–    One reason I enjoyed the trip so much is that I’m actually a bred-in-the-bone introvert. I absolutely covet my time alone.  I really enjoy being sociable most of the time but if I go long enough without some genuine Me time, I have a proclivity towards crankiness and verbal abuse, so, not good. It’s really about letting me unwind and allowing my thoughts to stretch; this generally involves me having conversations with myself, but like to an embarrassingly unnatural degree. Road trips alone allow the perfect time to do just that. And the obvious is that I get to sing in my patented nasally off-key pitch as loud and as frequent as I want. That’s just a few reasons why I prefer my road trips Han style: Solo.

–    I was passing through Tensend, Idaho on my way up and ran into this gem of a billboard:

I mean, what?!?  At first I didn’t know how to respond, this ad is both gruesome and impactful but it’s also slightly hilarious. It gets one on of those “HA HA…meth.” responses and then you nervously shift your eyes back-and-forth to see if anyone else is laughing too because you’re unsure if your being insensitive. Luckily though since no one was in the car I skipped the shifty-eyes and just posted it to Facebook. But seriously, anti-meth ads don’t eff around. They are pushing boundaries, hard. Frankly I don’t think there is a topic they won’t touch, they dig in deep to find the most provocative subjects and just go for it. I’d post some here but I think they might be just a little to edgy for this blog. I’ll leave it to you to find them.HOWEVER, I couldn’t resist posting this one because it is absolutely terrifying. So, enjoy?

I also went to the liberty of writing some of my own ads, and I’m thinking of sending them in, let me know what you think.

#1: “You wouldn’t normally stab a stranger in the neck with a shard of glass. But on meth you would.”

#2: “Do you often wallow in your own excrements and attempt to pick imaginary bugs out from under your skin? Cause meth heads do.”

You can literally say anything you want, as long as you make sure it sounds like if you do meth, you will commit one of these heinous acts.(For more: go here)http://www.cracked.com/article_15653_the-8-most-terrifying-anti-meth-ads-from-blog.html

–   Eesh, now that I’m thoroughly depressed from that meth post, I’ve completely forgotten what I was going to talk about. All I can think about is trying to pick invisible “meth mites” out from crawling under my skin…. OH! Right, got it. Well it just so happens that meth was a perfect lead-in for my next topic: Satsumas. If there is anything as addicting as meth in this world, its satsumas. Two things, A) I cannot say satsumas without saying in my head “TSAT!-suma,” or “I need a suma, STAT!” (and if you don’t get that joke then you’re probably not Toria Johnson) and 2) I love them. I love everything about them. I love to peel them, I love to eat them, I love how portable they are; so naturally I couldn’t keep my hands off them, even while driving to Montana. And let me tell you, trying to peel and eat a Satsuma while driving 80mph on a winding interstate is an adventure. I don’t want to say I was outside of the road lines, but I definitely was not in them. And as a very self-conscious driver, I hate swerving when other cars are around not necessarily out of concern for their safety, because I think they’re judging me on my driving skills and/or think I’m drunk. SO, when I was passed the silver Honda coupe ahead of me I looked over at him and held up my Satsuma to be like, “Hey, I’m not actually drunk; I’m just trying to peel and eat a tiny naval orange! HA HA!” Unfortunately it had little effect and I think he was just concentrated on staying alive and preparing for the advent of my swerving into his lane.

–   The Town of Wallace –  or Heaven on Earth as I like to call it – is an tiny old town in the Idaho panhandle known for its silver mining and brothels. Well, obviously the brothels no longer exist, but, you know, herstory. Nevertheless Wallace is beyond charming, set up in the forested hills of Northern Idaho with a historic downtown scene and a small population. I stopped on my way back to Pullman because I needed coffee and I was once told my great-grandmother was born in Wallace. It is full of old and rustic houses and shops and at least 34 museums. No one was really around and I grabbed a cappuccino in an antiques shop/old comic book shop/diner/cafe and I was the only person in there, which actually turned out to be a good thing. Otherwise I would not have met Angie, the lovely owner of the joint. She made me coffee and actually indulged me in conversation for a good half-hour in which she managed to give me an entire history of Wallace and a full recap of her latest shopping expedition with “the girls.” By all means it was actually very pleasant and I gave her a good rating on Urban Spoon, like a responsible 21^st Century adult. Anyway, I’ll leave you to experience Wallace for yourself, or don’t. That way it will remain my own little empyrean.

