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Poems are one of the good things about America April 12, 2009

Posted by Matt Brown in Uncategorized.
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Easter weekend typically means a mass exodus from campus. By the time I awoke this morning, my roommate, most of my friends, and my girlfriend were all out of town…and my family was still very much scattered across the country. It looked like I was going to be in charge of my own fun tonight.

I went strolling down high street in the afternoon, and stumbled across a bookstore/coffeeshop place that I had been meaning to check out. On a lark, I walked inside, poked around for a bit, bought a book (How Soccer Explains the World for 6 bucks. I both enjoy soccer *and* the world, so I figured it was a pretty solid investment), read for a little bit on one of their comfy couches, and then decided to head back home. On my way out, I noticed a poster on the door, advertising the release party for a book called “The Good Things About America”. I had never been to any kind of poetry or prose reading event before, and my alternative plans for the evening involved drinking all the Gatoraid in my fridge and playing NBA Live 08 all night…so I decided I’d come back in a few hours and check it out.

I have to admit, I was a little apprehensive about the whole thing. Despite being a writer, I’m not really the most “literary” figure in my family (that title goes to my younger sister, who is rapidly becoming a renowned poet in Madison, Wisconsin). I write mostly political commentary, non-fiction and sportswriting. I haven’t really attempted a poem since 8th grade (I wrote a 3 page epic poem called The Great Panda Problem, detailing a group of Panda’s escape from the Zoo, and subsequent takeover of the world. It won “best poem” that year. I decided to retire at the top of my game). Am I even allowed to go to things like this?

My feelings of nervousness didn’t really go away when I first walked in to the coffeeshop. People were wearing fedoras, chuck taylors and double breasted shirts. I looked down to see what I was wearing. I had a blue t-shirt that said COLLEGE (a la Animal House), and brown flip flops. I had gotten my hair cut that day, and still had the gel in my hair. I stuck out like a white guy at Live at the Apollo. What killed me is that I actually own a fedora. I wanted to shout “No, this isn’t what it looks like. I’m really one of you people! Let me get my hat and we can talk about books!”

But was I?

The room quickly filled up, and I found myself sitting in a group of hipsters. The reading began with a few songs from a stripped down rock band. People were in the crowd were laughing and chatting with each other during the songs. I got the impression that most people here knew each other from somewhere else…somewhere else in this scene, which made me feel a little more self conscious. I vaguely entertained thoughts of leaving, but I would have had to crawl over 20 people to get to the door, and dammit, I walked all this way to hear some poems about America.

After a few songs, the band left the makeshift stage, and a tall fellow stepped up the mic. He introduced himself as the editor of the book. He told us that in his travels, he’d hear lots of poets writing about America, but usually in the context of America sucking. Our president is stupid, our foreign policy is unjust, we’re killing the planet, blah blah blah. Quite frankly, it was starting to bring him down. Sure, America has lots of problems, but why do we only have to write about the bad stuff? He called up some of his fellow poets from across the country, asked them to write about the *good* things, and published the book.

As somebody who writes about politics regularly, and also hangs out in a fairly left-leaning crowd most of the time, I think its critical to read stuff like this sometimes. Writing about politics (or even paying attention to politics) can be a major drag sometimes…people can be self-serving and corrupt….it can bring out the most banal and disappointing aspects of our personalities. It can be scary and hateful and sad and make you question why you even bother.

And then you remember…its because I Really Like America. I would even go so far as to say America kicks ass.

Many of the poets featured in the book journeyed to Columbus for the reading…some from Boston, New York, Oklahoma, and others. They talked about families, love, their hometowns,Elections and Heroes, their favorite cities, and the American Experience. My heart filled with pride.

Many of the poems (and the poets) were exceptionally witty and smart, and I found myself laughing and joking with my seatmates. I felt myself becoming a little more comfortable after every poem, after every story, and after every mutually enjoyed pun. One poet, after reading, crumpled up his manuscript into a ball, and tossed it into the crowd. Audience members fought for it like fans might jostle for a foul ball at a baseball game. I couldn’t help but smile. Maybe these are my people after all. I left the reading without any shred of self-consciousness.

The readers were far more diverse than my initial “poet” stereotype had allowed for. There was an older gentleman from southern ohio who read stories from his dark (but also oddly hilarious) book about a fictional town in Ross County. There was a woman who lived in ultra-conservative Oklahoma, whose mother kept a cardboard cutout of Barack Obama in her kitchen (after the last 8 years…I just need to see his face every morning she said. Apparently she hasn’t been able to find a cardboard Michelle yet). Folks from all over the country, from all different backgrounds and with different life experiences read and shared.

I ended up buying the book, making it the first poetry book to grace my bookshelf. I walked out of the reading feeling completely refreshed and rejuvenated. I am prob. not able to write like they can. My writing is like bread, and their poems, like an expensive wine. Its perfectly fine to write bread….after all, everybody eats bread. But Jesus was on to something when he said that man cannot live on bread alone. Sometimes you need a sip of something more complicated to refresh your pallet.

They’re in ur government, legalizin’ ur gheys April 9, 2009

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I was sitting in Wendy’s two nights ago, trying to eat my chicken sandwich in piece, but the TV was distracting me. It was turned to MSNBC, and some commentator had a few talking heads on to discuss the recent developments in Iowa and Vermont, two states that recently made gay marriage legal. The commentator breathlessly said that “now is the time for a national discussion about gay marriage”.

You know what? I agree. But to save time, I’m just going to go ahead and do all the talking. Hope thats okay with you guys.

Q: These arrogant activist judges! Who do they think they are, striking down legislation that is clearly the will of the people?
A: Uh…maybe they think they’re judges? Isn’t that the entire concept of Judicial Review? Populists might clamor that this is elitist…and they’re right. Parts of our government were established to be a check on popular sentiment. If “just being popular” is enough of a reason for laws to escape judicial review, whats the point of having a judiciary? That “judicial activism” gave us Brown v Board of Education and Baker V Carr.

Plus, if we define “judicial activism” as “the supreme court voting to overturn a ruling”, then the Conservative wing is more likely to be activist. I’d like to suggest another definition of “Activist Judges”….”When judges make a decision that I disagree with”.

Seriously. How many people who are mad at the Iowa Supreme Court are basing their arguments on their knowledge of the Constitution of Iowa?

