My Life is Lame

So it’s been a year since I graduated.  A year.  An entire year.  That’s like, 365 days.  Actually, that’s exactly 365 days.  12 months.  A bunch of hours. 

What have I done with my life since graduating college? Nothing worth writing home about.

All I did was move to NYC, get a full time job at a cable channel, and become financially stable. 

I know what you’re thinking.  What a failure. Where’s his kids?  Why isn’t he married?  How come he doesn’t own a car?

I know.  My first year out of college has been a huge failure.  But I’ve compiled a list of what I want to accomplish during my second year out of college to make up for this one.

1. Impregnate someone and name the child White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Johnson

2. Buy a trailer in a cozy trailer park

3. Adopt an Asian baby 

4. Loose both the trailer and the Asian baby

5. Kill a squirrel with my bare hands

6. Buy a rifle

7. Kill a squirrel with the rifle and compare the differences

8. Get arrested for driving a four wheeler drunk

9. Start a 401 K

10. Lead a revolution to invade Canada

Guess I’ve got a long year ahead of me.  Better go grab one of them adoption catalogs so I can pick out my baby.  

1. Being able to correctly spot a hooker.  There’s so many opportunities in NYC to incorrectly guess, and being able to really pick one out of a crowd is such a rewarding feeling. 

2. Hash-Tagging something on twitter, clicking on it, and realizing I’m the only one to use that Hash Tag.

3. Convincing someone to watch LOST, when years they said it was stupid, and then watching them turn into a LOST fanatic.

4. Seeing another white person in my neighborhood.

5. Tacos.

I’m just spit ballin’ here, but I don’t think I could ever do porn. 

Seriously. I can’t even pee in front people.

Whenever I’m in a public restroom and someone stands next to me at the urinal, I die a little inside, and no matter how full my bladder is, its contents seems to evaporate.  I then stand there trying to force myself to pee, but strain so much I end up farting. 

This is my life. 

Getting back to my original point, I could never do porn.  Gosh there’s probably 3 camera men (Or women, but who are we kidding, you know they’re men) watching, the light guy, and the creepy sound guy.

And then of course the director.  How do you even direct porn anyways?  I feel like it would be awkward to interrupt two people going at it.  

“Excuse me.  Korina.  Can you try and keep your lazy eye from facing the camera.  And Mr. Long John.  Can you stop slapping her ass so much.  We’re running out of make up. And Uncle Gerry.  I told you if you’re going to be the sound guy, you’re gonna have to control that.”

So what are we are up to?  6 people would be watching.  Do producers go to the shoots?  Are there porn producers?  I guess someone has to produce that stuff.  And write it too?  

Porn writers must have the easiest job.

Int. Night. Office.

Mr. Man enters the office with his Co-worker Mr. Head.  They catch Cindy misusing the copy machine.  Cindy decides to show both Mr. Man and Mr. Head how much fun the copy machine can be.

BAM.  I just wrote porn b*tches.  

Maybe that’s my calling.  Maybe I should quit trying to be funny and just write porn.  I mean, I’m 22, I get horny a lot.  That’s definitely a plus when it comes to writing porn right?

I wouldn’t even have to change my name.  People could just call me Mr. Johnson. 

I want people to know that I’m sick.  Extremely sick.  Probably going to die soon.  Maybe by Sunday.  Around noonish. 

I have.  I can barely even say it.  It’s.  Well.  Writer’s block. 

I just don’t…

I can’t…

I have…

I want to say something, but don’t know how.

Honestly I think writer’s block is worse than being cock blocked because when you’re cock blocked you have two other options.  Left and right. 

I have so many ideas for topics to talk about, but all of them lead to no where. 

What kind of porn did Shakespeare watch?

How did Catdog poop?

Why is New York City obsessed with my hair?  ( On a side note, NYC is seriously obsessed with my hair.  Not a day goes by that I don’t get a compliment about how great my hair is.  The secret, is that I get out of the shower, and then push it out of my face. Eat it up NYC.  Eat it up.)

After writing that above paragraph I just stared at my computer for 5 minutes until I searched to see what the actresses name was who plays the evil queen on “Once Upon a Time.”  She was in 2 episodes of “LOST,” which makes me like her even more as a person than before.  She’s also the daughter of a former baseball player.  Go Wikipedia. 

Seriously though.  I’m losing it.  I guess one guy can only have so many drunk uncle stories before the drunk uncle story well goes dry. 

Seriously, there is not a drop left in that well.  

Maybe I haven’t mentioned God enough in my posts and so this is a punishment, but I thought that was what hell was far, so not cool God.  Not cool. 

Maybe I should just stop writing.  I have a full time job in the media.  The Broadcast media.  Who needs to write anymore anyways?  We can just watch everything. 

