Embarrassing moments. Everybody has them. Unfortunately, some of us may be in tune to our embarrassing side a bit more than others. I would argue to say I am one of the unlucky ones. Allow me to illustrate:
There was that time when I was in middle school, and I was on my way to a Youth Rally at the Buena Vista Seventh-day Adventist School in Auburn, Washington. It was a two hour drive, so my bladder was quite delighted when we had finally arrived at our destination. Running into the school, and not thinking which door I was going through, I proceeded into a restroom free of any urinals. For some reason, the mysterious absence of man’s #1 depository failed to grab my attention. I turned to the nearest stall, and no sooner had I gone in, two persons with not-so-masculine voices came into the restroom and located themselves in the neighboring stalls on either side of me. Terrified at what I had just done, I lifted my feet up and stood on the toilet, crouching in the most awkward position possible. The moments that followed were, needless to say, embarrassing.
Or that one time, when I was speaking to a bunch of preteens at Camp MiVoden for church, and was inadvertently stung by a bee. Getting stung by a bee in front of young campers however, wasn’t the embarrassing part; the expletive that reactively escaped from my mouth, was. Some of you reading this may actually have been there, but are recalling that no such utterance ever occurred. Well, it’s quite obvious, at least from my perspective, that your guardian angel was probably plugging your ears.
So, there you have it: a couple of Brendan Hay’s finer moments. Now, should we be ashamed of moments like these? No, I think not. These are the moments when we are in life’s spotlight; these are the moments when we know we’re actually alive (from personal experience, I can say that interrupting a televised sermon in front of two thousand people makes you feel very much alive, sorry, Garrett).
So, treasure those moments, for they are the moments in life that make it worth living.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
It's a jungle out there
Think Disney movie. Now, think Disney classic. Just to narrow it down a bit further, think Disney classic with superb music. What are you left with? The “Jungle Book,” of course. As a youngster, the “Jungle Book” was about as entertaining to me as it is for a pyromaniac to flush a chunk of sodium down the toilet. I don’t know if it was because of the songs by the Sherman brothers, or Baloo’s awesome life philosophy, or even the three indecisive vultures (“Now don’t start that again!”). The “Jungle Book” is like fine wine or cheese – it just gets better with age. However, there was one part about the “Jungle Book” that vexed me: the ending. Remember at the end, when Mowgli sees the young girl coming down from the Man-Village? Remember how he leaves his best friends, Baloo and Bagheera, to be with her? I used to get so mad at that scene I would pound my fists into the pillows! It just wasn’t fair, right? I suppose at the time, I just didn’t understand; girls were not yet a part of life’s jigsaw puzzle. But now, I kind of get what Mowgli was thinking ...
Here’s the deal. Guys. We’re all attending a school full of beautiful, intelligent, single women. They come down to the riverbed to fetch the water, but we don’t follow them back to the Man-Village! We’re like a bunch of Mowglies, screwing up the ending to the Jungle Book! C’mon! I was at Vespers last weekend, and I saw a pathetic sight; lots of guys sitting with guys, and even more girls sitting with girls. Please, I understand that our Adventist system separates the sexes from childbirth. I understand that we all went to banquets and not high school dances. I get all of that. But seriously though, biology ought to win over the Adventist conditioning sooner than later! Single guys: I know that somewhere out there, there’s a special lady you have your eye on. Do it. Follow her back to the Man-Village. Translation: take her out on a date! Girls: keep doing what you’re doing; we’ll get it eventually.
In the words of Freddy Mercury, “Play that game of love” (preferably the straight version though). OK, maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’ve been watching a bit too much “Millionaire Matchmaker.” Alright, I’ll shut-up now.
