The Pistons are really starting to tick me off. And yet, because they've reached the conference finals for 5 straight years, I don't feel completely allowed to be ticked off. That ticks me off. I guess I'll just watch the spelling bee.

Have you ever noticed how some people don't like to admit they got a sunburn? I don't know if they feel stupid because they look funny, or because they have an easily-avoidable 'injury' that's painfully obvious to all who look at them, but the scenario usually plays out like this:

Observer: "Got some sun today, didn't you?"
Burned: "No I didn't."
Observer: "Are you sure? You look pretty red."
Burned: "No I don't."
Observer: "Are you peeling?"
Burned: "No. I just must be a little warm; yeah, now that you mention it, I do feel a little warm."

Later...

Burned: "You know what, I think I did get a little sun today."
Observer: "Hmmm... I guess you're right; you know best..."

I bring it up, because today I played basketball outside for an hour and a half. I think you can gather the outcome (and the ensuing conversation with Sarah when she got home from work).

A question about long-distance relationships.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Explain that.

Okay, there's not much going on around here. You caught me. I think I'll go watch some Seinfeld and finish making myself sick on Doritos. Happy Memorial Day! Next time, remember not to eat so many chips. Also, remember all the people who died fighting for this country and its objectives.

Sarah and I are just taking it easy this weekend. (I used the present progressive there because, though it's late Sunday night, the weekend still rolls through Monday this week--buy a calendar). Today she convinced me to go and see a movie in the theater (it was a real splurge, but we rationalized it by buying discounted tickets from Costco). We ended up seeing Pirates of the Caribbean 3, along with 1500 other people. Even though we waited in a ridiculous line for 30 minutes (and another 30 in the theater, as it started quite late) surrounded by obnoxious, eye-patch-wearing teens who were dueling to the death with blow-up swords, we weren't disappointed by the movie (not to say that we were completely appointed either--see what I did there? disappointed/appointed? genius). A word of caution: it was very violent and contained several scenes that shouldn't be seen by children under the age of 30. Not unless you want them dreaming about hangings, killer crabs, and alcoholism.

In my omniscient opinion, the first installment of the series focused on Captain Jack Sparrow; the later installments focused equally on several characters (including Jack). For this reason (i.e., the incredible character created by Johnny Depp), the original movie remains the most entertaining of the three. The end.

To procure the closest possible parking space, there are many among us (you know who you are) who are willing to spend considerable time negotiating their way through a large parking lot. Sometimes, they follow someone who looks as if she is returning to her car (and this person either a) pretends not to notice, or b) thinks she's about to get abducted and frantically searches for her keys); other times, they circle the lot, like vultures searching for a fresh kill, scanning for newly opened spaces, vying for position with the other spot hounds, making crazy hand gestures, and blocking traffic with a complete disregard for all that is good in the world. There are also those who will simply wait close to the curb with the motor running, hoping to nab the first place that opens. All of these people are spot hounds (you know who you are), and I have several comments for you (you know who you are).

1) Almost invariably, it would be faster to park in the first available space (Don't believe me? Try it and find out. I would be willing to bet your life on it.). When I see a spot hunter in its natural habitat (the Costco Parking Lot/Serengeti), my personal goal is to get in and out of a store before the spot hunter finishes parking.

2) You are not allowed to complain about high fuel prices; just think how much gas you'd save if you didn't spend 400 hours a year circling parking lots.

3) You are not allowed to complain about weight gain; just think how much more food you could eat if you knew you'd be burning 100,000 extra calories a year because of the additional 3 minute walk you'd be taking twice a week.

Finally, I'd just like to comment about a small subculture withing the spot hounds. Like the others, those who make up this subculture are willing to wait/drive around, if they must, for up to 36 hours in order to get the closest possible space. Unless it's a hot day. In this case, these shade hounds are willing to park three states over, as long as it means finding a spot under a tree. Do you want to walk 100 yards to the mall? "NO WAY!", comes the resounding response, "Unless it's hotter than 76 degrees--in which case we'd prefer to walk as far as possible: we don't want our car to get too much sun; we forgot the sunscreen, and it has low melanin."

No offense.

The interesting thing about my case of hay fever is that it has nothing to with "hay" or "fever". The symptoms include itchy skin, complaints, distemper, and swollen butt. Didn't see that coming, did you? Why am I so funny?

That reminds me of an interesting story. When I was six years old, I wasn't what you might call, "fleet of foot". When compared to a tortoise and a hare, I was probably closer in speed to the tortoise, assuming it had been long dead. Apparently, this fact was lost on me. I once asked my dad, in all seriousness, "Dad, why am I so fast?"

