Show em your GRRRRR face...

I went out to eat with some friends a few days ago. Being Polynesians, we naturally start making fun of each other. One of the girls started to tell a story about me and made a growling sound as she pretended to lift some heavy object in the story. We all laughed, but that got the ol' wheels turning... do I make that sound unconsciously? I started to travel back into my memory and realized that other people make the growl when they describe me lifting things also. I hope that I'm not walking around all day making the sounds of distant thunder to innocent bystanders. The last thing I need is an old lady keeling over because she thought a bear mauling was eminent. I'm already big and scary looking. I don't need people to think that I am a wild animal in heat too. It makes me wonder what other things I do subconsciously as well...

Do I do the things that drive me crazy? Do I slurp my noodles, or chew with my mouth open? Do I say things like supposibly instead of supposedly? Do I constantly raise my eyebrows when I speak to people like Shaq does or pronounce the word cross with a "T" at the end? These are just a few things on a long list of things that I might do.

Now I feel self-conscious about the things I do. I bite my lip when I pick up salt shakers, pencils, the morning paper, and the car keys. Sure you would expect some kind of audible vocalization when lifting heavy things, but why take the chance. There is another side of me that wants to embrace the snarl, a more primal and wild side of my brain. In this spirit, I would like to try other bestial articulations. Maybe a howl as my boss greets me in the morning, or a gruff bark to the neighbors. I'm even willing to try a ...meow. Maybe not.

Thanks for the Vent Session...

Vertigo

Ever do anything that you really don't want to do, but do it anyway. I have a fear of heights but not of flying... go figure and I spent the majority of the day 40 feet up in the air on a scissor lift. If you've never been in one, count yourself among the blessed. These dang contraptions are unstable in the best of conditions. A stiff breeze will send it plummeting faster than Vanilla Ice's career or like that poor baby in the lullaby rock-a-bye-baby (this song may also be a contributor to my fear of heights).

Anyway, I was working on the lift, trying not to throw up all over the deck every time it swayed, when one of my co-workers thought it would be funny to smack the bottom of my lift with a ten foot stick of pipe. I feel the banging race through my body and the subsequent shakes and sways of the lift and I figure that the lift is malfunctioning, so I brace myself for eminent death. As I watched my life flash before my eyes (wondering whether I should have had a better last meal, of all things) I hear the cackling of my co-worker... the rage that bubbled to the surface would have made the Devil himself quake in fear. I lower my lift, all the while cursing his name, jumped over the railing, and grab him by his shirt collar. Powered by my anger, I lift him about a foot off the ground, with my left arm, and threaten to break off his arms and beat him to death while shaking my fist under his nose. Then I unceremoniously drop him to the floor and stomp off before I carry out my threats.

Usually, I am a very calm guy and keep in mind this guy is about 60 years old, but I couldn't care less if he saw 61 at the time. I feel that I "may" have acted a little rashly, but my life did indeed flash before my eyes after all. Looking back, I think I may have given him a mild heart attack. What did I learn from all this? I need to live a more interesting life so I can have something good to watch at the end.

Thanks for the Vent Session...

Working with Beyoncé...

I know it's been awhile, so I would like to apologize to the two people who look at my blog. Sorry. Now that thing is out of the way, I'd like to tell you about my day...

Last week, I purchased a brand new phone. It's nice being able to keep in contact with friends and loved ones. It is an electric blue and has an awesome mp3 player that doesn't need headphones to play songs, but the best part is that it holds like 200 songs. So I went to my iTunes and loaded the sucker up with some good stuff to listen to while I stand around at work pretending to be busy. It's really cool because it's like having a soundtrack.

As both of you may know, I work construction. Construction guys are a fairly rough and manly bunch. The guys that I work with are former military men, bar brawlers, and are forbidden to return to various foreign countries (more on that in another blog), so when I say rough, I mean "the kind of people that can make Clint Eastwood cry ," rough. And then there is me.

