Yo Gabba Crappa!

After seven years of sifting through the absolute garbage that is now available for my children to watch on television, I've come to the conclusion that they have seriously been given the short end of the stick.  Sure, technology has advanced, and DVR and Netflix makes it possible for them to watch whatever cartoons they want at virtually any time of day (provided my wife and I allow it, of course).  But while that can be convenient, I'm not sure it's better.  Especially considering I have grown to loathe nearly every show that's on right now.

When I was a kid, my brother and I had to wait until Saturday morning to watch our favorite shows.  Now, I'm only thirty years old, and I am well aware that some of you reading this had to walk three miles in the snow, up hill, both ways, just to get to someone's house that owned a TV, and then had to spend an hour adjusting the antenna in order to see enough of the black and white picture peek through the static to make it worth watching.  I understand this, but I really wish you'd quit making everything about yourselves.  I didn't have to do that, and I only got to watch He-Man on Saturday mornings, okay?  Those Saturday morning cartoon fests where my brother and I would curl up on the floor of the living room in our pajamas and argue over who's turn it was to pick what we watched was what made the weekends exciting.  We had to wait all week to see GI Joe kick the crap out of Cobra.  We had to survive five days of school before we got to see if the Decepticons would succeed in overcoming the Autobots.  But there's no waiting anymore.  No built up suspense.  Now my kids argue about which episode of what season of SpongeBob they want to watch.  And forget sitting through commercials.  Spoiled brats.

Furthermore, where I really think kids of today are missing out, is in the quality of programs.  Entertainment has been replaced with "learning" where little animal rescuers scream at my kids in Spanish and expect them to respond back in kind.  Seriously, Dora?  Boots is standing right next to you.  LOWER YOUR VOICE!  And my kids aren't answering your stupid questions so you can quit staring at us with that retarded look on your face.  If you don't know what a triangle is, you deserve to get your stuff stolen by Swiper. 

Every episode of GI Joe would give you a nice life lesson, but after the awesome battles were over.  He-Man would give you some great advice, but after he had knocked Skeletor out with his awesome sword.  Not anymore.  Now we have Max & Ruby, two bunny rabbits that apparently have no parents.  Ruby's always bossing Max around to the point where I want to strangle the rude, selfish little...Anyways, my kids don't watch that anymore.   

Then there's Yo Gabba Gabba!  I know a few parents that are more obsessed with this show than their kids.  And it is, for the most part, pretty creative.  Odd, but creative.  The only real problem I have with this show--besides the god-like, orange tights-wearing weirdo that hovers over everything--is their choice of guest stars.  For some reason, they think it's a good idea to introduce my two, four, and seven year old to people like Sarah Silverman and Jack Black.  My kids don't need to know who either of these people are, and honestly, I wish I didn't know who Sarah Silverman was (if you don't know who this is, watch the first five minutes of The Way of the Gun and it will give you an idea of why she has no business on a kid's show).  I like a lot of the stars and musical guests they have on the show, but whether or not I like them is irrelevant.  The issue is whether or not it is appropriate for them to be on a children's show.

That being said, there are some pretty good cartoons out there.  I enjoy Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Transformers Prime, The Green Lantern, and SpongeBob Squarepants.  Granted I'm a guy, so my preferences are a little skewed.  Now if only I can get my son to watch them with me instead of My Little Pony, but his older sister seems to be winning out in that arena so far.  Personally, I think Nickelodeon needs to make ten more shows about teenage rock stars.      

A Day Without Hyphens

Getting my butt out of bed early enough to exercise is a major task for me.  In fact, rising from bed a minute earlier than absolutely necessary is a strain on my conscience and overall values.  Yet, for some unexplainable reason, I found myself walking out the front door and heading for the newly constructed Florida Tech gym a whole two hours before my first class of the day.  I plugged the auxiliary cable into my mp3 player and spent the two-cigarette drive to school rocking out to My Hotel Year.  The usual spread of semi-attractive/unattractive girls and under-committed foreign dudes greeted me as I made my way to the treadmill.  But it wasn't until I had set my run cycle and stuffed in my ear buds that I realized something was off.

