A place called B.L.O.G.

So, a week ago, there was this incident. There were these pants and in these pants were these crayons and these pants containing these crayons went into the washer and then into the dryer and the wax from the crayons melted and blobbed around and got all over everything, and, like, DAMN, those were my favorite clothes!

Despair set in. During a whole week of wearing my third-best pair of jeans and a bunch of shirts I usually only wear when the best ones are dirty, I’d come home and see this basket of ruined clothes and want to run away, far far away to some tropical land where you can dance naked on the beach and clothes don’t matter, and more importantly, where everybody is slightly round in the middle and extremely pale and I wouldn’t be out of place.

Then I received the laundry tip of the year, from the Internet via Deborah of my writer’s group.

It’s all about the Borax, folks. The "20-Mule Team" Borax. I was familiar with this stuff from washing Jimmy’s cloth diapers. The stuff is potent. It’ll take what was a really bad poop stain on a cloth diaper and make it into a less-noticeable poop stain. But would it take out crayon?

Yes. I had to pretreat the clothes with Oxi-Clean, I had to soak them in hot water and Borax for a half hour, I had to scrub them, I had to wash them once, I had to soak them again, I had to scrub them some more, and I had to wash them a second time, but in the end, the crayon mostly came out. If you, for some reason, were on your hands and knees inspecting my jeans from six inches or so away, you might notice a couple of faint blotches of color, but you otherwise wouldn’t know anything had happened. Other garments came out even better. Only two were damaged beyond salvation.

Aaaah. Nothing like a good resolution to an annoying problem to put a little spring in your step.

Plus, there’s a real sense of satisfaction about calling in the help of a team of mules. There’s something so pioneer about it. If only a team of mules could solve all our problems.

Mules are my new favorite animals.

It has come to my attention that most successful enterprises have a mission statement. These documents help identify what a company is all about, what values guide it, and what it wants to accomplish. Reading mission statements is a great way to come to the understanding that all companies are interested only in the common good.

For instance, Alliant Techsystems, which is in the business of blowing people up, includes this in its mission statement:

"We are committed to conducting business in an ethically and socially
responsible manner."

Philip Morris’s mission statement reads, in part:

"Our goal is to be the most responsible, effective and respected developer, manufacturer and marketer of consumer products, especially products intended for adults."

Exxon-Mobil lists this among the bullet points in its mission statement:

"Success depends on our ability to consistently satisfy ever-changing
customer preferences. We pledge to be innovative and responsive, while
offering high quality products and services at competitive prices."

Wow.

These examples illustrate how important it is for any enterprise to define its purpose in realistic and meaningful terms. I figure this applies to individuals, as well. So, I’m going to take a crack at drafting a mission statement for myself.

The mission statement of Dylan Belden, Inc.:

• Striving to provide high-value services that ensure positive outcomes while avoiding negative impacts for stakeholders.
• Leveraging core competencies to maximize burrito consumption.
• Implementing a non-stop commitment to value-added processes that secure a unique niche in the global marketplace, and pursuing this goal 24 hours a day (with occasional pauses for bathroom breaks).
• Improving the outlook for later generations by molding a first-class future adult through the extensive use of thoughtful parenting techniques and frequent exercises in advanced Lego engineering.
• Limiting sleep-fulfillment successes of downstairs neighbors by playing loud music at all hours of the day.
• Providing a satisfying and rewarding experience for recreational partners by adhering to a service-oriented approach to social and romantic interaction.
• Keepin’ it real.
• Contributing to the profit margins of Sony Pictures, Transom Films and all related producers and benificiaries by mentioning the Lost Skeleton to anybody who will listen.
• Remaining committed to a continuous process of hard-fought, bitterly agonizing self-improvement despite the fact that it usually sucks ass.

There are three things I’d like to mention today.

