The New Year Comes...

It’s 10:00PM on December 31^st, 2012. My eyes are covered in golden glitter, my roommates and I are all sipping straight from our own individual champagne glasses, hardcore 90’s pop music is rockin’ the background…we’re so ready for the New Year.

A Holiday Poem

Happy Christmas Eve, dear readers, and Monday Fun Day to boot! Whether or not you celebrate Christmas, there is holiday spirit all around this time of year. As such, I thought I would try my hand at recreating an old classic with my rather interesting holiday weekend at work for inspiration. I do hope you enjoy.

Calling all survivors...

If you’re reading this, the idea of the December 21^st, 2012 apocalypse can safely be ruled out. I begin this blog at 3:25AM (since, you know, sleep is no longer a thing I do), which leads me to believe that I’ve successfully survived. For all I know, countless people have been led to a land of bodiless souls while I remain one of the chosen to live on…I suppose I’ll find out later. I don’t have a television, so news reaches me later than most.

The Other Half...

This past Wednesday, I was presented with a unique opportunity which I am ever so happy I took advantage of. A friend of mine was asked to put together a serving team for a private party. Anyone working with him at his restaurant that he normally would have used seemed to be scheduled or riddled with prior engagements, and thus came about the initiatory text.

“I know we were planning to see the Hobbit on Saturday, but I have some news that may throw a wrench in that plan. Are you free?”

Well, seeing as I was already planning on spending the day with him anyway, my freeness wasn’t really in question. I asked what he had in mind.

Secrets...

It is 3:14 in the morning. Showered and clean, I lay here amidst my unwashed sheets in the soft red glow of my spider lamp. Truth be told, the lamp only has five twisty arms, so to call it ‘spider’ is probably incorrect. Perhaps the other three will grow back sometime soon. I did inherit it from my grandmother, so I can’t be sure how many arms it had in the time before living in my corner. Possible? I think so.

To dance upon the wind...

People are quite like bubbles, I think. It all begins with a breath of life, a dripping wet mess, and then off we fly into whatever may come. Bubbles are wondrous, fragile, all too temporary orbs of beauty and light. They cannot control their fate any more than we can when the wind decides to change its course. Those that choose to fight the wind will undoubtedly break under the strain, and those that follow the currents may find themselves popped either way.

What nice cabinets you have...

I have no fucking idea what it means to be a grown-up.

Is swearing a part of it? I’ve certainly had that covered for a while now. Then again, I can recall many a time hearing some awful little elementary school prick kid screaming obscenities at his mother in the middle of the grocery store. That being the case, my extensive sailor speak vocabulary puts me on par with that little shit. Groovy.

Facts...

It’s 9:51 PM.

It has been dark for almost five complete and total hours now, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I like the sunlight, but at the same time I feel most productive during the darker twilight hours.

I do not enjoy the Twilight series. I’m all for team ‘burn that atrocity.’

Scavenger Extraordinaire...

My biggest issue in the days following our Lady Sandreline has been a lack of work. The tiny shop from which my rent and food money is derived resides in lower Manhattan. Lower Manhattan, for those unaware, was without power and train service for about a week after the whole storm blew by. Train tunnels were flooded floor to ceiling, trees that had stood for many times over my age in years were uprooted and found blocking roads and crushing cars, and at night the normally sleepless city was eerily dark. With many key holding managers stuck in the world beyond the PATH train (New Jersey), I have spent my days walking the city in the hopes of something interesting.

Pretty Pretty Princess: Rise of the Goth

Take a walk with me, dear reader, down memory lane. When I was a young and innocent gayling, I would frequently find myself over at my neighbor and best friend Dani’s house for some ridiculous shenanigans or other. Together with our other neighbor Liz, we wrote short plays, built a club house, founded the Animal Savers Club, played steam roller in the front yard, attempted cartwheels, had underwater adventures in our pools, rocked out Halloween parties and made home movies…we knew how to live. Occasionally we would break out one childhood board game or other. Operation. Mousetrap (if only to set off the intricate trap and put it away). Loopin’ Louie. Once or twice there was even a game most remember but refuse to admit to remembering: Pretty Pretty Princess.

Stormy Weather Ahead...

Native Floridians are not gifted many things. We get palm trees, sun burns, rampaging brush fires on the dry years, a fun chance to get in touch with the land and sea on a regular basis (see Games with the God of the Sea), and intense tropical weather. In light of Lady Sandreline’s (this big ball of air, Sandy) impending visit, I thought I could share one of my few Floridian-gifted skills and insights with my apparently ill equipped New York friends. So for as long as we still have some power left, here are some of Brogie McDoogerson’s hurricane how-tos.

Return of the Internet!!!

To get this part over, out of the way, and done with...I profusely apologize for being delinquent in my Monday Fun Day ramblings. Life here in the Big Apple has been a tad crazy, and I was missing internet for a few weeks there. Not an excuse, I know, but it happened either way and I’m sorry for it.

Now that that’s out, can I just explain how freaking exciting my life is?! Let us cover things one at a time.

Attractiveness...

