, 2006. He was 22 years old.

Though his death comes as a shock to many, Phil left this world with no regrets, stating on his death-bed that he had learned lots and had lived a life of integrity and substance.

Phil was hospitalized Sunday, suffering from complications of spending entirely too much time focusing on school and studying for midterms while eating Cheez-Its.

Often described by others as kind-hearted, pleasant, honest, extremely laid-back, and possessing a contagious humor and wit, Phil can only be called a paradox. Despite his go-getter personality and Myers-Briggs certified "extroverted" label, Phil was something of a loner, albeit an unusually social one, placing others' problems above his own, and choosing never to burden others if he could help it.

In the final months of his life, Phil discovered Yahoo! 360, a blogging community where he was finally able to express himself through writing. Friends from the community seemed to enjoy his quirky nature and odd perception of the universe. Phil was thrilled to have a venue to write and have his work be read, and he discovered he loved telling stories.

In his final moments, Phil made a few parting thoughts. "Now, just think of me as being about as useful as the family dog. Only me you don't have to feed. And while it is sad to be going, I admit there are some things I most certainly will not miss, such as pulling weeds. I know it sounds heartless and cruel, but what can I say, it's true."

Phil's family would love for you to attend his funeral and memorial service, which will take place tomorrow afternoon at 3pm at Yahoo! Brambled Acres, where he is to be buried.

Not being one for long goodbyes, and certainly not one for flowers, Phil's family would like to make it known that the only gifts they will accept is food, considering especially how much Phil loved food, and they left a guest book below to be signed. Feel free to sign the list in the book, and any nice stories you share about Phil are most appreciated.

As the last week has unfolded, a new sort of excitement has unleashed itself upon my neighborhood. I suppose it was only a matter of time before this happened, given that nothing overly exciting has been going on around here.

For the last several weeks, there has been a mysterious vehicle parked some place along the street during the day. At first, it was thought it was a friend visiting a neighbor, but no one seemed to know the odd mustached man behind the wheel. And he never seemed to get out of his car.

In an apparent effort to remain inconspicuous, he puts up a visor on the windshield. A good idea, to be sure, unless you leave part of it open on the driver's side of the vehicle, through which you stare out at the street and people driving/walking/biking by.

Needless to say, many people in the neighborhood were not what you would call 'happy' about our unusual guest. So they did the only logical thing they could, and called the police. It has been several days since they called, and we have yet to have a response from that end. But we still have the Mystery Mustache Man.

Everyone jumps to conclusions, and the first thing that comes to mind is that the man is some sort of criminal, or a stalker. However, he has yet to do anything to verify either of these two guesses.

Eventually, Mysterious Mustache Man does something interesting, and breaks out binoculars and camera, and seems to be busy documenting stuff. Hmmm, perhaps he's some sort of private eye?

So we have a hypothetical on our hands. He's a Private Detective, albeit not a very good one. I was always under the impression that, if you are playing personal spy, it's best not stand out in any way. You're supposed to be sneaky and clever, and ideally, no one should know what you're up to. Given that the whole neighborhood is onto this guy, I'd say he screwed up somewhere.

Perhaps it was the fact that he sits in his car all day, perfectly visible. Or maybe it's the fact that he tries to be stealthy by parking in different places up and down the street, though always on the same side of the road, for some reason, and always facing the same direction. Perhaps it's the fact that he owns two Fords, and alternates between the two.

In any event, Mysterious Mustache Man has become something of an annoyance, considering he come uninvited and never bothers introducing himself. Though on the flip side, he apparently has every right to be doing what he is (presumably surveilling/casing the neighborhood), as that is his constitutional right. Because he is parked on the street, that counts as public property, so no one can kick him off their property because it isn't actually theirs.

Mysterious Mustache Man, I suppose, could be doing what he's doing for any number of reasons. He could be an undercover cop. He could be a PI. He could be monitoring my internet habits, and reading this blog, in which case he's in for a surprise. I don't know.

Hopefully, he moves on and lets us back to our normal, dull lives. We can't handle this much excitement.

*Disclaimer: The use of the following news stories is based on truth, however I have twisted the stories together, and with the exception of the president of the Screen Actors Guild, Saddam Hussein, Clay Aiken, and the band Three 6 Mafia, I have made up names to protect those people actually involved in any of the following events. Now sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

There is much controversy, past and present, over swear words being used on national television. When I think about it, swear words are generally taboo, and as children we are taught never to say those naughty words. Despite this, we learn and use swear words to express ourselves.

The most recent plight of swear words is the word bitches. The root word, bitch, has been used for roughly the last 1000 years. It can mean a variety of things, everything from a female dog to the more modern and self-explanatory/undefinable bitches, which tends to always be used in the plural form.

It might help to understand this more fully with the use of an example. Take the recent lawsuit against American Idol-turned pop star Clay Aiken. Nine adoring female fans are suing him and his record label for "false advertising" because, as it turns out, Clay Aiken is in fact gay. To sum the word in one sentence, I give you:

"These nine bitches were disheartened that their heartthrob turned out to be unavailable to them, and now they want to exact their revenge."

This brings us to modern times, and next week's yearly Oscar Awards. The band Three 6 Mafia will be performing their song "It's Hard Out There For a Pimp," which was used in the movie Hustle & Flow. The song will be the first ever rap song performed at the Oscars. By and large, the many cuss words in the song will not be sung during the performance, but networks have approved the use of the word "bitches" as part of the song. Given the song, the inclusion of the word seems pretty pertinent to the subject matter.

But what could possibly be the reason for network's suddenly allowing this word to be broadcast?

The answer lies in the recent discovery of a gamma ray burst. However, gamma ray bursts themselves are not a new discovery. On average, they're seen once a day. The gamma ray burst is the product of an exploding star. It usually indicates the growth of a supernova, which is a bright and chemical element-rich product of the explosion.

Most gamma ray bursts take place billions of light-years away from Earth, and last for less than two minutes at a time. The recent gamma ray burst, however, hit much closer to home. It took place a mere 440 million light years away and lasted 2,000 seconds, which is more than half an hour.

The Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Maryland, has been looking to the sky with great interest. Bob Morseno, an astrophysicist at the Center, said the following in an interview:

"Me and a few of my colleagues were hanging out at the telescope, when all of a sudden we noticed something practically right in front of our noses. Well, the telescope lens, that is. Anyways, I knew right away that we were seeing a gamma ray burst, but the others didn't believe me until they saw more data. Bitches."

Morseno went further to explain that his colleagues were expecting something out of Fantastic Four, with blazing light and explosions, despite the fact that gamma rays are not actually visible to the human eye. It was this that caused them to wait for more data, according to Morseno.

Not ones to be outdone, especially by scientists, the people running this year's Oscar Awards decided that they need to push the envelope. They immediately called an emergency meeting, and within ten minutes officially gave Three 6 Mafia the go ahead to use the word "bitches" as it appears in their song.

