GREAT NEWS for all of the disaster relief song elitists out there:

You can still buy the original version of We Are The World

It hasn’t been replaced.

For just 99 cents you’ll never have to  rip on the remake again.

Or even better, you won’t have to contribute a single cent towards the millions of dollars the it has earned for Haiti.

And in a few years when you are a better record producer than Quincey Jones you can make the call to never create a third version.

It has come to my attention that I have wronged someone to an extent I didn’t realize.

Six years ago I stuck my finger in my friend’s cousin’s sister’s pizza, and she hasn’t forgotten.

It was a gross, immature, and disrespectul thing to do.

Claire, I’m sorry.

It happens 87% of the time. A guy and a girl start off as strictly friends,  and eventually one starts feeling more romantic/sexual interest than the other.

I think women like having conversations with me but can’t get over how I smell like printer ink when I sweat.  Just a theory.

I do know for a fact it sucks to be the one that likes the other more.

But does the potential of this happening outweigh the value of knowing and enjoying another person?

I’ve had some great “friendgirls” in my day.  Some of them are now married to other guys.  Some are still around.

I don’t regret any of them (except for you Rebecca! I hope I never see your fat veiny face again.)

I’ve found that women in general have a lot to offer a friendship – very different perspective, unique ability to comfort, and helpful insight into the other half of the world.  I might even go as far as saying we need the opposite sex in our life as single people.

But, inevitably the relationship will end.   Is this good or bad?

I’ve found that people who don’t participate in competitive sports as children have a harder time participating in activities they aren’t guaranteed to win.  It’s as though they never learned to have fun and lose.

Maybe it’s important in relationships to value the game more than the score.   Even when we lose.

Perhaps  if we can accept that:

friendships are always risks and usually seasonal
and
the opposite sex exists for much more than marriage potential

Then, the answer is

YES

Single guys and girls can be

and SHOULD be

friends.

You don’t have to have a high school diploma to use college ruled paper.
(Also don’t worry about a diploma if your windshield advertises your car stereo.)

Never write in cursive if you foresee using a capital Q. No one knows that’s not a 2.

A number two pencil is not something thin you leave in the toilet.

If your pen stops working, try drawing a lot of circles really fast.

If your pencil stops working, try using a pen.

If that pen stops working, make a paper airplane.

If your airplane sucks, God doesn’t want you to be a writer.

“Bee Bee Bee Beep…   Bee Bee Bee Beep….”

or

“Bwaahhh…  Bwahhh…  Bwahhh…  Bwahhh…”

Now, most of us have replaced our digital clock radios with our cell phones that offer less obtrusive sounds like a harp, a symphony, or a steamboat foghorn.  But, let’s be honest. No sound is soothing enough to ease the pain of waking up suddenly.   None of us have ever rolled over and thought, “What beautiful music.  I’m so glad to be awake.  I think I’ll immediately get out of bed and help a homeless person”

We spend the majority of our lives hating to wake up.

Not me.

I’ve learned how to wake up everyday at exactly the right time feeling good* with no alarm clock.  It’s fantastic, but it takes some effort at first.   Here are the steps I took.

1.  Take all clocks out of your room.

2.  Decide when you want to wake up.

3.  Go to sleep.

4.  When you wake up, get up.

5.  Repeat this every day for two weeks (try to wake up at the exact same time every day)

That’s it.  This method requires some faith and some trial and error, but it works.

You’ll be tempted to try this on nights that it would be okay to sleep in.  Don’t do that, because you will.  A  healthy fear of oversleeping is the key ingredient your body needs to remember when to wake.

This isn’t a prank.  I’ve been waking up this way for years, and let me assure you.  Waking up naturally to silence is 1000 times better than having your unicorn dreams interrupted by a high pitched electronic scream.

Who’s willing to try this and report back?

NOTE:  I still use an alarm clock on mornings after late nights or on mornings I have to get up especially early.

*exceptions:  mornings after buffalo wings,  mornings after someone I love dies,  mornings Tyler has a better blog post than me, mornings I wake up in my parents bed

I’ve tried to remember more, but I usually get distracted by the other part of my brain that is trying to understand what I’m actually doing in that moment.

What  does it mean to purposefully recall a random memory?

I get how seeing something or hearing something can trigger an associated memory.  I understand why hearing a Rascal Flats guitar solo immediately reminds me of the Double Dare theme song.   But, how do I make myself remember something I don’t already remember without any stimuli?  And when I try, what the heck is my brain doing?

It’s as if inside my head there is an old card catalogue system with a limited capacity .  Every time a new memory is filed in the front an old memory falls out of the back resulting in a large dusty unsorted pile of cards.  This pile grows over time as it gets covered with new layers of old memories.

The guy that works in my head is really good at finding the cards that are in the drawers, but he’s pretty slow and unreliable when it comes to digging through the pile of uncategorized old memories.  I’ve tried to fire him, but he always finds a way to talk me out of it by saying things like, “You can’t fire me.  I’m not even real.”

I’m fascinated by what could be at the bottom of that pile.  Are you?

