What Makes "Someone" a "Dumbone"

You can pronounce the title of this blog any way you want. If you're neurotic like I am, you're probably cringing at the fact that it really should be "dumb bone", but ends up sounding more like "dumb one".

Let's writhe together.

Now that we've gotten that out of our systems, what makes an idiot? You're not one, of course, and neither am I... or are we? Before you get offended, consider this:

Did you attend college? Do you listen to cerebral music? Are you a fan of witty movies with immersive, striking cinematography?

Guess what? None of that matters when it comes to how "smart" you are. You want to know what separates you from being smart or not?

It all depends on your ability to put yourself in someone else's shoes.

HA! Ha...

I've known some dumb idiots in my life, a lot of them even had college degrees. What made them dumb was their inability for open-mindedness and stubborn unwillingness to perceive the world as someone else might (this is why bigots are some of the biggest idiots).

To give you a vague example, I've had people send me very personal, hurtful, thoughts via text (which is nothing more than a childish way to digitally throw a tantrum and plug your ears with your fingers, shouting "I CAN'T HEAR YOU! LA-LA-LA-LA-LA!").

Here's a specific example: I had to cancel a date one day because of a massive wave of depression that just washed all over me. I cancelled via phone. The girl who invited me over said she understood. I felt good because I thought this meant I could be open and honest about my issues without any drama.

A few hours later, she texted me a furious, five text long message describing how she's been ruminating and decided, on her own, that I made up my depression to avoid the date. She ended the text with "have a nice life!" and refused to talk on the phone.

There's a keeper.

I'm not saying I'm a genius. I'm obviously not the most socially competent person around. I recently went to a supermarket to return some body wash that, being a veteran of this brand of wash, I knew was off color. Maybe they didn't use enough dye in the coloring process, but I wasn't going to wash with this "mislabeled shampoo".

While driving there, I prepared my reasons as to why I should be able to return the bottle, especially since I'd tossed the receipt. I'd prepared this speech in my head about who I was, and how I always shop at that particular store, and how I, if anyone, should know what the body wash is supposed to look like (in case the cashier decides to counter-argue like this is some episode of Law and Order).

I got in line and waited patiently until the cashier was ready to help me out. Then, it was all up to me. My eight dollars were relying on me, each one of them praying that I was fit for the verbal challenge ahead so we can all be reunited.

"Hi, how are you?" she asked. Her enthusiasm just wasn't there. I don't blame her-- retail drains you from the inside out, especially near the end of the day. She stared at the counter as I talked.

I explained all that stuff about who I am, and what I deserve. But it was too much info.

"You wanna exchange it?" she asked, coolly.

And I realized then what an ass I was being. Here is this middle-aged woman, with her own dreams and aspirations, having to endure an explanation by some semi-young, nervous guy about his off-color liquid soap. It really put things into perspective, at least for me.

The point I'm making is that if you want to have a happy life, you're going to want to be a good communicator. To do that, you have to be able to get out of your own head.

So the next time a driver flips you off on the freeway, the next time someone cuts you off on the road, the next time someone cuts you and everyone else off in a long line, don't let it get to you. Other people may be lost in their own worlds, but that doesn't mean you should be lost in the real one.

Jim Cummings

The only jobs I've had at Disney parks were in attractions. The attraction I worked on at Disney World was a live show called "Festival of the Lion King". The job varied by the hour, as my co-workers and I alternated theater positions, generally as ushers, but some of what we did included guarding the entrance, guarding the exit, supervising the rest of the ushers, or moving strollers (which usually didn't contain abandoned children).

One day, I stood at the exit. That place was always quiet and empty, so I prepared myself for an hour of monotony. Then I looked at the VIP list for our upcoming show and noticed a familiar name: Cummings.

VIPs are told to enter the arena theater space through the exit. They usually show up half an hour to a minute before the play starts, and we seat them in the very front row so they can publicly interact with the performers at the very start of the a show.

The name stared back at me... "Cummings". I know that name. But what are the chances that this is the "Cummings" I know? After all, anyone could be a VIP. They don't have to be rich or famous. Any area leader can radio us to put a new name and party number on the list, for whatever reason. Often it's because a guest complained about something else that day, or if they simply called in advance to get really good seats. What are the chances that Jim Cummings, one of my favorite voice actors and all-time idols, is coming to this show?

Jim Cummings has probably the most prolific voice entertainment history, a voice acting legend who has been in hundreds of movies, video games, and t.v. shows. Just to give you an idea, he's voiced Goofy's neighbor "Pete", Winnie the Pooh, Tigger, and Eeyore. He's been in "Pocahontas", "The Hunchback of Notre Dame", "The Little Mermaid", he even voiced Razoul from "Aladdin" (the town guard who tried to chop Jasmine's arm off).

"We just keep running into each other, don't we, street rat?"

I radioed to my fellow cast members that they need to leave the front row of "Elephant" section open for a party of 4 or 5 (I can't remember which) because that was my job, but more importantly, if it was Jim Cummings, we couldn't screw this up. When Jeremy Irons didn't do the voice for Scar in "The Lion King", Cummings took his place. "The Lion King" probably means a lot to the guy.

My manager for that day replied on his headset, telling me to keep the "chatter" to a minimum as they were loading the theater.

"Just make sure to leave the front of 'Elephant' open," I replied.

Eventually, I began to doubt that anyone would show up. The show would start in less than a minute, and just then, I saw Jim Cummings and his family walking towards me, accompanied with a guest relations tour guide.

"You guys still left the 'elephant' front row open, right?" I asked my crew on the radio.

"Nope. Filled it up," someone replied.

F%&#.

It's considered a "Disney courtesy" to never ask someone to move once you've seated them somewhere. I'm sure it's a courtesy in every service oriented line of work, but doing that at Disney Parks is close to sin.

"Well, Jim Cummings is here with his family and they're gonna need a seat."

"Who?" I hear on the headset.