One weekend day not too long ago, I sat myself down with my two slices and a blue Gatorade for my evening lunch. Down the block from the Stick, Stone & Bone (that’s the kick ass metaphysical shop where I work) there is a decent little pizzeria. Bear in mind all my non-NYC friends, by decent I still mean infinitely better than anything you can purchase where you are. Unless of course you live in that little European boot across the pond…then you win. Only then. I hadn’t ever tried the spicy chicken before, but I knew the white was going to make up for it should it not deliver. Both were satisfyingly delicious.

No Girls Allowed...

I am a man.

Some days I wear lots of jewelry, and some days I don’t. On occasion I prefer my clothes to be light and airy, but on most days I stick with my novelty t-shirts and blue jeans. Every day of the week, I dance around like a fool and sing along to the songs in my head. I like cats as well as dogs. Beer makes me cringe, but wine is my friend. Sports have never been of great interest to me, but in a crowd I can bring my testosterone to a boil like the best of them. I work part time and scrape by, but I’m happy with what I do and I don’t depend upon other people to keep myself alive. I can grow a full beard though I have never let it get beyond a few days of stubble. My emotions work hard to rule my big life decisions, and my head has learned to at least listen to what they have to say. Whatever my mood of the day, one fact still remains: I am most assuredly a man.

Losing Wait...

Patience is something that is slowly dying, dear friends. You know what? I’m going to immediately amend that statement. Patience has, at least during the rise of my generation to young adulthood, been wheezing away on its deathbed. There really isn’t anything slow about it anymore. The death of patience and going with the flow has been rather swift. It’s really an unfortunate way to go for something so slow and calm in nature.

Are you ready for NYC?

After spending about three months of life in this unendingly conscious city, I think I’m qualified enough to give some advice on everyday necessities I’ve discovered thus far. Now when I say every day, I don’t mean your life will end without any of these things. Hell, you might live life quite comfortably without ever so much as touching some of them. I promise you, though, when the moment comes that you absolutely need this one tiny thing, you will be grateful you listened to your friend Brogie McDoogerson.

Open your mind, open your mouth, and stick it in...

If there is nothing else to be learned about New York City, learn this: living here is like living in every country on the surface of this beautiful blue-green ball all at once. Half of the time, especially in the outer boroughs, I can’t read most of the signs. And in a matter of blocks, I still can’t read the signs, but the language has completely changed. Quite often I find myself wondering if it’s a language at all. Then people walk by having some kind of debate in what I can only assume is the vocalization of the current set of hieroglyphs before my eyes. I’m not sure if you can call this city a true melting pot, though, as the cultural sections of town are pretty definite in their invisible and unspoken territorial dividing lines. But with so many different groups clumped together in such a tiny space, there is only one certainty.

The food here is the bomb.

The Magick of Theatre

Now let me start off by saying this. I knew before I moved to New York that it was a land filled with hobos, shenanigans, skyscrapers, and magick. I was also aware that theatre can happen any time, any place as long as there was someone with that spark running about to put on a show. Neither of these facts prepared me for the pure unadulterated awesomeness that was my Friday night in Central Park.

Were you aware that, throughout the summer, the Public Theatre puts on Shakespeare and Sondheim shows? In the middle of Central Park? Adjacent to the Museum of Natural History? For fucking FREE?!

Alternate Youniverse...

So there was this time about two or so months ago when I moved my happy go lucky behind up to the ever fabulous and always interesting New York City, and since then my life has been fucking awesome.

Adulthood and stuff...

I love antiquing!!!

Before you jump down my throat and start berating me on how old I am, how you can see my crusty wrinkles from space, how you think you found my teeth in a glass…before any of that, just shut up and listen. And if you dare to question my eternal youth-osity, I will happily direct you to "Finding time to play..." Give that a read over and understand that my wrinkles are not from age. They are from excess awesome.

Where was I before you so rudely interrupted? Yes, antiquing.

Beware the City...

Whoever you are, listen to me carefully. I haven’t much time to spare. I think the City has it out for me, and you who have found this log are the only one I can tell. Hear now my warning, dear reader. There is a darkness here that peers from beneath the shining lights and festers like the drinking pools of subway vermin. Everywhere I turn, I can feel the taint of the streets around me, waiting for me to let down my guard. Waiting for an opening in which to strike.

The most beautiful bride...

About a year ago, one of my dearest and best friends sat across the table from me at Olive Garden. We hadn’t seen one another in quite some time, and now that I was back in town on a visit from college, soup salad and breadsticks were in the highest of order. She has always been beautiful, my dear friend since the second grade, but there was something extra in her smile that day. As if no more than a day had passed since our last lunch, we spent the first 30 minutes of our meal smiling, laughing, sharing our inside jokes and commencing with all other forms of catching up.

We had been set at a table with a decent amount of sunlight filtering in through the window. It was not until the initial excitement of our reunion died down that I noticed a twinkle coming from Lauren’s side of the table. That’s funny, I thought. It looks like she got a new ring. Its very pretty. Looks like a decent amount of diamondage, too. And on her left ring finger…

Feeling Heavy...

Over the weekend, I found myself an entertainer and tour guide of sorts to my visiting Florida friends. It was amazing fun, and I actually surprised myself with how much awesome (and more importantly inexpensive/free) stuff I was able to bring to their mini vacation.

Honesty is the best policy...

“Honesty is the best policy.”