I listen to a wide variety of music and I happened to remember I had a phone and brought it in with me. I'm just minding my own business, listening to a Dragonforce number called Through the Fire and Flames, bobbing my head and pretending to inspect the electrical conduit in the ceiling, when my buddy comes up (one of the ones forbidden to go to certain countries) and starts to groove out with me.

So we are both standing there bobbing our heads like stunt doubles in the movie The Night at the Roxbury. He's digging the speed metal and rap just as much as me when our boss shows up. Johnny Cash is up next with A Boy Named Sue. The Boss digs that so he sticks around to have a listen. So then there are three of us grooving to the tiny speaker on my cell phone. This makes the rest of the crew curious as to what we're doing. In short order, we have eleven guys bobbing their heads in time pretending to inspect pipe in the ceiling. This goes on for about ten minutes and by then three songs have gone by.

I put 200 songs on my phone and it was set on random. I had no idea what songs I had on there, let alone what would come up next. So when Beyoncé showed up with Halo, nobody really reacted right away. They were too caught up groovin' to the beat, but then one by one they started to take notice. Within the space of two seconds, I went from being the cool guy with speed metal blasting from his shirt pocket, to the guy who had just sprouted a third eye in the middle of his forehead. That's what you would think by the way they were looking at me. I had never seen so many guys take off so fast since the Olympics. I was shunned the rest of the day... or I may have hidden in shame.

I'm not saying Beyoncé sucks. She is über talented and I still love her music (even though she made me look like a fool in front of my co-workers). I am just saying that there are appropriate times to listen to certain kinds of music. What is the moral of this story? Let's just say... playlists are now my friends.

Thanks for the Vent Session.

What things sound like on the floor...

I was lying on the floor of my friends bedroom the other day because it was cooler than the living room, which felt like 100 degrees and a few people decided to join me. While I was on the floor, a buddy of mine was lying on the bed with a girl and they began to singing kids songs. I was content to lie there and dose off when the owner of said bedroom came in and started talking to the other two. They begin to muse about the music they were singing, and the girls, who are dear friends, have began a rather "spirited chat" about which one has done the other more bodily harm over the years. The whole time I am lying on the floor chuckling to myself. Then buddy of mine decides to bust out with the foot massages which are received with great enthusiasm. It was all perfectly innocent stuff, but those moans... sounded SO dirty.

The kids songs chick insists that she doesn't want a foot rub and begins a rant about how awkward it would be to have someone touch her feet. Meanwhile, "bedroom owner" is praising the inventor of the foot massage and making a weird kind of meowing sound. Kids songs girl starts to get jealous and requests a rub of her own, but "bedroom owner" isn't having any of it. They argue about fair play and start to list injuries incurred from each other. Alas, their argument goes beyond words and they get into a little physical altercation. "Kids songs" tries to put up a fight, but gets soundly trounced. Being the kindhearted girl she is, "bedroom owner" feels bad and relents. Friends again, "kids songs" happily starts her foot rub. The sounds she makes are dirtier than "bedroom owners". I, feeling forgotten, slightly voyeuristic, and a fifth wheel all rolled into one, pop up from the floor, like a giant daisy, and declare that these foot massages sound like people in mid copulation and that I will write a blog about it.

Keep in mind that I don't have the best of memories. Some of what I have written might be imagined or fantasized , but I'm pretty sure that everything I've written is accurate. What's the moral you ask? Heck if I know, I just thought it was an interesting story. If you are craving a moral lesson, maybe this will satisfy:

"When doing things that sound dirty, make sure you don't have anyone lying on your bedroom floor who has an active imagination and a blog."

-Bigjun

Thanks for the Vent Session...

No Phone Blues...

It's kind of weird to not be in touch with anyone. I've been without a phone for about a week and a half. I lost it some place, but have no idea where it could be. I imagine lots of folks have been trying to contact me (because I'm soooo popular) and are ticked off. I know that I should just break down and get a new one, but I've played this game before. I will call in to the phone place, get the machine, wait for 30 minutes to talk to someone who isn't in India, explain what happened to my phone (by now I've concocted an epic struggle between good and evil, where good triumphs, but my cell phone is the unfortunate casualty) and give my credit card number to an operator who is waiting for her sift to end so she can go to a rave with her eighteen year old co-workers. As soon as I hang up on my brothers phone, I will see my long lost little "celly" sitting on the counter behind the fruit bowl. I swear the bloody contraption has a mind of it's own and hates me.