1.  I got sunburnt, but only on one side, despite taking due care to position myself looking directly into the sun. Also, my parents have been gone for a week so I’ve eaten nothing but cereal and shapes Kraft Macaroni & Cheese (my body is a temple). So now I sound like an inappropriate middle school joke: What’s white, malnourished, and red all over…the left side of its body? (Need a hint? It’s definitely not a baby seal that’s been clubbed to death in Canada’s Annual Seal Hunt if that’s what you where thinking.) (Although that does exist.) (I am so sorry I even brought that up.)  (Sweet Jesus. Do not, I repeat DO NOT! search for “canadian seal hunt” on YouTube. It is graphic.) (Now excuse me while I go try and burn that image out of my eyes with a blowtorch.) Wow, at first I thought that was going to be a slightly off-color yet morbidly humorous joke, but that just got way too real way too fast.

2.  I applied to work at a Young Life summer camp this year which is excellent, except the dates are June 16 – July 16 approximately. Which means there is a month smack-dab in the middle of my summer where I’ll (potentially, God willing) be gone. This is problematic for a few reasons, a) I haven’t found out if I’ve been deemed worthy of said camp which is stressing me out and b) it’s hard to apply for a job when you are tentatively taking a month long hiatus from a three month job position. And I get it, who wants to put up the fuss of working with a kid who right after finally getting trained for the job is going to jump ship and then return 30-days later only to leave after a meager month and a half when you can simply hire the kid who’s able to work a solid stretch? I barely posses the energy to type that last sentence, let alone be a manager in that position.

Naturally, since this situation involves more than one element I get “overwhelmed” by my options and become decisionally paralyzed and take an excessively long time to sit and brood over my options. And still the only thing I’ve come up with is – I need more time. How bad do I really want to job hunt? Last year’s work schedule was exhausting and I can’t say I’m dying to get back into that scene. On the other hand, my sanity is being pushed to the limits with having nothing to do. I have, so. much. time. available to me now and it is terrifying. Do you know how hard it is to be productive when you sleep in till 1pm? It’s like when my 10:00am alarm goes off and my body goes, “Haha, right. ‘Cause that’s happening,” and then turns my phone off. Even my unconscious self knows that there’s nothing worth getting up for. I thought that since this summer might be a little more relaxed that I was definitely going to pick-up on my writing; I also thought that I was definitely going to graduate college in four years, and yet here we are. My summer has been reduced to simply puttering around my house in my pajamas muttering about how I should read more while trying not to lie down every five minutes because I’m “exhausted.” What happened to sun, sand and surf? Everyone gets all jacked up for summer because it means they get to party on the beach all day every day and it’s like, “Where do you live that that’s actually a viable option for you? Am I the only one with work ethic and no friends around here?  – Don’t answer that.” . . . And now you see that what I do all day is complain to myself, and I am insufferable. I want to crawl out of my own skin and club myself to death like I’m a little Canadian seal bab….nope, sorry – I’m not going there again. Lets end this before I relapse any further.

Welp, glad I could be a Debbie Downer for everyone…..

I’m back! As you know, I braved the Atlantic Ocean (twice) on my quest to the far of lands of Europe in pursuit of closure and happiness. I am glad to report that I received both while I was there. But I just can’t jump in to the end of things, I must start at the very beginning. I wrote down some stuff on my phone whilst traveling because I knew I wouldn’t have access to this blog till I got back. So, taking tattered fragments of thoughts and emotions typed into my phone, I hope to piece them together to create a comprehensive, patchwork-quilt-picture of my trip. Unfortunately its just a lot of angsty bullet points, so uh, enjoy. 