• Pita bread. Somebody please explain to me why it is so hard to find in the supermarket. Every supermarket keeps it in a different place. I’ve seen it kept near the deli on little racks that are low to the ground. I don’t know why they think that’s where it belongs, except that hummus is also frequently sold there, and the two seem to go together well. I’ve also seen it near the tortillas and other such things, which I guess makes sense because they are both round, flat breads. I rarely actually see it in the bread area, which I think is strange because it is bread. It even has the word "bread" in the name. Pita bread. See? There it is. Anyway, I was at Rainbow yesterday and I wanted to buy pita bread. So first I checked near the hummus, on this large refrigerated display thing where they also keep the fancy cheeses and stuff. Nope, no pita bread. OK. I’ll look near the tortillas. Nope. OK. I’ll look in the actual bread aisle. Nope. OK. I’ll look near the bagels. Nope. OK. I’ll look near the bakery. Nope. OK. I’ll look near the deli, which is right by where the hummus is, and I didn’t see it there before, but I’ll check anyway. Nope. How does this story end? Embarassingly. It turns out that it was in the bread aisle after all. Damn. I just didn’t see it, because it was kind of hard to spot. But the point is, this saga would not have happened if supermarkets would standardize their pita bread placement. It would save us all a lot of trouble.
• Axe murderers. They have a very bad reputation. Much worse than regular murderers. People who choose to murder using poison, guns, knives, or other means don’t have nearly the stigma that axe murderers do. How do I know this? Because whenever somebody is looking for the ultimate noun to embody what a crazy person is, they choose "axe murderer." Like, when you meet a new person, and somebody says, "How is he?" and you say, "Well, I don’t know him too well yet, but I’m pretty sure he’s not an axe murderer." Or when you’re talking about your quiet, creepy neighbor, and you say "I think he might be an axe murderer." Why the fascination with axes? Is there something that’s so much worse about murdering people with axes than murdering them with something else? I think the murder is the bad part. The choice of weapon is secondary. The only explanation I can  think of is that in order to be an axe murderer, you really have to do some planning. An axe is not something you just pick up and swing at somebody in the heat of the moment. If you are an axe murderer, that means you actually decided to go out to the garage, find an axe, and then go find somebody to murder with it. I guess that is a little scary. Of course, you need the same degree of premeditation with something like poison, but poison isn’t nearly as messy or brutal-seeming. So maybe this is why we consider axe murderers to be so much worse than shotgun murderers or some such thing.
• The turkey. Remember my turkey? Once again, I’ve gone several weeks without seeing the turkey along Energy Park Drive. I miss the turkey. It turns out I’m not the only one. a few days ago, somebody actually put up a sign along the road that says "Where’s the turkey?" The best part is that on the other side, is has the same message, but in Spanish. It is comforting to know that I’m not the only person who has missed that big old turkey.

Sometimes, people say to me, "Dylan, do you have any tattoos?" And since I don’t have any, I’ll say, "Yes, and maybe you’ll get to see them someday if you’re lucky."

OK. I don’t really say that. That would be misleading. And also kind of a weird thing to say to people. Come to think of it, that’s a really dumb thing to say for several reasons. But the point is, when you were reading that sentence, you weren’t expecting that, were you? No, you weren’t. I’m unpredictable that way. You just never know what I’m going to write next.

(aardvark)

See? I did it again! I wrote "aardvark" for no particular reason at all. There is no way you could have seen that coming! Ha!

Anyway, on to the point of today’s blog entry: Tattoos. It is true that I have no tattoos. I have struggled with the question of whether I’m a tattoo-having kind of guy. There are certain circumstances under which there is a measure of credibility attached to getting a tattoo. Being drunk in Mexico is a good one. Also, it’s good if you have some deep spiritual reason or symbolism going on. Being in the Navy is an acceptable reason. It’s also OK to get a tattoo if you belong to a gang of ruffians. Tattoos are very popular among the ruffians of today, I’m told.

But what’s my reason? Just because I feel like it? There’s no credibility there. Getting a tattoo just because you think it’s cool to have a tattoo is a major step down the road to dorkhood. (Of course, using a word like "dorkhood" is also a step down that particular road, but whatever. I’m a dork that way.)