Said Oscar spokeswoman Natalia Gurdunhau, "The Oscars are all about spirit and expression. We want old rock stars, we want gay cowboys, and we want to hear about bitches. So sue us."

The Screen Actors Guild has put out a press statement saying they fully support the use of "expressive" language at the Oscars. "Expression is part of what makes us human," says Alan Rosenberg, current president of the SAG. "If we didn't learn how to speak what's on our mind, we'd end up like those two kids who tried to run away by stealing and flying their parent's plane. We'll crash into a national park and get arrested. And I personally do not want to have that on my conscience."

Only time will tell if any of this hoopla lives up to what it is purported to. It will either be a great success, or it will end up being about as useful as Saddam Hussein's recent decision to go on a hunger strike. Are these bitches really shooting themselves in the foot? We will find out soon enough.

It's been a busy week for me, and I have to play catch up on my blog reading. Yesterday, the Y!360 Team released some cool new features, and finally brought back the personalized invites. I'm thrilled to have them back.

They also introduced a cool new polling feature, which is a lot of fun, and today I decided, for several reasons, that I would use it. Here are the reasons:

1. I went bowling last night, and didn't get in until late, so I didn't have a chance to think up a good blog entry.

2. I wanted to use the polling feature.

Okay, so that's only two reasons. But who cares. I wanted to give my friends a chance to influence what it is I write about in a blog. Plus, I felt like it might present me a challenge.

I have below a poll with five different news stories listed. Vote for the one story you would like to see me write about. I opted for news stories because they're not things I write about often, so I'm trying something new.

The polls will be open until I decide to close them sometime in the evening. I will pick the two most popular votes and combine them into a single entry, which I will post on Friday.

So put in your vote, and then stop wasting time on my blog and head over to the First Annual 360 Bloggy Awards. Hop to it.

Poll (results are shown in parentheses):

Which news story should I write about?

1. Saddam Hussein's Hunger Strike (2)
2. The word "bitches" being used at the Oscars (15)
3. The nine fans suing American Idol star Clay Aiken (5)
4. The two boys who stole their parents' plane to try to run (well, fly) away (1)
5. The recent gamma ray burst, so close to home (10)

I realize that most of my posts are light-hearted, but today I am going to be different, and tell you about something that I find rather sad.

This past Monday, I was walking alongside a street on campus. The street has three lanes going both directions. As I made my way down the hill, I noticed a girl in the street, in the middle of the right lane. She looked as if she had fallen. I saw another girl with her, trying to pull her up.

I hurried up and quickly made my way towards them. There was another girl ahead of me, who simply walked past the two girls (I'll get to my thoughts on her shortly). When I arrived, I saw that the girl in the street was in tears, obviously petrified about the whole ordeal. I helped pull her out of the street and onto the safety of the sidewalk. The other girl and I supported her, and then they called for some friends to pick her up in their car.

The girl who was hurt told me that she had fallen and hurt her ankle. I said I was sure she'd be okay, especially now that she was out of the street.

This street runs along a residential area and borders the campus. The speed limit is 30 mph. However, people rarely observe the speed limit, especially on this particular 3-lane road. They tend to travel 50, on average. That said, I certainly don't blame the girl for being so upset, and getting her the hell off the street was the first and most important thing to do.

What really left me awestruck is that cars did not seem to slow down when they saw her, but rather swerved into the next lane and sped around her.

When all was said and done, my thoughts returned to the woman I had seen ahead of me. And I found myself asking, "what the hell is wrong with some people?!!" How can you see someone in distress and not do anything to help that person? I don't care what meeting you have to get to, or if you'll lose your job if you're late. None of that measures up when there is a life at stake. I mean, the beotch didn't even stop to talk to the two girls!!! She ignored the tears and the look of fear in their eyes, and kept right on walking.

I did not offer my help for sake of chivalry, I helped because I'm human. And when something is wrong with a fellow comrade, I could not live with myself if I didn't do something to help out. I could not simply walk past a person who fell into the street and can't get up to safety.

I mean, really, where's the compassion? Where's the instinct that we should look out for each other, no matter whether we know someone or how we might perceive them or judge them?

This "woman" who turned the other cheek, who put herself above another, has left me stupefied and frustrated. And you'd better believe that, should I ever meet her face to face, I'll have a few choice words for her.

Beware, for times right now are not as safe as they might seem. I know what you're thinking. There's all manner of violence and terrorism afoot. There's contrived schemes happening right under our very noses, while we're unaware. Missy suddenly and unexpectedly came down with something we hope isn't contagious. But these things pale in comparison to the other danger that is present.

I speak of a danger that knows no bounds, and that will stop at nothing until it has accomplished its task. Borders mean nothing to it, nor do closed doors. It transcends boundaries of age, young or old. And lastly, there is absolutely nothing you or I can do about it.

"But what could possibly do that?" you might find yourself asking. And I answer: "Something simple and powerful, brought into our homes each year by young girls going door to door, smiling sweetly, and asking the single most rhetorical question ever asked.........'Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?'"

Yes, it's true. It is once again that special time of year, where the Girl Scouts of America hit the streets and sell us their cookies. That's right, you read correctly. Girl Scout Cookies.

At this point, you might be inclined to wonder why it is I refer to these as 'dangerous'. I suppose, when I think about it, that really, these cookies are an excellent way to bring about peace. You could stop a war by asking both sides if they'd like to take a break and have some Thin Mints, Trefoils, Do-Si-Dos, or perhaps even some Samoas. I'm confident that everyone would forget what they were fighting about and go for a cookie.

However, it is in our own homes that Girl Scout Cookies can prove deadly. For instance, if you have a family or roommates, who are aware that said cookies have been delivered, you may notice violent behavior completely out of character. Should you open a box, then open the plastic, everyone (and I mean everyone in the house will hear the sound of twisting plastic. Not only that, they will immediately know the exact source, and if you don't watch out, you might fight yourself beneath a dogpile of people who want cookies.

So if you want to avoid violence, and perhaps see some amusing or neat tricks in the process, I offer some suggestions:

1. Order the cookies when no one else is home, have them delivered at a similar time ("that's the only time I'll be home to be able to pick them up, sorry"), hide them, and eat them when no one's around. While others might take this is selfishness, remind yourself that you're sparing them (and you) from violence.

2. Hide the cookies in the freezer and put a lock on it. Sure, there might be attempts at theft, but it will be worth it in the end.

3. Need to get rid of that pesky son or daughter, spouse/significant other, or roommate? Simple. Hold a cookie and offer it to them, then yell "fetch!" and chuck it as far as you can. That'll keep them occupied, at least long enough for you to snag a few for yourself and then hide them again. For more entertainment, put a Samao (the circular chocolate coconut cookie) on said person's nose and make them catch it in their mouth (hint: handcuff them behind the back for maximum entertainment).