Machine after machine was abandoned, their recent occupants beginning to gather along the second story rail.  Then the runners to either side of me left their treadmills without bothering to turn them off.  They walked to the railing and the gathering crowd, and I followed their stares to the several TV screens that hovered in a long row over the room.  Every one of them was tuned to a different news station.  Every one of them showed the same image.

Smoke billowed from the North Tower.  Reporters stated that a plane had crashed, a small twin-engine that soon turned out to be a commercial aircraft.  They were confused, the people they interviewed were confused, the people around me were confused.  I was confused.  I remember standing under the TV's alongside everyone else without a clue as to how I'd gotten there. 

The cameras zoomed to the tower as the reporters speculated on what had happened, and they interviewed more New Yorkers on the street.  I watched one woman as she gave her account of what had happened, and then in mid-sentence, her eyes grew wide and she said another one hit.  The cameras panned over and down as the fireball took out the middle of the South Tower.

When those around me began to gasp, I realized I had been holding my breath.  A girl standing beside me that I'd never met before grabbed my hand and began to cry.  We stood there together for a long time. 

I don't remember leaving, but I do remember getting in my truck and crying.  I cried all the way home, in total silence, still confused, not yet angry.  In retrospect, I'm not sure there was much anger on that day.  Anger came after, when we had someone to be angry at.  For most of us, on that day, when the towers fell, there was only the person standing next to you.  It didn't matter who they were or where they were from.  There were no hyphens on that day.  No African-Americans, no Hispanic-Americans, no Asian-Americans, no German-Italian-English-Irish-Jewish-Americans.  There were only Americans.  Americans looking to others for comfort, for help.  And Americans giving comfort and aid to those that needed it.  On that day we were a nation unified.  We were neighbors to complete strangers.

Every year on this day I remember that girl that took my hand.  I can't remember what she looked like, I don't know her name, I never even spoke to her, but I remember needing her touch as much as she needed mine.  I remember the fallen that needed saving and the heroes that gave their lives to save them. 

I look back on September 11, 2001, and I remember how much I love my country.

The Smell

I was fortunate enough to have an amazing childhood.  For those of you who can't say the same, I'm deeply sorry for that.  I was blessed with two parents that stayed together, who put my brother and I above themselves in every aspect of their lives.  Because of this, I have a plethora--this word is not used nearly enough in normal conversation--of childhood memories that I can look back and smile upon.  Like the time my pop's brand new fishing rod was yanked into the ocean because he was busy baiting my brother's hook due to his refusal to touch the live shrimp.  Or the time I shot my big mouthed brother out of a tree with my newly acquired sling shot, and subsequently lost all sling shot privileges for the foreseeable future.  And then their was that lamp that our resident ghost broke...

I could go on.  But I won't, because childhood stories only really interest those who were actually involved in the story at the time or were directly affected by their outcomes.  Much like people who love to constantly tell everyone about the things their children say and do.  Guess what?  No one but you really cares.  I'm sure your kids are wonderful, hilarious, and brilliant, but we either have our own kids that do that same stuff, or we have decided not to have children in order to avoid everything you're talking about.  That being said, I have one more memory to share...insert evil laugh smiley face emoticon.

My most vivid, favorite childhood memory centers around my dad's piece of crap, red Isuzu pick-up truck.  Now my pops, being the overachiever that he is, was always available to take us and pick us up from school.  The truck was always stocked with an extra large bag of watermelon Jolly Ranchers, and when it wasn't raining, my brother and I, along with a various bunch of neighborhood kids, would pile into the bed and ride home with the wind blowing through our hair and big idiotic grins on our faces.  This, of course, was before the hooplah about "safety" and "seat belts" was the talk of the town, and somehow we all managed to survive the 25mph, three block commute from school to my house.  We even altered a classic Christmas carol to include that stupid rust bucket.