Maybe I was more disappointed than I should have been. I recognize that not everyone who works for Disney Parks is a fan of the brand, but if you're going to work at "THE Lion King" show, you really should know the basics.

A few seconds later, I was standing face-to-face with the guy responsible for tons of my childhood memories.

The talented Jim Cummings.

He stopped for a second, looked around and asked "You guys have any water in there?"

His voice was smooth, unlike the raspy voiced characters he often plays.

"Well, not inside the theater," I started to reply. I wished I could have had even a few seconds to say anything else of value, but one of my co-workers beckoned him and his party inside. The guest relations cast member told him to go on in while she gets him a bottle. I watched as my co-workers awkwardly asked the guests they'd originally seated to move for a "higher profile guest".

After the show, one of my fellow cast members approached me and asked "Phil! Did you know Jim Cummings came to our last show?"

I was just glad to know someone I worked with appreciated the talent behind so many beloved Disney movies.

Thanks for reading,

-Philip

Oxford

I follow an online news site called "Business Insider". They recently posted an article highlighting 13 abstract interview questions that Oxford University asks its candidates before granting admission into the prestigious university. There are apparently no right or wrong answers-- they're more subjective so as to discover what kind of person you are.

Here are the questions, as well as my answers:

Question 1: Is it easier for organisms to live in the sea or on land?

That depends on whether or not you would prefer to float in the endless ocean, constantly being bathed by the salty seas, scavenging for krill while luckily avoiding bait, or if you'd like to graze in the forest, your ears twitching every so often at the sound of each distant, snapping twig, in fear that it might be an irrational mammal bearing an overpowered machine.

I wouldn't mind trading places with a jellyfish for a day. Then again, I doubt jellyfish have much of an emotional connection to anything in their lives seeing as how they are mostly giant bacteria.

Question 2: What makes a short story different from a novel?

Most people would probably say "the length". In fact, most people would probably say "Most people would probably say 'the length'".

Good authors can write both. The difference is the amount of time invested. Not by the author, but by the reader. I consider movies based on books to be the "short story" versions of the books they're based on. This is because a book not only might take longer to read than the average film, but more pages are devoted to the description of the protagonist's environment and thought processes, creating a more lasting impression on the reader.

Novels can also be best sellers because they provide long lasting value.

Question 3: Imagine we had no records about the past at all, except everything to do with sport-- how much of the past could we find out about?

The story goes that Olympians used to compete in the nude, so you can learn a lot about what is socially acceptable in each period.

Question 4: Why do human beings have two eyes?

Conveniently, having two eyes lets us see in 3D. As for why we ended up having two eyes, that was either the maker's will, or a perfect evolutionary accident.

Question 5: Should poetry be difficult to understand?

No, it should not be,

It really should never be,

Why is it ever?

Question 6: Is violence always political? Does "political" mean something different in different contexts?

In war, yes, violence is political. In civilian life, people commit violent crimes, some premeditated and others out of passion.

Animals are also violent. The "politics" involved in the animal kingdom pertain to a literal food chain. Humans, in our modern society, vie to be figuratively on top.

But "political" has several meanings. While a politician might use the word "political" to describe foreign affairs, a student might scold another classmate for saying something "politically incorrect".

Question 7: Ladybirds are red. So are strawberries. Why?

They could have just as easily been blue.

Question 8: If the punishment for parking on double yellow lines were death, and therefore nobody did it, would that be a just and effective law?

If no one really did park on double yellow lines in fear of this punishment, it would be an effective law, but criminally unjust.

I'm a firm believer that a vast majority of crimes go unreported, often unnoticed. So I know there would be people who would break that law and not get caught. Therefore, it would realistically be an ineffective law, and if another person was caught and punished, grossly unjust for the "guilty" person(s).

Question 9: Why do you think an English student might be interested in the fact that Coronation Street has been running for 50 years?

I have never seen this show, but from what I know, it's an English soap opera. Although I believe any scholar should be interested in the fact that any show would last that long. It says a lot about the viewers and might not necessarily mean the show is good or bad, but that it has done a successful job of creating a transgenerational cult following, like "Doctor Who".

Question 10: What is "normal" for humans?

A lot of people strive for "normalcy" in their lives. They try to blend in with their environments, colleagues, and culture in an attempt to avoid conflict and maximize opportunity.

Then there are those who do the exact opposite in an attempt to spite others, or to combat the monotony of an average life, or because they're on a quest to discover new things about themselves that differentiate them from everyone else.

Normalcy is relative. Like I mentioned earlier, Olympians used to compete nude. Maybe that will happen again, but nudity is currently not "normal" enough to broadcast on network television.

Question 11: Would it matter if tigers became extinct?

It would matter to the tigers.

It would more than likely matter to their ecosystems, too. There's a popular video online about how the emergence of wolves helped Yellowstone National Park become a more thriving wildlife community, inviting more animals, catalyzing plant growth, ultimately even displaying a positive effect on the rivers.

Question 12: If you could invent a new musical instrument, what kind of sound would it make?

I'm a fan of all music. I really enjoy Indian "Raga", especially the relaxing sound a good tabla drum. I also love the resonance of the gong, so my instrument would be a new blend of the "gong" and "tabla".

Question 13: Here's a cactus (there's a picture of a cactus). Tell me about it.

Cacti aren't very sociable.

And those are the 13 Oxford questions.

Here's the wolf video I referred to in question 11.

And here's the Business Insider article that inspired today's blog.

Thanks for reading,

-Philip

The Disney Proposition

Last week, Disneyland offered me the chance to be a lifeguard.

I turned them down.

Let me start over. Walt Disney Parks and Resorts responded to my job application, in which I applied to work either at an attraction or as a lifeguard. The e-mail read: "Congratulations! We want you to be a lifeguard and stuff!"

(I'm paraphrasing, don't quote me on that)

The catch is that it would be employment through another Disney college program. It's a temp job-- eight months this time. I've already done a four month program in Anaheim and another in Florida.