My first adventure occurred on my layover in Iceland. For some odd reason or other, Iceland makes you go through customs and Passport Control for a second time (the first being at your departure airport). And guess what, you know who lives in Iceland? THE WOLFMAN. Ya, he works for customs at the airport, I know this because I had to give him my passport. Let me draw you a picture real quick:

(EXACT REPRODUCTION OF ACTUAL PERSON)

I wish I was kidding. It was just so uncalled for. I know it’s terrible but I definitely did a gasp-and-flinch move when I fist saw him. And yes it’s terrible and sad that he has to deal with unwanted hair but come-on, we have technology. Things like razors and tweezers and waxing. There is no excuse to sport such terrifying and irregular hair. Also he didn’t say a single world to me, he just stared…into my soul. Which only supports my theory that he was more wolf than human, or at least in sort of transitional phase during our interaction. It mostly involved me recoiling and trying to look anywhere but directly at him. Welp, just another reason to hate Keflavik airport I guess.

The flight to London was rather uneventful, although I find it astounding that someone always seems to think it acceptable to fart just before take off. Why is it that someone  always waits until they’ve sealed us all into an airlocked cabin before deciding now is a good time to let it all out? Maybe I’m lucky but I think every international flight I’ve been on begins with a heavy waft of someone’s leftover 10am deuce. Let that visual image sink in as a lesson to all you runway flatulaters. Not that any of you would do that but, you know, precautions.

Landing in London I was exhausted, cramped, and slightly nauseated, so I had to draw upon all the nutrients of my miniature can of Pringles to sustain me in making the trip across London whilst rolling my bag behind me. For those who don’t know, it takes approximately and hour and half to get from the airport to just outside the city on the opposite side of downtown, and naturally to get to my specific stop I had to transfer 3 gagillion times (some would say it was only twice but whose counting) (I am.) (Shut up. No one asked you) (Actually….) (MOVING ON NOW.) I then met with a friend of mine from home. It seemed odd that on multiple occasions we had attempted to meet up in Moses Lake and it never worked out, yet we were able to have lunch half way across the world. Normally I just recap this story as, “Katherina and I just decided to have lunch in London because we couldn’t decide where to eat in Moses,” because it sounds smug, and I can deal with that. It should be mentioned that I saw more green hair in the Shoreditch district than you would at an anime convention – not that I’ve ever been to one. It was bizarre; every other person could have been Lady Gaga, guys included. London’s East End is apparently a real young and happenin’ zone, full of hip clubs and shops and pubs and flashy leather outfits and green hair. Do with that information what you will.

In conclusion, lunch was awesome, London was awesome, and Katherina basically lives in the coolest place ever. So naturally I’m green with jealous rage. Also, I had the world’s best coffee in this tiny clothes shop with a single espresso machine – I’m not being subjective here either, it is objectively one of the best espresso stands in London. Two words: Gwilyum Davies. Google it.

Where was I? Oh ya, next stop: St. Andrews, by way of Kings Cross. It is amazing to me that I still choose to book train tickets through Kings-X instead of the much more respectable St. Pancras train station. K-X is straight up a dump – it’s cold and barren, there are pigeons EVERYWHERE (and of course That One Pigeon I Hate was there), there is absolutely nowhere to sit, there’s never not construction going on, and they hate people who want to use the bathroom. All the public facilities have these communistic turnstiles that require you to pay a toll if you want to go to the bathroom. So enraged and wielding my travel luggage I managed to fight through oncoming rush-hour traffic to make it to the bathroom, only to find that I didn’t have the right combination of coinage for the turnstile. And, completely justified, I proceeded to shout “I HATE THIS COUNTRY!” Haha, me. I want to go on record for saying that I don’t really hate the UK, just their bathrooms, but what with the looks I was drawing at that time I didn’t get a chance to explain myself.

A six hour train ride later I was at the Leuchars station and hopping on a bus to my JSA Alma Mater. Pulling up at 1am I immediately passed out on Toria’s floor, dreaming of the adventures that awaited me in the morning. 

To Be Continued……..

And That’s How Cole . . . C’s it.

- Slash –

I’m sorry.

I’m sure all of you who care are probably rife with disappointment, but would it make a difference if I said I was trying to blog more? It probably would if it were true. My “trying” is actuated in 57 half-hearted, barely coherent snippets of blog posts, all of which suck. So there’s that. I figured however that I’d throw you a bone and give you a quick update, which has now turned into an annoyingly long intro.