No.  I’m gonna keep at it.  I’m gonna keep finding awkward moments from my life/most likely yours because let’s admit, it if you’re reading this blog you’re a little Lame/awkward too. And why shouldn’t you be ya freak?

Now that I’ve insulted my readers I’m gonna get back to focusing on writing.  And by focusing on writing I mean watching TV.  And by watching TV I mean, seriously, I’m gonna be watching TV.  Just started “Downtown Abbey.”  Who knew PBS had non-boring shows.  

So I have a drunk uncle.  Who doesn’t these days, you know?  But he’s like drunk uncle drunk.  He’s so drunk uncle drunk drunk that he’s not allowed to drive a four wheeler anymore because he got pulled over while driving it…on the high way…drunk.  

But, to give him some credit, he did try to get some help once and checked himself into a hospital rehab center.

Being the amazing family that we are, we decided to visit him (And then later talk about him behind his back.)

The hospital had some rules.  Only 2 people could visit at a time.  So my parents went back and I waited in the waiting room.

What’s more dangerous than a pack a zombies on the walking dead?  Godzilla?  Sarah Palin as president?  

A rehab waiting room.  

As I sat there waiting for my turn to visit my drunk uncle, I watched this family scream at each other and eat squirrel meat, while Buffy the Vampire Slayer played in the background.

I ran and hid like Xander in a graveyard.

Now the waiting room is locating off to the side of the entrance way between two doors.  Walking out of the waiting room to my left is a set of doors to the rest of the hospital.  To my right, is the entrance to the rehab center.

I choose door number 1 and went to open the door to the rest of the hospital.

It was locked.

I began to shake the door trying to push it open.  Next thing I know, a doctor is telling me to calm down.  

“Sorry I’m just trying to get out,” I said. 

“Ok,” the doctor said. “Hold on.”

He then pulls out a walkie talkie and says, “Excuse me nurse, we have a situation.”

Now I know I’m a little weird.  I probably watch more TV that a human should.  And I tend to hold eye contact with strangers a little too long.  BUT I’m not crazy.  Or an 

A nurse ran toward the doctor and I.

“Nurse,” he asked, “is this a patient?” 

“No!  He has a visitor pass.”

I nodded and pointed toward the visitor pass.  

“See!”

“Sorry.  Just making sure,” said the Doc. 

Finally they let me go.

The moral of this story? Never go to rehab. 

I think I’ve made it clear that I grew up in a strict household.  

- Daily backpack searches

- Parental approval of all music selections

- Having to keep my allowance in my wallet…in my mom’s purse…to prevent me from buying drugs

So it should come as no surprise to you that I wasn’t allowed to watch Rated R movies until I was 17.

So many movies that premiered in the 90s and early 2000s went unwatched by me.

This rule my parents set applied to all Rated R movies except for one.  Kill Bill.

We had taken a family vacation to the beach, and after much convincing begging, my parents were going to let me watch Kill Bill.  

Before that fateful night, I decided to go to the beach.  While I was walking along the beach I was watching the waves when I saw the perfect wave, And like any normal person, I ran into the ocean to try and jump it.

When I came through the other side of the wave, I couldn’t see.  The young idiot that I was had completely forgotten that I was wearing my glasses.

And so the very night my parents had caved to let me watch my first rated R movie, I had lost my glasses, rendering me unable to see the TV as we watched Kill Bill.  

It sounded great though.  

So I’m sitting in SFO thinking about the weekend I just spent in San Fran/Oakland, and I’m trying to consolidate my thoughts. 

Here are a few. 

My first experience here in San Fran was riding something called BART.  Which as we all know, rhymes with FART…just saying.  Anyways, my mind instantly went to BART Simpson and never felt safe while on this tricky transportation system.  Also, the system had soft, cushion seats, and I couldn’t help but think about how all the homeless people in NYC would love to have seats like that on our subway. 

Hipsters.  Everywhere.  Seriously.  Within an hour I had received 3 free hugs, a piggy back ride on a skateboard, an offer to go biking through the Castro, and overheard a conversation about how awesome Portland is.  

One interesting facade of San Fran is how nice everyone is. Seriously.  People just kept smiling at me.  I mean probably because they’d never seen such great hair, but I think partly because they were just nice people…missing Portland.

Honestly I don’t get what is so great about Portland.  Is there free money there?  Large affordable housing?  The sorcerer’s stone?  I mean I checked the weather there, it’s not that great.  It rains a lot.  And who wants to be around a bunch of wet hipsters?  Not I said the lame guy, not I.