These suggestions are only the beginning. I'm sure there are countless other things to do which I did not write down. Just be sure that, before you go dig in to that brand new box of delicious Girl Scout Cookies, you watch your back.

Should you get football tackled unaware, you can't blame me. I warned you.

Today is the big day of schemes, so let's get rolling! There are quite a few people involved, so be sure to check them all out:

Joonuper
Mame
Lynn
Lucky Lisa
Doug
Javacat
Missy
Adrian C
April
Witch
Gary N
Katherine
Angellique
Red74015
Sucka
Scott B

If you'd like to join in last minute, leave a comment so I know to visit your page, and I'll try to add you to the list so others can visit as well.

This was a lot of fun to think up, and before I begin, I want to thank Sucka, who helped me immensely by "just tossing out cities out of my arse." And so, without further adieu, I present to you:

MY PATHETIC SCAM

Good afternoon. I was wondering if you could spare a minute? You seem, I have a small problem. Normally, I hate to dump all my problems on people, but I'm at my wit's end. I have no one left to turn to, and so here I am, talking to you.

I'm originally from Chicago, but never actually spent any time there as a kid. My family had to flee the city because of my father's Mafia ties. We ended up in Sandusky, Ohio, a place on the down low enough for us to get by unnoticed.

But the Mafia has connections in places even we never imagined, and little did we know that Dirk the mechanic was one of them. He figured out who we were early on, and reported us. It was a close call, but we escaped somehow, and, being clever, we decided to head south to Kentucky. Appalachia seemed like a good spot to disappear, and an unlikely place for the Mafia to even think to look for us. Ashland, Kentucky turned out to be the first place I lived in for more than six months, what with travel time between cities and places, and having to hide ourselves all the dang time.

We were there for two years, but at the ripe old age of eight, my mom snuck me onto an open semi truck and then bid me farewell. I had no idea what it was she was doing, but now I understand that she wanted to get me as far away from all those troubles as she could.

I rode that big rig across the country. Of course, the trucker found out about me before too long, but he was a friendly fellow and made sure I had plenty to eat and a place to sleep. In Las Vegas, Nevada, he had to turn me loose, though, as I'd become a liability with his employer. So it was that I took to the streets, making my way in the town as best I could.

In Vegas, I discovered a world full of possibilities, and found that even a kid could get by on his own without too much trouble. Luckily, I was befriended by a few prostitutes, who were very nice and wanted to take care of me. Well, I stayed there for a few years, and then knew that it was time to move on. I journeyed west, and eventually wound up in San Francisco, California.

California taught me a lot, and as a young teenager I was able to learn new skills, one of which was street performing. I always remembered my father, and knew that I never wanted to end up like him. I worked hard, and as a street performer, I was able to earn enough money to get by without any help. My next goal was to learn to read and write, something I had begun to learn but never had a chance to perfect.

I met a woman named Tanya, who took a liking to me, and became my best friend. She helped me learn to read and write better, and before long I was well on my way. Still, I was never able to get a formal education, because I was out on my own. But through Tanya, I met people who were able to help me learn new skills that I could use to market myself, and education did not matter from then on.

When I was 19, I left San Francisco behind. I did not say goodbye, and to this day I miss my friend Tanya. She changed my life. I decided to head north, and wound up in Portland, Oregon. I found a job working on a fishing boat, and discovered a whole new life to be had out at sea.

Well, life sure is weird, but one day we was fishing, and had a net full of fish that was really heavy. When we finally it up, we discovered that it wasn't all fish in there. There was a person stuck inside the net, but weird, he was dead. We thought maybe he got in bad with pirates, but there's none of them in Portland. And the guy was wearing a suit, too, a real fancy one.

We checked his pockets and found his wallet. We looked at who it was, and his ID said James D. Tioni. Well, I'll be damned, this was my pop's Mafia boss. Well, I knew I had to get away, and I resolved right then that I should try to find my family.

I left then and there, the moment I hit land. Yes siree, I just walked off the dock and left. Didn't wait for the last of my pay, didn't say goodbye, just left. Well, I had bought a car, and so I packed my things and hit the road. I have here Mr. Tioni's wallet, and a business card with the town Biloxi, Mississippi written on it.

I have no idea if my folks landed there, or what, but that's the only clue I have for where to start looking. And so that's where I am now, trying to get down there. I'm not short on money, but I don't have any way to use the money I do have. Could you please cosign on this property agreement, so that I can access my bank account and get the rest of my money? I would sure appreciate that.

Yesterday, I went swimming with a friend of mine from school. When I arrived on campus, I discovered that the place was packed, and it was nearly impossible to find a place to park.

At first, I assumed that the crowded lots were thanks to Riverdance, who are performing several shows this weekend in one of the theaters on campus. As it turns out, I was only partially right.

On the field outside the gym, I witnessed a Lacrosse game in progress. It's kind of fun to watch, because the game is exciting and the people in the crowd get really into it.

I continued on, however, and made my way into the gym, where I was confronted with the next big parking lot stuffer: a wrestling tournament. It was one of those big state wrestling tournaments for a large age-range, and it showcased a clever title, similar to "State Wrestling Tournament." I realized something was up when I saw the SUV parked outside packed full with Gildan boxes for the occasion. I thought to myself, "Ah, those would be the t-shirts with "State Wrestling" printed on them, which will be worn fervently for the coming weeks after the match, before being forgotten about and then dropped off at the nearest Saver's.

Anyway, I ignored most of the spectacle, and continued on my way to the pool to swim. We didn't swim hard, but instead I helped my friend out with some of his technique. It was a lot of fun, but after about an hour and a half, we decided to throw in the towel.

As we were leaving, we happened to look into the gymnasium in use for the big wrestling match. Curiosity got the best of me, and I went to gawk at the spectacle from an open doorway. My friend joined me, and we had the following conversation while watching two six-year-olds duke it out:

Friend: Wow, I didn't know they came so small. Look how cute they are!
Me: Yes, cute until they suddenly attack your leg and break out the WWF moves.
Friend: Still, I had no idea they started so young.
Me: Actually, it's really good for them, teaching them how to kick each other's asses. But hey, at least they encourage good sportsmanship. See the handshake?
Friend: That's true.

After we had had our fill of watching the show, we headed out and went on our way. What an intense experience that was.

Have you ever been approached by someone who wanted to scam you? I have on several occasions, and I have noticed a fascinating trend in the art of scams. Yesterday, I was at the gas station, staring with wide eyes and jaw dropped at the numbers as the dollars moved so quickly. All of a sudden, I was accosted by a man in a cheap SUV.

He started out by saying "Sir, can I ask you a question?" He then immediately mentioned that he was from Missouri. Naively, I figured he would simply ask me for directions. After all, isn't that logical? Anyway, long story short, he launched into a wild tale of intrigue and life overseas, and terrible events with parents and dragons in a land far away.