N-e-WaYz

Here’s a list of shows that are blowing my brain-piece right now: Iron Chef (the dubbed Japanese version, of course)(Can we just agree that Iron Chef may be one of the greatest shows of all time; period; double-stamp; triple-stamp?)(Just sayin)(Also –  yes, you can triple-stamp a double-stamp)(So suck it, Jeff Daniels), HOARDERS, Psych, Antiques Road Show (Jackpot! Edition), and Burn Notice. Oh! Right now, on hoarders, this hoarding specialist came in to help some family in Hawaii and was like, “Oh I’M sorry, but where’s FEMA at, because this is a disaster area. I’m going to have to call CPS to take your children away. So . . . sorry, I guess?” And at first the parents were like “HA HA, oops!” Until they realized she was serious, and then it was DRAMZ FOR DAYS. Basically the Mom tried to kidnap her own kids and stealth away to Grandmas house until Dad became the biggest baby in the Pacific Rim and started bawling. So Mom is all “Ugh,” and decides to finally act like a full grown woman charged with raising 3 children and help clean the house, “I guess.” Now, if I’ve taken two things from this show it would be that:

1) It is hard to eat while watching Hoarders. Its seriously making me physically ill and have to take multiple time-outs to try and choke down these mashed potatoes. And they are delicious. Well, were delicious.

2) After watching the show, I feel like everything I own is “clutter” and that I’m secretly becoming a Hoarder. It’s one of those reality check moments where you begin to question everything about everything you know and think about yourself. And then spend the next 10 minutes talking yourself down from the mental “edge.” Just like a crazy person. 

But I digress.

As you know, I’ve recently returned from afar and am here to assure you that a post of my travels is in the making, it’s just taking me a while because it includes HAND DRAWN PICTURES!!!!!!!!1   I know right? It’s probably the most exciting thing going on in my life, next to the discovery of Netflix. Also, if anyone out there knew about Netflix and never told me, I have a question for you: How dare you. Aside from Baja Blast Mountain Dew, Netflix may just be the greatest thing to happen to me in the 21st century, and for you to sit there and not tell me about it? I say good day to you, sir. I said GOOD DAY!

I wish I could tell you how obsessed I am with Netflix, but I don’t have the time, mainly because I have to go watch Netflix now. Four seasons of 30 Rock aren’t going to watch themselves in a week, after all.

****BE A CRAB!!!! 3:15

And that’s how Cole . . . C’s it.

- I recently discovered the Documentary channel and instantly fell in love. I watched a documentary on the hill people of North Carolina called “Mountain Talk” for like an hour. It was even compelling enough to rip me away from my beloved hour of Scrubs. Then, a week later I watched a bunch of Chinese ladies make beads for Mardi Gras – and it was SO GOOD. This factory is crazy, all year they dedicate themselves solely to making Mardi Gras paraphernalia, and they don’t even know what Mardi Gras is. Seriously. They had no idea that they where working 15 hours a day at 10 cents an hour so woman all over New Orleans can empower themselves by flashing their “lady bits”. Fascinating.

- Speaking of TV shows I’m obsessed with: What has two thumbs and wants to live in a pineapple under the sea? ME. At the socially responsible age of 21, it may seem a bit out of norm that I make a concerted effort each day to watch SpongeBob SquarePants. Childish, you say? Perhaps. But YOU GUYS, SpongBob SquarePants puts me in the best mood (as does Scrubs, but in a more, “I’ve got my childhood innocence back” sort of way). Now if we are all honest with ourselves, I think that each and every one of us has had a good laugh while watching the ole SBSqP, so if you could please stop looking at my blog with your “judging eyes” that would be much appreciated. As comfortable as I’d like to think I am with boldly declaring my love for a children’s cartoon, I’m going to attempt to justify why any citizen old enough to buy alcohol can and should have an appreciation for Nickelodeon prime-time television shows.

*Bikini Bottom- Who in their right mind wouldn’t love to live in such an idyllic underwater retreat? The name alone suggests surf, sand and a whole lot of fun! They have a zoo, parks, retirement homes, shops, restaurants, banks, beaches and a kickin’ night life scene. Not to mention, the city literally rebuilds itself after every episode, so you never have to worry about property damage/vandalism/insurance.