Here’s the deal. Guys. We’re all attending a school full of beautiful, intelligent, single women. They come down to the riverbed to fetch the water, but we don’t follow them back to the Man-Village! We’re like a bunch of Mowglies, screwing up the ending to the Jungle Book! C’mon! I was at Vespers last weekend, and I saw a pathetic sight; lots of guys sitting with guys, and even more girls sitting with girls. Please, I understand that our Adventist system separates the sexes from childbirth. I understand that we all went to banquets and not high school dances. I get all of that. But seriously though, biology ought to win over the Adventist conditioning sooner than later! Single guys: I know that somewhere out there, there’s a special lady you have your eye on. Do it. Follow her back to the Man-Village. Translation: take her out on a date! Girls: keep doing what you’re doing; we’ll get it eventually.
In the words of Freddy Mercury, “Play that game of love” (preferably the straight version though). OK, maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’ve been watching a bit too much “Millionaire Matchmaker.” Alright, I’ll shut-up now.
To infinity, and beyond!
Everybody! Guess what? I’m engaged! Ahhh! OK, actually, that was a lie; I’m not engaged, but I thought I’d say it anyway because it seems like everybody else is. C’mon, guys. I’m starting to feel a little left out. Alright, let’s change the subject. So, you’ve made it through the first decade of the new millennium. Congratulations. Feeling old yet? For those of you just entering college, you still have that invincible blood coursing through your rowdy, little veins; getting old hasn’t exactly hit you yet. While at the other end, those of us finishing up with our undergrad experience, and possibly looking a bit further into the future, may be at the precipice of beginning to taste our own mortality (it tastes yucky, just to let you know). Faculty, don’t you scoff now – we young’uns grow old too.
The fun’s really going to start when we have to explain to our children that we grew up with those chunky, VHS cassettes. Man, that’s going to blow their minds. Then, there’s the whole Apple revolution with the iPods, iTunes, iPhones and everything else that commences with a lowercase “i.” I can’t wait to see my kids’ faces when I tell them that music used to come from tangible, disk-like objects. The thing that really gets me though, and I mean really, really gets me, is texting. Forget the email; texting is the crowning communication achievement of the new millennium. It’s changed everything. For crying out loud, do you know how difficult it is to flirt with somebody via texting? OK, maybe it’s not that hard, but seriously. When I was thirteen, I picked up the phone, called the girl and told her I liked her. Voilá! It was that simple. Yes, it was really awkward, but really simple. Oh, the humanity. Where are we going? I still remember what my high school English teacher, Stephen Lacey, once said in class: “The only thing technology has done for us is allow more time to be busy.” Profound words …
The fun’s really going to start when we have to explain to our children that we grew up with those chunky, VHS cassettes. Man, that’s going to blow their minds. Then, there’s the whole Apple revolution with the iPods, iTunes, iPhones and everything else that commences with a lowercase “i.” I can’t wait to see my kids’ faces when I tell them that music used to come from tangible, disk-like objects. The thing that really gets me though, and I mean really, really gets me, is texting. Forget the email; texting is the crowning communication achievement of the new millennium. It’s changed everything. For crying out loud, do you know how difficult it is to flirt with somebody via texting? OK, maybe it’s not that hard, but seriously. When I was thirteen, I picked up the phone, called the girl and told her I liked her. Voilá! It was that simple. Yes, it was really awkward, but really simple. Oh, the humanity. Where are we going? I still remember what my high school English teacher, Stephen Lacey, once said in class: “The only thing technology has done for us is allow more time to be busy.” Profound words …
Pleased to meet you. I'm a tool!
Myspace did a lot for us. It taught us how to play detective (you’ll never admit to how you once stalked someone online, but you’ll admit to doing “detective work”), it taught us how to become critics (remember when you used to rate your top friends?), but most of all, it blessed us with a new genre of photography. This new style best fits the category of the self-portrait, one to which I like to refer as the infamous “tool shot”.
Now, the “tool shot” has to fulfill a few requirements in order to be classified as a legitimate “tool shot”. One, the photographer needs to be half-naked. Two, the photographer needs to be in front of a mirror, or else he/she will have to settle for the awkward arm-bend maneuver (go on, I dare you to call your bro friends and ask them to come over and take half-naked pictures of you. What will they think?). Three, the photographer should never smile. This is a serious shot, one in which the photographer looks as though his/her dog has just died, but, at the same time feels like the cat’s pajamas (yes, I did just use the words cat and dog in one groovy sentence). Finally, four, the “tool shot” works best if the photographer is in the bathroom, preferably one where the toilet is in view. They say a picture’s worth a thousand words. Well, shoot, a thousand words aren’t enough as soon as you’ve included a toilet in the picture. I can see the Myspace caption now: “Hey baby, after you’ve finished checking out my rock-hard, chiseled abs, why don’t you stay and rest a bit on the John directly behind me?”