To date, that question has gone unanswered. So, I pose it to you. Why AM I so fast? And, as a follow up, why doesn't anyone else recognize my incredible speed?

Hay fever is here. I'm less excited about its arrival than I am in the following things: rain, frozen bananas, unnecessary fouls, lower back pain, upper back pain, nightfall, cows, erstwhile reporters, athlete's foot, the national spelling bee, bee attacks, attack dogs, hot dogs, dogwood trees, tree frogs, frog legs, leggings, rabbit stew, and mushrooms.

Just thought you might like to know.

I love to play basketball, but, unfortunately, I'm getting tired of playing the pick-up variety. Each gym or court has its own culture: there are always slight nuances to the rules in each venue (for instance, each court has it's own rules about the point total that ends a game: 11, 15, 21, etc.). An unspoken rule at one of the gyms I play at is that there are "no easy buckets". Essentially, this means that I get fouled nearly every time I touch the ball. And it's not just me: anyone who dares to get close to the basket gets fouled. Shooting free throws would completely solve the problem, but that's not a practice typically done in pick-up games. And it's killing the integrity of the game. And I hate it.

Then again, maybe I'm just a whiner who doesn't like leaving every week with a sore neck and elbow-sized bruises.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of the end of my classes for the semester, or, 'exam' 'week', as they say; however, I say 'exam' because my 'exams' don't really count for anything (I'm taking the classes on a pass/fail basis, and I'm quite sure that I've already done more than enough work to earn a "pass"), and I say 'week' because my 'exams' are on Tuesday and Thursday only. It's a difficult life I lead, but I'm willing to make the sacrifice.

Sarah's gone for the weekend (speaking) at a retreat with some of the ladies from church. I look forward to her homecoming tomorrow, and I realized that, in her absence, I have several 'rituals'. 1) I don't sleep when I should (note: it's now 3:02 AM), 2) I make a pot of soup and eat the whole thing (note: Sarah doesn't like soup), 3) I leave the dishes all over the house (note: this isn't that much different from normal, but when Sarah's away, they sit out significantly longer).

The menu listing seemed innocuous (and tasty) enough:

RANCH HOUSE BURGER
Pieces of Steak, Sauteed Mushrooms and Onions, Crisp Bacon and Cheddar Cheese on Top of Our Classic Burger. Served with Fries

Today, Sarah, Peter, and I went to the Cheesecake Factory (a local chain eatery) for dinner (we had a giftcard...). I wasn't in the mood for a serious, sit-down meal, so I went for what I thought would be a moderately-sized, classic hamburger. As it turns out, my burger/monstrosity included a whole steak, 6 pieces of bacon, a 1 lb. hamburger patty, cheese, a single lettuce leaf, and a paper-thin slice of tomato. What the menu also failed to mention is how every burger comes with chest pains. And I didn't even force myself to eat the whole thing (which, I'd like to point out, I most certainly could have). I do love to eat food, but I also love to live: I'll be more careful next time...

Is anyone else appalled by Bruce Bowen, Robert Horry, and the rest of the San Antonio Jerks? I mean Spurs (no, I meant Jerks). If I was playing pickup basketball with those guys, I'd want to punch them and would probably go find a new place to play. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, know this: they know what they did, and they should be ashamed of themselves. Then again, this might sound hypocritical coming from a fan of a basketball team that has been nicknamed, "The Bad Boys." Whatever. The Bad Boys may have played dirty basketball, but they were men about it. If they wanted to injure you, you knew about it. There was no "oops, I accidentally just put my knee in your crotch, I'm so sorry (this means you Bruce Bowen!)" and no "oops, I accidentally just kicked you from behind while you were going in for an easy dunk (again, this means you Mr. Bowen)." If a Bad Boy wanted to hurt you, he did it like a man, by slamming you on the ground and/or putting his elbow in your face.

Here's to hoping that the Spurs take a long walk off a short pier.

Three times a week, I have complaint day. Today is that day. With that said...

My neck hurts. My left knee hurts. I have a head ache. I think my back is going to go out soon. My thumb itches. I have some bumps on my head. You're not reading fast enough. My ear is ringing. My armpit won't stop sweating. You're bored. The cat just ate my homework. I don't have a cat. I have to go to the bathroom. I went to the bathroom. My seat is wet. You should be laughing. I don't know if you are. I'm done posting now.

Well, aside from the stomach ache (and a migraine that developed overnight), my birthday was a success; that is, I successfully gained another year. Or lost another year, depending on your outlook.