*The music – I’m going to go out on a limb here and say I’m the only one that gets a euphoric high off the 3.7 second credits intro at the beginning of the show when they play the clip of tropical-island-esque music? No? Yes? Moving on…
[Update: You can find all the season title clips on here, so there is someone else who feels the same way. Bless your heart chach600.]

*This picture:

…if I could pull off this face….

*Patrick Star – ‘Nuff said.

*Simplicity – Because I’m generally busy at work all day, I like to come home and zone out, Hard Core. SBSqP helps me do exactly that. I don’t really have to think while I’m watching the show; the humor is so basic and innocent, I can literally get the same amount of mental joy from the show awake, even if I was blacked out.

- In both my jobs I work in the food service industry, and after a while you start hearing the same little customer jokes over, and over, and over again. One little snide comment that for some reason customers think is unfailingly clever slash comedic, is this little gem: 

Me. “I’m sorry, it will be a second. This particular item isn’t ringing in on my register”  – or -  “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go check the price on this item real quick.”

Customer. “WELL IF IT DOESN’T HAVE A PRICE THEN IT’S FREE RIGHT LOLz!!?!?!1  BUT SERIOUSLY, I SHOULD GET IT FOR FREE BECAUSE THE PRICE TAG IS MISSING AND YOU GUYS F@%KED UP AND ITS RUINING MY LIFE OBVIOUSLY.”

Ugh. The worst part is that the customers get this crazy, slightly aggressive look in their eyes that tell you on some level juuuust below the surface they are dead serious. Without fail at least once a month I get this. It makes me seriously consider giving out these items for free, under the condition that the customer go directly into the nearest street and through themselves under a moving vehicle. Overreaction? Maybe. All I ask is that you, my nearest and dearest friends who read this blog ,promise me never to do what has been mentioned above and I will love you all for the rest of my life.

Welp, I was going to add a lot more to this list which apparently turned out to be mostly a rant of reasons why I should still be allowed to vote for our nations president despite having an unyeilding desire to watch animated shows about sponges and starfish. But unfortunately my dog just passed wind and it smells like the Bubonic Plague in here, not to mention it’s 3 the Am and I have to work tomorrow. Bummer.

DON’T FORGET TO COMMENT!!  I’m needy.

ANd that’s how Cole . . . C’s it.

It started out your average run of the mill, slow day at work. The UFC fight was playing at Papa’s so we weren’t getting a lot of people streaming threw our doors. So me and Amy are just hanging out, washing tables multiple times so we look busy when a group of four people come in and take a seat in the restaurant. I think, “Score, a table! Now I’ll actually have something to do.” And I couldn’t have been more right: something to do. Come to find out, its a small family reunion of about 15 or 20 people. But, just to make things more complicated, they all shuffled in in groups of four or so spaced about 5 to 10 minutes apart. So I keep running back and forth, taking orders and getting drinks, and more drinks, and more drinks. Looks like at this point these guys are here to stay so I might as well get comfortable and settle in for a long night. And I was right again! Long night. One lady informs me that I’m doing a good job with such a “rambunctious group” because by now everyone has had a few drinks and is feeling frisky. A few minutes later, two of the kids slip out to smoke a cigarette and then all hell brakes loose. Kid #1 comes crashing through the door semi-shouting that Kid #2 is having a seizure outside.

Pause. A SEIZURE.

“Oh God.” I thought to myself, “I just killed a man. I saw those ‘Don’t Over-serve’ videos! And while seizures weren’t explicitly mentioned as a consequence for over-serving someone, this is obviously ALL MY FAULT.” Because seriously;  I just gave this guy a drink and now he’s convulsing on the pavement: proximate cause anyone?! So now I’m trying to figure out how to establish myself as an alpha male on the first day of prison so I don’t get raped by the entire penitentiary, because I’m obviously going to jail for manslaughter. But instead of throwing the dishes in my hand against the wall to create a distraction and make a run for it, I’m the first one to respond to the situation with this super intelligent and helpful statement: “Is this something normal for him? Or should I have someone call 911.”

More Pause.