Honestly, it's been nice to be unreachable. I go home from work without any worries and just relax. No calls from bill collectors, survey givers, parents bugging me about getting married, but it also is a downer to have no friends call either. So, I think I will call in to get another infernal machine... how I hate that device. At least you can call me and complain about my blog...

Thanks for the vent session...

Handle with Care

Today I had to go into the company shop because I'm switching job sites tomorrow. I filled out all the usual paperwork but was required to do a drug test. Feeling no urges to relieve myself, I stopped at a nearby petrol station to buy an orange Gatorade before going to the testing facility. These drug testing places are filled with people who are new hires at various jobs and people who do stupid things and need to test to keep their jobs. You can always tell who is who. By the time I turn in my paperwork, the urges was pretty strong. When they call my name, I am dancing in my seat. Needless to say, I enthusiastically finish my test. The whole time, there is a dude standing outside the door. The same guy has to test my sample.

Now, I don't know about you, but pee tester was never a job I considered. Does one wake up one day and say to himself, "Yes!!! Pee tester!!! It's all so simple," or is it something you fall into like pro wrestling? The craziest thing is these medical techs went to school to be able to examine pee, but let us not forget the doctors who have to oversee the pee testers. All those years in med school and the money to pay for that fine education to look at pee. What is the protocol if the sample is a weird colour? Do you comment on it, or is it bad form to do so? What if you forget for a second that you handled a sample and scratch your face? Is that a visit to the doctor or is a handy wipe fine? You know how the Bath and Bodyworks folks smell like their job... you get what I'm saying. Hopefully, they don't take their work home with them.

Thanks for the vent session...

Karaoke Woes...

My family came in this weekend to see my new nephew. It is always a treat to see them. My parents came in and grilled me about my love life, as usual, and we made fun of my other family members mispronouncing words, or "fobbing out" as we call it in the islander community. We threw a party and had tons of food. Some of my teenage cousins start getting bored so I decide to put on a game called Lips on my xbox... a karaoke game.

Don't get me wrong, it is an awesome game. The best part is making fun of yourselves and others who get up and sing. Within the game, there are dance moves that you can perform to get extra points. Some of these moves are really hard too. One move I got was something cheer leaders at my ol' Alma Matter called "the Russian". If you have no idea what I'm gabbing about, it's a jumping move where you have to kind of do the splits in the air, touch your toes, and land gracefully on the ground. I have a bad knee, am 6'6" and 330ish lbs. You can foresee the problem right? I was so into the game, that I leaped into the air like some kind of possessed acrobat. Surprisingly, I pulled it off with just a slight twinge for my efforts. I was feeling pretty good about myself, until I found out that my older brother was video taping the whole debacle. For those of you who aren't sure what debacle means:

de·ba·cle

Pronunciation:

\dē-ˈbä-kəl, di-, -ˈba-; ÷ˈde-bə-kəl\

Variant(s):

also dé·bâ·cle \also dā-ˈbäk(l^ə)\

Function:

noun

Etymology:

French débâcle, from débâcler to clear, from Middle French desbacler, from des- de- + bacler to block, perhaps from Vulgar Latin *bacculare, from Latin baculum staff

Date:

1802

1: a tumultuous breakup of ice in a river
2: a violent disruption (as of an army) : rout
3 a: a great disaster b: a complete failure : fiasco.

In case you haven't guessed, we're talking definition #3. The only thing worse than knowing that you were belting out off key notes at the top of your lungs while fancying yourself a Dallas Cowgirl, is watching the instant replay. I threatened my brother with bodily harm, but to no avail. He ran into the bathroom cackling like a witch from a Disney Cartoon. Now I fear that the record of my woes may be on youtube. Que sura sura... I've gotta remember to be meaner to my older brother.

Thanks For the Vent Session...