                        -They

For the most part, They are right. The policy of unwavering honesty is one I have tried to abide by throughout my life. I’m human, and I have had my fair share of lies, but I try my damndest. Lying breaks apart your insides, and it only becomes easier to tell outright lies once your innards are left in tatters from constant tearing. At least that’s what I believe.

Nudism Kills...

Imagine for a moment that you are watching one of those ridiculous (and often times awful) horror movies. You know the ones of which I speak. The only remotely recognizable actors are that one guy from that show you liked when you were a kid and the younger sister of some mediocre one hit wonder pop singer. Throughout the film you realize that either the writing for your favorite show was infinitely better than this drivel, or your childhood celebrity crush really can’t act worth a damn. Every fifteen minutes or so you think to yourself, or more frequently aloud to the group, “Why the hell are we watching this shit?”

Yup…those movies.

Listen Up!

Ladies and gentleworms! On top of being a temporary summer home for the cold bug, I have managed to sprain my knee walking up and down the subway steps. It is official: I am in fact made of glass. I will say, though, that I’m getting pretty good at wrapping an ACE bandage for support. Go life experience skills!

Anywho…

I'm A Little Tea Pot...

Out there in this big bad world there is a sinister group of individuals who have been controlling all of humanity from behind a veiled curtain of obscurity. Much like Oz’s Wizard, there has been a great deal of behind the scenes showmanship, lever pulling, and manipulation. So long has this been happening that the identities of these sheep herders have fallen completely out of history. It would take an entire season of Dr. Who to uncover exactly who or what masterminds the whole ordeal. Don’t think you can call it easily like another Dalek invasion. Or for my pokemon minded readership, think of this as a Team Rocket type organization. This is a group that has achieved a level of such deep infiltration into the infrastructure of society that we couldn’t possibly hope to go to a new town without seeing their goings on. New members are recruited, though I am unaware as to how, every single day. The streets teem with members you will never recognize.

Collectively, this organization prefers to call itself: “They.”

11:11, YMCA, and Resumes

I started writing this at 11:11PM...and I wished really hard. What, you ask? Well I can't tell you that, silly! My point, dear reader, is that this Monday Fun Day has turned out to be a hectic freaking day indeed. That would be why my post is so late and unfortunately very short. Don't think I'll even need a page break today.

I went off to the YMCA earlier and had a bangin' interview. It's a part time guest services position, but if I get it, that will be something in the income department. So wish me luck!

The first of several July auditions is coming up tomorrow. As soon as I post this, I'll be taking a quick shower then passing out! After arriving just later than I should have at an audition last time, I've learned that for some facets of the theatrical process...you have to make yourself an early riser. Again...luck wishing would make me eternally grateful. Not even so much on the auditions...just on me getting there.

And with that my dearest readers, my Monday Fun Day is concluded for the evening. I swear on all that is unholy (for there's far more of that than holy, I think), I'll be more diligent about my writing once I get into a better swing of things in this crazy ass city.

So much love and light to you all. Happy Monday!

Gotta Catch 'Em All

In the heat and sweaty stank of these early summer days, I notice myself sitting on benches about as often as I can find them. I’ll have you know, the sun beats down here in a much drier way than in Florida. There never seems to be enough water to drink, and that is quite strange for me.

So there I was one day last week sitting my winded, dripping self down on a park bench in the 97 degree weather. Guzzling down the last of my water from my nifty neon green bottle, I took a moment to relax in the shade. My weekend partner in crime, Bryan, sat down next to me also glad to take a moment to rest. A light breeze helped to cool us down a bit and bring the scent of street meat to my nose. Across the cobblestone way, some movement caught my eye. A decent sized black squirrel was dancing back and forth between the posts of a metal fence. He didn’t seem to be phased by the passersby who all wanted a picture. One man even offered this undaunted animal some food which the creature eagerly hopped up onto the bench to take from him.

King of the Jungle

Monday Fun Day fact about me: I am pretty darn allergic to cats.

Now I’m not saying that they’ll hospitalize me or anything. But if I haven’t taken strong enough meds when they’re around, my day can get miserable really quickly. And this brings me to Monday Fun Day fact about me #2: I recently moved in with my grandmother. She has FOUR cats.

The Importance of Handwriting

It is a sad but true fact that handwritten word is dying out. Cursive, which I learned early on in my education, is already being eliminated from most grade schools. I wouldn’t be surprised if they soon do away with handwriting altogether.

So this is me announcing my stance on this issue to the world at large. I believe that handwritten work is valuable and should remain a key part of children’s education. I’ve developed a personal list of reasons why handwriting is important to me. There’s pretty much no research involved, and most all of it is comprised solely of my opinions…but putting points in a list always make them seem more reasonable.

With that, let us begin.

Learly Birds

Some days, and by some days I mean pretty much every day of my life ever, I find I can’t manage to fall asleep until after 2am. That might even be considered an early night for me. Sleep has never come easy. I am a creature of the twilight, and reside in a place of transition. There’s a short while in the middle of the night when the days mingle. Yesterday and tomorrow blend together into this amalgamation of now-ness I like to refer to as ‘learly.’

Broganism:

Learly (adj.): 1. Having the quality of being simultaneously late and early; 2. Used in reference to any time between the hours of 2:00 and 5:00 in the morning.

Rooster Thoughts

“I wonder what color rooster eggs would be. Dark brown I think. Do you think so, Bro?”