Q: Legalizing gay marriage and civil unions will doubtless start us on a slippery slope towards legalizing polygamy, pedophilia, animal marriages, and marrying Janet Reno.
A: I beg to differ. Animals and children cannot consent, so they cannot be married. Full stop. The United States doesn’t have the legal tradition of some place like Pakistan, where marrying off 11 year olds seems to be okay (and, oddly enough, Pakistan doesn’t allow gay marriage). Gay Marriage/Civil Unions, an agreement between two, consenting adults, is not analogous to any of the other aforementioned acts.

Polygamy may involve contenting parties (maybe, some sociological research on how relationships work on polygamous compounds might beg to differ), but its pretty easy to justify denying some legal benefits to multiple parties, as it would be easy to set up “families” as tax sheltering devices. The boondoggle dividing up benefits after a polygamous divorce might be a boon to lawyers, but it would be a huge hassle for our courts as well.

Besides, take it from a Mormon, polygamy ain’t worth it. Last time we tried that, mobs kidnapped and killed our leader, drove us from our perfectly good town in Illinois, drove us across the wilderness, and forced to settle in Utah. Gross. Where would the mobs send you if you tried to be polygamous now? Alaska, to live in Sarah Palin’s kingdom? (I can see this….polygamous families welcome in Alaska, so long as every child gets an assault rife, and has a stupid name. . Hi, these are my wives Kara, Lisa and Emily…and our children; Tuscaloosa, Microwave and Battlestar Galatica)

Q: I don’t want a gay marriage.
A: I am unaware of any judicial ruling or legislative act requiring anybody to get one.

Q: Allowing Gay Marriage will threaten the institution of marriage.
A: I hear this one a lot, and I have yet to really get a satisfactoy answer from anybody, be they commentator, ecclesiastical authority, or anybody else as to exactly why that is. Lets say that we believe that Marriage is a unique institution specifically created for a Man and a Woman, and that any other union should go by a different name. Okay, lets call the other one’s civil unions, and let them have the same benefits. Is that okay?

Many who oppose GM also oppose that idea, and I’m exactly sure why. Knowing that dudes are holding hands somewhere in San Fransisco doesn’t in any way cheapen or damage the wonderful (heterosexual) relationship I have now. When I’m out with my girlfriend…I’m not thinking about gay people. Like…ever. If you are, well…I’m no Dr.Phil, but I suspect your relationship may have other issues.

Is  Marriage under attack? Sure, I believe that, but not by the gays. Divorce rates are high, and there are lots of possible culprits. Financial insecurity/worries have damaged lots of relationships. Pornography certainly has. Poor communication, infidelity, health problems….I can think of lots of things that might be contributing to marriages breaking down. *That* is a very important topic that we *should* have a national conversation about. The Nuclear Family is an institution worth defending.

But Gays? How often do you think this happens?
Honey, I know we’ve been married for 10 years, and I know we loved each other. But Iowa just legalized Gay Marriage, and I really think I should use that opportunity to take my Bro-mance with Chad to a new level. Before, it was just our weekly poker game and phone calls about fantasy baseball. Now….we can share Social Security. I just think its a better deal.

Really? I doubt it.

Q: Homosexuality is clearly a sin, and as such, we should oppose GM/CU
A: Personally, I think Theology doesn’t really enter into it. My own theological views on homosexuality are kind of moot as far as the debate over hospital visitation rights and pension sharing is concerned. My religious faith also teaches me to abstain from the consumption of alcohol and coffee, but it would be wrong to try and force that on everybody, no?

There is not a legal reason to think that allowing Civil Unions would require churches to marry gay people if they didn’t want to. Certainly, if there was, I would vigorously oppose it. Churches should have the freedom to marry/allow in whoever they want…but there is no credible reason to think that that would change. If somebody says otherwise in church, they are not speaking out of any understanding of the law.

At the end of the day, I may have my own theological belief about homosexuality, but why should that mean that gay people shouldn’t have hospital visitation rights?

Q: Thats about all I can think of.
A: Me too. Good talk.

Anger in the Age of Obama April 7, 2009

Posted by Matt Brown in Politics.
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It’s 2:04 PM and I can feel my brain turning to mush.

It isn’t the first time its happened, and I doubt it will be the last. I’m sitting here at my desk, searching through various news websites and blogs, trying to find something interesting to write about. I glance through the CNN Political Ticker, and I can feel my eyes start to glaze over as I scan the headlines for todays new manufactured political “crisis”. Omg, Obama farted at the G20. Sarkozy turned up his nose. Americans are outraged. Eric Cantor releases a statement on how Republicans would never embarrass our country like that, and it this flatulence incident just shows the glaring inexperience of our administration.

Below that are 6 other stories showing people getting outraged over tiny, mundane things. I switch over to gchat, where I’m talking with Maya, hoping that she’ll say something intelligent to break my mental lethargy. Instead, she describes, in graphic detail, her baby Miles’ latest poops. Now my head is full of political spin drivel, AND I know what a “four wiper” is. My eyes are bleeding.

Yes, I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m getting dumber, and I’m giving part of the blame to this newfangled internet news machine, which I’ve been so hooked up to, trying to mine article ideas.

From October to around February, the theme of the political news was “Hope”. It was the centerpiece of a winning political campaign, and it lurked in the background of several other issue debates. “We’re plotting a new direction”, we were told. “We’re going to erase the mistakes of the past, and we’re going to make history.” Political copy swelled with Hope, and I felt it burst into reality at the Obama Inauguration, where I felt like I was getting a big hug from a million formally oppressed liberals. Not only was it satisfying to get so recklessly emotionally involved with a cause, but writing was easy. I churned out thousands of words, and could have easily churned out thousands more if there was enough of a market.

But Hope no longer appears to be the dominant emotion in politics right now. It appears that Hope has given way to Anger.

Anger at politics and politicians is certainly nothing new. Would be politicos of my generation would do well to study Mark Twain and H.L Mencken to get a good historical perspective on government loathing. To me though, this anger is different…its broader, deeper, and profoundly personal.

The frustration seems to be pretty broad, and is popping up all over the place. People flip out over AIG bonuses, even though they represent tiny percentages of the stimulus bills. Folks are losing their jobs, their homes and their retirement plans. We can turn on the TV to see Lou Dobbs give himself a hernia while flipping out about Mexicans, and see Glenn Beck build a Chamber Of Fear bunker in Ruby Ridge and wait for the Second Coming. Add all of this up with the fact that quite a few people felt personally attacked by Obama’s very existence, and a culture of very unrealistic expectations, and we have the recipe for a smoldering vat of Anger.