So, I’ve always thought that if I were to get a tattoo someday, it would have to be for a good reason and it would have to have some actual meaning.

Well, I’ve been thinking about it lately. I think I might have an idea for a tattoo that meets my high standards. But I need to figure out what part of the body it belongs on. Here are the candidates I’ve come up with.

Forearm
Pros: Visible. Sensible. Not too weird.
Cons: Visible. Kind of weird.

Butt cheek
Pros: When people ask where I got a tattoo, I’d get to say "on my butt cheek."
Cons: Everything else about it.

Bicep
Pros: Hidden most of the time. Very manly.
Cons: I don’t think I’m that manly.

Back of neck
Pros: I might forget it’s there, and that could be funny. Also, it’s in the center of my body, which would allow me to remain basically symmetrical.
Cons: I think it would hurt. Plus that seems like a place that’s best for a prison tattoo.

Forehead
Pros: Good conversation starter.
Cons: Would probably scare children and the elderly.

Back of shoulder
Pros: Discreet. Kind of elegant.
Cons: Seems slightly girly.

Calf
Pros: My calves are my favorite body part.
Cons: Calves are weird places for tattoos.

Chest
Pros: Seems really cool.
Cons: There would probably be some shaving involved. Also, not sure if I have the kind of chest that can pull it off.

What to do? Suggestions? Anybody?

Dropped on head as baby
Cosmic Death Ray
Malnutrition
Ate ice cream too fast
Trying too hard
Not trying hard enough
Trying just the right amount, but lacking in talent
Exposed to too much Gallagher as a child
Some kind of body-snatcher situation
Thick skull
Didn’t discover Monty Python until it was too late
Over-reliance on lists
Allergies
That operation where they removed my funny bone
Deep-seated fear of popularity
Hangnails. I blame everythng on hangnails
Toner low
Missed breakfast
Forgot to read instructions before using enema

Isn’t it flattering when people want your advice? I think it is. It means somebody thinks your opinion is worthwhile.

Being able to give good advice really is all about a few key qualities. One is having lots of varied experiences. Another is being the kind of person who pays attention, notices things, remembers them, and makes connections about cause and effect. Also, it helps if you are not dumb.

It’s good to know people who you think you can trust and whose opinion you value. I have found it to be very helpful. And I wish to return the favor. Therefore, I would like to make it known to you, my dear friends, that I am available for all your advice-getting needs. Sometimes people are not sure if they can approach a certain person for advice, but in this case, I want there to be no doubt that I am open to such requests.

Just to get the ball rolling, here is some unsolicited advice from me to you.

• If you don’t already do it, CHECK THE POCKETS OF PANTS BEFORE YOU WASH THEM. I don’t normally resort to capital letters like that, but I need to impress upon you just how important this is. Crayons, in particular, can cause problems when tumbled around in a dryer for an hour or so. I’ve also heard that lipstick, candy, pens and such things can be a bear. Especially crayons, though.
• Get some sleep. Sleep is good. I love sleep. Everybody should get plenty of sleep.
• Do not allow anybody to bring crayons into your house. In fact, keep them at least 100 yards away from your house at all times. Especially the laundry room.
• Don’t drink soda pop. It has sugar or caffeine or whatever, which is nice in a way, but really, it just makes you feel miserable in the end. Drink water instead. It’s delicious and refreshing.
• The brake is the one on the left.
• It is a wise idea to write your U.S. Senators and Representatives and ask for laws banning the manufacture or use of crayons on American soil. This menace must be stopped!
• Don’t forget to look at the big picture. I saw a big picture once, at a museum. It was really cool. I think you should go and look at it.
• Seriously, though, look at the big picture. Getting too engrossed in the details or the momentary setbacks makes you blind to reality. So, don’t do that.
• Finally, don’t mess with Jack Bauer. It’s just not worth it. He will make you pay. Maybe not this hour, maybe not in four hours, maybe not in 12 hours. But sometime in the following 24 hours, you will pay and pay dearly.