I found myself tuning the man out, and finding sudden interest in the machinations of as pumps. As he droned on, I took in bits and pieces of his story, and actually began to admire how well rehearsed it was, and how much thought must have gone into it. Thinking back to other scams, I realized that they, too, were crafted with extraordinary care.

I had planned on launching into an explanation of the scam in this blog entry, but in the midst of my thoughts I was struck by an idea. I harkened back to the 360 Freestyle event that took place a few weeks ago, and decided it might be really fun to turn this into a fun blogging opportunity for everyone.

So the question becomes: how pathetic a story can you come up with for the sake of scheming money?

The rules are simple:

1. The goal of the work must be to scheme money.

2. How pathetic or sappy your piece is is entirely up to you.

3. It must be written in first person. After all, you're trying to convince me to give you money.

4. Title your entry "Fun Fiction: My Pathetic Scam".

I want this to get creative, and I want people to be able to join in and have time to put a piece together, so we'll set the date for posting this blog for this coming Monday, February 27.

If you'd like to join in the fun, leave a comment below, and I'll put a link to your page in this blog. That way, we have a central location with links for everyone to visit to read your entry.

Now go forth and scheme.

*Update:

So far, here's a list of everyone involved:

Joonuper
Mame
Lynn
Lucky Lisa
Doug
Javacat
Missy
Adrian C
April
Witch
Gary N

These days, all of us seem to have one form of stress or another. Whether it is a result of a job, school, family, friends, love life, or any of a multitude of reasons, we tend to always have some form of stress.

In most cases, we let stress get the best of us. It eats away at your mind, then consumes your thoughts, and before you know it, it becomes your very existence. To say the least, stress sucks!

And so we go, day by day, trying to find ways to deal with the stress(es) of life. One way to deal with stress might be to ignore it completely, figuring that life is too short to be stressed out. This thought is nice, but not exactly realistic. Rather, it is generally a good goal to find some way to deal with the stress.

For some, intense exercise can be beneficial, sweating the stress out. This can take place via running, power walking, lifting weights, water aerobics, swimming, calisthenics, Jenny Craig, or Tai Bo with Billy Blanks. And no, Sweating to the Oldies with what's-his-name doesn't count. That'll only increase the stress.

You're probably thinking to yourself that this is great if you have spare time, or time devoted to anything other than, say, reading blogs. I would have to agree. I think exercise is great, but there has to be a way to do something while you're sitting at your desk, at work or wherever.

And sure enough, there is! Think into the recent past, and perhaps an invention called the "stress ball" will come to mind. These little inventions are great. Just sit back, put the ball in your hand, and make a fist. Basically, it allows you to make a fist using as much muscle as you can muster, without accidently over-exerting yourself and snapping your tendons with your grip.

I have to admit, there's something about squeezing that little synthetic blob that is extremely satisfying. You can crush it with your fist, and it will always spring back to life for you to squeeze again. If you have enough time on your hands, or enough stress, you can de-stress with one of these puppies for hours. Trust me, lifting weights has nothing on the muscle you'll build by squeezing the stress ball.

After a while, you'll discover that your entire forearm feels tight, and you can feel every part of your muscle work when you use it. By the time you're through, your stress will be relieved, and your mind will only be able to focus on your arm, trying to figure out what the heck you did to it by squeezing the damn ball.

Other uses of the stress ball are plentiful. If you find yourself bored in a meeting, or class, or training, amuse yourself by working out with the stress ball. Bosses, coworkers, teachers, classmates, et. al. will never notice, and you will be amused to no end. If you're feeling vengeful, make the ball take up all your stress, and crush it with your iron fist. It's bound to make you feel better.

So when you find yourself devoid of inspiration, stressed, or down, break out the stress ball. It'll work wonders.

I have noticed a trend as I've gotten older, one that does not seem to want to go away. Seems that more and more, I'm having to actually dress up nicely to go places. I'm lead to believe that it is professional to dress up, be it for school/future career related events, or various other odd events.

When I was younger, I used to love to dress up. After about age five, I came to my senses, and from then on detested the notion of wearing anything other than my "comfy" clothes.

Recently, I have had to break down and wear nice clothes. I have discovered that this is not all that bad. When I'm tidied up and people tell me I look nice, it's not such a bad feeling. And when I meet new people, I have to catch myself before accidently saying "I'm Bond, James Bond."

Okay, so the Bond part isn't entirely true.

Anyway, here's the catch (you knew there had to be one): you have to go shopping for the clothes. I'm almost certain I register on the world's "Top 100 Worst Shoppers of All Time" list. When I have to go shopping, it had best be quick, unless I'm shopping for books, music, or stereo equipment.

Thanks to all the occasions that seem to be creeping up on me at which I need decent attire, I had to break down and expand my wardrobe. So after the holidays, I hit the stores because I know that's when everything is on sale dirt cheap.

I went to J.C. Penny, and shortly afterward walked out of the store with two brand new pairs of Dockers pants. I somehow managed to make it through the fitting room stage, and everything checked out fine, and off I went, feeling good that I had landed myself some nice pants and gotten a damn good deal on them as well.

Well, the weeks passed, and because school was not yet in session, and at work I was only allowed to wear one color of pants, I did not have an opportunity to really use my new Dockers. No problem, right?

Wrong. I go to use one new pair for the first time, and it all starts out well. But you know, there's a big difference between wearing a pair of pants for 90 seconds in the fitting room and wearing them around all day.

Long story short, my new pants were not cut right, and so I spent the day in extreme discomfort, cursing them silently. Turns out both pairs had a vendetta against me, knowing that I would have to take them back.

And so yesterday, I trudged back to J.C. Penny in the hopes of exchanging them. I went to Customer Service, and after haggling over the receipt, I was given a full refund. I then commenced in my quest to find the same pants, only in a more suitable size.

It is here that I began to curse clothes manufacturers (those fuccant jerks!). I had cut off and disposed of the tags from my former pants, and so was unsure what specific style to pick out. Were they the ProStyle? The Relaxed Fit? The Casual with crease, or without?

I was at a loss. Desperate, I made my best guess, and took the plunge. I picked out two more pairs of pants, made sure to try them on (envisioning future comfort as I did so), and then proceeded to the counter to check out. As it turns out, luck was not in my favor. The pants I had chosen were different, and so I could not get the same unbeatable deal I had previously.

Determined to accomplish my mission, I ventured again into the abyss of Dockers products, tossing items and not caring what became of them. I had to find the right pants!

After a time, I felt I had emerged victorious, and returned again to the counter. The clerk rang me up, but again hit me with the news that I would be unable to get the same deal. I interrogated her further, and learned that she was comparing the names of items to those on the receipt. I looked at the receipt. It said: Dockers Dress Pants.

Aha! The clerk saw that and told me to go get the "Dress Pants" line of Dockers, and all would work out. At this point, I had an epiphany. I burst out, "There's no actual 'Dress Pants' line, though! That's just a generic name for Dockers! They're dress pants!" Without hesitating, she looked at me and said "Well, I can't give you the sale price because these don't say dress pants."