But that wasn't even the best thing about the red Isuzu pick-up truck.  The best thing, the thing I still carry with me after twenty years, was the smell.  It stunk of stale cigarettes.  AND I LOVED IT!  To many people, that smell is enough to make them vomit, but for me, it's the best smell on the planet.  Better than falling rain, freshly cut grass, and my own farts.  To this day I get odd looks from smokers after I bury my face in their shirts and take a deep breath.  Maybe that's why I'm not allowed in the smoking area at work anymore.

At this point, it might be prudent to confess that I do smoke.  And after the above story of my dad's smoke-filled truck, one might be inclined to blame my father for this particular habit.  To be honest, I started smoking out of the sheer boredom while waiting between classes in college.  A stupid decision, but one that i made all on my own.  I also don't want to hear any comments on how I should quit.  I know I should quit, but I rarely, if ever, do things because someone tells me to.  Like when someone posts pictures of cancer kids on Facebook and then proceed to tell me to Like it if I support cancer kids.  Well I do support cancer kids, but I'm certainly not going to Like your Facebook status out of guilt.  And frankly, I think non-smokers should be more tolerant of my "disease", or does that term only apply to other addictions such as alcoholism, drug use, and watching Jersey Shore?  Last I heard, people are dying left and right from tobacco use, but hey, they can quit just like that, right?  They don't need any support system...let's just shun them from public places and raise the taxes on them so they can't afford them anymore.  Quitting ain't easy.  It's like trying to get the garbage man to take an old trashcan.  You can keep putting it out by the curb, but chances are its still going to be there at the end of the day.  After several half-hearted attempts, you'll have to make some serious extra effort to get it to stick. 

Where was I?  Oh, yeah, the smell!  One downfall of smoking is that you grow accustomed to the smell and you don't really notice it anymore.  I've quit on multiple occasions for a multitude of reasons, and it's only after I've been smoke-free for a while that I start to notice the smell again.  I've been known to follow co-workers back to their offices as they return from the smoking area just to get a whiff of what I've been missing.  One day, maybe soon, I swear I'll kick this habit for good.  But all the coffee and all the donuts in all the world will never compare to my love of the smell of cigarettes in the morning.

Turn it Up...or Down, Does It Really Even Matter?

When you turn the air conditioning up, it gets colder.  You've increased the output being dispensed by the unit, thus increasing the flow of cool air through the vents.  Some people, however, would say in order to make the house colder, you turn the air down.  You physically push the down button on the thermostat, which results in a temperature drop.

This is a matter of perception.  Not to be confused with Inception, starring Tom Hardy and that dude from Titanic, though it can be equally as mind-bottling.  We all see certain aspects of the world around us through uniquely different sets of eyes, and that makes coming to the same conclusions about things, even when presented with the very same information, inherently impossible.

A girl standing in front of her bathroom mirror with her cell phone may perceive it adds an extra amount of sexy to the picture if she purses her lips out as far as they can go. Others may think the only thing it adds to is the list of reasons why they don't hang out with said girl.

Growing up, if I were to wear a hat to a church service, I'd be asked by a least one person to remove it before I even made it to the sanctuary.  They'd say something like, "Take your hat off while you're inside the church" or "Hats don't belong in God's House".  Interesting perspective, I'd think, considering both "the church" and "God's House" are the people themselves rather than the building, and neither I nor my hat had any intention or desire to be inside any of them.

The cast of Real Housewives of New York may believe their combined thirty-two face lifts have kept them in the prime of life, while a portion of viewers tend to think the show is a competition for who can look the most like the Cowardly Lion.

Only nerds play Magic: The Gathering.