As the world continues to spin, and “tool shots” continue to appear all over social networking websites, we romantics will continue to bow our heads in shame. Seriously, “tool shots” need to die.
Curds and Whey
You might not think it, but cottage cheese is actually delicious. For the longest time I had this unnatural phobia for cottage cheese. When passing in salad bars, I would eye the mysterious, white chunky goop and get the willies. But for the first time the other day, when I went to the cafeteria to snag lunch, the cottage cheese in the salad bar looked appealing. There it was nestled snuggly between the cut-up broccoli and sliced olives. It was untouched — a clear indicator that a score of others also shared in my rash, ex-phobia. I heaped a healthy portion of the squishy, mozzarella-like substance onto my salad plate; today was a good day.
I overcame my cottage cheese phobia towards the end of this last summer. I was visiting a friend in Sacramento, and I happened to have dinner with her family. I remember seeing a carton of cottage cheese on the table and thinking, “Oh great, a cottage cheese family.” Noticing how everyone was eating cottage cheese with their stroganoff, I decided to be gutsy and at least try it. I gulped as I brought the spoon up to my mouth and, trying not to think about it, quickly shoved the white mess in. But to my surprise, it didn’t taste at all like I thought cottage cheese was supposed to. I quickly breathed a sigh of relief. The rest is history.
So basically, I guess I’m trying to find a creative way of saying don’t judge a book by its cover. I mean, I did, and look what it got me: years and years of cottage cheese deprivation. Excuse me now while I go eat some curds and whey…
The Stock Theory
If you know me personally, or have been around me for any length of time, you may have been unfortunately subjected to my stock theory. So, what’s the stock theory? Well, it’s my way of explaining a certain phenomenon of dating kinetics between young men and women during the college years — especially in the Adventist pond. Did I discover it? Probably not. Am I the only one who’s noticed it? I guess we’ll find out. First off, let’s define stock.
Stock is basically best defined as what you have going for yourself. For all you engineers out there, it’s kind of like potential energy. Picture your stock as a bank account capable of being filled with value. So, directly translated, a person with high stock has a lot to offer. For the entering male freshmen, your stock is quite low. I don’t care if you think you are the cat’s pajamas; you’re far from completing your degree, you’re probably not making much money and, when it comes to the college birds, they can easily twist your ear making you go in any direction they please. On the other hand, the entering female freshmen start off with high stock. So what makes the fairer sex any different? Well shoot, son, they have all the power! The alluring feminine form, in itself, is enough of a reason. The equation looks like this: Man, who has low stock, seeks beautiful woman earnestly, ultimately giving her high stock.
Gradually though, things start to change. That girl, who was initially just interested in mere surface traits in men (humor, good looks, spontaneity), starts to figure things out after she has “traveled the world” and “seen all there is to see.” She then starts to look for traits like generosity, humility, and loyalty — traits that would make a good father. You see, she’s starting to notice that her biological clock isn’t ticking any slower. By now, that guy who used to be a low stocker has increased his stock. The girl, who is now a senior in college, starts to understand that her mate selection will diminish greatly upon graduating. And believe me, as Adventists, we’re exceedingly picky. So, here it is that the phenomenon occurs. There is a “stock swap”, and before you know it, the man has all the power in the world, mainly because of biological reasons.
Alright, before you come hunt me down for offending you, let me remind you that I just shared a theory. Is it true? I don’t know. You tell me.
