TGIS

It’s Saturday and I’m awake at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m. Yes, I know most of the world is up by now, but we Christians are supposed to be in the world, not of it. My heart is instantly contrite, but the alarm blaring six feet away is not mine, and it shows no remorse.

Josh rolls over and hits the snooze button like a saint. I hear Andrew make a few sleeping position adjustments in the bunk overhead. Two minutes later I’m the only one still awake. If Chris or Michael walked in and asked me what I planned to do today I’d probably say I have to find the flying basketball before the puppies go marching by. Incoherent, yet painfully awake.

The alarm goes off again, beckoning my roommates to join in my vigilant stupor.

Why Josh, why?

Josh rolls over and hits snooze a second time. The bunk shifts and creaks for a few seconds. Quiet. Awake.

The closed blinds over Josh’s bed are growing bright enough to read a book by, and I can sense my opportunity for ever falling back to sleep becoming smaller by the minute. So much pain from that side of the room. I turn my head. Can’t sleep. I pull the blanket over my eyes. Can’t breathe. I turn toward the opposite wall and search for a place to put my arms. That button is a liar.

The alarm starts beeping again, conveniently censoring my thoughts about the situation. This time I don’t look. I pretend to sleep, hoping to lose myself in the role.

Click. Creak.

Silence.

They don’t give Oscars for pretending to be asleep, but I give a stunning performance nonetheless. I’m like Ferris Bueller without the part where he sneaks out of the house. It’s so convincing I could set up Santa Clause for Punk’d. After a few minutes, I’m not even sure it’s an act anymore.

Apparently Josh’s alarm wants to play it safe. Again with the beeping. Again, Josh hits snooze. Andrew rolls over (again).

Silence returns. I find something soothing about the grain of the wood in the bunk above me, and I need soothing right now, so I stare at it and look for faces in the lines—calm, restful faces. It’s so quiet that I can hear the phone start ringing four feet away from my head.

Four feet: that’s closer to Josh than it is to me, but he’s not moving. I wish the phone were closer so I could throw it at him. I almost fall out of bed answering it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is Josh there?”

Hmm… let me check.

“Uh… yeah, hang on a sec.” I don’t have to say anything more—my blessed roommate is already sitting up bright-eyed and reaching for the phone like he expected the call.

I’m not listening. I don’t want to know who is calling or why. I only hope that whoever it is wants Josh to come over right away and never come back.

After a few uh-huh’s and a couple all right’s he hangs up the phone and goes back to sleep. But not before turning his alarm off. It’s 8:45. I get out of bed. I’m not feeling very religious anyway.

It's just funny, that's all I'm saying

Sorry about the fuzzy picture. I guess I was laughing too much. This is inside a Rite-Aid in Idaho, just above the pharmacy I believe.

FRP, and if you don't know what that means, DET

I'm posting this only because it's freaking rad, which, incidentally, is the only reason I ever post anything on this site.

MSN Messenger Has Deteriorated...

into a place where Jesse "No Eye" tells me to go away.

Lot's of people used to tell me to go away on MSN Messenger.

This is a new level of lonely.

Spanish Alphabet Math

n + ~ = ñ ("~" is pronounced "yea!")

Let's use it "n" a sentence.

Aww Dip! Daddy bought puddñ.

I Ran Into an Old Classmate a Couple Days Ago

It reminded me of a funny story. We were in eighth grade science class learning the difference between organic and inorganic... the concepts in general. Someone whispered a question to a friend.

"No, the sun's not organic."

(a couple students snicker)

"Right, but... what is the sun made of?"

(someone says plasma, but no one knows what plasma is)

"The sun is made of superheated gasses—mostly hydrogen and helium," our teacher says.

"Oh," says my classmate in a flash of inspiration, "is that why the sun goes down at night, because it runs out of helium?"