Some family members get up and scuttle out the door to check on the situation like it’s some super morbidly inappropriate practical joke, and not until the first person shoots back inside yelling, “Someone call 911!” does everyone get fully mobilized. Panic! At the Proverbial Sports Bar. So while the family and bartender/supervisor flit back and forth through the door, I’m both on the verge of tears and in danger of passing out; still thinking I gave him alcohol poisoning. (Which is absurd because I was monitoring the alcohol intake of everyone at the table and documenting every single drink each person had, and which Kid #2 was still clearly in the Safe Zone.) (Good news is it definitely wasn’t me and over-serving, something the family did a good job of reassuring me about.) (I just had to clear that up, along with my conscious.) So yada yada yada the ambulance comes, Kid #2 is responsive and laughing and trying to get up which means he’s coherent and posses all his basic motor functions — great. Also, when I asked how Kid #2 was, his mother came over and gave me hug which I thought was very endearing of her, and which almost put me to tears.  The family returns with some having gone to the hospital and some remaining outside while the ones inside insist on drinking more.

Want to know something that is in no way fun? Cutting someone off. Which I had to do. Immediately after a family tragedy. It was only one girl though, but regardless, having to tell someone, “Uh you look like you can’t hold your liquor, so no more drinks for you!” while their family watches and certain individuals mean mug you, sucks. Still, I feel slightly proud of myself at having made a good judgment call (I passed it by the bartender, she agreed), although the girl I cut off certainly didn’t think so. And neither did her relative who grilled me about why they should have to pay full price for a beer Cut-Off-Girl spilled. I told her it was because she spilled the beer, which I assumed to be somewhat self explanatory considering the answer was simply a repeated segment of the question. So that was crazy fun, having to live that awkwardness through the rest of the night. I will say that Cut-Off-Girl seemed to justify my decision to cut her off by semi-slurrily mumbling things about not asking the bartender for anything because she would “just cut everyone off.” However, I shouldn’t complain, because in the end everyone was extremely nice and apologetic and treated me very well. They all thanked me and made sure I felt at peace with everything that had happened. So while the 6 hour evening ended on a good note, I’m emotionally exhausted and a wee bit nervous that I’m going to receive a phone call any minute saying “Good job asshole, you gave this kid alcohol poisoning and he’s now paralyzed from the neck down;” because invariably, I’m always doing something wrong, and the Lord knows it was only a matter of time till my mistakes got someone killed.

And that’s how Cole . . . C’s it.

This coming fall semester I will not be returning to WSU, instead, I plan on remaining at home and working, with a potential trip to Europe falling somewhere in the mix. I have some vaguely noble reasons for delaying my return to school, and while they may not be the instigating reasons, they play a large part in my final decision.

For one, by working through the semester I hope to make enough money to pay for my entire final year at WSU; that means no loans and ideally very little assistance from my parents. This also means that I would have to get a part time job up at school to help pay for living expenses. So, if I’ve done the math right (definitely cause for concern) than this is a totally feasible idea.

For another, I had an uncharacteristically hard time keeping up with school and friends last year. I sort of went into hibernation and walked around all sulky and antisocial. THIS. MUST. STOP. I cannot keep living in isolation and academic apathy, and so by taking time off of school I am going to reorder my priorities and make sure that I go back with my head on right and my attitude adjusted. This is like quarter-life-crisis crunch time and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to do things right.

Finally, I plan on traveling again. I sort of gave this away earlier on Facebook, but I’m making my way back to St. Andrews! That is if everything works out financially. I don’t want to make any promises, but it’s going to take divine intervention slash a shortage of income to stop me from going. Remember at the start of this post when I talked about being scared of the future? Well one of the things I’m afraid of is not being able to travel after school. For some reason my brain is stuck on the one thought that once I’ve graduated, I will have loans to pay off, parents to pay off and responsibilities to own up to (i.e. moving out and becoming all . . . independent). With all of this in mind, it seems that the only option then is to settle down into a career, and what if that career doesn’t allow me to travel anymore? I don’t really want to think about it. Therefore, as a preemptive strike, I’m mobilizing now to get my traveling in when I can.