Back to San Fran/Oakland (Which is where my friend lives.  I know what you’re thinking.  She lives in OAKLAND! Did you have to wear a bullet proof vest?  Or use an Iron umbrella to protect yourself from the raining fire?  Actually, it was pretty nice.  I KNOW! Shocking stuff.  Anyways.)

San Fran was great, but, I’m glad to be beaded back to the cold, harsh New York City…soooo happy.  Not sad at all to be leaving a place where there is permanent sweater weather.  Not. at. all.

On a side note, if anyone knows of any cheap apartments in San Francisco/Nice Oakland, let me know…I have a…a…friend who might be interested.  

So I’m visiting a friend in San Francisco this weekend, and well, I’m not sure what to expect. 

I’ve never been to the west coast before, and from what I hear, the west coast is the best coast.  But I think I’ll be the judge of that.

As I wait to pack until the last minute, I can’t help but imagine what I’ll see when I get off my Jet Blue airplane.

Will I see a bunch of hipsters sharing a joint and a skateboard talking about how great Portland is?

Or will I see the Occupy Oakland people planning to march across the Golden Gate Bridge, but do to a lack of leadership and a strong unified voice they just end up fighting each other and setting day old newspapers on fire. 

Or will I see a strange family with three grown men trying and failing and then ultimately succeeding to raise three young girls, the youngest often having day dreams where there are two of her?  (Do you know what I just referred too?  Do ya?  It was a Full House joke.  You know that show about three grown men trying and failing and then ultimately succeeding to raise three young girls. Yea, that one.)

Honestly I don’t see how San Francisco can be better than NYC.  So what if our Occupy Wall Street fizzled out.  So what if our highs aren’t in the 60s.  So what if we’re on the east coast.  

At least we keep all of our hipsters congregated in Brooklyn around that taco truck.  

In today’s world everyone wants to be liked.

Hey fellow 11-year-old, if you smoke these cigs I’ll be your friend.  Hey college roommate, if you do my stat homework I’ll get you in to my frats party this weekend.  Hey girl, if you sleep with me I’ll love you like your father never did.

All people want is to be liked, and I my friends, know the secret to being liked.  

It’s very simple.  You see the key to being liked all boils down to one simple word.  ”Yea.”

“Yea” can mean so many different things.

For example…

“That girl is such a b***h.”   “Yea.”

In this case “yea” could either mean, “yea she totally is a b***h.”  Or it could mean “yea, that’s your opinion.  I actually think she’s a pretty cool chick and I enjoy hanging out with her when you’re not around, because when you’re around all you do is snarl and roll your eyes.”

Or

“Does this dress look good on me?”  ”Yea.”

In this case “yea” could either mean, “Yea that dress looks great!” Or it could mean “yea that dress makes you look like chunky peanut butter when you spread too much of it on a piece of bread.” 

Or

“Does this new dish I just made taste good?”  ”Yea.”

In this case “yea” could either mean, “Yea it tastes…great.” Or it could mean “Yea, this tastes worse than that one time my little brother put my grandmothers dentures in my mouth when I was sleeping.”

“YEA” my friends is the way to control the world.  This is how presidents are made.

“Do you have a plan to help the poor?”  ”Yea.”

BAM.  President. 

“Do you have advanced knowledge of micro economics?”  ”Yea.”

BAM. New high paying job.

“Do you do any volunteer work in your spare time?”  ”Yea.”

BAM.  Laid. 

I’m telling you kids, the key to life doesn’t lie in the center of that island from LOST.  The key to life is simply “Yea.”

My family has a pretty sick sense of humor.

I’m sure when most people think of my parents and I, they see halos and praying hands.  I mean for the most part, I see that too.  I grew up in a very active southern baptist family. My dad is the head Deacon of the church and my mother is a Sunday school teacher.

However, behind closed doors, like most people, our true behaviors show themselves.

When my Dad was diagnosed with Cancer, this is how we dealt with it.

“Carolyn.  Have you seen my truck keys?”

And my moms response?

“No honey.” My mom then turns to me and says, “Oh…that cancer brain of his.”

And we’d laugh and laugh and laugh.

One day my dad walked into the kitchen, looked at me and said, “I need new pants, I’ve lost a lot of weight.”

And my response?

“Wow dad, that cancer diet is really working out for you.” 

One afternoon, my mom asked my dad to do something for her.  I don’t remember what it was, just that it was a very simple task.

His response.

“I can’t honey.  The cancer.”

He then smirked and went on to do what she has asked. 

Maybe its not that we have a sick sense of humor (And maybe it is), but I think that humor helped us through a difficult time, and it’s still helping us even though that time is over.  

My dad’s been cancer free for a year and a half, but we still call him cancer brain. That crazy kid can never find the truck keys.