Recipe for a Missing Friend

12 2½ inch abalone
1 tbsp. minced fresh ginger
12 oz. fresh spinach, cleaned, stemmed and patted dry
1 bunch fresh chives, cleaned and dried
4 sprigs fresh cilantro
4 fresh basil leaves
¼ cup chicken stock
¾ cup whipping cream
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. Chinese chili sauce
1 tbsp. cornstarch
1 tbsp. cold water
¼ cup butter, cubed
Fresh ground black pepper

After this I'm not really sure what to do. It sorta just happened. I guess maybe you could combine ingredients in a microwave-safe bowl. Preheat microwave to room temperature, then microwave ingredients on High for 5 1/2 - 6 1/2 minutes or until hot. Careful, let sit for 1 minute before singing "Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) harbor a death wish. (Help help) help, help, help yourself. Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) harbor a death wish. (Help help) help, help, help yourself. Hip, hip, horrific are the words we sing. Hip, hip, horrific is our thing. Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) become a robot. (Help help) help, help, help, help help, help, help" (serving suggestion courtesy They Might Be Giants).

How to Become a Writer in Two Easy Steps.

It is no large etymological leap to say that writers are people who write. Sometimes I wonder if writing instuctors just say things like that to see how long they can keep a straight face. Surely they know that’s only half of the definition. It’s only common sense to include that, not only do writers write, writers refrain from deleting at least some portion of what they have written.

Sure, They're Cute When They're Little...

But mowing toddlers is a bit extreme, don't you think?

Oh, right.

The headache I've had all day today was caused by the fact that my glasses were dirty. I just cleaned them with dish soap and I'm reminded of what it's like to see. I wonder what it's like to see.

The More You Try to Qualify...

"Well, the more you try to shave the cat
The more the thing will bite and scratch.
It's best I think to leave it's fur
And to listen to it's silky purr."

-Cake, Tougher Than It Is

See, I Was Listening

My roommate was trying to decide what to wear out to dinner. Others may have called him indecisive. I called him Muse.

As It Turns Out...

Yesterday was this blog's two-year anniversary. Therefore today is actually Making Up for Not Caring About Your Second Year Anniversary Day, You Blog. In honor of not caring about this blog's second anniversary, I am going to take a nap.

HAPPY MAKING UP FOR NOT CARING ABOUT YOUR FIRST YEAR ANNIVERSARY DAY, You Blog

This Year's Resolutions:

1) take a shower today
2) maybe dry off and get dressed and the rest of it

p.s. shut up, I don't have class 'til 12:30.

Rorschach for Stickmen

Remember, right now we're only looking for your first impression.

Ninth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Nine*:

I

"I" stands for Ichthyology, which means "the branch of zoology dealing with fishes." Unfortunately, in conversation the word could easily be misunderstood for "Ick, theology," which means "eww gross, the study of God" and is not welcome in many religious circles. To avoid this and a host of other socially awkward situations, zoologists who specialize in fish should avoid the topic of their occupation altogether and talk about something else, such as politics.

*In recent usage the word "nine" also represented the planet Neptune in the mnemonic, "My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas." However, despite vehement protest from Red Baron the Neptune representative was changed to Nutella after the International Astronomical Union approved a definition for "planet" that excludes Pluto.

This Is What Happens When I Say "Hey Mike," and Michael Pretends Not to Hear Me

Some of those cushions are from the apartment next door.

This Guy is Always Sending Out Newsletters, Volume 1 Number 1

Good atnoon all yea faithful.

The writers of This Guy are currently hard at work on things among other things, but we want to take a moment to make you aware of a few exciting events on the horizon.

Many of you are probably aware that this Friday marks the first annual Two Year Anniversary of our publication. Expect something big and prepare to be disappointed or appointed accordingly.

The construction of "Wild Animal Panorama Puzzle," by Haruo Takino (alternately titled "Noah's Ark Panorama" by those who maintain that hippos ship separately) has hit a blog-worthy (we're highly selective here at TG) snag. Keep your eyes peeled (metaphorically) for "Puzzles, Part Four of a Three Part Series Told in Two Parts and an Additional Part or, The Additional Part II," out soon.

Finally, the editor would like to acknowledge Anonymous, a frequent contributor of comments, by again, and this time willfully, publishing this fine and oft-used response: "word."

Word indeed, Anonymous. Your word has touched us all.

My Roommate Is the Master of Metaphors... Metaphors Disguised as Similes

"Dub, get a load of this carrot."
"Whoa. It's like, a mini carrot."
"A baby carrot, perhaps?"
"No, it's more like a... like a, Shetland carrot."