Today was Mother's Day, the day we buy trinkets for the lady from whom we sprung. Here are some flowers Mom: now we're even. Sounds fair to me.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned that my knees hurt and jokingly suggested that I was either getting old or growing again. As it turns out, I've gained another 3/4 of an inch. I was wondering why I've been getting so many rebounds in my pick-up basketball games as of late. Who would have guessed.

A stomach ache is not a good birthday present.

Think MasterCard.

Cost of ice cream: $5 a week
Interest rate, compounded quarterly: 12%
Years to eat ice cream, assuming diabetes or heart disease don't get you first: 50
Not having to hear, "I want ice cream! Give me ice cream! Feed me!": priceless.
There are some things in life money can't buy; for everything else, there's MasterCard.

Sometimes extreme frugality just isn't worth it, even if it's going to cost me $822,047.39.

Let's say your hairstyle is such that you need a cut every six weeks. Let's say you go to your local Supercuts and pay $15 for your haircut and tip. This translates to $130 a year in haircuts; it's not a huge number; it's not even astronomically huge if you calculate the total for, say, 50 years ($6500); however, the power of compound interest is amazing: starting with a balance of $0, if $130 are added per year to an account earning 12% interest (the average interest earned in conservative, stock-market investing) and being compounded quarterly, the balance after 50 years will be $411,023.70.

Needless to say, I will continue cutting my own hair. On tap for tomorrow: the cost of Starbucks.

If you're interested, you can listen to my sermon from Sunday online. Turn your speakers on and then click here.

The neighbors are fighting again. They've been screaming at each other for the last two hours. I just don't understand how people can live like that. I'd better go to bed before they start to 'make up'.

Two things of note today: first, I was given the privilege of preaching the sermon at church today. The highlight, as Sarah would be quick to tell you, was probably when I said "we're all members of the body of Christ; it doesn't matter if you're a hand, a foot, or a butt hair, you still have an important roll to fill." There were no audible gasps from the congregation, so I'm pretty sure we're not going to get kicked out. Second, I spent several hours 'acting' in a (very) short film. It was fun. One of the guys who goes to our church is a film student, and he was doing a final project for a class. He needed to produce a 2-3 minute 'movie' with lots of computer generated special effects, and I got to jump around in front of a green screen and pretend to snowboard down a mountain; I also got to play with a light saber. It'll be interesting to see how it turns out. When I get a copy, I'll see if he doesn't mind me passing it along.

Today was another day. I won't bore you with the details or regale you with falsified heroics, but I will say, happily, that the flatulence has passed. (Get it? Passed? I'm clever!) I will also say that you didn't appear to be overly interested with said gas. Perhaps I will bring it up again at a more opportune time, such as the next time we meet in person. (Get it? I made a funny again! So clever!) I'm really not that sure why I'm still talking about it.

The person upstairs is taking a shower. Just thought you might want to know. I know because when he/she/they do, it sounds (in our apartment) as if someone is being bludgeoned (sssshrrrreeeeeewweeeeeahhhhhhhhhh..., etc.) upstairs. Earlier today, even though my doors and windows were closed, I heard our neighbors bitterly arguing (again); later, I heard what I'm pretty sure was them making up--and I don't mean verbally (You're right, that was a bit risque to share; yet it was so cleverly worded).

If you were so clever, wouldn't you have found a synonym for "clever" by now?

I'm feeling more and more like I should report their dog (decidedly not allowed) to management. But it would be such a shame if their lease was terminated...

P.S. Shower's over.

I have gas. Are you interested in knowing such things? I could continue to give updates on this matter. Other people in my apartment probably have had gas at some point as well, but I'm probably not allowed to report/comment about that. I may have already gone too far; I'm sure you suspected as much. But lets be clear: everyone has gas. Even the dog. Even Moom. You know who you are.

I was thinking of taking some video of Sarah's birthday, but a two things held me back. First, if I filmed her opening presents, I wouldn't have been allowed to post the video until later in the week (as she mentioned, she and Rebekah have identical gifts, and Rebekah ruined things by not being born until May 4). Second, the last time I took video was that day I filmed big waves on the beach (see "Max's Videos"). This, in itself, isn't the problem; the problem is that the gusting wind filled every crevasse of my video camera with sand. It's a good thing Costco has an overly-generous return policy; though, it could be the end of videos for a while: you never know what kind of Ipod/camera/musical instrument/cash deposit in my savings account might strike my fancy...

Today (May 2) is Sarah's birthday. Don't forget. Or else.

I read an article today reporting that new research suggests migraine headaches cause brain damage. During a migraine, cells in the brain are deprived of oxygen, and it is theorized that this causes a number of problems. As an occasional migraine sufferer, I find this troublesome. But, I also find it encouraging--just think how smart I used to be...