It was at this point that I was ready to tear my hair out in frustration, but I retained my composure. I resolved that this would be the last try, and then I would buy the damn pants. No more standing in line, no more arguing over ridiculous names, no more saying I picked a different color ("oh, that's two shades too dark, sorry") so that I could be denied my pants.

I went back, dropped off one pair and then grabbed another which, despite the fact that it was "different" from the ones I had originally bought, were at least on sale. I again returned to line.

As I predicted, the lady would not let me pay the same price as before, but I was so tired that no longer cared. I wanted to get my pants and get as far away from that place as I could. I was through. So I grumbled, paid for my purchase, and left. I am determined to use the pants well, and make the most of them. I'm not about to let the store, or the manufacturers, to get the better of me.

The thought crossed my mind that perhaps this was some ploy, to turn more of a profit. Surely that is possible: make the customer as frustrated as possible, i.e. by making him run around the store like a chicken with its head cut off (preferably more than one time), to drain his energy by making him spend more time in the store. He'll get so wound up he'll do whatever it takes to get what he needs and get the heck out of there.

If this is the case, it sure worked on me. Sheesh.

Being a college student, I am constantly exposed to a wide array of public speakers. Most of these people are professors, as I'm not exactly guilty of attending very many extra-curricular seminars or colloquiums. I see my share, but most of the speakers I am exposed to are generally those that show up in my classes.

Over the past four years, I thought I had seen just about everything. I've had exceptional teachers, who are animated and thrilled to be able to impart their knowledge to our impressionable minds. I have had boring and seemingly lifeless professors, who seem to view teaching as an annoyance, but only do it because otherwise they would not be able to do research.

Many teachers of the latter variety speak in monotone, and so are very talented at putting students to sleep. The constant drone of voice is great for inducing drowsiness. It's amazing.

I have had my share of monotone instructors, and have just accepted it as something that is part of the whole college experience. Most teachers I can manage to get by and understand. Despite the monotone, they manage to use otherwise appropriate language.

Yesterday, however, I was granted a new and extraordinary opportunity. A professor who had been absent so far this year due to surgery was finally able to return and begin teaching us. She was very nice, and seems very knowledgeable. She has the unfortunate quality, though, of being the single most monotone person--well, lecturer--I have ever met.

Hers was a monotone beyond drone. Her voice seemed to become one with the room, and it coexisted in some sick symbiotic relationship with it. She would cover topics, and go into detail about them. However, I was unable to tell when she changed the subject. There was no change in inflection of her voice, no pause in her speech, to alert me to a shift of topic. Everything blended from one topic to the next.

Being a reasonable instructor, she also wanted us as a class to have some input. I always appreciate this, and yesterday was no exception. It was when she asked questions of us, however, that I realized I was not alone in my struggle to comprehend what she was saying. No one could tell that she had actually asked a question, because again, there was no change in her inflection or voice quality. It was not until after she was silent for a matter of several seconds that anyone realized that she was awaiting our responses. And at that point, everyone scrambled and strained their brains trying to figure out what she could possibly be asking of us.

Next week, I wonder if I will be more accustomed to her teaching personality, and thus more able to be attentive in class. But who knows. Only time will tell.

As I'm lacking time to post an entry of my usual thoughtfulness, but I still wanted to post something, I decided I'd be different today and present you with a challenge. The picture you see is of a Giant Tree Frog, otherwise known as a White-Lipped tree frog. Your job is to think up a creative one-liner, such as you might see in an advertisement. No specific product has to be specified, but if you'd like to mention a product of some sort to refer to, i.e. to make it funnier, go for it. No Bud frog jokes allowed, I want to see all new ideas. I'll start us off:

"What's the matter, are you chicken?"

I may be somewhat delinquent on this, but I've finally given in and have posted a picture of my desktop. This idea was started by my friend Missy, a now-famous blogger featured on Y!360's Interesting Pages.

One day, Missy got bored and decided to take a peek at everyone's desktops. It's a pretty cool idea, and everyone, including those not connected to Missy (this is pre her blog career exploding and forcing fame and fortune upon her) started to post their desktop images. It's spreading like wildfire.

And now, I'll explain my little desktop. Unlike many people's desktops I've seen, I do not have a cool super hero or animation-themed desktop. My picture, to some, might be reminiscent of a simple pre-made desktop for an operating system. However, let me assure you that it's not.

This picture of snowy mountains is one I found on the internet, mainly because I love mountains. I grew up in Albuquerque, and so I've hardly spent time away from mountains. I can't get enough of them. I have my desktop set to randomly change on an interval (one week), and this happened to be the week's desktop of choice. I have other cool pictures, but you'll just have to wait until the next desktop contest comes around to see them.

But still, aren't those mountains amazing? I wish I was there right now.

Since I started college several years ago, I've come to realize that college culture is extremely unique. I grew up in Albuquerque, and continue to live here. But the image I had growing up, even visiting the university back then, and my perspective as that of college student now are two vastly different things.

College is like its own little world, stuck in the middle of a city that is very different from it.

Mostly, I think, what sets colleges so far apart from the cities in which they reside is the people. Sure, there's the usual college crowd, people straight out of high school who think they're all grown up. Freshman, who seem to get younger every year, are lots of fun. They start out timid, then grow confident, then grow stupid, and then finally start to grow into real people. It's fascinating.

Then, too, there are the older students, graduate or otherwise, who have grown accustomed to the system and numb to it. And finally, there's my favorite of the student crowd, the older adults who return to get an education after getting sick of the career they had, and want to start fresh.

There's all sorts of interesting people. And lest I forget, there's also a wide variety of bums around campus, to beg or provide some sort of amusement. Bums are rarely memorable, and something tells me they like to stay that way. The memorable ones can be either funny or annoying, depending on your mood.

The college newspaper published an editorial last semester that I found wildly amusing. The author spoke out against the "dancing burnout losers" on campus. I must admit, I love that phrase, it cracks me up.

The first "dancing burnout loser" that comes to mind is a guy who I think is a student, at least on occasion. He wears bad retro clothes and cheesy derby hats. He started out with a portable CD player with portable speakers and has graduated to a huge portable boom box, which he plays at full volume outside. The "music" is supposedly stuff he mixes himself, and he wants to show the world that there is music to listen to! Philanthropic, eh? So anyway, as his music blasts, he stands by it and dances in little circles, trying to do rave moves to it. He only knows a few moves, so it's pretty repetitive.

Our next contestant is a rather large character. Apparently, this guy never made it into the new millennium. Nay, not even the 90's. This guy screams 80's from the moment you see him. He wears a hat sideways, bright clothing contrasted with black, a giant bling necklace (by giant, I mean it covers approximately half his girth), and big black sunglasses. His costume comes replete with an old school boom box, the kind that only sports a cassette deck and radio tuner, from which blasts 80's rap for all to hear. To top it off, he perches the boom box on his shoulder and struts around campus in a slow saunter.