Hey, pay attention to me! Everybody! Over here! Look at the bad things I’m up to! I’m such a bad ass! Really, I am! I’m nasty! I’ve got a few scientists who like to play around with uranium and I’m not afraid to use them! I’m so much more dangerous than Pakistan. You don’t even want to know, man. Pakistan is a total wuss compared to me. And don’t even get me started on that lame-ass Libya.

No, really. Don’t walk away. I’m serious here. I’m sooooo dangerous. And if that doesn’t scare you, well … um … did I mention I’m also crazy? That’s right, I’m reeeeaaaaallllly crazy. I don’t give a shit about nothin’, man! When I cross the street, I don’t even look both ways at all! I just go! And the cars, well, they can swerve around me if they want to. I don’t even care! I’m a loose cannon! I don’t listen to reason. At all. Never. I’ve never even tried it once, that’s how loony I am. Ooooh, you sure don’t want to piss me off, because I will retaliate with no fear of the consequences. That’s what crazy people are like, you know — they don’t give a shit about consequences!  Did I mention that I’m crazy? I… I … hey, are you paying attention?

I’m serious here! FEAR ME! TAKE ME SERIOUSLY!

No, really, come back! You don’t want to make me mad, because I … I … I …

Oh, I’m so tired.

Please, sit down before you read this. I have to tell you something, and I know that it’s going to upset you. But I’m telling you for your own good.

It’s been 12 years. You’ve been waiting all this time, always so hopeful — some would say naive. At first, we all admired you for being steadfast and patient. It was a good thing that you were willing to keep following your dream. But eventually, it just became sad. The rest of us had moved on, but you just kept blindly wishing, clinging to this pathetic fantasy of yours. Even now, everytime I hear from you, it’s all you talk about. Well, it’s about time that somebody told you the truth about this situation.

The black hole sun is not going to come.

There, I said it.

I know this will be hard for you to hear and that you might have to pass through some feelings of denial before you can really embrace the truth. But I care about you and I just think it’s time for you to get over this and move ahead with your life.

I’m sorry.

Sincerely,

Dylan Belden

Dear Chris,

I was recently attacked by a madman in a large military vehicle. He got mad about my driving and followed me into a parking lot. When I got out of my car, he punched me in the head. What could I have done differently?

Stan Taylor, Portland, Oregon

Chris says: Stan, there’s a reason Gary Numan said "Here in my car, I feel safest of all, I can lock all my doors, it’s the only way to live … in cars." You should have stayed in the safety of your car until the guy gave up and drove away. Next time you’re in a similar situation, don’t forget to consult Numan’s underrated classic album "The Pleasure Principle" for advice.

Dear Chris,

I have been going out with a man for about 6 months, and we’ve talked about him moving in with me. The problem is that he’s from the country and I’m from the city. He seems so out of place in the city; he just doesn’t seem to get how city life works. And there’s no way I’m moving to the country. What can I do?

Sally Burns, New York, NY

Chris says: You need to have an open mind about this. What you aren’t realizing is that you have a great opportunity to have something amazing with this man of yours. What you need to do is take him all around town — to a fashionable bar, where he can grab the crotch of a transvestite; to Central Park, where he can present a large hunting knife to ward off a mugger; and to a fancy dinner, where he can embarass and titilate those in attendance with his boorish manners. And by golly, if he wants to sleep on the floor, you let him! This is a perfect recipe for romance. If it’s not too much trouble, you might also consider getting engaged to an arrogrant rich fellow and allowing your country boy to steal your heart instead. 

Dear Chris,

I’ve been laid off from my job and I’m being evicted from my apartment. I have no prospects and my credit is shot. I’m taking my unemployment checks right to the liquor store. Please tell me why I should go on living.

Matt Turner, Cleveland, Ohio

Chris says: Matt, sometimes you just gotta keep scratchin’ and survivin’. Don’t be discouraged by no temporary layoffs or easy credit rip-offs. Just train your brain to be optimistic by repeating "Good times, good times" to yourself several times a day.