Really the main points here are that I’m not coming back to WSU in the fall and instead I’ll be heading over to Europe (fingers crossed!) with emphasis on St. Andrews. This is where I leave an open invitation to anyone who wants to join me in postponing education in the name of becoming a “global citizen.” Croatia, Italy, Switzerland, Belgium: sound good anyone?

Job #1: Michael’s Market and Bistro         (10am – 3pm approx.)
I hesitate to use the word “uppity” here, but its sort of The Real Housewives of Grant County-type-luncheon hot-spot. But where else in town are you going to get a $12 salad and a 20 ounce $3 ice-tea at noon? Especially when you don’t have time for a sit down restaurant. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing but love for the Bistro, they provide me with 20 hours a week at minimum wage, but it certainly isn’t a cheap place to eat. I will say however that the food is probably worth the money; including the salads. But really? Its a salad. I refuse to pay anything more than five bucks for a bowl of leaves and gross vegetables, but that’s just me. . . and Jim Gaffigan. (“Sorry salad!” – That one’s  for you, Toria.) My job is really just to take food out to customers and bus tables, nothing fancy or entirely thrilling, but the people I work with are great and the till is nothing short of comical. NERD ALERT! This may be an extremely geeky reference/the most exciting thing about working at the Bistro, but the button on the register for the Chicken Fettuccini is labeled “Chicken Fett”, I cannot ever read that with out picturing a chicken in a Boba Fett costume and just how awesome that visual image is. (See Below):

             
                BOBA FETT                              +                              CHICKEN                          =

                                                             CHICKEN FETT!!!!!!

(Can you imagine my joy when I found that Chicken Fett actually exists?!? Until 5 minutes ago I was unaware that my nerdy fantasies were being made into realities. Thank you, Family Guy for coming through once again in blog visual aides. I offer my undying appreciation and first three children to Seth McFarlane for his sheer genius.)

Job #2: Southpaw’s Sports Bar and Grille        (5pm – 11:30pm approx.)
First things first, I don’t understand the ‘e’ placed on the end of the word grille; I can understand words with odd-ending letters like comb, and climb because that’s how they were and will always be spelled (relatively) but since the word ‘grill’ without the ‘e’ exists, why should anyone ever feel the need to write grille? It seems a bit pretentious to me. But, pretentious naming aside, Southpaw’s is a surprisingly fun place to work. It also reminds me to thank God everyday for creating me as a Man and not a Woman because if I had to deal with some of the crap that the female waitresses have to, there is an 83% chance I would go postal on every single one of the lecherous old men in there. Fortunately I have had nothing but good experiences with the customers, so far.

In conclusion I guess I just want to explain to you all why I’ve up and disconnected from the the rest of the world, its this crazy thing called work that’s getting in the way of fun as usual. So hang in tight! And I will see you when I see you!

And that’s how Cole. . . C’s it.

Speaking of things that are shameful, I have a rather unique fear of becoming a father, (yup! Surprise! I hooked up with some chick I met at the bar last month and now she’s preggers and is saying  its mine, but I’m taking it to Maury because she is a ho fo’ sho and there’s no way she can prove I’m the father.).

(Except, JOKES! That’s all a lie, minus the part where I’m nervous to become a father, eventually.) However, the cause of my worry is a bit different from the normal anxieties that accompany becoming a first time parent. I’m less concerned as to whether or not I’m going to be a good parent, or whether I should make it (him/her) play the violin or piano and will the name I choose for it cause it to be made fun of in high school; I’m more concerned about what happens that day in the delivery room when they place the newborn in my hands. Because it is going to take me all the strength of a raging fire to stop myself from re-shaping the baby’s head. After all, did you know that newborns skulls are still soft and moldable?!? I don’t know why, but this fascinates me to no end. I also think it is hilarious, I mean, don’t even get me started on the “soft spot” babies have on their heads. Maybe because in my own little demented world, I can just imagine someone shaping their baby’s head into all kinds of funny shapes, you know, just for fun – it’s just like messing with your hair when it’s wet, only instead of forming a mohawk, it’s a skullhawk (if you will). A part in your hair? Try a ridge in your skull. Seen the movie Coneheads? You can make it happen. Plan on raising your kid to be a track or swimming star? Make his/her head a little more aerodynamic; it’s not cheating if their born with it right? See, isn’t this fun? (Keep in mind that in my dreamland this has no adverse effects on the baby’s brain or anything, I’m not that twisted.)