I've also had some of my best and worst days in both programs, respectively. It's like a drug, with its extreme ups and downs: Good friends, beautiful women, poverty, unforgettable atmospheres in firework-lit evenings, $7 an hour, drinks, days off spent in bizarre worlds brought to life with furry Disney characters that are clearly sweating on the inside, extremely crowded environments, solitude, and apartments that are clearly not up to code.

You meet people of all ages, mostly college aged, and the majority of them are nothing short of wonderful. And when it comes to park guests, you meet adventurous people, kind people, blissfully ignorant people from every corner of the globe who are antsy to see everything from the best angle in the shortest amount of time before heading back to their mundane grind. It's like a full-time job that doubles as an extended vacation from reality. I was out of the loop when it came to world news in both four month programs.

When you're there, you don't feel like yourself. At least, I didn't. I felt like I was living a different life, through someone else's eyes. I was obviously still me, but knowing that it was temporary made every day feel somewhat sacred. Even standing outside, waiting for the rain to subside so we can open up Storybook Land again was surprisingly beautiful, and I don't know why. It's just one of those things where your life always has a different tone, and the tone when I started working in Disneyland was just nice. It felt "colorful", if that helps.

But that spark is gone for me. The other times I applied, I was so excited to see new things, I put a lot of the logistics aside. Now that I know what to expect... let's just say I'm tired of moving strollers.

I was also a different person then. More nervous, less ambitious. Marc Maron once said something along the lines of "If you go somewhere, you're still taking you with you" (again, don't quote me on that). But I totally agree. When I went to Anaheim and Florida, I freaked out about everything. I thought I lost my phone on the first day in Anaheim, I freaked out about getting placed in the best apartment in Florida. Most importantly, I felt way too powerless both times since your program can be finished abruptly at any given time if one of your affiliates does something foolish. I once heard of an entire room that was fired because one of their parents cooked with wine in their non-alcoholic apartment.

While I contemplated clicking the "I accept" button yesterday, a surge of dread ran through me. "What are you expecting?" I thought. "You really think this will get you closer to where you're going to go?"

"Well", said the rational part of my brain, "I wouldn't mind working at the Disney studios. Maybe this will be my foot in the door."

And it's possible. But based on my experience and personal testimonials, very unlikely. Optimistic as I am, I'm also a realist.

I was good at what I did there. I took a lot of pride in it. I met people that-- if I was in a better state of mind-- would have given more time and affection to. But deep down, I knew I would say no to the offer this time around. I knew that because what fascinated me most was the idea of it all. And that's too vague.

You know what's not vague? Two vultures wearing bear costumes to a Halloween party so they can steal pumpkin pie from the mini fridge. That's specific.

Texting is the Worst Invention

Texting really is the worst invention. Here's why:

Every time I get in my car, I make it a point to look at the drivers around me and see how many of them are texting. Just yesterday, I counted 5 texters in less than 10 minutes. A record low.

3 of those drivers (all in a row) were driving in the opposite lane towards me. I was waiting to turn left as I wondered if any of these daredevils would veer slightly to their left and crash right into me at 45 miles per hour.

I imagine that's how I'll go (which won't happen, of course, because I'm invincible, but let's just pretend). I imagine myself innocently sitting in my car, saying something pretty for once, like "What a nice day. I should adopt a pet--" CRASH!!!

The other driver will be fine and come out of their car, saying something like "... what happened?" because when you're on your phone, you're not here in the physical world. Your brain is in another realm. I know this because every time I check out my phone while I'm walking, I look up and have to readjust to my new surroundings.

That's driving.

Homo sapien, hard at work doing something important.

Then there are what I call "essay texts", in which someone you thought was cool decides to deliver a 5 text-long, aggressive, one-sided conversation to you via text rather than have a real conversation.

Oh, if I had a nickel...

The worst part about these texts is that they come in like a barbaric, mythical giant, crashing through your front door. Relentless, irrational, with no willingness or capability to listen to reason.

This is because the texter plans an "ultimate argument as to why..." and no matter what you say, they feel they've already won. They usually end with "And that's why I think that we should...".

There are more effective ways to communicate. Namely, calling.

Like this. See? Look how happy she is.

I'm not saying everyone should stop texting. I know I'll still text. You have to do what works for you.

I'm just saying that life is getting really impersonal, and in that sense, worse. And it looks a lot like that's linked to the convenience (or inconvenience, depending on your stance) of being able to not have to deal with seeing or hearing others. Let's change that.

-Philip

Figuratively Naked

When I was a little kid, a friend and I decided it would be a good idea to make what we called "Bug Juice". It consisted of just a few ingredients:

1. Water
2. One roly poly (a.k.a. a "pill bug")
3. Shredded leaves
4. A twig

There was a hole in the ground back at my old house, about one inch in diameter, not too deep. I found this to be the perfect place to brew this recipe. I filled it with water, introduced the leaves and twig, and grabbed my lab experiment roly poly. In it went into the dark depths of water science.

My friend and I never had a game plan for what to do with this "bug juice". I know we didn't want to drink it. Ultimately, it was going to be a miraculous concoction to be given to other bugs that would make them strong, like Popeye.

But if it contained a bug (and it certainly did), this was Soylent Green for bugs.

Now I want to tell you something very personal about myself (put the violins away. This blog doesn't have to be as solemn as I am), But if you know me, you've probably figured out by now that I've got issues.

They've gotten the better of me my entire life. They stemmed from my childhood, years of getting bullied by strangers and colleagues, only to be told by the people I looked up to most that this happened because "I let it happen".

This is why I empathize with so many people.

Life's hard enough. You don't need any extra BS. So let me tell you, when anxiety and depression hits you, it hits you everywhere. The best way I can describe what life feels like when it hits you is "a personal prison". I've been told somewhat recently by a girl on the first date that she had depression and anxiety. And I, trying to be sly without revealing all of myself on the first date, replied with "I totally understand. I'm no stranger to that stuff." I could have said "Me, too! Oh my God, twinsies!" I think I dodged a bullet there.