Dear Chris,

My landlord is driving me crazy! He’s supposed to be renovating a room down the hall, and he had a shipment of bricks brought in over a month ago. But he’s just left them sitting on a pallet in the hallway! I have to walk around them all the time, and it’s so embarassing to have company over. What can I do?

Juanita Castillo, Chicago, Illinois

Chris says: Your landlord has left you a gold mine! What you need to do is break every one of those bricks with your head to see if they contain any magic mushrooms, which will let you grow to twice your normal size. Just watch out for winged turtles!

There are times when life hits you with a little something unexpected. Like that time I checked my mailbox at St. Thomas and found an envelope with like $2,000 in it. In cash. With no note and no return address. I never found out who sent it. But I liked it. That is a true story. (On a related topic, if the person who did that is reading this … um, how should I put this … well, I’ll just tell you that my current address is 2111 Gordon Ave., Apt. 3, St. Paul, 55108.)

Anyway, the shock was not as great last night when I attended an organizational meeting for Jimmy’s baseball league, but there was a surprise in store. I expected to be an assistant coach for his team. Helping out a little bit, maybe. Well, instead, I was handed a folder with a list of kids and "Coach: Dylan Bleden (sic)" at the bottom. So, I guess I’m a baseball coach now. They didn’t have enough parents volunteer to have head coaches and assistant coaches for all the teams. This is "nearball," where the coaches toss the ball to the kids to hit. That means I’m going to be back on the old pitcher’s mound for the first time since high school. I’m sure I can totally strike these kids out, but I guess I’m supposed to let them hit it.

Today I rode my bicycle to the little Finnish Bistro cafe place in St. Anthony Park. I’ve been by there probably 100 times since I moved in here, but I’d never gone inside. Well, it was a nice place. I had some coffee and read a bit. They have interesting food. I think I’ll eat there sometime. They have something called a "Scandinavian calzone." I don’t know how that differs from an Italian calzone. Maybe it’s rolled in lefse or something.

The book I’ve been reading is about Buddhism and how it can be used by therapists and their clients as a way to basically get people’s shit together. Lots of stuff about mediation and how it can help you divorce yourself from the "self." It’s intriguing. It’s made me think a lot about the idea of self. Everybody has this sense of themselves that they’ve built up, but so often that just becomes a system of walls you put up, restrictive ways you define yourself, and defense mechanisms against being threatened by others. This guy argues that you have to break down this false "self" to really get at the essence of your being and be capable of having a true connection with others. Or something like that.

What’s the going rate for plasma these days? I have a lot of it and I could probably spare some. I think I might look into that. I’ve got this nice, untapped source of income flowing through my veins. It’s actually wasteful of me to not be selling it.

I’ve had plastic shopping bags piling up here for like a year. The sack of them was overflowing. I’d have to pack them down in there every time I needed to add a new one. I mean, it must have weighed a whole pound and a half. That’s a lot when you are talking about plastic bags. I had been wanting to recycle them but never did. Finally, last week, I moved the bag to the car, where it sat in the back seat until today, when I stopped at the grocery store. There, they have a huge bin for plastic bag recycling. I triumphantly dropped that bag into the bin and sighed a satisfied kind of sigh. It was the culmination of many months of effort. Am I strange for getting some kind of enjoyment out of this kind of thing? On second thought, don’t answer that. It doesn’t really matter whether I’m strange, and frankly I don’t really care that much.

I think "See you on the flip side" is something I’d like to say to somebody sometime. I’m not sure what it means, but it sounds vaguely ’60s-ish, which makes it cool by default.

Jimmy quote of the day: "I talk about chutney and poupon at school, and kids say, "What does that mean?" and I say, "Oh, they’re just foreign condiments."

Lost Skeleton quote of the day: "Must find Amish terrarium."

Relaxation technique of the day: Napping

Van Patten of the day: Dick