Next up is a guy who is actually quite peaceful. Yes, it's the Hare Krishna guy, who sits outside the parking building and plays his guitar and croons about peace and harmony. He's actually pretty good, but all his goodwill goes unnoticed, as people seem to get annoyed by him, and start yelling at him. Personally, I like the guy.

And last, but not least, comes the newest player to this arena. This guy is middle aged, or thereabouts. He comes to campus in jeans and a tee shirt, and also wears a light windbreaker or baseball jacket. He also wears a hat. If he's sounding pretty normal, don't be fooled. He picks a spot, sets down his bag, and then breaks out the walkman. On go the headphones, on goes the power, and off he goes, singing loudly to the music in his ears. Quite often, it's Oldies he sings, the Beatles being one of his favorites. Tolerable, you might think, on the condition that someone can sing. However, he's terribly tone deaf. This doesn't stop him from belting out those tunes at the top of his voice, and smiling at everyone who passes him by.

As I look back over this list, I see that none of the contestants are women. To be honest, no women around campus do anything of the sort. In fact, very few of the bums are women, interestingly enough. The only ones who come to mind are the following: the lady missing half her teeth who forever went around asking for change for the bus, the lady who would sit somewhere indoors and clear out the area in a matter of minutes, and the lady who would go to the library, put on her music on the computer, sew her clothing/bedding, and sing so that everyone in the library could hear her.

Wow. What a unique place college can be.

The recent Super Bowl has proven not only to be a good time to enjoy the sport of football, but apparently also a good time to advertise for the release of brand new products.

One that comes to mind is the new Gillette Fusion razor. The amount of competition these days is staggering, and if I may say so, predictable. It's easy to predict what products will be released, but guessing the names of these products is a challenge. After Gillette released the phenomenal Mach III razor, which was a brilliant and long over-due upgrade from the Track II, things went downhill. What made Mach III great was that the blade actually bent.

Next up, in a devilish plan to beat out its competition, Schick entered its own brainchild, Quattro. Their idea was that four blades was far more powerful than three. However, they didn't copy the entire design, which seems rather unusual, but regardless of my opinion, Quattro disappointed. It had no special flexible blade, so it was still tough to use, and Gillette's M3 Power trumped it easily.

But Gillette is still in the game, trying to stay one step ahead of the competition. And so we have Fusion, a five-blade razor that comes in both manual and battery power! Talk about options.

If the Super Bowl ads did nothing for you, with the blue and orange blazing forms of technology uniting in a giant explosion and producing this earth-shattering new technology, then perhaps the website will. Enter Cassandra, sexy web hostess to the Gillette Fusion website, who poses patiently as the page loads, and then proceeds to give you a full tour of the website and explains the razor in great detail. As head honcho of the area, Cassandra is an expert in all things Fusion.

She'll give you the low down, short of revealing the secrets of the production of Fusion itself (trade secrets), and will put to rest any irrational fears you might have that someday in the near future, there'll be a 20-blade razor that's just too darn big to actually use on your face.

When all is said and done, you'll be left with only one final question: why the heck are all the guys shown in shaving commercials already clean shaven?

Yesterday, I diid something out of the ordinary: I went out to lunch. Now, you might be thinking to yourself, "that's not out of the ordinary." But for me, it is. I generally avoid eating out, as it gets pretty darn expensive, and I am but a poor college student. The added bonus of this, though, is that I benefit from eating homemade food, which is generally better for you, and quite often better tasting.

Yesterday, however, I helped a friend of mine move, and after a long day of arduous labor, we got really hungry, and her kitchen was by no means even ready to think about cooking, or preparing any food, for that matter. So, worn out and starving, we decided to go out and grab a bite to eat. We took a quick jaunt across the street to Chili's, whom although they're a huge chain and only getting bigger, and with whom I haven't forgiven for taking the Veggie and Smoked Cheese Quesidillas (my personal favorite) off the menu.

But I digress. We sat at our table, and proceeded with the lunch ritual of looking over the menu, glancing at the desserts and making fun of the the fruity drinks offered (which always have such amusing names), and drinking water.

We were sitting in a booth, which had another booth opposite separated by a wall with plants on it. In the opposite booth was a family of four, mother and father and two boys. The older boy was probably about 6 or 7, and the younger was only 2 or 3. The two boys sat on the inside of the booth, barred from escape by a parent on the outside.

The older boy was none to exciting, content to scarf his food and yell at his younger brother for everything he did. After all, isn't that what older brothers are supposed to do? The younger boy was something else. He was at that age where he's figuring out how to talk, and say "NO!" Needless to say, this little guy was something of a chatterbox.

As we were relaxing and talking, the little guy stands up on his seat, sees me, puts his hands on the wall to support himself, and begins a barrage of dialogue with me. Of course, due to the severe lack of context for our conversation, I had no idea what he was talking about. But in an effort to encourage him, I smiled and said "Hi. Yes!"

Apparently, I said the right thing, because he started talking even more. Mom and Dad weren't real keen on this, I'm guessing, probably not so much because he was talking to a stranger, but because he was ignoring his food and his company, and manners are very important to learn. So I didn't mind, but I probably didn't help them much by responding to the kid every time he jumped up and started talking to me.

We would be having some random conversation, and the kid would pop up and join right in. He even found something to say regarding our conversation about how the other night I declared that, if elected pope, I would be the first ever Ninja Pope. Long story.

But anywy, to be honest, it would have been impossible to ignore him, he was so funny. He'd pop up and start talking and smiling, and then he'd laugh. He even went so far as to later put his shoe on the wall to show me. "Thizh izh my choo!" "I see, and it's very cool!"

As the family finished up their meal and got ready to leave, the little guy thanked the waitress profusely. "Thaaaank you!" He even turned to me and said "bye bye." I waved goodbye, watching them as they went, thankful that such a great little kid had brightened my day.

I think I made a friend.

A recent news story that hit Albuquerque recently has had me thinking. The story is about gambling. The gist of it is that casinos don't target out of state guests, but rather residents of the state, to continue coming to the casinos to gamble. There's quite a few casinos throughout New Mexico, and they are all quite popular.

To me, it has always seemed common knowledge that gambling can be addictive. My understanding was that some people enjoy it because they have fun, but many others do it because they're desperate. I've been to the casinos here and seen people amassed at slot machines constantly pressing buttons, mesmerized they screen in front of them. These are not high-rollers, either. They're just average people, and many of them are probably lower-middle class citizens.

I have known people who started gambling as a way to try to get out of debt, only to end up in more debt than they could fathom. But the addiction aspect has always appeared, to me, to be the idea that even though they haven't been too successful up to now, they just might make it this time. And so they keep playing.