I'm sure there are people that think differently about the aforementioned examples, and that's fine because none of them are all that big of a deal...except the Magic Cards.  But perspective takes on more than one form.  There's the kind that don't matter, and there's the kind that do.

In an earlier post that can be viewed here, I made an observation about the significance of the rainbow and how it's come to mean something completely different.  A follower commented that it is a matter of perspective: while I see the rainbow as God's covenant to man, she sees it as a symbol of "free will" and "determination".  Well guess what, I happen to agree.  This is a matter of perspective, and we can come to our own conclusions on this issue.  But there's a deeper aspect to this that shouldn't be ignored, and that is the truth.  Regardless of the spiritual and emotional implications surrounding this particular perspective, one of us is right and one of us is wrong.  The rainbow is either a sign from God, or the Scripture is a lie.  In the end, depending upon which perspective you choose to take and which side proves itself to be true, the consequences/rewards can be very real.

Conditions such as alcoholism and depression are either a disease or a choice.  Abortion is either the destruction of a mass of cells or the murder of a living human being.  There either is a God or there isn't.  Your perceptions on issues such as these guide your decisions, and ultimately the way you live your life.  Unfortunately, there are too many out there that are prepared to take one side or the other based solely on their emotions and how it makes them and others feel, or how it justifies the things they want to do, rather than taking time to consider the truth of the matter.  If depression truly is a choice rather than a disease, no amount of pills is going to heal you of it.  If abortion truly is the killing of millions of unborn children, then we will all be held accountable for our stance on the issue.  If there truly is a God, then we will all meet him one day, and we'll be judged accordingly.

So then, should we tolerate an opposing perception of an issue that could very well hold such dire consequences?  Should we pass it off as a simple matter of perspective?  Or should we fervently hold to our convictions and speak out against views and actions that threaten our beliefs?  We're told that we must be tolerant of perspectives that oppose our own, and on some level, I agree...until the attempt is put forth to put those perspectives into action or law.  Once that happens, once we accept it, it is too late.  Our beliefs, our voices, count for nothing!

We can be understanding, we can pick our battles wisely, but we in no way have to accept or tolerate all perspectives of all people.  Acceptance of something implies you either agree or don't find it important enough to stand against it.  Tolerance of something implies that while you may not agree, your conviction on the matter is not strong enough to oppose it.

When all is said and done, it is our perceptions, our perspectives and beliefs that define us.  Are they important enough that you will take a stand for them?  Do you know enough of the sides that oppose you to speak intelligently against them?  Do they hold enough significance for you to even bother?

Well, I think I've rambled on long enough, and I can hear the theme song for Real Thundercats of Orange County coming from the living room.  I'm sure they're beautiful on the inside, though that's not a perspective I find important enough to spend any more time on.

Judge For Yourself

As I spoke to the girl, it became apparent that our conversation would be absolutely riveting.  This acquaintance of mine, out of sheer lack of anything else to talk about, inquired about my family's living situation.  I say we are renting a house in the most desirable city of Palm Bay, but we were currently looking to buy somewhere in the Melbourne area.  And she responds by saying, and I quote, "But at least you have a house."  Not yet comprehending the point she was making, I said, "Not really, I pay to live in someone else's house."  So she drives her point home.  "Some people don't have a house to live in at all."  This floored me.  Was this girl, who barely knows me, judging me on the basis that I want to buy a house while there are other people that don't even have a roof over their heads?  Really?  So I ask her where she lives, to which she replies, "We bought a house in West Melbourne."  It was at this point that I walked away to find a beer.  As I said, a truly stimulating conversation.

I've never given much thought to the topic of judgment until the whole Chick-Fil-A debacle began filtering through every form of network and social media.  Just about every other post on Facebook, crammed between pictures of hilarious eCards, proclaimed how horrible it was to judge others.  "Don't judge me", "Who are you to judge", they say, over and over in their status updates and voluminous tirades.  This began to weigh on me, until I finally asked myself, why?