These are the words of my grandmother. This is just another reason I love her (and another reason I know we are blood related).  How else could we have such similar and ridiculously interesting thoughts at the breakfast table? And with German accents, too!

Being Alone...

Do you ever take a day for some you time? Take some time to spend with nobody but yourself? Does it excite you to think of time away from anyone and anything other than your own thoughts? To think of being totally alone?

I do, and it does.

Hot and Cold

I lay here in bed, naked and squeaky clean, having just had one of the niftiest experiences in the world. It took place in my shower.

Stop being gross. I can hear your thoughts, you nasty.

White Pants and Bastard Bugs

I own a pair of stark white slacks, and until now they have served me quite well.

Since the day of their purchase, their brilliant, blinding whiteness has remained untarnished. They have come out with me to the seedy stank nasty clubs of Tallahassee, to several big ceremonies, to plays both big and small, and even to a friendly get together or two. In these white ninja pants, I’ve managed to dodge smear happy dirt bombs and pointed alcoholic beverage attacks. Italian restaurants haven’t even been able to so much as leave a funny odor in the fabric, let alone leave a mark.

Winds of Change...

I remember a time when I, a young boy with little else to do on a weekend afternoon, would walk out to the end of my driveway, take several deep breaths, raise my hands into the air, and proceed to conduct the wind. And unlike my bouts with Poseidon (see Games with the God of the Sea), this was no competition with a God. Once my hands were up, I was in control. No games this time. I was determined, and this was my practice, to change the course of the wind.

So you got her a bouquet?

When I was little, I used to think that flowers were the magickal houses where fairies were born. What else could make such a beautiful home? Fairies had their tiny fairy families, grew up until they were old enough to fly off and inhabit another plant, and then built a new flower palace somewhere else. There was no other explanation. It made absolute sense to me then.

Does he look like a bitch?!

This, dear readers, is Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction. If you’ve never seen this movie, go buy it now. Don’t rent it, don’t download it…buy it and own it. Payment is your punishment for having gone this long without experiencing a masterpiece.

Now in this movie, Mr. Jackson would have you believe that neither he, nor his boss, is a bitch.

As much as I respect this man (I mean…look at him), I think I have to disagree. He is one of the biggest bitches I’ve ever seen.

Hear me out, I have a theory...

A theory about shit.

“But Brogan!” you protest. “We already read your shit story. Revelations in a stall was hilarious and wonderful, but how full of shit can you really be?”

Plenty full. Sometimes my naturally blue eyes turn brown. Truth fact.

HumaNature

“What I’m trying to say,” Dan hissed at me as he tended to his I-just-lost-a-fight-with-a-mountain wounds, “is that I love nature, but I’m not a fan of wilderness.” In uttering these words, my best friend here joined the ranks of many who also lay claim to such a love hate relationship.

If you want to ride with me...

I’ve never really considered myself a superstitious person. The number 13 was only significant when I finally became a teenager, and even then it was only the bee’s knees for one year. All of those mirrors I managed to break over the years? I collect that shit and eat it for breakfast! And that whole bit about bad luck from walking under ladders is hogwash and balderdash. When you line them up in a hardware store, they just make for a fantastic obstacle course.

Such a happy mistake...

Never in my life had I ever thought to myself “Brogan. Do you know what you need? You need to buy yourself an audio book!” This is probably because I don’t do much talking to myself.

Okay. That was a flat out lie. I tend to talk to myself to the point of what many of you would consider insanity. Rephrased: I don’t talk to myself like that. That’s much too formal.

Visiting Eyes

I have been fortunate in my lifetime to have already done a good deal of traveling. By some standards, I’m still very much a novice, but by many others I’m an upper class world explorer. That has a nice ring to it actually. I think there should be a world explorer patch. They’ll give it out once you acquire a certain number of travel points. Let’s make it a thing…it’ll be great.

Listen up folks...

This is serious. When someone has a monstrous hole the size of Texas down the ass of their pants, you need to let them know.

This should be so far beyond moral imperative. Beyond even civic duty. From this day forth, I will petition for this to be made universal law! Mandate of Brogie McDoogerson!

Forever Homeless

One of my many dreams in life is to become a professional actor. I’m talking Broadway folks, not silver screen. And I want the whole dream. Starving artist, waiting tables, selling myself for lunch money, the whole bit. So a long while ago, I came to terms with the fact that at some point in my very exciting lifetime, I will live in a box. It will be a bitchin’ swanky dank box as far as boxes go…but a box nevertheless.

Yes, dear friends, I have accepted my inevitable homelessness.

Revelations in a stall...

I want to take a moment right here and now to explain something about myself: I have never been one who understood the phrase ‘shit or get off the pot.’ There are times when nature calls you over and over, and then the bitch puts you on hold while she plays crappy elevator music on repeat. Nobody can poop to bad elevator music! And then there are times when all you can do is sit and wait, absently staring at the stall door and mentally taking a mallet to the guy one stall over who seems to have an endless deluge of Hershey squirts. All of the offensive messages and phone numbers for skank-tastic adventures can be read only so many times before they, too, lose their appeal.

Facial Feelings

Rubbing a spoon on your face feels awesome.

I can just picture your faces now. Doubting eyes and disbelieving scowls. But I ask you this: Have you ever tried rubbing a spoon on your face? No? Then stifle your nonsense looks and listen!