Now, I’m just speculating here, but I think I might have an idea while some of that anger is so strong. Never in my short life have I felt the difference between generations this much. On one hand, we have an older generation who has held political, economic and cultural power for the last several decades…the Reagan Democrats, older working whites, etc. Their families might have moved out to the suburbs in the white flight era of the 1950s and 60s, and now the demographics of their neighborhoods are completely different. Their social values did not get passed down the following generation, and more socially progressive policies look to march on. The economy shifted from blue collar to high tech service, and they might have been left behind.

I’m not saying that feeling is totally unjustified or wrong, just my hypothesis.

Me? I’m not angry. I don’t have the capacity to stay angry at everything anymore…I get scandal fatigue. I pick a few pet issues to get all righteously indignant about (the achievement gap in American public schools, the growing anti-intellectualism of America, poor reporting, the fact that the Mike Brown still won’t hire a GM for the Cincinnati Bengals, those sorts of things), and then try to sift through the rest of the stories, separating the total crap from the important things that other, intelligent, passionate people will fight.

My little sister still gets angry at every injustice, and I have a few friends who still do. Bless their hearts. Others have totally unplugged themselves, washed their hands, and declared that the issues of the world are “somebody else’s problems”. I hope that as I continue to get older, I don’t lose my ability to get angry. Its important to get angry sometimes…it shows you still have passion, that you’re still paying attention.

But that anger needs to be channeled into productive sources, not trapped in a spin cycle of fear and loathing. If you’re upset about the way things are going, there are legitimate, proper cycles to go about changing things. Now is not the time for bunkers or fear chambers. To fall into that trap would end whatever hope and goodwill we might have accumulated, and put us all right back where we started.

I’d go on, but my gchat is flashing again, which means another “the baby pooped!” story….and my mind is back to mush.

Blue in the Spring March 20, 2009

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One of my creative writing professors joked that when she taught her creative non fiction class in the spring, everybody wrote essays on sex. When she taught it in the winter, everybody wrote about death.

Not knowing this beforehand, I stupidly took her class during the winter. She wasn’t kidding.

I can certainly understand why. Its easy for death to be on the mind during a Columbus Winter, when you drudge around everywhere surrounded by dead plants, and students so cold they perhaps wished they were dead.

But my mind continued to linger on the subject even after the sun began to make special guest appearances, and the temperatures began to flirt with the 50s. Two of my friends at my old school recently lost their fathers, my church congregation lost a member, and my father’s birthday was quickly approaching. My dad died in September of 2006.

I can still remember most of the funeral. The church was at full capacity, packed with friends, family, and dozens of people who I didn’t know at all. I was completely emotionally overwhelmed. I hadn’t begun to make sense of my grief, and only just barely wrapped my head around the magnitude of the situation. To make matters more confusing, I was in the middle of my LDS mission…so there I was, nametag and all, trying to maintain some facade of emotional stoicism.

Nobody really knows what to say at a funeral, but everybody wants to help. I remember scores of well intentioned people coming up to me, giving me hugs, and saying it’ll be okay.

I didn’t know it at the time, but now I’m pretty convinced that just isn’t true. When you lose a parent, especially when you’re still young, I’m not sure its ever okay.

Sure, the intensity of the situation wanes over time. I no longer have the urge to cry whenever Van Morrison starts playing on the radio. I’m able to watch a baseball game without falling apart, even if the Yankees are playing (I still hate ‘em though. Sorry dad). I think I’m naturally a pretty upbeat guy, and this tragedy hasn’t changed that.

But I think the word “okay” seems to imply some sort of return to a previous, injury free state, and that is impossible. I think about my dad nearly every day, and I’m finding that I miss him in new, powerful ways the older I get. My dad will never see me graduate college, never saw me land my first “grown up” job, and won’t see my wedding (or for that matter, even meet anybody I date). He never got to hold Miles, who would have been his first Grandbaby. These are new, powerful hurts that didn’t occur to me when I was a confused nametag-totting 19 year old, but I’m starting to understand now.

I don’t just miss my dad because he will be absent for the rest of my life milestones. My dad was an artist, and the very genesis of my creative ability. I developed a passion for blues and soul music from rummaging through his CD collection. His was a voracious reader, a poet and a writer. I am only now just starting to understand a tiny bit of what he knew. I would give anything to have a few more min with him, if only to discuss music and writing. I didn’t publish my first piece until April of 2007. He never saw it.

It isn’t just sorrow and loss that I feel now though. Death has a way of fundamentally rearranging your priorities and perspective. Death is a crushing reminder of our own fragile mortality. We’re not indestructible, not even when we’re teenagers and know everything. It is a reminder that life is too short to hate, to hold grudges, to remain heartbroken or to be bitter ( and life is also too short to *not* experience those things, because that’s what makes us alive). We don’t want our last interaction with a loved one to be negative.

It can be difficult to reconcile everything. The bleeding may stop, and the cut may heal, but I think I’ll always have a little scar somewhere. I think that’s how it goes. As time goes on, I guess you just learn to reconcile those painful longing feelings with the right perspective. I’ll always miss my old man, and there may be times when I might really need him…but life is too short to be permanently attached to a memory (and one that is likely distorted). My dad certainly wouldn’t want me to mope forever…he’d want me to be happy (and if he saw me moping, he’d prob call me a stinkin’ alcoholic and fart really loud to try and snap me out of it. Larry, Curly and Moe had nothing on my old man)

So you keep struggling with that, and move on from there. Somedays are easier than others…but I don’t think its ever, 100% “Okay”.

Not even in the spring.

What They Don’t Tell You About Greyhound Buses… March 15, 2009

Posted by Matt Brown in Humor, Politics, Stories and observations.
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This website has been updated sporadically lately for two main reasons. One is that I’m crazy busy with some TFA related projects (see my sister blog, somedayallblogs.wordpress.com). The other reason is that I’ve been working on some longer writing projects. Here is one story that I thought maybe you guys might enjoy, about my bus trip to Washington DC to blog about the Obama Inauguration for a small Ohio Newspaper. Enjoy

The instructions on my ticket confirmation email seemed simple enough. Please bring your photo ID, your email confirmation number, and please get to the Greyhound Station 1 hour before your bus departs. My plan was then to get on my bus, take a nap, read a book, jam to my iPod, and before I knew it, I would be at Union Station in Washington DC. Easy.