My Last Swing at Redemption

Both of you might recognize this story, but it's gone through some pretty heavy revisions "for publication" and, to quote Mitch Hedberg, "I couldn't [expletive] rob you of this one."

Beth Doke was crying because I’d hit her in the shin with a baseball bat. She was a year older than me and probably six inches taller, and she lived next door. I was running in the opposite direction.

This all started when I fell in love with baseball back in the first grade, and while childhood loves are often short-lived, my passion for the game was still a problem almost a year later. The sweet, earthy smell of the field, the exhilarating crack of the bat, the electricity in the air on opening day—these were all completely foreign concepts to me. But my big brother collected baseball cards, and some of them came with gum, so baseball was a way of life.

That’s why, when the neighborhood kids gathered for a game in the street outside our house, I turned off the Nintendo without even saving and raced to get my glove. In my first at-bat I launched the ball almost past the pitcher and let the bat fly to my left in one sweeping motion, then raced toward the first base cone. My lightning speed was deteriorating as I neared the cone, but no one ran to tag me out. No one even tried to stop the ball for that matter, which was rolling past second and still going deep. Everyone just stood there looking across the street.

I turned around to see Beth’s dad knelt beside his fallen daughter, looking at me with a strange mix of hate, confusion, and fatherly affection, like a dying buck looking into the eyes of a hunter he recognized to be his own son. I’m not really sure how that would happen, but I wasn’t really sure how this had happened either.

“Andrew, don’t throw the bat after you swing,” my brother said. He knew so much about baseball.

“I’m, sorry.” My apology squeezed out awkwardly between labored breaths. Beth looked at me and quit sobbing long enough to gulp down a couple gallons of air, then started up again. “Sorry Beth.” I thought we should maybe take a break and sing the national anthem or something, but baseball isn’t a stop and go ordeal, so we played on. I stayed on first and tried to keep my head in the game while analyzing the last play.

It didn’t make any sense. I wasn’t a baseball expert or anything, but even if there wasn’t a game on TV I always had “Ryne Sandberg Plays Bases Loaded 3” to study on Nintendo. I didn’t know who Ryne Sandberg was exactly, but I figured he must have been Wayne Gretzky, who everyone knows is the greatest ball player of all time. But that was beside the point. The point was no one holds onto the bat while running the bases. It simply isn’t done. So what had I done wrong?

The rest of the inning went smoothly enough; I even managed to scrape up my right leg before it was over—I’d tried to slide like I’d seen Gretzky do so many times before only hadn’t made it all the way to the base, which was evident by the size of the wound. But I didn’t even go inside for a knee band-aid, I just brushed off the gravel, grabbed my glove and trotted to the edge of the block. Satisfied that I was safely in the outfield, Beth wiped away her last few tears and limped around for a better place to sit.

As the sun sank below our rooftop horizon, I buried my left hand snuggly into the warm leather glove, then spread out the fingers of my right hand and let the cool air drift by. My ears drank in the scuffing sounds of tennis shoes on asphalt, the eager hey batter batter, sw-ing batter batter of the players and the steady conversations of a few watchful parents, who broke here and there into shouts of encouragement. Sure, the blood dripping down my leg was attracting mosquito eaters like a porch light, but that was no big deal, this was baseball.

I stood there and watched four or five kids strike out before someone came to borrow my glove and told me it was time to bat. I nodded and jogged confidently to the plate. After thinking about the accident and I’d come to a conclusion: I’d thrown the bat with too little control and in the wrong direction. Now everyone was counting on me to be awesome, and I wasn’t going to let them down.

The first pitch looked high, but apparently I was just short. Strike one. I closed my eyes to concentrate.

Strike two.

“Keep your eyes on the ball,” my brother shouted.

The pitcher gave me a reassuring nod; he obviously meant business. His arm drew down and back and my eyes locked onto the ball in his hand. The bat hung still over my shoulder. My breathing went silent. The mosquito eaters clung frozen to my leg. What happened next will stay with me forever.

The pitch came at me like a sixth grader off a swing set. I swung hard and grounded it past second, but this time I held onto the bat. I brought the bat back in front of me and grasped it in both hands, then carefully tossed it to my right, then watched as the bat quickly closed the gap between where I stood and Beth Doke’s kneecap. Then I said I was sorry, and I went inside.

Beth Doke went inside too.