Messy Me

Sorry for being out of it the last few days. Life has taken a drastic turn, and my ability to write faltered for a day or two. But tonight, I took a short while and wrote a poem (something I haven't done in YEARS).

Finding time to play...

For those of you who are as of yet unaware, I am a grown man currently working a job I have no passion for simply to pay my bills. In this regard, I’m like 99% of everyone ever. But unlike most of the others out there for whom this is true, I am a genuinely happy person who is content with life on the day to day.

My secret? I allow myself to have “too much fun.”

About once a week, usually while I’m cashiering at work, I’ll actually have someone come up to me and tell me to my face “You’re having way too much fun.” This is something I’ve heard from co-workers, customers, and even friends while we are out and about. All of you probably don’t think too much about what you’re revealing when you say this, but it tells me worlds about you.

You, my dear fun starved friends, are all dangerously close to killing your inner child.

I don’t know what it is that people find so threatening about an adult being happy with the little wonders of the world. There is something terribly wrong with our society and its views on what constitutes adulthood. Any adult that takes joy in something simple is often considered “childish” or “a little bit off.” Fun fact, I’ve been told I’m both of these things while my name caller looked me straight in the eyes. Day after day, hordes of people allow the idea of time to corrode their inner essence until there’s nothing left but the wretched shell of a former innocent.

Well…I flat out refuse!

I am 23 years old, and I love to play with balloons. I think stickers are one of the best things ever invented, and I will make trips at 1AM to the nearest 24 hour convenience store for a good coloring book and a pack of crayons.

I am a college graduate, and I still use the force to open automatic sliding doors. I am convinced that I am a water bender as I have become quite proficient with making whirlpools in the sink, and blowing large bubbles when I wash my hands is turning into a regular sport.

I use hard earned money for my gas, tune ups and car insurance, and I still like to drive around pretending my car is a spaceship. I pull up next to semi trucks, make a big L with my arm, and I don’t stop pumping until I hear them blow the horn.

I am old enough to get minors into R rated movies, but I will still sing along loud and proud to any Disney movie from beginning to end.

I have enough experience to know that time should not be wasted, and I still choose to spend some of it talking to trees, birds and squirrels. I stop to look at bugs, flowers, shiny things, ugly things, things that smell, and things that make funny noises.

I use my own personal credit card to make purchases online, and when the package finally arrives, I spend an hour playing with the box.

I blow bubbles in my milk. I smile at the moon. I try to make the traffic lights change colors with my mind. I would rather teach my puppy how to climb up to my shoulders than to sit and stay. I draw faces on the presidents when I check if the bills are real. I make up words on a daily basis. I eat breakfast for dinner.

I find the time to play. And so should you.

Don’t allow yourself to fall away into the cold of being an “adult,” whatever the hell that means. Please take a minute of your Monday and remind yourself to live instead of just exist. If you ever find yourself thinking that you’re having too much fun, don’t fight it. If anything, I promise you that you’re not having enough.

Once they’re truly dead, not even inner children can come back. I believe that with every fiber of my being. So I don’t know about you, but I plan to live my entire life being happy. Even on the down days, there are small beauties that shouldn't go unnoticed. I want to so liberate my inner child that I end my life walking beside him into our next big adventure.

What about you?

Some things are just true...

Feet are ugly as sin.

Really, have you ever just looked at them? Especially here in Florida where winter can still be considered flip flop season, I’ve had ample opportunity for viewing the shoeless masses. And to be clear, by masses I mean those slabs of meat that balance the rest of you when you’re standing.

Let’s take a serious look at our feet for a minute.

The entire human body seems to flow in one direction. Yes, our arms can move about when we force them. But when we allow them to lie naturally, they fall in line with the rest of our being. From our head to our ankles, the body is a uniform mechanism. Then we have the feet. They sit there jutting out all perpendicular to the rest of the glorious human form disrupting the linear design of things. Disgusting!

This ungainly blob of flesh and bone isn’t content with simply messing up our body shui. Of course not! It splits off at the end into five (give or take) either ridiculously nubby or obscenely long and claw-like phalanges. One of these things happens to be bulbous! If you look at people when they sit and roll their feet, their toes bend to and fro, up and down, all around. The soles of their feet wrinkle and crease. Its really quite unpleasant.

And don’t get me started on when you get these things wet. Blech!

Now please don’t misunderstand. Especially given my recent toe injury, I fully respect the miracle and anatomical beauty of the foot. Here we have 26 bones working together with more than a hundred muscles, tendons, and ligaments in order to get us from point A to point B. And unless you do something to royally screw up this plan, they work pretty flawlessly. Without feet, I think we would be a pretty cumbersome species. But as it stands (see what I did there? Stands…like on feet), the human body is designed with these finely tuned appendages that carry the weight of our body. That’s actually pretty damn awesome.

Aside from the normal intricacies of the foot, the world is full of amazing stories like this: Amazing woman using her feet as hands

This woman is not the only person in the world who has learned to use her feet for pretty much everything. When you look at how great the foot’s dexterity can be, it is really awe inspiring. I mean, she can lift groceries, fold laundry, and drive a car with only her feet. She can drive, for goodness’ sake! And when the time comes to be gentle with her baby, she can easily change his diaper. That’s amazing!