Why is judgment so taboo in our society?  Without judgment, we could never be proper parents, because we could never determine whether our child's behavior is good or bad.  We could never have any sort of rule or law because someone that broke them could never be deemed guilty.  We could never have a best friend because that would mean you prefer them over other people.  We judge people constantly, every single one of us.  Why is that so wrong?

The answer is it isn't.  We judge the actions and behavior of others against the values and convictions to which we hold.  We determine who we enjoy being around and who we don't based on our own preferences, and we discern the truth or deceit in what others say and do based on our own system of beliefs.  Only the existentialist can claim he doesn't judge, but though he may ascertain that truth is relative, I would venture to guess even he would want to see the man who stole his wallet or kidnapped his child judged guilty and punished.

To me, the issue is not whether or not we should judge others, rather how we should respond to being judged.  As I see it there are only three valid reactions, only two of which are reasonable.

The first is to own it.  If they're right in their assertion, then take a humble pill and fix it.

The second is to deal with it.  If you take it into consideration and don't agree, then slough it off and move on.

The third is to take offense and then proceed to whine, complain, and attempt to destroy the person who made the judgment.  If this is you, grow up.  Your basic human rights do not include the right to never be offended.  You don't get to censor the opinions of others, no matter how much you disagree or how angry they make you.  I'm offended on a constant basis.  I'm offended that when a man is asked his opinion about something and he answers honestly, a firestorm of insults, slander, and boycotts are immediately rained down upon him.  I'm offended that a certain group of people have hijacked a symbol of my God's promise to mankind.  I'm offended that people still think Russell Brand is a good choice to host an awards show.  I'm offended that Coldplay forgot how to write good music, and that Aerosmith is still considered relevant.  I'm offended every time I hear the term "I'm-a-be".  It's I'm going to be you freaking Black Eyed Pea morons.  What I don't do is go around condemning everyone who says it.  I don't try to censor people's point of view because I don't agree with it, and I don't try to get bands kicked off the airwaves because they suck.  I don't hurl insults at homosexuals because they stole the rainbow.  I know what it really means and them strutting around on penis-shaped floats in multicolored underwear on Gay Pride Day isn't going to change that.  I'm also aware that anything hostile I say in protest isn't going to change their view.

The fact is, the only thing that gets through to someone with an opposing point of view is a relationship.  That's really what it's all about.  Relationships.  Without a real connection, what you have to say is futile.  You're wasting your breath, and you're wasting your time.  Loudly judge everyone you come into contact with.  Scream it from the rooftops.  But will you change anything by doing so?  Not likely.  A condescending attitude, like the holier-than-thou girl I mentioned earlier, does nothing but make people want to drink like a fish and swim as far away from you as possible.

This is something I figured out a long time ago, but until recently, rarely put into practice.  I find myself holding my tongue a lot more than I used to, though it still has a way of spouting off at times.  Especially if someone i know is talking nonsense.  In that case, I'm-a-be telling you exactly what I think.  Respectfully.

Teenage Girls and the Vampires that Love Them

There's no shortage of the supernatural in today's media, and when it comes to vampires, the sheer magnitude of books, movies, and television shows are overwhelming.  And I'll admit to reading and watching just about every one of them.  I've read Anne Rice, Bram Stoker, Kim Harrison, and Stephanie Meyer.  I've seen Underworld, The Lost Boys, Blade, 30 Days of Night, Fright Night, Daybreakers, and the list goes on.  I even watch True Blood and The Vampire Diaries.  Something about the bloodsucking bastards keeps me, and a whole lot of other people, coming back for more.

These stories and creatures are designed to stretch the boundaries of the imagination.  Sometimes they're amusing, other times they're terrifying, and on occasion they're intentionally disgusting.  But there's an ever growing, ever popular subsection within the genre that strikes me as overly unrealistic and ultimately disturbing.  I think the term is Teen Vampire Drama.  This is where an adolescent girl encounters a handsome vampire, who happens to have been turned during the height of his youth, and the two fall head over heels in love.  The girl's life is forever changed, she can't imagine life without him.  If she's not with him, she's thinking about him, and for whatever reason the vampire's feelings for her are completely and utterly mutual.