But alas, things are not always so simple. I suspect there is quite a bit they don’t tell you about Greyhound Bus journeys.

First, customer service isn’t exactly a priority. Me and my girlfriend (D) arrived at the station for our bus trip at 3:30 AM, and noticed the station was almost completely empty. Apparently, demand for the 4:30 bus from Columbus to DC on a Monday was sparse. Seeing that I was the only one in line at the ticket counter, I walked right up to the front, thinking that I would simply exchange my confirmation number and ID for my tickets, as per the instructions in my email. The Ticket Lady was engaged in a rather lively discussion with a security guard and a bus driver, punctuated by the occasional aaaaaaw shiiiit, and aw no she’s didn’t! I politely coughed to show that I, a customer, needed to be served. The Ticket Lady looked up at me, glared, and continued her conversation.

I turned around and gave my girlfriend a confused look. Was this the right ticket counter? Was it closed? We couldn’t see any sign that would indicate that, and the email did tell us to come to the station at such an ungodly hour. The Ticket Lady apparently noticed, and turned to me. “Sir. I notice you’re getting a little antsy. I am talking right now. Please wait your turn.” She said all of this as if the bus driver was a paying customer, waiting to check his duffel bag and head to Chicago. She then turned back to her friends and said just loud enough for me to hear; can you believe these kids? What are they doing here so goddamned early?[1] I shrugged and sat down by my backpack. I guess this is why Greyhound wanted us to get here so early.

After an uncomfortably long wait, we eventually got our tickets, and sat down next to the door to wait for our bus. “I’m so excited for this trip. Are you excited yet?” D asked me. I had every reason to be. I had managed to talk the editors of my local newspaper to take me off the high school sports beat, and let me cover the inauguration of Barack Obama. Me and D had both worked for the Obama campaign, and the idea of physically witnessing the culmination of our efforts was very thrilling indeed. D had also not been to DC since she was in 8th grade, and I used to live there, so in addition to witnessing history, I could go visit old college friends and show my girlfriend around what I considered to be my second hometown.

But it was still before 4 AM, and I have a hard time being really excited for anything before 4 AM. “It hasn’t sunk in yet. Ask me if I’m excited once we get to Wheeling” I said. Wheeling was the first stopover on the way to DC. We would then change buses in Pittsburgh, and makes stops in Hagerstown and Baltimore before the end of our journey. I slouched on my little bench, and tried to get a little bit of sleep before our bus was scheduled to arrive in a half hour.

Only the bus didn’t get there in a half hour. Our bus, without apology or explanation, rolled into the stop a fashionable hour and a half late. That’s just another one of the things they don’t tell you.

I tried to nap a little more once I finally got on the bus, but my seat made that pretty much impossible. Greyhound managed to construct a seat that’s uncomfortable, no matter how you sit in it. I tried reclining the chair, kicking my legs into the aisle, scrunching up in a ball, and hundreds of other positions over the course of our journey, but nothing worked. Just when I thought I was comfortable enough to take a quick nap, I’d notice that my right leg and half of my butt had fallen asleep. At least this time I was traveling with a friend. On my previous Greyhound journey, my seat mate was Jabba the Hut, who spilled into my seat, pinning me against the window with a wall of jiggling fat.

D didn’t seem to have any trouble falling asleep though, and was only just waking up when the bus rolled into the lonely downtown of Wheeling West Virginia. It was still pretty dark outside and downtown Wheeling wasn’t exactly aglow with skyscrapers and flashing neon. I’m not even sure if it was aglow from street lamps. “Where are we?” she asked me.

“I think we’re in Wheeling. I guess we’re just going to stop for a second, and then head to Pittsburgh.”

“Are you excited yet?”

I yawned and stretched. “Not yet. Ask me when we get to Pittsburgh”.

Truthfully, it wasn’t just my inability to catch a decent nap that was preventing the excitement from kicking in. We were still over an hour behind schedule, and we were supposed to change buses in Pittsburgh. If we missed that connection, there was no telling how long we’d be stuck there, maybe even an entire day. I was supposed to file a story “on my journey to DC” by 7 PM, and that would prove difficult to do if I didn’t actually arrive in DC before 7. I silently hoped that our connecting bus was late as well.

Our bus driver must have somehow heard my silent pleas. While D slept, and I turned to my iPod as a distraction from my worries, our bus thundered along the highway at speeds not even close to legal. Most buses stay in the righthand land and cruise close to the speed limit, but we darted around traffic as if we were a motorcycle, not a gigantic passenger bus. By some sort of miracle, we pulled into the bus station 15 minutes before we were scheduled to change buses. The driver got on the intercom. “Ladies and Gentlemen, you are many things. You are Black, White, Young, Old, Man and Woman…..but you are no longer late”. I could have hugged him.

The Bus station in Pittsburgh was very different than the Columbus station. Columbus isn’t much of a Greyhound hub, so their station is small and sparse, with a few dirty benches, some dingy overpriced vending machines, and old video games that nobody wants to play. Pittsburgh is apparently a major hub for all the entire east coast. If you’re in the midwest and you want to bus to the East Coast, you have to pass through the Pittsburgh Greyhound station. It had more than twice the number of gates as the last station, and everything looked new and clean. In addition to the typical vending machine fare, this station had flatscreen TV’s showing CNN and ESPN, and what looked to be a mini restaurant/convenience store. It was about time for a late breakfast, and there were probably some things we could pick up for our trip, so D and I stashed our packs by our gate, and went to explore the store.

The back corner of the mini mart was labeled “The Greyhound Grill”, which advertised your typical burgers and pizza fare, along with hot breakfasts. After inspecting the menu, I decided that some pancakes would taste delicious, and stepped up to place my order. Only nobody was there. I peaked over the counter, waited some more, and then shuffled around the Grill area uncomfortably.

A voice from across the mini mart had the answer. “Oh, they don’t open that until 12:30 I think” said a greyhound employee. “You can only buy the prepackaged foods here at the minimart”

“If you don’t open until 12:30, why are you selling breakfast foods? Why is there no sign?” I really had my heart set on some pancakes. The picture looked so inviting.

“I don’t know. I’m just the cashier lady.” We sighed, bought some four dollar muffins (that only provided maybe a dollar fifty of hunger relief), and went to board our next bus, which was set to take us across Pennsylvania, into Maryland, and finally Washington DC.