When you take the time to consider their intricacies, you can’t ignore how wonderful feet actually are.

But they’re still fuckin’ ugly.

Running with the Herd

It has come to my attention, dear readers, that mankind (at least those that can be found frequenting grocery stores for their daily needs) has retained an interesting piece of its past. At some point in our history as a race, we were more animalistic than we are now. We, especially those of us in the Western world, have evolved beyond the need for a tribe mentality.

I am an individual. I make decisions on my own. I go buy things when I damn well please. And when I am good and ready to leave, I will make my way to the checkout lanes.

It just so happens that all of the other individuals out there in the world decided to shop right now. And they’re all mucking up the checkout lanes! What bastards, each and every one of them.

That woman and her 4 screaming children: bastards. (Well not the children. Their father is over at the service counter getting lotto, so we know who he is. Though, they are still little bastards for being so loud. So yes the children too.)

That crotchety old man in the electric cart: a bastard.

A nun, the parade of non-English speakers, the lunch breakers, that smelly homeless man and the myriad of other folks who resemble the normal people I know: every single one, a bastard.

All of these individual bastards have decided to make me late for the rest of my independent day.

Let me tell you something. In my nearly six years of working in grocery stores, I’ve had loads of time to observe people. On the whole, human beings are fascinating creatures. So many of us think we’re completely autonomous and make every last decision on our own.

I call bullshit!

I’ve developed a theory as to why customers flood the checkout lanes in waves and then completely disappear. For anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour, the front end will be dead. A few people trickle through lanes here and there, but nothing big. During this time, I can always feel the pressure building. I see all of you individuals as you mull about the store holding on to your personal shopping carts (all of which are identical, but that is neither here nor there). Some of you rush by in a hurry desperately seeking that one item you forgot for a party. Some of you have been in the store for hours deciding which sugary cereal will stifle your children long enough for you to enjoy a cup of coffee. Many of you wheel your overflowing trolleys around in a daze as if you are waiting for a sign.

And then: SNAP!

Whatever mystical barrier that was holding you all back breaks, and every single one of you individuals rushes to the nearest cashier. This happens every single day.

My theory is this: we individuals of the Western world have preserved in our heads some biological imperative to move with the herd. Think of it as a subconscious need to leave with a group. Safety in numbers, isn’t that what they say? No matter how long any individual has been shopping, the lot of you will always move together. I would say it was just a coincidence if it wasn’t a daily phenomenon.

If you find yourself in disbelief and wish to call shenanigans, I think you should go observe for yourself. Best case scenario, you can come back and rub it in my face. Worst case scenario, you get to open your eyes for a while and see some interesting shit.

As for those few that trickle through during the interims, I have another theory. Many just have luck on their side or some remarkable timing. But there are some who deliberately choose those times. They will wait until they see the rest of the herd is long gone before making a move. Perhaps those of us that can see the biological imperative in action and consciously choose to avoid it are genetically defunct. Mother Nature forgot to implant that seed in our brains.

Or perhaps we’re the truly evolved individuals.

But hey, what do I know? I’m just a cashier.

Games with the God of the Sea

I feel like a bad Floridian.

This past Sunday was the first time I’ve been to the beach in what seems like years. When its been so long that you can’t remember, you may as well have never been before. We are the sum of our memories…or something like that.

I had forgotten how truly wonderful it can be. The interesting thing, though, is that my body remembered it all.

Its as though this was a well rehearsed scene. I started by taking off my shoes. Adjusted my gait as the sturdy planks of the boardwalk disappeared and turned to earth and glass. Feeling the sand, warm from the sun, as it conformed to the shape of my feet. Without even realizing that I made a decision, my shirt slid over my head and was tossed over to keep my shoes company. The sun felt so nice on my long since exposed shoulders. The sand hardened and became cool. The water that held the sand in place backed away with each step…it always made me feel like I had some kind of super power watching the sand change color under my weight.

At long last, I reached the water.

With each tiny wave, I was reminded of something: I was born to this. As much as I cherish my connection with the earth, half of me is a child of the ocean.

Native Floridians are hybrid creatures. We are born on land and surrounded on all but one side by the sea. The cold water licking at my feet urged me to remember.

When I was younger, I would play this game with Poseidon. I would call out to the god of the sea and tell him to do his worst. Send his waves at me! For hours I would fight the ocean with fists, feet, body slams, shells, and balls of wet sand. Basically anything at my disposal was fair play. If I ever said anything too harsh, I was reminded that I was in fact playing around with a god. Waves can slam you down pretty hard onto shell beds, let me tell you.

Tough love.

I never was able to outlast him. When my young body reached its limits and exhaustion inevitably set in, the waves would still be coming strong. As a reminder of who was really in charge, he would always send one last wave to throw off my balance just before I reached the shore. Such a joker.

On some level, though, I felt that I was respected. Here I was, only one tiny half breed among millions…but I stood up to him. I gave him everything I had, and I felt recognized for it.

This past Sunday, I remembered everything.

Then I got that feeling. That rush of being with an old playmate and rival. Seeing a friend you haven’t seen in years. Standing knee deep in the surf, I could feel myself readying for battle. It was invigorating.

He pulled gently at my feet as if asking me to come in further. And then I heard it. A familiar voice spoke from the depths of my mind.