But it's true. I know anxiety and depression way better than I'd have wanted to.

I've only had a few people in my life really give me all I ever ask for. And all they had to do was just be there. They knew I have depression, but they would sit with me and just talk.

That was perfect.

They'd talk with me because they knew that there's a decent guy underneath the stress. And even if I'm sometimes a jerk, my friends know all I really want in life is what's best for everyone. I struggle, but that obviously doesn't give me the right to go off and hurt others (I wish more adults shared that philosophy).

What a depressed person should never be told is "Man, just stop thinking this way. Its not good for you." What, like I'm an idiot? Like I forgot that I should be happy instead?

Other things you shouldn't say to a depressed person (from experience):

1) "Just snap out of it."

I can't.

2) "What's wrong with you?"

A lot.

3) "This is upsetting me. Let's change the subject."

While you have the luxury of not having to endure my pain, the least you can do is hug me, Now get over here, this torso's not going to hug itself.

*       *       *

I've spent a lot of my life burying my brain in video games, finally kicked that habit. I think a lot of my love for movies, Disneyland, and the such is derived for my passion of exploring worlds that are completely alien.

Hell, deep down, that's what I loved about Florida. It could not have felt further from reality than it was! The only way I knew I was still on Earth when I arrived was the fact that I arrived with a seemingly fun-loving guy I knew in L.A. And he ended up being the meanest person I've ever met, making Florida seem even more like an opposite world!

I think what I'm looking for most in life is majesty. Every time I get a new job, I'm blown away simply by the new sights and sounds. Disneyland was like Heaven. So was Warner Brothers. Both of those jobs were tougher than you'd think, but just being there felt like a nice dream.

When I do something, I give it my all. I'm a writer now, doing stand-up comedy whenever I can. Giving all my energy into what I do is the best method I've found of combating anxiety. That's one of the main reasons why I love working and suffer when doing nothing.

Now, I'm not trying to shake the system with this blog. I don't expect the whole world to be more understanding of people like me because of one blog. But if I had to compare it to something, I guess this is my own "Ice Bucket Challenge" for depression and anxiety. I really want to remove the stigma that comes with revealing it. I've been pushed away by quite a few of my former associates upon telling them I have these issues. That's probably the hardest part. But I've made it this far, doing better every day. I want to do some more good with the rest of my long ass life and I don't see any brakes on this train.

Peace.

Batman and Friends

I figured it out. Gotham City doesn't need Batman.

It just needs better cops!

As it is, Batman inspires criminals to dress like supervillains because... well, if he can do it, why can't they?

And that, my friends, is my thought of the day.

'Til next time,
-Philip

(This is, by far, my shortest post to date. Huzzah!)

Life Alert

"Oh, God. IS HE DEAD!?"

"Somebody call a medic!"

"Oh my God-- Honey! Honey, WAKE UP!"

"I don't know what happened! He just fell!"

These are the sounds that my co-workers and I were absorbing on the job as we tended to an unconscious man and his family minutes before a Disneyland parade. We stood in front of an ice cream stand, right between "It's a Small World" and "Storybook Land".

For the record, I've encountered this (a park guest fainting) too many times, both at Disneyland and Disney World. But if I recall, this was my first time experiencing it, sometime in the Fall of 2011.

What we do, or at least what we did in Fantasyland, was form a circle around the heat exhausted person so as to prevent onlookers from complicating the situation. Every now and then a park guest comes by and asks what happened. And you tell them, as sweetly as you can, that it's none of their business. And every now and then, someone will be curious enough to swiftly swerve their head right between our shoulders, just to make sure they don't miss this unusual event.

It's kind of like when the freeway's backed up because every one in front of you wants to see if anyone died in the three-car wreck on the side of the road. They desperately want to know. Because later, it becomes an anecdote, something you can talk about over dinner and end with "Man... to think I was going to leave the house ten minutes earlier... Martha, that could've been me!..."

Although if you love tragedies, you could just watch Shakespeare. Or CNN.

Back to the story. Fainted guy. Nervous family. Employees surrounding him. I've already called Disney's paramedics with somebody's cell (because you can't take out your own phone in costume, or you could get fired. So it goes). They asked the preliminary questions:

"Is 'said person' awake and conscious?"

"Yeah. He's awake."

"Is he breathing?"

"I think so... is he breathing? Yep, he's breathing."

"Alright. Thank you, we'll be right there with a stretcher."

And they arrived pretty fast.

We stood our ground, a perfect circle, only opening our wall to allow the paramedics in. A random lady approached us. She had the makings of your perfect family vacationer: Slightly above middle-aged, neon green visor, fanny pack, and of course, the muumuu waddle.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. We're dealing with a situation."

She looked between me and my co-worker, clearly seeing the fainted man and the paramedics surrounded by a grieving family. Then she looked effortlessly at me.

"Where am I supposed to get ice cream?"

She was referring to the ice cream stand right behind us, right next to the emergency, and she obviously didn't have the heart to realize that people outside of her consciousness existed.

I was dumbfounded. I've known sociopaths in my life, but I've never had anybody admit to being one so quickly. I already had a "Disney personality", so I wasn't prone to insulting people (cruel as they may be), especially on the job. I was a somewhat different person then. 22 years old, in love with the idea of working for The Walt Disney Company, indefinitely. But I realized then and there the line of work I was in-- tourism! And I realized that working in Fantasyland wasn't all that the higher-ups led me to believe. I realized that I was employed with a entry-level job, dealing with thousands upon thousands of people I'd probably never see again, and that I'd be pushed into circumstances like these where I have to endure an astonishing level of selfish idiocy.

"Miss, you can get ice cream just around the corner, past the merry-go-round."

"That's too far."

"Well then, you can go f*ck yourself."

For the record, I didn't say that last part, but could you blame me if I did? Of course, I wouldn't have felt good about it. I've never said anything like that at any job, but let me just say if you prioritize ice cream over a person... what can I say?