It was light for the first time, so I finally got a chance to glimpse at some of my fellow passengers. Like my previous Greyhound adventures, it looked like we had quite the cast of characters. I could see a man trying to sell little American flags to everybody on the bus. “Please help me out here guys. I’m going to the Inauguration and this is how I’m going to pay for my ticket back” (We didn’t buy any). I saw a few people that looked like college students, a few ambiguously sketchy folks, and dozens of people wearing Obama buttons or paraphernalia (including two people that were wearing way too much Obama paraphernalia. I couldn’t tell what color their coat was supposed to be, it was so covered in buttons). At the time, I didn’t really have a reason to be particularly interested in any of my fellow passengers. I made a quick phone call, then decided to flip through the book I was reading.

Apparently, the seats are not the only part of the bus that had less than stellar craftsmanship. I looked up from my book to discover that our bus was no longer humming along a highway in Pennsylvania, but was sitting in a mall parking lot. My fellow passengers were exchanging worried looks, so I started to get worried. The bus driver got up to the intercom and started to talk.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it appears we have a small problem with this doodad here in the engine system, and now our brakes aren’t working so well. We’ll have a replacement bus coming to pick you up in about an hour or so. We apologize for the inconvenience, and thank you for riding Greyhound. Actually, I have no idea what he said, because the bus intercom system hadn’t been updated since the Carter administration, so it came out like the teacher’s voice in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Regardless, we now had an unexpected pit stop in Monroeville Pennsylvania.

According to my extensive research[2], Monroeville is a suburb of Pittsburgh, with a population of roughly 30,000. Apparently it had been quite the prosperous little town back when coal and steel were huge industries, but from my window, all I could see were vacant strip malls and fast food joints. That’s okay, because I didn’t buy a bus ticket to go see the sights and sounds of Western Pennsylvania…and after sitting in that bus for 4 and a half hours already with nothing to eat but a crappy, overpriced muffin, I was ready for some fast food.

The new bus wasn’t coming for at least an hour, so a few of us passengers walked a few blocks to a Panera to grab some lunch. I grabbed a seat next to a window, and spread my notebooks and paperwork across the table, next to my delicious turkey sandwich. If I was going to be stuck here for a few more hours, I might as well get some work done. I tried to write down a few notes from the trip so far, to maybe use in one of my newspaper articles, but my thoughts kept drifting to our bus situation. I kept checking the window every few seconds; to make sure that the new bus hadn’t arrived yet. This absolutely drove D crazy.

“Are you seriously checking again? It’s been what, 7 minutes?” she asked more than once.

I couldn’t help it. What if we were left here? I needed to think of some sort of contingency plan. Perhaps that’s another thing they don’t tell you about Greyhound buses, I mused to myself. Always think of a backup plan.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to employ any of my poorly hatched doomsday backup plans. Maybe fifteen minutes after I walked out of Panera, another Greyhound rolled up next to ours in the Monroeville Mall parking lot, ready for the next leg of our journey.

I didn’t think it was possible for a bus to be even more dilapidated and uncomfortable than the one we took to Pittsburgh, but our replacement vehicle managed to break all the records. The “new” bus was a little bit smaller, but managed to cram in four more seats. This made anything resembling foot room nothing but a vicious rumor. There was some sort of fan built in right above my seat, making an obnoxious WRRRRRRR sound the rest of the trip. It was maybe 35 degrees outside, and the bus certainly wasn’t warm, so the fan didn’t seem to serve any purpose besides annoying me. Customer satisfaction is clearly a priority of the Greyhound Bus Company.

I don’t think I was the only passenger who noticed the less than stellar condition of our new steed. Before we could pull out of the mall parking lot, one of the passengers in the front stood up and said something to the bus driver that I couldn’t hear. Then he stood up in the front of the bus and asked us to bow our heads, because he was going to pray.

“Dear Lord, we thank you for watching over us and blessing us every day. We ask that you pour out your blessings onto our bus driver, and this bus, that we might safely and quickly arrive in DC to see the inauguration of our new President. Amen”. A few passengers let out scattered “amens”, and the man went back to his seat.

Despite being a religious person myself, I’m normally a little uncomfortable with public community prayers like this…but not then. The way this trip was going, we needed all the help we could get in order to get to DC on time, and if that meant publicly asking The Big Man to watch over us, I could live with that.

The bus was also filthy. My seat was dotted with what looked like fossilized Cheetos. The floor hadn’t been cleaned in ages, making your shoes stick to the floor with every step. It was like walking in some sort of tar pit, or maybe a movie theater. The windows still had the residue of dead bugs (did they leave them there to set an example for other bugs?). I swept as much trash off of my chair as I could, pulled out my book, and tried to find some semblance of normalcy for the rest of the trip.

This proved difficult to do, because I was starting to see that some of our fellow passengers on the trip were anything but normal. Greyhound passengers typically fall into two groups: college students/people who cannot afford plane tickets, and people who don’t stand a chance of passing the required security checkpoints on airplanes[3]. I was maybe 15 the first time I ever rode on a Greyhound, and on that short trip between Columbus and Cleveland, my fellow passengers tried to sell me drugs no less than three times[4]. Nobody tried to sell drugs on this trip, but that didn’t mean we didn’t have a few characters on the bus.

Perhaps the most interesting of my fellow travelers was “The Baby Lady”. The Baby Lady seemed normal enough. She was maybe a few years older than me, and had the most adorable, outgoing little baby boy, who would make faces at some of the other passengers and laugh. I taught the kid how to drum on one of the bus seats, much to the chagrin of some of the other passengers. On a long trip through the doldrums of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, The Baby Lady’s baby was a welcome diversion.

But then somewhere outside of Monroeville, The Baby Lady decided she wanted to take a nap. She curled up as best she could in the terrible bus seat, passed her baby to two random passengers next to her, and went to sleep. She slept through half of Pennsylvania, and her laughing child slowly made the rounds along the side of the bus. I don’t profess to have any great paternal instincts, but after watching a child get passed along a Greyhound bus like a teenager crowd surfing at a rock concert, something deep within me stirred. I don’t know much about raising children, but this cannot be right. I turned and looked at my girlfriend, who appeared to be having the same reaction. After watching another group of passengers try to feed the baby some of those fossilized Cheetos, I wanted to leap out of my seat, grab the kid, and find the nearest Social Services Agent. I hope that poor kid had all of his shots.