This is where I call bullcrap.

Let's analyze what we know about a couple popular "teenage" vampires for a moment.  Edward Cullen.  The Twilight hero with a heart of gold.  Born circa 1875, turned vampire in 1901, appears to be about seventeen years old, obsessed with Bella Swan who actually is seventeen years old.  And then there's Stefan Salvatore, the male protagonist in the series The Vampire Diaries.  Turned in 1865, he also is portrayed as having high moral standards and is infatuated with another seventeen year old girl by the name of Elena Gilbert.  Anyone see a trend here?  Both girls are seventeen.  Both vampires are over ONE HUNDRED.

Now let's step back again.  As a teenager I greatly enjoyed the company of females my own age.  However, I had absolutely no desire to listen to or be involved in any of their emotional instability.  At age thirty, I liken the feeling I get upon hearing a high school girl whine about her problems to my mood when the toilet backsplashes all over my ass after flushing a gigantic load.  I imagine, in a few decades, I'd rather stick my entire face in fecal matter than sit through that incessant babbling.  And we're expected to believe a century old vampire could last five minutes in the presence of a teenage girl without draining the life from her out of sheer annoyance?  I hate to say it, but there's not an elderly man on the planet that has ever associated himself with a much younger woman because of her personality.

At this point, we can dismiss Twilight as completely off the charts unbelievable.  I've read the Twilight series in its entirety, if only because my O.C.D. won't allow me to leave things unfinished, and I'm fully aware that Edward Cullen refused any sort of physical intimacy with Bella Swan--who happens to be the epitome of a self-centered, immature teenage girl.  In no way do I condone adolescent sex (or sex before marriage in general), but the mere thought that Mr. Cullen fell in love with Bella for her amazing brain is as disingenuous as a Big Brother shomance.

Stefan Salvatore, on the other hand, is another story altogether.  He chooses to not only spend time with Elena in a social manner, but a sexual manner as well.  Do not forget that Stefan is a 165 year old vampire.  Take away the vampire part.  Take away the boyish good looks.  Now he's just an extremely old man that has sex with a teenage girl.  Last I heard, Stefan, buddy old pal, that's called statutory rape.  Much younger men than you have been court ordered to go door to door declaring they're a sexual predator.

Sure, it's unlikely that a vampire would get judged and convicted to the full extent of the law, but that doesn't make it any less disturbing.  As for me, I have a Glock and several pointed sticks that say my daughters won't be dating any elderly gentlemen, supernatural or otherwise.

The Concept

I've been talking about starting a blog for what seems like forever.  The intention's been there, but there's always tomorrow, right?  Too much to do, too many TV shows to watch...gotta catch up on Breaking Bad and The Vampire Diaries.  As I write this, my oldest daughter is chattering away about how much she loves horses while my son is busy spinning the longest run-on sentence in history about the sandwiches he's making out of Legos.  Yes, he makes sandwiches out of Legos, and they look delicious.

But I digress...which is kind of the point here.  With so much going on in the world, it's near impossible for me to pick a theme.  Enter All Manners of Things, an extremely eclectic blog in which I write about whatever crap happens to be interesting me at the time.  And the best part?  You can't interrupt me.  If you have something to complain about--and I'm sure there will be plenty--you'll just have to wait and post a comment.

I'm shooting for a weekly post, but really I'll just write something when I feel like it.  Oh, and feel free to suggest a topic.  If I'm intrigued I'll write about it, and I promise to make at least a partial effort to not make it a total disappointment.

So count yourselves amongst the truly blessed.  You've managed to find your way into my realm of influence.  I look forward to infecting your thoughts on all manners of things.