"It's really not that far" is what I ended up saying.

She stared at the fainted man, carelessly. Annoyed, she waddled away.

The guy lived... at least I think he did. We just continued clearing the way for Mickey Mouse and all of his floats.

Au revoir,
-Philip

The Writer Formerly Known as "Duckman"

I haven't contributed to this blog in too long. I've distracted myself with a drawing class, new stand-up, family, movies and HBO shows, a fling with a quirky girl and Kurt Vonnegut books.

I found an ab work out so effective, it deserves its own Goosebumps story.

I saw the same ducks I blogged about last time just days after I last blogged about them in the same spot I had first found them. I joined them again and followed them until they walked into the same yard they last walked into, only this time, they realized they were walking into a familiar place and came right back out.

Expect more blogs soon. In the meantime, I'm going to sit here and wonder whether or not Harrison Ford likes chocolate.

Peace and love and thought-provoking podcasts,
-Philip

Dances With Ducks

"Quack" (as defined by Dictionary.com):

1. to utter the cry of a duck or a sound resembling it.

2. a fraudulent or ignorant pretender to medical skill.

I decided to go out for a walk to get my creative juices flowing. I usually jog, but I thought I'd walk, just for a change of pace. Walking down and around the block, I eventually stumbled upon a family of ducks.

The greatest thing about them was their confidence. They strutted down the middle of the street, ten of them, unaware of the dangers the road has to offer. I spotted them from maybe fifty feet away (maybe less, I'm no mathematician).

It was clear they had a matriarch, as her head surpassed all of theirs in height, if even by only a half inch. Their heads bobbed almost in unison as they crossed the street diagonally, and I followed them, eagerly wondering where they were headed. I justified my presence around them as a sort of protector, a shepherd (or a duckherd, if there ever was such a thing).

They hopped from the street onto the curb in order, creating a sort of jazzy beat as they ascended. Their twenty webbed feet pitter-pattered on the concrete sounding like an army of disorganized babies wearing little boots, or the sound of a rainy day, as heard from outside, inside.

I followed them for a short while. I had no means of keeping track of the time, but I knew couldn't have been following them for too long. I found them around the sunset, and it was dusk when we parted ways.

One thing that fascinated me about them was their zen level of patience. While they were crossing another street, I waltzed around them to the other side. They noticed me standing there and waited. One of them sat down. The leader was just a foot or so ahead of them, and they wouldn't budge until she did. Once I moved back behind them, they continued on their way.

We eventually walked by a house with a 50's retro feel. The ducks took a particularly peculiar interest in it. Without hesitation, they veered left toward one of its gates that visibly led to the backyard and ducked their heads as they "covertly" sneaked in. They stopped, looked around, dumbfounded. To their left was a green recycling bin and right side of the house. To their right, a massive brick wall. But they were curious, or maybe they smelled something delicious in the backyard. Either way, they ventured deeper onto the property, and I wasn't going to follow them. I realized it was time for me to duck out.

Quack Quack,
-Philip

The Great Usquebaugh Heist

Having heard a rumor that you don't need a Costco membership to buy alcohol, I pulled into a conveniently located Costco lot on my way home.

"Pay no attention to the the In-N-Out to your right", said my brain to the rest of me. "Nor should you crave the free peanuts and infinitely customizable burgers at the Five Guys Burgers and Fries on your left."

I fought the urge. I don't know why, or even how, but I fought the urge to eat at those joints-- even though I'm addicted to burgers and everything peanut butter related.

The wheels kept turning. I found a parking spot in front of Costco, but not the closest one possible because I really don't mind walking an extra ten steps if it means not waiting an extra ten minutes. The people who try and get as close as possible are horrible and need to change their New Year's resolutions.

In case you've never been, Costco's entrance alone is a grand spectacle. The warehouse looks like something out of a science fiction flick, where the local denizens collect their goods from a central facility that provides them with sweet food products to be ingested that night, as well as new computers, tennis racquets, and if they're running low, affordable socks.

There is always someone guarding the entrance to ensure the folks pouring in are paying members of the club. It's like an underground society where only those wise enough to pay the initial $55 are welcomed with open arms to the secrets of the cult (or just a country club minus the access to a golf course).

The people around and in front of me were exposing their membership cards to the guard. Except she wasn't a guard in the classical sense. She didn't carry a gun or a badge. She simply verified everyone's eligibility to enter. I did the same thing working events at Disneyland, only we verified colored wristbands.

She didn't seem to notice me, so as if in a way to turn my self in, or maybe to justify my over thought out goal, I proclaimed "I'm just here for alcohol", which is probably the worst thing I've ever said.

"Okay", she replied nonchalantly.

I made my way down the gigantic aisles on my quest for a golden bottle of whiskey (or usquebaugh, as it's called in the Scottish and Irish islands). I snagged a bottle off the shelf and paraded toward the cashiers, knowing full well that the only way I could have looked less like an alcoholic was to carry a bottle in each hand.

Party planners buy in bulk.

On my way to the front, every unshaven, balding guy said this to me: "Enjoy it!" with a smile that suggested they were geniuses for thinking those words. Even in the parking lot, the dude leaving his car couldn't wait to say it, too. "Enjoy it!", he exclaimed as I walked by, which I think says something about our culture. Alcohol seems to have this mysterious, whimsical personality that excites people. It's like an acceptable taboo, a magical juice that brings out everyone's true colors, while conveniently making them sleepy.

But really, it's just overpriced melatonin.

Buses Incorporated

"In 21st-century English, buses is the preferred plural of the noun bus. Busses appears occasionally, and dictionaries list it as a secondary spelling, but it’s been out of favor for over a century. This is true in all main varieties of English." -Grammarist.com

Now, onto more pressing matters-- the bus. Why should you take it? You don't have to. But I like it.

I like the feeling that I'm "on a ride", not having to worry about driving, parking, tickets, red lights, green lights, the car behind you that's riding way too close for comfort, the car beside you with a cell-phone obsessed young adult who is sure to cause an accident this year while in the middle of texting something like "lol that 2 funny dude".