Stock is basically best defined as what you have going for yourself. For all you engineers out there, it’s kind of like potential energy. Picture your stock as a bank account capable of being filled with value. So, directly translated, a person with high stock has a lot to offer. For the entering male freshmen, your stock is quite low. I don’t care if you think you are the cat’s pajamas; you’re far from completing your degree, you’re probably not making much money and, when it comes to the college birds, they can easily twist your ear making you go in any direction they please. On the other hand, the entering female freshmen start off with high stock. So what makes the fairer sex any different? Well shoot, son, they have all the power! The alluring feminine form, in itself, is enough of a reason. The equation looks like this: Man, who has low stock, seeks beautiful woman earnestly, ultimately giving her high stock.
Gradually though, things start to change. That girl, who was initially just interested in mere surface traits in men (humor, good looks, spontaneity), starts to figure things out after she has “traveled the world” and “seen all there is to see.” She then starts to look for traits like generosity, humility, and loyalty — traits that would make a good father. You see, she’s starting to notice that her biological clock isn’t ticking any slower. By now, that guy who used to be a low stocker has increased his stock. The girl, who is now a senior in college, starts to understand that her mate selection will diminish greatly upon graduating. And believe me, as Adventists, we’re exceedingly picky. So, here it is that the phenomenon occurs. There is a “stock swap”, and before you know it, the man has all the power in the world, mainly because of biological reasons.
Alright, before you come hunt me down for offending you, let me remind you that I just shared a theory. Is it true? I don’t know. You tell me.
Madventist
When I was younger (just a wee toddler), seeing me sitting up straight, alert, and attentive during the church sermon was a rare sight. While the pastor spoke, my short attention span would often wander to my mother’s purse, where I could always be sure to find some blank paper and crayons. Kneeling on the brown, rusty-colored carpet and bending over the pew like a hunchback, I would spill out my brains onto those wonderful sheets of blank paper. Dinosaurs, spaceships and faraway made-up worlds inspired from my collection of NES video games were the usual fodder projected from the deep, inner recesses of my mind. I didn’t have to entertain my boredom this way every Sabbath though. Every once in a while, this thing called Communion would occur. As a six year-old, all I knew was that Communion was the time when they handed out those delicious, bite-sized, crunchy squares that you could never buy in a grocery store. The enigmatical ritual of elderly men praying over bread and juice was enough of a display to keep my racing, curious mind occupied. Unfortunately, the chance to eat during church came with a drawback: I was allowed only one puny square.
However, my luck changed one Sabbath when Communion lined up on the same day as potluck. After lunch, my cronies and I would run around the dark sanctuary like it was some sort of celestial playground. Except this time, to our amazement, the leftover Communion bread was left out in all of its splendor. At last, I would have the chance to eat Communion bread to my heart’s content! We giggled maniacally as we gobbled down square after sqaure. But just then, all of a sudden, she entered. You know, the scary, old “madventist” of a lady that is out to get little boys and girls for running around God’s house. We were doomed. She had been after us before, and this was the last straw. After telling us how she was going to sic the pastor on us, and make sure that we were not only spanked by our parents, but everyone else’s parents, she trundled out of the sanctuary. For the next hour or so, I remember hiding under the pews in holy terror, just waiting to see what would become of my behind. But deep inside, I knew I was the victor. I had succeeded. I had eaten not one, but three entire trays of Communion bread.
However, my luck changed one Sabbath when Communion lined up on the same day as potluck. After lunch, my cronies and I would run around the dark sanctuary like it was some sort of celestial playground. Except this time, to our amazement, the leftover Communion bread was left out in all of its splendor. At last, I would have the chance to eat Communion bread to my heart’s content! We giggled maniacally as we gobbled down square after sqaure. But just then, all of a sudden, she entered. You know, the scary, old “madventist” of a lady that is out to get little boys and girls for running around God’s house. We were doomed. She had been after us before, and this was the last straw. After telling us how she was going to sic the pastor on us, and make sure that we were not only spanked by our parents, but everyone else’s parents, she trundled out of the sanctuary. For the next hour or so, I remember hiding under the pews in holy terror, just waiting to see what would become of my behind. But deep inside, I knew I was the victor. I had succeeded. I had eaten not one, but three entire trays of Communion bread.
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