The bus rolled past Breezewood[5], and into Maryland, and I started looking for new ways to entertain myself. I had finished my book, my iPod was low on batteries, and my girlfriend had managed to defy all known laws of Physics, and had fallen asleep. I had an article due only a few hours after we were scheduled to arrive in DC, and I noticed that my notebook had precious little in the way of actual, usable notes [6]. I overheard a few people talking about the upcoming inauguration, so I decided to introduce myself, and join the conversations.

It turns out that many of my fellow travelers were quite interesting, and not just in the drug trafficking/reckless child endangerment sort of way. More than half of the bus passengers were headed to the inauguration, and all of them had a story. One woman flew in from England, without an inauguration ticket, and knowing that she had to be back in England in three days. This baffled many of her fellow passengers. Most of us could understand why an American would want to travel to see Obama (after all, that’s what most of us were doing), but Obama wasn’t even her president! When faced with these questions, the lady would just smile, and said that even foreigners can appreciate the major history. “Electing somebody like Obama is a victory for us all” she said.

Another passenger was a law student from Kansas, who had been on buses for two straight days, having weathered another bus breakdown in Missouri. Despite having to endure 24 hours of bus, he was in good spirits, and never complained once.

Perhaps the most interesting to me were two travelers a few rows up from me. They were about my age, and were from Fresno California. They had been on Greyhound buses for three straight days, and were going to make that same journey home the day after the inauguration. I thought that international conventions prevented this sort of thing from happening. I incredulously asked them why they would want to come so far, and spend so much time in so uncomfortable a setting. They just grinned, and held up a copy of that day’s USA Today. The headline read “JUST FOR THE FEELING OF BEING THERE”. I smiled, nodded, and made that my lead for my first article.

I met a few other passengers on the bus. Sometimes I spoke, or asked questions, but mostly I listened and took notes. I didn’t tell anybody I was a journalist, I just stepped back, and let other people tell their stories that they were so eager to share. Maybe that’s something that Greyhound ought to play up a little more. Ride Greyhound, come back with a story. That’s something they certainly didn’t tell me about.

After one last hiccup (a huge traffic jam on Interstate 95), we finally arrived at Union Station in Washington DC. We were only about two and a half hours late, which isn’t actually all that bad, if my other Greyhound trips are any indication. [7] It was starting to get dark, but we still had plenty of time to walk to the nearest Metro stop, and head to a friend’s apartment, where I could file my story on the journey and appease my hungry editors.

My confirmation email was pretty simple. It told me to arrive at the station in Columbus at 3:30 AM, and to bring my email and confirmation number. The email told me that a bus would take me to Pittsburgh, and then to Washington DC, and it left a number I could call in case I needed a refund. That was it. Nobody said anything about the optional customer service, or how arrival times were merely fluid suggestions, not rigid schedules. Nobody told me I would leave the bus trip with a notebook full of stories either. [8] I guess there is quite a bit they don’t tell you about Greyhound buses.

[1] Excuse me. I have a horizontal driver’s license. I am NOT a kid.

[2] And by extensive research, I mean I looked up Monroeville on Wikipedia. Turns out Dawn of the Dead was filmed at the same mall where we were stuck. I guess that’s pretty fitting. Monroeville seemed like a good place for a Zombie attack.

[3] For example, typically, when a passenger on an airplane tries to light his shoe on fire, it becomes a national news story, and the passenger is thrown into prison. On a Greyhound? They call that Thursday.

[4] They were pretty friendly, and started some small talk before they go to pushing their goods. They asked me what I was going to do up in Cleveland. I told them I was attending a church Boy Scout conference. You would think that they would have figured out I wasn’t likely to be their customer then…but nope.

[5] Breezewood isn’t a real town. It sits at the interchange of Interstates 70 and 76, making it really one huge Disneyland for trucks. There are no homes, just truck stops, fast food joints, and the neon glow of motel after motel. I bet when you went to DC in 8th grade, you stopped for lunch in Breezewood.

[6] Mostly it was full of things like WONT SOMEBODY PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN, “I can’t feel my legs”, and “I hate Greyhound Buses”

[7] The arrival times on Greyhound tickets are apparently like the points system on Whose Line Is It Anyway? They really don’t matter.

[8] Or a huge crick in my back. I swear, riding on that bus for 10 hours took a year off my life.

Facebook thinks I’m fat and lonely March 13, 2009

Posted by Matt Brown in Humor, Stories and observations.
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If the wailing and gnashing of teeth of my friends is any indication, we’ve apparently been struck by another national tragedy. No, the economy didn’t crash again, and nobody died (well, except Michael Steele’s career apparently). It looks like Facebook went and changed their layout again.

I’m sure Facebook has all sorts of important and expensive consultants who have all sorts of good reasons (no doubt spelled out professionally on Powerpoints, without those distracting slide transitions with the dumb sound effects) to edit the layout of Facebook every couple of months, but I can’t think of any. Most people I know preferred the old layout. Then Facebook changed it, we all whined and joined facebook groups to show just how serious we were about this…but then most of us got over it. Does anybody know anybody who said “I like Facebook, but this layout is too much for me. I quit”. Or more importantly, does anybody know anybody who said “This layout is awesome. I didn’t want a facebook before, but suddenly now I need one. I plan on sending facebook a check to show how excited I am”.

Like the legendary basketball player Charles Oakley said, “If it ain’t broke. Don’t break it”. Why does Facebook insist on breaking stuff?

It isn’t like the Facebook achieved total perfection the first time…far from it. I just don’t think the “layout” is the breaking point for anybody. If I was in charge of Facebook for a day, I would leave the layout alone. It’s fine. I would go after the real menace….the ad generator on the side of your page.

In theory, facebook is supposed to generate ads that are particularity relevant to you, based on all the info you stuck up on your page. In practice though, its annoying as hell.

Back when I was single, Facebook decided that should try to help. I’d glance at my wall, laugh at the funny joke a friend had written, the glance at the side of my profile to see “GIRLS WON’T DATE YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE TOO FAT! CLICK HERE TO LEARN HOW TO GET RIPPED!!”

Now, I’m a lot of things, but fat isn’t one of them. How depressing is it to have your computer call you fat though? Couldn’t it see my profile picture? Does facebook assume that everybody who is single is fat? Thanks Facebook.