Have you ever tried to remember something you don’t remember?  If not, I’d like you to do so right this second.  I guarantee you’ve forgotten something worth recalling and writing down in my comments section.

I’m going to do it right now…

Ok, I got something.

I just remembered being extremely scared of the old lady who lived next door.  She had this green glass bowl full of what appeared to be an assortment of small hard candies, but due to the hot dampness in her living room it was impossible to take one without taking all the other ones that were cemented to it. Her wrinkles were deep, and I bet stuff lived inside of them.  I’m pretty sure she drove a broom.  And, for breakfast she ate little boys who picked their noses at night.

What have your forgotten about?

No.
(let the comments fly)

I’m not a Christian, and I’ve been waiting for a long time to say this publicly.

I hesitate to admit it, because I know that by doing so I’m confusing a number of people who would define the word as something that I in fact am.  But these people are slowly becoming the minority as our language and our culture evolves.

Don’t believe me? Go to the mall. Ask 40 people that you don’t know what a christian is. I’d bet my 3rd oldest jacket that you’ll get at least 15 different answers. And, 10 of those answers are things that you would never want to be described as no matter what you believe.

My friend Jon spends a lot of time in the middle east making friends with Muslims.  I learned from him that saying you are a christian over there is no different than saying you are a murderer.

So, who gets to decide what it means to be a christian?  I used to think I did, but as I mature I realize that culture defines language.  What I mean to say doesn’t matter near as much as the meaning of what I say.

Don’t believe me? Go to the mall. Find the 10 happiest people you can find. Then, as sincerely as you can tell them one by one that they are the gayest people you’ve seen all day. Make sure that you really really mean “happy” when you say it. I think you’ll find that your definition of the word doesn’t matter nearly as much as theirs.

I don’t get to decide what it means to be a “Christain”, and neither does the Bible. Then again, I don’t claim to be an expert on the Bible. I just know I haven’t found the word in there yet. **

So, what does it really mean to be a Christian? I guess I don’t know. It probably depends on where you live and who you ask. I say it doesn’t matter what it means unless you claim to be one.

** Okay, it’s there.  I knew someone would find it.  But, my point remains.  A new group of Jesus followers in that day could call themselves whatever they want.  The word was pure and there was no TBN.

I wasted years of my life as a Boy Scout. I’m not knocking the program. I’m just saying it was a waste of time for me.

I did learn things – like how to paddle a canoe. But, I’m pretty sure the woman with the stickers at Wal Mart could paddle a canoe with no training.

I also learned how to build a fire with no matches. That merit badge was called “lighter flicking”

Too bad they didn’t teach us how to properly ignite gas logs now that I’m on my 4th set of eyebrows.

I’ll be honest the only merit badge I truly earned as a 13 year old was one that didn’t exist. And if it did it would be a picture of lotion. Now there’s a skill that remained useful for a few years.

I’m slow - There were a few times when someone a few feet ahead of me would give up and start walking.  After about 20 minutes, I passed them.

I’m judgmental – I saw some of the worst acronym t-shirts I’ve ever seen.  It was all I could do to not give these people a flat tire* from behind.

I’m a slave to affirmation – How much would it cost me to hire some cheering fans to disperse themselves along the streets I train on?

I’m good at the Celebrity Alphabet game – I played this with Steve for 13 of the 13.1 miles.  With an entire bank of names like Zach Galifianakis and Quentin Tarantino, I can’t be stopped.

*the act of stepping on the heal of someone’s shoe from behind just before they lift it to continue their stride

This is a true story.

He needed me to be an on camera comic host for a Bat Mitzvah he was shooting.  ”You’ll be perfect” Ben said.  ”I don’t have a lot to pay you, but you won’t want to miss this event.  It’s going to be epic”

He was right.  This Bat Mitzvah was for the daughter of a very wealthy business man here in town.  You’d know who he was if I told you, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the budget for this party was over $200,000.

The kids arrived on tour busses.  There were huge spot lights waving around in the sky out front. Inside there was a stage with 2 deejays, big video screens, and lots of robotic lights and lasers.   There were professional dancers and a host from MTV.  A Beatles cover band even made an appearance before the night ended.

Oh, and it was a black-tie event.  I’m pretty sure that means you have to wear a tux, but I find this to be a confusing description.  I feel like it should be called a “black everything but your shirt” event.  None-the-less, I showed up in a t-shirt.

“It’s okay” Ben said as he handed me my microphone and my costume.

“I have to wear a costume?” I thought to myself.  It was a big purple suit.  Don’t think “Barney.”  Think “Sinbad.”

Whatever.  I was  there to help Ben, and I was positive there wouldn’t be anyone there that I know.

“Hey! Are you Tripp?”  A woman said to me as soon as I walked through the front entrance.

“No…  I’m Tyler.”

“I love your videos! You guys are so funny!” she said.  I know what she was really thinking, “So this is what he does for an actual job.”

I was embarassed, but I sucked it up and went on my way.

The first hour of the night went surprisingly well.  I felt good about my interviews, and people played along well with my antics.  Then something weird happened.