“I remember you, child. Are you ready? Have you come back for more?”

Unless you were right next to me, you probably would not have been able to see the smirk in the corner of my mouth. How else could he expect me to respond?

You bet your ass I’m ready, old man. Game on.

People Make Me Smile

9am to 7:45pm. That was my shift at work today.

No matter how generally bubbly I appear to be, and after five or so years working at a grocery store I have gotten pretty good at keeping up the effervescence, that is a long damn day. Even the bubbliest soda goes flat if you leave it open for too long.

By about 5 o’clock, I was flat as a cartoon character that’s been run over by a steam roller. For a clear mental image, just think Judge Doom (Christopher Lloyd) in Who Framed Roger Rabbit. If for some reason you can’t recall that scene or have never seen this movie, you deserve to be steam rolled.

Moving on!

Out of the blue, a magickal thing happened.

“Brogan?” A man with brilliant blue devilish eyes and a lilt in his voice peered at my name tag through his Harry Potteresque spectacles. “You must have some Irish in ya.”

“Well yes, it is Irish. I’m only about half Irish, myself.”

“I’m just teasin’ ya, boy. I know a thing or two about being Irish. The name’s…” This man listed at least six names. Among them were Brandon, Patrick, and Riley. Some I didn’t catch because his accent was rockin. Needless to say, I felt no need to question his authenticity.

“You know, I knew a Brogan growin’ up. We were friends in school. Well, not really friends. The man’s a bit of a bastard. But you seem really nice.”

Feeling round aboutly complimented, I continued with the transaction. The whole time, no other person came in my line. It was like one of my homelands, sensing its child on the brink of losing his bubble, decided to send an emissary my way. He was charged with setting up a barrier to keep my line down for about 10 straight minutes (an invisible Irish magick barrier, mind you), being ridiculously awesome, and of course re-carbonating me.

As a side note, I’m not surprised that when my effervescence was direly low I heard nothing from my German homeland. There’s nothing like a full blooded German to kick your ass back to happy town. ‘You vill bubble. YOU VILL BUBBLE NOW!’

Regrettably, I was still at work and had to finish the order. My new Irish friend told me he frequents the store, and now he would be keeping an eye out for me. We’ve got to stick together, I suppose. Kind of like I gained a new family member…crazy old Irish uncle six names.

“Alrighty, you’re all set. You have yourself a wonderful day and I will see you around.”

Crazy uncle six names looked over his change, grabbed his bags and said, “Oh with the help of Jesus and a couple police, you will.” He winked at me and then disappeared through the front doors.

Maybe I will see him again. My gut says no though. 

Either way, he put a big smile on my face and gave me the energy to finish off the day without decapitating customers.

Glad to know that Ireland’s got my back.

Daydreams and wishes...

Something wonderful happened at work today.

In the midst of my I-had-no-coffee-today stupor, I had a daydream about a genie. His metallic purple lamp complimented his periwinkle eyes. With much grandeur, this genie of mine offered me my three wishes.

But first he gave the spiel. 

1. No more than three wishes! Don't be a greedy douche-nozzle.
2. No affecting the will of others. They like their shit the way it is.
3. Let us not forget, no going against the natural order of things. Dead people are dead people, and zombies are an abomination. Yeah, I'm looking at you, Jesus. 

Etc.

He sat...stood...floated? Whatever he was doing, he did it behind me for a while as I took care of customers and thought long and hard about what it is I wanted. Three whole wishes just for me? I could do great things for the world, but that would take away from my rather limited amount of wishes. And as the genie informed me earlier...they are in fact my wishes.

Better world for humanity? That's out.

But what would I be able to do for myself in just three wishes? I'm a successful professional actor! My family is set without financial concern for the rest of their natural lives. My bones are laced with adamantium and won't ever break again. (Thank you Wolverine.) That's three not entirely selfish wishes right there, but there is so much more I could want or do.

Thankfully there were no customers in my line in that next moment because LIGHTNING STRUCK MY BRAIN!!!! Epiphany time.

"My first wish," I whispered to the seated/standing/floating genie, "is to have the power to grant my own wishes as long as I live."

He snapped his fingers and a wisp of his purply mist tapped me on the nose. "As you wish. Its done." A little underwhelming if I do say so myself. I would have thought my daydreams could pack a more spectacular punch than that, but whatever. "What is your next wish?"

Now that I could handle my own wishes (and I wasn't limited to a measly three wishes), I wished the genie freedom and a happy day. 

This got me thinking though...I don't really need a genie to achieve my dreams. In general, my wishes aren't all that extravagant. Except for the unbreakable bones...but for that I can just work on being more careful. You know, look where I'm going and stuff.

Point?!

I've got everything I need to make my wishes come true right here inside me. I just have to get off of my ever-increasing-in-size lazy ass and get to it. 

My god...coffee withdrawals can be so inspiring. 

My first big break.

I always imagined my first broken bone would be the tragic but well earned result of something terribly exciting. Isn’t that the dream for any battle scar? You have to have the battle for there to be something deserving of great tales.  Legendary tales, if you will. As a child, I did some pretty break-worthy things. I spent several years sparring with boys (all much larger than myself) in Karate. I recall windy days and being dragged across the lawn by high flying kites attached to the end of my dad’s fishing pole. Climbing and jumping off of higher and higher launching sites just to see how well the umbrella would support me.