If it wasn’t ads that were taking potshots at my personal appearance, I was getting singles ads. Not one or two…but dozens, imploring me to just click “there”, and the computer would introduce me to dozens of “girls next door” that were dying to meet me. I had a hard time believing that facebook was being totally honest with me though…they were using the same picture of Kim Kardashian under the header “Meet Girls Next Door!”. I think I would notice if Kim lived next door to me, Facebook.

Facebook also would sometimes show singles services that had absolutely nothing to do with anything on my profile. I often got MEET MUSLIM SINGLES ads. Did Facebook get Mormon and Muslim mixed up again (wouldn’t be the first time)? I don’t have anything against Muslims, but I’m curious to know where I gave off the impression that I was specifically looking to date one? I got them for Catholics, Asians, and my personal favorite, “Big beautiful People just like you”. Really facebook? I’m going to go log off and go running now.

When I finally changed my relationship status to “in a relationship”, I was pretty excited about the prospect of having the side of my profile free from singles ads. Weirdly enough, for a long time, that didn’t happen! I still got dating service website ads, at only a slightly slower clip.

The weirdest thing was that they were all virtually for the same service…a “Meet Christian Girls” website. This was hysterically ironic on a lot of levels. Was a Christian website trying to get me to cheat on my girlfriend? Was Facebook making a really subtle Mormon polygamy joke? If thats the case…thats not funny.

Actually, thats not true. It would be really funny.

Anyways, a few weeks ago, the singles ads finally stopped. Now, Facebook has done a complete about-face, and  is trying to peddle engagement rings to me.

Facebook. I know we’re friends and all…but don’t try to give me advice on my love life anymore. Go back to showing me pictures of cats with funny, grammatically incorrect captions.

There are actually lots of other things that could be improved (beefing up the note writing system for sure, allowing more flexibility in content fields, etc), but the ad generator is one of the biggest needs. It’s the worst thing to happen to Facebook since Werewolves and Vampires.

It’s certainly a more pressing need than “hey, we haven’t done anything in a while. Lets rearrange all the the buttons and see if anybody notices”.

New Website March 10, 2009

Posted by Matt Brown in Uncategorized.
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For those of you that still read this….

I think one of the problems with this website has been its lack of focus. From now on, the focus of this website will be around political and funny stuff.

I reference Teach For America often here, and I’ve created a new website focusing just on those experiences. feel free to check it out HERE

www.somedayallblogs.wordpress.com

Why New Orleans? March 5, 2009

Posted by Matt Brown in Stories and observations.
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Today I emailed my boss with my new work schedule for spring quarter. I do this every 10 weeks or so, and it typically isn’t a very big deal. This email was very different, because at the end, it said May 22nd (aprox) will be my last day at the office. As you know, I have accepted a teaching position with Teach For America, and will be moving to New Orleans shortly after graduation. I’ll give you more details as the date gets closer.

Shortly, Outlook cheeringly announced that my boss had responded to me. She told me how happy she was for me, and how much the office would miss me. She then helpfully pointed out that I did not, in fact, study education in college. My professional background is in government service and writing. I don’t know anybody in the whole state of Louisiana, and never mentioned wanting to continue my studies there. So why then, she wondered, am I picking up my life and moving to New Orleans to teach elementary school?

This is a perfectly reasonable question, and one that deserves a better answer than the three sentence burst I typed out when I first got my acceptance letter. Before I can begin to answer that question though, let me tell you a story.

I’m not much of a crier. In the past 5 years or so, I think I’ve only cried three times. Once when my father passed away, once on my LDS Mission (I came pretty close in the 2007 ALCS though. No, I don’t want to talk about it. JD Drew can go to Hell, and CC Sabathia has man boobs).

I don’t think I’ve really talked about the other time I cried. It was early in my freshman year at American University. I was sitting at my desk, watching TV when CNN cut away to a new breaking news story. A hurricane unlike any in recent memory had just hit New Orleans. Whole neighborhoods were being washed off the face of the earth. I remembered reading about Hurricane Andrew (I was too young to actually remember it), and the destruction I was seeing on TV made those pictures I saw in National Geographic look like puddles after a rainstorm. The devastation was truly shocking…but it didn’t really hit me right then. I felt the appropriate amount of Liberal College Student Guilt, and then went on with my life.

But the story didn’t go away. After the storm stopped, all hell broke loose. The Superdome, once a symbol of American Commercial Greatness, was now a cesspool of filth. People were looting, families were trapped in toxic, washed out homes, and the impotence of the Federal Government was naked and on display to all the world. This was more than just a storm. The old band-aid covering many of our country’s social ills washed away too.

It finally hit me a few days after the initial hurricane. I was sitting all alone in the TDR, American’s dining hall, with my bagel, juice, and Washington Post. I read article after article detailing the suffering and chaos of the city….how the 9th Ward, home of some of the poorest inhabitants, had almost been wiped off the map. How local, state and federal aide agencies had failed in nearly every way. How developers were openly debating not to rebuild the city at all. It crushed me. I looked around to make sure nobody could see me, and let some teardrops fall all over my Post, turning Eugene Robinson’s picture into a big, pulpy mess.

Why did that impact me so strongly? I had never been to New Orleans, (I actually still haven’t been to New Orleans) but I felt a strong emotional connection to the city. I was a jazz and blues musician, and New Orleans is the capital of jazz. Not only that, but from what I had read, New Orleans valued and protected the Weird and the Unique. They sometimes played trombones at funerals! For a guy growing up in a Mormon household in blasé Columbus, New Orleans seemed to represent everything I wanted as a 19 year old. It became an almost rallying cry with some of my musician friends. One of these days man…we’re going to find us some fedoras, grab some gumbo, and head down to Naw’lins for a while. It just felt like my kind of town.

Now, it was under several feet of water, and starting to rot. It may have never been the place I had idealized in my head, but now I could see that with my own eyes. It wasn’t going to be the same again.

When I was filling out where I wanted to work for Teach For America, I tried to take a pretty analytical approach. My sister,her husband and newborn nephew now live near San Jose California, and I wanted in-state CA residence for possible grab school, so I selected the Bay Area. I used to live in Washington DC and loved it, so I put down DC. My mother lives in Madison, so I put down nearby Chicago, etc etc. With one exception, I based my preferences on things like proximity to family/loved ones, whether that state had a public university I wanted to attend, how familiar I was with the city, etc.