A woman in her 40’s started walking towards me from across the room.  She was moving at a brisk pace, and her eyes were locked in on mine.  I felt like I was about to get in trouble for something.  These are the exact words she said to me:

“That guy over there is a doctor.  I am a psychotherapist.  And, you are acting like a narcotics addict.  Are you on heroine?”

“Me?” I asked.

“Yes.  Are you okay?  You are acting like you are high.”

“No ma’am.  The way I’m acting during my interviews is part of my act. I’m a comedian”

She looked at me straight faced as if she was thinking, “A comedian…. yes.  I’ve heard of those”

“Are you okay?” She asked again.

I did everything anyone wearing a purple suit could do to convince her that I wasn’t on drugs and that is was my job to act like I wasn’t listening when I asked people questions.

Now, my night was ruined, because I knew fifteen minutes wouldn’t go by before everyone in that place was instructing their kids to stay away from the high guy with the microphone.

“Are we done?” I asked Ben.

“Almost.” He answered. “I just need you to change.”

I was about to thank God.

“Into this” he continued.  Ben was holding up white pleather Evil Knievel suit with an attached cape.

“Haha. Very funny!” I said.

“No, I really want you to put this on and do a few more interviews”

I slumped my shoulders, went to the bathroom, and changed.  Not only was this an Evil Knievel suit, but it was three sizes too small.  You could see at least an inch of shin hair between the white bell-bottom and my black sock.  And, the seam between my crotch and my shoulders needed about a foot more of material.  I had choice.  I could either be Evil Knievel, the hunchback or stand up straight and be Evil Knievel, the sausage smuggler.

I was hoping this would be the most humble point of my career in comedy as I walked through the sea of people looking for Ben.  I wondered what everyone in their cocktail dresses and tux’s were thinking as a too-tall Evil Knievel was weaving his way through a tightly packed group of 12 year olds.  If the guys who drive ice-cream trucks really are good people, then I know what they feel like.

After an eight minute search, I found Ben.  These were his exact words:

“Oh yeah man, we’re going to do something else.  I don’t need you to wear that anymore.”

I didn’t know if I was mad or relieved.

“I need you to put on this bunny suit.”

I knew by now that he wasn’t kidding and since I was being paid as his employee I had to do it.  But there’s no way I was going all the way back to the bathroom.  Narcotic Nancy is for sure convinced by now that I’m also a child molester.

So I changed back stage. It was a complete bunny suit with feet, a tail, a huge head with ears, and eye holes that were at least eight inches apart. I could hear through them better than I could see through them.  In order to walk I had to look to the side, memorize three or four steps, and then move.

Whatever.  I knew this night couldn’t get any worse.  Right?

As soon as I walked out from behind the curtain, I felt someone grab my arm.  It was the MTV guy, and he started yelling into my eye hole.   “Can you do the Cupid Shuffle?”

“No. I can’t even walk in this” I yelled back.

He must not have heard me, because he  pulled me with him up three stairs onto the stage.  I was surrounded by professional dancers, and there were hundreds of people watching me.   I really had no idea what was going on, so I started doing something that loosely represented the Macarena.  At least this time no one could see who I was.  I thought, “Maybe if I just close my eyes and daydream about being back home in my bed it will all be over before I know it.”

Then something happened that I can’t explain.

I don’t even know how to say it, except to say that a group of kids bum rushed the stage and beat the living hell out of me.  There was one on my back.  Another grabbed my wooden cane and starting taking swings at my shoulders.  Someone else was boxing me between the legs.  All I could do was crumble to the ground.

This was my career low.  I was on stage in front of the who’s-who of Atlanta dressed as a rabbit getting brutally assaulted by a bunch of pre teens.  Could it get any worse?

Yes I could.  And it almost did.  Two young boys began to pull at my ears in hopes of ripping off my fake head.  I’m not kidding when I say this.  I would have rather gone home with three broken ribs than be identified on that stage.  So, I stopped blocking all the punches and held on to my rabbit face with every ounce of strength I had left.   They pulled me all the way across the stage before I was rescued by an adult – an adult that could have done something five minutes earlier.  I guess I would have watched too.

I made my way back stage again, and I could feel myself trampling over cables and boxes.  But I didn’t care.  I wanted out of that suit, and I wanted my mommy.  I scrambled around as fast I could to find my real clothes, and just as found them….

Pshzzzeeeeuuuwwwwwwww…..

Everything went black.  And quiet.

I knew exactly what happened, because I felt it under my giant furry foot.  I had stepped on a cable that was attached to something important.  The entire event was now without power.  No music.  No moving lights. No Deejays.  No party.  Now I’m really in trouble.

I quickly changed back into my clothes, and I could hear AV guys shouting cuss words in every direction.  One of them found me behind the curtain.

“Did you unplug something?” He asked in a very concerned tone.

I lied, and then I ran.

By the time I made it around to the back of the room the lights came back on.  I was laughing as I thought about the whole event.  At least I’m back in my t-shirt, and no one knew that was me in the bunny suit.

I felt a tap on my shoulder.  It was the lady who recognized me earlier.

“Great job in the bunny suit!” She said.