My neighbors and I even played this ridiculous (and by that I mean AWESOME) game with a cardboard box: steam roller. All three of us could fit inside this old empty refrigerator box from the garage. After some careful bending and crushing, it became our flimsy hamster wheel of chaos and mayhem. Once inside, we three fearless adventurers would barrel on in whatever direction forward led us until we smacked into something sturdy or we found our way down the hill to the ditch. There was no reverse in steam roller…only forward motion! When we hit a wall, we would turn around inside and once again crawl onward. I can’t even remember how many times we ended up in a heap on top of each other at the bottom of the hill. Even with all of this, steam roller managed to produce an unnoticed bruise or two. But a broken bone? Forget about it.

Friends move away, Karate dojos close down, kites get eaten by far away trees, and you inevitably run out of functioning umbrellas. I can’t even play steam roller any more. And people say being tall is this wonderful thing. Psh! There are so few boxes in my size.

Time went on, like it tends to do. The scenarios changed, but the bones remained unbroken. Four years of marching band and three years fumbling around in the hazardous death zone that was my high school’s backstage area, and not evens a scratch!

Flash forward through my four college years. My legs still ache at the memory of all those muscles pulled in dance classes and theatrical endeavors. Those rough and rowdy games of Humans vs. Zombies gave me a few decent sized scratches. I mean, let’s be serious. Being a zombie is always more fun than being a human, but it’s also a lot more dangerous. Zombies aren’t allowed to care about pain. Nerve endings die with the rest of you.

Enough digression!

Point to be made here? Graduation from college came and went, and I remained intact.

I was really starting to believe that the whole broken bone experience was just not going to happen for me. I would never have the cast to accompany stories of grand adventure ending in a delightful crunch. Destiny, fate, God(s), the universe…they all said ‘NOT FOR YOU, BROGAN!’ This must be what the onset of depression feels like.

Wait!

What’s this?! At the age of 23, I have at last broken something other than my cell phone: my pinky toe. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. For the next several weeks, I get to sit on stools at work, walk around with my sexy flat footed black boot, and show off my incredibly limited but still nifty collection of canes. You can keep your stinking crutches! I want to make a statement.

“Hold the phone, Brogan. How did it happen?” you seem to say. “Certainly, one who has led such a daring life must have done something so worthy of remembrance that we shall put it down in history books for all future generations.”

I mean come on. I’m an adult now. No more children’s games, no more school day antics…this is time for the serious injuries. Adult injuries. Man injuries. In this moment, I feel compelled to grunt.

Well listen closely, dear readers, and I will tell it all to you.

In the learly hours of twilight, there lurks a beast of great fluff and intimidation. Once he catches on to your scent, you’re pretty much doomed. So I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I ran. For what seemed like hours, my energy was spent dodging objects this way and that, cutting corners and making sharp turns to try and throw him off of my trail. Dehydration set in…fatigue, confusion, blurred vision. In one last ditch effort, I chose a direction and bolted to my fate.

WHAM!

I soccer kicked a table in my living room. Manny, my 4lb Yorky Pomeranian puppy stopped hopping after me and tilted his head at the sound of daddy in pain. He’s very cute when he’s concerned.

At least I didn’t cry. In fact, I didn’t even know it was broken (fractured corrected my doctor…you type tomato, I re-type tomato) until the following morning when I nearly toppled out of bed.

So here I sit about two weeks later, foot propped up and still sporting my super sexy boot. Let me share with you some fun things I’ve learned through this experience:

1. My tolerance for pain is higher than I thought it was. Hooray for me.
2. You don’t truly realize how important your little toe is until it’s impossible to use.
3. Canes are the bee’s knees and get you showered with lots of positive attention. You simply need to be selective with whom you mention the sword hidden inside.
4. Whittling wood is a good way to get your mind off of being stuck in a chair. It’s very meditative. I have a wand or two in the works.
5. Unless it is severe enough to require a cast, friends and co-workers will take little issue with hobbling along beside you and granting you endearing nicknames like “gimpy” and “hop along.” And by co-workers, I mean managers.
6. Work days go by so slowly when you can’t dance.
7. I was an idiot for ever wanting to break something larger than my toe.

Overall there are some good lessons in there. I have nothing profound to say about human frailty and how such small events as these have the potential to derail our lives. I already knew that, and I’m sure that if you’re honest with yourself, you already knew that too. In the grand scheme of things, we’re pretty tiny and relatively fragile. And that’s all incredibly depressing, isn’t it?

So forget the grand scheme for a minute. Instead, as your Monday Fun Day assignment, I think you should focus on any personal lessons you may have learned through an injury. It’s the lessons with a personal touch that will make bigger differences for you in the end.

As for my experience, I’ve concluded that limited mobility is not my cup of tea. If you know me at all, that’s saying a lot. Tea lover is one of my many titles. I’m a mover and a doer, so the sooner I don’t have to rely on this boot, the better. Consider a broken bone checked off my bucket list.

Much like steam roller, there’s no going backwards now. The only way to go is forward and onward to mending. Perhaps my future adventures can teach me life lessons without any more fractures. After just two weeks, my feet are itching to tap dance again. I would hate very much to keep them waiting.