That exception was New Orleans. Teach For America apparently has a great need for teachers in the Greater New Orleans area, and that region was mentioned specifically in a lot of the literature they sent me. Every time I read it, I couldn’t help but think back to how I felt sitting in that cafeteria, reading. If I really believed in the ideals of TFA, and the capacity for good teachers to change people’s situations for the better, then I felt like I needed to put my money were my mouth was. Nobody needed help more than Naw’lins. I circled that bubble too.

I am very aware of what the challenges of that decision will be. I was lucky to attend a very good public school, and I understand that where I am going will be different in virtually every way. I understand, perhaps even a little bit better than some of my TFA peers, the limitations of my own abilities, and the sting of disappointment. This will unquestionably be the hardest thing I have ever done. It keeps me up at night sometimes.

And I know that those challenges extend far beyond what happens in my classroom. I know two people in New Orleans right now, and both are with TFA. My family members will literarily be in every opposite corner of the country. My Girlfriend’s friends have helpfully pointed out that my girlfriend does *not* live in New Orleans (approx. 912.07 miles, or a 16 hour drive away actually. Not that I checked or anything). I guess that’s what Skype and airplanes are for.

The challenges and hardships are daunting already, but that doesn’t make the goal unreachable, or a foolish endeavor. Teaching now gives me the chance to perform a critical service to children who badly need help, and in a city that I’ve wanted to love for years. I’ll be right in the heart of the biggest social science laboratories in history. I’ll be doing real, meaningful work that fits into my ideals and worldview at 22. How many other people get a chance to say that? It’s an adventure. It’s a blessing.

I didn’t write all of this back to my boss, but it’s why I’m going.

CSPAN THE MUSICAL-Volume I February 11, 2009

Posted by Matt Brown in Uncategorized.
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resident Obama is sitting at his desk. His tie is loosened, and he is obviously stressed

OBAMA:
My first day in office certainly wasn’t that hard
The only hiccup was Roberts inability to read from a card
but now crisis are mounting, folks are beating down my door
this certainly wasn’t the change I had hoped for.

The media is pounding me, and I can’t relax
because nobody I hired paid all their taxes.
Then the economy descended into insanity,
and my idiot press sec said I’d grab beers with Sean Hannity
Hopefully my stimulus bill can get some momentum flowing
Lemme check CSPAN and see how thats going…

Cut to: PELOSI’S OFFICE
Nancy Pelosi is meeting with her staffers, and other high level Democratic House members. They are giddily throwing around monopoly money.

PELOSI:
When we asked for children’s insurance, they laughed in our face
but now I’m in charge, and we’ll put the GOP back in it’s place
to hell with bipartisanship, they didn’t show any here
so lets load this bill up with our wishlist from the last 8 years!

Guys? What are your problems?

INTERN
In a few months, me and my girlfriend are having a baby
and we’re worried about money, since you really don’t pay me

PELOSI: 300 MILLION FOR PLANNED PARENTHOOD!!

AIDE
I’ve finally got some time off, but I don’t know what to do
since i’ve already watched everything in my Netflicks queue

PELOSI:
ANOTHER 600 MILLION FOR HOLLYWOOD!!

OTHER AIDE
Oh, I have something that requires me to vent
I hit a pothole driving to work, now my BMW has a dent!

PELOSI: (clearly drunk with power)
ELVENTY BILLION BUCKS TO BUILD NEW ROADS! Bwahaha

CUT TO: Republican Meeting

CANTOR: For 8 years we spent money like drunken fools
and hoped that nobody would notice, or read the news
now we’re hopelessly out of power, so its time to pretend
that we know anything about how to responsibly spend

BOEHNER: Let us make the most outlandish statements we can make on the floor!
Its easy to take a stand, when you don’t matter anymore!

Mike Huckabee: I sent out a letter to everybody on my mailing list
saying this bill is an abomination, and its making God pissed

Mitt Romney: I’m against this bill too! It’s certainly no fun
it gives no money at all to any company I run

Glenn Beck: LOOOOUD NOISES! I DONT KNOW WHAT WE’RE YELLING ABOUT!

(cut to: Obama, facepalming)

OBAMA: I thought my first 100 days were supposed to be a honeymoon?
If its all going to be just like this, I hope its 2012 soon….

Changing up V Day February 9, 2009

Posted by Matt Brown in Uncategorized.
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I might catch some flack for this, but I really don’t like Valentine’s Day at all.

Now hear me out, this isn’t for any of the typical reasons. It isn’t because I’m some bitter single guy…I’m happily in a relationship, but I wasn’t bitter on Valentine Days past when I wasn’t. On the contrary, it allowed me to get all sorts of cheap candy the day or two after (and who doesn’t like cheap candy?)

It isn’t because I disprove of the materialism of the holiday either. So Hallmark and Buckeye Flowers get to make a few extra bucks over the weekend. We’re in a recession here people. Not only is it our obligation as boyfriends to buy stuff over Valentine’s day, its just flat out patriotic.

No, it isn’t the day itself that I have a problem with. It’s when we have it. There isn’t a worse possible time for a romantic holiday than in the middle of February, especially when you live in Central Ohio.

I mean, have any of you guys been outside these past few days? The sky has been gray for what seems like 13 consecutive days. The trees, grass, everything is barren and devoid of life. Its also cold, windy, and half of the sidewalks are still covered in ice. I’ve fallen down maybe a dozen times on the way to class these past few weeks. Sorry we couldn’t do dinner this weekend…I’m stuck at OSU hospital cause I broke my hip on Waldeck. Great.

Plus, this is the middle of flu season! Everybody has been battling that same case of the sniffles for about 6 weeks. When people are taking about sharing things with your loved ones, they typically aren’t talking about the flu. Some things are best kept to yourself.

It all seems like quite a predicament, but I’m a solutions orientated guy, and I have an idea. Why not just move Valentine’s Day to say, early June?

Everybody is in a much better mood in June. The sun comes back out, and we can all shake off our lingering Seasonal Affective Disorder. We aren’t sick anymore, and it’ll be warm enough to do things outside, creating more possibilities for fun Valentine’s Day activities. Plus, June isn’t a big holiday month. A quick Google search shows me that we have Father’s Day, Flag Day, and then a bunch of made up holidays in those first two weeks (national ballpoint pen day? Seriously? I bet we can squeeze Valentine’s Day in there somewhere). This works out better for everybody.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go down a shot of DayQuil. . I got make sure I’m healthy by this weekend.