Missing the point

Currently Listening How To Save A Life By The Fray see related

You __?__ go home again.

You remember that scene in Return of the Jedi when Leah asks Han what that matter is, and Han looks at the millenium falcon and says, "I just got a funny feeling, like I'm not goint to see her again"?   No?  Just me?  Ok.

Yesterday, I packed all my stuff into a truck and left Auburn.  By all my stuff, I pretty much mean everything I really want to keep: bed, dresser, desk, my best clothes, my favorite books, my movies, my computer.  Basically, I moved out. 

It sucked.

I know that I'm welcome to come back whenever, but I just know now that when I do, I'm visiting.  I left the room I slept in for six years with my fingerprints still all over it: decorations, comic books, trophy shelf.  However, it feels more like some sort of weird after taste rather than saving it for later.  Does that analogy make sense?  No?  Ok.

Now I'm in my apartment in Glendora West.  It's good, but is it now supposed to be my home?  I hope not.  Couldn't be.  Maybe.

Is it where your past is?  or where you stuff is?  What's the criteria with which to apply to this almost sacred term, home?  Maybe, as long as I live on this earth, I'm not supposed to feel completely comfortable, completely grounded, completely home.  I guess my confusion is all the result of knowing no matter where I am on this planet, I'm just passing through, to borrow from the old spiritual. 

Anyways, something to ponder.  By the way, Azusans, I'm back in town, look me up.

Currently Listening Eye To The Telescope By KT Tunstall see related

The Epic Debate

Superman vs. Batman

I don't consider myself a huge superhero fan-boy.  But come on, this one doesn't even make sense.  I'll never understand how people can argue that a spoiled playboy who puts horns on his head can best an indestructible alien.  HE'S FREAKING SUPERMAN!!!

But not that my two cents mean anything. 

In order to accurately determine which tights-wearing sissyboy is truely cape above the rest, we must subject them to the world's most telling test.  We place them in this undisputable formula:

A superhero's power is directly proportionate to the amount of merchandise dollars he/she brings in.

And according to this article: http://www.rottentomatoes.com/news/comments/?entryid=340471, that's Superman.

Boo-ya

Geekiest post I've ever written.

For confusion, press 1

Update: My mother now knows about the Porsche and my father is yet living. I'll let you know if anything changes.

My job is pretty easy. I greet people who come into the sales office and show them models of the the luxurious 600 sq ft that they may soon call home. However, seeing as how we get maybe seven visitors a day, there's a lot of sitting around time. As such, I'm thinking about using this site as a book discussion forum to talk about the many novels I will be reading this summer. I just finished The Firm by John Grisham, very entertaining. But I digress.

Sometimes, I can cut the boredom by making phone calls to prospective buyers. (I know what your thinking, "How did he get such an exciting job"). With this responsibility, I have had the opportunity to delve deep into the wonders of automated voice mail. I've heard so many automated messages from so many phone companies that I figure I could probably rank them in order of which is the most pleasing way to learn you missed someone to which makes you feel like you suck as a person.

All this to say, I thought I had heard everything. Until today.

The phone rang. I picked it up.
KEVIN: "Hello, thank you for calling the _____________ community. This is Kevin."
FEMALE VOICE: "Oh, I'm sorry. I have the wrong number. Bye-Bye."

Nothing unusual about that. Well...maybe something. The voice took a pause before beginning. It sounded a little too rehearsed. And somewhat sing-songy. As if it was trying to sound as pleasant as can be. A thought came to my head, but it was too ridiculous to be possible. Then, an hour later...

The phone rang. I picked it up.
KEVIN: "Hello, thank you for calling the _____________ community. This is Kevin."
FEMALE VOICE: "Oh, I'm sorry. I have the wrong number. Bye-Bye."

You've guessed it people. I heard an AUTOMATED WRONG NUMBER!!!

My brain has been going non-stop, trying to fathom what this could conceivably mean. Who needs a service like that?!! What possible reason could that recording have for existing?!!! By the end of this week I'm going to DIE of a brain aneurysm trying to figure this out!!!

Maybe it's like the terminator movies and machines are taking over everything. But God help us when our computers start acting as stupid as we are. Oh, shoot! Were those the right numbers for the telemarketing customers? Oh shoot! Were those the right coordinates for the nuclear missile we just launched?

This does not bode well folks. I'm going to do what my government tells me and buy lots of duct tape and lock myself in my cellar.

Ugh

Update: My mom still doesn't know about the Porsche. But on to the real topic:

I had accepted the fact that without a shirt, I have never been a thing to be marveled over. But recently, when I see myself half naked in the mirror, I can't look away.

It's that gross.

Finally, I have decided its time to get back in shape. I don't need to look like an Adonis, I just need to stop looking like an Al Bundy. If Adonis and Al are too obscure of references, I'll go with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Homer Simpson. They're not particularly eloquent allusions, but I want to make sure you are tracking with me.

So today I went running. I can't remember the last time I ran just for exercise, but I think American Idol was a new thing. Wow. Talk about learning the hard way. There's no better way to discover how out-of-shape you are than desperately gulping down the cold evening air while you can still see the porch lights from your own home. You see, when your resting heart rate is about 80 beats per minute, your heart doesn't have anywhere to go until 1/4 mile later your red blood cells have to tag out to their good buddies: lactic acid.

Why am I telling you this rather embarrassing story? To put pressure on myself. Folks, if I don't return to you at APU next fall leaner and meaner, you have my permission to disregard me as "that fat loser." In all seriousness, check in with me and make sure I'm staying on the ball.