I love Los Angeles. I think I'd be happier in New York, but who knows? I've lived in L.A. for a solid 25 years, and I've lived in New York for zero days, so if I know one thing, it's that New York is an alien planet... at least to me.

But I'm always finding interesting people on the bus. Like the silent old man who nervously made his way down the aisle, looking for a seat until deciding it would be best to sit somewhere without a stranger right next to him. He sat in the middle, on one of the seats that face the center. He had something tattooed on his forearm, I couldn't tell what. It was withering with age. His head jerked around as he frantically rubbed his own arms, stopping to think every so often, only to go back into his trance.

I reached my stop and started walking home. At the intersection, an older Hispanic lady was picking the inside of her ear. I was blank faced. I stared, judgingly, I admit. But which one of us should be embarrassed? Is it worse to do something weird, or to stare at someone doing something weird? Who am I? The king of etiquette? I waited for the little walking man to light up while I anticipated the lady catching my stare. Sure enough, she turned her head at what felt like the speed of light and caught me looking at her. Neither of us moved. We were both itching to see what happens next. Or so I thought. She went right back to picking her ear at two in the afternoon, on a Thursday.

A Game of Pucks

Coasters wait patiently under the weight of beer glasses sitting on top of them, until the drinks are lifted to be drunk by the drunks sitting beside them.

Obscure 80s music only appropriate for karaoke blasted on the speakers. 

Perspiring patrons stumble about, one eye on the flat screen, one eye on the overgrown beards inches from their faces. Except they don't care about the beards because they all have them.

A man sitting two feet away from our protagonist is hunched over the bar, collected, looking to wind down. It's assumed that he had spent the day doing manual labor, given the excess of sunscreen that engulfed his skin. Even his balding head had visible traces of sun tan lotion so vivid in the dark of the bar, it looked as though the stuff was seeping from his pores.

"YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!", the patrons yelled as the Kings scored. I looked... I mean, our protagonist looked at the screen and saw the Kings celebrating.

"6 to 2! There's no way they're gonna catch up, now!", someone yelled.

"F*ck yeah!", said everyone else, politely.

"Look at that woman in the bleachers!", said an old, bearded fellow. He slapped the countertop. "HOOOOOOOOEEE! Oh, oh, just look at her!" He pretended to lose his balance.

"I'm going to assume you're straight", said the protagonist. But only in his mind, because the music was too loud and the old man would probably take offense to the joke. The protagonist turned to his friends and talked about beer styles. An acquaintance whom we'll call "Jim" was seated with his friends.

"Jim, right?", said the hero, respectfully.

"Yeah, Jim... I'm sorry, what's your name again?"

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!", shouted the patrons.

They talked about the differences between India pale ales and Belgian ales until the protagonist got tired of repeating that India pale ales were his least favorite beers.

The bartender gracefully bounced by and asked they still needed their glasses. One of them made a quip about his prescription specs and was congratulated with no recognition. They handed their glasses to her and watched as she strolled away, the three of them, leaning their not even 30 year old heads into the only walkway the bar had to offer. The farthest behind of which, was butted in the head with a tray of drinks.

"Oof", he said.

"Whoa, whoa, shit", said the barkeep, trying as hard as he could to balance the four beers on the tray.

"Whoa, oh no!", he exclaimed as he lunged forward and staggered along the way.

He stabilized the tray, but spilled some of the beer on his garments, and on the beard of a tired old man. The barkeep stared in fear, waiting for an explosive reaction.

"...I'll fun... I'll fush it later", was his response. Which we can only assume means the old man was feeling good.

Now That's Classy

My last blog was about how idiots say "My bad" instead of "I'm sorry". The day after publishing it, I was walking from one class to another, my vision slightly impaired by tinted $5 glasses and the rays of the sun pouring through them. I was very much into my processed breakfast burrito. Suddenly, a clear bottle was flying at my legs. I saw it from the corner of my eye. I casually hopped over it as it skipped along the asphalt like a skipping stone on water.

I heard laughter from three freshmen, huddled up at my 10 o' clock. One more, traveling East via skateboard, laughing with them exclaimed "My bad, dawg." He was in arms range.

In the next split second, I contemplated grabbing him by the hood, causing him to fall on his back as his skateboard left him behind. I thought about towering over him and asking why "my bad" seemed like an appropriate response, if you toss a bottle into the street and disrupt someone.

Then I thought about how young he must have been. He's probably 18, 19 if he's had the mental constitution to withstand all of the first semester of college. I've insulted people on accident before. Was I beaten up for it? No, not for that.

Plus, I valued my pre-prepared burrito too much. The split second was over, and I was too content to ruin both of our days. Neither of us would gain anything from this confrontation. He wouldn't even understand my point. He'd just try to fight me, arms flailing, and we'd both make new enemies. I prefer to save my aggression for someone truly malevolent.

*    *    *

I find it funny how easily someone can become a pleasant part of your day or conversely, a problem.

When I worked at Walt Disney World, the thousands of people I've had to deal with were either just that-- people I had to deal with-- or people I was glad to have met. The main difference was their attitude. God help you if you encountered an antsy Disney park guest.

One day, I met a couple from New York who wanted to see the show I worked on. Let me tell you, they were so classy, I would play golf with them any day (and I haven't golfed since 2004). The woman was elegant. She stood with sort of a rich person's slump-- her hips forward, chin up, occasionally sipping her mojito as she turned her head slowly to the left. The guy was cool, easygoing. He seemed like the kind of chap you can talk to about anything.

I was at the front that day, making sure the theater space wouldn't become overcrowded.

Now, one of the policies at this attraction-- the policy that employed half of us-- was that baby strollers are prohibited from entering the theater (with the exception of strollers used as wheelchairs for medical reasons).

The couple approached me and asked if they can bring their baby in her stroller, not wanting to wake her.