In this grand modern society, someone out there had to get into his/her head that because gambling can be an addiction, why not use a pill to curb it? Brilliant. Just what we need, another drug to give people. People always seem so to want an easy answer to everything. Just as compulsive gamblers want that easy out with a big win, so too do some in the medical establishment want an easy answer to curbing the gambling addiction. For more information on this, check out this article.

So now we have pills to stop gambling, to keep weight off, to impede natural bodily functions. What's next? Maybe a pill to stop that craving for soda, or fatty chips. Maybe a pill to impede a terrible addiction to soap operas, or bad sitcoms. I honestly think that pills are not the solution to our problems. And in any event, they're usually only temporary. We should be more concerned with looking for a way to benefit people in the long-term. But who am I kidding? There's less money to be made that way.

Interestingly enough, there is the possibility that some pills really do help gambling addiction. This is in the case of someone who is taking dopamine, such as for something with Parkinson's disease. The dopamine apparently makes one compulsive in many ways, one of which might be gambling. The pill helps control that compulsion. Being off the dopamine also helps, but I think the dopamine might be necessary for the person, in which case the extra pill might be useful. A more thorough and learned perspective can be found here.

Fear

To know the world, the way it seems
But not know what any of it means

I am at a loss. I know not where to turn, to whom I should turn, when to turn, or why to turn. After much time, I have dug a hole, one in which I am comfortable and safe. Life is static, an unending sequence of days, one passing by the next. My soul cries out in agony, demanding to break free from this existence, to spread its glorious wings and fly. To live.

And yet, a nagging voice in the distance remains, torturing me with a single enticing word: "Wait." My conscious mind reels, aware that this one idea has taken root without invitation. It is inevitable. I will wait.

I have no idea for what it is that I wait, though a part of me wants to guess. That part of me knows what it wants. I want a single, satisfying, simple, easy answer. I know, deep down, that this answer does not exist, that to wait for it is beyond futile. I cannot help myself. As long as the possibility is there, I will wait.

Is this a mirage, this thing for which I so desperately and patiently await? Admitting the answer to this question, which I know beyond a doubt, would be to give up hope. I cannot face it. I accept the consequences of my actions, instead choosing to believe that the end will justify the means. I must wait. I cannot help but feel that, if I give in, and move on, the answer will suddenly be there for me. Only it will be too late. I will have missed my chance, having given up on it.

And so I continue, day in and day out. The feelings remain, but so does the possibility that things could be different. The possibility that, however unlikely, the answer suddenly presents itself. I become accustomed to this, dependent on it, and slowly but surely build up a tolerance for this pain in my heart. Before long, I forget what what it feels like to be alive. To take in each breath and know that it means something. To be free to give of myself to others. To feel joy and elation at what amazing things life has to offer.

I know not sorrow. I know not pain. I think I do, but in truth I know neither. There is something deeper, something far worse. I know fear.

As might be expected, I spent part of my weekend watching Super Bowl XL. The game seems to have left many people with an array of thoughts and feelings. Some came away disappointed with the game, the commercials, and the half-time show. Others felt that, while not the best Super Bowl game, it wasn't all that bad, and that while the Rolling Stones' performance was not awe-inspiring, at least it was better than last year's downright boring performance by Paul McCartney.

I admit that my feelings are somewhat mixed. The game was okay, though I felt some of the calls were bogus. Though the commercials weren't that great, there were certainly a few of them that were hilarious. And the half-time show was definitely better than last year's. Interestingly enough, one of the most perplexing topics of conversation that came up with my friend with whom I watched the game was Steeler's Safety Troy Polamalu's hair. How does he manage to have hair that long, and let it hang out of his helmet, and still kick some serious ass on the football field? It's astounding.

Despite all this stuff to think about, I found my mind preoccupied by something else. My imagination was sparked at the beginning of the game, when they introduced head referee Bill Leavy for the game. I couldn't stop thinking about the damn referee. I don't mean I was thinking about this particular guy; I don't honestly find him all that interesting. What got me was the idea of being a career football referee.

Could you imagine what it must be like? Though this is probably a gross understatement/libel idea of what it takes to be a football referee, this is how I picture it:

You go to referee school, and get started at the YAFL level. You work your way up to high school, and then, if you're a really brilliant and promising candidate, you might be able to move up the ranks and ref college level.

From there, you spend ten years devoting all your energy to being a fair and well-liked referee. If you haven't been beat up, incapacitated, or hospitalized, you might stand a chance of going pro. And from there, you have to aggressively make all sorts of calls so that not only does your pay increase due to the amount of effort you put forth, but also to get noticed more. If you reach this level, you might be able to audition to referee for the Super Bowl.

Once you establish yourself as a Super Bowl referee, your career is in the bag. You're standing there making calls against the best players in the league, who are getting payed millions of dollars each, and you're the one in control. If I ever reached that point, I would hope to be making at least $75,000-100,000 for that game. It's reasonable, considering the expertise I would bring to the game, not to mention the amount of pressure and the fact that probably, within the year, someone will try to assassinate me for some overly technical call I made.

The thought of this is overwhelmingly enticing. Who wouldn't want to have this sort of glory? For those of us who don't shine on the playing field, this would be our one chance for stardom. Think about it: Super Bowl Referee. Imagine the respect that title will garner. It's staggering.

So if you're considering a career change, this might be just what you're looking for.

I am not a coffee drinker. For one reason or another, I have never gotten into it. This is not out of fear of caffeine addiction or anything, it's just that it's not something I ever gave much consideration. How I make it in the college world without coffee, I have no idea. I somehow manage to get by.

I have nothing against coffee, I just don't tend to drink it. However, I really love the smell of coffee (especially coffee beans), I love coffee flavored ice cream, and coffee cake is one of the best foods ever. So it makes perfect sense, at least to me, that I like coffee shops.

I love walking into a coffee shop, taking in the smell, the atmosphere, the people. I love the simple food offered, and I love that I can spend hours there and everyone is cool with that. One of the great things about modern times is that coffee shop menus are expanding, and non-coffee drinkers such as myself can still go and feel like a part of the coffee world.

Yesterday, I went to Satellite Coffee, a local coffee chain. I was loaded down with my backpack, full of homework and books. I like to go on my own, so that I can get some work done, be in a social environment, and people watch. I usually manage to get a lot done, and it's always a good time.

Being both intrepid and not one to follow trends, I opted not to order Chai Tea, the popular drink of choice for non-coffee people. I instead tried a Vanilla Royal, which is a hot drink consisting of milk, white chocolate, vanilla, something else whose name escapes me, and whipped cream on top. It was pretty rich, kind of like a dessert drink, if you will.

Another great thing about coffee shops is that you see such a variety of people. When I arrived, I saw on the couches two older couples relaxing and chatting. On a bench with tables spread out were four people lined up, all on their laptops. In the other tables were students buried in books, deep in concentration and calmed by the muzak.