Oh, what was that? What shape would I make my baby’s head? I’m delighted you asked! I’m thinking football shaped. I mean look at Stewie from Family Guy, True or False: Stewie is not only hilarious, he’s a genius and is mature for his age. Also, look at Arnold from Hey Arnold, I didn’t watch the show much but from what I saw he seems like a dam decent guy, and I’m sure my friend Aaron Aruck would jump at the chance to tell you about just how awesome he is. Ok quiz time, what do both of these cartoon characters have in common? Answer: A football shaped head. I really think I might be on to something here you guys.

Now, if you are an avid 2birds1blog reader (which I have NO idea why you wouldn’t be) then you are familiar with the the game of, “Am I Crazy or Are You?” How you play is that you let me know what you think in regards to whether or not soft, moldable baby skulls are as awesome as I think. So leave some comments, and if it turns out that I’m the one who’s crazy (highly unlikely), then I can always just encourage my children to jump on the bed…..

And that’s how Cole . . . C’s it.

It may not look so terrifyingly bad to the casual observer, but imagine driving off of it on a 500lb machine that would invariably flip on top of you as you fell, landing on you and crushing you against the hard earth and rocks. That’s what flashed through my mind anyway as I came to within inches of the edge. It totally wasn’t my fault though, I am a good driver: I go on speed One around the edges and always make sure I have a buffer zone between me and the sheer drops. But Cole, didn’t you know that 55 percent of fatal accidents in the 20-49 year old age range are cause by driver error? Uh, actually I did smart ass, and I swear on my first born child that it was truly machine error. Lemme ‘splain.

Because my parents are thrifty (in a good way), we bought our riding lawnmower at a garage sale, and based on the age of the vehicle it’s safe to assume that it’s previous owners were Pterodactyls. Seriously, I’m thinking of taking it to the next Antique Road Show to see if it has historical value, (because honestly, if this guy can get $300,000 for a Navajo blanket, I’m seriously optimistic that I can coax out a healthy ransom for my lawnmower based on the fact that my item doesn’t run the possibility of carrying small pox), (Native American jokes: Too soon? or just too racy?… probably both). But you guys, this thing is so Neolithic that I originally thought we were going to have to purchase a pair of oxen to drag it across the yard, which might have been the better scenario here considering it tried to kill me. Because one thing about this mower is that it’s transmission is out of control, literally – you can’t control it. This wily little piece of machinery is so unpredictable that the only thing you can be certain of when you throw it in gear is that it will shudder-start so hard you may be launched into the future, IF you survive the whiplash that is. Also, the only way to tell whether you’re in a forward gear, neutral, or reverse is to let your foot off the (faulty) break and see what happens. This is extremely worrisome when, like I mentioned above, you have cliffs in your backyard and you have approximately 5 feet to maneuver in.

So, the whole experience played out like this: I had just reached the end of the lawn by the arbor (see above pictures) and need to back up. After two failed attempts to put Satan’s lawnmower in reverse and knocking over the arbor/almost running over my mother’s garden, I managed to secure backwards motion. This is where things get tricky because a few culminating circumstances really compromised my driving abilities at this point: 1) reverse on our mower has only one speed, Back-To-The-Future fast, 2) I forgot this about our lawnmower, 3) I was so pissed off that I couldn’t get the mower to go backwards that I was completely taken by surprise when it actually did what it was supposed to. So now, in shock and at a break-neck speed, I was backing up when I made the unfortunate decision to turn the wheel and thus send me propelling towards the cliff edge and towards pending doom. In seconds my scrambled brain threw the mower into the opposite gear, all the way to gear Six and, my tires squealing, shot forward inches from plunging to my death, narrowly avoided hitting the AC unit outside and gave the finger to the rest of mowing the lawn and drove my ass back to the garage to get the hand mower.

Stay tuned next week for my thoughts on bagels and the ethics behind baby-head-shaping. It’s gonna be good.

And that’s how Cole . . . C’s it.