"She'll wake up when the show starts, I can assure you" I assured them.

"So it's loud in there?", replied the husband, "we just want her to sleep for the next half an hour."

I told them about the stroller parking area, and how it's literally a one minute walk away.

Just then, my manager popped up out of nowhere, like a prairie dog out of the ground.

"What's going on here?" she asked.

The couple explained their situation.

"Come with me", she told them coolly.

A co-worker covered the entrance as I accompanied my manager and the New Yorkers to the exit. She was giving them special treatment that I wished I could give everyone. Do this once as a regular employee and you'll be lucky if you're still working there the next day.

Before we let them in, everyone on headset communicated to find out whether or not the eight wheelchair spots were filled. There can't be any more than eight per show since it's performed in an arena and more wheelchairs would intrude the performer's space.

So we're standing outside, and this guy and I have a nice conversation for something like five to ten minutes. We talked about life in New York, their vacation, my job, etc. They made it clear by their posture that they were important, but not in a standoffish way.

I couldn't believe it. I've dealt with such belligerent, unreasonable people on a daily basis. And they were just the opposite. They easily became my favorite park guests due simply to their levelheadedness and the fact that they were so personable.

A co-worker came out to lead them in through the exit (the secret entrance), we shook hands, and this guy tried giving me a tip. I have no clue how much money he was offering me, but I recall seeing a thick wad of 20s.

Two of my co-workers beside me immediately terrified him by screaming "No, no, no! We can't accept tips!" The poor rich guy stepped back, confused. I assume he's used to tipping minimum wage workers, valet, and so on.

Would I have accepted this tip? I think so. I heard Disney parks have some sort of policy against that, but I was living off Pop-Tarts at the time, so it definitely would have helped.

But I didn't expect him to tip. And I didn't expect my co-workers to respond so vehemently. All I know is that the majority of guests I've dealt with were not nearly as calm and collect as them.

All was well,

-Philip

My Bad, Bro

If I had a bitcoin for every time some dude bumped into me and pushed it aside saying "My bad, dawg, my bad", I'd be rolling in bitcoins.

In all fairness, I don't understand the true value of bitcoins because they're niche and ridiculous, but you understand my point.

You know what I don't understand? The person who says "My bad" instead of "I'm sorry". I don't understand when an individual moves others in a crowd and says "Watch out" instead of "Excuse me". I hear these exact words from strangers nearly every day.

Would it be so hard to add yourself to the equation? I would really like to know if it's a generational thing, or a social problem on a grand scale. What makes this behavior so problematic is the fact that it alienates people from real interaction, allowing them to absolve all responsibility for their actions (at least in their own heads), and feeds the fire of self-indulgence.

I don't want to make the claim that speaking this way is sociopathic, but it's not a constructive way of communicating and to use the term "my bad" instead of a real statement that proves you accept that there are others around you is the work of someone who most likely lacks conscientiousness or maturity.

I heard a classmate use "My bad" to a professor today and even though there's no book that says you have to respect your elders, there really shouldn't need to be. It should go without saying.

You know what else we should go without saying?

"My bad".

Until next time,

Move. Move. Watch out. Move.

The World in Your Head

You don't live on Earth. You don't live in a country. You live in yourself.

Here's my theory: Your life is all based on both sound and distorted perceptions.

I've had a cold for the past few days. Last night, as I tried to sleep, I experienced a lucid dream that lasted for what seemed like ten hours. I writhed in bed while my imagination went wild, dreaming that there were tiny germ fighting construction workers living inside my body, trying to eliminate the flu-ish threat that was weakening my bones.

I abstained from checking the time, thinking that the sun would come up soon. When I finally checked my clock, I found that it's only been one hour.

I don't typically mind when this type of thing happens because it's generally really interesting. Of course, my annual flu in Florida last February was less interesting because I was bedridden for almost two weeks and that time really did feel like an eternity.

That aside, I'm fascinated with the fact that our lives take place in our mindsets relative to what's happening around us. Have you ever played a video game for hours on end, not realizing that hours have gone by? If you haven't experienced this, don't play The Sims.

Digital Cocaine

Or maybe you've recently watched a two and a half hour movie that felt more like five hours because it contained so many sub-plots.

Whatever the case, time is perceived differently by everyone. Not only time, but thoughts and emotions. When you're having a bad day, you might undergo extreme selective attention, meaning you'll only notice a percentage of your surroundings. You'll hear and see only the things that make you feel good (or bad-- blame your subconscious for that).

Wait... This car is from EUROPE!

My point is that life is as subjective as it is objective. That's what makes our lives so dynamic. We're not simply amalgamations of skin and bones. It's our thoughts, our ever changing minds that make our existences so valuable.

Keep on,

-Philip

Twitterpated

There's been a negative shift in the way we interact, and a lot of it's due to MySpace (and all of its more popular friends).

Fear not, for I'll interrupt this anti-digital age gospel with an iconic Philly anecdote. I was on my college campus the other day, taking a photo of a beautiful sunset as it peered through two cacti. As I tried to get the perfect angle, a hooligan no less than 30 feet away hollered "Gonna post that on Instagram!?" It was like a question, but it wasn't. It wasn't funny because it was expected. It was expected because everyone hears type of remark all the time.

Jokes are funny when they surprise the audience (Which is why offensive humor is always on the rise). General humor, like the stuff you hear at supermarkets when the cash register malfunctions and the buyer says something snarky like "So, I guess I don't have to pay for it, right?"-- that's not funny. It's not unfunny because no one's in the mood. It's not funny because it's exactly what everyone there expects that person to say.

Anyway. So there I was, taking a picture of a captivating sunset because aside from being a philophile (lover of love) and a logophile (lover of words), I'm also a photophile (if there is such a word). I take pictures of random objects and shadows, I admire the way any monument looks as different light hits it throughout the day. So often (and I do mean very often), somebody will yell the exact same "Hey, putting that on Instagram!?" type of comment. I never acknowledge them. It doesn't offend me. But it saddens me in the grand scheme of things because before social media, we took photos for ourselves. And everyone understood that.