For the most part, a fairly subdued crowd. That is, until a group of what I would guess were high schoolers graced the shop with their presence.

Have you ever noticed that popular styles seem to repeat themselves? It happens, and sometimes my reaction is to burst out laughing. As luck would have it, this was the case yesterday. One of the group of said high schoolers was sporting a black polo shirt, and in a stunning image of James Dean, had his collar flipped up.

Granted, this was just a polo shirt, not a leather jacket. But I still found the spectacle wildly amusing, and I half expected the guy to suddenly break out some dance moves in the middle of the shop. What really got me even more was the sheer confidence they guy displayed. Whereas others might exhibit nervous glances and a sense of fear of making a fool of oneself, the guy managed to impose an aura of confidence. It was impressive, to be sure.

After a while, the high schoolers exited, apparently because they were too good to spend a lot of time in a coffee shop with a bunch of college students and older folks. As they made like Elvis and left the building, in walked a group of three college students.

This group consisted of two girls and one guy. They seemed quite genial, and they were lively and funny. The girls were cracking jokes, and the one guy was dishing them out as well. I got a reel kick out of the guy, mainly because he had really funny tattoos.

Normally, I don't look at tattoos and think they're funny, but this guy's were. Both his arms depicted an array of art, all in dark green. On his left arm, among other images, was a Greek X (chai). And on his right arm was an elaborate array of bones. I'm guessing the bones were a statement of some sort, as they seemed to be somewhat aligned with the bones of the arm. To me it had a very comic effect, especially the two random bones that were adjacent to the ones actually drawn in the proper direction.

Who would have thought that such variety and culture could be found in a place that serves coffee?

If you've been following this blog for the past month or so, you're probably aware that I'm a huge fan of Mini Coopers. It's true. I love everything about them. They look cool, they're small, they come fully loaded with all sorts of neat stuff. I have yet to find something I don't like about them. Up until yesterday, however, there was one problem I had encountered with the Mini: I had never driven one.

At long last, fortune has smiled in my direction, and yesterday I was granted the opportunity to test-drive not one, but two Minis. The first one I drove was the regular Mini Cooper, which is the base model.

Before going on the drive, I sat in one of the brand new souped-up John Cooper models, which is intense (and which you're not allowed to test-drive). I was amazed at how comfortable the car is, and it even had enough space for me to sit comfortably. I stand six feet tall, but have long legs, which makes finding a suitable car a challenge sometimes, and I was worried that the Mini might be too small. Thankfully, however, this was not the case.

I sat in the car for a solid ten minutes, simply taking it all in. It's pretty amazing, the way it's put together, and I took the time to attempt to familiarize myself with it.

After looking at the car, and talking to the salesman, talks got around to driving one. The salesman was not about to let me get away with one test-drive, however.

And so we began in the Mini Cooper, the base model. I was at first extremely nervous, given that this was the nicest car I'd ever had the opportunity to drive, and also that the pedals are small and I have big feet. Getting going, it took some getting used to the clutch, but other than an awkward pedal, it shifted very smoothly.

I drove it around quite a bit, and then we headed back to the dealership. The salesman then switched cars, and we climbed into the Mini Cooper S: the supercharged Mini, pushing 168 horse power. The car only weighs 2500 lbs, so that's a lot of horses.

I ended up having to take off my shoes, because the pedals were even smaller. This was a special precaution, because recently someone had driven an S with shoes, and his shoe got caught between the clutch and brake on the underside. Unable to stop the car, it was totaled, and he had to pay for the whole thing.

Being savvy, I decided not to take any chances, and the salesman agreed. But man, what a way to make a guy feel comfortable about driving an amazing car. "Oooh, it's awesome, and you can open it up and drive the shit out of it. Just don't wreck it." Uh huh. That did wonders to boost my confidence.

I got it out on the road, and was immediately infatuated. The second you hit the gas pedal, the car jumps forward, and off you go. You're literally pushed back into your seat as the car pulls forward. As you rapidly accelerate, you don't even realize that you've hit 50mph, and you're barely (if at all) out of second gear. Turns and curvy roads are a breeze, even at high speed, as the car hugs the road, thriving on the speed.

Tight spots are no problem. The Mini is small enough to squeeze through just about everything, and you'll never in your life make an easier u-turn.

For quite some time, I have liked Minis, and I always dreamed that they would be a spectacular ride. At times, it did cross my mind that they wouldn't be altogether that great, which while it wasn't a great thought, seemed to be a realistic one. However, I was not disappointed.

And so it would seem that, every now and again, dreams do come true. Now if only I could buy one.

For the past few nights, I've been having what I can only describe as "interesting" sleep. From what I can remember, I think I've been dreaming quite a bit, only they're busy dreams, and I can't remember any of them. Oddly enough, I've been feeling very rested, so I'm not complaining.

When I sleep, I'm generally boring. Ok, maybe that's a lie. When I was younger, I was quite active, and mobile, and often I would fall out of my bed. As I've gotten older, this has abated, and, though this is just a guess, I don't toss and turn too much. Part of this could be due the fact that I go to bed pretty exhausted every day.

I have been doing my best to get an appropriate 7-8 hours of sleep per night, and lately I've been holding to this quite well. This week, however, I noticed that I've been waking up unusually awkward. Sheets are askew, my pillow is on the floor, I don't wake up to my alarm directly, but somehow manage to wake up on time nonetheless.

Yesterday morning, I woke up only to discover that I was hopelessly twisted up in the sheets, and though upon waking I felt I was in complete disarray, I was comfortable. Weird how sleep can do that to you.

Yesterday, though, was not the only time this has happened. I've had a variety of things happen, including punching the wall in the middle of the night, and even kicking and kneeing the wall.

When I was younger, I'd go on trips with my family, and me and my brothers would line up our sleeping bags in our grandparent's living room. We spaced ourselves for comfort, but somehow I managed, one time, to punch my brother in the face. He punched back, but I didn't notice.

Another time, I started out sleeping on one side of the living room, and over the course of the night managed to fight my way to the other side, in the process throwing a few punches, but woke up the next morning clueless as to my violent act. Weirder still is the fact that my sleeping bag was in order, and it basically appeared as if I had been in that spot the entire night.

All of this has inevitably led me to form a few conclusions about myself. It's only logical that at least one of the following be true:

1. I was a Samurai in a past life. How else could I manage to inflict such damage on others and appear to have done nothing of the sort? And what else could explain my sheer mastery of the subtle?

2. Though I've yet to study this form of martial art, I'm a master of Kung Fu. That would explain the obvious muscle and power I possess, and my ability to handle pain.

3. I was a human test to be a secret defense weapon. I have skills buried so deep in my subconscious that I don't even know they're there, and my rational mind would discard any notion of the sort.

These are but a few of the endless possibilities. It's also likely that I'll never know the truth. But I know I can kick some serious ass. At least, I'd like to think so.