Do I post these photos online? Of course I do. We live in a day and age where if you try and disconnect yourself from the net, your social life might run a little slower (keyword: might). I recognize that I don't have to share my photos or even my blog. But it's a nice way to remind you and your little social circle that whatever you're working on is not going to perish in a house fire or a sinkhole (Speaking of which, don't live in Florida).

Let's just acknowledge the fact that you should be able to take a photo of anything you want without someone yelling "FaceBook!" or "Hashtag it on Twitter!" It's just redundant and provides no concept of individuality to the person saying it.

And yes, here's the photo I've been blathering about. Serene, it reminds me of the stereotypical American frontier.

Godspeed,

-Philip

Single-Player

This man found himself in the thick of a forest. It was lush, so much so that it perpetuated his disconnection from the rest of the world (more mentally than physically). He panicked. The man felt as though the forest has swallowed him whole, walking in any direction would be furthering himself down its esophagus. He feared never seeing another town again. He shouted at the top of his lungs and started pounding his fists into a tree.

Bloodied, he realized he would have to make use of his environment or perish at its mercy. He pulled a sturdy branch off an oak tree, picked up a nearby stone and crafted himself a simple bludgeon. A pig could be heard frolicking in the distance. He made sure not to spook it as he crept in its direction. Peering through the grass, he found that there were several of them. He jumped at them from behind a tree and successfully hunted one of the three. He started a fire and devoured the roasted pork. It was enough to keep him going, if even only for a day.

The man couldn't sleep that night. He could faintly see the moon above the trees. He kept walking. He could have sworn he saw something creeping in the bushes, accompanied by eerie sounds, reminiscent of bone chilling sounds you only hear in your darkest nightmares. He kept walking.

By morning, he found himself in a field. It seemed endless with the occasional pond and wild vegetables. Eventually, he found himself at the foot of a mountain, and a cave at its base. The mountain was as steep as a wall. The man decided to take refuge in the cave. He fashioned little torches with spare materials he kept from the forest and placed them along the way.

In the cave, the man found raw materials he realized could be used for better tools and started chipping at them with his bludgeon. He eventually had crafted a fine pickaxe and a decent shovel. He noticed a light emanating from below him. He felt heat and heard a constant hum. It was like a persistent, low roar. He walked slowly and found himself at a ledge. He looked down and discovered an endless sea of lava. He turned around and was greeted by an angry, tattered man. The angry man leapt and grabbed our hero's face, clawing at his neck. Pushed back, he stumbled, lost his footing, and they both fell off the ledge.

The ledge was steep, but angled to an extent, so they tumbled more than they fell. The angry man hit his head and died instantly, but the good man was getting bruised and beaten by the rocks. He stopped tumbling, eventually, a foot or so from the lava. He refused to move at first, in fear of finding out just how many bones he had broken. When he turned his head, he found more angry men approaching him. The light provided from the lava pit shone on their faces and revealed that they really weren't human. Disgusted, the man stood up--

The pain was excruciating. He found that his right arm was badly broken and he could only assume his left ankle was sprained. He limped, but there was no where to run. He lured the inhuman creatures toward the lava and waited for them to attack so he can fall back and drag them into the fire...

This is Minecraft in a nutshell,
-Philip

Personality Typos

I was at a market the other day and decided to walk down the frozen foods aisle. You know, the one that makes you feel like Darth Vader as you walk down since it tracks your movement and lights up accordingly.

As I'm walking I see a shopping cart attached to guy who looks like Santa Claus turn the corner and start walking down towards me. He's yelling one word-- "f**k! f**K! F**K!" I don't know why he was so flustered, but I certainly wasn't going to ask him.

Who do I look like, anyway? Jesus Christ?

I turn the other way and look for the stuff on my shopping list. I spend some extra time looking at things I don't need, subconsciously because I'm hoping this madman will be long gone by the time I get to the checkout aisle.

I finally finish my list, pick one of the aisles behind a small line, dump my produce on the conveyor belt, and guess who shows up behind me?

"F**k", he mutters to himself, quietly enough to not offend everyone, but loud enough for others to hear.

In situations like these, I generally like to pretend I forgot something I never get and mosey out of line.

Silly as it sounds, I knew he would be difficult. I don't know how I knew. It could be because he was shamelessly yelling out expletives at a Ralphs and looked like a feral bear ready to claw at anyone willing to help. Or maybe I'm psychic (if you believe in any of that voodoo magic). Whatever the case, I just wanted to see what he was going to do.

My adrenaline induced thought process at the time could be psychologically linked to the one time I was a kid and my mum and I were attacked-- out of the blue-- by a psychopath with his cart, also at a checkout line. It could be linked to that, who's to say? What do I look like, Criss Angel?

All I know is that I'm tired of picking "flight" over "fight" when it comes to moments like this. I stood my ground, keeping one eye on the cashier, one on the grizzly fellow, ready to retaliate if he were to make a move. I decide to make eye contact and assert dominance.

"How are ya?" The Santa Claus man asked.

"I'm good, thanks" was my response. I couldn't have sounded more peaceful.

"What did you just say?" he snapped. He was ready to get offended, as I expected.

"I said 'I'm good'" I tell him and dismiss the conversation.

"Oh." He starts putting his produce on the conveyor belt.

I make eye contact with the cashier. She doesn't make it back.

"Hey" I say to her.

"Hi Ralphs club card?" she asks the countertop.

I swipe it.

"19 dollars 73 cents."

I hand her a 20 dollar bill. Her eyes shift from the cash register to the 20. The machine to my right disperses the 27 cents.

"Thanks" I say, proud of my quick-ass transaction.

"You're welcome have a good day" is her response to the space between me and Santa.

I make my way to my car, glad that I didn't have to fight frantic old Saint Nick. In retrospect, this was the most I've thought over a Nutri-Grain bar run.